"What Power Has Law Where Only Money Rules?"

 

I've mentioned Gaius Petronius Arbiter a/k/a Titus Petronius Niger, author of The Satyricon, Suffect Counsel of Rome, courtier of Nero, on more than one occasion in this blog.  He's mentioned by Tacitus and others, so there's credible evidence he existed.  He appears as a character in the novel Quo Vadis, which formed the basis for a movie of the same name.

He was known as the "arbiter of elegance" in Nero's court and a voluptuary, but also was competent and vigorous in performing his public duties.  He eventually fell afoul of the Emperor, like Seneca, and took his own life in a most remarkable way, slowly bleeding to death by opening his veins but stopping the flow of blood using tourniquets to prolong his life while enjoying conversation and banter with friends and writing a description of Nero's misdeeds which he sealed and had delivered to the Emperor after his death.

I qoute him in the title of this post.  It's a perceptive statement by a fascinating man intimately familiar with the rich and powerful oligarchs of a great empire ruled by a meglomaniac.

The ancient Romans had a high regard for law.  They generated a vast amount of written law through the centuries.  Much of current European law derives from that of Rome.  A knowledge of law was considered essential to a successful career, and many prominent citizens acted as advocates (such as Cicero).

The Roman respect for law wasn't limited to written laws.  Romans also revered the mos maiorum, the unwritten code of the customs and traditions they considered peculiarly Roman, such as duty, respect and discipline, which governed the conduct of their ancestors.

When Petronius wondered whether the law had any power where money ruled (implying that it did not), he was therefore maintaining that money had profoundly corrupted and undermined Roman society; had in fact perverted it.  The power of money had changed what it meant to be Roman.

It's become a cliche that the United States is failing and falling as the Roman Empire did and for similar reasons. Like all clichés, it's too simple, but there are similarities.  The U.S. was founded in large part by lawyers.  The Constitution is a legal document--essentially a set of laws.  The rule of law was essential to its creation and forms the basis for its continuance.

It's rapidly devolving, however, because plutocrats have usurped the administration of the government and have no respect for the law to the extent that it serves to thwart their power and influence and the realization of their desires.

The Supreme Court has assured that the nation's government can be bought by sanctioning its purchase as a Constitutional right, and narrowing the definition of bribery, in effect holding that politicians may be paid in return for their services except in rare circumstances.

So we may well ask Petronius' question now, 2000 years after he posed it, and come to the same conclusion he did.

Homage to Horace

 

Quintus Horatius Flaccus, better known these days as "Horace," was a Roman poet of the time of Augustus.  He was the son of a freedman, and therefore nothing special in status as measured at the time, but he made his mark in the history of the time and not merely as a poet.  He had the mixed fortune of living during the time Rome was changing from a republic of sorts to an empire as we know an empire to be now; in fact, the model of an empire as we know it.  He was on the wrong side of that metamorphosis for a time, serving in the army of Marcus Brutus in opposition to the avenging adopted son and grand nephew of Julius Caesar, to be known as Augustus, and Marcus Antonius and that other member of the Second Triumvirate, little remembered in comparison, Lepidus. 

Brutus having lost, Horace wisely pivoted and became a great fan of Augustus, and in his good graces, due, it would seem, to his friendship with others who introduced him to Augustus' friend and fixer, Maecenas.  Maecenas was also a patron of the arts, and Horace became a favorite of his; he even conveyed to him a villa, the remains of which can still be seen, which Horace treasured.

The painting of Horace appearing at the head of this post is by Giacomo Di Chirico, an artist of the 19th century.  I don't know who is intended to be represented by the figures floating above his shoulders.  By location, they seem similar to the angel and devil often shown as giving us counsel, or trying to persuade us, in Christian tradition.  But presumably the painter was aware of the fact that Horace was not a Christian.  My guess would be they represent the Muses.

Horace is probably most famous in these time due to a quote from one of his Odes in turn made famous by the movie The Dead Poets Society.  The quotation is "Carpe diem" which in the movie was translated as "seize the day."  But it seems the more correct translation is "pluck the day."

For me, "seize" is inappropriate because to seize something is to take hold of it forcefully, to capture it, to take possession of something forcefully.  There's nothing of that spirit in the Ode in question, nor is there anything like that in the spirit of Horace.  Horace is no Nietzsche, throttling joy.  He is a poet of moderation in thought and conduct.  He seeks contentment, and wisdom.  One should pluck fruit when it is ripe; no too soon, not too late.  The present moment is what we have, and worrying over and trying to predict the future is vain and disturbing.  Thus we should pluck the day as we would a ripe fruit and enjoy it.

Epicurean and Stoic sentiments and suggestions abound in Horace's work.  Whether he was especially one or the other isn't clear to me.  It seems that scholars think him more Stoic than Epicurean, but I suspect he was more of a hybrid of the two, as other Romans were--though Seneca tells us he's a Stoic, he often quotes Epicurus in his letters with approval.  In any case, however, Stoic references are clear in his works, particularly when he writes, as he often does, of the wisdom of not letting things beyond our control disturb us or move us to commit misconduct and error.

Horace's poems are clear and simple.  Though the constant references to mythology and events described in Homer are annoying, they're sparse compared with those of other poets of the time (excepting Martial, who is always an exception).  They're filled with good sense, they praise friendship as an ideal, they resound with a love of the natural world, they deplore superstition, exalt Reason and the intelligent spirit running through nature.

His works are those of a genial. gifted, intelligent, urbane, kind, wise and sophisticated man of the world.  There's no angst or despair, no malice, no grandiosity; he's not pompous.  He flatters his benefactors artfully, but not slavishly.  An admirable man and artist, I think.

Despite the fact that there is no melodrama or Sturm und Drang in his works, no ennui, he's remembered with admiration after 2,000 years.  My guess is that's the case because what he writes of is the wisdom and contentment which is gained from living in the moment, necessarily meaning there is no self-pity or self-regard, or despair to consume and confuse us.  

