Φθόνει μηδενί
Be jealous of no one
IMAGE: Edvard Munch, Jealousy (1907)
The Death of Marcus Aurelius
Wednesday, July 31, 2024
Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 4.11
M. What I say here may be distinguished in thought, though they are in fact the same; inasmuch as they both have their rise from lust and joy.
For should money be the object of our desire, and should we not instantly apply to reason, as if it were a kind of Socratic medicine to heal this desire, the evil glides into our veins, and cleaves to our bowels, and from thence proceeds a distemper or sickness, which, when it is of any continuance, is incurable, and the name of this disease is covetousness.
It is the same with other diseases; as the desire of glory, a passion for women, to which the Greeks give the name of φιλογυνεία: and thus all other diseases and sicknesses are generated.
But those feelings which are the contrary of these are supposed to have fear for their foundation, as a hatred of women, such as is displayed in the woman-hater of Atilius; or the hatred of the whole human species, as Timon is reported to have done, whom they call the Misanthrope.
Of the same kind is inhospitality. And all these diseases proceed from a certain dread of such things as they hate and avoid. But they define sickness of mind to be an overweening opinion, and that fixed and deeply implanted in the heart, of something as very desirable which is by no means so.
What proceeds from aversion, they define thus: a vehement idea of something to be avoided, deeply implanted, and inherent in our minds, when there is no reason for avoiding it; and this kind of opinion is a deliberate belief that one understands things of which one is wholly ignorant.
Now, sickness of the mind has all these subordinate divisions: avarice, ambition, fondness for women, obstinacy, gluttony, drunkenness, covetousness, and other similar vices.
But avarice is a violent opinion about money, as if it were vehemently to be desired and sought after, which opinion is deeply implanted and inherent in our minds; and the definition of all the other similar feelings resembles these.
But the definitions of aversions are of this sort: inhospitality is a vehement opinion, deeply implanted and inherent in your mind, that you should avoid a stranger. Thus, too, the hatred of women, like that felt by Hippolytus, is defined; and the hatred of the human species like that displayed by Timon.
For should money be the object of our desire, and should we not instantly apply to reason, as if it were a kind of Socratic medicine to heal this desire, the evil glides into our veins, and cleaves to our bowels, and from thence proceeds a distemper or sickness, which, when it is of any continuance, is incurable, and the name of this disease is covetousness.
It is the same with other diseases; as the desire of glory, a passion for women, to which the Greeks give the name of φιλογυνεία: and thus all other diseases and sicknesses are generated.
But those feelings which are the contrary of these are supposed to have fear for their foundation, as a hatred of women, such as is displayed in the woman-hater of Atilius; or the hatred of the whole human species, as Timon is reported to have done, whom they call the Misanthrope.
Of the same kind is inhospitality. And all these diseases proceed from a certain dread of such things as they hate and avoid. But they define sickness of mind to be an overweening opinion, and that fixed and deeply implanted in the heart, of something as very desirable which is by no means so.
What proceeds from aversion, they define thus: a vehement idea of something to be avoided, deeply implanted, and inherent in our minds, when there is no reason for avoiding it; and this kind of opinion is a deliberate belief that one understands things of which one is wholly ignorant.
Now, sickness of the mind has all these subordinate divisions: avarice, ambition, fondness for women, obstinacy, gluttony, drunkenness, covetousness, and other similar vices.
But avarice is a violent opinion about money, as if it were vehemently to be desired and sought after, which opinion is deeply implanted and inherent in our minds; and the definition of all the other similar feelings resembles these.
But the definitions of aversions are of this sort: inhospitality is a vehement opinion, deeply implanted and inherent in your mind, that you should avoid a stranger. Thus, too, the hatred of women, like that felt by Hippolytus, is defined; and the hatred of the human species like that displayed by Timon.
—from Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 4.11
As much as I may be tempted to twist philosophy into a pretext for my intellectual vanity, what good can it serve if I do not become a kinder and gentler man? Instead of taking the time to publish that clever paper, let me turn my attention inward.
The Stoic division of the passions offers a remarkably effective tool for increasing my self-awareness, and thereby for improving my character. When I am faced with a powerful emotion, how can I know its purpose, and what can tell me whether it should be encouraged or resisted? A gut instinct alone will not be sufficient to make the call.
In the past few years, I have found more success in finding the time to calmly reflect on my feelings, to catch myself before I go off half-cocked. Others may find this odd, as hesitation is often viewed as a mark of weakness, but I have learned the hard way that when I fail to judge soundly, I inevitably choose poorly. Better to wait with patience than to stew in regret.
Whatever the range or the intensity of the impression, let me break it down. First, is it an expression of a desire for some benefit or of an aversion to some harm? Second, am I focusing on what is present now, or on an anticipation of what might be? Finally, and most importantly, what perception of the right and the wrong has informed my appetites?
Are the opinions shaping my impulses in harmony with the true good of my nature, or are they built upon distorted values? If I am craving only pleasure, or fame, or wealth, I can be certain that I am sorely mistaken about my ambitions: these are not about my own inner worth, but about the external entrapments. Much the same is true when I am alarmed by pain, obscurity, or poverty.
