Seneca, On the Happy Life 52: Giving to Good Men

. . . The wise man will not allow a single ill-won penny to cross his threshold, yet he will not refuse or close his door against great riches, if they are the gift of fortune and the product of virtue.

What reason has he for grudging them good quarters? Let them come and be his guests. He will neither brag of them nor hide them away: the one is the part of a silly, the other of a cowardly and paltry spirit, which, as it were, muffles up a good thing in its lap.

Neither will he, as I said before, turn them out of his house, for what will he say? Will he say, "You are useless," or "I do not know how to use riches?" As he is capable of performing a journey upon his own feet, but yet would prefer to mount a carriage, just so he will be capable of being poor, yet will wish to be rich; he will own wealth, but will view it as an uncertain possession which will someday fly away from him. He will not allow it to be a burden either to himself or to any one else.

He will give it—why do you prick up your ears? Why do you open your pockets?—he will give it either to good men or to those whom it may make into good men.

He will give it after having taken the utmost pains to choose those who are fittest to receive it, as becomes one who bears in mind that he ought to give an account of what he spends as well as of what he receives.

He will give for good and commendable reasons, for a gift ill bestowed counts as a shameful loss. He will have an easily opened pocket, but not one with a hole in it, so that much may be taken out of it, yet nothing may fall out of it.

—Seneca the Younger, On the happy life, Chapter 23 (tr Stewart)

I imagine the Rome of Seneca’s time was quite similar to our own day and age, with people rushing about trying to gain as much money, status, and influence for themselves as they possibly could. Friends readily became nothing but tools for advancement, and profit held sway over justice. It would be easy to assume at first that Seneca is condoning such a life, simply because he is saying we may prefer to be rich, but his argument has always pointed in a very different direction, and he is as disturbed by greed and an attachment to wealth as much as any other Stoic.

Seneca’s discussion of money can be readily broadened to include any of the circumstances of Fortune, and is not just about how much we possess, but also about our relation to all of our external conditions. Vanity will encourage us to define ourselves by Fortune, but it is also cowardly to neglect Fortune. The key lies in treating Fortune rightly, never as an end, but always as an indifferent means, always expecting it to come and go, and ordering all of our efforts toward our only true end, wisdom and virtue alone.

My thinking on priorities will profoundly alter the way I receive things, and the way I give them away. Notice the humorous way the greedy man immediately thinks he is worthy of being given something, because he can conceive of no other purpose in the world.

Many people also think that the appearance of their own character depends on how much they give, and that they are seen to be doing it. But the quantities involved, and the esteem gained by giving, are never the point. The captain of industry is not better for giving millions of dollars than the minimum wage worker who puts a single dollar in the collection box. The only thing that could make them different is to whom they are giving, and why they are giving.

What do I hope to see, so to speak, as the return for my investment? Am I giving to increase my own position, or because it makes me feel satisfied with myself, or in expectation of a favor in return? If my answer is expressed in terms of other pieces of Fortune, this is not giving, but shuffling around those pieces on the board of the marketplace. I am only bartering and trading one circumstance for another.

But if my answer is expressed in genuinely human terms, in terms of how my gifts of Fortune can assist people to know the truth more fully and love the good more deeply, then I am on the right track. I should try to give of myself so that others can in turn be more fully themselves. The balance sheet of life is a moral one, not a financial one, and I should give to people who are already good, or who can be helped to become good.

Aristotle argued that every virtue, guided by wisdom, is a mean between the extremes of excess and deficiency. Generosity is by definition never selfish, and is also never blind or thoughtless. It rests between stinginess and wastefulness, and requires, as Seneca says, having an open pocket, but not a pocket with a hole. The good man cannot help but give, because his acts of virtue are all that he truly has, and he looks not to how much he spends, but how his spending helps others to be better. 

Written in 5/2004

Image: Thomas Gainsborough, Charity Relieves Distress (1784) 

Seneca, On the Happy Life 51: Honorably Come By, and Honorably Spent

Cease, then, forbidding philosophers to possess money; no one has condemned wisdom to poverty.

