M. Dionysius exercised his tyranny over the Syracusans thirty-eight years, being but twenty-five years old when he seized on the government. How beautiful and how wealthy a city did he oppress with slavery! And yet we have it from good authority that he was remarkably temperate in his manner of living, that he was very active and energetic in carrying on business, but naturally mischievous and unjust; from which description everyone who diligently inquires into truth must inevitably see that he was very miserable.
Neither did he attain what he so greatly desired, even when he was persuaded that he had unlimited power; for, notwithstanding he was of a good family and reputable parents (though that is contested by some authors), and had a very large acquaintance of intimate friends and relations, and also some youths attached to him by ties of love after the fashion of the Greeks, he could not trust any one of them, but committed the guard of his person to slaves, whom he had selected from rich men’s families and made free, and to strangers and barbarians.
And thus, through an unjust desire of governing, he in a manner shut himself up in a prison. Besides, he would not trust his throat to a barber, but had his daughters taught to shave; so that these royal virgins were forced to descend to the base and slavish employment of shaving the head and beard of their father. Nor would he trust even them, when they were grown up, with a razor; but contrived how they might burn off the hair of his head and beard with red-hot nutshells.
And as to his two wives, Aristomache, his countrywoman, and Doris of Locris, he never visited them at night before everything had been well searched and examined. And as he had surrounded the place where his bed was with a broad ditch, and made a way over it with a wooden bridge, he drew that bridge over after shutting his bedchamber door.
And as he did not dare to stand on the ordinary pulpits from which they usually harangued the people, he generally addressed them from a high tower. And it is said that when he was disposed to play at ball—for he delighted much in it—and had pulled off his clothes, he used to give his sword into the keeping of a young man whom he was very fond of.
On this, one of his intimates said pleasantly, “You certainly trust your life with him;” and as the young man happened to smile at this, he ordered them both to be slain, the one for showing how he might be taken off, the other for approving of what had been said by smiling. But he was so concerned at what he had done that nothing affected him more during his whole life; for he had slain one to whom he was extremely partial.
Thus do weak men’s desires pull them different ways, and while they indulge one, they act counter to another.
Neither did he attain what he so greatly desired, even when he was persuaded that he had unlimited power; for, notwithstanding he was of a good family and reputable parents (though that is contested by some authors), and had a very large acquaintance of intimate friends and relations, and also some youths attached to him by ties of love after the fashion of the Greeks, he could not trust any one of them, but committed the guard of his person to slaves, whom he had selected from rich men’s families and made free, and to strangers and barbarians.
And thus, through an unjust desire of governing, he in a manner shut himself up in a prison. Besides, he would not trust his throat to a barber, but had his daughters taught to shave; so that these royal virgins were forced to descend to the base and slavish employment of shaving the head and beard of their father. Nor would he trust even them, when they were grown up, with a razor; but contrived how they might burn off the hair of his head and beard with red-hot nutshells.
And as to his two wives, Aristomache, his countrywoman, and Doris of Locris, he never visited them at night before everything had been well searched and examined. And as he had surrounded the place where his bed was with a broad ditch, and made a way over it with a wooden bridge, he drew that bridge over after shutting his bedchamber door.
And as he did not dare to stand on the ordinary pulpits from which they usually harangued the people, he generally addressed them from a high tower. And it is said that when he was disposed to play at ball—for he delighted much in it—and had pulled off his clothes, he used to give his sword into the keeping of a young man whom he was very fond of.
On this, one of his intimates said pleasantly, “You certainly trust your life with him;” and as the young man happened to smile at this, he ordered them both to be slain, the one for showing how he might be taken off, the other for approving of what had been said by smiling. But he was so concerned at what he had done that nothing affected him more during his whole life; for he had slain one to whom he was extremely partial.
Thus do weak men’s desires pull them different ways, and while they indulge one, they act counter to another.
—from Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 5.20
I am hesitant to paint public figures as either heroes or villains, because I do not necessarily perceive the inner workings of their hearts and minds, and because I know the danger of making hasty generalizations out of an obedience to the clan. If I listened to the holy rollers, I would have to believe that Padre Pio was incapable of harming a fly, and if I listened to the hipsters, I would have to believe that Reagan ate babies for breakfast.
Nevertheless, there are certain warning signs for a troubled soul, and while I am most familiar with the petty tyrants who terrorize offices and schools, Cicero’s description of Dionysius sounds awfully familiar. Whatever the scale, those who are enslaved to their cravings are also plagued by anxiety and discontent; they are cursed by the failure of trying to fill the needs of nature with the diversions of fortune, and for all that they acquire and consume, they remain painfully dissatisfied.
