Mikalojus Konstantinas Ciurlionis, Creation of the World V (1905)
The Death of Marcus Aurelius
Thursday, January 5, 2023
Sayings of Ramakrishna 193
James Vila Blake, Sonnets from Marcus Aurelius 2
. . . I can not be disabled or harmed by any one whom I may meet, since no one can hurl me over into
shame or misbehavior; nor can I be angry with one
of the same source, kith and kin, with me, nor hold
a harsh and ruthless mind toward such a one.
—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 2.1
2.
His is the act, and his thereof the fruit,
And his the disposition that led to ’t;
From both and him I am afar and free.
Whatever he hath heart to do or be,
Albeit mayhap the fury of a brute,
Or man more monstrous, sagely dissolute,
’Tis his adventure and hath naught in me.
Nature that sitteth queened on starry throne
Assigneth me my place, and my soul’s wit
To follow her confirms me what to heed.
And yet he wrongs me, say you? Haply his own
Wish ’tis; but on wrong’s brow no powers sit.
But slanders me with lies ? Poor man, indeed!
Epictetus, Discourses 1.28.4
“What? Do these great matters depend on one that is so small?”
What are these you call “such great matters”? Wars and factions, deaths of many men and destructions of cities. What is there great in this, pray?
“Is there nothing great?”
Why, what is there great in the death of many oxen and many sheep, and the burning and destruction of many nests of swallows and storks?
“Are these like those other horrors?”
Most like: bodies of men perished, so did bodies of oxen and sheep. Huts of men were burnt: so were storks' nests. What is great or awful here? Or if it be so, show me how a man's home differs from a stork's nest, as a dwelling.
“Is a stork, then, like a man?”
What do you say? In respect of his body, very like; save only that men's homes are built of beams and rafters and bricks, and storks’ nests of sticks and clay.
What are these you call “such great matters”? Wars and factions, deaths of many men and destructions of cities. What is there great in this, pray?
“Is there nothing great?”
Why, what is there great in the death of many oxen and many sheep, and the burning and destruction of many nests of swallows and storks?
“Are these like those other horrors?”
Most like: bodies of men perished, so did bodies of oxen and sheep. Huts of men were burnt: so were storks' nests. What is great or awful here? Or if it be so, show me how a man's home differs from a stork's nest, as a dwelling.
“Is a stork, then, like a man?”
What do you say? In respect of his body, very like; save only that men's homes are built of beams and rafters and bricks, and storks’ nests of sticks and clay.
—from Epictetus, Discourses 1.28
It will do me no good to strive for greatness, if I don’t first understand what it means to be great.
I say that this is big and that is small, this is more important and that is less important, and through it all I am failing to consider if my assumptions are in line with my nature, if I can explain why I have my priorities in order. Am I thinking it through, or am I latching onto the first impression they handed to me?
The other day I spoke with an aspiring Stoic, who insisted that he needed to worry about acquiring food and shelter before he tried to be virtuous. It had not occurred to him that the health of his body, or even his continued survival, could be subservient to the state of his character.
“Are you saying that I should starve to death before I violate my conscience?”
“I’m not saying it at all; you would need to say it to yourself.” I don’t think I’ve ever seen a jaw drop quite that far.
We are told how a successful life requires the acquisition of wealth, the building of status, and the comforts of the flesh. I only have to look at the pictures in the college brochures to get the idea: the alumnus of this fine institution is handsomely dressed, surrounded by an adoring wife and two grinning children, and he confidently shakes hands with other powerful men in a well-appointed office.
His spacious home has a very green lawn, and he shares many photos of his brilliant vacations. He then passes on this glory to his offspring, who are blissfully unaware of the trap.
He can go into finance, and determine the fate of thousands, or even into politics, and determine the fate of millions. He is admired. He is relevant. He gets his way. He is essential to society because he manages the things that matter the most. You want to be like him!
It takes an Epictetus to knock some sense into us. This fellow over here builds a city, and that fellow over there tears it down. Countries congratulate themselves on achieving a lasting peace, and yet so very soon they are back at war. Stick to our side without question, and a victory over the dastardly foe is assured, though we’re very sorry if we make you die for it—we’ll send your family a nice letter in the mail.
Are these really the things that matter the most? We’re just talking about the ever-changing state of things here, not about the dignity of people. Prudence doesn’t insist upon itself. Fortitude can't be presented in soundbites. Temperance is never about bragging rights. Justice has no cash value.
