A. Indeed I cannot; but I should be glad to prevail on you, unless it is troublesome (as you are under no confinement from obligations to any particular sect, but gather from all of them whatever strikes you most as having the appearance of probability), as you just now seemed to advise the Peripatetics and the Old Academy boldly to speak out without reserve, “that wise men are always the happiest”—I should be glad to hear how you think it consistent for them to say so, when you have said so much against that opinion, and the conclusions of the Stoics.
M. I will make use, then, of that liberty which no one has the privilege of using in philosophy but those of our school, whose discourses determine nothing, but take in everything, leaving them unsupported by the authority of any particular person, to be judged of by others, according to their weight.
And as you seem desirous of knowing how it is that, notwithstanding the different opinions of philosophers with regard to the ends of goods, virtue has still sufficient security for the effecting of a happy life—which security, as we are informed, Carneades used indeed to dispute against; but he disputed as against the Stoics, whose opinions he combated with great zeal and vehemence.
I, however, shall handle the question with more temper; for if the Stoics have rightly settled the ends of goods, the affair is at an end; for a wise man must necessarily be always happy. But let us examine, if we can, the particular opinions of the others, that so this excellent decision, if I may so call it, in favor of a happy life, may be agreeable to the opinions and discipline of all.
M. I will make use, then, of that liberty which no one has the privilege of using in philosophy but those of our school, whose discourses determine nothing, but take in everything, leaving them unsupported by the authority of any particular person, to be judged of by others, according to their weight.
And as you seem desirous of knowing how it is that, notwithstanding the different opinions of philosophers with regard to the ends of goods, virtue has still sufficient security for the effecting of a happy life—which security, as we are informed, Carneades used indeed to dispute against; but he disputed as against the Stoics, whose opinions he combated with great zeal and vehemence.
I, however, shall handle the question with more temper; for if the Stoics have rightly settled the ends of goods, the affair is at an end; for a wise man must necessarily be always happy. But let us examine, if we can, the particular opinions of the others, that so this excellent decision, if I may so call it, in favor of a happy life, may be agreeable to the opinions and discipline of all.
—from Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 5.29
The Auditor now seems more confident in the claim the virtue is sufficient for happiness, though he also offers a further question, which will occupy the remainder of the book. Cicero has argued that philosophers from many different schools can agree on how a life of wisdom must also be a happy life, but what are we to make of their countless disputes? Is it really possible for such diverse, and often conflicting, models to find a common ground?
When I was first formally introduced to philosophy, I was taught a stale routine about the tension between Plato and Aristotle, such that it took me many years to look beyond this narrow assumption of dissonance. When I later discovered the subtle beauty of Aquinas, the partisans told me I must now side with the Peripatetics, and look down my nose at the Academics, but I disappointed them by viewing the work of St. Thomas as a synthesis of all that had come before, not as one school in combat with the others.
Doubt should be a tool, not an obstacle, so while I am deeply wary of radical skepticism, Cicero’s sort of hesitation, that of the “New Academy”, seems far more reasonable to me, concerned with practicality over ideology. I also find the refusal to be tied to this or that “-ism” remarkably refreshing, as I do indeed worry about the Stoic tendency toward pompous pontification; as a recovering reactionary, I’m sensitive to that sort of thing.
It is said that Boethius, the author of The Consolation of Philosophy, a book which is quite possibly responsible for saving my life, intended to translate all the works of Plato and Aristotle from Greek into Latin, and then to write an account of how these two systems were, with proper qualifications and distinctions, compatible and complementary. I wonder what might have happened to our Western culture if he had achieved this, and how well this would have served the cause of a common Wisdom Tradition.
We too often forget how philosophy is a universal calling, which ought to transcend our petty bickering about our selfish preferences. If our human nature is indeed the same, our problems will also be essentially the same, and our solutions will center around the same first principles, regardless of class, race, or creed. My colleagues dismiss Cicero as a philosophical lightweight, even as I find him to be a champion of common sense.
A few years back, I casually started to collect images of how the world perceived philosophers, not to produce some fancy work of scholarship, but to help myself understand something more about who I was meant to be. There were a few depictions of the noble intellectual hero, yet also a slew of nasty caricatures, mockeries of those self-absorbed idiots with their heads in the clouds.
There was, however, one that spoke to me immensely, a 19th century advertisement for beer; I will post it online one of these days if I can ever find a digital copy. A rather common man sits in peace on a crate, smoking his pipe and writing out his thoughts, totally oblivious to any worldly diversions or anxieties. I would like to imagine that the open-minded and amiable philosopher Cicero has in mind is this sort of fellow.
Wisdom, and its ensuing happiness, are bigger than our provincial squabbles.
The Auditor now seems more confident in the claim the virtue is sufficient for happiness, though he also offers a further question, which will occupy the remainder of the book. Cicero has argued that philosophers from many different schools can agree on how a life of wisdom must also be a happy life, but what are we to make of their countless disputes? Is it really possible for such diverse, and often conflicting, models to find a common ground?
When I was first formally introduced to philosophy, I was taught a stale routine about the tension between Plato and Aristotle, such that it took me many years to look beyond this narrow assumption of dissonance. When I later discovered the subtle beauty of Aquinas, the partisans told me I must now side with the Peripatetics, and look down my nose at the Academics, but I disappointed them by viewing the work of St. Thomas as a synthesis of all that had come before, not as one school in combat with the others.
Doubt should be a tool, not an obstacle, so while I am deeply wary of radical skepticism, Cicero’s sort of hesitation, that of the “New Academy”, seems far more reasonable to me, concerned with practicality over ideology. I also find the refusal to be tied to this or that “-ism” remarkably refreshing, as I do indeed worry about the Stoic tendency toward pompous pontification; as a recovering reactionary, I’m sensitive to that sort of thing.
It is said that Boethius, the author of The Consolation of Philosophy, a book which is quite possibly responsible for saving my life, intended to translate all the works of Plato and Aristotle from Greek into Latin, and then to write an account of how these two systems were, with proper qualifications and distinctions, compatible and complementary. I wonder what might have happened to our Western culture if he had achieved this, and how well this would have served the cause of a common Wisdom Tradition.
We too often forget how philosophy is a universal calling, which ought to transcend our petty bickering about our selfish preferences. If our human nature is indeed the same, our problems will also be essentially the same, and our solutions will center around the same first principles, regardless of class, race, or creed. My colleagues dismiss Cicero as a philosophical lightweight, even as I find him to be a champion of common sense.
A few years back, I casually started to collect images of how the world perceived philosophers, not to produce some fancy work of scholarship, but to help myself understand something more about who I was meant to be. There were a few depictions of the noble intellectual hero, yet also a slew of nasty caricatures, mockeries of those self-absorbed idiots with their heads in the clouds.
There was, however, one that spoke to me immensely, a 19th century advertisement for beer; I will post it online one of these days if I can ever find a digital copy. A rather common man sits in peace on a crate, smoking his pipe and writing out his thoughts, totally oblivious to any worldly diversions or anxieties. I would like to imagine that the open-minded and amiable philosopher Cicero has in mind is this sort of fellow.
Wisdom, and its ensuing happiness, are bigger than our provincial squabbles.
—Reflection written in 3/1999
IMAGE: The Philosopher, advertising proof for ABC Lager Beer, Boston MA (c. 1880)
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