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.
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.
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)
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