STOIC SIX PACK
MEDITATIONS
THE GOLDEN SAYINGS
FRAGMENTS
DISCOURSES OF EPICTETUS
LETTERS FROM A STOIC
THE ENCHIRIDION
Stoic Six Pack – Meditations, The Golden Sayings and Fragments of Epictetus, Discourses of Epictetus,
Letters From A Stoic, The Enchiridion.
Meditations by Marcus Aurelius, translated by George Long. First published 1862.
The Golden Sayings and Fragments of Epictetus, translated by Hastings Crossley. First published in 1909.
Discourses of Epictetus translated by George Long. First published as The Discourses of Epictetus, with the
Encheridion and Fragments translated by George Long in 1877.
Letters from a Stoic: Epistulae Morales AD Lucilium. All Three Volumes. By Lucius Annaeus Seneca.
Translated by Richard Mott Gummere. Volume 1 first published in 1917; Volume 2 published in 1920;
Volume 3 published 1925.
The Enchiridion of Epictetus. Translated by P. E. Matheson. First published in 1916. Copyright © 2014
Enhanced Media. All rights reserved.
Marcus Aurelius biography by John Lord. From Beacon Lights of History‚ Volume IV: Imperial Antiquity.
First published in 1883.
Stoic Six Pack. Copyright © 2014 Enhanced Media. All rights reserved.
Cover image shows, from left to right, a Baroque marble imaginary portrait bust of Lucius Annaeus Seneca
(Seneca the Younger), by an anonymous sculptor of the 17th century (Museo del Prado); a bust portrait of
Emperor Marcus Aurelius from the Palazzo Nuovo (Musei Capitolini) and a likeness of Zeno of Citium
from the Pushkin Museum in Moscow.
Table of Contents
MEDITATIONS
By
Marcus Aurelius
BOOK ONE BOOK TWO BOOK THREE BOOK FOUR BOOK
FIVE
BOOK SIX BOOK SEVEN BOOK EIGHT BOOK NINE BOOK TEN
BOOK ELEVEN BOOK TWELVE
THE GOLDEN SAYINGS
OF EPICTETUS
I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X XI XII XIII XIV XV XVI XVII XVIII
XIX XX XXI XXII XXIII XXIV
XXV XXVI XXVII XXVIII XXIX XXX XXXI XXXII XXXIII XXXIV
XXXV XXXVI XXXVII XXXVIII
XXXIX XL XLI XLII XLIII XLIV XLV XLVI XLVII XLVIII XLIX L
LI LII LIII LIV LV LVI LVII
LVIII LIX LX LXI LXII LXIII LXIV LXV LXVI LXVII LXVIII LXIX
LXX LXXI LXXII LXXIII LXXIV
LXXV LXXVI LXXVII LXXVIII LXXIX LXXX LXXXI LXXXII
LXXXIII LXXXIV LXXXV LXXXVI
LXXXVII LXXXVIII LXXXIX XC XCI XCII XCIII XCIV XCV XCVI
XCVII XCVIII XCIX
C CI CII CIII CIV CV CVI CVII CVIII CIX CX CXI CXII CXIII
CXIV CXV CXVI CXVII
CXVIII CXIX CXX CXXI CXXII CXXIII CXXIV CXXV CXXVI
CXXVII CXXVIII CXXIX CXXX
CXXXI CXXXII CXXXIII CXXXIV CXXXV CXXXVI CXXXVII
CXXXVIII CXXXIX CXL CXLI CXLII
CXLIII CXLIV CXLV CXLVI CXLVII CXLVIII CXLIX CL CLI CLII
CLIII CLIV CLV CLVI CLVII CLVIII
CLIX CLX CLXI CLXII CLXIII CLXIV CLXV CLXVI CLXVII
CLXVIII CLXIX CLXX CLXXI CLXXII CLXXIII CLXXIV CLXXV
CLXXVI CLXXVII CLXXVIII CLXXIX CLXXX CLXXXI CLXXXII
CLXXXIII CLXXXIV CLXXXV
CLXXXVI CLXXXVII CLXXXVIII CLXXXIX
FRAGMENTS ATTRIBUTED TO EPICTETUS
I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X XI XII XIII XIV
XV XVI XVII XVIII XIX XX XXI XXII XXIII XXIV
THE DISCOURSES OF EPICTETUS
OF THE THINGS WHICH ARE IN OUR POWER AND NOT IN OUR
POWER
HOW A MAN ON EVERY OCCASION CAN MAINTAIN HIS PROPER
CHARACTER
HOW A MAN SHOULD PROCEED FROM THE PRINCIPLE OF GOD
BEING THE FATHER OF ALL MEN TO THE REST
OF PROGRESS OR IMPROVEMENT
AGAINST THE ACADEMICS
OF PROVIDENCE
HOW FROM THE FACT THAT WE ARE AKIN TO GOD A MAN MAY
PROCEED TO THE CONSEQUENCES
OF CONTENTMENT
HOW EVERYTHING MAY BE DONE ACCEPTABLY TO THE GODS
WHAT PHILOSOPHY PROMISES
THAT WE OUGHT NOT TO BE ANGRY WITH THE ERRORS (FAULTS)
OF OTHERS
HOW WE SHOULD BEHAVE TO TYRANTS
AGAINST THOSE WHO WISH TO BE ADMIRED
ON PRECOGNITIONS
HOW WE SHOULD STRUGGLE WITH CIRCUMSTANCES
ON THE SAME
IN HOW MANY WAYS APPEARANCES EXIST, AND WHAT AIDS WE
SHOULD PROVIDE AGAINST THEM
THAT WE OUGHT NOT TO BE ANGRY WITH MEN; AND WHAT ARE
THE SMALL AND THE GREAT THINGS AMONG MEN
ON CONSTANCY (OR FIRMNESS)
THAT CONFIDENCE (COURAGE) IS NOT INCONSISTENT WITH
CAUTION
OF TRANQUILLITY (FREEDOM FROM PERTURBATION)
HOW MAGNANIMITY IS CONSISTENT WITH CARE
OF INDIFFERENCE
HOW WE OUGHT TO USE DIVINATION
THAT WHEN WE CANNOT FULFIL THAT WHICH THE CHARACTER OF
A MAN PROMISES, WE ASSUME THE CHARACTER OF A
PHILOSOPHER
HOW WE MAY DISCOVER THE DUTIES OF LIFE FROM NAMES
WHAT THE BEGINNING OF PHILOSOPHY IS
OF DISPUTATION OR DISCUSSION
ON ANXIETY (SOLICITUDE)
TO NASO
TO OR AGAINST THOSE WHO OBSTINATELY PERSIST IN WHAT THEY
HAVE DETERMINED
THAT WE DO NOT STRIVE TO USE OUR OPINIONS ABOUT GOOD AND
EVIL
HOW WE MUST ADAPT PRECONCEPTIONS TO PARTICULAR CASES
HOW WE SHOULD STRUGGLE AGAINST APPEARANCES
OF INCONSISTENCY
ON FRIENDSHIP
ON THE POWER OF SPEAKING
TO (OR AGAINST) A PERSON WHO WAS ONE OF THOSE WHO WERE
NOT VALUED (ESTEEMED) BY HIM
THAT LOGIC IS NECESSARY
OF FINERY IN DRESS
IN WHAT A MAN OUGHT TO BE EXERCISED WHO HAS MADE
PROFICIENCY; AND THAT WE NEGLECT THE CHIEF THINGS
WHAT IS THE MATTER ON WHICH A GOOD MAN SHOULD BE
EMPLOYED, AND IN WHAT WE OUGHT CHIEFLY TO PRACTISE
OURSELVES
MISCELLANEOUS
TO THE ADMINISTRATOR OF THE FREE CITIES WHO WAS AN
EPICUREAN
HOW WE MUST EXERCISE OURSELVES AGAINST APPEARANCES
TO A CERTAIN RHETORICIAN WHO WAS GOING UP TO ROME ON A
SUIT
IN WHAT MANNER WE OUGHT TO BEAR SICKNESS
ABOUT EXERCISE
WHAT SOLITUDE IS, AND WHAT KIND OF PERSON A SOLITARY MAN
IS
CERTAIN MISCELLANEOUS MATTERS
THAT WE OUGHT TO PROCEED WITH CIRCUMSPECTION TO
EVERYTHING
THAT WE OUGHT WITH CAUTION TO ENTER INTO FAMILIAR
INTERCOURSE WITH MEN
ON PROVIDENCE
ABOUT CYNICISM
THAT WE OUGHT NOT TO BE MOVED BY A DESIRE OF THOSE
THINGS WHICH ARE NOT IN OUR POWER
TO THOSE WHO FALL OFF (DESIST) FROM THEIR PURPOSE
TO THOSE WHO FEAR WANT
ABOUT FREEDOM
ON FAMILIAR INTIMACY
WHAT THINGS WE SHOULD EXCHANGE FOR OTHER THINGS
TO THOSE WHO ARE DESIROUS OF PASSING LIFE IN TRANQUILLITY
AGAINST THE QUARRELSOME AND FEROCIOUS
