The Oak and the Reed

Achille Etna Michallon, The Oak and the Reed (1816) 

Justus Lipsius, On Constancy 1.8

A prevention against public evils: but first of all, three affections are restrained. And of those three, particularly in this chapter is repressed a kind of vainglorious dissimulation, whereby men that lament their own private misfortunes would seem that they bewail the common calamities. 

"What think you, Lipsius, have I not betrayed constancy into your hands in pleading the cause of your sorrow? Not so. But herein I have played the part of a good captain, in drawing out all your troops into the field, to the end that I might fight it out manfully with them. 

"But first I will begin with light skirmishes and afterward join with you in plain battle. In skirmishing I am to assault foot by foot, as the ancients speak, three affections utter enemies to this our constancy. Dissimulation, piety, commiseration or pity. 

"I will begin with the first of them. You say you cannot endure to see these public miseries, that it is a grief, yea even a death unto you. Do you speak that from your heart, or only from the teeth outward?" 

Herewithal I being somewhat angry, asked whether he jested or gibed with me. 

"Nay," said Langius. "I speak in good earnest for that many of your crew do beguile the physicians, making them believe that the public evils do grieve them when their private losses are the true cause. I demand therefore again, whether the care which now does boil and bubble in your breast, is for your country's sake or for your own?" 

 "What," said I, "do you make question of that? Surely, Langius, for my country's sake alone am I thus disquieted." 

"See it be so," said he, "for I marvel that there should be in you such an excellent sincere duty which few attain unto. I deny not but that most men do complain of common calamities, neither is there any kind of sorrow so usual as this in the tongues of people. But examine the matter to the quick, and you shall find many times great difference between the tongue and the heart. 

"These words, 'my country's calamity afflicts me,' carry with them more vainglory than verity. And as it is recorded in histories of Polus, a notable stage-player, that playing his part on the stage wherein it behooved him to express some great sorrow, he brought with him privily the bones of his dead son, and so the remembrance thereof caused him to fill the theater with true tears indeed. Even so may I say by the most part of you. You play a comedy, and under the person your country, you bewail with tears your private miseries. 

"One says 'The whole world is a stage play.' Truly in this case it is so. Some cry out, 'These civil wars torment us, the blood of innocents spilt, the loss of laws and liberty.' Is it so? I see your sorrow indeed, but the cause I must search out more narrowly. Is it for the commonwealth's sake? O player, put off your mask: you yourself self are the cause thereof. 

"We see oftentimes the country boors trembling and running together with earnest prayers when any sudden misfortune or insurrection approaches, but as soon as the danger is past, examine them well and you shall perceive that every one was afraid of his own field and corn. 

"If fire should happen to be kindled in this city, we should have a general outcry: the lame and almost the blind would hasten to help quench it. What think you? For their country's sake? Ask them and you shall see, it was, because the loss would have redounded to all, or at the least, the fear thereof. 

"So falls it out in this case. Public evils do move and disquiet many men, not because the harm touches a great number, but because they themselves are of that number." 

IMAGE: Honoré Daumier, The Melodrama (c. 1860) 

Maxims of Goethe 64

Real obscurantism is not to hinder the spread of what is true, clear, and useful, but to bring into vogue what is false. 

Seneca, Moral Letters 76.13

If a man can behold with unflinching eyes the flash of a sword, if he knows that it makes no difference to him whether his soul takes flight through his mouth or through a wound in his throat, you may call him happy; you may also call him happy if, when he is threatened with bodily torture, whether it be the result of accident or of the might of the stronger, he can without concern hear talk of chains, or of exile, or of all the idle fears that stir men’s minds, and can say: 
 
“O maiden, no new sudden form of toil 
Springs up before my eyes; within my soul 
I have forestalled and surveyed everything.”
 
Today it is you who threaten me with these terrors; but I have always threatened myself with them, and have prepared myself as a man to meet man’s destiny.
 
If an evil has been pondered beforehand, the blow is gentle when it comes. To the fool, however, and to him who trusts in fortune, each event as it arrives “comes in a new and sudden form,” and a large part of evil, to the inexperienced, consists in its novelty.
 