The Fate of Satire

Reference to a dictionary will reveal that "satire" is, broadly speaking, a work using humor in such forms as irony and exaggeration to ridicule the vices and stupidity of individuals or entities.  So defined, satire has been around for thousands of years.  In the West, when ancient satirists are considered mention is normally made of Aristophanes among the Greeks, Juvenal, Petronius and Lucian among the Romans.  Martial as well, perhaps, though his satire was far more condensed being in the form of epigrams.  Seneca too, among the Romans, at least for his ridicule of the Emperor Claudius, applying for membership in the fellowship of the gods after his death. There have been many other satirists throughout history--Rabelais, Voltaire, Cervantes, Swift and Poe, for example, are some of the more famous of the lot. 

Satire is generally thought of as a kind of literature, and those named just above are of course writers.  Sometimes, though, drawings and paintings are satirical, like the print by Gillray at the top of this post, called The Plumb Pudding in Danger.  The plumb pudding is, obviously, the world and it's being carved up by William Pitt, Prime Minister of England, and Napoleon, who had by then become Emperor of France.

The quality of satires varies considerably.  So does the kind of humor or style of writing employed by the satirist.  Aristophanes' humor was somewhat farcical, as in his lampooning of Socrates and his circle The Clouds.  Lucian also targeted philosophers and philosophy, as well as other people and things, and was a mocker.  Juvenal's humor was dark and sharp; he had no light touch (I think of his satires as more in the way of rants).  Seneca's satire on Claudius struck me as more cruel than witty.  Rabelais seems to have made use of absurdity in Gargantua and Pantagruel.  Petronius' humor was deadpan, in my opinion.  His Trimalchio is unquestionably vulgar and pompous, but Petronius makes this evident merely by describing his statements and conduct, rather than commenting on them.  Irony seems to have been Swift's weapon of choice.

In these dark times, there's a concern by some that wit and humor, which would include satire, are being restricted if not entirely eliminated by the tendency of some others to condemn those who use them in referring to certain people or groups of people who are perceived as being or having been treated unjustly because of their difference from what's considered normal.  The most recent example that comes to my mind relates to the character Apu in The Simpsons and the apology made by Hank Azaria (his "voice") for his contribution in the stereotypical (though intended to be humorous) depiction of the character running a convenience store.  The apology caused John Cleese, formerly of Monty Python, to apologize for mocking white people as part of that group.

Cleese's point is fairly obvious, I think--that humor, and satire, are used in reference to all people indiscriminately, and should be.  In other words, that no one should be exempt from mockery merely by virtue of what they are.

That makes a certain sense, as does a related claim being made in these dark times--that nobody should be discriminate against, and therefore treating certain people better than others because or their race or religion, for example, is wrong.  From that, of course, it follows (or so it's claimed) that white, Christian people are being discriminated against when others are given certain advantages or benefits, or are deemed to have special claims to be satisfied.

In order for that position to accepted as appropriate, however, it's necessary to assume that we all are in the same position when it comes to treatment by each other, society and government.  If we existed on the fabled "level playing field" then a case can be made that favoring one group or person over another merely because they have a certain skin color or religion or other characteristics would be unjust.  That playing field doesn't exist, however, and never has existed.  To pretend that it does for purposes of complaining about discrimination against currently privileged people is fatuous, and indeed unworthy.  

When we insist that we should treating each other as if we all existed on a level playing field, we acknowledge that it would be desirable that we should live on that level playing field.  If we acknowledge that, though, we have to admit that we don't at this time, at least if we're honest.  So, one would think it would also be desirable that levelling steps should be taken,  But that would mean that those underprivileged or discriminated against unjustly, here and now, be benefited more than those who are not. Unfortunately, that's not something the haves are normally willing to grant the have-nots, particularly if that would mean the haves would have less than they do now.

So, I don't think this is a viable position, even when it comes to humor.  Does that mean that humor, and satire, will inevitably disappear?  

I doubt it, unless we expect that the kind of totalitarian society envisioned by the notoriously humorless Plato and put into place by such as Stalin and Mao will be our future.  The great Roman satirists lived in Imperial Rome, not exactly a free society, and managed to thrive.  I don't think shaming of the kind being practiced now will significantly restrict our tendency to mock and ridicule each other.  As well expect that wars will end.  Perhaps the more egregious kind of ridicule will be reduced, which wouldn't be a bad thing.  Satire is best when it is witty and subtle, not blunt and obvious or offensive.  It will survive all the moralists of this time as it has in the past.

Stoicism and Religion

I find myself wondering, now and then, whether Stoicism can be considered a religion, and for that matter whether it should be considered religious.  The answers I encounter when I read those who have addressed the question--those I've become aware of, I should say--are generally to the effect that it can be religious, but is not a religion.

This makes sense if "religion" is defined as a an organized system of beliefs, ceremonies and worship of a superhuman being or beings, i.e. something in the nature of the institutionalized religions with which we're familiar, and "religious" as relating to a devotion to an ultimate reality or deity (I take these definitions, roughly, from Merriam-Webster online).  Despite its growing popularity, Stoicism as far as I know has not become institutionalized or organized to such an extent, and certainly ancient Stoicism, at least, accepted and was devoted to an ultimate reality or deity, that being the Divine Reason.  That deity may even have been worshiped in a sense.  I think of the Hymn of Cleanthes.

In fact, some ancient Stoics seem even to have thought of the deity as personal, as having certain human characteristics and being concerned with humans as individuals.  One sees this tendency sometimes in Epictetus and Seneca.  The early Christian Fathers were fond of Seneca, and could only be so if they saw in his writings some reference to a personal God--though one must be careful in coming to such a conclusion, as the early Christians, like later Christians, would assimilate pagan philosophy in various ways when it suited their purpose to do so.

It seems clear enough that Stoicism need not be a religion, nor need it be religious.  Indeed, it may not even be a philosophy, in the ancient sense of wisdom and choosing the way in which to live.  We know that the wisdom of Stoicism is fundamental to modern psychological therapy such as CBT.

Well and good.  But I confess to feeling a bit disturbed when I see Stoicism used by, and associated with, the worlds of business and the military.  I've no doubt that Stoic techniques can have their uses in those worlds, but the great Stoics of the past were not interested in Stoicism as a path by which success in business could be obtained, or as useful in the development of good soldiers.  I think it's quite clear that the Stoics would consider success in business and in war as being the result of an undue concern with matters and things outside our control, regarding which we should be indifferent at most.

