Maxims of Goethe 79

The world of empirical morality consists for the most part of nothing but ill-will and envy. 

IMAGE: William Blake, The Temptation and Fall of Eve (1808) 

Epictetus, Golden Sayings 187

And now we are sending you to Rome to spy out the land; but none send a coward as such a spy, that, if he hears but a noise and sees a shadow moving anywhere, loses his wits and comes flying to say, "The enemy are upon us!"

So if you go now, and come and tell us: “Everything at Rome is terrible: Death is terrible, Exile is terrible, Slander is terrible, Want is terrible. Fly, comrades! The enemy are upon us!” we shall reply, get you gone, and prophesy to yourself! We have but erred in sending such a spy as you. 

Diogenes, who was sent as a spy long before you, brought us back another report than this. He says that Death is no evil; for it need not even bring shame with it. 

He says that Fame is but the empty noise of madmen. 

And what report did this spy bring us of Pain, what of Pleasure, what of Want? 

That to be clothed in sackcloth is better than any purple robe; that sleeping on the bare ground is the softest couch; and in proof of each assertion he points to his own courage, constancy, and freedom; to his own healthy and muscular frame. 

“There is no enemy near,” he cries, “all is perfect peace!” 

Sayings of Heraclitus 90

Thought is common to all. 

IMAGE: Alessandro Turchi, Philosophy, History, and Prudence Awakening the Mind to a Desire for Knowledge (c. 1624) 

Seneca, Moral Letters 82.9

Those of our school, it is true, would have men think that Zeno’s syllogism is correct, but that the second I mentioned, which is set up against his, is deceptive and wrong. 
 
But I for my part decline to reduce such questions to a matter of dialectical rules or to the subtleties of an utterly worn-out system. 
 
Away, I say, with all that sort of thing, which makes a man feel, when a question is propounded to him, that he is hemmed in, and forces him to admit a premise, and then makes him say one thing in his answer when his real opinion is another. 
 
When truth is at stake, we must act more frankly; and when fear is to be combated, we must act more bravely. Such questions, which the dialecticians involve in subtleties, I prefer to solve and weigh rationally, with the purpose of winning conviction and not of forcing the judgment. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 82 
 
In our crazy times, when the internet can dumb down most anything, even philosophy has its fifteen minutes of fame. 
 
What happens when a self-promoter gets his hands on Stoicism? We are blessed with memento mori t-shirts, and amor fati medallions, and Marcus Aurelius comic books, and a whole variety of gimmicks for selling the consumer a feel-good creed that calls for absolutely no commitment to principles. 
 
And yet I would be a fool to believe that the sophists haven’t been milking us all along, in one form or another. 
 
When I was a bit younger, I was still being promised an exclusivity to philosophy, if only I went to graduate school and practiced my syllogisms in the mirror, which would grant me the superpower of taking down opponents from thirty paces with my razor-sharp wit. The transformation would be complete if I could then cite an impressive source, to administer the coup de grace. 
 
Whether they are marketing to the mob or to the elites, the hucksters would like you to believe that reasoning can be reduced to a bag of tricks, and in no way demands a lifetime of developing self-discipline.
 
Seneca’s example of bickering about dialectics shows us how quickly we surrender to being pressured, instead of taking our time at being persuaded. A conscience is not formed by mind games; don’t just settle for being clever, but insist upon following what is right. 
 
The loyal Stoic will immediately want to agree with Zeno, and he will frown upon any attempt to deviate from this norm, but neither of these syllogisms can, in and of themselves, decide the matter for us, since both of them are playing tricks with the terms. 
 
No, death is not glorious, unless it is employed with virtue. No, an indifferent thing can certainly become glorious, if it is employed with virtue. Each argument wishes to stack the cards in favor of a certain conclusion, and however cunning the logic, it is of no use in building character, which rather thrives under integrity and constancy. 
 
I think of how often I have abandoned an option because I was intimidated by the sophisticated deductions, or because I felt coerced by the fancy rhetoric. Like the student who is afraid to contradict his teacher, and so nods his head in submission, we are too keen on yielding our judgments to impressive displays of skill. 
 
A conformity under duress can never make a man any better—he will need to speak with honesty and to forge his own habits with conviction. 

—Reflection written in 12/2013 

IMAGE: Paolo Veronese, Dialectics (c. 1582) 

Bach 4, Jauchzet, frohlocket!

