The Death of Marcus Aurelius
Wednesday, May 1, 2024
Seneca, Moral Letters 66.9
Yes, my dear Lucilius, the good which true reason approves is solid and everlasting; it strengthens the spirit and exalts it, so that it will always be on the heights; but those things which are thoughtlessly praised, and are goods in the opinion of the mob, merely puff us up with empty joy.
And again, those things which are feared as if they were evils merely inspire trepidation in men's minds, for the mind is disturbed by the semblance of danger, just as animals are disturbed. Hence it is without reason that both these things distract and sting the spirit; the one is not worthy of joy, nor the other of fear.
It is reason alone that is unchangeable, that holds fast to its decisions. For reason is not a slave to the senses, but a ruler over them. Reason is equal to reason, as one straight line to another; therefore virtue also is equal to virtue. Virtue is nothing else than right reason. All virtues are reasons. Reasons are reasons, if they are right reasons. If they are right, they are also equal. As reason is, so also are actions; therefore all actions are equal. For since they resemble reason, they also resemble each other.
Moreover, I hold that actions are equal to each other in so far as they are honorable and right actions. There will be, of course, great differences according as the material varies, as it becomes now broader and now narrower, now glorious and now base, now manifold in scope and now limited. However, that which is best in all these cases is equal; they are all honorable.
In the same way, all good men, in so far as they are good, are equal. There are, indeed, differences of age—one is older, another younger; of body—one is comely, another is ugly; of fortune—this man is rich, that man poor, this one is influential, powerful, and well-known to cities and peoples, that man is unknown to most, and is obscure. But all, in respect of that wherein they are good, are equal.
The senses do not decide upon things good and evil; they do not know what is useful and what is not useful. They cannot record their opinion unless they are brought face to face with a fact; they can neither see into the future nor recollect the past; and they do not know what results from what. But it is from such knowledge that a sequence and succession of actions is woven, and a unity of life is created—a unity which will proceed in a straight course.
Reason, therefore, is the judge of good and evil; that which is foreign and external she regards as dross, and that which is neither good nor evil she judges as merely accessory, insignificant, and trivial. For all her good resides in the soul.
And again, those things which are feared as if they were evils merely inspire trepidation in men's minds, for the mind is disturbed by the semblance of danger, just as animals are disturbed. Hence it is without reason that both these things distract and sting the spirit; the one is not worthy of joy, nor the other of fear.
It is reason alone that is unchangeable, that holds fast to its decisions. For reason is not a slave to the senses, but a ruler over them. Reason is equal to reason, as one straight line to another; therefore virtue also is equal to virtue. Virtue is nothing else than right reason. All virtues are reasons. Reasons are reasons, if they are right reasons. If they are right, they are also equal. As reason is, so also are actions; therefore all actions are equal. For since they resemble reason, they also resemble each other.
Moreover, I hold that actions are equal to each other in so far as they are honorable and right actions. There will be, of course, great differences according as the material varies, as it becomes now broader and now narrower, now glorious and now base, now manifold in scope and now limited. However, that which is best in all these cases is equal; they are all honorable.
In the same way, all good men, in so far as they are good, are equal. There are, indeed, differences of age—one is older, another younger; of body—one is comely, another is ugly; of fortune—this man is rich, that man poor, this one is influential, powerful, and well-known to cities and peoples, that man is unknown to most, and is obscure. But all, in respect of that wherein they are good, are equal.
The senses do not decide upon things good and evil; they do not know what is useful and what is not useful. They cannot record their opinion unless they are brought face to face with a fact; they can neither see into the future nor recollect the past; and they do not know what results from what. But it is from such knowledge that a sequence and succession of actions is woven, and a unity of life is created—a unity which will proceed in a straight course.
Reason, therefore, is the judge of good and evil; that which is foreign and external she regards as dross, and that which is neither good nor evil she judges as merely accessory, insignificant, and trivial. For all her good resides in the soul.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 66
We tend to live under the illusion that only a very few of us can ever become truly great, and so a scuffle ensues to see who will win the top spots. Yet we are not confident enough in our merits for their own sake, and hence the assumption is made that fame, the praise of the many, is required as an endorsement of our arrival. How odd! A fellow wishes to be special, and he does so by seeking the approval of the unwashed masses?
If I desire what is firm and lasting, I could hardly find a worse way to ensure my achievement. Pleasure, honor, and riches are fickle mistresses, and to rely on them is to become a slave to their whims. I have rushed after one gratification, only to see it slip away, or to still leave me wanting, so I pursue yet another indulgence. The moods of others shift as quickly as my own, so my standing rises and falls with the vagaries of opinion. The wealth I foolishly believe I earned is snatched away by circumstance, so I seek out someone else to blame.
