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.
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.
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)
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