Here are six ideas from its Western branch that can inspire and console: ONE: “What

need is there to weep over parts of life? The whole of it calls for tears.” The Roman

philosopher Seneca used to comfort his friends – and himself – with this darkly humorous

remark which gets to the heart of Stoicism, the school of philosophy which Seneca helped

to found and which dominated the West for two hundred years. We get weepy and furious,

says Stoicism, not simply because our plans have failed, but because they have failed

and we strongly expected them not to. Therefore, thought Seneca, the task of philosophy is

to disappoint us gently before life has a chance to do so violently. The less we expect,

the less we will suffer. Through the help of a consoling pessimism, we should strive

to turn our rage and our tears into that far less volatile compound: sadness. Seneca was

not trying to depress us, just to spare us the kind of hope that, when it fails, inspires

bitterness and intemperate shouting. TWO: Peccatum Originale In the late 4th century,

as the immense Roman Empire was collapsing, the leading philosopher of the age, St Augustine,

became deeply interested in possible explanations for the evident tragic disorder of the human

world. One central idea he developed was what he legendarily termed Peccatum Originale:

original sin. Augustine proposed that human nature is inherently damaged and tainted because

– in the Garden of Eden – the mother of all people, Eve, sinned against God by eating

an apple from the Tree of Knowledge. Her guilt was then passed down to her descendants and

now all earthly human endeavours are bound to fail because they are the work of a corrupt

and faulty human spirit. This odd idea might not be literally true, of course. However,

as a metaphor for why the world is in a mess, it has a beguiling poetic truth, as relevant

to atheists as believers. We should not – perhaps – expect too much from the human race, Augustine

implies. We've been somewhat doomed from the outset. And that can, in certain moods,

be a highly redemptive thought to keep in mind. THREE: "Kings and Philosophers shit,

and so do ladies." The blunt phrase appears in an essay by the 16th century French philosopher,

Michel de Montaigne. Montaigne wasn't being mean. His point was kindly: he wanted us to

feel closer to (and less intimidated) by people whose overt mode of life might seem painfully

impressive and very far from our own. And he could have added: in secret these people

also feel inadequate, fear rejection and mess up their sex-lives. We could also update his

examples to speak of CEOs, entrepreneurs, and the over-achieving person we went to college

with. Montaigne was attempting to free us from underconfidence and shyness, born out

of an exaggerated sense of the differences between ourselves and mighty others. At moments

of panic, before an important speech or a much-anticipated date, we should run Montaigne's

phrase through our febrile, underconfident minds and remind ourselves that no one, however

outwardly poised, is more than a few hours away from a poignantly modest and vulnerable

moment. FOUR: "All our unhappiness comes from our inability to sit alone in our room."

This assertion, by the 17th century French philosopher Pascal, is obviously not literally

true. But like all good philosophical aphorisms, it pointedly exaggerates an important idea

in order to bring home a general insight. We are tempted to leave "our room" and

crave excitements that too often turn out badly; we meddle in the lives of others but

fail to help them; we seek fame and end up being misunderstood by large numbers of people

we don't know. "Sitting alone" doesn't mean literally being on the bed but rather,

staying undistracted with ourselves: appreciating small pleasures; examining the contents of

our own minds, allowing the quieter (but important) parts of our psyche to emerge; thinking before

we act. Pascal's phrase's poignant because the louder voices in our culture are constantly

speaking in the opposite direction; are always goading us to get out more, to grow more agitated,

to seek more drama and to spend less time in thoughtful reveries, gazing out of the

window at the clouds passing high above. We should, with Pascal's encouragement, learn

to become better, quieter friends to ourselves. FIVE: "Sub specie aeternitatis." This means, translated

from the Latin, "under the aspect of eternity" – a memorable phrase from the Ethics, published

in 1677 by the Dutch philosopher Baruch Spinoza. For Spinoza, the task of philosophy is to

teach us to look at things, especially our own suffering and disappointment, "under

the aspect of eternity," that is, as though we were gazing down at the earth from very

far away or from a different star (Spinoza's outlook was much indebted to Galileo). From

this lofty perspective, the incidents that trouble us no longer have to seem so shocking

or so large. What is a divorce or a sacking when contemplated from the lunar surface?

What is a rejection in love judged against the earth's 4.5 billion year history? Our

nature means that we'll always be pulled to exaggerate the here and now, but our reasoned

intelligence gives us access to a unique alternative perspective, in which we participate in what

Spinoza called "eternal totality", and can cease railing against the status quo,

submitting to the flow of events with clear-eyed serenity instead. SIX: "Aus so krummem Holze,

als woraus der Mensch gemacht ist, kann nichts ganz Gerades gezimmert werden." It's a slightly

daunting and long German phrase but a hugely arresting and redemptive one, central to the

spirit of Western philosophy: "Out of the crooked timber of humanity, no straight thing

was ever made." So wrote the German eighteenth century philosopher Immanuel Kant, who urged

us to recognise that nothing that human beings do can ever be less than slightly wonky, because

we are creatures as much of passion and erroneous instinct as of reason and noble intelligence.

The wise accept this dark reality head on and so do not expect perfection. When designing

governments, they do not presume that rationality will triumph; they do everything to assume

that error and folly will try to have their way – and so create structures to contain them.

When they marry, with comparable realism, they never expect that one person can be everything

to them and then harangue a partner when they turn out not to be. An acceptance of our crooked

nature isn't dispiriting, it's the birth of generosity and dark good humour. Not least,

added Kant, crooked beams can make for beautiful floors, in the hands of a talented carpenter.

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