M. Whoever, then, through moderation and constancy, is at rest in his mind, and in calm possession of himself, so as neither to pine with care, nor be dejected with fear, nor to be inflamed with desire, coveting something greedily, nor relaxed by extravagant mirth—such a man is that identical wise man whom we are inquiring for: he is the happy man, to whom nothing in this life seems intolerable enough to depress him; nothing exquisite enough to transport him unduly.
For what is there in this life that can appear great to him who has acquainted himself with eternity and the utmost extent of the Universe? For what is there in human knowledge, or the short span of this life, that can appear great to a wise man? Whose mind is always so upon its guard that nothing can befall him which is unforeseen, nothing which is unexpected, nothing, in short, which is new.
Such a man takes so exact a survey on all sides of him, that he always knows the proper place and spot to live in free from all the troubles and annoyances of life, and encounters every accident that fortune can bring upon him with a becoming calmness.
Whoever conducts himself in this manner will be free from grief, and from every other perturbation; and a mind free from these feelings renders men completely happy; whereas a mind disordered and drawn off from right and unerring reason loses at once, not only its resolution, but its health.
Therefore, the thoughts and declarations of the Peripatetics are soft and effeminate, for they say that the mind must necessarily be agitated, but at the same time they lay down certain bounds beyond which that agitation is not to proceed.
And do you set bounds to vice? Or is it no vice to disobey reason? Does not reason sufficiently declare that there is no real good which you should desire too ardently, or the possession of which you should allow to transport you? And that there is no evil that should be able to overwhelm you, or the suspicion of which should distract you? And that all these things assume too melancholy or too cheerful an appearance through our own error?
But if fools find this error lessened by time, so that, though the cause remains the same, they are not affected, in the same manner, after some time, as they were at first, why, surely a wise man ought not to be influenced at all by it.
But what are those degrees by which we are to limit it? Let us fix these degrees in grief, a difficult subject, and one much canvassed. Fannius writes that P. Rutilius took it much to heart that his brother was refused the consulship; but he seems to have been too much affected by this disappointment, for it was the occasion of his death: he ought, therefore, to have borne it with more moderation.
But let us suppose that while he was bearing this with moderation, the death of his children had intervened; here would have started a fresh grief, which, admitting it to be moderate in itself, yet still must have been a great addition to the other. Now, to these let us add some acute pains of body, the loss of his fortune, blindness, banishment. Supposing, then, each separate misfortune to occasion a separate additional grief, the whole would be too great to be supportable.
For what is there in this life that can appear great to him who has acquainted himself with eternity and the utmost extent of the Universe? For what is there in human knowledge, or the short span of this life, that can appear great to a wise man? Whose mind is always so upon its guard that nothing can befall him which is unforeseen, nothing which is unexpected, nothing, in short, which is new.
Such a man takes so exact a survey on all sides of him, that he always knows the proper place and spot to live in free from all the troubles and annoyances of life, and encounters every accident that fortune can bring upon him with a becoming calmness.
Whoever conducts himself in this manner will be free from grief, and from every other perturbation; and a mind free from these feelings renders men completely happy; whereas a mind disordered and drawn off from right and unerring reason loses at once, not only its resolution, but its health.
Therefore, the thoughts and declarations of the Peripatetics are soft and effeminate, for they say that the mind must necessarily be agitated, but at the same time they lay down certain bounds beyond which that agitation is not to proceed.
And do you set bounds to vice? Or is it no vice to disobey reason? Does not reason sufficiently declare that there is no real good which you should desire too ardently, or the possession of which you should allow to transport you? And that there is no evil that should be able to overwhelm you, or the suspicion of which should distract you? And that all these things assume too melancholy or too cheerful an appearance through our own error?
But if fools find this error lessened by time, so that, though the cause remains the same, they are not affected, in the same manner, after some time, as they were at first, why, surely a wise man ought not to be influenced at all by it.