Whether it is or is not necessarily a religion or religious, should it be one or the other?  I think we humans have had and have now more than enough in the way of organized religions.  It isn't clear to me that they've done us much good, overall, and it is clear to me that they've been responsible for a great deal of harm.  Once organized as a religion, I think even Stoicism would lose much of what makes it wise and beneficial.

I do think it should be religious, though, for reasons I hope to explain.  This may be nothing more than an indication of personal preference or desire.

Let me say, first, that I use "religious" here much as it is defined by Merriam-Webster as noted above.  If Stoicism posits the existence of a Divine Reason that is the intelligence or generative influence infusing the universe, and if this spirit is immanent in nature, then I think a "religious" feeling results.  How is it possible to contemplate the vastness of the universe and all it consists of with anything but a sense of awe, and with reverence?  And if acting in accordance with Nature consists of being in accord with the universe, it would seem that by devoting ourselves to Nature is a devotion to the divine that's immanent in the universe.

It may be that in thinking or feeling this way I'm in a minority, because I haven't been able to find any author who sees this as essential to Stoicism, or deals with the religious aspects of Stoicism to any significant extent.  I understand Ricardo Salles addresses this somewhat in his work, but his book on it is so expensive I've haven't had much of an inclination to buy it.

One sees the Stoics referred to as pantheists, or the Stoic view of the universe as panentheistic, but these reference are made in passing, and left unexplored, as if there is nothing more to be said.  For that matter, one sees "modern paganism" called pantheistic, even by its adherents, but those who think of themselves as Wiccan, or Druids or Heathens seem ignorant of Stoicism and ancient philosophy generally.

Surely there's a religious kind of Stoicism in evidence somewhere?  Prepare ye the way of the Divine Reason!

Stoicism, God and Some Consequences of Belief

The immanent God of the universe which is characteristic of Stoicism would seem to be necessarily different from the anthropomorphic God or gods one finds in most religions of the West. Some contend that two, at least, of the later Stoics--Epictetus and Seneca--conceived of God as more "personal" than other ancient Stoics. While I think it's true that Epictetus refers to God with a kind of fondness which seems suited to a personal God, and even it appears spoke (jokingly I believe) as if God spoke to him, I think fondness isn't at all inconsistent with the reverence for nature which would be induced by belief in an immanent deity. So I doubt the God of the Stoics ever was a personal one.

I'm sure that those who believe in a personal God, concerned with we humans more than anything else, our actions, thoughts, what we want, who we have sex with, what we wear, etc., find this conception comforting and satisfying, that kind of deity is one I find hard to reconcile with the God of the vast universe. The Busybody God, as I've called him, isn't what I would expect one immanent in the universe to be. If there was a lesser God who was peculiarly concerned with Earth, it could well be the Busybody God.

The personal God most believe in now, and who has been worshipped in the past is of course not thought of as a God of the Earth solely. Though certainly a personal God, and one with some disturbingly human characteristics, those who believe think of him as being God of the universe nonetheless. Apparently, though, their God of the universe is particularly concerned with human beings living on a tiny planet in a tiny solar system located in one of billions of galaxies. Some think this God actually became one of us. Sort of.

Just why a God of the universe--one immanent in it or, as it seems many prefer, one immanent in it who nevertheless created it and so is apart from it--would be so concerned is something I think very unclear. But there are other consequences of belief in a personal God which I think create problems for us of a profound nature, and which I think can be avoided if we believed in the Stoic version of God.

The belief in a personal God tends to create conflict among us, because we're the concern of such a God. Though the same in essential respects, we're different in many ways which, though superficial, are emphasized because we have lived in groups which foster certain beliefs and norms regarding dress, food, acceptable conduct, sex, law, religious beliefs. Our personal God is concerned with us, and so approves of us and those like us, naturally enough. Those who aren't like us don't have God's approval, almost as a matter of course, until such time as they become like us. Those who don't believe in our personal God are outsiders, strangers, enemies. They must be; God wouldn't be concerned with us if he didn't approve of us. Though he disapproves of us from time to time, we can get back in his good graces because he's concerned with us when we seek forgiveness and act as we should.

An impersonal God, on the other hand, isn't especially concerned with us and as a God of the universe (in Stoicism, God in the universe) wouldn't be concerned with what we wear, eat, who we have sex with, what days we treat as holy, whether we believe in him; in other words, what is typically the concern of organized religion would be of no consequence to such a God. What is the cause of conflict among us cannot have its basis in the belief in an immanent God of the universe entire.

Such a God would as well have none of the characteristics we find comforting, however. Such a God wouldn't love us, wouldn't watch over us a parent would, wouldn't listen to our pleas, etc. Such a God wouldn't be impressed by our ceremonies or rituals. Such a God would in fact be unfeeling; wouldn't have our feelings, in fact, or be in the least bit troubled by them.

We may be saddened by aspects of an unfeeling, impersonal God, but it doesn't follow that without a personal God our lives have no meaning or we may do whatever we want. Impersonal though such a God may be, as it is immanent all of nature partakes in it; so we and all other creatures do so. This knowledge should have the effect that we treat all others (in fact all of nature) as divine, worthy of reverence and respect. What other people may do will not necessarily be divine and may in fact be wrong or harmful to others. That may well create conflict and require action on our part. Otherwise, though, their conduct to the extent it causes no harm is no cause of concern to us. Why should we cause no harm to others? Why should we prevent them from doing so? Because God is immanent in them and in all else.

The Stoic injunction to be indifferent to what is not in our control, and not to be disturbed by it, fits well within this conception of the deity. It also would minimize the tendency to do wrong to others, because those things which normally motivate us to do harm (desire for wealth, fame, power) would not longer do so. We wouldn't be motivated by concerns for things beyond our control. What would motivate us would be the desire to do the best we can with what we have. To live in accordance with nature, which is to say live reasonably, to do no harm, to benefit to the extent we can the rest of the universe of which we're a part.

It's a very spare, simple view of divinity and the spiritual, and requires no myriad of rules, proscriptions, ceremonies. But if it's accepted it diminishes the adverse consequences of belief in God which have otherwise been encouraged throughout out history, largely due to our own self-regard.

"A Child of the Earth and the Starry Heavens"

The words of the title of this post are the words initiates of the Orphic mysteries were taught to say when asked to identify themselves in the afterlife.  It's a rather wonderful statement, I believe; a characterization to be proud of, poetic in nature.

