Seneca, Moral Letters 87.12

Posidonius thinks that the syllogism should be framed as follows: “Things which bestow upon the soul no greatness or confidence or freedom from care are not goods. But riches and health and similar conditions do none of these things; therefore, riches and health are not goods.” 
 
This syllogism he then goes on to extend still further in the following way: “Things which bestow upon the soul no greatness or confidence or freedom from care, but on the other hand create in it arrogance, vanity, and insolence, are evils. But things which are the gift of Fortune drive us into these evil ways. Therefore, these things are not goods.”
 
“But,” says the objector, “by such reasoning, things which are the gift of Fortune will not even be advantages.” 
 
No, advantages and goods stand each in a different situation. An advantage is that which contains more of usefulness than of annoyance. But a good ought to be unmixed and with no element in it of harmfulness. 
 
A thing is not good if it contains more benefit than injury, but only if it contains nothing but benefit. Besides, advantages may be predicated of animals, of men who are less than perfect, and of fools. 
 
Hence the advantageous may have an element of disadvantage mingled with it, but the word “advantageous” is used of the compound because it is judged by its predominant element. The good, however, can be predicated of the wise man alone; it is bound to be without alloy. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 87 
 
Nevertheless, however accommodating we wish to be, it is never wise to use our words carelessly. As much as it may offend the Peripatetics, Posidonius offers us a more precise set of distinctions: 
 
For something to be a good, it must be of benefit in itself, without any qualifications. 
 
For something to be an evil, it must be of harm in itself, without any qualifications. 
 
For something to be an advantage, it must offer a greater opportunity for benefit than for harm. 
 
For something to be a disadvantage, it must offer a greater opportunity for harm than for benefit. 
 
By such standards, which avoid any uncertainty or ambiguity, virtue is our sole human good, vice is our sole human evil, and all other circumstances will become either advantages or disadvantages to us, depending on whether they are employed in the service of virtue or of vice. 
 
Sometimes the semantics isn’t “just” semantics. We run the grave risk of a creeping definition, where a relative advantage is easily confused with an absolute good, and so we slowly begin to view conditional qualities as if they possessed an unconditional worth. Before too long, things like money or health are treated with a total reverence they hardly deserve. 
 
The first syllogism explains this clearly enough. Money and health do not, of their own accord, make us better, which is why we should not rightly refer to them as goods. 
 
The second syllogism may appear to be pushing the envelope, even for a Stoic, but if examined closely, it simply draws some further conclusions from the previous claim. While money and health do not, of their own accord, make us worse, they still have an uncanny way of encouraging us to make poor choices for ourselves. 
 
I suppose it only remains to be seen if these circumstances ought to be treated as advantages or as disadvantages, yet because their utility is entirely contingent, I will once again have to say, “It depends.” How are they influencing my judgments? 
 
Is Posidonius being a bit too pessimistic here? Do wealth and comfort usually turn out to be disadvantages, where the potential harm outweighs the potential benefits? This is a particular, and not a universal question, but in speaking from my own experience, that sounds about right. Though a man of far greater character may find it to be otherwise, such men are rather hard to come by. Posidonius is calling the odds as he sees them.
 
The critic is placing far too much value in the “gifts” of Fortune, to the point where he conflates the perfect with the imperfect. The good life will be pure and simple, regardless of the trimmings. 

—Reflection written in 2/2014 

IMAGE: Pieter de Hooch, A Woman with a Pair of Scales (c. 1664) 

Seneca, Moral Letters 87.11

I think that the reasoning of Posidonius is better: he holds that riches are a cause of evil, not because, of themselves, they do any evil, but because they goad men on so that they are ready to do evil. 
 
For the efficient cause, which necessarily produces harm at once, is one thing, and the antecedent cause is another. It is this antecedent cause which inheres in riches; they puff up the spirit and beget pride, they bring on unpopularity and unsettle the mind to such an extent that the mere reputation of having wealth, though it is bound to harm us, nevertheless affords delight.
 
All goods, however, ought properly to be free from blame; they are pure, they do not corrupt the spirit, and they do not tempt us. They do, indeed, uplift and broaden the spirit, but without puffing it up. 
 
Those things which are goods produce confidence, but riches produce shamelessness. The things which are goods give us greatness of soul, but riches give us arrogance. And arrogance is nothing else than a false show of greatness. 
 
“According to that argument,” the objector says, “riches are not only not a good, but are a positive evil.” 
 
