M. But they insist upon it that all perturbations depend on opinion and judgment; therefore they define them more strictly, in order not only the better to show how blamable they are, but to discover how much they are in our power.
Grief, then, is a recent opinion of some present evil, in which it seems to be right that the mind should shrink and be dejected.
Joy is a recent opinion of a present good, in which it seems to be right that the mind should be elated.
Fear is an opinion of an impending evil which we apprehend will be intolerable.
Lust is an opinion of a good to come, which would be of advantage were it already come, and present with us.
But however I have named the judgments and opinions of perturbations, their meaning is, not that merely the perturbations consist in them, but that the effects likewise of these perturbations do so; as grief occasions a kind of painful pricking, and fear engenders a recoil or sudden abandonment of the mind, joy gives rise to a profuse mirth, while lust is the parent of an unbridled habit of coveting.
But that imagination, which I have included in all the above definitions, they would have to consist in assenting without warrantable grounds.
Now, every perturbation has many subordinate parts annexed to it of the same kind.
Grief is attended with enviousness (invidentia)—I use that word for instruction’s sake, though it is not so common; because envy (invidia) takes in not only the person who envies, but the person, too, who is envied—emulation, detraction, pity, vexation, mourning, sadness, tribulation, sorrow, lamentation, solicitude, disquiet of mind, pain, despair, and many other similar feelings are so too.
Under fear are comprehended sloth, shame, terror, cowardice, fainting, confusion, astonishment.
In pleasure they comprehend malevolence—that is, pleased at another’s misfortune—delight, boastfulness, and the like.
To lust they associate anger, fury, hatred, enmity, discord, wants, desire, and other feelings of that kind.
Grief, then, is a recent opinion of some present evil, in which it seems to be right that the mind should shrink and be dejected.
Joy is a recent opinion of a present good, in which it seems to be right that the mind should be elated.
Fear is an opinion of an impending evil which we apprehend will be intolerable.
Lust is an opinion of a good to come, which would be of advantage were it already come, and present with us.
But however I have named the judgments and opinions of perturbations, their meaning is, not that merely the perturbations consist in them, but that the effects likewise of these perturbations do so; as grief occasions a kind of painful pricking, and fear engenders a recoil or sudden abandonment of the mind, joy gives rise to a profuse mirth, while lust is the parent of an unbridled habit of coveting.
But that imagination, which I have included in all the above definitions, they would have to consist in assenting without warrantable grounds.
Now, every perturbation has many subordinate parts annexed to it of the same kind.
Grief is attended with enviousness (invidentia)—I use that word for instruction’s sake, though it is not so common; because envy (invidia) takes in not only the person who envies, but the person, too, who is envied—emulation, detraction, pity, vexation, mourning, sadness, tribulation, sorrow, lamentation, solicitude, disquiet of mind, pain, despair, and many other similar feelings are so too.
Under fear are comprehended sloth, shame, terror, cowardice, fainting, confusion, astonishment.
In pleasure they comprehend malevolence—that is, pleased at another’s misfortune—delight, boastfulness, and the like.
To lust they associate anger, fury, hatred, enmity, discord, wants, desire, and other feelings of that kind.
—from Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 4.7
The text here appears to sometimes use “joy” and “unbridled desire” interchangeably, though it is quite possible I am overlooking an important distinction. In any case, it ties into my earlier point that the labels alone shouldn’t be an obstacle. When any desire or aversion is in harmony with Nature, it is of benefit, but when any desire or aversion is contrary to Nature, it brings us harm.
The modern reader may be taken aback by the seeming severity of the Stoic model. I long struggled, for example, with the claim that grief is, properly speaking, a perturbation, until I began to understand why my sadness was something I could control by means of my judgments. This does not come easily, and it does not come quickly, and it does not involve any cessation of feeling, but it does allow for finding meaning and purpose in my passions, which then opens the way for a transformation of sorrow into joy, from an affliction into an opportunity.
The strictness of Stoicism does indeed set a high standard, yet, as Cicero says, it does so in order to remind us of our own responsibility for our own happiness, through the improvement of our own attitudes. If I continue to define my worth by the arrangement of my circumstances, I will remain at the mercy of my longing for pleasure, property, or position. If, however, I decide to find my dignity in the exercise of my virtues, I have finally become my own master.
