Seneca, Moral Letters 87.5

“That which is good makes men good. For example, that which is good in the art of music makes the musician. But chance events do not make a good man; therefore, chance events are not goods.” 
 
The Peripatetics reply to this by saying that the premise is false; that men do not in every case become good by means of that which is good; that in music there is something good, like a flute, a harp, or an organ suited to accompany singing; but that none of these instruments makes the musician. 
 
We shall then reply: “You do not understand in what sense we have used the phrase ’that which is good in music.’ For we do not mean that which equips the musician, but that which makes the musician; you, however, are referring to the instruments of the art, and not to the art itself. If, however, anything in the art of music is good, that will in every case make the musician.”
 
And I should like to put this idea still more clearly. We define the good in the art of music in two ways: first, that by which the performance of the musician is assisted, and second, that by which his art is assisted. 
 
Now the musical instruments have to do with his performance—such as flutes and organs and harps; but they do not have to do with the musician’s art itself. For he is an artist even without them; he may perhaps be lacking in the ability to practice his art. But the good in man is not in the same way twofold; for the good of man and the good of life are the same. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 87 
 
As much as it now offends people, I still catch myself repeating that old saying, “There’s more than one way to skin a cat.” 
 
It helps me to remember why the sophists are mistaken in reducing everything to a Catch-22, where tunnel vision makes it impossible to resolve any dilemma. I do not see the Trolley Problem and the Liar’s Paradox as anything more than amusing parlor tricks, because they have little bearing on the reality of daily living. 
 
At the other end of the spectrum, we are so terribly lazy when throwing around a word like “good”—one would expect that expert thinkers could do a much better job of defining their terms before engaging in mental gymnastics. Indeed, one of the reasons I was so drawn to Stoicism was the school’s total clarity on the true origin of any benefit. 
 
I understand how an expression can be used either narrowly or broadly, depending upon the context, but the Stoics did not mess around when it came to the nature of the human good. While the old Thomist in me still distinguishes between the univocal and the equivocal senses of a word, I insist that the latter must always be dependent upon the former. 
 
Should I describe pleasure, money, and fame as goods? Yes, relatively, if I am speaking of the way they might be employed for the sake of a worthy end. No, if I am trying to isolate the absolute source, which alone rests in the virtue of the act itself. Whatever the circumstances, no man is capable of any good deed, if he does not first possess the proper disposition of character. 
 
Just as merely picking up a fine instrument cannot bestow musical skill, so buying some fancy book will never produce an informed conscience. Perhaps it could help, or perhaps it could hurt, but that will all come down to an internal judgment, an estimation of meaning and value. Sometimes the tool serves as an inspiration, and sometimes the tool is an excuse to behave like a spoiled brat. 
 
In high school, I was not magically transformed into a Chris Squire or a Geddy Lee at the moment I picked up a Rickenbacker bass. In college, I did not acquire a noble soul once a copy of the Summa suddenly appeared on my bookshelf. Indeed, there were times when a hindrance ended up being far more useful to me than a convenience—and it was only my commitment that made the difference. 
 
The Peripatetics were inclined to confuse an occasion for the good with the essence of the good, which, in turn, tempted them to identify our merits with indifferent conditions, which are ultimately beyond our power. I would have respectfully reminded them of the contrast between a material cause and an efficient cause. 
 
If that sounds too bookish for you, think of the homeless fellow in the subway, who plays brilliant percussion on a pair of plastic buckets, as opposed to the rich kid at the prep school, who nagged his parents for a full DW Collector’s Series kit, and yet he will never master a basic backbeat. 

—Reflection written in 2/2014 

Seneca, Moral Letters 87.4

Marcus Cato the Censor, whose existence helped the state as much as did Scipio’s—for while Scipio fought against our enemies, Cato fought against our bad morals—used to ride a donkey, and a donkey, at that, which carried saddlebags containing the master’s necessaries. 
 
O how I should love to see him meet today on the road one of our coxcombs, with his outriders and Numidians, and a great cloud of dust before him! 
 
Your dandy would no doubt seem refined and well-attended in comparison with Marcus Cato—your dandy, who, in the midst of all his luxurious paraphernalia, is chiefly concerned whether to turn his hand to the sword or to the hunting knife. 
 
O what a glory to the times in which he lived, for a general who had celebrated a triumph, a censor, and what is most noteworthy of all, a Cato, to be content with a single nag, and with less than a whole nag at that! For part of the animal was preempted by the baggage that hung down on either flank. 
 
Would you not therefore prefer Cato’s steed, that single steed, saddle-worn by Cato himself, to the coxcomb’s whole retinue of plump ponies, Spanish cobs, and trotters?
 
 I see that there will be no end in dealing with such a theme unless I make an end myself. So I shall now become silent, at least with reference to superfluous things like these; doubtless the man who first called them “hindrances” had a prophetic inkling that they would be the very sort of thing they now are. 
 
At present I should like to deliver to you the syllogisms, as yet very few, belonging to our school and bearing upon the question of virtue, which, in our opinion, is sufficient for the happy life. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 87 
 
It’s nice to see a Stoic praising Cato the Elder, and not just his great-grandson, Cato the Younger, who became a bit of a poster child for the school. 
 
