IMAGE: Francisco Goya, Fire at Night (1793)
The Death of Marcus Aurelius
Sunday, April 13, 2025
Maxims of Goethe 66
Stockdale on Stoicism 48
In that prison laboratory, I know of not a single case where a man was able to erase his pangs of conscience with some laid-back, pop-psychology theory of cause and effect.
Epictetus emphasizes time and again the fact that a man who lays the causes of his actions onto third parties or forces is not leveling with himself. He must live with his own judgments if he is to be honest with himself.
"But if a person subjects me to fear of death, he compels me," says a student.
"No," says Epictetus, "It is neither death, nor exile, nor toil, nor any such things that is the cause of your doing, or not doing, anything, but only your opinions and the decisions of your Will."
"What is the fruit of your doctrines?" someone asked Epictetus.
"What is the fruit of your doctrines?" someone asked Epictetus.
"Tranquility, fearlessness, and freedom," he answered.
You can have these only if you are honest and take responsibility for your own actions. You've got to get it straight! You are in charge of you.
—from James B. Stockdale, Master of My Fate: A Stoic Philosopher in a Hanoi Prison
IMAGE: Caspar Jacobsz Philips, Various Methods of Torment Employed by the Inquisition (c. 1770)
Saturday, April 12, 2025
Seneca, Moral Letters 77.9
Gaius Caesar was passing along the Via Latina, when a man stepped out from the ranks of the prisoners, his grey beard hanging down even to his breast, and begged to be put to death.
“What!” said Caesar, “are you alive now?”
That is the answer which should be given to men to whom death would come as a relief.
“You are afraid to die; what! are you alive now?”
“But,” says one, “I wish to live, for I am engaged in many honorable pursuits. I am loth to leave life’s duties, which I am fulfilling with loyalty and zeal.”
Surely you are aware that dying is also one of life’s duties? You are deserting no duty; for there is no definite number established which you are bound to complete. There is no life that is not short.
Compared with the world of nature, even Nestor’s life was a short one, or Sattia’s, the woman who bade carve on her tombstone that she had lived ninety and nine years. Some persons, you see, boast of their long lives; but who could have endured the old lady if she had had the luck to complete her hundredth year?
It is with life as it is with a play—it matters not how long the action is spun out, but how good the acting is. It makes no difference at what point you stop. Stop whenever you choose; only see to it that the closing period is well turned. Farewell.
“What!” said Caesar, “are you alive now?”
That is the answer which should be given to men to whom death would come as a relief.
“You are afraid to die; what! are you alive now?”
“But,” says one, “I wish to live, for I am engaged in many honorable pursuits. I am loth to leave life’s duties, which I am fulfilling with loyalty and zeal.”
Surely you are aware that dying is also one of life’s duties? You are deserting no duty; for there is no definite number established which you are bound to complete. There is no life that is not short.
Compared with the world of nature, even Nestor’s life was a short one, or Sattia’s, the woman who bade carve on her tombstone that she had lived ninety and nine years. Some persons, you see, boast of their long lives; but who could have endured the old lady if she had had the luck to complete her hundredth year?
It is with life as it is with a play—it matters not how long the action is spun out, but how good the acting is. It makes no difference at what point you stop. Stop whenever you choose; only see to it that the closing period is well turned. Farewell.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 77
The Stoic Turn is ultimately another expression of a perennial wisdom, to be found in so many noble cultures and traditions: redefine your very measure of the good, and you will overcome any grief, fear, gratification, or lust. What we often call living is really a form of dying, and our fear of dying is really a failure at living.
Caesar may have spoken harshly, but he uttered words that everyone needs to hear. If asked what we believe makes a life worth living, what will be our usual responses? We will point to pleasant feelings and comfortable circumstances, the more the better, while the odd fellow who appeals to a spark of character will be eyed with the deepest suspicion.
And yet, if we only bother to reflect for a moment, what could be more absurd than making happiness dependent upon the outer things, and not upon our inner selves? The prisoner is no longer alive, because he despairs without the freedom of his body. The man of ambition is no longer alive, because he clings to his worldly honors. One begs for it to end, and the other doesn’t wish to depart, and both have judged their value from a false premise.
It truly isn’t about the living or the dying in themselves, but about the way we go about the living or the dying. I shouldn’t care if I have a hundred years to do my work, or just a minute to prove my moxie. I admire Nestor because he sought to be wise, not because he grew old, and I pity Achilles because he was intemperate, not because he died young.
I once received a standing ovation for playing a rather difficult double bass line in a chamber orchestra performance. Though I was still an impetuous young pup, I immediately realized why the recognition didn’t matter as much as the satisfaction of my own efforts, and I remember feeling how this was enough. It was over in an instant; there didn’t have to be a sequel.
“But you need to survive! To do more! That’s what counts!”
No, I need to thrive, even if only for two shakes of a lamb’s tail. Once I learn to cherish the virtues above anything else, I am free to exit the stage after I have played my little part.
The Stoic Turn is ultimately another expression of a perennial wisdom, to be found in so many noble cultures and traditions: redefine your very measure of the good, and you will overcome any grief, fear, gratification, or lust. What we often call living is really a form of dying, and our fear of dying is really a failure at living.
Caesar may have spoken harshly, but he uttered words that everyone needs to hear. If asked what we believe makes a life worth living, what will be our usual responses? We will point to pleasant feelings and comfortable circumstances, the more the better, while the odd fellow who appeals to a spark of character will be eyed with the deepest suspicion.