AGAINST THOSE WHO LAMENT OVER BEING PITIED
ON FREEDOM FROM FEAR
TO A PERSON WHO HAD BEEN CHANGED TO A CHARACTER OF
SHAMELESSNESS
WHAT THINGS WE OUGHT TO DESPISE AND WHAT THINGS WE
OUGHT TO VALUE
ABOUT PURITY (CLEANLINESS)
ON ATTENTION
AGAINST OR TO THOSE WHO READILY TELL THEIR OWN AFFAIRS
LETTERS FROM A STOIC
Letter I - On Saving Time
Letter II - On Discursiveness in Reading
Letter III - On True and False Friendship
Letter IV - On the Terrors of Death
Letter V - On the Philosopher's Mean
Letter VI - On Sharing Knowledge
Letter VII - On Crowds
Letter VIII - On the Philosopher's Seclusion
Letter IX - On Philosophy and Friendship
Letter X - On Living to Oneself
Letter XI - On the Blush of Modesty
Letter XII - On Old Age
Letter XIII - On Groundless Fears
Letter XIV - On the Reasons for Withdrawing from the World
Letter XV - On Brawn and Brains
Letter XVI - On Philosophy, the Guide of Life
Letter XVII - On Philosophy and Riches
Letter XVIII - On Festivals and Fasting
Letter XIX - On Worldliness and Retirement
Letter XX - On Practising what you Preach
Letter XXI - On the Renown which my Writings will Bring you
Letter XXII - On the Futility of Half-Way Measures
Letter XXIII - On the True Joy which Comes from Philosophy
Letter XXIV - On Despising Death
Letter XXV - On Reformation
Letter XXVI - On Old Age and Death
Letter XXVII - On the Good which Abides
Letter XXVIII - On Travel as a Cure for Discontent
Letter XXIX - On the Critical Condition of Marcellinus
Letter XXX - On Conquering the Conqueror
Letter XXXI - On Siren Songs
Letter XXXII - On Progress
Letter XXXIII - On the Futility of Learning Maxims
Letter XXXIV - On a Promising Pupil
Letter XXXV - On the Friendship of Kindred Minds
Letter XXXVI - On the Value of Retirement
Letter XXXVII - On Allegiance to Virtue
Letter XXXVIII - On Quiet Conversation
Letter XXXIX - On Noble Aspirations
Letter XL - On the Proper Style for a Philosopher's Discourse
Letter XLI - On the God within Us
Letter XLII - On Values
Letter XLIII - On the Relativity of Fame
Letter XLIV - On Philosophy and Pedigrees
Letter XLV - On Sophistical Argumentation
Letter XLVI - On a New Book by Lucilius
Letter XLVII - On Master and Slave
Letter XLVIII - On Quibbling as Unworthy of the Philosopher
Letter XLIX - On the Shortness of Life
Letter L - On our Blindness and its Cure
Letter LI - On Baiae and Morals
Letter LII - On Choosing our Teachers
Letter LIII - On the Faults of the Spirit
Letter LIV - On Asthma and Death
Letter LV - On Vatia's Villa
Letter LVI - On Quiet and Study
Letter LVII - On the Trials of Travel
Letter LVIII - On Being
Letter LIX - On Pleasure and Joy
Letter LX - On Harmful Prayers
Letter LXI - On Meeting Death Cheerfully
Letter LXII - On Good Company
Letter LXIII - On Grief for Lost Friends
Letter LXIV - On the Philosopher's Task
Letter LXV - On the First Cause
Letter LXVI - On Various Aspects of Virtue
Letter LXVII - On Ill-Health and Endurance of Suffering
Letter LXVIII - On Wisdom and Retirement
Letter LXIX - On Rest and Restlessness
Letter LXX - On the Proper Time to Slip the Cable
Letter LXXI - On the Supreme Good
Letter LXXII - On Business as the Enemy of Philosophy
Letter LXXIII - On Philosophers and Kings
Letter LXXIV - On Virtue as a Refuge from Worldly Distractions
Letter LXXV - On the Diseases of the Soul
Letter LXXVI - On Learning Wisdom in Old Age
Letter LXXVII - On Taking One's Own Life
Letter LXXVIII - On the Healing Power of the Mind
Letter LXXIX - On the Rewards of Scientific Discovery
Letter LXXX - On Worldly Deceptions
Letter LXXXI - On Benefits
Letter LXXXII - On the Natural Fear of Death
Letter LXXXIII - On Drunkenness
Letter LXXXIV - On Gathering Ideas
Letter LXXXV - On Some Vain Syllogisms
Letter LXXXVI - On Scipio's Villa
Letter LXXXVII - Some Arguments in Favour of the Simple Life
Letter LXXXVIII - On Liberal and Vocational Studies
Letter LXXXIX - On the Parts of Philosophy
Letter XC - On the Part Played by Philosophy in the Progress of Man
Letter XCI - On the Lesson to be Drawn from the Burning of Lyons
Letter XCII - On the Happy Life
Letter XCIII - On the Quality, as Contrasted with the Length, of Life
Letter XCIV - On the Value of Advice
Letter XCV - On the Usefulness of Basic Principles
Letter XCVI - On Facing Hardships
Letter XCVII - On the Degeneracy of the Age
Letter XCVIII - On the Fickleness of Fortune
Letter XCIX - On Consolation to the Bereaved
Letter C - On the Writings of Fabianus
Letter CI - On the Futility of Planning Ahead
Letter CII - On the Intimations of Our Immortality
Letter CIII - On the Dangers of Association with our Fellow-Men
Letter CIV - On Care of Health and Peace of Mind
Letter CV - On Facing the World with Confidence
Letter CVI - On the Corporeality of Virtue
Letter CVII - On Obedience to the Universal Will
Letter CVIII - On the Approaches to Philosophy
Letter CIX - On the Fellowship of Wise Men
Letter CX - On True and False Riches
Letter CXI - On the Vanity of Mental Gymnastics
Letter CXII - On Reforming Hardened Sinners
Letter CXIII - On the Vitality of the Soul and Its Attributes
Letter CXIV - On Style as a Mirror of Character
Letter CXV - On the Superficial Blessings
Letter CXVI - On Self-Control
Letter CXVII - On Real Ethics as Superior to Syllogistic Subtleties
Letter CXVIII - On the Vanity of Place-Seeking
Letter CXIX - On Nature as our Best Provider
Letter CXX - More about Virtue
Letter CXXI - On Instinct in Animals
Letter CXXII - On Darkness as a Veil for Wickedness
Letter CXXIII - On the Conflict between Pleasure and Virtue
Letter CXXIV - On the True Good as Attained by Reason
Link to free audio recording of Seneca’s Letters
Seneca Image Gallery
Ancient bust of Seneca, part of the Double Herm of Socrates and Seneca
