Book 3, Letter 17, part 2 of 2 To Seneca, on wisdom, and desire

Having only recently acquired the three books of your epistles, I am just now discovering the large collection of your other books that still exists in my day. I find in your Naturales Quaestiones a reference to your exile, and of life under Caligula.

17. At the court of Gaius (Caligula) I used to see torture, I used to see fire. I knew that under him human existence had already deteriorated to the point where those who were killed were held up as examples of mercy.

I will have to read more of this book, for there is much to discuss. I bring it up here only by way of introducing an idea for discussion. I find your philosophy to be so peaceful, so beautiful and forgiving, yet you lived in a world of terror and madness in the Imperial court. Epictetus too, whose life was anything but easy, seems to float above it all with magnanimous nobility of spirit. You see, it is not just your writing that inspires, it is the nature of the life in which it was written that seems to give it greater weight. I find the same thing among some of Yamamoto Tsunetomo's writing, and of course, of Marcus Aurelius.

I found this in the introduction to Naturales Quaestiones, I need to share this section with you, from the Harry M Hine translation of 2010:

Seneca’s practice exemplifies his conviction that progress can best be made by critical dialogue with the thinkers of the past. He has a clear vision of meteorology as a collaborative effort by numerous investigators over many centuries, a process that will continue far into the future. Progress depends on the patient collection of information about the phenomena in question and on critical probing of the theories of one’s predecessors. He warns against dismissing the theories of the earliest thinkers as crude or silly, because they took the essential first steps, and later thinkers were building on their efforts (6.5.2–3). And just as their ideas seemed antiquated by Seneca’s day, so Seneca is sure that his ideas will seem just as antiquated to people far in the future (7.25.4–7; 7.30.5).12 Here is an implicit signal to us later readers to be as critical of his ideas as he is of the ideas of his predecessors.

I have been reading Plato, and have discovered a deep affection for the Socratic method. Starting from a position of assumed ignorance, and through questioning everything one might come to know something like the truth. It has been a major motivation behind my entire letter writing project to engage with the minds of the ancients and through a process of discussion and questioning, come to find the truth in my own life. It is not within the scope of my present life to attend university lectures and to surround myself with philosophers with whom I might have these discussions. I do what I can within the circle of friends and family that I have, and I find that I do not feel alone in my quest for wisdom.

Which brings me back around to the original topic of this letter.

There is a flexible contradiction to be found in your books which I enjoy. It is plain from your writing that you have devoted your life to reading many authors, studying everything you can and immersing yourself in a diverse range of contrasting philosophical schools. Yet here in letter II, in your epistles I find this:

The primary indication, to my thinking, of a well ordered mind is a man's ability to remain in one place and linger in his own company. Be careful, however, lest this reading of many authors and books of every sort may tend to make you discursive and unsteady. You must linger among a limited number of master thinkers, and digest their works if you would derive ideas which shall win firm hold in your mind. Everywhere means nowhere. When a person spends all his time in foreign travel, he ends by having many acquaintances, but no friends.

It is good advice, yet it seems that neither you nor I follow it truly. The stack of books on my bedside table at the present moment come from eleven different authors, across many eras. The bookshelf next to my bed contains all the books from Cicero that I own, plus Plutarch and Herodotus. They all seem like good friends to keep close, and regardless of which book sits atop the pile, having them near gives me the comfort of their wisdom.

Yet, Epictetus reminds me that there is another source of wisdom:

(Bk 1, Ch. 14, George Long translation, 1952)

When, then, you have shut the doors and made darkness within, remember never to say that you are alone, for you are not; but God is within, and your Demon is within, and what need have they of light to see what you are doing? To this God you ought to swear an oath just as the soldiers do to Caesar.

This nameless God, this nameless Demon that lives within us, and is the source of our wisdom and our torment, is perhaps the most important of all the master thinkers. Inside me is a circle of voices who vie for attention and who speak at times loudly, and at others in whispers like the wind. They have many names, and many faces. Perhaps you might enjoy reading my exploration of this room of mirrors...

http://indivisiblefrommagic.blogspot.com/2017/09/indivisble-from-magic-2017.html

A discussion for another day, my dear friend Seneca.

With Gratitude and Respect

Morgan.