Now they would be an evil if they did harm of themselves, and if, as I remarked, it were the efficient cause which inheres in them; in fact, however, it is the antecedent cause which inheres in riches, and indeed it is that cause which, so far from merely arousing the spirit, actually drags it along by force. 
 
Yes, riches shower upon us a semblance of the good, which is like the reality and wins credence in the eyes of many men. The antecedent cause inheres in virtue also; it is this which brings on envy—for many men become unpopular because of their wisdom, and many men because of their justice. 
 
But this cause, though it inheres in virtue, is not the result of virtue itself, nor is it a mere semblance of the reality; nay, on the contrary, far more like the reality is that vision which is flashed by virtue upon the spirits of men, summoning them to love it and marvel thereat. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 87 
 
I find myself in the odd situation of being inspired by a philosopher whose books I have never read, which is perhaps something like falling in love with a girl you have never met. 
 
Posidonius, I am told, wrote on a wide range of subjects, much like Aristotle, and while he was a firm supporter of the Stoic tradition, he did not hesitate to employ the teachings from a variety of other schools. This immediately endears him to me, for we should always embrace the truth, wherever we happen to find it. 
 
Yet none of his works have survived, and we are left with only references and fragments. Though I am fascinated when Seneca or Cicero discuss his thinking, usually with great respect, I grow frustrated when I cannot go straight to the source, and I imagine what it would be like if someone actually discovered his writings, perhaps safely tucked away under some rubble in Asia Minor. I feel much the same way about Panaetius. 
 
I am pleased to see how Posidonius tried to resolve the problem of the good by distinguishing the different aspects of causality. Even as the source of any action is from the agent itself, there are also the conditions that came before it, which set the grounds, so to speak, for that change to take place. Our own choices are the efficient causes of what we do, and yet various circumstances will influence these decisions, by making one path or the other seem more appealing. 
 
I will speculate that Posidonius intended the antecedent cause to be a type of material cause, though I may well be mistaken. In any case, it serves a similar purpose, by providing the occasion. 
 
Now contrary to what the determinists might claim, the environment does not make the man, but it will certainly give him an emphatic nudge. If you put a bottle of Bushmills in front of me, I will be sorely tempted to drink it all in one sitting. If you show me a picture of the lost love of my life, I will instinctively feel intense pain, and I will be sorely tempted to put a sad record on the turntable and begin brooding. 
 
Yet these are merely temptations, and they do not compel me to do anything whatsoever. Neither the bottle nor the photograph is good or evil for me—it is my judgments about the bottle and the photograph that are good or evil for me. 
 
The injury proceeds from the error in my estimation, and yet it is also my responsibility to avoid those situations that are likely to weaken my resolve. Do I have the excellence within me to be surrounded by luxury? If I believe it to be so, then I can take up the challenge, but if there is any doubt about my capacity, then it is best to leave it be. 
 
Since the benefit or the harm of riches is relative to our character, we cannot speak of money as good or evil in any absolute sense. External things will often present an appearance of worth, at which point I must remind myself why their value hinges upon my internal disposition toward virtue or vice. Seek out that which makes the task easier, and avoid that which makes the burden heavier. 
 
Observe how this applies to every circumstance, such that even something as noble as the wisdom or justice in one can also be twisted into an excuse for envy by another. At the risk of sounding like a broken record, I again refer you to the argument on virtue in the Meno: do not confuse the conditional with the unconditional. 
 
Posidonius was willing to grant how the concepts of good and evil can be applied equivocally, as antecedent causes, as long as we understand why they unequivocally rest in the quality of our thinking, as efficient causes. This willingness to seek an agreement between different point of view, by qualifying the various senses of a term, reminds me of another one of my philosophical heroes, Thomas Aquinas. 

—Reflection written in 2/2014 

Seneca, Moral Letters 87.10

“That which, while we are desiring to attain it, involves us in many evils, is not a good. But while we are desiring to attain riches, we become involved in many evils; therefore, riches are not a good,” 
 
“Your first premise,” they say, “contains two meanings; one is: we become involved in many evils while we are desiring to attain riches. But we also become involved in many evils while we are desiring to attain virtue. One man, while travelling in order to prosecute his studies, suffers shipwreck, and another is taken captive.
 
“The second meaning is as follows: that through which we become involved in evils is not a good. And it will not logically follow from our proposition that we become involved in evils through riches or through pleasure; otherwise, if it is through riches that we become involved in many evils, riches are not only not a good, but they are positively an evil. You, however, maintain merely that they are not a good.
 