Johann Sebastian Bach, Jauchzet, frohlocket!, BWV 248, Netherlands Bach Society 

Piety

Dio Chrysostom, The Isthmian Discourse 2

And on a later occasion when Diogenes saw a person leaving the race track surrounded by a great mob and not even walking on the earth, but carried shoulder high by the throng, with some following after and shouting, others leaping for joy and lifting their hands towards heaven, and still others throwing garlands and ribbons upon him, he asked, when he was able to get near, what was the meaning of the tumult about him, and what had happened. 

The victor replied, "I have won the two hundred yards dash for men, Diogenes." 

"And what does that amount to?" he inquired; "for you certainly have not become one whit more intelligent for having outstripped your competitors, nor more temperate than you were, nor less cowardly, nor are you less discontented, nor will your wants be less in the future or your life freer from grief and pain." 

"No, by heavens," said he, "but I am the fastest on foot of all the Greeks." 

"But not faster than rabbits," said Diogenes, "nor deer; and yet these animals, the swiftest of all, are also the most cowardly. They are afraid of men and dogs and eagles and lead a wretched life. 

"Do you not know," he added, "that speed is a mark of cowardice? It is in the order of things that the swiftest animals are likewise the most timid. Heracles, for instance, on account of being slower than many and unable to catch evildoers by running, used to carry a bow and arrows and to employ them against those who ran from him." 

"But," was the reply, "the poet states that Achilles, who was very swift-footed, was, nevertheless, very brave." 

"And how," exclaimed Diogenes, "do you know that Achilles was swift-footed? For he was unable to overtake Hector although he pursued him all day." 

"Are you not ashamed," he continued, "to take pride in an accomplishment in which you are naturally outclassed by the meanest beasts? I do not believe that you can outstrip even a fox. And by how much did you beat the man after all?" 

"By just a little, Diogenes," said he; "for you know that is what made the victory so marvelous." 

"So," replied Diogenes, "you are fortunate by just one stride." 

"Yes, for all of us who ran were first-rate runners." 

"How much more quickly, however, does a crested lark get over the course than you?" 

"Ah, but it has wings," he said. 

"Well," replied Diogenes, "if the swiftest thing is the best, it is much better, perhaps, to be a lark than to be a man. So then we need not pity the nightingale⁠ or the hoopoe⁠ because they were changed from human beings into birds according to the myth." 

"But," replied he, "I, a man, am the fleetest of men." 

"What of it? Is it not probable that among ants too," Diogenes rejoined, "one is swifter than another? Yet they do not admire it, do they? Or would it not seem absurd to you if one admired an ant for its speed? Then again, if all the runners had been lame, would it have been right for you to take on airs because, being lame yourself, you had outstripped lame men?"

As he spoke to the man in this vein, he made the business of foot racing seem cheap in the eyes of many of the bystanders and caused the winner himself to go away sorrowing and much meeker.  

And this was no small service which he rendered to mankind whenever he discovered anyone who was foolishly puffed up and lost to all reason on account of some worthless thing; for he would humble the man a little and relieve him of some small part of his folly, even as one pricks or punctures inflated and swollen parts. 

On this occasion he saw two horses that were hitched together fall to fighting and kicking each other, with a large crowd standing by and looking on, until one of the animals, becoming exhausted, broke loose and ran off. 

Then Diogenes came up and placed a crown upon the head of the horse that had stood its ground and proclaimed it winner of an Isthmian prize, because it had "won in kicking." 

At this there was a general laugh and uproar, while many applauded Diogenes and derided the athletes. They say, too, that some persons actually left without witnessing their performances—those who had poor lodgings or none. 

Seneca, Moral Letters 82.8

Besides, no deed that a man does is honorable unless he has devoted himself thereto and attended to it with all his heart, rebelling against it with no portion of his being. 
 
When, however, a man goes to face an evil, either through fear of worse evils or in the hope of goods whose attainment is of sufficient moment to him that he can swallow the one evil which he must endure—in that case the judgment of the agent is drawn in two directions. 
 
On the one side is the motive which bids him carry out his purpose; on the other, the motive which restrains him and makes him flee from something which has aroused his apprehension or leads to danger. 
 
