Seneca, Moral Letters 24.9

I see what you are looking for; you are asking what I have packed into my letter, what inspiriting saying from some mastermind, what useful precept. So I shall send you something dealing with this very subject which has been under discussion. 

 

Epicurus upbraids those who crave, as much as those who shrink from, death: "It is absurd," he says, "to run towards death because you are tired of life, when it is your manner of life that has made you run towards death."

 

And in another passage: "What is so absurd as to seek death, when it is through fear of death that you have robbed your life of peace?”

 

And you may add a third statement, of the same stamp: "Men are so thoughtless, nay, so mad, that some, through fear of death, force themselves to die."

 

Whichever of these ideas you ponder, you will strengthen your mind for the endurance alike of death and of life. For we need to be warned and strengthened in both directions—not to love or to hate life overmuch; even when reason advises us to make an end of it, the impulse is not to be adopted without reflection or at headlong speed.

 

The brave and wise man should not beat a hasty retreat from life; he should make a becoming exit. And above all, he should avoid the weakness which has taken possession of so many—the lust for death. 

 

For just as there is an unreflecting tendency of the mind towards other things, so, my dear Lucilius, there is an unreflecting tendency towards death; this often seizes upon the noblest and most spirited men, as well as upon the craven and the abject. The former despise life; the latter find it irksome.

 

Others also are moved by a satiety of doing and seeing the same things, and not so much by a hatred of life as because they are cloyed with it. We slip into this condition, while philosophy itself pushes us on, and we say: 

 

"How long must I endure the same things? Shall I continue to wake and sleep, be hungry and be cloyed, shiver and perspire? There is an end to nothing; all things are connected in a sort of circle; they flee and they are pursued. Night is close at the heels of day, day at the heels of night; summer ends in autumn, winter rushes after autumn, and winter softens into spring; all nature in this way passes, only to return. I do nothing new; I see nothing new; sooner or later one sickens of this, also." 

 

There are many who think that living is not painful, but superfluous. Farewell. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 24

 

When I get inspired by some ideal, I run the risk of going to extremes, where I permit my excited feeling to run ahead of my deliberate thinking. As the excellence of reason, prudence is always seeking balance, and hence the wise man becomes a master of moderation, finding that golden mean between excess and deficiency. 

 

And so when gluttony is giving me trouble, I may be inclined to become insensitive, or when I struggle with being a coward, I may find myself acting recklessly. 

 

I can’t go about blaming my appetites, since they do not know what they are doing at all—that is precisely why Nature gave me a mind. Do I really believe that I can’t help myself, or is it that I won’t help myself? I know full well that blaming my passions, just like blaming other people, is an abandonment of responsibility. 

 

Finding the balance will be just as important when it comes to dilemmas about life and death. I must not fear death, nor must I long for death. 

 

A Stoic mindset is not merely some cosmetic modification, a manipulation of image, but must be a complete conversion of character, where all circumstances are treated indifferently. Yes, that include the prospects of survival and extinction. 

 

The usual caveat must apply, of course: work for whatever you prefer, while still sacrificing everything for what you know is ultimately right. 

 

Do not be swayed by those who tell you to survive at all costs, for they are ignorant of living well. 

 

Do not be seduced by those who charm you with gratification at the expense of conscience, for they have their priorities confused. 

 

The joy is in the giving, not in the getting. 

 

Once this is in place, dying earlier presents no threat, and living longer offers no impediment. 

 

I may part ways with the Epicurean on what comes first, or how the world unfolds, but we agree on some practical rules: 

 

There is no point in wanting to die, when the very reason I want to die is because I am living poorly. 

 

The fact that I have a fear is no excuse for succumbing to said fear. 

 

I should consider how anyone can destroy my body, while only my own anxieties can destroy my soul. 

 

There have been too many times, I’m ashamed to say, when I have longed for it to end. Now why was I thinking that way? The key is in a critical examination of the self. What I had decided to love the most was determining my path. If I can’t change the conditions, can I not at least change the focus of my love? 

 

Some of the best people hate life for the pain it brings. Some of the worst people hate life for the emptiness it brings. Six of one, half-dozen of the other? The causes differ, while the results are the same. Any hatred of life passes when I appreciate what it was made for. 

