Two elements must therefore be rooted out once for all—the fear of future suffering, and the recollection of past suffering; since the latter no longer concerns me, and the former concerns me not yet. But when set in the very midst of troubles one should say:
“Perchance someday the memory of this sorrow
Will even bring delight.”
Let such a man fight against them with all his might: if he once gives way, he will be vanquished; but if he strives against his sufferings, he will conquer.
As it is, however, what most men do is to drag down upon their own heads a falling ruin which they ought to try to support. If you begin to withdraw your support from that which thrusts toward you and totters and is ready to plunge, it will follow you and lean more heavily upon you; but if you hold your ground and make up your mind to push against it, it will be forced back.
What blows do athletes receive on their faces and all over their bodies! Nevertheless, through their desire for fame they endure every torture, and they undergo these things not only because they are fighting but in order to be able to fight. Their very training means torture.
So let us also win the way to victory in all our struggles—for the reward is not a garland or a palm or a trumpeter who calls for silence at the proclamation of our names, but rather virtue, steadfastness of soul, and a peace that is won for all time, if fortune has once been utterly vanquished in any combat.
You say, “I feel severe pain.”
What then; are you relieved from feeling it, if you endure it like a woman? Just as an enemy is more dangerous to a retreating army, so every trouble that fortune brings attacks us all the harder if we yield and turn our backs.
“But the trouble is serious.”
What? Is it for this purpose that we are strong—that we may have light burdens to bear? Would you have your illness long-drawn-out, or would you have it quick and short?
If it is long, it means a respite, allows you a period for resting yourself, bestows upon you the boon of time in plenty; as it arises, so it must also subside. A short and rapid illness will do one of two things: it will quench or be quenched. And what difference does it make whether it is not or I am not? In either case there is an end of pain.
“Perchance someday the memory of this sorrow
Will even bring delight.”
Let such a man fight against them with all his might: if he once gives way, he will be vanquished; but if he strives against his sufferings, he will conquer.
As it is, however, what most men do is to drag down upon their own heads a falling ruin which they ought to try to support. If you begin to withdraw your support from that which thrusts toward you and totters and is ready to plunge, it will follow you and lean more heavily upon you; but if you hold your ground and make up your mind to push against it, it will be forced back.
What blows do athletes receive on their faces and all over their bodies! Nevertheless, through their desire for fame they endure every torture, and they undergo these things not only because they are fighting but in order to be able to fight. Their very training means torture.
So let us also win the way to victory in all our struggles—for the reward is not a garland or a palm or a trumpeter who calls for silence at the proclamation of our names, but rather virtue, steadfastness of soul, and a peace that is won for all time, if fortune has once been utterly vanquished in any combat.
You say, “I feel severe pain.”
What then; are you relieved from feeling it, if you endure it like a woman? Just as an enemy is more dangerous to a retreating army, so every trouble that fortune brings attacks us all the harder if we yield and turn our backs.
“But the trouble is serious.”
What? Is it for this purpose that we are strong—that we may have light burdens to bear? Would you have your illness long-drawn-out, or would you have it quick and short?
If it is long, it means a respite, allows you a period for resting yourself, bestows upon you the boon of time in plenty; as it arises, so it must also subside. A short and rapid illness will do one of two things: it will quench or be quenched. And what difference does it make whether it is not or I am not? In either case there is an end of pain.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 78
I know all too well that some pain is intense, and that some pain is chronic. I do not believe that a good man will ever seek to dismiss the pain of another, but he will rather demonstrate how such a suffering can be transformed. Seneca’s guidance takes on this role for me, because it reveals why the aspects that seem so overwhelming are the very burdens I have imposed upon myself.
To become my own master, it is within my power to attend to the immediate now, without being overwhelmed by the constraints of the past or an apprehension about the future. I observe how dwelling on the memory of bygone pains will make me cringe at the prospect of coming pains, when all I really need to manage is my dignity at this present moment; a fixation on what is long gone feeds an anxiety about what is merely possible.
With a sharper focus, I can remove those vast stretches of uncertainty from my attention, leaving me with the reality of today, which is, in any case, the only condition I can do anything about. This single step can always be taken more readily, when I am not so dumbfounded by the scale of the entire journey.
