Rely on Peace
To activate your
Manifold powers;
Pacify your environment
To activate your
Manifold powers;
Pacify your environment
And create a beautiful world.
The Death of Marcus Aurelius
Wednesday, March 20, 2024
Dhammapada 367
He who never identifies himself with name and form, and does not grieve over what is no more, he indeed is called a Bhikshu.
Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 3.26
M. But as besides this opinion of great evil there is this other added also—that we ought to lament what has happened, that it is right so to do, and part of our duty, then is brought about that terrible disorder of mind, grief.
And it is to this opinion that we owe all those various and horrid kinds of lamentation, that neglect of our persons, that womanish tearing of our cheeks, that striking on our thighs, breasts, and heads. Thus Agamemnon, in Homer and in Accius,
“Tears in his grief his uncomb’d locks;”
from whence comes that pleasant saying of Bion, that the foolish king in his sorrow tore away the hairs of his head, imagining that his grief would be alleviated by baldness.
But men do all these things from being persuaded that they ought to do so. And thus Aeschines inveighs against Demosthenes for sacrificing within seven days after the death of his daughter.
But with what eloquence, with what fluency, does he attack him! What sentiments does he collect! What words does he hurl against him! You may see by this that an orator may do anything; but nobody would approve of such license if it were not that we have an idea innate in our minds that every good man ought to lament the loss of a relation as bitterly as possible.
And it is owing to this that some men, when in sorrow, betake themselves to deserts, as Homer says of Bellerophon:
“Distracted in his mind,
Forsook by heaven, forsaking human kind,
Wide o’er the Aleïan field he chose to stray,
A long, forlorn, uncomfortable way!”
And thus Niobe is feigned to have been turned into stone, from her never speaking, I suppose, in her grief. But they imagine Hecuba to have been converted into a bitch, from her rage and bitterness of mind. There are others who love to converse with solitude itself when in grief, as the nurse in Ennius,
“Fain would I to the heavens find earth relate
Medea’s ceaseless woes and cruel fate."
And it is to this opinion that we owe all those various and horrid kinds of lamentation, that neglect of our persons, that womanish tearing of our cheeks, that striking on our thighs, breasts, and heads. Thus Agamemnon, in Homer and in Accius,
“Tears in his grief his uncomb’d locks;”
from whence comes that pleasant saying of Bion, that the foolish king in his sorrow tore away the hairs of his head, imagining that his grief would be alleviated by baldness.
But men do all these things from being persuaded that they ought to do so. And thus Aeschines inveighs against Demosthenes for sacrificing within seven days after the death of his daughter.
But with what eloquence, with what fluency, does he attack him! What sentiments does he collect! What words does he hurl against him! You may see by this that an orator may do anything; but nobody would approve of such license if it were not that we have an idea innate in our minds that every good man ought to lament the loss of a relation as bitterly as possible.
And it is owing to this that some men, when in sorrow, betake themselves to deserts, as Homer says of Bellerophon:
“Distracted in his mind,
Forsook by heaven, forsaking human kind,
Wide o’er the Aleïan field he chose to stray,
A long, forlorn, uncomfortable way!”
And thus Niobe is feigned to have been turned into stone, from her never speaking, I suppose, in her grief. But they imagine Hecuba to have been converted into a bitch, from her rage and bitterness of mind. There are others who love to converse with solitude itself when in grief, as the nurse in Ennius,
“Fain would I to the heavens find earth relate
Medea’s ceaseless woes and cruel fate."
—from Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 3.26
It is natural for me to feel pain, and it is natural for me to express that pain in a manner that others can understand, yet I do myself a grave disservice when I dwell upon resentment, and I do others a grave disservice when I take advantage of them to validate my grievances. Whatever form they might take, are my lamentations truly about improving myself or merely about begging for pity?
Whether my grieving is a healthy release or an unhealthy groveling is a question of my intentions, which in turn are a reflection of my deeper values. If I discern the good in my capacity to make the right use of hardship, I am on my way to becoming a better man. If, however, I expect the world to relieve me of my troubles, I have already surrendered to suffering.
My own family were usually very quiet about their losses, such that I learned how the best way to help was offering a sincere but brief encouragement, and then letting time do its work. A kind glance or a gentle touch would often be enough, and I can think of very few instances when more extensive sympathy was required.
I do, understand, however, why this could seem cold to others, who had different ways of managing grief. Some people I knew would weep and cry out, while finding comfort in many words of consolation. I do still have regrets about maintaining a silence I took to be reverence when a more direct compassion may have been more fitting.
Nevertheless, whatever the intensity to the language of mourning, I slowly but surely noticed the contrast between those who were genuinely working it out and those who were putting on an elaborate act. There are times to embrace sadness, and then there are times when the melancholy has become a self-imposed burden.