This is proved by the fact that men endure with greater courage, when they have once become accustomed to them, the things which they had at first regarded as hardships. 
 
Hence, the wise man accustoms himself to coming trouble, lightening by long reflection the evils which others lighten by long endurance. 
 
We sometimes hear the inexperienced say: “I knew that this was in store for me.” 
 
But the wise man knows that all things are in store for him. Whatever happens, he says: “I knew it.” Farewell. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 76 
 
I have a markedly sensitive disposition, so Stoicism would, at first glance, hardly seem a good fit for me. You will not inspire me with calls to toughness, and I am unsuited to the way of the warrior; all that bravado about a glorious death, or the gritty endurance of torture, will sadly leave me cold. 
 
Yet while I am not a man’s man, I have also learned how Stoicism has never been a creed of brute strength, but rather a calling to serenity. The steely resolve that may appear on the outside is actually the result of a refined understanding on the inside, and I should not assume that constancy implies heartlessness. While some will repress their feelings, and others will be swept away by their feelings, the Stoic will become the master of his feelings. 
 
Should I fear the sword, or the rack, or any of the torments in this life? When willpower alone fails to quell the dread, it is then time to modify my very judgments, to reconsider what I even mean by benefit or harm. Let the impressions have their say, and then let the mind offer its verdict—this cannot truly injure me, as long as my virtues remain intact. 
 
Once I know where to find my good, the way I feel is now put in its proper context; both the pleasant and the painful can now be transformed through purpose, into an excellence of character that is unassailable. And with that kind of awareness, it now makes sense why hardship need not be an obstacle to happiness, but can become an occasion for happiness: so little is lost, and so much is gained! 
 
In simpler terms, I don’t have to be the enraged guy in order to overcome fear. I can be the loving guy in order to overcome fear. I think of those who used their distress to offer compassion. 
 
I should not seek out adversity, but I should accept it willingly, and I should prepare myself for it, conscious of its deeper significance as a means for self-improvement, and mindful of how Fortune is a fickle mistress. If I cannot determine the way of the word, I can certainly determine my own response, ready to face with dignity whatever life sends my way. 
 
As much as this may sound cynical to the critic, a jaded surrender to Murphys’ Law, I suggest that it is rather an expression of a committed faith in the human capacity to do what is right, under any conditions. It will do me little good to be ready for the most routine nuisances, when it is always the earth-shattering catastrophes that truly put me to the test. Until the wolf came along, those other little pigs laughed at the one who had thought ahead. 
 
Habit is a potent force, far too often underestimated, so it is better for me to consider when it will happen, not merely if it will happen. Then I am armed against any threat, not with the foolish confidence that I will destroy my foe, but with the calm assurance that I can retain the integrity of my conscience. My actions, and not my circumstances, are what reflect on me. 
 
Having already experienced more than his fair share of tragedies before visiting the underworld, Aeneas was not speaking out of despair. He knew his calling, and he had steeled himself for any possibility. Though they made little sense to me back then, the torments from my darkest days have now become the foundation for my endurance. It is better to learn this lesson in old age, than to have never learned it at all. 

—Reflection written in 10/2013 

IMAGE: Jan Bruegel the Younger, Aeneas and the Sibyl in the Underworld (c. 1630) 

Storm on the Sea 23

Andreas Achenbach, Ships in a Storm on the Dutch Coast (1854) 

Ruins 13

Louis Daguerre, The Ruins of Holyrood Chapel (c. 1824) 

Memento Mori 6

Anonymous English, Memento Mori alarm clock (c. 1850) 

Seneca, Moral Letters 76.12

None of those whom you behold clad in purple are happy, any more than one of these actors upon whom the play bestows a scepter and a cloak while on the stage; they strut their hour before a crowded house, with swelling port and buskined foot; but when once they make their exit the footgear is removed and they return to their proper stature. 
 
None of those who have been raised to a loftier height by riches and honors are really great. Why then does he seem great to you? It is because you are measuring the pedestal along with the man. A dwarf is not tall, though he stands upon a mountaintop; a colossal statue will still be tall, though you place it in a well.
 
