Seneca, Moral Letters 75.5

I have often before explained the difference between the diseases of the mind and its passions. And I shall remind you once more: the diseases are hardened and chronic vices, such as greed and ambition; they have enfolded the mind in too close a grip, and have begun to be permanent evils thereof. 
 
To give a brief definition: by “disease” we mean a persistent perversion of the judgment, so that things which are mildly desirable are thought to be highly desirable. 
 
Or, if you prefer, we may define it thus: to be too zealous in striving for things which are only mildly desirable or not desirable at all, or to value highly things which ought to be valued but slightly or valued not at all.
 
“Passions” are objectionable impulses of the spirit, sudden and vehement; they have come so often, and so little attention has been paid to them, that they have caused a state of disease; just as a catarrh, when there has been but a single attack and the catarrh has not yet become habitual, produces a cough, but causes consumption when it has become regular and chronic. 
 
Therefore, we may say that those who have made most progress are beyond the reach of the “diseases”; but they still feel the “passions” even when very near perfection. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 75 
 
The Stoics stressed the unity of all being, and thus it is no surprise that they also stressed the unity within each person. While other schools of philosophy speak of separate parts of the soul, or even as if there are many souls together in one body, Stoicism seeks to join our various actions under a single governing principle, the power of judgement. 
 
Thinking and feeling, for example, are not isolated events, or somehow inherently opposed to one another, but my mood is ultimately measured by my understanding, such that the impressions of benefit and harm reflect my values. Whenever a dissonance between them seems to remain, I have the freedom to examine what the emotions are truly telling me about myself, and to adjust the habits of my convictions. 
 
I appreciate how Seneca describes the way a conscience can charge ahead, while the passions can drag behind. Strictly speaking, whenever the Stoics discussed the passions (apatheia), they meant unhealthy feelings, out of harmony with reason, as distinct from healthy feelings (eupatheia), in harmony with reason; in my own head, I call such emotions disordered or ordered, just so I won’t falsely assume that any powerful desire or aversion is a bad thing. 
 
I am all too familiar with the struggle of coming to terms with old urges, which will often outstay their welcome, long after the liberation of a new insight. I choose to be patient with them, knowing why they have their own momentum, and how I retain the power to make of them what I will: a hurt, or a fear, or a lust can always be transformed. 
 
My mind might be on the way to healing, though my feelings might still be ailing. Give it care. Give it attention. Give it time. Be responsible for yourself. The source of the disease is in the estimation, and the symptoms of the disease are in the temperament. Permit the effects to catch up with the cause. 
 
I am regularly told I read far too many ancient myths, when I should really be concerned with the here and now. Yet I take those very tales from the distant past as guides for the immediate present, since all truth is timeless. Lately, I think of Ixion, who first succumbed to rage, and then was seduced by lust, and then was tortured on a wheel for all of eternity. Here was a fellow who was enslaved by his passions, instead of occupied with mastering them. 
 
Sick in the head, and so sick in the heart. Progress is from the top to the bottom. 

—Reflection written in 10/2013 

IMAGE: Jules-Elie Delaunay, Ixion (1876) 

 

A World Split Apart 2

Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn

CONTEMPORARY WORLDS 

There is the concept of the Third World: Thus, we already have three worlds. Undoubtedly, however, the number is even greater; we are just too far away to see. Every ancient and deeply rooted self-contained culture, especially if it is spread over a wide part of the earth’s surface, constitutes a self-contained world, full of riddles and surprises to Western thinking. As a minimum, we must include in this category China, India, the Muslim world, and Africa, if indeed we accept the approximation of viewing the latter two as uniform. 

For one thousand years Russia belonged to such a category, although Western thinking systematically committed the mistake of denying its special character and therefore never understood it, just as today the West does not understand Russia in Communist captivity. And while it may be that in past years Japan has increasingly become, in effect, a Far West, drawing ever closer to Western ways (I am no judge here), Israel, I think, should not be reckoned as part of the West, if only because of the decisive circumstance that its state system is fundamentally linked to religion.