And yet, if we only bother to reflect for a moment, what could be more absurd than making happiness dependent upon the outer things, and not upon our inner selves? The prisoner is no longer alive, because he despairs without the freedom of his body. The man of ambition is no longer alive, because he clings to his worldly honors. One begs for it to end, and the other doesn’t wish to depart, and both have judged their value from a false premise.
It truly isn’t about the living or the dying in themselves, but about the way we go about the living or the dying. I shouldn’t care if I have a hundred years to do my work, or just a minute to prove my moxie. I admire Nestor because he sought to be wise, not because he grew old, and I pity Achilles because he was intemperate, not because he died young.
I once received a standing ovation for playing a rather difficult double bass line in a chamber orchestra performance. Though I was still an impetuous young pup, I immediately realized why the recognition didn’t matter as much as the satisfaction of my own efforts, and I remember feeling how this was enough. It was over in an instant; there didn’t have to be a sequel.
“But you need to survive! To do more! That’s what counts!”
No, I need to thrive, even if only for two shakes of a lamb’s tail. Once I learn to cherish the virtues above anything else, I am free to exit the stage after I have played my little part.
—Reflection written in 11/2013
IMAGE: Joseph-Désiré Court, Achilles Introduced to Nestor (1820)
Friday, April 11, 2025
Henry David Thoreau 7
—from Henry David Thoreau, Journals (22 June, 1839)
IMAGE: Raphael, Self-Portrait with a Friend (1519)
Ralph Waldo Emerson 12
A mind does not receive truth as a chest receives jewels that are put into it, but as the stomach takes up food into the system.
It is no longer food, but flesh, and is assimilated.
The appetite and the power of digestion measure our right to knowledge. He has it who can use it.
As soon as our accumulation overruns our invention or power to use, the evils of intellectual gluttony begin—congestion of the brain, apoplexy, and strangulation.
—from Ralph Waldo Emerson, The Natural History of Intellect
IMAGE: Pietro Testa, The Symposium (1648)
Thursday, April 10, 2025
Sayings of Ramakrishna 263
Q: What is the world like?
A: It is like an Âmlâ fruit, all skin and stone with but very little pulp, the eating of which produces colic.
Seneca, Moral Letters 77.8
You know the taste of wine and cordials. It makes no difference whether a hundred or a thousand measures pass through your bladder; you are nothing but a wine strainer.
You are a connoisseur in the flavor of the oyster and of the mullet; your luxury has not left you anything untasted for the years that are to come; and yet these are the things from which you are torn away unwillingly.
What else is there which you would regret to have taken from you? Friends? But who can be a friend to you?
Country? What? Do you think enough of your country to be late to dinner?
The light of the Sun? You would extinguish it, if you could; for what have you ever done that was fit to be seen in the light?
Confess the truth; it is not because you long for the senate chamber or the forum, or even for the world of nature, that you would fain put off dying; it is because you are loth to leave the fish market, though you have exhausted its stores.
You are afraid of death; but how can you scorn it in the midst of a mushroom supper? You wish to live; well, do you know how to live? You are afraid to die. But come now: is this life of yours anything but death?
You are a connoisseur in the flavor of the oyster and of the mullet; your luxury has not left you anything untasted for the years that are to come; and yet these are the things from which you are torn away unwillingly.
What else is there which you would regret to have taken from you? Friends? But who can be a friend to you?
Country? What? Do you think enough of your country to be late to dinner?
The light of the Sun? You would extinguish it, if you could; for what have you ever done that was fit to be seen in the light?
Confess the truth; it is not because you long for the senate chamber or the forum, or even for the world of nature, that you would fain put off dying; it is because you are loth to leave the fish market, though you have exhausted its stores.
You are afraid of death; but how can you scorn it in the midst of a mushroom supper? You wish to live; well, do you know how to live? You are afraid to die. But come now: is this life of yours anything but death?
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 77
We are inclined to cling to our pleasures as a reason for making this life worth living, and yet they have an uncanny way of leaving us jaded. I have now been spinning around on this little rock for long enough to know how the craving for the perfect high will inevitably lay you low.
I affectionately describe these sorts of passages as Seneca’s “rants”, though I hardly believe he is just speaking out of rage. I also don’t imagine that his disapproval is directed at Lucilius, who, while still green behind the ears, is very much a kindred spirit. I take them rather as stern warnings, somber reminders of what any one of us can all too easily become.
On one level, when the appetites are in harmony with the understanding, the enjoyment of food, drink, or sex should be a marvelous thing, yet on another, when our passions enslave our judgments, such blessings are twisted into curses. A creature that was made to stand tall in mastery can now merely grovel in submission.
Only those who find nothing at all to be shameful will be offended by a proper scolding. I was told often enough how drunkenness, gluttony, or lust would reduce me to a quivering wreck, and I didn’t listen because I permitted my feeling to run ahead of my thinking. If you haven’t been there, I do not wish it upon you, but the fool must first hit bottom before he can raise himself up.
To recall how pathetic I may have been yesterday is a calling to finally choosing some dignity for today. How fitting that joy will come at that very moment when compulsion is left behind: the peace is in the liberty of awareness, not in a bondage to the impressions.
It is more than symbolic to say that a man should be guided by his head and his heart, not by his gullet, his belly, and his crotch. What then remains of me but a bundle of instincts, which makes me no better than a jellyfish? I maintain that the difference between a “classical” and a “modern” view of human nature is whether we decide to be rational or to be randy.
How can I love my friends if I limit myself to gratification? How can I serve my neighbors if my loyalty depends upon a fat belly? How can I claim to be satisfied, when I am constantly demanding more and more amusements? It turns out that my fear of death is actually a fear of becoming responsible for myself.