Book 3, Letter 17, part 1 of 2 To Seneca, on wisdom and desire

Dear Seneca,

I've been going back over the first hundred or so pages of your Epistles, looking for a quote that I've had stuck in my head for week....yet, I can't find it...I wonder now if I didn't read it somewhere else. No matter, I'll share it with you and maybe later I can confirm the author...yet, you have said that the words of great poets and philosophers belong to us all....

When you loose something, do not say, it has been taken from me, rather, say that you have given it back. Has your sight been taken from you? Nay, I have given it back to the source. Has your child died? Nay, I have given her back. For all that we have is a gift, and all of it must one day be given back.

So, I'm quoting from memory, but that's the gist of it.

Seneca, you're having such an impact on me. I carry your book with me everywhere, I sit in cafe's reading, I sit in taverns making notes, I sit in bed holding up my heavy eyes to read just a little more.

My hunger for wisdom grows with every meal.

And so it was that I came upon this....you are quoting as you so often do, from Epicurus. (I love that you quote from Epicurus so much. It is a reminder that if an idea is good, it is good, regardless of it's philosophical source.)

If you wish to make Pythoclese rich, do not add to his store of money, but subtract from his desires.

I ask myself, am I being greedy for wisdom? Am I over-reaching? Every day I read the ancient authors, searching for the secrets that will bring me happiness, or help me solve the problems of my daily life. I read history, poetry, drama, tragedy and comedy and as much as I am fed by them and feel their continuous influence upon my life....I can say guiltily, that it is never enough.

I am greedy for wisdom. I want the answers to my problems, I want the solutions, I want to be a better writer, a better thinker, a better husband, father, friend, musician, artist...I am greedy for dignitas. There is no limit to the extent of my desires it seems.

I think, Seneca, that you understand.

Epistle VIII : On the philosopher's seclusion

I never spend a day in idleness; I appropriate even a part of the night for study. I do not allow time for sleep, but yield to it when I must, and when my eyes are wearied with waking and ready to fall shut, I keep them at their task. I have withdrawn not only from men, but from affairs, especially from my own affairs; I am working for later generations, writing down some ideas that may be of assistance to them. There are certain wholesome counsels, which may be compared to prescriptions of useful drugs; these I am putting into writing; for I have found them helpful in ministering to my own sores, which if not wholly cured, have at any rate ceased to spread.

In reading this epistle to your friend Lucilius, I find that I might quote all of it as you warn against being lured into danger by the gifts of fortune, and as you praise the middle path of simple living and simple desires.

Eat merely to relieve your hunger, drink merely to quench your thirst; dress merely to keep out the cold; house yourself merely as a protection against personal discomfort.

Despise everything that useless toil creates as an ornament and an object of beauty. And reflect that nothing except the soul is worthy of wonder; for to the soul, if it be great, naught is great.

...actually Seneca, I disagree with that last bit. I think that if the soul be great, then all is great. The greatness of a soul is in the measure with which it may contain all the world in acceptance, compassion, wisdom and wonder. I don't side with the Stoic precept, Nil Admirandum. I say instead, find wonder in everything.

But it is in the space between these contradictions that life exists. Between desire and contentment, between striving and humility. They aren't polarities to be reached, but weights to keep in balance. There are no definitions or borders separating each part, like the left hand and right hand are both part of the same body.

The day is still young, and this morning the birds cluster in their floating orchestras along the creek, singing their morning hymns in the canopy of green and shimmering leaves. Rain is on its way. Yesterday the hot wind blew red dust from the north, apocalyptic and wearying, but today there is a still before the storm. The air is warm and wet, the flowers open themselves to the sunlight and the grass grows greenest in the valleys. (I wrote this letter during Spring, now in Summer the whole country is on fire, it is quite stressful, waiting for the evacuation warning.)

If you would enjoy real freedom, you must be the slave of philosophy.

Then, Seneca, call me slave, call me a lover, call me a devotee, a mad priest, a wandering mendicant with my begging bowl held out, walking the middle path, my crooked middle path.

Or, as the Buddha says. Everything in moderation, including moderation.

Book 3, Letter 16, part 2 of 2 To Plutarch, on Origin Stories.

