Corrupting Stoicism

 

If you view the various videos (hurrah for alliteration) supposed to be about Stoicism which appear on YouTube, you'll witness its ongoing degeneration.  You can infer the nature of what's taking place on seeing the videos supposedly teaching you the Stoic Way, without even clicking on them.

You'll see displayed grotesquely muscled, bearded, mature men striking poses while looking stern.  Presumably, they're intended to be impressive, but I can't help but feel they're silly.  Remarkably silly, in fact.  Philosophers, apparently, or at least what some want you to believe are Stoic philosophers, want to pump you up.

Stoicism is seemingly being used to cultivate and popularize a version of masculinity.  It apears that Stoicism is being confused with control of emotion, indifference to criticism, the devaluation of empathy and sympathy for others and, unsurprisingly in a time in which a group of young men called "incels" exist and complain about being avoided by women for no good reason, the degradation of females.

This is a peculiar interpretation of a philosophy which asserts that virtue is the greatest, if not the only, good.  Like all aspects of culture and society in these times, it instead reflects an overwhelming concern with sex.  Not necessarily sexual acts, but with the definition of what it is to be of a particular sex; in other words, to be male.  Sex roles are addressed.

Oddly, this sex-oriented version of Stoicism interprets it as a means by which to isolate yourself from others.  To protect yourself from others, in fact.  Stoicism becomes a matter of avoidance.  What you believe is made invincible, as you may disregard what others say and do.  The Stoic is anti-social.  The Stoic is content with his prejudice.

This kind of Stoic is in fact insecure, though.  Isolation can be a withdrawal from contest, from challenge.  Even irresponsible.

Anything may be corrupted in the kingdom of corruption.

Religion and Poison

 

I

I'm reading Christopher Hitchen's God is not Great: How Religion Poisons Everything.  As I expected, it's full of examples of the poisonous effects of religion, which is to say those of the Abrahamic religions, primarily. 

Thus far, at least, those religions with more than one god haven't been subject to much in the way of ridicule or used as examples of nonsense, except those of the mesoamerican civilizations whose gods were quite literally bloodthirsty.  Nor have those involving a deity which isn't a personal deity, intervening in nature, granting favors, requiring exclusive worship and pretending to absolute knowledge.  The deists of our history are treated with a certain respect, or at least as harmless.

So I think there may be limits to the criticism of religion he makes, but even then he notes the ways in which religion manages to thwart free inquiry and critical and scientific thought merely by insisting that we be ignorant and accept certain doctrines as true even if we refrain from compelling others to adopt them.  This devotion to maxims adopted unthinkingly and never questioned is itself harmful.

To his credit, he refuses to join one of his fellow atheists (Dennet I think) in referring to those who don't believe on God as "brights." There's ridicule and mockery, as well as anger, but not condescension.

It's difficult to contest his claims given his many examples of often idiotic and malicious conduct on the part of the faithful. I confess I wonder what he would, or would have, thought of the religious characteristics of Stoicism. I suspect he'd have thought it based on a hypothesis for which there is no need, to paraphrase Laplace in responding to Napoleon.  But its conception of God as immanent in Nature rather than apart from it avoids the problems associated with a creator God, and its emphasis on treating things beyond our control as indifferent makes it less liable to the urge to impose itself on others.  You don't forcibly convert others to Stoicism or persecute thise who aren't Stoics.

Which brings us to the question which it seems concerns believers in their argument with atheists most of all.  That is--if there is no God, how do we determine what's right and what's wrong?

One might reply that many of  those who purport to believe in God seem incapable of distinguishing right from wrong, or if they can don't care which is which and are fully able and willing to do wrong, to be evil rather than good.  Or one might mention the Euthypro dilemma.

In that dialogue the question addressed was whether what is good is good because God commands it, or good regardless of whether God commands it.

Clearly, if what is good isn't determined by God, then God isn't required to determine what is right or wrong.  In Stoicism what is good is what is according to nature. It isn't a matter of command by God or anyone.

Perhaps part of the poison of religion or which is caused by it is our dependence on it.  If we require a command to do what is right we needn't bother with thinking.  Nor need we take responsibility. We need only follow orders.

Felix Dies Natalis

 

Another year of my life, as we measure it, has passed.  Too many years have passed, in fact.

In my less happy moments, I wonder why we say "Happy Birthday." I don't mean to say that birthdays aren't happy.  I do, however, think that birthdays aren't necessarily happy.  Not all birthdays are happy, in other words.  But that's not to say all birthdays are sad.

The birthday in question in this case is neither happy nor sad.  It's a day like any other.  I suppose most of us come to think this way as the years go by.  A birthday becomes less and less a cause for celebration.  It's still marked, as a kind of milestone on the road from birth to death, but is more a reminder than anything else.  Journey's end, and whatever comes after, lies ahead.

Cicero, Seneca and others wrote of old age as the crown of life.  That seems to me somewhat excessive.  Both body and mind diminish, and that isn't a cause for celebration either.  One does what one can to forestall the diminishment, but aging is relentless.  Perhaps sometime soon we'll find a way to extend our lives.  Will that make the crown heavier?

Taken to its logical conclusion (if one may use the word "logical" here) the Christian view would seem to be that life is unimportant.  What is important is life after death, which may be joyous or horrible, depending on how we spend our life before death.  That makes life before death important, though, doesn't it?  Or is it important only if we believe in the Christian God?  According to Augustine and others, we can only be saved by Jesus.  If he doesn't save us, our lives may be full of good works but we still go to hell.

Antinatalism, the cheerful belief that it's wrong to procreate as those born are exposed to harm without their consent, probably doesn't encourage us to continue living.  It may be said to provide reason for us to look forward to death, however.  Perhaps it gives us a reason to look forward to the death of our parents as well, since they failed to get our consent to be born while we didn't exist.

The Stoic view is that life is preparation for death. By this they seem to mean that we should be aware of death, of our own mortality, as we live our lives.

I doubt any of this impacts our view of birthdays to any significant extent.  Stoicism would at the least teach us that birthdays should be matters of indifference, which l suppose is my view.