In all things, the Stoic need only ask if it assists in the pursuit of virtue, and if it weakens the hold of vice—the rest is quite secondary, and it will unfold as intended if a conscience is kept pure. A healthy passion proceeds from an authentic understanding, while an unhealthy passion is grounded in the ignorance of delusion.
Greed has never made me a better man, while frugality has never made me a worse man. Lust always reduces me to the level of a beast, while love always restores my human dignity. Why should I hate this sort of person, or curse that kind of circumstance, when it is the integrity of my own soul that makes all the difference? The isn’t rocket science, and the only obstacle is my propensity to make excuses.
Let my judgments be one step ahead of my emotions, instead of permitting my urges to lead be around by the nose. Therein lies the contrast between a Socrates and a Timon.
As much as I may be tempted to twist philosophy into a pretext for my intellectual vanity, what good can it serve if I do not become a kinder and gentler man? Instead of taking the time to publish that clever paper, let me turn my attention inward.
The Stoic division of the passions offers a remarkably effective tool for increasing my self-awareness, and thereby for improving my character. When I am faced with a powerful emotion, how can I know its purpose, and what can tell me whether it should be encouraged or resisted? A gut instinct alone will not be sufficient to make the call.
In the past few years, I have found more success in finding the time to calmly reflect on my feelings, to catch myself before I go off half-cocked. Others may find this odd, as hesitation is often viewed as a mark of weakness, but I have learned the hard way that when I fail to judge soundly, I inevitably choose poorly. Better to wait with patience than to stew in regret.
Whatever the range or the intensity of the impression, let me break it down. First, is it an expression of a desire for some benefit or of an aversion to some harm? Second, am I focusing on what is present now, or on an anticipation of what might be? Finally, and most importantly, what perception of the right and the wrong has informed my appetites?
Are the opinions shaping my impulses in harmony with the true good of my nature, or are they built upon distorted values? If I am craving only pleasure, or fame, or wealth, I can be certain that I am sorely mistaken about my ambitions: these are not about my own inner worth, but about the external entrapments. Much the same is true when I am alarmed by pain, obscurity, or poverty.
In all things, the Stoic need only ask if it assists in the pursuit of virtue, and if it weakens the hold of vice—the rest is quite secondary, and it will unfold as intended if a conscience is kept pure. A healthy passion proceeds from an authentic understanding, while an unhealthy passion is grounded in the ignorance of delusion.
Greed has never made me a better man, while frugality has never made me a worse man. Lust always reduces me to the level of a beast, while love always restores my human dignity. Why should I hate this sort of person, or curse that kind of circumstance, when it is the integrity of my own soul that makes all the difference? The isn’t rocket science, and the only obstacle is my propensity to make excuses.
Let my judgments be one step ahead of my emotions, instead of permitting my urges to lead be around by the nose. Therein lies the contrast between a Socrates and a Timon.
—Reflection written in 1/1999
IMAGE: Dirck van Baburen, The Procuress (1622)
Tuesday, July 30, 2024
Missing
When one of Britain's most haunting songs is covered by one of Britain's funkiest pop bands. A moment of musical brilliance for the day . . .
Level 42 performs "Missing" by Everything but the Girl, live on BBC Radio 2 in 2019.
Monday, July 29, 2024
Justus Lipsius, On Constancy 1.5
From whence reason and opinion do spring. The force and effects of them both. That one leads to constancy: this other to inconstancy.
"Now for as much as out of this twofold fountain of opinion and reason flows not only hardiness and weakness of mind, but all things that deserve either praise or dispraise in this life: It seems to me that it will be labor well bestowed to discourse somewhat at large of the original and nature of them both.
"For as wool before it be endued with the perfect colors of dying is first prepared thereunto with some other kind of liquors: even so am I to deal with your mind, Lipsius, before I adventure to dye it with this perfect purple in grain of constancy.
"First you are not ignorant that man consists of two parts, soul and body. That being the nobler part resembles the nature of a spirit and fire. This more base is compared to the earth. These two are joined together, but yet with a jarring concord, as I may say, neither do they easily agree, especially when controversy arises about sovereignty and subjection. For either of them would bear sway and chiefly that part which ought not. The earth advances itself above the fire, and the dirty nature about that which is divine.
"Here hence arise in man dissensions, stirs, and a continual conflict of these parts warring together. The captains are reason and opinion. That fights for the soul, being in the soul: this for, and in the body. Reason has her offspring from heaven, yea from God: and Seneca gave it a singular commendation, saying that there was in hidden man part of the divine spirit. This reason is an excellent power or faculty of understanding and judgment, which is the perfection of the soul, even as the soul is of man. The Greeks call it nous, the Latins mens, and as we may say jointly, the mind of the soul.
"For you are deceived if you think all the soul to be right reason, but that only which is uniform, simple, without mixture, separate from all filth or corruption: and in one word, as much as is pure and heavenly. For albeit the soul be infected and a little corrupted with the filth of the body and contagion of the senses: yet it retains some relics of his first offspring, and is not without certain clear sparks of that pure fiery nature from whence it proceeded.
