Conscience

Francois-Nicolas Chifflart, The Conscience (1877) 

Surprise!

Jottings on Marcus 2

Whatever this is that I am, it is a little flesh, and breath, and the ruling part. . . . 

—from Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 2.2 

I am told to care for myself, to improve myself, to make something of myself, and yet all the while they are pointing at everything that isn't myself. 

This body is just like any other, and this life that animates it is just like any other. The one will return to the earth once the other is snuffed out. 

In the meantime, there is the mind that keeps watch, that governs over the rest. For the moment, that is mine, and so it is unlike any other. 

IMAGE: Evelyn De Morgan, The Passing of the Soul at Death (1919) 

Vivekachudamani 148-154

THE FREEING OF THE SELF

The Self, wrapped up in the five vestures beginning with the vesture formed of food, which are brought into being by its own power, does not shine forth, as the water in the pond, covered by a veil of green scum. 

When the green scum is taken away, immediately the water shines forth pure, taking away thirst and heat, straightway becoming a source of great joy to man. 

When the five vestures have been stripped off, the Self shines forth pure, the one essence of eternal bliss, beheld within, supreme, self-luminous. 

Discernment is to be made between the Self and what is not Self by the wise man seeking freedom from bondage; through this he enters into joy, knowing the Self which is being, consciousness, bliss. 

As the reed from the tiger grass, so separating from the congeries of things visible the hidden Self within, which is detached, not involved in actions, and dissolving all in the Self, he who stands thus, has attained liberation. 

Sayings of Ramakrishna 287

When the bird has flown away from it, one cares no longer for the cage. 

So when the bird of life has flown away, no one cares any longer for the carcass. 

IMAGE: Emma Soyer, The Escape (1836) 

Epictetus, Discourses 2.13.2

When I see a man, then, in this state of fear, I cannot say that he is no performer with the lyre, but I can say something else of him, and not one thing but many. 
 
And first of all I call him a stranger and say, “This man does not know where in the world he is; though he has been with us so long, he does not know the laws and customs of the City—what he may do and what he may not do—no, nor has he called in a lawyer at any time to tell him and explain to him what are the requirements of the law.” 
 
Of course he does not draw up a will without knowing how he ought to draw it up, or without calling in one who knows, nor does he lightly put his seal to a guarantee or give a written security; but he calls in no lawyer when he is exercising the will to get and will to avoid, impulse and intention and purpose. 

—from Epictetus, Discourses 2.13 
 
It was a bit easier to impress me when I was younger, so I was often mesmerized by the affected images of certain musicians, actors, or writers. 
 
I did not know anyone who played the lyre, for example, but there were plenty of electric guitarists, especially those in the exaggerated world of heavy metal, prancing about in all sorts of extreme poses, and twisting their faces as if they were passing a kidney stone. I’m not sure I could now explain the appeal of the big hair and the studded leather. 
 
It was a bit disappointing to discover how “shredding” was far more about theatrics than it was about technical ability, and while I still find great fun in it, I no longer define my life by what anyone does on a stage. Why would I assume that a fellow who can play a good show has any qualifications to inspire me to a good life? Do not confuse your entertainment with your metaphysics. 
 
I eventually realized how many people put on an act in order to run away from their anxieties, as if the appearance on the outside can cover for the disturbance on the inside—it turned out I wasn’t the only one playing make-believe. The cure for my doubts and fears is in learning my way around my own nature, not in learning my way around a fretboard. 
 
In the spirit of Gauguin, which reflects the spirit of all Wisdom Traditions, I will be at peace when I have made some sense of where I have come from, what I am, and where I am going. Then I will know something about the lay of the land, about the ways of the human city, of which I was born a citizen. For all that I have received, where is my duty to give? Whatever is done to me, how am I called to respond? When it is time for the curtain to fall, have I contributed more than just a clever performance? 
 
We are quick to turn to the experts for the most mundane of tasks, and yet I rarely see anyone asking for help when it comes to reading our moral compass, the one thing none of us can afford to mess up. If we need a lawyer to navigate the complexities of the human law, then how much greater is our need for a sage to teach about the depths of the natural law? 
 
A trade might assist us with getting what we want, while philosophy allows us to decide whether it was even worth wanting to begin with. The grasping man is restless, precisely because he has never questioned his actual needs. 

—Reflection written in 8/2001 

Jottings on Marcus 1

In addition to the informal reflections, my notebooks were also full of what I called blurbs or jottings, brief reactions to small sections of text. 