Merely following the herd is a surrender of judgment, leading me to desire what offers no sustenance, and to dread what poses no threat. What remains mine alone, providing constant meaning and purpose, is the exercise of my reason, not as a cold abstraction, but as the power to distinguish true from false and right from wrong, throughout the many changes life brings.
Where there is sound judgment, there will be virtuous action, and being itself the measure of human excellence, it is fully and equally present for all who seek it. There is no need for the few to claim it at the expense of the many, or for human dignity to become a test of popularity. It will be expressed under many different conditions, but it remains one and the same virtue.
While my senses act upon me forcefully and immediately, they are not the final arbiter, since it is reason that discovers the standard; the impressions are limited to the particular, and mind conceives the universal. What a tragedy it is when a creature made to rule itself willfully abandons its responsibility, turning itself inside out and upside down!
Do I want to succeed? Let me be careful to understand the goal as something complete and self-sufficient, not limited to some but identical for all, not dictated by trivial convention but grounded fast in nature. No one needs to run the rat race, because the prize can be shared in common—the extraordinary is already within the ordinary.
We tend to live under the illusion that only a very few of us can ever become truly great, and so a scuffle ensues to see who will win the top spots. Yet we are not confident enough in our merits for their own sake, and hence the assumption is made that fame, the praise of the many, is required as an endorsement of our arrival. How odd! A fellow wishes to be special, and he does so by seeking the approval of the unwashed masses?
If I desire what is firm and lasting, I could hardly find a worse way to ensure my achievement. Pleasure, honor, and riches are fickle mistresses, and to rely on them is to become a slave to their whims. I have rushed after one gratification, only to see it slip away, or to still leave me wanting, so I pursue yet another indulgence. The moods of others shift as quickly as my own, so my standing rises and falls with the vagaries of opinion. The wealth I foolishly believe I earned is snatched away by circumstance, so I seek out someone else to blame.
Merely following the herd is a surrender of judgment, leading me to desire what offers no sustenance, and to dread what poses no threat. What remains mine alone, providing constant meaning and purpose, is the exercise of my reason, not as a cold abstraction, but as the power to distinguish true from false and right from wrong, throughout the many changes life brings.
Where there is sound judgment, there will be virtuous action, and being itself the measure of human excellence, it is fully and equally present for all who seek it. There is no need for the few to claim it at the expense of the many, or for human dignity to become a test of popularity. It will be expressed under many different conditions, but it remains one and the same virtue.
While my senses act upon me forcefully and immediately, they are not the final arbiter, since it is reason that discovers the standard; the impressions are limited to the particular, and mind conceives the universal. What a tragedy it is when a creature made to rule itself willfully abandons its responsibility, turning itself inside out and upside down!
Do I want to succeed? Let me be careful to understand the goal as something complete and self-sufficient, not limited to some but identical for all, not dictated by trivial convention but grounded fast in nature. No one needs to run the rat race, because the prize can be shared in common—the extraordinary is already within the ordinary.
—Reflection written in 7/2013
Sayings of Ramakrishna 242
So also many good sayings are to be found in books, but merely reading them will not make one religious. One has to practice the virtues taught therein.
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Tuesday, April 30, 2024
Tidbits from Montaigne 63
—Michel de Montaigne, Essays 3.13
IMAGE: Thomas Wyck, A Scholar in His Study (c. 1660)
Seneca, Moral Letters 66.8
Why is no good greater than any other good? It is because nothing can be more fitting than that which is fitting, and nothing more level than that which is level. You cannot say that one thing is more equal to a given object than another thing; hence also nothing is more honorable than that which is honorable. Accordingly, if all the virtues are by nature equal, the three varieties of goods are equal.
This is what I mean: there is an equality between feeling joy with self-control and suffering pain with self-control. The joy in the one case does not surpass in the other the steadfastness of soul that gulps down the groan when the victim is in the clutches of the torturer; goods of the first kind are desirable, while those of the second are worthy of admiration; and in each case they are none the less equal, because whatever inconvenience attaches to the latter is compensated by the qualities of the good, which is so much greater.
Any man who believes them to be unequal is turning his gaze away from the virtues themselves and is surveying mere externals; true goods have the same weight and the same width. The spurious sort contain much emptiness; hence, when they are weighed in the balance, they are found wanting, although they look imposing and grand to the gaze.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 66
At a number of times during my life, when I was convinced that things weren’t going as they should, I was offered some variation of this saying: “There is always someone better off than you, and there is always someone worse off than you.”
