The most famous quote from the Roman poet, Publius Virgilius Maro, (70 B.C.E.--19 B.C.E.), better known as Virgil, is not the opening lines of the Aeneid, which many of us learned in school: "Arma virumque cano, Troiae qui primus ab oris/ Italiam, fato profugus Laviniaque venit/litora..." "I sing of the arms and the man, who first from the shores of Troy/ came to the Lavinian shores and to Italy." (My God, how beautiful Latin is! The exquisite combination of vowels and consonants would be impressive enough. The real greatness comes from the fact that Latin is a highly inflected language. This loosens the far stricter word order of most modern languages, freeing up Latin poets and orators to come up with, to quote Gershwin, "fascinating rhythms." For example, if you can read Catullus in the original--I confess I need a simultaneous translation--you, dear reader, are damn lucky).
The subject of this essay, however, is not Latin prosody, but an
analysis of the most frequently quoted lines from the Aeneid. The quote
is from Book l of the classic, lines 461-463:
Sunt hic etiam sua premia laudi,
sunt lacrimae rerum et mentem mortalia tangunt,
solve metus, feret haec aliquam tibi fama salutem.
Translation
I would like to make two points at the outset. First, we
will be concerned about meaning here; our translation will be a
prose one, with no attempt to approach in English what is beautiful,
elegant and poetic in Latin. Second, I mentioned the extraordinary musicality
that an inflected language like Latin is able to provide. There is a
downside: the meanings conveyed by the words, especially in Latin poetry, can be very ambiguous.
This is further complicated by the fact that one word can have many
meanings in Latin, as in most classical languages. It is much easier, for
instance, to be precise and specific in English. The result, due to the
poetic compaction of Virgil's lines, is that any translation must be an
interpretation.Third, if I understand the theory of deconstruction correctly, it
is more important that interpretations be consistent with the text, rather than
being an exact reflection of what the author consciously intended. This is especially
true with poetry; the best poems are new worlds that have an almost independent
existence from their creators.
One more point before we proceed to the translation. Latin
scholars have debated whether the text in question should be interpreted in
context, or whether Virgil was aiming at a general truth. In other words,
was Virgil referring to Aeneas's sojourn in Carthage, or was he referring to
the journey through life of every human being? Since this article
discusses how the text increases our understanding of the human condition, my
translation will be one of universal applicability.
It is time now to proceed with an English-language version of the
famous quote.
First Line
Sunt hic etiam sua premia laudi
Sunt hic etiam sua premia laudi
“Hic” means "here;" in this context, we take it to mean, “here, in
life," or "here, on earth.” “Laudi” is the dative form of “laus” meaning praise or
glory. In this context, it refers to what
is praiseworthy, especially praiseworthy behavior. Nobility manifests itself in thought and in action. I, therefore,
choose to translate that which is praiseworthy as “wisdom.” The translation of this line, therefore, reads
as follows;
Here, therefore, wisdom has its rewards
Second Line
Sunt lacrimae rerum et mentem mortalia tangunt,
Sunt lacrimae rerum et mentem mortalia tangunt,
There are so many English versions of the wonderful phrase, “sunt
lacrimae rerum” which literally means "tears of things." My favorite translation is by the Irish poet,
Seamus Heany, which reads, “There are tears at the heart of things.” The next phrase could be translated as
“mortal things touch the mind,” but that does little justice to the Latin. “Mentem” is the accusative form of “mens” as
in the familiar “mens sana in corpere sano,” “a sound mind in a sound body," a
justly famous Roman ideal. “Mind” doesn’t sound right to me, since it seems to
leave out the emotional component, which, in certain contexts, the Latin word
has. “Mortal things” is clumsy—what
Virgil is indicating is, of course, the little deaths in life everyone suffers
which ends with the inevitable big one.
The issue is, of course, impermanence, or as Frost put it, “Nothing gold
can stay.” The translation of the second
line, therefore, reads as follows:
There are tears at the heart of things, and the impermanence of
life affects us deeply
Third Line
Solve metus, ferret haec aliquam fama tibi salutem.
I must incidentally remark that the exquisite rhythm makes this
line very beautiful indeed.
“Solve” is the imperative form of “solvere” to loosen or to untie. (An English-languae cognate is the word,
“dissolve.”) “Metus” can refer both to
fear as well as to anxiety. “Feret” is
the third-person singular form of the verb, “ferre,” “to make” “Fama” certainly
can mean “fame,” but the emphasis here is the achievement and not on a
resultant increase in reputation.