Hence he is torn in different directions; and if this happens, the glory of his act is gone. For virtue accomplishes its plans only when the spirit is in harmony with itself. There is no element of fear in any of its actions. 
 
“Yield not to evils, but, still braver, go 
Where’er thy fortune shall allow.” 
 
You cannot “still braver go,” if you are persuaded that those things are the real evils. Root out this idea from your soul; otherwise your apprehensions will remain undecided and will thus check the impulse to action. You will be pushed into that towards which you ought to advance like a soldier. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 82 
 
When my heart isn’t really in it, it isn’t really to my credit. 
 
I regularly hear angry old men railing against the plague of modern mediocrity, and I sometimes have to resist the urge to join in on the tirade, but it turns out that my concern is not about a lack of gung-ho patriotism, or a back-breaking work ethic, or the good breeding to wear a suit and tie to the office. No, when I’m having a bad day, I find myself discouraged by the fact that barely anyone I know has a moral backbone. 
 
Despite what the angry old men might say, this is not a new problem. For a fellow to choose excellence, he must also have the option of being downright middling, and given that it is far easier to lounge about than to take a stand, it should hardly be a surprise that people in all times and places are inclined to settling for a sluggish conscience. I should know, for I still cringe at all the times I looked the other way. 
 
And those times when I only did the right thing begrudgingly, grumbling and rolling my eyes, don’t count toward my character. I have not acted with conviction and integrity if I am motivated by fear or lust, and even if nobody else knows it, I still know it, so my list of noble works becomes short indeed. 
 
Though I do not consider myself a Kantian, I can appreciate his point that the greatest proof of virtue is gladly doing my duty when it is the most harrowing and inconvenient. The joy is in the dignity of the deed itself. 
 
Over the years, I have learned that there are many things I will never be good at, however hard I might try. I do not have the body to be an athlete, or the mind to be a mathematician, or the charm to be popular; I am barely competent at a few skills, and inept at very many others. 
 
But before I start feeling sorry for myself, I can remember that there is one thing that is always within my power, and at which I can truly excel, if only I so decide: I can live with the virtues, and there is no one who can take that away from me. Prudence, fortitude, temperance, and justice require neither brawn nor brains, just good will and dedication. 
 
If I can do this, I have succeeded in the only way that matters: I have thrived as a human being, by fulfilling my very nature. The key to achieving this is to always be conscious of my true good as a creature made to understand and to love, thereby never needing to fear circumstances like poverty, illness, solitude, or even death itself. Though I might not be charging into battle every day, I will strive to be courageous in my decency. That is more than enough. 

—Reflection written in 12/2013 

IMAGE: Theodore Gericault, The Charging Chasseur (c. 1812) 

Dio Chrysostom, The Isthmian Discourse 1

When the Isthmian games were in progress, Diogenes, who probably was sojourning at Corinth, went down to the Isthmus. He did not attend the great public gatherings, however, with the same motives as the majority, who wished to see the athletes and to gormandize. No, I warrant he came as an observer of mankind and of men's folly. He knew that men show their real character most clearly at public festivals and large gatherings, while in war and in camp it is more concealed owing to the presence of peril and fear. 

Moreover, he thought they were more easily healed here (for bodily diseases are more readily treated by the physician when they are plain to be seen than while the trouble remains hidden), but that those who are neglected when engaged in such pursuits most speedily perish. 

Therefore he used to attend the public gatherings. And he would jestingly remark when taxed for his currish manners, "Well, dogs follow along to the festivals, but they do no wrong to any of those attending; they bark and attack rogues and thieves, and when their masters are in a drunken sleep, they stay awake and guard them." 

No Corinthian, however, paid any attention to him when he appeared at the gathering, because they often saw him in the city and around the Craneion.⁠ For men do not pay much attention to those whom they are constantly seeing and whom they think they can approach whenever they wish, but they turn to those whom they only see at intervals or have never seen before. So the Corinthians derived the least profit from Diogenes, precisely as if sick people would not consult a physician resident in their midst but thought the bare sight of him in the city sufficient.

As regards other persons, it was those from a distance who visited him chiefly, all who came to the festival from Ionia, Sicily, and Italy, and some of those who came from Libya, Massilia,⁠ and Borysthenes,⁠ and the motive of all those was to see and hear him speak for even a short time so as to have something to tell others rather than to get improvement for themselves. For he had the reputation of having a sharp tongue and being instantly ready with an answer for his interrogators. 

