Tuesday, February 10, 2026
Sayings of Publilius Syrus 190
When Fortune is on our side, popular favor bears her company.
IMAGE: Anonymous Venetian, Fortune Distributes Her Gifts (c. 1650)
Seneca, Moral Letters 84.4
Even if there shall appear in you a likeness to him who, by reason of your admiration, has left a deep impress upon you, I would have you resemble him as a child resembles his father, and not as a picture resembles its original; for a picture is a lifeless thing.
“What,” you say, “will it not be seen whose style you are imitating, whose method of reasoning, whose pungent sayings?”
I think that sometimes it is impossible for it to be seen who is being imitated, if the copy is a true one; for a true copy stamps its own form upon all the features which it has drawn from what we may call the original, in such a way that they are combined into a unity.
Do you not see how many voices there are in a chorus? Yet out of the many only one voice results. In that chorus one voice takes the tenor, another the bass, another the baritone. There are women, too, as well as men, and the flute is mingled with them. In that chorus the voices of the individual singers are hidden; what we hear is the voices of all together.
To be sure, I am referring to the chorus which the old-time philosophers knew; in our present-day exhibitions we have a larger number of singers than there used to be spectators in the theaters of old. All the aisles are filled with rows of singers; brass instruments surround the auditorium; the stage resounds with flutes and instruments of every description; and yet from the discordant sounds a harmony is produced.
I would have my mind of such a quality as this; it should be equipped with many arts, many precepts, and patterns of conduct taken from many epochs of history; but all should blend harmoniously into one.
“What,” you say, “will it not be seen whose style you are imitating, whose method of reasoning, whose pungent sayings?”
I think that sometimes it is impossible for it to be seen who is being imitated, if the copy is a true one; for a true copy stamps its own form upon all the features which it has drawn from what we may call the original, in such a way that they are combined into a unity.
Do you not see how many voices there are in a chorus? Yet out of the many only one voice results. In that chorus one voice takes the tenor, another the bass, another the baritone. There are women, too, as well as men, and the flute is mingled with them. In that chorus the voices of the individual singers are hidden; what we hear is the voices of all together.
To be sure, I am referring to the chorus which the old-time philosophers knew; in our present-day exhibitions we have a larger number of singers than there used to be spectators in the theaters of old. All the aisles are filled with rows of singers; brass instruments surround the auditorium; the stage resounds with flutes and instruments of every description; and yet from the discordant sounds a harmony is produced.
I would have my mind of such a quality as this; it should be equipped with many arts, many precepts, and patterns of conduct taken from many epochs of history; but all should blend harmoniously into one.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 84
We are under the illusion that anything worthy must also be innovative, all the while forgetting why there is ultimately nothing new under the sun. It may appear brand new to me, and yet it is forever old. Looking behind the fads and the fancies of progress, those tiny snippets of time are subsumed under eternity.
So you will please forgive me if I smile when they say that it is the best thing ever, because it is oh so radical, edgy, and original. This may seem true from our narrow perspectives, but I fear that any sort of creation we claim for ourselves is only a likeness of the Absolute, every being as a further expression of Being. Infinite forms in infinite combinations are already included within the perfection of Providence.
This need not, however, be grounds for despair, since imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. That it has all been said and done before does not negate the unique value of making it my own at this very moment, of discovering my own specific variation. What makes it special is that I am participating in the whole, adding an individual interpretation, one which consciously binds together many separate influences.
In academia, we foolishly reward research if it can be labeled as groundbreaking, or in music, we falsely praise a performance if it can be marketed as avant-garde, when we would do ourselves far more good by honoring any act of insight, however humble, for the simple reason that a fellow has achieved it by his deliberate efforts, and struggled toward it with sincerity and integrity.
We should, for example, celebrate each child who arrives at the conclusion of the Golden Rule through his independent reasoning, regardless of how many others have gotten there before him. It matters far more for it be true than for it be innovative.
It is only a bland duplication when it is mindless, for the path is made fresh each time it is intentionally traveled. A wide range of the influences will certainly show themselves, though what will be most important is why these scattered elements have once again been combined through the power of a personal judgment.
I especially enjoy Seneca’s examples of how the resemblance should be like that of a child to a parent, and how a chorus blends the diverse voices into a single voice. I think of how my own children are learning to make themselves out of the conditions that were made for them, and how my high school chorus actually sounded rather nice, even though very few of us could carry a tune on our own.
Whatever sort of materials I happen to collect, I can inform them with my peculiar identity by uniting them into a single purpose. The universal constantly reveals itself in the particulars.
We are under the illusion that anything worthy must also be innovative, all the while forgetting why there is ultimately nothing new under the sun. It may appear brand new to me, and yet it is forever old. Looking behind the fads and the fancies of progress, those tiny snippets of time are subsumed under eternity.
So you will please forgive me if I smile when they say that it is the best thing ever, because it is oh so radical, edgy, and original. This may seem true from our narrow perspectives, but I fear that any sort of creation we claim for ourselves is only a likeness of the Absolute, every being as a further expression of Being. Infinite forms in infinite combinations are already included within the perfection of Providence.
