Nil admirari.

Nil admirari is today's Word of the Day in the Oxford English Dictionary. I ran across it because, writing the previous post, I looked up the word "sunder," after David Axelrod had accused Donald Trump of "sundering history." It's an odd word, but it's not the most apt word. Sundering has more to do with separating than demolition. And how do you do either to history?

But I was glad to get deflected into the OED, because I'm finding out about Nil admirari: "The attitude of indifference to the distractions of the outside world advocated by the Roman poet Horace. Also: a person adopting this attitude."

Etymology: "classical Latin nīl admīrārī, in nil admirari prope res est una..quae possit facere et servare beatum, ‘to wonder at nothing is just about the only way a man can become contented and remain so’ (Horace Epistles 1. 6. 1).

From the Wikipedia article about the term: "Nietzsche wrote that in this proposition the ancient philosopher 'sees the whole of philosophy,' opposing it to Schopenhauer's 'admirari id est philosophari' (to marvel is to philosophize)."

Here's the Horace:

Not to admire, Numicius, is the best,

The only way, to make and keep men blest.
The sun, the stars, the seasons of the year
That come and go, some gaze at without fear:
What think you of the gifts of earth and sea,
The untold wealth of Ind or Araby,
Or, to come nearer home, our games and shows,
The plaudits and the honours Rome bestows?
How should we view them? ought they to convulse
The well-strung frame and agitate the pulse?
Who fears the contrary, or who desires
The things themselves, in either case admires;
Each way there's flutter; something unforeseen
Disturbs the mind that else had been serene.
Joy, grief, desire or fear, whate'er the name
The passion bears, its influence is the same;
Where things exceed your hope or fall below,
You stare, look blank, grow numb from top to toe.
E'en virtue's self, if followed to excess,
Turns right to wrong, good sense to foolishness.

Go now, my friend, drink in with all your eyes
Bronze, silver, marble, gems, and Tyrian dyes,
Feel pride when speaking in the sight of Rome,
Go early out to 'Change and late come home,
For fear your income drop beneath the rate
That comes to Mutus from his wife's estate,
And (shame and scandal!), though his line is new,
You give the pas to him, not he to you.
Whate'er is buried mounts at last to light,
While things get hid in turn that once looked bright.
So when Agrippa's mall and Appius' way
Have watched your well-known figure day by day,
At length the summons comes, and you must go
To Numa and to Ancus down below.

Your side's in pain; a doctor hits the blot:
You wish to live aright (and who does not?);
If virtue holds the secret, don't defer;
Be off with pleasure, and be on with her.
But no; you think all morals sophists' tricks,
Bring virtue down to words, a grove to sticks;
Then hey for wealth! quick, quick, forestall the trade
With Phrygia and the East, your fortune's made.
One thousand talents here—one thousand there—
A third—a fourth, to make the thing four-square.
A dowried wife, friends, beauty, birth, fair fame,
These are the gifts of money, heavenly dame:
Be but a moneyed man, persuasion tips
Your tongue, and Venus settles on your lips.
The Cappadocian king has slaves enow,
But gold he lacks: so be it not with you.
Lucullus was requested once, they say,
A hundred scarves to furnish for the play:
"A hundred!" he replied, "'tis monstrous; still
I'll look; and send you what I have, I will."
Ere long he writes: "Five thousand scarves I find;
Take part of them, or all if you're inclined."
That's a poor house where there's not much to spare
Which masters never miss and servants wear.
So, if 'tis wealth that makes and keeps us blest,
Be first to start and last to drop the quest.
If power and mob-applause be man's chief aims,
Let's hire a slave to tell us people's names,
To jog us on the side, and make us reach,
At risk of tumbling down, a hand to each:
"This rules the Fabian, that the Veline clan;
Just as he likes, he seats or ousts his man:"
Observe their ages, have your greeting pat,
And duly "brother" this, and "father" that.

Say that the art to live's the art to sup,
Go fishing, hunting, soon as sunlight's up,
As did Gargilius, who at break of day
Swept with his nets and spears the crowded way,
Then, while all Rome looked on in wonder, brought
Home on a single mule a boar he'd bought.
Thence pass on to the bath-room, gorged and crude,
Our stomachs stretched with undigested food,
Lost to all self-respect, all sense of shame,
Disfranchised freemen, Romans but in name,
Like to Ulysses' crew, that worthless band,
Who cared for pleasure more than fatherland.

If, as Mimnermus tells you, life is flat
With nought to love, devote yourself to that.

Farewell: if you can mend these precepts, do:
If not, what serves for me may serve for you.