The Orphic mysteries were what some might call a watered-down version of those of Dionysus; others might call them a far more reasonable version.  The worship of Dionysus could be rather excessive, best characterized by the maenads, the female followers or priestesses of the god who worked themselves into a frenzy while paying homage.  It apparently involved (so it's said), in some cases at least, tearing a poor animal to pieces and feasting on its raw flesh.  The unfortunate beast thus was treated as Dionysus was by the Titans.  The Orphic mysteries were much more subdued.

During the Roman period, the worship of Dionysus along with others, such as Magna Mater and Attis, Isis and Osiris, was fundamentally the worship of a god who died and was reborn, whose death and regeneration was for the salvation of humanity.  Initiates of these cults were spoken of as having been "born again."  If that is a somewhat familiar phrase, it should be.  The similarity between Christianity and the ancient pagan cults popular in the time Christianity was born and became popular itself is remarkable.  The extent to which Christianity is based on the ancient pagan mysteries would probably be even more stunning if the initiates of the pagan cults had been less faithful to their vows of secrecy and the early Church less successful in stamping them out.

But the Orphic identification has an additional significance, I think.  Not because it speaks of men and women as part earth and part heaven.  This view is something familiar to us through the dualism which has been fundamental to Western culture through the centuries; the distinction between body and soul.  Rather, because of the use of the word "and" in the formula, if it may be called such.  No distinction is made in this case.  We are, therefore, children of earth and the heavens, as we are children of a man and a woman. 

This isn't dualism in the traditional sense, at least as I interpret the phrase.  A child of earth and heaven doesn't necessarily have two aspects, one inferior or of less worth than another, e.g. a body which is unimportant and a soul which is all-important.  That's how we're conceived of by the Church and Plato before it.  It's a point of view which consigns the world and living in it to insignificance, if it doesn't result in a view of our lives as being fraught with evil or impurity.  It's a life-hating and world-hating perspective.

In my interpretation, the statement is one which acknowledges that the earth and the starry heavens are parts of a single whole, as are we.  There is no reference to or reliance on something or some being which transcends the universe (and is therefore unimaginable and inconceivable).  At the same time, though, there is an acknowledgment that the universe includes not "merely" us and the world as we know it, but may include much more that we have yet to encounter and will encounter someday, perhaps even after death; something among the "starry heavens."

As science indicates more and more that life exists throughout the universe, and that life here may be the result of the transmission of the elements favorable to life to our planet from other places, the reference to being a child of the starry heavens may be even more appropriate than the followers of Orpheus knew.  Regardless, the phrase speaks to a form of religion or spirituality which is naturalistic, and a divinity which is immanent, also a part of the universe.

This seems to be the Stoic view, if Stoicism is as some claim a kind of religion, or a religious philosophy.  It seems to have been to such to Epictetus and even Seneca, though the "thoughts" of Marcus Aurelius are ambiguous in this respect.  Nevertheless, Stoicism generally at least in ancient times accepted the idea of Providence and a Divine Reason, present in the universe as a kind of matter.

There is a basis for a spirituality, a religion perhaps, which involves reverence for the universe and its creatures and is not dependent on a belief in something apart from the universe, i.e. apart from all we know and can know.  I think one religion, one God, may be considered more reasonable than another even if not subject to proof.  One that doesn't require acceptance of what cannot be experienced is prima facie more reasonable than one which does.

In our Stars

One has to wonder why, despite our reliance on science and our enlightened state, so many of us take astrology seriously.  You would think that its day is long gone, but it isn't.  One can see it in any  newspaper (even the ones which still are made up of paper), and be enthralled by an Eastern version of it in many Chinese restaurants.  Curiously, it seems that whether we are, e.g., a Cancer or a Horse, many fine qualities are attributed to us as being a part of our nature.  Our signs, or years, at birth never seem to ordain that we're idiots, or twisted, or fanatic, or hideous.

We all know the story of the Reagans, or at least Nancy Reagan's, belief in and reliance on astrology when considering the future.  It's reminiscent of Tiberius' reliance on it especially during his time in Capri.  Presumably, neither Ronald or Nancy would have hurled their astrologers off a cliff in the event of a bad "reading" however.

It must be said that astrology played a part in the birth of modern science, particularly astronomy, much as alchemy may be said to have played a part in the birth of modern chemistry.  Since the time of the ancient Chaldeans, at least, some of us have been busy identifying and plotting the courses of heavenly bodies.  These observations were reputedly quite precise; indeed, it appears that a good deal of mathematical information and knowledge were employed by those who read the stars and what else can be seen from the Earth.  The problems with astrology resulted from inferences made from the mathematics based on unfounded assumptions regarding the nature and influence of the stars and planets.

The cult of Mithras in the Roman Empire is an example of the influence of astrology on religion.  We know little of the ritual or liturgy of that cult, but we know from the mithraeums themselves that astrology was involved as the signs of the Zodiac are frequently on display, along with Mithras and his bull and the torch-bearing twins, Cautes and Cautopates.

Why, though, did we (and do we) associate the stars and the planets with our character and fate?    Were the predictable and regular movements of these objects in the sky suggestive of the order of the universe, the laws of the universe?  Being such, was it inferred that we were similarly ordered, or that the order in the sky necessarily governed the creatures of the Earth? 

It's difficult to contend that astrology was or is a means to control our destinies as that is plainly not the case.  Astrology seems to be an example of deterministic thinking; that is to say that we are controlled and unable to control ourselves.  It would then seem more plausible that astrology was used as a means by which to understand our destinies, to know the future which has already been ordained. 

It can't be the case that astrology was looked to as explaining, or at least predicting, what the gods had in store for us as we thought of them as gods themselves.  Particularly in ancient Greece and Rome, the gods were notoriously unpredictable and some of them easily offended or aroused to action.  It would be difficult in that case to attribute to them neatly ordered conduct such as that displayed in the sky.

The Romans, of course, adopted the apparently Etruscan practice of determining the future from the entrails of animals.  Thus the liver of an ox or other creature took the place of the stars as indicating the what was in store.  This seems even more unlikely than accepting the movement of the stars as governing us and our fate. 