While some found the Censor to be severe and self-righteous, there is something to be said for the way he promoted a life of uncompromising integrity and austerity. However stuffy it may sound, I would maintain that the Romans were at their best when they kept things brutally simple. 
 
Nowadays, it is the car, and not the horse, that helps us to distinguish between the codgers and the dandies. You can learn a lot from what a fellow drives. 
 
For the whole decade I knew him, my music teacher drove a dilapidated 1972 Oldsmobile Cutlass, in a nauseating shade of green, which was already at 60,000 miles when his roommate gave it to him, in place of back rent. I, for one, found it quite charming, for the very reason that it had none of the usual charms. 
 
“It gets me wherever I need to go—no drama and no fuss. If it breaks down, I kick it and mess around under the hood. If I can’t fix it, my neighbor, who is a decent mechanic, looks it over, and I trade him a few cases of beer for the work.” 
 
Here was a man who had it together. He felt no need to impress anyone, because he knew exactly what he was about. 
 
Years later, our university got itself a new president, who paraded onto campus with a Tesla Model S, one of the first to be built. He immediately reserved a prime parking space for himself, and he had a charging station installed—at the school’s expense. He was fond of polishing it daily, while taking every opportunity to explain how he was now saving the planet. 
 
“You really should get one, you know. Your children will thank you.” He frowned when I reminded him how the price was twice my salary, and that most of our state’s electricity came from burning natural gas and coal. 
 
Here was a man who most certainly did not have it together. His entire identity was based on crafting an image. 
 
What does it say about me if I place my worth in my car, my house, my clothes, or my trendy politics? As Boethius said, by enslaving ourselves to worldly things, we make ourselves inferior to them, below even the status of a wild beast. For all of his surliness, I will take a Cato over a Caesar on any day. 
 
It won’t be enough, of course, to merely complain about the money grubbers and the glory seekers. Seneca rightly moves on to some of the Stoic arguments on why virtue matters more than swag. 

—Reflection written in 2/2014 

Seneca, Moral Letters 87.3

I suppose you call a man rich just because his gold plate goes with him even on his travels, because he farms land in all the provinces, because he unrolls a large account-book, because he owns estates near the city so great that men would grudge his holding them in the waste lands of Apulia. 
 
But after you have mentioned all these facts, he is poor. And why? He is in debt. 
 
“To what extent?” you ask. 
 
For all that he has. Or perchance you think it matters whether one has borrowed from another man or from Fortune.
 
What good is there in mules caparisoned in uniform livery? Or in decorated chariots and 
 
“Steeds decked with purple and with tapestry,
With golden harness hanging from their necks,
Champing their yellow bits, all clothed in gold?”
 
Neither master nor mule is improved by such trappings. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 87 
 
Whenever Seneca starts to go on about the vices of the covetous, I am tempted to pick up the pace of my reading, assured that I have heard all of this before. 
 
This is a mistake, however, since such a confirmation is exactly what I need to hear, again and again, as a remedy for the very moral wavering I described above. While I didn’t much enjoy it at the time, it was practicing my scales, over and over, that made me a passable musician, and it is now a regimen of frequent counsel that might help me to become a better man. 
 
My students sometimes complain when I repeatedly remind them to correct a certain mistake, yet I gently point out that if they had already fixed it, then I wouldn’t need to nag them. I am well-advised to follow my own advice. 
 
When I was in danger of becoming a maudlin drunk, it always helped me to recall the gory details of the last binge, so there could be no confusion about the outcome. Likewise, as I am enticed by the promises of trinkets and trophies, I deliberately consider the pitiful fate of those who define themselves by their riches. 
 
Even as the affluence can produce an exterior splendor, how does it reflect our interior merits? Wealth does not make a man righteous, just as poverty does not make a man wicked, and no amount of hemming and hawing can change this fundamental fact. 
 
If you reply that property may provide the means for countless good deeds, remember how the goodness must come from within the soul to begin with, and why the virtues can thrive both in prosperity and in privation. 

To be rich is one thing, but to want to be rich is quite another. 

 
The princes are in just as much debt as the paupers, though it is a bit easier for the pauper to walk away from it all with a clean conscience. On the proximate level, their big money is usually tied up in dicey investments, and on the ultimate level, their very comforts are always in the treacherous grips of Lady Fortune. The deficit is moral, and not merely financial. 
 
To keep it simple, I turn to the old phrase: “You can put lipstick on a pig, but it’s still a pig.” The fixation on appearances is itself a fatal flaw, far worse than walking through the world with empty pockets. 

—Reflection written in 2/2014 

IMAGE: Heinrich Aldegrever, The Rich Man on His Deathbed (1554) 

Seneca, Moral Letters 87.2

I can scarcely force myself to wish that others shall think this cart mine. My false embarrassment about the truth still holds out, you see; and whenever we meet a more sumptuous party 
 
I blush in spite of myself—proof that this conduct which I approve and applaud has not yet gained a firm and steadfast dwelling-place within me. He who blushes at riding in a rattletrap will boast when he rides in style.
 
So my progress is still insufficient. I have not yet the courage openly to acknowledge my thriftiness. Even yet I am bothered by what other travelers think of me. 
 
