Chuang Tzu 6.4

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seneca, Moral Letters 80.3

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

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

—Reflection written in 11/2013 

IMAGE: Ilya Repin, What Freedom! (1903) 

Delphic Maxims 77

Τύχην στέργε 

Be fond of fortune 

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

Seneca, Moral Letters 80.2

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

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

—Reflection written in 11/2013 

Wisdom from the Early Cynics, Diogenes 34

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

To one who was feasting lavishly he said: 

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

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

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

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

"A Socrates gone mad," said Plato.

—Diogenes Laërtius, 6.53-54 

Wisdom from the Early Stoics, Zeno of Citium 74

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

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

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

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

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

—Diogenes Laërtius, 7.120-121 

Man Proposes, God Disposes

Edwin Landseer, Man Proposes, God Disposes (1864) 

Alexander and Diogenes

Edwin Landseer, Alexander and Diogenes (1848) 

The Monarch of the Glen

Edwin Landseer, The Monarch of the Glen (1851) 

Old Shepherd's Chief Mourner

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

Songs of Innocence 4

The Lamb (1789) 

William Blake (1757-1827) 

Little Lamb who made thee? 

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

Little Lamb who made thee? 

Dost thou know who made thee? 

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

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

Little Lamb God bless thee. 

Little Lamb God bless thee. 

Cosmos 17

Seneca, Moral Letters 80.1

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

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 80 

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

—Reflection written in 11/2013 

IMAGE: Jean-Leon Gerome, Solitude (1890) 

Thanks

 

Michael Leunig 76

Xenophon, Memorabilia of Socrates 37

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

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

Hipparch: "You are right."

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

Hipparch: "You are right again." 

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

Hipparch: "Most certainly." 

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

Hipparch: "It does, no doubt." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hipparch: "I will." 

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

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

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

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

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

Hipparch: "It will be better, certainly." 

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

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

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

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

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

Hipparch: "Yes, certainly." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hipparch: "You say truly." 

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

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

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

Hipparch: "It is reasonable to think so."

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

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

—from Xenophon, Memorabilia 3.3 

Seneca, Moral Letters 79.6

Is it not true, therefore, that men did not discover him until after he had ceased to be? Has not his renown shone forth, for all that? Metrodorus also admits this fact in one of his letters: that Epicurus and he were not well-known to the public; but he declares that after the lifetime of Epicurus and himself any man who might wish to follow in their footsteps would win great and ready-made renown. 
 
Virtue is never lost to view; and yet to have been lost to view is no loss. There will come a day which will reveal her, though hidden away or suppressed by the spite of her contemporaries. That man is born merely for a few, who thinks only of the people of his own generation. 
 
Many thousands of years and many thousands of peoples will come after you; it is to these that you should have regard. Malice may have imposed silence upon the mouths of all who were alive in your day; but there will come men who will judge you without prejudice and without favor. 
 
If there is any reward that virtue receives at the hands of fame, not even this can pass away. We ourselves, indeed, shall not be affected by the talk of posterity; nevertheless, posterity will cherish and celebrate us even though we are not conscious thereof.
 
Virtue has never failed to reward a man, both during his life and after his death, provided he has followed her loyally, provided he has not decked himself out or painted himself up, but has been always the same, whether he appeared before men’s eyes after being announced, or suddenly and without preparation. 
 
Pretense accomplishes nothing. Few are deceived by a mask that is easily drawn over the face. Truth is the same in every part. Things which deceive us have no real substance. Lies are thin stuff; they are transparent, if you examine them with care. Farewell. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 79 
 
If I wish to be happy by doing what is best, must I somehow be aware of others praising me? 
 
If I wish to know that I have done my part, will it matter how or when my contribution is revealed? 
 
If I wish to live with integrity, doesn’t it seem like a contradiction to put on some elaborate act? 
 
Again, take note of whether a man defines his “honor” from the inside out, or from the outside in. As the term may seem outdated to some, much the same can be applied to the contemporary concept of “success”. 
 