This is the error under which we labor; this is the reason why we are imposed upon: we value no man at what he is, but add to the man himself the trappings in which he is clothed. 
 
But when you wish to inquire into a man’s true worth, and to know what manner of man he is, look at him when he is naked; make him lay aside his inherited estate, his titles, and the other deceptions of fortune; let him even strip off his body. Consider his soul, its quality and its stature, and thus learn whether its greatness is borrowed, or its own. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 76 
 
One of the greatest barriers to pursuing virtue as my sole good is the constant barrage of alluring impressions, especially those false promises of fortune and fame. Even though I am an awkward, sheepish, and eccentric fellow, I will still catch myself envying the rich, admiring the celebrities, and enthralled by the charming. It just goes to show how the bad habits will outstay their welcome, because it is always easier to stand back than to move ahead. 
 
It helps me to remember that so much of what passes for our public lives is actually an elaborate ruse, like a magic trick performed with smoke and mirrors. It is considered bad manners to say this out loud, but our confusion about our true worth leads us to desperately seek approval from the outside, and so we put on a vain act, ashamed of who we are on the inside. There is no malice in it, only despair. 
 
Remove the disguises we wear, both at work and at play, and you will soon discover that the accessories of wealth, power, and reputation do absolutely nothing to make us any better or happier. The genuine character is then revealed, for better or for worse, and while the scoundrel might hang his head in shame, the sage is oblivious to his nakedness, indifferent to the whims of popular opinion. 
 
On the occasions when I have gotten to know some of the “important” folks, I have seen the bubbles burst. Behind the masks, they are as fragile as the rest of us, and in many cases, their privileges merely encouraged their foibles. The politician was consumed by rage. The captain of industry was like a child screaming for attention. The priest tried to conceal his lust. The beauty queen cried because she was alone. 
 
I do not need to be worship them, nor should I make excuses to despise them. It is only when I recognize the plain essence of a shared humanity, stripped of all the ornate decorations, that I can resist the temptation to judge either myself or others by any fancified accidents. The authentic soul is the great soul. 

—Reflection written in 10/2013 

IMAGE: Mihaly Zichy, Performance in the Bolhsoi Theatre (1856) 

Delphic Maxims 73

Κτώμενος ἥδου 

Be happy with what you have 

IMAGE: Norman Rockwell, Homecoming (1924) 

Seneca, Moral Letters 76.11

Sometimes, as a result of noble conduct, one wins great joy even in a very short and fleeting space of time; and though none of the fruits of a deed that has been done will accrue to the doer after he is dead and removed from the sphere of human affairs, yet the mere contemplation of a deed that is to be done is a delight, and the brave and upright man, picturing to himself the rewards of his death—rewards such as the freedom of his country and the deliverance of all those for whom he is paying out his life—partakes of the greatest pleasure and enjoys the fruit of his own peril.
 
But that man also who is deprived of this joy, the joy which is afforded by the contemplation of some last noble effort, will leap to his death without a moment’s hesitation, content to act rightly and dutifully. Moreover, you may confront him with many discouragements; you may say: “Your deed will speedily be forgotten,” or “Your fellow citizens will offer you scant thanks.” 
 
He will answer: “All these matters lie outside my task. My thoughts are on the deed itself. I know that this is honorable. Therefore, whithersoever I am led and summoned by honor, I will go.” 
 
This, therefore, is the only good, and not only is every soul that has reached perfection aware of it, but also every soul that is by nature noble and of right instincts; all other goods are trivial and mutable. For this reason, we are harassed if we possess them. Even though, by the kindness of Fortune, they have been heaped together, they weigh heavily upon their owners, always pressing them down and sometimes crushing them. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 76 
 
When pressed, most people will tell you that they do something because it feels good. They will then look at you funny if you suggest that maybe we should do something because it is good. That we struggle to grasp the difference speaks volumes about a crisis of identity, one that goes far beyond mere academic debates into our very standards of daily living. 
 
Plato first challenged me to question whether desire measures the good, or the good measures desire, and Aristotle sealed the deal when he explained how the value of the feeling is only as good as the merit of the action from which it proceeds. In other words, subjective emotions must always be estimated through an objective understanding.
 
