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)
Outstanding post. Inspiring young lad. Bravo to him, Seneca, and you sir!
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