Chuang Tzu 5.4

Duke Âi of Lû asked Kung-nì, saying, "There was an ugly man in Wei, called Ai-thâi Tho. His father-in-law, who lived with him, thought so much of him that he could not be away from him. His wife, when she saw him, ugly as he was, represented to her parents, saying, 'I had more than ten times rather be his concubine than the wife of any other man.' 

"He was never heard to take the lead in discussion, but always seemed to be of the same opinion with others. He had not the position of a ruler, so as to be able to save men from death. He had no revenues, so as to be able to satisfy men's craving for food. He was ugly enough, moreover, to scare the whole world. He agreed with men instead of trying to lead them to adopt his views; his knowledge did not go beyond his immediate neighborhood. 

"And yet his father-in-law and his wife were of one mind about him in his presence, as I have said—he must have been different from other men. 

"I called him, and saw him. Certainly he was ugly enough to scare the whole world. He had not lived with me, however, for many months, when I was drawn to the man; and before he had been with me a full year, I had confidence in him. 

"The state being without a chief minister, I was minded to commit the government to him. He responded to my proposal sorrowfully, and looked undecided as if he would fain have declined it. I was ashamed of myself, as inferior to him, but finally gave the government into his hands. 

"In a little time, however, he left me and went away. I was sorry and felt that I had sustained a loss, and as if there were no other to share the pleasures of the kingdom with me. What sort of man was he?" 

Kung-nì said, "Once when I was sent on a mission to Khû, I saw some pigs sucking at their dead mother. After a little they looked with rapid glances, when they all left her, and ran away. They felt that she did not see them, and that she was no longer like themselves. What they had loved in their mother was not her bodily figure, but what had given animation to her figure. 

"When a man dies in battle, they do not at his interment employ the usual appendages of plumes: as to supplying shoes to one who has lost his feet, there is no reason why he should care for them—in neither case is there the proper reason for their use. 

"The members of the royal harem do not pare their nails nor pierce their ears; when a man is newly married, he remains, for a time, absent from his official duties, and unoccupied with them. That their bodies might be perfect was sufficient to make them thus dealt with—how much greater results should be expected from men whose mental gifts are perfect! 

"This Âi-thâi Tho was believed by men, though he did not speak a word; and was loved by them, though he did no special service for them. He made men appoint him to the government of their states, afraid only that he would not accept the appointment. He must have been a man whose powers were perfect, though his realization of them was not manifested in his person." 

Duke Âi said, "What is meant by saying that his powers were complete?" 

Kung-nì replied, "Death and life, preservation and ruin, failure and success, poverty and wealth, superiority and inferiority, blame and praise, hunger and thirst, cold and heat—these are the changes of circumstances, the operation of our appointed lot. Day and night they succeed to one another before us, but there is no wisdom able to discover to what they owe their origination. 

"They are not sufficient therefore to disturb the harmony of the nature, and are not allowed to enter into the treasury of intelligence. To cause this harmony and satisfaction ever to be diffused, while the feeling of pleasure is not lost from the mind; to allow no break to arise in this state day or night, so that it is always springtime in his relations with external things; in all his experiences to realise in his mind what is appropriate to each season of the year—these are the characteristics of him whose powers are perfect." 

"And what do you mean by the realization of these powers not being manifested in the person?" pursued further the duke. 

The reply was, "There is nothing so level as the surface of a pool of still water. It may serve as an example of what I mean. All within its circuit is preserved in peace, and there comes to it no agitation from without. The virtuous efficacy is the perfect cultivation of the harmony of the nature. Though the realization of this be not manifested in the person, things cannot separate themselves from its influence." 

Some days afterwards Duke Âi told this conversation to Min-tsze, saying, "Formerly it seemed to me the work of the sovereign to stand in court with his face to the south, to rule the kingdom, and to pay good heed to the accounts of the people concerned, lest any should come to a miserable death—this I considered to be the sum of his duty. 

"Now that I have heard that description of the Perfect man, I fear that my idea is not the real one, and that, by employing myself too lightly, I may cause the ruin of my state. I and Khung Khiû are not on the footing of ruler and subject, but on that of a virtuous friendship." 

Seneca, Moral Letters 67.3

Certain of our school, think that, of all such qualities, a stout endurance is not desirable—though not to be deprecated either—because we ought to seek by prayer only the good which is unalloyed, peaceful, and beyond the reach of trouble. 
 
