M. For who does not see this, that an appetite is the best sauce? When Darius, in his flight from the enemy, had drunk some water which was muddy and tainted with dead bodies, he declared that he had never drunk anything more pleasant; the fact was, that he had never drunk before when he was thirsty.
Nor had Ptolemy ever eaten when he was hungry; for as he was travelling over Egypt, his company not keeping up with him, he had some coarse bread presented him in a cottage, upon which he said, “Nothing ever seemed to him pleasanter than that bread.”
They relate, too, of Socrates, that, once when he was walking very fast till the evening, on his being asked why he did so, his reply was that he was purchasing an appetite by walking, that he might sup the better.
And do we not see what the Lacedaemonians provide at their public table? Where the tyrant Dionysius supped, but told them he did not at all like that black broth, which was their principal dish; on which he who dressed it said, “It was no wonder, for it wanted seasoning.” Dionysius asked what that seasoning was; to which it was replied, “Fatigue in hunting, sweating, a race on the banks of Eurotas, hunger and thirst,” for these are the seasonings to the Lacedaemonian banquets.
And this may not only be conceived from the custom of men, but from the beasts, who are satisfied with anything that is thrown before them, provided it is not unnatural, and they seek no farther.
Some entire cities, taught by custom, delight in parsimony, as I said but just now of the Lacedaemonians. Xenophon has given an account of the Persian diet, who never, as he said, use anything but cresses with their bread; not but that, should nature require anything more agreeable, many things might be easily supplied by the ground, and plants in great abundance, and of incomparable sweetness.
Add to this strength and health, as the consequence of this abstemious way of living. Now, compare with this those who sweat and belch, being crammed with eating, like fatted oxen; then will you perceive that they who pursue pleasure most attain it least; and that the pleasure of eating lies not in satiety, but appetite.
Nor had Ptolemy ever eaten when he was hungry; for as he was travelling over Egypt, his company not keeping up with him, he had some coarse bread presented him in a cottage, upon which he said, “Nothing ever seemed to him pleasanter than that bread.”
They relate, too, of Socrates, that, once when he was walking very fast till the evening, on his being asked why he did so, his reply was that he was purchasing an appetite by walking, that he might sup the better.
And do we not see what the Lacedaemonians provide at their public table? Where the tyrant Dionysius supped, but told them he did not at all like that black broth, which was their principal dish; on which he who dressed it said, “It was no wonder, for it wanted seasoning.” Dionysius asked what that seasoning was; to which it was replied, “Fatigue in hunting, sweating, a race on the banks of Eurotas, hunger and thirst,” for these are the seasonings to the Lacedaemonian banquets.
And this may not only be conceived from the custom of men, but from the beasts, who are satisfied with anything that is thrown before them, provided it is not unnatural, and they seek no farther.
Some entire cities, taught by custom, delight in parsimony, as I said but just now of the Lacedaemonians. Xenophon has given an account of the Persian diet, who never, as he said, use anything but cresses with their bread; not but that, should nature require anything more agreeable, many things might be easily supplied by the ground, and plants in great abundance, and of incomparable sweetness.
Add to this strength and health, as the consequence of this abstemious way of living. Now, compare with this those who sweat and belch, being crammed with eating, like fatted oxen; then will you perceive that they who pursue pleasure most attain it least; and that the pleasure of eating lies not in satiety, but appetite.
—from Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 5.34
The Epicureans were certainly onto something here, though I now realize how all the thoughtful people, regardless of their peculiar schools, were patiently giving me this advice from the very beginning, even as I smugly rolled my eyes. Sometimes we are too smart for our own good, assuming we have nothing to learn from those who have already trod the path. In such a case, I can only hope to catch on before it is too late.
I might think that getting more will accordingly grant me greater contentment, when Nature has thrown me for a loop, as she is rather fond of doing, by arranging for moderation to be the true source of appreciation. If I receive everything that I desire, I will immediately long for more, but if I have to struggle for the slightest rewards, I can now savor them thoroughly, having learned their true value.
