M. Let us inquire, then, if obscurity, the want of power, or even the being unpopular, can prevent a wise man from being happy. Observe if popular favor, and this glory which they are so fond of, be not attended with more uneasiness than pleasure.
Our friend Demosthenes was certainly very weak in declaring himself pleased with the whisper of a woman who was carrying water, as is the custom in Greece, and who whispered to another, “That is he—that is Demosthenes.” What could be weaker thanthis? and yet what an orator he was! But although he had learned to speak to others, he had conversed but little with himself.
We may perceive, therefore, that popular glory is not desirable of itself; nor is obscurity to be dreaded. “I came to Athens,” saith Democritus, “and there was no one there that knew me.” This was a moderate and grave man who could glory in his obscurity.
Shall musicians compose their tunes to their own tastes? And shall a philosopher, master of a much better art, seek to ascertain, not what is most true, but what will please the people? Can anything be more absurd than to despise the vulgar as mere unpolished mechanics, taken singly, and to think them of consequence when collected into a body?
These wise men would condemn our ambitious pursuits and our vanities, and would reject all the honors which the people could voluntarily offer to them; but we know not how to despise them until we begin to repent of having accepted them.
There is an anecdote related by Heraclitus, the natural philosopher, of Hermodorus, the chief of the Ephesians, that he said “that all the Ephesians ought to be punished with death for saying, when they had expelled Hermodorus out of their city, that they would have no one among them better than another; but that if there were any such, he might go elsewhere to some other people.”
Is not this the case with the people everywhere? Do they not hate every virtue that distinguishes itself? What! Was not Aristides (I had rather instance in the Greeks than ourselves) banished from his country for being eminently just?
What troubles, then, are they free from who have no connection whatever with the people? What is more agreeable than a learned retirement? I speak of that learning which makes us acquainted with the boundless extent of nature and the Universe, and which even while we remain in this world discovers to us both heaven, earth, and sea.
Our friend Demosthenes was certainly very weak in declaring himself pleased with the whisper of a woman who was carrying water, as is the custom in Greece, and who whispered to another, “That is he—that is Demosthenes.” What could be weaker thanthis? and yet what an orator he was! But although he had learned to speak to others, he had conversed but little with himself.
We may perceive, therefore, that popular glory is not desirable of itself; nor is obscurity to be dreaded. “I came to Athens,” saith Democritus, “and there was no one there that knew me.” This was a moderate and grave man who could glory in his obscurity.
Shall musicians compose their tunes to their own tastes? And shall a philosopher, master of a much better art, seek to ascertain, not what is most true, but what will please the people? Can anything be more absurd than to despise the vulgar as mere unpolished mechanics, taken singly, and to think them of consequence when collected into a body?
These wise men would condemn our ambitious pursuits and our vanities, and would reject all the honors which the people could voluntarily offer to them; but we know not how to despise them until we begin to repent of having accepted them.
There is an anecdote related by Heraclitus, the natural philosopher, of Hermodorus, the chief of the Ephesians, that he said “that all the Ephesians ought to be punished with death for saying, when they had expelled Hermodorus out of their city, that they would have no one among them better than another; but that if there were any such, he might go elsewhere to some other people.”
Is not this the case with the people everywhere? Do they not hate every virtue that distinguishes itself? What! Was not Aristides (I had rather instance in the Greeks than ourselves) banished from his country for being eminently just?
What troubles, then, are they free from who have no connection whatever with the people? What is more agreeable than a learned retirement? I speak of that learning which makes us acquainted with the boundless extent of nature and the Universe, and which even while we remain in this world discovers to us both heaven, earth, and sea.
—from Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 5.36
I can categorize the many diversions in any way I wish, but what they all share in common is a turning away from our essence to a fixation on accidents. When I am unwilling to fulfill my human calling, I seek to replace it with a dazzling array of amusements and trinkets, hoping they will somehow fill the void and drown out the silence. I call myself liberated when I am bound by gratification, and I claim to be a professional when I am entranced by busywork.
While I may think that a craving for fame only entraps the those consumed by the most extreme vanity, we are all tempted to define ourselves by recognition, whether big or small. If I have no confidence in being myself, for my own sake, it feels so much easier to rely on the approval of others, to find security in the herd. If my worth flows from popular opinion, I fear that is a sign of weakness, not of strength.