So, Plutarch, from here I'd like to diverge in my letter to bring up something from the beginning of Herodotus' Histories. The legend, as he claims, concerning the very origin of the conflict between east and west, or perhaps more specifically, between Hellas and Persia. I bring this up because it also concerns the kidnapping of women, and the curious attitudes towards this practice. (From the MaCaulay translation of Herodotus, Book 1)

The Phenicians arrived then at this land of Argos, and began to dispose of their ship’s cargo: and on the fifth or sixth day after they had arrived, when their goods had been almost all sold, there came down to the sea a great company of women, and among them the daughter of the king; and her name, as the Hellenes also agree, was Io the daughter of Inachos. These standing near to the stern of the ship were buying of the wares such as pleased them most, when of a sudden the Phenicians, passing the word from one to another, made a rush upon them; and the greater part of the women escaped by flight, but Io and certain others were carried off. So they put them on board their ship, and forthwith departed, sailing away to Egypt.

After this however the Hellenes, they say, were the authors of the second wrong; for they sailed in to Aia of Colchis and to the river Phasis with a ship of war, and from thence, after they had done the other business for which they came, they carried off the king’s daughter Medea: and the king of Colchis sent a herald to the land of Hellas and demanded satisfaction for the rape and to have his daughter back; but they answered that, as the Barbarians had given them no satisfaction for the rape of Io the Argive, so neither would they give satisfaction to the Barbarians for this.

From here I'd like to change over to the DeSelincourt translation...

Thus far there had been nothing worse than woman-stealing on both sides; but for what happened next the Greeks, they say, were seriously to blame; for it was the Greeks who were, in a military sense, the aggressors. Abducting young women, in their opinion, is not, indeed, a lawful act; but it is stupid after the event to make a fuss about it. The only sensible thing it to take no notice, for it is obvious that no young woman allows herself to be abducted if she does not wish to be. The Asiatics, according to the Persians, took the seizure of the women lightly enough, but not so the Greeks: the Greeks, merely on account of a a girl from Sparta, raised a big army, invaded Asia and destroyed the empire of Priam. From that root sprang their belief in the perpetual enmity of the Grecian world towards them.

Now, I know it's pointless to judge the morality of people from the ancient world by the standards of my own time, but there is something in that last passage that I can't get out of my head.

Abducting young women, in their opinion, is not, indeed, a lawful act; but it is stupid after the event to make a fuss about it. The only sensible thing it to take no notice, for it is obvious that no young woman allows herself to be abducted if she does not wish to be.

I can't decide if this is intended as a compliment to the strength of women, who it is assumed would never let themselves be abducted without putting up a fight (and by extension, defeating their kidnappers), or if it is proof that kidnapping of women was so common that people just didn't really care. The use of kidnapping as a pretext for war seems plausible, since this sort of thing has gone on all throughout history, and the famous story of the Trojan war certainly highlights the blurry line separating elopement and kidnapping, and the lies generals are willing to tell their kings in order to start a fight. I cannot, however, accept the notion that 'no young woman allows herself to be abducted if she does not wish to be.'

So, Plutarch, that's about all I wanted to bring up, just this weird, barbaric, grimy little slice of history, and the myths regarding the origin of what is still considered to be one of the greatest empires in all human history. Also, considering the never ending war between east and west, it is a matter of no small curiosity to read about the ancient origin story of the conflict, that, to this day, defines global politics, trade and even the lives of ordinary people all over the world.

It all began with a kidnapping...or a secret love affair, or both...

This is just the beginning. To really answer my question I will have to read about the Etruscans and King Tarquinius, (which will give me an opportunity to re-read the poem Horatius, by Macaulay). I will need to read about the first war against the Gauls led by Chief Brennus. I will need to learn of Titus Manlius and the Latin League. I expect I will have recourse to quote from you a great deal in this quest for understanding.

Thank you Plutarch, as always, you are a pleasure to read.

With admiration and respect,

Morgan.

*

PS.  A note to my readers.

I would just like to let you all know that my solo album was released a couple months ago.  It is a mixture of world influences, mostly Middle Eastern, but i don't want to go defining my sound for you, better that you hear it for yourself.

You can check it out at:

www.zebulonstoryteller.bandcamp.com

Also, you can follow the links at the top of the page to see my many youtube videos.

Thank you all for reading, and a special shout out to my new readers from Ukraine and Poland.  It is wonderful to know that you are enjoying my journey of discovery.  Please leave a comment on the page, or you can find me through Facebook if you would like to chat.