How short a time ago, relatively, the small world of modern Europe was easily seizing colonies all over the globe, not only without anticipating any real resistance, but usually with contempt for any possible values in the conquered peoples’ approach to life. It all seemed an overwhelming success, with no geographic limits. Western society expanded in a triumph of human independence and power. And all of a sudden the twentieth century brought the clear realization of this society’s fragility. 

We now see that the conquests proved to be short-lived and precarious (and this, in turn, points to defects in the Western view of the world which led to these conquests). Relations with the former colonial world now have switched to the opposite extreme and the Western world often exhibits an excess of obsequiousness, but it is difficult yet to estimate the size of the bill which former colonial countries will present to the West and it is difficult to predict whether the surrender not only of its last colonies, but of everything it owns, will be sufficient for the West to clear this account. 

Seneca, Moral Letters 75.4

You reply: “What? Are there no degrees of happiness below your ‘happy’ man? Is there a sheer descent immediately below wisdom?” 
 
I think not. For though he who makes progress is still numbered with the fools, yet he is separated from them by a long interval. Among the very persons who are making progress there are also great spaces intervening. They fall into three classes, as certain philosophers believe.
 
First come those who have not yet attained wisdom but have already gained a place nearby. Yet even that which is not far away is still outside. These, if you ask me, are men who have already laid aside all passions and vices, who have learned what things are to be embraced; but their assurance is not yet tested. They have not yet put their good into practice, yet from now on they cannot slip back into the faults which they have escaped. 
 
They have already arrived at a point from which there is no slipping back, but they are not yet aware of the fact; as I remember writing in another letter, “They are ignorant of their knowledge.” It has now been vouchsafed to them to enjoy their good, but not yet to be sure of it.
 
Some define this class, of which I have been speaking—a class of men who are making progress—as having escaped the diseases of the mind, but not yet the passions, and as still standing upon slippery ground; because no one is beyond the dangers of evil except him who has cleared himself of it wholly. But no one has so cleared himself except the man who has adopted wisdom in its stead. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 75 
 
People are often frustrated by the Stoic insistence that virtue is an all-or-nothing commitment. Can’t I just be “sort of” good, or work on improving my character part-time? The absolute calling of moral excellence disturbs us, of course, because we remain convinced that our real purpose should be gratification, with virtue reduced to a costume we put on when it is convenient. 
 
No, Nature will have her way. She demands unconditional loyalty, and in return she offers total peace of mind. 
 
A part of this rigor comes from the uncompromising Stoic tenet that virtue is the only true human good, from which any other benefit proceeds, but another part of it is simply a matter of plain logic. Whatever degrees we may discern, in the end we are either good or we are not good. The law of the excluded middle is troublesome to the intemperate man, who is sadly desperate to have it both ways. 
 
While there are many ways to approach the ideal, its final achievement stands out from all the rest. We should not be discouraged, however, from being works in progress, for each and every act of understanding and love, however unassuming, aids us in building more perfect habits. I am not yet the complete man, but I am now far beyond the grasping man I once was, ever closer to the saints than to the sinners. 
 
When I am feeling especially confident, I would like to think I have perhaps attained Seneca’s first class of seeker. Then I sensibly reconsider, and I am not so sure my position can be considered that stable. I examine his explanation carefully, and though I have indeed learned something more about the good that should be embraced, I have hardly laid aside all passions and vices. 
 
There are a good number of failings to which I can no longer see myself succumbing: the very prospect of them now fills me with disgust. Yet I remain painfully aware that there are still some wrongs I can find enticing in moments of doubt, so I am quite wary of slipping back. My hold is precarious. 
 
Perhaps I am being too unsettled, even as I would prefer to err on the side of caution. Perhaps I know more than I think I know, and I have built up better defenses than I think I have. The only thing I can say for certain is that progress has been made, from which I have no intention of retreating. 
 
I protest if anyone ever calls me a good man, since that is simply not true. I am dedicated to one day becoming a good man. 