I appreciate how there can be great value in such an observation, for it is pointless to define myself by the degrees of my particular circumstances. Do I believe I am the best, just because I happen to have a big house? Look at that fellow over there, whose house makes mine look like a garden shed. Do I believe I am the worst, just because my boss makes it impossible for me to pay for health insurance? Look at that fellow over there, who can’t find any work at all, and whose child has cancer.
At the same time, however, I must be careful not to take the expression the wrong way. Should I even be speaking of conditions being “better” or “worse”, when they are properly matters of indifference, subject only to preference? What is good or bad in me, after all, does not proceed from the lay of the land; if I feel I can be better, I can start doing that right away, as it is relies only upon the integrity of my judgments.
The meaning might be subtly implied, but once I compare myself to another by means of the worldly accidents, I am overlooking the essence of my nature. It is a form of self-imposed ignorance, and it can easily lead to envy of those who “have” more and disdain for those who “have” less. Why am I at all concerned with being better than anyone else, when each and every one of us can choose to be the best at ruling ourselves? This isn’t a competition.
Since virtue is already the perfection of the rational animal, it is vanity to attempt any further addition—the very act of looking elsewhere would turn away from its superiority, and thereby throw us into a misery of diversions. I must resist the temptation to think of my merit as greater or lesser depending on the presence or absence of comfort and convenience.
Where the good of character resides, happiness follows, and its variety or category makes no difference. I am called to self-control through temperance if I am at a banquet, and I am called to self-control through fortitude if I am on the rack. Whether pleasure or pain are the objects of the experience, the disposition of the subject is the root cause of the excellence.
At a number of times during my life, when I was convinced that things weren’t going as they should, I was offered some variation of this saying: “There is always someone better off than you, and there is always someone worse off than you.”
I appreciate how there can be great value in such an observation, for it is pointless to define myself by the degrees of my particular circumstances. Do I believe I am the best, just because I happen to have a big house? Look at that fellow over there, whose house makes mine look like a garden shed. Do I believe I am the worst, just because my boss makes it impossible for me to pay for health insurance? Look at that fellow over there, who can’t find any work at all, and whose child has cancer.
At the same time, however, I must be careful not to take the expression the wrong way. Should I even be speaking of conditions being “better” or “worse”, when they are properly matters of indifference, subject only to preference? What is good or bad in me, after all, does not proceed from the lay of the land; if I feel I can be better, I can start doing that right away, as it is relies only upon the integrity of my judgments.
The meaning might be subtly implied, but once I compare myself to another by means of the worldly accidents, I am overlooking the essence of my nature. It is a form of self-imposed ignorance, and it can easily lead to envy of those who “have” more and disdain for those who “have” less. Why am I at all concerned with being better than anyone else, when each and every one of us can choose to be the best at ruling ourselves? This isn’t a competition.
Since virtue is already the perfection of the rational animal, it is vanity to attempt any further addition—the very act of looking elsewhere would turn away from its superiority, and thereby throw us into a misery of diversions. I must resist the temptation to think of my merit as greater or lesser depending on the presence or absence of comfort and convenience.
Where the good of character resides, happiness follows, and its variety or category makes no difference. I am called to self-control through temperance if I am at a banquet, and I am called to self-control through fortitude if I am on the rack. Whether pleasure or pain are the objects of the experience, the disposition of the subject is the root cause of the excellence.
—Reflection written in 7/2013
IMAGE: Joachim von Sandrart, Minerva and Saturn Protect Art and Science from Envy and Falsehood (1644)
Monday, April 29, 2024
Stoic Snippets 238
Accustom yourself as much as possible, on the occasion of anything being done by any person, to inquire with yourself, "For what object is this man doing this?"
But begin with yourself, and examine yourself first.
—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 10.37
Epictetus, Golden Sayings 177
If Chrysippus had not written obscurely, this fellow would have had nothing to be proud of. But what is it that I desire? To understand Nature, and to follow her!
Accordingly, I ask who is the Interpreter. On hearing that it is Chrysippus, I go to him. But it seems I do not understand what he wrote. So I seek one to interpret that. So far there is nothing to pride myself on.
But when I have found my interpreter, what remains is to put in practice his instructions. This itself is the only thing to be proud of.
But if I admire the interpretation and that alone, what else have I turned out but a mere commentator instead of a lover of wisdom?—except indeed that I happen to be interpreting Chrysippus instead of Homer.