Undoubtedly it was hoped that the future could be known and predicted and so it's nor surprising that we sought for (and found) ways by which that could be done.  Priests who knew that way were not required to be of high moral character themselves, as they were simply discerning what was written for us through a consideration of what took place in nature, not through a vision or grace bestowed, or special favor of the gods.  Astrology represented a kind of learning or system rather than a knowledge granted for good conduct.  It was not an award by the gods, it was something that could be taught.

We can "forgive" the ancients for their ignorance, but modern practice of astrology or consultation with astrologers is mystifying.  As it must be the case that most of us are now aware of the vastness of the universe and our planet's tiny part it in, it should be extremely difficult to believe that the stars and planets in their movements serve to fashion our nature and reveal our fates.  But we all still want to know the future, and it may be said that praying for such knowledge or awaiting a revelation of it by some beneficent deity is not all that different from seeking it in the movements of the stars and planets.    If we have no problem accepting the former, there is no problem with accepting the latter.

Acceptance, however, is not something that can be associated with astrology.  If we were blithely willing to accept whatever happens we'd have no need to know what is going to happen.  Astrology and certain kinds of religion may therefore be considered efforts on our part to disturb ourselves with things not in our control, a cardinal error for a Stoic.  I don't recall whether Epictetus, Seneca or Marcus Aurelius dealt with this practice, but will review their work to find out.

Regarding Senescence

Both Cicero and Seneca, and no doubt other wise and good people, wrote of old age.  They did so to extol it; to tell those of us who are not as wise as they were that our disaffection with it is unwise and unneeded.  As I race (or so it seems) into my twilight years (well, late afternoon years, perhaps) I'm inclined to wonder just how much of such reflection is wisdom and how much of it is wishful thinking.

I don't doubt their sincerity.  Perhaps I do doubt Seneca's sincerity, though, at least a bit.  Regardless, I ask myself if they were trying to persuade themselves if not others that the evidence of aging--which can't be spoken or written away and which is disturbing sometimes, at least--is also evidence of something else, something less apparently bad and even good.  This is not necessarily an easy task. 

It's not necessarily a Stoic task either.  Pierre Hadot and others have claimed that the ancients engaged in spiritual exercises and have made that case convincingly.  Marcus Aurelius' notes to himself are such; Epictetus' recommendations, called "negative visualization" in this latest resurgence of Stoicism, are others.  Imagine the worst and what is the case or will be the case may be tolerated with equanimity (the anxious have always been Stoics, perhaps--something of a surprise).  But extolling age, if that is a practice, is of a different kind.  Were these two sages engaged in "positive thinking"?

The fact is that aging is a kind of progressive failure of the body and its little helper, or guiding spirit, or prisoner depending on your point of view, the mind.  There isn't much in that to celebrate when you think of it, unless you have a soul inclined to clap its wings and sing and louder sing for every tatter in its mortal dress as I think Yeats' poem says.  That singing presumes a life after death which somehow turns out to be much better than the one that ends in death, and many think that improbable.  I'm not certain what I think, and not for the first time.

As I contemplate with a sense of resignation if not delight the degradation of what physical and mental powers I possess, I think of Warren Zevon's song invitingly titled My Shit's Fucked Up.  The singer goes to a doctor as he's feeling kind of rough and is told that his shit's fucked up.  He tells the doctor he doesn't see how, and the doctor replies that the shit that used to work won't work now.  It's a kind of anthem of the aging sung in a mournful tune that is unmistakably Zevonesque. 

And as I noted, this is certainly true.  Wherefore then is old age the crown of life as Cicero called it?  An increasingly heavy crown, it seems.

Continuing with the popular music theme, which has somehow replaced that which was evoked by the mention of Cicero and Seneca, another view of old age or at least older age is given by Steely Dan in the song Janey Runaway.  In that song an older, well-heeled man, tells of the new lease on life he experiences taking up with a young woman who ran away from home.  It's a kind of anthem to lechery, the fantasy of an older man.  But alas, although the libido doesn't seem to decrease for us aging males the opportunities to indulge it sadly do, at least if one is not rich and living Gramercy Park.

Fantasies and mourning aside, how does a Stoic pass this time as time so indifferently passes him by?  By realistically acknowledging it and accepting it, I think, neither bemoaning it nor extolling it.  It's one of the many things beyond our control (for now, at least; perhaps soon we'll find a way to control it).  As such, it shouldn't disturb us or worry us.  It's simply life and we do the best we can with what we have and take the rest as it happens.

The Curiously Disturbing Case of Lucius Annaeus Seneca

I've been reading a book by James Romm entitled Dying Every Day: Seneca at the Court of Nero, and am more than ever fascinated and disturbed by the life of this very able proponent of Stoicism and very able man, who nonetheless taught and facilitated the reign of a possibly demented and undoubtedly unpredictable tyrant.

While I have issues with the sometimes contrived, sometimes cloying and sometimes pompous style of his philosophical writings, there can be no question that he must be considered one of the great Roman Stoics, and that his thought and works have been immensely influential throughout the centuries from his death (he's also a significant literary figure).  He's thought to have championed a milder version of Stoicism which appealed to the Church Fathers (Tertullian called him "our Seneca").  Unlike Epictetus who did not write, and Marcus Aurelius who wrote only for himself, Seneca wrote understanding his work would be published (and no doubt seeing to it himself, as was not unusual for the time), and possibly even with posterity in mind.  So it can be assumed that he did so carefully and in most cases for a purpose.

In some cases he clearly wrote with Nero in mind, such as in his work On Anger, and in some cases with his own advantage in mind, as in the dreadful Consolation to Polybius.  In some cases, in his letters, he may have done so not for any personal or political purposes but with philosophy in mind, or at least the good life.  It's difficult to ascribe purpose to his work in other cases, where he seems--perhaps deliberately--ambiguous. 

"Cautious" may be a good word to describe him after his return to Rome from exile in Corsica at the behest of Nero's mother, the formidable Agrippina.  He had managed to run afoul of the princeps in the past and would not want to do so again.  It's understandable that he would strive not to provoke imperial anger.  It would also seem he was ambitious.  This ambition must, I think, be considered in the context of the time.  Romans of his class (though he was a provincial) were supposed to be ambitious, to attain wealth and high office, to be renowned. 