Personally, I do not agree with them. And why? First, because it is impossible for anything to be good without being also desirable. Because, again, if virtue is desirable, and if nothing that is good lacks virtue, then everything good is desirable. And, lastly, because a brave endurance even under torture is desirable.
 
At this point I ask you: Is not bravery desirable? And yet bravery despises and challenges danger. The most beautiful and most admirable part of bravery is that it does not shrink from the stake, advances to meet wounds, and sometimes does not even avoid the spear, but meets it with opposing breast. If bravery is desirable, so is patient endurance of torture; for this is a part of bravery. 
 
Only sift these things, as I have suggested; then there will be nothing which can lead you astray. For it is not mere endurance of torture, but brave endurance, that is desirable. I therefore desire that "brave" endurance; and this is virtue. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 67 
 
I have little patience for any sort of “machismo”, not because I believe a man shouldn’t be a man, but rather because being a man should never interfere with the first task of being human. There can be no virtue in bullying, posturing, or callousness, even if it claims to take on more sophisticated forms, and the men, or also women, who resort to such tricks only diminish themselves. 
 
I can understand, however, why a Stoic sense of fortitude is so easily confused with mere brutishness, for there is a superficial similarity between building character and acting tough: the latter is a cheap imitation of the former, a hasty impression fabricated to substitute for a genuine essence. Yet once I briefly scratch at the surface, I will see how there is no justice behind the strength, no compassion to go with the commitment, no integrity to support the image. 
 
I was recently introduced to the term “Broicism”, describing those alpha males who also happen to wear t-shirts emblazoned with quotes from Marcus Aurelius. I had to laugh out loud, since I was already painfully aware of the trend, though I did not yet have a word for it. Is it any wonder that some Stoics of Seneca’s time were also dubious of stressing a mighty power of endurance? 
 
Nevertheless, the abuse should never deter us from the right purpose, and there is a good reason why courage is one of the four cardinal virtues. Once I wish to be a good man, I will also wish to stand firm in my conscience, and I will be open to bearing hardships for the sake of my principles. The hero is acting on his own conviction, and he is not interested in the dramatics; if he grits his teeth when he expects no one else to be watching, I have a hunch he may have proved his mettle. 
 
Much to the annoyance of the follower, the philosopher will always ask “Why?” Observe the motive—do not mistake boasting for bravery. 

—Reflection written in 8/2013 

Wisdom from the Early Cynics, Diogenes 29

The musician who was always deserted by his audience Diogenes greeted with a "Hail, rooster," and when asked why he so addressed him, replied, "Because your song makes everyone get up." 

A young man was delivering a set speech, when Diogenes, having filled the front fold of his dress with lupins, began to eat them, standing right opposite to him. Having thus drawn off the attention of the assemblage, he said he was greatly surprised that they should desert the orator to look at himself. 

A very superstitious person addressed him thus, "With one blow I will break your head." "And I," said Diogenes, "by a sneeze from the left will make you tremble." 

Hegesias having asked him to lend him one of his writings, he said, "You are a simpleton, Hegesias; you do not choose painted figs, but real ones; and yet you pass over the true training and would apply yourself to written rules." 

—Diogenes Laërtius, 6.48 

Wisdom from the Early Stoics, Zeno of Citium 69

According to the Stoics there is an eight-fold division of the soul: the five senses, the faculty of speech, the intellectual faculty, which is the mind itself, and the generative faculty, being all parts of the soul. 

Now from falsehood there results perversion, which extends to the mind; and from this perversion arise many passions or emotions, which are causes of instability. Passion, or emotion, is defined by Zeno as an irrational and unnatural movement in the soul, or again as impulse in excess.

The main, or most universal, emotions, according to Hecato in his treatise On the Passions, Book II, and Zeno in his treatise with the same title, constitute four great classes: grief, fear, desire or craving, pleasure. 

They hold the emotions to be judgements, as is stated by Chrysippus in his treatise On the Passions: avarice being a supposition that money is a good, while the case is similar with drunkenness and profligacy and all the other emotions. 

And grief or pain they hold to be an irrational mental contraction. Its species are pity, envy, jealousy, rivalry, heaviness, annoyance, distress, anguish, distraction. 

Pity is grief felt at undeserved suffering; envy, grief at others' prosperity; jealousy, grief at the possession by another of that which one desires for oneself; rivalry, pain at the possession by another of what one has oneself. 