The philosopher may own ample wealth, but will not own wealth that which has been torn from another, or which is stained with another's blood. His must be obtained without wronging any man, and without its being won by base means; it must be alike honorably come by and honorably spent, and must be such as spite alone could shake its head at.

Raise it to whatever figure you please, it will still be an honorable possession, if, while it includes much which every man would like to call his own, there be nothing which any one can say is his own.

Such a man will not forfeit his right to the favor of Fortune, and will neither boast of his inheritance nor blush for it if it was honorably acquired. Yet he will have something to boast of, if he throw his house open, let all his countrymen come among his property, and say, "If any one recognizes here anything belonging to him, let him take it."

What a great man, how excellently rich will he be, if after this speech he possesses as much as he had before! I say, then, that if he can safely and confidently submit his accounts to the scrutiny of the people, and no one can find in them any item upon which he can lay hands, such a man may boldly and unconcealedly enjoy his riches. . . .

—Seneca the Younger, On the happy life, Chapter 23 (tr Stewart)

Never blame wealth for the abuses of bad men. Blame bad men for the abuses of wealth.

Fortune may offer us all sorts of benefits, but what will make all the difference is how we came to acquire them, and how we proceed to use them. Just as you will be able to discern a man’s character when he is in a state of loss, you will also be able to discern his character when he is in a state of plenty.

I suspect that some of us resent wealth because we do not have it, but the solution to this is recognizing that it isn’t the wealth that will ever make us happy. Others of us are disgusted by wealth because we see the vices of so many people who are given much, but the solution to this is recognizing that we should rather be disgusted by the vices.

Have we won fortune with justice, and are we spending it with justice? This means more than simply having worked hard, or worked cleverly, for a reward, and it means more than just having the appearance of respectability. Justice always demands that we never take more than we deserve, and we never give less than another deserves. Justice may even be tempered with mercy and charity, and we can then take less than we deserve, and give more than another deserves.

Too many of us take for granted what we inherit, we confuse earning with stealing, and we are wasteful with what we possess. We are outraged when someone takes what we think is ours, but we call it good business when we take what belongs to others. Now getting angry about this will change nothing, but starting to show love to my neighbor is the beginning of a cure.

I adore Seneca’s challenge to throw open our coffers to any rightful claimants, though I wonder who would do so with integrity. We fear our rivals and competitors because we know full well that we have wronged them. Though our gains are often ill-gotten, nothing need stop us from giving back what we have taken. It starts with changing our own thinking about what is true and good, and proceeds through action inspired by giving and receiving honorably. 

Written in 5/2004

Seneca, On the Happy Life 50: Placing Riches

. . . Riches encourage and brighten up such a man just as a sailor is delighted at a favorable wind that bears him on his way, or as people feel pleasure at a fine day or at a sunny spot in the cold weather.

What wise man, I mean of our school, whose only good is virtue, can deny that even these matters which we call neither good nor bad have in themselves a certain value, and that some of them are preferable to others? To some of them we show a certain amount of respect, and to some a great deal. Do not, then, make any mistake: riches belong to the class of desirable things.

"Why then," you say, "do you laugh at me, since you place them in the same position that I do?"

 Do you wish to know how different the position is in which we place them? If my riches leave me, they will carry away with them nothing except themselves. You will be bewildered and will seem to be left without yourself if they should pass away from you.

With me riches occupy a certain place, but with you they occupy the highest place of all. In the end, my riches belong to me, but you belong to your riches.

—Seneca the Younger, On the happy life, Chapter 22 (tr Stewart)

We will indeed find good people who also happen to be wealthy, though we may not immediately recognize them. We are so used to being impressed with the appearance of prosperity that we often fail to look to the character beneath. The money itself isn’t really praiseworthy at all, but what someone may do with it certainly can be.

I had the honor of knowing a fellow who had made a massive fortune in business, and who once offered to write a blank check to a small college that was trying to recover from years of mismanagement.

There were certain conditions, however, and they were not negotiable. No, he wasn’t asking that a building be named after him, or for an honorary degree, or any tax perks. Instead, he asked that the gift, which could easily have ended up being in the tens of millions, be completely anonymous, that the top-heavy administration be cleaned up, that tuition remain low enough for working families to afford, that faculty and staff receive a fair wage, and that the school stick to its mission of helping young people learn to think, not just getting them entry-level jobs.