While the former involved sitting down at a desk in peace and quiet for a time, the latter were hurried observations, often scribbled down at the most inconvenient moments, out of a fear that I might lose an insight before I got home. 

I do not know if any of them are worthwhile, or if it is still possible to squeeze some meaning out of them. Indeed, many of these notes now seem cryptic to me, since I have long forgotten the peculiar circumstances that inspired them. 

In any case, they are now sorted with a semblance of order, and perhaps they will eventually inspire someone to scratch his head. 

—5/2017 

• • • • • 

Begin the morning by saying to yourself, I shall meet with the busybody, the ungrateful, arrogant, deceitful, envious, unsocial. 

All these things happen to them by reason of their ignorance of what is good and evil. . . . 

—from Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 2.1 

Perhaps Bias of Priene was right to say that "most people are bad." 

But why might that be? And how will I then choose to react? 

If only they knew, they would surely do better. So let me begin by working on my own awareness for this day. 

Only understanding can defeat ignorance. And only understanding makes forgiveness possible. 

Wisdom from the Early Cynics, Diogenes 43

After seeing a stupid wrestler practicing as a doctor, Diogenes inquired of him, "What does this mean? Is it that you may now have your revenge on the rivals who formerly beat you?" 

Seeing the child of a courtesan throw stones at a crowd, he cried out, "Take care you don't hit your father." 

A boy having shown him a dagger that he had received from an admirer, Diogenes remarked, "A pretty blade with an ugly handle." 

When some people commended a person who had given him a gratuity, he broke in with "You have no praise for me who was worthy to receive it." 

When someone asked that he might have back his cloak, "If it was a gift," replied Diogenes, "I possess it; while, if it was a loan, I am using it." 

A supposititious son having told him that he had gold in the pocket of his dress, "True," said he, "and therefore you sleep with it under your pillow." 

—Diogenes Laërtius, 6.62 

IMAGE: Bernard Picart, Diogenes (1724) 

Wisdom from the Early Stoics, Zeno of Citium 83

Of the three kinds of life, the contemplative, the practical, and the rational, the Stoics declare that we ought to choose the last, for that a rational being is expressly produced by nature both for contemplation and for action. 

They tell us that the wise man will for reasonable cause make his own exit from life, on his country’s behalf or for the sake of his friends, or if he suffer intolerable pain, mutilation, or incurable disease. 

—Diogenes Laërtius, 7.130 

Songs of Innocence 13

Holy Thursday (1789) 

William Blake (1757-1827) 

Twas on a Holy Thursday their innocent faces clean
The children walking two & two in red & blue & green
Grey-headed beadles walkd before, with wands as white as snow
Till into the high dome of Pauls they like Thames waters flow

O what a multitude they seemd these flowers of London town
Seated in companies they sit with radiance all their own
The hum of multitudes was there but multitudes of lambs
Thousands of little boys & girls raising their innocent hands

Now like a mighty wind they raise to heaven the voice of song
Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among
Beneath them sit the aged men wise guardians of the poor
Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door 

Epictetus, Discourses 2.13.1

Chapter 13: Concerning anxiety.  
 
When I see a man in a state of anxiety, I say, “What can this man want?” 
 
If he did not want something which is not in his power, how could he still be anxious? 
 
It is for this reason that one who sings to the lyre is not anxious when he is performing by himself, but when he enters the theater, even if he has a very good voice and plays well: for he not only wants to perform well, but also to win a great name, and that is beyond his own control. 
 
In fact, where he has knowledge, there he has confidence. Bring in any unskilled person you like, and he pays no heed to him. On the other hand, he is anxious whenever he has no knowledge and has made no study of the subject. 
 
What does this mean? He does not know what “the people” is, nor what its praise is worth: he has learnt to strike the bottom note or the top note, but he does not know what the praise of the multitude is, nor what value it has in life; he has made no study of that. So he is bound to tremble and grow pale. 

—from Epictetus, Discourses 2.13 
 
They tell me that our post-modern age is especially cursed with the most crippling anxieties, and so the intellectuals will obsess about which alienating social conditions are the most to blame. I suspect, however, that the source of our worry has nothing to do with any oppressive circumstances, and everything to do with seeking out a meaning and purpose beyond the merit within our own souls. 
 
As Pascal said, “All of humanity's problems stem from man's inability to sit quietly in a room alone."
 