Thank you.

Morgan Taubert.  (aka Zebulon)

Book 3, Letter 16, part 1 of 2 To Plutarch, on Origin Stories

Dear Plutarch,

Today is a catastrophic fire alert day. I am ready for the possibility that I may have to flee with my family to safety. After packing a few clothes and some bottled water, I turned to my bookshelves. I packed Herodotus, I packed Seneca's Epistles, and I packed all your books Plutarch. I am proud to call you my friend and to value your writing as much as I do. With one bag full, I then I found an old leather doctor's bag and packed all of Cicero's books, and the Seven Pillars of Wisdom by TE Lawrence, then I packed Plato and Marcus Aurelius, Epictetus, a few books of poetry. I have my ukulele, my setar and my frame drum. My own collected writing is all stored on my computer, and backed up on external hard-drives. It is fascinating to make a list of this nature, and to identify so clearly the most important items in my possession.

The fires keep getting closer. Nearby towns are already being evacuated and a fire on the road leading to the nearby farm where I work is now being attended to. The rainless storm winds are reaching 90km per hour. Now, as the sun sets, the temperature is at last dropping from 45C. It should be 22C by nightfall. Fire fighters will work through the night. Heroic champions all of them. If any of these fires are found to have been deliberately lit, is is easy to imagine a return to public lynchings. However, I did not write to you today to talk about fires, books or mob justice.

Tangled as I have been in the Civil Wars of Rome, in Cicero's letters and Caesar's war stories, I have found myself asking the question, where did it begin? So, I turn to you, Plutarch. You who knew the old stories so well.

The story of Romulus and Remus is confusing, confounding, absurd, mythical, mundane and layered with so many possible variations, that discerning the historical truth of the events is impossible. Or, as you put it...(in the introduction to your life of Theseus – from the Dryden translation of 1906)

As geographers crowd into the edges of their maps parts of the world which they do not know about, adding notes in the margin to the effect, that beyond this lies nothing but sandy deserts full of wild beasts, unapproachable bogs, Scythian ice, or a frozen sea, so, in this work of mine, in which I have compared the lives of the greatest men with one another, after passing through those periods which probable reasoning can reach to and real history find a footing in, I might very well say of those that are farther off, Beyond this there is nothing but prodigies and fictions, the only inhabitants are the poets and inventors of fables; there is no credit, or certainty any farther.

Let us hope that Fable may, in what shall follow, so submit to the purifying processes of Reason as to take the character of exact history. In any case, however, where it shall be found contumaciously slighting credibility, and refusing to be reduced to any thing like probable fact, we shall beg that we may meet with candid readers, and such as will receive with indulgence the stories of antiquity.

I asked the question (where did it all begin..?) because I wanted to understand something about the pride that Cicero felt for his nation. He wrote, in a letter to Aulus Manlius Torquatus, in January 45BCE, '...you are living in a city which gave birth to, and fostered a systematic rule of life...' In order to understand that statement, I recently began reading An introduction to Roman Law, by Barry Nicholas, 1962, which has been far more exciting to read that I ever expected. I can see why Cicero would be proud of his city's legal history.

However, I'm getting ahead of myself, I wanted to understand the underlying myths that the Roman people told themselves about their origins. So, in your account of the legend of Romulus and Remus, I found a few things I would like to discuss. I'll try to summarise...

The two boys, founders of Rome, Romulus and Remus, were possibly the twins of a prostitute, or a vestal virgin, possibly kidnapped, or abandoned in the wild, possibly suckled by a great she-wolf...there are more variations, each of them equally plausible in my mind.

Their city site was chosen based upon a bogus oracular reading...actually, that's a good place to pause for a second. The Roman origin story, the founding myth, contains an open accusation that oracular readings could be falsified. The way you tell it seems to make plain that the whole system of bird auguries was far from reliable, in fact it reads to me like it was well understood that this religious belief was frequently manipulated by people in power to suit their own purposes.

So right off the bat, this founding myth sounds more like a cynical history than an ancient fairy tale. Certainly, Plutarch, by the time you were writing about it, the world had become very sophisticated, deeply cynical, and, enriched by hundreds of years of written history, Rome had developed a high level of self awareness and critical thinking. Reading Tacitus shows me just how jaded a 'modern' Roman might become, when exposed to the books, plays and luxury of high society, not to mention politics, court intrigues and war.