Accordingly, just as those who know nothing of the Pontic honey⁠ try a taste of it and then quickly spit it out because it is bitter and unpleasant in taste, so people in their idle curiosity wished to make trial of Diogenes, but on being put to confusion by him would turn on their heels and flee. 

They were amused, of course, when others were railed at, but on their own account they were afraid and so would withdraw out of his way. Again, when he jested and joked, as was his wont at times, they were pleased beyond measure; but when he warmed up and became serious, they could not stand his frankness. The situation was the same, I fancy, as when children delight to play with well-bred dogs but are terrified and scared to death when they show anger and bark more loudly.

At these meetings also he held to the same line of conduct, not changing his ways nor caring whether anyone of his audience commended or criticized him; no, not even if it was some wealthy and prominent person such as a general or ruler who approached and conversed with him, or some very humble and poor individual. When such people talked nonsense, he usually scorned them merely, but those that assumed airs and prided themselves on their wealth or family or some other distinction he would make the especial object of his attack and castigate thoroughly. 

Some admired him, therefore, as the wisest man in the world, to others he seemed crazy, many scorned him as a beggar and a poor good-for‑nothing, some jeered at him, others tried to insult him grossly by throwing bones at his feet as they would to dogs, yet others would approach him and pluck at his cloak, but many could not tolerate him and were indignant. 

It was just like the way in which Homer says the suitors made sport of Odysseus; he too endured their riotous conduct and insolence for a few days, and Diogenes was like him in every respect. For he really resembled a king and lord who in the guise of a beggar moved among the slaves and menials while they caroused in ignorance of his identity, and yet was patient with them, drunken as they were and crazed by reason of ignorance and stupidity.

Generally the managers of the Isthmian games and other honorable and influential men were sorely troubled and held themselves aloof whenever they came his way, and passed on, all of them, in silence and with scowling glances. 

But when he went so far as to put the crown of pine⁠ upon his head, the Corinthians sent some of their servants to bid him lay aside the crown and do nothing unlawful. 

He, however, asked them why it was unlawful for him to wear the crown of pine and not so for others. Whereupon one of them said, "Because you have won no victory, Diogenes." 

To which he replied, "Many and mighty antagonists have I vanquished, not like these slaves who are now wrestling here, hurling the discus and running, but more difficult in every way—I mean poverty, exile, and disrepute; yes, and anger, pain, desire, fear, and the most redoubtable beast of all, treacherous and cowardly, I mean pleasure, which no Greek or barbarian can claim he fights and conquers by the strength of his soul, but all alike have succumbed to her and have failed in this contest—Persians, Medes, Syrians, Macedonians, Athenians, Lacedaemonians—all, that is, save myself. 

"Is it I, then, think you, that am worthy of the pine, or will you take and bestow it upon the one who is stuffed with the most meat? 

"Take this answer, then, to those who sent you and say that it is they who break the law; for they go about wearing crowns and yet have won in no contest; and add that I have lent a great luster to the Isthmian games by having myself taken the crown, which ought to be a thing for goats, forsooth, to fight over, not for men." 

Simplicius, Commentary on Epictetus 5

When therefore any frightful and discouraging imagination assaults you, harden yourself, and meet it boldly, with this reflection, that it is only our apprehension of things, and not the real nature of the things themselves. 

Then bring it to the test, and examine it by such rules of morality as you are masters of; but especially by this most material distinction, of things that are, or are not, in our power. And if, upon enquiry, it be found one of the latter sort, remember, that it is what you are not at all concerned in, and slight it accordingly. 

Comment: 

He had told us, that the man, who proposes to himself the attainment of virtue and happiness, must be constant and indefatigable, and not suffer the world, or any of its temptations, to seduce or draw him off from the pursuit of it. 

But since, even they, who do make these things their study and care, are yet subject to frequent fancies and apprehensions: some that put them upon desiring some of those external advantages, and others that terrify them with calamities of that kind; he informs us here, how to manage such apprehensions, so as to receive no inconvenience from them. 

And these apprehensions he calls frightful and discouraging; because they are extravagant and unreasonable and embitter one’s life with a world of terrors and troubles, by the excess and irregularity of their motions. 

