"What," you say, "do you call reclining at a banquet and submitting to torture equally good?"
Does this seem surprising to you? You may be still more surprised at the following—that reclining at a banquet is an evil, while reclining on the rack is a good, if the former act is done in a shameful, and the latter in an honorable manner.
It is not the material that makes these actions good or bad; it is the virtue. All acts in which virtue has disclosed itself are of the same measure and value.
At this moment the man who measures the souls of all men by his own is shaking his fist in my face because I hold that there is a parity between the goods involved in the case of one who passes sentence honorably, and of one who suffers sentence honorably; or because I hold that there is a parity between the goods of one who celebrates a triumph, and of one who, unconquered in spirit, is carried before the victor's chariot.
For such critics think that whatever they themselves cannot do, is not done; they pass judgment on virtue in the light of their own weaknesses.
Why do you marvel if it helps a man, and on occasion even pleases him, to be burned, wounded, slain, or bound in prison? To a luxurious man, a simple life is a penalty; to a lazy man, work is punishment; the dandy pities the diligent man; to the slothful, studies are torture.
Similarly, we regard those things with respect to which we are all infirm of disposition, as hard and beyond endurance, forgetting what a torment it is to many men to abstain from wine or to be routed from their beds at break of day. These actions are not essentially difficult; it is we ourselves that are soft and flabby.
Does this seem surprising to you? You may be still more surprised at the following—that reclining at a banquet is an evil, while reclining on the rack is a good, if the former act is done in a shameful, and the latter in an honorable manner.
It is not the material that makes these actions good or bad; it is the virtue. All acts in which virtue has disclosed itself are of the same measure and value.
At this moment the man who measures the souls of all men by his own is shaking his fist in my face because I hold that there is a parity between the goods involved in the case of one who passes sentence honorably, and of one who suffers sentence honorably; or because I hold that there is a parity between the goods of one who celebrates a triumph, and of one who, unconquered in spirit, is carried before the victor's chariot.
For such critics think that whatever they themselves cannot do, is not done; they pass judgment on virtue in the light of their own weaknesses.
Why do you marvel if it helps a man, and on occasion even pleases him, to be burned, wounded, slain, or bound in prison? To a luxurious man, a simple life is a penalty; to a lazy man, work is punishment; the dandy pities the diligent man; to the slothful, studies are torture.
Similarly, we regard those things with respect to which we are all infirm of disposition, as hard and beyond endurance, forgetting what a torment it is to many men to abstain from wine or to be routed from their beds at break of day. These actions are not essentially difficult; it is we ourselves that are soft and flabby.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 71
My years of training in Scholastic distinctions, which the critic might condemn as mere quibbling, still serve me well in my daily Stoic practices. If you express shock and outrage at the claim that a banquet and torture can be equally good, I will do you one better, and I will follow Seneca in observing how the fine dining could actually end up becoming far worse.
This can only be the case if merit is first in the form of the act, not from the matter of the act, such that the virtue or the vice within the agent is what determines the good or the evil of the circumstances. What the Stoic tradition sometimes calls “happiness on the rack” is made possible by a reappraisal of values, one grounded in character over utility.
I have often been at my worst in the lap of luxury, and at my best during intense affliction. The reverse can also be the case, hinging upon my disposition, and it really depends on whether my thoughts, words, and deeds are honorable or shameful. The older folks used to speak about being a good man in a storm, so I will coin the opposite phrase for my own purposes, a bad man on calm seas.
Though I have a profound reverence for Aristotle, and I continue to rely on his insights for my sanity, I have long been concerned by his insistence that certain external conditions, at least a bare minimum, are required for happiness. Even when I first read the Nicomachean Ethics, I wondered if we were considering such necessities too narrowly: cannot any situation be an occasion for virtue, however severe?
When something is taken away, I am also offered the chance to live with excellence, just as much as when something is given. Sickness becomes as conducive as health, and loneliness as much as friendship.
I may be taking too much inspiration from the broader perspective of Aquinas, but my Stoic experience also suggests to me that Aristotle was still confusing principles and preferences: as much as a part of me may want to be rich, I certainly don’t have to be.
Indeed, our limitations usually come from our inner attitudes, not from our external circumstances. Do not believe the cynical man, when he tells you that you can’t possibly be virtuous, because he is merely talking about his own shortcomings. He cannot conceive of how pain can motivate him, or how poverty can strengthen him, or how rejection can inspire him. His enslavement to gratification is his greatest burden, and he would be liberated from it in a moment if he freed his judgments.
It is remarkable how losing the very option to be lazy, luxurious, and lustful opens up whole new avenues for living. What once felt compulsory is now rightly seen as a diversion from the task at hand. If you don’t trust me, I hope that you will soon learn it for yourself, even if it is initially terrifying.
My years of training in Scholastic distinctions, which the critic might condemn as mere quibbling, still serve me well in my daily Stoic practices. If you express shock and outrage at the claim that a banquet and torture can be equally good, I will do you one better, and I will follow Seneca in observing how the fine dining could actually end up becoming far worse.
This can only be the case if merit is first in the form of the act, not from the matter of the act, such that the virtue or the vice within the agent is what determines the good or the evil of the circumstances. What the Stoic tradition sometimes calls “happiness on the rack” is made possible by a reappraisal of values, one grounded in character over utility.
I have often been at my worst in the lap of luxury, and at my best during intense affliction. The reverse can also be the case, hinging upon my disposition, and it really depends on whether my thoughts, words, and deeds are honorable or shameful. The older folks used to speak about being a good man in a storm, so I will coin the opposite phrase for my own purposes, a bad man on calm seas.
Though I have a profound reverence for Aristotle, and I continue to rely on his insights for my sanity, I have long been concerned by his insistence that certain external conditions, at least a bare minimum, are required for happiness. Even when I first read the Nicomachean Ethics, I wondered if we were considering such necessities too narrowly: cannot any situation be an occasion for virtue, however severe?
When something is taken away, I am also offered the chance to live with excellence, just as much as when something is given. Sickness becomes as conducive as health, and loneliness as much as friendship.
I may be taking too much inspiration from the broader perspective of Aquinas, but my Stoic experience also suggests to me that Aristotle was still confusing principles and preferences: as much as a part of me may want to be rich, I certainly don’t have to be.
Indeed, our limitations usually come from our inner attitudes, not from our external circumstances. Do not believe the cynical man, when he tells you that you can’t possibly be virtuous, because he is merely talking about his own shortcomings. He cannot conceive of how pain can motivate him, or how poverty can strengthen him, or how rejection can inspire him. His enslavement to gratification is his greatest burden, and he would be liberated from it in a moment if he freed his judgments.
It is remarkable how losing the very option to be lazy, luxurious, and lustful opens up whole new avenues for living. What once felt compulsory is now rightly seen as a diversion from the task at hand. If you don’t trust me, I hope that you will soon learn it for yourself, even if it is initially terrifying.
—Reflection written in 9/2013
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