I have spent too much time pretending at having “fun”, while in the clutches of my soul’s emptiness. The alternative is to learn a lesson from Seneca’s censure, to grow up before I am debased into that bitter, old hedonist at the end of the bar.
We are inclined to cling to our pleasures as a reason for making this life worth living, and yet they have an uncanny way of leaving us jaded. I have now been spinning around on this little rock for long enough to know how the craving for the perfect high will inevitably lay you low.
I affectionately describe these sorts of passages as Seneca’s “rants”, though I hardly believe he is just speaking out of rage. I also don’t imagine that his disapproval is directed at Lucilius, who, while still green behind the ears, is very much a kindred spirit. I take them rather as stern warnings, somber reminders of what any one of us can all too easily become.
On one level, when the appetites are in harmony with the understanding, the enjoyment of food, drink, or sex should be a marvelous thing, yet on another, when our passions enslave our judgments, such blessings are twisted into curses. A creature that was made to stand tall in mastery can now merely grovel in submission.
Only those who find nothing at all to be shameful will be offended by a proper scolding. I was told often enough how drunkenness, gluttony, or lust would reduce me to a quivering wreck, and I didn’t listen because I permitted my feeling to run ahead of my thinking. If you haven’t been there, I do not wish it upon you, but the fool must first hit bottom before he can raise himself up.
To recall how pathetic I may have been yesterday is a calling to finally choosing some dignity for today. How fitting that joy will come at that very moment when compulsion is left behind: the peace is in the liberty of awareness, not in a bondage to the impressions.
It is more than symbolic to say that a man should be guided by his head and his heart, not by his gullet, his belly, and his crotch. What then remains of me but a bundle of instincts, which makes me no better than a jellyfish? I maintain that the difference between a “classical” and a “modern” view of human nature is whether we decide to be rational or to be randy.
How can I love my friends if I limit myself to gratification? How can I serve my neighbors if my loyalty depends upon a fat belly? How can I claim to be satisfied, when I am constantly demanding more and more amusements? It turns out that my fear of death is actually a fear of becoming responsible for myself.
I have spent too much time pretending at having “fun”, while in the clutches of my soul’s emptiness. The alternative is to learn a lesson from Seneca’s censure, to grow up before I am debased into that bitter, old hedonist at the end of the bar.
—Reflection written in 11/2013
IMAGE: Jan Steen, The Wine is a Mocker (1664)
Wednesday, April 9, 2025
Tuesday, April 8, 2025
Monday, April 7, 2025
Stoic Snippets 262
. . . Therefore, if you shall separate from yourself, that is, from your understanding, whatever others do or say, and whatever you have done or said yourself, and whatever future things trouble you because they may happen, and whatever in the body which envelops you or in the breath, which is by nature associated with the body, is attached to you independent of your will, and whatever the external circumfluent vortex whirls round, so that the intellectual power exempt from the things of fate can live pure and free by itself, doing what is just and accepting what happens and saying the truth: if you will separate, I say, from this ruling faculty the things which are attached to it by the impressions of sense, and the things of time to come and of time that is past, and will make yourself like Empedocles' sphere,
"All round and in its joyous rest reposing;"
and if you shall strive to live only what is really your life, that is, the present—then you will be able to pass that portion of life which remains for you up to the time of your death free from perturbations, nobly, and obedient to your own daemon, to the god that is within you.
—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 12.3
Stoic Snippets 261
The things are three of which you are composed: a little body, a little breath, intelligence.
Of these the first two are yours, so far as it is your duty to take care of them; but the third alone is properly yours. . . .
—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 12.3
IMAGE: John William Waterhouse, The Soul of the Rose (1908)
Seneca, Moral Letters 77.7
You think, I suppose, that it is now in order for me to cite some examples of great men. No, I shall cite rather the case of a boy.
The story of the Spartan lad has been preserved: taken captive while still a stripling, he kept crying in his Doric dialect, “I will not be a slave!” and he made good his word; for the very first time he was ordered to perform a menial and degrading service—and the command was to fetch a chamber pot—he dashed out his brains against the wall.
So near at hand is freedom, and is anyone still a slave? Would you not rather have your own son die thus than reach old age by weakly yielding? Why therefore are you distressed, when even a boy can die so bravely? Suppose that you refuse to follow him; you will be led. Take into your own control that which is now under the control of another.
Will you not borrow that boy’s courage, and say: “I am no slave!”?
Unhappy fellow, you are a slave to men, you are a slave to your business, you are a slave to life. For life, if courage to die be lacking, is slavery.
Have you anything worth waiting for? Your very pleasures, which cause you to tarry and hold you back, have already been exhausted by you. None of them is a novelty to you, and there is none that has not already become hateful because you are cloyed with it.
The story of the Spartan lad has been preserved: taken captive while still a stripling, he kept crying in his Doric dialect, “I will not be a slave!” and he made good his word; for the very first time he was ordered to perform a menial and degrading service—and the command was to fetch a chamber pot—he dashed out his brains against the wall.
So near at hand is freedom, and is anyone still a slave? Would you not rather have your own son die thus than reach old age by weakly yielding? Why therefore are you distressed, when even a boy can die so bravely? Suppose that you refuse to follow him; you will be led. Take into your own control that which is now under the control of another.
Will you not borrow that boy’s courage, and say: “I am no slave!”?
Unhappy fellow, you are a slave to men, you are a slave to your business, you are a slave to life. For life, if courage to die be lacking, is slavery.