Even as I was both confused and frustrated by the exaggerated examples of grief from literature, I became far more sensitive to them once the distress hit closer to home. I never tore out my hair, as they did in the Greek myths, though I did once make my knuckles bloody and bruised by repeatedly punching a brick wall. I had an epiphany on that day about the line between sorrow and playing the victim.
Bion wasn’t being mean-spirited when he observed how the loss of hair won’t cure a loss in the soul, and Aeschines wasn’t being noble when he scolded Demosthenes for failing to follow some showy routine. I must be careful not to permit pain to become despair, sadness to be warped into anger, the blues to drift into blackness.
It is natural for me to feel pain, and it is natural for me to express that pain in a manner that others can understand, yet I do myself a grave disservice when I dwell upon resentment, and I do others a grave disservice when I take advantage of them to validate my grievances. Whatever form they might take, are my lamentations truly about improving myself or merely about begging for pity?
Whether my grieving is a healthy release or an unhealthy groveling is a question of my intentions, which in turn are a reflection of my deeper values. If I discern the good in my capacity to make the right use of hardship, I am on my way to becoming a better man. If, however, I expect the world to relieve me of my troubles, I have already surrendered to suffering.
My own family were usually very quiet about their losses, such that I learned how the best way to help was offering a sincere but brief encouragement, and then letting time do its work. A kind glance or a gentle touch would often be enough, and I can think of very few instances when more extensive sympathy was required.
I do, understand, however, why this could seem cold to others, who had different ways of managing grief. Some people I knew would weep and cry out, while finding comfort in many words of consolation. I do still have regrets about maintaining a silence I took to be reverence when a more direct compassion may have been more fitting.
Nevertheless, whatever the intensity to the language of mourning, I slowly but surely noticed the contrast between those who were genuinely working it out and those who were putting on an elaborate act. There are times to embrace sadness, and then there are times when the melancholy has become a self-imposed burden.
Even as I was both confused and frustrated by the exaggerated examples of grief from literature, I became far more sensitive to them once the distress hit closer to home. I never tore out my hair, as they did in the Greek myths, though I did once make my knuckles bloody and bruised by repeatedly punching a brick wall. I had an epiphany on that day about the line between sorrow and playing the victim.
Bion wasn’t being mean-spirited when he observed how the loss of hair won’t cure a loss in the soul, and Aeschines wasn’t being noble when he scolded Demosthenes for failing to follow some showy routine. I must be careful not to permit pain to become despair, sadness to be warped into anger, the blues to drift into blackness.
—Reflection written in 12/1998
IMAGE: Leonaert Bramer, Hecuba's Grief (c. 1630)
Tuesday, March 19, 2024
Sayings of Heraclitus 79
Corpses are more fit to be cast out than dung.
IMAGE: Michel Serre, View of the Cours during the Plague of 1720 (c. 1721)
Monday, March 18, 2024
Tidbits from Montaigne 62
God never sends evils.
—Michel de Montaigne, Essays 3.12
IMAGE: João Glama Ströberle, The Earthquake of 1755 (c. 1792)
_-_Joa%CC%83o_Glama_(MNAA).png)
Sayings of Publilius Syrus 140
When pain cannot increase, it dies away.
IMAGE: William Blake, The Soul Hovering Over the Body (c. 1808)
Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 3.25
M. For this reason Carneades, as I see our friend Antiochus writes, used to blame Chrysippus for commending these verses of Euripides:
“Man, doom’d to care, to pain, disease, and strife,
Walks his short journey thro’ the vale of life:
Watchful attends the cradle and the grave,
And passing generations longs to save:
Last, dies himself: yet wherefore should we mourn?
For man must to his kindred dust return;
Submit to the destroying hand of fate,
As ripen’d ears the harvest-sickle wait.”
He would not allow a speech of this kind to avail at all to the cure of our grief, for he said it was a lamentable case itself that we were fallen into the hands of such a cruel fate; and that a speech like that, preaching up comfort from the misfortunes of another, was a comfort adapted only to those of a malevolent disposition.
But to me it appears far otherwise; for the necessity of bearing what is the common condition of humanity forbids your resisting the will of the Gods, and reminds you that you are a man, which reflection greatly alleviates grief; and the enumeration of these examples is not produced with a view to please those of a malevolent disposition, but in order that any one in affliction may be induced to bear what he observes many others have previously borne with tranquility and moderation.
For they who are falling to pieces, and cannot hold together through the greatness of their grief, should be supported by all kinds of assistance.
From whence Chrysippus thinks that grief is called λύπη, as it were λύσις, that is to say, a dissolution of the whole man—the whole of which I think may be pulled up by the roots by explaining, as I said at the beginning, the cause of grief; for it is nothing else but an opinion and judgment formed of a present acute evil.
