Book 4, Letter 21, To Cicero, on Happiness

Dear Cicero,

This may be my last letter for some time. Everything has its beginning and its end, and now, having finished reading your Tusculan Disputations, I feel that I must leave you in your tomb for a while. I still have your books on the Republic, and the Laws to read, as well as your speeches, and your books on oratory, but I feel that for a time, I must pause in writing these letters to you, and instead focus my attentions on the needs of the living for a time. I will probably write to you again. Who am I kidding, I will definitely write again.

Today I wanted to talk to you about something written by our mutual friend, Plato. For me, the study of philosophy is primarily concerned with the pursuit of happiness. I feel this way because so often, happiness is something that I pursue, but fail to catch, and many days are wasted in the weariness of the pursuit, and in my failure to live up to my own expectations.

So it was, in the fifth book of your Tusculan Disputations, that I find this quote from Plato, taken from Menexenus 247e:

The man who is entirely self-sufficient as regards all the necessary ingredients for leading a happy life, so that these do no in any way depend on other people's good or bad luck or dangle at the uncertain mercy of someone else's fortune – he is the person who has found the right way to live. He has done so by making himself an exemplar of moderation, courage and wisdom. Such a man, as his possessions wax and wane and his children are born and die, will obediently submit to the ancient maxim which directs him to avoid extremes either of joy or grief: for he will always limit his hopes to the things his own unaided efforts can achieve.

I have been reading a modern Japanese author, Fumitage Koga, and in his book The courage to be disliked, he explores the ideas of Alfred Adler, through a Platonic style dialogue with Ichiro Kishimi, and expounds upon the notion of The separation of Tasks, and the idea that all happiness is based upon interpersonal relationships. Certainly, a great majority of my own happiness and despair stems from the joys and failures of my relationships. I am tied to the happiness of my family as a sailor who cannot swim is bound to his ship, and I find my whole life swells and pitches with their favours and fortunes. My own errors in behaviour have been the cause of terrible and prolonged unhappiness, and the disrupting influence of this upon my relationships has given me cause to abandon sound reason, and to rely upon so many externals to provide for my happiness. I have failed to apply myself adequately to the task of my own happiness and self understanding.

My own happiness has long seemed to be beyond my ability to achieve, burdened as I am by shame, guilt and remorse – all forms of grief I suppose, as I stumble from injury to insult, driven half mad by the certain belief that I am rotten to the core, and capable of doing no good in the world. Many days I wake with the mantra in my mind – it doesn't matter what I think, I'm wrong. Many evenings I go to bed reminding myself that I am stupid, and that I am responsible for all the calamities of my life, calamities born of my stupidity, and my inability to accept the world as it truly is.

So I read your books, Cicero; On Duties, On Friendship, on the Nature of the Gods, and finally, the last book of your Tusculan Disputations: Whether virtue alone be sufficient for a happy life, but I find in study of this kind, only a continued confusion, as opinion heaps upon opinion, and my mind spins dizzily with conflicting ideas.

However, the book by Fumitage Koga, has been offering me some new pathways to explore, in particular, regarding the way in which I relate to traumatic experiences, and the responsibility I must take on to provide for my own happiness. This brings me back to the Plato quote, for he will always limit his hopes to the things his own unaided efforts can achieve. A great deal of my daily stress and anxiety stems from being concerned with the outcome of events beyond my control, including (but not limited to) my ability to make others happy. Having brought so much unhappiness into the world, I live in a very tense way, afraid to act out of fear that I will cause further unhappiness through my ignorant actions. I have resisted my own happiness, convinced that I do not deserve to feel good about myself, and, unable to feel that my actions have received adequate punishment, I am incapable of feeling redeemed or forgiven for my mistakes.

I hang onto every bad deed, reminding myself daily of my mistakes, knowing that to forget them or to forgive myself, is to open myself to repeating the same sins. I know that this method of self flagellation is counter-productive, but lifelong habits are hard to break.

Oh Cicero, I am sounding like my life is full of complaints and that I am immune to good advice, (and sometimes I do feel that way), but I acknowledge that these troubles are but a portion of my life, which is also crowded with joys and triumphs. As usual, you have something to say that strikes to the heart of the matter for me:

Tusculan Disputations

Book IV (On other perturbations of the mind) , XXXVII

Where, then, are they who say that anger has its use? Can madness be of any use? But still, it is natural. Can anything be natural that is against reason? Or how is it, if anger is natural, that one person is more inclined to anger than another? Or that lust of revenge should cease before it has revenged itself? Or that any one should repent of what he had done in a passion? (…) Now who that is acquainted with these instances can doubt that this motion of the mind is altogether in opinion and voluntary? For who can doubt that disorders of the mind, such as covetousness and a desire of glory, arise from a great estimation of those things by which the mind is disordered? From whence we may understand that every perturbation of the mind is founded in opinion. And if boldness – that is to say a firm assurance of mind - is a kind of knowledge and serious opinion not hastily taken up, then diffidence is a fear of an expected and impending evil; and if hope is an expectation of good, fear must, of course, be an expectation of evil. Thus fear and other perturbations are evils. Therefore as constancy proceeds from knowledge, so does perturbation from error.