And what is perhaps most remarkable is that the arrangement works best when I freely deny myself, instead of just begrudgingly bearing my circumstances. It may take some time to recognize how we are made to rule ourselves with joy, rather than being ruled by others with resentment, and why a genuine satisfaction rests in depth over breadth, in perfecting ourselves through the very little we need, not in being enslaved to every alluring impulse. Less becomes more, because we are discovering how to be more while simultaneously having less.
I do not believe it an exaggeration to say that our contemporary America is largely driven by gluttony, avarice, and lust. We feed our faces, we hoard our toys, and we chase after the holy orgasm, even as we cover it with a veneer of respectability, which merely adds vanity into the mix. If you find such a claim preposterous, ask yourself what the little green men see when they scan our broadcasts, for that shamefully exposes our real priorities.
This is not grounds for despair, only for constancy. It does not make the task impossible; it simply makes the calling noble. Following one failure after another, all on account of my disordered judgments, I am beginning to nod my head when I read about Darius, Ptolemy, Socrates, or those frustrating Spartans. They knew that how we approach something will determine everything about its worth to us, with absence being a powerful means for developing gratitude.
Thirst reveals the power of the filthiest water. Hunger transforms a slice of stale bread into a banquet. A hard day’s makes us earn our supper. I am not certain about the recipe for black stew, but I am told that even this would surely have been for special occasions, as it contained pork, and the daily meal would more likely have involved lentils. I can only add that one of the most satisfying meals I have ever eaten was a chunk of dry salami and two pieces of crispbread, enjoyed under a boulder during a thunderstorm.
It is bad enough that processed foods make us fat, and luxuries make us lazy, and smut makes us insensitive; it is worse that the rot in the soul is far more harmful than any rot to the flesh. While they insist upon a salvation through technology, find comfort in the refuge of philosophy.
The Epicureans were certainly onto something here, though I now realize how all the thoughtful people, regardless of their peculiar schools, were patiently giving me this advice from the very beginning, even as I smugly rolled my eyes. Sometimes we are too smart for our own good, assuming we have nothing to learn from those who have already trod the path. In such a case, I can only hope to catch on before it is too late.
I might think that getting more will accordingly grant me greater contentment, when Nature has thrown me for a loop, as she is rather fond of doing, by arranging for moderation to be the true source of appreciation. If I receive everything that I desire, I will immediately long for more, but if I have to struggle for the slightest rewards, I can now savor them thoroughly, having learned their true value.
And what is perhaps most remarkable is that the arrangement works best when I freely deny myself, instead of just begrudgingly bearing my circumstances. It may take some time to recognize how we are made to rule ourselves with joy, rather than being ruled by others with resentment, and why a genuine satisfaction rests in depth over breadth, in perfecting ourselves through the very little we need, not in being enslaved to every alluring impulse. Less becomes more, because we are discovering how to be more while simultaneously having less.
I do not believe it an exaggeration to say that our contemporary America is largely driven by gluttony, avarice, and lust. We feed our faces, we hoard our toys, and we chase after the holy orgasm, even as we cover it with a veneer of respectability, which merely adds vanity into the mix. If you find such a claim preposterous, ask yourself what the little green men see when they scan our broadcasts, for that shamefully exposes our real priorities.
This is not grounds for despair, only for constancy. It does not make the task impossible; it simply makes the calling noble. Following one failure after another, all on account of my disordered judgments, I am beginning to nod my head when I read about Darius, Ptolemy, Socrates, or those frustrating Spartans. They knew that how we approach something will determine everything about its worth to us, with absence being a powerful means for developing gratitude.
Thirst reveals the power of the filthiest water. Hunger transforms a slice of stale bread into a banquet. A hard day’s makes us earn our supper. I am not certain about the recipe for black stew, but I am told that even this would surely have been for special occasions, as it contained pork, and the daily meal would more likely have involved lentils. I can only add that one of the most satisfying meals I have ever eaten was a chunk of dry salami and two pieces of crispbread, enjoyed under a boulder during a thunderstorm.
It is bad enough that processed foods make us fat, and luxuries make us lazy, and smut makes us insensitive; it is worse that the rot in the soul is far more harmful than any rot to the flesh. While they insist upon a salvation through technology, find comfort in the refuge of philosophy.
—Reflection written in 3/1999
IMAGE: Vincent van Gogh, The Potato Eaters (1885)
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