"Here hence come those stings of conscience in wicked men: here hence those inward gnawings and scourges: here hence also comes it that the wicked even against their wills approve virtuous living and commend it.
"For this good part in man may sometimes be pressed down, but never oppressed: and these fiery sparks may be covered, but not wholly extinguished. Those little coals do always shine and show forth themselves, lightening our darkness, purging our uncleanness, directing our doubtfulness, guiding us at the last to constancy and virtue.
"As the marigold and other flowers are by nature always inclined towards the sun: so has reason a respect unto God, and to the fountain from which it springs. It is resolute and immovable in a good purpose, not variable in judgment, even shunning and seeking one and the selfsame thing: the fountain and lively spring of wholesome counsel and sound judgment.
"To obey is to bear rule, and to be subject thereunto is to have the sovereignty in all human affairs. Whoso obeys her is lord of all lusts and rebellious affections: whoso has this thread of Theseus may pass without straying through all the labyrinths of this life. God by this image of his comes into us, which more is even unto us. And well said one whosoever he were, that there is no good mind without God.
"But the other part (I mean Opinion) has its offspring of the body, that is, of the earth. And therefore savors nothing but of it. For though the body be senseless and immovable of itself, yet it takes life and motion from the soul: And on the other side, it represents to the soul the shapes and forms of things through the windows of the senses.
"Thus there grows a communion and society between the soul and the body, but a society (if you respect the end) not good for the soul. For she is thereby little and little deprived of her dignity, addicted and coupled unto the senses, and of this impure mixture opinion is engendered in us, which is nothing else but a vain image and shadow of reason whose seat is the senses and whose birth is the earth.
"Therefore being vile and base it tends downward and savors nothing of high and heavenly matters. It is vain, uncertain, deceitful, evil in counsel, evil in judgment. It deprives the mind of constancy and verity. Today it desires a thing, tomorrow it defies the same. It commends this, it condemns that. It has no respect to sound judgment, but to please the body and content the senses.
"And as the eye that beholds a thing through water or through a mist mistakes it, so does the mind which discerns by the clouds of opinions. This is unto men the mother of mischiefs, the author of a confused and troublesome life. By the means of it we are troubled with cares, distracted with perturbations, overruled by vices.
"Therefore as they which would banish tyranny out of a city do above all things overthrow castles and forts therein: so if we bear an earnest desire to have a good mind, we must cast down even by the foundation this castle of opinions. For they will cause us to be continually floating on the waves of doubtfulness, without any certain resolution, murmuring, troublesome, injurious to God and men.
"As an empty ship without ballast is tossed and tumbled on the sea with the least blast of wind, even so is it with a light wandering mind, not kept steady and poised with the ballast of reason."
Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 4.10
M. Just as distempers and sickness are bred in the body from the corruption of the blood, and the too great abundance of phlegm and bile, so the mind is deprived of its health, and disordered with sickness, from a confusion of depraved opinions that are in opposition to one another.
From these perturbations arise, first, diseases, which they call νοσήματα; and also those feelings which are in opposition to these diseases, and which admit certain faulty distastes or loathings; then come sicknesses, which are called ἀῤῥωστήματα by the Stoics, and these two have their opposite aversions.
Here the Stoics, especially Chrysippus, give themselves unnecessary trouble to show the analogy which the diseases of the mind have to those of the body: but, overlooking all that they say as of little consequence, I shall treat only of the thing itself.
Let us, then, understand perturbation to imply a restlessness from the variety and confusion of contradictory opinions; and that when this heat and disturbance of the mind is of any standing, and has taken up its residence, as it were, in the veins and marrow, then commence diseases and sickness, and those aversions which are in opposition to these diseases and sicknesses.
From these perturbations arise, first, diseases, which they call νοσήματα; and also those feelings which are in opposition to these diseases, and which admit certain faulty distastes or loathings; then come sicknesses, which are called ἀῤῥωστήματα by the Stoics, and these two have their opposite aversions.
Here the Stoics, especially Chrysippus, give themselves unnecessary trouble to show the analogy which the diseases of the mind have to those of the body: but, overlooking all that they say as of little consequence, I shall treat only of the thing itself.
Let us, then, understand perturbation to imply a restlessness from the variety and confusion of contradictory opinions; and that when this heat and disturbance of the mind is of any standing, and has taken up its residence, as it were, in the veins and marrow, then commence diseases and sickness, and those aversions which are in opposition to these diseases and sicknesses.
—from Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 4.10
Ancient medicine is regularly mocked for being primitive and unscientific, even as all of our modern refinements are built upon the efforts of those who inquired before us. In one sense, at least, I suspect that the Greeks and the Romans knew something too many of us have now forgotten: health within the body derives from the subtle harmony of our many powers, and we do ourselves no favors when we merely try to smother the symptoms with the brute force of surgery and drugs. The health of the mind is much the same.
The model of the Four Humors may well be a crude form of biology, but it does grasp a broader concept about disease being a consequence of an imbalance. When the parts are working together in equilibrium, the whole will operate smoothly, while when those parts are misaligned by excess or deficiency, the function of the whole is compromised. Where there is such a disorder, the organism will be wracked by the conflict of opposites.