—Reflection written in 10/2013 

IMAGE: Honoré Daumier, The Painter (c. 1850) 

Tired

Chrysippus, Fragments from The Passions 1

These fragments from On the Passions by Chrysippus are to be found in Galen's On the Doctrines of Hippocrates and Plato. 

• • • • • 

We must first keep in mind that the rational animal is by nature such as to follow reason and to act according to reason as a guide. 

Nevertheless, he often moves toward some things and away from some things in another way, disobediently to reason, when he is pushed too far, or to excess. Both definitions of passion, the natural motion which arises irrationally in this way and the excessiveness in the impulses, are in terms of this motion. 

For this irrationality must be taken to be disobedient to reason and turning its back on reason. 

And it is in terms of this motion that we also say in ordinary usage that some people are "pushed" and "moved irrationally without reason and judgment".

For we do not use these expressions as if someone is moved mistakenly, and because he overlooks something that is according to reason, but most especially according to the motion Zeno outlines, since the rational animal does not naturally move in accordance with his soul in this way, but rather in accordance with reason. . . . 

The excess of the impulse was also spoken of in terms of this, because they overstep the symmetry of impulses which is proper to themselves and natural. What I say would be made easier to understand by means of these examples. 

In walking according to impulse, the motion of the legs is not excessive but is in a sense coextensive with the impulse, so that it can come to a standstill when the walker wishes, or change direction. 

But in the case of those who are running according to impulse, this sort of thing is no longer the case, but the motion of the legs exceeds the impulse so that it is carried away, and does not change direction obediently in this way as soon as they start to do so. 

I think something similar to these motions of the legs occurs in the impulses, because of the overstepping of the symmetry which is according to reason, so that whenever one has an impulse he is not obedient with respect to it—the excess being beyond the impulse in the case of running and beyond reason in the case of impulse. 

For the symmetry of natural impulse is that according to reason and is as far as reason thinks proper. Therefore, since the overstepping is according to this standard and in this way, the impulse is said to be excessive and an unnatural and irrational motion of the soul. 

A World Split Apart 1

The more things change, the more they stay the same . . .

A WORLD SPLIT APART
Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn
Commencement Address
Harvard University
June 8, 1978

I am sincerely happy to be here with you on the occasion of the 327th commencement of this old and illustrious university. My congratulations and best wishes to all of today’s graduates.

Harvard’s motto is “Veritas.” Many of you have already found out and others will find out in the course of their lives that truth eludes us as soon as our concentration begins to flag, all the while leaving the illusion that we are continuing to pursue it. This is the source of much discord. Also, truth seldom is sweet; it is almost invariably bitter. A measure of bitter truth is included in my speech today, but I offer it as a friend, not as an adversary.

Three years ago in the United States I said certain things that were rejected and appeared unacceptable. Today, however, many people agree with what I then said. . . .

The split in today’s world is perceptible even to a hasty glance. Any of our contemporaries readily identifies two world powers, each of them already capable of utterly destroying the other. 

However, the understanding of the split too often is limited to this political conception: the illusion according to which danger may be abolished through successful diplomatic negotiations or by achieving a balance of armed forces. 

The truth is that the split is both more profound and more alienating, that the rifts are more numerous than one can see at first glance. These deep manifold splits bear the danger of equally manifold disaster for all of us, in accordance with the ancient truth that a kingdom—in this case, our Earth—divided against itself cannot stand. 

Sayings of Ramakrishna 260

A washerman keeps a large store of clothes and has a rich wardrobe, but these are not his. 

As soon as the clothes are washed his wardrobe becomes empty. 

Men having no original thoughts of their own are like the washerman. 

Seneca, Moral Letters 75.3

A sick man does not call in a physician who is eloquent; but if it so happens that the physician who can cure him likewise discourses elegantly about the treatment which is to be followed, the patient will take it in good part. 
 
For all that, he will not find any reason to congratulate himself on having discovered a physician who is eloquent. For the case is no different from that of a skilled pilot who is also handsome. Why do you tickle my ears? Why do you entertain me? There is other business at hand; I am to be cauterized, operated upon, or put on a diet. That is why you were summoned to treat me! 
 