So, Cicero, it is fear of myself, and a desire for revenge upon myself for my own misdeeds that has driven me to a kind of madness; a madness that I have long believed to be of great use but now I see is just another of the many great errors of my unreasoned belief in my own inherent vice. My own voluntary opinions have driven me past the edge of self harm, and now, dwelling in the dark valley of vacillating diffidence, I fear myself. I trust not in my own good intentions, I trust not in my own opinions, memories or senses, but tremble daily in fear of another eruption of disputes, within and without.

Where, Cicero, must I go to seek this boldness, this firm assurance of mind, this constancy of which you speak?

Of course, I must seek it in the only place it could possibly dwell.

In myself.

Thank you Cicero, for the two and a half years of our correspondence. I will continue to read your works, adhering to my promise to read everything you have written, but for the remainder of the Summer, I will keep still my pen, and work on myself.

With Gratitude, and Respect.

Morgan.

PS. I have now read the full text of Plato's Menexenus, and I have to ask, do you find Plato as funny as I do? I feel like I'm swimming through layers of satire and Athenian cultural tropes. It's hard to say for sure if Plato is telling a huge political joke. The translator of the work suggests that it is meant to be a scathing parody of conservative Athenian attitudes, and I feel like he is right, but I just don't know for sure If I'm meant to be laughing, crying, or cheering.

Perhaps that's the point?

PPS. I have just read your speech in support of Pompey's appointment to be commander of the Mithridatic War. I admit I've never understood your admiration and adoration for Pompey, but now that I have read this speech, I can see him better from your perspective. The speech actually explains a lot about the political and military history, customs and beliefs, in Rome at the time.

PPPS. I have just read the first two speeches against Catiline. WOW! Hot stuff. There are some amazing phrases and rather revealing hate-speech in these. Fascinating to see your society through the language you use in a public speech, and how different your manner of expression when addressing the public assembly, or the Senate. Even small passages of text loom large for what they illuminate. I'm quite excited to finally be reading your speeches.

I'll write again in Autumn.

Always grateful, ever thankful,

Morgan.

 

(Also, a few pictures, from my world to yours...)

Book 4, Letter 20 To Dad: Lessons in failure

 

Dear Dad,

I have these things to comfort me. Tonight I am wearing your brown cap and your red woollen poncho. I am sitting in your wooden rocking chair, I am drinking your whiskey and I am reading Plutarch. I wear your rings on a chain around my neck. These things are like magic items, and though I have not felt visibly grieved at your passing, I find myself slumping at odd moments, leaning against the wall or doorway, as if my strength has suddenly slipped from me. I sense your absence, and I feel that part of me that relied upon you, that relied upon your strength...

Your strength is my strength now.

You are nowhere, but you are in me.

The good and the bad.

Your strength and your weakness.

Your confidence and your doubt.

I move with a matured slowness and certainty. My music sounds richer, warmer. Old songs are new again in my hands. New poems pour through me, and new stories. My beard is growing, flecked with white, and I am proud of these snowflakes upon the mountain of my face. Our face.

It doesn't feel like loss, this grief is more like growth. Though I cry, though I collapse, though I am drinking more than I should and feeling both lost and adventurous, I rise each day, myself, only more so.

But...

I am reminded often, that all your kindness towards me, is mirrored black in your hurtfulness towards others. I was the lucky one, to know you as I did, as your son. You raised me to stand up to you, and you rewarded me when I did. This was not the case with others. I am sorry for them, that you felt the need to control them, to dominate, to terrify and hurt, when you gave me so much encouragement.

You who slew a tyrant, became a tyrant, and I loved you.

I love you still.

A man's legacy lives on in the hearts of those who knew him, and there is a shadow now spilling out through the tears of your children. But I will not paint your portrait black with their hurt, and I will not paint it white with my admiration. I only want to draw upon the truth, and with my artful words, to tell the world who you were.

I have been reading On Liberty, by John Stewart Mill. I found it on your bookshelf, and today I read this, which I must share with you.

Mankind can hardly be too often reminded that there was once a man named Socrates, between whom and the legal authorities and public opinion of his time there took place a memorable collision. Born in an age and country abounding in individual greatness, this man has been handed down to us by those who best knew both him and the age as the most virtuous man in it ; while we know him as the head and prototype of all subsequent teachers of virtue, the source equally of the lofty inspiration of Plato and the judicious utilitarianism of Aristotle, “i maestri di color che sanno,” the two headsprings of ethical as of all other philosophy. This acknowledged master of all the eminent thinkers who have since lived – whose fame, still growing after more than two thousand years, all but outweighs the whole remainder of the names which make his native city illustrious – was put to death by his countrymen, after a judicial conviction, for impiety and imorality. Impiety, in denying the gods recognised by the State ; indeed, his accuser asserted that he believed in no gods at all. Immorality, in being, by his doctrines and instructions, a “corrupter of youth.” Of these charges the tribunal, there is every ground for believing, honestly found him guilty, and condemned the man who probably of all then born had deserved the best of mankind to be put to death as a criminal.

Though we strive to be good men, we always fall short of our idealistic goals. You are the reason I know about Socrates, and though I strive to be a virtuous man, life is never shy in offering lessons in failure.

I have so much I still want to say to you Dad, and now I have all eternity to say it. I will see you under another sunrise.

With gratitude, respect and above all, love,

Your son, Morgan.

