Cooperation

Holst, The Planets

This was the first LP record my father bought for me, and I am not entirely sure why he chose this particular work, but I immediately adored it, playing it over and over, to the point where I have now basically memorized every movement in my head. 

While many albums have become a part of the soundtrack to my life, this one surely receives the place of honor. Though I have my new wave, progressive rock, Irish folk, bluegrass, acid jazz, and a recurring fixation with baroque music, this is my first love. 

I am also bound to this particular recording, having never found another that fills me with so much joy. Though it is now considered an "outdated" version by some, I was pleased to later find it on CD, as the vinyl, however meticulously cared for, can only take so many more plays. 

Holst led me to a further appreciation of Elgar, Vaughan Williams, Delius, Parry, and Britten, the sort of music classical snobs look down upon, since they assume the English can neither cook nor compose. They are sorely mistaken on both counts. 

Gustav Holst, The Planets, Sir Adrian Boult/London Philharmonic (1979) 

https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLgTPaaiUsFv_ZRMLOeHtWXyhr2cQsUiBY

 

Sayings of Publilius Syrus 184

A great property is a great bondage for the owner. 

Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 5.40

M. Now, as to the evil of being deaf. M. Crassus was a little thick of hearing; but it was more uneasiness to him that he heard himself ill spoken of, though, in my opinion, he did not deserve it. 

 

Our Epicureans cannot understand Greek, nor the Greeks Latin: now, they are deaf reciprocally as to each other’s language, and we are all truly deaf with regard to those innumerable languages which we do not understand. They do not hear the voice of the harper; but, then, they do not hear the grating of a saw when it is setting, or the grunting of a hog when his throat is being cut, nor the roaring of the sea when they are desirous of rest. 

 

And if they should chance to be fond of singing, they ought, in the first place, to consider that many wise men lived happily before music was discovered; besides, they may have more pleasure in reading verses than in hearing them sung. 

 

Then, as I before referred the blind to the pleasures of hearing, so I may the deaf to the pleasures of sight: moreover, whoever can converse with himself does not need the conversation of another. 

 

But suppose all these misfortunes to meet in one person: suppose him blind and deaf—let him be afflicted with the sharpest pains of body, which, in the first place, generally of themselves make an end of him; still, should they continue so long, and the pain be so exquisite, that we should be unable to assign any reason for our being so afflicted—still, why, good Gods! should we be under any difficulty? For there is a retreat at hand: death is that retreat—a shelter where we shall forever be insensible. 

 

Theodorus said to Lysimachus, who threatened him with death, “It is a great matter, indeed, for you to have acquired the power of a Spanish fly!” 

 

When Perses entreated Paulus not to lead him in triumph, “That is a matter which you have in your own power,” said Paulus. 

 

I said many things about death in our first day’s disputation, when death was the subject; and not a little the next day, when I treated of pain; which things if you recollect, there can be no danger of your looking upon death as undesirable, or, at least, it will not be dreadful. 

 

That custom which is common among the Grecians at their banquets should, in my opinion, be observed in life: Drink, say they, or leave the company; and rightly enough; for a guest should either enjoy the pleasure of drinking with others, or else not stay till he meets with affronts from those that are in liquor. Thus, those injuries of fortune which you cannot bear you should flee from. 

—from Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 5.40 

 

I had to smile when I first read the opening of this chapter, because while I rarely grow tired of seeing the world, I do very often grow tired of hearing it. I am what they now call an introvert, so I have an aversion to grating noises and to mindless chatter, and this hasn’t been helped by spending so much of my life in academia, which is so full of talk and so starved of meaning. 

 

It has helped me immensely to learn the difference between hearing and listening, to rise above the cackling and to focus on the sublime sounds that can soothe the soul. Please remind me of this the next time my neighbor is blaring his death metal while aimlessly walking around with his leaf blower. 

 

If what they have to say cannot help me to become better, then being deaf to them will not run the risk of making me any worse. Furthermore, if I consider it carefully, I will realize how little of what I hear is within my power of comprehension to begin with, from the confusion of a foreign tongue, to the mysterious meowing of my cat, to the puzzling compositions of Arnold Schoenberg. 

 

Nature has made so many sounds unintelligible to me, and I should hardly complain if she denies me a few more. I must attend to what whatever she chooses to offer, by whatever senses she permits me to retain. More is not always better; if it is enough for me to live with a simple dignity and integrity, I am content. 