Baroque marble imaginary portrait bust of Seneca, by an anonymous sculptor of
the 17th century
Luca Giordano’s The Death of Seneca (1684)
Plato, Seneca, and Aristotle in a medieval manuscript illustration (c. 1325–35)
Errare humanum est (‘To err is human’)
Woodcut illustration of the suicide of Seneca and the attempted suicide of his
wife Pompeia Paulina
Stoicism founder Zeno of Citium, cast in Pushkin Museum in Moscow from
original in Naples
Antisthenes, founder of the Cynic school of philosophy
Marcus Aurelius, the Stoic emperor
THE ENCHIRIDION
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24
25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46
47 48 49 50 51 52 53
MARCUS AURELIUS BIOGRAPHY
By
John Lord
EPICTETUS IMAGE GALLERY
An artistic impression of Epictetus, including his crutch
18th century engraving of Epictetus
Plato: copy of portrait bust by Silanion
Plato and Socrates in a medieval depiction
Bust of Pythagoras, Musei Capitolini, Rome
Pythagoreans celebrate sunrise by Fyodor Bronnikov
Bust of Aristotle by Lysippus, c. 330 BCE
An early Islamic portrayal of Aristotle (right) and Alexander the Great
MEDITATIONS
By
Marcus Aurelius
Translated by George Long
BOOK ONE
FROM my grandfather Verus I learned good morals and the government of
my temper. From the reputation and remembrance of my father, modesty and a
manly character. From my mother, piety and beneficence, and abstinence, not
only from evil deeds, but even from evil thoughts; and further, simplicity in my
way of living, far removed from the habits of the rich.
From my great-grandfather, not to have frequented public schools, and to have
had good teachers at home, and to know that on such things a man should spend
liberally.
From my governor, to be neither of the green nor of the blue party at the
games in the Circus, nor a partisan either of the Parmularius or the Scutarius at
the gladiators' fights; from him too I learned endurance of labour, and to want
little, and to work with my own hands, and not to meddle with other people's
affairs, and not to be ready to listen to slander.
From Diognetus, not to busy myself about trifling things, and not to give
credit to what was said by miracle-workers and jugglers about incantations and
the driving away of demons and such things; and not to breed quails for fighting,
nor to give myself up passionately to such things; and to endure freedom of
speech; and to have become intimate with philosophy; and to have been a hearer,
first of Bacchius, then of Tandasis and Marcianus; and to have written dialogues
in my youth; and to have desired a plank bed and skin, and whatever else of the
kind belongs to the Grecian discipline.
From Rusticus I received the impression that my character required
improvement and discipline; and from him I learned not to be led astray to
sophistic emulation, nor to writing on speculative matters, nor to delivering little
hortatory orations, nor to showing myself off as a man who practises much
discipline, or does benevolent acts in order to make a display; and to abstain
from rhetoric, and poetry, and fine writing; and not to walk about in the house in
my outdoor dress, nor to do other things of the kind; and to write my letters with
simplicity, like the letter which Rusticus wrote from Sinuessa to my mother; and
with respect to those who have offended me by words, or done me wrong, to be
easily disposed to be pacified and reconciled, as soon as they have shown a
readiness to be reconciled; and to read carefully, and not to be satisfied with a
superficial understanding of a book; nor hastily to give my assent to those who
talk overmuch; and I am indebted to him for being acquainted with the
discourses of Epictetus, which he communicated to me out of his own collection.
From Apollonius I learned freedom of will and undeviating steadiness of
purpose; and to look to nothing else, not even for a moment, except to reason;
and to be always the same, in sharp pains, on the occasion of the loss of a child,
and in long illness; and to see clearly in a living example that the same man can
be both most resolute and yielding, and not peevish in giving his instruction; and
to have had before my eyes a man who clearly considered his experience and his
skill in expounding philosophical principles as the smallest of his merits; and
from him I learned how to receive from friends what are esteemed favours,
without being either humbled by them or letting them pass unnoticed.
From Sextus, a benevolent disposition, and the example of a family governed
in a fatherly manner, and the idea of living conformably to nature; and gravity
without affectation, and to look carefully after the interests of friends, and to
tolerate ignorant persons, and those who form opinions without consideration: he
had the power of readily accommodating himself to all, so that intercourse with
him was more agreeable than any flattery; and at the same time he was most
highly venerated by those who associated with him: and he had the faculty both
of discovering and ordering, in an intelligent and methodical way, the principles
necessary for life; and he never showed anger or any other passion, but was
entirely free from passion, and also most affectionate; and he could express
approbation without noisy display, and he possessed much knowledge without
ostentation.
From Alexander the grammarian, to refrain from fault-finding, and not in a
reproachful way to chide those who uttered any barbarous or solecistic or
strange-sounding expression; but dexterously to introduce the very expression
which ought to have been used, and in the way of answer or giving confirmation,
or joining in an inquiry about the thing itself, not about the word, or by some
other fit suggestion.