Have you anything worth waiting for? Your very pleasures, which cause you to tarry and hold you back, have already been exhausted by you. None of them is a novelty to you, and there is none that has not already become hateful because you are cloyed with it.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 77
Yet again, here is another one of those stories that won’t sit well with our soft, contemporary sensibilities. Seneca is certainly not trying to win any friends in the trendy and sophisticated crowd, now is he?
When I once read this passage to a colleague, an upright reader of The New Yorker who listened to NPR on his commute to work, he scolded me for being offensive, and then promptly stormed out of my office in protest.
I am fairly certain I would not have survived into adulthood as a Spartan, as I am a rather frail and awkward fellow; the life of the rugged warrior is clearly not meant for me, so I would likely have done better living in barrel on the streets of Athens. Nevertheless, there is something remarkably noble about a society that placed honor above all else, even if they didn’t always manage to live up to the ideal.
“Come home with your shield, or on it!”
That sounds rather cruel to our effete ears, but I would dare to propose that more mothers should offer such succinct guidance to their sons. It can be taken as heartless, or it can be seen as the ultimate expression of love:
“I wish you to attend to your duty, whatever it may be, with a complete dedication to the virtues, and I would prefer you die in your attempts than return in disgrace.”
I am not just playing the Devil’s advocate, a role of which I am unfortunately too fond, when I say that this encapsulates the nature of a life worth living, and a life for which it is worth dying. The key point is not about getting rich, or rising up the social ladder, or winning any sort of gratification, anything that passes for “success” to the self-important folks. I’m sorry to burst your bubble, but it is all about the content of character.
Have I been reading too much from Rudyard Kipling? Perhaps. Please excuse me if I embrace hope over anxiety. Strive to be the better man, whether English or Native. Your race, class, or creed have nothing to do with it.
The chamber pot isn’t the issue. Bashing out my brains in protest isn’t the issue. Each of us will face our own tests of conviction, in our own unique ways, and I know how my own obstacles await me. In the past, I have seen great evils, and in my few better moments, I have stood my ground against them. In every case, it cost me greatly in my worldly status, while it always made me come closer to God.
I sense another instance of this coming on, and I tremble at the thought of my losses. No matter—the spiritual gain will be far greater. My colleague can continue in the comfort zone of his self-satisfaction; I will probably end up living under a bridge. He will be smug, and I will be cold, and the Universe will be unfolding, exactly as Providence intends.
When we bow to convention, and when we lick the boots of our overlords, we make ourselves into slaves, plain and simple. I am a feeble man, though I am not a soft man, or a degenerate man, or a cowardly man. Those who sells their souls to the utility of “business” are the worst sort, as they care for their comforts before they care for a conscience.
Yet again, here is another one of those stories that won’t sit well with our soft, contemporary sensibilities. Seneca is certainly not trying to win any friends in the trendy and sophisticated crowd, now is he?
When I once read this passage to a colleague, an upright reader of The New Yorker who listened to NPR on his commute to work, he scolded me for being offensive, and then promptly stormed out of my office in protest.
I am fairly certain I would not have survived into adulthood as a Spartan, as I am a rather frail and awkward fellow; the life of the rugged warrior is clearly not meant for me, so I would likely have done better living in barrel on the streets of Athens. Nevertheless, there is something remarkably noble about a society that placed honor above all else, even if they didn’t always manage to live up to the ideal.
“Come home with your shield, or on it!”
That sounds rather cruel to our effete ears, but I would dare to propose that more mothers should offer such succinct guidance to their sons. It can be taken as heartless, or it can be seen as the ultimate expression of love:
“I wish you to attend to your duty, whatever it may be, with a complete dedication to the virtues, and I would prefer you die in your attempts than return in disgrace.”
I am not just playing the Devil’s advocate, a role of which I am unfortunately too fond, when I say that this encapsulates the nature of a life worth living, and a life for which it is worth dying. The key point is not about getting rich, or rising up the social ladder, or winning any sort of gratification, anything that passes for “success” to the self-important folks. I’m sorry to burst your bubble, but it is all about the content of character.
Have I been reading too much from Rudyard Kipling? Perhaps. Please excuse me if I embrace hope over anxiety. Strive to be the better man, whether English or Native. Your race, class, or creed have nothing to do with it.
The chamber pot isn’t the issue. Bashing out my brains in protest isn’t the issue. Each of us will face our own tests of conviction, in our own unique ways, and I know how my own obstacles await me. In the past, I have seen great evils, and in my few better moments, I have stood my ground against them. In every case, it cost me greatly in my worldly status, while it always made me come closer to God.
I sense another instance of this coming on, and I tremble at the thought of my losses. No matter—the spiritual gain will be far greater. My colleague can continue in the comfort zone of his self-satisfaction; I will probably end up living under a bridge. He will be smug, and I will be cold, and the Universe will be unfolding, exactly as Providence intends.
When we bow to convention, and when we lick the boots of our overlords, we make ourselves into slaves, plain and simple. I am a feeble man, though I am not a soft man, or a degenerate man, or a cowardly man. Those who sells their souls to the utility of “business” are the worst sort, as they care for their comforts before they care for a conscience.
—Reflection written in 11/2013
IMAGE: Jean-Jacques-Francois Le Barbier, A Spartan Woman Giving a Shield to Her Son (1805)
Sunday, April 6, 2025
Dhammapada 397
IMAGE: Jean-Louis Forain, Fetters (c. 1919)
Saturday, April 5, 2025
Sayings of Publilius Syrus 173
IMAGE: Miniature from a copy of Jean Froissart's Chronicles (c. 1470): Richard II meets with the rebels of the Peasant's Revolt of 1381.
