M. However, we may allow the poets to trifle, in whose fables we see Jupiter himself engaged in these debaucheries: but let us apply to the masters of virtue—the philosophers who deny love to be anything carnal; and in this they differ from Epicurus, who, I think, is not much mistaken.
For what is that love of friendship? How comes it that no one is in love with a deformed young man, or a handsome old one? I am of opinion that this love of men had its rise from the Gymnastics of the Greeks, where these kinds of loves are admissible and permitted; therefore Ennius spoke well:
“The censure of this crime to those is due
Who naked bodies first exposed to view.”
Now, supposing them chaste, which I think is hardly possible, they are uneasy and distressed, and the more so because they contain and refrain themselves.
But, to pass over the love of women, where nature has allowed more liberty, who can misunderstand the poets in their rape of Ganymede, or not apprehend what Laius says, and what he desires, in Euripides?
Lastly, what have the principal poets and the most learned men published of themselves in their poems and songs? What doth Alcaeus, who was distinguished in his own republic for his bravery, write on the love of young men? And as for Anacreon’s poetry, it is wholly on love. But Ibycus of Rhegium appears, from his writings, to have had this love stronger on him than all the rest.
For what is that love of friendship? How comes it that no one is in love with a deformed young man, or a handsome old one? I am of opinion that this love of men had its rise from the Gymnastics of the Greeks, where these kinds of loves are admissible and permitted; therefore Ennius spoke well:
“The censure of this crime to those is due
Who naked bodies first exposed to view.”
Now, supposing them chaste, which I think is hardly possible, they are uneasy and distressed, and the more so because they contain and refrain themselves.
But, to pass over the love of women, where nature has allowed more liberty, who can misunderstand the poets in their rape of Ganymede, or not apprehend what Laius says, and what he desires, in Euripides?
Lastly, what have the principal poets and the most learned men published of themselves in their poems and songs? What doth Alcaeus, who was distinguished in his own republic for his bravery, write on the love of young men? And as for Anacreon’s poetry, it is wholly on love. But Ibycus of Rhegium appears, from his writings, to have had this love stronger on him than all the rest.
—From Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 4.33
I am hesitant to offer any comment at all on this chapter, not because the topic is in itself distasteful, but rather because most anyone reading along will, without giving it a second thought, have the knee-jerk reaction of assuming that Cicero is a hateful homophobe.
What good will come, I wonder, from engaging with an outraged partisan who refuses to do anything but toe the sacred party line? It sadly goes both ways. I remain confused by the way contempt is considered a fitting response to those with whom we disagree; if I am truly to be a champion of tolerance, I can hardly cherry-pick my causes.
So, I simply ask myself to consider, in the privacy of my own thoughts, what the purpose of sexuality might be within the fullness of human nature. In the end, it really makes little difference whether our attractions are for men or for women, and it matters far more that we first reflect on why our desires should be guided by our understanding.
I know all too well that not all of my instincts and urges are necessarily good for me, and I have learned the hard way that I become a monster when the reason is taken out of the animal, when I act only on my feelings, without the benefit of thinking. Lust, in any form, is a kind of slavery, and love, in any form, is a kind of liberation. Chastity, a sadly unpopular word, is not the same thing as celibacy—chastity is self-restraint, not self-denial.
Once it is merely the pleasure I crave, I am treating both myself and others as objects of gratification. Once it is the genuine beauty I seek, I am finally treating both myself and others as end in themselves, and never as means. I suspect all of us really sense, deep down inside, when we are being vulgar, and when we are being virtuous. Is the heart being led by the head, or being dragged down by the gut?
Poetry is certainly an art that inflames the passions, though this does not demand that the fervent man become a lecherous man. I will follow my own conscience in this matter, and I am happy for you to follow yours. And that’s all I’m going to say about that.
I am hesitant to offer any comment at all on this chapter, not because the topic is in itself distasteful, but rather because most anyone reading along will, without giving it a second thought, have the knee-jerk reaction of assuming that Cicero is a hateful homophobe.
What good will come, I wonder, from engaging with an outraged partisan who refuses to do anything but toe the sacred party line? It sadly goes both ways. I remain confused by the way contempt is considered a fitting response to those with whom we disagree; if I am truly to be a champion of tolerance, I can hardly cherry-pick my causes.
So, I simply ask myself to consider, in the privacy of my own thoughts, what the purpose of sexuality might be within the fullness of human nature. In the end, it really makes little difference whether our attractions are for men or for women, and it matters far more that we first reflect on why our desires should be guided by our understanding.
I know all too well that not all of my instincts and urges are necessarily good for me, and I have learned the hard way that I become a monster when the reason is taken out of the animal, when I act only on my feelings, without the benefit of thinking. Lust, in any form, is a kind of slavery, and love, in any form, is a kind of liberation. Chastity, a sadly unpopular word, is not the same thing as celibacy—chastity is self-restraint, not self-denial.
Once it is merely the pleasure I crave, I am treating both myself and others as objects of gratification. Once it is the genuine beauty I seek, I am finally treating both myself and others as end in themselves, and never as means. I suspect all of us really sense, deep down inside, when we are being vulgar, and when we are being virtuous. Is the heart being led by the head, or being dragged down by the gut?
Poetry is certainly an art that inflames the passions, though this does not demand that the fervent man become a lecherous man. I will follow my own conscience in this matter, and I am happy for you to follow yours. And that’s all I’m going to say about that.
—Reflection written in 1/1999
IMAGE: Hieronymus Bosch, The Garden of Earthly Delights (c. 1490)
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