This idea slowly snuck its way into my habits, until one day I found myself experiencing a remarkably vivid sensation: I suddenly felt a deep satisfaction from having just a performed a kind deed, mundane and unseen, knowing full well how my only reward would be the act itself. In my jumbled teenage brain, there was now a direct connection between virtue and contentment. 
 
Yet while I had usually thought that pleasure was somehow the goal, I now realized that it was meant to be a consequence of the goal, a natural outgrowth of my character. Is that what some people called joy, as distinct from a base gratification? The beautiful irony was that if I chased the cheap thrills, I would always want more, but if I first paid attention to my duties, I would also feel at peace. 
 
The purest pleasures come to us precisely when we do not pursue them—another instance of the Stoic Turn. 
 
While I have not reached any state of nobility, I am familiar with a glimmer of what Seneca describes. How appropriate that the man who chooses to live with integrity is given a confirmation of his efforts, not required though certainly appreciated, much like receiving a “thank you” for a favor. He does not demand riches, or fame, or the keys to Heaven; he knows that he has done right, and he knows that this fulfills his nature, in harmony with the whole of Nature, and so he is delighted by the fact. 
 
There will be times, of course, when the severity of the circumstances does not allow for an opportunity to placidly reflect, but the honorable man is not disappointed by this, since the task was already complete just by being good. 
 
The critic, who fills his inner emptiness with worldly diversions, cannot deter him by saying he will soon be forgotten, as it was not about the appearances to begin with. Chasing after Fortune was never a part of the deal. He takes his virtues neat. 

—Reflection written in 10/2013 

IMAGE: Gavin Hamilton, Hector's Farewell to Andromache (c. 1775) 

Law over Might

Henri Lehmann, Law Takes Precedence over Might (1873) 

Vanitas 91

Antonio de Pereda, The Knight's Dream (c. 1650) 

Aeterne pungit, cito volat et occidit. 

"Eternally it stings, swiftly it flies and it kills." 

Seneca, Moral Letters 76.10

I also said that if those things which dumb animals possess equally with man are goods, then dumb animals also will lead a happy life; which is of course impossible. One must endure all things in defense of that which is honorable; but this would not be necessary if there existed any other good besides that which is honorable. 
 
Although this question was discussed by me pretty extensively in a previous letter, I have discussed it summarily and briefly run through the argument. But an opinion of this kind will never seem true to you unless you exalt your mind and ask yourself whether, at the call of duty, you would be willing to die for your country, and buy the safety of all your fellow citizens at the price of your own; whether you would offer your neck not only with patience, but also with gladness. 
 
If you would do this, there is no other good in your eyes. For you are giving up everything in order to acquire this good. Consider how great is the power of that which is honorable: you will die for your country, even at a moment’s notice, when you know that you ought to do so. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 76 
 
I have always adored animals, to the point where my childhood was filled with grand tales about talking beasts who lived secretly in our nearby woods, including a kingdom of mischievous dormice, an immortal kitten who was a radio DJ, and the stern yet caring Father Badger. Among my best friends was a quixotic rabbit from the Austrian alps, named Moonwood after the Narnia books, and Bruno, a tough French-Canadian racoon who ran all sorts of shady rackets around the neighborhood. 
 
With that kind of baggage, people are shocked, sometimes offended, when I agree with Seneca that animals cannot, properly speaking, be “happy”. If the creatures out in the forest could actually build a village, or write poetry, or have tea parties, as they do in the Beatrix Potter stories, then their end would be much the same as the human, but animals have their own distinct natures, and these should not be confused with our own. 
 
This is more than a matter of petty semantics; for all of his glory, my cat Jack is bound by his instincts and appetites, while I possess the further capacities of reason and will. It is no insult to the rock that it is not a tree, and the cat is not diminished for failing to be a man. I might say that Jack is “satisfied”, but not that he is “happy”, since his pleasurable feelings are on a different level than virtuous actions. 
 