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Seneca, Moral Letters 77.6
A sequence which cannot be broken or altered by any power binds all things together and draws all things in its course. Think of the multitudes of men doomed to death who will come after you, of the multitudes who will go with you!
You would die more bravely, I suppose, in the company of many thousands; and yet there are many thousands, both of men and of animals, who at this very moment, while you are irresolute about death, are breathing their last, in their several ways.
But you—did you believe that you would not someday reach the goal towards which you have always been traveling? No journey but has its end.
You would die more bravely, I suppose, in the company of many thousands; and yet there are many thousands, both of men and of animals, who at this very moment, while you are irresolute about death, are breathing their last, in their several ways.
But you—did you believe that you would not someday reach the goal towards which you have always been traveling? No journey but has its end.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 77
I pause at this brief section of the letter, because the blunt images make me feel quite foolish about my own fear of dying. Here I am, imagining myself completely isolated in the dread of my mortality, and yet I arrogantly forget how I share in this basic condition with every other person on the face of the Earth.
While it may well be a struggle to get over myself, I am hardly alone in meeting the challenge.
I think of the countless who have gone before me, and I notice how some hid their heads in the sand, and others bravely rose to the occasion. If you put it that way, I know full well how I wish to proceed.
I think further of the countless who will depart after me, and I am filled with compassion instead of terror, wishing each one the understanding to let go with dignity.
Finally, I remember a statistic I was once given, that in any given minute, a hundred people are breathing their last. Once I make the reality of the here and now so immediate, the faceless despair is transformed into a fierce respect.
It is perhaps a benefit of my sensitive disposition that I ponder the abundance of blood, toil, tears, and sweat that go into building any life, and then the abrupt and unsung manner in which it is so often snuffed out.
Now I could complain that it all seems so unfair, or I could recognize why the beauty of life is in what we choose to give of ourselves without condition, which can never be diminished by anything that Fortune might choose to take away.
It is supposed to end, whether with a bang or with a whimper, and what matters is how we go about approaching that end.
Many years ago, I risked sharing my deepest thoughts and feelings with someone I loved, only to suddenly find the delicate offering rejected. I then wasted many years wallowing in regret, until I learned to redefine my goals, from the expectation of receiving more to the acceptance of simply acting with decency, for this brief spell.
There is a reward that can’t be beat.
I pause at this brief section of the letter, because the blunt images make me feel quite foolish about my own fear of dying. Here I am, imagining myself completely isolated in the dread of my mortality, and yet I arrogantly forget how I share in this basic condition with every other person on the face of the Earth.
While it may well be a struggle to get over myself, I am hardly alone in meeting the challenge.
I think of the countless who have gone before me, and I notice how some hid their heads in the sand, and others bravely rose to the occasion. If you put it that way, I know full well how I wish to proceed.
I think further of the countless who will depart after me, and I am filled with compassion instead of terror, wishing each one the understanding to let go with dignity.
Finally, I remember a statistic I was once given, that in any given minute, a hundred people are breathing their last. Once I make the reality of the here and now so immediate, the faceless despair is transformed into a fierce respect.
It is perhaps a benefit of my sensitive disposition that I ponder the abundance of blood, toil, tears, and sweat that go into building any life, and then the abrupt and unsung manner in which it is so often snuffed out.
Now I could complain that it all seems so unfair, or I could recognize why the beauty of life is in what we choose to give of ourselves without condition, which can never be diminished by anything that Fortune might choose to take away.
It is supposed to end, whether with a bang or with a whimper, and what matters is how we go about approaching that end.
Many years ago, I risked sharing my deepest thoughts and feelings with someone I loved, only to suddenly find the delicate offering rejected. I then wasted many years wallowing in regret, until I learned to redefine my goals, from the expectation of receiving more to the acceptance of simply acting with decency, for this brief spell.
There is a reward that can’t be beat.
—Reflection written in 11/2013
IMAGE: Jan Bruegel the Younger, The Triumph of Death (1597)
Friday, April 4, 2025
Maxims of Goethe 65
During a prolonged study of the lives of various men both great and small, I came upon this thought: In the web of the world the one may well be regarded as the warp, the other as the woof.
It is the little men, after all, who give breadth to the web, and the great men firmness and solidity; perhaps, also, the addition of some sort of pattern.
But the scissors of the Fates determine its length, and to that all the rest must join in submitting itself.
IMAGE: Francesco Salviati, The Three Fates (1550)
Seneca, Moral Letters 77.5
This little anecdote into which I have digressed will not be displeasing to you. For you will see that your friend departed neither with difficulty nor with suffering. Though he committed suicide, yet he withdrew most gently, gliding out of life.
The anecdote may also be of some use; for often a crisis demands just such examples. There are times when we ought to die and are unwilling; sometimes we die and are unwilling. No one is so ignorant as not to know that we must at some time die; nevertheless, when one draws near death, one turns to flight, trembles, and laments.
The anecdote may also be of some use; for often a crisis demands just such examples. There are times when we ought to die and are unwilling; sometimes we die and are unwilling. No one is so ignorant as not to know that we must at some time die; nevertheless, when one draws near death, one turns to flight, trembles, and laments.
Would you not think him an utter fool who wept because he was not alive a thousand years ago? And is he not just as much of a fool who weeps because he will not be alive a thousand years from now?
It is all the same; you will not be, and you were not. Neither of these periods of time belongs to you. You have been cast upon this point of time; if you would make it longer, how much longer shall you make it? Why weep? Why pray? You are taking pains to no purpose.