Now I do so love my music, which has become such a central part of my daily ritual, and I have often wondered how I could manage without it, but if I can no longer listen to my records, I can whistle a tune, and if my lips grow too weak, I can play a song in my head. Deprive me of my hearing, and I can still perform the entirety of Holst’s The Planets out of habit, the first album my father bought me, and which no crippling circumstance can now take away from me. 

 

The human mind is remarkably adaptable, perfectly capable of thriving without so many of the things we falsely assume that we need. The blind man learns to rely more on his hearing, as the deaf man learns to observe more carefully with his eyes. 

 

And what if Providence strips me of both my hearing and my sight? That would be a mighty burden indeed, and yet there are those who have not only endured it, but they have also come to be at peace with it. Could I manage such a mighty task? As much as it even pains me to imagine, my own narrow experience points the way: I now comically pride myself on making it from my desk to my bed in total darkness, across the entire length of the house, simply by touch and by memory.

 

As a creature endowed with reason, however limited it may be, I have the capacity to bear anything I can understand, and where the suffering does indeed become unbearable, that is where Nature grants me the release of death. They say that whatever doesn’t kill me makes me stronger, to which can be added that whatever does kill me is the final relief. I only struggle with this fact if I treat survival as a good, when my sole good is virtue, through which anything else becomes good. 

 

I once found myself trapped in a wild drinking session with my uncle and his friends, where every new guest who arrived bought me yet another pint. The full glasses were lining up. I realized I could not keep up with these hardened fellows, and I quietly snuck out of the pub, so as not to make a fuss. 

 

When my uncle arrived home many hours later, wobbling through the door, he grinned at me and said, “You did right.” I hope I can act with a similar prudence when it is time to give up the ghost, and the memory of my uncle’s words can guide the way for me one last time. 

—Reflection written in 3/1999 

James Vila Blake, Sonnets from Marcus Aurelius 24

24. 

Ὅταν τινὸς ἀναισχυντίᾳ προσκόπτῃς, εὐθὺς πυνθάνου σεαυτοῦ: δύνανται οὖν ἐν τῷ κόσμῳ ἀναίσχυντοι μὴ εἶναι; οὐ δύνανται: μὴ οὖν ἀπαίτει τὸ ἀδύνατον: εἷς γὰρ καὶ οὗτός ἐστιν ἐκείνων τῶν ἀναισχύντων, οὓς ἀνάγκη ἐν τῷ κόσμῳ εἶναι. τὸ δ̓ αὐτὸ καὶ ἐπὶ τοῦ πανούργου καὶ ἐπὶ τοῦ ἀπίστου καὶπαντὸς τοῦ ὁτιοῦν ἁμαρτάνοντος ἔστω σοι πρόχειρον: ἅμα γὰρ τῷ ὑπομνησθῆναι ὅτι τὸ γένος τῶντοιούτων ἀδύνατόν ἐστι μὴ ὑπάρχειν, εὐμενέστερος ἔσῃ πρὸς τοὺς καθ̓ ἕνα. εὔχρηστον δὲ κἀκεῖνο εὐθὺς ἐννοεῖν, τίνα ἔδωκεν ἡ φύσις τῷ ἀνθρώπῳ ἀρετὴν πρὸς τοῦτο τὸ ἁμάρτημα: ἔδωκε γὰρ ὡς ἀντιφάρμακον πρὸς μὲν τὸν ἀγνώμονα τὴν πρᾳότητα, πρὸς δὲ ἄλλον ἄλλην τινὰ δύναμιν. 

ὅλως δὲ ἔξεστί σοι μεταδιδάσκειν τὸν πεπλανημένον: πᾶς γὰρ ὁ ἁμαρτάνων ἀφαμαρτάνει τοῦ προκειμένου καὶ πεπλάνηται. τί δὲ καὶ βέβλαψαι; εὑρήσεις γὰρ μηδένα τούτων, πρὸς οὓς παροξύνῃ, πεποιηκότα τι τοιοῦτον, ἐξ οὗ ἡ διάνοιά σου χείρων ἔμελλε γενήσεσθαι: τὸ δὲ κακόν σου καὶ  τὸ βλαβερὸν ἐνταῦθα πᾶσαν τὴν ὑπόστασιν ἔχει.

Whenever you are offended by some shameless inpudence in some one, straightway ask yourself: Is it possible that the world should be utterly clear of shameless persons? This can not be. Ask not, then, the impossible. For this particular man who has transgressed is one of those shameless persons who perforce must be found in the world. Let this same thought be at hand for you against the knave and the deceiver and all other kinds whatever of wrong-doers. For by recollecting that the breed of such men can not but spring up, you will be more kindly affected toward them one by one. 