Perhaps what we call “great” doesn’t end up being so special. A single instance of love, by a “nobody” dismissed as irrelevant, outshines any extravagant posturing. In constantly obsessing about the breadth of the circumstances, we neglect the depth of the virtues.
It will do me no good to strive for greatness, if I don’t first understand what it means to be great.
I say that this is big and that is small, this is more important and that is less important, and through it all I am failing to consider if my assumptions are in line with my nature, if I can explain why I have my priorities in order. Am I thinking it through, or am I latching onto the first impression they handed to me?
The other day I spoke with an aspiring Stoic, who insisted that he needed to worry about acquiring food and shelter before he tried to be virtuous. It had not occurred to him that the health of his body, or even his continued survival, could be subservient to the state of his character.
“Are you saying that I should starve to death before I violate my conscience?”
“I’m not saying it at all; you would need to say it to yourself.” I don’t think I’ve ever seen a jaw drop quite that far.
We are told how a successful life requires the acquisition of wealth, the building of status, and the comforts of the flesh. I only have to look at the pictures in the college brochures to get the idea: the alumnus of this fine institution is handsomely dressed, surrounded by an adoring wife and two grinning children, and he confidently shakes hands with other powerful men in a well-appointed office.
His spacious home has a very green lawn, and he shares many photos of his brilliant vacations. He then passes on this glory to his offspring, who are blissfully unaware of the trap.
He can go into finance, and determine the fate of thousands, or even into politics, and determine the fate of millions. He is admired. He is relevant. He gets his way. He is essential to society because he manages the things that matter the most. You want to be like him!
It takes an Epictetus to knock some sense into us. This fellow over here builds a city, and that fellow over there tears it down. Countries congratulate themselves on achieving a lasting peace, and yet so very soon they are back at war. Stick to our side without question, and a victory over the dastardly foe is assured, though we’re very sorry if we make you die for it—we’ll send your family a nice letter in the mail.
Are these really the things that matter the most? We’re just talking about the ever-changing state of things here, not about the dignity of people. Prudence doesn’t insist upon itself. Fortitude can't be presented in soundbites. Temperance is never about bragging rights. Justice has no cash value.
Perhaps what we call “great” doesn’t end up being so special. A single instance of love, by a “nobody” dismissed as irrelevant, outshines any extravagant posturing. In constantly obsessing about the breadth of the circumstances, we neglect the depth of the virtues.
Even the stork builds himself a fine house. I might only add that the stork at least keeps his home as simple as it needs to be, and he doesn’t seem to care so much about the pedigree or the fineries. If he doesn’t serve the correct cocktails, the other storks won’t laugh at him behind his back.
—Reflection written in 4/2001
Wednesday, January 4, 2023
Plutarch, The Life of Cato the Younger 4
He made a close companion of Antipater the Tyrian, a Stoic philosopher, and devoted himself especially to ethical and political doctrines.
He was possessed, as it were, with a kind of inspiration for the pursuit of every virtue; but, above all, that form of goodness which consists in rigid justice that will not bend to clemency or favor, was his great delight.
He practiced also the kind of speaking which is effective with a multitude, deeming it right that in political philosophy, as in a great city, a certain warlike element should also be maintained.
However, he did not perform his exercises in company with others, nor did anyone ever hear him rehearsing a speech.
Indeed, to one of his companions who said, "Men find fault with you, Cato, for your silence," he replied: "Only let them not blame my life. I will begin to speak when I am not going to say what is better off unsaid."
IMAGE: Elisabetta Sirani, An Allegory of Virtue (1657)
Stoic Snippets 181
She is content then with her own space, and her own matter, and her own art.
—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 8.50
IMAGE: Ouroboros from the Book of Kells
Epictetus, Discourses 1.28.3
We must remember this clearly, that man measures his every action by his impressions; of course they may be good or bad: if good, he is free from reproach; if bad, he pays the penalty in his own person, for it is impossible for one to be deluded and another to suffer for it.
The man who remembers this, I say, will be angry with no one, indignant with no one, revile none, blame none, hate none, offend none.
“So you say that deeds so great and awful take their origin from this, the impressions of the mind?”
From this and nothing else. The Iliad is nothing but men's impressions and how they dealt with them.
The man who remembers this, I say, will be angry with no one, indignant with no one, revile none, blame none, hate none, offend none.
“So you say that deeds so great and awful take their origin from this, the impressions of the mind?”
