"The worst human cruelty does more than injure the body; it systematically attacks the mind and spirit, leaving a person alive to endure suffering that feels endless. Most humans are more evil than any animal on earth because even the cruellest animal on earth may destroy your body once but humans destroys your soul daily and still keep you barely alive to bear the infinite suffering."

"I see “enlightenment” and “arahantship” as highly idealized goals that a tradition built up over time, not as psychological states we’ve actually been able to demonstrate. When people keep saying “the Buddha said…”, it basically serves to pin those ideals onto one uniquely authoritative person, instead of admitting they were shaped by communities over centuries. From an Ernest Becker perspective, this kind of insistence also functions as an existential defense: it preserves a heroic narrative and a uniquely reliable guide in the face of mortality and meaninglessness, making it harder to acknowledge the more modest, human origins of these ideas. A much less ambitious—or heroic—and more historically grounded aim, and one that both history and modern psychology can support, is simply to live with fewer materialistic ambitions and to stay consciously aware of change, death, and the larger, not‑fully‑graspable character of existence—for example through experiences of awe or honest existential reflection on one’s life—because those shifts in values and perspective tend, on average, to be associated with better mental health and a greater sense of meaning. But giving up the “Buddha said” and enlightenment myths does not free us from the need for such meaning‑systems; it usually means that our heroic strivings reattach to other narratives—artistic achievement, national or ideological causes, romantic destiny, even the pride of being a rational, secular critic. The difficult question, then, is not whether to live entirely without illusions, but which necessary illusions we choose to inhabit or to half‑consciously suspend disbelief in—and it may turn out that, for some people at least, the relatively nonviolent, introspective myths of “the Buddha” and “enlightenment” are a more benign suspension of disbelief than many of the alternatives on offer".

JS

Clk 

By the third week of his life the chicken who would, in a less aggressively administered ontology, have been called a free-range chicken had developed a private conviction that the phrase FREE RANGE, stamped in green soy-based ink on the cardboard sleeve that would eventually contain his breasts, thighs, and two pieces of what the copywriters called “succulent wing portions,” referred not to acreage or sky or any of the things that might intuitively seem to follow from the words free and range, but rather to a category of feeling.

This feeling was difficult to describe, not least because the chicken—who had no proper name, though in his own mind he entertained something close to one, a sort of inward monosyllable that sounded like Clk—lived in a barn containing 24,600 other birds, each of whom was, in the technical literature, indistinguishable from him and in practice distinguished mainly by the angle at which it held its head while sleeping in the ammoniac half-light.

The barn itself was one of those structures whose dimensions exceed the perceptual capacities of the creatures inside it. It was less a place than a condition. To say that Clk lived “in” the barn suggested an outside to which “in” might be opposed, and although there were rumors—carried by maintenance workers, by drafts beneath the loading doors, by the intermittent rectangle of daylight that appeared whenever a human entered—that such an outside existed, it occupied for most birds the same epistemological status as the afterlife occupies for secular graduate students: emotionally compelling, theoretically possible, and not especially actionable.

Still, Clk had evidence.

Above him and all around him were walls. At one end of the barn there was a fan whose louvers, when they opened, admitted for fractions of seconds a color that was not white, beige, or the pinkish hue of overtaxed flesh. This color was blue. Not a huge amount of blue, and not consistently. But enough.

Enough for Clk to conclude that whatever FREE RANGE was, it was related to blue.

There was, hanging over one of the feeders, a sign. The birds could not read, obviously, but chickens are not wholly immune to the aura of typography. The sign showed a cheerful red barn, a rolling green field, and six cartoon hens arranged in a semicircle suggestive of either communal joy or a support group. The hens were smiling, which is not a thing actual hens do, but which the human imagination remains deeply committed to believing they ought to.

When the workers spoke, they sometimes used the phrase “these are the free-range ones.”

This was puzzling to Clk, who had never observed any range, unless one counted the six-foot radius he was able to traverse on less crowded days. He began to suspect that “free-range” might be what humans called a being who was destined, at some unspecified future date, to encounter blue.

