Cicero, Stoic Paradoxes 1.2

But these matters, when they are more loosely discussed, appear somewhat obscure; but those things which seemed to be discussed with more subtlety than is necessary in words, may be illustrated by the lives and actions of the greatest of men. 
 
I ask then of you, whether the men who left to us this empire, founded upon so noble a system, seem ever to have thought of gratifying avarice by money; delight by delicacy; luxury by magnificence; or pleasure by feasting? 
 
Set before your eyes any one of our monarchs. Shall I begin with Romulus? Or, after the state was free, with those who liberated it? By what steps then did Romulus ascend to heaven? By those which these people term good things? Or by his exploits and his virtues? 
 
What! Are we to imagine, that the wooden or earthen dishes of Numa Pompilius were less acceptable to the immortal gods, than the embossed plate of others? I pass over our other kings, for all of them, excepting Tarquin the Proud, were equally excellent. 
 
Should anyone ask, what did Brutus perform when he delivered his country? Or, as to those who were the participators of that design, what was their aim, and the object of their pursuit? Lives there the man who can regard as their object, riches, pleasure, or anything else than acting the part of a great and gallant man? 
 
What motive impelled Gaius Mucius, without the least hope of preservation, to attempt the death of Porsenna? What impulse kept Cocles to the bridge, singly opposed to the whole force of the enemy? What power devoted the elder and the younger Decius, and impelled them against armed battalions of enemies? 
 
What was the object of the continence of Gaius Fabricius, or of the frugality of life of Manius Curius? What were the motives of those two thunderbolts of the Punic war, Publius and Gnaeus Scipio, when they proposed with their own bodies to intercept the progress of the Carthaginians? What did the elder, what did the younger Africanus propose? What were the views of Cato, who lived between the times of both? 
 
What shall I say of innumerable other instances; for we abound in examples drawn from our own history; can we think that they proposed any other object in life but what seemed glorious and noble? 

—from Cicero, Stoic Paradoxes 1 
 
While the theory will set the terms, only the practice will seal the deal. Like so many who have aspired to an intellectual life, I have spent too much of my time talking the talk, and therefore I have often failed when it comes to walking the walk. 
 
The best inspiration is not an idea of a good man, but rather the works of a good man. I understand completely why we try to present heroes for our children to follow, though I sometimes wonder if we might be pointing to the right people for all of the wrong reasons. 
 
In grade school for example, I was taught to revere Washington and Lincoln, and when I pushed for an explanation that went beyond a colorful poster with an uplifting quote, I was hastily told it was because they had both won wars. 
 
Hadn’t Napoleon and Stalin also won wars? “Yes, but they weren’t the good guys.” 
 
Which leads me straight back to my original question: so what makes the good guy a good guy? It is much the same when we venerate those who are incredibly rich or popular: does their greatness came from their fortune and fame, or perhaps from something far more important, to which the fortune and fame are merely accidental?
 
No one should be reduced to a caricature, and none of us are without our faults. Nevertheless, some will rise to the occasion, with no concern for any reward beyond that of a sound conscience. It took me many years to learn more about what motivated both Washington and Lincoln, which gave me a far better sense of what truly defines character. 
 
Reading this section prompted me to brush up a little on my Roman history; I was reminded how such narratives can be full of folly and ambiguity, making me squint in order to discern the excellence. 
 
That is, however, as it should be, since the right thing is always bound up with the wrong things. Cicero correctly observed how we must isolate what determines greatness, and it will turn out that the virtues behind the circumstances make all the difference. 
 
I will not include my rambling notes on Romulus, Lucius Junius Brutus, Gaius Mucius, or Horatius Cocles. Each age will have its own stories, and their historical accuracy is less important than what they say about the deeper values they endorse. Look closely at the qualities in a hero, and you will learn much about the merits of a society. 
 
For my purposes, I think about the meaning of being a “gentleman” or a “lady”, terms still in use when I was a child, though they have now been all but abandoned. Whatever your background, you can surely find your own equivalent. 
 