And thus any bodily pain, let it be ever so grievous, may be endurable where any hopes are proposed of some considerable good; and we receive such consolation from a virtuous and illustrious life that they who lead such lives are seldom attacked by grief, or but slightly affected by it.
“Man, doom’d to care, to pain, disease, and strife,
Walks his short journey thro’ the vale of life:
Watchful attends the cradle and the grave,
And passing generations longs to save:
Last, dies himself: yet wherefore should we mourn?
For man must to his kindred dust return;
Submit to the destroying hand of fate,
As ripen’d ears the harvest-sickle wait.”
He would not allow a speech of this kind to avail at all to the cure of our grief, for he said it was a lamentable case itself that we were fallen into the hands of such a cruel fate; and that a speech like that, preaching up comfort from the misfortunes of another, was a comfort adapted only to those of a malevolent disposition.
But to me it appears far otherwise; for the necessity of bearing what is the common condition of humanity forbids your resisting the will of the Gods, and reminds you that you are a man, which reflection greatly alleviates grief; and the enumeration of these examples is not produced with a view to please those of a malevolent disposition, but in order that any one in affliction may be induced to bear what he observes many others have previously borne with tranquility and moderation.
For they who are falling to pieces, and cannot hold together through the greatness of their grief, should be supported by all kinds of assistance.
From whence Chrysippus thinks that grief is called λύπη, as it were λύσις, that is to say, a dissolution of the whole man—the whole of which I think may be pulled up by the roots by explaining, as I said at the beginning, the cause of grief; for it is nothing else but an opinion and judgment formed of a present acute evil.
And thus any bodily pain, let it be ever so grievous, may be endurable where any hopes are proposed of some considerable good; and we receive such consolation from a virtuous and illustrious life that they who lead such lives are seldom attacked by grief, or but slightly affected by it.
—from Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 3.25
In our time when hypersensitivity is at the height of fashion, I have a long list of topics where I know to tread lightly. Most of these are matters of political grandstanding, yet behind many of them lie a number of philosophical assumptions, and one of them is an insistence on always casting blame for evil.
Not only must another be at fault, but the rage must be seething and incessant. In a manner oddly reminiscent of the religious zealot, the entire world appears to be infected with the sins of the infidels, and our bitter hatred for their offenses can give us a twisted sense of identity. It is almost as if we crave something to protest against in order to make our lives worth living.
The attitude of a Chrysippus, or of anyone who looks to wisdom over histrionics, stands in such a sharp contrast. Instead of wishing to find fault on the outside, I could work to find a remedy from the inside, or as Chesterton would put it, there is no point to condemning what is wrong before I understand what is right. Now there is no doubt that the world will bring pain, though I should not overlook the tools of my own nature, ready at hand to provide a solution.
When a philosopher says that life is nasty, brutish, and short, this need not be a taken as a grievance, for it can just as easily be a reminder of how we all share in this same human condition, and we don’t need to go it alone. Others have also overcome the same obstacles, and they have done so by tapping into the power of their virtues.
Why compound the conflict, when it is possible to transcend it? If life presents ignorance, we have an anchor in prudence. If life breeds fear, we are equipped with fortitude. If life is riddled with longing, we can draw upon temperance. If life seems to treat us unfairly, we have the option of responding with justice.
Why hack away at the grief, when it can be pulled out by the roots? The despair is in the thinking about the circumstances, and not in the circumstances themselves, so whatever pain may come is not only bearable, but can also be employed as a means to discovering a deeper meaning and purpose. Yes, the burden becomes an opportunity to judge, speak, and act with increased integrity.
If I still scoff at such a claim, it’s then about my own pessimism, and not about the wicked state of the world. I am mistaking the accidents of my condition for the substance of my character; the error is in a confusion about the true source of the human good.
Any man will gladly suffer a lesser evil for the sake of achieving what he knows to be a greater good, which means the trick is in understanding how the excellence of the soul is far more important than the conveniences of the body. Let me be inspired to do better, rather than wallowing in resentment.
In our time when hypersensitivity is at the height of fashion, I have a long list of topics where I know to tread lightly. Most of these are matters of political grandstanding, yet behind many of them lie a number of philosophical assumptions, and one of them is an insistence on always casting blame for evil.
Not only must another be at fault, but the rage must be seething and incessant. In a manner oddly reminiscent of the religious zealot, the entire world appears to be infected with the sins of the infidels, and our bitter hatred for their offenses can give us a twisted sense of identity. It is almost as if we crave something to protest against in order to make our lives worth living.
The attitude of a Chrysippus, or of anyone who looks to wisdom over histrionics, stands in such a sharp contrast. Instead of wishing to find fault on the outside, I could work to find a remedy from the inside, or as Chesterton would put it, there is no point to condemning what is wrong before I understand what is right. Now there is no doubt that the world will bring pain, though I should not overlook the tools of my own nature, ready at hand to provide a solution.
