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 . . .