This need not, however, be grounds for despair, since imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. That it has all been said and done before does not negate the unique value of making it my own at this very moment, of discovering my own specific variation. What makes it special is that I am participating in the whole, adding an individual interpretation, one which consciously binds together many separate influences.
In academia, we foolishly reward research if it can be labeled as groundbreaking, or in music, we falsely praise a performance if it can be marketed as avant-garde, when we would do ourselves far more good by honoring any act of insight, however humble, for the simple reason that a fellow has achieved it by his deliberate efforts, and struggled toward it with sincerity and integrity.
We should, for example, celebrate each child who arrives at the conclusion of the Golden Rule through his independent reasoning, regardless of how many others have gotten there before him. It matters far more for it be true than for it be innovative.
It is only a bland duplication when it is mindless, for the path is made fresh each time it is intentionally traveled. A wide range of the influences will certainly show themselves, though what will be most important is why these scattered elements have once again been combined through the power of a personal judgment.
I especially enjoy Seneca’s examples of how the resemblance should be like that of a child to a parent, and how a chorus blends the diverse voices into a single voice. I think of how my own children are learning to make themselves out of the conditions that were made for them, and how my high school chorus actually sounded rather nice, even though very few of us could carry a tune on our own.
Whatever sort of materials I happen to collect, I can inform them with my peculiar identity by uniting them into a single purpose. The universal constantly reveals itself in the particulars.
—Reflection written in 12/2013
Monday, February 9, 2026
Sunday, February 8, 2026
Saturday, February 7, 2026
Friday, February 6, 2026
Seneca, Moral Letters 84.3
But I must not be led astray into another subject than that which we are discussing. We also, I say, ought to copy these bees, and sift whatever we have gathered from a varied course of reading, for such things are better preserved if they are kept separate; then, by applying the supervising care with which our nature has endowed us—in other words, our natural gifts—we should so blend those several flavors into one delicious compound that, even though it betrays its origin, yet it nevertheless is clearly a different thing from that whence it came.
This is what we see nature doing in our own bodies without any labor on our part; the food we have eaten, as long as it retains its original quality and floats in our stomachs as an undiluted mass, is a burden; but it passes into tissue and blood only when it has been changed from its original form.
So it is with the food which nourishes our higher nature—we should see to it that whatever we have absorbed should not be allowed to remain unchanged, or it will be no part of us. We must digest it; otherwise it will merely enter the memory and not the reasoning power.
Let us loyally welcome such foods and make them our own, so that something that is one may be formed out of many elements, just as one number is formed of several elements whenever, by our reckoning, lesser sums, each different from the others, are brought together. This is what our mind should do: it should hide away all the materials by which it has been aided, and bring to light only what it has made of them.
This is what we see nature doing in our own bodies without any labor on our part; the food we have eaten, as long as it retains its original quality and floats in our stomachs as an undiluted mass, is a burden; but it passes into tissue and blood only when it has been changed from its original form.
So it is with the food which nourishes our higher nature—we should see to it that whatever we have absorbed should not be allowed to remain unchanged, or it will be no part of us. We must digest it; otherwise it will merely enter the memory and not the reasoning power.
Let us loyally welcome such foods and make them our own, so that something that is one may be formed out of many elements, just as one number is formed of several elements whenever, by our reckoning, lesser sums, each different from the others, are brought together. This is what our mind should do: it should hide away all the materials by which it has been aided, and bring to light only what it has made of them.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 84
Break it down, and then build it back up. This process takes place whenever a bee makes its honey, or a stomach digests its food, or a mind arrives at understanding. The first step is to distinguish the parts. The second step is to incorporate them into the whole. In the contemporary lingo, it is the interplay between analysis and synthesis.
Left to itself, the flower does not produce honey. Left to itself, my supper does not give me strength. Left to itself, a fact does not become knowledge. It is the power of the bee, and of my organs, and of my intellect that transforms the old into something new.
This letter is already full of analogies to help us describe the activity of learning, but the wife would surely add that preparing a delicious recipe is far more than a pile of ingredients, and my father would remind me to carefully sort through the pieces before I attempt to assemble the appliance. The Aristotelian might say that a change requires an efficient cause to modify a material cause; as the old Scholastic phrase goes, “every agent forms matter for the sake of an end.”
The dull mechanics of our industrial society can so easily overlook the creative force that animates Nature, the way that a vital understanding will bind together the disparate circumstances into a shared meaning and purpose.
Do not believe the technicians when they tell you that a house is just a framework of lumber or stone, for a man knows why it is a place to live. Do not believe the bureaucrats when they tell you that prosperity is about arranging the ideal socio-economic conditions, for a man knows why happiness is within the judgements of each individual.