Book 4, Letter 19, part 2 of 2, to Cicero, discussing the disputations, on the subject of death and happiness

 

So Cicero, you claim that all that remained was to contend with fortune? Is there something in your words that can summarise this book and your purpose in writing it?

But death truly is then met with the greatest tranquillity when the dying man can comfort himself with his own praise.

Cicero, you must have sensed that your death was at hand. Mark Antony was not a man to be insulted or opposed without blood being shed. You had divorced your wife, re-married, divorced again, lost your treasured daughter and her baby in childbirth. You had lost your beloved Republic along with so many of your friends, all dead and buried in a seemingly endless civil war, what more was there for you but to comfort your dying pillow with your own praise?

 

Ciero's Tomb

I think of course about my own Father, and of his final days, and what comfort he found in the company of his son and grandson, and in the films we watched, and in the food we shared, and in the stories we told. My father in so many ways is like you Cicero, worthy of both praise and censure, and making a summary of a person's life, measuring the balance of their heart against the weight of a feather, is an impossible task for a mortal. That conversation is a private concern between you and Hades, so to speak.

When I stood with my sister and wrapped my father's body in a white burial shroud, placing two gold pennies over his eyes to pay his way into the afterlife, I felt the weight of my heart, and the gravity of our actions.

When I wrote his eulogy, I knew a moment of happiness to be praising him, and to name his demons and his sins, along with his triumphs and great deeds. I knew happiness, to see the end of all his problems, knowing, as you put it Cicero, that either the dead are insensible to the pains of mortal life, and thus must be happy, or the dead are insensible even to their own existence, in which place they are also, insensible to pain. My father suffered in his last years, his body wracked with pain and seizures and his eyes darkening into blindness, but he suffered through it smiling.

Smiling, with his shrine to depression upon the bookshelf. His books on mythology lined up behind all his black dog figurines.

Cerberus, lord over them all.

Cicero, Hell is not in the afterlife, it is now. It is everywhere. It burns in our hearts and minds and makes ill our good intentions. It tears down our good works and breaks up our great loves and all the while it seems to laugh at us. God is envious of human prosperity and likes to trouble us; or perhaps it also speaks truth to say that we like to trouble ourselves.

We keep our black dogs hungry and howling and we chain ourselves to their post; growing thinner every year we let silence become our legacy, as, smothered in fear, we do not speak the words that could grant us that tranquillity promised only to the dead. Diverted from the path of virtue, we suffer alone alone alone.

What customs could have compelled me to speak with my father more about these black dogs we both keep? What opinions kept us from speaking as openly as we could? What Hyrkanian dogs tore at us both while we sat in the half shade of our half truths, only half revealing ourselves, scared of love, scared of the dogs. I can feel the bright light of all my secrets shining out through the cracks in my facade, and I open my face, almost ready to laugh. Finally ready to cry.

I am a storyteller, I tell stories, and if, by the good grace of fortune, I sometimes manage to speak the truth as well, then I hope that one day, when my time is done, I might be counted among the happy.

Or at least,

the lucky.

Today, Cicero, I feel lucky to have known you.

With gratitude and respect,

Morgan.

Book 4, Letter 19, part 1 of 2, to Cicero, discussing the disputations, on the subject of death and happiness

 

Dear Cicero,

This book of yours, these Tusculan Disputations, are difficult to start talking about. Section by section you say so much, on so many topics; so tonight, leafing through my rather cheap, and already falling apart paperback edition, I found what you had to say on the differing burial customs of other cultures. Since my father's death...well, there's a lot going on and I think about death every day. One must be prepared for death, in order to truly live.

Book 1: On contempt of death

XLV

The Egyptians embalm their dead, and keep them in their houses; the Persians dress them over with wax, and then bury them, that they may preserve their bodies as long as possible. It is customary with the the Magi to bury none of their order unless they have been first torn by wild beasts. In Hyrcania, the people maintain dogs for the public use; the nobles have their own – and we know that they have a good breed of dogs; but every one, according to his ability, provides himself with some, in order to be torn by them, and they hold that to be the best kind of investment...

...But the living, indeed, should consider what is due to custom and opinion; only they should at the same time consider that the dead are no-ways interested in it. But death truly is then met with the greatest tranquillity when the dying man can comfort himself with his own praise. No one dies too soon who has finished the course of perfect virtue. I myself have known many occasions when I have seemed in danger of immediate death; oh! How I wish it had come for me! For I have gained nothing by the delay. I had gone over and over again the duties of life; nothing remained but to contend with fortune.

'I have gained nothing by the delay.' Now Cicero, I know that you have read Herodotus and that you know the story of King Croesus. I have had that story running through my mind a lot this week. Call no man happy till he die, is a simple way to summarise the whole thing, but I feel you would appreciate an actual quote, so I shall fetch my deSelincourt translation. (Herodotus Histories, Book 1, Sect 30-33)

Solon visited the richest king in the land, Croesus, and having been given the grand tour of all the king's treasures, Croesus asked Solon:

'Well my Athenian friend, I have heard a great deal about your wisdom, and how widely you have travelled in the pursuit of knowledge. I cannot resist my desire to ask you a question: who is the happiest man you have ever seen?'