What I find curious, though, is that people expect that your birthday is a cause for celebration, and expect that you'll feel the same way.  They ask what you'll do to commemorate the day.  They'll ask if you had a happy birthday and seem at a loss if you haven't.  You disappoint them if you don't have a happy birthday.

Which should make your birthday even more a disappointment to you, if it isn't happy.  

Unless, that is, you're a Stoic.

We Are But Dust And Shadows

 

These somewhat deflating but poignant words are those of Horace, Odes 4. 7. 16.  People may know them if only because they were recited by the character Proximo in the film Gladiator, in a different order.

In this Ode, Horace describes the passing of each season, and the continual cycle of death and rebirth in nature.  The fact that in nature, what dies is, in effect, reborn-- life eternally returning after dying in autumn and winter-- seems to have been felt to demonstrate that we humans, though mortal and doomed to die, would live on after death for the initiates of certain of the ancient pagan mysteries, like those of Eleusis.

But in this poem Horace tells his friend that we don't return to life once we die.  He doesn't offer hope of a rebirth.  He says we join those already dead, even famous figures and heroes we know have lived and died, and have never returned to life.  Neither shall we.

It seems a poem which advises acceptance of our fate, without fear. 

 The poet's friend is being told that it's folly to believe or hope that the end isn't the end, and that the reasonable and appropriate course is brave resignation in the face of the inevitable.  It expresses, I think, a very Epicurean or Stoic point of view.  This is unsurprising as it seems that most educated and sophisticated Romans favored one or the other of these philosophical  schools.

It isn't a particularly cheerful bit of friendly advice.  But wise nonetheless.  Leaves and plants die in autumn and winter, and reappear in spring and summer; but what reappears isn't what died, but something different.  The same crop doesn't come back each year (the display of wheat is said to have been a climactic part of the Eleusinian mysteries). Nature provides no analogy for our rebirth.

Lucretius thought that Epicurus did humanity a great service in maintaining persuasively that we don't survive death.  This established that there need be no fear of punishment in Hades once our lives ended.  Some of us, though, find the thought that we'll cease to exist frightening as well.

It's apparent that we've always longed to survive death.  I know nothing of modern physics or quantum mechanics, but it's claimed that they suggest that consciousness is a part of the universe and so ours may continue in one way or another.  That view seems similar to ancient Stoicism's beliefs regarding the nature of the cosmos.  The ancient Stoics also believed that fame, pride, riches. self-love and excessive concern regarding our success in life were were foolish and we are, in effect, but dust and shadows, and living according to the divine in nature is the only real good.

Perhaps modern physics provides support for the ancient Stoic view of our lives and the universe.

A True Opposition

 

Once upon a time, a long time in fact, several members of a legislative body opposed the acts of tyrants who held near absolute power over a great empire.  They suffered death and exile as a result.

The tyrants were the Emperors Nero, Vespasian and Domitian (I'll dispense with their full names for purposes of this post).  The members of the legislative body were Roman Senators, and followers of the Stoic philosophy.  Most of them were students of the noted philosopher Musonius Rufus, who was also the teacher of Epictetus.  At the head of this post is a painting of a Quaestor reading his death sentence to one of the most prominent of those Senators, Thrasea Paetus.

Rufus himself was exiled, eventually.  It wasn't uncommon for Emperors to repress philosophers, particularly Stoics. They were notably independent, taught that virtue was the only good, and were critical of imperial conduct that wasn't virtuous.  They and their Senatorial students were generally accused of and condemned for conspiracy against the Emperor.  They were invited to commit suicide, or executed, or sent to some remote island or similarly isolated location.

Of course, most of the members of the Roman Senate after the establishment of the Principate by Augustus were obedient due to fear or because it was in their interest to be outstandingly servile .  There were periods of revolt when Senators favored potential claimants to the throne over established Emperors, but for the most part the Roman aristocracts were compliant with imperial rule so long as they maintained their privileged status and limited power.  Nor were Stoics the only ones who dared criticize an Emperor, but their opposition was notable.

But the fact remains that there were principled, moral Roman Senators who objected to the abuse of power by Emperors who possessed near absolute power, and were willing to give up their lives, status, and fortunes to protest that abuse.

It's good to recall their example in a time when far too many of our legislators are little more than wretched, sniveling, cowardly slaves of a wannabe-emperor who have nothing to lose but their position.  While the members of the Stoic opposition to autocrats in ancient Rome sought to emulate the ideal Stoic Sage by refusing to sanction injustice, our representatives are eager to do whatever is asked of them by an autocrat and his besotted followers.  Our representatives emulate Caspar Milquetoast, or perhaps Uriah Heep (the Dickens character, not the band).

Our representatives' timidity isn't admirable.  It merely encourages a continuing effort to defy rather than preserve, protect and defend the Constitution.  If our representatives lack the desire or courage to be true to their oath to support the Constitution, you'd like to hope that they at least have self-respect enough to refrain from groveling so enthusiastically.

Intimations of Mortality

 

I'm not a great fan of Wordsworth or any of the Romantic poets. His work strikes me as sappy. Whenever I think of him, I think of Bullwinkle reciting his poem about daffodils, wandering lonely as a cloud. Nevertheless I base the title of this post on the title of his poem Intimations of Immortality, substituting "mortality" for "immortality" as the former, not the latter, is on my mind.

You'd think it wouldn't be a difficult thing for us to understand that we're mortal, i.e. that we will die.  It should be obvious, and intimations therefore inappropriate or unnecessary. But we contrive to avoid thinking of it, at least, most of the time and sometimes for years. The intimations arise with age, though.  Your body gives you little reminders; sometimes big ones. Arthritis, for example; problems with eyesight, weight,  balance. Innumerable weaknesses as the organism gradually dissipates.

But we should think of it and not only when we're reminded of it's approach or are suddenly confronted with it one way or another, through the death of someone we know, for example.  So we're told by the ancient philosophers, especially the Stoics, and by their subsequent imitators.

Memento mori: remember you are mortal, and will die.  Supposedly these words or others like them were spoken in the ear of a Roman general granted a triumph by a slave riding with him in a chariot as the spoils of his victory were paraded before him.  Glory is fleeting, fame and prosperity ephemeral. In short, live as if you'll die tomorrow. Understand that those you love or value will die, leaving you alone. This is a form of Stoic practice as we see in the Roman Stoics in particular.