No, it isn’t a result of the internet, or the culture wars, or the chemicals in the food—do not confuse the cause with the consequence. The Romans felt it just as we feel it, because any creature gifted with reason and will is also tempted by the option of looking for love in all the wrong places. How agitated we become when we gamble our happiness on forces so far beyond our control! 
 
The example of fretting over an audience is spot-on: whenever I sit down to play one of my instruments, or to write down my thoughts, or to whittle away at a piece of wood, there isn’t a smidgeon of dread; there is a joy in the deed for its own sake, and a satisfaction from improving, however slow and tedious the progress. 
 
The doubts only start to creep in when I sense that I am being watched, and then I am suddenly questioning my own worth, as if the value of anything is merely in someone else’s impressions. Can I consider it confidence when I am bowing to your opinion? And if I truly know it to be good, why do I require your approval? The apprehension will pass once I can be certain of my own principles.
 
Behind the mastery of some particular skill, there must also be a mastery of a universal human measure. For all the achievement in hitting the right note, or crafting the perfect phrase, or carving a charming figurine, there is an understanding of how it can serve to increase our virtues, and why the only performance that counts is the one that strengthens our character. 
 
I should look to the fulfillment of my nature, and then allow fortune to unfold as she best sees fit. While a compliment can be gratifying, an insult can be just as beneficial, depending on who has offered it, and on how I have chosen to receive it. As the virtuoso is not troubled by the criticism of the novice, so the sage is not offended by the complaints of a fool. To contemplate the dignity of the act is to rise above the impulses of the mob. The resentment can give way to love. 

—Reflection written in 8/2001 

Cosmos 26

Snippets from the Handbook 1

Of all existing things, some are in our power, and others are not in our power. 

In our power are thought, impulse, will to get and will to avoid, and, in a word, everything which is our own doing. 

Things not in our power include the body, property, reputation, office, and, in a word, everything which is not our own doing. 

—Epictetus, The Handbook 1 

Winter Wren

Dhammapada 421

Him I call indeed a Brahmana who calls nothing his own—whether it be before, behind, or between—who is poor, and free from the love of the world. 

IMAGE: James McNeill Whistler, Harmony in Blue and Silver (1865) 

Epictetus, Discourses 2.12.4

What follows? The occupation is not a very safe one nowadays, and especially in Rome. For he who pursues it will certainly not have to do it in a corner, but he must go up to a consular or a rich man, if it so chance, and ask him: “You there, can you tell me to whose care you trust your horses?” 
 
“Yes.” 
 
Do you trust them to a chance corner and one unskilled in horse-keeping? 
 
“Certainly not.” 
 
Again, tell me to whom you trust your gold or your silver or your clothes. 
 
“Not to a chance corner either.” 
 
And your body—have you ever thought of trusting that to anybody to look after it? 
 
“Certainly.” 
 
He too, no doubt, is one skilled in the art of training or of medicine, is he not? 
 
“Certainly he is.” 
 
Are these then your best possessions or have you got something besides, better than all? 
 
“What can you mean?” 
 
I mean, of course, that which makes use of all these possessions and tests each one, and thinks about them. 
 
“Do you mean the soul?” 
 
You are right; that is exactly what I do mean. 
 
“Yes, I certainly think that this is a better possession than all the rest.” 
 
Can you tell me, then, in what manner you have taken care of your soul? For it is not likely that one so wise as you. and of such position in the state, should lightly and recklessly allow the best possession you have to be neglected and go to ruin. 
 
“Certainly not.” 
 
Well, have you taken care of it yourself? Did anyone teach you how, or did you find out for yourself? 
 
When you do this, the danger is, you will find, that first he will say: “My good sir, what concern is it of yours? Are you my master?” 
 
Then, if you persist in annoying him, he will lift his hand and give you a drubbing. 
 
That was a pursuit I had a keen taste for once, before I was reduced to my present condition. 

—from Epictetus, Discourses 2.12 
 
Once I began to admire Socrates, I felt an itch to imitate his style; I notice how this is fairly common among young spirits who are suddenly on fire with philosophy, but who have not yet moved beyond a need to define themselves by some quirky image. In college, I was often that brooding fellow in the corner, spinning obscure records while smoking foreign cigarettes, so confronting innocent bystanders with odd questions was right up my alley. 
 
It didn’t work out, of course, because I was merely engaged in an absurd caricature, going through the motions for all the wrong reasons. I was interested in looking clever, not in being helpful, and I was trying to drop hints to an answer I already preferred, instead of urging others to understand for themselves. 
 