The point of the question was that Croesus supposed himself to be he happiest of men. Solon, however, refused to flatter, and answered in strict accordance with his view of the truth. 'An Athenian,' he said, 'called Tellus.'

Croesus was taken aback. 'And what,' he asked sharply, 'is your reason for this choice?'

'There are two good reasons,' said Solon, 'first, his city was prosperous, and he had fine sons, and lived to see children born to each of them, and all these children surviving: secondly, he had wealth enough by our standards and he had a glorious death. In battle with the neighbouring town of Eleusis, he fought for his countrymen, routed the enemy, and died like a soldier; and the Athenians paid him the high honour of a public funeral on the spot where he fell.'

All these details about the happiness of Tellus, Solon doubtless intended as a moral lesson for the king; Croesus, however, thinking he would at least be awarded second prize, asked who was the next happiest person whom Solon had seen.

'Two young me of Argos,' was the reply; 'Cleobis and Biton. They had enough to live on comfortably; and their physical strength is proved not merely by their success in athletics, but much more by the following incident. The Argives were celebrating the festival of Hera, and it was most important that the mother of the two young men should drive to the temple in her ox-cart; but it so happened that the oxen were late in coming back from the fields. Her two sons therefore, as their was not time to loose, harnessed themselves to the cart and dragged it along, with their mother inside, for a distance of nearly six miles, until they reached the temple. After this exploit, which was witnessed by the assembled crowd, they had a most enviable death – a heaven-sent proof of how much better it is to be dead than alive. Men kept crowding around them and congratulating them on their strength, and women kept telling the mother how lucky she was to have such sons, when, in sheer pleasure at this pleasure at this public recognition of her sons' act, she prayed to the goddess Hera, before whose shrine she stood, to grant Cleobis and Biton, who had brought her such honour, the greatest blessing that can fall to mortal man.

'After her prayer came the ceremonies of sacrifice and feasting; and the two lads, when all was over, fell asleep in the temple – and that was the end of them, for they never woke again.'

Croesus was vexed with Solon for giving the second prize for happiness to the two young Argives, and snapped out: 'That's all very well, my Athenian friend; but what of my own happiness? Is it so utterly contemptible that you won't even compare me with mere common folk like those you have mentioned?'

'My lord,' replied Solon, 'I know God is envious of human prosperity and likes to trouble us; and you question me about the lot of man. Listen then: as the years lengthen out there is much both to see and to suffer which we would wish otherwise. Take seventy years as the span of a man's life: those seventy years contain...26, 250 days, and not a single one is like the next in what it brings. You can see from that, Croesus, what a chancy thing life is. You are very rich, and you rule a numerous people; but the question you asked me I will not answer, until I know that you have died happily. Great wealth can make a man no happier than moderate means, unless he has the luck to continue in prosperity to the end. Many very rich men have been unfortunate, and many with a modest competence have had good luck. The former are better off than the latter in two respects only, whereas the poor lucky man has the advantage in many ways; for thought the rich have means to satisfy their appetites and to bear calamities, and the poor have not, the poor, if they are lucky, are more likely to keep clear of trouble, and will have besides the blessings of a sound body, health, freedom from trouble, fine children, and good looks.

'Now if a man thus favoured dies as he has lived, he will be just the one you are looking for: the only sort of person who deserves to be called happy. But mark this: until he is dead, keep the word “happy” in reserve. Till then, he is not happy, but only lucky.

Book 4, Letter 18, part 2 of 2, to Cicero, on the final letters

 

Now Cicero, this is the last letter preserved for us.  A letter from your friend L Munatius Plancus.

DCCCCXI (f x, 24) 

From: LUCIUS MUNATIUS PLANCUS  - TO CICERO (AT ROME) 

Camp near Cularo, 28 July 

I cannot refrain from thanking you in view of the course of events and of your services. But, by heaven ! I blush to do it. For an intimacy as close as that which you have wished me to have with you seems not to require any formal thanks, nor do I willingly pay the poor recompense of words in return for your supreme kindness, and I would rather, when we meet, prove my gratitude by my respect, my obedience to your wishes, and my constant attentions. But if to live on is my fate, in this same respect, obedience to your wishes, and constant attentions, I will surpass all your beloved friends and even your devoted relatives. For whether your affection for me and your opinion of me are likely to bring me greater reputation in perpetuity or greater daily pleasure, I should find it hard to decide. 

You have concerned yourself as to the bounties to the soldiers ; whom I wished to be rewarded by the senate, not to enhance my own power — for I am conscious of entertaining no thoughts except for the common benefit — but first of all, because in my opinion they deserved it ; next, because I wished them to be still more closely attached to the Republic in view of all eventualities ; and lastly, in order that I might guarantee their continuing as completely proof against all attempts to tamper with their loyalty, as they have been up to this time. 