But instead of this, I should really have uttered an opinion counter to that in which mankind believe, saying, “You are mad, you are misled, your admiration devotes itself to superfluous things! You estimate no man at his real worth. When property is concerned, you reckon up in this way with most scrupulous calculation those to whom you shall lend either money or benefits; for by now you enter benefits also as payments in your ledger.
 
“You say: ‘His estates are wide, but his debts are large.’ ‘He has a fine house, but he has built it on borrowed capital.’ ‘No man will display a more brilliant retinue on short notice, but he cannot meet his debts.’ If he pays off his creditors, he will have nothing left.’” 
 
So you will feel bound to do in all other cases as well—to find out by elimination the amount of every man’s actual possessions. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 87 
 
Nevertheless, though I can begin to grasp these noble principles, there is still something holding me back: the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. Like Seneca, I find myself ashamed of my frugality, worried that others will take me to be a failure in life, and I will catch myself peeking with envy at my neighbor’s new car. 
 
Clearly, my doubts reveal how my understanding is not yet complete, for if I actually knew what was good for me, I would hardly hesitate to pursue it. What is contributing to the uncertainty? 
 
When I examine my own struggle, I realize that I remain dazzled by certain impressions: from the inside, my old habits continue to weigh me down, and from the outside, I am still afraid to abandon a herd mentality. When I lower my guard, even for a moment, I am inclined to let my passions run away with me. 
 
If Seneca, a far better man than I can ever claim to be, was also second-guessing himself, I should not think too poorly of my misgivings. I fear the only cure for such a frailty is steady practice: routines are formed through repetition, and self-reliance is not crafted overnight. Upon falling down, the victory is always in standing right back up. 
 
In most cases, I have now reached a point where taking a short break will do me a world of good. Even a minute of calm reflection, which can feel like an eternity when the fire burns hot, allows me to restore my sanity. The next time you catch me being resentful, jealous, or quarrelsome, you can safely assume that I neglected to hit the pause button.
 
To convince myself of a truth is not to force a conclusion down my throat, but rather to carefully evaluate if the reasoning is sound. Is a desire gnawing away at me? Then I can remember that I am a creature of reason and will, and so my judgment is made to rule my appetites. Am I intimidated by the opinions of others? Then I can consider what they have to say, without allowing them to do my thinking for me. My nature calls for the virtues, not for chasing after pleasures or currying favor. 
 
As Seneca says, what does the grasping man really possess? He is forever scheming, calculating how other people might bring a profit or a loss, to the point where his quest to acquire and to consume only sees balance sheets instead of human faces. By denying the very dignity of what it even means to be a person, he has drained himself of any genuine merit. 
 
And in the process of plotting against his fellows, what does he discover about the rules of the game? It turns out that even the richest man is at the mercy of his creditors, because the mercenaries never give anything away for free. Sometimes the price to pay is much too high—by aiming to rule over their circumstances, it turns out that the circumstances now rule over them. 

—Reflection written in 2/2014 

Seneca, Moral Letters 87.1

Letter 87: Some arguments in favor of the simple life  
 
“I was shipwrecked before I got aboard.” I shall not add how that happened, lest you may reckon this also as another of the Stoic paradoxes; and yet I shall, whenever you are willing to listen, nay, even though you be unwilling, prove to you that these words are by no means untrue, nor so surprising as one at first sight would think. 
 
Meantime, the journey showed me this: how much we possess that is superfluous; and how easily we can make up our minds to do away with things whose loss, whenever it is necessary to part with them, we do not feel. 
 
My friend Maximus and I have been spending a most happy period of two days, taking with us very few slaves—one carriage-load—and no paraphernalia except what we wore on our persons. 
 
The mattress lies on the ground, and I upon the mattress. There are two rugs—one to spread beneath us and one to cover us.Nothing could have been subtracted from our luncheon; it took not more than an hour to prepare, and we were nowhere without dried figs, never without writing tablets. If I have bread, I use figs as a relish; if not, I regard figs as a substitute for bread.
 
Hence, they bring me a New Year feast every day, and I make the New Year happy and prosperous by good thoughts and greatness of soul; for the soul is never greater than when it has laid aside all extraneous things, and has secured peace for itself by fearing nothing, and riches by craving no riches.
 
The vehicle in which I have taken my seat is a farmer’s cart. Only by walking do the mules show that they are alive. The driver is barefoot, and not because it is summer either. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 87 
 
Yes, the Stoics seemed to enjoy speaking in paradoxes, though they did not do this in order to sound mysterious and profound, like conceited college students when they parrot lines from Nietzsche or the Buddha. No, they were concerned with flipping our assumptions about the good and the bad, so that we might learn to cherish what we had previously neglected, and to become untroubled about the conditions we once believed to be crippling. Things are not always what they seem. 
 
I may think I am being frugal when I deny myself a few trivial luxuries, but if I am brutally honest with myself, the list will grow very much longer, to the point where almost everything I claim to need turns out to be quite superfluous. While I may well prefer it, it is hardly necessary in order to live well, as long as I am considering my nature in the proper light. 
 