But, back to the story...

So they build the city, there's a bit of fighting with the neighbours, Romulus kills his own brother over a dispute about walls and city boundaries, and then comes the rape of the Sabines. Rome, at a critical stage in its early development, has buildings, roads, industry....but hardly any women. There were some attempts at making marriage deals with the neighbours, but when that fell through, treachery, kidnapping, rape and war was the next obvious step.

In the fourth month, after the city was built, as Fabius writes, the adventure of stealing the women was attempted; and some say Romulus himself, being naturally a martial man, and predisposed too, perhaps, by certain oracles, to believe the fates had ordained the future growth and greatness of Rome should depend upon the benefit of war, upon these accounts first offered violence to the Sabines, since he took away only thirty virgins, more to give an occasion of war than out of any want of women. But this is not very probable; it would seem rather that, observing his city to be filled by a confluence of foreigners, few of whom had wives, and that the multitude in general, consisting of a mixture of mean and obscure men, fell under contempt, and seemed to be of no long continuance together, and hoping farther, after the women were appeased, to make this injury in some measure an occasion of confederacy and mutual commerce with the Sabines, he took in hand this exploit after this manner

Setting up a big festival, the Romans invited their neighbours to celebrate, and right in the middle of the party, the Romans kidnap all the young women. Some say it was only a few pretty girls, others say it was hundreds of girls and a few married women. Some say it was a violent act, complete with rape, others claim that no such crimes were committed...the women were hostages, in the old fashioned method, taken to ensure peace with the neighbours, but this time with the added bonus of also granting wives to the unmarried men of Rome.

I've got to say Plutarch, as far as origin stories go, these Romans don't seem to be ashamed of airing their dirty laundry. I wonder, did you consider yourself better off having been born Greek? The Romans thought themselves superior to all other people, but I have this funny feeling that the Greeks were sometimes quietly laughing at the silly, sometimes pompous pride the Romans had for themselves.

Anyway, so there's a long gap between the kidnapping, and when the Sabines came back to rescue their women. It's a really long gap. Years. Children have been born in the intervening time, born of the 'arranged' marriages to the Roman men. When the Sabines come back to fight the Romans, the war is terrible, and many young men die. The wives take matters into their own hands and stop the fighting in the following manner.

For the daughters of the Sabines, who had been carried off, came running, in great confusion, some on this side, some on that, with miserable cries and lamentations, like creatures possessed, in the midst of the army, and among the dead bodies, to come at their husbands and their fathers, some with their young babes in their arms, others their hair loose about their ears, but all calling, now upon the Sabines, now upon the Romans, in the most tender and endearing words. Hereupon both melted into compassion, and fell back, to make room for them betwixt the armies. The sight of the women carried sorrow and commiseration upon both sides into the hearts of all, but still more their words, which began with expostulation and upbraiding, and ended with entreaty and supplication.

“Wherein,” say they, “have we injured or offended you, as to deserve such sufferings, past and present? We were ravished away unjustly and violently by those whose now we are; that being done, we were so long neglected by our fathers, our brothers, and countrymen, that time, having now by the strictest bonds united us to those we once mortally hated, has made it impossible for us not to tremble at the danger and weep at the death of the very men who once used violence to us. You did not come to vindicate our honor, while we were virgins, against our assailants; but do come now to force away wives from their husbands and mothers from their children, a succor more grievous to its wretched objects than the former betrayal and neglect of them. Which shall we call the worst, their love-making or your compassion? If you were making war upon any other occasion, for our sakes you ought to withhold your hands from those to whom we have made you fathers-in-law and grandsires. If it be for our own cause, then take us, and with us your sons-in-law and grandchildren. Restore to us our parents and kindred, but do not rob us of our children and husbands. Make us not, we entreat you, twice captives.”

...

Book 3, Letter 15: To Rafael Roccisano

Hey Raf,

I saw you on the street yesterday, and I thought I should pass this on to you. Another of your friends posted this on Facebook.

*

From Audry LeMay

There's a thousand stories to be told of our brother

Raf's generosity, passion, creativity, profound sense

of honour and belief in justice for all. It hurt me not to

hear a single one told during the service.