Such thoughts necessarily quash our self-regard and self-importance. They do the same with other "selfs" as well, like self-righteousness and self-love and selfishness in general. As Horace told us, we are but dust and shadows, no matter how much we believe we're important, significant, powerful and worthy.  It's absurd for us to expect or demand loyalty or love or obedience from others.

Sadly, past and present meglomaniacs disregard their insignificance and fail or fear to recognize their mortality.  They don't think they will die. Perhaps we may take comfort in knowing that they will, eventually.

"The Horror! The Horror!"

 

These are the words of Kurtz, the hugely successful, mysterious and and seemingly evil ivory trader that is the central figure in Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness, spoken on his deathbed. They're overheard by Marlowe, the narrator, who has spent much time and effort on behalf of a Belgian company traversing part of Africa to find Kurtz, who is said to have "gone native."

The story was not very subtly transplanted to Southeast Asia at the time of the Vietnam War in the movie Apocalypse Now.  In the movie, the character of  Kurtz becomes a very large American Colonel, played by Marlon Brando, who has gone rogue.

Just what the words "the horror" refers to is a matter of some dispute. In the novella, the reference to a Belgian company indicates that Kurtz has set up his kingdom of sorts in the Belgian Congo. The Belgians were notoriously brutal in their treatment of the people inhabiting their colony. "The horror" may refer to that brutality and the death and destruction it caused; it may refer to Africa and Africans, and their allegedly evil  effect on Europeans; it may refer to the lives and conduct of Europeans in their colonies as they raped and plundered Africans and the land of Africa.

Generally, though, it's thought to refer to imperialism's corruption of both imperialists and their subjects/victims.

It's a corruption to be expected in those who desire things not in their control, as the Stoics would put it.  In this case the desire is for other places and people.  More specifically the desire is to exploit other places and people, and do whatever is necessary to do so.  Those with those desires who pursue them are incapable of virtue.  They're instead cruel and brutal, and have no concern for or interest in those they harm.

This has a familiar ring.  The 21st century is not that different from the 19th century; at least, people who have such desires and act on them are much the same in any period.

One of the things I find admirable about Stoicism is that its prescription for happiness and standard for ethical conduct is simple and persuasive.  Most all our problems result from the pursuit of or aversion to things beyond our control.  This causes anger, envy, hatred, lust, conflict, fear-- essentially every cause of misconduct.

Augustine vs. The Stoics

Let's try to ignore for a time the ugly and lunatic caperings of our politicians, including those of the elderly bully at the head of our government's Executive Branch.  [Is there anything more pathetic than an elderly bully?]  Instead let's consider some of the attacks made by the querulous Bishop of Hippo against the ancient Stoic philosophers.

Augustine, considered by some a saint, is a very significant figure, but I maintain was a very peculiar person.  I've noted several times in this blog that I think he was a kind of exhibitionist, flaunting his sins supposedly for our benefit, to demonstrate that even so great a sinner may be saved by Jesus.  Thus his life serves to demonstrate how desirable it is to be a Christian.  On the other hand, it's possible his conceit was that he was so great a man, so worthy of God's blessing, that he was saved even though he sinned so extensively.  In any case, this belief that Christianity provides salvation is the basis for for his claim it's superior to Stoicism, or at least that one of his arguments against Stoicism on which I'd like to focus.

Of course, the long-standing argument that the Stoic Sage held out by the Stoics as their ideal cannot exist is employed by Augustine.  He and others maintain that no human being could be as serene, detached, and so in control of human emotions as the Sage.  But it isn't clear that the Stoics thought the Sage to be anything but an unapproachable ideal we should seek to imitate.  If so, the fact that the Stoics used the Sage as a standard of thought and conduct should no more condemn Stoicism than Christianity should be condemned because  Christians are urged to imitate Christ, as suggested by Thomas a Kempis.  No Christian could be as good as Jesus, obviously, but it doesn't follow Christians shouldn't try to be like him to the extent possible.

Augustine also, however, thought the Stoics were prideful; guilty of Pride, one of the seven deadly sins.  That's because the Stoics dared to believe it was possible for humans to achieve happiness without the assistance and intervention of a personal god.  Without grace, in other words.

The Bishop of Hippo essentially created the cruel concept of Original Sin.  He proclaimed if he did not originate the pernicious belief that humans were tainted by the sin committed by Adam and Eve when they were persuaded to eat of the Tree of Knowledge despite the fact that God had told them not to do so.  For that sin, they were cast out of the Garden of Eden and condemned to die, to labor, to bear children, but to not merely do what human beings do to survive and thrive.  All human beings thereafter were sinful by nature.  They sinned merely be existing.  They need not do anything wrong.

Because we're naughty by nature, as it were, only God could absolve us of Original Sin and any subsequent sins, and did so through the sacrifice of Jesus as to the First Sin and by bestowing grace as to all others.

As Augustine rather proudly stated in his Confessions, because he was a great sinner he could not be happy, could not be wise, until Jesus saved him.  Not even the great Augustine could achieve what the Stoics said was achievable without divine assistance.  If Augustine required divine assistance, all others must require it as well.   So, the Stoics must be sinfully prideful for even making that claim.

Just as the doctrine of absolution serves to encourage sin or assuage our concerns when we act wrongfully, as I suggested in a prior post, so the doctrines of Original Sin and Grace serves to discourage our efforts to control our own conduct and achieve happiness or equanimity through the use of our reason and development of our character.  Each doctrine in essence renders us helpless to help ourselves, and yet promises that we will flourish and be saved if only we don't try to help ourselves but rely on God to do so on our request for forgiveness or assistance.  

Perhaps belief in a personal god necessarily requires that we take a dim view of the world and our place in it.

The Storm We Must Endure

"Things floating like the first hundred flakes of snow, out of a storm we must endure all night..."

Yes, there's a storm coming.  A siege of sorts, perhaps.  "A horror of thoughts that are suddenly real."  In either case, something we must endure.