In the following discourses, he advises more at large, not to be hurried away, and immediately transported with any imagination. Whether it tend to hope or fear; and here he says much the same thing in fewer words; that a man ought to harden and set himself against it, and disarm it of all its force, by this consideration, that it is but a fancy of our own, and no more. 

Now our fancies, we know, do sometimes give us the representations of things as they really are, as in things that are indeed pleasant and beneficial; and sometimes they delude us with wild inconsistencies, gaudy vanities, and empty dreams. 

But the strength of these representations depends upon the impressions, which they make in our minds. And this is exceedingly weakened, by making that single consideration habitual to us. That there is very often a wide difference, between the things themselves, and the representations of them to us: for, when once we are thus fixed, no violence they can use, will be able to jostle out our reason, or pervert our judgment; which he tells us, as soon as we have allayed the heat of the imagination, and made our minds quiet and calm, should be presently employed, in a nice examination of the idea represented to us. 

Now there are several rules to try it by: some taken from the nature of these ideas themselves, and the things they represent; as, whether they be such objects as tend to the good of the mind, or whether they concern our bodies, or our fortunes only: whether they contribute to any real advantage, or whether pleasure is the only thing they can pretend to: whether what they propose be feasible, or not; there is likewise another method, which proceeds upon the judgment of wise and unwise men, and the concern they express for them; but especially, upon the judgment and determinations of Almighty God. 

For that, which God himself, and wise and good men have approved of, everyone that consults the safety and happiness of his soul, must needs be convinced, will challenge his greatest care and concern; as on the contrary, whatever they dislike and condemn, ought by all means to be detested and avoided. And no man yet ever arrived to that degree of folly, or was so far blinded by passion and lust, as to persuade himself, that injustice, and luxury, and excess, are things well-pleasing to God. 

But though there are many rules which may be serviceable to us, in distinguishing between the several ideas and the things they represent; yet there is one peculiar to men, considered as men; and which is of general use upon all occasions. And this depends upon the distinction of things that are, and things that are not in our own power. 

For if the object that presents itself, as a thing inviting our desire, or provoking our aversion, be out of our own disposal; the ready course to be taken, is, to satisfy ourselves, and to dismiss it with this answer, that this is no part of our concern. For it is impossible for anything to be strictly good or evil to us, which is not within our own power; because the freedom of the will is the true specific difference of human nature. The very being of a creature thus qualified, necessarily infers this prerogative, that all its good, and all its evil, shall depend merely upon its own choice. 

Jacob's Ladder 7

Raphael, Jacob's Dream (c. 1519) 

Jacob Wrestling with the Angel 18

Paul Gauguin, The Vision After the Sermon (Jacob Wrestling with the Angel) (1888) 

Delphic Maxims 88

Λέγε εἰδώς 

Speak only when you know 

IMAGE: Fernand Khnopff, Silence (c. 1890) 

Netherlandish Proverbs 11

"Shear them, but do not skin them." 

Do not press your advantage too far. 

Sayings of Ramakrishna 276

The Vedas, Tantras, and the Purânas, and all the sacred scriptures of the world, have become as if defiled, because they have been constantly repeated by and have come out of human mouths. 

But the Brahman or the Absolute has never been defiled, for no one as yet has been able to express Him by human speech. 

Seneca, Moral Letters 82.7

Death ought to be despised more than it is wont to be despised. For we believe too many of the stories about death. Many thinkers have striven hard to increase its ill repute; they have portrayed the prison in the world below and the land overwhelmed by everlasting night, where 
 
“Within his blood-stained cave Hell’s warder huge 
Doth sprawl his ugly length on half-crunched bones, 
And terrifies the disembodied ghosts 
With never-ceasing bark.” 
 
Even if you can win your point and prove that these are mere stories and that nothing is left for the dead to fear, another fear steals upon you. For the fear of going to the underworld is equaled by the fear of going nowhere. 
 
In the face of these notions, which long-standing opinion has dinned in our ears, how can brave endurance of death be anything else than glorious, and fit to rank among the greatest accomplishments of the human mind? 
 