As yet we have kept everything here in status quo. And this policy of ours, though I know how eager men are and with reason for a decisive victory, is yet, I hope, approved of by you. For if any disaster happens to these armies, the Republic has no great forces in reserve to resist any sudden 

attack or raid of the parricides. The amount of our forces I presume is known to you. In my camp there are three legions of veterans, one of recruits perhaps the finest of all : in the camp of Decimus Brutus there is one veteran legion, a second of two-years'-service men, eight of recruits. There- 

fore the whole force taken together is very strong in numbers, in stamina inferior. For how much it is safe to trust to raw levies in the field we have had too frequent experience. To the strength of these armies of ours, if there was added either the African army which consists of veterans, or that of Caesar, we should hazard the safety of the Republic on a battle without any uneasiness. Now, as 

to Caesar, we see that he is considerably the nearer of the two. I have therefore never ceased importuning him by letter, and he has uniformly replied that he is coming without delay : while all the time I perceive that he has given up that idea and has taken up some other scheme. Nevertheless, I have sent our friend Furnius ' to him with a message and a letter, in case he may be able to do some good. 

You know, my dear Cicero, that in regard to love for Caesar you and I are partners, either because, being one of Iulius Caesar's intimates, I was obliged — while he was alive — to look after the boy and shew him affection ; or because he was himself, as far as I could make out, of a very orderly and kindly disposition ; or because, after such a re- markable friendship as existed between me and Iulius Caesar, it seems discreditable that I should not regard as a son one who was adopted into that position by his decision and by that of your house alike.  Yet after all — and whatever I write to you I write rather in sorrow than in anger — the fact that Antony is alive to-day, that Lepidus is with him, that they have far from contemptible armies, that they are hopeful and bold — for all these they may thank Caesar.  

I will not go back to old matters, but from the moment that he gave out that he was coming to me, if he had chosen to come, the war would at once have either been put an end to, or, to their very great loss, have been thrust back into Spain, which is most hostile in sentiment to them. , What idea or whose advice has withdrawn him from such great glory, which was at the same time required by his interests and needful for his safety, and has turned his attention to the thought of a two-months' consulship, entailing a great and general panic, and demanded in a peremptory and offensive manner — I cannot conjecture. It seems to me that in this matter his relations could exercise considerable influence both for his sake and for that of the Republic : most of all, as I think, could you also do so, since he is more obliged to you than anyone else is except myself — for I shall never forget that the obligations I owe you are exceedingly great and numerous. I commissioned Furnius to urge these considerations upon him. But if I prove to have as great an influence with him as I ought to have, I shall have done him a great service himself.

Meanwhile we are maintaining the war at a disadvantage, because we do not think an engagement the safest solution of the difficulty, and yet will not allow the Republic to suffer greater loss by our retirement. But if either Caesar has bethought himself, or the African legions have come promptly, we will relieve you of anxiety on this side. I beg you to continue to honour me with your regard, and to believe that I am peculiarly at your service. 

Cicero, it is Plancus' use of the the phrase: 'As yet we have kept everything here in status quo', that highlights the failure of your whole cause.  I say frequently that change is the only law of nature.  If maintaining the old order was truly the goal of the Loyalists, then the cause was doomed from the start.  I think that all we poor mortals can ever hope to do, is to steer the course of change.  We cannot stop the river from flowing.  We cannot return to an imagined time when the world was somehow magically better than it is now. I am beginning the think that there is no such thing as the ancient world, but rather all that there has ever been is the world.  The conflicts of your time are pretty much the same as in my own era, and from where I sit, those who are trying to maintain the status quo, or to make our country great again, are living in a terribly deluded state that causes great harm to all involved.

Yet there is something inspiring in Plancus' kind words regarding your friendship, and perhaps even more in his obvious continued loyalty to Iulius Caesar.  This is something I have written about before, your friendships with people on the opposite side of politics.  I have failed of late to imitate your virtue in this regard.  The modern conflicts in politics are terrible, and I have not been able to keep the peace between my divided friendships.  Civil war has not yet begun, but I can smell it on the wind.

But Cicero, as Plancus said to you:

I beg you to continue to honour me with your regard, and to believe that I am peculiarly at your service. 

I continue to honour you with my regard.

With my gratitude and my respect.

Morgan.

Book 4, Letter 18, part 1 of 2, on the final letters

 

Dear Cicero,

I finished reading all your letters yesterday. Today is Father's Day here in Australia. (I wrote this letter back in September, 2020). It feels symbolic, but I'm not sure how. I can feel my relationship with you changing, as all relationships do. I've lived with you as my constant companion for over two years now, you have been the yardstick of my daily life, and though I still have two of your books and some of your speeches to read, I can see the edge of destiny approaching. I set out to read every single piece of your writing, and to document my journey through these letters, and with you at my side, I have studied many other writers, a great deal of whom you introduced me to. I had not read Aristotle until you recommended him. I had not read any of the Greek plays until you insisted I at least read Medea. I read Caesar to get the other side of the story. I read Lucretius and Xenophon, both on your recommendation, and although Plato really needs no introduction, I took heed of your praise of him, and have begun my quest through his works. I discovered Stoic philosophy through you, and through that connection, I discovered Marcus Aurelius, Epictetus and Seneca.

All this, because of you, dear Cicero, and though I can see the day approaching when I shall have read all of your works, I cannot see a time when I shall not need you as my friend, and books once read, are better learned through second reading. Each piece of new knowledge seems to build upon the next, and with the passing of years, comes the maturation of my own wisdom and the accumulated bounty of awareness that comes from continued study. Awareness both of the vastness of my own ignorance, and of the dazzling pearls of knowledge granted me by all the ancient authors I am reading.

The last two letters extant, are one from you to M Brutus, and one from Munatius Plancus to you, Cicero.