You are required to cure a disease that is chronic and serious—one which affects the general weal. You have as serious a business on hand as a physician has during a plague. 
 
Are you concerned about words? Rejoice this instant if you can cope with things. When shall you learn all that there is to learn? When shall you so plant in your mind that which you have learned, that it cannot escape? When shall you put it all into practice? 
 
For it is not sufficient merely to commit these things to memory, like other matters; they must be practically tested. He is not happy who only knows them, but he who does them. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 75 
 
The wife and I unfortunately find ourselves working for pious cheapskates, so we must go through the annual ritual of signing up for a new health plan, by whichever insurer happens to demand the highest employee contributions at that moment. With this also comes the unenviable task of choosing a new primary care provider from the approved list, which is not so much different from drawing straws. 
 
If we look up reviews about these doctors, all we find are comments about their bedside manner. How did he treat that nasty case of the shingles? No matter, he had a nice smile! Did she take careful notes about your allergy symptoms? I don’t remember, but she soothed me with her gentle voice. 
 
Will racing stripes improve the performance of my lawnmower? Do you think the model in the bikini makes the burgers taste any better? While it probably can’t hurt, I’m not sure it will really help. The same is true about a philosopher with a silver tongue, whose skill at expression will be of little use if he doesn’t already have something of substance to express. 
 
And though you might laugh, I do believe that just as much is at stake in philosophy as there is in medicine, for both are sciences of healing, one for the soul and the other for the body. That the PhD must beg for table scraps, while the MD is assured of worldly prosperity, is merely a proof of our confusion, not of our progress. 
 
It takes more than fine words to find a cure for the plague, and fiery speeches are not enough to assure any peace of mind. There is a good reason why you shouldn’t buy your medicine at a carnival, or seek out your wisdom in the pages of a glossy magazine: a doctor, of any variety, is only worth your time when he can show you the results. 
 

Don’t settle for half measures when it comes to your happiness. 

—Reflection written in 10/2013 

Proverbs 2:1-8

[1] My son, if you receive my words

and treasure up my commandments with you,

[2] making your ear attentive to wisdom
and inclining your heart to understanding;
[3] yes, if you cry out for insight
and raise your voice for understanding,
[4] if you seek it like silver
and search for it as for hidden treasures;
[5] then you will understand the fear of the Lord
and find the knowledge of God.
[6] For the Lord gives wisdom;
from his mouth come knowledge and understanding;
[7] he stores up sound wisdom for the upright;
he is a shield to those who walk in integrity,
[8] guarding the paths of justice
and preserving the way of his saints. 

IMAGE: Pieter d'Hont, Symbol of Wisdom (1943) 

Seneca, Moral Letters 75.2

I prefer, however, that our conversation on matters so important should not be meagre and dry; for even philosophy does not renounce the company of cleverness. One should not, however, bestow very much attention upon mere words.
 
Let this be the kernel of my idea: let us say what we feel, and feel what we say; let speech harmonize with life. That man has fulfilled his promise who is the same person both when you see him and when you hear him. We shall not fail to see what sort of man he is and how large a man he is, if only he is one and the same. Our words should aim not to please, but to help. 
 
If, however, you can attain eloquence without painstaking, and if you either are naturally gifted or can gain eloquence at slight cost, make the most of it and apply it to the noblest uses. But let it be of such a kind that it displays facts rather than itself. It and the other arts are wholly concerned with cleverness; but our business here is the soul. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 75 
 
No one likes to hear it, but what usually passes for philosophy, and for academics in general, is merely an exercise in rhetoric, not the pursuit of wisdom. Though you know this full well if you’ve ever been an insider, it’s considered bad form to reveal the trade secrets. This is sadly what happens once a vocation is demoted to a profession. 
 