I quote from Wallace Stevens' poem titled, dourly (or should I say wryly?), Man Carrying Thing.  Dour to me, I think, if not to Stevens.  Stevens can evoke a grim sort of Stoicism in me sometimes, a serene kind other times.  I hope for serenity though I think the coming storm will be dour.  Thoughts, our own and those of others, horrible in themselves suddenly become real and imminent.

The signs are hard to miss.  There are no notable people on our national stage, though there are players aplenty.  Those who preen on it are largely rogues or their pusillanimous followers, or merely venal and self-involved as may be expected in what has become a plutocracy.  

A plutocracy has no established social or political agenda beyond what favors wealth and the interests of the wealthy, to the extent those interests extend beyond wealth.  It's a very simple system of government in some respects, as a result.  It's devoted primarily to the protection of wealth already acquired, and the acquisition of additional wealth by those already wealthy.  Secondarily, it may be devoted to the pursuit of whatever ideology is preferred by the plutocrats, if they or a majority of them agree on one, but it may be assumed that ultimately that ideology will involve the accumulation of money, which is power.

In a nation dominated by the acquisition and use of money, the wealthy will be few, but because they have money they're able to manipulate those without it.  Those without it will dream of it and admire and emulate those who have it.   Ultimately, those manipulated won't particularly care what's told to them by the wealthy, their wealth rendering them as idols to idolaters.  They'll do as told in the hope that they, too, may be wealthy sometime.  Alternatively, they may believe that the wealthy must know what they're saying and what should be done, because they're wealthy.

Whether our Glorious Union is a true plutocracy or some form of oligarchy is uncertain.  It certainly isn't a democracy, representative or otherwise, given the influence of money which has been enshrined even in the law.  But it's manipulation and the urge to be manipulated which I think will ignite the coming storm.  Our legislature is corrupt or has become a kind of sanctuary for fools, our executive will be headed by an incompetent but possibly well-meaning dotard or a sociopath and con man, our Supreme Court is dominated by moochers and reactionaries.  The majority of our people are intolerant and unthinking, and tribal in their sensibilities.  Short term prospects aren't good.

Some say Stoicism is a philosophy of he status quo, but I wonder if it is, instead, a philosophy or way of life which provides comfort and strength when the status quo is intolerable.  More and more things are beyond our control and will disturb us if we don't recognize that's the case and instead do the best we can with what is in our control--our thoughts, our feelings, our conduct.  We need not do what others do, we need not think as others think, and so we may if we try hard endure the storm which rages around us and need not be a part of it.  

Pierre Hadot in his book about Marcus Aurelius referred to an Inner Citadel.  Imagine a Roman Emperor who needed to seek such refuge.  If he did, and managed to wage war and rule an empire while doing so, what a fortress it could be for others.

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.

A Fierce Ignorance

 

I've always thought of the three wise monkeys above as the "Goody Goody Monkeys."  That's because my first memory of them is from a cartoon I saw many years ago.  The cartoon was made and shown in 1935, or so the Internet tells me.  I'm not old enough to have seen it at that time, but it was one of the many cartoons, new and old, which were featured on TV Saturday mornings during my long-ago youth.  I can even remember some of the song they sang:  "Speak no evil, hear no evil, see no evil so; We're the Goody Goody Monkeys everywhere we go."  I can remember nothing else about the cartoon, but again the sometimes useful Internet tells me that it has to do with a devil tempting the unfortunate monkeys with a variety of things involving characters from famous and not so famous books.

I think they've come to be associated with ignorance.  Ignorance of evil, obviously enough.  But also ignorance of another kind; willful ignorance of anything disturbing or potentially harmful.  Of anything unsettling, or different.  Of anything we don't want to think about, in fact.

I've lamented the ignorance of these times often enough in this blog, but have to come think, in light of the deterioration taking place, that I've underestimated how ardently, how zealously ignorant we've become.

There are things we don't want to know, or don't want to know more about.  That has been the case for most of our history, in all probability.  It's an attitude which may have one of more causes.  "Ignorance is bliss" is a common saying.  Even the Stoics maintain we shouldn't let things beyond our control disturb us, and most which takes place is beyond our control.  The Stoics, though, also claim we should act virtuously as to things within our control, and wisely.  What we know and what we learn is in our control.  We can choose to be ignorant and remain ignorant.  Whether we should is something that we are to judge "according to nature."  I think that Stoicism requires that we know what it is that's beyond our control.  So, the Stoic would not be ignorant of such things, or necessarily seek to ignore them.  Instead, the Stoic would recognize them and treat them accordingly.

To be clear, the kind of ignorance I refer to is chosen.  A decision is made.  But with it is a decision to actively foster ignorance.  That kind of ignorance isn't merely chosen, it's pursued.  Not only do we imitate the good monkeys and close our eyes, mouths and cover our ears, but we seek to repress knowledge and information.  These days, we try to do so in great part by reference to conspiracies--claims are made, things take place not because there's good reason for them but because they're the result of efforts to discredit people and things we like.  Thus they're fake, like fake news and stolen elections.

So we pay no attention to them, but now we also do what we can to suppress them.  The slavery that's part of our history isn't something we want our children to be taught.  We want them to be taught that it was good for the slaves, really, in many respects.  Sources of information like some books shouldn't be read, according to some, but they're not content to refrain from reading them, they take steps to remove or ban them from libraries and schools.

The zealously ignorant want others to be ignorant as well.

We've seen this attitude and its results whenever a nation or society become totalitarian or autocratic.  Certain knowledge, books, people and conduct are banned.  Enforced ignorance is characteristic of revolutionaries and reactionaries whenever they have the power to impose it.

Sameness has a certain appeal for us, and we may be entering into one of those period when we long to be the same and follow, thoughtlessly, someone who tells us what to do.  What better way for that to happen than in circumstances where nothing is new or different, when there's nothing to be learned, nothing left to be known, or at least no way to learn or to know more?

The God of Stoicism and Us

 Chrysippus was the third leader of the school of Stoicism, after Zeno and Cleanthes.  It's said that he died while laughing at his own joke.  It seems he made the joke after drinking unmixed wine, and that it related to a donkey eating, or trying to eat, figs from a tree.  Chrysippus supposedly suggested the donkey be given wine to wash down the figs.  