DCCCCX (BRUT. 1, 18)

TO M. IUNIUS BRUTUS (IN MACEDONIA)

Rome, 27 July

After I had often urged you by letter to come as soon as possible to the aid of the state, and to bring your army into Italy, and when I thought that your relatives had no doubt on that subject, I was asked by that most prudent and careful lady your mother — whose every thought and care are

directed and devoted to you — to call on her on the 24th of July, which, as in duty bound, I at once did. On my arrival, I found Casca, Labeo, and Scaptius there. Well, she opened the subject and asked me my opinion, whether we should ask you to come to Italy, and whether we thought that to your advantage, or whether it were better that you should put it off and stay where you were. I answered — as was my real opinion — that it was of the highest advantage to your position and reputation to bring help at the first possible moment to the tottering and almost prostrate Republic. For what disaster do you think is wanting in a war, in which the victorious armies refuse to pursue a flying enemy, and in which an officer with imperium in full possession of his rights, enjoying the most splendid honours and the most ample fortune, with wife and children, with you and Cassius related to him by marriage, has yet proclaimed war on the Republic?

How can I use the words "in such unanimity of senate and people," when such fatal mischief

abides within our very walls? But the bitterest sorrow which is affecting me as I write this is that, whereas the Republic accepted me as a surety for that youth, or, I might almost say, that boy, I seem scarcely able to make my promise good. Truly, a guarantee for another's feeling and sentiment, especially in affairs of the greatest importance, is more onerous and difficult than one for money. For money can be paid, and a loss of property is bearable. But how are you to make good what you have guaranteed to the state, unless he for whom you undertook the obligation is willing that it should be fulfilled ? 'However, I shall retain even him, I hope, in spite of many adverse influences. For he seems to have a character of his own, though he is at the pliable time of life, and there are many prepared to corrupt him, who hope that, by holding out before him the glamour of false honour,' the sight of a naturally good intelligence may be blinded. Accordingly, to my other labours has been added the task of applying every engine to the keeping of a hold upon the young man, that I may not incur a reputation for rashness. However, where is the rashness ? I bound the man, for whom I gave the guarantee, more tightly than I did myself ; nor can the state regret my having given a guarantee for one who in the actual campaign was rendered more resolute by my promise, as well as from his own disposition. But, unless I am mistaken, the greatest difficulty in the Republic is the want of money. For the loyalists grow daily more callous to the call for property tax. All that was collected by the one per cent, income tax, owing to the shameless returns made by the wealthy, is exhausted by the bounties given to two legions : whereas endless expenses are hanging over us, both for the armies now protecting us, and for yours — for our friend Cassius seems able to come home very well provided. But of this and many other things I desire to talk to you when we meet, and that as soon as possible. About your sister's sons, Brutus, I did not wait for you to write. As a matter of fact, the state of the times itself — for the war will be protracted — guarantees that

the case will be left for you to decide. But from the very first, though I could not divine the long continuance of the war, I pleaded the cause of the boys in the senate, as I think you can have learnt from your mother's letter. Nor will there ever arise any circumstance in which I shall not, even

at the risk of my life, say and do whatever I think is your wish and to your interest.

Oh Cicero, how your grim fate seems reflected in the grim subject of your letter. We know well that your faith in Augustus was misplaced, at least, that is how the historians describe it. But I wonder now, if your misplaced trust is not a sign of your dedication to an honourable method of living that was long at odds with the realpolitik? I think now that I can admire you for believing in the beautiful lie of hope, now that in my own day and age, such a belief seems the only way to maintain myself in the face of the realpolitik of 2020. Yet, in the case of the Roman Republic, its time was done. The rot of corruption and oppression was everywhere...I don't need to go on about it, you know how it all turned out.

I am probably projecting my presentism, (as the historians put it), onto your experience. I am probably seeking a parallel where none exists, but you are my friend, and I place my hope and trust in you Cicero, in the belief that you were a good man, and a useful guide for me now, on my own path seeking virtue.

Book 4, Letter 17, to Seneca, on getting help

 

Dear Seneca,

You've been a good friend to me for a couple years, and now, more than ever I have need of your advice. Late at night, with my guts churning with anxiety and stress, I open the little red book, volume one of your letters to Lucilius, Epistle 50; on our blindness and its cure.

You know Harpaste, my wife's female clown; she has remained in my house, a burden from a legacy. I particularly disapprove of these freaks; whenever I wish to enjoy the quips of a clown, I am not compelled to hunt far; I can laugh at myself. Now this clown suddenly became blind. She keeps asking her attendant to change her quarters; she says that her apartments are too dark.

You can see clearly that that which makes us smile in the case of Harpaste happens to all the rest of us; nobody understands that he is himself greedy, or that he is covetous. Yet the blind ask for a guide, while we wander without one, saying: “I am not self-seeking; but one cannot live at Rome in any other way. I am not extravagant, but mere living in the city demands a great outlay. It is not my fault that I have a choleric disposition, or that I have not settled down to any definite scheme of life; it is due to my youth.” Why do we deceive ourselves? The evil that afflicts us is not external, it is within us, situated in our very vitals; for that reason we attain soundness with all the more difficulty, because we do not know that we are diseased.

