Again, there are two kinds of pleasures. Disease checks the pleasures of the body, but does not do away with them. Nay, if the truth is to be considered, it serves to excite them; for the thirstier a man is, the more he enjoys a drink; the hungrier he is, the more pleasure he takes in food. Whatever falls to one’s lot after a period of abstinence is welcomed with greater zest.
The other kind, however, the pleasures of the mind, which are higher and less uncertain, no physician can refuse to the sick man. Whoever seeks these and knows well what they are, scorns all the blandishments of the senses.
Men say, “Poor sick fellow!”
But why? Is it because he does not mix snow with his wine, or because he does not revive the chill of his drink—mixed as it is in a good-sized bowl—by chipping ice into it?
Or because he does not have Lucrine oysters opened fresh at his table? Or because there is no din of cooks about his dining hall, as they bring in their very cooking apparatus along with their viands? For luxury has already devised this fashion—of having the kitchen accompany the dinner, so that the food may not grow lukewarm, or fail to be hot enough for a palate which has already become hardened.
“Poor sick fellow!”—he will eat as much as he can digest. There will be no boar lying before his eyes, banished from the table as if it were a common meat; and on his sideboard there will be heaped together no breast-meat of birds, because it sickens him to see birds served whole.
But what evil has been done to you? You will dine like a sick man, nay, sometimes like a sound man.
The other kind, however, the pleasures of the mind, which are higher and less uncertain, no physician can refuse to the sick man. Whoever seeks these and knows well what they are, scorns all the blandishments of the senses.
Men say, “Poor sick fellow!”
But why? Is it because he does not mix snow with his wine, or because he does not revive the chill of his drink—mixed as it is in a good-sized bowl—by chipping ice into it?
Or because he does not have Lucrine oysters opened fresh at his table? Or because there is no din of cooks about his dining hall, as they bring in their very cooking apparatus along with their viands? For luxury has already devised this fashion—of having the kitchen accompany the dinner, so that the food may not grow lukewarm, or fail to be hot enough for a palate which has already become hardened.
“Poor sick fellow!”—he will eat as much as he can digest. There will be no boar lying before his eyes, banished from the table as if it were a common meat; and on his sideboard there will be heaped together no breast-meat of birds, because it sickens him to see birds served whole.
But what evil has been done to you? You will dine like a sick man, nay, sometimes like a sound man.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 78
Pleasure is not as elusive as I might think. When I crudely pursue it for its own sake, it escapes me, because I am fixated on gaining more and more, but when I seek out an excellence in thought and deed, it arrives unbidden, because I have learned to be content with myself. Joy is simply a consequence of living well, never a dependence on greater acquisition.
It may seem like a physical ailment must hinder the possibility of any satisfaction, yet I can just as easily understand it as an opportunity to refine my sense of gratitude. Greater abundance is too often accompanied by a soft habit of entitlement, and greater want refreshes an appreciation for the genuine good; quality becomes the true source of delight when we are no longer spoiled by quantity.
Back in the second grade, I had a nasty case of food poisoning, which laid me low for almost two weeks. As the days passed, I became oddly accustomed to the fever, the weakness, and the tortured gut, but my inability to keep down any food became the worst part of the ordeal. I desperately craved the lowly sensation of chewing, of swallowing, of just being filled, even as the smell of cooking from downstairs made me feel nauseous.
I was told I would be able to eat again soon, but not quite yet. To offer a touch of encouragement, my father made me a little display of some rather plain foods, approved by my doctor as a first meal. I looked over at the nightstand, and what I would normally have considered bland and boring now appeared like a sumptuous feast.
For some reason, my eyes were especially drawn to a box of Crown Pilot crackers, well-known to more traditional New Englanders as a common ingredient in clam chowder. I gazed at them longingly, and when I finally took a nibble, it felt like I had gone to Heaven.
To the modern palate, this variation of the old hardtack is flavorless, but to me it now had the most subtle and refined taste. So began my love of simple and unassuming foods, which has only grown over the years. When Nabisco discontinued Crown Pilot, surely because it didn’t come in a nacho cheese flavor, I would seek out the Sailor Boy brand, and when this became harder to find, I turned to Swedish crispbread.