This belief sustained him.

Not in any noble sense. Clk was not a hero and had no coherent politics. His days were occupied by eating, drinking, sleeping, and engaging in abrupt existential starts in which he’d forget, momentarily, what his body was for. But he cultivated a habit of looking up. While the others pecked and settled and produced the soft static murmur that made the barn sound like a giant organism dreaming anxiously, Clk would crane his neck toward the rafters as if some answer might be written there.

There were moments—particularly at what the humans called night, when the lights dimmed from interrogation to insomnia—when Clk imagined the outside with such intensity that he experienced what might be described as longing, if longing can be said to occur in a creature whose brain weighs less than a walnut but whose suffering, when present, is in no way scaled down to match.

He imagined grass.

Grass was difficult because he had never seen it. The closest analog available was the thin green stripe on the cardboard sleeve depicted on the sign. Still, he furnished it mentally as a surface that yielded slightly underfoot and did not burn his respiratory system. In this imagined world there was space between bodies. One could turn around without stepping on someone’s face. Light arrived from a source too large to be switched on and off by a man in coveralls.

The image was absurdly moving.

Then one morning—although “morning” here denotes only a scheduled change in illumination—the humans came in greater numbers than usual. The barn filled with a new kind of noise, a purposeful clatter. Birds were seized, inverted, placed into crates.

Panic moved through the flock with the speed and incoherence typical of both poultry and financial markets.

Clk was caught by the legs and lifted. The sensation of being airborne, though objectively terrifying, was also vindicating.

He had been right.

There was an outside.

It was cold.

The blue overhead was not a rumor or a promise or a marketing abstraction but a physical fact of almost painful vastness. Clk, upside down in a crate with seven other birds, stared at the sky and felt, for perhaps three seconds, a euphoria so pure that it seemed to erase every prior discomfort.

Free range, he thought.

Or something very close to thought.

The truck door closed.

The darkness that followed was not the familiar darkness of the barn but a denser, terminal sort. The crate rattled. Around him, birds shifted and muttered in tones that might have been fear or simply the body’s refusal to stop narrating itself.

Clk held in his mind the blue.

Not as an argument, exactly, nor as consolation. More as a datum that resisted the system into which he’d been born. Whatever else the world was—and it was manifestly a place where words on packaging could diverge almost comically from lived experience—it also contained that impossible, uncontained color.

The slaughterhouse, when it came, was efficient in the way efficiency becomes morally unsettling once applied to beings capable of wanting anything at all.

Later, a shopper in a supermarket would pause before a refrigerated display. She would notice the green label, the pastoral imagery, the phrase HUMANELY RAISED FREE RANGE CHICKEN. She would feel, not falsely, that she was making a conscientious choice. The package would be cool in her hands.

Inside, among the sealed portions, were cells that had once composed a creature who had seen the sky and recognized it as the answer to a question he’d barely known how to ask.

GPT

---

Hippocratic medicine was built around the concept of physis (nature). Nature was understood as an ordered process that tended toward equilibrium and healing. Disease occurred when this balance was disrupted.

The physician’s role was not to overpower illness but to support nature’s restorative capacity, often summarized by the principle vis medicatrix naturae (“the healing power of nature”), a phrase coined later but rooted in Hippocratic thought.

Health depended on harmony among:

• The four humors (blood, phlegm, yellow bile, black bile)
• The seasons
• Climate and geography
• Diet and exercise
• Sleep and waking
• Emotional life

Mental disturbances such as melancholia or mania were therefore seen as disorders of the whole organism in relation to its environment.

Environment and Place

The Hippocratic treatise Airs, Waters, Places argues that local climate, winds, water quality, and seasonal patterns shape both physical and mental health.

Physicians considered:

• Hot vs. cold climates
• Dry vs. damp conditions
• Urban vs. rural living
• Seasonal transitions

If a patient lived in a setting thought to aggravate symptoms, a change of place could be recommended.

Routine (Diaita)

The Greek concept of diaita meant an entire way of life, not just food. Treatment aimed to redesign this routine to restore balance.