Whatever is touched by awareness is thereby also charged with estimation and intention, so that we can never treat learning as if it were only receptive. A state of affairs has been given—now how will I discern it, and what will I make of it? However mundane the elements, the composite is now distinctly mine, because I have provided for myself an account of the reasons why.
“Don’t be so silly! Someone else has already added up all the separate numbers before!”
Perhaps, but by doing so in my own mind I have explained the causes by my own power, which makes that critical difference between blindly repeating and independently comprehending.
Break it down, and then build it back up. This process takes place whenever a bee makes its honey, or a stomach digests its food, or a mind arrives at understanding. The first step is to distinguish the parts. The second step is to incorporate them into the whole. In the contemporary lingo, it is the interplay between analysis and synthesis.
Left to itself, the flower does not produce honey. Left to itself, my supper does not give me strength. Left to itself, a fact does not become knowledge. It is the power of the bee, and of my organs, and of my intellect that transforms the old into something new.
This letter is already full of analogies to help us describe the activity of learning, but the wife would surely add that preparing a delicious recipe is far more than a pile of ingredients, and my father would remind me to carefully sort through the pieces before I attempt to assemble the appliance. The Aristotelian might say that a change requires an efficient cause to modify a material cause; as the old Scholastic phrase goes, “every agent forms matter for the sake of an end.”
The dull mechanics of our industrial society can so easily overlook the creative force that animates Nature, the way that a vital understanding will bind together the disparate circumstances into a shared meaning and purpose.
Do not believe the technicians when they tell you that a house is just a framework of lumber or stone, for a man knows why it is a place to live. Do not believe the bureaucrats when they tell you that prosperity is about arranging the ideal socio-economic conditions, for a man knows why happiness is within the judgements of each individual.
Whatever is touched by awareness is thereby also charged with estimation and intention, so that we can never treat learning as if it were only receptive. A state of affairs has been given—now how will I discern it, and what will I make of it? However mundane the elements, the composite is now distinctly mine, because I have provided for myself an account of the reasons why.
“Don’t be so silly! Someone else has already added up all the separate numbers before!”
Perhaps, but by doing so in my own mind I have explained the causes by my own power, which makes that critical difference between blindly repeating and independently comprehending.
—Reflection written in 12/2013
IMAGE: Gerrit Dou, Woman at Prayer Before Her Meal (c. 1650)
Thursday, February 5, 2026
Wednesday, February 4, 2026
Maxims of Goethe 82
An honorable man with limited ideas often sees through the rascality of the most cunning jobber.
Seneca, Moral Letters 84.2
We should follow, men say, the example of the bees, who flit about and cull the flowers that are suitable for producing honey, and then arrange and assort in their cells all that they have brought in; these bees, as our Vergil says,
“pack close the flowing honey,
And swell their cells with nectar sweet.”
It is not certain whether the juice which they obtain from the flowers forms at once into honey, or whether they change that which they have gathered into this delicious object by blending something therewith and by a certain property of their breath.
For some authorities believe that bees do not possess the art of making honey, but only of gathering it; and they say that in India honey has been found on the leaves of certain reeds, produced by a dew peculiar to that climate, or by the juice of the reed itself, which has an unusual sweetness, and richness. And in our own grasses too, they say, the same quality exists, although less clear and less evident; and a creature born to fulfil such a function could hunt it out and collect it.
Certain others maintain that the materials which the bees have culled from the most delicate of blooming and flowering plants is transformed into this peculiar substance by a process of preserving and careful storing away, aided by what might be called fermentation—whereby separate elements are united into one substance.
And swell their cells with nectar sweet.”
It is not certain whether the juice which they obtain from the flowers forms at once into honey, or whether they change that which they have gathered into this delicious object by blending something therewith and by a certain property of their breath.
For some authorities believe that bees do not possess the art of making honey, but only of gathering it; and they say that in India honey has been found on the leaves of certain reeds, produced by a dew peculiar to that climate, or by the juice of the reed itself, which has an unusual sweetness, and richness. And in our own grasses too, they say, the same quality exists, although less clear and less evident; and a creature born to fulfil such a function could hunt it out and collect it.
Certain others maintain that the materials which the bees have culled from the most delicate of blooming and flowering plants is transformed into this peculiar substance by a process of preserving and careful storing away, aided by what might be called fermentation—whereby separate elements are united into one substance.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 84
I have long been fascinated with bees, though I am also a bit frightened by them, thanks to some unfortunate encounters as a child. As a moody teenager, I hastily brushed aside an offer to work as an apprentice to an Austrian beekeeper; in hindsight, this would probably have been a calling ideally suited to my peculiar temperament.
I am only an amateur when it comes to biology and chemistry, so, like Seneca, I can’t precisely explain the process of producing honey. But, also like Seneca, I do know that the bees are making it into something of their own, whether it be at the levels of collection or of fabrication. A schoolyard chum used to call it “bug barf”, and I suppose that’s as good a way as any to describe the nectar being treated with enzymes and bacteria in a special stomach.
