Letter 75: On the diseases of the soul
You have been complaining that my letters to you are rather carelessly written. Now who talks carefully unless he also desires to talk affectedly? I prefer that my letters should be just what my conversation would be if you and I were sitting in one another’s company or taking walks together—spontaneous and easy; for my letters have nothing strained or artificial about them.
If it were possible, I should prefer to show, rather than speak, my feelings. Even if I were arguing a point, I should not stamp my foot, or toss my arms about, or raise my voice; but I should leave that sort of thing to the orator, and should be content to have conveyed my feelings to you without having either embellished them or lowered their dignity.
I should like to convince you entirely of this one fact—that I feel whatever I say, that I not only feel it, but am wedded to it. It is one sort of kiss which a man gives his mistress, and another which he gives his children; yet in the father’s embrace also, holy and restrained as it is, plenty of affection is disclosed.
You have been complaining that my letters to you are rather carelessly written. Now who talks carefully unless he also desires to talk affectedly? I prefer that my letters should be just what my conversation would be if you and I were sitting in one another’s company or taking walks together—spontaneous and easy; for my letters have nothing strained or artificial about them.
If it were possible, I should prefer to show, rather than speak, my feelings. Even if I were arguing a point, I should not stamp my foot, or toss my arms about, or raise my voice; but I should leave that sort of thing to the orator, and should be content to have conveyed my feelings to you without having either embellished them or lowered their dignity.
I should like to convince you entirely of this one fact—that I feel whatever I say, that I not only feel it, but am wedded to it. It is one sort of kiss which a man gives his mistress, and another which he gives his children; yet in the father’s embrace also, holy and restrained as it is, plenty of affection is disclosed.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 75
It’s funny how unpleasant experiences from long ago can have a way of unconsciously sticking with us, breeding anxiety and resentment beneath the surface.
Back in graduate school, I entertained the idea of submitting essays for some artsy journals, and so I sent a selection of my scribbling to a bigwig in the Catholic publishing world. To my surprise, he did respond, but I was a bit taken aback by his comments: “Frankly, your writing is boring, and I can’t imagine how your choice of topics could possibly engage anyone’s interest.”
Though I was already used to being rejected, I stewed over being labeled as dull, and it was only years later that I was willing to confront my bitterness. As uncomfortable as it may feel, the fact is that he was quite right: my personality is awkward, and my interests are obscure. And it has simply taken me some time to understand why it is okay to be stodgy, as long as I am at least sincere.
It matters very little whether I am clever enough to engage the crowd, or charming enough to keep your attention. As gratifying as it is to be praised, I fear that the gift of the gab would merely tempt me to put on an act. I have seen too much of how duplicity, a life based upon shallow appearances, can corrupt the human condition, making us more concerned with how we seem than who we are.
Indeed, let there be nothing strained or artificial about me. Let me show you precisely where I stand, even if the package is not as stylish as you might prefer. As I grow older, I find that I admire integrity above all else, and I would rather forgive an error than suffer a pretension. True character has no need to impress anyone.
The greatest kindness a man can offer is to share completely of himself, warts and all. I sometimes wonder how the slick orators manage to sleep at night, and then I remember that their stress during working hours must surely continue after sundown. It is better to be boring than to be slippery.
It’s funny how unpleasant experiences from long ago can have a way of unconsciously sticking with us, breeding anxiety and resentment beneath the surface.
Back in graduate school, I entertained the idea of submitting essays for some artsy journals, and so I sent a selection of my scribbling to a bigwig in the Catholic publishing world. To my surprise, he did respond, but I was a bit taken aback by his comments: “Frankly, your writing is boring, and I can’t imagine how your choice of topics could possibly engage anyone’s interest.”
Though I was already used to being rejected, I stewed over being labeled as dull, and it was only years later that I was willing to confront my bitterness. As uncomfortable as it may feel, the fact is that he was quite right: my personality is awkward, and my interests are obscure. And it has simply taken me some time to understand why it is okay to be stodgy, as long as I am at least sincere.
It matters very little whether I am clever enough to engage the crowd, or charming enough to keep your attention. As gratifying as it is to be praised, I fear that the gift of the gab would merely tempt me to put on an act. I have seen too much of how duplicity, a life based upon shallow appearances, can corrupt the human condition, making us more concerned with how we seem than who we are.
Indeed, let there be nothing strained or artificial about me. Let me show you precisely where I stand, even if the package is not as stylish as you might prefer. As I grow older, I find that I admire integrity above all else, and I would rather forgive an error than suffer a pretension. True character has no need to impress anyone.
The greatest kindness a man can offer is to share completely of himself, warts and all. I sometimes wonder how the slick orators manage to sleep at night, and then I remember that their stress during working hours must surely continue after sundown. It is better to be boring than to be slippery.
—Reflection written in 10/2013
IMAGE: Jan Steen, Rhetoricians at a Window (c. 1666)
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