So when any one says to me, "Prithee, read me Chrysippus," I am more inclined to blush, when I cannot show my deeds to be in harmony and accordance with his sayings.
IMAGE: Rembrandt, Two Scholars Disputing (1628)
Sunday, April 28, 2024
Dhammapada 372
Without knowledge there is no meditation, without meditation there is no knowledge.
He who has knowledge and meditation is near unto Nirvana.
Seneca, Moral Letters 66.7
Now friendship in the case of men corresponds to desirability in the case of things. You would not, I fancy, love a good man if he were rich any more than if he were poor, nor would you love a strong and muscular person more than one who was slender and of delicate constitution.
Accordingly, neither will you seek or love a good thing that is mirthful and tranquil more than one that is full of perplexity and toil.Or, if you do this, you will, in the case of two equally good men, care more for him who is neat and well-groomed than for him who is dirty and unkempt.
You would next go so far as to care more for a good man who is sound in all his limbs and without blemish, than for one who is weak or purblind; and gradually your fastidiousness would reach such a point that, of two equally just and prudent men, you would choose him who has long curling hair!
Whenever the virtue in each one is equal, the inequality in their other attributes is not apparent. For all other things are not parts, but merely accessories. Would any man judge his children so unfairly as to care more for a healthy son than for one who was sickly, or for a tall child of unusual stature more than for one who was short or of middling height? Wild beasts show no favoritism among their offspring; they lie down in order to suckle all alike; birds make fair distribution of their food.
Ulysses hastens back to the rocks of his Ithaca as eagerly as Agamemnon speeds to the kingly walls of Mycenae. For no man loves his native land because it is great; he loves it because it is his own.
Accordingly, neither will you seek or love a good thing that is mirthful and tranquil more than one that is full of perplexity and toil.Or, if you do this, you will, in the case of two equally good men, care more for him who is neat and well-groomed than for him who is dirty and unkempt.
You would next go so far as to care more for a good man who is sound in all his limbs and without blemish, than for one who is weak or purblind; and gradually your fastidiousness would reach such a point that, of two equally just and prudent men, you would choose him who has long curling hair!
Whenever the virtue in each one is equal, the inequality in their other attributes is not apparent. For all other things are not parts, but merely accessories. Would any man judge his children so unfairly as to care more for a healthy son than for one who was sickly, or for a tall child of unusual stature more than for one who was short or of middling height? Wild beasts show no favoritism among their offspring; they lie down in order to suckle all alike; birds make fair distribution of their food.
Ulysses hastens back to the rocks of his Ithaca as eagerly as Agamemnon speeds to the kingly walls of Mycenae. For no man loves his native land because it is great; he loves it because it is his own.
And what is the purpose of all this? That you may know that virtue regards all her works in the same light, as if they were her children, showing equal kindness to all, and still deeper kindness to those which encounter hardships; for even parents lean with more affection towards those of their offspring for whom they feel pity. Virtue, too, does not necessarily love more deeply those of her works which she beholds in trouble and under heavy burdens, but, like good parents, she gives them more of her fostering care.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 66
As Seneca asks Lucilius to consider how he judges the merits of others, I’m afraid I can’t help but wonder how many of my acquaintances would hardly feel any guilt from his lesson. Beyond some half-hearted lip service to the contrary, wealth, good looks, and the nebulous “sense of humor” are the qualities we most admire. If you don’t believe me, just watch a half hour of primetime television, or briefly observe the pecking order in any office or schoolyard.
I need not feel bitter, so let me take Seneca’s challenge to heart. If I don’t like it, it is completely within my power to do differently, and if I complain that it’s too difficult, I’m sadly confusing conviction with convenience. I have failed myself when I “move on” from friends who have ceased to be gratifying.
No, it is far more than merely saying, “He’s a nice fellow, even though his breath stinks,” or “She’s sweet, despite the fact that she doesn’t buy me presents.” This just ends up being a calculating act of balancing pleasant and unpleasant traits, when the true test of friendship is a commitment to moral excellence. Once I have recognized why real beauty is in the heart and in the mind, I will no longer be so diverted by the accidents, since they will pale in significance to a desire for the good within another’s soul.
Virtue is to be loved without condition, and my only concern about my friends should involve helping them to become greater in understanding and in love. Seneca’s example of Ulysses and Agamemnon makes me think of how a proper love of “home” does not prefer a mansion to a hut, as long as it strengthens the bonds of character.