And I owe this humble pleasure to the pain of deprivation, which allowed me to savor what others are so quick to dismiss. When I find myself feeling fussy and dissatisfied, it can do me a world of good to have my comforts ripped away, so I might rediscover the glorious delight that comes from the endurance of scarcity. Your mother ended up being quite right, when she told you that less could be more.
Even when the senses cannot be indulged, it always remains within the power of the mind to be joyful in its celebration of the true, the good, and the beautiful. I remember the countless times when a liberty of the spirit aided me in transcending a weakness of the flesh, out of the certainty that no circumstance, however grave, could destroy my inner dignity. My thoughts are free to go wherever they will, to relish all of Nature.
In closing off one path, a sickness has an uncanny way of opening up another. When I cannot leave the house, I can read my worn copies of Tolkien or Lewis, and when my eyes are too weak to see, I can withdraw into my imagination. I do not need the pity of the privileged man, for his luxuries have their limits, while my consciousness is without bounds.
I do not require fine wines, or dainty dishes, or to be waited on hand and foot for my happiness; indeed, such things have a way of becoming a mighty hindrance when they cease to be merely preferences. I can be sound when I am sick, rich when I am poor, and in the best of company when I am all alone. The pleasure is from what I choose to make of it.
Pleasure is not as elusive as I might think. When I crudely pursue it for its own sake, it escapes me, because I am fixated on gaining more and more, but when I seek out an excellence in thought and deed, it arrives unbidden, because I have learned to be content with myself. Joy is simply a consequence of living well, never a dependence on greater acquisition.
It may seem like a physical ailment must hinder the possibility of any satisfaction, yet I can just as easily understand it as an opportunity to refine my sense of gratitude. Greater abundance is too often accompanied by a soft habit of entitlement, and greater want refreshes an appreciation for the genuine good; quality becomes the true source of delight when we are no longer spoiled by quantity.
Back in the second grade, I had a nasty case of food poisoning, which laid me low for almost two weeks. As the days passed, I became oddly accustomed to the fever, the weakness, and the tortured gut, but my inability to keep down any food became the worst part of the ordeal. I desperately craved the lowly sensation of chewing, of swallowing, of just being filled, even as the smell of cooking from downstairs made me feel nauseous.
I was told I would be able to eat again soon, but not quite yet. To offer a touch of encouragement, my father made me a little display of some rather plain foods, approved by my doctor as a first meal. I looked over at the nightstand, and what I would normally have considered bland and boring now appeared like a sumptuous feast.
For some reason, my eyes were especially drawn to a box of Crown Pilot crackers, well-known to more traditional New Englanders as a common ingredient in clam chowder. I gazed at them longingly, and when I finally took a nibble, it felt like I had gone to Heaven.
To the modern palate, this variation of the old hardtack is flavorless, but to me it now had the most subtle and refined taste. So began my love of simple and unassuming foods, which has only grown over the years. When Nabisco discontinued Crown Pilot, surely because it didn’t come in a nacho cheese flavor, I would seek out the Sailor Boy brand, and when this became harder to find, I turned to Swedish crispbread.
And I owe this humble pleasure to the pain of deprivation, which allowed me to savor what others are so quick to dismiss. When I find myself feeling fussy and dissatisfied, it can do me a world of good to have my comforts ripped away, so I might rediscover the glorious delight that comes from the endurance of scarcity. Your mother ended up being quite right, when she told you that less could be more.
Even when the senses cannot be indulged, it always remains within the power of the mind to be joyful in its celebration of the true, the good, and the beautiful. I remember the countless times when a liberty of the spirit aided me in transcending a weakness of the flesh, out of the certainty that no circumstance, however grave, could destroy my inner dignity. My thoughts are free to go wherever they will, to relish all of Nature.
In closing off one path, a sickness has an uncanny way of opening up another. When I cannot leave the house, I can read my worn copies of Tolkien or Lewis, and when my eyes are too weak to see, I can withdraw into my imagination. I do not need the pity of the privileged man, for his luxuries have their limits, while my consciousness is without bounds.
I do not require fine wines, or dainty dishes, or to be waited on hand and foot for my happiness; indeed, such things have a way of becoming a mighty hindrance when they cease to be merely preferences. I can be sound when I am sick, rich when I am poor, and in the best of company when I am all alone. The pleasure is from what I choose to make of it.
—Reflection written in 11/2013
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