Very useful also it is to give mind to this: What virtue has Nature given to man against the behavior of the ill-minded? For Nature has given us meekness for this very thing, as an antidote to the rude and unfeeling man; and other powers against other kinds of ill behavior. Anyway, you have power to teach the man who has gone astray. I say “gone astray”, for every wrong-doer simply misses his mark and has wandered astray. But what harm have you received? For you will find that not one of those persons against whom you are inflamed has done anything such that your own mind can be made worse by it. But what is evil or harmful for you has its whole existence just there, in your own mind.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 9.42 

24. 

Offences come, for not all can be good, 

And tangled forests grow some gnarled sticks; 

Yet who therefor hath railed upon the wood 

But strikes with naked heels against the pricks. 

If thus we know them sad necessities, 

Yet not how they collect or whither run, 

We shall be humbler ’fore their destinies, 

And eke be kinder to them one by one— 

Yea, and no peril face of being too kind; 

For what man hath done harm, or can, to me, 

Or threatened the invulnerable mind 

Where is my hold invisible and free. 

Then come, come one, come all; each hath his place 

By what he is, but makes nor mars my case. 

IMAGE: Arnold Böcklin, Silence in the Forest (1885) 

Plutarch, The Life of Cato the Younger 25

Then Cato married a daughter of Philippus, Marcia, a woman of reputed excellence, about whom there was the most abundant talk; and this part of Cato's life, like a drama, has given rise to dispute and is hard to explain. 

However, the case was as follows, according to Thrasea, who refers to the authority of Munatius, Cato's companion and intimate associate. Among the many lovers and admirers of Cato there were some who were more conspicuous and illustrious than others. One of these was Quintus Hortensius, a man of splendid reputation and excellent character. 

This man, then, desiring to be more than a mere associate and companion of Cato, and in some way or other to bring his whole family and line into community of kinship with him, attempted to persuade Cato, whose daughter Porcia was the wife of Bibulus and had borne him two sons, to give her in turn to him as noble soil for the production of children. 

According to the opinion of men, Hortensius argued, such a course was absurd, but according to the law of nature it was honorable and good for the state that a woman in the prime of youth and beauty should neither quench her productive power and lie idle, nor yet, by bearing more offspring than enough, burden and impoverish a husband who does not want them. 

Moreover, community in heirs among worthy men would make virtue abundant and widely diffused in their families, and the state would be closely cemented together by family alliances. And if Bibulus were wholly devoted to his wife, Hortensius said he would give her back after she had borne him a child, and he would thus be more closely connected both with Bibulus himself and with Cato by a community of children. 

Cato replied that he loved Hortensius and thought highly of a community of relation­ship with him, but considered it absurd for him to propose marriage with a daughter who had been given to another. 

Then Hortensius changed his tactics, threw off the mask, and boldly asked for the wife of Cato himself, since she was still young enough to bear children, and Cato had heirs enough. And it cannot be said that he did this because he knew that Cato neglected Marcia, for she was at that time with child by him, as we are told. 

However, seeing the earnestness and eager desire of Hortensius, Cato would not refuse, but said that Philippus also, Marcia's father, must approve of this step. Accordingly, Philippus was consulted and expressed his consent, but he would not give Marcia in marriage until Cato himself was present and joined in giving the bride away.⁠ This incident occurred at a later time,⁠ it is true, but since I had taken up the topic of the women of Cato's household I decided to anticipate it. 

Justus Lipsius, On Constancy 1.12

The third affection bridled, which is commiseration or pitying, being a vice. It is distinguished from mercy. How, and how far forth we ought to use it.

Langius with this conference having scattered abroad some dark mists from my mind, I spoke to him thus: "My father, what by admonitions, and what by instructions you have done me great good; so that it seems that I am now able to moderate my affection toward the native soil, or commonwealth wherein I was born, but not toward the persons of my fellow citizens and countrymen. 

"For how should I not be touched and tormented with the calamities of my country for my countrymen's sake, who are tossed in this sea of adversities, and do perish by sundry misfortunes?" 

Langius, taking my tale by the end, "This is not," said he, "properly sorrow, but rather commiseration or pitying, which must be despised of him that is wise and constant; whom nothing so much beseems as steadiness and steadfastness of courage, which he cannot retain, if he is cast down not only with his own mishaps, but also at other men's." 

"What Stoical subtleties are these?" Said I. "Will you not have me to pity another man's case? Surely it is a virtue among good men, and such as have any religion in them?" 

