A. I wish that, indeed, myself; but I want a little information. For I allow that in what you have stated the one proposition is the consequence of the other; that as, if what is honorable be the only good, it must follow that a happy life is the effect of virtue: so that if a happy life consists in virtue, nothing can be good but virtue.
But your friend Brutus, on the authority of Aristo and Antiochus, does not see this; for he thinks the case would be the same even if there were anything good besides virtue.
M. What, then? Do you imagine that I am going to argue against Brutus?
A. You may do what you please; for it is not for me to prescribe what you shall do.
M. How these things agree together shall be examined somewhere else; for I frequently discussed that point with Antiochus, and lately with Aristo, when, during the period of my command as general, I was lodging with him at Athens.
For to me it seemed that no one could possibly be happy under any evil; but a wise man might be afflicted with evil, if there are any things arising from body or fortune deserving the name of evils.
These things were said, which Antiochus has inserted in his books in many places—that virtue itself was sufficient to make life happy, but yet not perfectly happy; and that many things derive their names from the predominant portion of them, though they do not include everything, as strength, health, riches, honor, and glory: which qualities are determined by their kind, not their number.
Thus a happy life is so called from its being so in a great degree, even though it should fall short in some point.
To clear this up is not absolutely necessary at present, though it seems to be said without any great consistency; for I cannot imagine what is wanting to one that is happy to make him happier, for if anything be wanting to him, he cannot be so much as happy; and as to what they say, that everything is named and estimated from its predominant portion, that may be admitted in some things.
But when they allow three kinds of evils—when any one is oppressed with every imaginable evil of two kinds, being afflicted with adverse fortune, and having at the same time his body worn out and harassed with all sorts of pains—shall we say that such a one is but little short of a happy life, to say nothing about the happiest possible life?
But your friend Brutus, on the authority of Aristo and Antiochus, does not see this; for he thinks the case would be the same even if there were anything good besides virtue.
M. What, then? Do you imagine that I am going to argue against Brutus?
A. You may do what you please; for it is not for me to prescribe what you shall do.
M. How these things agree together shall be examined somewhere else; for I frequently discussed that point with Antiochus, and lately with Aristo, when, during the period of my command as general, I was lodging with him at Athens.
For to me it seemed that no one could possibly be happy under any evil; but a wise man might be afflicted with evil, if there are any things arising from body or fortune deserving the name of evils.
These things were said, which Antiochus has inserted in his books in many places—that virtue itself was sufficient to make life happy, but yet not perfectly happy; and that many things derive their names from the predominant portion of them, though they do not include everything, as strength, health, riches, honor, and glory: which qualities are determined by their kind, not their number.
Thus a happy life is so called from its being so in a great degree, even though it should fall short in some point.
To clear this up is not absolutely necessary at present, though it seems to be said without any great consistency; for I cannot imagine what is wanting to one that is happy to make him happier, for if anything be wanting to him, he cannot be so much as happy; and as to what they say, that everything is named and estimated from its predominant portion, that may be admitted in some things.
But when they allow three kinds of evils—when any one is oppressed with every imaginable evil of two kinds, being afflicted with adverse fortune, and having at the same time his body worn out and harassed with all sorts of pains—shall we say that such a one is but little short of a happy life, to say nothing about the happiest possible life?
—from Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 5.8
I don’t know what Brutus, or Antiochus, or Aristo might have said, because we no longer possess their writings, and I am reluctant to follow the example of the professional scholar, who will produce extensive volumes based on a few fragments of second-hand accounts. As Cicero says, I am more interested in the consistency of someone’s thought, and that only as it serves us all for a common truth.
It would seem that just as good and evil are opposed, so also happiness and misery are opposed, such that the best sort of life would have to be superior to any harm. I hardly need to study philosophy, however, to see how every one of us is subject to a variety of hardships, and I have never met a man who was without some deep suffering. Even if I could be unblemished in my own thoughts, words, and deeds, how could I possibly escape the injustices committed by others?
And so quite often I have tried to have it both ways, to hedge my bets, even to play both ends against the middle. Yes, my character is an important part of my happiness, perhaps even the greatest part, and yet I also feel like I need to arrange the best possible circumstances for myself. Being a nice guy will only get me so far, and then I need to bend those rules a bit to manage the rest. It’s nothing personal, right?
With Antiochus, should I say that virtue will provide for most of my happiness, while still leaving a few details unaccounted for? I am unfortunately reminded of being asked if I had finished my homework, and then being scolded later for claiming that “just about” meant “completely”. The problem would be worse if I were faithful to my wife for the entire month, except on the night of the third Saturday.
With Cicero, I question to what extent happiness can admit of degrees. I know how I can feel more or less pleasure, and how my comforts may be rough or refined, but when it comes right down to it, either my life leaves nothing more to be desired, in which case I am completely content with both myself and my world, or something is wanting, in which case the work remains unfinished.
