(From Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book II):
"When you wake up in the morning, tell yourself: the people I deal with today will be meddling, ungrateful, arrogant, dishonest, jealous, and surly. They are like this because they cannot tell good from evil. But I have seen the beauty of good, and the ugliness of evil, and I recognize that the wrongdoer has a nature related to my own, not of the same blood and birth, but the same mind and possessing a share of the divine. And so none of them can hurt me."
This semester, I learned one of the most important lessons about writing: it is not a one way street. Before college, I treated writing as a straight line from thought to paper. You pick a point, say something about it, and move on. But through the major assignments in my English course, especially our close reading work and our multimodal and analytical essays, I realized writing is actually a conversation. It is a process of returning, questioning, reworking, expanding, and seeing meaning in layers. That shift changed the way I read as well. I used to read for information. Now, I read to understand intention. I read to hear the writer's voice behind the text. And for the first time, I learned how close reading opens doors to deeper insight. The paragraph I selected from Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations perfectly reveals the type of layered meaning that only close reading can uncover.
Thesis:
In this passage, Marcus Aurelius teaches that true strength comes not from controlling others but from mastering one’s own judgment. Through close reading, it becomes clear that his focus is not on the behaviors of the meddling or ungrateful people around him, but on the reader’s internal discipline, the refusal to surrender one’s peace to the flaws of others. This insight reflects my own journey this semester: learning to approach texts, writing, and people with patient interpretation instead of quick conclusions.
At first glance, the paragraph seems like simple advice for handling difficult people. But close reading shows that Marcus Aurelius is not describing the world. He is describing the mind. His very first phrase, “When you wake up in the morning, tell yourself,” reveals that his focus is preparation, not reaction. He is not telling us to respond to rude people. He is telling us to prepare our inner world before we even meet them. This anticipatory mindset connects to what I learned about writing: meaning is not something you bump into accidentally. You prepare for it. You look for it. You encounter it intentionally.
When Aurelius lists people as meddling, ungrateful, arrogant, and dishonest, he is not insulting humanity. Instead, he is teaching that recognizing imperfection is a form of acceptance, not judgment. By naming these traits in advance, he removes their emotional power. In the same way, close reading taught me how to strip a text of its intimidating surface and encounter it with clear eyes. Early in the semester, I felt overwhelmed by the complexity of certain readings. But through practice, I learned how to slow down, annotate, question, and tease out the writer’s intention. Instead of being frustrated by difficult writing, I learned to anticipate it and approach it with curiosity, just as Aurelius approaches difficult people.
The next part of the passage reveals the deeper meaning: “They cannot tell good from evil.” This line is not about moral superiority. Aurelius is reminding himself to be compassionate. He is saying that the people who frustrate us are not malicious. They are misguided. They lack clarity. And the person who sees clearly, the thinker, the philosopher, the student engaged in close reading, has a responsibility not to fall into the same confusion. This connects directly to what I learned in my English course. Writing well means resisting the quick surface level interpretation. It requires compassion for the text, the writer, and even yourself as you work through revision and uncertainty.
Aurelius deepens the thought when he says, “I recognize that the wrongdoer has a nature related to my own.” This admission removes hierarchy. It replaces frustration with kinship. In the same way, close reading removed my distance from the texts we studied. Instead of seeing ancient authors or complex scholars as beyond me, I learned to see them as human beings communicating meaning across time. This closeness made reading more rewarding. I began to appreciate how much intentionality sits behind every word, how structure and tone reveal an author’s purpose, and how texts become richer each time you return to them because writing is not a one way street.
The final line, “And so none of them can hurt me,” is often misunderstood. Many read it as emotional toughness or detachment. But close reading shows something else. Aurelius is not saying he is untouchable. He is saying that understanding others frees him from resentment. Knowledge protects him. Interpretation protects him. This is exactly how close reading changed my academic experience. The more attention I brought to a text, the less intimidated I felt. Instead of rushing through an assignment, I revisited ideas, made connections, and found insights I did not see before. Reading became empowering, not overwhelming.
What makes this paragraph meaningful is how it encourages a mindset of patience, understanding, and intentional self governance. These same qualities are the foundation of strong reading and writing. Through our major assignments this semester, I finally learned that writing evolves through reflection and revision. Each draft reveals something new, just as each rereading of this paragraph reveals another layer of meaning. Writing is a dialogue between the idea and the writer, the writer and the reader, and the reader and the text.
In the end, close reading helped me appreciate something deeper about literature, myself, and the world: meaning is always there, but it takes patience to see it. And as Aurelius suggests, the greatest skill is learning how to control the lens through which we interpret things. Reading is not passive. Writing is not linear. Understanding, whether of people, texts, or ourselves, is an active and ongoing process.
This semester, I learned to embrace that process. And because of that, I now understand the world, and my place in it, a little more clearly.