I can discern this in my diet, and in the discipline of my daily activities, and in my resistance to infection or to injury. I see it also in the relationship of my thoughts and feelings—if my judgments are disturbed, my passions will also be in disarray. A false estimation about the source of the true and good, where I have built up a distorted view of right and wrong, is the cause of so many harmful emotions.
Beyond a few fragments, the works of Chrysippus are no longer available to us, so I will have to take Cicero at his word that the Early Stoics were overly occupied with comparing the ailments of the mind to those of the the body. Nevertheless, while each operates within its own domain, I should not underestimate their close complementarity and greater unity; the spirit and the flesh are intimately bound together, such that the state of one is immediately reflected in that of the other.
Just as a fever may be a reaction to an intrusive virus, so my sadness or my anger may well be a product of my lopsided opinions. I am happy to follow the advice of the doctor in curing a physical illness, and I should also heed the wisdom of the philosopher when I am confused about meaning and value. Perhaps my brain needs a chemical adjustment, and yet none of it will take hold without a deeper reformation of my character.
I have long enjoyed the story of Prince Antiochus, who was overcome with lethargy. His father summoned the famed physician Erasistratus, who, by monitoring the young man’s pulse, observed his response to his beloved Stratonice: the sickness proceeded from his longing. I too know how matters of the heart have led to perturbations in every other aspect of my being.
Ancient medicine is regularly mocked for being primitive and unscientific, even as all of our modern refinements are built upon the efforts of those who inquired before us. In one sense, at least, I suspect that the Greeks and the Romans knew something too many of us have now forgotten: health within the body derives from the subtle harmony of our many powers, and we do ourselves no favors when we merely try to smother the symptoms with the brute force of surgery and drugs. The health of the mind is much the same.
The model of the Four Humors may well be a crude form of biology, but it does grasp a broader concept about disease being a consequence of an imbalance. When the parts are working together in equilibrium, the whole will operate smoothly, while when those parts are misaligned by excess or deficiency, the function of the whole is compromised. Where there is such a disorder, the organism will be wracked by the conflict of opposites.
I can discern this in my diet, and in the discipline of my daily activities, and in my resistance to infection or to injury. I see it also in the relationship of my thoughts and feelings—if my judgments are disturbed, my passions will also be in disarray. A false estimation about the source of the true and good, where I have built up a distorted view of right and wrong, is the cause of so many harmful emotions.
Beyond a few fragments, the works of Chrysippus are no longer available to us, so I will have to take Cicero at his word that the Early Stoics were overly occupied with comparing the ailments of the mind to those of the the body. Nevertheless, while each operates within its own domain, I should not underestimate their close complementarity and greater unity; the spirit and the flesh are intimately bound together, such that the state of one is immediately reflected in that of the other.
Just as a fever may be a reaction to an intrusive virus, so my sadness or my anger may well be a product of my lopsided opinions. I am happy to follow the advice of the doctor in curing a physical illness, and I should also heed the wisdom of the philosopher when I am confused about meaning and value. Perhaps my brain needs a chemical adjustment, and yet none of it will take hold without a deeper reformation of my character.
I have long enjoyed the story of Prince Antiochus, who was overcome with lethargy. His father summoned the famed physician Erasistratus, who, by monitoring the young man’s pulse, observed his response to his beloved Stratonice: the sickness proceeded from his longing. I too know how matters of the heart have led to perturbations in every other aspect of my being.
—Reflection written in 1/1999
IMAGE: Jacques-Louis David, Erasistratus Discovering the Cause of Antiochus' Disease (1774)
Sunday, July 28, 2024
Sayings of Publilius Syrus 157
Even calamity becomes virtue's opportunity.
IMAGE: Silvestro Chiesa, The Sufferings of Job (c. 1650)
Saturday, July 27, 2024
Maxims of Goethe 50
Man would not be the finest creature in the world if he were not too fine for it.
IMAGE: Giacinto Gimignani, An Angel and a Devil Fighting for the Soul of a Child (c. 1650)
Friday, July 26, 2024
Sayings of Publilius Syrus 156
The party to which the rabble belong is ever the worst.
IMAGE: Jean-Pierre Houël, The Storming of the Bastille (1789)
Thursday, July 25, 2024
Maxims of Goethe 49
Wednesday, July 24, 2024
Sayings of Ramakrishna 248
Be not like the frog in the well. The frog in the well knows nothing bigger and grander than its well.
So are all bigots: they do not see anything better than their own creeds.
IMAGE by Elshastara (2012)
Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 4.9
M. The different species into which they divide pleasure come under this description:
So that malevolence is a pleasure in the misfortunes of another, without any advantage to yourself.
Delight, a pleasure that soothes the mind by agreeable impressions on the ear. What is said of the ear may be applied to the sight, to the touch, smell, and taste. All feelings of this kind are a sort of melting pleasure that dissolves the mind.
Boastfulness is a pleasure that consists in making an appearance, and setting off yourself with insolence.
The subordinate species of lust they define in this manner:
Anger is a lust of punishing anyone who, as we imagine, has injured us without cause.