For the mind will never rise to virtue if it believes that death is an evil; but it will so rise if it holds that death is a matter of indifference. It is not in the order of nature that a man shall proceed with a great heart to a destiny which he believes to be evil; he will go sluggishly and with reluctance. But nothing glorious can result from unwillingness and cowardice; virtue does nothing under compulsion. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 82 
 
Still, it is going to be quite the task to calm the jitters and to relieve the nightmares. This isn’t helped by our constant exposure to exquisitely gruesome depictions of the afterlife, or, what might be worse, the nagging suspicion that death is no more than an entry into total nothingness. Is it any wonder that we get anxious about our passing, when eternal torture or a dreary emptiness are the most likely options? 
 
I am not qualified to discuss the subtleties of eschatology, but I have noticed how often the experts will merely lecture us about a heaven or a hell as convenient tools to keep us obedient and submissive. Beyond the fact that this is a rather crude way to manipulate our greed or our fear, it reduces the value of living to something so far removed from the actual living itself: we cease to be good if we are just scheming about future profits and losses. 
 
Even if the horror stories are true, those possessed of character would face the hardships of a next life with exactly the same conviction and integrity as they have faced the hardships of this life. 
 
This is possible for them because they recognize virtue to be its own reward, the perfection of our nature, and they know why Providence, as the necessity of a causal order, always works for a complete purpose, however ignorant they may be of how the particulars will unfold. 
 
And if, in the grand scheme of things, death turns out to be the very cessation of our existence, we need not fret over being eternally bored, since the negation of our being must, in any event, preclude the capacity for any thought or feeling.
 
Yet the Stoic, or any lover of wisdom, understands that endings are not strictly terminations, but rather transformations, since everything is but a modification of what is. Just as nothing cannot produce something, so too something cannot be reduced to nothing. Whatever we might become, with or without consciousness, is exactly what we are meant to be. 
 
As much as I adore my metaphysics, I am also wary of my speculation devolving into dark musings or wishful thinking. Though I cannot claim to grasp how the Universe will unfold, I can conceive a little bit about my own nature as a creature of reason and of will. I can attend to what is my own, and I can thereby be of service as a part to the whole. 
 
As alarming as it may at first appear, death is not an evil, for the quantity of our days is not a hindrance to the quality of our virtues. The daunting impressions can instead be taken as opportunities for ever greater excellence, as occasions for merit in the midst of hesitation. 

—Reflection written in 12/2013 

IMAGE: Jan Brueghel the Elder, Aeneas and the Sybil in the Underworld (c. 1600) 

Abandoned Places 65

IMAGE by Elena Chernyshova 

Nature 67

IMAGE by Paul Nicklen 

Legacy

Stockdale on Stoicism 53

Had I been an ancient Stoic, I would have expressed what roughly went through my mind like this: "Just as in the Universe, where the mind of God is immanent and indwelling and moves in a manner self-sufficient and self-ruling, so I as the leader of pilots in times of unexpected change, frequent confusion, and occasional duplicity in high places, can do no better than to interpose myself between those pilots and our bumbling bureaucracy as their ultimate guide and protector. 

"I must cast off concern for all things not within my power. Remembering that as I aim for such goals, I must not undertake them by acting moderately, but must let go from within myself that enigmatic mixture of conscience and egoism called honor, and not hesitate to make exceptions to operational rules and procedures as necessary to follow my eternal guides of duty and personal responsibility." 

With such an outlook, 1963 and 1964, eerie years of national decision, were not times of great soul searching for me. I experienced one big soul search, embraced Stoicism, and was off and running; once I had made up my mind not to be concerned with things beyond my power, I was no longer hung up on where I began and where I left off in these enigmatic conditions. 

The conditions were tailor-made for Stoicism, and in my new-found freedom, tailor-made for me. I loved the life I lived during those years; it was unique in modern military history. Washington was determined to call every shot and their operations were compounding and stumbling over one another; normal business was crowded out and chaos frequently reigned. 

When caught in the crossfire of conflicting imperatives of our secret missions into places like Laos, my conscience counseled: "Follow your duty as you interpret it, don’t foolishly endanger your pilots, do what you think is best, improvise with confidence, and be prepared to stand accountable for your actions." 

—from James B. Stockdale, Epictetus' Enchiridion: Conflict and Character 

Seneca, Moral Letters 82.6

But, as I was going on to remark, you see that death in itself is neither an evil nor a good; Cato experienced death most honorably, Brutus most basely. 
 
Everything, if you add virtue, assumes a glory which it did not possess before. 
 