"I deny that," said Langius, "and I trust no good man will be offended with me, if I purge the mind of this malady, for it is a very dangerous contagion, and I judge him not far from a pitiful state that is subject to the pitying of others. 

"As it is a token of naughty eyes to wax watery when they behold other blear eyes, so is it of the mind that mourns at every other man's mourning. It is defined to be, the fault of an object and base mind, cast down at the show of another's mishap. 

"When then? Are we so unkind and void of humanity that we would have no man to be moved at another's misery? Yes, I allow that we be moved to help them, not to bewail or wail with them. I permit mercy, but it is not pitying I call mercy, an inclination of the mind to succor the necessity or misery of another. This is that virtue, Lipsius, which you see through a cloud, and instead whereof pity intrudes herself unto you. 

"But, you will say, it is incident to man's nature to be moved with affection and pity. Be it so, yet certainly it is not decent and right. Do you think that any virtue consists in softness and abjection of the mind? In sorrowing? In sighing? In sobbing together with such as weep? It cannot be so. 

"For I will show you some greedy old wives and covetous misers from whose eyes you may sooner wring a thousand tears than one small penny out of their purses. But he that is truly merciful in deed will not bemoan or pity the condition of distressed persons but yet will do more to help and succor them than the other. 

"He will behold men's miseries with the eye of compassion, yet ruled and guided by reason. He will speak unto them with a sad countenance but not mourning or prostrate. He will comfort heartily, and help literally. He will perform more in works than in words: and he will stretch out unto the poor and needy his hand rather than his tongue. 

"All this will he do with discretion and care, that he not infect himself with other men's contagion, and that, as fencers use to say, he bears not other's blows upon his own ribs. What is here savoring of inhumanity or churlishness? 

"Even so, all the wisdom seems austere and rigorous at the first view. But if you consider thoroughly of it, you shall find the same to be meek, gentle; yes, more mild and amiable than Venus herself. Let this suffice touching the three fore-rehearsed affections; whom if I have in part expelled from you, it will greatly avail me to get the victory in the battle that shall ensue." 

IMAGE: Evelyn De Morgan, Demeter Mourning for Persephone (c. 1906) 

Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 5.39

M. When I was a boy, Gnaeus Aufidius, a blind man, who had served the office of praetor, not only gave his opinion in the Senate, and was ready to assist his friends, but wrote a Greek history, and had a considerable acquaintance with literature. 
 
Diodorus the Stoic was blind, and lived many years at my house. He, indeed, which is scarcely credible, besides applying himself more than usual to philosophy, and playing on the flute, agreeably to the custom of the Pythagoreans, and having books read to him night and day, in all which he did not want eyes, contrived to teach geometry, which, one would think, could hardly be done without the assistance of eyes, telling his scholars how and where to draw every line. 
 
They relate of Asclepiades, a native of Eretria, and no obscure philosopher, when someone asked him what inconvenience he suffered from his blindness, that his reply was, “He was at the expense of another servant.” 
 
So that, as the most extreme poverty may be borne if you please, as is daily the case with some in Greece, so blindness may easily be borne, provided you have the support of good health in other respects. 
 
Democritus was so blind he could not distinguish white from black; but he knew the difference between good and evil, just and unjust, honorable and base, the useful and useless, great and small. Thus one may live happily without distinguishing colors; but without acquainting yourself with things, you cannot; and this man was of opinion that the intense application of the mind was taken off by the objects that presented themselves to the eye; and while others often could not see what was before their feet, he travelled through all infinity. 
 
It is reported also that Homer was blind, but we observe his painting as well as his poetry. What country, what coast, what part of Greece, what military attacks, what dispositions of battle, what array, what ship, what motions of men and animals, can be mentioned which he has not described in such a manner as to enable us to see what he could not see himself? 
 
What, then! Can we imagine that Homer, or any other learned man, has ever been in want of pleasure and entertainment for his mind? Were it not so, would Anaxagoras, or this very Democritus, have left their estates and patrimonies, and given themselves up to the pursuit of acquiring this divine pleasure? 
 
It is thus that the poets who have represented Tiresias the Augur as a wise man and blind never exhibit him as bewailing his blindness. And Homer, too, after he had described Polyphemus as a monster and a wild man, represents him talking with his ram, and speaking of his good fortune, inasmuch as he could go wherever he pleased and touch what he would. And so far he was right, for that Cyclops was a being of not much more understanding than his ram. 

