I also said that if those things which dumb animals possess equally with man are goods, then dumb animals also will lead a happy life; which is of course impossible. One must endure all things in defense of that which is honorable; but this would not be necessary if there existed any other good besides that which is honorable.
Although this question was discussed by me pretty extensively in a previous letter, I have discussed it summarily and briefly run through the argument. But an opinion of this kind will never seem true to you unless you exalt your mind and ask yourself whether, at the call of duty, you would be willing to die for your country, and buy the safety of all your fellow citizens at the price of your own; whether you would offer your neck not only with patience, but also with gladness.
If you would do this, there is no other good in your eyes. For you are giving up everything in order to acquire this good. Consider how great is the power of that which is honorable: you will die for your country, even at a moment’s notice, when you know that you ought to do so.
Although this question was discussed by me pretty extensively in a previous letter, I have discussed it summarily and briefly run through the argument. But an opinion of this kind will never seem true to you unless you exalt your mind and ask yourself whether, at the call of duty, you would be willing to die for your country, and buy the safety of all your fellow citizens at the price of your own; whether you would offer your neck not only with patience, but also with gladness.
If you would do this, there is no other good in your eyes. For you are giving up everything in order to acquire this good. Consider how great is the power of that which is honorable: you will die for your country, even at a moment’s notice, when you know that you ought to do so.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 76
I have always adored animals, to the point where my childhood was filled with grand tales about talking beasts who lived secretly in our nearby woods, including a kingdom of mischievous dormice, an immortal kitten who was a radio DJ, and the stern yet caring Father Badger. Among my best friends was a quixotic rabbit from the Austrian alps, named Moonwood after the Narnia books, and Bruno, a tough French-Canadian racoon who ran all sorts of shady rackets around the neighborhood.
With that kind of baggage, people are shocked, sometimes offended, when I agree with Seneca that animals cannot, properly speaking, be “happy”. If the creatures out in the forest could actually build a village, or write poetry, or have tea parties, as they do in the Beatrix Potter stories, then their end would be much the same as the human, but animals have their own distinct natures, and these should not be confused with our own.
This is more than a matter of petty semantics; for all of his glory, my cat Jack is bound by his instincts and appetites, while I possess the further capacities of reason and will. It is no insult to the rock that it is not a tree, and the cat is not diminished for failing to be a man. I might say that Jack is “satisfied”, but not that he is “happy”, since his pleasurable feelings are on a different level than virtuous actions.
When Jack catches a rabbit out back, he is totally pleased with his prize for the rest of the day. If you serve me a bowl of fine rabbit stew, it will hardly inform the content of my character for the rest of the day, however much my senses have been gratified. The animal is fulfilled by his desires, even as the man is fulfilled by his judgments, and treating one as if he were like the other will bring us all nothing but grief.
To know myself will lead me to recognize the source of my excellence, such that the external conditions will then bow to the internal convictions. Though I have long appreciated the theory, I am still hard at work on the practice: words are cheap, deeds are priceless. It starts to make more sense when I approach the duty as a privilege, not as a burden, as something that perfects my freedom instead of smothering it.
I have never been an epic hero, and it is likely that I will never be, so I find my meaning in the little things, which actually end up being not so little, if they are charged with a purity of purpose. I have not yet been called to die for my friends, and yet I am offered dozens of opportunities, on each and every day, to show them kindness, patience, and forgiveness. This can cost me my comfort, my property, or my reputation, and I should still give of myself gladly, until I have nothing left except the joy that comes from my peace of mind. I have then thrived according to my nature, requiring no further reward.
I pay a student a compliment, and he mocks me behind my back. I leave a waiter a tip, and he scolds me for being cheap. I ask the boss to be honest, and I lose my job. My virtue is now in how well I respond to such obstacles, without permitting the circumstances to intimidate me. Let it be what it will be, and I will choose a simple honor. There is the difference between the mouse and the man.
I have always adored animals, to the point where my childhood was filled with grand tales about talking beasts who lived secretly in our nearby woods, including a kingdom of mischievous dormice, an immortal kitten who was a radio DJ, and the stern yet caring Father Badger. Among my best friends was a quixotic rabbit from the Austrian alps, named Moonwood after the Narnia books, and Bruno, a tough French-Canadian racoon who ran all sorts of shady rackets around the neighborhood.
With that kind of baggage, people are shocked, sometimes offended, when I agree with Seneca that animals cannot, properly speaking, be “happy”. If the creatures out in the forest could actually build a village, or write poetry, or have tea parties, as they do in the Beatrix Potter stories, then their end would be much the same as the human, but animals have their own distinct natures, and these should not be confused with our own.
This is more than a matter of petty semantics; for all of his glory, my cat Jack is bound by his instincts and appetites, while I possess the further capacities of reason and will. It is no insult to the rock that it is not a tree, and the cat is not diminished for failing to be a man. I might say that Jack is “satisfied”, but not that he is “happy”, since his pleasurable feelings are on a different level than virtuous actions.
When Jack catches a rabbit out back, he is totally pleased with his prize for the rest of the day. If you serve me a bowl of fine rabbit stew, it will hardly inform the content of my character for the rest of the day, however much my senses have been gratified. The animal is fulfilled by his desires, even as the man is fulfilled by his judgments, and treating one as if he were like the other will bring us all nothing but grief.
To know myself will lead me to recognize the source of my excellence, such that the external conditions will then bow to the internal convictions. Though I have long appreciated the theory, I am still hard at work on the practice: words are cheap, deeds are priceless. It starts to make more sense when I approach the duty as a privilege, not as a burden, as something that perfects my freedom instead of smothering it.
I have never been an epic hero, and it is likely that I will never be, so I find my meaning in the little things, which actually end up being not so little, if they are charged with a purity of purpose. I have not yet been called to die for my friends, and yet I am offered dozens of opportunities, on each and every day, to show them kindness, patience, and forgiveness. This can cost me my comfort, my property, or my reputation, and I should still give of myself gladly, until I have nothing left except the joy that comes from my peace of mind. I have then thrived according to my nature, requiring no further reward.
I pay a student a compliment, and he mocks me behind my back. I leave a waiter a tip, and he scolds me for being cheap. I ask the boss to be honest, and I lose my job. My virtue is now in how well I respond to such obstacles, without permitting the circumstances to intimidate me. Let it be what it will be, and I will choose a simple honor. There is the difference between the mouse and the man.
—Reflection written in 10/2013
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