From the day Raf moved into my house, there was not

a week he didn't actively offer food shelter, love and

fire to those around us who needed it. I will always

cherish the memories I have of him sticking his neck

out for others. Those who would steal his last dance

and make his funeral a place to put their own anger

and pain do him a grave dishonour. Everybody hurts

but love is the greatest painkiller known to mankind.

Love is the law.

Our brother deserves better than to have his death

dance reduced to an angry public health

advertisement. I was particularly heartbroken that he

died kissing the bottle for sure. But it was my

experience THAT WHEN RAF WAS KISSING BOTTLES

HE WAS ALSO KISSING YOU!

RIP Rif Raf. This Bottle's for you old friend.

*

I saw you on the street at the Semaphore Street Fair yesterday. I was there, as I am every year, with drummers and belly dancers, when I saw you walk by. Only you didn't walk....you danced. You heard the Arabic music playing for the dancers on the stage and you grooved on by, giving me a wink as you did so. You looked young, maybe twenty. You looked happy, strong. I had to catch my breath after you passed by.

Then last night, I dreamed that I was speaking with you, telling you that I had seen you on the street. So now in the morning I am writing to tell you that I love you, that we all love you and miss you.

I hope wherever you are, and whatever you are doing, that you have friends around you, and that maybe in the morning, you will rise having dreamt of us. I hope that whatever street you walk down, that you are dancing. Thank you Rafael. In death you continue to help us, to offer up the lessons of your heart for us to learn from.

The after-party of Rafael Antonio Roccisano.

The stories of our lives don't have beginnings or endings. Everything in history is connected. We gather, dressed in black on the pier, a sunset storm describes the permeable boundary between two worlds. The land of the living and the land of the dead.

Rafael was such an important person in all our lives. His story continues to have a massive impact on all of us. We still cry, we still dream of him, we hear his voice in our heads, we expect to see him among familiar faces. He is gone, but his story is far from over.

The dead are not dead.  Rafael lives in us. It is a cliché, but I feel that it is true nonetheless.

After the flowers are scattered in the swelling ocean, after the ashes are poured out, along with our tears and our words and the last of the daylight, we part and make our way, separate, but forever connected by him who brought us together. His story is connected to ours. We played with him, we drank with him, we grew up, we fought, made up, told stories, took drugs, we laughed and cried and then he died.

But the dead do not die, so long as we live to speak their name. So long as their story is connected to ours, the dead do not die. We don't have beginnings or endings. Everything in us is connected.

*

The after-party kicks on within the hour. (There's a part of me that knows that Raf would be stoked to know that there was an after-party), We crowd around the fire, the darkness expelled from our hearts, the cold repelled from our skin, we drink. We drink.

We gather in the home of the Beersmith (a.k.a. the Alchemist, the Trickster). There is talk, and warm faces turn to meet, and our hugs are long and full of meaning. The click-duh-clack of pool balls is a gentle music against which we meet to say hello, to ask of each other, to listen and tell. There is laughter, a young boy plays wild games of adventure with adventurous adults. He whoops and hollers as only a child can, tilting and falling on an adult-sized see-saw with his father.

The Beersmith dances around a steamy pot wherein a new alchemy is being birthed. The air feels intoxicating, wet with humid aromas of yeast, grain, sugar. Reading from a recipe more chemistry than culinary, he counts his friends on both hands and both feet, and there are plenty more hands offered to help with the count. Tonight he is the host of something truly special, a scattered, spin-wheel of interwoven stories. He is surrounded by storytellers. Everywhere people talk of games, of journeys, of escapades, but also of maths and movies and books and every turn of phrase is another sort of good natured joke. We laugh at our youth, at our age, at our simple striving and quarrels.

The rain is gentle.

Beyond the reach of the sheltered back porch 

a-flood with light and colour,

beyond the shelter of our hands holding hands,

out there the night is very quiet.

The rain is gentle.

Out there, in here, Rafael.

*

PS: Your brother Gabe sent me this, after the party.

Beyond the reach of the sheltered back

porch. In the rain. His brother weeps.

Gnashing of teeth. Whole heart. Feet in

the dirt.

His brother weeps and is held. And he

holds another as she weeps. And they

both let go. And hold on. Their tears

mingling in the mud.

