Marcus Aurelius Antoninus was born in 121 CE and became the Emperor of Rome in 161 CE. He was afforded the best education available to an upper class Roman, and followed the Stoic tradition. He spent the majority of his time as Emperor with his legions on the marches of the Empire, putting down revolts and repelling incursions by what today are referred to as "non-state actors." He contracted an infection and died in camp on the Danube in 180 CE.
While on campaign he wrote—in Greek—what have been passed down to us as his "Meditations." In essence, he was keeping a journal in which he collected his thoughts, took notes, wrote down quotes, and so on—today perhaps he would blogging his 'meditations'—or, like me, he would keep a private stash of scribbles, stored, in my case, in a tottering and still growing stack of well-thumbed Moleskine memorandum books.
The Greek title of the Emperor's memorandum book, translated, is "To Himself." In our excitable age Marcus Aurelius is not fashionable reading. He is not flashy. He is not witty, or even funny. He is not the slightest bit interested in irony. Nor in paradox. His insights are not brilliant. There are no epiphanies such as are retailed in the modern genres of the personal spiritual journal, or the solipsistic journalism of the blogosphere. He has no interest in aggrandizing "Himself," after all, he is the Emperor. The odd fact is, in spite of his exalted position, he is a humble man, and often seems to be nagging himself.
All in all, the Emperor sounds like a great, crashing, gloomy bore, doesn't he? The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius was popular, a generation or two ago, as a shelf filler at least, snuggled among the other "Harvard Classics" in a classy uniform binding. It's a short, slim book of no particular theme divided into easily digestible bits—A middlebrow's feast. Hannibal Lector, no middlebrow, quotes the Emperor to Clarice Starling in The Silence of the Lambs, so we know the creator of Dr. Lector, Thomas Harris, has read the book.
At this point, the question glistening on your slightly parted lips should be: "Why are you bothering me with this Emperor guy?" I find, like Dr. Lector, that it is well to take counsel of the Emperor. Particularly in these latter days of the American Empire. The truth is, George W. Bush is the man who has driven me to take mental shelter in the yellowed pages of my dog-eared Penguin Classics translation of the Meditations.
Marcus Aurelius was a man who knew something about running an empire in troubled times. He knew every victory was temporary, and that every triumph was hollow. He knew the futility of being the most powerful man alive, and was not unhinged by it. The Emperor says (to himself, as it were),
While on campaign he wrote—in Greek—what have been passed down to us as his "Meditations." In essence, he was keeping a journal in which he collected his thoughts, took notes, wrote down quotes, and so on—today perhaps he would blogging his 'meditations'—or, like me, he would keep a private stash of scribbles, stored, in my case, in a tottering and still growing stack of well-thumbed Moleskine memorandum books.
The Greek title of the Emperor's memorandum book, translated, is "To Himself." In our excitable age Marcus Aurelius is not fashionable reading. He is not flashy. He is not witty, or even funny. He is not the slightest bit interested in irony. Nor in paradox. His insights are not brilliant. There are no epiphanies such as are retailed in the modern genres of the personal spiritual journal, or the solipsistic journalism of the blogosphere. He has no interest in aggrandizing "Himself," after all, he is the Emperor. The odd fact is, in spite of his exalted position, he is a humble man, and often seems to be nagging himself.
All in all, the Emperor sounds like a great, crashing, gloomy bore, doesn't he? The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius was popular, a generation or two ago, as a shelf filler at least, snuggled among the other "Harvard Classics" in a classy uniform binding. It's a short, slim book of no particular theme divided into easily digestible bits—A middlebrow's feast. Hannibal Lector, no middlebrow, quotes the Emperor to Clarice Starling in The Silence of the Lambs, so we know the creator of Dr. Lector, Thomas Harris, has read the book.
At this point, the question glistening on your slightly parted lips should be: "Why are you bothering me with this Emperor guy?" I find, like Dr. Lector, that it is well to take counsel of the Emperor. Particularly in these latter days of the American Empire. The truth is, George W. Bush is the man who has driven me to take mental shelter in the yellowed pages of my dog-eared Penguin Classics translation of the Meditations.
Marcus Aurelius was a man who knew something about running an empire in troubled times. He knew every victory was temporary, and that every triumph was hollow. He knew the futility of being the most powerful man alive, and was not unhinged by it. The Emperor says (to himself, as it were),
Begin the morning by saying to yourself, "Today I'm going to meet busy-bodies, the ungrateful, and people who are arrogant, deceitful, envious, and antisocial."