Each and every one of those requirements revealed character, because they came from a commitment to the true purpose of liberal arts learning and a respect for human dignity. It wasn’t just about giving money, but about using it to encourage human excellence.

The college administration refused his offer, and it was easy to see why. They surely felt that it threatened their own power, and they probably assumed the donor was interested in the same sort of empire building that they were. What they failed to see was that not everyone placed wealth in the same position that they did.

You will recognize in what sort of esteem a man holds money by looking beyond the possessions themselves. Remove all the trappings and look at the soul within him. What does he value, and what is his purpose? Does he rule over his property with wisdom and fairness, or does his property rule him through vanity and greed? If you took away all the prosperity, would you find just an empty shell of man, now completely lost without all his fine playthings, or would you find a commitment to character that doesn’t ebb and flow with the fickle circumstances of the world?

I have known both sorts of people, and I have gradually learned that our own dignity will rise or fall by whether we give priority to virtue or to possessions. Wealth that is not in the service of justice will only enslave us. 

Written in 9/2014

Image: Marcello Bacciarelli, Allegory of Justice (c. 1792)

Goethe on Setting the Bar

Seneca, On the Happy Life 49: Wisdom and Wealth

Who can doubt, however, that the wise man, if he is rich, has a wider field for the development of his powers than if he is poor, seeing that in the latter case the only virtue which he can display is that of neither being perverted nor crushed by his poverty, whereas if he has riches, he will have a wide field for the exhibition of temperance, generosity, laboriousness, methodical arrangement, and grandeur.

The wise man will not despise himself, however short of stature he may be, but nevertheless he will wish to be tall. Even though he be feeble and one-eyed he may be in good health, yet he would prefer to have bodily strength, and that too, while he knows all the while that he has something which is even more powerful: he will endure illness, and will hope for good health.

For some things, though they may be trifles compared with the sum total, and though they may be taken away without destroying the chief good, yet they add somewhat to that constant cheerfulness which arises from virtue. . . .

—Seneca the Younger, On the happy life, Chapter 22 (tr Stewart)

This is the sort of Stoic passage that, quite honestly, makes me a bit nervous at first. This concern ends up hardly being about Seneca’s argument at all, and is really about my own weakness.

For the wise man, wealth can become a means for greater good, and an opportunity to practice greater virtue. By having more at his disposal, he can do more for others, and he can exercise a greatness of character that would be impossible if he was poor. In poverty he may learn to order himself, but in plenty he can also give order to what is around him.

Things like wealth, health, or strength, though they are not in themselves the highest good, can certainly be preferred as a way of aiding us in practicing the highest good. The Stoic will embrace the chance to employ them, though because his goal is far greater, he will also gladly accept their loss.

I immediately see the soundness in the argument, but I question the soundness in myself. Everything here hinges upon the premise that a man of wealth and means must first be wise, he must seek to do good above all else, and he must recognize that his position is about service, not about being served. It requires something that seems quite difficult: possessing great fortune, but not loving great fortune.

How many such people can there truly be? I know I am not one of them. I know that even King Solomon, for all of his wisdom, succumbed to the temptations of wealth, idolatry, and lust.

The question is really much like the challenge of Plato’s Philosopher King. Because bad people are attracted to wealth and power, how can we assure that good people are inspired to give right purpose to wealth and power? How can we be certain they will not in turn be drawn into greed and lust themselves?

Some see political corruption, so they advocate the abolition of government. Others see the abuse of money, so they advocate the abolition of wealth. Yet instead of assuming the worst of men, can we not work to make the best of men? It isn’t wealth or power that is the problem, but the fact that we are greedy and selfish with our wealth and power. That is precisely why the Stoic argues that we must build character above all else, so that all other things in life can be used for benefit.

That I am skeptical about rich men being good means only that I know I am not good enough to be rich. I should see this is a call to become better, not to merely accept what is worse. I should never say that something cannot be found if I’ve always been looking for it in the wrong place. The solutions to the struggles of this life are not just economic, legal, or political, but are rather essentially moral. Inspire virtue in men first in order, and the rest will take care of itself. 