Everything for me hinges upon my estimation, upon my opinion of what is true or false, right or wrong. A disorder in my thinking, where my judgment does not conform to the reality, brings about an imbalance in my feeling, where I suffer anxiety because I have misidentified the true good.
Am I in distress on account of a worldly loss? I am confused about what constitutes a proper gain.
Am I wallowing in pleasure? I have mistaken an increase of gratification for an excellence character.
Am I terrified of whatever will come? I limit myself to what might happen to me, at the expense of what I can do.
Am I consumed by a craving? I abandon my internal merits for the sake of external prospects.
If the Stoic division of the passions still seems simplistic, I am called to consider how every other emotion I have ever experienced is an aspect or a modification of one of these basic categories; there is a wide range of colors, while they are all a part of a single spectrum.
Grief is, for instance, a source of envy, for when I feel I have been denied what is mine, I am also inclined to be jealous of those to whom it has been granted. Indeed, my resentment toward others has been one of the most powerful forms of my lingering melancholy.
A surrender to a pleasure can easily take on a malicious form, as when I find a twisted satisfaction on the suffering of another, a feeling for which I can only find a German word: Schadenfreude.
When I am deeply afraid, I am often plagued by hesitation and diffidence. I worry that I can’t do anything, since I imagine the obstacle to be insurmountable. Once again, my gut is woozy because my head is wonky.
I only need to look at the quarrels of lovers to see why the mere prospect of consummation can bring out the most vicious aggression. Just as a lie is the perversion of a truth, so hatred is a lustful perversion of love.
The text here appears to sometimes use “joy” and “unbridled desire” interchangeably, though it is quite possible I am overlooking an important distinction. In any case, it ties into my earlier point that the labels alone shouldn’t be an obstacle. When any desire or aversion is in harmony with Nature, it is of benefit, but when any desire or aversion is contrary to Nature, it brings us harm.
The modern reader may be taken aback by the seeming severity of the Stoic model. I long struggled, for example, with the claim that grief is, properly speaking, a perturbation, until I began to understand why my sadness was something I could control by means of my judgments. This does not come easily, and it does not come quickly, and it does not involve any cessation of feeling, but it does allow for finding meaning and purpose in my passions, which then opens the way for a transformation of sorrow into joy, from an affliction into an opportunity.
The strictness of Stoicism does indeed set a high standard, yet, as Cicero says, it does so in order to remind us of our own responsibility for our own happiness, through the improvement of our own attitudes. If I continue to define my worth by the arrangement of my circumstances, I will remain at the mercy of my longing for pleasure, property, or position. If, however, I decide to find my dignity in the exercise of my virtues, I have finally become my own master.
Everything for me hinges upon my estimation, upon my opinion of what is true or false, right or wrong. A disorder in my thinking, where my judgment does not conform to the reality, brings about an imbalance in my feeling, where I suffer anxiety because I have misidentified the true good.
Am I in distress on account of a worldly loss? I am confused about what constitutes a proper gain.
Am I wallowing in pleasure? I have mistaken an increase of gratification for an excellence character.
Am I terrified of whatever will come? I limit myself to what might happen to me, at the expense of what I can do.
Am I consumed by a craving? I abandon my internal merits for the sake of external prospects.
If the Stoic division of the passions still seems simplistic, I am called to consider how every other emotion I have ever experienced is an aspect or a modification of one of these basic categories; there is a wide range of colors, while they are all a part of a single spectrum.
Grief is, for instance, a source of envy, for when I feel I have been denied what is mine, I am also inclined to be jealous of those to whom it has been granted. Indeed, my resentment toward others has been one of the most powerful forms of my lingering melancholy.
A surrender to a pleasure can easily take on a malicious form, as when I find a twisted satisfaction on the suffering of another, a feeling for which I can only find a German word: Schadenfreude.
When I am deeply afraid, I am often plagued by hesitation and diffidence. I worry that I can’t do anything, since I imagine the obstacle to be insurmountable. Once again, my gut is woozy because my head is wonky.
I only need to look at the quarrels of lovers to see why the mere prospect of consummation can bring out the most vicious aggression. Just as a lie is the perversion of a truth, so hatred is a lustful perversion of love.
—Reflection written in 1/1999
IMAGE: Anonymous Italian, Allegory of Envy (c. 1500)
No comments:
Post a Comment