Nature expresses herself in patterns, and just as a body lives and grows by digesting its food, so a mind understands by abstracting and combining from its experience. While it begins with an act of receiving, it is completed by an act of transformation—do not treat living and learning as if they were simply about what is given, when they are all about a development from what is given.
I can admire the tiny bee for the way it labors in an approximation of our social nature, and for its ability to build and to produce with such remarkable beauty and efficiency. Even though the insect does not possess judgment in the same way that we humans do, the power of reason stands behind its design, in the same way that Intelligence brings order and purpose to the entire Universe.
It is tragic when a bee can do the work of Providence without the gift of consciousness, and a man abandons the work of Providence by neglecting the gift of consciousness. We are presented with all of the pieces, and yet we stubbornly refuse to assemble them into a whole, willing to settle for a state of idleness instead of rising to the exercise of creativity.
Three decades as a teacher have unfortunately shown me how our “best practices” in education reduce the student to a sponge, expecting little more than rote memorization and blind conformity. In this case, it might be better to follow the example of the constructive bee than that of the mimicking parrot.
I have long been fascinated with bees, though I am also a bit frightened by them, thanks to some unfortunate encounters as a child. As a moody teenager, I hastily brushed aside an offer to work as an apprentice to an Austrian beekeeper; in hindsight, this would probably have been a calling ideally suited to my peculiar temperament.
I am only an amateur when it comes to biology and chemistry, so, like Seneca, I can’t precisely explain the process of producing honey. But, also like Seneca, I do know that the bees are making it into something of their own, whether it be at the levels of collection or of fabrication. A schoolyard chum used to call it “bug barf”, and I suppose that’s as good a way as any to describe the nectar being treated with enzymes and bacteria in a special stomach.
Nature expresses herself in patterns, and just as a body lives and grows by digesting its food, so a mind understands by abstracting and combining from its experience. While it begins with an act of receiving, it is completed by an act of transformation—do not treat living and learning as if they were simply about what is given, when they are all about a development from what is given.
I can admire the tiny bee for the way it labors in an approximation of our social nature, and for its ability to build and to produce with such remarkable beauty and efficiency. Even though the insect does not possess judgment in the same way that we humans do, the power of reason stands behind its design, in the same way that Intelligence brings order and purpose to the entire Universe.
It is tragic when a bee can do the work of Providence without the gift of consciousness, and a man abandons the work of Providence by neglecting the gift of consciousness. We are presented with all of the pieces, and yet we stubbornly refuse to assemble them into a whole, willing to settle for a state of idleness instead of rising to the exercise of creativity.
Three decades as a teacher have unfortunately shown me how our “best practices” in education reduce the student to a sponge, expecting little more than rote memorization and blind conformity. In this case, it might be better to follow the example of the constructive bee than that of the mimicking parrot.
—Reflection written in 12/2013
IMAGE: Hans Thoma, The Friend of Bees (1853)
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Tuesday, February 3, 2026
Monday, February 2, 2026
Delphic Maxims 91
Live together meekly
IMAGE: John Everett Millais, Peace Concluded (1856)
Stockdale on Stoicism 54
Just before midnight, I had been the eyewitness with the best seat in the house to see an action that had been reported as an attack by North Vietnamese PT boats against the American destroyers, Maddox and Joy.
It was, in fact, a false alarm caused by the destroyers’ phantom radar contacts and faulty sonar operation on a very dark, humid, and stormy night. This was realized during the event by the boss of the destroyers at the scene, and by me, the boss of the airplanes overhead. Corrective messages were sent instantly to Washington: "No PT boats."
A few hours later, I was awakened to organize, brief, and lead the first air strike against North Vietnam, a reprisal for what I knew to be a false alarm. It was true that I had helped repulse an actual attack three days before, and that I thought it likely that another real one would occur in the future.
A few hours later, I was awakened to organize, brief, and lead the first air strike against North Vietnam, a reprisal for what I knew to be a false alarm. It was true that I had helped repulse an actual attack three days before, and that I thought it likely that another real one would occur in the future.
But what to do, knowing that hours before, Washington had received the false-alarm messages, and that it would be none other than I who would be launching a war under false pretenses?
I remember sitting on the side of my shipboard bed, alone in those predawn minutes, conscious of the fact that history was taking a major turn, and that it was I, little Jimmy Stockdale, who happened to be in the Ferris wheel seat that was just coming over the top and starting its descent.
I remember sitting on the side of my shipboard bed, alone in those predawn minutes, conscious of the fact that history was taking a major turn, and that it was I, little Jimmy Stockdale, who happened to be in the Ferris wheel seat that was just coming over the top and starting its descent.
I remember two thoughts.
The first was a pledge: that this was a moment to tell my grandchildren about someday, a history lesson important to future generations.
The second was a reflection: I thought about Rhinelander, his "The Problems of Good and Evil" course, Epictetus, and how prophetic it had been that we had all come together those few years before. Probably nobody had ever tested Rhinelander’s course as I was likely to test it in not only the hours, but the years ahead. I knew we were stepping into a quagmire.