“Moreover,” the objector says, “you grant that riches are of some use. You reckon them among the advantages; and yet on this basis they cannot even be an advantage, for it is through the pursuit of riches that we suffer much disadvantage.”
 
Certain men answer this objection as follows: “You are mistaken if you ascribe disadvantages to riches. Riches injure no one; it is a man’s own folly, or his neighbor’s wickedness, that harms him in each case, just as a sword by itself does not slay; it is merely the weapon used by the slayer. Riches themselves do not harm you, just because it is on account of riches that you suffer harm." 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 87 
 
My head has now been stuffed with this philosophy nonsense for so long, that I find certain passages to be downright humorous, as if they were egghead versions of the classic “Who’s on First?” skit by Abbott and Costello. 
 
For me, this letter is full of such hilarious exchanges, where the Peripatetic remains tied to the notion that “things” must either be good or bad, and he cannot conceive of the Stoic insight that the value is not in the circumstance, but only in the use of the circumstance. 
 
The Stoic: “If money were really a good in itself, it would never be an occasion for evil. And yet you only have to spend some time in a room full of bankers to see how easily it is abused.” 
 
The Peripatetic: “So now you’re going to tell me that walking is evil, because I might trip and fall while I’m on my way to school? Should I never get on a boat, because there’s a chance it will sink?” 
 
The Stoic: “The walking and the sailing are to be treated as indifferent, with the benefit or the harm being relative to the virtue or the vice within us.” 
 
The Peripatetic: “But you’re the one who said that riches aren’t a good, and if they aren’t a good, then they have to be an evil. So, which one is it?” 
 
The Stoic: “It’s neither, until we choose to make something of it.” 
 
The Peripatetic: “Ah, that makes it appear very bad. Are you claiming that money is always bad?” 
 
The Stoic: “I didn’t say that.” 
 
The Peripatetic: “Then money must be a good, which is what I I’ve been saying from the beginning.” 
 
The Stoic: “No, it depends. It doesn’t have to be good, and it doesn’t have to be evil.” 
 
The Peripatetic: “Well, it sounds like you are pointing out all of the downsides, as if there aren’t any upsides.” 
 
The Stoic: “I am conscious of both, just as I know how a sword can become a tool to defend, or a tool to oppress.” 
 
The Peripatetic: “Oh, so now you want to ban all the swords too? What kind of weirdo are you?” 
 
And so on . . . 
 
In the simplest of terms, the critic won’t distinguish between the merits of what we do and the conditions under which we do it, between the dignity on the inside and the trappings on the outside. 
 
He is not yet willing to think beyond the standards of acquisition, possession, and consumption, like a yuppie who defines himself by his stock portfolio, his wine cellar, and his squash club membership. 

—Reflection written in 2/2014 

Seneca, Moral Letters 87.9

Hence, good does not spring from evil, any more than figs grow from olive trees. Things which grow correspond to their seed; and goods cannot depart from their class. As that which is honorable does not grow from that which is base, so neither does good grow from evil. For the honorable and the good are identical.
 
Certain of our school oppose this statement as follows: “Let us suppose that money taken from any source whatsoever is a good; even though it is taken by an act of sacrilege, the money does not on that account derive its origin from sacrilege. 
 
“You may get my meaning through the following illustration: In the same jar there is a piece of gold and there is a serpent. If you take the gold from the jar, it is not just because the serpent is there too, I say, that the jar yields me the gold—because it contains the serpent as well—but it yields the gold in spite of containing the serpent also.
 
“Similarly, gain results from sacrilege, not just because sacrilege is a base and accursed act, but because it contains gain also. As the serpent in the jar is an evil, and not the gold which lies there, beside the serpent; so in an act of sacrilege it is the crime, not the profit, that is evil.”
 
But I differ from these men; for the conditions in each case are not at all the same. In the one instance I can take the gold without the serpent, in the other I cannot make the profit without committing the sacrilege. The gain in the latter case does not lie side by side with the crime; it is blended with the crime. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 87 
 
The effect will always be a likeness of the cause. Do not permit the sophists to perplex you, because this is a matter of logical identity, and their usual dilemmas are derived from jumbled accounts of the good. 
 
Go back to the beginning, recognizing why our human good is defined by our human nature, through which any other conditions can thereby become beneficial or harmful to us, and then you will no longer be troubled by the contorted conundrums. 
 
I could go on for pages and pages about the gold and the serpent example, along with dozens of others that are intended to trip us up, but I will resist the temptation. It is enough to know how the problems arise from being distracted, by fiddling about with the circumstances alone, instead of relating them back to the proper measure of our understanding. 
 