Perhaps this is humorous when rendered in ancient Greek, or perhaps you had to be there, as drunk as Chrysippus is said to have been.  Or, perhaps, the story is apocryphal.  I think it's most likely he died in some other manner, though I admit that the thought of a renowned Stoic philosopher dying while laughing at his own joke has a certain appeal.

I think the story shows Chrysippus to be human, even endearingly so given his reputation as the rigorous thinker who gave Stoicism a firm, rational foundation shorn of the vagaries indulged in by Cleanthes, an inspiring but, it seems, "warm and fuzzy" kind of thinker.  Chrysippus is credited with developing the tools by which Stoics could defend their philosophy from followers of rival schools, quick to chop logic and split hairs in the rough and tumble world of the philosophers of Athens and their students.  

The quote of Chrysippus at the head of this post is one that interests me, as it addresses more or less directly what I think is an issue in Stoicism which isn't addressed much in the popular interest in Stoicism which we see these days.  Some modern proponents of it who take it more seriously, I think, than those who claim it will make us better capitalists or better something or other in a Dale Carnegie fashion and so should be ignored, feel that God need have no place in it.  Think of Lawrence Becker or Massimo Pigliucci.  To a certain extent I think they're correct.  The Epicureans thought of God or the gods as existing but largely irrelevant.  We may look on Stoicism as a source of practical wisdom without considering the ancient Stoics conception of the deity based solely on the fact that it's directives regarding attaining tranquility are effective.

But it seems clear that the ancient Stoics accepted a God of sorts, and why they did so and what sort of God it was/is are legitimate avenues of exploration.  It seems that there are few exploring them, though, at least to the extent that can be judged by what is readily available on these subjects.  I'm currently reading Roman Stoicism by Edward Vernon Arnold, and its seem based on what I've read so far that he intends to explore them, but what I've read has involved a rather breezy discussion and comparison of Stoicism and other religious or quasi-religious movements of antiquity that hasn't (yet) been very enlightening.

I was told by someone on a philosophy forum that a God which isn't personal, which doesn't respond to prayers and petitions and doesn't intervene in our lives and the world is less reasonable than a God which is and does those things.  That isn't at all clear to me, but it may be that more people would find such a personal God more desirable than an impersonal God.   A more desirable (to us) God isn't necessarily reasonable, though.

The God of Stoicism doesn't seem to be a personal God if such a God watches over us (noting and judging our deeds and thoughts), responds to our prayers and petitions, works miracles by altering nature and punishes or rewards us based on our conduct and intentions.  The God of Stoicism isn't Big Daddy, which is what the God of an Abrahamic religion appears to be.  If the universe is God, or God is immanent in the Universe and the creative and intelligent spirit which infuses it, what we may think is contra mundum is necessarily contrary to God.  Earthquakes and natural disasters are not evils, and God, being the universe in which such things take place, isn't going to alter the universe to assure such things don't take place no matter how much we beg and plead.

As may be expected, then, by living "in accordance with nature" we live in accordance with God.  If we fail to do so, however, the God of Stoicism doesn't punish us as would Big Daddy or his equivalent.  What results is bad for us in the sense that it disturbs us, makes us anxious, slaves to our passions, discontented, miserable, covetous, murderous, but not as a result of any action on the part of God/Universe.

If this is the God of Stoicism, leaving aside the question whether it makes any difference, is this God one we would think to be good?  Does it inspire reverence, joy, bliss, awe, love and all the other feelings we associate with God, traditionally and typically?  If it does, how and why?  If it doesn't, can it be considered God?

Matters of Honor

Is there such a thing as "Honor", or "Honour" as our British cousins would have it, in these disturbing times?  There are honors, of course, and people are honored in one way or another with some frequency.  They receive awards or their merits are recognized by others.  People are held in esteem, they're respected.  But here I refer to Honor as a characteristic or virtue which is expressed in a code of conduct.

Honor in that sense isn't easily defined.  It's not the same as the law, it's not the same as morality or ethics.  It may manifest itself in conduct, it may be said to require certain conduct in certain circumstances as morality or ethics may indicate certain conduct is moral or ethical.  But it isn't itself moral or ethical.  So, I think H.L. Mencken was incorrect when he wrote (taking his phraseology from Nietzsche, with whom he was infatuated) that honor is simply the morality of superior men

I'd maintain it is a sense of oneself.  That doesn't say much, though, does it?  Perhaps it's better to define it as a self-judgment of one's worth or quality.  Because someone is a person of honor, conduct of a particular kind cannot be countenanced.  There are things an honorable person wouldn't think of doing, not because (or at least not merely because) it would be wrong to do them, but because doing them would be contrary to the nature of a person of honor.  Honor may, therefore, be related to the Stoic injunction that we should act according to (our) nature.

Acting dishonorably would diminish a person of honor.  It would render the person less worthy in that person's eyes, and should in that of others as well, if they're also persons of honor.  It would do so regardless of the consequences of the act or whether the act conforms to law or rules of a particular ethics.

Honor in this sense usually is thought to encompass the possession of certain virtues, most notably honesty, courage, chivalry, justice and nobility.  This may be due to the fact that it appears honor in this sense seems to  have its basis in cultures of aristocracy and rank.   It has been associated with status.  Gentlemen have honor, or nobles do, not merchants or tradesman or peasants.  Honor has been associated with violence as a result, I think.  When one's status is questioned or put in jeopardy, than extreme action may be taken.  If one's honor is impugned, revenge may be called for, or the person being dishonored may have grounds to challenge those questioning their honor, to a duel or seeking some other kind of recompense.  Honor has also been referred to in the military, or at least was in the past, and appears to arise in warrior cultures.

If Honor as commonly defined isn't appropriate except in aristocracies or the military or is an antiquated concept, I think it may survive provided it is seen as a sense of personal worth or merit or status which requires a code of conduct.  A person of honor would act in a particular way without regard to others or circumstances, simply because that is the nature of the person.  The nature of a person of honor would be such that the person's worth, merit or status would be lessened by acting dishonorably, which is to say dishonestly, unjustly, without virtue.  Again, I think the concept of honor so defined would have similarities to what it is that would make a person a Stoic Sage.  I don't know whether Honor as a code of conduct would be a basis for an ethics or morality, but conceiving of it as a part of one's nature seems consistent with the idea that our nature and that of the universe is essentially infused with and devoted to reason, and the belief in an immanent divinity of which we're a part.

