Homo Contra Cenam

XL Letter of the Front Porch Philosopher, Marcus Porpoise Strabo Gingivitis,

 to his Protégé Lucius Goonius.

How trying are the trials of fortune! Indeed, I had just come to tell you in my last letter about the invitation to the dinner with a certain mutual friend of ours, lover of orgies, and how I was determined to refuse, no matter what methods he used to persuade me. 

And yet, strange to say, Goonius, I accepted. Do not think me growing licentious in my old age – I had no choice in the matter. I would much rather have spent the evening as I am wont, at home in my “poverty room” (you know the one with the dirt floor, the oily breadpile, and the vulgar dwarf) reading the classics and picking out little presents to send you from my stockpile of philosophy. Well, the will of the gods cannot be gainsaid. It turns out I had lent our friend my only copy of The Goonmenides, and it was from that exact text that I was looking to send you your little nugget of philosophy for the week.

The human will is very odd – very often it will choose a present evil for an unsure future good. Nevertheless, I took this strange opportunity (for surely you must know that I am only a casual frequenter of feasts, and have in no away allowed my spirit to grow accustomed to them, however often I attend) I say, an opportunity to test the impatientia of my spirit. There it all was! Delicious sweetmeats, sweetlicious meatdishes, and other delectables as well, sprinkled with both salt and pepper, and some few even garnished with mouth watering lead, silver, quicksilver, gold, and iron.

I could see the other guests were well enjoying themselves, stuffing their orifices with one hand, disembowelling slaves with the other. Many were kicking kittens all the while. I could never abide the past-time of kitten kicking – I know you may think me a bit of a queer fish, but sometimes I find it positively mean, even cruel! “But they are merely fluffy, big eyed, mewing little darlings,” I hear you object, “if they can’t be crushed beneath my toes for pleasure, what can?” Here we must cease to be slaves to pleasure, and cling to the only master we ought to truly serve (I mean of course philosophy. What else could I mean? Checkers?). Why crush kittens? Let us crush our excessive desires instead.

But to the feast.  Surely you have attended some few in your younger years. You know how noisy they get, and how an old man like me cannot abide noise! The smacking of lips and the gobbing of wine, the hearty reverberating jiggle of a slave well elbowed...They are like to drive a sensitive man to distraction from the Good. I accordingly stuffed my ears with grape leaves, and looked out at the spread before me. Now, what should a true philosopher do? A Pythaogrean might leave the room; a Cynic would knock over the table. An Epicurean would munch a little bread and be content. A Platonist would look to the wine for divine revelation, and an Aristotelian might eat all his greens first, and then his meats, his desserts, insofar as he could determine the proper order of the “six digestions”. 

Yet herein lies the difference between our school and theirs! They must needs avoid the pleasure of eating, in order not to feel it. I say that we, as Front Porchers, can just as well devour as much as we can, and yet still be unmoved in our inner selves. This is the true meaning of ataraxia! I thus knit my brows, frowned, pinched my nose, made a small moaning noise, and, with the greatest hesitancy began to stockpile my plate from the buffet. How I was tested then, Goonius. I can assure you, however, that I never had a meal that tasted worse – it was that good.

I’ve half a mind to tell you how I endured the drinking that came after the meal, and more than half a mind not to tell you about the courtesans, the flute girls, and the rest that I didn’t even come to not enjoy entirely. “But enough of this food talk”, I hear you grumble. You want your little gifty wifty eh? Need a little boost of philosophy to get you through your week? Well, I’m glad this old man is useful for something, and I really ought to repay you for reading through this trite letter of mine. Here then is the promised line from The Goonmenides:

It is not that am man is driven to excess by his deeds, but rather his deeds that are driven to excess by his own character. Therefore, see that your character is steady, and even in the midst of a Bacchic orgy you will find yourself capable of philosophical pleasure.