Heaviness or vexation is grief which weighs us down, annoyance that which coops us up and straitens us for want of room, distress a pain brought on by anxious thought that lasts and increases, anguish painful grief, distraction irrational grief, rasping and hindering us from viewing the situation as a whole.

Fear is an expectation of evil. Under fear are ranged the following emotions: terror, nervous shrinking, shame, consternation, panic, mental agony. 

Terror is a fear which produces fright; shame is fear of disgrace; nervous shrinking is a fear that one will have to act; consternation is fear due to a presentation of some unusual occurrence; panic is fear with pressure exercised by sound; mental agony is fear felt when some issue is still in suspense. 

Desire or craving is irrational appetency, and under it are ranged the following states: want, hatred, contentiousness, anger, love, wrath, resentment. 

Want, then, is a craving when it is baulked and, as it were, cut off from its object, but kept at full stretch and attracted towards it in vain. 

Hatred is a growing and lasting desire or craving that it should go ill with somebody. 

Contentiousness is a craving or desire connected with partisanship; anger a craving or desire to punish one who is thought to have done you an undeserved injury. 

The passion of love is a craving from which good men are free; for it is an effort to win affection due to the visible presence of beauty. 

Wrath is anger which has long rankled and has become malicious, waiting for its opportunity, as is illustrated by the lines: 

Even though for the one day he swallow his anger, yet doth he still keep his displeasure thereafter in his heart, till he accomplish it.

Resentment is anger in an early stage. 

Pleasure is an irrational elation at the accruing of what seems to be choiceworthy; and under it are ranged ravishment, malevolent joy, delight, transport. 

Ravishment is pleasure which charms the ear. Malevolent joy is pleasure at another's ills. Delight is the mind's propulsion to weakness, its name in Greek (τέρψις) being akin to τρέψις or turning. To be in transports of delight is the melting away of virtue. 

—Diogenes Laërtius, 7.110-114 

Maxims of Goethe 44

What a man does not understand, he does not possess. 

IMAGE: Marietta Robusti, Allegory of Wisdom (c. 1580) 

Seneca, Moral Letters 67.2

You ask me whether every good is desirable. You say: "If it is a good to be brave under torture, to go to the stake with a stout heart, to endure illness with resignation, it follows that these things are desirable. But I do not see that any of them is worth praying for. At any rate I have as yet known of no man who has paid a vow by reason of having been cut to pieces by the rod, or twisted out of shape by the gout, or made taller by the rack."
 
My dear Lucilius, you must distinguish between these cases; you will then comprehend that there is something in them that is to be desired. 
 
I should prefer to be free from torture; but if the time comes when it must be endured, I shall desire that I may conduct myself therein with bravery, honor, and courage.
 
 Of course I prefer that war should not occur; but if war does occur, I shall desire that I may nobly endure the wounds, the starvation, and all that the exigency of war brings. 
 
Nor am I so mad as to crave illness; but if I must suffer illness, I shall desire that I may do nothing which shows lack of restraint, and nothing that is unmanly. 
 
The conclusion is, not that hardships are desirable, but that virtue is desirable, which enables us patiently to endure hardships. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 67 
 
My years of dabbling in Stoicism have slowly accustomed me to the attitude that suffering is made to be redemptive, so I start to forget how ridiculous that sounds to most anyone else. If we sense the approach of any discomfort, our animal instincts raise the alarm—how could anything good come from this? 
 
I know a fellow who likes to constantly remind me that I am “just a mammal”, and so he says my purpose in life ought to be about increasing my levels of dopamine. I always smile, and I tell him that there is also a little soul attached to that corpse. He has no idea what that means, and so he continues to chase after pleasure and run away from pain. I, too, enjoy the pleasure, but I also see the purpose to the pain. 
 
Nothing in this world stands in isolation, for every action is intrinsically bound to a greater context. One thing will fall so another may rise, and an absence over here serves a presence over there. I have, from grueling experience, learned that this is especially true of hardship, when Providence presents an obstacle precisely so I might become a better man. Nature never acts in vain. 
 
Growth will inevitably involve friction. There is a perfectly good reason, for example, why adolescence is both one of the most agonizing of times, and also one of the most fruitful of times. Or if I did not find myself so deeply frustrated with my wife, I would never be given the chance to love her all the more; I am sure she would say much the same about my own failings. 
 
