Birds for My Mother 3

IMAGE by Espen Helland 

Stoic Snippets 265

Practice yourself even in the things which you despair of accomplishing. 

For even the left hand, which is ineffectual for all other things for want of practice, holds the bridle more vigorously than the right hand; for it has been practiced in this. 

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 12.6 

Epictetus, Discourses 2.7.1

Chapter 7: How to consult diviners. 
 
Many of us often neglect acts which are fitting because we consult the diviners out of season. 
 
What can the diviner see more than death or danger or disease or generally things of that sort? If then I have to risk my life for a friend, if even it is fitting for me to die for him, how can it be in season for me to consult a diviner? Have I not within me the diviner who has told me the true nature of good and evil, who has expounded the signs of both? 
 
What need have I then of the flesh of victims or the flight of birds? Can I bear with him when he says, “This is expedient for you”? Does he know what is expedient, does he know what is good, has he learnt signs to distinguish between good things and bad, like the signs in the flesh of victims? If he knows the signs of good and evil, he knows also the signs of things noble and shameful, just and unjust. 
 
It is yours, man, to tell me what is portended—life or death, poverty or wealth; but whether this is expedient or inexpedient I am not going to inquire of you. 

—from Epictetus, Discourses 2.7 
 
What am I to make of divination? Is it fitting to put my faith in prophecies? Perhaps I should worry a bit less about predicting the circumstances and a bit more about preparing my character. 
 
Conventional wisdom will tell us how soothsaying is nothing but an obsolete superstition, though I continue to find supposed followers of “science” engaged in the most bizarre forms of wishful thinking. Whether we poke at the entrails or fiddle with the data until we arrive at the answers we prefer, all of us are tempted to let our passions run far ahead of our reason. 
 
Whatever the current fashion, I try to keep an open mind regarding the workings of the Universe. I do know that every effect must have its cause, and I do know that the presence of order reveals the mark of design, but beyond that I am hesitant to proclaim any details of what Providence intends. 
 
I have little doubt that events unfold as they are meant to unfold, and that the process leaves us with countless visible signs of its inner purpose. I do, however, have doubts about our capacity to interpret such signs with certainty, and so I am suspicious of anyone who foretells if I will become rich, find true love, or die at a ripe old age, especially when he is expecting a payment in return for his services. 
 
Let us, for the sake of argument, assume that a gifted man does indeed have the skill to read the cards or to interpret the stars, and so he has an inside scoop on our future state. Now as convenient as that might be, how much should it really be changing the manner in which I choose to live? The foreknowledge of an imminent death does not alter a commitment to living with fortitude, just as winning the lottery does not remove the need for temperance. 
 
On the whole, Stoicism tended to look kindly at divination, which I imagine stemmed from a trust in the guiding wisdom of the Logos; in that the world is always expressing a Divine Law, we are well-advised to heed its guidance, in all of its forms. Yet it is one thing to be sensitive to portents, and quite another to be crippled by premonitions: be conscious of what may come, while remaining constant in following the virtues, regardless of the impending outcomes.
 
I will listen cautiously to what the oracle has to say. At its very best, it will provide a meaningful context of fate, and at its very least, it will inspire me to proceed with prudence. Nevertheless, the prophecy itself cannot enlighten me in any way concerning the nature of the true and the good, merely on the particular conditions I might possibly face. God has already granted me the power of a conscience, which is more than sufficient to distinguish the benefit from the harm. 
 
You have described what could happen to me, even as my own judgments must prescribe what I am going to do with what could happen to me. The seer discloses just the passive part of my destiny, and it is my responsibility to determine the active part; the setting is slightly different, while the task at hand remains precisely the same. 
 
In the end, only the slave to fortune is swayed by omens. He who loves his nature will cling to his discernment of right from wrong, in riches or in poverty, in health or in sickness, in fame or in obscurity. 