“Give over thinking that your prayers can bend
Divine decrees from their predestined end.”
These decrees are unalterable and fixed; they are governed by a mighty and everlasting compulsion. Your goal will be the goal of all things.
What is there strange in this to you? You were born to be subject to this law; this fate befell your father, your mother, your ancestors, all who came before you; and it will befall all who shall come after you.
It is all the same; you will not be, and you were not. Neither of these periods of time belongs to you. You have been cast upon this point of time; if you would make it longer, how much longer shall you make it? Why weep? Why pray? You are taking pains to no purpose.
“Give over thinking that your prayers can bend
Divine decrees from their predestined end.”
These decrees are unalterable and fixed; they are governed by a mighty and everlasting compulsion. Your goal will be the goal of all things.
What is there strange in this to you? You were born to be subject to this law; this fate befell your father, your mother, your ancestors, all who came before you; and it will befall all who shall come after you.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 77
Even though we live in a ridiculously permissive age, you will still find people being prudish about sex, because it can so easily be abused in such a shameful manner. Note, however, that we are equally uncomfortable speaking about death, or even thinking about it, because while it seems so contradictory to imagine ourselves as no longer existing, we also know it to be the ultimate inevitability.
Yet the fact that Nature delights in our coming and going need not be a cause of distress, and it can instead be seen as a calling to excellence, since the realization that we have only so much time makes the need for the virtues all the more urgent. If I am asking for my life to be made longer, is that not an admission that I have dawdled in my responsibilities? If it can be done right now, why do I still hesitate?
Whether it comes early or late, death is the great equalizer, a constant reminder that we are but temporary parts of the whole. While it is still within my power, let me seize the day, seeking only to act for this very moment with integrity and conviction. That the shortness of my life pales in comparison to the ages that are past, and the ages yet to come, does not in any way diminish its worth: it is the quality of living, not the quantity, that makes the difference.
People are often disturbed by the Stoic reflections on death, as if they were merely a morbid obsession. No, the focus serves to highlight the beauty of life, made all the more precious through its fragile impermanence. In recent years, I have found great comfort in the tradition of vanitas paintings, which remind me why the things I sometimes think to be important are hardly that important at all. Fame, wealth, and amusements will soon depart, leaving only the content of my character, held for but an instant, to bring me peace.
Even though we live in a ridiculously permissive age, you will still find people being prudish about sex, because it can so easily be abused in such a shameful manner. Note, however, that we are equally uncomfortable speaking about death, or even thinking about it, because while it seems so contradictory to imagine ourselves as no longer existing, we also know it to be the ultimate inevitability.
Yet the fact that Nature delights in our coming and going need not be a cause of distress, and it can instead be seen as a calling to excellence, since the realization that we have only so much time makes the need for the virtues all the more urgent. If I am asking for my life to be made longer, is that not an admission that I have dawdled in my responsibilities? If it can be done right now, why do I still hesitate?
Whether it comes early or late, death is the great equalizer, a constant reminder that we are but temporary parts of the whole. While it is still within my power, let me seize the day, seeking only to act for this very moment with integrity and conviction. That the shortness of my life pales in comparison to the ages that are past, and the ages yet to come, does not in any way diminish its worth: it is the quality of living, not the quantity, that makes the difference.
People are often disturbed by the Stoic reflections on death, as if they were merely a morbid obsession. No, the focus serves to highlight the beauty of life, made all the more precious through its fragile impermanence. In recent years, I have found great comfort in the tradition of vanitas paintings, which remind me why the things I sometimes think to be important are hardly that important at all. Fame, wealth, and amusements will soon depart, leaving only the content of my character, held for but an instant, to bring me peace.
—Reflection written in 11/2013
IMAGE: Rembrandt Peale, The Court of Death (120)
Thursday, April 3, 2025
Wednesday, April 2, 2025
Sayings of Ramakrishna 262
So the pleasures of the world are very pleasant in the beginning, but their after-consequences are very terrible to contemplate.
Seneca, Moral Letters 77.4
Marcellinus did not need someone to urge him, but rather someone to help him; his slaves refused to do his bidding. The Stoic therefore removed their fears, showing them that there was no risk involved for the household except when it was uncertain whether the master’s death was self-sought or not; besides, it was as bad a practice to kill one’s master as it was to prevent him forcibly from killing himself.
Then he suggested to Marcellinus himself that it would be a kindly act to distribute gifts to those who had attended him throughout his whole life, when that life was finished, just as, when a banquet is finished, the remaining portion is divided among the attendants who stand about the table.
Marcellinus was of a compliant and generous disposition, even when it was a question of his own property; so he distributed little sums among his sorrowing slaves, and comforted them besides.
No need had he of sword or of bloodshed; for three days he fasted and had a tent put up in his very bedroom. Then a tub was brought in; he lay in it for a long time, and, as the hot water was continually poured over him, he gradually passed away, not without a feeling of pleasure, as he himself remarked—such a feeling as a slow dissolution is wont to give. Those of us who have ever fainted know from experience what this feeling is.
Then he suggested to Marcellinus himself that it would be a kindly act to distribute gifts to those who had attended him throughout his whole life, when that life was finished, just as, when a banquet is finished, the remaining portion is divided among the attendants who stand about the table.
Marcellinus was of a compliant and generous disposition, even when it was a question of his own property; so he distributed little sums among his sorrowing slaves, and comforted them besides.