But what are those degrees by which we are to limit it? Let us fix these degrees in grief, a difficult subject, and one much canvassed. Fannius writes that P. Rutilius took it much to heart that his brother was refused the consulship; but he seems to have been too much affected by this disappointment, for it was the occasion of his death: he ought, therefore, to have borne it with more moderation.
But let us suppose that while he was bearing this with moderation, the death of his children had intervened; here would have started a fresh grief, which, admitting it to be moderate in itself, yet still must have been a great addition to the other. Now, to these let us add some acute pains of body, the loss of his fortune, blindness, banishment. Supposing, then, each separate misfortune to occasion a separate additional grief, the whole would be too great to be supportable.
—from Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 4.17
Was it a hallmark of my generation to make intensity the standard of worth? I was constantly being told how I would succeed if I was only more passionate, constantly excited and busy, displaying my enthusiasm above all else. While I certainly understand the need to be fiercely motivated, I will not confuse this with a nervous frenzy—before all else, there must be a serenity within me.
The anxious man runs to and fro, shifting his attention from one diversion to another, and he is always a victim of his moods, which rise and fall according to the flukes of fortune. He is elated when he gets a promotion at the office, but then he is depressed when he finds his wife sleeping with her tennis instructor. There is no peace for him, since there is nothing constant within his soul.
It doesn’t have to be that way. Where there is a mind in tune with Nature, there will be a soul charged with virtue, and so a man can be happy by simply living according to his own merits. He does not identify himself by his circumstances, and so he is neither raised up nor cast down by extremes of pleasure or pain. By knowing who his is, he is on an even keel.
He doesn’t sweat the small stuff, having an appreciation for the meaning and purpose of the whole; both the promotion at work and the wayward wife are equally taken as opportunities to act with greater character. Asking for nothing more, and immune to losing what he already has, he does not work himself up into a lather.
As much as I deeply respect the tradition of Aristotle, I have sometimes wondered if the school wished to have it both ways, by defining virtue as the excellence of our thoughts and deeds, while still demanding specific external conditions to make this feasible, or by claiming that a good man can still be agitated, just not beyond a certain limit. With Cicero, I ask: why settle for half measures?
I do not wish to suggest that the Peripatetics intended this at all, but it reminds me of my “pious” friends who speak so much about holiness and prayer, yet then spend most of their day promoting their careers. I also think of those who justify outbursts of rage when they happen to be convenient, by calling them expressions of “righteous anger”. Sitting on the fence is never very comfortable.
If it possible to stand on my own two feet, it is lazy to still walk on crutches. If it is possible to live well without relying on tantrums and heartache, there is no need for bloated emotions. In both cases, it most certainly is possible, because I am a creature ruled by my own judgments, and I will only insist otherwise when I am trying to pass the buck. Let me employ any means that come to me, without submitting to them. Let me feel with depth and sincerity, without losing a grip on myself.
Once I allow one little grief to take a hold of me, hoping only that time will heal my wounds, whatever shall I do when the next one comes my way? What if those smaller frustrations, which I am willing to overlook individually, arrive all at once? It is better to arm myself against grief, or fear, or gratification, or lust from the very beginning, as best as is within my power.
To be strong does not mean I must become insensitive, only vigilant. I know all too well how a fellow can fall apart by bits and pieces, forgetting how a trifling compromise soon leads to a total surrender. In this, the school of hard knocks has taught me to trust the rigor of the Stoics over the accommodations of the Peripatetics.
Rutilius permitted a worry to get its foot in the door, and it turned out to be the end of him. An old schoolmate always argued that World War II was actually over on the day the Allies established that tiny beachhead at Normandy. Or, as Grandma used to say, one bad apple spoils the whole barrel. There can be no haggling when it comes to virtue and vice.
—Reflection written in 1/1999
IMAGE: Jan Gillisz van Vliet (after Rembrandt), A Man Grieving (1634)
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