Heat is anger just forming and beginning to exist, which the Greeks call θύμωσις.
Hatred is a settled anger. Enmity is anger waiting for an opportunity of revenge.
Discord is a sharper anger conceived deeply in the mind and heart.
Want an insatiable lust.
Regret is when one eagerly wishes to see a person who is absent.
Now here they have a distinction; so that with them regret is a lust conceived on hearing of certain things reported of someone, or of many, which the Greeks call κατηγορήματα, or predicaments; as that they are in possession of riches and honors: but want is a lust for those very honors and riches.
But these definers make intemperance the fountain of all these perturbations; which is an absolute revolt from the mind and right reason—a state so averse to all rules of reason that the appetites of the mind can by no means be governed and restrained.
As, therefore, temperance appeases these desires, making them obey right reason, and maintains the well-weighed judgments of the mind, so intemperance, which is in opposition to this, inflames, confounds, and puts every state of the mind into a violent motion.
Thus, grief and fear, and every other perturbation of the mind, have their rise from intemperance.
So that malevolence is a pleasure in the misfortunes of another, without any advantage to yourself.
Delight, a pleasure that soothes the mind by agreeable impressions on the ear. What is said of the ear may be applied to the sight, to the touch, smell, and taste. All feelings of this kind are a sort of melting pleasure that dissolves the mind.
Boastfulness is a pleasure that consists in making an appearance, and setting off yourself with insolence.
The subordinate species of lust they define in this manner:
Anger is a lust of punishing anyone who, as we imagine, has injured us without cause.
Heat is anger just forming and beginning to exist, which the Greeks call θύμωσις.
Hatred is a settled anger. Enmity is anger waiting for an opportunity of revenge.
Discord is a sharper anger conceived deeply in the mind and heart.
Want an insatiable lust.
Regret is when one eagerly wishes to see a person who is absent.
Now here they have a distinction; so that with them regret is a lust conceived on hearing of certain things reported of someone, or of many, which the Greeks call κατηγορήματα, or predicaments; as that they are in possession of riches and honors: but want is a lust for those very honors and riches.
But these definers make intemperance the fountain of all these perturbations; which is an absolute revolt from the mind and right reason—a state so averse to all rules of reason that the appetites of the mind can by no means be governed and restrained.
As, therefore, temperance appeases these desires, making them obey right reason, and maintains the well-weighed judgments of the mind, so intemperance, which is in opposition to this, inflames, confounds, and puts every state of the mind into a violent motion.
Thus, grief and fear, and every other perturbation of the mind, have their rise from intemperance.
—from Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 4.9
Now my first instinct is to say that the emotions involving pleasure and desire, for what is present or for what is anticipated respectively, are far safer and more agreeable than those involving the perils of grief and fear. Surely “good feelings” are preferable to “bad feelings”? What sort of fool would wish to be deprived when he has the option of being gratified?
We have here the premise behind a culture built on hedonism, which sounds all well and good until we suddenly realize how the pursuit of sensuality has an uncanny knack for making us utterly miserable. We all too soon forget how the value of the feeling depends upon the virtue of the action, and why an understanding of the true and the good is the necessary condition for living in peace and joy.
I think of myself during my darkest times, along with my many accomplices in the confusion of longing, as we assumed it had to be about getting more, when the solution was really to be found in wanting less. The passions will be balanced and healthy when they are in the service of a sound mind, when I have the wisdom to look behind the lure of the impression to the dignity of the nature.
Temperance, in this sense, is not confined to denying ourselves, but is rather the choice of liberating ourselves. Moderation is the virtue of self-mastery over pleasure and pain, and no virtue is ever possible without the guidance of reasonable judgements. It falls into place once I recognize myself as a rational animal, whose emotions are to be measured through the excellence of an informed conscience.
There is nothing fulfilling about being a prisoner to gratification, and there is nothing harmless about being enslaved to lust. The unsavory side of it is quickly apparent if I am consumed by malevolence, because I find a perverse pleasure in the suffering of my neighbor, or if I am inflamed with anger, because I am looking forward to some brutal reckoning. If I scratch the surface, I see how gluttony is like an insatiable hunger, and avarice is like a spiral of addiction.
It will be incredibly difficult to persuade the confident go-getter that his plans for conquest will only spell his doom, just as is it will be quite the challenge to convince the drunk that he should part ways with his precious bottle. In the end, only they can change their own thinking, and thereby tame their own feelings.
Now my first instinct is to say that the emotions involving pleasure and desire, for what is present or for what is anticipated respectively, are far safer and more agreeable than those involving the perils of grief and fear. Surely “good feelings” are preferable to “bad feelings”? What sort of fool would wish to be deprived when he has the option of being gratified?
We have here the premise behind a culture built on hedonism, which sounds all well and good until we suddenly realize how the pursuit of sensuality has an uncanny knack for making us utterly miserable. We all too soon forget how the value of the feeling depends upon the virtue of the action, and why an understanding of the true and the good is the necessary condition for living in peace and joy.