As shocking as it is to the affluent consumer, it is possible to be a good man, and thereby also a happy man, under the most severe privations—even when facing death itself, because living better is not dependent on living longer. In the end, we must all choose our priorities wisely, and I don’t mean deciding on the most stylish brand of breakfast cereal.
 
I really can’t comment about the slaves, since I have never had any sort of underlings, or even the carriage, since I elect to walk whenever I am able. I do, however, appreciate the virtues of traveling light, of sleeping on the ground, and of savoring the simplest meals. It is liberating to discover why less can be more. 
 
In some cases, a convenience had to be forced from me before I finally realized that it was expendable. In other cases, I freely denied myself a comfort, sensing how its presence was bringing me far more trouble than its absence. In all cases, I can become indifferent to both prosperity and poverty, in the full knowledge that my excellence is not determined by any collection of circumstances. 
 
The only obstacle is the force of our own habits, which always remain within our power, as long as we act with patience and persistence. If the theory doesn’t sound convincing, it can be put to the test in practice: after an initial shock, our expectations can change, slowly but surely, as we recognize how we are creatures made to rule ourselves, not to be ruled by the whims of fortune. 
 
Bread and figs can be just as good, and therefore just as satisfying, as a cheeseburger and fries. It all rests upon the quality of our judgments. 

—Reflection written in 2/2014 

Seneca, Moral Letters 86.7

But to return to our olive-yard again. I saw it planted in two ways. If the trees were large, Aegialus took their trunks and cut off the branches to the length of one foot each; he then transplanted along with the ball, after cutting off the roots, leaving only the thick part from which the roots hang. He smeared this with manure, and inserted it in the hole, not only heaping up the earth about it, but stamping and pressing it down.
 
There is nothing, he says, more effective than this packing process; in other words, it keeps out the cold and the wind. Besides, the trunk is not shaken so much, and for this reason the packing makes it possible for the young roots to come out and get a hold in the soil. These are of necessity still soft; they have but a slight hold, and a very little shaking uproots them. 
 
This ball, moreover, Aegialus lops clean before he covers it up. For he maintains that new roots spring from all the parts which have been shorn. Moreover, the trunk itself should not stand more than three or four feet out of the ground. For there will thus be at once a thick growth from the bottom, nor will there be a large stump, all dry and withered, as is the case with old olive-yards.
 
The second way of setting them out was the following: he set out in similar fashion branches that were strong and of soft bark, as those of young saplings are wont to be. These grow a little more slowly, but, since they spring from what is practically a cutting, there is no roughness or ugliness in them. 
 
This too I have seen recently—an aged vine transplanted from its own plantation. In this case, the fibers also should be gathered together, if possible, and then you should cover up the vine-stem more generously, so that roots may spring up even from the stock. I have seen such plantings made not only in February, but at the very end of March; the plants take hold of and embrace alien elms. But all trees, he declares, which are, so to speak, “thick-stemmed,” should be assisted with tank water; if we have this help, we are our own rainmakers. 
 
I do not intend to tell you any more of these precepts, lest, as Aegialus did with me, I may be training you up to be my competitor. Farewell. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 86 
 
Perhaps one of the reasons I am not a very good gardener is that I am afraid to use a strong hand. Plants can seem quite delicate to me, and so, out a misguided tenderness, I neglect to do what is necessary. Like all of us, they often need a firm nudge to best fulfill their nature. 
 
The soil must be properly tilled. Be meticulous with watering and heedful of the light and the temperature. The weeds need to go. Don’t hesitate when it comes to pruning. Most importantly, know the plan from the get-go, and stick with it—by the time I have second-guessed, it is probably too late. 
 
When I first read this description of transplanting olive trees, it sounded downright brutal. Cut back all of the branches? Leave only the ball of the roots? Pack it so firmly and deeply into the ground that there is absolutely no room to move? So be it, if this is required for growth to take place. The care of infants, for example, taught me something similar about taking the bull by the horns. 
 
I recently had a neighbor who was remarkably skilled at growing new trees from old cuttings, while the best I could manage was accidentally growing some vines from a forgotten Halloween pumpkin. For all of the excuses I could make, the only difference between us was that I lacked his vigilance and discipline. 
 
Indeed, every spring I observe the eager suburbanites spending ridiculous amounts of money on new plants from the big box store, only to then repeat the entire process the following year. Whatever happened in between? They spent a few hours throwing them into the dirt, and then they ignored them completely. 
 
We like things when they appear novel, though we quickly lose interest once they demand any serious commitment, like children who grow tired of their puppies. We unfortunately limit ourselves to being lazy consumers, instead of striving to become vital creators. To care for a garden is a fine preparation for the care of a life. 
 
It is good to cherish and to nurture what is old, not merely because it is old, but because it more fully expresses the continuity of what is timeless. I must not dispose of my plants when they offer me a spot of trouble, just as I should not dispose of my friends when they cease to be convenient. As long as life remains in it, it is always worth nourishing the good in it. 
 
While many things are best enjoyed when still fresh, I have found that the deepest truths will benefit greatly from aging. A colleague tells me this about his wine, and I know it to be the case for my pipe tobacco, and it is most certainly true about love. 
 