—Reflection written in 10/2012 

IMAGE: Vincent van Gogh, Skull of a Skeleton with Burning Cigarette (c. 1885)

Know Thyself

Jacob Jordaens, Know Thyself (Kent U Selven), Youth Between Vice and Virtue (c. 1650)

Sayings of Ramakrishna 153

As the moon is the uncle of every child, so God is the Father and Guide of the whole of Humanity. (The children in Bengal call the moon their "maternal uncle".) 

Wisdom from the Bhagavad Gita 46

9. If you are unable to fix your mind steadily on Me, then by Abhyâsa Yoga (Withdrawing the Mind) do you seek to reach Me, O Dhananjaya. 

10. If also you are unable to practice Abhyâsa, be you intent on doing actions for My sake. Even by doing actions for My sake, you shall attain perfection. 

11. If you are unable to do even this, then taking refuge in Me, abandon the fruit of all action, self-controlled. 

12. Better indeed is knowledge than blind Abhyâsa; meditation with knowledge is more esteemed than mere knowledge; than meditation the renunciation of the fruit of action; peace immediately follows renunciation. 

13-14. He who hates no creature, and is friendly and compassionate towards all, who is free from the feelings of "I" and "mine", even-minded in pain and pleasure, forbearing, ever content, steady in meditation, self-controlled, and possessed of firm conviction, with mind and intellect fixed on Me—he who is thus devoted to Me, is dear to Me. 

15. He by whom the world is not agitated and who cannot be agitated by the world, who is freed from joy, envy, fear and anxiety—he is dear to Me. 

16. He who is free from dependence, who is pure, prompt, unconcerned, untroubled, renouncing every undertaking—he who is thus devoted to Me, is dear to Me. 

17. He who neither rejoices, nor hates, nor grieves, nor desires, renouncing good and evil, full of devotion, he is dear to Me. 

18-19. He who is the same to friend and foe, and also in honor and dishonor; who is the same in heat and cold, and in pleasure and pain; who is free from attachment; to whom censure and praise are equal; who is silent, content with anything, homeless, steady-minded, full of devotion—that man is dear to Me. 

20. And they who follow this Immortal Dharma, as described above, endued with Shraddhâ, regarding Me as the Supreme Goal, and devoted—they are exceedingly dear to Me. 

—Bhagavad Gita, 12:9-20 

Seneca, Moral Letters 24.8

Allow me at this point to quote a verse of yours, first suggesting that, when you wrote it, you meant it for yourself no less than for others. It is ignoble to say one thing and mean another; and how much more ignoble to write one thing and mean another! I remember one day you were handling the well-known commonplace—that we do not suddenly fall on death, but advance towards it by slight degrees; we die every day.

 

For every day a little of our life is taken from us; even when we are growing, our life is on the wane. 

 

We lose our childhood, then our boyhood, and then our youth. Counting even yesterday, all past time is lost time; the very day which we are now spending is shared between ourselves and death.

 

It is not the last drop that empties the water clock, but all that which previously has flowed out; similarly, the final hour when we cease to exist does not of itself bring death; it merely of itself completes the death-process. We reach death at that moment, but we have been a long time on the way.

 

In describing this situation, you said in your customary, style (for you are always impressive, but never more pungent than when you are putting the truth in appropriate words):

 

“Not single is the death which comes; the death

Which takes us off is but the last of all.” 

 

I prefer that you should read your own words rather than my letter; for then it will be clear to you that this death, of which we are afraid, is the last but not the only death. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 24

 

A few years ago, while I was staying at home during the summer in a grueling attempt at completing a dissertation, one of our neighbors would occasionally ask me to keep an eye on her son. 

 

I always welcomed the opportunity, not just as a relief from brooding over books with very small print, but also because the young fellow was such pleasant company. I had hardly been a typical child myself, and so it should come as no surprise that I feel great kinship with young people who are curious, reflective, and gentle. You may call them odd, while I shall call them blessed. 

