Dear Cicero,
Some days, only Seneca will do.
To remind me that we are all human.
To remind me that happiness and confusion and wisdom and anger
are all part of the same story.
Thank you Cicero, for being a part of that.
with gratitude and respect,
Morgan.
Dear Cicero,
I have been reading Louisa May Alcott, and I think that you would love her. She's read heaps of our favourite ancient books, and she has a few to recommend as well. She seems to be a fan of one of your heroes, making reference to Demosthenes as the greatest of all Orators. (Notably, she never mentions you, Cicero). Alcott was writing before the translation of your letters by Shuckburgh, and before the publication of his beautiful biography of you but I am certain that she knows about you.
I have now read all four books of the March family saga. (Little Women, Good Wives, Little Men and Jo's Boys). Today, I will read to you from Little Women, which is a book so beautiful and moving, that it has sparked a great rush of interest in me to read more of the 19th Century authors whom Alcott admires, including George Elliot (Mary Ann Evans), Charlotte Bronte, Harriet Martineaus, and Elizabeth Browning.
Louisa May Alcott
I have also recently begun reading Aristotle's book, The Art of Rhetoric, which I am deeply fascinated by. It is the first time I have been drawn to read him, and his clear style and meticulous attention to detail are quite inspiring. I will read something of his work to you in the future.
with gratitude and respect,
Morgan
Dear Cicero,
I selected this speech, your second against Catiline, because it shows you in action, tearing strips off your opponent who could speak no word against you. In a way, it shows you at your lowest. It shows you sinking to exaggerations and mean insults, gloating over your fleeing enemy.
Modern minds are critical of your claims, and so too, must I be.
Was Catiline really as evil as you make him out to be, or were you willing to sacrifice the truth in order to paint your own actions in a glorious light? You certainly went out of your way for ever after to praise yourself for your conduct during this time, and my suspicions are raised by your continuous reference to your own glory, as if you feared you might be forgotten among the annual shuffle of Consuls. You had to make people believe in you, for your power resided in their faith in your ability as a speaker, and as a righteous man of virtue.
I wonder, Cicero, if you weren't covering something up?
I also selected this part of this speech for the example of bold homophobia expressed in your long list of insults. I am reminded that studying history should make one uncomfortable. It is however, a fascinating example of the usefulness of your writing in helping us understanding Roman culture, as well as history.
With gratitude, respect, and a little suspicion,
Morgan.
Dear Cicero,
I have selected this speech (taken from Tacitus' book, Agricola), which is a political cry for rebellion against an oppressive Rome, with no intention to pass comment on current politics.
I do not wish to use the ancient world to leverage authority over the modern.
I am a student,
"A man cannot learn what he thinks he already knows."
Epictetus.
I am here to learn, and to share my love of learning.
The world around me is in a seeming state of unsolvable conflict, each side of the polygon claiming that the others are lying, each political faction expending vast energy on discrediting their opponents, while I, wrapped up warmly in my robe, sit in bed on a cold Saturday morning, reading your books, Cicero, and taking comfort in your wisdom.
Day by day, my knowledge grows smaller, as the vast mountains of literature pile up on my bedside table. The more I learn, the less certain I am about anything.
Thank you Cicero,
with Gratitude and Respect.
Morgan.
I come before you, oh august father, a humbled man. My summer has been well spent with many books. I have read your Tusculan Disputations, as well as your books on the Republic and the Laws. I have read your books On Oratory, and On the Orators. I have read the first of many books of your collected speeches, and today I ordered a complete volume of your Philippics. But you are not the only author for whom my deep affections have given me cause to spend my hours in the company of the long dead. I have also read Little Women, Good Wives, Little Men and Jo's Boys, by Louisa May Alcott, and I have discovered that she and I have read some of the same books, and that we admire some of the same great figures of history. I have finally finished reading Tacitus' Histories, and Annals, as well as his books On Britain (Agricola), and On Germany. I have begun reading Seutonius' The Twelve Caesars, I continue to read Seneca's Letters to Lucullius, and today I purchased a copy of Seneca's tragic plays.
I have also read SPQR by Mary Beard, The Storm Before the Storm by Mike Duncan, In The Shadow of the Sword and Persian Fire by Tom Holland, and The Other Side of History, by Robert Garland. I have been deeply moved by the things I have learned, and humbled greatly by these magnificent modern works of historical scholarship. Great pieces of the puzzle of history have converged in my mind, and, with greater understanding, has come a reduced willingness to pass comment on the works of yourself and the other dead friends of our common, immortal acquaintance.
So it is that I come at last to the point of this letter.
Book 5 of this compendium will consist of 21 videos. I will read to you some of my favourite passages of your books, Cicero, as well as writing from other authors, both ancient and modern, and some of my own writing.
So Cicero, I begin with your speech in defence of Pompey.
with Gratitude and Respect,
Morgan
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...)
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.