For mental disturbance, physicians might prescribe:

• Regular sleep
• Gentle walks
• Warm baths
• Light meals
• Reduced stimulation
• Music and conversation

Travel and Change of Scene

Travel was sometimes recommended, especially when a patient’s ordinary environment was believed to worsen symptoms.

Potential benefits included:

• New climate
• Removal from social stressors
• Exposure to calming landscapes
• Structured rest

Travel was not framed as tourism but as a therapeutic change in surroundings.

Relaxation and Sensory Regulation

Greek medicine valued tranquility. Treatments often sought to soothe both body and mind. Healing sanctuaries of Asclepius were intentionally serene spaces, combining ritual, architecture, and natural surroundings.

Nature as Therapeutic Model

Ancient Greeks believed humans were part of the larger cosmos. Health reflected harmony between internal and external forces.

This resembles modern ideas about:

• Circadian rhythm regulation
• Stress reduction
• Therapeutic environments
• Lifestyle medicine

Rather than seeing illness as a wholly separate “thing,” they often saw it as imbalance or maladjustment.

In Short

Yes. Ancient Greek physicians—especially those in the Hippocratic tradition—believed mental disturbance often arose when a person was out of balance with their body, habits, and surroundings. Treatment frequently involved:

• Adjusting the living environment
• Establishing healthier routines
• Encouraging rest and sleep
• Using baths and music
• Recommending travel or a change of climate
• Supporting the body’s natural tendency toward equilibrium

Philosophers as Guides

Students often sought philosophers for personal guidance.

These relationships involved:

• Discussion of fears and conflicts
• Ethical advice
• Daily exercises and reflection

8. Writing and Self-Examination

Greek philosophical schools prescribed practices such as:

• Journaling
• Meditation on principles
• Evening self-review
• Memorizing key sayings

These reinforced insights gained through dialogue.

The use of the lyre, drama, and theater (like catharsis at the Ancient Theatre of Epidaurus) to help patients process emotions and improve behavior. Patients slept in and were treated at temples like the Asclepieion of Kos, where they engaged in dream interpretation, hydrotherapy, and quiet reflection. Herbal Remedies: Use of natural remedies such as opium for anxiety, hellebore for purging, and chamomile.

The ancient Greeks considered theatre—especially tragedy—to be one of the most powerful ways to process intense emotions and restore psychological balance. Although it was not a medical treatment in the narrow sense, it served important social, emotional, and even spiritual functions that overlap with what we would now call psychotherapy, group therapy, and drama therapy.

1. Aristotle’s Idea of Catharsis

In the Poetics, Aristotle wrote that tragedy arouses pity and fear and brings about a catharsis of those emotions.

Catharsis has been interpreted as:

• Emotional release
• Clarification and understanding
• Restoration of emotional balance

The idea is that by witnessing suffering in a structured dramatic form, spectators process their own difficult emotions.

2. Collective Emotional Processing

Greek theatre was a civic event. At festivals such as the City Dionysia in Athens, thousands watched tragedies together.

This communal experience allowed society to confront:

• Grief
• Trauma
• Revenge
• Madness
• Moral conflict

The audience shared a public ritual of reflection and emotional integration.

3. Portrayals of Psychological Distress

Many tragedies center on characters experiencing what modern readers might recognize as mental disturbance.

Examples:

• Ajax: delusion, shame, suicide.
• Heracles: divinely induced frenzy and remorse.
• Bacchae: ecstatic possession and loss of control.
• Oresteia: guilt, persecution, and eventual reconciliation.

These plays invited audiences to understand rather than merely condemn disturbed behavior.

4. Safe Symbolic Distance

Watching a dramatic representation allowed people to engage with painful themes indirectly. This symbolic distance made overwhelming experiences easier to contemplate and discuss.

Modern drama therapy and psychodrama rely on a similar principle.

5. Chorus as Collective Voice

The chorus often:

• Expressed fear and sympathy
• Asked moral questions
• Helped interpret events

It functioned as a communal witness.