Suppose that we have begun the cure; when shall we throw off all these diseases, with al their virulence? At present, we do not even consult the physician, whose work would be easier if he were called in when the complaint was in its early stages. The tender and the inexperienced minds would follow his advice if he pointed out the right way. No man finds it difficult to return to nature, except the man who has deserted nature. We blush to receive instruction in sound sense; but, by Heaven, if we think it base to seek a teacher of this art, we should also abandon any hope that so great a good could be instilled into us by mere chance.

No, we must work. To tell the truth, even the work is not great, if only, as I said, we begin to mould and reconstruct our souls before they are hardened by sin. But I do not despair even of a hardened sinner. There is nothing that will not surrender to persistent treatment, to concentrated and careful attention; however much the timber may be bent, you can make it straight again. Heat unbends curved beams, and wood that grew naturally in another shape is fashioned artificially according to our needs. How much more easily does the soul permit itself to be shaped, pliable as it is and more yielding than any liquid! For what else is the soul that air in a certain state? And you see that air is more adaptable than any other matter, in proportion as it is rarer than any other.

There is nothing, Lucilius, to hinder you from entertaining good hopes about us, just because we are even now in the grip of evil, or because we have been possessed thereby. There is no man to whom a good mind comes before an evil one. It is the evil mind that gets first hold on all of us. Learning virtue means unlearning vice. We should therefore proceed to the task of freeing ourselves from faults with all the more courage because, when once committed to us, the good is an everlasting possession; virtue is not unlearned.

So, the bit about the elderly clown living in your house is fantastic. The general image we moderns have of you is one of your high society life, both austere and extravagant (contradictory as that image is), but to know that you had a retired clown living with you complicates and completes the picture in my mind. There is something so casual about the lessons you deliver, and it separates you from the other philosophers in an important way.

It is easier to admit your wisdom into my life, when you deliver it to me as a friend.

But the lesson, Seneca, is what is most important.

Your recommendation for seeking therapy, or at least, wise guidance in life, is exactly what I needed to hear. For we are not born with all the knowledge necessary to live well and easily. We must seek elders to lead the way, we must seek assistance, or we will fall into every hole the road presents us with. For a long time I have avoided therapists, for a variety of reasons that have all seemed rational at the time, but which now seem like the brittle armour of a fragile ego.

Not any more.

I have reached a point where I need more than what dead philosophers can offer. The evil in my soul has festered long enough, and now I must seek the help I should have sought when I was young.

But, today, in my fortieth year, it is the dead who convinced me to make this transition.

So, thank you Seneca. Your friendship is so important to me, and your wisdom is always of benefit.

With Gratitude and Respect,

Morgan.

Book 4, Letter 16, Part 3 of 3 To Xenophon, on monuments

 

Just when there seemed hope for peace between Sparta and Athens, that's when Thebes leaps into the fray. The reasons are complex and stupid, just like so many pre-conditions of war. I don't want to get into that here. Your book, though only a fraction of the size of Thucydides, is long enough, and after a while, reading about the seemingly endless conflicts becomes exhausting. When Thebes entered the war I outwardly groaned, worn out by the killing, corruption, greed, valour, heroism, lies, rivalries and propaganda. Now that I have finished the book, I am still tired of it. I have turned to reading comic books and I have begun reading a study guide to Plato's Republic, just to clear my head of this war that seems to have no end.

Yet, inside this horror story, I found a monument to tragedy that perhaps sums up the whole conflict.

The Thebans were about to go into battle against the Spartans (Bk 6, Ch 4, Sec 7).

They (The Thebans) also found a certain encouragement in the oracle which says that the Spartans must suffer a defeat at the place where stands the monument to the virgins who are supposed to have killed themselves because they had been raped by some Spartans. So the Thebans put garlands on this monument before the battle.

I have never heard of such a thing in the ancient world, so I asked Ryan Stitt, author of the History of Ancient Greece podcast, about this monument. He likewise had not heard of anything similar, but recommended I read about Lucretia in Rome. So I went digging. I found that two writers whom I have not yet read, record the story of Lucretia, and, having a budding interest in the founding myths of Rome, was delighted to have found my way via this story.

Livy, Dio, and Dionysius of Halicarnassus both tell of the rape of Lucretia. A rape which sparked a revolution, and saw the birth of the Roman Republic. When Lucretia told people that she had been raped, she then killed herself, saying, I shall act in a manner which is fitting for me; you, if you are men, and if you care for your wives and children, exact vengeance on my behalf and free your selves and show the tyrants what sort of woman they outraged, and what sort of men were her menfolk!

Lucretia (Wiki)

Today I remember Eurydice Dixon. 19 year old Eurydice, comedian and actress, who was raped and murdered at Melbourne's Princes Park, on the 12^th of June, 2018. The man who destroyed her, Jaymes Todd, handed himself in to police after CCTV footage of him was released and was convicted and sentenced to 35 years in prison. On the 18^th of June, 10,000 people gathered in vigil in her honour at Princes Park, attended by the State Premier, Daniel Andrews. On the morning of the vigil, the floral tributes laid at the site of her rape and murder were vandalised by Andrew Nolch, who was later sentenced for vandalism.

Eurydice Dixon

Euryidice Dixon (Wiki link)

My first letter to Eurydice (2018)

No monument was built in her honour, and no revolution followed.