But it's hard to reconcile ambition and wealth with Stoic tenets, and Seneca became very wealthy and very powerful.  Pursuing public service, though, is consistent with Stoicism. 

When brought back from Corsica to tutor the young Nero, then, it's possible, perhaps even probable, that Seneca thought he was being given a chance to do good; to mold the future ruler of the known world to be wise and merciful (as described in his work On Mercy).  And he may have thought that becoming wealthy and powerful while doing so appropriate and even necessary to the task.  How else influence an emperor, who would likely only listen to the wealthy and powerful?  But it's difficult to accept his reply to those of his time (and subsequent times) who condemned him for his acquisition of wealth as being unworthy of a philosopher, particularly a Stoic, except with a scowl or grimace.  He noted that disdain for wealth was to be expected from a Stoic Sage, but he had not yet attained that status--he was still trying to be a Stoic Sage.  When he became one, presumably, he would not want to be wealthy any longer.  An unsatisfying reply, I think.

But what of his conduct as Nero "matured" in tyranny?  Romm notes Seneca may have played a part in freeing Nero from the dominance of his mother.  She was not herself a saintly figure by any means and may well have been thought to be a bad influence on her son, but Nero unbound was a dangerous man.  It can't be said with certainty that Seneca was involved in Nero's matricide, but it seems clear that he wrote the speech given by Nero to the Senate in which his mother was reviled and her death justified.  Seneca can be said to have done what he could to restrain Nero from his social excesses--his acting, singing, chariot racing and writing of poetry was scandalous given Roman tradition--but eventually he was engaged in this conduct openly.  But just what he did otherwise to restrain Nero is unclear, if he did anything.  Seneca wrote a great deal but said almost nothing at all regarding what took place while he was a senior consultant to the emperor.

Eventually, as Nero grew more dangerous, Seneca offered to grant him all his wealth and retire from politics--twice.  It can be argued this was motivated by purely practical considerations, though, and in an effort at self-preservation.  This is likely so.  But it's difficult to condemn someone in Nero's court for being fearful.  And Seneca could have felt fear not only for himself but for his brothers and his nephew, whom we know as Lucan.  They were known to and within the reach of Nero.

It may be that Seneca believed he was caught in a trap at least in part of his own making, and he could not see his way out.  But he wrote admiringly of those, including Cato, who took their own lives when life became intolerable and they could not live with honor and in virtue.  Why didn't he take advantage of this option himself?  Eventually he did, of course, but only when ordered to dispose of himself by the emperor, having been implicated in a plot to kill Nero.  His nephew Lucan was involved in the plot, but Seneca declined to participate.  Cowardice?  Caution? 

Not cowardice, I think, at least not in the sense of fear of suffering.  His death took a long time.  When cutting his veins would not work effectively, he took hemlock.  All accounts are he died nobly though in great pain.  So caution is more likely; caution and indecision, which are not unusual in old men, and he was old then and likely very tired.

It's bewildering that someone could write so well regarding virtue and the good and yet be so hesitant and ineffective in being virtuous and good in great things.  But perhaps this is a case of the spirit being willing and the flesh weak.  Perhaps it's unfair to think a man in his place to have acted in bad faith, dishonestly.  It's possible to be a good but weak man.  We should consider it possible that Seneca should be pitied rather than reviled.

Comparing Stoicism and Christianity

Anyone who does some reading about Stoicism has encountered books in which it is compared, unfavorably, to Christianity.  These books seem to have been written, at the latest, in the 19th and early 20th centuries.  More recent books about Stoicism don't make the comparison, and I wonder whether there simply is no longer an interest in doing so.  Sometimes, the comparisons that were made seem to be in earnest, and even thoughtful.  Sometimes they seem quite partisan, and far less than impartial.  They all seem to have certain claims in common, however.

I've sometimes wondered whether Christian thinkers have resented Christianity's great debt to pagan philosophy.  Christianity hasn't benefited merely from Stoic influence, of course.  It incorporated the thoughts and works of Plato and Aristotle as well; Christian mystics and ascetics spoke and conducted themselves much as the ancient Cynics did.  The influence of the school of Epicurus is not as evident, as may be expected.

The early Christian Fathers didn't share in such resentment, though, nor does it seem to have been prevalent in medieval times, or during the the Renaissance when Aristotle was "the Master of All who Know" and he and other pagan thinkers spent their time in Hell in its relatively comfortable first level, according to Dante.  Certain of the Fathers, at least, spoke of Plato and others as having approached the truth, a remarkable concession from an otherwise highly intolerant crew.  Seneca was considered a kind of Christian, and Marcus Aurelius was said to have regretted or to even have been ignorant of the persecution which took place during his reign.  It was in a sense assumed that people who wrote and thought and acted so wisely, as these figures did, could not really have been all that unchristian; indeed, must have been proto or quasi-Christians.

Perhaps this kind of hat-tipping to the pagan thinkers began to disappear as it became clear that such fabrications as the correspondence said to have taken place between Seneca and St. Paul was established as being forged, and other myths such as Plato's friendship with Moses were found to be contrived.  I suppose it may have been easier to acknowledge the extent to which Christianity borrowed from the ancients when it was at least arguable that Christianity or "proper" Judaism influenced the works of the old philosophers in some respect.

It seems clear, though, that the New Testament doesn't indicate that Jesus and his disciples discussed or were much concerned with the fundamentals of pagan philosophy which became the fundamentals of Christian theology.  So some justification was required when the equivalent of Plato's forms and Aristotle's First Mover and natural law and universal law began to appear in defenses and explanations of the Christian religion.  Perhaps the acknowledgement simply became more grudging or reluctant.

We see Stoicism sometimes described as the noblest of the moral codes pagan antiquity managed to formulate.  But there is always something wrong with it according to these writers, something which, they maintain, caused it to dissipate though it was at one time the preferred philosophy and even religion of the thoughtful Roman upper and mid-to-upper classes.  It was, of course, Christianity that satisfied the need Stoicism could not.  Stoicism's subsequent revivals over the centuries in, for example, Justus Lipsius are acknowledged by these writers, but they seem to consider these events as similar to fits or fads. 

