Man Proposes, God Disposes

Edwin Landseer, Man Proposes, God Disposes (1864) 

Alexander and Diogenes

Edwin Landseer, Alexander and Diogenes (1848) 

The Monarch of the Glen

Edwin Landseer, The Monarch of the Glen (1851) 

Old Shepherd's Chief Mourner

Edwin Landseer, Old Shepherd's Chief Mourner (1837) 

Songs of Innocence 4

The Lamb (1789) 

William Blake (1757-1827) 

Little Lamb who made thee? 

Dost thou know who made thee? 
Gave thee life and bid thee feed, 
By the stream and o'er the mead; 
Gave thee clothing of delight, 
Softest clothing wooly bright; 
Gave thee such a tender voice, 
Making all the vales rejoice: 

Little Lamb who made thee? 

Dost thou know who made thee? 

Little Lamb I'll tell thee, 
Little Lamb I'll tell thee: 

He is called by thy name, 
For he calls himself a Lamb. 
He is meek and he is mild, 
He became a little child: 
I a child and thou a lamb, 
We are called by his name. 

Little Lamb God bless thee. 

Little Lamb God bless thee. 

Cosmos 17

Seneca, Moral Letters 80.1

Letter 80: On worldly deceptions
 
Today I have some free time, thanks not so much to myself as to the games, which have attracted all the bores to the boxing match. No one will interrupt me or disturb the train of my thoughts, which go ahead more boldly as the result of my very confidence. 
 
My door has not been continually creaking on its hinges, nor will my curtain be pulled aside; my thoughts may march safely on—and that is all the more necessary for one who goes independently and follows out his own path. 
 
Do I then follow no predecessors? Yes, but I allow myself to discover something new, to alter, to reject. I am not a slave to them, although I give them my approval. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 80 

 
For the longest time, I jumped back and forth between the extremes of forcing myself to be sociable and then hiding myself in a box, desperately uncertain about whether I was meant to live with others or to go my own way. In her usual manner, Philosophy explained to me why the answer was always a resounding “yes”. 
 
A man is his own thing, and then he is also bound up in everything. There is no dichotomy here, only a harmony. 
 
My own temperament is what they now call “introverted”, so I originally took it for granted that solitude was my natural state, where I could recharge my energy before facing the rest of the world. I eventually realized how not everyone is wired in the same way, that some people are at their best in a crowd. That is not me. I unfortunately began to resent the “extroverts”, who have a knack for taking charge, and who bully others to participate in their tedious events. 
 
The wife also claims to be an introvert, but I beg to differ. She enjoys having fancy dinners with folks from work, and I just sit there forcing a smile, worried about saying something clever without being offensive, while wishing I could be reading a book about some obscure period of history, smoking my pipe, and listening to a cantata by Bach. It’s okay, though, because we complement one another quite nicely. 
 
Yet with all my peculiar inclinations, I do understand why I am made for others. It just takes an immense effort on my part, and as I get older, it only becomes ever more difficult. I know I am called to love my neighbor, without any conditions, but please grant me a moment of silence to catch my breath before I enter into the fray. 
 
One of my fondest and most vivid memories is of football games on Saturdays at my old college. No, I did not attend them, as I get edgy in a throng, and I can’t bear yelling, and I find no pleasure in seeing burly men slamming into one another. I would rather sit in my girlfriend’s dorm room, gazing out over the playing field from a comfortable distance, while drinking Bass Ale, smoking Rothman’s Red, and listening to albums by Marillion. 
 
Sharing cigarettes with experience
With her giggling jealous confidantes,
She faithfully traces his name
With quick bitten fingernails
Through the tears of condensation
That'll cry through the night
As the glancing headlights of the last bus
Kiss adolescence goodbye
 
Good times! 
 
The opening of this letter takes me right back to that place. Yes, I have always been that annoying fellow who follows his own path. No, I no longer believe that the path is taken without a load of sound guidance. 
 
