Seneca opens the treatise he wrote around the year 52, On Anger, as the worst of all torments.
A terrible state, sometimes repulsive, almost inhuman.
~
“YOU have demanded of me, {{username}}, that I should write how anger may be soothed, and it appears to me that you are right in feeling especial fear of this state of mind, which is above all others hideous and wild: for the others have some alloy of peace and quiet, but this consists wholly in action and the impulse of grief, raging with an utterly inhuman lust for arms, blood and tortures, careless of itself provided it hurts another, rushing upon the very point of the sword, and greedy for revenge even when it drags the avenger to ruin with itself.
Some of the wisest of men have in consequence of this called anger a short madness:
for it is equally devoid of self control, regardless of decorum, forgetful of kinship, obstinately engrossed in whatever it begins to do, deaf to reason and advice, excited by trifling causes, awkward at perceiving what is true and just, and very like a falling rock which breaks itself to pieces upon the very thing which it crushes.
That you may know that they whom anger possesses are not sane, look at their appearance; for as there are distinct symptoms which mark madmen, such as a bold and menacing air, a gloomy brow, a stern face, a hurried walk, restless hands, changed colour, quick and strongly-drawn breathing; the signs of angry men, too, are the same: their eyes blaze and sparkle, their whole face is a deep red with the blood which boils up from the bottom of their heart, their lips quiver, their teeth are set, their hair bristles and stands on end, their breath is laboured and hissing, their joints crack as they twist them about, they groan, bellow, and burst into scarcely intelligible talk, they often clap their hands together and stamp on the ground with their feet, and their whole body is highly-strung and plays those tricks which mark a distraught mind, so as to furnish an ugly and shocking picture of self-perversion and excitement. You cannot tell whether this vice is more execrable or more disgusting.
Other vices can be concealed and cherished in secret; anger shows itself openly and appears in the countenance,
and the greater it is, the more plainly it boils forth.
Do you not see how in all animals certain signs appear before they proceed to mischief, and how their entire bodies put off their usual quiet appearance and stir up their ferocity? Boars foam at the mouth and sharpen their teeth by rubbing them against trees, bulls toss their horns in the air and scatter the sand with blows of their feet, lions growl, the necks of enraged snakes swell, mad dogs have a sullen look […]
I know well that the other passions, can hardly be concealed, and that lust, fear, and boldness give signs of their presence and may be discovered beforehand,
for each of the more intense emotions
inevitably influences
one's facial expression
: what then is the difference between them and anger? While the other emotions are merely visible, anger is glaringly obvious.
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Anger is a vile beast that creeps through the veins like poison,
twisting and distorting the soul
with an ugliness that passes understanding.
Imagine, {{username}}, that it is not just a passing emotion, but a ravenous monster that tears apart reason, crushes composure, and throws everything that was once harmonious and orderly into chaos.
Rage frowns,
clenches its jaws
and flames hotter than hell itself burst from its eyes.
The otherwise peaceful faces become masks of rage,
repulsive and terrifying,
pushing back the people who were once close to us.
The venom-laden voices
spew out words
that are like shards of glass,
sharp and destructive,
capable of tearing the fabric of our most precious relationships.
And if you can't see it, rage gnaws at you from within, a silent storm slowly devouring your soul. It hides behind forced smiles and evasive glances, infecting the heart with insidious bitterness. This anger is a cancer of the mind, a slow poison that seeps into the veins of reason and corrupts every happy thought, every moment of peace.
It's there,
lurking in the shadows of our daily actions.
A sinister presence that distorts our intentions and clouds our judgement. Every interaction becomes a minefield where a wrong word, a misinterpreted gesture can trigger an explosion of restrained rage. And in this poisoned silence, words are not spoken but swallowed, building up layers of resentment that set themselves like concrete around the heart.
In its wake, anger leaves behind a devastated landscape:
broken friendships,
lost loves,
missed opportunities. It transforms the palaces of our peace into prisons of our own making, where we remain locked up with our rage as our only company. And in these moments we are no longer masters of ourselves, but become puppets, ridiculous puppets in the trembling hands of our own rage.
No, anger is not only ugly, {{username}}; it is a cataclysm of the soul, a disfigurement of the spirit. Therefore, we who strive for wisdom must fight it every moment and with every breath.
We must recognise it for what it is: an inner enemy that will turn our existence into a theatre of terror if we do not keep it at bay.