Just as committed parents find it ridiculous to be asked which of their children is the favorite, so those who strive to increase in integrity will no longer distinguish between the utility of one friend over another. We all find ourselves in different places, facing unique struggles, and yet there can be no comparison of value when it comes to that which is priceless, to which nothing greater can be added.
Though opportunistic people will leave you when the going gets tough, because you no longer fit their cost-benefit analysis, true friends will offer you all the more, because their good and your good are perceived as one and the same. Do not think the true friend somehow loves you more during hardship, for he loves without degrees. Rather, it is through his total love that he keeps a watchful eye out for your particular needs.
As Seneca asks Lucilius to consider how he judges the merits of others, I’m afraid I can’t help but wonder how many of my acquaintances would hardly feel any guilt from his lesson. Beyond some half-hearted lip service to the contrary, wealth, good looks, and the nebulous “sense of humor” are the qualities we most admire. If you don’t believe me, just watch a half hour of primetime television, or briefly observe the pecking order in any office or schoolyard.
I need not feel bitter, so let me take Seneca’s challenge to heart. If I don’t like it, it is completely within my power to do differently, and if I complain that it’s too difficult, I’m sadly confusing conviction with convenience. I have failed myself when I “move on” from friends who have ceased to be gratifying.
No, it is far more than merely saying, “He’s a nice fellow, even though his breath stinks,” or “She’s sweet, despite the fact that she doesn’t buy me presents.” This just ends up being a calculating act of balancing pleasant and unpleasant traits, when the true test of friendship is a commitment to moral excellence. Once I have recognized why real beauty is in the heart and in the mind, I will no longer be so diverted by the accidents, since they will pale in significance to a desire for the good within another’s soul.
Virtue is to be loved without condition, and my only concern about my friends should involve helping them to become greater in understanding and in love. Seneca’s example of Ulysses and Agamemnon makes me think of how a proper love of “home” does not prefer a mansion to a hut, as long as it strengthens the bonds of character.
Just as committed parents find it ridiculous to be asked which of their children is the favorite, so those who strive to increase in integrity will no longer distinguish between the utility of one friend over another. We all find ourselves in different places, facing unique struggles, and yet there can be no comparison of value when it comes to that which is priceless, to which nothing greater can be added.
Though opportunistic people will leave you when the going gets tough, because you no longer fit their cost-benefit analysis, true friends will offer you all the more, because their good and your good are perceived as one and the same. Do not think the true friend somehow loves you more during hardship, for he loves without degrees. Rather, it is through his total love that he keeps a watchful eye out for your particular needs.
—Reflection written in 7/2013
IMAGE: Jacques Blanchard, Allegory of Charity (c. 1637)
Saturday, April 27, 2024
Friday, April 26, 2024
Aesop's Fables 75
An Eagle was soaring through the air when suddenly it heard the whizz of an Arrow, and felt itself wounded to death.
Slowly it fluttered down to the earth, with its life-blood pouring out of it.
Looking down upon the Arrow with which it had been pierced, it found that the shaft of the Arrow had been feathered with one of its own plumes.
"Alas!" it cried as it died,
"We often give our enemies the means for our own destruction."
"We often give our enemies the means for our own destruction."
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Seneca, Moral Letters 66.6
This can be proved to you by the fact that the good man will hasten unhesitatingly to any noble deed; even though he be confronted by the hangman, the torturer, and the stake, he will persist, regarding not what he must suffer, but what he must do; and he will entrust himself as readily to an honorable deed as he would to a good man; he will consider it advantageous to himself, safe, propitious.
And he will hold the same view concerning an honorable deed, even though it be fraught with sorrow and hardship, as concerning a good man who is poor or wasting away in exile. Come now, contrast a good man who is rolling in wealth with a man who has nothing, except that in himself he has all things; they will be equally good, though they experience unequal fortune.
This same standard, as I have remarked, is to be applied to things as well as to men; virtue is just as praiseworthy if it dwells in a sound and free body, as in one which is sickly or in bondage.
Therefore, as regards your own virtue also, you will not praise it any more, if fortune has favored it by granting you a sound body, than if fortune has endowed you with a body that is crippled in some member, since that would mean rating a master low because he is dressed like a slave.
For all those things over which Chance holds sway are chattels—money, person, position; they are weak, shifting, prone to perish, and of uncertain tenure. On the other hand, the works of virtue are free and unsubdued, neither more worthy to be sought when fortune treats them kindly, nor less worthy when any adversity weighs upon them.