Should I do it on my own terms, or should I listen to others? Once again, Philosophy tells me “yes”. Those who are wiser and better than me lay out my options, yet I am the one who must make the final call, suited to my own particular circumstances, for better or for worse.
 
Despite what my English professor told me, Dostoyevsky does not have all the answers to my questions. He offers his suggestions, and I will choose what to do with them. Even as I am surrounded by the multitude, I stand alone. 

—Reflection written in 11/2013 

IMAGE: Jean-Leon Gerome, Solitude (1890) 

Thanks

 

Michael Leunig 76

Xenophon, Memorabilia of Socrates 37

The following conversation with a youth who had just been elected hipparch, or commandant of cavalry, I can also vouch for. 

Socrates: "Can you tell us what set you wishing to be a general of cavalry, young sir? What was your object? I suppose it was not simply to ride at the head of the 'knights', an honor not denied to the mounted archers, who ride even in front of the generals themselves?" 

Hipparch: "You are right."

Socrates: "No more was it for the sake merely of public notoriety, since a madman might boast of that fatal distinction." 

Hipparch: "You are right again." 

Socrates: "Is this possibly the explanation? You think to improve the cavalry—your aim would be to hand it over to the state in better condition than you find it; and, if the cavalry chanced to be called out, you at their head would be the cause of some good thing to Athens?"

Hipparch: "Most certainly." 

Socrates: "Well, and a noble ambition too, upon my word—if you can achieve your object. The command to which you are appointed concerns horses and riders, does it not?"

Hipparch: "It does, no doubt." 

Socrates: "Come then, will you explain to us first how you propose to improve the horses." 

Hipparch: "Ah, that will scarcely form part of my business, I fancy. Each trooper is personally responsible for the condition of his horse." 

Socrates: "But suppose, when they present themselves and their horses, you find that some have brought beasts with bad feet or legs or otherwise infirm, and others such ill-fed jades that they cannot keep up on the march; others, again, brutes so ill broken and unmanageable that they will not keep their place in the ranks, and others such desperate plungers that they cannot be got to any place in the ranks at all. 

"What becomes of your cavalry force then? How will you charge at the head of such a troop, and win glory for the state?" 

Hipparch: "You are right. I will try to look after the horses to my utmost." 

Socrates: "Well, and will you not lay your hand to improve the men themselves?" 

Hipparch: "I will." 

Socrates: "The first thing will be to make them expert in mounting their chargers?" 

Hipparch: "That certainly, for if any of them were dismounted he would then have a better chance of saving himself." 

Socrates: "Well, but when it comes to the hazard of engagement, what will you do then? Give orders to draw the enemy down to the sandy ground where you are accustomed to maneuver, or endeavor beforehand to put your men through their practice on ground resembling a real battlefield?" 

Hipparch: "That would be better, no doubt." 

Socrates: "Well, shall you regard it as a part of your duty to see that as many of your men as possible can take aim and shoot on horseback?" 

Hipparch: "It will be better, certainly." 

Socrates: "And have you thought how to whet the courage of your troopers? To kindle in them rage to meet the enemy?—which things are but stimulants to make stout hearts stouter?" 

Hipparch: "If I have not done so hitherto, I will try to make up for lost time now." 

Socrates: "And have you troubled your head at all to consider how you are to secure the obedience of your men? For without that not one particle of good will you get, for all your horses and troopers so brave and so stout." 

Hipparch: "That is a true saying; but how, Socrates, should a man best bring them to this virtue?" 

Socrates: "I presume you know that in any business whatever, people are more apt to follow the lead of those whom they look upon as adepts; thus in case of sickness they are readiest to obey him whom they regard as the cleverest physician; and so on a voyage the most skillful pilot; in matters agricultural the best farmer, and so forth." 

Hipparch: "Yes, certainly." 

Socrates: "Then in this matter of cavalry also we may reasonably suppose that he who is looked upon as knowing his business best will command the readiest obedience." 

Hipparch: "If, then, I can prove to my troopers that I am better than all of them, will that suffice to win their obedience?" 