Is Honor of any significance, now?  I would say it is not.  Clearly, those who purport to be our leaders have none.  What is significant to them, and to others, is entirely determined by factors unrelated to personal qualities and worthiness.  Generally, those factors are wealth, power, and advantage.  A glance at the headlines is all that's required to establish this is the case.  Politicians are notoriously dishonest, but no person of honor would be able to abide the spectacular, unrepentant dishonesty of the new member of the House from New York without being sickened and ashamed.  Such a person would be shunned by the honorable.  Nonetheless, nothing is being done to  discourage him by the leaders of his party simply because his vote is needed and the potential that there will be one less Republican in Congress outweighs any thoughts of honesty or decency.  A person of honor cannot accept the claim that the end justifies the means, because neither the means nor the end are of importance.  They are, as it were, indifferents.

There is something compelling in the thought that some conduct is unworthy of human beings, something which is more compelling even than the belief that some conduct is wrong, or immoral, or contrary to imagined commands of paternal and paternalistic gods.  Contempt and shame are powerful emotions, particularly when we direct them at ourselves.  Perhaps a sense of honor is something which we should cultivate.

 

The Quality of Mercilessness

Who better represents the quality of mercilessness than Ming the Merciless?  The quality is even a part of his name.  Seen here is Ming as played by Charles Middleton, who was the Emperor in the three Flash Gordon series cranked out in the late 30s, early 40s of the last century.  Flash (played by Buster Crabbe) flew about in spark-emitting spaceships suspended by wires, foiling Ming's plans.  I don't remember Ming as twirling his mustache like Snidley Whiplash, but he clearly could have done so if he wished.  Perhaps those younger than I am (an increasingly large group) will remember Ming as played by Max von Sydow in the 1980 movie.  He had enormous fun with the role, it seemed to me, though the movie was predictably characterized as discriminatory in later years, like so much else.  Like us, in fact.

All, or most at least, know the part of Act IV of Shakespeare's The Merchant of Venice in which the quality of mercy is extolled by Portia, or at least its first line: "The quality of mercy is not strained."  Portia is "disguised" as a lawyer, as indeed are some who call themselves such.  The quality of mercy may be an "attribute of God himself" as the disguised Portia says.  The quality of mercilessness, though, is an attribute of we his creatures, if indeed we are his creation, in which case one must wonder regarding the implications of the claim that we are made in his image.

But rather than speculate on God and God's attributes, let's instead consider the undoubted mercilessness of we humans.  

It's interesting that the "quality of mercy" speech is directed to Shylock, the Jewish merchant of Venice.  Jews, then as at other times, weren't extended mercy as a rule.  Shylock himself, as portrayed, certainly has none.  That a Jew is chided for being merciless by those Christians typically merciless towards Jews is an oddity.  There are those who believe Shakespeare was really expressing sympathy for Jews in this play, but I think that's a hard case to make.  I think it more likely he was indulging a Christian conceit that the Jews' obsession with the language of the Law above all else demonstrates that their religion is inferior to Christianity, which encourages love and mercy.

But, our curious history supports the view that we're merciless far more often than we're merciful, whether we profess to be Christians or something else.  In fact, we seldom have mercy for anyone or anything--unless it's to our own benefit, or at least does us no harm or requires no significant effort.  We're an inordinately selfish species.  It's not possible to claim otherwise with any degree of reasonableness.

It's been said that we're at our best when things are at the worst.  It's been pointed out that in times of crises we act unselfishly.  That may be the case.  But consider how infrequently these mercy-motivating crises take place.  Hurricanes, tornados, fires, earthquakes--natural disasters--certainly occur, and it would be incorrect to say they're so unusual as to be of no account.  However, when we take into account the time we live and have lived without them, our method of responding to them can hardly be said to be representative of our nature.  Crises are crises precisely because they're infrequent.  In most cases, in the usual course of our lives, we're indifferent to the plight of others at most times at best.

At other times, we seem to actually take satisfaction in the misfortune of others.  This may simply be the kind of satisfaction which we feel due to the fact that their misfortune is not ours.  Or it may be the satisfaction we feel when we believe that their misfortune is caused by their own misconduct, or by their failure to do what's appropriate, or what we would do or have done in their place.  We're smug.  

Sometimes, of course, we're actually responsible for the misfortune of others, by intent or without intent.  When we intend harm we're not inclined to be merciful to those we harm.  When we don't intend to harm, we look on the harm we do as being justified as we're looking out for ourselves.

I've felt and may have expressed for some time that philosophies and religions that espouse love and mercy don't actually motivate us in any important respect.  That is to say, though we pay them lip service, we don't truly love our neighbors as ourselves, nor are we charitable if it requires us to take any more than casual action, nor are we merciful unless shamed into being merciful or overwhelmed by sudden, extreme fellow-feeling we experience in moments of crisis when directly confronted with misery of the kind we cannot ignore.   Those we love are few in number, and are our intimates.  It's disingenuous and hypocritical to maintain otherwise, and in urging us to love one another and be merciful to all these philosophies and religions betray a spectacular misconception of human nature.

A more honest and effective stab at being moral and merciful would be one that encourages not love, but respect, and discourages selfishness and self-regard.  It would not raise as a standard or ideal a conception of human nature based on the occasional moral highs we experience in remarkable circumstances or our feelings normally limited to those close to us.

I've made no attempt to disguise the fact I have a high regard for Stoicism, so it won't come as a great surprise that I think that a more reasonable ethics is found in the first few paragraphs of the Enchiridion of Epictetus (or if you prefer of his student Arrian modeled on the teachings of Epictetus).  It is simple and easily understood, and doesn't require that we be saints or heroes.  It's a common sense guide to limiting our selfishness and desire for things and power over others which is at the basis of our misdeeds.  