When a philosopher says that life is nasty, brutish, and short, this need not be a taken as a grievance, for it can just as easily be a reminder of how we all share in this same human condition, and we don’t need to go it alone. Others have also overcome the same obstacles, and they have done so by tapping into the power of their virtues.
Why compound the conflict, when it is possible to transcend it? If life presents ignorance, we have an anchor in prudence. If life breeds fear, we are equipped with fortitude. If life is riddled with longing, we can draw upon temperance. If life seems to treat us unfairly, we have the option of responding with justice.
Why hack away at the grief, when it can be pulled out by the roots? The despair is in the thinking about the circumstances, and not in the circumstances themselves, so whatever pain may come is not only bearable, but can also be employed as a means to discovering a deeper meaning and purpose. Yes, the burden becomes an opportunity to judge, speak, and act with increased integrity.
If I still scoff at such a claim, it’s then about my own pessimism, and not about the wicked state of the world. I am mistaking the accidents of my condition for the substance of my character; the error is in a confusion about the true source of the human good.
Any man will gladly suffer a lesser evil for the sake of achieving what he knows to be a greater good, which means the trick is in understanding how the excellence of the soul is far more important than the conveniences of the body. Let me be inspired to do better, rather than wallowing in resentment.
—Reflection written in 12/1998
IMAGE: Charles Cottet, Grief, A Victim of the Sea (1909)
Sunday, March 17, 2024
The Blind Boy
"The Blind Boy"
Colley Cibber (1671-1757)
O say what is that thing call’d Light,
Which I must ne’er enjoy;
What are the blessings of the sight,
O tell your poor blind boy!
Which I must ne’er enjoy;
What are the blessings of the sight,
O tell your poor blind boy!
You talk of wondrous things you see,
You say the sun shines bright;
I feel him warm, but how can he
Or make it day or night?
My day or night myself I make
Whene’er I sleep or play;
And could I ever keep awake
With me ’twere always day.
With heavy sighs I often hear
You mourn my hapless woe;
But sure with patience I can bear
A loss I ne’er can know.
Then let not what I cannot have
My cheer of mind destroy;
Whilst thus I sing, I am a king,
Although a poor blind boy.
Saturday, March 16, 2024
Epictetus, Golden Sayings 176
When you have brought yourself to supply the needs of the body at small cost, do not pique yourself on that, nor if you drink only water, keep saying on each occasion, "I drink water!"
And if you ever want to practice endurance and toil, do so unto yourself and not unto others—do not embrace statues!
Maxims of Goethe 38
Generosity wins favor for everyone, especially when it is accompanied by modesty.
IMAGE: Giovanni Battista Tiepolo, Generosity Bestowing her Gifts (1734)
Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 3.24
M. Is poverty the subject? They tell you of many who have submitted to it with patience. Is it the contempt of honors? They acquaint you with some who never enjoyed any, and were the happier for it; and of those who have preferred a private retired life to public employment, mentioning their names with respect; they tell you of the verse of that most powerful king who praises an old man, and pronounces him happy because he was unknown to fame and seemed likely to arrive at the hour of death in obscurity and without notice.
Thus, too, they have examples for those who are deprived of their children: they who are under any great grief are comforted by instances of like affliction; and thus the endurance of every misfortune is rendered more easy by the fact of others having undergone the same, and the fate of others causes what has happened to appear less important than it has been previously thought, and reflection thus discovers to us how much opinion had imposed on us.
And this is what the Telamon declares, “I, when my son was born,” etc.; and thus Theseus, “I on my future misery did dwell;” and Anaxagoras, “I knew my son was mortal.”
All these men, by frequently reflecting on human affairs, had discovered that they were by no means to be estimated by the opinion of the multitude; and, indeed, it seems to me to be pretty much the same case with those who consider beforehand as with those who derive their remedies from time, excepting that a kind of reason cures the one, and the other remedy is provided by nature; by which we discover (and this contains the whole marrow of the matter) that what was imagined to be the greatest evil is by no means so great as to defeat the happiness of life.
And the effect of this is, that the blow is greater by reason of its not having been foreseen, and not, as they suppose, that when similar misfortunes befall two different people, that man only is affected with grief whom this calamity has befallen unexpectedly.
So that some persons, under the oppression of grief, are said to have borne it actually worse for hearing of this common condition of man, that we are born under such conditions as render it impossible for a man to be exempt from all evil.
Thus, too, they have examples for those who are deprived of their children: they who are under any great grief are comforted by instances of like affliction; and thus the endurance of every misfortune is rendered more easy by the fact of others having undergone the same, and the fate of others causes what has happened to appear less important than it has been previously thought, and reflection thus discovers to us how much opinion had imposed on us.