Like all of us, Lucilius will only learn about the meaning of adversity when he has embraced the very reason he was put upon this Earth. He was not created to be rich, or famous, or pampered—he was created to increase in the virtues, the fulfillment of his human identity. And like all of us, he will find no peace until he follows this calling. 
 
Whatever is good for us is also whatever is desirable. The good in the suffering is not in the occasion of the pain itself, but rather in the transformation of that pain into the of building of character. When all is said and done, there is nothing more critical than a man’s moral integrity—everything else hinges upon it. 
 
I will not pursue torture, or war, or illness for their own sake, but if they happen to come my way, I have a hunch about what I need to do with them. 

—Reflection written in 8/2013 

IMAGE: Pietro della Francesca, The Flagellation of Christ (c. 1470) 

Cosmos 8

Vanitas 85

Godfrey Kneller, The Old Scholar (1668) 

Facade

Michael Leunig 58

Delphic Maxims 55

Λαβὼν ἀπόδος 

Give back what you have received 

IMAGE: Peter Paul Rubens, The Tribute Money (c. 1615) 

Seneca, Moral Letters 67.1

Letter 67: On ill-health and endurance of suffering 
 
If I may begin with a commonplace remark, spring is gradually disclosing itself; but though it is rounding into summer, when you would expect hot weather, it has kept rather cool, and one cannot yet be sure of it. For it often slides back into winter weather. Do you wish to know how uncertain it still is? I do not yet trust myself to a bath which is absolutely cold; even at this time I break its chill. 
 
You may say that this is no way to show the endurance either of heat or of cold; very true, dear Lucilius, but at my time of life one is at length contented with the natural chill of the body. I can scarcely thaw out in the middle of summer. Accordingly, I spend most of the time bundled up; and I thank old age for keeping me fastened to my bed. 
 
Why should I not thank old age on this account? That which I ought not to wish to do, I lack the ability to do. Most of my converse is with books. Whenever your letters arrive, I imagine that I am with you, and I have the feeling that I am about to speak my answer, instead of writing it. Therefore, let us together investigate the nature of this problem of yours, just as if we were conversing with one another. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 67 
 
I lag well behind Seneca in years, though I can already feel age creeping up on me. The vitality of my twenties and thirties is in the rear-view mirror, and they now tell me I have a problem with the old ticker. This means I can no longer race about as I once did, or manage without sleep, or consume ridiculous amounts of questionable food and drink. 
 
I smile as I write those words, because I used to tease my elders when they complained of aches and pains, and they wisely reminded me how I would soon be next. It doesn’t all have to be about doom and gloom, however, since there is a blessing wrapped up in the curse, as I increasingly find is true of all circumstances. Seneca hits the nail on the head: a vice is hardly so tempting when I now lack the vigor to chase after it.
 
I would like to proudly give my conscience the sole credit for dragging me out of the gutter, but I must sheepishly admit that the fading of the flesh also gave the spirit a solid push. I suppose this as it should be, and I am grateful for the opportunity. I now tend to prefer my club soda without the whiskey, a loyal friend over a pretty face, and Johann Sebastian Bach instead of Iron Maiden. 
 
The old saying that youth is wasted on the young is perhaps only half a truth, for the things I once desired have slowly but surely changed, along with my constitution. Why would I even want to behave like an ass? What I once considered to be “manliness” now makes me shudder, and I no longer give so much weight to strutting about or proving my mettle; I would much rather be patient and kind than tough and clever. 
 
In the past, bravery was about putting on a show, and endurance was about sticking it to the other guy. If you had tried to explain to me what it meant to practice the classical virtue of “constancy”, I would have looked at you funny, and yet a serene state of inner commitment, regardless of the trappings, has become one of my greatest treasures. 

—Reflection written in 8/2013 

IMAGE: Godfrey Kneller, Scholar in His Study (c. 1668) 

Xenophon, Memorabilia of Socrates 32

At another time chancing upon an old friend whom he had not seen for a long while, Socrates greeted him thus. 

Socrates: "What quarter of the world do you hail from, Eutherus?"

The other answered: "From abroad, just before the close of the war; but at present from the city itself. You see, since we have been denuded of our possessions across the frontier, and my father left me nothing in Attica, I must needs bide at home, and provide myself with the necessaries of life by means of bodily toil, which seems preferable to begging from another, especially as I have no security on which to raise a loan."

Socrates: "And how long do you expect your body to be equal to providing the necessaries of life for hire?" 

Eutherus: "Goodness knows, Socrates—not for long." 