—Reflection written in 7/2001 

IMAGE: Louis-Jean-Francois Lagrenée, Alexander Consulting the Oracle of Apollo (1789) 

Storm on the Sea 24

Ivan Aivazovsky, Ship in a Stormy Sea (1887) 

Ruins 14

Thomas Cole, The Ruins of Taormina (1842) 

Birds for My Mother 2

IMAGE by Espen Helland 

Dhammapada 400

Him I call indeed a Brahmana who is free from anger, dutiful, virtuous, without appetite, who is subdued, and has received his last body. 

Seneca, Moral Letters 80.6

 
When you buy a horse, you order its blanket to be removed; you pull off the garments from slaves that are advertised for sale, so that no bodily flaws may escape your notice; if you judge a man, do you judge him when he is wrapped in a disguise? 
 
Slave dealers hide under some sort of finery any defect which may give offence, and for that reason the very trappings arouse the suspicion of the buyer. If you catch sight of a leg or an arm that is bound up in cloths, you demand that it be stripped and that the body itself be revealed to you.
 
Do you see yonder Scythian or Sarmatian king, his head adorned with the badge of his office? If you wish to see what he amounts to, and to know his full worth, take off his diadem; much evil lurks beneath it. 
 
But why do I speak of others? If you wish to set a value on yourself, put away your money, your estates, your honors, and look into your own soul. At present, you are taking the word of others for what you are. Farewell. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 80 
 
I walk a thin line when I consider that games of cunning played by so many in the world around me. On the one hand, I run the risk of a creeping conformity, surrendering bit by bit to the convenience of putting on a show. On the other hand, I am sorely tempted to isolate myself in anger, shouting about integrity while still consumed by envy. In either case, I am defining myself by their judgments instead of my own. 
 
Somewhere in the middle stands a life of serenity, where I content with my nature, and I begrudge no man his own path. If I am truly convinced of the dignity in the virtues, I need not make any compromises for the sake of cheap trinkets. If my neighbor chooses a diversion in the vices, he merits my compassion, not my scorn. 
 
I imagine the vast machine of modern advertising is not all that different from the bustling marketplaces of ancient Rome. Over here, a slick corporation tells me how a sugary beverage will make me sexually attractive, and over there, a crafty merchant tries to sell me a lame horse. Both of them are painfully aware that they have nothing of true value to offer, and so they turn to the allure of mere appearances, desperately hoping they can pull off the scheme for another day. 
 
As they do in business, so they do in life. Paint a smiling face on a rotting soul, and then call it success. The schmoozing at the cocktail parties seems harmless, until the charade has penetrated into every corner; do we still know what we look like under the makeup? 
 
How many times was I told to revere the greatness of a Ceasar or a Napoleon, and how long did I refuse to question the party line? But what remains after the crowns, the scepters, and the robes are stripped away? Style is never a replacement for substance. 
 
The challenge for today is to appreciate my own worth without a reference to any of the embellishments. 

—Reflection written in 11/2013 

IMAGE: Jacques-Louis David, The Coronation of Napoleon (1807) 

Memento Mori 7

Anonymous German, Memento Mori (c. 1750) 

Gedenck O Mensch Sich wer Du bist,  
Wie ungleich Dott und Lebendig ist, 

"Remember, O Man, Look who you are, 

How unequal Dead and Alive are." 

Vanitas 92

Antonio de Pereda, Vanitas (c. 1650) 

Sayings of Publilius Syrus 176

Endure the heavy burdens, and you will the more easily carry the lighter. 

IMAGE: Honoré Daumier, The Burden (c. 1853) 

Seneca, Moral Letters 80.5

I often feel called upon to use the following illustration, and it seems to me that none expresses more effectively this drama of human life, wherein we are assigned the parts which we are to play so badly. Yonder is the man who stalks upon the stage with swelling port and head thrown back, and says: 
 
“Lo, I am he whom Argos hails as lord,
Whom Pelops left the heir of lands that spread
From Hellespont and from th’ Ionian sea
E’en to the Isthmian straits.”
 