Now is such a name given to someone on account of his property, or birth, or breeding? Those who speak in this way reveal their priorities. Or is such a name given to someone on account of his moral worth, regardless of his station? Those who speak in this way continue to stand with the timeless principles of a Cato and a Cicero. 
 
I humbly suggest we have a problem when our politicians must be rich, and our artists must be sexy, and the whole lot of our celebrities must be decadent. Yet hasn’t that always been the problem? And hasn’t the solution always been to go against the grain by pursuing integrity instead of prosperity? 

—Reflection written in 5/1999 

IMAGE: Jacques-Louis David, The Intervention of the Sabine Women (1799) 

Seneca, Moral Letters 80.6

 
When you buy a horse, you order its blanket to be removed; you pull off the garments from slaves that are advertised for sale, so that no bodily flaws may escape your notice; if you judge a man, do you judge him when he is wrapped in a disguise? 
 
Slave dealers hide under some sort of finery any defect which may give offence, and for that reason the very trappings arouse the suspicion of the buyer. If you catch sight of a leg or an arm that is bound up in cloths, you demand that it be stripped and that the body itself be revealed to you.
 
Do you see yonder Scythian or Sarmatian king, his head adorned with the badge of his office? If you wish to see what he amounts to, and to know his full worth, take off his diadem; much evil lurks beneath it. 
 
But why do I speak of others? If you wish to set a value on yourself, put away your money, your estates, your honors, and look into your own soul. At present, you are taking the word of others for what you are. Farewell. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 80 
 
I walk a thin line when I consider that games of cunning played by so many in the world around me. On the one hand, I run the risk of a creeping conformity, surrendering bit by bit to the convenience of putting on a show. On the other hand, I am sorely tempted to isolate myself in anger, shouting about integrity while still consumed by envy. In either case, I am defining myself by their judgments instead of my own. 
 
Somewhere in the middle stands a life of serenity, where I content with my nature, and I begrudge no man his own path. If I am truly convinced of the dignity in the virtues, I need not make any compromises for the sake of cheap trinkets. If my neighbor chooses a diversion in the vices, he merits my compassion, not my scorn. 
 
I imagine the vast machine of modern advertising is not all that different from the bustling marketplaces of ancient Rome. Over here, a slick corporation tells me how a sugary beverage will make me sexually attractive, and over there, a crafty merchant tries to sell me a lame horse. Both of them are painfully aware that they have nothing of true value to offer, and so they turn to the allure of mere appearances, desperately hoping they can pull off the scheme for another day. 
 
As they do in business, so they do in life. Paint a smiling face on a rotting soul, and then call it success. The schmoozing at the cocktail parties seems harmless, until the charade has penetrated into every corner; do we still know what we look like under the makeup? 
 
How many times was I told to revere the greatness of a Ceasar or a Napoleon, and how long did I refuse to question the party line? But what remains after the crowns, the scepters, and the robes are stripped away? Style is never a replacement for substance. 
 
The challenge for today is to appreciate my own worth without a reference to any of the embellishments. 

—Reflection written in 11/2013 

IMAGE: Jacques-Louis David, The Coronation of Napoleon (1807) 

Stockdale on Stoicism 46

Howie Rutledge, one of the four of us with more than four years, went back to school and got a master's degree after we got home. His thesis concentrated on the question of whether long-term erosion of human purpose was more effectively achieved by torture or isolation. 

He mailed out questionnaires to us (who had also taken the ropes at least ten times), and others with records of extreme prison abuse. 

He found that those who had less than two years' isolation and plenty of torture said torture was the trump card; those with more than two years' isolation and plenty of torture said that, for long-term modification of behavior, isolation was the way to go. 

From my viewpoint, you can get used to repeated rope torture—there are some tricks for minimizing your losses in that game. 

But keep a man, even a very strong-willed man, in isolation for three or more years, and he starts looking for a friend, any friend, regardless of nationality or ideology. 