When Jack catches a rabbit out back, he is totally pleased with his prize for the rest of the day. If you serve me a bowl of fine rabbit stew, it will hardly inform the content of my character for the rest of the day, however much my senses have been gratified. The animal is fulfilled by his desires, even as the man is fulfilled by his judgments, and treating one as if he were like the other will bring us all nothing but grief. 
 
To know myself will lead me to recognize the source of my excellence, such that the external conditions will then bow to the internal convictions. Though I have long appreciated the theory, I am still hard at work on the practice: words are cheap, deeds are priceless. It starts to make more sense when I approach the duty as a privilege, not as a burden, as something that perfects my freedom instead of smothering it. 
 
I have never been an epic hero, and it is likely that I will never be, so I find my meaning in the little things, which actually end up being not so little, if they are charged with a purity of purpose. I have not yet been called to die for my friends, and yet I am offered dozens of opportunities, on each and every day, to show them kindness, patience, and forgiveness. This can cost me my comfort, my property, or my reputation, and I should still give of myself gladly, until I have nothing left except the joy that comes from my peace of mind. I have then thrived according to my nature, requiring no further reward. 
 
I pay a student a compliment, and he mocks me behind my back. I leave a waiter a tip, and he scolds me for being cheap. I ask the boss to be honest, and I lose my job. My virtue is now in how well I respond to such obstacles, without permitting the circumstances to intimidate me. Let it be what it will be, and I will choose a simple honor. There is the difference between the mouse and the man. 

—Reflection written in 10/2013 

The Way of Things . . .

Who I wanted to be . . . 

. . . and who I became. 

Sayings of Ramakrishna 261

Greed brings woe, while contentment is all happiness. 

A barber was once passing under a haunted tree, when he heard a voice say, "Will you accept of seven jars of gold?"  

The barber looked round, but could see no one. The mysterious voice again repeated the words, and the cupidity of the barber being greatly roused by the spontaneous offer of such vast wealth, he spoke aloud, "When the merciful God is so good as to take pity even on a poor barber like me, is there anything to be said as to my accepting the kind offer so generously made?"

 At once the reply came, "Go home, I have already carried the jars thither." 

The barber ran in hot haste to his house, and was transported to see the promised jars there. He opened them one after another and saw them all filled, save one which was half filled. 

Now arose the desire of filling this last jar in the heart of the barber. So he sold all his gold and silver ornaments and converted them into coins and threw them into the jar. But the jar still remained empty. 

He now began to starve himself and his family by living upon insufficient, coarse, and cheap food, throwing all his savings into the jar, but the jar remained as empty as ever. 

The barber then requested the King to increase his pay, as it was not sufficient to maintain him and his family. As he was a favorite of the King, the latter granted his request. 

The barber now began to save all his pay and emoluments, and throw them all into the jar, but the greedy jar showed no sign of being filled. He now began to live by begging, and became as wretched and miserable as ever. 

One day the King seeing his sad plight, inquired of him by saying, "Hallo! when your pay was half of what you get now, you were far happier and more cheerful, contented, and healthy, but with double that pay I see you morose, careworn, and dejected. Now what is the matter with you? Have you accepted the seven jars of gold?"

The barber was taken aback by this home thrust, and with clasped hands asked the King as to who had informed his majesty about the matter. 

The King answered, "Whosoever accepts the riches of a Yaksha is sure to be reduced to such an abject and wretched plight. I have known you through this invariable sign. Do away with the money at once. You cannot spend a farthing of it. That money is for hoarding and not for spending." 

The barber was brought to his senses by this advice and went to the haunted tree and said, "O Yaksha, take back your gold," and he returned home to find the seven jars vanished, taking with them his lifelong savings. 

Nevertheless, he began to live happily after it. 

Seneca, Moral Letters 76.9

A good man, you will admit, must have the highest sense of duty toward the gods. Hence, he will endure with an unruffled spirit whatever happens to him; for he will know that it has happened as a result of the divine law, by which the whole creation moves. 
 
This being so, there will be for him one good, and only one, namely, that which is honorable; for one of its dictates is that we shall obey the gods and not blaze forth in anger at sudden misfortunes or deplore our lot, but rather patiently accept fate and obey its commands.
 