And who is this fellow? He is but a slave; his wage is five measures of grain and five denarii.
 
Yon other who, proud and wayward and puffed up by confidence in his power, declaims: 
 
“Peace, Menelaus, or this hand shall slay thee!” 
 
receives a daily pittance and sleeps on rags. 
 
You may speak in the same way about all these dandies whom you see riding in litters above the heads of men and above the crowd; in every case their happiness is put on like the actor’s mask. Tear it off, and you will scorn them. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 80 
 
I have gradually learned not to confuse my preferences with principles, to avoid treating my particular tastes as if they were universal laws. I’m afraid I will still slip into the old habit, so common among pseudo-intellectuals, of dismissing any opinion that doesn’t happen to be my own, but I usually catch myself before I have done too much damage. 
 
One instance of my presumption has been an intense dislike of stage plays, especially those that aspire to serious drama. As much as I now immensely enjoy reading Shakespeare, I cringe at what I take to be exaggerated performances, painfully conscious of being duped by histrionics. Am I expected to believe that this spectacle is sincere? 
 
It finally dawned on me how the aversion was less about anyone else’s method of acting, and more about my own cynicism: I am uncomfortable with acting because I assume it is an attempt at deception. I should rightly distinguish between the thespian who wishes to expose a deeper truth, and the charlatan who poses as a far better man than he actually is. 
 
So Seneca’s example helps me to not only look behind the mask, but also to examine the motive for the disguise: some acting reveals, and some acting conceals. I should not allow my personal baggage over trickery to get in the way of appreciating the theater, just as a child should not fear clowns on account of John Wayne Gacy. 
 
Nonetheless, let me always remember why the appearance should never be confused with the reality. Some priests paint their own vanity to look like the will of God, some lawyers seek a cold profit under the guise of caring service, and some friends will cast you aside after speaking fine words of undying love. 
 
Most importantly, let me not become a pretender myself, masquerading as righteous when I am wicked, as fulfilled when I am restless. Perhaps it will, at least for a time, fool others, but I can never run away from myself. 

—Reflection written in 11/2013 

IMAGE: William Hogarth, David Garrick as Richard III (c. 1745) 

Birds for My Mother 1

Maxims of Goethe 68

Because a man speaks, he thinks he is able to speak about language. 

Seneca, Moral Letters 80.4

First of all, free yourself from the fear of death, for death puts the yoke about our necks; then free yourself from the fear of poverty.
 
If you would know how little evil there is in poverty, compare the faces of the poor with those of the rich; the poor man smiles more often and more genuinely; his troubles do not go deep down; even if any anxiety comes upon him, it passes like a fitful cloud. 
 
But the merriment of those whom men call happy is feigned, while their sadness is heavy and festering, and all the heavier because they may not meanwhile display their grief, but must act the part of happiness in the midst of sorrows that eat out their very hearts. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 80 
 
When I am not immediately in their grips, I sometimes wonder which of my fears is the most crippling, and so which must be managed first. While the coward is at the mercy of his anxieties, and the braggart insists that he is far above them, the wise man learns to understand himself, and so he distinguishes between the true benefit and the true harm in his life. 
 
I am terrified of dying, of course, because I desperately cling to my existence, forgetting why living well is more important than merely living. Then I am also terrified of never having enough, convinced that my existence depends upon a precarious arrangement of circumstances, all for the sake of security and comfort. Once again, I am forgetting how my worth has nothing to do with my wallet. 
 
We are accustomed to thinking of poverty as one of the greatest evils, as itself a cause of our suffering, and a condition out of which so many other troubles must inevitably arise. While most of us would certainly prefer to be rich instead of poor, the Stoic will argue that it is neither the presence nor the absence of money that makes us good or bad, happy or miserable. This is not a cold and uncaring position, but it stems rather from the principle that our human dignity is fulfilled by character, not by property. 
 
