What is the use of plaited hair, O fool! What of the raiment of goatskins?
Within you there is ravening, but the outside you make clean.
The Death of Marcus Aurelius
Saturday, January 18, 2025
Seneca, Moral Letters 74.13
In the second place, this does not mean to me the taking-off of a friend or of a child; it is the mere taking-off of their bodies. But a good can be lost in only one way, by changing into what is bad; and this is impossible according to the law of Nature, because every virtue, and every work of virtue, abides uncorrupted.
Again, even if friends have perished, or children of approved goodness who fulfil their father's prayers for them, there is something that can fill their place.
Do you ask what this is? It is that which had made them good in the first place, namely, virtue. Virtue suffers no space in us to be unoccupied; it takes possession of the whole soul and removes all sense of loss. It alone is sufficient; for the strength and beginnings of all goods exist in virtue herself.
Again, even if friends have perished, or children of approved goodness who fulfil their father's prayers for them, there is something that can fill their place.
Do you ask what this is? It is that which had made them good in the first place, namely, virtue. Virtue suffers no space in us to be unoccupied; it takes possession of the whole soul and removes all sense of loss. It alone is sufficient; for the strength and beginnings of all goods exist in virtue herself.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 74
We become accustomed to living by acquisition and consumption, so we think nothing to be good unless we can clutch it in our grubby little hands; to claim it as “mine” is an expression of status, from the schoolyards to the boardrooms. The Stoics dare to claim that a man was made for more.
If I love my wife or my son, is that relation defined by some guarantee of ownership, or should it rather be based upon an act commitment? If I had just distinguished the expectation of receiving from the gift of giving, I would have saved myself from so much grief.
When I am cast out of my home, or a dear friend passes, I must reflect carefully on the true measure of gains and losses. A person, place, or thing can be removed from my grasp, and yet its presence or its absence does not determine my own capacity to offer the love, and to find peace in the appreciation—as the outer circumstances change, the inner opportunities for virtue still remain.
The very ideal of virtue seems ridiculous to the grasping man, but only because he has focused himself on what happens to him, not on the merit of his own judgements and actions. The dignity of character, as the center of all human efforts, is recovered at that moment when we rediscover the indomitable power within us to continue thriving under any conditions.
And yes, before you snicker, that power is indeed indomitable, for it is exclusively mine to possess, and it perfects every aspect of my nature. How will you take it from me? I am free to offer compassion as soon as you condemn. How could there be anything left to desire? I am living with understanding and with love, to which nothing more can be added.
Those who praise virtue above all else are not romantics or dreamers: they recognize the be-all and end-all of our daily existence.
We become accustomed to living by acquisition and consumption, so we think nothing to be good unless we can clutch it in our grubby little hands; to claim it as “mine” is an expression of status, from the schoolyards to the boardrooms. The Stoics dare to claim that a man was made for more.
If I love my wife or my son, is that relation defined by some guarantee of ownership, or should it rather be based upon an act commitment? If I had just distinguished the expectation of receiving from the gift of giving, I would have saved myself from so much grief.
When I am cast out of my home, or a dear friend passes, I must reflect carefully on the true measure of gains and losses. A person, place, or thing can be removed from my grasp, and yet its presence or its absence does not determine my own capacity to offer the love, and to find peace in the appreciation—as the outer circumstances change, the inner opportunities for virtue still remain.
The very ideal of virtue seems ridiculous to the grasping man, but only because he has focused himself on what happens to him, not on the merit of his own judgements and actions. The dignity of character, as the center of all human efforts, is recovered at that moment when we rediscover the indomitable power within us to continue thriving under any conditions.
And yes, before you snicker, that power is indeed indomitable, for it is exclusively mine to possess, and it perfects every aspect of my nature. How will you take it from me? I am free to offer compassion as soon as you condemn. How could there be anything left to desire? I am living with understanding and with love, to which nothing more can be added.
Those who praise virtue above all else are not romantics or dreamers: they recognize the be-all and end-all of our daily existence.
—Reflection written in 10/2013
IMAGE: T. Jefferys, Virtue (1757)
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Friday, January 17, 2025
Aesop's Fables 79
The Trumpeter Taken Prisoner
A Trumpeter during a battle ventured too near the enemy and was captured by them.
They were about to proceed to put him to death when he begged them to hear his plea for mercy.