—from Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 5.39 
 
While I would like to pride myself on being an observant sort of fellow, I was once humbled by how long it took me to realize that a man I was conversing with across a conference table was blind. Yes, I noticed he was wearing his sunglasses indoors, but I just assumed he was trying to follow the edgy fashion of the hour. Beyond that, he gave no indication of his disability, always facing whoever was speaking, picking up on everyone’s gestures and moods, and completely in control of the space around him. 
 
It only dawned on me once he stood up to get himself a cup of coffee, which he did with far more confidence and efficiency than I could ever muster. I’m afraid I no longer remember his name, and yet I still think of him whenever I catch myself complaining about this or that inconvenience. Here I am, whining over a hangnail, and the man without the use of his eyes is so firm in his character and so cheerful in his demeanor that I must hang my head in shame. 
 
A few years later I had the unpleasant experience of meeting a man who sadly took his blindness as an excuse for bitterness and rage. After asking me to pass a salt shaker, he berated me for doing so in an offensive manner, and my attempt at an apology, though I had intended no disrespect, caused him to hurl it back in my direction. He yelled for some time about the grave injustice of his handicap, and he ended by telling me why I was the one who deserved to lose my sight. 
 
I thankfully kept my cool as the owner escorted him out of the diner, and a moment of reflection allowed me to consider how often I had blamed the world instead of being accountable for myself. What right do I have to throw stones, or salt shakers, when my own indignation will flare up at the slightest provocation? To wish evil upon another is the inevitable result of the deepest rot within myself. 
 
Both of these men merely happened to be blind, for their physical condition did not define them. What distinguished then was their respective attitudes, which is a contemporary way of saying that they worked from very different first principles of right and wrong, either a reliance upon the virtues or a surrender to the circumstances. One man masters himself through his reason, while the other becomes a slave to his passions. 
 
If I can forgive the gravest insult, or carry on alone after I have been abandoned, or continue to act with integrity in the face of poverty, could I not also bear the loss of my eyes? I would no longer be able to see a sunset, but I would retain the power to appreciate beauty. I would no longer be able to read a word, but I would retain the power to contemplate its truth. Indeed, I could even take the absence of the former as a spur to cherish the latter; there is surely a reason why we speak of the blind poet, like Homer, as being gifted with a far more profound form of vision. 
 
My first exposure to Democritus was too cursory, so I only noticed his theory of atomism, and it was not until much later that I paid attention to the stories about his character. He lost his sight in his old age, and yet he was always known for his cheerfulness and optimism, called the “Laughing Philosopher” for being able to find joy and goodness in everything. Though the wise man may be all too familiar with suffering, he does not need to be at the mercy of his grief. 

—Reflection written in 3/1999 

IMAGE: Charles-Antoine Coypel, Cheerful Democritus (1746) 

Mental Pinball

 

Time

Maxims of Goethe 76

It is much easier to recognize error than to find truth; for error lies on the surface and may be overcome; but truth lies in the depths, and to search for it is not given to everyone. 

IMAGE: Frances MacDonald, Truth Lies at the Bottom of the Well (c. 1915) 

Storm on the Sea 27

Ludolf Bakhuizen, Ships in a Storm (1694) 

Delphic Maxims 85

Χρῶ χρήμασιν 

Use what you have 

Ruins 17

Jean-Francois Depelchin, Fantasy Ruins with Pastoral Scene (c. 1800) 

Sayings of Ramakrishna 273

A husbandman was watering a sugarcane field the whole of a day. 

After finishing his task he saw that not a drop of water had entered the field; all the water had gone underground through several big rat holes. 

Such is the state of that devotee who, cherishing secretly in his heart worldly desires—of fame, pleasures, and comforts—and ambitions, worships God. 

Though daily praying, he makes no progress, because the entire devotion runs to waste through the rat holes of his desires, and at the end of his lifelong devotion he is the same man as before, and has not advanced one step. 

Memento Mori 10

Anonymous Flemish, Mors ultima linea rerum (c. 1570) 

"Death makes scepters and hoes equal."

"Death, the final boundary of all things."

"You flourish in wealth, and boast of the society of the great and powerful; you rejoice in the beauty of the body and the honors which men pay to you. Consider yourself, that you are mortal, that you are earth, and into the earth you shall go."

Stoic Snippets 272

How ridiculous and what a stranger he is who is surprised at anything which happens in life. 

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 12.13 

IMAGE: Henri Rousseau, Tiger in a Tropical Storm (Surprised!) (1891) 

Vanitas 95

Pedro de Camprobin, The Gentleman and Death (c. 1650) 

Dio Chrysostom, The Euboean Discourse 9

Now we must confidently go on and finish our discussion of the other activities of city life, mentioning some of them and leaving others unmentioned and unrecorded. 