And this is what the Telamon declares, “I, when my son was born,” etc.; and thus Theseus, “I on my future misery did dwell;” and Anaxagoras, “I knew my son was mortal.”
All these men, by frequently reflecting on human affairs, had discovered that they were by no means to be estimated by the opinion of the multitude; and, indeed, it seems to me to be pretty much the same case with those who consider beforehand as with those who derive their remedies from time, excepting that a kind of reason cures the one, and the other remedy is provided by nature; by which we discover (and this contains the whole marrow of the matter) that what was imagined to be the greatest evil is by no means so great as to defeat the happiness of life.
And the effect of this is, that the blow is greater by reason of its not having been foreseen, and not, as they suppose, that when similar misfortunes befall two different people, that man only is affected with grief whom this calamity has befallen unexpectedly.
So that some persons, under the oppression of grief, are said to have borne it actually worse for hearing of this common condition of man, that we are born under such conditions as render it impossible for a man to be exempt from all evil.
—from Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 3.24
Sometimes we can do all the thinking for ourselves, and at other times we can be inspired by the noble example of those who have gone before us. In either case, the goal is to appreciate the genuine good of the human condition, and to find relief in how none of us are alone in confronting our losses and doubts. The happiness that is truly our own need not be so easily lost to grief—Nature has already armed us against it.
Do I feel my life to be a waste because I lack riches? Socrates, or Diogenes, or Epictetus were also poor, and yet they managed to find their happiness. I don’t even need to look so far, since that fellow smiling outside of the subway station this morning didn’t have a penny to his name, and he seemed to possess a peace of mind I can only dream of. They apparently understand something I stubbornly refuse to embrace.
Do I complain about how I am unappreciated? If fame were a requirement for bliss, then why are there millions upon millions of humble folks who are perfectly content to live with decency and integrity, while never getting a smidgeon of praise? Though they are probably not rocket scientists, they are clearly wise enough to put their priorities in order.
Am I in mourning over the loss of my son? People far more battered than I have faced this painful fact, and in many cases they found ways to become kinder and more loving from their trials. I am so busy being tortured by what was taken away, and all the time I have forgotten what I am capable of giving. Once I put the vivid impressions in their proper place, I discover the power to transform the burden of pain into an opportunity for strengthening character and joy.
Whether my hurt is intensified by shock, or increased by the freshness of the blow, standing back, for a moment, from the furor permits me to grasp why most of my despair is a consequence of false imaginings. I must take the time to separate the reality from the self-inflicted illusion.
I never liked being told how “It isn’t nearly half as bad as you think,” but there is a profound truth in recognizing why I am making myself my own worst problem. The calm use of reason, which need never be heartless, is a soothing balm for the burn, especially when combined with a broader perspective granted by the passage of time.
Knowing ahead of time could just as easily be a curse as a blessing. The difference lies completely in how well I have informed my conscience about the origins of good and evil, and about the sources of happiness and misery. Of course I will lose heart if I ignorantly assume that fortune, however sweet or bitter, makes the man.
Sometimes we can do all the thinking for ourselves, and at other times we can be inspired by the noble example of those who have gone before us. In either case, the goal is to appreciate the genuine good of the human condition, and to find relief in how none of us are alone in confronting our losses and doubts. The happiness that is truly our own need not be so easily lost to grief—Nature has already armed us against it.
Do I feel my life to be a waste because I lack riches? Socrates, or Diogenes, or Epictetus were also poor, and yet they managed to find their happiness. I don’t even need to look so far, since that fellow smiling outside of the subway station this morning didn’t have a penny to his name, and he seemed to possess a peace of mind I can only dream of. They apparently understand something I stubbornly refuse to embrace.
Do I complain about how I am unappreciated? If fame were a requirement for bliss, then why are there millions upon millions of humble folks who are perfectly content to live with decency and integrity, while never getting a smidgeon of praise? Though they are probably not rocket scientists, they are clearly wise enough to put their priorities in order.
Am I in mourning over the loss of my son? People far more battered than I have faced this painful fact, and in many cases they found ways to become kinder and more loving from their trials. I am so busy being tortured by what was taken away, and all the time I have forgotten what I am capable of giving. Once I put the vivid impressions in their proper place, I discover the power to transform the burden of pain into an opportunity for strengthening character and joy.
Whether my hurt is intensified by shock, or increased by the freshness of the blow, standing back, for a moment, from the furor permits me to grasp why most of my despair is a consequence of false imaginings. I must take the time to separate the reality from the self-inflicted illusion.
I never liked being told how “It isn’t nearly half as bad as you think,” but there is a profound truth in recognizing why I am making myself my own worst problem. The calm use of reason, which need never be heartless, is a soothing balm for the burn, especially when combined with a broader perspective granted by the passage of time.