Accordingly, we are misguided when we focus mainly on the distribution of wealth, since it is the virtues or vices behind our actions that make all the difference in our lives. Reduce a man to a producer and a consumer, to be bought and sold, and the envy will never cease. Treat him as a creature called to moral excellence, and the rest can take care of itself. 
 
Once you actually become a good man, you will grow indifferent to luxuries. 
 
I hardly believe that the poor man is any better because he happens to be poor, but we will often find how someone who has struggled with deprivation is far less inclined to define his life by titles and possessions. He knows not to trust in vanities, and so he builds up his inner resilience. Easy come, easy go. 
 
Nor do I believe that the rich man is any worse because he happens to be rich, but we will often find how someone who has been spoiled is far more inclined to feel entitled. He expects to be gratified, and so he privately grumbles at the slightest nuisance. The bigger they come, the harder they fall. 
 
This sort of thinking enrages the decadent snoots, who remain trapped in a game of ostentation. It seems quite sensible to the everyman, who has no need to pretend that he is special. Change the standards, and the old vices are suddenly cast aside. Some play the part of being happy, as others do the real work of being happy. 

—Reflection written in 11/2013 

IMAGE: Alfred de Dreux, Rich and Poor (1845) 

Chuang Tzu 6.4

The True men of old presented the aspect of judging others aright, but without being partisans; of feeling their own insufficiency, but being without flattery or cringing. 

Their peculiarities were natural to them, but they were not obstinately attached to them; their humility was evident, but there was nothing of unreality or display about it. 

Their placidity and satisfaction had the appearance of joy; their every movement seemed to be a necessity to them. 

Their accumulated attractiveness drew men's looks to them; their blandness fixed men's attachment to their virtue. 

They seemed to accommodate themselves to the manners of their age, but with a certain severity; their haughty indifference was beyond its control. 

Unceasing seemed their endeavors to keep their mouths shut; when they looked down, they had forgotten what they wished to say. 

They considered punishments to be the substance of government, and they never incurred it; ceremonies to be its supporting wings and they always observed them; wisdom to indicate the time for action, and they always selected it; and virtue to be accordance with others, and they were all-accordant. 

Considering punishments to be the substance of government, yet their generosity appeared in the manner of their infliction of death. 

Considering ceremonies to be its supporting wings, they pursued by means of them their course in the world. 

Considering wisdom to indicate the time for action, they felt it necessary to employ it in the direction of affairs. 

Considering virtue to be accordance with others, they sought to ascend its height along with all who had feet to climb it. 

Such were they, and yet men really thought that they did what they did by earnest effort. 

Seneca, Moral Letters 80.3

For although the body needs many things in order to be strong, yet the mind grows from within, giving to itself nourishment and exercise. Yonder athletes must have copious food, copious drink, copious quantities of oil, and long training besides; but you can acquire virtue without equipment and without expense. All that goes to make you a good man lies within yourself.
 
And what do you need in order to become good? To wish it. But what better thing could you wish for than to break away from this slavery—a slavery that oppresses us all, a slavery which even chattels of the lowest estate, born amid such degradation, strive in every possible way to strip off? 
 
In exchange for freedom they pay out the savings which they have scraped together by cheating their own bellies; shall you not be eager to attain liberty at any price, seeing that you claim it as your birthright? Why cast glances toward your strong box? Liberty cannot be bought. 
 
It is therefore useless to enter in your ledger the item of “Freedom”, for freedom is possessed neither by those who have bought it, nor by those who have sold it. You must give this good to yourself, and seek it from yourself. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 80 
 
I will not recklessly claim that working to become a good man is somehow “easier” than working to become a champion in the arena, for it also demands its own form of rigor and discipline. Yet a life of inner constancy is nevertheless far simpler, in the sense that self-mastery does not rest upon the crutches of outer conditions. Whatever the circumstances may be, whether convenient or inconvenient, virtue requires only an absolute act of committed choice. 
 
