PoE20

2001 is the twentieth anniversary of the appearance of my first book, The Problem of Evil: A Reader! I was reminded of this in the sweetest way, by an invitation to speak to a high school class (in San Francisco) which is making its way through it. The class had completed selections from the first three of the book's five sections, and their almost unanimous favorites were, I learned, the Stoics - and their final assignment will be to write their own Encheiridion, based on the excerpts from Epictetus' I'd included in the reader! They'd learned about Stoicism through a rather grim video from the School of Life, a Stoic revival today. Imagine the worst that can happen, it presents Seneca saying to his friends, and realize you can overcome it, if only by ending your life. (Not perhaps ideal material for teenagers...!)

Our discussion was framed by questions students had submitted anonymously before class. Questions ranged from the personal (who is your favorite?) to the vocational (what can you do with a philosophy degree?) but were overshadowed by a long question, added last, about how to avoid despair when illness is taking the person most important to you in the world from you. I didn't know which of the students watching me from their zoom boxes had written the question and realized it might be any of them, if not today then some other day. Treading lightly I tried to at touch on most of the questions. I introduced the anthology as seeking to offer complications for those with glib views about the past and companionship for those struggling with the tough questions. I told them some questions seem too great for us but that ritual helps us keep them open. I spoke of how important it was to be present to each other and to listen, suffering always being particular. I said that the mystery of evil and suffering was only one part of things, that it cut more deeply than we knew we could be cut because the wonder of good, too, surpasses our understanding. Too many words, surely, but some perhaps of use?

Going back to the book, and how I'd defined and executed it, was fun - I haven't revisited that in ages! Fun, too, to remind myself of the colored cover I'd hoped we could have, of a painting I'd seen at a Dosso Dossi exhibition at the Met, to be wrapped around the book so that the messenger Mercury might appear on the spine, his finger to his lips but with eyes full of compassion. The grief of afflicted Justice would fill the front cover, the absorption of Jupiter painting butterflies and cucumber flowers the back, with the community of humans struggling to make sense of things awaiting within.