“Salutem” is the accusative form of “salus” meaning “well-being” or “safety”. For those of you who are
familiar with Church Latin, you know that in a Catholic context “salus” refers to
“salvation,” as in the following line from the Credo section of the mass: “Et
propter nos homines et propter nostram salutem descendit de caelis.” “And for us human beings and for our
salvation, He descended from Heaven.” In
the context of the line we are translating, all three meanings of the word,
namely, well-being, safety, and salvation, apply. Thus we translate the third line as follows;
If you reduce fear, the resultant attainment will provide you with some
degree of increased safety along with some improvement in your sense of
well-being. We can reduce the last
thirteen words of the sentence with one, namely, “refuge.”
Our prose version of the lines of verse, consistent with the meaning of the
words, is as follows:
In life, wisdom has its rewards.
There are tears at the heart of things and the impermanence of life
affects us deeply; if you reduce fear, however, the resultant attainment will
provide you with some refuge.
A Buddhist Interpretation
It leaps from the page! The
Irish poet’s translation of “lacrimae rerurm,” “tears at the heart of things,”
is a just about perfect translation of the Buddhist term, “dukkha,” which is
central to Buddhist teaching. “Dukkha”
has often been translated as “suffering,” but dukkha means much more than
that. It is an indication that things ultimately do not satisfy. We are
not going to get what we desire, that is, peace and happiness, from
possessions. The satisfaction that
allegedly comes from having more than the next person and by having more clout
than the next person because one has accumulated more—this satisfaction does
not last. While it does, which can
admittedly be a very long time, one is in real danger of losing one’s
soul. The meaning of dukkha is a clarion
call to turn from the material to the spiritual. Why?
Because there are tears at the very heart of things!
Things do not last, they are “mortalia,” they are impermanent. In the legend of the Buddha, Asita, a sage, prophesied at Buddha’s birth that the infant would either become a great sage or a great king. It is not surprising that his father, Suddhodana, a king himself, favored the latter possibility over the former one. He tried to shield his son from “the tears at the heart of things.” Buddha grew up in what could be called a palace of pleasure. However, when, as a young man, he came into direct contact with “mortalia”—in the form of a sick man, an old man and a corpse—he was shaken to the core. As in the quote from Virgil, the impermanence of human life affected him deeply.
There are three essential truths of phenomenal life in Buddism. The first, dukkha, we have already discussed. The second, anicca, impermanence, is emphasized in the second line of the Latin quote as well. What about the third truth, anatta?
Anatta means that there is no such thing as an independent, abiding self; we are our thoughts, and there is no “soul” or self that contains them. What we believe to be our personal self changes constantly; it is by its very nature insubstantial.
This third truth of Buddhism is not directly stated in Virgil’s quote, but it is certainly implied. What causes the attainment which provides us with refuge? We reduce fear, obviously, by detachment from “lacrimae rerum” and by a resulatant transcending of “mortalia.” The central tenet of Buddhism is the so-called Four Noble Truths. The first we have already encountered, dukka. The second, samudaya , states that the origination of dukkha lies in tanha, which can be translated as thirst, clinging, or desire. Desire for what? Things; the fool’s errand of trying to get ultimate satisfaction from “mortalia.” The third truth states that dukkha can be overcome. The fourth noble truth is the Eightfold Path, which outlines the practice needed to transcend clinging and to leave dukkha behind forever.
It is amazing. Here we have the very essence of Buddhism in the lines of a Western classical author who had never heard anything about Buddhism. This is a good indication that Buddhism is a revelation from the inside, and not a revelation dictated by an external guide. Wisdom is wisdom, and this wisdom was accessible in antiquity as Virgil’s quote so aptly demonstrates. (Wisdom, despite what newspapers might lead us to believe, is accessible to us moderns as well.) Was Virgil a crypto-Buddhist? As far as we are wise, aren’t we all?
A Hindu Interpretation
Hinduism has many mansions.