All this talk about bathing, and then about gardening, is a priceless aid in appreciating the enduring values. In the end, it doesn’t really matter how we choose to wash ourselves, and it doesn’t really matter if we are brave enough to raise a bonsai or are willing to settle for mowing the lawn. What does matter, however, is that we approach every aspect of this life with a total reverence, humbled by the fact that there is nothing new under the sun. 
 
Whatever immortal lessons you may have learned along the way, be sure to pass them on to the next fellow in line. His is your cooperator in the work of Providence, not your competitor. 

—Reflection written in 1/2014 

IMAGE: Camille Pissarro, Orchard in Bloom (1872) 

Seneca, Moral Letters 86.6

If what I am saying shall seem to you too pessimistic, charge it up against Scipio’s country house, where I have learned a lesson from Aegialus, a most careful householder and now the owner of this estate; he taught me that a tree can be transplanted, no matter how far gone in years. 
 
We old men must learn this precept; for there is none of us who is not planting an olive-yard for his successor. I have seen them bearing fruit in due season after three or four years of unproductiveness. And you too shall be shaded by the tree which 
 
“Is slow to grow, but bringeth shade to cheer 
Your grandsons in the far-off years,”
 
as our poet Vergil says. Vergil sought, however, not what was nearest to the truth, but what was most appropriate, and aimed, not to teach the farmer, but to please the reader. For example, omitting all other errors of his, I will quote the passage in which it was incumbent upon me today to detect a fault:
 
“In spring sow beans then, too, O clover plant, 
Thou’rt welcomed by the crumbling furrows; and 
The millet calls for yearly care.” 
 
You may judge by the following incident whether those plants should be set out at the same time, or whether both should be sowed in the spring. It is June at the present writing, and we are well on towards July; and I have seen on this very day farmers harvesting beans and sowing millet. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 86 
 
Long before I ever started dabbling in philosophy, I was in love with the natural world, and I have never regretted fostering that particular instinct. Animals can feel as if they have been the best of friends, and plants can teach me about the core of what it means to live. 
 
While I am not patient enough to train a dog, a tabby cat has been my loyal companion for many years. He gets me, even though he does not understand me. 
 
While I have never had a green thumb, I care for a small bed of herbs in my backyard. Sometimes these plants grow strong, and sometimes they wither away, but they never fail to do their best, without any hesitation. 
 
My mother and father kept the most exquisite garden—to remember it is to conquer despair. What happens in one aspect of nature is always mirrored in another, so I do not think it ridiculous to observe how the virtue of a tree has much in common with the virtue of a man. It is no accident that poets have long drawn from the language of seeds and of blossoms, of cultivating and of harvesting. 
 
I would have to ask my parents if Cicero was right to question Vergil about the best growing seasons, but for the moment, my interest is in the likeness between nurturing a garden and nurturing a soul. How can an old tree be transplanted into new soil? How can ancient wisdom be passed on to younger minds? The goal should be to maintain that which is perennial, instead of merely starting over with a fresh batch of annuals. 
 
The newest thing is usually the flashiest thing, so those who are driven first by their passions will be charmed by the sparkle of the impressions. Yet given a bit of time, which can lift us to a broader perspective, we begin to understand why, for all the comings and goings, the only real truths are the timeless truths. The sapling is sassy, though the oak is enduring. 
 
Yes, every creature must eventually weaken and diminish, and this is only fitting, for when the new arises from the old, it will nevertheless express the patterns of what came before. This is the work of the Creator: the beings reflect Being, and the natures reflect Nature. 
 
Do not underestimate those timeworn olive trees. They may have some fruit in them yet. 

—Reflection written in 1/2014 

IMAGE: Georges Seurat, The Gardener (1883) 

Seneca, Moral Letters 86.5

How some persons nowadays condemn Scipio as a boor because he did not let daylight into his perspiring room through wide windows, or because he did not roast in the strong sunlight and dawdle about until he could stew in the hot water! 
 
“Poor fool,” they say, “he did not know how to live! He did not bathe in filtered water; it was often turbid, and after heavy rains almost muddy!” 
 
But it did not matter much to Scipio if he had to bathe in that way; he went there to wash off sweat, not ointment. And how do you suppose certain persons will answer me? They will say: “I don’t envy Scipio; that was truly an exile’s life—to put up with baths like those!” 
 
Friend, if you were wiser, you would know that Scipio did not bathe every day. It is stated by those who have reported to us the old-time ways of Rome that the Romans washed only their arms and legs daily—because those were the members which gathered dirt in their daily toil—and bathed all over only once a week. 
 
Here someone will retort: “Yes; pretty dirty fellows they evidently were! How they must have smelled!” 
 
But they smelled of the camp, the farm, and heroism. Now that spick-and-span bathing establishments have been devised, men are really fouler than of yore.
 
What says Horatius Flaccus, when he wishes to describe a scoundrel, one who is notorious for his extreme luxury? He says: “Buccillus smells of perfume.” 
 
