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)
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