From this and nothing else. The Iliad is nothing but men's impressions and how they dealt with them.
It was impressions that made Paris take away the wife of Menelaus, impressions that drew Helen to follow him. If, then, his impressions had led Menelaus to feel that it was a gain to be robbed of such a wife, what would have happened? We should have lost the Iliad, and not only that but the Odyssey too.
—from Epictetus, Discourses 1.28
Whatever we do, however lofty or base, we do it because we think it to be proper; for better or for worse, we are convinced of it at the time. It is our judgments that are the source of all our actions, and the way we go about estimating meaning and value will determine the place of everything else in our lives.
If I have chosen wisely, then my thoughts and deeds will flow in harmony with Nature. There is the only reward that matters.
If I have chosen foolishly, then I will find myself constantly at war with the world and with myself. There is the only harm that can touch me.
Will I be the master of my impressions, or will I permit my impressions to master me? There is the question upon which my happiness hinges.
Once I recognize the primacy of my convictions, I no longer have to worry about how the circumstances might unfold, and I don’t have to be at the mercy of another’s choices. I might believe he is terribly mistaken, and I may wish to dissuade him from his path, but my neighbor does not control my serenity.
If this is indeed the case, why should I choose resentment, jealousy, or hatred? If he can take nothing that I need, why do I fear him? If he is unable to hurt me in any way that counts, why am I outraged? If he is not responsible for my character, why am I pointing the finger? He is not my enemy, because we are not at odds. The answer is always in bringing order to my thinking.
We feel intimidated by events on a grand scale, overwhelmed by what we think are forces far too powerful for us to handle, and yet all that has ever happened in human affairs is no more than the product of individual judgments. Every matter of politics, of finance, of war and peace is reducible to a decision that arose from a certain point of view.
In this way, what we call human history is the sum of personal attitudes. It goes beyond psychology, which describes patterns of behavior, and derives from philosophy, which explains such behavior within the context of true and false, good and evil, beautiful and ugly.
Do I remain alarmed by how others will manage their impressions? That isn’t meant to be within my power—they have played their parts, and now I offer my own. I must simply remember how the tapestry is woven out of many threads, and each strand has its necessary place. I attend to my own work, and I assist my fellows with their own work wherever I can.
The only way to “change” the whole world is to reshape every private judgment. By admitting the vanity of this, for even God permits His creatures the opportunity to make their own way, I concentrate on changing myself. The big picture is assembled from a glorious abundance of little pictures.
The Iliad is an epic tale, though it really boils down to a collection of intimate choices. Paris perceived his benefit by the satisfaction of his lust. Menelaus perceived his benefit by the pursuit of his jealousy, Had either man arrived at another conclusion, it would be the end of the story, or more correctly it would be a very different story.
Whatever we do, however lofty or base, we do it because we think it to be proper; for better or for worse, we are convinced of it at the time. It is our judgments that are the source of all our actions, and the way we go about estimating meaning and value will determine the place of everything else in our lives.
If I have chosen wisely, then my thoughts and deeds will flow in harmony with Nature. There is the only reward that matters.
If I have chosen foolishly, then I will find myself constantly at war with the world and with myself. There is the only harm that can touch me.
Will I be the master of my impressions, or will I permit my impressions to master me? There is the question upon which my happiness hinges.
Once I recognize the primacy of my convictions, I no longer have to worry about how the circumstances might unfold, and I don’t have to be at the mercy of another’s choices. I might believe he is terribly mistaken, and I may wish to dissuade him from his path, but my neighbor does not control my serenity.
If this is indeed the case, why should I choose resentment, jealousy, or hatred? If he can take nothing that I need, why do I fear him? If he is unable to hurt me in any way that counts, why am I outraged? If he is not responsible for my character, why am I pointing the finger? He is not my enemy, because we are not at odds. The answer is always in bringing order to my thinking.
We feel intimidated by events on a grand scale, overwhelmed by what we think are forces far too powerful for us to handle, and yet all that has ever happened in human affairs is no more than the product of individual judgments. Every matter of politics, of finance, of war and peace is reducible to a decision that arose from a certain point of view.
In this way, what we call human history is the sum of personal attitudes. It goes beyond psychology, which describes patterns of behavior, and derives from philosophy, which explains such behavior within the context of true and false, good and evil, beautiful and ugly.