I think of myself during my darkest times, along with my many accomplices in the confusion of longing, as we assumed it had to be about getting more, when the solution was really to be found in wanting less. The passions will be balanced and healthy when they are in the service of a sound mind, when I have the wisdom to look behind the lure of the impression to the dignity of the nature.
Temperance, in this sense, is not confined to denying ourselves, but is rather the choice of liberating ourselves. Moderation is the virtue of self-mastery over pleasure and pain, and no virtue is ever possible without the guidance of reasonable judgements. It falls into place once I recognize myself as a rational animal, whose emotions are to be measured through the excellence of an informed conscience.
There is nothing fulfilling about being a prisoner to gratification, and there is nothing harmless about being enslaved to lust. The unsavory side of it is quickly apparent if I am consumed by malevolence, because I find a perverse pleasure in the suffering of my neighbor, or if I am inflamed with anger, because I am looking forward to some brutal reckoning. If I scratch the surface, I see how gluttony is like an insatiable hunger, and avarice is like a spiral of addiction.
It will be incredibly difficult to persuade the confident go-getter that his plans for conquest will only spell his doom, just as is it will be quite the challenge to convince the drunk that he should part ways with his precious bottle. In the end, only they can change their own thinking, and thereby tame their own feelings.
—Reflection written in 1/1999
IMAGE: Giovanni Segantini, The Punishment of Lust (1891)
Tuesday, July 23, 2024
Facius, The Theological Virtues
George Siegmund Facius (after Joshua Reynolds), The Theological Virtues: Faith, Hope, Charity (1781)
Facius, The Cardinal Virtues
George Siegmund Facius (after Joshua Reynolds), The Cardinal Virtues: Prudence, Fortitude, Temperance, Justice (1781)
Monday, July 22, 2024
Sayings of Publilius Syrus 155
Solitude is the mother of anxieties.
IMAGE: Edward Hopper, Automat (1927)
Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 4.8
M. But they define these in this manner:
Enviousness (invidentia), they say, is a grief arising from the prosperous circumstances of another, which are in no degree injurious to the person who envies; for where any one grieves at the prosperity of another, by which he is injured, such a one is not properly said to envy—as when Agamemnon grieves at Hector’s success; but where any one, who is in no way hurt by the prosperity of another, is in pain at his success, such a one envies indeed.
Now the name “emulation” is taken in a double sense, so that the same word may stand for praise and dispraise: for the imitation of virtue is called emulation (however, that sense of it I shall have no occasion for here, for that carries praise with it); but emulation is also a term applied to grief at another’s enjoying what I desired to have, and am without.
Detraction (and I mean by that, jealousy) is a grief even at another’s enjoying what I had a great inclination for.
Pity is a grief at the misery of another who suffers wrongfully; for no one is moved by pity at the punishment of a parricide or of a betrayer of his country.
Vexation is a pressing grief.
Mourning is a grief at the bitter death of one who was dear to you.
Sadness is a grief attended with tears.
Tribulation is a painful grief.
Sorrow, an excruciating grief.
Lamentation, a grief where we loudly bewail ourselves.
Solicitude, a pensive grief.
Trouble, a continued grief.
Affliction, a grief that harasses the body.
Despair, a grief that excludes all hope of better things to come.
But those feelings which are included under fear, they define thus:
There is sloth, which is a dread of some ensuing labor.
Shame and terror, which affect the body—hence blushing attends shame; a paleness, and tremor, and chattering of the teeth attend terror.
Cowardice, which is an apprehension of some approaching evil.
Dread, a fear that unhinges the mind, whence comes that line of Ennius,
“Then dread discharged all wisdom from my mind.”
Fainting is the associate and constant attendant on dread.
Confusion, a fear that drives away all thought.
Alarm, a continued fear.
Enviousness (invidentia), they say, is a grief arising from the prosperous circumstances of another, which are in no degree injurious to the person who envies; for where any one grieves at the prosperity of another, by which he is injured, such a one is not properly said to envy—as when Agamemnon grieves at Hector’s success; but where any one, who is in no way hurt by the prosperity of another, is in pain at his success, such a one envies indeed.
Now the name “emulation” is taken in a double sense, so that the same word may stand for praise and dispraise: for the imitation of virtue is called emulation (however, that sense of it I shall have no occasion for here, for that carries praise with it); but emulation is also a term applied to grief at another’s enjoying what I desired to have, and am without.
Detraction (and I mean by that, jealousy) is a grief even at another’s enjoying what I had a great inclination for.
Pity is a grief at the misery of another who suffers wrongfully; for no one is moved by pity at the punishment of a parricide or of a betrayer of his country.
Vexation is a pressing grief.
Mourning is a grief at the bitter death of one who was dear to you.
Sadness is a grief attended with tears.
Tribulation is a painful grief.
Sorrow, an excruciating grief.
Lamentation, a grief where we loudly bewail ourselves.
Solicitude, a pensive grief.
Trouble, a continued grief.
Affliction, a grief that harasses the body.
Despair, a grief that excludes all hope of better things to come.
But those feelings which are included under fear, they define thus:
There is sloth, which is a dread of some ensuing labor.
Shame and terror, which affect the body—hence blushing attends shame; a paleness, and tremor, and chattering of the teeth attend terror.