Show me a Buccillus in these days; his smell would be the veritable goat-smell—he would take the place of the Gargonius with whom Horace in the same passage contrasted him. It is nowadays not enough to use ointment, unless you put on a fresh coat two or three times a day, to keep it from evaporating on the body. But why should a man boast of this perfume as if it were his own? 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 86 
 
As a child of two continents, it was sometimes hard to feel at home, but it also gave me the benefit of seeing a few things from a broader perspective. Even in my own lifetime, many of those contrasts have gradually disappeared, as our cultures become homogenized, so I now torture my own children with endless stories about how both America and Europe used to be. Like Seneca, my intention is to point toward what is perennial, not merely to linger on the past. 
 
At American schools, I was confused when my peers were always talking about taking showers, at many different times during the day, and they became deeply anxious if they were ever denied the chance to do so. There were showers in the morning, and showers in the evening, and showers after sports or any sort of physical exertion. I finally realized they had an aversion to the slightest presence of sweat, which also explained why the continually covered themselves with a variety of deodorants and antiperspirants.
 
Now my mother, very of much of the European old school, would not have permitted me to leave the house dirty or smelly, but I was never told to shower daily. I was, however, expected to wash thoroughly as a part of my routine, and I would be sent back to the bathroom if I cut any corners. A sink, a washcloth, and a bar of soap were the tools. A proper bath was added once a week, and only more often if I somehow made a terrible mess of myself. 
 
To the American, the European would seem like a filthy beast, stinking to high heaven, and to the European, the American would seem like a spoiled brat, wallowing in decadence. Both were exaggerations, of course, and yet I couldn’t help but notice how the average Bostonian was still a far sloppier, grubbier, and, dare I say, ruder fellow than the average Austrian. Let us be careful about what we mean by being clean. 
 
Both Seneca and my mother may have been on to something. 
 
By the time I became a teacher, my students still appeared to be showering before class, since most of them crawled in with wet hair, but I was sometimes alarmed by the smell in the room. No, it wasn’t just sweat, it was also stale beer, masked by the pungent scent of cheap body spray. I once observed a young man fumigate himself from head to toe with a can, for well over a minute, which was a world away from my spritz of 4711 after shaving, or that dab of Eau Sauvage on a special occasion, from a bottle that lasted me over a decade. 
 
The more things change, the more they stay the same. 
 
I can honestly say that I am very rarely offended by someone’s body odor, and when I am, I must remind myself that it is usually due to circumstances beyond their control. A man who has been working probably should smell of sweat, though if he is well-mannered, he will wash up before he sits down at the table. Nor do I mind the smell of hay, compost, goats, horses, or cattle, as they are a sign that I am in a properly natural place. 
 
What does sadden me, however, is the attempt to conceal our rough physicality, to hide behind some fancy perfume. It is yet another instance of putting on an act, of pretending to be better than we really are. No, I correct myself: not better at all, but worse, because we are hardly being authentic. It isn’t our scent to begin with. 
 
A man should not have to drench himself with chemicals before he faces the world, and a woman should not have to spend an hour “putting on her face” before she is taken seriously. 

—Reflection written in 1/2014 

Seneca, Moral Letters 86.4

In the early days, however, there were few baths, and they were not fitted out with any display. For why should men elaborately fit out that which, costs a penny only, and was invented for use, not merely for delight? 
 
The bathers of those days did not have water poured over them, nor did it always run fresh as if from a hot spring; and they did not believe that it mattered at all how perfectly pure was the water into which they were to leave their dirt.
 
Ye gods, what a pleasure it is to enter that dark bath, covered with a common sort of roof, knowing that therein your hero Cato, as aedile, or Fabius Maximus, or one of the Cornelii, has warmed the water with his own hands! 
 
For this also used to be the duty of the noblest aediles—to enter these places to which the populace resorted, and to demand that they be cleaned and warmed to a heat required by considerations of use and health, not the heat that men have recently made fashionable, as great as a conflagration—so much so, indeed, that a slave condemned for some criminal offence now ought to bebathed alive! 
 
It seems to me that nowadays there is no difference between “the bath is on fire,” and “the bath is warm." 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 86 
 
As much as this whole letter may come across as an extended grievance, I find it encouraging to learn how the people of any time or place are tempted by extravagance. Whether in ancient Rome or in modern New York, to recognize our weaknesses can point us back to our strengths. 
 
We are all, of course, drawn to the pleasures of the flesh, but on an even deeper level, we desperately crave being significant, and we come to believe that putting on an elaborate show is the quickest way to making our mark. If we pretend on the outside, other people will surely think us worthy on the inside, and so a pursuit of vanity takes the place of building any genuine character. 
 
We collect the trinkets and the trophies, acting as if our lives must be a continual performance, such that a bath is no longer about getting clean, or our work is no longer about being of service, or our friendships are no longer about offering love. How can it be used to promote the image? How can it increase our prestige? How can it make us feel more important? 
 
If I only choose to look honestly, I can find the pretensions in the most ridiculous of places. How many of us remember drinking water from what we used to call bubblers? I would keep track of which ones actually ran cold, something I considered a special treat. 
 
Yet somewhere during the 1990’s, bottled water became all the rage, to the point where the designer labels we carried around with us were an expression of our cultural identity, a statement about the smartest style and the most progressive politics wrapped up in a tidy package. 
 