Knowing ahead of time could just as easily be a curse as a blessing. The difference lies completely in how well I have informed my conscience about the origins of good and evil, and about the sources of happiness and misery. Of course I will lose heart if I ignorantly assume that fortune, however sweet or bitter, makes the man.
—Reflection written in 12/1998
IMAGE: Edvard Munch, Death in the Sickroom (1893)
Friday, March 15, 2024
Delphic Maxims 49
Choose what is Divine
IMAGE: John William Waterhouse, The Household Gods (1880)
Thursday, March 14, 2024
Wednesday, March 13, 2024
Aesop's Fables 74
The Ass's Brains
The Lion and the Fox went hunting together. The Lion, on the advice of the Fox, sent a message to the Ass, proposing to make an alliance between their two families.
The Ass came to the place of meeting, overjoyed at the prospect of a royal alliance. But when he came there the Lion simply pounced on the Ass, and said to the Fox: "Here is our dinner for today. Watch you here while I go and have a nap. Woe betide you if you touch my prey."
The Lion went away and the Fox waited; but finding that his master did not return, ventured to take out the brains of the Ass and ate them up.
When the Lion came back he soon noticed the absence of the brains, and asked the Fox in a terrible voice: "What have you done with the brains?"
"Brains, your Majesty! It had none, or it would never have fallen into your trap."
Wit has always an answer ready.
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Sayings of Ramakrishna 237
The anger of the good is like a line drawn on the surface of water, which does not last long.
Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 3.23
M. It may be said, what occasion is there to apply to reason, or to any sort of consolation such as we generally make use of, to mitigate the grief of the afflicted? For we have this argument always at hand, that nothing ought to appear unexpected.
But how will anyone be enabled to bear his misfortunes the better by knowing that it is unavoidable that such things should happen to man? Saying this subtracts nothing from the sum of the grief: it only asserts that nothing has fallen out but what might have been anticipated; and yet this manner of speaking has some little consolation in it, though I apprehend not a great deal.
Therefore, those unlooked-for things have not so much force as to give rise to all our grief; the blow perhaps may fall the heavier, but whatever happens does not appear the greater on that account. No, it is the fact of its having happened lately, and not of its having befallen us unexpectedly, that makes it seem the greater.
There are two ways, then, of discerning the truth, not only of things that seem evil, but of those that have the appearance of good.
For we either inquire into the nature of the thing, of what description, and magnitude, and importance it is—as sometimes with regard to poverty, the burden of which we may lighten when by our disputations we show how few things nature requires, and of what a trifling kind they are—or, without any subtle arguing, we refer them to examples, as here we instance a Socrates, there a Diogenes, and then again that line in Caecilius,
“Wisdom is oft conceal’d in mean attire.”
For as poverty is of equal weight with all, what reason can be given why what was borne by Fabricius should be spoken of by anyone else as unsupportable when it falls upon themselves?
Of a piece with this is that other way of comforting, which consists in pointing out that nothing has happened but what is common to human nature; for this argument does not only inform us what human nature is, but implies that all things are tolerable which others have borne and are bearing.
But how will anyone be enabled to bear his misfortunes the better by knowing that it is unavoidable that such things should happen to man? Saying this subtracts nothing from the sum of the grief: it only asserts that nothing has fallen out but what might have been anticipated; and yet this manner of speaking has some little consolation in it, though I apprehend not a great deal.
Therefore, those unlooked-for things have not so much force as to give rise to all our grief; the blow perhaps may fall the heavier, but whatever happens does not appear the greater on that account. No, it is the fact of its having happened lately, and not of its having befallen us unexpectedly, that makes it seem the greater.
There are two ways, then, of discerning the truth, not only of things that seem evil, but of those that have the appearance of good.
For we either inquire into the nature of the thing, of what description, and magnitude, and importance it is—as sometimes with regard to poverty, the burden of which we may lighten when by our disputations we show how few things nature requires, and of what a trifling kind they are—or, without any subtle arguing, we refer them to examples, as here we instance a Socrates, there a Diogenes, and then again that line in Caecilius,
“Wisdom is oft conceal’d in mean attire.”
For as poverty is of equal weight with all, what reason can be given why what was borne by Fabricius should be spoken of by anyone else as unsupportable when it falls upon themselves?
Of a piece with this is that other way of comforting, which consists in pointing out that nothing has happened but what is common to human nature; for this argument does not only inform us what human nature is, but implies that all things are tolerable which others have borne and are bearing.
—from Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 3.23
I had a colleague a few years back, of whom I was very fond, though I sometime struggled to be patient with a few of his eccentricities. He proclaimed himself a survivalist, and he would regularly warn me about all the terrible events that were sure to occur in the near future. As he was so certain he knew what was coming, he felt confident enough to lord it over the rest of us.