—from James B. Stockdale, Master of My Fate: A Stoic Philosopher in a Hanoi Prison 

IMAGE: Jacques-Louis David, Psyche Abandoned (c. 1795) 

Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 4.10

M. Just as distempers and sickness are bred in the body from the corruption of the blood, and the too great abundance of phlegm and bile, so the mind is deprived of its health, and disordered with sickness, from a confusion of depraved opinions that are in opposition to one another. 
 
From these perturbations arise, first, diseases, which they call νοσήματα; and also those feelings which are in opposition to these diseases, and which admit certain faulty distastes or loathings; then come sicknesses, which are called ἀῤῥωστήματα by the Stoics, and these two have their opposite aversions. 
 
Here the Stoics, especially Chrysippus, give themselves unnecessary trouble to show the analogy which the diseases of the mind have to those of the body: but, overlooking all that they say as of little consequence, I shall treat only of the thing itself. 
 
Let us, then, understand perturbation to imply a restlessness from the variety and confusion of contradictory opinions; and that when this heat and disturbance of the mind is of any standing, and has taken up its residence, as it were, in the veins and marrow, then commence diseases and sickness, and those aversions which are in opposition to these diseases and sicknesses. 

—from Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 4.10 
 
Ancient medicine is regularly mocked for being primitive and unscientific, even as all of our modern refinements are built upon the efforts of those who inquired before us. In one sense, at least, I suspect that the Greeks and the Romans knew something too many of us have now forgotten: health within the body derives from the subtle harmony of our many powers, and we do ourselves no favors when we merely try to smother the symptoms with the brute force of surgery and drugs. The health of the mind is much the same. 
 
The model of the Four Humors may well be a crude form of biology, but it does grasp a broader concept about disease being a consequence of an imbalance. When the parts are working together in equilibrium, the whole will operate smoothly, while when those parts are misaligned by excess or deficiency, the function of the whole is compromised. Where there is such a disorder, the organism will be wracked by the conflict of opposites. 
 
I can discern this in my diet, and in the discipline of my daily activities, and in my resistance to infection or to injury. I see it also in the relationship of my thoughts and feelings—if my judgments are disturbed, my passions will also be in disarray. A false estimation about the source of the true and good, where I have built up a distorted view of right and wrong, is the cause of so many harmful emotions. 
 
Beyond a few fragments, the works of Chrysippus are no longer available to us, so I will have to take Cicero at his word that the Early Stoics were overly occupied with comparing the ailments of the mind to those of the the body. Nevertheless, while each operates within its own domain, I should not underestimate their close complementarity and greater unity; the spirit and the flesh are intimately bound together, such that the state of one is immediately reflected in that of the other. 
 
Just as a fever may be a reaction to an intrusive virus, so my sadness or my anger may well be a product of my lopsided opinions. I am happy to follow the advice of the doctor in curing a physical illness, and I should also heed the wisdom of the philosopher when I am confused about meaning and value. Perhaps my brain needs a chemical adjustment, and yet none of it will take hold without a deeper reformation of my character. 
 
I have long enjoyed the story of Prince Antiochus, who was overcome with lethargy. His father summoned the famed physician Erasistratus, who, by monitoring the young man’s pulse, observed his response to his beloved Stratonice: the sickness proceeded from his longing. I too know how matters of the heart have led to perturbations in every other aspect of my being. 

—Reflection written in 1/1999 

IMAGE: Jacques-Louis David, Erasistratus Discovering the Cause of Antiochus' Disease (1774) 

Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 3.33

M. Nor is that consolation much to be relied on, though it is frequently practiced, and sometimes has some effect, namely, “That you are not alone in this.” 
 
It has its effect, as I said, but not always, nor with every person, for some reject it; but much depends on the application of it; for you ought rather to show, not how men in general have been affected with such evils, but how men of sense have borne them. 
 
As to Chrysippus’s method, it is certainly founded in truth; but it is difficult to apply it in time of distress. It is a work of no small difficulty to persuade a person in affliction that he grieves merely because he thinks it right so to do. 
 
