The Consolation of "The Consolation of Philosophy"
What timeless truths about politics we can pick up from an exceptional sixth-century Neoplatonist treatise
Things didn’t work out too well in the end for Anicius Manlius Severinus Boethius. A Roman aristocrat born in last decades of the fifth century, Boethius made a name for himself as an intellectual well-versed in both ancient Greek and Roman philosophy as well as Christian theology. He steadily ascended the ranks of the new Gothic regime of Theodoric as well, rising to the highest post in the ruler’s court at Ravenna.
In 523 CE, however, Boethius found himself subject to house arrest on capital charges of treason against Theodoric – charges that inevitably led to his execution at some point in the following years. The accusations against him remain dubious and convoluted in nature, but Boethius himself had no doubt that the allegations were manifestly unjust – all the more so given his years of service to the authorities. Under house arrest he composed The Consolation of Philosophy, a treatise addressed to himself with the apparent intent of helping him cope with his predicament.
The Consolation of Philosophy is a paean to ancient Greek and Roman philosophy as a whole, making broad arguments and striking general themes held in common with an intellectually diverse tradition that includes the likes of Stoicism, Cynicism, and Epicureanism. But it’s also a distinctly Neoplatonist tract as well, reflecting Boethius’ own particular commitment to that school of philosophical thought. Curiously enough, there’s little in the way of explicitly Christian material in The Consolation of Philosophy – though the commonalities between Neoplatonism and later Christian theology ought to be clear enough for observant readers to see for themselves.
Though the bulk of his treatise dwells on more strictly philosophical questions, Boethius does manage to sprinkle acute insights into the nature of politics and our participation in public life in The Consolation of Philosophy. That’s hardly surprising given the circumstances in which he composed it, but it’s still worth putting these tantalizing fragments under the intellectual microscope. What emerges is a case for the superiority of philosophy to politics – or at least a strong argument that philosophy will leave us better equipped and prepared to engage in politics and public than we would be otherwise.
That’s evident in Boethius’ jaundiced assessment of the temptations of political power, one that’s in keeping with the Greek and Roman philosophical tradition stretching back to Socrates. Since they so often “fall into the hands of wicked men,” Boethius notes, “positions of rank and power” cannot possibly be good in and of themselves. “High position bestowed on scoundrels,” he elaborates, “does not merely fail to make them worthy of it; indeed, it betrays and flaunts their unworthiness.” Worse still, holding public office doesn’t ennoble unscrupulous or otherwise unfit individuals. Instead, these “wicked incumbents” degrade the offices they hold since they “make them like themselves, by defiling them with their own pollution.”
To put it another way, the character of those we entrust with political power and positions of public responsibility matters enormously. It’s something we here in twenty-first century America have had to learn the hard way with President Trump and his degradation of the office he held – and something we would do well to remember moving forward, no matter our partisan leanings or ideological beliefs.
Boethius goes on to argue that political power always and everywhere remains precarious. Political leaders, he observes, will always be fearful of their own fragile positions and potential loss of power. Once possessed, political power possesses its holder in turn and proves to be a punishment rather than the prize it previously seemed. “What sort of power, then,” Boethius has the spectral female embodiment of Philosophy ask, “is it when those who have it fear it, when even those who aspire to it are insecure, and when those eager to renounce it cannot escape it?” Modern democratic politics aren’t typically lethal, but it’s still the case that political leaders – or anyone else involved in politics or policy – can find themselves enslaved to the political power they so intently seek to acquire and hold.
When it comes to our own involvement in politics and public life, Boethius provides us with some useful – if often indirect and implicit – counsel. His first piece of advice flows directly from his discussion of the hazards inherent in the quest for and possession of political power: namely, that such power should not be sought for its own sake. It’s a desire that frequently becomes a curse when we finally consummate it, leaving us to fear for our own positions and our very lives once we finally get what we want.
There’s another important lesson here for those us who find ourselves in any position of authority, political or otherwise. It’s not a point Boethius makes explicitly, but it’s not difficult to glean it from the way he talks about kings, tyrants, and others who abuse political power. Autocrats, he has Philosophy submit, cannot let up on the brutality they dispense to others because they expect they’ll receive the same cruel treatment if they were to lose power. That’s more than a warning about the perils of political power in and of itself; it’s an implicit admonition against the abuse and misuse of authority kind over others – no matter what kind of authority it may be. We’re far better off when we use the authority we might have in the right way and for the right purposes, not to safeguard our own insecure positions or seek advancement for ourselves.
Akin to these cautions about political power, Boethius advises that we ought to pursue public service for the right reasons – not “the desire for glory and the reputation for outstanding achievements in the service of the state.” As Philosophy reminds him, these two qualities don’t travel well beyond the confines of our own societies; what’s more, they cannot possibly survive long when compared to “the boundless extent of eternity.” Boethius aims to convince himself that fame and glory aren’t worthy ends in and of themselves, no matter how we obtain them. But his argument ought to resonate with us today: if we go into public service largely to achieve fame, burnish our reputations, or just advance our careers, we’re doing it for the wrong reasons.
More than anything else, though, Boethius recommends that we prepare ourselves to navigate rocks and shoals of public life by sticking closely to our principles. In a remarkable passage early on in the Consolation, Boethius eloquently makes this case after citing the example of Seneca and other figures who “were dragged down to disaster for no other reason than that they were schooled in [philosophy’s] ways, and showed themselves utterly at odds with the unprincipled. So it is no occasion for surprise if on the ocean of life we are buffeted by the storms which whistle about our ears, for our chief aim is to displease the wicked.”
Our antagonists may strike out against, dispossess, or even kill us, he acknowledges, but if we stay true to philosophy and our principles we can regard them with indifference or even contempt. These principles amount to an inner “citadel” or a “rampart” that protects us even as our “worthless baggage” is plundered and “all our tawdriest possessions” are looted. Again, in modern democratic societies we rarely risk our lives when we participate in public life or disagree over politics – but adversaries, antagonists, and sometimes even erstwhile allies can put our livelihoods and relationships in jeopardy all the same. This sort of cruelty often inflicts deep wounds, but it’s easier to cope with this pain when we know that we’ve stayed true to what really matters: ourselves and our own moral commitments.
That’s what Boethius tells himself as he suffers house arrest and awaits execution: he may be unjustly accused and faces death, but he can rest easy knowing he’s tried to conduct himself with virtue and dignity, at least by his own account. Given that politics and public life are both subject to the whims of the capricious deity Fortune, that’s all anyone can really ask of themselves. As Boethius has Philosophy herself muse, “What else do the groans of tragedy lament but the overthrow of prosperous kingdoms by the random blows of Fortune?”
If we’re going be actively involved in politics and public life, then, we’ve got to be prepared to take our own share of blows from Fortune – no matter how unfair they may seem or how much pain they may cause. We can do that best if we stick to our own principles and strive to do the right thing as we see it. That’s what Boethius told himself as he counted down the days to his own demise all those centuries ago, and it’s the wisdom he shares with those of us living in vastly different circumstances nearly fifteen hundred years on.