I have seen the nature of the good which is beautiful, and of the bad which is ugly. And realizing that the nature of those who do wrong, that it is within me also, not only of the same blood or seed, but that it shares the same intelligence and the same portion of the sacred—then I can neither be injured by any of them, for no one can determine what is ugly within me, nor can I be angry with my kinsman, nor hate him.
The vices of humanity? Remember the doctrine that all beings are created for one another; that toleration is a part of justice; and that men are not intentional evildoers. Think of the myriad enmities, suspicions, animosities, and conflicts that are now vanished with the dust and ashes of the men who made them and knew them.
If the inward power that rules us be true to Nature, it will always adjust itself readily to the possibilities and opportunities offered by circumstance. It asks for no predeterminate material; in the pursuance of its aims it is willing to compromise; hindrances to its progress are merely converted into matter for its own use. It is like a bonfire mastering a heap of rubbish, assimilating and consuming the fuel, and flaming the higher for it.
Take no enterprise in hand at haphazard, or without regard to the principles of its proper execution.
To pursue the unattainable is insanity, yet the thoughtless can never refrain from doing so.
How is it that souls of no proficiency nor learning are able to confound the adept and the sage? But what soul is truly both adept and sage?
For a human soul, the greatest of self-inflicted wrongs is to make oneself a kind of abscess on the Cosmos; for to be at war with circumstances is always a rebellion against Nature.
Whenever you are outraged by some one's impudence, ask yourself at once, 'Can the world exist with without impudent people?' It cannot; so do not ask for impossibilities. That man is simply one of the shameless whose existence is necessary to the universe. Keep the same thought in mind whenever you meet with the treacherous, the deceitful, or with those who willing to commit any sort of evil act. Remind yourself that the existence of these people is indispensable, and you will become more kindly disposed towards every one individually.
What is wrong, after all, in a boor behaving boorishly? You should blame yourself if you did not expect him to behave that way. You had every reason to suppose that he would do so, and yet you are amazed when he does. When you blame the shameless for having no shame, or the ingrate for being ungrateful, look to yourself, because the error is clearly your own, if you put any faith in the good faith of a man of such dubious disposition.
Once you have given service, what more do you want? Isn't it enough to have obeyed the laws of your own nature, without expecting to be paid for it? That is like the eyes demanding to be paid for seeing, or the feet for walking. For that purpose they exist, and they have their due in doing what they were created to do.
Where life is possible at all, a life of right conduct is possible; life in a palace is possible; therefore even in a palace right conduct is possible.
Every time you feel that harm has been done you, apply the rule, 'If the city (polis, or citystate) is not harmed, I am not harmed.' But if the city is indeed harmed, never rage at the culprit: rather, find out where his vision failed him.
To refrain from doing wrong in imitation of the wrongdoer, is the best revenge.
In a pivotal scene in Thomas Harris' novel, Silence of the Lambs, Clarice Starling comes to ask the caged Hannibal Lector about the serial killer 'Buffalo Bill.' Dr. Lector tells her that she already has all the information she needs to solve the case, if she is paying attention. He further intimates that if she understood Marcus Aurelius, she might solve the case. She replies,
"Tell me how."
"When you show the odd flash of contextual intelligence, I forget your generation can't read, Clarice. The Emperor counsels simplicity. First Principles. Of each particular thing, ask: What is it in itself, in its own constitution? What is its causal nature?"
"That doesn't mean anything to me."
"What does he do, this man you want?"
"He kills—"
"That's incidental. What is the first and principle thing he does, what need does he serve by killing?"
"Anger, social resentment, sexual frus—"
"No."
"What, then?"
"He covets. In fact, he covets being the very thing that you are. It's his nature to covet. How do we begin to covet, Clarice? Do we seek out things to covet?
"No. We just—"
"No. Precisely so. We begin by coveting what we see every day."
Covet is an old fashioned word not much in use these days; it's one of the shalt-nots in the Ten Commandments, in the King James version, at least. To covet means to harbor a powerful desire for something that doesn't belong to you, to want all of it, every bit of that something, for yourself. So let us return to First Principles: What does he do, this man, this party, that rules? He, and they, like the serial killer Buffalo Bill, covet. They want it all, until it's all used up. That is their nature. Bush and his minions are what Dr. Lector refers to as the 'free-range rude.' He might relish a nice little Filet Minion. To the extent that we share that nature, as well as the 'same portion of the sacred,' we cannot blame them, but, as the Emperor advises, if we are true to our inward power and innate reason, like a bonfire, we can master a pile of rubbish.
