Quisque suos patimur manes.
Taken from Virgil’s Aeneid, this Latin tag translates as “Each of us suffers his own spirit” or more roughly, “Each of us suffers his own hell.” I came across it in an article by Father Martin D’Arcy S.J., who interprets the line as “each person suffers his own fate.”
Taken from Virgil’s Aeneid, this Latin tag translates as “Each of us suffers his own spirit” or more roughly, “Each of us suffers his own hell.” I came across it in an article by Father Martin D’Arcy S.J., who interprets the line as “each person suffers his own fate.”
Reading this sentence in the depths of Lent—or heights, depending on one’s day-to-day perspective—caused me to ponder the idea of fate (fatum). The Ancients believed deeply in the Fates. The Romans, for example, professed a belief in the Parcae, the three female personifications of destiny so powerful that even the gods feared the clout of their authority. In the Middle Ages, the rota fortunae, or wheel of fortune, spun round and round, rewarding or breaking human beings. Boethius, a Christian philosopher, recognized the power of the rota fortunae, it appears in the writings of Chaucer, and the Goliards of the Carmina Burana sang of the influence of the wheel in matters of love and wealth.
Some moderns have retained this belief in fate. They speak of luck, kismet, karma, the stars. In the movie Lawrence of Arabia, Lawrence goes back into a barren desert to rescue from sure death a man who has fallen from his camel during a night march. Before he leaves, one of his Arab companions says to him: “Gasim’s time has come, Lawrence. It is written.” Lawrence replies, “Nothing is written,” and proceeds to save the man. Ironically, however, only days later Lawrence is forced to execute Gasim for killing an Arab of another tribe.
Perhaps the best example of fate at work may be found in a sketch by W. Somerset Maughm, “An Appointment in Samara.” This tale deserves quoting in full:
“Death speaks: ‘There was a merchant in Baghdad who sent his servant to market to buy provisions and in a little while the servant came back, white and trembling, and said, Master, just now when I was in the market-place I was jostled by a woman in the crowd and when I turned I saw it was Death that jostled me. She looked at me and made a threatening gesture; now, lend me your horse, and I will ride away from this city and avoid my fate. I will go to Samarra and there Death will not find me. The merchant lent him his horse, and the servant mounted it, and he dug the spurs in its flanks and as fast as the horse could gallop he went. Then the merchant went down to the market-place and he saw me standing in the crowd and he came to me and said, Why did you make a threatening gesture to my servant when you saw him this morning? That was not a threatening gesture, I said, it was only a start of surprise. I was astonished to see him in Bagdad, for I had an appointment with him tonight in Samarra.’”
That is about as chilling a thumbnail sketch of fate ever written.
Since the time of St. Augustine of Hippo, Christians have debated the idea of predestination, which is in some ways a debate about fate. If God knows the end of each person on earth, if God knows which souls will live in paradise and which in hell, then how does human free will enter into the picture? Are we mere puppets in a divine theater? (Most Christians would say no). Are we predestined to enter into the presence of God? (Some Christians would say yes). Are we possessed with a will that allows us to choose freely between good and evil? (Other Christians say yes).
Over the centuries, Christian theologians like Augustine, Aquinas, Luther, and Calvin have debated the question of predestination versus free will without convincing everyone of the validity of their arguments, resulting in a theological conundrum I find strangely comforting. If these guys couldn’t figure out this question, then who am I to solve it?
In the last two centuries, science has entered into this debate over fate and free will. The study of the human brain and the deciphering of the genetic code have led some to believe that our genetic ancestry in conjunction with our the trappings of our environment shape us from the time of our creation. Extreme believers in this biological determinism might make the case that “the fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in our genes.”
Believers in fate, in kismet, or determinism can find comforts in that faith. Those who see themselves as governed either by unseen forces or by their DNA can blame their shortcomings on forces beyond their control. Disappointed by marriages gone sour, financial failures, or other adversities, these fatalists can claim to be ill-treated by life, as if they were innocent bystanders in their own stories. I have heard adults my own age go so far as to complain that life isn’t fair, a declaration that sounds foolish even in the mouth of a fourteen-year-old.
On the other hand are those people who take responsibility for their actions and thoughts. They tend to accept life as it comes and to deal with its trials and travails as best they can. When the man in this camp suffers the collapse of a business enterprise, he doesn’t blame bad luck; he sees his competitors thriving and blames his own ineptitude. When such a woman finds she has incurable cancer and less than six months to live, she doesn’t shake her fist and curse God. She spends time with her children and husband, lives as full a life as she can, and never blames her illness on anything other than her cellular disorder.
We all know people in both these camps. So the question is: with which camp do we wish to ally ourselves?
I know where I want to pitch my tent. I want to live among those hardy souls who take responsibility for their lives.
G.K. Chesterton once offered a way of living which, if pursued, would change humanity forever. In response to a newspaper’s survey asking writers and intellectuals the question “What’s wrong with the world?”, Chesterton supposedly replied:
“Dear sir,
I am.
Yours, G.K. Chesterton.”
Give me a mirror, and I can find the cause of most of my troubles staring right back at me.