Cowardice, which is an apprehension of some approaching evil.
Dread, a fear that unhinges the mind, whence comes that line of Ennius,
“Then dread discharged all wisdom from my mind.”
Fainting is the associate and constant attendant on dread.
Confusion, a fear that drives away all thought.
Alarm, a continued fear.
—from Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 4.8
There are many ways to categorize the human passions, depending upon which attributes we might wish to emphasize. The Germanic part of me certainly does like a good inventory, but lists themselves cannot be of any use if they do not help me to relate the effects back to their causes.
What motivated my response? Why was my reaction healthy or unhealthy? How should I modify my thinking to return a balance to my feeling?
Grief, as a distress at a falsely perceived present evil, is quite familiar to me, and I immediately recognize all of these slight variations presented by Cicero. In each case, I will latch on to a particular feature of my world which I am convinced has somehow done me wrong; then, having mentally reduced myself to being the victim, I allow myself to suffer emotionally.
The error is always one of making my happiness or misery depend upon the weight of the circumstances.
Observe, for example, how Cicero’s specific definition of envy does not even require for any direct harm to have been done to the envier, only that the envied possesses a general prosperity. I’m afraid I can no longer count the number of times I have seethed over some ridiculous luxury I never even desired, just because it made another fellow look better than me.
It’s all about me, and it has absolutely nothing to do with him.
Or consider what Cicero calls despair, which is the sort of grief that rejects any possibility of improvement. Even when I am completely clueless about what lies in store, I succumb to despair as it feels easier to give up hope than to act with any sort of conviction: I would rather experience a greater pain of loss than I would endure even the slightest pain of effort.
Again, this is never about the situation, and it is really a reflection of my own surrender.
In the end, however, it makes little difference what this man has, or what that man might do to me. Beyond an initial shock, a dwelling upon grief is the result of a disordered judgment concerning the human good. It calls for compassion instead of condemnation, but sorrows must never be indulged.
The remedy is in learning to find comfort in what I truly know to be my own, regardless of Fortune’s flighty ways. She has her fickleness, while I have my constancy.
When it comes to fear, as a distress at a falsely perceived expected evil, I suppose I should be grateful to know some of these forms a bit better than others. I tend to struggle less with a lazy conscience, or with any sort of moral cowardice, and more with the obstacle of a terror that cripples, at least for the moment, my capacity to reason clearly.
The odd result is that when I find myself in a pinch, I must first calm myself down from a wave of anxiety, not rouse myself up to the necessity of action. Indeed, if I don’t do this, by deliberately counting down in my head, I will usually behave recklessly, not mindfully. I recognize it as a variation of what I call my Irish temper, though I cannot yet claim to have it licked.
We will all have our own unique variations and personal quirks; where we then find ourselves located on the map will indicate in which direction we are best advised to travel.
There are many ways to categorize the human passions, depending upon which attributes we might wish to emphasize. The Germanic part of me certainly does like a good inventory, but lists themselves cannot be of any use if they do not help me to relate the effects back to their causes.
What motivated my response? Why was my reaction healthy or unhealthy? How should I modify my thinking to return a balance to my feeling?
Grief, as a distress at a falsely perceived present evil, is quite familiar to me, and I immediately recognize all of these slight variations presented by Cicero. In each case, I will latch on to a particular feature of my world which I am convinced has somehow done me wrong; then, having mentally reduced myself to being the victim, I allow myself to suffer emotionally.
The error is always one of making my happiness or misery depend upon the weight of the circumstances.
Observe, for example, how Cicero’s specific definition of envy does not even require for any direct harm to have been done to the envier, only that the envied possesses a general prosperity. I’m afraid I can no longer count the number of times I have seethed over some ridiculous luxury I never even desired, just because it made another fellow look better than me.
It’s all about me, and it has absolutely nothing to do with him.
Or consider what Cicero calls despair, which is the sort of grief that rejects any possibility of improvement. Even when I am completely clueless about what lies in store, I succumb to despair as it feels easier to give up hope than to act with any sort of conviction: I would rather experience a greater pain of loss than I would endure even the slightest pain of effort.
Again, this is never about the situation, and it is really a reflection of my own surrender.
In the end, however, it makes little difference what this man has, or what that man might do to me. Beyond an initial shock, a dwelling upon grief is the result of a disordered judgment concerning the human good. It calls for compassion instead of condemnation, but sorrows must never be indulged.
The remedy is in learning to find comfort in what I truly know to be my own, regardless of Fortune’s flighty ways. She has her fickleness, while I have my constancy.
When it comes to fear, as a distress at a falsely perceived expected evil, I suppose I should be grateful to know some of these forms a bit better than others. I tend to struggle less with a lazy conscience, or with any sort of moral cowardice, and more with the obstacle of a terror that cripples, at least for the moment, my capacity to reason clearly.
The odd result is that when I find myself in a pinch, I must first calm myself down from a wave of anxiety, not rouse myself up to the necessity of action. Indeed, if I don’t do this, by deliberately counting down in my head, I will usually behave recklessly, not mindfully. I recognize it as a variation of what I call my Irish temper, though I cannot yet claim to have it licked.