"I do not fight," said he, "and indeed carry no weapon; I only blow this trumpet, and surely that cannot harm you; then why should you kill me?"
"You may not fight yourself," said the others, "but you encourage and guide your men to the fight."
Words may be deeds.
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Thursday, January 16, 2025
Sayings of Publilius Syrus 169
The wise man corrects his own errors by observing those of others.
IMAGE: Jacob Jordaens, The Wise Man and the Fool (c. 1650)
Seneca, Moral Letters 74.12
Men say to us: "You are mistaken if you maintain that nothing is a good except that which is honorable; a defense like this will not make you safe from Fortune and free from her assaults.
“For you maintain that dutiful children, and a well-governed country, and good parents, are to be reckoned as goods; but you cannot see these dear objects in danger and be yourself at ease.
“Your calm will be disturbed by a siege conducted against your country, by the death of your children, or by the enslaving of your parents."
I will first state what we Stoics usually reply to these objectors, and then will add what additional answer should, in my opinion, be given.
The situation is entirely different in the case of goods whose loss entails some hardship substituted in their place; for example, when good health is impaired, there is a change to ill-health; when the eye is put out, we are visited with blindness; we not only lose our speed when our leg muscles are cut, but infirmity takes the place of speed.
But no such danger is involved in the case of the goods to which we referred a moment ago. And why? If I have lost a good friend, I have no false friend whom I must endure in his place; nor if I have buried a dutiful son, must I face in exchange unfilial conduct.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 74
The critic is still confused, since he still hasn’t distinguished between the absolute and the relative goods Seneca described earlier. Who am I to throw stones, a fellow who has often hastily tossed all seeming benefits into the same bag, treating them as if they were identical in value, even as Nature calls on me to discern with far greater care?
The Stoic Turn is elegantly simple yet brutally demanding, a fundamental shift from relying upon circumstances to thriving in virtue, and it will take some time to accept that any possession is only as good or as bad as the character standing behind it. Having known great worldly losses, I am deeply sympathetic to the plight of those who take a beating from Fortune: the solution is never to dismiss the pain, but to understand it.
Whenever I suffer any sort of privation, the harm is perceived from the absence of what I believe should be present. But what if I modify my judgements about the things I claim to need? When the critic insists that I must be miserable without my family or my country, he fails to give me any credit for the capacity to shape my own happiness.
On the level of the body, losing an eye will make me blind, and a disease will injure my health, though on the level of the soul I am not so subject to merely receiving benefit or harm. My son is now gone, or my nation has now abandoned me, and yet nothing “evil” must enter into my thoughts or desires, unless I so choose.
As much as I would prefer to be near to someone I love, the advantage to an “indifferent” condition depends upon my estimation and use of it. Having the indifferent removed can just as readily become an advantage, leaving my integrity intact.
The critic is still confused, since he still hasn’t distinguished between the absolute and the relative goods Seneca described earlier. Who am I to throw stones, a fellow who has often hastily tossed all seeming benefits into the same bag, treating them as if they were identical in value, even as Nature calls on me to discern with far greater care?
The Stoic Turn is elegantly simple yet brutally demanding, a fundamental shift from relying upon circumstances to thriving in virtue, and it will take some time to accept that any possession is only as good or as bad as the character standing behind it. Having known great worldly losses, I am deeply sympathetic to the plight of those who take a beating from Fortune: the solution is never to dismiss the pain, but to understand it.
Whenever I suffer any sort of privation, the harm is perceived from the absence of what I believe should be present. But what if I modify my judgements about the things I claim to need? When the critic insists that I must be miserable without my family or my country, he fails to give me any credit for the capacity to shape my own happiness.
On the level of the body, losing an eye will make me blind, and a disease will injure my health, though on the level of the soul I am not so subject to merely receiving benefit or harm. My son is now gone, or my nation has now abandoned me, and yet nothing “evil” must enter into my thoughts or desires, unless I so choose.
As much as I would prefer to be near to someone I love, the advantage to an “indifferent” condition depends upon my estimation and use of it. Having the indifferent removed can just as readily become an advantage, leaving my integrity intact.
All other things being equal, I will choose what is easier and more gratifying, while remaining fully aware of how it must never define my moral worth. If it must pass away for me to act with excellence, there has been no true loss. The eye may be plucked out, but the mind can always hold to the good. The friend may be ripped from my side, but the will can continue to offer love.