As might be expected, Stoicism's failure is ascribed to the fact that it's tenets are too stern, cold, abstract, unrealistic.  It's claimed that the Stoic view of the emotions and passions was too negative.  Most of all, it seems, it's claimed that Stoicism failed to acknowledge or recognize love--which is to say Christian Love.  And it's claimed the Stoic view of God was materialistic and distant, despite the efforts of Seneca and Epictetus to portray God as more the personal God of Christianity (more personal, at least, when that characteristic fits the apologist's purpose; the God of the famous proofs is notably vague and abstract).

What Christian Love is supposed to be is an interesting question.  The Gospels were written in Greek by men who could not have known Jesus personally.  Was the "love" referred to in the Gospels or St. Paul the kind of "love" we may read about in the works of the pagan philosophers?  Was the "love" presumably referred to by Jesus the same, or something different?

There are quotes from the early Stoics which seem to support the claims the writers make.  However, more recent thinkers have found the Stoic view of the emotions to be far more sophisticated than previously believed, and the therapeutic effect of Stoic practice to be far more effective than previously believed.

It's possible Christianity may be waning now, or that the personal God posited by it an other established religions may be considered less and less credible the more we know of the universe.  Stoicism is not so limited, however, though there also seems to be nothing prohibiting the Stoic from suspecting that God is, in a sense, concerned with human beings and "personal" in that sense.  Perhaps it is this flexibility that is one of the reasons it keeps appearing.  It's by no means defunct, and I suspect it never will be. 

Pragmatic Stoicism

A few months ago I mentioned John Lach's book Stoic Pragmatism.  I've been describing myself as a stoic and a pragmatist in this blog for quite some time, and welcome his book as part of a resurgence of both schools of philosophy.  But what I think about their merger differs somewhat from Lach's view.  Hence the title of this post and the reason for it as well.

The pragmatism I find admirable is that of John Dewey.  His instrumentalism, his notion of inquiry and creative intelligence and his devotion to the scientific method appeal to me.  So does his creed that philosophy should be devoted to the "problems of men" rather than to the problems of philosophers.

The stoicism I find admirable is that of Epictetus and, to a lesser extent, that of Seneca and Marcus Aurelius (the later or Roman stoics as they've been called).  There is wisdom in their focus on things in our control and in abjuring things and events not in our control, particularly given our increasingly interesting world.  Also, their recognition of the fellowship of human beings and emphasis on the divine or semi-divine status of nature is appealing.

Deweyan pragmatism and stoicism are similar in their recognition of the fact that humans are parts of nature, an organism among organisms in a vast universe.  We are unique in some respects (we may learn we're not as unique as we think), but the universe was not made for us--it is not our dominion.  Pragmatism probably contemplates that we take and should take a more active role in shaping our environment than does stoicism, but stoicism recognizes a duty to act in such a manner (according to nature) as to benefit our fellow human beings, at least, as we are by nature social.

Dewey's pragmatism takes what might be called a psychological approach to philosophical problems, in that he seems to address in all his works which I've read the manner in which we interact with our environment and others and uses this as a basis on which to theorize regarding knowledge, logic, ethics and metaphysics.  Although he rejects absolutes of all kinds, this seems to me to be not all that different from the stoic manner of drawing conclusions or making inferences from human nature and our place in the universe, which resulted in the concept of natural law.  Now that I think of it, there are indications natural law theory may be reviving as well.

Perhaps these revivals may be the result of a reaction against nihilism, existentialism and postmodernism--the intellectualization of futility.  Pragmatism has often been criticized as relativistic, but this seems to me to disregard Dewey's emphasis and reliance on the method of inquiry and the use of intelligence and the scientific method or versions of it in resolving problems.  Certain philosophers called neo-pragmatists purport to be disciples of Dewey but they appear to ignore the central role intelligence and problem-solving plays in his philosophy. 

There may be a place in our world for Pragmatic Stoicism.  Philosophers and others are becoming more and more concerned regarding technology these days.  The concern is legitimate, but I'm not convinced the despairing and melodramatic responses of some are either merited or useful.  The claim that technology is somehow alienating us from our own humanity strikes me as particularly misguided, if taken literally, in any case.  Virtually all we do and are involves technology; we wouldn't be humans without it.  Pragmatic stoicism may be a guide in how to control it, as it would necessitate the recognition of dwindling resources and a new emphasis on duties owed to each other and to nature in general, and use this as a basis on which to seek solutions. 

Intelligent involvement in a world full of problems, seeking solutions with respect for nature and our fellow creatures with the wisdom not to be overwhelmed (or obsessed) by things which are beyond our control but instead to seek to improve what is in our control.  It seems a worthy path, to me.

Second Thoughts on Seneca

I find it hard to make up my mind about Lucius Annaeus Seneca.  His writing makes me cringe, sometimes--particularly the deplorable Consolation to Polybius, addressed to the freedman of the Emperor Claudius.  He often strikes me as sententious in the extreme, given to platitudes he was apparently inclined to foist upon his long-suffering friend, Lucilius, among others.  One thinks of Ben Franklin composing Poor Richard's Almanac, but Seneca seems to lack Franklin's humor and (one hears, and hopes) Franklin's irony.

Then again, there is no doubting his ability.  He must have been a kind of genius, to manage to administer (with Burrus) the Roman Empire during the times of Agrippina and Nero, to have survived the reigns of Tiberius and Claudius having suffered no more than exile to Corsica, write plays which formed the bases for many of those of Shakespeare, and to have had such an effect on European thought and literature for so many centuries.

Famously, he did not survive the reign of Nero; neither, of course, did Nero's mother as well as others, and one of the problems I have with Seneca is that he may have written Nero's apology for matricide to the Senate, or at least tacitly endorsed it by saying, it seems, nothing at all about it.  He died quite nobly, though, if we can take the word of Tacitus on the subject, and Tacitus could be rather savage when he thought it necessary to be towards many of the great names of Roman history.

He is, of course, one of the great Roman Stoics, and was thought of fondly by many of the Christian Fathers, so much so that some forgotten person contrived to create a fraudulent correspondence between him and St. Paul (Seneca's brother was responsible for sending the mischievous Paul to Rome when Paul noted belatedly but somewhat eagerly under the circumstances, one would think, that he was a Roman citizen).  He is considered to have humanized (even "Christianized") the stern Stoic creed along with Epictetus and Marcus Aurelius.