6. Ritual and Sacred Context

Theatre was part of religious festivals honoring Dionysus, a deity associated with ecstasy, transformation, and the loosening of ordinary identity.

This sacred setting gave emotional exploration cultural legitimacy and symbolic meaning.

7. Theatre as Social Healing

Greek tragedy did not just address individual suffering. It helped communities metabolize collective trauma such as war, plague, and political conflict.

For example, The Trojan Women examines the suffering of war survivors.

8. Connection to Philosophy and Medicine

Theatre complemented other Greek approaches:

• Medicine sought bodily and environmental balance.
• Philosophy examined beliefs and judgments.
• Theatre engaged emotion through narrative and identification.

Together they addressed reason, body, and feeling.

Summary

The ancient Greeks saw theatre as a powerful means of emotional and social healing. Through tragedy, audiences encountered grief, madness, guilt, and moral conflict in a structured communal setting. Aristotle’s concept of catharsis suggests that theatre could help restore psychological balance by allowing people to experience and integrate difficult emotions.

"Question for Quote Investigator: Some health problems can be ameliorated via collaborative action such as installing a water treatment facility, controlling a mosquito population, or reducing the transmission of a contagious disease.

This notion can be expressed by using wordplay. When the letter “I” in “Illness” is replaced by “We”, the result is “Wellness”. Would you please explore the provenance of this witty remark which is sometimes attributed to prominent activist Malcolm X.

Reply from Quote Investigator: The earliest match located by QI appeared in a Baton Rouge, Louisiana newspaper in March 1984. The quotation was spoken during a speech to local residents by Charles Roppel, the head of the Mental Health Promotion Branch of the California Department of Mental Health. The address highlighted the value of establishing and maintaining multiple relationships of friendship and love. Roppel presented his theme adroitly and compactly as follows:1

He says, “Take the I out of illness, add W and E, and you have wellness.”

Is it literally true?

Of course, it is only wordplay:

• “Illness” minus “I” leaves “llness.”
• Adding “W” and “E” creates “wellness.”

So it is not a strict anagram, but a symbolic transformation. The meaning matters more than the exact letter mechanics.

My interpretation

The quote suggests that:

• Isolation can worsen suffering.
• Connection and cooperation promote healing.
• Wellness emerges through relationships and community.

That message is especially compelling in mental health, where social support is one of the strongest predictors of resilience.

 

In his extensive work—most notably in Far from the Tree: Parents, Children, and the Search for Identity—Andrew Solomon introduces the concept of horizontal identity to describe a specific and profound way human beings form their sense of self when they differ significantly from their families.

To understand horizontal identity, it is best to view it in direct contrast with its counterpart, vertical identity.

---

The Two Axes of Identity

• Vertical Identity: These are traits, values, and identities that are passed down across generations from parents to children. They are mediated through DNA, shared cultural heritage, language, and immediate home environments. Examples include ethnicity, nationality, religion, language, and often socioeconomic status. Because these traits are shared with the family, the child enters a world where their identity is mirrored, anticipated, and naturally accommodated by their parents.

• Horizontal Identity: This occurs when a child possesses an inherent or acquired trait that is entirely foreign to their parents, their immediate family, and often their local community. Because the trait does not come from the parents, the child must look horizontally—outward to a peer group, a subculture, or a broader historical community—to find people who share this identity and can teach them how to navigate the world.

Core Categories of Horizontal Identity

Solomon spent ten years interviewing over 300 families to understand how they navigated various horizontal identities. 

---

The Fundamental Tension: Illness vs. Identity

The defining feature of a horizontal identity is the internal and external struggle over whether the trait is a medical pathology to be cured or a valid human identity to be celebrated.

When a child is born with a horizontal trait, the parents’ initial reaction is almost universally one of grief, trauma, or a desire to "fix" the child. They view the trait through a vertical lens of reproduction—assuming that a "good" child should look and act like them. The medical establishment often reinforces this by pathologizing the difference.