 

Though he was only ten years old, he liked to carefully read through the newspaper, page by page, and I grew accustomed to long periods of silence as he pondered the various stories. I also knew, however, that he would then produce some remarkably profound observation or question, and I was never sure what he might pick up on. 

 

I don’t recall what the headlines for that day were, though they obviously got him thinking about death. “Do you think it’s sad when people die?”

 

Dear me, what can I say? “I think it’s natural to feel very sad when we lose those we love.”

 

“It doesn’t have to be sad, does it? And we don’t have to be so surprised about dying, because we’re all dying every day we’re alive.” 

 

My head is not so lost in the clouds that I thought academic abstractions were best suited for the occasion, so I simply shared a bit about how it felt when my family or friends passed away, and how I always tried to find something good in what at first seemed so bad. 

 

That he didn’t answer was, as I had leaned, a good sign, since it meant he was working it through in his head. Later, I would observe my own son doing much the same thing. 

 

I briefly mentioned the conversation to his mother, to show how much I admired his thoughtfulness. I must have expressed it poorly, however, as she immediately apologized for him. “I can’t figure out why he needs to be so morbid!” 

 

Yet I didn’t think it morbid at all, and I struggled to say that I rather found his words to be an affirmation of life. A Stoic attitude, in whatever form it may take, can perhaps come across as grim, but only when death is still mistaken as being unnatural, as something to be dreaded, as contrary to existence instead of as a necessary part of existence. 

 

The child, in his own way, was coming to terms with the same lesson Seneca had long ago offered to Lucilius. Indeed, as with so many philosophical insights, a good bit of that involves recollecting something we’ve long had a strong hunch about, although we are afraid to follow it through to the end. 

 

Death is not something remote and foreign, even as keeping it at arm’s length might offer a temporary comfort. It is not something that will happen, but something that is happening now, and it has been happening since we came into this world. 

 

Each moment is a coming-to-be, and then also inseparably bound up with that is a passing-away. Where any change takes place, birth and death are already present, as a continuous progression. 

 

My anxiety disappears when I recognize how all my experience is defined by generation and dissolution. If I look at a clock, the hour began to diminish with the tick of the first second; that last grain of sand through the hourglass is no greater or more significant than the first. 

 

I am transforming and moving along as I write these words, and if I can be at peace with this smaller scale of maturing, why should I be so frightened about the same pattern on a larger scale? 

 

As I become what they call “middle-aged”, at least half of my life is behind me, and quite possibly far more than that. The fact is I don’t know how much time remains for me, and that only becomes a burden when I am looking for quantity at the expense of quality. 

 

I have it within me to act with carefree virtue right now, and to embrace sheer joy right now. What else could matter? It doesn’t have to be sad if I don’t choose to make it sad. 

—Reflection written in 10/2012 

IMAGE: Johann Zoffany, Self-Portrait with Hourglass and Skull (c. 1776)

Stoic Snippets 141

The art of life is more like the wrestler's art than the dancer's, in respect of this, that it should stand ready and firm to meet onsets which are sudden and unexpected. 

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 7.61 

Wisdom from the Early Cynics, Diogenes 6

Observing Plato one day at a costly banquet taking olives, "How is it," he said, "that you the philosopher who sailed to Sicily for the sake of these dishes, now when they are before you do not enjoy them?" 

"No, by the gods, Diogenes," replied Plato, "there also for the most part I lived upon olives and such like." 

"Why then," said Diogenes, "did you need to go to Syracuse? Was it that Attica at that time did not grow olives?" 

But Favorinus in his Miscellaneous History attributes this to Aristippus. 

Again, another time he was eating dried figs when he encountered Plato and offered him a share of them. 

When Plato took them and ate them, he said, "I said you might share them, not that you might eat them all up." 

—Diogenes Laërtius, 6.25 

Wisdom from the Early Stoics, Zeno of Citium 46

A probable judgement is one which induces to assent, e.g. "Whoever gave birth to anything, is that thing's mother." This, however, is not necessarily true; for the hen is not mother of an egg. 

Again, some things are possible, others impossible; and some things are necessary, others are not necessary. 

A proposition is possible which admits of being true, there being nothing in external circumstances to prevent it being true, e.g. "Diocles is alive." 