Certainly, then, as in pleadings we do not state all cases alike (if I may adopt the language of lawyers for a moment), but adapt what we have to say to the time, to the nature of the subject under debate, and to the person; so, too, in alleviating grief, regard should be had to what kind of cure the party to be comforted can admit of.
 
But, somehow or other, we have rambled from what you originally proposed. For your question was concerning a wise man, with whom nothing can have the appearance of evil that is not dishonorable; or at least, anything else would seem so small an evil that by his wisdom he would so overmatch it as to make it wholly disappear; and such a man makes no addition to his grief through opinion, and never conceives it right to torment himself above measure, nor to wear himself out with grief, which is the meanest thing imaginable. 
 
Reason, however, it seems, has demonstrated (though it was not directly our object at the moment to inquire whether anything can be called an evil except what is base) that it is in our power to discern that all the evil which there is in affliction has nothing natural in it, but is contracted by our own voluntary judgment of it, and the error of opinion. 

—from Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 3.33 
 
For quite some time, I would dread sharing my troubles with anyone, because I was almost always given one of these responses: 
 
“Well, you know all of us have to deal with these things!” 
 
“Oh, it’s not as bad as you think it is!” 
 
Now experience has thankfully granted me a bit more patience, but regardless of whether the statements are intended to be dismissive or helpful, such advice usually just results in greater frustration. Instead of feeling encouraged, I will likely feel diminished, and the trick to offering consolation involves walking a fine line between minimizing and enabling. 
 
Cicero understands how prudence demands adapting the principles to the circumstances, for whatever is said must take into account how it is likely to be heard. If comfort is to be offered, what is the disposition of the sufferer? Given his strengths and weaknesses, how will he react to the advice? Is he already willing to reflect calmly, or do his passions still need some time to settle? 
 
Most importantly, if we appeal to examples of how others have grieved, it is better to stress the way they found comfort, instead of dwelling upon the weight of their hardship; no one ever improves by merely multiplying the sadness. 
 
You can tell me you know how bad it is, but you can also tell me you know I possess the power to overcome it. You can, conversely, tell it isn’t so bad at all, but you can also steadily walk me through the stages of my grief. 
 
In any case, we are speaking here of those who are still on the path to wisdom, and how to gradually help them understand why the evil is ultimately in their own estimation. The original question of this book, however, was about whether the wise man must be subject to grief, and we have now seen more of how it is precisely the presence of wisdom that permits him to rise above the pain of loss. 
 
With the Stoics, we can appreciate how, as rational animals, we are defined by our responses to events, and are not merely enslaved to the force of circumstances. Since human evil is only to be found in vice, which is ours to control, what seemed so oppressive is now an obstacle of our own making; it is either nothing at all, or so insignificant in contrast to virtue that it can practically shrink to a triviality. 
 
This is why I know I am still a work in progress: I struggle mightily because my habits lag behind my understanding, and this is a call to arms, not an admission of defeat. Happiness is made to be my freely chosen nature, and thus grief is not made to be a part of that nature. 

—Reflection written in 12/1998 

IMAGE: Jacques-Louis David, The Philosopher (1779) 

Epictetus, Golden Sayings 166

Refuse altogether to take an oath if you can, if not, as far as may be. 

IMAGE: Jacques-Louis David, sketch drawing for The Tennis Court Oath (1791) 

Epictetus, Discourses 1.28.5

“Does a man then differ in nothing from a stork?” 

 

God forbid: but he does not differ in these matters. 

 

“In what then does he differ?” 

 

Search and you will find that he differs in something else. Look whether it be not that he differs in understanding what he does, in his faculty for society, in his good faith, his self-respect, his security of aim, his prudence. 

 

“Where then is man's good and man's evil, in the true sense, to be found?”

 

In that faculty which makes men different from all else. If a man preserves this and keeps it safely fortified; if his sense of honor, his good faith, and his prudence are not destroyed, then he too is preserved; but if any of these perish or be taken by storm, then he too perishes with them. 