Do I remain alarmed by how others will manage their impressions? That isn’t meant to be within my power—they have played their parts, and now I offer my own. I must simply remember how the tapestry is woven out of many threads, and each strand has its necessary place. I attend to my own work, and I assist my fellows with their own work wherever I can.
The only way to “change” the whole world is to reshape every private judgment. By admitting the vanity of this, for even God permits His creatures the opportunity to make their own way, I concentrate on changing myself. The big picture is assembled from a glorious abundance of little pictures.
The Iliad is an epic tale, though it really boils down to a collection of intimate choices. Paris perceived his benefit by the satisfaction of his lust. Menelaus perceived his benefit by the pursuit of his jealousy, Had either man arrived at another conclusion, it would be the end of the story, or more correctly it would be a very different story.
—Reflection written in 4/2001
IMAGE: Peter Paul Rubens, The Judgment of Paris (c. 1635)
Tuesday, January 3, 2023
Dhammapada 285
Cut out the love of self, like an autumn lotus, with your hand!
Cherish the road of peace.
Nirvana has been shown by Sugata.
Storm on the Sea 5
Willem van de Velde, Two English Ships Wrecked in a Storm on a Rocky Coast (c. 1700)
Epictetus, Discourses 1.28.2
Now, in the sphere of action what have we to correspond to true and false in the sphere of perception? What is fitting and unfitting, profitable and unprofitable, appropriate and inappropriate, and the like.
“Cannot a man, then, think a thing is to his profit, and not choose it?”
He cannot.
What of Medea, who says:
“I know full well what ills I mean to do
But passion overpowers what counsel bids me.”
Here the very gratification of passion and the vengeance she takes on her husband she believes to be more to her profit than saving her children.
“Yes, but she is deceived.”
Prove to her plainly that she is deceived, and she will not do it, but as long as you do not show her, what else can she follow but that which appears to her? Nothing.
Why then are you indignant with her, because, unhappy woman, she is deluded on the greatest matters and is transformed from a human being into a serpent? Why do you not rather pity her—if so it may be?
As we pity the blind and the lame, so should we pity those who are blinded and lamed in their most sovereign faculties.
“Cannot a man, then, think a thing is to his profit, and not choose it?”
He cannot.
What of Medea, who says:
“I know full well what ills I mean to do
But passion overpowers what counsel bids me.”
Here the very gratification of passion and the vengeance she takes on her husband she believes to be more to her profit than saving her children.
“Yes, but she is deceived.”
Prove to her plainly that she is deceived, and she will not do it, but as long as you do not show her, what else can she follow but that which appears to her? Nothing.
Why then are you indignant with her, because, unhappy woman, she is deluded on the greatest matters and is transformed from a human being into a serpent? Why do you not rather pity her—if so it may be?
As we pity the blind and the lame, so should we pity those who are blinded and lamed in their most sovereign faculties.
—from Epictetus, Discourses 1.28
The example of Medea speaks to me immediately. Though I have absolutely no qualifications in drama, I was once given the job of running a school production of Euripides’ Medea, mainly because I was the only faculty member who had actually read the play.
I was pleased by how well the students took to it, but I was a bit taken aback by how many of them saw the title character as a noble heroine. I should not have been surprised, however, given the way our culture assumes intense passion alone to be the foundation for moral worth, and thereby confuses revenge with justice, hatred with righteousness, and appetite with love.
At the same time, I know all too well how easy it is to get tangled up in the impressions. Another may be treating me poorly, and the pain lures me into perceiving myself simply as a victim.
From being the object of his abuse, I jump to the conclusion that I must pay him back in kind, as I permit myself to be consumed by wrath. “A hurt for a hurt” operates on the level of brute instinct, not as the expression of a prudent choice.
I have no doubt that Jason acted in the worst possible way, driven on by his avarice and lust, and it is as if I can feel along with Medea’s anger and despair. And yet to respond by murdering not only Glauce and Creon, but also her own sons, shows how two wrongs don’t make a right.
This is why the tale is a tragedy and not a triumph, a warning and not a glorification. Let the wicked man be wary of what may come to him, and let the injured man be wary of becoming precisely what he despises.
A part of the tragedy is the way Medea, caught up in desperate confusion and wild rationalizations, genuinely believed that she was justified in her reaction. Perhaps we have not schemed murder, but can any of us throw stones?
One of the greatest struggles I ever faced was the opportunity to destroy the reputation of someone I loved dearly, but who had cast me aside. Instead of being proud that I didn’t do it, I am now ashamed that I even considered it.