And he will hold the same view concerning an honorable deed, even though it be fraught with sorrow and hardship, as concerning a good man who is poor or wasting away in exile. Come now, contrast a good man who is rolling in wealth with a man who has nothing, except that in himself he has all things; they will be equally good, though they experience unequal fortune.
This same standard, as I have remarked, is to be applied to things as well as to men; virtue is just as praiseworthy if it dwells in a sound and free body, as in one which is sickly or in bondage.
Therefore, as regards your own virtue also, you will not praise it any more, if fortune has favored it by granting you a sound body, than if fortune has endowed you with a body that is crippled in some member, since that would mean rating a master low because he is dressed like a slave.
For all those things over which Chance holds sway are chattels—money, person, position; they are weak, shifting, prone to perish, and of uncertain tenure. On the other hand, the works of virtue are free and unsubdued, neither more worthy to be sought when fortune treats them kindly, nor less worthy when any adversity weighs upon them.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 66
I sadly know so many people who are intensely cynical and bitter about the human condition; my vocation as a teacher makes this a hazard of the trade. Far too often, I permit it to get to me, with the ironic result that I then make myself just as jaundiced as they are, for there is an unwritten rule in the world of academia that disenchantment is somehow glamorous.
If I speak to all that is best in the human condition, I am usually met with a smug rolling of the eyes and a dismissive wave of the hand. Let this become something good for me—let me respond to rejection with acceptance.
Despite the claims to the contrary, there are many decent folks out there, though the nature of genuine character is such that it does not deliberately draw attention to itself. The sort of good man Seneca describes acts with understanding and love regardless of the circumstances, and he does not ask whether it will bring him any other benefit beyond the exercise of his conscience.
If I assume there is nothing good within me besides feeding my own appetites, it is no wonder when I assume others must be the same; to question the integrity of others is to make an excuse for myself. No, the true proof of my humanity will be when I care little for poverty or riches, pleasure or pain, fame or obscurity, and I instead find peace in virtue fort its own sake, free from greed, from lust, from recognition.
Strip away the conditions, and only the purity and the simplicity remain. Fortune does not alter the equal dignity of every righteous thought or deed, however “big” or “small”, and no modification of the trimmings will add or subtract any of its innate worth.
Back in college, while fellow students in a class on the French Revolution were swept up in the angry tribalism of class warfare, I came across a painting called A Good Deed is Never Forgotten. It portrayed the warm reunion of two men who had been on opposite sides during the Reign of Terror, but who could look beyond political self-interest to embrace unconditional compassion.
Joseph Cange was a peasant who had become a jailkeeper to the aristocratic Monsieur George. When Cange saw the plight of George’s family, he supported them secretly, and when George was eventually released, he promised to seek out and thank his anonymous benefactor. Regardless of the risk or the cost, one man committed himself to charity, and another committed himself to gratitude. What better lesson could history teach us?
I sadly know so many people who are intensely cynical and bitter about the human condition; my vocation as a teacher makes this a hazard of the trade. Far too often, I permit it to get to me, with the ironic result that I then make myself just as jaundiced as they are, for there is an unwritten rule in the world of academia that disenchantment is somehow glamorous.
If I speak to all that is best in the human condition, I am usually met with a smug rolling of the eyes and a dismissive wave of the hand. Let this become something good for me—let me respond to rejection with acceptance.
Despite the claims to the contrary, there are many decent folks out there, though the nature of genuine character is such that it does not deliberately draw attention to itself. The sort of good man Seneca describes acts with understanding and love regardless of the circumstances, and he does not ask whether it will bring him any other benefit beyond the exercise of his conscience.
If I assume there is nothing good within me besides feeding my own appetites, it is no wonder when I assume others must be the same; to question the integrity of others is to make an excuse for myself. No, the true proof of my humanity will be when I care little for poverty or riches, pleasure or pain, fame or obscurity, and I instead find peace in virtue fort its own sake, free from greed, from lust, from recognition.
Strip away the conditions, and only the purity and the simplicity remain. Fortune does not alter the equal dignity of every righteous thought or deed, however “big” or “small”, and no modification of the trimmings will add or subtract any of its innate worth.
Back in college, while fellow students in a class on the French Revolution were swept up in the angry tribalism of class warfare, I came across a painting called A Good Deed is Never Forgotten. It portrayed the warm reunion of two men who had been on opposite sides during the Reign of Terror, but who could look beyond political self-interest to embrace unconditional compassion.
Joseph Cange was a peasant who had become a jailkeeper to the aristocratic Monsieur George. When Cange saw the plight of George’s family, he supported them secretly, and when George was eventually released, he promised to seek out and thank his anonymous benefactor. Regardless of the risk or the cost, one man committed himself to charity, and another committed himself to gratitude. What better lesson could history teach us?