Socrates: "Yes, if along with that you can teach them that obedience to you brings greater glory and surer safety to themselves." 

Hipparch: "How am I to teach them that?" 

Socrates: "Upon my word! How are you to teach them that? Far more easily, I take it, than if you had to teach them that bad things are better than good, and more advantageous to boot." 

Hipparch: "I suppose you mean that, besides his other qualifications a commandant of cavalry must have command of speech and argument?" 

Socrates: "Were you under the impression that the commandant was not to open his mouth? Did it never occur to you that all the noblest things which custom compels us to learn, and to which indeed we owe our knowledge of life, have all been learned by means of speech and reason; and if there be any other noble learning which a man may learn, it is this same reason whereby he learns it; and the best teachers are those who have the freest command of thought and language, and those that have the best knowledge of the most serious things are the most brilliant masters of disputation. 

"Again, have you not observed that whenever this city of ours fits out one of her choruses—such as that, for instance, which is sent to Delos—there is nothing elsewhere from any quarter of the world which can compete with it; nor will you find in any other state collected so fair a flower of manhood as in Athens?" 

Hipparch: "You say truly." 

Socrates: "But for all that, it is not in sweetness of voice that the Athenians differ from the rest of the world so much, nor in stature of body or strength of limb, but in ambition and that love of honor which most of all gives a keen edge to the spirit in the pursuit of things lovely and of high esteem." 

Hipparch: "That, too, is a true saying." 

Socrates: "Do you not think, then, that if a man devoted himself to our cavalry also, here in Athens, we should far outstrip the rest of the world, whether in the furnishing of arms and horses, or in orderliness of battle-array, or in eager hazardous encounter with the foe, if only we could persuade ourselves that by so doing we should obtain honor and distinction?" 

Hipparch: "It is reasonable to think so."

Socrates: "Have no hesitation, therefore, but try to guide your men into this path, whence you yourself, and through you your fellow-citizens, will reap advantage." 

Hipparch: "Yes, in good sooth, I will try." 

—from Xenophon, Memorabilia 3.3 

Seneca, Moral Letters 79.6

Is it not true, therefore, that men did not discover him until after he had ceased to be? Has not his renown shone forth, for all that? Metrodorus also admits this fact in one of his letters: that Epicurus and he were not well-known to the public; but he declares that after the lifetime of Epicurus and himself any man who might wish to follow in their footsteps would win great and ready-made renown. 
 
Virtue is never lost to view; and yet to have been lost to view is no loss. There will come a day which will reveal her, though hidden away or suppressed by the spite of her contemporaries. That man is born merely for a few, who thinks only of the people of his own generation. 
 
Many thousands of years and many thousands of peoples will come after you; it is to these that you should have regard. Malice may have imposed silence upon the mouths of all who were alive in your day; but there will come men who will judge you without prejudice and without favor. 
 
If there is any reward that virtue receives at the hands of fame, not even this can pass away. We ourselves, indeed, shall not be affected by the talk of posterity; nevertheless, posterity will cherish and celebrate us even though we are not conscious thereof.
 
Virtue has never failed to reward a man, both during his life and after his death, provided he has followed her loyally, provided he has not decked himself out or painted himself up, but has been always the same, whether he appeared before men’s eyes after being announced, or suddenly and without preparation. 
 
Pretense accomplishes nothing. Few are deceived by a mask that is easily drawn over the face. Truth is the same in every part. Things which deceive us have no real substance. Lies are thin stuff; they are transparent, if you examine them with care. Farewell. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 79 
 
If I wish to be happy by doing what is best, must I somehow be aware of others praising me? 
 
If I wish to know that I have done my part, will it matter how or when my contribution is revealed? 
 
If I wish to live with integrity, doesn’t it seem like a contradiction to put on some elaborate act? 
 
Again, take note of whether a man defines his “honor” from the inside out, or from the outside in. As the term may seem outdated to some, much the same can be applied to the contemporary concept of “success”. 
 