From Fronto I learned to observe what envy, and duplicity, and hypocrisy are
in a tyrant, and that generally those among us who are called Patricians are
rather deficient in paternal affection.
From Alexander the Platonic, not frequently nor without necessity to say to
any one, or to write in a letter, that I have no leisure; nor continually to excuse
the neglect of duties required by our relation to those with whom we live, by
alleging urgent occupations.
From Catulus, not to be indifferent when a friend finds fault, even if he
should find fault without reason, but to try to restore him to his usual disposition;
and to be ready to speak well of teachers, as it is reported of Domitius and
Athenodotus; and to love my children truly.
From my brother Severus, to love my kin, and to love truth, and to love
justice; and through him I learned to know Thrasea, Helvidius, Cato, Dion,
Brutus; and from him I received the idea of a polity in which there is the same
law for all, a polity administered with regard to equal rights and equal freedom
of speech, and the idea of a kingly government which respects most of all the
freedom of the governed; I learned from him also consistency and undeviating
steadiness in my regard for philosophy; and a disposition to do good, and to give
to others readily, and to cherish good hopes, and to believe that I am loved by
my friends; and in him I observed no concealment of his opinions with respect to
those whom he condemned, and that his friends had no need to conjecture what
he wished or did not wish, but it was quite plain.
From Maximus I learned self-government, and not to be led aside by
anything; and cheerfulness in all circumstances, as well as in illness; and a just
admixture in the moral character of sweetness and dignity, and to do what was
set before me without complaining. I observed that everybody believed that he
thought as he spoke, and that in all that he did he never had any bad intention;
and he never showed amazement and surprise, and was never in a hurry, and
never put off doing a thing, nor was perplexed nor dejected, nor did he ever
laugh to disguise his vexation, nor, on the other hand, was he ever passionate or
suspicious. He was accustomed to do acts of beneficence, and was ready to
forgive, and was free from all falsehood; and he presented the appearance of a
man who could not be diverted from right rather than of a man who had been
improved. I observed, too, that no man could ever think that he was despised by
Maximus, or ever venture to think himself a better man. He had also the art of
being humorous in an agreeable way.
In my father I observed mildness of temper, and unchangeable resolution in
the things which he had determined after due deliberation; and no vainglory in
those things which men call honours; and a love of labour and perseverance; and
a readiness to listen to those who had anything to propose for the common weal;
and undeviating firmness in giving to every man according to his deserts; and a
knowledge derived from experience of the occasions for vigorous action and for
remission. And I observed that he had overcome all passion for boys; and he
considered himself no more than any other citizen; and he released his friends
from all obligation to sup with him or to attend him of necessity when he went
abroad, and those who had failed to accompany him, by reason of any urgent
circumstances, always found him the same. I observed too his habit of careful
inquiry in all matters of deliberation, and his persistency, and that he never
stopped his investigation through being satisfied with appearances which first
present themselves; and that his disposition was to keep his friends, and not to be
soon tired of them, nor yet to be extravagant in his affection; and to be satisfied
on all occasions, and cheerful; and to foresee things a long way off, and to
provide for the smallest without display; and to check immediately popular
applause and all flattery; and to be ever watchful over the things which were
necessary for the administration of the empire, and to be a good manager of the
expenditure, and patiently to endure the blame which he got for such conduct;
and he was neither superstitious with respect to the gods, nor did he court men
by gifts or by trying to please them, or by flattering the populace; but he showed
sobriety in all things and firmness, and never any mean thoughts or action, nor
love of novelty. And the things which conduce in any way to the commodity of
life, and of which fortune gives an abundant supply, he used without arrogance
and without excusing himself; so that when he had them, he enjoyed them
without affectation, and when he had them not, he did not want them. No one
could ever say of him that he was either a sophist or a home-bred flippant slave
or a pedant; but every one acknowledged him to be a man ripe, perfect, above
flattery, able to manage his own and other men's affairs.
Besides this, he honoured those who were true philosophers, and he did not
reproach those who pretended to be philosophers, nor yet was he easily led by
them. He was also easy in conversation, and he made himself agreeable without
any offensive affectation. He took a reasonable care of his body's health, not as
one who was greatly attached to life, nor out of regard to personal appearance,
nor yet in a careless way, but so that, through his own attention, he very seldom
stood in need of the physician's art or of medicine or external applications. He
was most ready to give way without envy to those who possessed any particular
faculty, such as that of eloquence or knowledge of the law or of morals, or of
anything else; and he gave them his help, that each might enjoy reputation
according to his deserts; and he always acted conformably to the institutions of
his country, without showing any affectation of doing so.
Further, he was not fond of change nor unsteady, but he loved to stay in the
same places, and to employ himself about the same things; and after his
paroxysms of headache he came immediately fresh and vigorous to his usual
occupations. His secrets were not but very few and very rare, and these only
about public matters; and he showed prudence and economy in the exhibition of
the public spectacles and the construction of public buildings, his donations to
the people, and in such things, for he was a man who looked to what ought to be
done, not to the reputation which is got by a man's acts. He did not take the bath
at unseasonable hours; he was not fond of building houses, nor curious about
what he ate, nor about the texture and colour of his clothes, nor about the beauty
of his slaves. His dress came from Lorium, his villa on the coast, and from
Lanuvium generally. We know how he behaved to the toll-collector at Tusculum
who asked his pardon; and such was all his behaviour. There was in him nothing
harsh, nor implacable, nor violent, nor, as one may say, anything carried to the
sweating point; but he examined all things severally, as if he had abundance of
time, and without confusion, in an orderly way, vigorously and consistently.
And that might be applied to him which is recorded of Socrates, that he was
able both to abstain from, and to enjoy, those things which many are too weak to
abstain from, and cannot enjoy without excess. But to be strong enough both to
bear the one and to be sober in the other is the mark of a man who has a perfect
and invincible soul, such as he showed in the illness of Maximus.