Was it cleaner, or healthier, or better for the planet? I don’t rightly know, but I do know how much money we spent for those accessories, how much new trash it produced, and how people would insist they could taste the purity, even after a mischievous friend of mine had secretly replaced the contents with regular tap water. Is it technically a lie if we have convinced ourselves of the falsehood? 
 
Every generation has its own varieties. I suspect a good man will drink or bathe with whatever water he has at hand, without getting too worried about its pedigree. 

—Reflection written in 1/2014 

IMAGE: Edmond Paulin, Cross-section of the Baths of Diocletian (1880) 

Seneca, Moral Letters 86.3

I have so far been speaking of the ordinary bathing establishments; what shall I say when I come to those of the freedmen? What a vast number of statues, of columns that support nothing, but are built for decoration, merely in order to spend money! And what masses of water that fall crashing from level to level! We have become so luxurious that we will have nothing but precious stones to walk upon. 
 
In this bath of Scipio’s there are tiny chinks—you cannot call them windows—cut out of the stone wall in such a way as to admit light without weakening the fortifications; nowadays, however, people regard baths as fit only for moths if they have not been so arranged that they receive the sun all day long through the widest of windows, if men cannot bathe and get a coat of tan at the same time, and if they cannot look out from their bathtubs over stretches of land and sea. 
 
So it goes; the establishments which had drawn crowds and had won admiration when they were first opened are avoided and put back in the category of venerable antiques as soon as luxury has worked out some new device, to her own ultimate undoing. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 86 
 
Despite my griping, I am wary of those who glorify the past, just as I am wary of those who latch onto the latest craze. In both cases, the extremes arise from a failure to build our lives on a firm foundation, the timeless truths that are never at the mercy of either obstinacy or volatility. As long as humans remain humans, the virtues will remain virtues. 
 
Regardless of the fashions, the best sort of bathtub will help us to wash away the day’s grime and to soothe our aching muscles; how strange that those who never seem to break a sweat from an honest day’s work are the ones most concerned with installing the most elaborate fixtures. 
 
There is no shame in convenience, as long as it does not conflict with conscience, but the pursuit of luxury leads us down a path toward decadence, where the essence is confused with the accidents, and character is compromised for the sake of comfort. It is no longer “aesthetics” once the beautiful is reduced to mere indulgence. You will sadly find this to be a symptom of any decaying culture. 
 
Just as the ancient Romans became obsessed with opulent baths, I think of how modern Americans seek out ever more hedonistic ways to spend their money. As a child, I saw the birth of the mighty shopping malls, and yet within a decade they were already being replaced by far more exciting diversions, which contained a whole new set of amusements. 
 
The old buildings slowly decayed, the big brands moving out in favor of discount stores, massage parlors, insurance offices, and evangelical churches. Now most of them are being torn down, to be replaced by luxury condominiums. 
 
It is much the same with restaurants, movie theaters, and hotels. Whole neighborhoods will rise and fall because people refuse to be happy with a life that is pure and simple. The High Street seems to rotate its trendy shops by the month, like the internet crazes change by the week, or even by the day. 
 
Only those who lack a peace within themselves are forever craving their next fix. We believe the fads to be daring and liberating, when they are really just lazy and slavish. 

—Reflection written in 1/2014 

Seneca, Moral Letters 86.2

I have inspected the house, which is constructed of hewn stone; the wall which encloses a forest; the towers also, buttressed out on both sides for the purpose of defending the house; the well, concealed among buildings and shrubbery, large enough to keep a whole army supplied; and the small bath, buried in darkness according to the old style, for our ancestors did not think that one could have a hot bath except in darkness. 
 
It was therefore a great pleasure to me to contrast Scipio’s ways with our own. Think, in this tiny recess the “terror of Carthage,” to whom Rome should offer thanks because she was not captured more than once, used to bathe a body wearied with work in the fields! 
 
For he was accustomed to keep himself busy and to cultivate the soil with his own hands, as the good old Romans were wont to do. Beneath this dingy roof he stood; and this floor, mean as it is, bore his weight. 
 
But who in these days could bear to bathe in such a fashion? We think ourselves poor and mean if our walls are not resplendent with large and costly mirrors; if our marbles from Alexandria are not set off by mosaics of Numidian stone, if their borders are not faced over on all sides with difficult patterns, arranged in many colors like paintings; if our vaulted ceilings are not buried in glass; if our swimming-pools are not lined with Thasian marble, once a rare and wonderful sight in any temple—pools into which we let down our bodies after they have been drained weak by abundant perspiration; and finally, if the water has not poured from silver spigots. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 86 
 
If you carefully examine the contents of a man’s home, you also can learn much about the content of his character. 
 
This is only possible, however, if we do not confuse preferences with principles, the style for the substance, since in matters of taste there can be no dispute. Consider instead how a choice of surroundings reflects a deeper judgment about the perceived goods in life, and whether the furnishings are intended to gratify the body or to dignify the soul. 
 
This has less to do with how much we might possess, and more to do with why we might wish to possess it. Is the house a place to grow in love, or is it a means to impress the neighbors? Are those books consulted for the sake of wisdom, or they displayed for the sake of putting on an act? Observe the setting, and you will soon have your answer. 
 
