Our Epicureans cannot understand Greek, nor the Greeks Latin: now, they are deaf reciprocally as to each other’s language, and we are all truly deaf with regard to those innumerable languages which we do not understand. They do not hear the voice of the harper; but, then, they do not hear the grating of a saw when it is setting, or the grunting of a hog when his throat is being cut, nor the roaring of the sea when they are desirous of rest.
And if they should chance to be fond of singing, they ought, in the first place, to consider that many wise men lived happily before music was discovered; besides, they may have more pleasure in reading verses than in hearing them sung.
Then, as I before referred the blind to the pleasures of hearing, so I may the deaf to the pleasures of sight: moreover, whoever can converse with himself does not need the conversation of another.
But suppose all these misfortunes to meet in one person: suppose him blind and deaf—let him be afflicted with the sharpest pains of body, which, in the first place, generally of themselves make an end of him; still, should they continue so long, and the pain be so exquisite, that we should be unable to assign any reason for our being so afflicted—still, why, good Gods! should we be under any difficulty? For there is a retreat at hand: death is that retreat—a shelter where we shall forever be insensible.
Theodorus said to Lysimachus, who threatened him with death, “It is a great matter, indeed, for you to have acquired the power of a Spanish fly!”
When Perses entreated Paulus not to lead him in triumph, “That is a matter which you have in your own power,” said Paulus.
I said many things about death in our first day’s disputation, when death was the subject; and not a little the next day, when I treated of pain; which things if you recollect, there can be no danger of your looking upon death as undesirable, or, at least, it will not be dreadful.
That custom which is common among the Grecians at their banquets should, in my opinion, be observed in life: Drink, say they, or leave the company; and rightly enough; for a guest should either enjoy the pleasure of drinking with others, or else not stay till he meets with affronts from those that are in liquor. Thus, those injuries of fortune which you cannot bear you should flee from.
—from Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 5.40
I had to smile when I first read the opening of this chapter, because while I rarely grow tired of seeing the world, I do very often grow tired of hearing it. I am what they now call an introvert, so I have an aversion to grating noises and to mindless chatter, and this hasn’t been helped by spending so much of my life in academia, which is so full of talk and so starved of meaning.
It has helped me immensely to learn the difference between hearing and listening, to rise above the cackling and to focus on the sublime sounds that can soothe the soul. Please remind me of this the next time my neighbor is blaring his death metal while aimlessly walking around with his leaf blower.
If what they have to say cannot help me to become better, then being deaf to them will not run the risk of making me any worse. Furthermore, if I consider it carefully, I will realize how little of what I hear is within my power of comprehension to begin with, from the confusion of a foreign tongue, to the mysterious meowing of my cat, to the puzzling compositions of Arnold Schoenberg.
Nature has made so many sounds unintelligible to me, and I should hardly complain if she denies me a few more. I must attend to what whatever she chooses to offer, by whatever senses she permits me to retain. More is not always better; if it is enough for me to live with a simple dignity and integrity, I am content.
Now I do so love my music, which has become such a central part of my daily ritual, and I have often wondered how I could manage without it, but if I can no longer listen to my records, I can whistle a tune, and if my lips grow too weak, I can play a song in my head. Deprive me of my hearing, and I can still perform the entirety of Holst’s The Planets out of habit, the first album my father bought me, and which no crippling circumstance can now take away from me.
The human mind is remarkably adaptable, perfectly capable of thriving without so many of the things we falsely assume that we need. The blind man learns to rely more on his hearing, as the deaf man learns to observe more carefully with his eyes.
And what if Providence strips me of both my hearing and my sight? That would be a mighty burden indeed, and yet there are those who have not only endured it, but they have also come to be at peace with it. Could I manage such a mighty task? As much as it even pains me to imagine, my own narrow experience points the way: I now comically pride myself on making it from my desk to my bed in total darkness, across the entire length of the house, simply by touch and by memory.
As a creature endowed with reason, however limited it may be, I have the capacity to bear anything I can understand, and where the suffering does indeed become unbearable, that is where Nature grants me the release of death. They say that whatever doesn’t kill me makes me stronger, to which can be added that whatever does kill me is the final relief. I only struggle with this fact if I treat survival as a good, when my sole good is virtue, through which anything else becomes good.
I once found myself trapped in a wild drinking session with my uncle and his friends, where every new guest who arrived bought me yet another pint. The full glasses were lining up. I realized I could not keep up with these hardened fellows, and I quietly snuck out of the pub, so as not to make a fuss.
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