Socrates: "And when you find yourself an old man, expenses will not diminish, and yet no one will care to pay you for the labor of your hands."

Eutherus: "That is true."

Socrates: "Would it not be better then to apply yourself at once to such work as will stand you in good stead when you are old—that is, address yourself to some large proprietor who needs an assistant in managing his estate? By superintending his works, helping to get in his crops, and guarding his property in general, you will be a benefit to the estate and be benefited in return."

"I could not endure the yoke of slavery, Socrates!" he exclaimed. 

Socrates: "And yet the heads of departments in a state are not regarded as adopting the badge of slavery because they manage the public property, but as having attained a higher degree of freedom rather."

Eutherus: "In a word, Socrates, the idea of being held to account to another is not at all to my taste."

Socrates: "And yet, Eutherus, it would be hard to find a work which did not involve some liability to account; in fact it is difficult to do anything without some mistake or other, and no less difficult, if you should succeed in doing it immaculately, to escape all unfriendly criticism. 

"I wonder now whether you find it easy to get through your present occupations entirely without reproach. No? Let me tell you what you should do. You should avoid censorious persons and attach yourself to the considerate and kind-hearted, and in all your affairs accept with a good grace what you can and decline what you feel you cannot do. 

"Whatever it be, do it heart and soul, and make it your finest work. There lies the method at once to silence fault-finders and to minister help to your own difficulties. Life will flow smoothly, risks will be diminished, provision against old age secured." 

—from Xenophon, Memorabilia 2.8 

Sayings of Ramakrishna 243

Q: Why do religions degenerate? 

A: The rainwater is pure, but becomes soiled according to the medium it passes through. If the roof and the pipe are dirty, the discharge is dirty. 

Seneca, Moral Letters 66.14

Why should I not reckon this good among the primary goods, and deem it in so far greater than those other goods which are unattended by danger and have made no trial of fortune, as it is a rarer thing to have overcome a foe with a hand lost than with a hand armed? 
 
"What then?" you say; "shall you desire this good for yourself?" 
 
Of course I shall. For this is a thing that a man cannot achieve unless he can also desire it. Should I desire, instead, to be allowed to stretch out my limbs for my slaves to massage, or to have a woman, or a man changed into the likeness of a woman, pull my finger joints? 
 
I cannot help believing that Mucius was all the more lucky because he manipulated the flames as calmly as if he were holding out his hand to the manipulator. He had wiped out all his previous mistakes; he finished the war unarmed and maimed; and with that stump of a hand he conquered two kings. Farewell. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 66 
 
It may seem rather odd, perhaps even a touch perverse, to say that the goods of the second class might be preferable to those of the first. If I can practice the virtues in the comforts of my home, why would I face the hardships of torture or death in a strange land? If the circumstances are to be treated with indifference, where is the shame in choosing the gentler path? 
 
There is surely no shame in it at all, yet if excellence of character is the sincere goal, and if I am not making cheap excuses for myself, hard experience has taught me how I tend to be at my best when the conditions are at their worst. No, I will not seek out pain, but if it comes to me, I know why I should rise to it: Nature has given me a precious opportunity to surpass myself, to succeed in the very way she intended, not in the way of those who merely play it safe. 
 
When my definition of a profit has changed, so too my estimation of the risks will change. While a longer life might bring me more indulgence, the prospect of a shorter life raises the bar and dares me to jump higher. As much as I would be partial to keeping both hands, I will gladly sacrifice the body to improve the soul. Where will I choose to find my Pearl of Great Price? 
 
Mucius only looks like a fool to the grasping man, no pun intended, who measures his worth by his worldly conveniences. For some of us, the Roman saw a chance to act with absolute conviction, and these are the occasions we must never avoid. I do not mind if you mock a man like Mucius, but I will object once you mock him while also claiming to love virtue above all else. 
 
While my own suffering has never been that intense, I recognize how I could not have moved further along the path without braving my own obstacles. I am at least doing something right when the effort of fulfilling a responsibility becomes a joy. I do not permit it to conquer me, hence I am now finally conquering myself. 

—Reflection written in 7/2013 

IMAGE: Giovanni Battista Tiepolo, Mucius Scaevola before Porsenna (c. 1729) 

Stoic Snippets 239

Remember that this which pulls the strings is the thing which is hidden within: this is the power of persuasion, this is life, this, if one may so say, is man. 

In contemplating yourself never include the vessel which surrounds you and these instruments which are attached about it. For they are like to an axe, differing only in this, that they grow to the body. 