There was no question of getting the truth of that night out; that truth had been out for hours. I was sure that there was nothing I could do to stop the "reprisal" juggernaut pouring out of Washington.
My course was clear: to play well the given part. The Author had cast me in a lead role of a Greek Tragedy. Who else to lead my pilots into the heavy flak of the city of Vinh and blow the North Vietnamese oil storage tanks off the map?
Remember that you are an actor in a drama of such sort as the Author chooses—if short, then in a short one; if long, then in a long one. If it be his pleasure that you should enact a poor man, or a cripple, or a ruler, or a private citizen, see that you act it well. For this is your business—to act well the given part, but to choose it belongs to another.
Remember that you are an actor in a drama of such sort as the Author chooses—if short, then in a short one; if long, then in a long one. If it be his pleasure that you should enact a poor man, or a cripple, or a ruler, or a private citizen, see that you act it well. For this is your business—to act well the given part, but to choose it belongs to another.
—from James B. Stockdale, Epictetus' Enchiridion: Conflict and Character
Sunday, February 1, 2026
Sayings of Ramakrishna 279
There is little chance of a ship running astray, so long as its compass points towards the true North.
So if the mind of man—the compass needle of the ship of life—is turned always towards the Supreme Brahman, without oscillation, it will steer clear of every danger.
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Seneca, Moral Letters 84.1
Letter 84: On gathering ideas
The journeys to which you refer—journeys that shake the laziness out of my system—I hold to be profitable both for my health and for my studies. You see why they benefit my health: since my passion for literature makes me lazy and careless about my body, I can take exercise by deputy; as for my studies, I shall show you why my journeys help them, for I have not stopped my reading in the slightest degree.
And reading, I hold, is indispensable—primarily, to keep me from being satisfied with myself alone, and besides, after I have learned what others have found out by their studies, to enable me to pass judgment on their discoveries and reflect upon discoveries that remain to be made.
Reading nourishes the mind and refreshes it when it is wearied with study; nevertheless, this refreshment is not obtained without study. We ought not to confine ourselves either to writing or to reading; the one, continuous writing, will cast a gloom over our strength, and exhaust it; the other will make our strength flabby and watery.
It is better to have recourse to them alternately, and to blend one with the other, so that the fruits of one’s reading may be reduced to concrete form by the pen.
The journeys to which you refer—journeys that shake the laziness out of my system—I hold to be profitable both for my health and for my studies. You see why they benefit my health: since my passion for literature makes me lazy and careless about my body, I can take exercise by deputy; as for my studies, I shall show you why my journeys help them, for I have not stopped my reading in the slightest degree.
And reading, I hold, is indispensable—primarily, to keep me from being satisfied with myself alone, and besides, after I have learned what others have found out by their studies, to enable me to pass judgment on their discoveries and reflect upon discoveries that remain to be made.
Reading nourishes the mind and refreshes it when it is wearied with study; nevertheless, this refreshment is not obtained without study. We ought not to confine ourselves either to writing or to reading; the one, continuous writing, will cast a gloom over our strength, and exhaust it; the other will make our strength flabby and watery.
It is better to have recourse to them alternately, and to blend one with the other, so that the fruits of one’s reading may be reduced to concrete form by the pen.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 84
I have an intense love both for travel and for reading, though I fear it is not for the usual reasons; I try not to treat a journey or a book as a form of escape, but rather as a challenge to deeper engagement.
Far too often, we go on trips because we believe our problems come from where we are, not from who we are. Far too often, we hide away in libraries because we seek a diversion from the world, when what we really need is a readjustment within ourselves.
No, the Eifel Tower will not make me fall in love, and a gripping tale about mystic unicorns will not bring me enlightenment. As much as I embrace sentimentality, it should never be a replacement for sanity.
I know that both traveling and reading have done their proper work when I feel like I have just been knocked about by some arduous yet dignified task, an odd combination of exhaustion and satisfaction.
In my own quirky manner, burying my nose in a book is inevitably followed by a brisk walk, as if the body needs to catch up to the mind, and the further I journey from home, the more books I somehow manage to consume, as if the new surroundings have spurred my curiosity all the more.
While I have heard some people say that they read for the sake of solitude, I have always found the opposite to be true: the text becomes the vehicle for a spirited conversation. From the outside, it may look like I am doing nothing at all, but on the inside, I am in constant motion.
“We read to know we’re not alone.” That I cannot find a page where C.S. Lewis actually said this, but I can trace the quote back to Shadowlands, a brilliant film about Lewis, suggests that I sometimes read a bit too much.
The dull man, concerned with timetables and balance sheets, views reading as a merely passive state, just as he takes leisure to be the act of switching off a machine, so that it might run more efficiently during the next shift.
The thoughtful man, however, understands why reading is far more than the absorption of information, and rightly becomes a means for active interpretation. Our very judgments about the true, the good, and the beautiful are in play, through a constant interaction between minds exploring a shared existence.