True fame, which is nothing but a fruit of virtue, is timeless and ever-present, and, by the handy Socratic formula, something is praised because it is good, not good because it is praised. As much as we might stubbornly choose to look away, it is never our fleeting approval that gives it glory; Nature operates on a much grander, and a far subtler, scale. 
 
The Stoic exercise of putting all thing into perspective is a great aid in overcoming the desire to be idolized during this brief moment, in this piddling place, by these smug people. In contrast to the vastness of the whole, each part may now appear to be trivial, yet it acquires its very significance when it is understood through that very whole, as but one note within the harmony. 
 
Only virtue is lasting, and so only the merit of the virtues is worthy of any prestige. Far more than a sentimental platitude, the hard proof of it is in recognizing why the perfection of any creature is in the perfection of its distinct nature, which, in turn, is an expression of the meaning and purpose to all of Nature. In the simplest of terms, to be fully human is enough to be celebrated, with absolutely no need for any window dressing. 
 
The more I consider the plain truth of this, the more I am painfully aware of the vanity in our shallow schemes, the delusion that mere pretending can take the place of authentic living. The simulated speeches, the pompous titles, and the vulgar costumes are pretensions, diversions from our one calling. 
 
Afraid of facing our pure selves, we strike a pose, grinning while straining, desperately praying that the others can’t see right through us, even as they are tortured by exactly the same dread. It may be that everyone knows it is a farce, but no one wants to admit it is a farce; what would we do with ourselves if the theatrical scenery suddenly came crashing down? 
 
My biggest mistake was binding the value of my life to someone who was insincere. In an appropriately Stoic fashion, I now have the opportunity to learn from that blunder, to see right through the illusion with sharper eyes. Too much of what we do is wasted, because too much of what we do is devious busywork. Strip it away. 
 
Prudence. Fortitude. Temperance. Justice. There is the glory of our nature, which can never be taken away. Nothing more. 

—Reflection written in 11/2013 

IMAGE: Anonymous Flemish, The Triumph of Fame (c. 1500) 

"Thus the deeds of the Ancients were immortalized by Fame." 

Sayings of Ramakrishna 265

So long as the heavenly expanse of the heart is troubled and disturbed by the gusts of desire, there is little chance of our beholding therein the brightness of God. 

The beatific vision occurs only in the heart which is calm and rapt up in divine communion. 

IMAGE: Gustave Doré, The Empyrean (1867) 

The Continence of Scipio 6

Simon de Vos, The Magnanimity of Scipio (1641) 

Man's Search for Meaning 13

I shall never forget how I was roused one night by the groans of a fellow prisoner, who threw himself about in his sleep, obviously having a horrible nightmare. Since I had always been especially sorry for people who suffered from fearful dreams or deliria, I wanted to wake the poor man. 

Suddenly I drew back the hand which was ready to shake him, frightened at the thing I was about to do. At that moment I became intensely conscious of the fact that no dream, no matter how horrible, could be as bad as the reality of the camp which surrounded us, and to which I was about to recall him. 

Apathy, the main symptom of the second phase, was a necessary mechanism of self-defense. Reality dimmed, and all efforts and all emotions were cantered on one task: preserving one's own life and that of the other fellow. It was typical to hear the prisoners, while they were being herded back to camp from their work sites in the evening, sigh with relief and say, "Well, another day is over."

It can be readily understood that such a state of strain, coupled with the constant necessity of concentrating on the task of staying alive, forced the prisoner's inner life down to a primitive level. Several of my colleagues in camp who were trained in psychoanalysis often spoke of a "regression" in the camp inmate—a retreat to a more primitive form of mental life. His wishes and desires became obvious in his dreams.

What did the prisoner dream about most frequently? Of bread, cake, cigarettes, and nice warm baths. The lack of having these simple desires satisfied led him to seek wish-fulfilment in dreams.

Whether these dreams did any good is another matter; the dreamer had to wake from them to the reality of camp life, and to the terrible contrast between that and his dream illusions. 

—from Viktor Frankl, Man's Search for Meaning 

Seneca, Moral Letters 79.5

I am glad, beloved Lucilius, that we are occupied with this ideal, that we pursue it with all our might, even though few know it, or none. 
 