Now I could see how a generator and a well-stocked pantry would help when the power grid failed and the economy collapsed, but I did once ask him how his prophecies of doom were going to keep him from being vaporized when the ICBM’s fell on downtown Boston.
Even if he somehow had advance warning of their arrival, running to the forest in Maine wasn’t going to spare his life. In fact, his death would just be more prolonged and painful.
“Well, at least I’ll waste away with my eyes wide open!”
I’m not sure how he found much comfort in that. If it is inevitable, as suffering in this life, whatever the specific form, must surely be, no amount of foresight will remove it. I may steel my resolve, but I will not excise the pain.
In contrast, a friend from high school took an opposite approach, and would tell us how we were blessed if we remained oblivious to the horrors that awaited us. “What you don’t know can’t hurt you!”
I beg to disagree, for there will still be a boatload of hurt; it will just be a bit more startling when it hits. And once again, I find myself acutely aware of how neither the presence nor the absence of a prophecy is going to change what comes my way, though a general formation of my character will grant me the power to cope with both the pleasant and the unpleasant.
If the Cyrenaics meant that a soul already filled with courage can face most any obstacle, however predictable, I am quite sympathetic, and yet no amount of singular prescience can take the place of a mind and a will that are prepared for anything that happens. An awareness of the particular challenge is of far less importance than a disposition of universal acceptance. Is this not a lesson from so many of the Greek tragedies?
And this is why Cicero now explains how human reason has the ability to both understand the identity of something in itself and directly, and to appeal to some example for the sake of revealing a certain likeness. The one is more critical, the other more instinctive.
I can theoretically reflect upon our common human nature, which all of us share in together, and conclude why, if virtue is the highest good, I should never despair in the face of circumstances.
I can also appeal to a vivid illustration, which will then encourage me to feel how, if Socrates or Diogenes could face the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, this is also something that remains within my power.
Either method will do, and it doesn’t have to be fancy to be effective. Behind any of it is the greater recognition that a man is never made by what happens to him, and that the human capacity to find purpose and joy in distress should never be underestimated. Death may be inevitable, but crippling grief doesn’t have to be.
I had a colleague a few years back, of whom I was very fond, though I sometime struggled to be patient with a few of his eccentricities. He proclaimed himself a survivalist, and he would regularly warn me about all the terrible events that were sure to occur in the near future. As he was so certain he knew what was coming, he felt confident enough to lord it over the rest of us.
Now I could see how a generator and a well-stocked pantry would help when the power grid failed and the economy collapsed, but I did once ask him how his prophecies of doom were going to keep him from being vaporized when the ICBM’s fell on downtown Boston.
Even if he somehow had advance warning of their arrival, running to the forest in Maine wasn’t going to spare his life. In fact, his death would just be more prolonged and painful.
“Well, at least I’ll waste away with my eyes wide open!”
I’m not sure how he found much comfort in that. If it is inevitable, as suffering in this life, whatever the specific form, must surely be, no amount of foresight will remove it. I may steel my resolve, but I will not excise the pain.
In contrast, a friend from high school took an opposite approach, and would tell us how we were blessed if we remained oblivious to the horrors that awaited us. “What you don’t know can’t hurt you!”
I beg to disagree, for there will still be a boatload of hurt; it will just be a bit more startling when it hits. And once again, I find myself acutely aware of how neither the presence nor the absence of a prophecy is going to change what comes my way, though a general formation of my character will grant me the power to cope with both the pleasant and the unpleasant.
If the Cyrenaics meant that a soul already filled with courage can face most any obstacle, however predictable, I am quite sympathetic, and yet no amount of singular prescience can take the place of a mind and a will that are prepared for anything that happens. An awareness of the particular challenge is of far less importance than a disposition of universal acceptance. Is this not a lesson from so many of the Greek tragedies?
And this is why Cicero now explains how human reason has the ability to both understand the identity of something in itself and directly, and to appeal to some example for the sake of revealing a certain likeness. The one is more critical, the other more instinctive.
I can theoretically reflect upon our common human nature, which all of us share in together, and conclude why, if virtue is the highest good, I should never despair in the face of circumstances.
I can also appeal to a vivid illustration, which will then encourage me to feel how, if Socrates or Diogenes could face the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, this is also something that remains within my power.
Either method will do, and it doesn’t have to be fancy to be effective. Behind any of it is the greater recognition that a man is never made by what happens to him, and that the human capacity to find purpose and joy in distress should never be underestimated. Death may be inevitable, but crippling grief doesn’t have to be.
—Reflection written in 12/1998
Tuesday, March 12, 2024
Monday, March 11, 2024
Stoic Snippets 232
Either you live here, and have already accustomed yourself to it;
Or you are going away, and this was your own will;
Or you are dying, and have discharged your duty.
But besides these things there is nothing.
Be of good cheer, then!