For indeed there is no more use in these parts without the cause which moves and checks them than in the weaver's shuttle, and the writer's pen, and the driver's whip. 

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 10.38 

IMAGE: Paul Gauguin, A Man with an Axe (1891) 

Dhammapada 373, 374

A Bhikshu who has entered his empty house, and whose mind is tranquil, feels a more than human delight when he sees the law clearly. 

As soon as he has considered the origin and destruction of the elements of the body, he finds happiness and joy which belong to those who know the immortal. 

The Continence of Scipio 1

The Continence of Scipio, sometimes called the Clemency of Scipio, is a wonderful story reflecting a distinctly Roman view of the virtues. The oldest surviving account is in Livy, and it eventually became a common theme in art, literature, and music during the Renaissance. 

Publius Cornelius Scipio, later known as Scipio Africanus, commanded a Roman army in Spain during the Second Punic War (218-201 BC). The Roman soldiers captured a beautiful woman, who was engaged to the Celtiberian prince, Allucius, an ally of the Carthaginians. 

She was presented to Scipio, perhaps because the soldiers knew of his reputation as a playboy. Instead of forcing himself upon her, making her a slave, or selling her for a hefty ransom, Scipio instead saw the opportunity to exercise his power with character. 

If only more leaders could think and act in this way! I find great inspiration in the many paintings of this noble scene. 

—3/2003 

* * * * * 

Soon afterwards an adult maiden who had been captured was brought to Scipio by the soldiers, a girl of such exceptional beauty that she attracted the eyes of all wherever she moved. On enquiring as to her country and parentage, Scipio learnt, amongst other things, that she had been betrothed to a young Celtiberian noble named Allucius. 

He at once sent for her parents and also for her betrothed, who, he learnt, was pining to death through love of her. On the arrival of the latter Scipio addressed him in more studied terms than a father would use. 

"A young man myself," he said, "I am addressing myself to a young man, so we may lay aside all reserve. When your betrothed had been taken by my soldiers and brought to me, I was informed that she was very dear to you, and her beauty made me believe it. Were I allowed the pleasures suitable to my age, especially those of chaste and lawful love, instead of being preoccupied with affairs of state, I should wish that I might be forgiven for loving too ardently. 

"Now I have the power to indulge another's love, namely yours. Your betrothed has received the same respectful treatment since she has been in my power that she would have met with from her own parents. She has been reserved for you, in order that she might be given to you as a gift inviolate and worthy of us both. 

"In return for that boon I stipulate for this one reward—that you will be a friend to Rome. If you believe me to be an upright and honorable man such as the nations here found my father and uncle to be, you may rest assured that there are many in Rome like us, and you may be perfectly certain that nowhere in the world can any people be named whom you would less wish to have as a foe to you and yours, or whom you would more desire as a friend."

The young man was overcome with bashfulness and joy. He grasped Scipio's hand, and besought all the gods to recompense him, for it was quite impossible for him to make any return adequate to his own feelings, or the kindness Scipio had shown him. 

Then the girl's parents and relatives were called. They had brought a large amount of gold for her ransom, and when she was freely given back to them, they begged Scipio to accept it as a gift from them; his doing so, they declared, would evoke as much gratitude as the restoration of the maiden unhurt. 

As they urged their request with great importunity, Scipio said that he would accept it, and ordered it to be laid at his feet. Calling Allucius, he said to him: "In addition to the dowry which you are to receive from your future father-in-law you will now receive this from me as a wedding present." He then told him to take up the gold and keep it. 

Delighted with the present and the honorable treatment he had received, the young man resumed home, and filled the ears of his countrymen with justly-earned praises of Scipio. A young man had come among them, he declared, in all ways like the gods, winning his way everywhere by his generosity and goodness of heart as much as by the might of his arms. He began to enlist a body of his retainers, and in a few days returned to Scipio with a picked force of 1,400 mounted men.

—from Livy, The History of Rome, 26.50

Giovanni Bellini, The Continence of Scipio (c. 1508) 

Seneca, Moral Letters 66.13

We therefore find mentioned, even by Epicurus, those goods which one would prefer not to experience; which, however, because circumstances have decided thus, must be welcomed and approved and placed on a level with the highest goods. We cannot say that the good which has rounded out a happy life, the good for which Epicurus rendered thanks in the last words he uttered, is not equal to the greatest.
 