The critic’s analogy falls short, since the good or the evil is through the disposition, and not, strictly speaking, in either the snake or the money: I do not have to do anything harmful in order to get at something profitable. 
 
Some time ago, I was deeply frustrated by a friend—I use the term loosely—who refused to tell his girlfriend that he was also seeing someone else on the side. I nagged him incessantly to come clean, to be honest about his intentions, on the grounds that nothing would go well for him if he failed to uphold his own integrity.
 
“What use is the outcome—whether you end up with both of the girls, or one of them, or neither—without the knowledge that you have been a stand-up guy?” 
 
He resisted, of course, and offered many reasons why he could continue to maintain the deception, without any painful consequences. Indeed, he seemed to have convinced himself that he was doing the kindest thing, by not allowing a revelation of the truth to upset anyone’s feelings. 
 
“What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.” 
 
“Is it your call to decide what she should or shouldn’t know? The best way to help her make the right choice is for you to make the right choice. It will end poorly, not because you will cease to be gratified, but because you will have failed to take any responsibility for yourself.” 
 
He’s a very successful sort of fellow now, though I fear he has yet to learn anything about being a decent sort of fellow. I unfortunately know he is still lying, when he brags about how happy he is. 
 
A few years later, I was on the receiving end of a similar subterfuge, and while I felt great agony from being tricked, there was a far greater sadness from seeing someone I loved turn into a person who was unwilling to love. The good in your life comes from how you choose to give of yourself, not from what you can conspire to receive for yourself. 
 
I cannot isolate the circumstances from one another, based merely upon my preferences, or act as if committing a sin is somehow necessary for getting ahead. It is a conscience, whether informed or deficient, that will bind it all together or tear it all apart. 

—Reflection written in 2/2014 

IMAGE: Vincent van Gogh, Olive Trees in a Mountainous Landscape (1889) 

Seneca, Moral Letters 87.8

“Good does not result from evil. But riches result from greed; therefore, riches are not a good.” 
 
“It is not true,” they say, “that good does not result from evil. For money comes from sacrilege and theft. Accordingly, although sacrilege and theft are evil, yet they are evil only because they work more evil than good. For they bring gain; but the gain is accompanied by fear, anxiety, and torture of mind and body.”
 
Whoever says this must perforce admit that sacrilege, though it be an evil because it works much evil, is yet partly good because it accomplishes a certain amount of good. What can be more monstrous than this? We have, to be sure, actually convinced the world that sacrilege, theft, and adultery are to be regarded as among the goods. 
 
How many men there are who do not blush at theft, how many who boast of having committed adultery! For petty sacrilege is punished, but sacrilege on a grand scale is honored by a triumphal procession. Besides, sacrilege, if it is wholly good in some respect, will also be honorable and will be called right conduct; for it is conduct which concerns ourselves. But no human being, on serious consideration, admits this idea. 
 
Therefore, goods cannot spring from evil. For if, as you object, sacrilege is an evil for the single reason that it brings on much evil, if you but absolve sacrilege of its punishment and pledge it immunity, sacrilege will be wholly good. 
 
And yet the worst punishment for crime lies in the crime itself. You are mistaken, I maintain, if you propose to reserve your punishments for the hangman or the prison; the crime is punished immediately after it is committed; nay, rather, at the moment when it is committed. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 87 
 
I must tread lightly here, since I have little patience for those who compromise their supposed principles in order to achieve the most convenient results. They nobly claim they are being pragmatic, when they are really just looking for the easiest way out. 
 
At the heart of it is a confusion about the very nature of the good, treating our moral worth as if it could be calculated in a bank ledger. It’s all fine, they say, as long as we end up in the black, where the profits outweigh the losses, and we can therefore overlook having done a few vicious things, in order to achieve a far greater number of virtuous things. 
 
With the Peripatetics, I do not doubt that goodness admits of degrees, but this does not override a more fundamental distinction of kind. As clever as it sounds, the ends cannot justify the means, because any evil act, however small it may appear, is inherently opposed to any good act, however big it may appear. It is just as illogical when the schemers insist that two wrongs can make a right, when they now are left with only two wrongs. 
 
I believe Marcus Aurelius put it best: “If it is not right, do not do it. If it is not true, do not say it.” The Stoic knows full well why fudging it is a form of cowardice. Wickedness takes us in one direction, and righteousness takes us in the other. 
 
“Yes, I admit that stealing the money wasn’t terribly nice, but I now intend to use that money to do a whole bunch of much nicer things. Stop being such a goody two-shoes!” 
 