If I come across a fellow crippled by injury or illness, should I not reach out my hand to offer whatever help is within my power? It makes no difference how he got there, or if he is somehow the cause of his own plight. I am called to do just the same if he is impaired by ignorance and delusion.
We are all made for one another. If I can be bothered to put myself in his shoes for a moment, I know it to be true.
—Reflection written in 4/2001
IMAGE: German Hernandez Amores, Medea (c. 1887)
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Monday, January 2, 2023
Epictetus, Discourses 1.28.1
Chapter 28: That we must not be angry with men, and concerning what things are small and what are great among men.
What is the reason that we assent to a thing? Because it seems to us that it is so. It is impossible that we shall assent to that which seems not to be. Why? Because this is the nature of the mind—to agree to what is true, and disagree with what is false, and withhold judgement on what is doubtful.
What is the proof of this?
“Feel now, if you can, that it is night.”
It is impossible.
“Put away the feeling that it is day.”
It is impossible.
“Assume or put away the feeling that the stars are even in number.”
It is not possible.
When a man assents, then, to what is false, know that he had no wish to assent to the false: “for no soul is robbed of the truth with its own consent,” as Plato says, but the false seemed to him true.
“Feel now, if you can, that it is night.”
It is impossible.
“Put away the feeling that it is day.”
It is impossible.
“Assume or put away the feeling that the stars are even in number.”
It is not possible.
When a man assents, then, to what is false, know that he had no wish to assent to the false: “for no soul is robbed of the truth with its own consent,” as Plato says, but the false seemed to him true.
—from Epictetus, Discourses 1.28
As I have grown older, my sense of what will constitute a successful life has changed considerably. I have longed to win the perfect romantic love, I have dreamed of making some great mark on the world, and, in my lowest moments, I have wallowed in selfish gratification.
I will still grapple with such temptations from time to time, but now I focus on something far simpler, and also far more challenging: I wish to leave this world without being consumed by resentment.
While it is likely no one will notice, and it certainly won’t bring me any riches, I have made the improvement of my own soul the priority, so that I can learn to be happy with my own thoughts and deeds, however humble, and I can then face any obstacle or suffering with acceptance and compassion.
As long as I remain angry with anyone, or with anything in my state of affairs, I will fall short of the goal. If I can offer charity without conditions, pity without condescension, and forgivingness without any expectation of a return, I am doing my work. Where my heart and mind are still twisted, nothing else can amount to a hill of beans.
Why do I assume I must hate a man for the evil he has done? Stoicism helps me here on two levels.
First, this philosophy teaches me how the only absolute damage we can do is to ourselves, for the ultimate benefit and harm lie in our own character, regardless of other circumstances.
Second, this philosophy urges me to remember why wickedness comes to us out of ignorance, and even the most vicious malice is still presumed by the perpetrator, however recklessly, to be something good.
This chapter from Epictetus specifically offers many insights on the latter point.
Why do I desire it? Because I somehow believe it to be good. Why do I think it? Because I have somehow judged it to be true. Now I am quite possibly mistaken, but at the moment of my decision, I am convinced of the propriety of my acts.
How often have I blundered so terribly that my regret makes me desperately wish I could turn back time? Why am I failing to give my neighbor the same latitude I crave for myself?
Just as my will is naturally drawn to the perception of the good, so my intellect, in turn, is naturally drawn to the awareness of the true. Don’t ask me to assert that it is day when I sense that it is night. The way around any limitations of awareness is to inform, not to lash out in rage. Reveal my error, and only then will I understand.
Love resolves, while hatred merely compounds.
This is hardly an excuse, though it is an explanation, and it should inspire a solidarity with our brothers and sisters. As much as I may well be responsible for the very ignorance that drags me down, dwelling on the offense alone doesn’t address the cause. Assist me in fixing my thinking, and then you have become a piece of the solution.
Do I remain obstinate? You have done your proper part in providing a cure. However harsh you must be, please continue to steer me right instead of damning me to hell.
As I have grown older, my sense of what will constitute a successful life has changed considerably. I have longed to win the perfect romantic love, I have dreamed of making some great mark on the world, and, in my lowest moments, I have wallowed in selfish gratification.
I will still grapple with such temptations from time to time, but now I focus on something far simpler, and also far more challenging: I wish to leave this world without being consumed by resentment.