Allow me, excellent Lucilius, to utter a still bolder word: if any goods could be greater than others, I should prefer those which seem harsh to those which are mild and alluring, and should pronounce them greater. For it is more of an accomplishment to break one's way through difficulties than to keep joy within bounds.
 
It requires the same use of reason, I am fully aware, for a man to endure prosperity well and also to endure misfortune bravely. That man may be just as brave who sleeps in front of the ramparts without fear of danger when no enemy attacks the camp, as the man who, when the tendons of his legs have been severed, holds himself up on his knees and does not let fall his weapons; but it is to the blood-stained soldier returning from the front that men cry: "Well done, thou hero!" And therefore I should bestow greater praise upon those goods that have stood trial, and show courage, and have fought it out with fortune.
 
Should I hesitate whether to give greater praise to the maimed and shriveled hand of Mucius than to the uninjured hand of the bravest man in the world? There stood Mucius, despising the enemy and despising the fire, and watched his hand as it dripped blood over the fire on his enemy's altar, until Porsenna, envying the fame of the hero whose punishment he was advocating, ordered the fire to be removed against the will of the victim. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 66 
 
Even those of my peers who were willing to work hard were mainly interested in an effort now for the sake of the luxuries later; I was met with blank stares if I ever suggested how character could be an end in itself, and they could not bring themselves to conceive of a good life that wasn’t also accompanied by prosperity and comfort. 
 
The rigorous studying was for the perfect grades, and the perfect grades were for the top law school, and the top law school was for getting a job with the best firm, since the best firm paid the highest salary and brought the greatest renown. They would then pass these same values on to their children, so the cycle might continue. 
 
Now I would not complain if I had a fatter wallet, and I would even put in the extra hours if it were in the cards, but I have found that each and every time such a carrot was dangled in front of me, I was also being asked to sell just a little bit of my integrity. While your mileage may vary, I am not willing to pay that kind of price. We sadly cling to a rather sinister model of success. 
 
I do not prefer hardship—let this cup pass from me. Yet if I am torn between conscience and convenience, I know what I should do, and I must do so gladly, without harboring any resentment. Far too often, we take happiness to be in conflict with the practice of the virtues, when the reality is that happiness is the very practice of the virtues. What else could any man desire than being most fully human? 
 
There is a world of difference between the nobility of sacrificing the lesser for the greater, and the treachery of bartering the greater for the lesser. Compromise can only make sense when we have our priorities in order. I am pleased that Epicurus also understood this, that it is more than merely a Stoic eccentricity. 
 
If I am to stick with an indifference to circumstances. I must be careful not to romanticize suffering, just as I should not admire a life of ease; sound minds with good hearts are all equal. Nevertheless, I understand why Seneca has a special place for those who face the more difficult challenges, because they reflect such a dignity in the most remarkable of ways. There is a greater glory on the outside when an adversity is resisted from the inside. 
 
For myself, I know how exceptional fortitude inspires me to increase my own constancy all the more, and how I find myself roused to a regimen of temperance when I am provided with less rather than with more. Perhaps the truly vigorous instances of virtue are so noteworthy precisely because they are too rare. 
 
I do not believe Mucius was a better man for thrusting his right hand into the fire to deny Porsenna the power to harm him, but I do believe he was a more exemplary man for his choice. At the very least, he was certainly not in a worse state than some senator pushing paper back behind the walls of Rome. 

—Reflection written in 7/2013 

IMAGE: Peter Paul Rubens, Mucius Scaevola before Porsenna (c. 1628) 

Man's Search for Meaning 8

The thought of suicide was entertained by nearly everyone, if only for a brief time. It was born of the hopelessness of the situation, the constant danger of death looming over us daily and hourly, and the closeness of the deaths suffered by many of the others. 

From personal convictions which will be mentioned later, I made myself a firm promise, on my first evening in camp, that I would not "run into the wire." This was a phrase used in camp to describe the most popular method of suicide— touching the electrically charged barbed-wire fence. 

It was not entirely difficult for me to make this decision. There was little point in committing suicide, since, for the average inmate, life expectation, calculating objectively and counting all likely chances, was very poor. He could not with any assurance expect to be among the small percentage of men who survived all the selections. 

The prisoner of Auschwitz, in the first phase of shock, did not fear death. Even the gas chambers lost their horrors for him after the first few days—after all, they spared him the act of committing suicide. 

—from Viktor Frankl, Man's Search for Meaning