M. Though Zeno the Citiaean, a stranger and an inconsiderable coiner of words, appears to have insinuated himself into the old philosophy; still, the prevalence of this opinion is due to the authority of Plato, who often makes use of this expression, “That nothing but virtue can be entitled to the name of good,” agreeably to what Socrates says in Plato’s Gorgias.
For it is there related that when someone asked him if he did not think Archelaus the son of Perdiccas, who was then looked upon as a most fortunate person, a very happy man, “I do not know,” replied he, “for I never conversed with him.”
“What! is there no other way you can know it by?”
“None at all.”
“You cannot, then, pronounce of the great king of the Persians whether he is happy or not?”
“How can I, when I do not know how learned or how good a man he is?”
“What! Do you imagine that a happy life depends on that?”
“My opinion entirely is, that good men are happy, and the wicked miserable.”
“Is Archelaus, then, miserable?”
“Certainly, if unjust.”
Now, does it not appear to you that he is here placing the whole of a happy life in virtue alone? But what does the same man say in his funeral oration?
“For,” said he, “whoever has everything that relates to a happy life so entirely dependent on himself as not to be connected with the good or bad fortune of another, and not to be affected by, or made in any degree uncertain by, what befalls another; and whoever is such a one has acquired the best rule of living; he is that moderate, that brave, that wise man, who submits to the gain and loss of everything, and especially of his children, and obeys that old precept; for he will never be too joyful or too sad, because he depends entirely upon himself."
For it is there related that when someone asked him if he did not think Archelaus the son of Perdiccas, who was then looked upon as a most fortunate person, a very happy man, “I do not know,” replied he, “for I never conversed with him.”
“What! is there no other way you can know it by?”
“None at all.”
“You cannot, then, pronounce of the great king of the Persians whether he is happy or not?”
“How can I, when I do not know how learned or how good a man he is?”
“What! Do you imagine that a happy life depends on that?”
“My opinion entirely is, that good men are happy, and the wicked miserable.”
“Is Archelaus, then, miserable?”
“Certainly, if unjust.”
Now, does it not appear to you that he is here placing the whole of a happy life in virtue alone? But what does the same man say in his funeral oration?
“For,” said he, “whoever has everything that relates to a happy life so entirely dependent on himself as not to be connected with the good or bad fortune of another, and not to be affected by, or made in any degree uncertain by, what befalls another; and whoever is such a one has acquired the best rule of living; he is that moderate, that brave, that wise man, who submits to the gain and loss of everything, and especially of his children, and obeys that old precept; for he will never be too joyful or too sad, because he depends entirely upon himself."
—from Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 5.12
It is passages such as these that remind me why I remain committed to philosophy, despite all of the posturing and bickering that often goes along with it. They move me in a way not unlike the power of poetry, stripping away all that is extraneous and revealing only the vital core, offering reasons, both profound and palpable, to leap out of bed each morning. Perhaps a painter knows something of this when he catches the light streaming through the window just so, or a mathematician feels a similar exhilaration at the sight of an elegant equation.
If you ask the mainstream historians, they will assure you that Archelaus of Macedon was a successful king, a champion of reform, a bringer of prosperity, and a patron of the arts. They will brush aside Plato’s concerns, simply because they are working from a different standard of excellence, and they are willing to overlook the claims that he had won the throne by means of intrigue and murder. Before calling a man good, consider what truly makes a man good.
I have no clue if Archelaus was a saint or a sinner, but I do know that a soul filled with wickedness is a soul bound for misery; the school of hard knocks has taught me this, and my encounters with philosophy have merely confirmed it. If this sounds too cynical and gloomy, consider the reverse: whenever I cling to the virtues, my happiness always remains within my grasp. It’s as simple, and as difficult, as that.
As I sometimes travel in highbrow circles, I will find myself in the midst of debates about who was the “greatest” president or the “best” novelist, and if I am pushed for an answer, I say that, while it is interesting to discuss their public policies or their published works, I have little to offer on their moral worth, the one thing that counts the most, since I never had the privilege of their company.
Beyond the skill to win a war, did Lincoln treat his neighbor with decency? Besides the beauty of his prose, was Dickens a man of personal integrity? What a fellow proclaims from a lectern or writes down on a page is not the measure of his character, and it is only his character that will make him or break him. I do not prefer it when strangers judge me by distant appearances, and so I try my best to avoid the same error.
I was recently told how Seneca was a failure because he couldn’t reform his student, and how Marcus Aurelius was flawed because he had a rotten son. It may be that Nero chose to be a scoundrel, and Commodus ended up as a cad, yet that was solely for them to decide, and it need not reflect poorly on the merit of their mentors, who acted as they thought best. The achievement is in how we act toward others, not in how others respond to us.
Money comes and goes. Fame comes and goes. Yes, even friends and family come and go. In the end, we have control over our own virtues and vices, by which we determine our own peace of mind.
It is passages such as these that remind me why I remain committed to philosophy, despite all of the posturing and bickering that often goes along with it. They move me in a way not unlike the power of poetry, stripping away all that is extraneous and revealing only the vital core, offering reasons, both profound and palpable, to leap out of bed each morning. Perhaps a painter knows something of this when he catches the light streaming through the window just so, or a mathematician feels a similar exhilaration at the sight of an elegant equation.
If you ask the mainstream historians, they will assure you that Archelaus of Macedon was a successful king, a champion of reform, a bringer of prosperity, and a patron of the arts. They will brush aside Plato’s concerns, simply because they are working from a different standard of excellence, and they are willing to overlook the claims that he had won the throne by means of intrigue and murder. Before calling a man good, consider what truly makes a man good.
I have no clue if Archelaus was a saint or a sinner, but I do know that a soul filled with wickedness is a soul bound for misery; the school of hard knocks has taught me this, and my encounters with philosophy have merely confirmed it. If this sounds too cynical and gloomy, consider the reverse: whenever I cling to the virtues, my happiness always remains within my grasp. It’s as simple, and as difficult, as that.
As I sometimes travel in highbrow circles, I will find myself in the midst of debates about who was the “greatest” president or the “best” novelist, and if I am pushed for an answer, I say that, while it is interesting to discuss their public policies or their published works, I have little to offer on their moral worth, the one thing that counts the most, since I never had the privilege of their company.
Beyond the skill to win a war, did Lincoln treat his neighbor with decency? Besides the beauty of his prose, was Dickens a man of personal integrity? What a fellow proclaims from a lectern or writes down on a page is not the measure of his character, and it is only his character that will make him or break him. I do not prefer it when strangers judge me by distant appearances, and so I try my best to avoid the same error.
I was recently told how Seneca was a failure because he couldn’t reform his student, and how Marcus Aurelius was flawed because he had a rotten son. It may be that Nero chose to be a scoundrel, and Commodus ended up as a cad, yet that was solely for them to decide, and it need not reflect poorly on the merit of their mentors, who acted as they thought best. The achievement is in how we act toward others, not in how others respond to us.
Money comes and goes. Fame comes and goes. Yes, even friends and family come and go. In the end, we have control over our own virtues and vices, by which we determine our own peace of mind.
—Reflection written in 2/1999
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