My wrecked ankle tied me down for many weeks, though the worst part of it was in my head. Aware that I would soon need to move, I brought myself far greater harm by timidly pondering the deed, instead of just getting it done. After a number of harrowing days, I realized how the actual sensation was not nearly as bad as the distorted mental aggravation, and I eventually learned to clear my mind of its distracting clutter. That lesson then became remarkably useful in so many other circumstances of life.
It didn’t win me any medals, but it did explain to me why fortitude demanded getting over the obstacle, not gaping at it sheepishly. When my sole purpose is to increase my virtues, I have a reward in sight that far outstrips any fame, fortune, or pleasure. This was the year I oddly started whispering to myself, “Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead!”
Is the pressure too strong? Know that the degree of the force has a natural limit, and that it remains tolerable as long as the body itself does not break. If it does, there is then relief, and if it does not, the mind retains the freedom to treat the hardship as an opportunity for the excellence of character. The judgment of despair is the weakest link in the chain.
As Epictetus said, “You are but an impression, and not at all what you seem to be.”
Does it feel like it will never end? Know that it will end, sooner or later, and that the significance of the duration is as great or as small as the priority in the estimation. We are moved by something as much or as little as we ascribe value to it, such that grumbling and grief are a function of the underlying deliberation.
Again, as Epictetus said, “If it is concerned with what is not in our power, be ready with the answer that it is nothing to you.”
Far from being severe, such Stoic advice turns out to be both the kindest and the most potent remedy for anything that ails us.
I know all too well that some pain is intense, and that some pain is chronic. I do not believe that a good man will ever seek to dismiss the pain of another, but he will rather demonstrate how such a suffering can be transformed. Seneca’s guidance takes on this role for me, because it reveals why the aspects that seem so overwhelming are the very burdens I have imposed upon myself.
To become my own master, it is within my power to attend to the immediate now, without being overwhelmed by the constraints of the past or an apprehension about the future. I observe how dwelling on the memory of bygone pains will make me cringe at the prospect of coming pains, when all I really need to manage is my dignity at this present moment; a fixation on what is long gone feeds an anxiety about what is merely possible.
With a sharper focus, I can remove those vast stretches of uncertainty from my attention, leaving me with the reality of today, which is, in any case, the only condition I can do anything about. This single step can always be taken more readily, when I am not so dumbfounded by the scale of the entire journey.
My wrecked ankle tied me down for many weeks, though the worst part of it was in my head. Aware that I would soon need to move, I brought myself far greater harm by timidly pondering the deed, instead of just getting it done. After a number of harrowing days, I realized how the actual sensation was not nearly as bad as the distorted mental aggravation, and I eventually learned to clear my mind of its distracting clutter. That lesson then became remarkably useful in so many other circumstances of life.
It didn’t win me any medals, but it did explain to me why fortitude demanded getting over the obstacle, not gaping at it sheepishly. When my sole purpose is to increase my virtues, I have a reward in sight that far outstrips any fame, fortune, or pleasure. This was the year I oddly started whispering to myself, “Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead!”
Is the pressure too strong? Know that the degree of the force has a natural limit, and that it remains tolerable as long as the body itself does not break. If it does, there is then relief, and if it does not, the mind retains the freedom to treat the hardship as an opportunity for the excellence of character. The judgment of despair is the weakest link in the chain.
As Epictetus said, “You are but an impression, and not at all what you seem to be.”
Does it feel like it will never end? Know that it will end, sooner or later, and that the significance of the duration is as great or as small as the priority in the estimation. We are moved by something as much or as little as we ascribe value to it, such that grumbling and grief are a function of the underlying deliberation.
Again, as Epictetus said, “If it is concerned with what is not in our power, be ready with the answer that it is nothing to you.”
Far from being severe, such Stoic advice turns out to be both the kindest and the most potent remedy for anything that ails us.
—Reflection written in 11/2013
IMAGE: Richard Cosway, Portrait of a Gentleman, His Wife, and Sister, in the Character of Fortitude Introducing Hope to Distress (1770)
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