We will all have our own unique variations and personal quirks; where we then find ourselves located on the map will indicate in which direction we are best advised to travel.
—Reflection written in 1/1999
IMAGE: Edvard Much, Jealousy (1895)
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Sunday, July 21, 2024
In This Short Life
"In this short Life—"
Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)
In this short Life that only lasts an hour
How much—how little—is within our power.
If I Should Die
"If I should die"
Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)
If I should die,
And you should live,
And time should gurgle on,
And morn should beam,
And noon should burn,
As it has usual done;
If birds should build as early,
And bees as bustling go,—
One might depart at option
From enterprise below!
’Tis sweet to know that stocks will stand
When we with daisies lie,
That commerce will continue,
And trades as briskly fly.
It makes the parting tranquil
And keeps the soul serene,
That gentlemen so sprightly
Conduct the pleasing scene!
And you should live,
And time should gurgle on,
And morn should beam,
And noon should burn,
As it has usual done;
If birds should build as early,
And bees as bustling go,—
One might depart at option
From enterprise below!
’Tis sweet to know that stocks will stand
When we with daisies lie,
That commerce will continue,
And trades as briskly fly.
It makes the parting tranquil
And keeps the soul serene,
That gentlemen so sprightly
Conduct the pleasing scene!
Saturday, July 20, 2024
A Tree of Vices
Anonymous German, A Tree of Vices from the Speculum Virginum (c. 1200)
The root of vice: Pride (superbia)
The crowning fruit: Sensual Pleasure (luxuria)
VAINGLORY (vana gloria)
Hypocrisy (hypocrisis)
Disobedience (inobedientia)
Boasting (lactantia)
Presumption (praesumptionis)
Arrogance (arrogantia)
Talkativeness (loquacitas)
Obstinacy (pertinacia)
ENVY (invidia)
The crowning fruit: Sensual Pleasure (luxuria)
The Old Adam
In The City of Babylon
In The City of Babylon
Hypocrisy (hypocrisis)
Disobedience (inobedientia)
Boasting (lactantia)
Presumption (praesumptionis)
Arrogance (arrogantia)
Talkativeness (loquacitas)
Obstinacy (pertinacia)
ENVY (invidia)
Hatred (odium)
Envying others’ good fortune (afflictio in prosperis)
Exulting in others’ adversity (exsultatio in adversis)
Malice (malitia)
Detraction (detractio)
Bitterness (amaritudo)
Whispering (susurratio)
ANGER (ira)
Envying others’ good fortune (afflictio in prosperis)
Exulting in others’ adversity (exsultatio in adversis)
Malice (malitia)
Detraction (detractio)
Bitterness (amaritudo)
Whispering (susurratio)
ANGER (ira)
Accusation (clamor)
Blasphemy (blasphemia)
Insult (contumelia)
Mourning or dwelling on an injury by another (luctus)
Reckless outburst (temeritas)
Fury (furor)
Indignation (indignatio)
SADNESS (tristitia)
Blasphemy (blasphemia)
Insult (contumelia)
Mourning or dwelling on an injury by another (luctus)
Reckless outburst (temeritas)
Fury (furor)
Indignation (indignatio)
SADNESS (tristitia)
Despair (desperatio)
Rancor (rancor)
Mental torpor (torpor)
Fear and anxiety (timor)
Listlessness (acidia)
Complaint (querela)
Pessimism (pusillanimitas)
AVARICE (avaritia)
Rancor (rancor)
Mental torpor (torpor)
Fear and anxiety (timor)
Listlessness (acidia)
Complaint (querela)
Pessimism (pusillanimitas)
AVARICE (avaritia)
Love of money (philargyria)
Perjury (perjurium)
Violence (violentia)
Usury (usura)
Fraud (fraus)
Robbery (rapina)
Deceit (fallacia)
GLUTTONY (ventris ingluvies)
Perjury (perjurium)
Violence (violentia)
Usury (usura)
Fraud (fraus)
Robbery (rapina)
Deceit (fallacia)
GLUTTONY (ventris ingluvies)
Drunkenness (ebrietas)
Overeating (crapula)
Dullness of sense and in understanding (mentis hebetatio)
Laziness (languor)
Delicacy of appetite; desire for delicious foods beyond one natural needs (delicatio)
Disregard of health (oblivio)
LUST (Luxuria)
Overeating (crapula)
Dullness of sense and in understanding (mentis hebetatio)
Laziness (languor)
Delicacy of appetite; desire for delicious foods beyond one natural needs (delicatio)
Disregard of health (oblivio)
LUST (Luxuria)
Voluptuous pleasure (voluptas)
Lewdness (lascivia)
Languid rejection of virtue (ignavia)
Rash, consuming desire (petulantia)
Weakness of spirit or body given over to indulgence (titubatio)
Enticement (blanditiae)
Excessive sensual delight (deliciae)
Lewdness (lascivia)
Languid rejection of virtue (ignavia)
Rash, consuming desire (petulantia)
Weakness of spirit or body given over to indulgence (titubatio)
Enticement (blanditiae)
Excessive sensual delight (deliciae)
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