HEAD(hed), (n.) 1. the top part of the human body or the front part of an animal where the eyes, nose, east and mouth are. "Your brain is in your head." DIBS(dibz), (n.) 2. a thick, sweet syrup made in countries of the East, especially the Middle East, from grape juice or dates. [Arabic "debs"]--World Book Dictionary, 1976.
I’ve been spending the last few months on something I’ve always wanted to do: write a book. I’m using every possible moment on this project and it’s really coming along. I am currently 7 chapters completed out of a potential 20. However, given the source material, each chapter is just a little bit longer than the previous. So who knows when I’ll be finished. I’m learning so much tho!
"Hecato says : 'I can show you a philtre [potion], compounded without drugs, herbs, or any witch's incantation: 'If you be loved, love.' " And what is love? Later in this letter, Seneca defines love as "friendship run mad."
He goes on:
"Now there is great pleasure, not only in maintaining old and established friendships, but also in beginning and acquiring new ones. There is the same difference between winning a new friend and having already won him, as there is between the farmer who sows and the farmer who reaps. The philosopher Attalus used to say: 'It is more pleasant to make than to keep a friend, as it is more pleasant to the artist to paint than to have finished painting.'"
What is the purpose of friendship? Is it to collect people for the purpose of support or help? Seneca suggests the purpose of friendship is to nurture virtue. How does one do that? By gathering people in order to provide comfort to one who is sick, to share what you have with someone who is need.
There is a difference between mere existence and a happy existence. Mere existence is self-serving and uses people that could be friends. A happy existence does not seek it's own fortune but serves others; that is, it is an existence that relates to, contributes to, invests in others and is able to call them "friends." And one can still say he or she is self-sufficient.
But there is another factor to consider:
Should a man lose his property, his family, his friends--has he lost everything? No!
He had property and now it is gone.
He had family and they are gone.
He had friends and they are gone.
Has one lost or merely "returned" what was given for a little while? The people and property one has is for a time (the Stoics said that nothing that can be taken is "good"), but he is happiest when able to nurture virtue with others. So one needs relationships, friends, in order for this to happen.
But when friends, family, property are gone, he "can retire into himself and give himself over to his own thoughts."
I'm nearly finished reading Joan Didion's collection of essays, Slouching Towards Bethlehem. The book was discovered through another book I was reading, Jon Krakauer's Eiger Dreams . If Jon felt this book was good enough to pack along on a mountain climbing expedition, then I'm interested. Took me three tries, but I finally found my copy on Amazon. One of the best book buys I've made. Joan selected the title of this book from William Butler Yeats' classic poem, Second Coming . The book title is shared with one of her larger essays, a record of encounters with people in the 1960's drug culture. Didion's book is divided into three distinct parts: "Life Styles In The Golden Land," a collection of articles capturing the California experience of the 1960's; "Personals," a few of essays of the first-hand nature; and "Seven Places Of The Mind", some thoughts about those parts of California that are now long gone. One essay...
“VANITY, saith the preacher, vanity! Draw round my bed: is Anselm keeping back? Nephews—sons mine … ah God, I know not! Well— She, men would have to be your mother once, Old Gandolf envied me, so fair she was! What’s done is done, and she is dead beside, Dead long ago, and I am Bishop since, And as she died so must we die ourselves, And thence ye may perceive the world’s a dream. Life, how and what is it? As here I lie In this state-chamber, dying by degrees, Hours and long hours in the dead night, I ask “Do I live, am I dead?” Peace, peace seems all. Saint Praxed’s ever was the church for peace; And so, about this tomb of mine. I fought With tooth and nail to save my niche, ye know: —Old Gandolf cozened me, despite my care; Shrewd was that snatch from out the corner South He graced his carrion with, God curse the same! Yet still my niche is not so cramped...