We speak of a sunny room, even though the same room is pitch-dark at night. It is the day which fills it with light, and the night which steals the light away; thus it is with the things which we call indifferent and “middle,” like riches, strength, beauty, titles, kingship, and their opposites—death, exile, ill-health, pain, and all such evils, the fear of which upsets us to a greater or less extent; it is the wickedness or the virtue that bestows the name of good or evil. 
 
An object is not by its own essence either hot or cold; it is heated when thrown into a furnace, and chilled when dropped into water. Death is honorable when related to that which is honorable; by this I mean virtue and a soul that despises the worst hardships. 
 
Furthermore, there are vast distinctions among these qualities which we call “middle.” For example, death is not so indifferent as the question whether your hair should be worn evenly or unevenly. Death belongs among those things which are not indeed evils, but still have in them a semblance of evil; for there are implanted in us love of self, a desire for existence and self-preservation, and also an abhorrence of dissolution, because death seems to rob us of many goods and to withdraw us from the abundance to which we have become accustomed. 
 
And there is another element which estranges us from death: we are already familiar with the present, but are ignorant of the future into which we shall transfer ourselves, and we shrink from the unknown. Moreover, it is natural to fear the world of shades, whither death is supposed to lead.
 
Therefore, although death is something indifferent, it is nevertheless not a thing which we can easily ignore. The soul must be hardened by long practice, so that it may learn to endure the sight and the approach of death. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 82 
 
I am told that I have a wry sense of humor, which can sometimes also have an unfortunate morbid streak, so it should come as no surprise that I do appreciate the old joke: 
 
I want to die peacefully in my sleep, like my father, not screaming in terror, like his passengers. 
 
Those of us who are not deeply offended may laugh nervously, precisely because comedy is one of the ways we try to temper our fears. And what could be more disturbing than the precarious nature of our very existence? Whether we wrap it in stuffy solemnities or in sick wisecracks, the prospect of death is utterly horrifying. 
 
In all seriousness, I now find myself no longer dwelling on the circumstances of the drivers or the passengers, and I pause to think about what truly causes us to be in a state of peace or panic. The problem is not whether we happen to be asleep or awake at the moment, but whether we have built for ourselves the habits of a far deeper consciousness, a willingness to face any hardships with constancy, and thus an acceptance of whatever conditions Providence might throw our way. 
 
Is the soul charged with the virtues? Then I can be like a Cato, and I can meet death with the satisfaction of a job well done. Is the soul riddled with the vices? Then I am reduced to being like a Brutus, grasping and bargaining until the bitter end. Character is what defines the man, and so its absence is what leaves us desperately clinging to our diversions. 
 
The good of each thing is innate to its very being, and yet it does not exist in isolation, for it can also have a profound effect upon everything that it touches, much as the sunlight is cast into a room, or the heat radiates from a fire. It is in a similar way that the merit of our own active judgements will inform the value of our surroundings, producing benefit or harm for us by the quality of our estimation. 
 
And though it seems so imposing in its power, death itself will take on the significance we choose to give to it, for better or for worse. It will present itself on its own terms, and I will then make use of it on my own terms; that it must come is inevitable, but how it is received becomes an expression of the purest freedom. 
 
Recall how earlier in this letter, Seneca had warned us against believing that the syllogism alone can reform our behavior, and here he offers two specific reasons why the thinking must be deliberately applied to the doing. Some of the “indifferent” things aren’t all that earth-shattering, as when I must decide what to eat for dinner, but there is so much more at stake when it comes to our mortality. 
 
First, the approach of death brings with it a wave of powerful impressions, such that we feel a mighty instinct to preserve our lives at all costs, fully aware of its blunt finality. It takes some serious work to recognize why the things I am afraid of losing do not erase the dignity of my living, and why duration alone does not determine my excellence.
 
Second, death is a great unknown, and the mind, so fond of certainty, is out of sorts in the face of ambiguity. It takes even more serious work to admit that I was not made to know everything, only to master myself, to the best of my rather limited ability. I will attend to myself, and I will trust God to rightly manage the rest. 
 
Dying certainly is a big deal, but the steadfast exercise of reason can explain why it is not an insurmountable obstacle. The passions are easily spooked by shadows, so it is best to calm them by shining a little light. 

