We will now, my Novatus, attempt to do that which you so especially long to
do, that is, to drive out anger from our minds, or at all events to curb it
and restrain its impulses. This may sometimes be done openly and without
concealment, when we are only suffering from a slight attack of this mischief,
and at other times it must be done secretly, when our anger is excessively
hot, and when every obstacle thrown in its way increases it and makes it blaze
higher. It is important to know how great and how fresh its strength may be,
and whether it can be driven forcibly back and suppressed, or whether we must
give way to it until its first storm blow over, lest it sweep away with it our
remedies themselves.
We must deal with each case according to each man's character: some yeild to
entreaties, others are rendered arrogant and masterful by submission: we may
frighten some men out of their anger, while some may be turned from their
purpose by reproaches, some by acknowledging oneself to be in the wrong, some
by shame, and some by delay, a tardy remedy for a hasty disorder, which we
ought only to use when all others have failed: for other passions admit of
having their case put off, and may be healed at a later time; but the eager
and self-destructive violence of anger does not grow up by slow degrees, but
reaches its full height as soon as it begins.
Nor does it, like other vices, merely disturb men's minds, but it takes them
away, and torments them till they are incapable of restraining themselves and
eager for the common ruin of al men; nor does it rage merely against its
object, but against every object which it encounters on its way. The other
vices move our minds; anger hurls them headlong. If we are not able to
withstand our passions, yet at any rate our passions ought to stand firm: but
anger grows more and more powerful, like lightning flashes or hurricanes, or
any other things which cannot stop themselves because they do not proceed
along, but fall from above. Other vices affect our judgement, anger affects
our sanity: others come in mild attacks and grow unnoticed, but men's minds
plunge abruptly into anger. There is no passion that is more frantic, more
destructive to its own self; it is arrogant if successful, and frantic if it
fails. Even when defeated it does not grow weary, but if chance places its foe
beyond its reach, it turns its teeth against itself. Its intensity is in no
way regulated by its origin: for it rises to the greatest heights from the
most trivial beginnings.
It passes over no time of life; no race of men is exempt from it: some
nations have been saved from the knowledge of luxury by the blessing of
poverty; some through their active and wandering habits have escaped from
sloth; those whose manners are unpolished and whose life is rustic know not
chicanery and fraud and all the evils to which the courts of law give birth:
but there is no race which is not excited by anger, which is equally powerful
with Greeks and barbarians, and is just as ruinous among law-abiding folk as
among those whose only law is that of the stronger.
Finally, the other passions seize upon individuals; anger is the only one
which sometimes possesses a whole state. No entire people ever fell madly in
love with a woman, nor did any nation ever set its affections altogether upon
gain and profit. Ambition attacks single individuals; ungovernable rage is the
only passion that affects nations. People often fly into a passion by
troops;men and women, old men and boys, princes and populace all act alike,
and the whole multitude, after being excited by a very few words, outdoes even
its exciter: men betake themselves straightway to fire and sword, and proclaim
a war against their neighbors or wage one against their countrymen. Whole
houses are burned with the entire families which they contain, and he who but
lately was honored for his popular eloquence now finds that his speech moves
people to rage. Legions aim their darts at their commander; the whole populace
quarrels with the nobles; the senate, without waiting for troops to be levied
or appointing a general, hastily chooses leaders, for its anger changes
wellborn men through the houses of Rome, and puts them to death with its own
hand. Ambassadors are outraged, the laws of nations violated, and an unnatural
madness seizes the state. Without allowing time for the general excitement to
subside, fleets are straightway launched and laden with a hastily enrolled
soldiery.
Without organization, without taking any auspices, the populace rushes into
the field guided only by its own anger, snatches up whatever comes first to
hand by way of arms, and then atones by a great defeat for the reckless
audacity of its anger. This is usually the fate of savage nations when they
plunge into war: as soon as their easily excited minds are roused by the
appearance of wrong having been done them, they straightway hasten forth, and,
guided only by their wounded feelings, fall like an avalanche upon our
legions, without either discipline, fear, or precaution, and willfully seek
for danger. They delight in being struck, in pressing forward to meet the
blow, writhing their bodies along the weapon, and perishing by a wound which
they themselves make.