Fame is the shadow of virtue; it will attend virtue even against her will. But, as the shadow sometimes precedes and sometimes follows or even lags behind, so fame sometimes goes before us and shows herself in plain sight, and sometimes is in the rear, and is all the greater in proportion as she is late in coming, when once envy has beaten a retreat.
 
How long did men believe Democritus to be mad! Glory barely came to Socrates. And how long did our state remain in ignorance of Cato! They rejected him, and did not know his worth until they had lost him. If Rutilius had not resigned himself to wrong, his innocence and virtue would have escaped notice; the hour of his suffering was the hour of his triumph. Did he not give thanks for his lot, and welcome his exile with open arms? 
 
I have mentioned thus far those to whom Fortune has brought renown at the very moment of persecution; but how many there are whose progress toward virtue has come to light only after their death! 
 
And how many have been ruined, not rescued, by their reputation? There is Epicurus, for example; mark how greatly he is admired, not only by the more cultured, but also by this ignorant rabble. This man, however, was unknown to Athens itself, near which he had hidden himself away. 
 
And so, when he had already survived by many years his friend Metrodorus, he added in a letter these last words, proclaiming with thankful appreciation the friendship that had existed between them: “So greatly blest were Metrodorus and I that it has been no harm to us to be unknown, and almost unheard of, in this well-known land of Greece." 

—from Seneca. Moral Letters 79 
 
The end of this letter gives me further pause, both because I have too often felt stung by being forgotten, and because I am especially critical of my own motives. It is so easy to speak of living with righteousness, and yet it is so hard to bear the absence of recognition. What is it I am truly wishing for when I say that I want to become a decent man? Is to be or to be seen? 
 
Perhaps in a perfect world, the private virtues within the soul would win a public standing among men, but would such a world really be ideal if we all insisted upon further rewards, beyond the dignity of the deed itself? Whatever our hopes, the simple fact remains that many upright men die unsung, and many wicked men revel in glory—to call this unjust is to confuse the very source of the good. 
 
The honor from the outside does indeed reflect the honor on the inside, though not necessarily in the ways that we expect. It does not arrive at our impatient demands, and it rather unfolds according to the leisurely designs of Providence. It will not be accompanied by bells and whistles, and it will instead seep its way in, without making a fuss. Whether it comes sooner or later, a noble character must inevitably leave its mark, as it has fulfilled its unique role in the service of Nature. 
 
Even as the bigwigs, and the mob who blindly follow them, look the other way, those who have been most affected, unassumingly grateful, know how to offer their respects. While not everyone will noisily applaud, I can be assured that the best people will quietly take notice, and I can always be certain that God understands completely, for the very awareness that orders the Universe grants the richest sort of acclaim. If I have done right, whatever is in tune with Nature commends this. 
 
If, however, any fame is sought as an end, Nature has a wonderful way of throwing me for a loop, by reminding me why the cause should never be confused with the consequence. The integrity of the act is immediately lost once it is reduced to a means, just as the dignity of the man is immediately lost once he cries for tribute; I then find myself empty of meaning because I have filled myself with appearances. 
 
Democritus, Socrates, Cato, and Rutilius were all thought of poorly at one point, and their distinction, in the proper sense, does not come from being written about in books or having statues erected in their honor, but from the way they inspired others to follow their grueling examples, not merely to babble in empty words. By such a standard, I know of many fine people who are duly esteemed, even if you have never heard of their names. 
 
Epicurus and Metrodorus both died in obscurity, and that may even have helped them to stand by their principles while they still lived. For their many debates, an Epicurean and a Stoic will surely agree that popularity is not the same as mastery, that the greatest influences are measured by their depth, not by their breadth. The lasting difference any one of us can make does not require a garish production: there is flashy honor, and then there is classy honor. 