The warrior reaches for his honed weapons. The athlete trains with his specialized gear. The academic must refer to his extensive library. But the man who just wants to become more understanding and more loving from day to day needs nothing beyond the strength of his own convictions. There is a fierce beauty to this profound Stoic truth. 
 
If it came instantaneously, I would already be a saint. I stumble regularly, and sometimes I fall flat on my face, though the difference is now that I decide to get up, to dust myself off, and to begin once more. The practice builds the habit. The habit improves the character. The character makes the man. Slowly but surely, the resolution forms a disposition like a second nature. Never be ashamed of progress, however slight. 
 
And what prize awaits me? The warrior, the athlete, or the academic may win fortune and fame, while I am pursuing my freedom. This is not the usual conception of liberty, as the power to be delivered from the tyranny of others, and is instead the power to rule myself, regardless of the force inflicted by another. No money can purchase it, no position can grant it; it is available to anyone who knows himself. 
 
The cardinal error is to equate success with a dominion over the world, when the true king reigns over his judgments. I crave riches because I fear poverty, and I seek out the approval of others because I remain ignorant of my nature. That was what I needed to hear back in college, not to fret over the football, the beer, or the job market. 
 
Better late than never?

—Reflection written in 11/2013 

IMAGE: Ilya Repin, What Freedom! (1903) 

Delphic Maxims 77

Τύχην στέργε 

Be fond of fortune 

IMAGE: Giovanni Battista Bonacina, The Games of Fortune (c. 1650) 

Seneca, Moral Letters 80.2

And yet that was a very bold word which I spoke when I assured myself that I should have some quiet, and some uninterrupted retirement. For lo, a great cheer comes from the stadium, and while it does not drive me distracted, yet it shifts my thought to a contrast suggested by this very noise. 
 
How many men, I say to myself, train their bodies, and how few train their minds! What crowds flock to the games—spurious as they are and arranged merely for pastime—and what a solitude reigns where the good arts are taught! How feather-brained are the athletes whose muscles and shoulders we admire!
 
The question which I ponder most of all is this: if the body can be trained to such a degree of endurance that it will stand the blows and kicks of several opponents at once and to such a degree that a man can last out the day and resist the scorching sun in the midst of the burning dust, drenched all the while with his own blood —if this can be done, how much more easily might the mind be toughened so that it could receive the blows of Fortune and not be conquered, so that it might struggle to its feet again after it has been laid low, after it has been trampled underfoot? 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 80 
 
I was sometimes told that I was being a snob for not buying into the football frenzy, though my motives never did involve a belief in being superior. If anything, I felt that I was missing something, that others already knew who they were supposed to be, while I was still struggling to find my place in things. Even as I observed from afar, I most certainly did not belong to the tribe. 
 
When I later read this letter by Seneca, I recognized something of my own thoughts from back then, expressed with a far greater clarity than I could ever manage. It would be easy to say that I was condemning the excitement of the fans in the stadium, yet all that really came to my mind was why we could not take that enthusiasm for the great feats of the body, and then also apply it to the great feats of the soul. 
 
The problem does not merely come from celebrating athletic excellence, but it rather arises when we ignore any moral excellence. Would the crowd cheer with equal passion for a fellow who faced overwhelming odds in order to forgive his enemy? Indeed, should not the latter elicit far more intensity than the former, since the goods of the spirit are for more critical to our lives than the goods of the flesh? 
 
And how much time and effort are dedicated to building up the muscles on the outside, when only a lip service is paid to building up the character on the inside? With Plato, I do admire a formation of the whole person; I only have an objection when our model of the person is turned upside down, where both the mind and the will become like slaves to the gut. 
 
In case that still sounds too haughty, I ought to follow Seneca’s example, by not simply bemoaning how terrible we are, but by further inspiring us to learn how much better we can yet become. Observe the incredible hardships we are willing to suffer so we might vanquish a foe on the field. Now imagine those same sacrifices made for the sake of increasing the virtues in our own hearts. 
 
