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.
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.
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)
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