If anything except the honorable is good, we shall be hounded by greed for life, and by greed for the things which provide life with its furnishings—an intolerable state, subject to no limits, unstable. The only good, therefore, is that which is honorable, that which is subject to bounds. 
 
I have declared that man’s life would be more blessed than that of the gods, if those things which the gods do not enjoy are goods—such as money and offices of dignity. 
 
There is this further consideration: if only it is true that our souls, when released from the body, still abide, a happier condition is in store for them than is theirs while they dwell in the body. 

 
And yet, if those things are goods which we make use of for our bodies’ sake, our souls will be worse off when set free; and that is contrary to our belief, to say that the soul is happier when it is cabined and confined than when it is free and has betaken itself to the Universe. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 76 
 

Even a few years ago, I would have gladly gone on a rant about the tragic absence of piety in the modern world, though I am now more inclined to sit silently, reflecting on how often I have neglected that tiny spark of the divine within me throughout the day. I hope this is a sort of progress, because I can hardly expect others to show reverence, when I can’t manage to practice respect myself. 

 

I no longer assume that people were any more devout in the past, though I do suspect they were more adept at putting on a holy show. In any case, sanity must always precede sanctity, for without the wisdom to understand one’s place within the whole, there can be no humility to serve Providence. The man who rages against God is still too full of his own self-pity, which is really a form of self-loathing, to offer anyone else an unconditional love. 

 

I have been there, and I have done that. It doesn’t end well. It was compassion that helped me out of the hole, not censure, so I try to return what I was once given. To embrace how absolutely everything, big or small, gratifying or offensive, serves a purpose for the good is the first step toward discovering the harmony between the law that rules me and the law that rules the Universe. The one in the many, not the one or the many. 

A part of the grueling process involves chiseling away at the things I claim to want, until I am at last left with only the things I need. As much as I may resist, it invariably turns out that the virtues are what I need, and all the other qualities or circumstances are negotiable. When I can manage to be honorable, the pains become far more bearable, and the pleasures become far less bewitching; with self-awareness and self-mastery, I am no longer bound by the extremes, forever demanding either less or more. 

 

I am delighted by Seneca’s arguments about how we compare to the divine: if externals were required to be happy, then the gods would have to be downright miserable, and if worldly comforts were vital to our bliss, then any afterlife would have to be a deprivation, never a liberation. Of course, I know a fair number of “enlightened” folks who would wholeheartedly agree with both points, and yet I can’t help but wonder why they are always so bitter and resentful in the life they insist is best. 

 

We get so terribly disoriented when we assert that something is more perfect when it leans on something else, and less perfect when it stands for itself. How did Orwell put it? 

 

War is peace. 

 

Freedom is slavery. 

Ignorance is strength.

 

But who could be so foolish as to fall for such a ruse? 

—Reflection written in 10/2013 

Owls 3

Owls 2

Owls 1

Chuang Tzu 6.3

Being such, their minds were free from all thought; their demeanor was still and unmoved; their foreheads beamed simplicity. 

Whatever coldness came from them was like that of autumn; whatever warmth came from them was like that of spring. Their joy and anger assimilated to what we see in the four seasons. 

They did in regard to all things what was suitable, and no one could know how far their action would go. Therefore the sagely man might, in his conduct of war, destroy a state without losing the hearts of the people; his benefits and favors might extend to a myriad generations without his being a lover of men. 

Hence he who tries to share his joys with others is not a sagely man; he who manifests affection is not benevolent; he who observes times and seasons to regulate his conduct is not a man of wisdom; he to whom profit and injury are not the same is not a superior man; he who acts for the sake of the name of doing so, and loses his proper self is not the right scholar; and he who throws away his person in a way which is not the true way cannot command the service of others. 

Such men as Hû Pû-kieh, Wû Kwang, Po-ì, Shû-khì, the count of Kì, Hsü-yü, Kì Thâ, and Shan-thû Tì, all did service for other men, and sought to secure for them what they desired, not seeking their own pleasure. 

IMAGE: Ambrose McEvoy, The Seasons (c. 1904)