While it is likely no one will notice, and it certainly won’t bring me any riches, I have made the improvement of my own soul the priority, so that I can learn to be happy with my own thoughts and deeds, however humble, and I can then face any obstacle or suffering with acceptance and compassion.
As long as I remain angry with anyone, or with anything in my state of affairs, I will fall short of the goal. If I can offer charity without conditions, pity without condescension, and forgivingness without any expectation of a return, I am doing my work. Where my heart and mind are still twisted, nothing else can amount to a hill of beans.
Why do I assume I must hate a man for the evil he has done? Stoicism helps me here on two levels.
First, this philosophy teaches me how the only absolute damage we can do is to ourselves, for the ultimate benefit and harm lie in our own character, regardless of other circumstances.
Second, this philosophy urges me to remember why wickedness comes to us out of ignorance, and even the most vicious malice is still presumed by the perpetrator, however recklessly, to be something good.
This chapter from Epictetus specifically offers many insights on the latter point.
Why do I desire it? Because I somehow believe it to be good. Why do I think it? Because I have somehow judged it to be true. Now I am quite possibly mistaken, but at the moment of my decision, I am convinced of the propriety of my acts.
How often have I blundered so terribly that my regret makes me desperately wish I could turn back time? Why am I failing to give my neighbor the same latitude I crave for myself?
Just as my will is naturally drawn to the perception of the good, so my intellect, in turn, is naturally drawn to the awareness of the true. Don’t ask me to assert that it is day when I sense that it is night. The way around any limitations of awareness is to inform, not to lash out in rage. Reveal my error, and only then will I understand.
Love resolves, while hatred merely compounds.
This is hardly an excuse, though it is an explanation, and it should inspire a solidarity with our brothers and sisters. As much as I may well be responsible for the very ignorance that drags me down, dwelling on the offense alone doesn’t address the cause. Assist me in fixing my thinking, and then you have become a piece of the solution.
Do I remain obstinate? You have done your proper part in providing a cure. However harsh you must be, please continue to steer me right instead of damning me to hell.
—Reflection written in 4/2001
IMAGE: James Ward, Ignorance, Envy, and Jealousy, Filling the Throat and Widening the Mouth of Calumny, Endeavoring to Bear Down Truth. . . (1837)
Sunday, January 1, 2023
Creation of the World 1
"Stan Sie!" Become!
Chuang Tzu 3.4
When Lâo Tan died, Khin Shih went to condole with his son, but after crying out three times, he came out.
The disciples said to him, "Were you not a friend of the Master?"
"I was," he replied, and they said, "Is it proper then to offer your condolences merely as you have done?"
He said, "It is. At first I thought he was the man of men, and now I do not think so. When I entered a little ago and expressed my condolences, there were the old men wailing as if they had lost a son, and the young men wailing as if they had lost their mother.
"In his attracting and uniting them to himself in such a way, there must have been that which made them involuntarily express their words of condolence, and involuntarily wail, as they were doing.
"And this was a hiding from himself of his Heaven-nature, and an excessive indulgence of his human feelings—a forgetting of what he had received in being born; what the ancients called the punishment due to neglecting the Heaven-nature.
"When the Master came, it was at the proper time; when he went away, it was the simple sequence of his coming. Quiet acquiescence in what happens at its proper time, and quietly submitting to its ceasing afford no occasion for grief or for joy.
"The ancients described death as the loosening of the cord on which God suspended the life. What we can point to is the wood that has been consumed; but the fire is transmitted elsewhere, and we know not that it is over and ended."
Seneca, Moral Letters 40.8
However, I have this further reason for frightening you away from the latter malady, namely, that you could only be successful in practicing this style by losing your sense of modesty; you would have to rub all shame from your countenance, and refuse to hear yourself speak. For that heedless flow will carry with it many expressions which you would wish to criticize.
And, I repeat, you could not attain it and at the same time preserve your sense of shame. Moreover, you would need to practice every day, and transfer your attention from subject matter to words.
But words, even if they came to you readily and flowed without any exertion on your part, yet would have to be kept under control. For just as a less ostentatious gait becomes a philosopher, so does a restrained style of speech, far removed from boldness. Therefore, the ultimate kernel of my remarks is this: I bid you be slow of speech. Farewell.
And, I repeat, you could not attain it and at the same time preserve your sense of shame. Moreover, you would need to practice every day, and transfer your attention from subject matter to words.
