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Being called a
pragmatist
is the polite way of saying you are a
skeptic, or more seriously, a
misanthrope. At various times, I have been called all three (along with a few other choice
terms). I prefer to think of myself as guardedly inviting of new ideas and personal acquaintances. It might
come with the territory, so to speak, when possessing a stereotypically somewhat
introverted 'engineer' personality.
I plead guilty and throw myself on the mercy of the court. To do otherwise would be
disingenuous.
Why bring this up? Something I read this morning reminded me of what was one of my favorite poems from my college English
Literature classes - "Terence, This Is Stupid Stuff," by A.E. Housman. It perfectly describes my cautious optimism
throughout life. It sort of parallels the "trust
but verify" mindset (Russian origin 'doveryai no proveryai') of the U.S.-Russian
nuclear disarmament efforts in the 1980s.
The last stanza sums up what I consider to be a prudent tack in life - basically another form of the old adage
that says 'the best defense is a good offense' (attributed to Sun Tzu's
The Art of War). Mithridates VI of Pontus is referenced because of his practice of subjecting himself
to nonlethal doses of poisons in order to develop an immunity to malicious attempts on his life - know as "Mithridates'
Antidote." You?
Terence, This Is Stupid Stuff, c1896
By A. E. Housman (1859–1936)
Terence, this is stupid stuff: You eat your victuals fast enough; There can't be much amiss, 'tis clear,
To see the rate you drink your beer. But oh, good Lord, the verse you make, It gives a chap the belly-ache.
The cow, the old cow, she is dead; It sleeps well, the horned head: We poor lads, 'tis our turn now To hear
such tunes as killed the cow. Pretty friendship 'tis to rhyme Your friends to death before their time Moping
melancholy mad: Come, pipe a tune to dance to, lad.
Why, if 'tis dancing you would be, There's brisker pipes than poetry. Say, for what were hop-yards meant,
Or why was Burton built on Trent? Oh many a peer of England brews Livelier liquor than the Muse, And malt
does more than Milton can To justify God's ways to man. Ale, man, ale's the stuff to drink For fellows whom
it hurts to think: Look into the pewter pot To see the world as the world's not. And faith, 'tis pleasant
till 'tis past: The mischief is that 'twill not last. Oh I have been to Ludlow fair And left my necktie God
knows where, And carried half way home, or near, Pints and quarts of Ludlow beer: Then the world seemed none
so bad, And I myself a sterling lad; And down in lovely muck I've lain, Happy till I woke again. Then
I saw the morning sky: Heigho, the tale was all a lie; The world, it was the old world yet, I was I, my things
were wet, And nothing now remained to do But begin the game anew.
Therefore, since the world has still Much good, but much less good than ill, And while the sun
and moon endure Luck's a chance, but trouble's sure, I'd face it as a wise man would, And train for ill and
not for good. 'Tis true, the stuff I bring for sale Is not so brisk a brew as ale: Out of a stem that scored
the hand I wrung it in a weary land. But take it: if the smack is sour, The better for the embittered hour;
It should do good to heart and head When your soul is in my soul's stead; And I will friend you, if I may,
In the dark and cloudy day.
There was a king reigned in the East: There, when kings will sit to feast, They get their fill
before they think With poisoned meat and poisoned drink. He gathered all that springs to birth From the many-venomed
earth; First a little, thence to more, He sampled all her killing store; And easy, smiling, seasoned sound,
Sate the king when healths went round. They put arsenic in his meat And stared aghast to watch him eat; They
poured strychnine in his cup And shook to see him drink it up: They shook, they stared as white's their shirt:
Them it was their poison hurt. —I tell the tale that I heard told.
Mithridates, he died old.
Posted October 30, 2014
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