I see it in others on each and every day, and I have felt it within myself during those nightmarish times when I have foolishly jumped on the bandwagon. Though I have never possessed as much as Dionysius of Syracuse, I know all too well how longing grows into a wasting disease, and rage becomes a chronic reaction to the constant disappointments. The haughtiness on the outside is a cover for the pain on the inside.
I didn’t believe my mother when she told me how the bullies were secretly jealous, but it turns out she was completely right. I wondered what I had that they could possibly want, failing to realize why the mere presence of anything outside of their power will feed their fury. Some will cry out when their urges aren’t fulfilled, and others will lash out, and only a few will choose the wisdom to tame their urges.
While pop psychology may offhandedly label Dionysius with a bad case of paranoia, no model of behavior can function without a moral foundation. The extreme suspicion proceeds out of an intense fear of loss, which in turn follows from mistakenly placing happiness in the circumstances beyond our control. As long as the core values are not altered, the lust will not cease to devour, and the grief will continue to grow.
In desiring what is unreliable, a love can never be consummated; in divorcing action from conscience, the mind can never be at peace. Where friendship is conditional, everyone eventually becomes an enemy; where judgment yields to resentment, there is no end to our regrets.
Again, the pop psychology will tell us to be happy by “feeling good” about ourselves, even as it neglects to explain what can truly bring such a harmony to our souls. Where an understanding of the good is lacking, the passions will lead us in conflicting directions, and we will be ripped apart by pursuing all the wrong goals, for all the wrong reasons, with all the wrong people.
It isn’t enough to dismiss Dionysius as evil or insane, since every one of us becomes a little Dionysius once we allow the appetites to run ahead of the intellect. The outer conflict is a consequence of the inner tension.
I am hesitant to paint public figures as either heroes or villains, because I do not necessarily perceive the inner workings of their hearts and minds, and because I know the danger of making hasty generalizations out of an obedience to the clan. If I listened to the holy rollers, I would have to believe that Padre Pio was incapable of harming a fly, and if I listened to the hipsters, I would have to believe that Reagan ate babies for breakfast.
Nevertheless, there are certain warning signs for a troubled soul, and while I am most familiar with the petty tyrants who terrorize offices and schools, Cicero’s description of Dionysius sounds awfully familiar. Whatever the scale, those who are enslaved to their cravings are also plagued by anxiety and discontent; they are cursed by the failure of trying to fill the needs of nature with the diversions of fortune, and for all that they acquire and consume, they remain painfully dissatisfied.
I see it in others on each and every day, and I have felt it within myself during those nightmarish times when I have foolishly jumped on the bandwagon. Though I have never possessed as much as Dionysius of Syracuse, I know all too well how longing grows into a wasting disease, and rage becomes a chronic reaction to the constant disappointments. The haughtiness on the outside is a cover for the pain on the inside.
I didn’t believe my mother when she told me how the bullies were secretly jealous, but it turns out she was completely right. I wondered what I had that they could possibly want, failing to realize why the mere presence of anything outside of their power will feed their fury. Some will cry out when their urges aren’t fulfilled, and others will lash out, and only a few will choose the wisdom to tame their urges.
While pop psychology may offhandedly label Dionysius with a bad case of paranoia, no model of behavior can function without a moral foundation. The extreme suspicion proceeds out of an intense fear of loss, which in turn follows from mistakenly placing happiness in the circumstances beyond our control. As long as the core values are not altered, the lust will not cease to devour, and the grief will continue to grow.
In desiring what is unreliable, a love can never be consummated; in divorcing action from conscience, the mind can never be at peace. Where friendship is conditional, everyone eventually becomes an enemy; where judgment yields to resentment, there is no end to our regrets.
Again, the pop psychology will tell us to be happy by “feeling good” about ourselves, even as it neglects to explain what can truly bring such a harmony to our souls. Where an understanding of the good is lacking, the passions will lead us in conflicting directions, and we will be ripped apart by pursuing all the wrong goals, for all the wrong reasons, with all the wrong people.
It isn’t enough to dismiss Dionysius as evil or insane, since every one of us becomes a little Dionysius once we allow the appetites to run ahead of the intellect. The outer conflict is a consequence of the inner tension.
—Reflection written in 2/1999
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