M. Now, the cure for one who is affected in this manner is to show how light, how contemptible, how very trifling he is in what he desires; how he may turn his affections to another object, or accomplish his desires by some other means; or else to persuade him that he may entirely disregard it: sometimes he is to be led away to objects of another kind, to study, business, or other different engagements and concerns: very often the cure is effected by change of place, as sick people, that have not recovered their strength, are benefited by change of air.
Some people think an old love may be driven out by a new one, as one nail drives out another: but, above all things, the man thus afflicted should be advised what madness love is: for of all the perturbations of the mind, there is not one which is more vehement; for (without charging it with rapes, debaucheries, adultery, or even incest, the baseness of any of these being very blamable; not, I say, to mention these) the very perturbation of the mind in love is base of itself, for, to pass over all its acts of downright madness, what weakness do not those very things which are looked upon as indifferent argue?
"Affronts and jealousies, jars, squabbles, wars,
Then peace again. The man who seeks to fix
These restless feelings, and to subjugate
Them to some regular law, is just as wise
As one who’d try to lay down rules by which
Men should go mad."
Now, is not this inconstancy and mutability of mind enough to deter anyone by its own deformity?
We are to demonstrate, as was said of every perturbation, that there are no such feelings which do not consist entirely of opinion and judgment, and are not owing to ourselves. For if love were natural, all would be in love, and always so, and all love the same object; nor would one be deterred by shame, another by reflection, another by satiety.
Some people think an old love may be driven out by a new one, as one nail drives out another: but, above all things, the man thus afflicted should be advised what madness love is: for of all the perturbations of the mind, there is not one which is more vehement; for (without charging it with rapes, debaucheries, adultery, or even incest, the baseness of any of these being very blamable; not, I say, to mention these) the very perturbation of the mind in love is base of itself, for, to pass over all its acts of downright madness, what weakness do not those very things which are looked upon as indifferent argue?
"Affronts and jealousies, jars, squabbles, wars,
Then peace again. The man who seeks to fix
These restless feelings, and to subjugate
Them to some regular law, is just as wise
As one who’d try to lay down rules by which
Men should go mad."
Now, is not this inconstancy and mutability of mind enough to deter anyone by its own deformity?
We are to demonstrate, as was said of every perturbation, that there are no such feelings which do not consist entirely of opinion and judgment, and are not owing to ourselves. For if love were natural, all would be in love, and always so, and all love the same object; nor would one be deterred by shame, another by reflection, another by satiety.
—from Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 4.35
A diversion can offer me a bit of relief from the agitation, or some support in overcoming my fixation, but it is never, in itself, a complete solution. I nod as I go over Cicero’s list, recalling how a change of scenery helped me for a time, or some fresh company lightened the load, or a new project kept my mind occupied, and yet my troubles always returned if I didn’t go to the root, by addressing the errors in my thinking that produced such disordered feelings.
Lust, as the twisted version of love, comes over me when my judgments about the good are confused. While I might wish to blame my beloved for not desiring me in return, or to curse the world for not providing me with the satisfaction I demand, the cure for what ails me is a thorough reform of my priorities. An obese man will not become healthy without finally mastering his own cravings.
What is the point to moving around, when every place will ultimately offer the very same temptations? Where is the benefit to finding new friends, if I fail to understand what it even means to be a friend? As much as I can keep myself busy, won’t there eventually come the time when I am once again idle? The change must occur in the substance on the inside, not in the accidents on the outside.
A fellow I knew some years ago was convinced that hanging out a different pub would relieve him of his melancholy, and I rudely laughed at him, even as I later convinced myself to take a completely different job as a repellant against my own version of the Black Dog. I wish I could meet him again, so we might now laugh together, in much better spirits.
When a girl in college lied to me once too often, I promptly became enamored of a totally different girl, and when her attention quickly drifted elsewhere, I foolishly assumed that I simply had poor taste. I certainly did have poor taste, but in my own values, not in the merits of others. Find fault with the agent, or the efficient cause, not with the occasion, or the material cause.
I have now acquired many eccentric hobbies, and though each of them has brought me great joy, not a one of them has exorcised my demons. Collecting obscure records only goes so far to engage my interests, and it just takes a single sour mood to turn the words and music of any song into a sad reflection of my own resentment.
There is an elephant in the room, and he is my own discontent, which is the inevitable offspring of my distorted expectations. I wish him no harm, but he’s the one who needs to find some new digs.
A diversion can offer me a bit of relief from the agitation, or some support in overcoming my fixation, but it is never, in itself, a complete solution. I nod as I go over Cicero’s list, recalling how a change of scenery helped me for a time, or some fresh company lightened the load, or a new project kept my mind occupied, and yet my troubles always returned if I didn’t go to the root, by addressing the errors in my thinking that produced such disordered feelings.
Lust, as the twisted version of love, comes over me when my judgments about the good are confused. While I might wish to blame my beloved for not desiring me in return, or to curse the world for not providing me with the satisfaction I demand, the cure for what ails me is a thorough reform of my priorities. An obese man will not become healthy without finally mastering his own cravings.
What is the point to moving around, when every place will ultimately offer the very same temptations? Where is the benefit to finding new friends, if I fail to understand what it even means to be a friend? As much as I can keep myself busy, won’t there eventually come the time when I am once again idle? The change must occur in the substance on the inside, not in the accidents on the outside.
A fellow I knew some years ago was convinced that hanging out a different pub would relieve him of his melancholy, and I rudely laughed at him, even as I later convinced myself to take a completely different job as a repellant against my own version of the Black Dog. I wish I could meet him again, so we might now laugh together, in much better spirits.
When a girl in college lied to me once too often, I promptly became enamored of a totally different girl, and when her attention quickly drifted elsewhere, I foolishly assumed that I simply had poor taste. I certainly did have poor taste, but in my own values, not in the merits of others. Find fault with the agent, or the efficient cause, not with the occasion, or the material cause.
I have now acquired many eccentric hobbies, and though each of them has brought me great joy, not a one of them has exorcised my demons. Collecting obscure records only goes so far to engage my interests, and it just takes a single sour mood to turn the words and music of any song into a sad reflection of my own resentment.
There is an elephant in the room, and he is my own discontent, which is the inevitable offspring of my distorted expectations. I wish him no harm, but he’s the one who needs to find some new digs.
—Reflection written in 1/1999
IMAGE: Jan Steen, The Lovesick Maiden (c. 1660)
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