If we chose to glorify such a way of life, there might well be as many aspiring sages on a university campus as there are now aspiring athletes. Our constancy would perhaps make us invincible on a whole new level. 

—Reflection written in 11/2013 

Wisdom from the Early Cynics, Diogenes 34

Noticing a good-looking youth lying in an exposed position, Diogenes nudged him and cried, "Up, man, up, lest some foe thrust a dart into your back!" 

To one who was feasting lavishly he said: 

Short-liv'd thou'lt be, my son, by what thou buy'st."

As Plato was conversing about Ideas and using the nouns "tablehood" and "cuphood," Diogenes said, "Table and cup I see; but your tablehood and cuphood, Plato, I can nowise see." 

"That's readily accounted for," said Plato, "for you have the eyes to see the visible table and cup; but not the understanding by which ideal tablehood and cuphood are discerned." 

On being asked by somebody, "What sort of a man do you consider Diogenes to be?" 

"A Socrates gone mad," said Plato.

—Diogenes Laërtius, 6.53-54 

Wisdom from the Early Stoics, Zeno of Citium 74

The Stoics approve also of honoring parents and brothers in the second place next after the gods. They further maintain that parental affection for children is natural to the good, but not to the bad. 

It is one of their tenets that sins are all equal: so Chrysippus in the fourth book of his Ethical Questions, as well as Persaeus and Zeno. 

For if one truth is not more true than another, neither is one falsehood more false than another, and in the same way one deceit is not more so than another, nor sin than sin. 

For he who is a hundred furlongs from Canopus and he who is only one furlong away are equally not in Canopus, and so too he who commits the greater sin and he who commits the less are equally not in the path of right conduct. 

But Heraclides of Tarsus, who was the disciple of Antipater of Tarsus, and Athenodorus both assert that sins are not equal. 

—Diogenes Laërtius, 7.120-121 

Man Proposes, God Disposes

Edwin Landseer, Man Proposes, God Disposes (1864) 

Alexander and Diogenes

Edwin Landseer, Alexander and Diogenes (1848) 

The Monarch of the Glen

Edwin Landseer, The Monarch of the Glen (1851) 

Old Shepherd's Chief Mourner

Edwin Landseer, Old Shepherd's Chief Mourner (1837) 

Songs of Innocence 4

The Lamb (1789) 

William Blake (1757-1827) 

Little Lamb who made thee? 

Dost thou know who made thee? 
Gave thee life and bid thee feed, 
By the stream and o'er the mead; 
Gave thee clothing of delight, 
Softest clothing wooly bright; 
Gave thee such a tender voice, 
Making all the vales rejoice: 

Little Lamb who made thee? 

Dost thou know who made thee? 

Little Lamb I'll tell thee, 
Little Lamb I'll tell thee: 

He is called by thy name, 
For he calls himself a Lamb. 
He is meek and he is mild, 
He became a little child: 
I a child and thou a lamb, 
We are called by his name. 

Little Lamb God bless thee. 

Little Lamb God bless thee. 

Cosmos 17

Seneca, Moral Letters 80.1

Letter 80: On worldly deceptions
 
Today I have some free time, thanks not so much to myself as to the games, which have attracted all the bores to the boxing match. No one will interrupt me or disturb the train of my thoughts, which go ahead more boldly as the result of my very confidence. 
 
My door has not been continually creaking on its hinges, nor will my curtain be pulled aside; my thoughts may march safely on—and that is all the more necessary for one who goes independently and follows out his own path. 
 
Do I then follow no predecessors? Yes, but I allow myself to discover something new, to alter, to reject. I am not a slave to them, although I give them my approval. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 80 

 
For the longest time, I jumped back and forth between the extremes of forcing myself to be sociable and then hiding myself in a box, desperately uncertain about whether I was meant to live with others or to go my own way. In her usual manner, Philosophy explained to me why the answer was always a resounding “yes”. 
 
A man is his own thing, and then he is also bound up in everything. There is no dichotomy here, only a harmony. 
 