 

And it is on this that great events depend. Was Alexander's great failure when the Hellenes came against the Trojans and sacked Troy and when his brothers perished? By no means: for no one fails by the act of another; yet then there was destruction of storks' nests. 

 

Nay, his failure was when he lost the man of honor, the man of good faith, the man who respected manners and the laws of hospitality. 

 

When did Achilles fail? Was it when Patroclus died? God forbid: it was when he was angry, when he cried for a trumpery maiden, when he forgot that he was there not to win lady-loves, but to make war. 

 

These are man's failures—this is his siege, this is his razed city, when his right judgements are broken to the ground, and when they are destroyed. 

—from Epictetus, Discourses 1.28 

 

It is the trend of the day to stress the commonality between humans and animals, and in one sense this is quite correct, for there is only benefit in learning about what we share with other creatures. Like the animal, I am aware through a variety of senses, and I possess a broad range of feelings, and I react by means of immediate instincts. 

 

Whatever the range of complexity, the stork is drawn to assembling his nest, just as I am drawn to the comforts of my home. My cat and I have little patience for those who claim that an animal has no emotions, or that he is incapable of learning to form an attachment. 

 

In another sense, however, human nature adds something further to an animal nature, and we neglect this crucial aspect at our peril. No, it isn’t just that we are more adept with tools, or use more intricate language, or process our impression with larger and more refined brains. 

 

We are also creatures of reason and will, endowed with abstract reflection, and thereby with deliberate choice. For all the force of instincts, judgment has the power to rise beyond any inclination. For all the strength of appetites, the mind may seek out their deeper meaning and purpose, repurposing them as it best sees fit. 

 

The stork does his business, and yet he never feels the need to question his existence. My cat treats me as a companion, and yet he never considers the essence of friendship. He stares at me blankly when I ask him about mathematics, or if I write him a poem. 

 

This is not a weakness in the animal at all, but rather an expression of the wonderful variety in the order of Nature. The rock, the tree, the cat, and the man all act according to their specific identities, all playing their own distinct parts within the whole. What one must do is not a requirement for the other—and thank God for having made the world with such a balanced diversity! 

 

So while we humans build our massive cities, split the tiny atom, and engage in vast wars, these are merely secondary consequences of something far more significant. The foundation of it all is the capacity to know, to love, to act with good will, to develop a sense of moral self-worth, to find peace in wisdom. 

 

And with freedom comes the option of twisting such blessings into curses, to fail so miserably at the task; it’s a piece of the complete package.

 

To protect my identity, therefore, is not simply to survive, or to acquire, or to consume. How can I best be mindful of what I was made for? Go back to the judgments, to the management of the impressions, to the first principles I rely on to show me the way. The rest may crumble around me, but I stand or fall on the merits of my conscience. 

 

Paris didn’t fail because Troy was destroyed—he failed because he first abandoned his understanding of right from wrong. 

 

Achilles didn’t fail because he was a victim of Agamemnon or Hector—he failed because he permitted his passions to overcome his reason. 

 

Catastrophes are not about plagues, famines, or wars. Take a few steps further back, to the point when people fatally chose to be defined by circumstances instead of by character. 

—Reflection written in 4/2001 

IMAGE: Jacques-Louis David, The Anger of Achilles (1819) 

Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 1.42

M. Surely I would rather have had this man’s soul than all the fortunes of those who sat in judgment on him; although that very thing which he says no one except the Gods know, namely, whether life or death is most preferable, he knows himself, for he had previously stated his opinion on it; but he maintained to the last that favorite maxim of his, of affirming nothing.

 

And let us, too, adhere to this rule of not thinking anything an evil which is a general provision of nature; and let us assure ourselves, that if death is an evil, it is an eternal evil, for death seems to be the end of a miserable life; but if death is a misery, there can be no end of that. 

 

But why do I mention Socrates, or Theramenes, men distinguished by the glory of virtue and wisdom? 