To read responsibly is therefore also to engage in critical study, which can often take the form of then writing about the things we have read. Not everyone needs to write professionally, but any discerning and creative soul will write, in the broad sense, as a brilliant amateur, continually chronicling life’s glorious patterns.
I have an intense love both for travel and for reading, though I fear it is not for the usual reasons; I try not to treat a journey or a book as a form of escape, but rather as a challenge to deeper engagement.
Far too often, we go on trips because we believe our problems come from where we are, not from who we are. Far too often, we hide away in libraries because we seek a diversion from the world, when what we really need is a readjustment within ourselves.
No, the Eifel Tower will not make me fall in love, and a gripping tale about mystic unicorns will not bring me enlightenment. As much as I embrace sentimentality, it should never be a replacement for sanity.
I know that both traveling and reading have done their proper work when I feel like I have just been knocked about by some arduous yet dignified task, an odd combination of exhaustion and satisfaction.
In my own quirky manner, burying my nose in a book is inevitably followed by a brisk walk, as if the body needs to catch up to the mind, and the further I journey from home, the more books I somehow manage to consume, as if the new surroundings have spurred my curiosity all the more.
While I have heard some people say that they read for the sake of solitude, I have always found the opposite to be true: the text becomes the vehicle for a spirited conversation. From the outside, it may look like I am doing nothing at all, but on the inside, I am in constant motion.
“We read to know we’re not alone.” That I cannot find a page where C.S. Lewis actually said this, but I can trace the quote back to Shadowlands, a brilliant film about Lewis, suggests that I sometimes read a bit too much.
The dull man, concerned with timetables and balance sheets, views reading as a merely passive state, just as he takes leisure to be the act of switching off a machine, so that it might run more efficiently during the next shift.
The thoughtful man, however, understands why reading is far more than the absorption of information, and rightly becomes a means for active interpretation. Our very judgments about the true, the good, and the beautiful are in play, through a constant interaction between minds exploring a shared existence.
To read responsibly is therefore also to engage in critical study, which can often take the form of then writing about the things we have read. Not everyone needs to write professionally, but any discerning and creative soul will write, in the broad sense, as a brilliant amateur, continually chronicling life’s glorious patterns.
—Reflection written in 12/2013
Saturday, January 31, 2026
Henry David Thoreau 13
One cannot too soon forget his errors and misdemeanors. To dwell long upon them is to add to the offense. Repentance and sorrow can only be displaced by something better, which is as free and original as if they had not been.
—from Henry David Thoreau, Journals (9 January, 1842)
Ralph Waldo Emerson 18
—from Ralph Waldo Emerson, Journals (4 March, 1831)
Friday, January 30, 2026
Thursday, January 29, 2026
Stoic Snippets 278
Consider that before long you will be nobody and nowhere, nor will any of the things exist which you now see, nor any of those who are now living.
For all things are formed by nature to change and be turned and to perish, in order that other things in continuous succession may exist.
—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 12.21
IMAGE: Piero del Pollaiuolo, Apollo and Daphne (c. 1480)
Seneca, Moral Letters 83.12
Therefore, you should state why the wise man ought not to get drunk. Explain by facts, and not by mere words, the hideousness of the thing, and its haunting evils.
Do that which is easiest of all—namely, demonstrate that what men call pleasures are punishments as soon as they have exceeded due bounds.
For if you try to prove that the wise man can souse himself with much wine and yet keep his course straight, even though he be in his cups, you may go on to infer by syllogisms that he will not die if he swallows poison, that he will not sleep if he takes a sleeping potion, that he will not vomit and reject the matter which clogs his stomach when you give him hellebore.
But, when a man’s feet totter and his tongue is unsteady, what reason have you for believing that he is half sober and half drunk? Farewell.
Do that which is easiest of all—namely, demonstrate that what men call pleasures are punishments as soon as they have exceeded due bounds.
For if you try to prove that the wise man can souse himself with much wine and yet keep his course straight, even though he be in his cups, you may go on to infer by syllogisms that he will not die if he swallows poison, that he will not sleep if he takes a sleeping potion, that he will not vomit and reject the matter which clogs his stomach when you give him hellebore.
But, when a man’s feet totter and his tongue is unsteady, what reason have you for believing that he is half sober and half drunk? Farewell.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 83
A rousing sermon or a lofty treatise does have its proper place, but a man can only learn to practice sobriety if he can see right before him why intoxication will always make him worse, and this, in turn, is only possible if he can see right before him why virtue is all that can make him better. No amount of censure or study can take the place of making that connection in daily living.
And another man cannot do this for you—you will have to do it for yourself. While Nature is there to point the way, you must commit to taking the necessary steps.
In my own case, I long appreciated the nuances of the theory, yet I was ignoring a critical component: when push comes to shove, do not treat every immediate gratification as if it were a good, because the value of the pleasure is relative to the merit of the action.
