M. They report of Timotheus, a famous man at Athens, and the head of the city, that having supped with Plato, and being extremely delighted with his entertainment, on seeing him the next day, he said, “Your suppers are not only agreeable while I partake of them, but the next day also.” Besides, the understanding is impaired when we are full with overeating and drinking.
There is an excellent epistle of Plato to Dion’s relations, in which there occurs as nearly as possible these words: “When I came there, that happy life so much talked of, devoted to Italian and Syracusan entertainments, was noways agreeable to me; to be crammed twice a day, and never to have the night to yourself, and the other things which are the accompaniments of this kind of life, by which a man will never be made the wiser, but will be rendered much less temperate; for it must be an extraordinary disposition that can be temperate in such circumstances.”
How, then, can a life be pleasant without prudence and temperance? Hence you discover the mistake of Sardanapalus, the wealthiest king of the Assyrians, who ordered it to be engraved on his tomb,
“I still have what in food I did exhaust;
But what I left, though excellent, is lost.”
“What less than this,” says Aristotle, “could be inscribed on the tomb, not of a king, but an ox?” He said that he possessed those things when dead, which, in his lifetime, he could have no longer than while he was enjoying them.
Why, then, are riches desired? And wherein does poverty prevent us from being happy? In the want, I imagine, of statues, pictures, and diversions. But if anyone is delighted with these things, have not the poor people the enjoyment of them more than they who are the owners of them in the greatest abundance? For we have great numbers of them displayed publicly in our city.
And whatever store of them private people have, they cannot have a great number, and they but seldom see them, only when they go to their country seats; and some of them must be stung to the heart when they consider how they came by them.
The day would fail me, should I be inclined to defend the cause of poverty. The thing is manifest; and nature daily informs us how few things there are, and how trifling they are, of which she really stands in need.
There is an excellent epistle of Plato to Dion’s relations, in which there occurs as nearly as possible these words: “When I came there, that happy life so much talked of, devoted to Italian and Syracusan entertainments, was noways agreeable to me; to be crammed twice a day, and never to have the night to yourself, and the other things which are the accompaniments of this kind of life, by which a man will never be made the wiser, but will be rendered much less temperate; for it must be an extraordinary disposition that can be temperate in such circumstances.”
How, then, can a life be pleasant without prudence and temperance? Hence you discover the mistake of Sardanapalus, the wealthiest king of the Assyrians, who ordered it to be engraved on his tomb,
“I still have what in food I did exhaust;
But what I left, though excellent, is lost.”
“What less than this,” says Aristotle, “could be inscribed on the tomb, not of a king, but an ox?” He said that he possessed those things when dead, which, in his lifetime, he could have no longer than while he was enjoying them.
Why, then, are riches desired? And wherein does poverty prevent us from being happy? In the want, I imagine, of statues, pictures, and diversions. But if anyone is delighted with these things, have not the poor people the enjoyment of them more than they who are the owners of them in the greatest abundance? For we have great numbers of them displayed publicly in our city.
And whatever store of them private people have, they cannot have a great number, and they but seldom see them, only when they go to their country seats; and some of them must be stung to the heart when they consider how they came by them.
The day would fail me, should I be inclined to defend the cause of poverty. The thing is manifest; and nature daily informs us how few things there are, and how trifling they are, of which she really stands in need.
—from Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 5.35
While my college was expert at putting on grand airs, its culture had become hopelessly vulgar, so my social life during those four years involved searching for some genuine friends I would never find. The ritual of partying, in a gaudy 1980’s style, would define the entire week, and it quickly proved tiresome. Despite what Animal House had promised me, the constant pursuit of booze and sex turned out to not be so fulfilling after all. There was much intelligence, and a great deal of money, but also a dearth of conscience to give it any meaning and purpose.
The Greeks had their elaborate banquets, and my neighbors have lately been inviting me on their boisterous pub crawls, and I’m afraid I no longer find the appeal in either of them. I am hardly prudish, though I am slowly learning to be prudent; I am admitting to myself that temperance need not be a dirty word. Beyond any lofty moralizing, there is the practical insight that pleasure can just as easily be a curse as it can be a blessing, for happiness requires carefully taking a few steps back.