 

When a certain Lacedaemomian, whose name is not so much as known, held death in such contempt, that, when led to it by the ephori, he bore a cheerful and pleasant countenance; and, when he was asked by one of his enemies whether he despised the laws of Lycurgus, “On the contrary,” answered he, “I am greatly obliged to him, for he has amerced me in a fine which I can pay without borrowing, or taking up money at interest.” This was a man worthy of Sparta. And I am almost persuaded of his innocence because of the greatness of his soul. 

 

Our own city has produced many such. But why should I name generals, and other men of high rank, when Cato could write that legions have marched with alacrity to that place from whence they never expected to return? 

 

With no less greatness of soul fell the Lacedaemonians at Thermopylae, on whom Simonides wrote the following epitaph: 

 

“Go, stranger, tell the Spartans, here we lie,

Who to support their laws dared boldly die.”

 

What was it that Leonidas, their general, said to them? “March on with courage, my Lacedaemonians. Tonight, perhaps, we shall sup in the regions below.” This was a brave nation while the laws of Lycurgus were in force. 

 

One of them, when a Persian had said to him in conversation, “We shall hide the sun from your sight by the number of our arrows and darts,” replied, “We shall fight, then, in the shade.” 

 

Do I talk of their men? How great was that Lacedaemonian woman, who had sent her son to battle, and when she heard that he was slain, said, “I bore him for that purpose, that you might have a man who dared die for his country!” 

 

However, it is a matter of notoriety that the Spartans were bold and hardy, for the discipline of a republic has great influence. 

—from Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 1.42

 

Ultimately, I discover how the outcome of my life is a result of the choices I make, not of the events that may or may not come my way. And behind every small choice, however insignificant it may appear, stands a larger judgment, about the sort of man I wish to be. The tiny bits are but instances of the grander direction. 

 

Do I follow the path of an Anytus or a Socrates? Will I assess myself by the goods of the body or by the goods of the soul? The calculating man might win in the courts, while the wise man can meet his end with serenity, in the knowledge he has done his best to act with virtue. Will something else come after? Perhaps the philosopher has an inkling, though he feels no need to insist upon the matter. 

 

As Cicero continues with further examples of those who did not fear death, precisely because they understood the purpose of life, I must once again remind myself how the strength he describes comes from an inner peace, not from any desire to dominate. The only “toughness” that counts is one of prudent conviction, where hatred has no place. Moral courage may well include physical courage, and yet it is so much more than that. 

 

The Spartans, for example, are often presented as cold and heartless, and while their traditions included the most rigorous of bodily hardships, there was a profound devotion to conscience that drove them on. Yes, I will even call it love, not in a sentimental or romantic sense, but as a complete commitment of the will, a responsibility to duty expressed in unconditional self-giving. 

 

How else, after all, could the accused choose to freely accept his punishment, showing gratitude rather than resentment? In giving his life, he could pay the compensation for a crime and not be bound to any further debt. 

 

How pitiful that even when I know full well that I have done wrong, I still feel angry at getting caught! 

 

Though we usually think of the great differences between the Spartans and the Athenians, I see here a remarkable similarity to Socrates, who in the Crito explains why he refuses to escape from prison. If his fellow citizens have treated him unjustly, Socrates will not act unjustly in return, and his reverence for their bond does not alter out of convenience. 

 

Hollywood has sadly reduced the story of Thermopylae to an archetype of chest-thumping, when what should be most inspiring is how a good man will offer up everything else, including life itself, to do what is right. Some speak of “suffering” death, and here we have the Spartans who consider it an honor. 

 

Meanwhile, I grumble about how unfair it is that I have caught the flu this week! 

 

It’s in the attitude, in deciding whether to see something as a burden or as an opportunity. All of living, and of dying, is like that. 

 

And it isn’t just about some sort of masculine achievement. The Spartan mother was first and foremost proud of her fallen son for living well. 