We can't be merciless when we don't concern or disturb ourselves with things which are not in our control, as we'll not in that case act in a way which will harm others.  

 

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.  

Nothing to Say

 

Mr. Ed, pictured above playing chess with his companion Wilbur, is famous for never speaking unless he has something to say.  I emulate him, in this blog and otherwise, and so have not posted for some time.  I find that I have nothing to say, here, at this time.

This is because I know of nothing worth blogging about.  I've tried to find something that piques my interest or my ire, but have been unsuccessful.  What more is there to be said about the venality and stupidity of our politicians, their tolerance of a fatuous and corrupt con man, their willingness to exploit bigotry and ignorance, their hypocrisy, their sanctimony?  What more is there to be said about our national fetish for guns?  What more is there to be said of the narrowness and meanness of our jurists?  How often can one lament the fundamentally cruel and intolerant fundamentalism of the Christianity popular in our Great Republic?  The remarkable propensity of people to believe anything they encounter on the Internet they find satisfying or disturbing is certainly remarkable, but even that aversion to critical thinking, which seems omnipresent in these times, has become nothing to remark about.

These and other aspects of our society have become familiar.  They're commonplace.  They're to be expected, in fact.  What, indeed, would we be without them?  We wouldn't exist. What we see and hear and read in our media (including social media) is sad, even contemptible, but dull.  It's impossible even to be outraged any longer.  Only the professionally outraged express outrage, and that also has become a part of the background noise that is our culture. 

There are dangers involved in the expectation of stupidity and corruption, of course, and to their acceptance as normal.  Perhaps Dante should have devoted one of the Circles of Hell to the sin of Acceptance.  We saw enough of acceptance and indifference in the face of cruelty and the corrupt in the 20th century to cause us concern.  If we accept what we have, and treat it as inevitable, than we'll continue to have it.

In chess a player will resign when defeat is certain.  An aspiring Stoic shouldn't resign, though, as long as it's possible to be virtuous.  Perhaps virtue includes saying what's already been said.  So, not time to resign quite yet.

O Fortuna

You've all heard  O Fortuna, though you may not know that you have.  This medieval poem was set to music by Carl Off in the 1930s.  The poem itself is a rather grim, even angry, description of the goddess Fortune.  Set to music, it is an ominous, and then thundering, condemnation of the vagaries of cruel Fate and the life we're made to live while on Earth.

The pagan goddess Fortune was, no doubt, cursed from time to time, though my guess is more effort was devoted to placating her than cursing her.  In this poem, though, we have what I think is a very Christian work, consumed as it seems to be by hate and despair of Fate in the kingdom of this world.  Life on earth, after all, is almost by definition inclined to evil, as are we, or so it was thought by the Church when this poem was written.

You've probably heard it in various movies and perhaps even during a TV show, used to render a scene portentous, or comical when heard during something silly and it's used to mock.  I remember thinking it might be something of Wagner's when it was played during the movie Excalibur along with Siegfried's Funeral March and bits of Parsifal and Tristan and Isolde.  Oddly, it was played during a scene when Arthur and his knights road out to face Mordred, and the country was coming alive in spring blossoms with the return of the king.

We might think it appropriate as part of the soundtrack of our times, when everyone weeps with us.  A Stoic of the ancient past might think life, however changeable and hurtful, was only seemingly so, and evil only in the limited view allowed us as the kind of creatures that we are.  What the Universal Reason dictates is beyond us, but necessarily good.  A more modern version of a Stoic might have no trust in a spirit of intelligence motivating the universe, but would aspire as would the ancient Stoic to recognize that it is foolish to allow what is beyond our control to disturb us and be content to govern ourselves if not events.

Governing ourselves, thinking of us as a group of any kind, seems beyond our power these days, however.  The tendency is not to do so, in fact, but to leave that to someone else, provided only that our governor seem to be not only powerful but a panderer, playing up to us and gratifying our increasingly material and simple, meaning baser, desires.  It seems we'd be content with very little, really.  Perhaps it's always been so, in the end.  Food, shelter, entertainment and the sense that we're better than others are all that are needed to make us content, Fortune be damned.  

Those of medieval times may have felt that they were responsible for the evils inflicted on them by the world, or God.  Many of us no longer think that way.  We're more inclined to blame others, not Fortune or Fate. Others make us angry, and are much more easily punished than Fate, or Fortune or God.  We don't bemoan our fate, we make others bemoan their fate.  But the soundtrack of our angry, vengeful time may still include O Fortuna for its effect if not its meaning.

The Coarsening of Stoicism

Stoicism is ubiquitous.  All want to be, or profess to be, a Stoic, or so it seems.  Stoicism is touted as the guide to a good life; but not merely a good one, a successful one.  After all, the ancient Stoics maintained that we may live a good life without being successful.  But who now would want to be good without being successful?  There are books, lectures and no doubt podcasts on how Stoicism may benefit entrepreneurs; may make us leaders; make us rich and powerful, make us efficient.  Marcus Aurelius is the Dale Carnegie of these times.  Reading him, we learn how to win friends and influence people.  

Stoicism is said to be desirable even when shorn of what was thought by ancient Stoics to be essential to it.  For example, the Stoic belief in a Divine Reason that is the generative and guiding force of the universe is said to be unneeded by the modern Stoic, according to Lawrence Becker and Massimo Pigliucci.  Mr. Becker goes so far as to refer to himself and others as Stoics despite the fact he (and presumably the others he refers to when stating what "we" Stoics think) don't accept the divinity of the ancient Stoics.

As Stoicism is claimed to exist without a divinity, without Providence, why should it be necessary that it retain the other characteristics of ancient Stoicism?  Why should the modern Stoic disdain the acquisition of wealth and power, which requires that we pursue things beyond our control, and concern ourselves with them closely?  Why shouldn't the modern Stoic seek fame and fortune by making use of the skills which are developed through Stoic practice?  Why try to act virtuously--why, indeed, think that virtue is the only good, and the only thing needed for happiness?

Those of us who admire Stoicism as taught and practiced by the ancients may feel gratified that it has become so popular.  Stoicism is a form of practical wisdom, and can help us in many respects just as CBT may be of assistance in addressing disquiet or psychological difficulties.  But is there a point where its popularity debases it?