It isn’t merely about being nice, and it isn’t simply about getting the preferred results. Each and every one of my thoughts, words, and deeds reflects my whole character, such that my integrity as a person depends upon living with prudence, fortitude, temperance, and justice, in each and every situation. Anything less is to act in bad faith, to abandon my human dignity. 
 
“Well, it’s not like I burned down the whole church or anything! Does it make such a big difference that I snatched a handful of bills out of the collection plate?” 
 
Even if the quantity happens to be more or less, the quality of the offense remains exactly the same. The true harm is in the soul, not in the circumstances. The real rewards and punishments proceed from the inside, not from the outside. I have gained nothing if I have accumulated more stuff, and I have lost nothing if I have maintained my character. Why would I sell my conscience for the sake of a few comforts? 
 
Once again, the Thomists taught me properly: a good can never come from committing an evil, though a good can always come from suffering an evil. The distinction is a critical one: we are defined by whatever we do, as an efficient cause, which includes transforming whatever might be done to us, as a material cause. 
 
If we start to excuse ourselves from some of the sins, it won’t be too long before we excuse ourselves from all of the sins. When we dodge any of our responsibilities, both to ourselves and to others, we engage in the perverse practice of painting over the rot. Forgive, but do not condone. 

—Reflection written in 2/2014 

Seneca, Moral Letters 87.7

Why, then, is the wise man great? Because he has a great soul. Accordingly, it is true that that which falls to the lot even of the most despicable person is not a good.
 
Thus, I should never regard inactivity as a good; for even the tree-frog and the flea possess this quality. Nor should I regard rest and freedom from trouble as a good; for what is more at leisure than a worm? 
 
Do you ask what it is that produces the wise man? That which produces a god. You must grant that the wise man has in an element of godliness, heavenliness, grandeur. The good does not come to everyone, nor does it allow any random person to possess it. Behold: 
 
“What fruits each country bears, or will not bear; 
Here corn, and there the vine, grow richlier. 
And elsewhere still the tender tree and grass 
Unbidden clothe themselves in green. Seest thou 
How Tmolus ships its saffron perfumes forth, 
And ivory comes from Ind; soft Sheba sends 
Its incense, and the unclad Chalybes 
Their iron.”
 
These products are apportioned to separate countries in order that human beings may be constrained to traffic among themselves, each seeking something from his neighbor in his turn. 
 
So the Supreme Good has also its own abode. It does not grow where ivory grows, or iron. Do you ask where the Supreme Good dwells? In the soul. And unless the soul be pure and holy, there is no room in it for God. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 87 
 
Do not praise the part as if it were separate from the whole. Do not pursue the means without the dignity of the end. Do not elevate the inferior to the status of the superior. In the absence of a virtuous soul, there can be nothing else that is good in my life. 
 
Money has never made me a better man, though there were times when I did manage to spend it rightly. Fame has never offered me dignity, though there were times when it followed from doing my duty. Luxury has never granted me happiness, though there were times when my principles also happened to be pleasing. 
 
I have little a mantra that helps me to keep it straight: I have known good people who were rich, clever, or charming, but I have yet to meet any people who were good because they were rich, clever, or charming. 
 
“Thank God I have been this fortunate!” That is not a blessing, for it can just as easily be a curse. 
 
“I only need enough so I don’t have to worry!” Circumstances of any sort will leave you anxious. The solution lies in seeking that good which can never be taken away. 
 
“If I’m lucky, one day I won’t have to work at all!” Labor will only appear to be a burden when we are confused about the purpose of living itself. 
 
Back in high school, my friends and I would apply the phrase “like a god” to most anything—yes, teenagers come up with the goofiest expressions. It turned out having the hair of a god, or the car of a god, or the record collection of a god didn’t really make much sense, since a god wouldn’t need any of those things. The divine must be self-sufficient, wanting in nothing beyond itself. 
 
How could a mere mortal approach such a height? By nurturing what is distinctly his own, what lies within his soul, instead of chasing after superficial diversions, which will always leave him begging for more and more. Do not be fooled by the usual routine, the rules they teach you about in school or promote incessantly at the office: you can’t get there from here. 
 
If my nature is indeed to understand and to love, what else could possibly matter? The world is full of trade, of folks seeking to profit from buying and selling every product under the sun, and yet the one thing that remains priceless is always there for the taking, if we just put our minds to it. 
 
By all means, put the many fruits of this world to use, but recognize why the good in their use is derived exclusively from the virtues that stand behind them. I would propose a radically different way of judging between the “haves” and the “have nots”.
 