No need had he of sword or of bloodshed; for three days he fasted and had a tent put up in his very bedroom. Then a tub was brought in; he lay in it for a long time, and, as the hot water was continually poured over him, he gradually passed away, not without a feeling of pleasure, as he himself remarked—such a feeling as a slow dissolution is wont to give. Those of us who have ever fainted know from experience what this feeling is.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 77
This narrative is quite culturally foreign to us, so we will jump to the conclusion that Marcellinus is acting out of despair. Yet if we were to remind him that life is always worth living, he might tell us how his concern is about conviction, not about grief, and why he hopes to die with virtue before he is asked to live with vice.
I cannot be certain what I would decide in his situation, but I do have an immediate respect for a tradition in some “primitive” societies, where those who are too old or too infirm will quietly disappear into the wilderness. The choice not to be an excessive burden upon others can be a sincere expression of love, rather than an abandonment of hope.
For the moment, my family knows not to resuscitate me, or to pursue any extraordinary measures. I will not rush Nature, nor will I delay her. If some monumental dilemma were to come my way, I intend to address it with all the composure I can muster.
In the debate on suicide, there are some, enslaved by an obedience to doctrine, who demand that a life must always be preserved, under any conditions. Thet are right to stand on principle, but I fear they are mistaken in confusing a mere existence with the act of excellence.
There are also others, enslaved by a desire for gratification, who reduce the person to just an object of convenience. They are right to consider the circumstances, but I fear they are mistaken in disposing of anything that brings them frustration.
Much is said about maintaining a “quality” of life, though little thought is given to what makes that life worth living. What good will come from maintaining a body, when the mind has long departed? Conversely, where is the benefit in clinging to a security and comfort for the flesh, when behind it lurks a craven soul?
For the Stoic, the struggle about living or dying will quietly disappear, as soon as he recognizes why the real choice is between virtue and vice: the situations are relative, while character is absolute. Socrates drank the poison before he would betray philosophy. Cato died by his own sword before he would bow to Caesar. Seneca obeyed the orders of Nero before he would flee with dishonor.
This narrative is quite culturally foreign to us, so we will jump to the conclusion that Marcellinus is acting out of despair. Yet if we were to remind him that life is always worth living, he might tell us how his concern is about conviction, not about grief, and why he hopes to die with virtue before he is asked to live with vice.
I cannot be certain what I would decide in his situation, but I do have an immediate respect for a tradition in some “primitive” societies, where those who are too old or too infirm will quietly disappear into the wilderness. The choice not to be an excessive burden upon others can be a sincere expression of love, rather than an abandonment of hope.
For the moment, my family knows not to resuscitate me, or to pursue any extraordinary measures. I will not rush Nature, nor will I delay her. If some monumental dilemma were to come my way, I intend to address it with all the composure I can muster.
In the debate on suicide, there are some, enslaved by an obedience to doctrine, who demand that a life must always be preserved, under any conditions. Thet are right to stand on principle, but I fear they are mistaken in confusing a mere existence with the act of excellence.
There are also others, enslaved by a desire for gratification, who reduce the person to just an object of convenience. They are right to consider the circumstances, but I fear they are mistaken in disposing of anything that brings them frustration.
Much is said about maintaining a “quality” of life, though little thought is given to what makes that life worth living. What good will come from maintaining a body, when the mind has long departed? Conversely, where is the benefit in clinging to a security and comfort for the flesh, when behind it lurks a craven soul?
For the Stoic, the struggle about living or dying will quietly disappear, as soon as he recognizes why the real choice is between virtue and vice: the situations are relative, while character is absolute. Socrates drank the poison before he would betray philosophy. Cato died by his own sword before he would bow to Caesar. Seneca obeyed the orders of Nero before he would flee with dishonor.
—Reflection written in 11/2013
IMAGE: Jean-Paul Laurens, The Death of Cato of Utica (1863)
Tuesday, April 1, 2025
The Mob
Walter Chandoha, The Mob (1961)
A masterpiece of photography, revealing the true nature of cats, precisely as I have always understood them . . .
Monday, March 31, 2025
The Basel Dance of Death 9
"You have danced with noble women,
proud Duke, it has gone well for you.
For this you must atone in the dance.
Be pleased now to greet the dead."
Leave my land, people, wife, child behind?
Then may God have mercy in His kingdom.
Now I become like my dancer."
Sunday, March 30, 2025
Ellis Walker, Epictetus in Poetical Paraphrase 54
LIV.
You make yourself contemptible and mean,
A member of the rabble, if obscene
In conversation; wherefore when you find
Some one to lewd discourse too much inclin'd,
Lecture him soundly for it, if there be
A fit convenient opportunity.
Tell him 'tis such as some must needs resent,
Besides 'tis needless and impertinent.
But if by wine or company engag'd,
He by your good advice may be enrag'd,
By silence, frowns, or blushes shew that you
That nauseous conversation disallow.
Saturday, March 29, 2025
Stoic Snippets 260
For with his intellectual part alone he touches the intelligence only, which has flowed and been derived from himself into these bodies.
And if you also used yourself to do this, you will rid yourself of your much trouble.
For he who regards not the poor flesh which envelops him, surely will not trouble himself by looking after raiment and dwelling and fame and such like externals and show.
—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 12.2
IMAGE: William Blake, Ezekiel's Vision (c. 1805)
Friday, March 28, 2025
Seneca, Moral Letters 77.3
Tullius Marcellinus, a man whom you knew very well, who in youth was a quiet soul and became old prematurely, fell ill of a disease which was by no means hopeless; but it was protracted and troublesome, and it demanded much attention; hence he began to think about dying.