Written in 8/1995

Image: Ingobertus, King Solomon (c. 880) 

Ignatius of Loyola and Indifference

Seneca, On the Happy Life 48: Preference, Not Love

. . . Marcus Cato, when he was praising Curius and Coruncanius and that century in which the possession of a few small silver coins was an offence which was punished by the Censor, himself owned four million sesterces; a less fortune, no doubt, than that of Crassus, but larger than of Cato the Censor.

If the amounts be compared, he had outstripped his great-grandfather further than he himself was outdone by Crassus, and if still greater riches had fallen to his lot, he would not have spurned them, for the wise man does not think himself unworthy of any chance presents.

He does not love riches, but he prefers to have them. He does not receive them into his spirit, but only into his house, nor does he cast away from him what he already possesses, but keeps them, and is willing that his virtue should receive a larger subject matter for its exercise.

—Seneca the Younger, On the happy life, Chapter 21 (tr Stewart)

I can hardly make any profound judgments about Roman politics, and I am ignorant of all the subtleties of Seneca’s own political thinking. These references, however, are surely intended to ask the reader to consider the difference between good men who happen to be rich, and bad men who love being rich.

Cato the Younger, and his great-grandfather Cato the Elder, were both very wealthy men, but Seneca admired both of them greatly for their character. It is interesting that Cato the Younger praised Manius Curius Dentatus, a consul of the third century BC who was known for his great frugality, and who, legend tells us, once said he preferred eating his turnips to receiving political bribes, because he thought it better to rule rich men than be one himself.

There seems quite a difference between the prosperous Cato and the thrifty Curius, but I suggest that we are meant to see that this hardly matters. Curius wasn’t good because he was poor, and Cato wasn’t bad because he was rich. They were both good men because they pursued virtue, regardless of how much they possessed.

No, the real contrast is between Cato and his contemporary, Crassus. While both men were rich, though Crassus was apparently richer, the similarity ends there. Cato, a follower of Stoicism, stood for the values of the Roman Republic against the First Triumvirate of Caesar, Pompey, and Crassus. Seneca viewed Cato as a man of moral principle, but Crassus was the Roman equivalent of a modern real estate mogul, who mixed his desire for personal profit with political power plays.

Cato and Crassus were similar in their circumstances, but radically different in their priorities. We have all seen the difference between those who use their wealth to serve others, and those who use others to serve their wealth.

A wise man does not love money, and he does not seek it for its own sake, though he may well choose to prefer it. This may well seem like a petty distinction of semantics, and we can use whatever terminology we like, but there is a real and critical difference between want and preference. The Stoic should want only virtue, and avoid only vice. He should be indifferent to all other things, and make use of them insofar as they help him to be virtuous and not vicious. Accordingly, I should only want to be a good man, not a rich man, or a powerful man, or a popular man.

But let us say all things are equal, and I could be a good man whether I was rich or poor. I will take either circumstance, but I would most likely prefer the option of wealth over poverty, health over sickness, a long life over a short life, many friends over no friends. These are all certainly more pleasant, and they might appear to offer me greater opportunities. Where a condition does not conflict with virtue, I will rightly have the free choice of a preference, but any preference must always be relative to and defer to virtue.

My own silly way of remembering this is that I can take it or leave it, but if I don’t have to leave it, I’ll gladly take it.

I propose that Curius was a virtuous man who preferred poverty, and Cato was a virtuous man who preferred wealth, while Cassius was a vicious man who wanted wealth. It all reduces to whether I love something external for itself, or if I love virtue and also welcome something external.

My own experience is that the absence of fortune may actually be preferable to the presence of fortune far more often than we think, and in this regard I am drawn more to Curius. I find I usually prefer turnips to the burden of wealth. But that is a reflection for another time. 

Written in 8/1995

Image: Jacopo Amigoni, Marcus Curius Dentatus Refuses the Gifts of the Samnites (c. 1736)

Note the turnips by the fire. 

 

Silence

Ends and Means

Seneca, On the Happy Life 47: Despising Fortune

"But how is it that this man studies philosophy and nevertheless lives the life of a rich man? Why does he say that wealth ought to be despised and yet possess it?

