(An argument against the philosophy of Stoicism.)
What was it that the Greeks were saying about happiness being always inside you? Do not let the problems of your loved ones, the distresses of your family, the death of your friends, the misery of your nation, bother you… “Don’t worry, be happy!” Has Bobby McFerrin’s song been translated from the Stoic Greek, too?…
I guess, one could always become a stoic, which does not mean happiness, but only indifference to life, or an utterly selfish, “happy” sort of attitude, enjoying a normal feast in the midst of plague. I could even imagine such a pure and radiant Aristotelian happiness that is too refined and out-of-this-worldly to have anything to do with the deliberateness of a special effort, no, not an excuse, not a pretext, but the real natural thing…
I may even be jealous of those who are philosophically capable to attain such bliss on earth. Maybe, I could have been there too?
No, hardly. I have always been too much affected by the worst bane of happiness: compassion. One may be immune to his own state of misery, but the unhappiness of the others, the loved ones, the cared-about ones, is sure enough to penetrate through the pseudo-stoic defenses, and sting the soul. For, indeed, compassion is a destructive passion. Once you have it, it makes you… well, human. All-too-human, I am afraid…
On the other hand, being a stoic is like being on a powerful numbing drug. No feeling, which presumably means no pain. Such is the happiness of the stoic!
But then, the price has to be complete loneliness. No family, no friends, no country, no love…
Oh, yes, the Stoic ideal must be… Nothing!
What was it that the Greeks were saying about happiness being always inside you? Do not let the problems of your loved ones, the distresses of your family, the death of your friends, the misery of your nation, bother you… “Don’t worry, be happy!” Has Bobby McFerrin’s song been translated from the Stoic Greek, too?…
I guess, one could always become a stoic, which does not mean happiness, but only indifference to life, or an utterly selfish, “happy” sort of attitude, enjoying a normal feast in the midst of plague. I could even imagine such a pure and radiant Aristotelian happiness that is too refined and out-of-this-worldly to have anything to do with the deliberateness of a special effort, no, not an excuse, not a pretext, but the real natural thing…
I may even be jealous of those who are philosophically capable to attain such bliss on earth. Maybe, I could have been there too?
No, hardly. I have always been too much affected by the worst bane of happiness: compassion. One may be immune to his own state of misery, but the unhappiness of the others, the loved ones, the cared-about ones, is sure enough to penetrate through the pseudo-stoic defenses, and sting the soul. For, indeed, compassion is a destructive passion. Once you have it, it makes you… well, human. All-too-human, I am afraid…
On the other hand, being a stoic is like being on a powerful numbing drug. No feeling, which presumably means no pain. Such is the happiness of the stoic!
But then, the price has to be complete loneliness. No family, no friends, no country, no love…
Oh, yes, the Stoic ideal must be… Nothing!
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