When Self-Awareness Feels Impossible — Letters from a Stoic

Seneca gets seasick and learns something about self-deception. Letter 53 opens with a comic account of a boat trip that should have taken an hour and became a minor ordeal, rough seas, a reluctant pilot, Seneca finally throwing himself overboard in his cloak and scrambling onto rocks. He recovers on shore and, once the nausea passes, begins to reflect.

The seasickness that afflicted his body is a vivid image for a more pervasive condition: we are far more willing to acknowledge physical discomfort than moral disease. A mild ague announces itself and we notice. Folly, which has taken hold and spread through us, passes undetected.

The reason we ignore it is the same reason we ignored the storm before sailing: we are too blinded by desire for a smooth crossing. Philosophy, he concludes, must be trusted to govern itself rather than be governed by the crowd. She should not exhibit her wares for applause.

The sick patient doesn't need to be consulted about his treatment. He needs to submit to it.