The Consolation of Philosophy

of Philosophy. Book I.
B 3

...as much craftsmanship in their making as value in their fabric, especially since (as I learned from her own mouth) her own hands had woven them. Age had clouded them with a darkness quite like that of those ancient portraits from which men derive the brilliance of their nobility and the rays of their glory. The author compares the darkened state of her clothes to old family portraits, suggesting that while Philosophy is timeless, she has been neglected or obscured over time. At the bottom of her robe, one could see a Pi The Greek letter Π (Pi), standing for "Praxis" or Practical life. woven into the embroidery, and at the top a Theta original: "Thita" (Θ), standing for "Theoria" or Contemplative life.: between these two letters there were certain steps, forming a ladder from the lowest to the highest character. Yet it appeared from the tears in her robe that she had been pulled at with violence, and that each person had torn away whatever piece they could. This allegorical detail suggests that various philosophical schools (like the Stoics or Epicureans) have each claimed a piece of the "truth" for themselves, tearing the unified garment of Philosophy. This august Goddess held writing tablets in her right hand, and a scepter in her left. As soon as she perceived the Muses near me, and recognized that they were setting verses to the feelings of my grief, she was somewhat moved, and with a gaze mixed with severity, she cried out: "Who has permitted these brazen little creatures to approach this sick man? For it is not in their power to provide good or useful remedies for his ills, but only to nourish them with a sweet and pleasant poison. It is they who stifle the solid fruits of reason with the thorns of misdirected passions, and who accustom the mind to suffer ills from which they cannot deliver it. If your charms attracted an ordinary man, I would consider your audacity all the more pardonable, as his loss would be indifferent to me; but having addressed yourselves to a man raised in my schools, I cannot remain patient without being unfeeling. Get out of here, cursed Sirens, who flatter even unto death, and leave to me the care of his healing." This troop of Nymphs, lowering their eyes, withdrew very sadly, confessing their fear by their