When the feelings are divorced from an understanding, we are fumbling about blindly, and we are far more likely to miss wildly than to hit the mark. It is judgment that provides the measure of too much or too little.
As much as I can conceive of this through a formal syllogism, the self-loathing that follows from falling into excess is the best sort of proof. Though it may sound like a cheap parlor trick, there are few more effective methods for resisting a compulsion than carefully visualizing, in gory detail, my situation and state of mind in the next twenty-four hours. Even the most beastly of hedonists is then likely to think twice.
Intellectuals have a knack for rationalizing most anything, because they are inclined to dwell upon the words in isolation from the deeds, with the misguided aim of being notably clever instead of just becoming quietly decent.
I am suspicious, therefore, of any sort of zealot, whether he denounces or embraces all of the pleasures. Prudence, as distinct from prudishness or permissiveness, know why the limit has been reached when we have surrendered a mastery over ourselves.
The answer is neither in running away nor in making excuses. It is in being fully accountable.
A rousing sermon or a lofty treatise does have its proper place, but a man can only learn to practice sobriety if he can see right before him why intoxication will always make him worse, and this, in turn, is only possible if he can see right before him why virtue is all that can make him better. No amount of censure or study can take the place of making that connection in daily living.
And another man cannot do this for you—you will have to do it for yourself. While Nature is there to point the way, you must commit to taking the necessary steps.
In my own case, I long appreciated the nuances of the theory, yet I was ignoring a critical component: when push comes to shove, do not treat every immediate gratification as if it were a good, because the value of the pleasure is relative to the merit of the action.
When the feelings are divorced from an understanding, we are fumbling about blindly, and we are far more likely to miss wildly than to hit the mark. It is judgment that provides the measure of too much or too little.
As much as I can conceive of this through a formal syllogism, the self-loathing that follows from falling into excess is the best sort of proof. Though it may sound like a cheap parlor trick, there are few more effective methods for resisting a compulsion than carefully visualizing, in gory detail, my situation and state of mind in the next twenty-four hours. Even the most beastly of hedonists is then likely to think twice.
Intellectuals have a knack for rationalizing most anything, because they are inclined to dwell upon the words in isolation from the deeds, with the misguided aim of being notably clever instead of just becoming quietly decent.
I am suspicious, therefore, of any sort of zealot, whether he denounces or embraces all of the pleasures. Prudence, as distinct from prudishness or permissiveness, know why the limit has been reached when we have surrendered a mastery over ourselves.
The answer is neither in running away nor in making excuses. It is in being fully accountable.
—Reflection written in 12/2013
IMAGE: Albert Anker, The Drinker (1868)
Wednesday, January 28, 2026
Tuesday, January 27, 2026
The Basel Dance of Death 15
and had your seat at the council board?
Have you ruled well? It is good for you.
Still, I must now take your cap."
that the common good was served.
I sought benefit and honor for rich and poor;
what I thought good, I increased."
Ellis Walker, Epictetus in Poetical Paraphrase 60
As the shoe's made to serve and fit the foot,
As the leg gives the measure to the boot;
So our possessions should be measur'd by
The body's use, and its necessity.
If here you stop, content with what you need,
With what will keep you warm, your body feed;
Within the bounds of temperance you live.
But if the reins you to your wishes give;
If nature's limits you but once transgress,
You tumble headlong down a precipice
Into a boundless gulph: this we may see
If we pursue our former simile:
For lets suppose your shoe made tight and fit,
Strong, warm, and easy, as 'tis requisite,
What more can be desired from a shoe?
'Tis all that hide, or thread, and wax can do.
But if you look for more, you're hurry'd on
Beyond your bounds, and then 'tis ten to one,
That it must be more modish, pink'd, and wrought,
Then set with pearls, from farthest Indies brought,
Then with embroidery and purple shine;
No matter if 'tis useless, so 'tis fine.
So there's no farther stay, no farther bound
By those, who exceed just measures, to be found.
As the leg gives the measure to the boot;
So our possessions should be measur'd by
The body's use, and its necessity.
If here you stop, content with what you need,
With what will keep you warm, your body feed;
Within the bounds of temperance you live.
But if the reins you to your wishes give;
If nature's limits you but once transgress,
You tumble headlong down a precipice
Into a boundless gulph: this we may see
If we pursue our former simile:
For lets suppose your shoe made tight and fit,
Strong, warm, and easy, as 'tis requisite,
What more can be desired from a shoe?
'Tis all that hide, or thread, and wax can do.
But if you look for more, you're hurry'd on
Beyond your bounds, and then 'tis ten to one,
That it must be more modish, pink'd, and wrought,
Then set with pearls, from farthest Indies brought,
Then with embroidery and purple shine;
No matter if 'tis useless, so 'tis fine.
So there's no farther stay, no farther bound
By those, who exceed just measures, to be found.
Monday, January 26, 2026
Dhammapada 413
Him I call indeed a Brahmana who is bright like the moon, pure, serene, undisturbed, and in whom all gaiety is extinct.