—Reflection written in 11/2013 

IMAGE: Tom Roberts, Rejected (1883) 

Simplicius, Commentary on Epictetus 1.7

. . . But our bodies, possessions, reputations, preferments, and places of honor and authority, and in short, everything besides our own actions, are things out of our own power. 

Comment: 

The reason, why these are said to be out of our own power and disposal, is not because the mind has no part in them, or contributes nothing towards them; for it is plain, that both our bodies and our estates, are put into a better or a worse condition, in proportion to that provident care the soul takes of them, or the neglect she is guilty of with regard to them. 

The soul does also furnish occasions for the acquiring credit and fame, and by her diligence and wisdom it is, that we attain to posts of greatness and government. For indeed there could be no such thing as the exercise of authority, especially as the world goes now, without the choice and consent of the soul. 

But, because these things are not totally at her disposal, and she is not the sole and absolute mistress of them, but must be beholden to the favorable concurrence of several other things, to compass them; therefore they are said not be in our own power. 

Thus the body requires sound seminal principles, and a strong constitution, convenient diet, and moderate exercise, a wholesome dwelling, a good air, and sweet water, and strength, and ability to perform the functions of nature, will depend upon all these. 

And yet these are all of them things so far out of our own reach, that we can neither bestow them upon ourselves, nor keep off the contrary inconveniences, when we would. When a more potent enemy rushes in and assaults us, we would be glad to lie undiscovered, but cannot make ourselves invisible. When we are sick, we desire a speedy recovery, and yet our wishes do not bring it to pass. 

The case is the same with our wealth and possessions too; for these are owing to a world of fortunate accidents, that contribute to our getting them and to as many unfortunate accidents, that conspire to deprive us of them; accidents too mighty for us to struggle with, or to prevent. 

Reputation and fame, are no more in our power, than riches: for, though by the management of ourselves, we give the occasions of esteem or disesteem; yet still the opinion is not ours, but theirs, that entertain it; and, when we have done all we can, we lie at their mercy, to think what they please of us. 

Hence it comes to pass, that some, who are profane and irreligious men at the bottom, gain the character of piety and virtue, and impose, not upon others only, but sometimes upon themselves too, with a false appearance of religion. 

And yet on the other hand, others who have no notions of a deity, but what are highly reverent and becoming, that never charge God with any of our frailties or imperfections, or behave themselves like men that think so of him, are mistaken by some people for infidels and atheists. 

And thus the reserved and temperate conversation, is despised and traduced by some, for mere senselessness and stupidity. So that the being well esteemed of is by no means in our own power, but depends upon the pleasure of those, that think well or ill of us. 

Posts or authority and government cannot subsist, without inferiors to be governed, and subordinate offices to assist in governing them: and particularly in such states, as allow places to be bought and sold, and make preferment the price, not of merit, but money; there a man, that wants a purse, cannot rise, though he would never so fain. 

For whence we conclude, that all things of this nature are not in our own power, because they are not our works, nor such as follow upon our choice of them. 

I only add one remark more here, which is, that of all the things said to be out of our power, the body is first mentioned; and that for this very good reason, because the wants of this expose us to all the rest. For money is at the bottom of all wars and contentions; and this we cannot be without; but must seek it, in order to the providing convenient food, and raiment, and supplying the necessities of the body. 

Stoic Snippets 264

How can it be that the gods, after having arranged all things well and benevolently for mankind, have overlooked this alone, that some men, and very good men, and men who, as we may say, have had most communion with the divinity, and through pious acts and religious observances have been most intimate with the divinity, when they have once died should never exist again, but should be completely extinguished? 

But if this is so, be assured that if it ought to have been otherwise, the gods would have done it. 

For if it were just, it would also be possible; and if it were according to Nature, Nature would have had it so. 

But because it is not so, if in fact it is not so, be you convinced that it ought not to have been so: for you see even of yourself that in this inquiry you are disputing with the Deity; and we should not thus dispute with the gods, unless they were most excellent and most just; but if this is so, they would not have allowed anything in the ordering of the Universe to be neglected unjustly and irrationally. 