“That life should be despised, and yet live?

“That health should be despised, and yet guard it with the utmost care, and wish it to be as good as possible?

“Does he consider banishment to be an empty name, and say, ‘What evil is there in changing one country for another?’ and yet, if permitted, does he not grow old in his native land?

“Does he declare that there is no difference between a longer and a shorter time, and yet, if he is not prevented, lengthen out his life and flourish in a green old age?"

His answer is, that these things ought to be despised, not that he should not possess them, but that he should not possess them with fear and trembling. He does not drive them away from him, but when they leave him he says farewell to them without concern.

Where, indeed, can Fortune invest riches more securely than in a place from where they can always be recovered without any squabble with their trustee?

—Seneca the Younger, On the happy life, Chapter 21 (tr Stewart)

I believe that one of the great misunderstandings about Stoicism, and about any philosophy that treats virtue as the measure of man, concerns what it means to “despise” money, or any of the gifts of Fortune.

When I love something, I recognize that it is good, and I desire it. Now I might assume that the only contrary to love can be hate, in which case I recognize that something is bad, and I avoid it. There is a third option, in that I recognize that something is in itself neither good not bad, and I should therefore neither desire it nor avoid it. This third view is the Stoic concept of indifference, and it is what Stoic texts mean when they speak of despising Fortune.

The question is not whether we will, or should, possess wealth, but whether we will care or worry about it for its own sake. This holds true for health, for the comforts of home, for a long life, and for anything else in our circumstances. These things may be given, or they may be taken away, but we are called throughout to think only of the ways we can use both their presence and absence to the improvement of moral character.

Some people might assume that if I am not deliberately seeking wealth, then I must be trying to avoid it. Other people might assume that if I happen to be wealthy, that must be something I am dedicated to. Neither needs to be the case. I often say that I have known rich men who are good men, but I have never known a man to be good because he is rich.

Now we all know that most people will appear more than happy to take advantage of an upturn in their fortunes. Give a man more money, and he will most likely start thinking about what to spend it on, where to invest, how to build his security and his comfort. But take the money away, and he will most likely worry and fret about losing everything. Both reactions are misguided, because both assume that value is in the possession, and both reactions offers no benefit, because both define happiness through the presence of something external.

The result is that all fortune, both from things we receive or lose, will not help a vicious man be happy, since he will use fortune poorly. Conversely, all fortune, both from things we receive or lose, will help a virtuous man be happy, since he will order fortune wisely.

It is also fitting that only someone virtuous will actually make a good steward or caretaker of wealth. He will understand that any benefits to be derived from Fortune are directed to the improvement of the soul, and not about lining his wallet.  He will not be troubled about returning what he had been given.

Written in 7/1995

Image: Salvator Rosa, Allegory of Fortune (c. 1659)

This painting almost landed the artist in quite a bit of trouble, because the animals wallowing in the gifts of Fortune, and stomping on the gifts of learning, seem to clearly represent prominent leaders in the Church. Rosa wryly insisted that the donkey draped in red and gold, and covering the owl of wisdom in its shadow, need not necessarily be seen as a symbol of the Pope or the Church, but could easily represent any greedy and ignorant nobleman. 

Seneca, On the Happy Life 46: Sickly Eyes

. . . But you, who hate both virtue and those who practice it, do nothing at which we need be surprised, for sickly eyes cannot bear the sun, nocturnal creatures avoid the brightness of day, and at its first dawning become bewildered and all betake themselves to their dens together.

Creatures that fear the light hide themselves in crevices. So croak away, and exercise your miserable tongues in reproaching good men.

Open wide your jaws, bite hard. You will break many teeth before you make any impression.

—Seneca the Younger, On the happy life, Chapter 20 (tr Stewart)

Great sages, poets, and artists have long used the image of light as a symbol for the truth, and the image of the eye as a symbol for the mind. Just as light makes objects visible to the eye, so truth makes reality intelligible to the mind, and as the sun is the source of all light, the Divine is the source of all truth. Separated from light the eye is blind, and separated from truth the mind is ignorant.