Impossible is one which does not admit of being true, as e.g. "The earth flies." 

That is necessary which besides being true does not admit of being false or, while it may admit of being false, is prevented from being false by circumstances external to itself, as "Virtue is beneficial." 

Not necessary is that which, while true, yet is capable of being false if there are no external conditions to prevent, e.g. "Dion is walking." 

A reasonable proposition is one which has to start with more chances of being true than not, e.g. "I shall be alive tomorrow."

—Diogenes Laërtius, 7.75-76 

Time and a Fox

As a reference for Seneca, Moral Letters 24.7: 

Albrecht Dürer, Time and a Fox Turning the Wheel of Fortune, with People of All Ranks (c. 1526) 

Fractals 26

Dhammapada 203, 204

Hunger is the worst of diseases, the body the greatest of pains; if one knows this truly, that is Nirvana, the highest happiness. 

Health is the greatest of gifts, contentedness the best riches; trust is the best of relationships, Nirvana the highest happiness. 

Seneca, Moral Letters 24.7

What, have you only at this moment learned that death is hanging over your head, at this moment exile, at this moment grief? You were born to these perils. Let us think of everything that can happen as something which will happen.

 

I know that you have really done what I advise you to do; I now warn you not to drown your soul in these petty anxieties of yours; if you do, the soul will be dulled and will have too little vigor left when the time comes for it to arise. 

 

Remove the mind from this case of yours to the case of men in general. Say to yourself that our petty bodies are mortal and frail; pain can reach them from other sources than from wrong or the might of the stronger. Our pleasures themselves become torments; banquets bring indigestion, carousals paralysis of the muscles and palsy, sensual habits affect the feet, the hands, and every joint of the body.

 

I may become a poor man; I shall then be one among many. 

 

I may be exiled; I shall then regard myself as born in the place to which I shall be sent. 

 

They may put me in chains. What then? Am I free from bonds now? 

 

Behold this clogging burden of a body, to which nature has fettered me! 

 

"I shall die," you say; you mean to say "I shall cease to run the risk of sickness; I shall cease to run the risk of imprisonment; I shall cease to run the risk of death."

 

I am not so foolish as to go through at this juncture the arguments which Epicurus harps upon, and say that the terrors of the world below are idle—that Ixion does not whirl round on his wheel, that Sisyphus does not shoulder his stone uphill, that a man's entrails cannot be restored and devoured every day; no one is so childish as to fear Cerberus, or the shadows, or the spectral garb of those who are held together by nothing but their unfleshed bones. 

 

Death either annihilates us or strips us bare. If we are then released, there remains the better part, after the burden has been withdrawn; if we are annihilated, nothing remains; good and bad are alike removed. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 24 

 

Once again, there is a marked difference between dreading suffering and being prepared for suffering, between being consumed by worry and getting my house in order. 

 

The grasshopper may dismiss the ant as a pessimist, though the ant knows something about the ways of the world. If it can come to pass, I should expect that it will come to pass. Fortune is fickle, and no one escapes from her schemes; it would be the greatest arrogance to think I could possibly tame her. 

 

It is at first easy to feel confident and carefree about the state of my health, my property, or my standing, and then, in the confusion of loss, it is too late to apply a remedy. The trick is not to harden myself by accumulating more, which can be whisked away just as easily, but by wanting less, which is within the realm of my control. 

 

In so many cases, the injuries don’t even come from what others do to me, and instead they arise from what I have unwittingly done to myself. Even when the robber takes my money, the deeper harm was in my attachment to the money. Was it the man who served me too much wine who made me ill, or was it my own intemperance that made me ill? 

 

With a broader perspective on life, poverty, imprisonment, or disease are no longer the deal-breakers I once believed them to be. With a deeper sense of meaning, death itself is no longer an insurmountable obstacle. Indeed, I can just as easily view dying as a release from pain as I can consider it a source of trouble. 

 

Following the pattern of Socrates, in line with any good Stoic, Seneca reminds us how death will either remove all these failings of the flesh, and so then there will be nothing to worry about, or it will destroy us completely, and so then there will also be no one to do any worrying. 

