M. The man who attempts to set bounds to vice acts like one who should throw himself headlong from Leucate, persuaded that he could stop himself whenever he pleased. Now, as that is impossible, so a perturbed and disordered mind cannot restrain itself, and stop where it pleases. Certainly, whatever is bad in its increase is bad in its birth.
Now grief and all other perturbations are doubtless baneful in their progress, and have, therefore, no small share of evil at the beginning; for they go on of themselves when once they depart from reason, for every weakness is self-indulgent, and indiscreetly launches out, and does not know where to stop.
So that it makes no difference whether you approve of moderate perturbations of mind, or of moderate injustice, moderate cowardice, and moderate intemperance; for whoever prescribes bounds to vice admits a part of it, which, as it is odious of itself, becomes the more so as it stands on slippery ground, and, being once set forward, glides on headlong, and cannot by any means be stopped.
Now grief and all other perturbations are doubtless baneful in their progress, and have, therefore, no small share of evil at the beginning; for they go on of themselves when once they depart from reason, for every weakness is self-indulgent, and indiscreetly launches out, and does not know where to stop.
So that it makes no difference whether you approve of moderate perturbations of mind, or of moderate injustice, moderate cowardice, and moderate intemperance; for whoever prescribes bounds to vice admits a part of it, which, as it is odious of itself, becomes the more so as it stands on slippery ground, and, being once set forward, glides on headlong, and cannot by any means be stopped.
—from Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 4.18
I certainly understand the temptation of wanting to be so very good, while also wanting to be just a little bit bad. It unfortunately means I haven’t understood what it means to be good in the first place, still convinced that I can fudge my way around a genuine commitment.
As much as there will be degrees of more or less, and nuanced differences in the circumstances, there remains a final determination of kind: in the end, either it is or it isn’t, with no possibility of equivocation. This is why the Stoics insisted that virtue and vice do not ultimately admit of any conditions, being either present or absent.
Willfully permitting a smidgeon of disorder to enter into the soul is far from harmless, since the neglect of one part violates the harmony of the whole. You may tell me that one more drink can’t hurt me, yet hard experience tells me otherwise, a prudent rule that applies equally to all aspects of life, both big and small.
Though the petulant logician in me wishes to deny it, there are clearly such things as slippery slopes, all of them instances where I have lost my footing through the tiniest of missteps: for want of a nail, the kingdom was lost. If I can’t control myself in the most trivial affairs, how can I expect to control myself in the grandest affairs?
When I am being “sort of” a jerk, I am still being a jerk, just as “a little fun on the side” remains an act of infidelity. What does it say about my thinking when I overlook the misdemeanors I can get away with, and only become worried at the prospect of getting nabbed for the felonies? That is unfortunately a form of scheming, not an expression of character, a moral weaseling that shows my true colors.
None of this means I need to be too hard on myself. I know full well how I will fail, a challenge that calls for greater self-respect, not deeper self-loathing. I get up, I dust myself off, and I try again; I set the bar higher in order to improve myself, not to demean myself. Instead of making excuses, I recognize, with apologies to the truism police, how the glass is half-full, not half-empty. Progress!
The desire to have it both ways is, I believe, a symptom of an insidious relativism, which is once again fashionable in our day and age. To deny facts, moral or otherwise, is not the result of a sincere doubt, but of a crippling vanity. Where there is a judgment, there must be a standard of judgment, and where there is anything relative, it must be measured by an absolute. Anything less gets us tied up in contradictions.
They tell me that nothing can be known, even as they can somehow know that nothing can be known. They tell me that all values are equally true, which then means that all values are also equally false. They tell me that the truth is subjective, while that claim is itself objective. If this makes my head hurt, they tell me to feel it with my heart, as if the primacy of the passions can be arrived at through the authority of what is actually a judgment.
A few years back, there were these ads on television, constantly ordering me to “Stop the insanity!” Indeed. The man who dabbles in paradoxes may as well throw himself off a mountain and expect to land gently on his feet.
I certainly understand the temptation of wanting to be so very good, while also wanting to be just a little bit bad. It unfortunately means I haven’t understood what it means to be good in the first place, still convinced that I can fudge my way around a genuine commitment.
As much as there will be degrees of more or less, and nuanced differences in the circumstances, there remains a final determination of kind: in the end, either it is or it isn’t, with no possibility of equivocation. This is why the Stoics insisted that virtue and vice do not ultimately admit of any conditions, being either present or absent.
Willfully permitting a smidgeon of disorder to enter into the soul is far from harmless, since the neglect of one part violates the harmony of the whole. You may tell me that one more drink can’t hurt me, yet hard experience tells me otherwise, a prudent rule that applies equally to all aspects of life, both big and small.
Though the petulant logician in me wishes to deny it, there are clearly such things as slippery slopes, all of them instances where I have lost my footing through the tiniest of missteps: for want of a nail, the kingdom was lost. If I can’t control myself in the most trivial affairs, how can I expect to control myself in the grandest affairs?
When I am being “sort of” a jerk, I am still being a jerk, just as “a little fun on the side” remains an act of infidelity. What does it say about my thinking when I overlook the misdemeanors I can get away with, and only become worried at the prospect of getting nabbed for the felonies? That is unfortunately a form of scheming, not an expression of character, a moral weaseling that shows my true colors.
None of this means I need to be too hard on myself. I know full well how I will fail, a challenge that calls for greater self-respect, not deeper self-loathing. I get up, I dust myself off, and I try again; I set the bar higher in order to improve myself, not to demean myself. Instead of making excuses, I recognize, with apologies to the truism police, how the glass is half-full, not half-empty. Progress!
The desire to have it both ways is, I believe, a symptom of an insidious relativism, which is once again fashionable in our day and age. To deny facts, moral or otherwise, is not the result of a sincere doubt, but of a crippling vanity. Where there is a judgment, there must be a standard of judgment, and where there is anything relative, it must be measured by an absolute. Anything less gets us tied up in contradictions.
They tell me that nothing can be known, even as they can somehow know that nothing can be known. They tell me that all values are equally true, which then means that all values are also equally false. They tell me that the truth is subjective, while that claim is itself objective. If this makes my head hurt, they tell me to feel it with my heart, as if the primacy of the passions can be arrived at through the authority of what is actually a judgment.
A few years back, there were these ads on television, constantly ordering me to “Stop the insanity!” Indeed. The man who dabbles in paradoxes may as well throw himself off a mountain and expect to land gently on his feet.
—Reflection written in 1/1999
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