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 12.5 

IMAGES: 

Jozef Israëls, The Day Before Parting (c. 1862) 

Jozef Israëls, Alone in the World (1878) 

Jozef Israëls, Alone in the World (c. 1881) 

Stobaeus on Stoic Ethics 13

The Stoics call "practices" the love of music, of letters, of horses, of hunting, and, broadly speaking, the so-called general crafts. 

They are not knowledge, but they leave them in the class of virtuous conditions, and consistently they say that only the wise man is a music lover and a lover of letters, and analogously in the other cases. 

They give a definition of a "practice" as follows: a method using a craft or some part of a craft that leads us to what is in accord with virtue. 

IMAGE: Rembrandt, The Scholar at the Lectern (1641) 

Seneca, Moral Letters 79.4

Already much of the task is accomplished; nay, rather, if I can bring myself to confess the truth, not much. 
 
For goodness does not mean merely being better than the lowest. Who that could catch but a mere glimpse of the daylight would boast his powers of vision? One who sees the sun shining through a mist may be contented meanwhile that he has escaped darkness, but he does not yet enjoy the blessing of light.
 
Our souls will not have reason to rejoice in their lot until, freed from this darkness in which they grope, they have not merely glimpsed the brightness with feeble vision, but have absorbed the full light of day and have been restored to their place in the sky—until, indeed, they have regained the place which they held at the allotment of their birth. 
 
The soul is summoned upward by its very origin. And it will reach that goal even before it is released from its prison below, as soon as it has cast off sin and, in purity and lightness, has leaped up into celestial realms of thought. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 79 
 
Once I have set my sights on the virtues, I am confronted with another challenge. From thinking far too little of myself, I am tempted to now think far too much of myself, to presume that I have gained a mastery over something by merely glancing at it. I may speak about it with an intense passion, but I have not yet done the rough work of weaving it into my very bones. 
 
Am I a better man today than I was yesterday, or a decade ago? While it is good to be proud of progress, however slight, an advancement is not the same as a completion, just as one step does not conclude the entire journey. To catch a glimmer of light, from the corner of my eye, and to be drawn to its warmth, is not yet to bask in its glow. I am peeking through a dusty windowpane, even as I am being called to stroll freely in the sunshine. 
 
It begins with a transformation of understanding. It continues with a purity of intention. It is expressed in a habit of action; though it may not have to take a long time, it does demand a rigorous practice. Aristotle rightly distinguished between moral continence, where I know something of the good while still struggling to act upon it, and moral virtue, where the exercise of the good becomes like a second nature. 
 
I should not delude myself into believing that there are any shortcuts to an informed character. Latching onto a political creed, or a religious cult, or an ethnic tribe is never a substitute for a personal commitment, because it assumes the appearance without the responsibility. I note how the more I am inclined to scold my supposed enemies, the more I am whitewashing my own hidden vices. 
 
The angry zealot thinks he is already a sage, and the bitter cynic denies that there can ever be any sages, and both of them are victims of their own anxieties. I choose not to fall for either of these traps today, and if I can then manage it again tomorrow, I have achieved a bit of growth. Maturity is not instant, nor is it impossible: it comes from the process of dragging myself out of the shadows and daring to be consumed by the radiance. 
 
It is the rediscovery of the home I have forgotten, a return to my nature, a reverence that unfolds into a recognition. 

—Reflection written in 11/2013 

IMAGE: Rembrandt, The Philosopher in Meditation (1632) 

Poor Lazarus

Gustave Moreau, The Wicked Rich and the Poor Lazarus (c. 1875) 

Phaethon

Gustave Moreau, Phaethon (1878) 

Angels of Sodom

Gustave Moreau, The Angels of Sodom (c. 1890) 

Night

Gustave Moreau, Night (c. 1882) 

Dead Poet

Gustave Moreau, Dead Poet Carried by a Centaur (c. 1890) 

Helen

Gustave Moreau, Helen on the Walls of Troy (c. 1885) 

Inspiration

Gustave Moreau, Inspiration (c. 1893) 

King David

Gustave Moreau, King David (1878) 

Fine Weather

Simplicius, Commentary on Epictetus 1.6

. . . But I expect, that the adversaries of this opinion will appeal back again to our own experience, and urge afresh, what? Do we not often find ourselves forced by the tyranny of ill men, and the overbearing torment of our own passions, and the strong bent of natural sympathies and antipathies? Do not these compel us to do and suffer many things against our wills; and such as no man in his senses would choose, if it were in his power to avoid? 

