Book 3, Chapter 26

“But when, to this opinion of a great evil, another opinion is added—that we ought to be distressed at what has happened, that this is right and part of our duty—then at last that oppressive disturbance of distress is produced.

62 “From this opinion come those varied and detestable forms of mourning: filthy neglect, women’s tearing of cheeks, the beating of breast, thighs, and head. Hence that Agamemnon in Homer, and likewise in Accius, ‘again and again tearing his unshorn hair in grief.’ Bion’s joke on this was apt: the utterly foolish king tore his hair out in mourning as though baldness could relieve grief.

63 “But people do all these things because they think they ought to. Thus Aeschines attacks Demosthenes for having offered sacrificial victims on the seventh day after his daughter’s death. And with what rhetoric, what eloquence! What thoughts he gathers, what words he hurls, so that you realize a rhetorician may do anything he pleases. No one would approve his remarks unless we had this notion implanted in our souls: all good people ought to mourn as deeply as possible for the deaths of their loved ones. Hence some people in mental pain seek solitude, as Homer says of Bellerophon: “‘Miserable, he wandered grieving on the Aleian fields, “‘Eating his own heart, avoiding the tracks of men.’ “And Niobe is represented as stone, I suppose because of her eternal silence in mourning. Hecuba, they think, is represented as changed into a dog because of a certain bitterness and rage in her soul. Others, however, often delight in speaking to solitude itself in their mourning, like that nurse in Ennius: “‘A longing has seized me now in my misery to tell “‘To heaven and earth the miseries of Medea.’”

“But when the belief in a great evil is joined by another belief—that one ought to be distressed by what’s happened, that it’s right and part of one’s duty—then that heavy disturbance of distress really takes hold.

62 “From this belief come those different, hateful forms of mourning: filth, women tearing their cheeks, beating the chest, thighs, and head. From it comes Agamemnon in Homer, and the same Agamemnon in Accius, ‘again and again tearing his uncut hair in pain.’ Bion made a witty remark about him: that utterly foolish king pulled out his hair in grief as if baldness could ease mourning.

63 “They behave like this because they believe it’s required of them. The same belief lies behind Aeschines’ assault on Demosthenes for offering animal sacrifices seven days after losing his daughter. What a display of rhetoric, what fullness of language! Look at the thoughts he collects, the verbal weapons he throws! It shows you there’s nothing an orator may not do. Nobody would endorse his argument without an ingrained conviction that good people should mourn their relatives’ deaths as intensely as they can. So some people suffering inwardly look for lonely places. Here’s Homer on Bellerophon: “‘Unhappy, grieving, he roamed across the Aleian fields, “‘Devouring his own heart and shunning human tracks.’ “Niobe, too, is represented in stone—because, I imagine, of the everlasting silence of her mourning. Hecuba’s imagined change into a dog is explained by a certain harsh bitterness and rage in her mind. Others in mourning often like to address their very solitude, as Ennius’ nurse does: “‘In my misery I now feel the longing to tell “‘Heaven and earth of the miseries of Medea.’”