 

I recall, with a combination of amusement and cringing, how a classmate of mine, on fire with this or that political fad, began to lecture a woman at a local pub about how she was a victim of an oppressive system. 

 

“Your husband didn’t have to die in Vietnam, they made him die for nothing!”

 

For a brief moment, I was sure she would snap his neck. Instead, she offered a few choice words: 

 

“Young man, my husband didn’t die for the government, or for a piece of cloth, or for some big idea the politicians came up with. He died because he thought it best to help his neighbors, especially the ones who couldn’t stand up for themselves. He had this crazy notion that anything worth living for is worth dying for. You should try it sometime.” 

 

How fitting, when a war widow puts a college boy in his place on the significance of sacrifice. 

—Reflection written in 6/1996 

IMAGE: Jacques-Louis David, Leonidas at Thermopylae (1814) 

Epictetus, Golden Sayings 149

If you seek Truth, you will not seek to gain a victory by every possible means; and when you have found Truth, you need not fear being defeated.

IMAGE: School of Jacques Louis David, Roman Warrior (1824)

The Death of Seneca in Art

Peter Paul Rubens (1613) 
School of Gerard van Honthorst (c.1625)
Jacques de l'Ange (c.1650)
Luca Giordano (c.1685)
Noel Halle (1750)
Jacques-Louis David (1773)
Manuel Dominguez Sanchez (1871)

The Death of Socrates

Jacques Philippe Joseph de Saint-Quentin, The Death of Socrates (1738)

Giambettino Cignaroli, The Death of Socrates (1762)

Jacques-Louis David, The Death of Socrates (1787)
 

Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 6.28

Death is a cessation of the impressions through the senses, and of the pulling of the strings that move the appetites, and of the discursive movements of the thoughts, and of the service to the flesh.

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book 6 (tr Long)

It is easier for many of us to see the negative, to recognize the bad in something long before discerning anything good. We may, in fact, be deliberately looking out for the things we can complain about, while ignoring the things we can appreciate.

The Stoic recognizes, however, that the good or the bad in our lives will depend entirely upon how we make use of our circumstances. I can, if only I so choose, resist the temptation to dwell upon the doom and gloom. I can deliberately attend to what will bring benefit instead of harm. There is a certain satisfaction in being able to “turn” a situation, having altered nothing about the conditions themselves, but having altered everything about my estimation of them.

Death, for example, will tend to immediately make us uncomfortable. It is a necessary component of life, and we seem to be quite ready to portray it regularly in news and entertainment, but there is certain awkward hush when it stands directly in front of us. We formulaically offer our mumbled regrets and prayers, look around nervously, and hope it will just all go away. It is the end of things, after all, and we don’t like to think of ourselves ceasing to be.

Regardless of whether we think of death as the erasing of self or the transformation of self, I need not consider only what is lost, but I can also consider what is gained.

Nothing, in the Stoic sense, ever completely ends at all. It changes into something else, and I can rest assured that I am playing my own necessary part in the unfolding of Nature. I can also find peace in knowing that those very things I found so troublesome and frustrating in this life, the ones that often seemed such a burden, will now be lifted from me.

Marcus Aurelius tells us exactly what those apparent hindrances have been, and reminds us that we will now be free of them.

I will be free of the senses, which can have a way of assaulting me with waves of confusing and disturbing images.

I will be free of pain, which can leave me weak and cast down, just as much as I will be free of pleasure, which can leave me enslaved to desire.

I will be free of the thinking that can be so befuddled, uncertain, and unclear, stumbling about here and there, unsure of where I have come from and where I am going.

I will be free of the demands of the body, those ridiculous needs that always required so much my plodding effort and routine.

I should never allow worry to consume me in this life, of course, but death can be said to allow me to no longer have to attend to that pesky temptation of worry. Understood rightly, it is hardly silly to say that it all depends on how I look at it.

There was a good reason Socrates suggested in the Phaedo that we can think of death not as the ending of what is pleasant, but as being liberated from what is unpleasant. Whatever may become of me, it will at the very least be a change into something completely new.