There is, of course, no reason why philosophy can’t also be charged with style, and yet the temptation will be to hide behind the appearances, to tickle the passions instead of inspiring the mind. The words are only as good as the reality to which they point: it will take a strong fellow to keep his priorities straight in the ivy-covered halls. 
 
So I now I tend to mind my own business, happy to let others sell their products. I regularly turn to the advice of Socrates, to be the same man in public as in private, to let my speech be mirrored in my deeds, to seek out conviction over convenience. I’m afraid I have failed if I simply amuse or flatter you, because any real benefit I might offer should probably leave you a bit unsettled. 
 
I note the difference between those who were just paid to train me and those who asked for nothing to serve as an example—the key was always in how they lived when they didn’t think anyone else looking. It was the hard lessons that made a difference, often taking years to sink in, while the easy platitudes are now long forgotten. 
 
Your mileage may vary, but I have learned to admire the eloquence of both Oscar Wilde and G.K Chesterton, even as I do not discern the evidence of character in the former as I do in the latter. This is probably why I allow myself to be irritated by those who copy Chesterton’s mannerisms without practicing any of his principles, when it should really be enough for me to tend to my own soul. 
 
I will carefully listen to your orations, but then you will find me observing your actions all the more carefully, to see if you are one man or many. I would be honored for you to do the same for me. 

—Reflection written in 10/2013 

IMAGE: Artemisia Gentileschi, Allegory of Rhetoric (c. 1650) 

Not Through Me

Stoic Snippets 257

Socrates used to say, what do you want, souls of rational men or irrational? 

"Souls of rational men."

Of what rational men, sound or unsound? 

"Sound." 

Why then do you not seek for them? 

"Because we have them." 

Why then do you fight and quarrel? 

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 11.39 

IMAGE: D. Cunego, Socrates (1783) 

Seneca, Moral Letters 75.1

Letter 75: On the diseases of the soul
 
You have been complaining that my letters to you are rather carelessly written. Now who talks carefully unless he also desires to talk affectedly? I prefer that my letters should be just what my conversation would be if you and I were sitting in one another’s company or taking walks together—spontaneous and easy; for my letters have nothing strained or artificial about them.
 
If it were possible, I should prefer to show, rather than speak, my feelings. Even if I were arguing a point, I should not stamp my foot, or toss my arms about, or raise my voice; but I should leave that sort of thing to the orator, and should be content to have conveyed my feelings to you without having either embellished them or lowered their dignity.
 
I should like to convince you entirely of this one fact—that I feel whatever I say, that I not only feel it, but am wedded to it. It is one sort of kiss which a man gives his mistress, and another which he gives his children; yet in the father’s embrace also, holy and restrained as it is, plenty of affection is disclosed. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 75 
 
It’s funny how unpleasant experiences from long ago can have a way of unconsciously sticking with us, breeding anxiety and resentment beneath the surface. 
 
Back in graduate school, I entertained the idea of submitting essays for some artsy journals, and so I sent a selection of my scribbling to a bigwig in the Catholic publishing world. To my surprise, he did respond, but I was a bit taken aback by his comments: “Frankly, your writing is boring, and I can’t imagine how your choice of topics could possibly engage anyone’s interest.” 
 
Though I was already used to being rejected, I stewed over being labeled as dull, and it was only years later that I was willing to confront my bitterness. As uncomfortable as it may feel, the fact is that he was quite right: my personality is awkward, and my interests are obscure. And it has simply taken me some time to understand why it is okay to be stodgy, as long as I am at least sincere. 
 
It matters very little whether I am clever enough to engage the crowd, or charming enough to keep your attention. As gratifying as it is to be praised, I fear that the gift of the gab would merely tempt me to put on an act. I have seen too much of how duplicity, a life based upon shallow appearances, can corrupt the human condition, making us more concerned with how we seem than who we are. 
 
Indeed, let there be nothing strained or artificial about me. Let me show you precisely where I stand, even if the package is not as stylish as you might prefer. As I grow older, I find that I admire integrity above all else, and I would rather forgive an error than suffer a pretension. True character has no need to impress anyone. 
 