In dealing with brothel keepers and their trade we must certainly betray no weakness as though something were to be said on both sides, but must sternly forbid them and insist that no one, be he poor or be he rich, shall pursue such a business, thus levying a fee, which all the world condemns as shameful, upon brutality and lust. 

Such men bring individuals together in union without love and intercourse without affection, and all for the sake of filthy lucre. They must not take hapless women or children, captured in war or else purchased with money, and expose them for shameful ends in dirty booths which are flaunted before the eyes in every part of the city, at the doors of the houses of magistrates and in marketplaces, near government buildings and temples, in the midst of all that is holiest. 

Neither barbarian women, I say, nor Greeks—of whom the latter were in former times almost free but now live in bondage utter and complete—shall they put in such shameful constraint, doing a much more evil and unclean business than breeders of horses and of asses carry on, not mating beasts with beasts where both are willing and feel no shame, but mating human beings that do feel shame and revulsion, with lecherous and dissolute men in an ineffectual and fruitless physical union that breeds destruction rather than life. 

Yes, and they respect no man nor god—not Zeus, the god of family life, not Hera, the goddess of marriage, not the Fates, who bring fulfillment, not Artemis, protectress of the child-bed, not mother Rhea, not the Eileithyiae, who preside over human birth, not Aphrodite, whose name stands for the normal intercourse and union of male and female. 

No, we must proclaim that neither magistrate nor lawgiver shall allow such merchandising or legalize it, whether our cities are to house a people of the highest virtue or to fall into a second, third, fourth, or any other class, so long as it is in the power of any one of them to prevent such things. 

But if old customs and diseases that have become entrenched in the course of time fall to the care of our ruler, he shall by no means leave them without attention and correction, but, with an eye to what is practicable, he shall curb and correct them in some way or other. For evils are never wont to remain as they are; they are ever active and advancing to greater wantonness if they meet no compelling check. 

It is our duty, therefore, to give some heed to this and under no condition to bear this mistreatment of outcast and enslaved creatures with calmness and indifference, not only because all humanity has been held in honor and in equal honor by God, who begat it, having the same marks and tokens to show that it deserves honor, to wit, reason and the knowledge of evil and good, but also because of the following consideration, which we must always remember: that for flagrant wrong fostered by license it is difficult to set a limit that it will no longer, through fear of the consequences, dare to transgress. Indeed, beginning with practices and habits that seem trivial and allowable, it acquires a strength and force that are uncontrollable, and no longer stops at anything. 

Now at this point we must assuredly remember that this adultery committed with outcasts, so evident in our midst and becoming so brazen and unchecked, is to a very great extent paving the way to hidden and secret assaults upon the chastity of women and boys of good family, such crimes being only too boldly committed when modesty is openly trampled upon, and that it was not invented, as some think, to afford security and abstinence from these crimes. 

Perhaps now someone may say, rather rudely, something like this: "O you wise rulers and lawgivers, who tolerated such practices in the beginning and imagined you had actually discovered some wondrous elixir to produce chastity in our cities, your motive being to keep these open and unbarred brothels from contaminating your barred homes and inner chambers, and keep men who practice their excesses abroad and openly at little cost from turning to your freeborn and respected wives with their many bribes and gifts!" 

For men do grow weary of what is excessively cheap and freely permitted, but pursue in fear and at great expense what is forbidden simply because it is forbidden. I think you will see this more clearly if you just consider. 

For where men condone even the matter of adultery in a somewhat magnificent fashion and the practice of it finds great and most charitable consideration, where husbands in their simplicity do not notice most things and do not admit knowledge of some things but suffer the adulterers to be called guests and friends and kinsmen, at times even entertaining these themselves and inviting them to their tables at festivals and sacrifices as, I imagine, they might invite their bosom friends, and display but moderate anger at actions that are most glaring and open—where, I say, these intrigues of the married women are carried on with such an air of respectability, in that community it will not be easy to feel quite sure of the maidenhood of the unmarried girls or ever to be confident that the words of the wedding song sung at the marriage of the girls are truthful and honest. 

Is it not inevitable that in these cities many things occur which are like the old legends?— omitting, of course, the angry and meddlesome fathers—that a great many persons copy the storied amours of the gods and gold pours down in showers through the roofs (and with little difficulty, since the chambers are not of brass or stone), and yes, by heavens, that silver trickles in no small stream nor into the laps of the maidens alone, but into those of mothers also and nurses and tutors—to say nothing of many other handsome gifts which sometimes enter stealthily through the roof and sometimes openly no doubt at the very bedside! 

