"With Rue My Heart Is Laden"

 

The older I get, the more the poems of A.E. Houseman speak to me.  Heading this post is a portion of one of them which speaks all too loudly.

In a way, my regard for them is unsurprising.  The poems involve loss, death, memory, regret; the stuff of life now, or a good part of it.  There's none of the sang-froid one can find in Horace or Wallace Stevens, though. With Horace, there was an acknowledgement of loss and the inevitability of death, but this served as an invitation to enjoy the life we live.  Stevens' poems seem to evoke a chilly resignation to and acceptance of that inevitability as simply what we have--a part of the real, the world, we're part of, which may become art, and thereby something of value.  Houseman's evocation of them is raw, but summoned through spare, simple language which is itself raw in a sense, and can leave one feeling raw.

I despise regret and remorse because they seem completely futile.  More than anything else I can think of, they epitomize what Stoicism and practical wisdom warn against--disturbing yourself over matters outside your control.  There's nothing more beyond our control than what took place in the past.  At best, we can correct or mitigate or errors or missteps.  More accurately, I hate myself for feeling regret and remorse, when they serve no purpose but self-torment.  But feel them I do, and the feeling is strong, sometimes.

In waking life regret is a passing concern and can be overwhelmed like so much else by the rush of the simple, insignificant things of life.  But in dreams regret and loss are experienced directly.  They can be the dream, in fact.  Sometimes the dream reflects and involves useless efforts to make things as they should gave been, to be what you should have been.  The worst dreams can be those in which you struggle, uselessly, to be with someone you wish to be with but cannot be with, now or ever.  Such dreams evoke regret which will outlive the dream.  It lingers.

Some of Houseman's poems describe this kind of regret in a very powerful way, and do so in stark language without embellishment, though sometimes by implication, which in his case may have been necessary given the prejudices of that time.  But the regret expressed is nonetheless unfiltered as if in a dream.  And lingers.

Mere Stoicism

Yes, the title to this post borrows from the title of C.S. Lewis' collection of broadcasts made by him in his capacity as chief Christian apologist after the death of G.K. Chesterton (or so I think).  Unlike Chesterton, Lewis was more smug than clever, a characteristic of apologists throughout history, but one which Chesterton managed to control.  Chesterton also managed to defend Christianity without creating an elaborate fantasy world, which strikes me as a more effective approach if one is inclined to defend a religion or belief system which clearly must be defended, or else there would be no apologists.  A religion which produces apologists must be questionable by nature, but appears especially questionable if its apologists must defend it by resort to fantasies.

I don't think Stoicism requires apologists, and don't intend to be one.  That's not what this post is about.  It's meant to explore the limits of Stoicism or what it must be to have no limits, if that's possible.

The limits I refer to relate to its effectiveness in achieving tranquility, and in avoiding sadness or despair.  I sometimes am inclined to think there are limits and that they're unavoidable, particularly with respect to what has taken place.  In other words, I wonder whether the maxims of Stoicism, which are so sensible and seemingly effective in relating to the here and now and anticipating the future, suffice to provide solace regarding the unending, irrevocable past.

The past would seem to be necessarily a matter beyond our control, and therefore nothing to be disturbed by according to Stoicism, and particularly according to Epictetus.  To the extent what took place in the past has consequences now, Stoicism serves to address those consequences, and thought and conduct may serve to diminish their effects.  One might remedy what took place in the past in that manner and in that sense, and one may, with effort, not allow the effects of past actions in the present to be unduly disturbing.  

That's to consider past actions.  What, though, about past omissions, and specifically those omissions which result in one having missed an opportunity, being unable to do what one desperately wants to do or have a life which one longs for now?  The disturbance and despair one feels in that case, especially in highly personal and subjective human matters such as love and happiness, can be painful in the extreme.  It can find expression in our dreams or in sudden encounters with things or persons we know from the past and are unavoidable.  You don't see them coming.

Regret is futile, of course.  There's nothing more futile.  As a result, it should be avoidable.  But how do we avoid what cannot be avoided because it can't be altered, and when what could have been cannot be?  There's nothing to fix.  Nothing can be made better.  Mistakes can't be "made good."

Perhaps the power of regret lies in the fact that nobody else is responsible for what took place, and what didn't take place.  It's easier to ignore or discount things beyond your control when you didn't cause them to be.  It's difficult to be indifferent to yourself, to your own acts, failure to act, or your own thoughts and feelings.