The greatest kindness a man can offer is to share completely of himself, warts and all. I sometimes wonder how the slick orators manage to sleep at night, and then I remember that their stress during working hours must surely continue after sundown. It is better to be boring than to be slippery. 

—Reflection written in 10/2013 

IMAGE: Jan Steen, Rhetoricians at a Window (c. 1666) 

The Art of Peace 111

When you bow deeply to the Universe, it bows back; when you call out the name of God, it echoes inside you. 

Seneca, Moral Letters 74.19

Just as in the body symptoms of latent ill-health precede the disease—there is, for example, a certain weak sluggishness, a lassitude which is not the result of any work, a trembling, and a shivering that pervades the limbs—so the feeble spirit is shaken by its ills a long time before it is overcome by them. It anticipates them, and totters before its time. 
 
But what is greater madness than to be tortured by the future and not to save your strength for the actual suffering, but to invite and bring on wretchedness? If you cannot be rid of it, you ought at least to postpone it. Will you not understand that no man should be tormented by the future? 
 
The man who has been told that he will have to endure torture fifty years from now is not disturbed thereby, unless he has leaped over the intervening years, and has projected himself into the trouble that is destined to arrive a generation later. 
 
In the same way, souls that enjoy being sick and that seize upon excuses for sorrow are saddened by events long past and effaced from the records. Past and future are both absent; we feel neither of them. But there can be no pain except as the result of what you feel. Farewell. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 74 
 
If there is something I can do about it, there is no need to worry, because I have the power to act right now. 
 
If there is nothing I can do about it, there is no need to worry, because it will unfold as it will, in its own sweet time. 
 
The gift of reason allows me to understand what is and to speculate on what could be, though that blessing can become a curse when I fret over anything beyond my control. It is both enlightening and humbling to realize how much time I have wasted on anxiety, when my efforts are always better directed at simply improving myself. 
 
I spent almost two years unable to get a proper night’s sleep, haunted by the image of who my lost love might be gracing with her presence. This only ceased, from one day to the next, when I finally accepted the obvious, that no amount of hand-wringing would change how she felt, though my own attachments clearly followed from my own values. 
 
The twinge has never quite left, like a poorly healed wound, but the crippling obsession is now behind me. 
 
Almost two decades later, I am at a point where I have a fairly good sense of how the rest will play itself out, and though Fortune may still throw me a for a loop, my deliberate attention to living for the day, sometimes by the hour, has freed me from so much of my fear. While I suspect some of it will surely hurt, I know I have it within me to face my demons, even if I go it alone. At the very least, the discomfort will soon pass. 
 
Seneca correctly observed how our malaise is self-imposed, almost as if we wish to suffer long before we actually have to suffer. The past is long gone, and the future is yet to come, and the tragic result is that we fuss over the unreal at the expense of the real, manufacturing a dread that blinds us to all that is immediately noble inside us. 
 
I always retain my capacity for virtue, and there can be no greater comfort than that! 

—Reflection written in 10/2013 

Sayings of Publilius Syrus 170

The further the fall, the greater the hurt. 

IMAGE: Frans Floris the Elder, Fall of the Rebel Angels (1554) 

Seneca, Moral Letters 74.18

"What," you ask, "will the wise man experience no emotion like disturbance of spirit? Will not his features change color, his countenance be agitated, and his limbs grow cold? And there are other things which we do, not under the influence of the will, but unconsciously and as the result of a sort of natural impulse." 
 
I admit that this is true; but the sage will retain the firm belief that none of these things is evil, or important enough to make a healthy mind break down. Whatever shall remain to be done virtue can do with courage and readiness. 
 
For anyone would admit that it is a mark of folly to do in a slothful and rebellious spirit whatever one has to do, or to direct the body in one direction and the mind in another, and thus to be torn between utterly conflicting emotions. 
 
