I often feel called upon to use the following illustration, and it seems to me that none expresses more effectively this drama of human life, wherein we are assigned the parts which we are to play so badly. Yonder is the man who stalks upon the stage with swelling port and head thrown back, and says:
“Lo, I am he whom Argos hails as lord,
Whom Pelops left the heir of lands that spread
From Hellespont and from th’ Ionian sea
E’en to the Isthmian straits.”
And who is this fellow? He is but a slave; his wage is five measures of grain and five denarii.
Yon other who, proud and wayward and puffed up by confidence in his power, declaims:
“Peace, Menelaus, or this hand shall slay thee!”
receives a daily pittance and sleeps on rags.
You may speak in the same way about all these dandies whom you see riding in litters above the heads of men and above the crowd; in every case their happiness is put on like the actor’s mask. Tear it off, and you will scorn them.
“Lo, I am he whom Argos hails as lord,
Whom Pelops left the heir of lands that spread
From Hellespont and from th’ Ionian sea
E’en to the Isthmian straits.”
And who is this fellow? He is but a slave; his wage is five measures of grain and five denarii.
Yon other who, proud and wayward and puffed up by confidence in his power, declaims:
“Peace, Menelaus, or this hand shall slay thee!”
receives a daily pittance and sleeps on rags.
You may speak in the same way about all these dandies whom you see riding in litters above the heads of men and above the crowd; in every case their happiness is put on like the actor’s mask. Tear it off, and you will scorn them.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 80
I have gradually learned not to confuse my preferences with principles, to avoid treating my particular tastes as if they were universal laws. I’m afraid I will still slip into the old habit, so common among pseudo-intellectuals, of dismissing any opinion that doesn’t happen to be my own, but I usually catch myself before I have done too much damage.
One instance of my presumption has been an intense dislike of stage plays, especially those that aspire to serious drama. As much as I now immensely enjoy reading Shakespeare, I cringe at what I take to be exaggerated performances, painfully conscious of being duped by histrionics. Am I expected to believe that this spectacle is sincere?
It finally dawned on me how the aversion was less about anyone else’s method of acting, and more about my own cynicism: I am uncomfortable with acting because I assume it is an attempt at deception. I should rightly distinguish between the thespian who wishes to expose a deeper truth, and the charlatan who poses as a far better man than he actually is.
So Seneca’s example helps me to not only look behind the mask, but also to examine the motive for the disguise: some acting reveals, and some acting conceals. I should not allow my personal baggage over trickery to get in the way of appreciating the theater, just as a child should not fear clowns on account of John Wayne Gacy.
Nonetheless, let me always remember why the appearance should never be confused with the reality. Some priests paint their own vanity to look like the will of God, some lawyers seek a cold profit under the guise of caring service, and some friends will cast you aside after speaking fine words of undying love.
Most importantly, let me not become a pretender myself, masquerading as righteous when I am wicked, as fulfilled when I am restless. Perhaps it will, at least for a time, fool others, but I can never run away from myself.
I have gradually learned not to confuse my preferences with principles, to avoid treating my particular tastes as if they were universal laws. I’m afraid I will still slip into the old habit, so common among pseudo-intellectuals, of dismissing any opinion that doesn’t happen to be my own, but I usually catch myself before I have done too much damage.
One instance of my presumption has been an intense dislike of stage plays, especially those that aspire to serious drama. As much as I now immensely enjoy reading Shakespeare, I cringe at what I take to be exaggerated performances, painfully conscious of being duped by histrionics. Am I expected to believe that this spectacle is sincere?
It finally dawned on me how the aversion was less about anyone else’s method of acting, and more about my own cynicism: I am uncomfortable with acting because I assume it is an attempt at deception. I should rightly distinguish between the thespian who wishes to expose a deeper truth, and the charlatan who poses as a far better man than he actually is.
So Seneca’s example helps me to not only look behind the mask, but also to examine the motive for the disguise: some acting reveals, and some acting conceals. I should not allow my personal baggage over trickery to get in the way of appreciating the theater, just as a child should not fear clowns on account of John Wayne Gacy.
Nonetheless, let me always remember why the appearance should never be confused with the reality. Some priests paint their own vanity to look like the will of God, some lawyers seek a cold profit under the guise of caring service, and some friends will cast you aside after speaking fine words of undying love.
Most importantly, let me not become a pretender myself, masquerading as righteous when I am wicked, as fulfilled when I am restless. Perhaps it will, at least for a time, fool others, but I can never run away from myself.
—Reflection written in 11/2013
IMAGE: William Hogarth, David Garrick as Richard III (c. 1745)
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