I recall the odd claim of a good night being the one you couldn’t remember, yet even Epicurus would tell me why the best night is the one that never ceases to bring joy. I wonder how much of the craze for gratification is more about hiding from our humanity than embracing it, a surrender rather than of a victory, slavery instead of liberation. It will be far too late once my feasting becomes like that of Belshazzar. The writing is on the wall.
The danger is not in pleasure, but in pleasure divorced from understanding. It is not in luxury, but in luxury lacking charity. It is not in wealth, but in wealth without character. It is not in fame, but in fame devoid of responsibility. Aristotle was quite right to condemn Sardanapalus, who abandoned the life of a man in favor of the life of a beast, and whose various proclamations about the merits of decadence sound so awfully familiar to my modern ears.
And although we may prize beautiful things, where do we get the idea that owning them makes them any more beautiful, or clinging to such things on the outside makes us any better on the inside? Boethius argued much the same, when he explained how our possessions are quite accidental to our true worth: “They do not become valuable by reason that they have come into your wealth, but you have desired to count them among your wealth, because they seemed valuable.”
If it is there for all to enjoy, the title makes no difference, and if it must be hidden away from prying eyes and greedy hands, where is the enjoyment in that? Whenever I have found myself with a craving for property, I have also, deep down inside, known it to be a pathetic substitution, a compensation for what I lack in character. The problem isn’t so much if anyone else will find out, as it is how long I can keep deceiving myself.
Cicero was far from being a poor man, and he thankfully did not play the hypocritical game, like those fat churchmen, of praising poverty while living it large. He was, however, fully aware why his circumstances had nothing to do with his virtues, and therefore they did not determine his happiness. Riches and standing have served us well if they can help us to perceive why we don’t really need them.
While my college was expert at putting on grand airs, its culture had become hopelessly vulgar, so my social life during those four years involved searching for some genuine friends I would never find. The ritual of partying, in a gaudy 1980’s style, would define the entire week, and it quickly proved tiresome. Despite what Animal House had promised me, the constant pursuit of booze and sex turned out to not be so fulfilling after all. There was much intelligence, and a great deal of money, but also a dearth of conscience to give it any meaning and purpose.
The Greeks had their elaborate banquets, and my neighbors have lately been inviting me on their boisterous pub crawls, and I’m afraid I no longer find the appeal in either of them. I am hardly prudish, though I am slowly learning to be prudent; I am admitting to myself that temperance need not be a dirty word. Beyond any lofty moralizing, there is the practical insight that pleasure can just as easily be a curse as it can be a blessing, for happiness requires carefully taking a few steps back.
I recall the odd claim of a good night being the one you couldn’t remember, yet even Epicurus would tell me why the best night is the one that never ceases to bring joy. I wonder how much of the craze for gratification is more about hiding from our humanity than embracing it, a surrender rather than of a victory, slavery instead of liberation. It will be far too late once my feasting becomes like that of Belshazzar. The writing is on the wall.
The danger is not in pleasure, but in pleasure divorced from understanding. It is not in luxury, but in luxury lacking charity. It is not in wealth, but in wealth without character. It is not in fame, but in fame devoid of responsibility. Aristotle was quite right to condemn Sardanapalus, who abandoned the life of a man in favor of the life of a beast, and whose various proclamations about the merits of decadence sound so awfully familiar to my modern ears.
And although we may prize beautiful things, where do we get the idea that owning them makes them any more beautiful, or clinging to such things on the outside makes us any better on the inside? Boethius argued much the same, when he explained how our possessions are quite accidental to our true worth: “They do not become valuable by reason that they have come into your wealth, but you have desired to count them among your wealth, because they seemed valuable.”
If it is there for all to enjoy, the title makes no difference, and if it must be hidden away from prying eyes and greedy hands, where is the enjoyment in that? Whenever I have found myself with a craving for property, I have also, deep down inside, known it to be a pathetic substitution, a compensation for what I lack in character. The problem isn’t so much if anyone else will find out, as it is how long I can keep deceiving myself.
Cicero was far from being a poor man, and he thankfully did not play the hypocritical game, like those fat churchmen, of praising poverty while living it large. He was, however, fully aware why his circumstances had nothing to do with his virtues, and therefore they did not determine his happiness. Riches and standing have served us well if they can help us to perceive why we don’t really need them.
—Reflection written in 3/1999
IMAGE: Rembrandt, Belshazzar's Feast (c. 1635)
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