Though the eye is made to see, and the mind is made to understand, there are many ways that either can be hindered. If another object is blocking my sight, I must move around it or away from it. If the eye is diseased, I must seek a cure. If my vision has become so accustomed to darkness, I must slowly adjust to the light.

When I was younger, my father would wryly remind me that I should be a child of light, not of darkness. I assumed he was referring to my staying out all hours of the night getting up to no good with the wrong sorts of people, and he was most certainly speaking of that. Yet I am also sure he meant it not just literally, but also figuratively. My being nocturnal was not just about the time of day, but also about my whole attitude.

Disappointment, pain, or fear have sometimes made me decide to close my eyes to what is true and good. It is a form of denial, perhaps, or of running away, but at such times I have also become bitter and negative. Everything may appear dark and grey, and so, as Seneca says, I croak, I exercise my miserable tongue, and I break my own teeth biting down.

The longer I cut myself off from what is true and good, from what Nature asks and provides, the more I wallow in darkness and ignorance, and the harder it becomes to return to the light. There were times when I had become so used to ignorance and resentment that wisdom and charity seemed to burn.

Being a pale Irish fellow, I figured out long ago that when the warm weather comes along, I just need to spend a day out in the sun. My skin will turn bright red, and I will feel uncomfortable for a time, but that toughens me up for the rest of the summer. I’ve had to do the same with my heart and mind a few times, to get them back to state where they can appreciate what is right and decent.

I have sadly seen too many people I love crawl into the dark over the years, and light now seems toxic to them. I often feel like I would want nothing more than to rouse them from the crevices, and help them to walk their way in the daytime, until their eyes can once again grow accustomed to brightness. 

Written in 10/2016

Image: Rembrandt, The Philosopher in Meditation (1632)

Seneca, On the Happy Life 45: Being Agreeable

“. . . I will be agreeable with my friends, gentle and mild to my foes. I will grant pardon before I am asked for it, and will meet the wishes of honorable men half way.

“I will bear in mind that the world is my native city, that its governors are the gods, and that they stand above and around me, criticizing whatever I do or say.

“Whenever either Nature demands my breath again, or reason bids me to dismiss it, I will quit this life, calling all to witness that I have loved a good conscience, and good pursuits, and that no one's freedom, my own least of all, has been impaired through me.”

He who sets up these as the rules of his life will soar aloft and strive to make his way to the gods: in truth, even if he fails, he fails in a high endeavor. . . .

—Seneca the Younger, On the happy life, Chapter 20 (tr Stewart)

Think of how many times we have all heard that phrase, or used it ourselves: “Well, I’m a good person. Or at least I try to be.” In and of itself, it seems a perfectly decent thing to say. I have often wondered, however, what we all really mean when we say it.

For as long as I can remember, others have told me that I must be kind, caring, nice, respectful, or agreeable. As the admittedly sort of annoying fellow who has always asked “why?” as long as he could speak, I was regularly told that this was simply the proper and acceptable thing to do. “Be nice” becomes something we say quite often, but we don’t always reflect upon it. It also saddens me to see that we don’t even do it nearly as often as we might think.

I always feel like a terrible curmudgeon when I ask that “why?” question, though I do it not because I want people to be horrible to one another, but because I am looking for something to give us a good reason to love one another, something that will help us stay the course whenever difficulty may arise. For myself, I know I have struggled between being seen as good in order to get what I want from others, and being good to others regardless of how it is seen.

I often distinguish between two different senses of being “agreeable”, and it boils down to a very real difference between abuse and respect. I intend no exaggeration, but I do believe that if I act toward others with the profit of my own circumstances in mind, treating them as a means to my end, then I am a player, a manipulator, and yes, even an abuser. If I act toward others with their own good in mind, treating them as ends in themselves, then I may actually be practicing genuine respect.

Though I am, of course, only playing within the context of the English word, there is a contrast between being agreeable so that others will agree with me, and being agreeable because I am agreeing with Nature.

To be a good person, I must understand that my fellows are made just like me, sharing the same purpose, and worthy of the same dignity. I won’t always come across as likeable when I desire their happiness, but I should always seek what is good for them, however that may change my own selfish utility.