"No doubt," you say, "anger is very powerful and ruinous: point out,
therefore, how it may be cured." Yet, as I stated in my former books,
Aristotle stands forth in defense of anger, and forbids it to be uprooted,
saying that it is the spur of virtue, and that when it is taken away, our
minds become weaponless, and slow to attempt great exploits. It is therefore
essential to prove its unseemliness and ferocity, and to place distinctly
before our eyes how monstrous a thing it is that one man should rage against
another, with what frantic violence he rushes to destroy alike himself and his
foe, and overthrows those very things whose fall he himself must share.
What, then? can any one call this man sane, who, as though caught up by a
hurricane, does not go but is driven, and is the slave of a senseless
disorder? He does not commit to another the duty of revenging him, but himself
exacts it, raging alike in thought and deed, butchering those who are dearest
to him, and for whose loss he himself will erelong weep. Will any one give
this passion as an assistant and companion to virtue, although it disturbs
calm reason, without which virtue can do nothing? The strength which a sick
man owes to a paroxysm of disease is neither lasting nor wholesome, and is
strong only to its own destruction. You need not, therefore, imagine that I am
wasting time over a useless task in defaming anger, as though men had not made
up their minds about it, when there is some one, and he, too, an illustrious
philosopher, who assigns it services to perform, and speaks of it as useful
and supplying energy for battles, for the management of business, and indeed
for everything which requires to be conducted with spirit.
Lest it should delude any one into thinking that on certain occasions and in
certain positions it may be useful, we must show its unbridled and frenzied
madness, we must restore to it its attributes, the rack, the cord, the
dungeon, and the cross, the fires lighted round men's buried bodies, the hook
that drags both living men and corpses, the different kinds of fetters, and of
punishments, the mutilations of limbs, the branding of the forehead, the dens
of savage beasts. Anger should be represented as standing among these her
instruments, growling in an ominous and terrible fashion, herself more
shocking than any of the means by which she gives vent to her fury.
There may be some doubt about the others, but at any rate no passion has a
worse look. We have described the angry man's appearance in our former books,
how sharp and keen he looks, at one time pale as his blood is driven inwards
and backwards, at another with all the heat and fire of his body directed to
his face, making it reddish-colored as if stained with blood, his eyes now
restless and starting out of his head, now set motionless in one fixed gaze.
Add to this his teeth, which gnash against one another, as though he wished to
eat somebody, with exactly the sound of a wild boar sharpening his tusks: add
also the cracking of his joints, the involuntary wringing of his hands, the
frequent slaps he deals himself on the chest, his hurried breathing and
deep-drawn sighs, his reeling body, his abrupt broken speech, and his
trembling lips, which sometimes he draws tight as he hisses some curse through
them.
By Hercules, no wild beast, neither when tortured by hunger, or with a weapon
struck through its vitals, not even when it gathers its last breath to bite
its slayer, looks so shocking as a man raging with anger. Listen, if you have
leisure, to his words and threats: how dreadful is the language of his
agonized mind! Would not every man wish to lay aside anger when he sees that
it begins by injuring himself? When men employ anger as the most powerful of
agents, consider it to be a proof of power, and reckon a speedy revenge among
the greatest blessings of great prosperity, would you not wish me to warn them
that he who is the slave of his own anger is not powerful, nor even free?
Would you not wish me to warn all the more industrious and circumspect of men,
that while other evil passions assail the base, anger gradually obtains
dominion over the minds even of learnewd and in other respects sensible men?
So true is that, that some declare anger to be a proof of straightforwardness,
and it is commonly believed that the best-natured people are prone to it.
You ask me, whither does all this tend? To prove, I answer, that no one should imagine himself safe from anger, seeing that it rouses up even those who are naturally gentle and quiet to commit savage and violent acts. As strength of body and assiduous care of health avail nothing against a pestilence, which attacks the strong and the weak alike, so also steady and good-humored people are just as liable to attacks of anger as those of unsettled character, and in the case of the former it is both more to be ashamed of and more to be feared, because it makes a greater alteration in their habits. Now as the first thing is not to be angry, the second to lay aside our anger, and the third to be able to heal the anger of others as well as our own, I will set forth first how we may avoid faling into anger; next, how we may set ourselves free from it, and, lastly, how we may restrain an angry man, appease his wrath, and bring him back to his right mind.
