A great friend of this blog, I used to call him Epicurus. Not that I knew all that much about the ancient philosopher; only knowing that Epicurean philosophy was dear to his heart. And as he is dear to my heart, I suppose it was only natural that my friend's interest would become somehow my own. With "my Epicurus" in mind, I have been utterly delighted to read about the ancient philosopher and his Garden School of Philosophy in Robert Harrison's Gardens: An Essay on the Human Condition.
Many of You may have grown quite tired of my complaining about people who seem to be unable to do anything else but report the news. I like to call it the "what I did last weekend" syndrome. There is a whole lot of reporting, complaining and opinions being stated (but rarely argued)... But what about some old-fashioned storytelling? Sometimes I even begin to doubt whether real conversation even any longer exists....
This is what, of course, first drew me to Caesar-- the way he lingered in delight to tell me about a love affair. Robert Harrison's book too does this: lingering in great delight to tell a story. It meanders in rare sensuality and in great triumph too. And reading it is like being rained on by flowers.
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A garden. To achieve this place of aesthetic pleasure and moral cultivation-- Harrison suggest that perhaps more than anything, it is "structure" that is the necessary ingredient. For no matter how natural the garden may aim to be, without some "form" it would never truly become a garden, would it? There must be "katachi" (form, design)-- and this is as true of tea ceremony, theater, dance, the arts, as it is with love, friendship, anything significant that we wish to cultivate in fact requires some kind of form, don't you agree?
So, then, what was the underlying structure of the garden of Epicurean philosophy? Well, rather than virtue or knowledge, Epicurean philosophy posited that the aim of our lives should be happiness or joy. But what is happiness? Epicurus insisted that human happiness is achieved through the attainment of a state of ataraxia (Ἀταραξία): serentity or an absence of anxiety→ 安心. This is, a state which-- unlike Buddhist Enlightenment-- is a path with no arrival. And, therefore, it requires, in the words of one French scholar,
“an effort lasting every minute of one’s life"
Gernet, in in these words above, had been referring to the Confucian project and explained that,
"by control of the smallest details of conduct, by observation of the rules of life in society (i), by respect for others and for oneself and by the sense of reciprocity (shu)”
I wonder if something similar couldn't be said of Epicurean philosophy-- that the aim of achieving happiness, or ataraxia, required an effort which would last a lifetime; and demanded the cutivation of certain social virtues which included both the measure or limiting of one's own desires with a profound respect and consideration of others.
Like Confucianism, Epicurean philosophy is very this-worldly. And there was also a strong emphasis on Friendship. Epicurus famously stating that it is better to have someone to eat with than to have something to eat; as if to say that we are nothing without friendship. Friendship.
This below is Robert Harrison telling us about Boccaccio's basic Epicurean morality; Yes, human life is rife with pain and misfortune, and as we strive toward increasing joy as much as we can, we do this not just for ourselves, but rather strive to increase overall joy in the world by bringing both pleasure and support to those around us. This is, says Harrison, the minimal moral imperative according to Boccaccio:
To be human means to vulnerable to misfortune and disaster. It means periodically to find oneself in need of help, comfort, distraction, or edification.Our condition is for the most part an affair of the everyday, not of the heroic, and our minimal ethical responsibility to our neighbor, according to Boccaccio's humanism, consists not in showing him or her the way redemption but in helping him or her get through the day. This help may take modest forms, not the least of which is rendering the sphere of social interactions more pleasurable through wit, decorum, storytelling, fellowship, conversation, courtesy, and socialibility. To add to the pleasure of life: that is the arche, or first principle of Boccacio's humanism, which is not the triumphalist humanism of later eras (which saw humankind as the glory of all creation) but the civil humanism of neighborly love.
I have lately been thinking of Cleopatra and her carpet.
Remember when the Egyptian Queen first met the love of her life, Caesar? She was snuck in to his palace hidden in a rolled up carpet? It is funny that that image of a woman being unfurled from a carpet before an emperor is somehow cross-cultural (ancient Rome, or concubines in Qing dynasty China, etc).
You can see two different Hollywood versions of the scene here and can judge for yourselves. But, I think everything we need to know about their love affair can be glimpsed in that first moment when Caesar pauses and really looks at her. Of course, I say this with the idea that I have been thinking so much about lately of Really Looking at what is right in front of you as the essential factor in virtue.
Tumbling out of the carpet, she landed at his feet and at that precise moment Caesar paused to really looked and listen to the Queen of Egypt. An Epicurean through and through, Caesar would remind her again and again and again that no matter what happened in Egypt-- even in the midst of great confusion or suffering-- one must still strive to find pleasure in daily life. Easier said than done, she thought. But Caesar was a delightful conversationist and had a fairly amusing sense of humor as well. All attributes of Roman suavitas-- and true friendship. To delight in the moment, but not just that-- to be like Caesar, she realized the trick is to enjoy the moment in a refined and measured manner based on the gratitude of all the blessings that one has received in the past; for Epicurean philosophy demands patience for the present, hope for the future based wholly on our ability to feel gratitude for the past:
The life of the fool is marked by ingratitude and apprehension; the drift of his thought exclusively toward the future-- Epicurus
With Epicurus' words echoing in my head (and Caesar's teasing bringing a smile to my face), I realize that for many years now, this has been nothing if not my very own life: the life of the fool.
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The Villa of Papyri.
It contained one of the great Epicurean libraries of antiquity. Originally owned by Caesar's father-in-law, the villa was centered around an inner atrium. Full of art, books and cultivated vegetables and flower gardens, it was known as the finest villa in the resort town of Herculanean. With its library and spectacular view of the sea, I think it it is safe to say that it must have been a gathering place for the great thinkers and artists of the time. Of course, the life of the villa would end tragically with the volcanic eruption of Vesuvius in 79 a.d.
Fast forward to the 1970s when JP Getty decided to make public his fabulous art collection in 1974, he would do so in a building modeled on the ancient Villa of Papyri. And so, a replica of a roman villa sits atop one of the most beautiful hills in Malibu. Containing one of the finest art collections in America, it harkens back to the days of Rome-- to a villa that itself was full of its own longings for antiquity--looking back toward the glories of ancient Greek. In our future-focused worldview, we often forget that for much of human history, people posited the golden age, not in the promises of the future but as having already existed-- in the past (復古). Therefore, religious thinkers and philosphers looked back into antiquity in search of exemplery models that could be useful to the problems of present-day people. Full of tomes of classical knowledge, the villa received its name for the famed papyrus scrolls kept in its library. The Villa of the Papyrus scrolls.
A few years ago, Robert Harris used the villa in his book Pompeii. Indeed, most of the action of the novel takes place right there in the Villa Papyri. By that time, it had changed hands and belonged to a Roman aristocrat who used it for his holiday retreat. In the final scene of the novel, Harris describes Pliny the Elder, a friend and frequent visitor of the villa, who deciding that the smoke and rumbling of Vesuvius was a sign that the volcano was about to blow, tries to save the library in vain. As the bellowing becomes increasingly deafening, he tries to organize a bold rescue attempt by boat. But as he makes his way toward the villa, the volcano explodes and all is lost.
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