He was angry. He was indignant. He was the victim. Why couldn’t his old man see?
I was enjoying the fine spring afternoon on a patio a few days ago, sipping my drink, when this twenty-something man’s anger overcame him. Ironically, the works of Seneca lay on the table before me, offering some of the most useful thoughts about anger that have been written.
The young man’s voice rose as he attempted to fend off his father’s criticisms, which apparently revolved around his failure to make something of himself.
“It’s not like it was when you were my age!” the young man almost yelled into his iPhone, laying out the shitty job prospects and unaffordable housing he was constrained by. Several of us looked up from conversations and books, and the young man grabbed his bag and stormed off the patio, perhaps seeking privacy for his phone argument.
It’s was a rehash of a timeless conflict: The old don’t understand the struggles of the young. They’re out of touch, and things are hard. But it’s also a fragment of a far greater dynamic: circumstances exist. Fate is real and often impedes us. And yet still we must get on with life and make our way.
Today people often say, “Because of circumstance X, all is lost, and I will not do Y.”
Expensive housing, therefore, I’m not having any kids.
Worse job prospects, therefore, why be financially responsible?
Seneca described this orientation perfectly in 65 A.D in Letter 16.
“What use is philosophy to me if there is fate?…For what is certain cannot be changed, and against what is uncertain there is no way to prepare oneself. …fortune has left nothing for my planning to achieve.”
They’re fatalists, in other words. Not saying, “it is what it is,” and moving on, or “I will do it, fate willing,” but a resignation from life in the face of its circumstances. Some fall into despair, others into hedonism, and many more give up the pursuit of greater things.
What would Seneca say today, if he could have a few words with this angry young man?
I suspect he wouldn’t try to talk him out of his conviction that the world had dealt him a bad hand. It’s done this countless times across millennia, after all. But nor would he dismiss the father’s advice to stop being passive. Seneca would observe that two things can be true at the same time:
On one hand, the immutable facts that impede and constrain us. Recent generations have it harder than their grandparents in specific areas (but better in many others).
On the other, our immutable control over how we respond to what happens. We might have to grind 20% harder than our grandparents to get to the same place, which isn’t fair, but who said anything about things being fair? Reality is not overly concerned with fairness.
Seneca might save a lecture about the man mistaking what’s truly important for another day. But he’d put in a word about the power of reorienting ourselves around virtuous action. Fate can’t stop us from responding. Only we can do that.
He’d explain that it helps to have a philosophy of life at the ready when fate deals us a bad hand:
“[Philosophy] consists not in words but in actions…It molds and shapes the mind, gives order to life and discipline to action, shows what to do and what not to do. It sits at the helm and steers a course for us who are tossed in waves of uncertainty. Without it, there is no life that is not full of care and anxiety. For countless things happen every hour that need the advice philosophy alone can give.”
Philosophy won’t deny your extenuating circumstances. It might raise an eyebrow if you declare this play we’re acting is a tragedy and insist you’re its chief victim, but it’s more concerned with what you’ll do with what’s dropped in your lap.
Marcus Aurelius seems to have worked out the optimum balance in his Meditations.
He’s basically a fatalist about everyone but himself. The masses are ignorant, vice-ridden, and unwilling to hear reason or improve. He doesn’t have much hope for them. But he readily admits to his own failings. Each day he works to correct them while taking virtuous action. He believes he can and should do better, and must not despair at the plagues, invasions, and economic catastrophes fate hands him.
Psychologically, this is the optimum strategy. Marcus put it well in Meditations 5.33, “Be tolerant with others, strict with yourself.”
Because in a sense, the world is always on fire. It’s always been partially broken. If it’s going to be endured or even fixed, it’s up to us.
Thanks for reading Socratic State of Mind.
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