To the gods I am indebted for having good grandfathers, good parents, a good
sister, good teachers, good associates, good kinsmen and friends, nearly
everything good. Further, I owe it to the gods that I was not hurried into any
offence against any of them, though I had a disposition which, if opportunity had
offered, might have led me to do something of this kind; but, through their
favour, there never was such a concurrence of circumstances as put me to the
trial. Further, I am thankful to the gods that I was not longer brought up with my
grandfather's concubine, and that I preserved the flower of my youth, and that I
did not make proof of my virility before the proper season, but even deferred the
time; that I was subjected to a ruler and a father who was able to take away all
pride from me, and to bring me to the knowledge that it is possible for a man to
live in a palace without wanting either guards or embroidered dresses, or torches
and statues, and such-like show; but that it is in such a man's power to bring
himself very near to the fashion of a private person, without being for this reason
either meaner in thought, or more remiss in action, with respect to the things
which must be done for the public interest in a manner that befits a ruler. I thank
the gods for giving me such a brother, who was able by his moral character to
rouse me to vigilance over myself, and who, at the same time, pleased me by his
respect and affection; that my children have not been stupid nor deformed in
body; that I did not make more proficiency in rhetoric, poetry, and the other
studies, in which I should perhaps have been completely engaged, if I had seen
that I was making progress in them; that I made haste to place those who brought
me up in the station of honour, which they seemed to desire, without putting
them off with hope of my doing it some time after, because they were then still
young; that I knew Apollonius, Rusticus, Maximus; that I received clear and
frequent impressions about living according to nature, and what kind of a life
that is, so that, so far as depended on the gods, and their gifts, and help, and
inspirations, nothing hindered me from forthwith living according to nature,
though I still fall short of it through my own fault, and through not observing the
admonitions of the gods, and, I may almost say, their direct instructions; that my
body has held out so long in such a kind of life; that I never touched either
Benedicta or Theodotus, and that, after having fallen into amatory passions, I
was cured; and, though I was often out of humour with Rusticus, I never did
anything of which I had occasion to repent; that, though it was my mother's fate
to die young, she spent the last years of her life with me; that, whenever I wished
to help any man in his need, or on any other occasion, I was never told that I had
not the means of doing it; and that to myself the same necessity never happened,
to receive anything from another; that I have such a wife, so obedient, and so
affectionate, and so simple; that I had abundance of good masters for my
children; and that remedies have been shown to me by dreams, both others, and
against bloodspitting and giddiness...; and that, when I had an inclination to
philosophy, I did not fall into the hands of any sophist, and that I did not waste
my time on writers of histories, or in the resolution of syllogisms, or occupy
myself about the investigation of appearances in the heavens; for all these things
require the help of the gods and fortune. Among the Quadi at the Granua.
BOOK TWO
BEGIN the morning by saying to thyself, I shall meet with the busybody, the
ungrateful, arrogant, deceitful, envious, unsocial. All these things happen to
them by reason of their ignorance of what is good and evil. But I who have seen
the nature of the good that it is beautiful, and of the bad that it is ugly, and the
nature of him who does wrong, that it is akin to me, not only of the same blood
or seed, but that it participates in the same intelligence and the same portion of
the divinity, I can neither be injured by any of them, for no one can fix on me
what is ugly, nor can I be angry with my kinsman, nor hate him, For we are
made for cooperation, like feet, like hands, like eyelids, like the rows of the
upper and lower teeth. To act against one another then is contrary to nature; and
it is acting against one another to be vexed and to turn away.
Whatever this is that I am, it is a little flesh and breath, and the ruling part.
Throw away thy books; no longer distract thyself: it is not allowed; but as if thou
wast now dying, despise the flesh; it is blood and bones and a network, a
contexture of nerves, veins, and arteries. See the breath also, what kind of a thing
it is, air, and not always the same, but every moment sent out and again sucked
in. The third then is the ruling part: consider thus: Thou art an old man; no
longer let this be a slave, no longer be pulled by the strings like a puppet to
unsocial movements, no longer either be dissatisfied with thy present lot, or
shrink from the future. All that is from the gods is full of Providence. That which
is from fortune is not separated from nature or without an interweaving and
involution with the things which are ordered by Providence. From thence all
things flow; and there is besides necessity, and that which is for the advantage of
the whole universe, of which thou art a part. But that is good for every part of
nature which the nature of the whole brings, and what serves to maintain this
nature. Now the universe is preserved, as by the changes of the elements so by
the changes of things compounded of the elements. Let these principles be
enough for thee, let them always be fixed opinions. But cast away the thirst after
books, that thou mayest not die murmuring, but cheerfully, truly, and from thy
heart thankful to the gods.
Remember how long thou hast been putting off these things, and how often
thou hast received an opportunity from the gods, and yet dost not use it. Thou
must now at last perceive of what universe thou art a part, and of what
administrator of the universe thy existence is an efflux, and that a limit of time is
fixed for thee, which if thou dost not use for clearing away the clouds from thy
mind, it will go and thou wilt go, and it will never return.
Every moment think steadily as a Roman and a man to do what thou hast in
hand with perfect and simple dignity, and feeling of affection, and freedom, and
justice; and to give thyself relief from all other thoughts. And thou wilt give
thyself relief, if thou doest every act of thy life as if it were the last, laying aside
all carelessness and passionate aversion from the commands of reason, and all
hypocrisy, and self-love, and discontent with the portion which has been given to
thee. Thou seest how few the things are, the which if a man lays hold of, he is
able to live a life which flows in quiet, and is like the existence of the gods; for
the gods on their part will require nothing more from him who observes these
things. Do wrong to thyself, do wrong to thyself, my soul; but thou wilt no
longer have the opportunity of honouring thyself. Every man's life is sufficient.
But thine is nearly finished, though thy soul reverences not itself but places thy
felicity in the souls of others.
Do the things external which fall upon thee distract thee? Give thyself time to
learn something new and good, and cease to be whirled around. But then thou
must also avoid being carried about the other way. For those too are triflers who
have wearied themselves in life by their activity, and yet have no object to which
to direct every movement, and, in a word, all their thoughts.
Through not observing what is in the mind of another a man has seldom been
seen to be unhappy; but those who do not observe the movements of their own
minds must of necessity be unhappy.
This thou must always bear in mind, what is the nature of the whole, and what
is my nature, and how this is related to that, and what kind of a part it is of what
kind of a whole; and that there is no one who hinders thee from always doing
and saying the things which are according to the nature of which thou art a part.
Theophrastus, in his comparison of bad acts - such a comparison as one would
make in accordance with the common notions of mankind - says, like a true
philosopher, that the offences which are committed through desire are more
blameable than those which are committed through anger. For he who is excited
by anger seems to turn away from reason with a certain pain and unconscious
contraction; but he who offends through desire, being overpowered by pleasure,
seems to be in a manner more intemperate and more womanish in his offences.
Rightly then, and in a way worthy of philosophy, he said that the offence which
is committed with pleasure is more blameable than that which is committed with
pain; and on the whole the one is more like a person who has been first wronged
and through pain is compelled to be angry; but the other is moved by his own
impulse to do wrong, being carried towards doing something by desire.
Since it is possible that thou mayest depart from life this very moment,
regulate every act and thought accordingly. But to go away from among men, if
there are gods, is not a thing to be afraid of, for the gods will not involve thee in
evil; but if indeed they do not exist, or if they have no concern about human
affairs, what is it to me to live in a universe devoid of gods or devoid of
Providence? But in truth they do exist, and they do care for human things, and
they have put all the means in man's power to enable him not to fall into real
evils. And as to the rest, if there was anything evil, they would have provided for
this also, that it should be altogether in a man's power not to fall into it. Now that
which does not make a man worse, how can it make a man's life worse? But
neither through ignorance, nor having the knowledge, but not the power to guard
against or correct these things, is it possible that the nature of the universe has
overlooked them; nor is it possible that it has made so great a mistake, either
through want of power or want of skill, that good and evil should happen
indiscriminately to the good and the bad. But death certainly, and life, honour
and dishonour, pain and pleasure, all these things equally happen to good men
and bad, being things which make us neither better nor worse. Therefore they are
neither good nor evil.