—Reflection written in 10/2013
IMAGE: Käthe Kollwitz, Woman with Dead Child (1903)
Wednesday, January 15, 2025
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The Seven Ages of Man 2
Stephen Ayling (after Robert Smirke), The Seven Ages of Man (c. 1860)
The Infant
The Schoolboy
The Lover
The Soldier
The Justice
The Pantaloon
The Old Age
The Seven Ages of Man 1
The Infant
The Schoolboy
The Lover
The Soldier
The Justice
The Pantaloon
The Old Age
All the World's a Stage . . .
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything."
—William Shakespeare, As You Like It, Act II, Scene VII
IMAGE: William Mulready, The Seven Ages of Man (1838)
Tuesday, January 14, 2025
Monday, January 13, 2025
Maxims of Goethe 61
When intelligent and sensible people despise knowledge in their old age, it is only because they have asked too much of it and of themselves.
IMAGE: Giorgione, The Old Woman (1506)
Seneca, Moral Letters 74.11
Love reason! The love of reason will arm you against the greatest hardships.
Wild beasts dash against the hunter's spear through love of their young, and it is their wildness and their unpremeditated onrush that keep them from being tamed.
Often a desire for glory has stirred the mind of youth to despise both sword and stake; the mere vision and semblance of virtue impel certain men to a self-imposed death.
In proportion as reason is stouter and steadier than any of these emotions, so much the more forcefully will she make her way through the midst of utter terrors and dangers.
Wild beasts dash against the hunter's spear through love of their young, and it is their wildness and their unpremeditated onrush that keep them from being tamed.
Often a desire for glory has stirred the mind of youth to despise both sword and stake; the mere vision and semblance of virtue impel certain men to a self-imposed death.
In proportion as reason is stouter and steadier than any of these emotions, so much the more forcefully will she make her way through the midst of utter terrors and dangers.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 74
Almost all of my history teachers worked from a general assumption on the tension between rationalism and romanticism, and an unfortunate consequence was that we spoke far too confidently about the mind and the passions being in conflict with one another. I suggest that this is not only bad history, but also bad philosophy.
Knowing and feeling were always made to go together, even as we are presented with a caricature of the human, where coldly calculating brains are constantly at war with fiery sentimental spirits. Extremes are a mark of perplexity, not of a balanced state, so I should hardly believe that Kant and Blake have nothing to do with one another, or are locked in two incompatible worlds.
When Seneca calls upon me to love reason, it is therefore a relief to find peace in the harmony of the whole. I realize I am getting somewhere if a moment of profound insight then fuels an ardor of the will, all wrapped up in crisp emotions. The head gazes upon the truth, the heart longs for the good, and the belly is filled to satisfaction—in precisely that order of priority.
How can I rightly feel about what I do not love, and how can I rightly love what I do not understand?
My commitment to action will be at its strongest when it is rooted in the conviction of conscience; the virtues become invincible if I can comprehend why I am serving the supreme good. Lovers sacrifice everything for their beloved, parents will gladly die for their children, and the virtuous are undaunted in the face of any wickedness.
Reason inspires a certainty and a durability of purpose, a degree of determination far greater than any fleeting appetite. I like to joke that I once actually did walk an entire mile for a Camel cigarette, though I have now outgrown that craving, and I once spontaneously hopped on a midnight train out of an infatuation with a girl, though I have now forgotten what all the fuss was about.
But through it all, from the highest highs to the lowest lows, a reverence for wisdom has never steered me wrong. Following her has always brought me joy, just as neglecting her has always brought me misery.
Almost all of my history teachers worked from a general assumption on the tension between rationalism and romanticism, and an unfortunate consequence was that we spoke far too confidently about the mind and the passions being in conflict with one another. I suggest that this is not only bad history, but also bad philosophy.
Knowing and feeling were always made to go together, even as we are presented with a caricature of the human, where coldly calculating brains are constantly at war with fiery sentimental spirits. Extremes are a mark of perplexity, not of a balanced state, so I should hardly believe that Kant and Blake have nothing to do with one another, or are locked in two incompatible worlds.