To this my answer is still the same, that notwithstanding all this, our liberty is not destroyed, but the choice upon these occasions is still free, and our own. For here are two things proposed; and, though the side we take, be not eligible for its own sake, and when considered absolutely; yet it is so, with regard to the present straits we are in, and when compared with something which we avoid by this means; and for this reason it is, that we make choice of it. 

And it is utterly impossible that a man should be carried to do anything without the consent of his own mind; For he, that does a thing without his own choice, is like a man thrust down a precipice by some stronger hand, which he cannot resist; and this person is at that time under the circumstance of an inanimate creature; he does not act at all, but is purely passive in the case. So that, when we really do act, though with never so great unwillingness and reluctancy, yet still we choose to act, after such and such a manner. 

This is further evident from men’s own practice. For we find several persons take several ways, when yet the necessity that lies upon them is the same. Some choose to comply with what is imposed upon them, for fear of enduring some greater evil, if they refuse it; others again are peremptory in the refusing it, as looking upon such compliance to be a greater evil, than any punishment they can possibly undergo, upon account of their refusal. So that, even in those actions that seem most involuntary, there is still a place for liberty and choice. 

For we must distinguish between what is voluntary, and what is free. That only is voluntary, which would be chosen for its own sake ; but that is free, which we have power to choose, not only for its own sake, but for the sake of avoiding some greater mischief. 

And indeed, there are some cases, in which we find both something voluntary, and something involuntary meet. For which reason those are properly called mixed actions; that is, when what is eligible upon these occasions, is not simply and absolutely so, but carries something along with it, which we should never choose, if we could help it. And Homer very elegantly describes the perplexity of thought, this mixture of voluntariness and involuntariness, in the soul, when he say to this purpose, 

Great strife in my divided breast I find, A will consenting, yet unwilling mind. 

These things I thought fit rather to enlarge upon, because almost all the following book depends upon this distinction of the things in our own power: for, the design of it being wholly moral and instructive, he lays the true foundation here at first; and shows us, what we ought to place all our happiness and all our unhappiness in; and that, being at our own disposal, and endued with a principle of motion from within, we are to expect it all from our own actions. 

For things that move mechanically and necessarily, as they drive their being from, so they owe all the good and evil they are capable of to, something else; they depend upon the impressions made upon them from without, both for the thing itself, and for the degree of it. 

But those creatures, which act freely, and are themselves the cause of their own motions and operations, receive all their good and evil from these operations. Now these operations, properly speaking, with regard to knowledge and speculative matters, are their opinions and apprehensions of things; but with regard to desirable objects, and matters of practice, they are the appetites, and aversions, and the affections of the soul. 

When therefore we have just ideas, and our notions agree with the things themselves; and when we apply our desires and our aversions to such objects, and in such measures, as we ought to do; then we are properly happy, and attain to that perfection, which nature has designed us for, and made peculiar to us: but when we fail in these matters, then we fail of that happiness and perfection too. 

Now by our own actions, I mean such, as are wrought by ourselves only, and need nothing more to effect them, but our own choice. For as to actions that concern things without us, such as sciences and trades, and supplying the necessities of human life, and the making ourselves masters of knowledge, and the instructing others in it, or any other employments and professions of credit and reputation in the world; these are not entirely in our own power, but require many helps and external advantages, in order to the compassing of them. 

But the regulating of our opinions, and our own choices, is properly and entirely our own work, and stands in need of no foreign assistances. So that our good and evil depend on ourselves; for this we may be sure of, that no man is accountable for those things, that do not come within the compass of his own power. . . .