Chapter 14: On Naso.
Once, when a Roman came in with his son and was listening to one of his lectures, Epictetus said: “This is the method of my teaching,” and broke off short.
And when the Roman begged him to continue, he replied:
Every art, when it is being taught, is tiresome to one who is unskilled and untried in it. The products of the arts indeed show at once the use they are made for, and most of them have an attraction and charm of their own; for though it is no pleasure to be present and follow the process by which a shoemaker learns his art, the shoe itself is useful and a pleasant thing to look at as well.
So too the process by which a carpenter learns is very tiresome to the unskilled person who happens to be by, but his work shows the use of his art.
This you will see still more in the case of music, for if you are by when a man is being taught you will think the process of all things the most unpleasant, yet the effects of music are pleasant and delightful for unmusical persons to hear.
—from Epictetus, Discourses 2.14
A decade ago, I probably found this chapter to be tedious, and it is likely I skimmed over it, believing this to be just another fussy discussion about method, since I was far more interested in getting to the good stuff, an explanation of how I actually needed to live.
A decade ago, I probably found this chapter to be tedious, and it is likely I skimmed over it, believing this to be just another fussy discussion about method, since I was far more interested in getting to the good stuff, an explanation of how I actually needed to live.
The fact that I do not remember when I first read it, but I now return to it over and over again, helps me to appreciate a change in my own priorities. I can’t go around saying that the product is terribly exciting, while at the same time complaining that the work is painfully dull.
I think it took a stinging line from Chesterton to really wake me up: “There is no such thing on earth as an uninteresting subject; the only thing that can exist is an uninterested person.”
And so now, when my students grumble about the next boring topic, I playfully remind them how being bored is yet another form of being lazy and smug. For the curious chemist, watching the paint dry is genuinely exciting, and for the inquisitive botanist, watching the grass grow can become a profound revelation. I know all too well how my sense of entitlement is an obstacle to my sense of wonder.
As a fellow who didn’t own a car until much later in life, I walked most everywhere I needed to go, from one end of town to the other, often in the worst kind of weather. While I was always grateful for a solid pair of shoes, I never gave the skills of the cobbler a second thought, until my best boots got mangled, and an old man in a tiny shop made them look like new within two hours. Now I can’t look at a shoe without thinking of the craftsmanship that went into making it.
Though I came from a long line of fine carpenters, I quickly grew frustrated with the patience and precision the trade required, and so I sadly never mastered the art of woodworking. I regret this now, with only my backyard whittling as a paltry compensation. This unpleasant experience has become a way to remember why the dignity of the end is only possible through the discipline of the means.
Last but not least, I was raised in a house full of music, from which I learned to value the harmony of sound as a reflection of the beauty in all creation, as powerful as any interplay of light. Yet this did not come to me without continual effort, to the point where I would sometimes toss aside my instrument in disgust. What little competence I do possess is thanks to constant practice, and what remains beyond my ability is mainly due to indolence.
Never underestimate the importance of playing your scales, over and over again, until you can no longer feel your fingers. It is the same in all aspects of life: the habit is built through the exercise, and the exercise, however tiresome it may initially appear, opens the way to finally doing the good, instead of merely wishing for it.
I think it took a stinging line from Chesterton to really wake me up: “There is no such thing on earth as an uninteresting subject; the only thing that can exist is an uninterested person.”
And so now, when my students grumble about the next boring topic, I playfully remind them how being bored is yet another form of being lazy and smug. For the curious chemist, watching the paint dry is genuinely exciting, and for the inquisitive botanist, watching the grass grow can become a profound revelation. I know all too well how my sense of entitlement is an obstacle to my sense of wonder.
As a fellow who didn’t own a car until much later in life, I walked most everywhere I needed to go, from one end of town to the other, often in the worst kind of weather. While I was always grateful for a solid pair of shoes, I never gave the skills of the cobbler a second thought, until my best boots got mangled, and an old man in a tiny shop made them look like new within two hours. Now I can’t look at a shoe without thinking of the craftsmanship that went into making it.
Though I came from a long line of fine carpenters, I quickly grew frustrated with the patience and precision the trade required, and so I sadly never mastered the art of woodworking. I regret this now, with only my backyard whittling as a paltry compensation. This unpleasant experience has become a way to remember why the dignity of the end is only possible through the discipline of the means.
Last but not least, I was raised in a house full of music, from which I learned to value the harmony of sound as a reflection of the beauty in all creation, as powerful as any interplay of light. Yet this did not come to me without continual effort, to the point where I would sometimes toss aside my instrument in disgust. What little competence I do possess is thanks to constant practice, and what remains beyond my ability is mainly due to indolence.
Never underestimate the importance of playing your scales, over and over again, until you can no longer feel your fingers. It is the same in all aspects of life: the habit is built through the exercise, and the exercise, however tiresome it may initially appear, opens the way to finally doing the good, instead of merely wishing for it.
—Reflection written in 9/2001
IMAGE: Adriaen van Ostade, The Shoemaker (c. 1650)
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