How quickly all things disappear, in the universe the bodies themselves, but in
time the remembrance of them; what is the nature of all sensible things, and
particularly those which attract with the bait of pleasure or terrify by pain, or are
noised abroad by vapoury fame; how worthless, and contemptible, and sordid,
and perishable, and dead they are-all this it is the part of the intellectual faculty
to observe. To observe too who these are whose opinions and voices give
reputation; what death is, and the fact that, if a man looks at it in itself, and by
the abstractive power of reflection resolves into their parts all the things which
present themselves to the imagination in it, he will then consider it to be nothing
else than an operation of nature; and if any one is afraid of an operation of
nature, he is a child. This, however, is not only an operation of nature, but it is
also a thing which conduces to the purposes of nature. To observe too how man
comes near to the deity, and by what part of him, and when this part of man is so
disposed.
Nothing is more wretched than a man who traverses everything in a round,
and pries into the things beneath the earth, as the poet says, and seeks by
conjecture what is in the minds of his neighbours, without perceiving that it is
sufficient to attend to the daemon within him, and to reverence it sincerely. And
reverence of the daemon consists in keeping it pure from passion and
thoughtlessness, and dissatisfaction with what comes from gods and men. For
the things from the gods merit veneration for their excellence; and the things
from men should be dear to us by reason of kinship; and sometimes even, in a
manner, they move our pity by reason of men's ignorance of good and bad; this
defect being not less than that which deprives us of the power of distinguishing
things that are white and black. Though thou shouldst be going to live three
thousand years, and as many times ten thousand years, still remember that no
man loses any other life than this which he now lives, nor lives any other than
this which he now loses. The longest and shortest are thus brought to the same.
For the present is the same to all, though that which perishes is not the same; and
so that which is lost appears to be a mere moment. For a man cannot lose either
the past or the future: for what a man has not, how can any one take this from
him? These two things then thou must bear in mind; the one, that all things from
eternity are of like forms and come round in a circle, and that it makes no
difference whether a man shall see the same things during a hundred years or
two hundred, or an infinite time; and the second, that the longest liver and he
who will die soonest lose just the same. For the present is the only thing of
which a man can be deprived, if it is true that this is the only thing which he has,
and that a man cannot lose a thing if he has it not.
Remember that all is opinion. For what was said by the Cynic Monimus is
manifest: and manifest too is the use of what was said, if a man receives what
may be got out of it as far as it is true.
The soul of man does violence to itself, first of all, when it becomes an
abscess and, as it were, a tumour on the universe, so far as it can. For to be vexed
at anything which happens is a separation of ourselves from nature, in some part
of which the natures of all other things are contained. In the next place, the soul
does violence to itself when it turns away from any man, or even moves towards
him with the intention of injuring, such as are the souls of those who are angry.
In the third place, the soul does violence to itself when it is overpowered by
pleasure or by pain. Fourthly, when it plays a part, and does or says anything
insincerely and untruly.
Fifthly, when it allows any act of its own and any movement to be without an
aim, and does anything thoughtlessly and without considering what it is, it being
right that even the smallest things be done with reference to an end; and the end
of rational animals is to follow the reason and the law of the most ancient city
and polity. Of human life the time is a point, and the substance is in a flux, and
the perception dull, and the composition of the whole body subject to
putrefaction, and the soul a whirl, and fortune hard to divine, and fame a thing
devoid of judgement. And, to say all in a word, everything which belongs to the
body is a stream, and what belongs to the soul is a dream and vapour, and life is
a warfare and a stranger's sojourn, and after-fame is oblivion. What then is that
which is able to conduct a man? One thing and only one, philosophy. But this
consists in keeping the daemon within a man free from violence and unharmed,
superior to pains and pleasures, doing nothing without purpose, nor yet falsely
and with hypocrisy, not feeling the need of another man's doing or not doing
anything; and besides, accepting all that happens, and all that is allotted, as
coming from thence, wherever it is, from whence he himself came; and, finally,
waiting for death with a cheerful mind, as being nothing else than a dissolution
of the elements of which every living being is compounded. But if there is no
harm to the elements themselves in each continually changing into another, why
should a man have any apprehension about the change and dissolution of all the
elements? For it is according to nature, and nothing is evil which is according to
nature. This in Carnuntum.
BOOK THREE
WE OUGHT to consider not only that our life is daily wasting away and a
smaller part of it is left, but another thing also must be taken into the account,
that if a man should live longer, it is quite uncertain whether the understanding
will still continue sufficient for the comprehension of things, and retain the
power of contemplation which strives to acquire the knowledge of the divine and
the human.
For if he shall begin to fall into dotage, perspiration and nutrition and
imagination and appetite, and whatever else there is of the kind, will not fail; but
the power of making use of ourselves, and filling up the measure of our duty,
and clearly separating all appearances, and considering whether a man should
now depart from life, and whatever else of the kind absolutely requires a
disciplined reason, all this is already extinguished. We must make haste then, not
only because we are daily nearer to death, but also because the conception of
things and the understanding of them cease first.
We ought to observe also that even the things which follow after the things
which are produced according to nature contain something pleasing and
attractive. For instance, when bread is baked some parts are split at the surface,
and these parts which thus open, and have a certain fashion contrary to the
purpose of the baker's art, are beautiful in a manner, and in a peculiar way excite
a desire for eating. And again, figs, when they are quite ripe, gape open; and in
the ripe olives the very circumstance of their being near to rottenness adds a
peculiar beauty to the fruit. And the ears of corn bending down, and the lion's
eyebrows, and the foam which flows from the mouth of wild boars, and many
other things-though they are far from being beautiful, if a man should examine
them severally-still, because they are consequent upon the things which are
formed by nature, help to adorn them, and they please the mind; so that if a man
should have a feeling and deeper insight with respect to the things which are
produced in the universe, there is hardly one of those which follow by way of
consequence which will not seem to him to be in a manner disposed so as to give
pleasure. And so he will see even the real gaping jaws of wild beasts with no less
pleasure than those which painters and sculptors show by imitation; and in an
old woman and an old man he will be able to see a certain maturity and
comeliness; and the attractive loveliness of young persons he will be able to look
on with chaste eyes; and many such things will present themselves, not pleasing
to every man, but to him only who has become truly familiar with nature and her
works.
Hippocrates after curing many diseases himself fell sick and died.
The Chaldaei foretold the deaths of many, and then fate caught them too.
Alexander, and Pompeius, and Caius Caesar, after so often completely
destroying whole cities, and in battle cutting to pieces many ten thousands of
cavalry and infantry, themselves too at last departed from life. Heraclitus, after
so many speculations on the conflagration of the universe, was filled with water
internally and died smeared all over with mud. And lice destroyed Democritus;
and other lice killed Socrates. What means all this? Thou hast embarked, thou
hast made the voyage, thou art come to shore; get out. If indeed to another life,
there is no want of gods, not even there.