 

Two medieval images always help me to not get carried away with idle speculation and agonizing fears about both this life and the next: 

 

First, the Wheel of Fortune tells me how the variability of circumstances favors no one, and only my attitude can provide any stability. 

 

Second, the Dance of Death tells me how we are all equal in the end, and no amount of indulgence, hoarding, or posturing can ever change that. 

—Reflection written in 10/2012

Michael Leunig 34

Sayings of Publilius Syrus 56

He who boasts of a favor bestowed, would like it back again. 

Seneca, Moral Letters 24.6

"Why dost thou hold up before my eyes swords, fires, and a throng of executioners raging about thee? Take away all that vain show, behind which thou lurkest and scarest fools! Ah! thou art naught but Death, whom only yesterday a manservant of mine and a maid-servant did despise!

 

“Why dost thou again unfold and spread before me, with all that great display, the whip and the rack? Why are those engines of torture made ready, one for each several member of the body, and all the other innumerable machines for tearing a man apart piecemeal? 

 

“Away with all such stuff, which makes us numb with terror! And thou, silence the groans, the cries, and the bitter shrieks ground out of the victim as he is torn on the rack! 

 

“Forsooth thou are naught but Pain, scorned by yonder gout-ridden wretch, endured by yonder dyspeptic in the midst of his dainties, borne bravely by the girl in travail. Slight thou art, if I can bear thee; short thou art if I cannot bear thee!"

 

Ponder these words which you have often heard and often uttered. Moreover, prove by the result whether that which you have heard and uttered is true. For there is a very disgraceful charge often brought against our school—that we deal with the words, and not with the deeds, of philosophy. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 24

 

As I grow older, I seem to talk to myself more often, and that could either be a harmless effect of aging or a warning that my eccentricity is shifting into madness, but I do often find it helpful to work out a problem in the form of an internal conversation. 

 

I take comfort in the fact that this can be a perfectly acceptable literary device, the apostrophe, where a character turns away and addresses either the audience, or someone who is absent, or a personification of an object or concept. I may, for example, seek guidance from Justice, or ask questions of Fate, or challenge the power of Death: 

 

O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?

 

I am not expecting a reply, though the process offers some much-needed structure to my musings. 

 

Death has a power over my body, and it can determine how long my awareness in this life may continue, but it has absolutely no power over what I choose to think and how I choose to act. 

 

Death will not trip me up in this regard; only my imagined fear of death’s reach can drag me down. By rightly understanding the purpose of this life, I can banish an anxiety about the end of my existence, just as I can rise above the force of any worldly circumstances. 

 

The apostrophe offered by Seneca is like a good fight song for the soul, and when I read something so stirring and defiant, I think of the wonderful scene in Casablanca where the bar patrons sing La Marseillaise to drown out those pesky Germans. 

 

On a less refined level, I sometimes sing the theme song from Malcolm in the Middle to myself when my courage wavers: 

 

You’re not the boss of me now and you’re not so big! 

 

There is little point in messing about with my own inadequate words when a great poet can help me to express what I am thinking. Thank you, John Donne: 

 

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;

For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow

Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.

From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,

Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,

And soonest our best men with thee do go,

Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.

Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,

And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,

And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well

And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?

One short sleep past, we wake eternally

And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die. 

—Reflection written in 10/2012 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SEJHJ_WfNgU

Xenophon, Memorabilia of Socrates 8

But, says the accuser, by all that's sacred! Did not Socrates cause his associates to despise the established laws when he dwelt on the folly of appointing state officers by ballot? A principle which, he said, no one would care to apply in selecting a pilot or a flute player or in any similar case, where a mistake would be far less disastrous than in matters political. 

Words like these, according to the accuser, tended to incite the young to disregard the established constitution, rendering them violent and headstrong. 

But for myself I think that those who cultivate wisdom and believe themselves able to instruct their fellow citizens as to their interests are least likely to become partisans of violence. They are too well aware that to violence attach enmities and dangers, whereas results as good may be obtained by persuasion safely and amicably. 

For the victim of violence hates with vindictiveness as one from whom something precious has been stolen, while the willing subject of persuasion is ready to kiss the hand which has done him a service. 