I cannot claim to understand the Roman customs about bathing, but I have noticed how Americans are increasingly concerned about the size of their kitchens. This seems odd, because our families are far smaller than they ever were, and we cook far less than we ever did. 
 
I compare my grandmother, who would prepare meals all day in a space not much larger than a closet, to my boss’s trophy wife, who displays a row of unused cappuccino makers on her granite countertops. 
 
I am confused when the pantry in a McMansion has its own echo. I can’t figure out why a man has three different grills on his patio, and yet he only orders out from Rib Crib. If there are towels in the guest bathroom, I shouldn’t have to worry about drying my hands with them. If the pair of 4x4 trucks in the driveway are meant to make you look like a gentleman farmer, I would at least expect there to be some mud on the fenders. 
 
As for my own bathroom, our real estate agent insisted that the cavernous jacuzzi was a major selling point, and yet I miss the cozy tub of my youth. I don’t need mood lighting to brush my teeth, or a dozen mirrors to comb my hair. And still, my mailbox is full of brochures about updating my obsolete conveniences: “Act now, before it’s too late!” 
 
Through all of this nonsense, my trusty tomcat is happy to do all of his business in the field behind the house. 

—Reflection written in 1/2014 

IMAGE: Fortunino Matania, A Roman Senator in His Lakeside Villa (c. 1920) 

Seneca, Moral Letters 86.1

Letter 86: On Scipio’s villa  
 
I am resting at the country house which once belonged to Scipio Africanus himself; and I write to you after doing reverence to his spirit and to an altar which I am inclined to think is the tomb of that great warrior. 
 
That his soul has indeed returned to the skies, whence it came, I am convinced, not because he commanded mighty armies—for Cambyses also had mighty armies, and Cambyses was a madman who made successful use of his madness—but because he showed moderation and a sense of duty to a marvelous extent. 
 
I regard this trait in him as more admirable after his withdrawal from his native land than while he was defending her; for there was the alternative: Scipio should remain in Rome, or Rome should remain free. 
 
“It is my wish,” said he, “not to infringe in the least upon our laws, or upon our customs; let all Roman citizens have equal rights. O my country, make the most of the good that I have done, but without me. I have been the cause of your freedom, and I shall also be its proof; I go into exile, if it is true that I have grown beyond what is to your advantage!” 
 
What can I do but admire this magnanimity, which led him to withdraw into voluntary exile and to relieve the state of its burden? Matters had gone so far that either liberty must work harm to Scipio, or Scipio to liberty. Either of these things was wrong in the sight of heaven. 
 
So he gave way to the laws and withdrew to Liternum, thinking to make the state a debtor for his own exile no less than for the exile of Hannibal. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 86 
 
I first came to Stoicism because it offered me the only practical solution to a very pressing problem: whatever am I to do about the burden of my pain? It asks me to take the basic principles of my nature—about what is good, what is bad, and what is indifferent—and then to directly apply these values in my daily living. The school only appears radical or esoteric if we fail to recognize how it draws all of its conclusions from the universal truths held by any of the world’s wisdom traditions. 
 
It didn’t hurt, however, that I also had an immediate attraction to the peculiar styles of its authors. Musonius Rufus speaks like the teacher I always wished I had. Epictetus has the knack for knocking some sense back into me. Marcus Aurelius expertly calms my wayward passions. And Seneca is the old codger who reminds me why it is okay for me to be a young codger.
 
Those who care for me have sometimes called me an “old soul”, while those who don’t care for me are likely to describe me as an insufferable curmudgeon. My inclinations tend toward the melancholic, the romantic, and the nostalgic, which make for an interesting brew, such that I will often come across as a hopeless idealist who yearns for some long-lost world. 
 
So, while many people will skip this letter, I find it fascinating to read a retired patrician’s musings about his stay in the former home of a Roman hero. If you are patient, you may find how his glorification of the past can be a guide for our future, and why his pensive observations about bathing and gardening are actually timeless insights into the best and the worst of the human condition. 
 
I am not in the habit of deifying a mortal, but despite the flaws he surely possessed, the Stoics were quite right to praise the character of Scipio Africanus. I regularly turn to the story of his continence during the Second Punic War, to the point where I seek out its depiction in art, but here Seneca admires a moment from his later life, when Scipio was happy to withdraw from the public square, as his continued presence could only lead to greater partisan squabbling. 
 
How often do we find a soldier who can refuse the spoils of war? How often do we find a politician who can resist the temptation of further glory? We are fools to think that a man who cannot rule himself in the bedroom is fit to rule a nation, or that those who only serve their vanity are ever worthy of being served by their subjects. Scipio understood why his own good and the good of his people were always one and the same. 
 
I suppose that might sound a little too crotchety and reactionary for some? At least I am in the good company of Seneca, who understood why the best way is not necessarily the same as the fashionable way. I often think of a quote from A.E. Taylor: 
 
In short, if we mean to be philosophical, our main concern will be that our beliefs should be true; we shall care very little whether they happen to be popular or unpopular with the intellectual 'proletarians' of the moment, and if we can get at a truth, we shall not mind having to go back a long way for it. 

—Reflection written in 1/2014