But if to a state without sensation, thou wilt cease to be held by pains and
pleasures, and to be a slave to the vessel, which is as much inferior as that which
serves it is superior: for the one is intelligence and deity; the other is earth and
corruption.
Do not waste the remainder of thy life in thoughts about others, when thou
dost not refer thy thoughts to some object of common utility. For thou losest the
opportunity of doing something else when thou hast such thoughts as these,
What is such a person doing, and why, and what is he saying, and what is he
thinking of, and what is he contriving, and whatever else of the kind makes us
wander away from the observation of our own ruling power. We ought then to
check in the series of our thoughts everything that is without a purpose and
useless, but most of all the over-curious feeling and the malignant; and a man
should use himself to think of those things only about which if one should
suddenly ask, What hast thou now in thy thoughts? With perfect openness thou
mightest, immediately answer, This or That; so that from thy words it should be
plain that everything in thee is simple and benevolent, and such as befits a social
animal, and one that cares not for thoughts about pleasure or sensual enjoyments
at all, nor has any rivalry or envy and suspicion, or anything else for which thou
wouldst blush if thou shouldst say that thou hadst it in thy mind. For the man
who is such and no longer delays being among the number of the best, is like a
priest and minister of the gods, using too the deity which is planted within him,
which makes the man uncontaminated by pleasure, unharmed by any pain,
untouched by any insult, feeling no wrong, a fighter in the noblest fight, one who
cannot be overpowered by any passion, dyed deep with justice, accepting with
all his soul everything which happens and is assigned to him as his portion; and
not often, nor yet without great necessity and for the general interest, imagining
what another says, or does, or thinks. For it is only what belongs to himself that
he makes the matter for his activity; and he constantly thinks of that which is
allotted to himself out of the sum total of things, and he makes his own acts fair,
and he is persuaded that his own portion is good. For the lot which is assigned to
each man is carried along with him and carries him along with it. And he
remembers also that every rational animal is his kinsman, and that to care for all
men is according to man's nature; and a man should hold on to the opinion not of
all, but of those only who confessedly live according to nature. But as to those
who live not so, he always bears in mind what kind of men they are both at home
and from home, both by night and by day, and what they are, and with what men
they live an impure life. Accordingly, he does not value at all the praise which
comes from such men, since they are not even satisfied with themselves. Labour
not unwillingly, nor without regard to the common interest, nor without due
consideration, nor with distraction; nor let studied ornament set off thy thoughts,
and be not either a man of many words, or busy about too many things. And
further, let the deity which is in thee be the guardian of a living being, manly and
of ripe age, and engaged in matter political, and a Roman, and a ruler, who has
taken his post like a man waiting for the signal which summons him from life,
and ready to go, having need neither of oath nor of any man's testimony. Be
cheerful also, and seek not external help nor the tranquility which others give. A
man then must stand erect, not be kept erect by others.
If thou findest in human life anything better than justice, truth, temperance,
fortitude, and, in a word, anything better than thy own mind's self-satisfaction in
the things which it enables thee to do according to right reason, and in the
condition that is assigned to thee without thy own choice; if, I say, thou seest
anything better than this, turn to it with all thy soul, and enjoy that which thou
hast found to be the best. But if nothing appears to be better than the deity which
is planted in thee, which has subjected to itself all thy appetites, and carefully
examines all the impressions, and, as Socrates said, has detached itself from the
persuasions of sense, and has submitted itself to the gods, and cares for mankind;
if thou findest everything else smaller and of less value than this, give place to
nothing else, for if thou dost once diverge and incline to it, thou wilt no longer
without distraction be able to give the preference to that good thing which is thy
proper possession and thy own; for it is not right that anything of any other kind,
such as praise from the many, or power, or enjoyment of pleasure, should come
into competition with that which is rationally and politically or practically good.
All these things, even though they may seem to adapt themselves to the better
things in a small degree, obtain the superiority all at once, and carry us away.
But do thou, I say, simply and freely choose the better, and hold to it.- But that
which is useful is the better.- Well then, if it is useful to thee as a rational being,
keep to it; but if it is only useful to thee as an animal, say so, and maintain thy
judgement without arrogance: only take care that thou makest the inquiry by a
sure method.
Never value anything as profitable to thyself which shall compel thee to break
thy promise, to lose thy self-respect, to hate any man, to suspect, to curse, to act
the hypocrite, to desire anything which needs walls and curtains: for he who has
preferred to everything intelligence and daemon and the worship of its
excellence, acts no tragic part, does not groan, will not need either solitude or
much company; and, what is chief of all, he will live without either pursuing or
flying from death; but whether for a longer or a shorter time he shall have the
soul inclosed in the body, he cares not at all: for even if he must depart
immediately, he will go as readily as if he were going to do anything else which
can be done with decency and order; taking care of this only all through life, that
his thoughts turn not away from anything which belongs to an intelligent animal
and a member of a civil community.
In the mind of one who is chastened and purified thou wilt find no corrupt
matter, nor impurity, nor any sore skinned over. Nor is his life incomplete when
fate overtakes him, as one may say of an actor who leaves the stage before
ending and finishing the play. Besides, there is in him nothing servile, nor
affected, nor too closely bound to other things, nor yet detached from other
things, nothing worthy of blame, nothing which seeks a hiding-place.
Reverence the faculty which produces opinion. On this faculty it entirely
depends whether there shall exist in thy ruling part any opinion inconsistent with
nature and the constitution of the rational animal. And this faculty promises
freedom from hasty judgement, and friendship towards men, and obedience to
the gods.
Throwing away then all things, hold to these only which are few; and besides
bear in mind that every man lives only this present time, which is an indivisible
point, and that all the rest of his life is either past or it is uncertain. Short then is
the time which every man lives, and small the nook of the earth where he lives;
and short too the longest posthumous fame, and even this only continued by a
succession of poor human beings, who will very soon die, and who know not
even themselves, much less him who died long ago.
To the aids which have been mentioned let this one still be added:Make for thyself a definition or description of the thing which is presented to
thee, so as to see distinctly what kind of a thing it is in its substance, in its
nudity, in its complete entirety, and tell thyself its proper name, and the names of
the things of which it has been compounded, and into which it will be resolved.
For nothing is so productive of elevation of mind as to be able to examine
methodically and truly every object which is presented to thee in life, and always
to look at things so as to see at the same time what kind of universe this is, and
what kind of use everything performs in it, and what value everything has with
reference to the whole, and what with reference to man, who is a citizen of the
highest city, of which all other cities are like families; what each thing is, and of
what it is composed, and how long it is the nature of this thing to endure which
now makes an impression on me, and what virtue I have need of with respect to
it, such as gentleness, manliness, truth, fidelity, simplicity, contentment, and the
rest. Wherefore, on every occasion a man should say: this comes from God; and
this is according to the apportionment and spinning of the thread of destiny, and
such-like coincidence and chance; and this is from one of the same stock, and a
kinsman and partner, one who knows not however what is according to his
nature. But I know; for this reason I behave towards him according to the natural
law of fellowship with benevolence and justice. At the same time however in
things indifferent I attempt to ascertain the value of each.