It isn’t enough to leave room for dessert. Make more room for the God who already dwells inside you. 

—Reflection written in 2/2014 

IMAGE: Master of the Dominican Effigies, The Garden of the Virtues (c. 1350) 

Seneca, Moral Letters 87.6

“That which can fall to the lot of any man, no matter how base or despised he may be, is not a good. But wealth falls to the lot of the pander and the trainer of gladiators; therefore wealth is not a good.” 
 
“Another wrong premise,” they say, “for we notice that goods fall to the lot of the very lowest sort of men, not only in the scholar’s art, but also in the art of healing or in the art of navigating.”
 
These arts, however, make no profession of greatness of soul; they do not rise to any heights nor do they frown upon what fortune may bring. It is virtue that uplifts man and places him superior to what mortals hold dear; virtue neither craves overmuch nor fears to excess that which is called good or that which is called bad. 
 
Chelidon, one of Cleopatra’s eunuchs, possessed great wealth; and recently Natalis—a man whose tongue was as shameless as it was dirty, a man whose mouth used to perform the vilest offices—was the heir of many, and also made many his heirs. What then? Was it his money that made him unclean, or did he himself besmirch his money? 
 
Money tumbles into the hands of certain men as a shilling tumbles down a sewer. Virtue stands above all such things. It is appraised in coin of its own minting; and it deems none of these random windfalls to be good. 
 
But medicine and navigation do not forbid themselves and their followers to marvel at such things. One who is not a good man can nevertheless be a physician, or a pilot, or a scholar—yes, just as well as he can be a cook! He to whose lot it falls to possess something which is not of a random sort, cannot be called a random sort of man; a person is of the same sort as that which he possesses.
 
A strong box is worth just what it holds; or rather, it is a mere accessory of that which it holds. Whoever sets any price upon a full purse except the price established by the count of the money deposited therein? This also applies to the owners of great estates: they are only accessories and incidentals to their possessions. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 87 
 
I appreciate why the Peripatetics wished to describe the good through its circumstances, and how they sought to explain the virtues within their proper setting, but the danger is that we then conflate our happiness with our conveniences, and we confuse the perfection of our own nature with the perfection of other natures. 
 
While there is no doubt that pebbles, or trees, or dogs have a particular goodness within them, it would be ridiculous to use this as a benchmark for the excellence of a man; look to the essence of the thing itself, not at its accidental relation to outside things. This is why the neighborhood I live in, and the contents of my bank account, and the list of people who happen to send me Christmas cards will never determine my inner worth. 
 
I know full well how a life of poverty, sickness, and loneliness can be an incredible burden, and yet that which is difficult should not be mistaken for that which is impossible. Instead of yearning for a change in my fortune, let me work on an increase of my character, which has the power to transform any obstacle into an opportunity for greater understanding and love. 
 
The Peripatetic can’t have it both ways. Don’t tell me that happiness is defined as the activity of a rational soul, and then add that certain amounts of money, health, and friends are also necessary conditions. It reminds me of those shifty bosses, who keep modifying the terms for a promotion, or those fake Christians, who say that you are justified by faith, except when you don’t put enough cash in the collection basket.
 
The Stoics refused, therefore, to speak of wealth, or any aspect of fortune, as a good. There is no direct connection between property and propriety, whatever the experts might say, because a state of affairs that is largely beyond our power does not reflect the merit of the judgements that are entirely within our power. 
 
Can the circumstances somehow take on a quality of goodness for us? Yes, but only indirectly, insofar as we choose to make an appropriate use of them, in harmony with our natural calling to a life of the virtues. Therefore, you will find some people who employ their money to make themselves better, while you will find others who merely treat their affluence as an excuse to become worse. 
 
This further applies to all of our human skills, so that however gifted a man may be at writing a book, or healing a patient, or sailing across the ocean, his goodness, in the one way that really matters, must proceed from the integrity of his conscience. I once met a fellow who was, by all accounts, one of the most brilliant chefs of our generation, though this did not stop him from simultaneously being one of the biggest scoundrels of our generation. 
 
May I still refer to the “good” in a casual sense, as a general expression of distinction and approval? I suspect there is little harm in it, as long as I never lose sight of the absolute measure. Most anyone can attach himself to riches, but it will take a very special sort of person to stand out as a source of the greatest value. 

—Reflection written in 2/2014 

IMAGE: Jacopo Bassano, Lazarus and the Rich Man (1545) 

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