But words, even if they came to you readily and flowed without any exertion on your part, yet would have to be kept under control. For just as a less ostentatious gait becomes a philosopher, so does a restrained style of speech, far removed from boldness. Therefore, the ultimate kernel of my remarks is this: I bid you be slow of speech. Farewell.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 40
You can warn me about how careless speech might drive away my friends, or cost me a promotion, or just make my circumstances generally wretched, yet I have found the workings of my own conscience to be the most powerful deterrent against loose lips. After all, I know many people who have become quite popular, rich, and pampered by speaking with flamboyance instead of conviction. The danger is about crippling souls, not simply about sinking ships.
Time and time again, I have foolishly tried to mimic my peers, and commit myself to the subtle skills of manipulation. If I do as they do, will I then perhaps appear as successful and confident as they do? Yes, but it turns out the appearance is all there is, while on the inside lurks a constant anxiety about maintaining the illusion. What if they find out who I really am? Even worse, how can I possibly continue to look at myself in the mirror?
My most basic attempts at fast talking have always resulted in an unbearable sense of guilt. It’s possible that no one else knows, at least not yet, but the fact remains that I know, and it tears me apart to be aware that I am nothing more than a player. Fairly soon, I worry so much about looking slick that I forget to work on the true class that flows from character, and I wonder why my efforts at winning feel like such a failure.
I have even told myself that I am too sensitive and overly scrupulous, and how I only need to extinguish those pesky principles, or at the very least force them into the corner, where they can’t cause any more trouble. How odd, and how pathetic, for a creature defined by reason to believe he can somehow escape his own essence!
Now aren’t there people who lack a conscience, or more accurately people who have chosen not to inform their sense of right and wrong, and thereby avoid any pangs about integrity? As much as the deliberate reflection may be shunned, the effects of disorder in the soul must remain, just as the man ignorant of a disease in his body cannot long avoid the painful symptoms.
Accordingly, I suspect that we can all tell when we are horribly broken, though we may at present be oblivious to the deeper causes. I feel deeply ashamed when I lie, however much I have made excuses. I also notice how defensive, even violently aggressive, people become when they know that I know about their shenanigans. We can’t endure the recognition of our nature being denied.
Misery comes from wickedness, and wickedness comes from abandoning self-control. Wasted words and slippery expressions are signs that moderation has been lost, so let me work on becoming a genuine philosopher before I try to be a salesman.
You can warn me about how careless speech might drive away my friends, or cost me a promotion, or just make my circumstances generally wretched, yet I have found the workings of my own conscience to be the most powerful deterrent against loose lips. After all, I know many people who have become quite popular, rich, and pampered by speaking with flamboyance instead of conviction. The danger is about crippling souls, not simply about sinking ships.
Time and time again, I have foolishly tried to mimic my peers, and commit myself to the subtle skills of manipulation. If I do as they do, will I then perhaps appear as successful and confident as they do? Yes, but it turns out the appearance is all there is, while on the inside lurks a constant anxiety about maintaining the illusion. What if they find out who I really am? Even worse, how can I possibly continue to look at myself in the mirror?
My most basic attempts at fast talking have always resulted in an unbearable sense of guilt. It’s possible that no one else knows, at least not yet, but the fact remains that I know, and it tears me apart to be aware that I am nothing more than a player. Fairly soon, I worry so much about looking slick that I forget to work on the true class that flows from character, and I wonder why my efforts at winning feel like such a failure.
I have even told myself that I am too sensitive and overly scrupulous, and how I only need to extinguish those pesky principles, or at the very least force them into the corner, where they can’t cause any more trouble. How odd, and how pathetic, for a creature defined by reason to believe he can somehow escape his own essence!
Now aren’t there people who lack a conscience, or more accurately people who have chosen not to inform their sense of right and wrong, and thereby avoid any pangs about integrity? As much as the deliberate reflection may be shunned, the effects of disorder in the soul must remain, just as the man ignorant of a disease in his body cannot long avoid the painful symptoms.
Accordingly, I suspect that we can all tell when we are horribly broken, though we may at present be oblivious to the deeper causes. I feel deeply ashamed when I lie, however much I have made excuses. I also notice how defensive, even violently aggressive, people become when they know that I know about their shenanigans. We can’t endure the recognition of our nature being denied.
Misery comes from wickedness, and wickedness comes from abandoning self-control. Wasted words and slippery expressions are signs that moderation has been lost, so let me work on becoming a genuine philosopher before I try to be a salesman.
—Reflection written in 1/2013
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