A good discussion can only take place when our motives are pure. It ceases to be philosophy if it is about putting on a show, for there is neither love nor wisdom in any of it. 
 
And even if I am being sincere and respectful, I should not expect to be thanked for my efforts—very few of us respond well to having our assumptions poked and prodded, especially the ones that lurk deep down on the inside, silently informing our entire worldview. 
 
Do not be surprised by a few harsh words, and perhaps also the threat of a knuckle sandwich. As much as we may desperately need the medicine, it may taste very bitter at first. 
 
Though I am not sure I would approach a complete stranger with such a pesky problem, any meaningful conversation about life must get to the root, with a line of inquiry, however uncomfortable it might be, that shakes the foundation of everything we claim to hold dear. 
 
In the order of nature, the causes precede the effects, but in the order of our discovery, the effects precede the causes. The investigation must push our thinking backwards, to arrive at the why behind the what, to make us revisit our priorities. 
 
There is no profound secret to asking a constructive set of questions—they must simply challenge us to be consistent in our principles, by applying the same rules in one corner of our lives as we do in another. 
 
If I have worked so hard at protecting my property, my health, or my reputation, how much effort have I applied to the excellence of my character? Should it be the same? Or maybe it should be far more, because the goods of the body are subservient to the goods of the soul? If I am brutally honest with myself, haven’t I actually been doing far less than is necessary, hoping I could pull a fast one? 
 

As much as it hurts to learn that we are trying to live out a contradiction, we have no one to blame but ourselves. The dialogue breaks us down, so we can then get on with the task of rebuilding. 

—Reflection written in 8/2001 

IMAGE: Marcello Bacciarelli, Alcibiades Being Taught by Socrates (1777) 

Sayings of Publilius Syrus 197

It is easier to get a favor from Fortune than to keep it. 

IMAGE: Godfried Schalcken, Fortune (c. 1680) 

Michael Leunig 85

Maxims of Goethe 89

Ingratitude is always a kind of weakness. I have never known men of ability to be ungrateful. 

IMAGE: Henry Ossawa Tanner, The Thankful Poor (1894) 

Xenophon, Memorabilia of Socrates 46

Seeing one of those who were with him, a young man, but feeble of body, named Epigenes, Socrates addressed him. 

Socrates: "You have not the athletic appearance of a youth in training, Epigenes." 

And he: "That may well be, seeing I am an amateur and not in training." 

Socrates: "As little of an amateur, I take it, as anyone who ever entered the lists of Olympia, unless you are prepared to make light of that contest for life and death against the public foe, which the Athenians will institute when the day comes. 

"And yet they are not a few who, owing to a bad habit of body, either perish outright in the perils of war, or are ignobly saved. Many are they who for the selfsame cause are taken prisoners, and being taken must, if it so betide, endure the pains of slavery for the rest of their days; or, after falling into dolorous straits, when they have paid to the uttermost farthing of all, or maybe more than the worth of all that they possess, must drag on a miserable existence in want of the barest necessaries until death releases them. 

"Many also are they who gain an evil repute through infirmity of body, being thought to play the coward. Can it be that you despise these penalties affixed to an evil habit? Do you think you could lightly endure them? Far lighter, I imagine, nay, pleasant even by comparison, are the toils which he will undergo who duly cultivates a healthy bodily condition. 

"Or do you maintain that the evil habit is healthier, and in general more useful than the good? Do you pour contempt upon those blessings which flow from the healthy state? 

"And yet the very opposite of that which befalls the ill attends the sound condition. Does not the very soundness imply at once health and strength? Many a man with no other talisman than this has passed safely through the ordeal of war; stepping, not without dignity, through all its horrors unscathed. 

"Many with no other support than this have come to the rescue of friends, or stood forth as benefactors of their fatherland; whereby they were thought worthy of gratitude, and obtained a great renown and received as a recompense the highest honors of the state; to whom is also reserved a happier and brighter passage through what is left to them of life, and at their death they leave to their children the legacy of a fairer starting-point in the race of life. 

"Because our city does not practice military training in public, that is no reason for neglecting it in private, but rather a reason for making it a foremost care. For be you assured that there is no contest of any sort, nor any transaction, in which you will be the worse off for being well prepared in body; and in fact there is nothing which men do for which the body is not a help. 

"In every demand, therefore, which can be laid upon the body it is much better that it should be in the best condition; since, even where you might imagine the claims upon the body to be slightest—in the act of reasoning—who does not know the terrible stumbles which are made through being out of health? 

