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."
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.
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)
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