My own temperament is what they now call “introverted”, so I originally took it for granted that solitude was my natural state, where I could recharge my energy before facing the rest of the world. I eventually realized how not everyone is wired in the same way, that some people are at their best in a crowd. That is not me. I unfortunately began to resent the “extroverts”, who have a knack for taking charge, and who bully others to participate in their tedious events. 
 
The wife also claims to be an introvert, but I beg to differ. She enjoys having fancy dinners with folks from work, and I just sit there forcing a smile, worried about saying something clever without being offensive, while wishing I could be reading a book about some obscure period of history, smoking my pipe, and listening to a cantata by Bach. It’s okay, though, because we complement one another quite nicely. 
 
Yet with all my peculiar inclinations, I do understand why I am made for others. It just takes an immense effort on my part, and as I get older, it only becomes ever more difficult. I know I am called to love my neighbor, without any conditions, but please grant me a moment of silence to catch my breath before I enter into the fray. 
 
One of my fondest and most vivid memories is of football games on Saturdays at my old college. No, I did not attend them, as I get edgy in a throng, and I can’t bear yelling, and I find no pleasure in seeing burly men slamming into one another. I would rather sit in my girlfriend’s dorm room, gazing out over the playing field from a comfortable distance, while drinking Bass Ale, smoking Rothman’s Red, and listening to albums by Marillion. 
 
Sharing cigarettes with experience
With her giggling jealous confidantes,
She faithfully traces his name
With quick bitten fingernails
Through the tears of condensation
That'll cry through the night
As the glancing headlights of the last bus
Kiss adolescence goodbye
 
Good times! 
 
The opening of this letter takes me right back to that place. Yes, I have always been that annoying fellow who follows his own path. No, I no longer believe that the path is taken without a load of sound guidance. 
 
Should I do it on my own terms, or should I listen to others? Once again, Philosophy tells me “yes”. Those who are wiser and better than me lay out my options, yet I am the one who must make the final call, suited to my own particular circumstances, for better or for worse.
 
Despite what my English professor told me, Dostoyevsky does not have all the answers to my questions. He offers his suggestions, and I will choose what to do with them. Even as I am surrounded by the multitude, I stand alone. 

—Reflection written in 11/2013 

IMAGE: Jean-Leon Gerome, Solitude (1890) 

Thanks

 

Michael Leunig 76

Xenophon, Memorabilia of Socrates 37

The following conversation with a youth who had just been elected hipparch, or commandant of cavalry, I can also vouch for. 

Socrates: "Can you tell us what set you wishing to be a general of cavalry, young sir? What was your object? I suppose it was not simply to ride at the head of the 'knights', an honor not denied to the mounted archers, who ride even in front of the generals themselves?" 

Hipparch: "You are right."

Socrates: "No more was it for the sake merely of public notoriety, since a madman might boast of that fatal distinction." 

Hipparch: "You are right again." 

Socrates: "Is this possibly the explanation? You think to improve the cavalry—your aim would be to hand it over to the state in better condition than you find it; and, if the cavalry chanced to be called out, you at their head would be the cause of some good thing to Athens?"

Hipparch: "Most certainly." 

Socrates: "Well, and a noble ambition too, upon my word—if you can achieve your object. The command to which you are appointed concerns horses and riders, does it not?"

Hipparch: "It does, no doubt." 

Socrates: "Come then, will you explain to us first how you propose to improve the horses." 

Hipparch: "Ah, that will scarcely form part of my business, I fancy. Each trooper is personally responsible for the condition of his horse." 

Socrates: "But suppose, when they present themselves and their horses, you find that some have brought beasts with bad feet or legs or otherwise infirm, and others such ill-fed jades that they cannot keep up on the march; others, again, brutes so ill broken and unmanageable that they will not keep their place in the ranks, and others such desperate plungers that they cannot be got to any place in the ranks at all. 

"What becomes of your cavalry force then? How will you charge at the head of such a troop, and win glory for the state?" 