When Seneca calls upon me to love reason, it is therefore a relief to find peace in the harmony of the whole. I realize I am getting somewhere if a moment of profound insight then fuels an ardor of the will, all wrapped up in crisp emotions. The head gazes upon the truth, the heart longs for the good, and the belly is filled to satisfaction—in precisely that order of priority.
How can I rightly feel about what I do not love, and how can I rightly love what I do not understand?
My commitment to action will be at its strongest when it is rooted in the conviction of conscience; the virtues become invincible if I can comprehend why I am serving the supreme good. Lovers sacrifice everything for their beloved, parents will gladly die for their children, and the virtuous are undaunted in the face of any wickedness.
Reason inspires a certainty and a durability of purpose, a degree of determination far greater than any fleeting appetite. I like to joke that I once actually did walk an entire mile for a Camel cigarette, though I have now outgrown that craving, and I once spontaneously hopped on a midnight train out of an infatuation with a girl, though I have now forgotten what all the fuss was about.
But through it all, from the highest highs to the lowest lows, a reverence for wisdom has never steered me wrong. Following her has always brought me joy, just as neglecting her has always brought me misery.
—Reflection written in 10/2013
IMAGE: Pietro Testa, The Allegorical Figures of Reason and Wisdom (1630)
Sunday, January 12, 2025
Saturday, January 11, 2025
Delphic Maxims 70
Speak plainly
IMAGE: John C. McRae, "Father, I cannot tell a lie: I cut the tree." (c. 1867)
Seneca, Moral Letters 74.10
The fate of many cities will prove the truth of this; their sway has ceased at the very prime because they were given to luxury, and excess has ruined all that had been won by virtue. We should fortify ourselves against such calamities.
But no wall can be erected against Fortune which she cannot take by storm; let us strengthen our inner defenses. If the inner part be safe, man can be attacked, but never captured.
Do you wish to know what this weapon of defense is? It is the ability to refrain from chafing over whatever happens to one, of knowing that the very agencies which seem to bring harm are working for the preservation of the world, and are a part of the scheme for bringing to fulfilment the order of the Universe and its functions.
Let man be pleased with whatever has pleased God; let him marvel at himself and his own resources for this very reason, that he cannot be overcome, that he has the very powers of evil subject to his control, and that he brings into subjection chance and pain and wrong by means of that strongest of powers—reason.
But no wall can be erected against Fortune which she cannot take by storm; let us strengthen our inner defenses. If the inner part be safe, man can be attacked, but never captured.
Do you wish to know what this weapon of defense is? It is the ability to refrain from chafing over whatever happens to one, of knowing that the very agencies which seem to bring harm are working for the preservation of the world, and are a part of the scheme for bringing to fulfilment the order of the Universe and its functions.
Let man be pleased with whatever has pleased God; let him marvel at himself and his own resources for this very reason, that he cannot be overcome, that he has the very powers of evil subject to his control, and that he brings into subjection chance and pain and wrong by means of that strongest of powers—reason.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 74
One of my neighbors, a lovable old curmudgeon, has a rousing speech he recites whenever we meet. It concerns America’s vast military might, and how no nation on Earth can ever defeat us. If I understand him correctly, this is why the Stars and Stripes will wave forever.
I once dared to suggest how nations rot from the inside, not from the outside, but he would have none of it. I now just nod along, and I change the subject as quickly as I can, because I hardly have the chops to ask that he reconsider his very measure of strength and weakness, of right and wrong.
The walls of Rome might have kept out the barbarians, but they could not save an empire. For that, the Romans would have needed to maintain the content of their character, which had sadly decayed over the years. The politician will tell you it’s about the leverage, and the economist will tell you it’s about the money, but the philosopher, at least the one with his head on straight, will tell you it’s about the virtue.
There is but one antidote to Fortune, and that is a loyalty to Nature. I have found that the best way to start is a thorough and excruciating examination of my conscience, a sharp reflection upon my moral successes and failures. As soon as I begin, I notice a pattern: I am complaining about the things beyond my power, while neglecting the things within my power.
The ideologue, whether from the right or from the left, is always judging his enemies. Would it not better if I had no enemies, and judged only myself?
If it has been given to me, however painful or pleasant, Providence has done so for a reason. I rely daily, sometimes even hourly, upon the wisdom of Cardinal Newman:
He knows what He is about.
