11/22/23
Having dabbled in stoic thought for several early essays, Montaigne gets to the heart of the matter in essay 14, where he quotes Epictetus:
Men are tormented not by things themselves but by what they think about them.
Montaigne then spends a great deal of time examining whether Epictetus‘s dictum applies to a wide range of deep philosophical matters, including death, and I think he loses the plot in the process.
I believe what Epictetus is actually saying is that we are tormented mostly by thoughts about matters of opinion, that we tie ourselves in knots trying to figure out other people’s feelings when, in truth, we can’t even be sure of our own feelings.
So, for example, if you get wrapped up in concern and anxiety about whether someone else loves you, you’d be better off examining why you care — what are your motives to seeking this admiration and affection, and is it particular to this person or generalized to the situation?
But Montaigne isn’t interested in the personal here, he wants something universal:
the philosopher Pyrrho happened to be aboard ship during a mighty storm; to those about him whom he saw most terrified he pointed out an exemplary pig, quite unconcerned with the storm; he encouraged them to imitate it. Dare we conclude that the benefit of reason (which we praise so highly and on account of which we esteem ourselves to be lords and masters of all creation) was placed in us for our torment? What use is knowledge if, for its sake, we lose the calm and repose which we would enjoy without it and if it makes our condition worse than that of Pyrrho’s pig? Intelligence was given us for our greater good: shall we use it to bring about our downfall by fighting against the design of Nature and the order of the Universe, which require each creature to use its faculties and resources for its advantage?
I‘m not exactly sure what this design of nature is or how the pig best exemplifies it. In the last essays I discussed — about constancy — Montaigne argued against steadfastness in the face of danger and trusting our instincts. But is it really our nature to be calm in the middle of tumult? Is it really our brains sending us into despair? Montaigne applies his thoughts here to pain as well:
Are we to make our flesh believe that lashes from leather thongs merely tickle it, or make our palate believe that bitter aloes is vin de Graves? In this matter, Pyrrho’s pig is one of us: it may not fear death, but beat it and it squeals and cries. Are we to force that natural universal and inherent characteristic which can be seen in every living creature under heaven: namely, that pain causes trembling? The very trees seem to shudder beneath the axe.
It sounds reasonable enough, but it’s simply not true and sex is the best example against it. When we become desirous of a sexual relationship, we enter into — in the parlance of “The Big Lebowsky” — a world of pain. Relationships that mean the most often have an element of emotional pain — longing, mystery, doubt, jealousy, the list goes on and on. And the sex itself is most memorable when those nerve endings on the skin are facing a confusion of impulses, some painful, others purely pleasurable. Nothing is more boring than a romantic relationship free of conflict and encounters in the bedroom that are about nothing but happy endings.
But perhaps Montaigne agreed with this too and merely couched his controversial thoughts in safe irony, protected by Babe. There are many essays about sex in the future where we can return to this point.
I do want to return to my point earlier about love, because it’s the thorniest issue to dissect using Epictetus’s claim. I have often wondered whether I am most tortured by a romantic relation I was either in or desired — or by my thoughts and opinions about that relationship. And what makes such situations so difficult is that the thoughts and opinions are most often about the thoughts and opinions of the woman.
One particularly difficult situation I faced at one point in my life involved a coworker. I knew she was unavailable, but she seemed to be desiring to spend an increasing amount of time with me and, myself having just recently become single, I started to wonder if she had a romantic interest in me. But then I started to wonder if maybe I was the one with a romantic interest that I was just projecting.
This chicken-or-egg internal debate was getting me nowhere, so one day, after she threw me into even greater confusion by once again breaking an appointment with me, I decided to tell her that I needed to spend less time with her socially because I’d formed feelings for her and, seeing that there’s no hope for us to ever be a couple, I needed some distance to get my head on straight.
She never made a straightforward response to my declaration, but she seemed to agree to my new boundaries and our social interactions decreased. But soon after, our workplace interactions started to increase significantly. At first I thought it was wonderful because we have a strong work relationships and complementary work skills. But as time passed, she became increasingly enmeshed in my career and I started to wonder — is this just a coincidence that we are working together so much more now? If not, is she doing this because she likes spending time with me or is she taking advantage of the feelings I declared and manipulating me to get what she wants?
Most of my thoughts and feelings went to trying to understand her thoughts and feelings — which I now see was a complete waste of time, because she may not have known exactly why she was acting like she was. I also grew increasingly suspicious that she treated multiple coworkers this way. Perhaps the truth was neither black nor white, but a combination of the two that she struggled with herself. What mattered more is that I let her do it — and in essence let her take a great deal of control over my work life.
Why did I do it? Not because I was getting pleasure in return, but rather that I was getting this endless mixture of pleasure and pain … the scraps of attention and praise I got from her was euphoric at times. But it was just as important that I had a mystery to unravel and conflicting, confusing feelings to deal with. The anguish of it all was just as critical to the experience as the moments of joy.
So, my response to Montaigne’s argument that we should trust sensation over reason is that neither actually fulfills what is most essential to being human. What we humans crave most is narrative. We want stories with drama and purpose to keep us going, and we will not seek out the stories that bring us pure joy any more than we would seek out movies, books or TV shows that lacked narrative tension.