—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 10.22
Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 3.22
M. What remains is the opinion of the Cyrenaics, who think that men grieve when anything happens unexpectedly. And that is indeed, as I said before, a great aggravation of a misfortune; and I know that it appeared so to Chrysippus—“Whatever falls out unexpected is so much the heavier.”
But the whole question does not turn on this; though the sudden approach of an enemy sometimes occasions more confusion than it would if you had expected him, and a sudden storm at sea throws the sailors into a greater fright than one which they have foreseen; and it is the same in many other cases.
But when you carefully consider the nature of what was expected, you will find nothing more than that all things which come on a sudden appear greater; and this upon two accounts: first of all, because you have not time to consider how great the accident is; and, secondly, because you are probably persuaded that you could have guarded against it had you foreseen if, and therefore the misfortune, having been seemingly encountered by your own fault, makes your grief the greater.
That it is so, time evinces; which, as it advances, brings with it so much mitigation that though the same misfortunes continue, the grief not only becomes the less, but in some cases is entirely removed.
Many Carthaginians were slaves at Rome, and many Macedonians, when Perseus their king was taken prisoner. I saw, too, when I was a young man, some Corinthians in the Peloponnesus. They might all have lamented with Andromache,
“All these I saw . . .”
but they had perhaps given over lamenting themselves, for by their countenances, and speech, and other gestures you might have taken them for Argives or Sicyonians. And I myself was more concerned at the ruined walls of Corinth than the Corinthians themselves were, whose minds by frequent reflection and time had become callous to such sights.
I have read a book of Clitomachus, which he sent to his fellow-citizens who were prisoners, to comfort them after the destruction of Carthage. There is in it a treatise written by Carneades, which, as Clitomachus says, he had inserted into his book; the subject was, “That it appeared probable that a wise man would grieve at the state of subjection of his country,” and all the arguments which Carneades used against this proposition are set down in the book.
There the philosopher applies such a strong medicine to a fresh grief as would be quite unnecessary in one of any continuance; nor, if this very book had been sent to the captives some years after, would it have found any wounds to cure, but only scars; for grief, by a gentle progress and slow degrees, wears away imperceptibly.
Not that the circumstances which gave rise to it are altered, or can be, but that custom teaches what reason should—that those things which before seemed to be of some consequence are of no such great importance, after all.
—from Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 3.22
While the Epicureans believed they could avoid grief by diverting the focus from one passion to another, the Cyrenaics were convinced that the stress was on being well-prepared for any possible unexpected grief, since they claimed this was the worst sort of mental suffering. It seems to feel worst of all when you don’t see it coming, and there is much to be said for remaining watchful and digging in your heels.
I am well familiar with the terror of a sudden blow, and the bitter sense of self-reproach that I somehow let it slip my guard. As a child, I recall the moment of shock after some unanticipated injury, and then the tears that finally followed were all the more profuse. As an adult, I beat myself over the head when a betrayal came out of left field, and then the shame of having let myself be played was like salt in the wound.
Even as a write this, I recognize how the degree of the hurt has far less to do with the circumstance itself, and far more to do with my own attitude. I did not foresee it, so I blame myself. Remove the surprise, and remove the second-guessing, and it no longer looks so overwhelming.
Just the other day, a fellow suddenly accused me of being henpecked because I was going home to see my wife. As I was trying to fall asleep, I brooded over the comment. Why was I so troubled? The man is, bluntly put, an ass, and my concern was simply about how the insult came out of the blue, and about my own sensitivity to the opinions of loudmouths. The grief was from my disordered thinking, and from my lack of fortitude, not from his abrupt malice.
On a far more serious note, would the agony be greater if one of my children were to die without warning? How would this be different from awaiting it after a lengthy illness? Whichever you may find the more disturbing, note how the event remains completely the same, while the thinking about the context of the event is the deciding factor.
Though I understand why the Cyrenaics were anxious about preparing themselves for surprises, I can imagine how the total awareness of some impending doom could be just as frightful. I can think of many instances when I was knocked off my feet by a bolt from the blue, and yet there were probably just as many instances where I saw it coming for miles, and instead of a sting it was more of an ache. Once again, the mindset is the source of the grief, whatever the quality or the degree.
In any case, the passage of time, and the incredible power of habituation, can make most anything bearable, and I suspect this is partly a function of having the opportunity to calmly reflect upon the intensity of our passions. If the process of becoming familiar with a state of affairs is a form of relief, then this is just another sign of how my judgments are behind the distress.
I usually don’t control what is going to happen to me, but even if I could have done so, there is no point, as they say, in crying over spilt milk. Once the genie is out the bottle, I will need to come to terms with whatever he brings me, and no amount of hand-wringing is going to alter that responsibility. It will become as big, or as small, as I choose to make it. That isn’t being cold or heartless—it’s called being patient and mindful.
—Reflection written in 12/1998
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