I wonder what the amount of pleasure, fame, or wealth could do to increase or diminish a soul that is innately at peace with itself. As much as a tough body, a crowd of friends, or a fat wallet can certainly make my day easier, they do not necessarily make me any better; the presence or absence of something accidental does not determine the function of that which is essential.
In the end, a man has either got it together in kind, or he is still struggling with the task, whatever the degrees to his other qualities. There is a good reason why I don’t consider the calculation of grades as a reflection of real learning, just as I don’t look to the numbers in a bank account as a proof of actual merit.
The problem is confused by the way we label things as “good” for us. The Ancient often spoke of the distinction between external goods, goods of the body, and goods of the soul, which might lead us to believe that a combination of fortunate circumstances, a healthy constitution, and an informed conscience must all be joined together to provide us with all the benefits we require.
And while I do not deny that money, popularity, or strength can be immensely useful, I can also think of many cases where they become downright harmful. Is it not how diverse conditions are employed, as guided by sound judgment, that makes the difference? If so, the external goods and good of the body are relative and contingent, dependent upon the goods of the soul, which are absolute and necessary.
I would suggest, therefore, that some goods are conditional, receiving their worth from what is greater, and others are unconditional, conferring their worth upon what is lesser. We unfortunately get mystified when we lump them together, which is why both the philosopher and the man on the street will quickly assume that poverty or sickness are obstacles to their happiness.
Once I am focusing on the wrong goal, I will think myself miserable for all the wrong reasons.
I don’t know what Brutus, or Antiochus, or Aristo might have said, because we no longer possess their writings, and I am reluctant to follow the example of the professional scholar, who will produce extensive volumes based on a few fragments of second-hand accounts. As Cicero says, I am more interested in the consistency of someone’s thought, and that only as it serves us all for a common truth.
It would seem that just as good and evil are opposed, so also happiness and misery are opposed, such that the best sort of life would have to be superior to any harm. I hardly need to study philosophy, however, to see how every one of us is subject to a variety of hardships, and I have never met a man who was without some deep suffering. Even if I could be unblemished in my own thoughts, words, and deeds, how could I possibly escape the injustices committed by others?
And so quite often I have tried to have it both ways, to hedge my bets, even to play both ends against the middle. Yes, my character is an important part of my happiness, perhaps even the greatest part, and yet I also feel like I need to arrange the best possible circumstances for myself. Being a nice guy will only get me so far, and then I need to bend those rules a bit to manage the rest. It’s nothing personal, right?
With Antiochus, should I say that virtue will provide for most of my happiness, while still leaving a few details unaccounted for? I am unfortunately reminded of being asked if I had finished my homework, and then being scolded later for claiming that “just about” meant “completely”. The problem would be worse if I were faithful to my wife for the entire month, except on the night of the third Saturday.
With Cicero, I question to what extent happiness can admit of degrees. I know how I can feel more or less pleasure, and how my comforts may be rough or refined, but when it comes right down to it, either my life leaves nothing more to be desired, in which case I am completely content with both myself and my world, or something is wanting, in which case the work remains unfinished.
I wonder what the amount of pleasure, fame, or wealth could do to increase or diminish a soul that is innately at peace with itself. As much as a tough body, a crowd of friends, or a fat wallet can certainly make my day easier, they do not necessarily make me any better; the presence or absence of something accidental does not determine the function of that which is essential.
In the end, a man has either got it together in kind, or he is still struggling with the task, whatever the degrees to his other qualities. There is a good reason why I don’t consider the calculation of grades as a reflection of real learning, just as I don’t look to the numbers in a bank account as a proof of actual merit.
The problem is confused by the way we label things as “good” for us. The Ancient often spoke of the distinction between external goods, goods of the body, and goods of the soul, which might lead us to believe that a combination of fortunate circumstances, a healthy constitution, and an informed conscience must all be joined together to provide us with all the benefits we require.
And while I do not deny that money, popularity, or strength can be immensely useful, I can also think of many cases where they become downright harmful. Is it not how diverse conditions are employed, as guided by sound judgment, that makes the difference? If so, the external goods and good of the body are relative and contingent, dependent upon the goods of the soul, which are absolute and necessary.
I would suggest, therefore, that some goods are conditional, receiving their worth from what is greater, and others are unconditional, conferring their worth upon what is lesser. We unfortunately get mystified when we lump them together, which is why both the philosopher and the man on the street will quickly assume that poverty or sickness are obstacles to their happiness.
Once I am focusing on the wrong goal, I will think myself miserable for all the wrong reasons.
—Reflection written in 2/1999
IMAGE: Konstantin Makovsky, Happy Arcadia (1890)
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