To crave after glory and luxury is to be a slave to Fortune. To love virtue is to be liberated by Nature. Cast aside the trinkets, and a perfect serenity remains.
—Reflection written in 7/2013
IMAGE: Pierre Nicolas Legrand, A Good Deed is Never Forgotten (1795)
Thursday, April 25, 2024
Wednesday, April 24, 2024
Maxims of Goethe 42
Everyone has something in his nature which, if he were to express it openly, would of necessity give offense.
IMAGE: Eduard von Grützner, Mephisto (1895)
Seneca, Moral Letters 66.5
I know what you may reply to me at this point: "Are you trying to make us believe that it does not matter whether a man feels joy, or whether he lies upon the rack and tires out his torturer?"
I might say in answer: "Epicurus also maintains that the wise man, though he is being burned in the bull of Phalaris, will cry out: 'Tis pleasant, and concerns me not at all.'"
Why need you wonder, if I maintain that he who reclines at a banquet and the victim who stoutly withstands torture possess equal goods, when Epicurus maintains a thing that is harder to believe, namely, that it is pleasant to be roasted in this way?
But the reply which I do make, is that there is great difference between joy and pain; if I am asked to choose, I shall seek the former and avoid the latter. The former is according to nature, the latter contrary to it.
So long as they are rated by this standard, there is a great gulf between; but when it comes to a question of the virtue involved, the virtue in each case is the same, whether it comes through joy or through sorrow.
Vexation and pain and other inconveniences are of no consequence, for they are overcome by virtue. Just as the brightness of the sun dims all lesser lights, so virtue, by its own greatness, shatters and overwhelms all pains, annoyances, and wrongs; and wherever its radiance reaches, all lights which shine without the help of virtue are extinguished; and inconveniences, when they come in contact with virtue, play no more important a part than does a storm-cloud at sea.
I might say in answer: "Epicurus also maintains that the wise man, though he is being burned in the bull of Phalaris, will cry out: 'Tis pleasant, and concerns me not at all.'"
Why need you wonder, if I maintain that he who reclines at a banquet and the victim who stoutly withstands torture possess equal goods, when Epicurus maintains a thing that is harder to believe, namely, that it is pleasant to be roasted in this way?
But the reply which I do make, is that there is great difference between joy and pain; if I am asked to choose, I shall seek the former and avoid the latter. The former is according to nature, the latter contrary to it.
So long as they are rated by this standard, there is a great gulf between; but when it comes to a question of the virtue involved, the virtue in each case is the same, whether it comes through joy or through sorrow.
Vexation and pain and other inconveniences are of no consequence, for they are overcome by virtue. Just as the brightness of the sun dims all lesser lights, so virtue, by its own greatness, shatters and overwhelms all pains, annoyances, and wrongs; and wherever its radiance reaches, all lights which shine without the help of virtue are extinguished; and inconveniences, when they come in contact with virtue, play no more important a part than does a storm-cloud at sea.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 66
As with the previous claim on the equality of all the virtues, Seneca’s insistence that pleasure and pain do not determine the value of our lives will sound absurd to the modern ear. Once again, this is because we are so entrenched in an attitude of gratification, of reducing the human person to a merely appetitive animal. Break free from this presumption, and you escape from a slavery to the passions.
Seneca is neither excluding nor diminishing the role of the emotions, but he is rather explaining why the way we feel is to be guided by the way we understand. As an animal, it is natural for me to desire pleasure and to shun pain, and so I will prefer the one over the other. As a rational animal, it is for me to judge what is right from what is wrong, and to interpret my preferences through my conscience.
I will not say, with Epicurus, that pain can be pleasurable, though I will say that he who acts with virtue, whatever the situation, possesses the highest human good, and so embraces the greatest happiness. Here the Stoic stands with the Aristotelian in defining happiness as the act of living well, not simply as a pleasing sensation. We will all face our quotas of pleasure and pain, and the only thing that will make a difference is how we respond to them.
Once I alter the way I think, I then find that the way I feel is also transformed, slowly but surely. I may not enjoy an agony in the body, yet once I am aware of why it is right to surrender a certain comfort, I perceive a sort of satisfaction, what I can only call an inner peace, from having pursued the correct path. Such a feeling is no longer what I seek, and it is instead a natural consequence or a sign of what I seek, to live with decency. How silly of me to have confused the cause and the effect!