Accordingly, there is no “us” versus “them” in the order of Nature. There is only “all of us”. Whether we choose to accept it or not, we are all here in the service of Nature, and of the Divine that orders Nature.

To remember my mortality, memento mori, is a wonderful aid in this endeavor, because it isn’t all about me, but about how I, as one part, can help to serve the whole, the fulfillment of all the parts. I will end when Nature calls me back, or when my conscience tells me it is right to give myself for another. I have begun to expect no other reward beyond having run the race as best I can. 

Written in 10/2016

Image: The Buddha calms the enraged elephant Nalagiri with his kindness and compassion.

Seneca, On the Happy Life 44: Born for Others

“. . . I will so live as to remember that I was born for others, and I will thank Nature on this account: for in what fashion could she have done better for me? She has given me alone to all, and all to me alone.

“Whatever I may possess, I will neither hoard it greedily nor squander it recklessly. I will think that I have no possessions so real as those that I have given away to deserving people. I will not reckon benefits by their magnitude or number, or by anything except the value set upon them by the receiver. I never will consider a gift to be a large one if it is bestowed upon a worthy object.

“I will do nothing because of public opinion, but everything because of conscience. Whenever I do anything alone by myself I will believe that the eyes of the Roman people are upon me while I do it.

“In eating and drinking my object shall be to quench the desires of Nature, not to fill and empty my belly. . . .”

—Seneca the Younger, On the happy life, Chapter 20 (tr Stewart)

The principles of ethics are much richer and deeper than any politics or economics, because they are concerned not merely with the circumstances of power and wealth, but with the very purpose of our human nature.

So much of what we see around us tries to insist that man is made to acquire, to possess, to consume. The Stoic, however, stands by the basic truth that man is defined not by what comes to him, but by what he does. He is made, therefore, not to receive for himself, but to give of himself.

This flies in the face of accepted custom, and one cannot take a money seeker, a power broker, or a fame follower and merely dress him up like a Stoic. These views are incompatible, because they consider man as ordered toward opposing ends. I have slowly discovered that I only really began to appreciate life once I started to think of myself as a creature made not to dominate, but to love.

The value of anything is to be measured not by its financial worth, or by the profit of wealth or influence it can give to me, but by its moral worth, how it can be used to improve the character of both others and myself. Consider a man to be a good investor if he assists others in their happiness, and consider him rich if he owns his own deeds.

Once I begin to measure my actions through the approval or disapproval of others, I have already strayed from the path. I am here to care for others, and to live with them openly, but I am not ruled by their esteem. I only need to follow my awareness of right and wrong, as informed by Nature, to live the good life.

Though people all around me may want to devour more and more, Nature is always asking me to take and enjoy what I need, but never to want any more than I may need. I can only begin to see temperance and self-control as a great benefit when I no longer see myself as a consumer of good, but as an agent of good. 

Written in 10/2016 

Images: Frederick James Shields, Man Repels the Appeal of Conscience, and Man Harkens to the Appeal of Conscience (c. 1910)

The Venn of Stoicism

Seneca, On the Happy Life 43: To Climb a Steep Path

“Philosophers do not carry into effect all that they teach."

No, but they effect much good by their teaching, by the noble thoughts which they conceive in their minds; would, indeed, that they could act up to their talk. What could be happier than they would be?

But in the meanwhile, you have no right to despise good sayings and hearts full of good thoughts. Men deserve praise for engaging in profitable studies, even though they stop short of producing any results. Why need we wonder if those who begin to climb a steep path do not succeed in ascending it very high?

Yet, if you are a man, look with respect on those who attempt great things, even though they fall. It is the act of a generous spirit to proportion its efforts not to its own strength, but to that of human nature, to entertain lofty aims, and to conceive plans which are too vast to be carried into execution even by those who are endowed with gigantic intellects, who appoint for themselves the following rules:

"I will look upon death or upon a comedy with the same expression of countenance.

“I will submit to labors, however great they may be, supporting the strength of my body by that of my mind.

“I will despise riches when I have them as much as when I have them not; if they are elsewhere I will not be more gloomy, if they sparkle around me I will not be more lively than I should otherwise be.