Stoicism has seen resurgences in the past, but I doubt there has ever been a time before this when it was considered beneficial and admirable for reasons which seem to me to be at best tangential, at worst contrary, to what it was developed to be; a philosophy of life.  A way of achieving tranquility and equanimity.  Not a method by which to be successful in business or in other pursuits which are unrelated to virtue.  

Perhaps it's the case that coarseness is an essential component of our culture and society.  What is arguably good because it achieves virtue is accepted only to the extent that it serves another purpose, one worldly.  That's necessary to popularity, here and now.  That's been the case with Christianity for quite some time, in fact.  The moral teachings of Jesus are honored in word, but it's claimed that Jesus will assist us in this life by making us prosperous.  He'll take care of his own.  

So will Zeno, or Chrysippus, or Cleanthes, Epictetus, Marcus Aurelius, Seneca and others, perhaps.  But I'm inclined to think that most of Stoicism will fade away as it increases in popularity, and it will become yet another self-help craze, but one which those who popularize it (and make money doing so) can claim is entitled to added dignity as being based on ancient philosophy.  

 

Spiritus Mundi

The words "Spiritus Mundi," Latin for the Spirit of the World or World Spirit, are probably familiar to most of us through W.B. Yeats' poem The Second Coming.  In that poem he refers to an image out of it with the body of a lion and the face of a man.  I've never been sure what he meant by the reference.  In what sense does such an image arise "out of" the Spirit of the World?

Apparently Yeats thought Spiritus Mundi was the collective memory or spirit from which poetry derived.  Why such an image would arise out of such a thing is unclear to me.  The image is readily available from the Sphinx sitting near the pyramids.  Perhaps Yeats thought it was from Spiritus Mundi as well.

Regardless, Spiritus Mundi strikes me as an apt description of the divinity of the ancient Stoics.  But I read that according to Cicero the Stoics used the phrase Anima Mundi or Aninum Mundi--World Soul--which may be a more appropriate description of the physical source of order and generation immanent in the universe.

Was Yeats a Stoic?  In Sailing to Byzantium he refers to "God's Holy Fire" and sages standing in it, which certainly evokes Stoicism, but this is unlikely.  But one wonders (the "one" is me, I suppose) if the attraction to mysticism which seems to have been common to artists in the early twentieth century may resemble a Stoic view in mysticism's association with nature, or at least spirits of nature.  That association may not be with the Stoic's view of the deity infusing nature as being a rational spirit.  There seems to be little of the rational in mysticism, or sympathy for reason.  But how can Stoicism be said to be contrary to nature worship, which is often referred to as mysticism?

Other views of the divine as being spirits or powers of nature which can be found in the pre-Christian West and otherwise in the East can be seen as similar to Stoicism in that they have as their basis a belief that humans are a part of nature, dependent on it and subject to it, living in it with other beings, some more powerful.  Perhaps such a view necessarily arises from a belief in God or gods that are immanent in nature or natural, rather than transcendent or supernatural.

Which view has served us better, immanence or transcendence?  This can be a purely practical or pragmatic question rather than a religious or spiritual question.  If we look at the history of humans and their religious beliefs, what religions have caused more evil, regardless of their protestations against it?  The answer to that question seems fairly clear to me.  If it is possible to consider a religion in isolation, what religions qua religions are more or less likely to induce humans to violence against each other and against other beings, and nature itself?

I would say those that are intolerant of other kinds of belief, those which purport to be the only path to knowledge and salvation, to worship the only true God, those which think of humans as masters of the earth and all that's in it.  In other words, those that do not recognize a Spiritus Mundi or anything like it.

On the Wisdom and Morality of Detachment

Our leaders are either sinister or buffoons, or sinister buffoons (the latter are arguably more dangerous, as it is impossible to take them seriously but they pose a serious threat).  Climate change is taking place, and there is little hope it will be remedied.  The rich get richer; the poor poorer.  Ignorance is not only growing, but is a point of pride.  So, for that matter, is stupidity provided it is stupidity in the service of ignorance.  Information and disinformation are omnipresent, and we seem to lack the will, or the intelligence, to distinguish between them.

It's unsurprising that we see a resurgence in philosophies or ways of life which promote detachment as a means by which we can obtain happiness, or at least tranquility.  Buddhism, Stoicism, Epicureanism, Taoism are touted these days in books, articles and websites.  Yes, even in self-help books, heaven help us.  Each of these paths in various ways, sometimes even similar ways, teach the value of indifference to things which are beyond our control, or are sources of suffering and delusion.  Stoicism, obviously, is the path I try to follow, and its similarity to the Buddhist view in several ways has been noted.

I think it clear that there is wisdom in these philosophies, particularly in times like these.  But in times like these, is detachment from all the problems, and people, who are the sources of disturbance and suffering moral?  Shouldn't we be doing something about them?

If we should be, what is it exactly that we should do?  This is what I think has to be considered whenever it's claimed that someone should do something about anything, particularly for ethical reasons.  And part of that consideration should include an assessment of what can be done effectively, i.e. what can be done that would actually make a difference?  If we do what will make no difference, it strikes me that what we do we do merely to assuage our consciences, or out of vanity.  The sad fact is that there is very little we can do that will make a difference, except perhaps voting as is possible in this and some other countries, and speaking, and writing.  But most of all in doing those things which are in our control which can make a difference at least in how we and certain others live.

Unlike some other philosophies of detachment, Stoicism at least in ancient times encouraged participation in public affairs.  Thus Stoics among Roman Senators would defy emperors, and suffer the consequences.  But few are in a position to do much of anything similar to what could be done by powerful men in antiquity, and our politics has so degenerated and has become so utterly dependent on money that the chances someone of honor would rise to levels of political power without being corrupted is most unlikely.

Detachment can be combined with morality.  But what can be done morally is limited by what we can or can't do.  So we do what Epictetus recommended:  do the best we can with what is in our power, and take the rest as it happens.  Less and less is in our power, unfortunately, but what we think and how we conduct ourselves is, and it is wisdom to be moral in what we think and do.