Hence compulsion is not the method of him who makes wisdom his study, but of him who wields power untempered by reflection. 

Once more: the man who ventures on violence needs the support of many to fight his battles, while he whose strength lies in persuasiveness triumphs single-handed, for he is conscious of a cunning to compel consent unaided. 

And what has such a one to do with the spilling of blood? Since how ridiculous it is to do men to death rather than turn to account the trusty service of the living. 

—from Xenophon, Memorabilia 1.2 

Sayings of Ramakrishna 152

Listen not, if anyone criticizes and censures your Guru. 

Leave his presence at once. 

Seneca, Moral Letters 24.5

Believe me, Lucilius; death is so little to be feared that through its good offices nothing is to be feared.

 

Therefore, when your enemy threatens, listen unconcernedly. Although your conscience makes you confident, yet, since many things have weight which are outside your case, both hope for that which is utterly just, and prepare yourself against that which is utterly unjust. 

 

Remember, however, before all else, to strip things of all that disturbs and confuses, and to see what each is at bottom; you will then comprehend that they contain nothing fearful except the actual fear.

 

What you see happening to boys happens also to ourselves, who are only slightly bigger boys: when those whom they love, with whom they daily associate, with whom they play, appear with masks on, the boys are frightened out of their wits. 

 

We should strip the mask, not only from men, but from things, and restore to each object its own aspect. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 24 

 

An ending is just as natural as a beginning, so why do I see any harm in finality? To be reminded that there must be a last page is of no detriment to the story, and can, for that matter, be a testament to its beauty. When I feel the need to cling to something for longer, I can only wonder if I was valuing it properly to begin with. 

 

If I can manage to overcome my fear of death, I can then also overcome my fear of anything else, as it becomes easy to tackle the minions when I have already mastered the boss. 

 

Were my thoughts and deeds in accord with Nature? Dying stops the clock, yet it cannot take my character away from me. Once I get that, every other peril seems rather trivial; I should be grateful to death for giving me a richer perspective. 

 

I will not fret over the things to which I do not attach significance. This is a bane when I neglect kindness or compassion, but a boon when I pass over the urge to live an affluent life or a long life. 

 

It isn’t that the Stoic doesn’t care, like the egotist who believes in ignoring an inconvenience to make it go away, but rather that the Stoic learns to care for everything within the context of a whole, where the pursuit of virtue is always his highest good. 

 

It doesn’t need to trouble me if I won’t let it, and the frustrating obstacle is not in the conditions I face, but in the way I go about facing them. I can most certainly prefer certain consequences, as long as I do not confuse these with needs. I can work and wish for the external results to be agreeable, as long as the external results themselves are not the goal. 

 

Even as I make progress at a snail’s pace, I increasingly recognize how the trick is in peeling away all those layers of perceptions, impressions I have imposed upon the object. Many of them have been caked on for years, such that the original shape is now hidden under thick detritus. 

 

Foolish judgments I made back then make me confused about what I see right now. A patient commitment is required. Sometimes I must swing with a hammer, other times I must dab with a brush—the reality beneath the appearances slowly reveals itself. 

 

It is no longer so hideous when it shows itself for what it is, a necessary part in a harmony, not as what I fear it to be, some sort of obstacle to my peace of mind. 

 

The analogy of being scared by a mask is fitting—I can look behind it to recognize another human being just like me. 

The comparison between children and adults is insightful—while the former cry and tremble in the open, the latter are more practiced at putting on airs. 

 

The “things” out there do not damage my soul; I manage to do that all by myself. 

—Reflection written in 10/2012

The Hidden Singer

"The Hidden Singer" 

Wendell Berry

The gods are less for their love of praise.  
Above and below them all is a spirit that needs nothing  
but its own wholeness, its health and ours.  
It has made all things by dividing itself.  
It will be whole again.  
To its joy we come together— 
the seer and the seen, the eater and the eaten,  
the lover and the loved.  
In our joining it knows itself. It is with us then,  
not as the gods whose names crest in unearthly fire,  
but as a little bird hidden in the leaves  
who sings quietly and waits, and sings.