What we really want is a philosophy that will enable us to get along while we are still alive.I am not worrying about my centenary; I am worrying about next quarter-day.I feel that if other people would only go away, and leave me--income-tax collectors, critics, men who come round about the gas, all those sort of people--I could be a philosopher myself.I am willing enough to make believe that nothing matters, but they are not.They say it is going to be cut off, and talk about judgment summonses.I tell them it won't trouble any of us a hundred years hence.They answer they are not talking of a hundred years hence, but of this thing that was due last April twelvemonth.They won't listen to my daemon.He does not interest them.Nor, to be candid, does it comfort myself very much, this philosophical reflection that a hundred years later on I'll be sure to be dead--that is, with ordinary luck.What bucks me up much more is the hope that they will be dead.Besides, in a hundred years things may have improved.I may not want to be dead.If I were sure of being dead next morning, before their threat of cutting off that water or that gas could by any possibility be carried out, before that judgment summons they are bragging about could be made returnable, I might--I don't say I should--be amused, thinking how Iwas going to dish them.The wife of a very wicked man visited him one evening in prison, and found him enjoying a supper of toasted cheese.
"How foolish of you, Edward," argued the fond lady, "to be eating toasted cheese for supper.You know it always affects your liver.
All day long to-morrow you will be complaining.""No, I shan't," interrupted Edward; "not so foolish as you think me.
They are going to hang me to-morrow--early."There is a passage in Marcus Aurelius that used to puzzle me until Ihit upon the solution.A foot-note says the meaning is obscure.
Myself, I had gathered this before I read the foot-note.What it is all about I defy any human being to explain.It might mean anything;it might mean nothing.The majority of students incline to the latter theory, though a minority maintain there is a meaning, if only it could be discovered.My own conviction is that once in his life Marcus Aurelius had a real good time.He came home feeling pleased with himself without knowing quite why.
"I will write it down," he said to himself, "now, while it is fresh in my mind."It seemed to him the most wonderful thing that anybody had ever said.
Maybe he shed a tear or two, thinking of all the good he was doing, and later on went suddenly to sleep.In the morning he had forgotten all about it, and by accident it got mixed up with the rest of the book.That is the only explanation that seems to me possible, and it comforts me.
We are none of us philosophers all the time.
Philosophy is the science of suffering the inevitable, which most of us contrive to accomplish without the aid of philosophy.Marcus Aurelius was an Emperor of Rome, and Diogenes was a bachelor living rent free.I want the philosophy of the bank clerk married on thirty shillings a week, of the farm labourer bringing up a family of eight on a precarious wage of twelve shillings.The troubles of Marcus Aurelius were chiefly those of other people.
"Taxes will have to go up, I am afraid," no doubt he often sighed.
"But, after all, what are taxes? A thing in conformity with the nature of man--a little thing that Zeus approves of, one feels sure.