However, when the individual connects with a horizontal community (e.g., the Deaf community, the autistic self-advocacy movement, or the queer community), that which was labeled a "defect" or an "illness" is reframed as a culture and an identity. Solomon notes that what parents initially perceive as a tragedy often becomes, through love and accommodation, a source of profound meaning.

"Deaf people don't think they are sick; they think they belong to a linguistic minority. Gay people don't think they are sick; they think they belong to a distinct social group. Autistic people talk about neurodiversity rather than brain damage."

— Summarizing the shift from illness to horizontal identity.

---

Why Horizontal Identities Are Crucial

Understanding horizontal identity shifts how we think about support networks, education, and mental health reform:

• The Limit of Parental Love: Solomon argues that while parents can provide immense vertical love and support, they cannot provide the specialized, lived-experience validation that a horizontal peer group offers. A heterosexual parent cannot teach a gay child what it feels like to navigate the world as a queer person; a hearing parent cannot fully understand the spatial and linguistic reality of a Deaf child.

• The Danger of Isolation: If a system treats a horizontal trait purely as an isolated medical issue to be managed privately within the nuclear family, it often exacerbates the individual’s sense of brokenness and shame.

• The Necessity of "Peer" Infrastructure: For a person dealing with severe depression, neurodivergence, or physical difference, rehabilitation and thriving do not occur in a vacuum—they happen when the individual joins a collective story, learning from others who have survived and mapped specific terrains before them and when bridges are built to relevant horizontal communities. 

Derrick Jensen argues explicitly that our dominant global culture—which he defines fundamentally as industrial civilization—is structured in a way that maximizes, perpetuates, and normalizes immense harm.

Rather than viewing mass violence, ecological devastation, and social exploitation as accidental side effects or "bugs" in the system, Jensen asserts that they are inherent features. In his foundational texts he maps out how this culture operates on a destructive internal logic.

His perspective can be understood through several core premises:

1. The Culture is Driven by a "Death Urge"

In his 20 premises of Endgame, Jensen explicitly states that "the culture as a whole and most of its members are insane" and driven by a literal urge to destroy life. He argues that from birth, individuals are systematically enculturated to detach themselves from the natural world. Without this profound, internalized alienation, he argues, we would find it impossible to passively witness the systematic poisoning of our own landbases, bodies, and communities.

2. A Hidden Hierarchy of Normalized Violence

Jensen emphasizes that civilization is organized around a rigid, unarticulated hierarchy. Within this framework:

• Invisible Harm: Violence enacted by those higher on the hierarchy (the state, corporations, the wealthy) upon those lower on the hierarchy (marginalized populations, indigenous communities, and the non-human world) is rendered invisible. When it is noticed, it is repackaged as "production," "progress," or economic necessity.

• The Valuation of Property over Life: The system explicitly values the property and resource accumulation of those at the top over the baseline survival of those below. If a corporation destroys a landbase to make money, it is called industry; if those at the bottom damage corporate property to defend that landbase, it is viewed with shock and labeled a crime.

3. Systematic Dependency and the "Abusive Family" Analogy

Jensen frequently compares industrial civilization to a severely abusive household or domestic relationship.

• Forced Reliance: An abusive system deliberately cuts off its victims from self-sufficiency, making them entirely dependent on the abuser for survival. In our society, because our food comes from grocery stores and water from a tap rather than directly from a functioning local ecosystem, we feel forced to defend the very industrial infrastructure that is destroying the planet.

• Protecting the Abuser: Just as members of an abusive family learn to hyper-focus on the abuser's moods and needs to avoid violence, our culture's public discourse always prioritizes the "health" of the economy or capitalism over the health of the actual physical biosphere.

4. The Illusion of Reform

Because this culture is fundamentally predatory—requiring the constant import of external resources and the export of localized waste—Jensen concludes that civilization is not redeemable. It cannot be reformed into a harm-minimizing state because its structural existence requires persistent, widespread violence. For Jensen, the only truly moral and sane response to a culture that maximizes harm is to actively halt it and dismantle its infrastructure before it completely destroys the planet's carrying capacity.