Reflections

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Friday, October 18, 2024

Seneca, Moral Letters 71.4


"But," you will object, "Gnaeus Pompey will lose his army; the patricians, those noblest patterns of the State's creation, and the front-rank men of Pompey's party, a senate under arms, will be routed in a single engagement; the ruins of that great oligarchy will be scattered all over the world; one division will fall in Egypt, another in Africa, and another in Spain! And the poor State will not be allowed even the privilege of being ruined once for all!" 
 
Yes, all this may happen; Juba's familiarity with every position in his own kingdom may be of no avail to him, of no avail the resolute bravery of his people when fighting for their king; even the men of Utica, crushed by their troubles, may waver in their allegiance; and the good fortune which ever attended men of the name of Scipio may desert Scipio in Africa. But long ago, destiny "saw to it that Cato should come to no harm."
 
"He was conquered in spite of it all!" 
 
Well, you may include this among Cato's "failures"; Cato will bear with an equally stout heart anything that thwarts him of his victory, as he bore that which thwarted him of his praetorship. The day whereon he failed of election, he spent in play; the night wherein he intended to die, he spent in reading. He regarded in the same light both the loss of his praetorship and the loss of his life; he had convinced himself that he ought to endure anything which might happen. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 71 
 
The wife tells me I sound like a broken record, but that goes both ways, and it is only to be expected after all these years. My students grow tired of hearing the same old stories, but a man can have only so many useful experiences to pass on. 
 
And whenever I pontificate about Stoicism, I am asked why I always return to the same three or four rules, over and over again. I believe this can be a good thing, however, because habits grow from repetition, and practice makes perfect. 
 
One of these principles is what I like to call the “Stoic Turn”, a radical transition from seeking a profit in circumstances to embracing the good in character. It flips the priorities we have become so accustomed to, from the outside to the inside, and thereby offers a happiness that no man can ever take away. 
 
I appeal to this model because it has saved my life, not merely because it looks good on paper. I share this model because it is the only thing of real worth I have to offer my neighbor, not because it will win me any fame or fortune. It turns out I wasted too much of my life looking for peace of mind in all the wrong places, and I would wish to spare others that same tragedy. 
 
By the secular standards of the slick professional, there is no doubt that Cato the Younger was a failure. He never played the game properly to begin with, and then he threw it all away by refusing to make nice with Caesar; if only he had looked the other way, he could have been sitting pretty. How much would it hurt to turn his back on the values of the Republic? 
 
Yet by the moral standards of the Stoic, or any person of conscience, there is no doubt that Cato the Younger was a champion, a hero of the highest order, for precisely the same reasons. You laugh because you are working from completely different premises; I ask you only to re-examine those assumptions, to be certain that they are true, to reflect upon what your human nature, and Nature as a whole, actually demand of you. 
 
What did the ups and the downs of the political landscape, which is really little more than a dirty game of slander and broken promises, have to do with Cato’s dignity? Whatever his other flaws, he had the wisdom to walk away from such wickedness, and to die with honor. Whatever the scale or the scope of our own lives, we are well advised to do the same. 
 
By turning the world on its head, and finally placing myself right-side-up, I am beginning to see that glimmer of hope. 

—Reflection written in 9/2013 

IMAGE: Jean-Baptiste Roman and Francois Rude, Cato of Utica Reading the Phaedo before Committing Suicide (1840) 



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