Recognizing Our Blind Spots — Letters from a Stoic

Seneca's wife has a blind clown who doesn't know she's blind. She keeps asking her attendants to move her to brighter rooms, insisting her current ones are too dark. Letter 50 uses this story as a mirror. What makes us smile about Harpasté is exactly what we do ourselves. Nobody recognises their own greed. Nobody sees their own covetousness.

We blame the city, the circumstances, our youth, the people around us. The evil, Seneca says, is not external. It is inside us, in our very vitals. And that is why it is so hard to cure: we don't know we're diseased. The blind at least ask for a guide. We wander without one, insisting we see clearly.

His note of hope comes from the flexibility of the soul. Timber bent by force can be straightened by heat. Wood that grew one way can be fashioned into another shape. The soul is more pliable than either. The first steps toward virtue are hard because the diseased mind fears what is unfamiliar. But once the cure begins, it gives pleasure.

Other medicines only feel good after you're well. Philosophy is wholesome and pleasant at the same time.