“Whether Fortune comes or goes I will take no notice of her. I will view all lands as though they belong to me, and my own as though they belonged to all mankind. . . .”

—Seneca the Younger, On the happy life, Chapter 20 (tr Stewart)

Wisdom will set the goal of the good life for us, and philosophy will be the companion to help us work toward the goal. Action will proceed from understanding, though it will do so by degrees, and it will sometimes fall short. No matter. The success is in the effort itself, and the steep path to the summit makes the climb all the more worthy and noble.

My mind will often race far ahead of my deeds, though this should hardly be a discouragement. I must set my sights high, but also be fully understanding of where I stand now and what I have the strength to do.

I find great comfort in Seneca’s rules, not only at those times I may succeed, but especially at those times when I fail.

I should have no fear of death, and I should even laugh at death, because it is hardly a dreadful thing. It should only serve to remind me of what is good, because to know that I can die at any moment is also to know that I must pursue the joy of virtue in every moment.

I should remember that the value of any of my efforts will be essentially defined by how I think about them. Where my estimation finds something good, there will be benefit, and where my estimation sees only bad, there will be harm. Nothing in this life is interesting or boring, valuable or useless, helpful or a hindrance, except in the way the mind chooses to understand it or not to understand it.

I should always define myself by what is within me, and not by what is outside of me. I should never wish to be rich, and I should never wish to be poor, because the presence or absence of possessions is not the fulfillment of my nature, or the measure of my happiness.

I should never look to Fortune as my guide, since what she gives and what she takes away are beyond my power. I should even cease to think of the difference between what belongs to me and what belongs to another. The true goods that Nature provides are to be shared by all, not gifted only to some.

Written in 10/2016

Seneca, On the Happy Life 42: Crosses and Lusts

. . .You argue about the life and death of another, and yelp at the name of men whom some peculiarly noble quality has rendered great, just as tiny curs do at the approach of strangers.

For it is to your interest that no one should appear to be good, as if virtue in another were a reproach to all your crimes. You enviously compare the glories of others with your own dirty actions, and do not understand how greatly to your disadvantage it is to venture to do so. For if they who follow after virtue are greedy, lustful, and fond of power, what must you be, who hate the very name of virtue?

You say that no one acts up to his professions, or lives according to the standard that he sets up in his discourses. What wonder, seeing that the words they speak are brave, gigantic, and able to weather all the storms that wreck mankind, whereas they themselves are struggling to tear themselves away from crosses into which each one of you is driving his own nail.

Yet men who are crucified hang from one single pole, but these who punish themselves are divided between as many crosses as they have lusts, but yet are given to evil speaking, and are so magnificent in their contempt of the vices of others that I should suppose that they had none of their own, were it not that some criminals when on the gibbet spit upon the spectators.

—Seneca the Younger, On the happy life, Chapter 19 (tr Stewart)

There was a time when I would hardly think about the relationship between what was done to me and what I did. I would always complain bitterly, of course, when I felt that others were hurting me, but I would still seek satisfaction when I was hurting them. My selfishness and ignorance went hand in hand, because I refused to see that I was demanding I be exempt from the very same expectations I had for others, and I resented it deeply if someone else was actually better than me.

It took hitting bottom, something I complained about then but consider a blessing now, to even begin to change my ways. It is still very much a work in progress, but it begins with the connected insights that I do not become better when I think worse of others, but actually only make myself worse when I wish to drag them down. I have always been my own worst enemy.

I do indeed make it harder for others when I put obstacles in their way to a good life, and I would have seen that fairly easily if I had just switched places with them from my own perspective. Yet while they can still choose to struggle, to improve, to make themselves better in the face of my pettiness, I have already defeated myself. I have disparaged their virtue, but I have abandoned my own virtue by being exactly what I claim to hate.

The Roman practice of crucifixion was truly barbaric, because it was not just a punishment, or a means of execution, but a way of deliberately inflicting horrible suffering and humiliation on the victims. I am hardly any different when I inflict pain on others for my own satisfaction. Though I may string another man up, or nail him to a post, I bind myself to a new cross of self-torture over and over, every time I choose to act with malice and vice. 

Written in 10/2016