William Hogarth, Marriage A-la-Mode 4
As indicated by the coronet over the bed and the mirror, our special couple have now inherited the titles of Earl and Countess Squanderfield. Recall that the social status came from the groom's side, though the new money came through the bride, and they hardly seem to have any worldly wants.
While the high-class practice of the toilette as a social event, an imitation of the royal levee, will appear strange to us, we surely have our own elaborate customs that blur the line between culture and decadence. For my generation, well-to-do people would still show off by hosting dinner parties, which were in themselves painful enough, but the part I could never bear was the extended tour of the house, where the guest was expected to admire every private detail.
There was the obligatory viewing of each bathroom in the home, and a fellow once proudly displayed a whole closet full of his wife's shoes and lingerie. I much preferred the more homey tradition of looking through old family photo albums.
Another contemporary instance of flaunting the intimate is our confusion between the clothes we wear at home and the proper dress for going out. My students were already wearing pajamas and slippers to class during the 1990's, and I was barely surprised the other day when an entire family strolled through the grocery store while draped in their comforters. You may say this is only the behavior of the rabble, and yet they drove away in a Range Rover.
In any case, the accidents of fashion do not make the man—what sort of motives lie behind the exterior? The Countess is ignoring her curious assembly of visitors, which includes an opera singer and a flutist. She only has eyes for the lawyer, Silvertongue, who has now clearly established himself as her lover. Has the Earl bothered to notice another man's portrait hanging in his wife's bedroom?
The other paintings refer to uncomfortable sexual themes (Lot and his daughters, Jupiter and Io, the rape of Ganymede), reminding me of a creepy colleague whose entire living room wall was covered with artsy nude photographs.
The African page boy laughs as he point to the horns on a figurine. It had to be pointed out to me that the Countess now has a child, as shown by the coral teether hanging over the back of her chair. The infant's absence speaks volumes about her priorities.
Silvertongue proposes attending a masquerade ball, where the anonymity allows them to appear together in public, without the risk of scandal. I think of a cheating girlfriend who thought she was being clever by meeting her boys-on-the-side at a bar she assumed I would never frequent; my only excuse for being pathetic was that I somehow hoped she would change.
William Hogarth, Marriage A-la-Mode IV: The Toilette (painting, 1743)
William Hogarth, Marriage A-la-Mode IV: The Toilette (engraving, 1743)
Sunday, January 25, 2026
James Vila Blake, Sonnets from Marcus Aurelius 26
Τῇ πάντα διδούσῃ καὶ ἀπολαμβανούσῃ φύσει ὁ πεπαιδευμένος καὶ αἰδήμων λέγει: δὸς ὃ θέλεις: ἀπόλαβε ὃ θέλεις. λέγει δὲ τοῦτο οὐ καταθρασυνόμενος, ἀλλὰ πειθαρχῶν μόνον καὶ εὐνοῶν αὐτῇ.
26.
Out of thine ampleness give me what thou wilt.
Certes ’tis large, replenishes the day,
And wakes my soul to an unenvious lilt.
Of all the pomps of stars, meteors and lights,
Suns, moons and followers in th’ eternal span,
Or here plains, meads, great waters, mountain heights,
Partake I as all do—own them none can;
And having given, take what thou wilt away,
Be ’t health, or power, place, gold, or other pelf.
Thy gifts’ be such the largest meeds must stay,
Nor canst thou e’er withdraw from me thyself.
I say not this, our Lord, defiantly,
But with a glad content, obediently.
IMAGE: El Greco, View of Toledo (c. 1600)
Saturday, January 24, 2026
Plutarch, The Life of Cato the Younger 27
In the case of Cato, however, the foremost citizens shared in his displeasure and sense of wrong more than they did in his struggle to resist, and great dejection and fear reigned in his household, so that some of his friends took no food and watched all night with one another in futile discussions on his behalf, while his wife and sisters wailed and wept.
He himself, however, conversed fearlessly and confidently with all and comforted them, and after taking supper as usual and passing the night, was roused from a deep sleep by one of his colleagues, Minucius Thermus; and they went down into the forum, only few persons accompanying them, but many meeting them and exhorting them to be on their guard.
Accordingly, when Cato paused in the forum and saw the temple of Castor and Pollux surrounded by armed men and its steps guarded by gladiators, and Metellus himself sitting at the top with Caesar, he turned to his friends and said: "What a bold man, and what a coward, to levy such an army against a single unarmed and defenseless person!"
At the same time he walked straight on with Thermus. Those who were occupying the steps made way for them, but would allow no one else to pass, except that Cato with difficulty drew Munatius along by the hand and brought him up; and walking straight onwards he threw himself just as he was into a seat between Metellus and Caesar, thus cutting off their communication.
Caesar and Metellus were disconcerted, but the better citizens, seeing and admiring the countenance, lofty bearing, and courage of Cato, came nearer, and with shouts urged one another to stay and band themselves together and not betray their liberty and the man who was striving to defend it.