"It suffices to say that forgetfulness, and despondency, and moroseness, and madness take occasion often of ill-health to visit the intellectual faculties so severely as to expel all knowledge from the brain. 

"But he who is in good bodily plight has large security. He runs no risk of incurring any such catastrophe through ill-health at any rate; he has the expectation rather that a good habit must procure consequences the opposite to those of an evil habit; and surely to this end there is nothing a man in his senses would not undergo. . . . 

"It is a base thing for a man to wax old in careless self-neglect before he has lifted up his eyes and seen what manner of man he was made to be, in the full perfection of bodily strength and beauty. But these glories are withheld from him who is guilty of self-neglect, for they are not wont to blaze forth unbidden." 

—from Xenophon, Memorabilia 3.12 

The Traveller

It feels like 1982 all over again. . .  

Only one fellow, Geoff Downes, is now left from the original quartet, but the sound and the spirit are still mighty strong. What a pleasant and uplifting surprise! And the cover is by Roger Dean! 

Asia, "The Traveller (Into the Light)", from Indigo (2026) 

The album release date is November 6. 

Go ahead, you know you want to return to a simpler time, when you could sing along to Journey, Toto, or Foreigner, without a care in the world.  

Dreams turn from diamonds to dust 
Empires that crumble and rust 
Rivers run dry, smoke fills the sky 
Over and over and over and over and 

Into the light we carry on 
Hold on til daylight when new days dawn 

Nations divided and torn 
Anger and evil reborn 
Chaos, confusion, mindless delusion 
Over and over and over and over and 

Into the light we carry on 
Hold on til daylight when new days dawn 

One day you'll find yourself 
Under a moonlit sky 
Tossing the sovereigns of hope 
Into the well of your dreams 

Into the light we carry on
Hold on til daylight when new days dawn 

The Continence of Scipio 15

Giovanni Battista Pittoni, The Continence of Scipio (1733) 

Epictetus, Discourses 2.12.3

Such phrases are technical and therefore tiresome to the lay mind, and hard to follow, yet you and I cannot get away from them. We are quite unable to rouse the ordinary man's attention in a way which will enable him to follow his own impressions and so arrive at admitting or rejecting this or that. 
 
And therefore those of us who are at all cautious naturally give the subject up, when we become aware of this incapacity; while the mass of men, who venture at random into this sort of enterprise, muddle others and get muddled themselves, and end by abusing their opponents and getting abused in return, and so leave the field. 
 
But the first quality of all in Socrates, and the most characteristic, was that he never lost his temper in argument, never uttered anything abusive, never anything insolent, but bore with abuse from others and quieted strife. 
 
If you would get to know what a faculty he had in this matter, read the “Banquet” of Xenophon and you will see how many strifes he has brought to an end. Therefore, the poets too with good reason have praised this gift most highly:
 
“And straightway with skill he brought to rest a mighty quarrel." 

—from Epictetus, Discourses 2.12 
 
In one sense, philosophy can be very much like politics, because those who should practice it want nothing to do with it, while those who shouldn’t practice it are breaking down the door. When the humble amateur looks to the sophisticated professional, he sees only squabbling and self-promotion, tied up in ridiculously specialized language at the expense of any genuine human meaning. 
 
And even the sophists will eventually grow tired of the spectacle, once they no longer find it gratifying, and then they turn their attention to more profitable endeavors. I think of the professors who were itching to become deans, or the priests who had set their eyes on a promotion to bishop. 
 
I once had a teacher who was forever talking about the hidden motives of Socrates, the real reasons he would have conversations with his fellow Athenians. 
 
“Isn’t he trying to inspire people to know themselves?” 
 
“Well yes, but did this just grant him a psychological power over others, or was he also hoping to attain a more systemic form of political power? How did he intend to implement a radical transformation of social justice?” 
 
It is tragic when the jargon of this or that “-ism” discourages us from a simple love of the true and the good. 
 
For all the times I am frustrated by a Socratic dialogue, sometimes to the point of clenching my fists or tossing the book across the room, I never feel like he is trying to sell me on an ideology. I may not know exactly what he wants out of me, but I do know that he was acting in my best interests. If I am patient, and I don’t let my passions get the better of me, I am certain I will walk away with a sliver of insight, as well as a whole new set of questions. 
 