To dwell upon the fault of another is a curse; to reform the fault within myself is a blessing. I would prefer if all of the zealots, the socialists, the fascists, the hipsters, and the yuppies would shut the heck up, and somehow decide to do things the way I happen to prefer. That is, unfortunately, contrary to right principles—it is not what Nature intended.
How could I possibly face such a challenge? The question itself is its own answer, for awareness offers freedom. I have the capacity to understand, and by the power of reason I am granted a sliver of the Divine. I do not need to react with my gut, I can respond through my head. I do not need to condemn, I can accept. I do not need to hate, I can love.
It is reason that allows me to rise above Fortune. Reason is mightier than any city wall. Reason is the solution to the griping and the bickering.
One of my neighbors, a lovable old curmudgeon, has a rousing speech he recites whenever we meet. It concerns America’s vast military might, and how no nation on Earth can ever defeat us. If I understand him correctly, this is why the Stars and Stripes will wave forever.
I once dared to suggest how nations rot from the inside, not from the outside, but he would have none of it. I now just nod along, and I change the subject as quickly as I can, because I hardly have the chops to ask that he reconsider his very measure of strength and weakness, of right and wrong.
The walls of Rome might have kept out the barbarians, but they could not save an empire. For that, the Romans would have needed to maintain the content of their character, which had sadly decayed over the years. The politician will tell you it’s about the leverage, and the economist will tell you it’s about the money, but the philosopher, at least the one with his head on straight, will tell you it’s about the virtue.
There is but one antidote to Fortune, and that is a loyalty to Nature. I have found that the best way to start is a thorough and excruciating examination of my conscience, a sharp reflection upon my moral successes and failures. As soon as I begin, I notice a pattern: I am complaining about the things beyond my power, while neglecting the things within my power.
The ideologue, whether from the right or from the left, is always judging his enemies. Would it not better if I had no enemies, and judged only myself?
If it has been given to me, however painful or pleasant, Providence has done so for a reason. I rely daily, sometimes even hourly, upon the wisdom of Cardinal Newman:
He knows what He is about.
To dwell upon the fault of another is a curse; to reform the fault within myself is a blessing. I would prefer if all of the zealots, the socialists, the fascists, the hipsters, and the yuppies would shut the heck up, and somehow decide to do things the way I happen to prefer. That is, unfortunately, contrary to right principles—it is not what Nature intended.
How could I possibly face such a challenge? The question itself is its own answer, for awareness offers freedom. I have the capacity to understand, and by the power of reason I am granted a sliver of the Divine. I do not need to react with my gut, I can respond through my head. I do not need to condemn, I can accept. I do not need to hate, I can love.
It is reason that allows me to rise above Fortune. Reason is mightier than any city wall. Reason is the solution to the griping and the bickering.
—Reflection written in 10/2013
IMAGE: Anonymous, City Walls of Rome Seen from the Countryside (c. 1840)
Friday, January 10, 2025
Sayings of Ramakrishna 258
A man, after fourteen years of hard asceticism in a lonely forest, obtained at last the power of walking over the waters.
Overjoyed at this acquisition, he went to his Guru, and told him of his grand feat.
At this the Master replied, "My poor boy, what you have accomplished after fourteen years' arduous labor, ordinary men do the same by paying a penny to the boatman."
IMAGE by Lily Seika Jones
Stockdale on Stoicism 47
Epictetus said: "Men, the lecture-room of the philosopher is a hospital; students ought not to walk out of it in pleasure, but in pain."
If Epictetus 's lecture room was a hospital, my prison was a laboratory—a laboratory of human behavior. I chose to test his postulates against the demanding real-life challenges of my laboratory.
I'm not talking about brainwashing; there is no such thing. I'm talking about having looked over the brink, and seen the bottom of the pit, and realizing the truth of that linchpin of Stoic thought: that the thing that brings down a man is not pain but shame!
—from James B. Stockdale, Master of My Fate: A Stoic Philosopher in a Hanoi Prison
IMAGE: Rembrandt, St. Peter in Prison (1631)
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Thursday, January 9, 2025
Stoic Snippets 255
The Pythagoreans bid us in the morning look to the heavens that we may be reminded of those bodies which continually do the same things and in the same manner perform their work, and also be reminded of their purity and nudity. For there is no veil over a star.
—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 11.27
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