Like Demosthenes, we get caught up in playing a game, mistaking image for integrity. We weave an elaborate web of deception, which is compounded by assuming that impressing ever more people will increase our significance, and so the performance grows ever more intricate, and ridiculous, by the day. In such a setting, which of us still has the courage to be like Democritus, to become indifferent to the superficial moods of the crowd?
Praise will come, and praise will go, and as much as we may prefer to be celebrated, renown can be one possible consequence of honor, but it can never be the cause of honor. If it happens to come, accept the compliment as an encouragement to live well, and if it happens to go, also take that rejection as an encouragement to live well. How foolish to suggest that a man becomes noble by suddenly winning the favor of ten thousand base followers!
While I here run the grave risk of sounding like a snob, it simply needs to be said: nothing has ever become true, or good, or beautiful because some majority granted it their support. A flourishing democracy would require that the many choose to follow the virtues, just as a flourishing monarchy would require that the one chooses to follow the virtues; we are just as much in danger of the mob as we are of the tyrant.
Indeed, where the frenzied masses gather together, it is so easy for the one to surrender his will to the pressures of conformity. A carefully informed conscience is the sole remedy, and that can only happen at the level of individual judgment, from the bottom up, and never from the top down. I am immediately suspicious when I am told to comply to the fashion of the hour, simply because I know how fickle our passions can be, especially when crammed into confined spaces.
There is no shame in being a rhetorician, or even a politician, as long as one can first be a philosopher. Have you ever felt like Hermodorus, shunned for not being exactly the same as everyone else? Of course you have, and that has been a wonderful gift, the key to discovering your own peace of mind.
I can categorize the many diversions in any way I wish, but what they all share in common is a turning away from our essence to a fixation on accidents. When I am unwilling to fulfill my human calling, I seek to replace it with a dazzling array of amusements and trinkets, hoping they will somehow fill the void and drown out the silence. I call myself liberated when I am bound by gratification, and I claim to be a professional when I am entranced by busywork.
While I may think that a craving for fame only entraps the those consumed by the most extreme vanity, we are all tempted to define ourselves by recognition, whether big or small. If I have no confidence in being myself, for my own sake, it feels so much easier to rely on the approval of others, to find security in the herd. If my worth flows from popular opinion, I fear that is a sign of weakness, not of strength.
Like Demosthenes, we get caught up in playing a game, mistaking image for integrity. We weave an elaborate web of deception, which is compounded by assuming that impressing ever more people will increase our significance, and so the performance grows ever more intricate, and ridiculous, by the day. In such a setting, which of us still has the courage to be like Democritus, to become indifferent to the superficial moods of the crowd?
Praise will come, and praise will go, and as much as we may prefer to be celebrated, renown can be one possible consequence of honor, but it can never be the cause of honor. If it happens to come, accept the compliment as an encouragement to live well, and if it happens to go, also take that rejection as an encouragement to live well. How foolish to suggest that a man becomes noble by suddenly winning the favor of ten thousand base followers!
While I here run the grave risk of sounding like a snob, it simply needs to be said: nothing has ever become true, or good, or beautiful because some majority granted it their support. A flourishing democracy would require that the many choose to follow the virtues, just as a flourishing monarchy would require that the one chooses to follow the virtues; we are just as much in danger of the mob as we are of the tyrant.
Indeed, where the frenzied masses gather together, it is so easy for the one to surrender his will to the pressures of conformity. A carefully informed conscience is the sole remedy, and that can only happen at the level of individual judgment, from the bottom up, and never from the top down. I am immediately suspicious when I am told to comply to the fashion of the hour, simply because I know how fickle our passions can be, especially when crammed into confined spaces.
There is no shame in being a rhetorician, or even a politician, as long as one can first be a philosopher. Have you ever felt like Hermodorus, shunned for not being exactly the same as everyone else? Of course you have, and that has been a wonderful gift, the key to discovering your own peace of mind.
—Reflection written in 3/1999
IMAGE: Eugene Delacroix, Demosthenes Declaiming by the Seashore (1859)
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