Lucius Piso, the Director of Public Safety at Rome, was drunk from the very time of his appointment. He used to spend the greater part of the night at banquets, and would sleep until noon. That was the way he spent his morning hours.
Nevertheless, he applied himself most diligently to his official duties, which included the guardianship of the city. Even the sainted Augustus trusted him with secret orders when he placed him in command of Thrace. Piso conquered that country.
Tiberius, too, trusted him when he took his holiday in Campania, leaving behind him in the city many a critical matter that aroused both suspicion and hatred.
I fancy that it was because Piso’s drunkenness turned out well for the Emperor that he appointed to the office of city prefect Cossus, a man of authority and balance, but so soaked and steeped in drink that once, at a meeting of the Senate, whither he had come after banqueting, he was overcome by a slumber from which he could not be roused, and had to be carried home.
It was to this man that Tiberius sent many orders, written in his own hand—orders which he believed he ought not to trust even to the officials of his household. Cossus never let a single secret slip out, whether personal or public.
Nevertheless, he applied himself most diligently to his official duties, which included the guardianship of the city. Even the sainted Augustus trusted him with secret orders when he placed him in command of Thrace. Piso conquered that country.
Tiberius, too, trusted him when he took his holiday in Campania, leaving behind him in the city many a critical matter that aroused both suspicion and hatred.
I fancy that it was because Piso’s drunkenness turned out well for the Emperor that he appointed to the office of city prefect Cossus, a man of authority and balance, but so soaked and steeped in drink that once, at a meeting of the Senate, whither he had come after banqueting, he was overcome by a slumber from which he could not be roused, and had to be carried home.
It was to this man that Tiberius sent many orders, written in his own hand—orders which he believed he ought not to trust even to the officials of his household. Cossus never let a single secret slip out, whether personal or public.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 83
I have a huge supply of shocking stories about drinking, some from my own time as a boozer, and others from my later attempts at helping others to kick the habit. The vast majority of them will remain locked in the vault, because I have never found much use in embarrassing anyone, but a very few, made suitably anonymous, can serve as cautionary tales, which have an uncanny way of reminding us how easy it is to go over the edge.
Every year or so, an old bar companion will call me to reminisce about our inane attempts at making it to an exclusive house party, where we knew the top-shelf liquor would flow freely and there would be a mountain of cocaine on the coffee table. His car ended up abandoned in a field, while I somehow walked across six lanes of the interstate, and when we finally stared at each other in the fancy kitchen, we suddenly knew we had both hit rock bottom.
And why do we go through this annual ritual of digging up the past? It actually restores our shared commitment to self-restraint, because there are times when being scared straight is the best remedy. Sarcastically saying “Yeah, good times!” is a way of restoring our supply of fortitude; I oddly find myself looking forward to the next recounting.
The accounts of Piso and Cossus as “functional alcoholics” leave me with mixed feelings. On the one hand, their exploits appear harmless enough, perhaps even eccentric and charming, while on the other hand, I am all too aware that these can never be the ways of decent men. I do not think that Seneca is trying to absolve them of their sins, but he is rather cautioning us against the hysteria of the pearl-clutchers, who find it so easy to cast someone aside by attaching a cheap stigma.
That fellow who accompanied me on the ridiculous quest to fry our brains? He was already someone of importance back then, and he holds a position of even greater responsibility now. There is no evasion in saying that he was extremely good in some ways, though also extremely bad in others.
Don’t always believe the moral caricatures painted by the prigs and the prudes, who will gladly throw out the baby with the bathwater. For there to be something wrong does not mean that there can be nothing right; if they were correct, it would be impossible for any of us to ever improve.
I have a huge supply of shocking stories about drinking, some from my own time as a boozer, and others from my later attempts at helping others to kick the habit. The vast majority of them will remain locked in the vault, because I have never found much use in embarrassing anyone, but a very few, made suitably anonymous, can serve as cautionary tales, which have an uncanny way of reminding us how easy it is to go over the edge.
Every year or so, an old bar companion will call me to reminisce about our inane attempts at making it to an exclusive house party, where we knew the top-shelf liquor would flow freely and there would be a mountain of cocaine on the coffee table. His car ended up abandoned in a field, while I somehow walked across six lanes of the interstate, and when we finally stared at each other in the fancy kitchen, we suddenly knew we had both hit rock bottom.
And why do we go through this annual ritual of digging up the past? It actually restores our shared commitment to self-restraint, because there are times when being scared straight is the best remedy. Sarcastically saying “Yeah, good times!” is a way of restoring our supply of fortitude; I oddly find myself looking forward to the next recounting.
The accounts of Piso and Cossus as “functional alcoholics” leave me with mixed feelings. On the one hand, their exploits appear harmless enough, perhaps even eccentric and charming, while on the other hand, I am all too aware that these can never be the ways of decent men. I do not think that Seneca is trying to absolve them of their sins, but he is rather cautioning us against the hysteria of the pearl-clutchers, who find it so easy to cast someone aside by attaching a cheap stigma.
That fellow who accompanied me on the ridiculous quest to fry our brains? He was already someone of importance back then, and he holds a position of even greater responsibility now. There is no evasion in saying that he was extremely good in some ways, though also extremely bad in others.
Don’t always believe the moral caricatures painted by the prigs and the prudes, who will gladly throw out the baby with the bathwater. For there to be something wrong does not mean that there can be nothing right; if they were correct, it would be impossible for any of us to ever improve.
—Reflection written in 12/2013
IMAGE: Peter Paul Rubens, Drunken Hercules (c. 1616)
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