When you buy a horse, you order its blanket to be removed; you pull off the garments from slaves that are advertised for sale, so that no bodily flaws may escape your notice; if you judge a man, do you judge him when he is wrapped in a disguise?
Slave dealers hide under some sort of finery any defect which may give offence, and for that reason the very trappings arouse the suspicion of the buyer. If you catch sight of a leg or an arm that is bound up in cloths, you demand that it be stripped and that the body itself be revealed to you.
Do you see yonder Scythian or Sarmatian king, his head adorned with the badge of his office? If you wish to see what he amounts to, and to know his full worth, take off his diadem; much evil lurks beneath it.
But why do I speak of others? If you wish to set a value on yourself, put away your money, your estates, your honors, and look into your own soul. At present, you are taking the word of others for what you are. Farewell.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 80
I walk a thin line when I consider that games of cunning played by so many in the world around me. On the one hand, I run the risk of a creeping conformity, surrendering bit by bit to the convenience of putting on a show. On the other hand, I am sorely tempted to isolate myself in anger, shouting about integrity while still consumed by envy. In either case, I am defining myself by their judgments instead of my own.
Somewhere in the middle stands a life of serenity, where I content with my nature, and I begrudge no man his own path. If I am truly convinced of the dignity in the virtues, I need not make any compromises for the sake of cheap trinkets. If my neighbor chooses a diversion in the vices, he merits my compassion, not my scorn.
I imagine the vast machine of modern advertising is not all that different from the bustling marketplaces of ancient Rome. Over here, a slick corporation tells me how a sugary beverage will make me sexually attractive, and over there, a crafty merchant tries to sell me a lame horse. Both of them are painfully aware that they have nothing of true value to offer, and so they turn to the allure of mere appearances, desperately hoping they can pull off the scheme for another day.
As they do in business, so they do in life. Paint a smiling face on a rotting soul, and then call it success. The schmoozing at the cocktail parties seems harmless, until the charade has penetrated into every corner; do we still know what we look like under the makeup?
How many times was I told to revere the greatness of a Ceasar or a Napoleon, and how long did I refuse to question the party line? But what remains after the crowns, the scepters, and the robes are stripped away? Style is never a replacement for substance.
The challenge for today is to appreciate my own worth without a reference to any of the embellishments.
—Reflection written in 11/2013
IMAGE: Jacques-Louis David, The Coronation of Napoleon (1807)
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