Some are, admittedly, huts that don’t do a great job from protecting an
educated person from the elements. It does, however, have one of the greatest
spiritual palaces ever constructed, that is, intuited. This splendid dwelling is called advaita
Hinduism. (Literally “not two” or "non-dual"). Advaita asserts that absolutely everything is connected to everything else, and advises one
to transfer allegiance from the self to the Self. It emphasizes, as do some modern physicists,
that consciousness is primary. According
to advaita Hinduism, the three Western religions, Christianity, Islam, and
Judaism, are dualistic—that is, God is imagined to be "up there," while we humans exist on a lower plane. For advaitins, everything is a manifestation of consciousness. This spiritual stance has
nothing in common with polytheism—if one talks about gods, the advaitin knows that one
is using figures of speech.
The outstanding representative of advaita Hinduism in modern times is the sage, Ramana Maharshi, (1879-1959). His attainment of wisdom was the exception that proves the rule: he had no guru or mentor. Maharshi had a profound experience when the truth of “mortalia,” specifically the visceral knowledge of death overwhelmed him at the age of 16. As a Chinese sage once urged: one should meditate before a mountain until only the mountain remains--Ramana Maharshi became a mountain, as it were, and was perfectly at peace for the rest of his life.
Advaita Hinduism and Buddhism are quite similar, but there are differences, at least as far as Ramana Maharshi is concerned. Buddha was driven into the forest in order to find a refuge from suffering. Ramana, who had been a healthy, normal adolescent named Venkataramen Iyer, only became aware of the tears at the heart of things, the lacrimae rerum, until later. His enlightenment was spontaneous.
Ramana developed an original approach as a guide on the path to wisdom and peace, “Self Enquiry.” One should concentrate on finding the answer to the question, “Nan Yar?,” “Who am I?” The answer is, according to the advaita branch of Hinduism, that the transcendent I is the source of everything. Understanding this intellectually is not enough. One should completely identify with it; one must become the mountain, not an idea of the mountain. Ramana lived a life “absorbed into the divine,” as it were, an avatar of cosmic consciousness. He remained generous, serene and fearless until the day he died, even despite the pain caused by the cancer which racked his body at the end of his life.
The Hindu interpretation fo the Virgil quote is quite similar to the Buddhist one. In Ramana’s case, he was confronted, as was the Buddha, with “mortalia” and “impermanence” and experienced a way to get beyond it.
The applicability of Ramana’s teaching to “solve metus” that is, “reduce fear” is obvious. By realizing the true nature of the individual ego, one is freed from its bonds.
A Western Interpretation
Virgil was a Westerner, and so am I. That is why Virgil wrote reduce fear and not eliminate fear. The result would be some refuge
and not a complete refuge.
The goal of the Eastern religions is uncompromising: the purpose of life is becoming a Buddha, each human being is to become a sage. Buddhism enjoins giving up all desires except the desire for enlightenment. In advaita Hinduism, abandoning identification with the phenomenal I and obtaining a complete identification with the transcendent I is what everyone should strive for.
Most of us are neither Buddhas nor Ramana Maharshis; we are not
able to give up the world entirely--nor do we want to, our relationships to
fellow human beings, nature, and art are essential to our way of life.
We do, however, want to make spiritual progress, so we can both live in the world and transcend it at the same time. Our goal is therefore to reduce ignorance, (fear is the result of ignorance), not eliminate it entirely. We know we are not separate from the world, but we do indeed feel separate from the world, and our spirituality must accommodate that feeling. We might be nothing more than matter, but, humanely speaking, we are convinced that we are much much more than, well, meat.
We therefore interpret Buddhism and Hinduism as extreme formulations of what can be done by all of us, namely, the reduction of vanity, and the decrease of ignorance.
The Eastern religions are therefore like the great commandment to love one’s neighbor as oneself. We’re never going to love our neighbor as ourselves, but setting the bar in the clouds encourages us to stop looking in the mirror, and to look up and confront the world with love and understanding. We Westerners, (and the majority of modern Easterners as well), though, are determined to keep our feet on the ground while looking at the sky.
Conclusion
It’s astounding that Virgil was able, at least in this interpretation
which is consistent with the text, to express the wisdom of the ages in three
lines of verse. It is an example of what Aldous Huxley called “The Perennial
Philosophy.” You can find it in Shakespeare and in the bible, but it is not
limited to these.
If you seriously reflect about this quote of Virgil, you will more likely be able to find ecstasy in a leaf; in an eyelash; in the smile of a loved one; in Bach, etc etc--because these--you and everything else--are not, (thank God?), merely your little self but, marvelously, miraculously, and naturally, your true Self, the universe.
After that, you return to work.
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