For folly is despised precisely because of the things for which she vaunts and admires herself, and she does not do gladly even those things in which she prides herself. But if folly fears some evil, she is burdened by it in the very moment of awaiting it, just as if it had actually come—already suffering in apprehension whatever she fears she may suffer. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 74 
 
The critic will continue to insist that the Stoic is vainly seeking to suppress his emotions, even as this has never been the case, and so we end up with a twisted caricature of the philosophy, a straw man sneaking his way into even the common dictionary definitions. If you have any affection for Stoicism, you will know how frustrating it is to forever be correcting this stereotype. 
 
Of course, a man will feel, for his reason is made to work in conjunction with his impressions. Sometimes those feelings will be pleasant, and sometimes those feelings will be painful. Sometimes we seek them out deliberately, and sometimes they come to us unannounced. Whatever their peculiar form, however, the Stoic strives to be the master of his passions, understanding why his judgments will always determine his worth. 
 
Lust, gratification, fear, and grief are all emotional states that enslave us, while joy, wish, and caution are all their healthy counterparts. Most importantly, perhaps, I should never surrender to any sort of distress, because each and every circumstance, however overwhelming it may appear, still offers the very same occasion for choosing virtue—I am my only obstacle to acting with dignity, and I am free to conquer my despair on my own terms. 
 
For all my complaining, I honestly have yet to find a situation where prudence, fortitude, temperance, and justice did not have the sufficient power to tame my doubts. The conflict is within my thinking, not with anything out there in the world, such that I falsely attribute the good or the evil to the event, instead of my estimation about the event. 
 
“But why would an all-powerful and an all-loving God allow me to suffer such great evils?”
 
It is when I finally realize how a hardship is not an evil that the scales can fall from my eyes. The evil is in my hesitation to make good out of the hardship. 

—Reflection written in 10/2013 

 

Solitude

Maxims of Goethe 62

It used to happen, and still happens, to me to take no pleasure in a work of art at the first sight of it, because it is too much for me; but if I suspect any merit in it, I try to get at it; and then I never fail to make the most gratifying discoveries—to find new qualities in the work itself and new faculties in myself. 

Seneca, Moral Letters 74.17

The other answer, which I promised to make to your objection, follows from this reasoning. The wise man is not distressed by the loss of children or of friends. For he endures their death in the same spirit in which he awaits his own. And he fears the one as little as he grieves for the other. For the underlying principle of virtue is conformity; all the works of virtue are in harmony and agreement with virtue itself. 
 
But this harmony is lost if the soul, which ought to be uplifted, is cast down by grief or a sense of loss. It is ever a dishonor for a man to be troubled and fretted, to be numbed when there is any call for activity. For that which is honorable is free from care and untrammeled, is unafraid, and stands girt for action. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 74 
 
We can fall into a creeping cynicism, where we suppose that life must aways be wretched, and “getting used to it” remains the only option. It doesn’t help when feeling sorry for ourselves becomes a mark of pride, and cultivating the image of the romantic victim, complete with a dramatic drinking problem, is a sort of desperate release valve. 
 
Loss will be necessary, but the suffering is optional—bad feelings are the consequences of bad thinking. It may sound heartless for the Stoic to say that we need not grieve, but it begins to make more sense once we choose to be responsible for ourselves, instead of letting happiness come and go with the changes in the weather. 
 
Post-modern man has a knack for letting his passions run away from his reason, and so he is inclined to glorify his despair. If only he realized how his emotions are informed with meaning and purpose by his judgments, he could also discover how to no longer feed his most unhealthy moods. 
 
Just as lust can be healed by love, or fear can be tamed by understanding, so grief can be transformed into acceptance. That she is gone, with no prospect of ever returning, is now an opportunity to act with greater conviction, and stands as proof of how much I care, not as some denial of her significance. This is why the good man seeks the virtue in harmony, never wallowing in the vice of conflict. 
 
If Providence has permitted it, how might I learn to work together with Nature? In each case, I have the power to master myself, and to proudly serve the order of the whole. Where there is true love, there will be a mutual encouragement in such a task, with no place for any resentment or regret. 

—Reflection written in 10/2013 

IMAGE: Edmund Leighton, God Speed (1900)