But today I remember her. Today we remember her.

Thank you Xenophon. I am glad to be reminded of difficult truths, and though I close your book, you story lives on in my mind, and in the world all around me. All around us.

With gratitude and respect

Morgan.

Book 4, Letter 16, Part 2 of 3 To Xenophon, on rivalries, memoirs and monuments

 

So Xenophon, you wrote about Lysander like you knew him personally, and you probably did, so it might interest you to learn how he was remembered by Plutarch, who lived about 600 years after Lysander. I have always loved Plutarch's writings. Like you, Xenophon, he is accused of never letting the facts get in the way of a good story, but Plutarch is also credited with having access to, and making extensive use of, a great many library records in Greece and Rome. Plutarch's histories are generally well regarded, but we refer to them as Historiographies, since Plutarch, like you Xenophon, was interested in stories from a person's life and how they represented character in regards to their virtues or vices.

So, I will cherry pick from a few of Plutarch's statements about Lysander.

Lysander is said to have had long hair and a beard, a fashion which began with another famous Spartan named Lycurgus. He is reported to have said that a fine head of hair makes handsome men look more handsome and ugly men more terrifying. Herodotus recounts that the 300 Spartans, when preparing to do battle against the Persians at the Hot Gates, combed their hair and their beards, and did exercises on the beach. Xeonophon, in my life I have had long hair and short hair, I have dredlocked it and decorated it with shells and beads and coloured cloth, and at differing times of my life it has made me look more handsome or more terrifying, dependent upon who was casting judgement. I think it was Timothy Leary (the modern era author) who said that long hair is a sign of a free man. I can neither confirm or deny such a statement.

However, back to Plutarch...

The Spartans expect their boys from the very first to be intensely conscious of public opinion, to take any censure deeply to heart as well as to exult in praise, and anyone who remains indifferent or fails to respond to these sentiments is despised as a spiritless clod, utterly lacking in any desire to excel. This kind of ambition and competitive spirit, then, had been firmly planted in Lysander by his Spartan training, and it would be unfair to blame his natural disposition too much in this respect. On the other hand he seems to have displayed an inborn obsequiousness to the great such as one would not expect to find in a Spartan, and to have been willing to bear the arrogance of those in authority for the sake of achieving his own ends, a quality which some people regard as a great part of political capacity. Aristotle, (Problems, XXX, 1) when he observes that great natures, such as those of Socrates, Plato, and Heracle, are especially prone to melancholy, notes that Lysander also became prey to melancholy, not a first, but in his later years.

So it should be obvious why I love Plutarch so much, but there is a little parallel that I would like to bring into the discussion, in regards to the Spartan culture of exalting in praise. Jimmy Hendrix, a rather famous musician of my own era, is remembered for saying I don't consider myself to be the best, and I don't like compliments...they distract me. Hendrix is also remembered for saying Knowledge Speaks, Wisdom Listens, which makes me wonder if he was a fan of Socrates.

Back to Plutarch; his mention of melancholy, makes me wonder if this was an early understanding of Depression. It's hard to really know what people of the ancient past really thought about such a concept as depression, which is a common medical issue of my era. Certainly you did not understand brain chemistry the way we do, but there are always parallels to be found. The use of the word melancholy is from the 1960 translation (Ian Scott-Kilvert), but the 1906 John Dryden translation runs thus: Aristotle, who says that all great characters are more or less atrabilious...

So I had to look up atrabilious and I found this rather helpful entry on the Merriam-Webster website:

Atrabilious is a somewhat rare word with a history that parallels that of the more common 'melancholy'. Representing one of the four bodilly humours, from which it was once believed that human emotions originated, atrabilious derives from the Latin 'atra bilis' literally meaning 'black bile'. The word melancholy derives from the Greek 'melan-' and 'chole', which also translates as 'black bile'. In its original sense, atrabilious meant melancholy, but now is more frequently used to describe someone with an irritable or unfriendly temperament. A word with a meaning similar to that of atrabilious is 'splenetic', which is named after the organ in the body (the spleen) once thought to secrete black bile.

So was it depression, or was Lysander just a grumpy old man, venting his spleen at a changing world he didn't like? In the absence of answers, I have always enjoyed the questions, since each question is an open door, leading to further questions.

So, back to the dispute between Lysander and Callicratidas, I found this illuminating passage, again in Plutarch, regarding the difference between their leadership styles.

All those who were associated with him (Lysander) already through friendship or the ties of hospitality were promoted to important enterprises, honours, or commands, and he made himself a partner in their acts of injustice and oppression to satisfy their greed. The result was that everyone looked up to him, courted his favour and fixed their hopes upon him, believing that so long as he remained in authority all their most extravagant ambitions would be fulfilled. For the same reason they were not at all well disposed to Callicratidas, when he first appeared on the scene (in 407 BCE) to succeed Lysander in command of the fleet; and even after he had proved himself as brave and as just as a man could bbe, they still disliked the character of his leadership, which had a certain Doric simplicity and candour about it. They admired his virtue, much as they might do the beauty of some hero's statue, but they missed Lysander's whole hearted support and looked in vain for the latter's keen partiality for the interests of his own friends, so much so that when he sailed away, they wept for sheer despair.