Hipparch: "You are right. I will try to look after the horses to my utmost." 

Socrates: "Well, and will you not lay your hand to improve the men themselves?" 

Hipparch: "I will." 

Socrates: "The first thing will be to make them expert in mounting their chargers?" 

Hipparch: "That certainly, for if any of them were dismounted he would then have a better chance of saving himself." 

Socrates: "Well, but when it comes to the hazard of engagement, what will you do then? Give orders to draw the enemy down to the sandy ground where you are accustomed to maneuver, or endeavor beforehand to put your men through their practice on ground resembling a real battlefield?" 

Hipparch: "That would be better, no doubt." 

Socrates: "Well, shall you regard it as a part of your duty to see that as many of your men as possible can take aim and shoot on horseback?" 

Hipparch: "It will be better, certainly." 

Socrates: "And have you thought how to whet the courage of your troopers? To kindle in them rage to meet the enemy?—which things are but stimulants to make stout hearts stouter?" 

Hipparch: "If I have not done so hitherto, I will try to make up for lost time now." 

Socrates: "And have you troubled your head at all to consider how you are to secure the obedience of your men? For without that not one particle of good will you get, for all your horses and troopers so brave and so stout." 

Hipparch: "That is a true saying; but how, Socrates, should a man best bring them to this virtue?" 

Socrates: "I presume you know that in any business whatever, people are more apt to follow the lead of those whom they look upon as adepts; thus in case of sickness they are readiest to obey him whom they regard as the cleverest physician; and so on a voyage the most skillful pilot; in matters agricultural the best farmer, and so forth." 

Hipparch: "Yes, certainly." 

Socrates: "Then in this matter of cavalry also we may reasonably suppose that he who is looked upon as knowing his business best will command the readiest obedience." 

Hipparch: "If, then, I can prove to my troopers that I am better than all of them, will that suffice to win their obedience?" 

Socrates: "Yes, if along with that you can teach them that obedience to you brings greater glory and surer safety to themselves." 

Hipparch: "How am I to teach them that?" 

Socrates: "Upon my word! How are you to teach them that? Far more easily, I take it, than if you had to teach them that bad things are better than good, and more advantageous to boot." 

Hipparch: "I suppose you mean that, besides his other qualifications a commandant of cavalry must have command of speech and argument?" 

Socrates: "Were you under the impression that the commandant was not to open his mouth? Did it never occur to you that all the noblest things which custom compels us to learn, and to which indeed we owe our knowledge of life, have all been learned by means of speech and reason; and if there be any other noble learning which a man may learn, it is this same reason whereby he learns it; and the best teachers are those who have the freest command of thought and language, and those that have the best knowledge of the most serious things are the most brilliant masters of disputation. 

"Again, have you not observed that whenever this city of ours fits out one of her choruses—such as that, for instance, which is sent to Delos—there is nothing elsewhere from any quarter of the world which can compete with it; nor will you find in any other state collected so fair a flower of manhood as in Athens?" 

Hipparch: "You say truly." 

Socrates: "But for all that, it is not in sweetness of voice that the Athenians differ from the rest of the world so much, nor in stature of body or strength of limb, but in ambition and that love of honor which most of all gives a keen edge to the spirit in the pursuit of things lovely and of high esteem." 

Hipparch: "That, too, is a true saying." 

Socrates: "Do you not think, then, that if a man devoted himself to our cavalry also, here in Athens, we should far outstrip the rest of the world, whether in the furnishing of arms and horses, or in orderliness of battle-array, or in eager hazardous encounter with the foe, if only we could persuade ourselves that by so doing we should obtain honor and distinction?" 

Hipparch: "It is reasonable to think so."

Socrates: "Have no hesitation, therefore, but try to guide your men into this path, whence you yourself, and through you your fellow-citizens, will reap advantage." 

Hipparch: "Yes, in good sooth, I will try." 

—from Xenophon, Memorabilia 3.3