—Reflection written in 12/2013 

IMAGE: Edouard Vuillard, Sunlit Interior (c. 1920) 

Henry David Thoreau 12

We are apt to imagine that this hubbub of Philosophy, Literature, and Religion, which is heard in pulpits, lyceums, and parlors, vibrates through the universe, and is as catholic a sound as the creaking of the earth's axle. But if a man sleeps soundly, he will forget it all between sunset and dawn. 

—from Henry David Thoreau, Journals (6 January, 1842) 

Ralph Waldo Emerson 17

When a whole nation is roaring Patriotism at the top of its voice, I am fain to explore the cleanness of its hands and purity of its heart. 

—from Ralph Waldo Emerson, Journals (10 December, 1824) 

Gate of the Infinite

Legh Mulhall Kilpin, Gate of the Infinite (1910) 

Owls 10

Seneca, Moral Letters 82.5

I classify as “indifferent”—that is, neither good nor evil—sickness, pain, poverty, exile, death. None of these things is intrinsically glorious; but nothing can be glorious apart from them. For it is not poverty that we praise, it is the man whom poverty cannot humble or bend. 
 
Nor is it exile that we praise, it is the man who withdraws into exile in the spirit in which he would have sent another into exile. It is not pain that we praise, it is the man whom pain has not coerced. One praises not death, but the man whose soul death takes away before it can confound it.
 
All these things are in themselves neither honorable nor glorious; but any one of them that virtue has visited and touched is made honorable and glorious by virtue; they merely lie in between, and the decisive question is only whether wickedness or virtue has laid hold upon them. 
 
For instance, the death which in Cato’s case is glorious, is in the case of Brutus forthwith base and disgraceful. For this Brutus, condemned to death, was trying to obtain postponement; he withdrew a moment in order to ease himself; when summoned to die and ordered to bare his throat, he exclaimed: “I will bare my throat, if only I may live!” 
 
What madness it is to run away, when it is impossible to turn back! “I will bare my throat, if only I may live!” He came very near saying also: “even under Antony!” This fellow deserved indeed to be consigned to life! 

—from Seneca. Moral Letters 82 
 
A severe Thomist once told me I was going to Hell, because I had defended the Stoic concept of indifference. He was not swayed when I suggested that St. Ignatius of Loyola had argued in a similar manner, and he assured me that most of the Jesuits would also be going to Hell. I began to wonder who might be left to populate his vision of a glorious Heaven, until I remembered how it was meant exclusively for those who received the Blessed Sacrament on the tongue, while kneeling, and speaking in Latin. 
 
To be fair, I was open to his concern, because I understood why indifference could be seen as a form of relativism. The claim is not, however, that external things have no value in themselves, but rather that they will only become good or bad for us by how we choose to employ them. Harm can arise from money, pleasure, and fame, just as benefit can arise from poverty, pain, and obscurity: what will matter the most is whether it was utilized for the sake of virtue or vice. 
 
This applies to any circumstance I can imagine, and yes, this includes both living and dying. If character is indeed the true measure of our nature, then it is possible to live poorly and to die well; some will survive in the flesh but perish in the spirit, and some will stand with integrity even if means surrendering their bodies. 
 
The Roman Stoics tended to hold Cato the Younger in very high esteem, not because he died by his own hand, but because he believed that his death was the only way to avoid committing a grave dishonor. Despite what the severe Thomist might tell me, Cato’s death was a sacrifice out of courage, not a suicide out of despair, and while I might not choose that particular option, I can still have the deepest respect for those who do. 
 
I originally struggled with this passage, because I wondered why Seneca was being so critical of Brutus, setting him up as a counterpoint to Cato. I then realized I was confusing the more famous Marcus Junius Brutus with his cousin, Decimus Junius Brutus, who was also involved in the plot against Caesar, but who instead died as a coward, begging for his life to be spared. Yes, that turns out to be a fitting contrast: one who so desperately wished to live at the expense of his convictions, and another who was so happy to die in a service to his convictions. 
 
I unfortunately find that most of the people in my circles are tied to their conveniences, doing whatever is most advantageous to maintaining a comfortable life, and I am unfortunately also inclined to complain about this fact. Let me cease feeling sorry for myself, secure in the knowledge that I am hardly the first to feel alienated for attempting to form a conscience. For every Brutus, there is also a Cato. 

—Reflection written in 12/2013 

IMAGE: Abel de Pujol, Caesar Going to the Senate on the Ides of March (1819)