Is it not likely, too, that much occurs in rivers and beside springs which is like those happenings of ancient times that the poets describe? Only perhaps they do not occur in the open publicly, but in homes of truly great felicity, at costly lodges in parks and city suburbs, in luxurious artificial bowers and in splendid groves; for it is not a question of poor daughters of penniless kings, the kind that carry water and play on beaches beside the rivers, bathing in cool water, or on wide-spreading beaches of the sea; no, they are the wealthy daughters of wealthy parents in princely establishments that possess all these things in private far surpassing anything in public splendor and magnificence. 

But perhaps they would nevertheless be expecting children to be born in that city, children of the kind that Homer refers to when he mentions Eudorus, son of Hermes and Polydora, and makes use of an euphemism, as I see it, in referring to his birth: 

"Virgin's son whom bore Polydora, fair in the chorus." 

I suspect that at Sparta as well some boys of a similar paternity received this appellation, since quite a number are called Parthenians. Consequently, if the majority born in such immoral cities did not perish through utter lack, I imagine, of divine protection, then nothing would save the world from being overrun by demigods. But as it is, some die at birth, while those that do survive live on to old age in obscurity in the status of slaves, since those who gave them being can give them no further support. 

Now then, in a city where the girls' condition is as bad as we have described, what are we to expect the boys to be? What education and training should we expect them to receive? Is there any possibility that this lecherous class would refrain from dishonoring and corrupting the males, making their clear and sufficient limit that set by nature? Or will it not, while it satisfies its lust for women in every conceivable way, find itself grown weary of this pleasure, and then seek some other worse and more lawless form of wantonness? 

Yes, the seduction of women—especially, one might almost say, of the freeborn and virgins—has been found easy and no task for a man who pursues that kind of game with money; and even against the highly respected wives and daughters of men really respected, the libertine who attacks with the device of Zeus and brings gold in his hands will never fail. 

But the further developments, I presume, are perfectly evident, since we see so many illustrations. The man whose appetite is insatiate in such things, when he finds there is no scarcity, no resistance, in this field, will have contempt for the easy conquest and scorn for a woman's love, as a thing too readily given—in fact, too utterly feminine—and will turn his assault against the male quarters, eager to befoul the youth who will very soon be magistrates and judges and generals, believing that in them he will find a kind of pleasure difficult and hard to procure. 

His state is like that of men who are addicted to drinking and winebibbing, who after long and steady drinking of unmixed wine, often lose their taste for it and create an artificial thirst by the stimulus of sweatings, salted foods, and condiments.⁠ 

Chuang Tzu 6.7

This is the Tâo—there is in It emotion and sincerity, but It does nothing and has no bodily form. It may be handed down by the teacher, but may not be received by his scholars. It may be apprehended by the mind, but It cannot be seen. 

It has Its root and ground of existence in Itself. Before there were heaven and earth, from of old, there It was, securely existing. From It came the mysterious existences of spirits, from It the mysterious existence of God. 

It produced heaven; It produced earth. It was before the Thâi-kì, and yet could not be considered high; It was below all space, and yet could not be considered deep. It was produced before heaven and earth, and yet could not be considered to have existed long; It was older than the highest antiquity, and yet could not be considered old. 

Shih-wei got It, and by It adjusted heaven and earth. Fû-hsì got It, and by It penetrated to the mystery of the maternity of the primary matter. The Wei-tâu got It, and from all antiquity has made no eccentric movement. 

The Sun and Moon got It, and from all antiquity have not intermitted their bright shining. Khan-pei got It, and by It became lord of Khwan-lun. Fang-ì got It, and by It enjoyed himself in the Great River. 

Kien Wû got It, and by It dwelt on mount Thâi. Hwang-Tì got It, and by It ascended the cloudy sky. Kwan-hsü got It, and by It dwelt in the Dark Palace. Yü-khiang got It, and by It was set on the North Pole. Hsì Wang-mû got It, and by It had her seat in the palace of Shâo-kwang. 

No one knows Its beginning; no one knows Its end. Phang Tsû got It, and lived on from the time of the lord of Yü to that of the Five Chiefs. Fû Yüeh got It, and by It became chief minister to Wû-ting, who thus in a trice became master of the kingdom. After his death, Fû Yüeh mounted to the eastern portion of the Milky Way, where, riding on Sagittarius and Scorpio, he took his place among the stars. 

Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 5.38

M. Besides the emotions of the mind, all griefs and anxieties are assuaged by forgetting them, and turning our thoughts to pleasure. Therefore, it was not without reason that Epicurus presumed to say that a wise man abounds with good things, because he may always have his pleasures; from whence it follows, as he thinks, that that point is gained which is the subject of our present inquiry, that a wise man is always happy. 
 
What! Though he should be deprived of the senses of seeing and hearing? Yes; for he holds those things very cheap. For, in the first place, what are the pleasures of which we are deprived by that dreadful thing, blindness? 
 
For though they allow other pleasures to be confined to the senses, yet the things which are perceived by the sight do not depend wholly on the pleasure the eyes receive; as is the case when we taste, smell, touch, or hear; for, in respect of all these senses, the organs themselves are the seat of pleasure; but it is not so with the eyes. 
 
For it is the mind which is entertained by what we see; but the mind may be entertained in many ways, even though we could not see at all. I am speaking of a learned and a wise man, with whom to think is to live. 
 
But thinking in the case of a wise man does not altogether require the use of his eyes in his investigations; for if night does not strip him of his happiness, why should blindness, which resembles night, have that effect? 
 
For the reply of Antipater the Cyrenaic to some women who bewailed his being blind, though it is a little too obscene, is not without its significance. “What do you mean?” saith he; “do you think the night can furnish no pleasure?” 
 
And we find by his magistracies and his actions that old Appius, too, who was blind for many years, was not prevented from doing whatever was required of him with respect either to the republic or his own affairs. 
 
It is said that C. Drusus’s house was crowded with clients. When they whose business it was could not see how to conduct themselves, they applied to a blind guide. 

—from Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 5.38 
 
Even if Epicurus was mistaken in treating pleasure as an end, he was right to remind us how we can always find enjoyment in what is truly our own. Where have I been directing my attention? If I fret over a painful circumstance, I will always feel discouraged, but if I focus upon the good within me, I will make for myself a place of serenity. As Marcus Aurelius said, the happiness of my life depends on the quality of my thoughts. 
 
Yet it is easier to cast blame than to take responsibility, and so I am tempted to worry about the things I might lose, instead of appreciating what Nature has already guaranteed. Like a cynical and snarky teenager, I start to make up a list of hardships I am convinced would make me miserable, and I am surprised to find that Cicero is already a step ahead of me. 
 
I am sure I would greatly miss a limb, for example, and just picturing this makes me feel queasy, but the ghastly prospect of going blind stops me dead in my tracks. I don’t know if this fear is equally common in all of us, or if my own peculiar attachment to the written word raises the level of terror; whatever the case, the absence of sight would separate me from my books, and how would I survive without the power to read anything and everything to come my way? 
 
I always had perfect vision, until I recently noticed the pages getting a bit blurry. An optometrist assured me the problem was ever so slight, and while I might need glasses in the future, he suggested that I could avoid the strain on my eyes by simply taking regular breaks from my constant studying and writing. I resisted the urge to offer him harsh words, because I knew he was quite right. Still, I cursed the gods under my breath for messing with one of my dearest delights. 
 
With some time to reflect, however, I realized how it was not the seeing itself that I craved, but the understanding that stood behind any of the seeing. I could do without the scribbles that were written on the paper, but I could not live without the deeper awareness to which all of those images were pointing. As much as I am a creature of the senses, they are entirely in service to my essence as a creature of thought. I was looking for the brightness, so to speak, in all the wrong places. 
 
If you darken my eyes, I would likely be able to adapt, as I have learned to deal with so many other obstacles that I once believed to be insurmountable. If you darken my mind, there is really nothing left for me, or of me, to consider, and there is then little point to wearing glasses or reading books. How quickly I confuse the impression with the comprehension. 
 
It had never really occurred to me how the pleasure of sight is more in the contemplation of the perception, not just in the perception itself. Without my sight, I can still hear, or touch, or taste, and if those senses are also hindered, I still retain the riches of my memory and my imagination. I ought to beware of a rather different sort of blindness in my life, the oblivion of mental dullness. 
 
I have known some people who stewed in resentment over their blindness, and I have known others who did not permit it to hinder their joy or diminish their sense of worth. Once again, the difference is in the estimation. 

—Reflection written in 3/1999 

IMAGE: Gustav Klimt, Blind Man (1896) 

Angel with the Flaming Sword

Edwin Blashfield, Angel with the Flaming Sword (1891) 

Night with Her Train of Stars

Edward Robert Hughes, Night with Her Train of Stars (1912) 

Death

Jacek Malczewski, Death (1902) 

Storm in the Mountains

Frederic Edwin Church, Storm in the Mountains (1847)