Furthermore, on the most immediate level, I can’t recall a single moment when the old man got angry, or spouted insults, or allowed the tirades of others to knock him off balance. He did have a knack for the occasional sarcastic comment, though this usually helps me to become more critical of myself, despite the initial irritation and confusion. 
 
Have I ever felt offended? Absolutely, and a part of the grueling process is to recognize how the degree of my outrage is a function of my own estimation, not of what anyone else has said or done. I have learned that there are wrongs, and then there are perceptions of wrongs, and the two will not always coincide.
 
Once, thanks to folks like Socrates, I have a fuller understanding of what actually constitutes benefit and harm, I am not so easily vexed. Even if Socrates only taught me that, it would still be a precious lesson. 
 
I never had any teachers introduce me to Xenophon, so I had to discover his writing for myself. I am very glad I did, since they allowed me to think of Socrates independently from the perspective of Plato. They merely confirmed what I already suspected, that here was man I would be honored to have a discussion with, however much I might be pulling out my hair. 
 
The best philosophical conversations have knocked me down instead of puffing me up, by leaving me with a sharp reminder that I am accountable for my own judgements, and only for my own judgments. 

—Reflection written in 8/2001 

IMAGE: Pietro Testa, Drunken Alcibiades Interrupting the Symposium (1648) 

The Shimmering Present

Delphic Maxims 98

Ἀποκρίνου ἐν καιρῷ 

Give a timely response 

IMAGE: Odilon Redon, Silence (1900) 

Man's Search for Meaning 22

Earlier, I mentioned art. Is there such a thing in a concentration camp? It rather depends on what one chooses to call art. 

A kind of cabaret was improvised from time to time. A hut was cleared temporarily, a few wooden benches were pushed or nailed together and a program was drawn up. In the evening those who had fairly good positions in camp—the Capos and the workers who did not have to leave camp on distant marches—assembled there. They came to have a few laughs or perhaps to cry a little; anyway, to forget. 

There were songs, poems, jokes, some with underlying satire regarding the camp. All were meant to help us forget, and they did help. The gatherings were so effective that a few ordinary prisoners went to see the cabaret in spite of their fatigue even though they missed their daily portion of food by going. 

During the half-hour lunch interval when soup (which the contractors paid for and for which they did not spend much) was ladled out at our work site, we were allowed to assemble in an unfinished engine room. On entering, everyone got a ladleful of the watery soup. While we sipped it greedily, a prisoner climbed onto a tub and sang Italian arias. We enjoyed the songs, and he was guaranteed a double helping of soup, straight "from the bottom"—that meant with peas! 

Rewards were given in camp not only for entertainment, but also for applause. I, for example, could have found protection (how lucky I was never in need of it!) from the camp's most dreaded Capo, who for more than one good reason was known as "The Murderous Capo." This is how it happened. 

One evening I had the great honor of being invited again to the room where the spiritualistic séance had taken place. There were gathered the same intimate friends of the chief doctor and, most illegally, the warrant officer from the sanitation squad was again present. The Murderous Capo entered the room by chance, and he was asked to recite one of his poems, which had become famous (or infamous) in camp. He did not need to be asked twice and quickly produced a kind of diary from which he began to read samples of his art. 

I bit my lips till they hurt in order to keep from laughing at one of his love poems, and very likely that saved my life. Since I was also generous with my applause, my life might have been saved even had I been detailed to his working party to which I had previously been assigned for one day—a day that was quite enough for me. It was useful, anyway, to be known to The Murderous Capo from a favourable angle. So I applauded as hard as I could. 

Generally speaking, of course, any pursuit of art in camp was somewhat grotesque. I would say that the real impression made by anything connected with art arose only from the ghostlike contrast between the performance and the background of desolate camp life. 

I shall never forget how I awoke from the deep sleep of exhaustion on my second night in Auschwitz—roused by music. The senior warden of the hut had some kind of celebration in his room, which was near the entrance of the hut. Tipsy voices bawled some hackneyed tunes. Suddenly there was a silence and into the night a violin sang a desperately sad tango, an unusual tune not spoiled by frequent playing. 

The violin wept and a part of me wept with it, for on that same day someone had a twenty-fourth birthday.That someone lay in another part of the Auschwitz camp, possibly only a few hundred or a thousand yards away, and yet completely out of reach. That someone was my wife. 

—from Viktor Frankl, Man's Search for Meaning 

Bach 8, Ach Herr, mich armen Sünder

Johann Sebastian Bach, Ach Herr, mich armen Sünder, BWV 135, Netherlands Bach Society