While I must resist the urge to get caught up in the scholarly details here, I do often think about how our particular choice of words reflects the subtleties in our intentions. I am wary of using “happy” as an emotional state, when it is really a moral activity, and I avoid treating “pleasure” and “pain” as if they were interchangeable with “good” and “bad”.
For that experience of fulfillment that accompanies trying to do right, I often call it “joy”, for lack of a better term, the Latin gaudium as distinct from voluptas. I struggle when Seneca uses gaudium in this letter to apparently mean pleasure of the lesser sort, but I hope that my principles are still in harmony with his; I attribute the problem to the limitations of my own vocabulary.
But enough of that! The deeper point is about recognizing the priority of conscience over concupiscence, and about discerning how insignificant a suffering in the body becomes in the face of an excellence in the soul. Certain things I once thought I could never live without have now become trivial to me, just as a candle holds nothing to the sun, and a hardship pales in comparison to a virtue.
As with the previous claim on the equality of all the virtues, Seneca’s insistence that pleasure and pain do not determine the value of our lives will sound absurd to the modern ear. Once again, this is because we are so entrenched in an attitude of gratification, of reducing the human person to a merely appetitive animal. Break free from this presumption, and you escape from a slavery to the passions.
Seneca is neither excluding nor diminishing the role of the emotions, but he is rather explaining why the way we feel is to be guided by the way we understand. As an animal, it is natural for me to desire pleasure and to shun pain, and so I will prefer the one over the other. As a rational animal, it is for me to judge what is right from what is wrong, and to interpret my preferences through my conscience.
I will not say, with Epicurus, that pain can be pleasurable, though I will say that he who acts with virtue, whatever the situation, possesses the highest human good, and so embraces the greatest happiness. Here the Stoic stands with the Aristotelian in defining happiness as the act of living well, not simply as a pleasing sensation. We will all face our quotas of pleasure and pain, and the only thing that will make a difference is how we respond to them.
Once I alter the way I think, I then find that the way I feel is also transformed, slowly but surely. I may not enjoy an agony in the body, yet once I am aware of why it is right to surrender a certain comfort, I perceive a sort of satisfaction, what I can only call an inner peace, from having pursued the correct path. Such a feeling is no longer what I seek, and it is instead a natural consequence or a sign of what I seek, to live with decency. How silly of me to have confused the cause and the effect!
While I must resist the urge to get caught up in the scholarly details here, I do often think about how our particular choice of words reflects the subtleties in our intentions. I am wary of using “happy” as an emotional state, when it is really a moral activity, and I avoid treating “pleasure” and “pain” as if they were interchangeable with “good” and “bad”.
For that experience of fulfillment that accompanies trying to do right, I often call it “joy”, for lack of a better term, the Latin gaudium as distinct from voluptas. I struggle when Seneca uses gaudium in this letter to apparently mean pleasure of the lesser sort, but I hope that my principles are still in harmony with his; I attribute the problem to the limitations of my own vocabulary.
But enough of that! The deeper point is about recognizing the priority of conscience over concupiscence, and about discerning how insignificant a suffering in the body becomes in the face of an excellence in the soul. Certain things I once thought I could never live without have now become trivial to me, just as a candle holds nothing to the sun, and a hardship pales in comparison to a virtue.
—Reflection written in 7/2013
IMAGE: Pierre Woeiriot, The Bronze Bull of Phalaris (c. 1550)
Tuesday, April 23, 2024
Stockdale on Stoicism 43
The old was the political prison routine mainly for dissenters and domestic enemies of the state. It was designed and run by old-fashioned Third-World Communists of the Ho Chi Minh cut. It revolved around the idea of "repentance" for "crimes" of anti-social behavior. American prisoners, street criminals, and domestic political enemies of the state were all in the same prison.
We never saw a "POW camp" like in the movies. The Communist jail was part psychiatric clinic and part reform school. North Vietnamese protocol called for making all their inmates demonstrate shame, bowing to all guards, heads low, never looking at the sky. It meant frequent sessions with your interrogator, if for no other reason than to check your attitude. And if judged "wrong," then you were maybe down the torture chute of confession of guilt, of apology, and then the inevitable payoff—the atonement.
The new regime, superimposed on the above, was for Americans only. It was a propaganda factory, supervised by young, English-speaking, bureaucratic army officers with quotas to fill, quotas set by the political arm of the government: press interviews with visiting left-wing Americans, propaganda films to shoot (starring intimidated people they called "American Air Pirates"), and so on.
—from James B. Stockdale, Master of My Fate: A Stoic Philosopher in a Hanoi Prison
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