True fame, which is nothing but a fruit of virtue, is timeless and ever-present, and, by the handy Socratic formula, something is praised because it is good, not good because it is praised. As much as we might stubbornly choose to look away, it is never our fleeting approval that gives it glory; Nature operates on a much grander, and a far subtler, scale. 
 
The Stoic exercise of putting all thing into perspective is a great aid in overcoming the desire to be idolized during this brief moment, in this piddling place, by these smug people. In contrast to the vastness of the whole, each part may now appear to be trivial, yet it acquires its very significance when it is understood through that very whole, as but one note within the harmony. 
 
Only virtue is lasting, and so only the merit of the virtues is worthy of any prestige. Far more than a sentimental platitude, the hard proof of it is in recognizing why the perfection of any creature is in the perfection of its distinct nature, which, in turn, is an expression of the meaning and purpose to all of Nature. In the simplest of terms, to be fully human is enough to be celebrated, with absolutely no need for any window dressing. 
 
The more I consider the plain truth of this, the more I am painfully aware of the vanity in our shallow schemes, the delusion that mere pretending can take the place of authentic living. The simulated speeches, the pompous titles, and the vulgar costumes are pretensions, diversions from our one calling. 
 
Afraid of facing our pure selves, we strike a pose, grinning while straining, desperately praying that the others can’t see right through us, even as they are tortured by exactly the same dread. It may be that everyone knows it is a farce, but no one wants to admit it is a farce; what would we do with ourselves if the theatrical scenery suddenly came crashing down? 
 
My biggest mistake was binding the value of my life to someone who was insincere. In an appropriately Stoic fashion, I now have the opportunity to learn from that blunder, to see right through the illusion with sharper eyes. Too much of what we do is wasted, because too much of what we do is devious busywork. Strip it away. 
 
Prudence. Fortitude. Temperance. Justice. There is the glory of our nature, which can never be taken away. Nothing more. 

—Reflection written in 11/2013 

IMAGE: Anonymous Flemish, The Triumph of Fame (c. 1500) 

"Thus the deeds of the Ancients were immortalized by Fame." 

Sayings of Ramakrishna 265

So long as the heavenly expanse of the heart is troubled and disturbed by the gusts of desire, there is little chance of our beholding therein the brightness of God. 

The beatific vision occurs only in the heart which is calm and rapt up in divine communion. 

IMAGE: Gustave Doré, The Empyrean (1867) 

The Continence of Scipio 6

Simon de Vos, The Magnanimity of Scipio (1641) 

Man's Search for Meaning 13

I shall never forget how I was roused one night by the groans of a fellow prisoner, who threw himself about in his sleep, obviously having a horrible nightmare. Since I had always been especially sorry for people who suffered from fearful dreams or deliria, I wanted to wake the poor man. 

Suddenly I drew back the hand which was ready to shake him, frightened at the thing I was about to do. At that moment I became intensely conscious of the fact that no dream, no matter how horrible, could be as bad as the reality of the camp which surrounded us, and to which I was about to recall him. 

Apathy, the main symptom of the second phase, was a necessary mechanism of self-defense. Reality dimmed, and all efforts and all emotions were cantered on one task: preserving one's own life and that of the other fellow. It was typical to hear the prisoners, while they were being herded back to camp from their work sites in the evening, sigh with relief and say, "Well, another day is over."

It can be readily understood that such a state of strain, coupled with the constant necessity of concentrating on the task of staying alive, forced the prisoner's inner life down to a primitive level. Several of my colleagues in camp who were trained in psychoanalysis often spoke of a "regression" in the camp inmate—a retreat to a more primitive form of mental life. His wishes and desires became obvious in his dreams.

What did the prisoner dream about most frequently? Of bread, cake, cigarettes, and nice warm baths. The lack of having these simple desires satisfied led him to seek wish-fulfilment in dreams.

Whether these dreams did any good is another matter; the dreamer had to wake from them to the reality of camp life, and to the terrible contrast between that and his dream illusions. 

—from Viktor Frankl, Man's Search for Meaning