We shall succeed in avoiding anger, if from time to time we lay before our
minds all the vices connected with anger, and estimate it at its real value:
it must be prosecuted before us and convicted: its evils must be thoroughly
investigated and exposed. That we may see what it is, let it be compared with
the worse vices. Avarice scrapes together and amasses riches for some better
man to use: anger spends money; few can indulge in it for nothing. How many
slaves an angry master drives to run away or to commit suicide! how much more
he loses by his anger than the value of what he originally became angry about!
Anger brings grief to a father, divorce to a husband, hatred to a magistrate,
failure to a candidate for office. It is worse than luxury, because luxury
enjoys its own pleasure, while anger enjoys another's pain. It is worse than
either spitefulness or envy; for they wish that some one may become unhappy,
while anger wishes to make him so: they are pleased when evil befalls one by
accident, but anger cannotr wait upon Fortune; it desires to injure its victim
personally, and is not satisfied merely with his being injured. Nothing is
more dangerous than jealousy: it is produced by anger. Nothing is more ruinous
than war: it is the outcome of powerful men's anger; and even the anger of
humble private persons, though without arms or armies, is nevertheless war.
Moreover, even if we pass over its immediate consequences, such as heavy
losses, treacherous plots, and the constant anxiety produced by strife, anger
pays a penalty at the same moment that it exacts one: it forswears human
feelings. The latter urge us to love, anger urges us to hatred: the latter bid
us do men good, anger bids us do them harm. Add to this that, although its
rage arises from an excessive self-respect and appears to show high spirit, it
really is contemptible and mean: for a man must be inferior to one by whom he
thinks himself despised, whereas the truly great mind, which takes a true
estimate of its own value, does not revenge an insult because it does not feel
it. As weapons rebound rrom a hard surface, and solid substances hurt those
who strike them, so also no insult can make a really great mind sensible of
its presence, being weaker than that against which it is aimed. How far more
glorious is it to throw back all wrongs and insults from oneself, like one
wearing armor of proof against all weapons, for revenge is an admission that
we have been hurt. That cannot be a great mind which is disturbed by injury.
He who has hurt you must be either stronger or weaker than yourself. If he be
weaker, spare him: if he be stronger, spare yourself.
There is no greater proof of magnanimity than that nothing which befalls
you should be able to move you to anger. The higher region of the universe,
being more excellently ordered and near to the stars, is never gathered int o
clouds, driven about by storms, or whirled round by cyclones: it is free from
all disturbance: the lightnings flash in the regions below it. In like manner
a lofty mind, always placid and dwelling in a serene atmosphere, restraining
within itself all the impulses from which anger springs, is modest, commands
respect, and remains calm and collected: none of which qualities will you find
in an angry man: for who, when under the influence of grief and rage, does not
first get rid of bashfulness? who, when excited and confused and about to
attack some one, does not fling away any habits of shamefacedness he may have
possessed? what angry man attends to the number or routine of his duties? who
uses moderate language? who keeps any part of his body quiet? who can guide
himself when in full career?
We shall find much profit in that sound maxim of Democritus which defines
peace of mind to consist in not laboring much, or too much for our strength,
either in public or private matters. A man's day, if he is engaged in many
various occupations, never passes so happily that no man or no thing should
give rise to some offense which makes the mind ripe for anger. Just as when
one hurries through the crowded parts of the city one cannot help jostling
many people, and one cannot help slipping at one place, being hindered at
another, and splashed at another, so when one's life is spent in disconnected
pursuits and wanderings, one must meet with many troubles and many
accusations. One man deceives our hopes, another delays their fulfilment,
another destroys them: our projects do not proceed acording to our
intention.
No one is so favored by Fortune as to find her always on his side if he tempts
her often: and from this it follows that he who sees several enterprises turn
out contrary to his wishes becomes dissatisfied with both men and things, and
on the slightest provocation flies into a rage with people, with undertakings,
with places, with fortune, or with himself. In order, therefore, that the mind
may be at peace, it ought not to be hurried hither and thither, nor, as I said
before, wearied by labor at great matters, or matters whose attainment is
beyond its strength. It is easy to fit one's shoulder to a light burden, and
to shift it from one side to the other without dropping it: but we have
difficulty in bearing the burdens which others' hands lay upon us, and when
overweighted by them we fling them off upon our neighbors. Even when we do
stand upright under our load, we nevertheless reel beneath a weight which is
beyond our strength.
Seneca: on anger continued.