Perhaps his accumulation of wealth and power was a part of that humanizing.  Some of the later Stoics came to consider such things, which should be indifferent to the sage, to be indifferent, yes, but also advantageous, provided one considered them ultimately unnecessary.  Yet it is difficult to tolerate solemn pronunciations regarding the ills of wealth and power, or the fact that they mean nothing, from someone who was one the the wealthiest and most powerful men of his time and seemingly content to be one until Nero began to turn against him.

But he writes well, if in a somewhat artificial, highly stylized manner, regarding important things.  It's difficult not to admire what he wrote and evidently thought.

It's also difficult to assess what kind of person he was based on the accounts we have of the time.  How much of what survived may merely be malicious gossip?  One reads good and bad things about him, but it seems the good outweighs the bad, in the end.

I suspect he was a "man of the world" who sincerely believed in what he wrote, but was very human, and driven by that which motivated the great of his time.  He reminds me in some way of Cicero; vain, but essentially wise.  Not a sage, no.  Capable in any case of good counsel if not always of ideal conduct; interesting, influential, able.  Generally admirable, as far as we human beings are or can be concerned.

On the Satyricon of Petronius Arbiter

Well, it was written by someone, in any case, and it seems it could have been the man known to us as Petronius Arbiter.  Most of us may know that man as a result of his portrayal in the novel Quo Vadis if not through Tacitus.  The sophisticated, cynical (in the modern usage) "arbiter of elegance" in the court of Nero, a voluptuary who nonetheless was a very able governor and consul, a kind of later Sulla who did not exercise significant military or political authority but seemingly had the ability and gravitas to do so when needed.

The Satyricon is a fascinating work, and I think may be said to be a work of genius, the first of its kind, a predecessor perhaps of the work of Rabelais and Cervantes, the first picaresque novel or work of fiction.  I remember trying to read it years ago.  I write "trying" because it was not an easy book to find, and because its many naughty bits (as they would say on Monty Python) were rendered in Latin interruptions to the English of the translations that I found.  I thought this most annoying.  Now, of course, the work is available in translation with all those bits on display.  I cannot say with certainty how I would have reacted to them had they been available in the halcyon days of my adolescence, but they are by today's standards at least relatively tame.  One might only find the rampant bisexuality evident in the characters to be surprising in these times. 

Sex certainly is a preoccupation of those characters portrayed in the book, as is food.  The feast of Trimalchio may be deemed a digression, but if so it is fantastic one.  I have to wonder whether the author's description of the incredible dishes served up at the feast was based on actual dinners he had attended simply exaggerated for effect or his own imaginative creations.  Some say Trimalchio is intended to be Nero, some say he is a satirical rendering of the vulgar, wealthy freedman patricians came to loathe in those times.

From what we read in Martial and Juvenal, a great deal of importance was ascribed to appearing at the dinners of the wealthy and powerful in ancient Rome.  I'm not certain whether this was due to the culinary delights available or the significance of being seen at such events.  I suppose both were factors.  Perhaps Trimalchio's feast mocks those events and those who attended them and thought them important.

The characters of the work are, of course, irredeemably shallow and materialistic, which may be expected in a work of satire (and we certainly find such characters in Juvenal).  The Satyricon has among other things been looked upon by the Christian successors of the Empire as evidence of its decadence, and the unholiness of all things Pagan as a consequence.  It is debatable whether such satires are more a testament to the morals of their creators than the prevalence of what they hold up for contempt.

Admirer and emulator of the Stoics that I am or try to be, though, I have a sneaking fondness and regard for the work and for its reputed author, Petronius.  I feel as though there is a kind of resemblance between Petronius and another of Nero's mentors, Seneca.  Both men may have seen Nero for what he was, and felt contempt for the times in which they lived and the morals of those they lived among.  But they played along, for a time, for one reason or another.  Perhaps Seneca felt that he could exercise a degree of benign control over Nero and events; perhaps Petronius felt there was nothing to be done but make the best of things while deploring them.  Perhaps both felt themselves superior to those about them, but caught up in a kind of play in which they were compelled to play their parts.  Seneca consoled himself by writing wise counsel on how to live in the Stoic manner; Petronius mocked those who lived as they did at the time. 

Both died nobly, though, I think, when Nero felt they could no longer be tolerated.  Some might say they should have departed from life earlier, finding it to be intolerable.  It's hard to condemn a man for wanting to live, however.  Living as best one can in terrible times is admirable in its own way.

Seneca, Stoicism and the Contrived

Seneca, I suggest, poses problems for the admirer of stoicism.  The contrast between his lifestyle and his professed philosophy has often been noted, of course.  I don't think this contrast is insignificant, at least as it concerns his apparent love of luxury and avarice (the fact he held important public office is not necessarily inconsistent with the philosophy, although lust for it would be).  What troubles me at the moment involves his style of writing.  This may be a fault in translation--my latin is terrible--but I've read him in several different translations, and always receive the same impression.

The impression I receive is that his works are highly contrived.  He seems always to be seeking to express every thought, every feeling, in as polished a manner as possible.  He appears unduly conscious of an audience, one he is trying (very hard indeed) to please or impress.  There is nothing heartfelt in his writing.  He is often pedantic and worse yet, pompous.  It's often hard to believe that even his letters are to people he thinks of as friends, rather than admirers, or those he wants to admire him.  In short, there is something almost dishonest in his writing; or, perhaps, he never seems to write but for some purpose which makes it appear that it is never his true intent to honestly express ideas or feelings.

One doesn't expect such posturing in a stoic, who presumably considers the admiration of others something of indifference (although it would seem to me that a stoic could legitmately want his acts to be approved of by other stoics, for example).  It would also seem that a stoic would refrain from striving so hard to appear wise and good, which I think Seneca sometimes makes a priority. 

One could argue that he was very much a man of his world and time.  After all, he had to survive the reigns of Caligula, Claudius and Nero (well, that of the first two, in any case, and a good portion of that of Nero) and that could not have been an easy thing.  Fawning regard may have been the rule of the day for anyone trying to live who was within the notice of an Emperor.  He may have been aware of the inconsistency between his life and professed ideals, and felt he had to do much to impress others of his sincerity when he could.

But there is something about him which gives one pause.  He's not the man I'd suggest that someone interested in stoicism would read.  For an admirer of stoicism, this is quite a condemnation.