Written in 3/2007

IMAGE: Jacques-Louis David, The Death of Socrates (1787)

Boethius, The Consolation 1.8

In such a manner were the clouds of grief scattered. Then I drew breath again and engaged my mind in taking knowledge of my physician's countenance. So when I turned my eyes towards her and fixed my gaze upon her, I recognized my nurse, Philosophy, in whose chambers I had spent my life from earliest manhood.

And I asked her, “Why have you, mistress of all virtues, come down from heaven above to visit my lonely place of banishment? Is it that you, as well as I, may be harried, the victim of false charges?”

 “Should I,” said she, “desert you, my nursling? Should I not share and bear my part of the burden that has been laid upon you from spite against my name? Surely Philosophy never allowed herself to let the innocent go upon their journey without a friend.

“Do you think I would fear calumnies? That I would be terrified as though they were a new misfortune? Do you think that this is the first time that wisdom has been harassed by dangers among men of shameless ways?”

“In ancient days before the time of my child, Plato, have we not as well as nowadays fought many a mighty battle against the recklessness of folly? And though Plato did survive, did not his master, Socrates, win his victory of an unjust death, with me present at his side?

“When after him the followers of Epicurus, and in turn the Stoics, and then others did all try their utmost to seize his legacy, they dragged me, for all my cries and struggles, as though to share me as plunder.

“They tore my robe which I had woven with my own hands, and snatched away the fragments thereof, and when they thought I had altogether yielded myself to them, they departed.” . . .

—from Book 1, Prose 3

I fear I was born to be a reflective and philosophical person. That doesn’t mean I’ve ever managed to do it well, but it is my disposition nonetheless. There are those joyous times when I remember who I really am, and when I can thankfully put things in their proper perspective. These are the times I can be completely happy with myself, and with my appreciation of what is true and good, only for its own sake.

These are the times when I recognize Philosophy as my nurse.

None of it is about intellectual grandeur; I outgrew that illusion fairly quickly. No, it is about finding freedom and peace, living without all of the bells and the whistles, the trinkets and the trophies. It is about being able to know without a desire to manipulate by means of that knowledge, and being able to love without any ulterior motive for giving that love.

I smile and nod when I hear Boethius ask Lady Philosophy if she is going to suffer just like him. I have often been angry when people insult and slander truth, but it is foolish of me to think that truth itself can really ever suffer from malice or manipulation. Truth is timeless, eternal, and invincible. I may choose to ignore it, but it always remains there for whenever I choose to return.

Wisdom will never abandon me, though I have often sadly abandoned her. A real mother will never abandon her child, a dedicated lover never disposes of the beloved, and Philosophy will never neglect her followers.

The world has many shameless and hateful people, who have chosen their own selfish profit as the measure of their actions, whatever the cost to others may be. They can be quite fond of harassing Philosophy, because they know that truth and virtue stand in their way.

Yet the world also has many wise and loving people, who will give of themselves at every turn. They will turn to Philosophy as a comforter and as a friend.

We see more of the former, because they enjoy drawing attention to themselves. We don’t always see the latter, because they serve something greater than themselves.

When I first read this passage, I had to do the classic double take. How could Socrates possibly be said to have won a victory by being killed unjustly? Surely his shameless persecutors won the victory, and he was defeated? I had to read further to make any sense of this, but it reflects the incredible way that Boethius turns our expectations around by asking us to reconsider our most basic values. Stay tuned.

I hesitate to use such an ugly and powerful word, but I feel that I must. Some people attempt to symbolically rape Philosophy, because they try to make themselves masters of the truth. The shameless and hateful folks grab onto what little bit they think might be useful to help them feel powerful, they take it for themselves by force, and they leave behind everything else.

She won’t have any of it. A good man should surely know the greatness of a better woman. Wisdom is far stronger than the shallowness of my greedy passions.

Written in 5/2015

Image: Jacques-Louis David, The Death of Socrates (1787)