Book 3, Letter 14, part 2 of 2 To Marcus Aurelius, on the eclipse of the sun.

Dear Marcus,

* (some days have passed) *

I found a group of philosophers discussing Stoic ideals, and the question was asked whether or not, as a stoic, it was encouraged to seek help when facing mental health issues. The consensus was an overwhelming yes, and the following passage was quoted :

Book 7

Section 7

(George Long Translation)

Be not ashamed to be helped; for it is thy business to do thy duty like a soldier in the assault on a town. How then, if being lame thou canst not mount up on the battlements alone, but with the help of another it is possible?This brings up something that I have thought about in relation to ancient texts. Can advice relating to physical combat and war be transferred to peaceful conflicts, or to the inner struggles we face when relating to our own minds? I like to think that it can apply, and that concepts like struggle, enemy, death and wounding are as much a part of a psychological narrative as they are physical. I have been meaning to write to Sun Tzu about his book 'The Art of War' in order to discuss this very idea.

A letter for another day.

*

From: Meditations

Book 11, Section 34

(Gregory Hays translation)

As you kiss your son good night, says Epictetus, whisper to yourself, “He may be dead in the morning.”

Don't tempt fate, you say.

By talking about a natural event? Is fate tempted when we speak of grain being reaped?

I smiled when I found this quote. I am feeling much better today than I was when I began this letter to you. I spent this evening playing games and reading books with my son. There is no more consoling philosophy than play, and my son is the master teacher.

As I kissed him goodnight he told me excitedly of his plans for the next day.

Thank you Marcus, even if sometimes your advice is difficult, sometimes misleading, sometimes confusing, your book has a permanent place on my bedside table.

With gratitude and respect.

Morgan.

Book 3, letter 14, part 1 of 2 To Marcus Aurelius; on the eclipse of the sun

Dear Marcus,

The stress is unbearable sometimes. My arms feel like blocks of stone, I cannot lift my boulder hands from the bed, my legs, my head, all of me feels like crumbling granite. I struggle to breathe, like some leaden creature sits atop my chest choking me.

There is nothing worse than uncertainty.

Doom, I can handle,

but the uncertainty of an eclipse is unbearable.

For weeks the sun has shone upon me with its love, then in the blink of sleep, the light and warmth are replaced with an empty smile, a face always turning away, eyes that do not want to look, a voice that does not want to speak to me.

And every real expression becomes pretended.

What can I do Marcus? The past will never let go. Vulnerant omens, ultima necant. (Every hour wounds, the last one kills). What can I do with my echoing words that, once said, can never be taken back ? Forgiveness? Impossible. Forgetting? Impossible. What remains is the lingering feeling that I cannot tell right from wrong, I feel lost. I question my value as a human being, and find comfort in the fading bruises and persistent pain in my head each morning. Fighting with myself is a loosing battle.

*

From: Meditations

Book 10, Section 3

(Hays Translation)

Every thing that happens is either endurable or not.

If it’s endurable, then endure it. Stop complaining.

If it’s unendurable . . . then stop complaining.

Your destruction will mean its end as well.

Just remember: you can endure anything your mind can

make endurable, by treating it as in your interest to do so.

In your interest, or in your nature.

*

My destruction will mean its end as well huh? I really want this to be the advice that I need, but I do not have the luxury of self destruction, Marcus.

I have a life to live and a family to raise. I cannot endure in silence while the sun goes cold. At least I have you to write to, even if sometimes your advice is not so good. My stomach hurts.

*

From: Meditations.

Book 8, Section 47

“If thou art pained by any external thing, it is not this thing that disturbs thee, but thy own judgement about it. And it is in thy power to wipe out this judgement now. But if anything in thy disposition gives thee pain, who hinders thee from correcting thy opinion?”

It would be lovely if willpower alone could free a person from the bondage of their own mind, but the mind is not the only thing that remembers. The Body, the damn body stores everything, forgets nothing. Such discordant music the bones of my past mistakes compose, clattering as a broken xylophone in the sack of my living flesh. My disposition would free itself if it knew anything of freedom.

Who is it that hinders me from correcting my opinion?

It is easier for me to believe in demons and curses and the terrors of a personal eclipse, than it is for me to wipe away the judgement of a sun who refuses to shine on me.

So much is out of my hands, Marcus. I feel powerless.