He called many of his friends together. Each one of them gave Marcellinus advice—the timid friend urging him to do what he had made up his mind to do; the flattering and wheedling friend giving counsel which he supposed would be more pleasing to Marcellinus when he came to think the matter over; but our Stoic friend, a rare man, and, to praise him in language which he deserves, a man of courage and vigor admonished him best of all, as it seems to me.
For he began as follows: “Do not torment yourself, my dear Marcellinus, as if the question which you are weighing were a matter of importance. It is not an important matter to live; all your slaves live, and so do all animals; but it is important to die honorably, sensibly, bravely.
“Reflect how long you have been doing the same thing: food, sleep, lust—this is one’s daily round. The desire to die may be felt, not only by the sensible man or the brave or unhappy man, but even by the man who is merely surfeited."
He called many of his friends together. Each one of them gave Marcellinus advice—the timid friend urging him to do what he had made up his mind to do; the flattering and wheedling friend giving counsel which he supposed would be more pleasing to Marcellinus when he came to think the matter over; but our Stoic friend, a rare man, and, to praise him in language which he deserves, a man of courage and vigor admonished him best of all, as it seems to me.
For he began as follows: “Do not torment yourself, my dear Marcellinus, as if the question which you are weighing were a matter of importance. It is not an important matter to live; all your slaves live, and so do all animals; but it is important to die honorably, sensibly, bravely.
“Reflect how long you have been doing the same thing: food, sleep, lust—this is one’s daily round. The desire to die may be felt, not only by the sensible man or the brave or unhappy man, but even by the man who is merely surfeited."
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 77
Don’t ask how long you should live, but how well you should die. This is only frightening if we consider death to be an evil, when the only human evils are the vices.
The Alexandrian ships may come in early, or they may come in late, or they may never come in at all, and it is rather fretting over such timing that brings us to grief. Likewise, any fixation on accidents is a surefire way to neglect the essence, so that adding additional days to a life is no substitute for seizing upon just one single day.
The story of Marcellinus makes us uncomfortable, because it challenges the common assumption that survival must come first. No, character must come first.
I once believed that an animal’s basic instinct was to stay alive at all costs, but then I saw a cat defending her kittens; even the beast, which lacks reason, has a sense of purpose that goes beyond merely prolonging its existence. While a man should know better than to fear death, it is ironically his freedom of judgment that permits him to ignore his very nature.
It is not for me to decide whether Marcellinus was right or wrong: I do not know his particular circumstances, and I do not know the merit of his intentions. I do know, however, that we should be indifferent to dying, neither seeking it out for its own sake, nor dreading its arrival when the time is ripe. Whatever the circumstances, the pursuit of the virtues must be the end, and what remains is about the means.
Have I understood my place? Have I acted with firm conviction? Have I risen above pleasure and pain? Have I treated my neighbor with the respect he deserves? The confusion arises from compromising these priorities.
I also know that the advice offered by our fellows can easily be muddled by their own fears and desires. Do not tell me what you think I wish to hear, or what you hope will win you favor; you will be a true friend if you help me to help myself, instead of shaping me according to your preferences.
The Stoic explains to Marcellinus that the question is not about life or death, but about honor or dishonor. Will a longer life be in the service of my conscience, or will it become a hindrance to my principles? Will a shorter life allow me to make my stand, or will it become an excuse for an easy way out? There may come a point where less can be more, and more can be less.
If the task is now complete, to the best of my ability, it is not cowardly or selfish to say that I have had my fill. To continue might simply be going through the empty motions of desire, and so I retain the option to depart on my own terms, before my powers have failed me, without any resentments or regrets.
Don’t ask how long you should live, but how well you should die. This is only frightening if we consider death to be an evil, when the only human evils are the vices.
The Alexandrian ships may come in early, or they may come in late, or they may never come in at all, and it is rather fretting over such timing that brings us to grief. Likewise, any fixation on accidents is a surefire way to neglect the essence, so that adding additional days to a life is no substitute for seizing upon just one single day.
The story of Marcellinus makes us uncomfortable, because it challenges the common assumption that survival must come first. No, character must come first.
I once believed that an animal’s basic instinct was to stay alive at all costs, but then I saw a cat defending her kittens; even the beast, which lacks reason, has a sense of purpose that goes beyond merely prolonging its existence. While a man should know better than to fear death, it is ironically his freedom of judgment that permits him to ignore his very nature.
It is not for me to decide whether Marcellinus was right or wrong: I do not know his particular circumstances, and I do not know the merit of his intentions. I do know, however, that we should be indifferent to dying, neither seeking it out for its own sake, nor dreading its arrival when the time is ripe. Whatever the circumstances, the pursuit of the virtues must be the end, and what remains is about the means.
Have I understood my place? Have I acted with firm conviction? Have I risen above pleasure and pain? Have I treated my neighbor with the respect he deserves? The confusion arises from compromising these priorities.
I also know that the advice offered by our fellows can easily be muddled by their own fears and desires. Do not tell me what you think I wish to hear, or what you hope will win you favor; you will be a true friend if you help me to help myself, instead of shaping me according to your preferences.
The Stoic explains to Marcellinus that the question is not about life or death, but about honor or dishonor. Will a longer life be in the service of my conscience, or will it become a hindrance to my principles? Will a shorter life allow me to make my stand, or will it become an excuse for an easy way out? There may come a point where less can be more, and more can be less.
If the task is now complete, to the best of my ability, it is not cowardly or selfish to say that I have had my fill. To continue might simply be going through the empty motions of desire, and so I retain the option to depart on my own terms, before my powers have failed me, without any resentments or regrets.
—Reflection written in 11/2013
IMAGE: John Everett Millais, The Dying Man (c. 1853)
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