If thou workest at that which is before thee, following right reason seriously,
vigorously, calmly, without allowing anything else to distract thee, but keeping
thy divine part pure, as if thou shouldst be bound to give it back immediately; if
thou holdest to this, expecting nothing, fearing nothing, but satisfied with thy
present activity according to nature, and with heroic truth in every word and
sound which thou utterest, thou wilt live happy. And there is no man who is able
to prevent this.
As physicians have always their instruments and knives ready for cases which
suddenly require their skill, so do thou have principles ready for the
understanding of things divine and human, and for doing everything, even the
smallest, with a recollection of the bond which unites the divine and human to
one another. For neither wilt thou do anything well which pertains to man
without at the same time having a reference to things divine; nor the contrary.
No longer wander at hazard; for neither wilt thou read thy own memoirs, nor
the acts of the ancient Romans and Hellenes, and the selections from books
which thou wast reserving for thy old age.
Hasten then to the end which thou hast before thee, and throwing away idle
hopes, come to thy own aid, if thou carest at all for thyself, while it is in thy
power.
They know not how many things are signified by the words stealing, sowing,
buying, keeping quiet, seeing what ought to be done; for this is not effected by
the eyes, but by another kind of vision.
Body, soul, intelligence: to the body belong sensations, to the soul appetites,
to the intelligence principles. To receive the impressions of forms by means of
appearances belongs even to animals; to be pulled by the strings of desire
belongs both to wild beasts and to men who have made themselves into women,
and to a Phalaris and a Nero: and to have the intelligence that guides to the
things which appear suitable belongs also to those who do not believe in the
gods, and who betray their country, and do their impure deeds when they have
shut the doors. If then everything else is common to all that I have mentioned,
there remains that which is peculiar to the good man, to be pleased and content
with what happens, and with the thread which is spun for him; and not to defile
the divinity which is planted in his breast, nor disturb it by a crowd of images,
but to preserve it tranquil, following it obediently as a god, neither saying
anything contrary to the truth, nor doing anything contrary to justice. And if all
men refuse to believe that he lives a simple, modest, and contented life, he is
neither angry with any of them, nor does he deviate from the way which leads to
the end of life, to which a man ought to come pure, tranquil, ready to depart, and
without any compulsion perfectly reconciled to his lot.
BOOK FOUR
THAT which rules within, when it is according to nature, is so affected with
respect to the events which happen, that it always easily adapts itself to that
which is and is presented to it. For it requires no definite material, but it moves
towards its purpose, under certain conditions however; and it makes a material
for itself out of that which opposes it, as fire lays hold of what falls into it, by
which a small light would have been extinguished: but when the fire is strong, it
soon appropriates to itself the matter which is heaped on it, and consumes it, and
rises higher by means of this very material.
Let no act be done without a purpose, nor otherwise than according to the
perfect principles of art.
Men seek retreats for themselves, houses in the country, seashores, and
mountains; and thou too art wont to desire such things very much. But this is
altogether a mark of the most common sort of men, for it is in thy power
whenever thou shalt choose to retire into thyself. For nowhere either with more
quiet or more freedom from trouble does a man retire than into his own soul,
particularly when he has within him such thoughts that by looking into them he
is immediately in perfect tranquility; and I affirm that tranquility is nothing else
than the good ordering of the mind. Constantly then give to thyself this retreat,
and renew thyself; and let thy principles be brief and fundamental, which, as
soon as thou shalt recur to them, will be sufficient to cleanse the soul
completely, and to send thee back free from all discontent with the things to
which thou returnest. For with what art thou discontented? With the badness of
men? Recall to thy mind this conclusion, that rational animals exist for one
another, and that to endure is a part of justice, and that men do wrong
involuntarily; and consider how many already, after mutual enmity, suspicion,
hatred, and fighting, have been stretched dead, reduced to ashes; and be quiet at
last.- But perhaps thou art dissatisfied with that which is assigned to thee out of
the universe.- Recall to thy recollection this alternative; either there is
providence or atoms, fortuitous concurrence of things; or remember the
arguments by which it has been proved that the world is a kind of political
community, and be quiet at last.- But perhaps corporeal things will still fasten
upon thee.- Consider then further that the mind mingles not with the breath,
whether moving gently or violently, when it has once drawn itself apart and
discovered its own power, and think also of all that thou hast heard and assented
to about pain and pleasure, and be quiet at last.- But perhaps the desire of the
thing called fame will torment thee.- See how soon everything is forgotten, and
look at the chaos of infinite time on each side of the present, and the emptiness
of applause, and the changeableness and want of judgement in those who
pretend to give praise, and the narrowness of the space within which it is
circumscribed, and be quiet at last. For the whole earth is a point, and how small
a nook in it is this thy dwelling, and how few are there in it, and what kind of
people are they who will praise thee. This then remains: Remember to retire into
this little territory of thy own, and above all do not distract or strain thyself, but
be free, and look at things as a man, as a human being, as a citizen, as a mortal.
But among the things readiest to thy hand to which thou shalt turn, let there be
these, which are two. One is that things do not touch the soul, for they are
external and remain immovable; but our perturbations come only from the
opinion which is within. The other is that all these things, which thou seest,
change immediately and will no longer be; and constantly bear in mind how
many of these changes thou hast already witnessed. The universe is
transformation: life is opinion.
If our intellectual part is common, the reason also, in respect of which we are
rational beings, is common: if this is so, common also is the reason which
commands us what to do, and what not to do; if this is so, there is a common law
also; if this is so, we are fellow-citizens; if this is so, we are members of some
political community; if this is so, the world is in a manner a state. For of what
other common political community will any one say that the whole human race
are members? And from thence, from this common political community comes
also our very intellectual faculty and reasoning faculty and our capacity for law;
or whence do they come?
For as my earthly part is a portion given to me from certain earth, and that
which is watery from another element, and that which is hot and fiery from some
peculiar source (for nothing comes out of that which is nothing, as nothing also
returns to non-existence), so also the intellectual part comes from some source.
Death is such as generation is, a mystery of nature; a composition out of the
same elements, and a decomposition into the same; and altogether not a thing of
which any man should be ashamed, for it is not contrary to the nature of a
reasonable animal, and not contrary to the reason of our constitution.
It is natural that these things should be done by such persons, it is a matter of
necessity; and if a man will not have it so, he will not allow the fig-tree to have
juice. But by all means bear this in mind, that within a very short time both thou
and he will be dead; and soon not even your names will be left behind.
Take away thy opinion, and then there is taken away the complaint, "I have
been harmed." Take away the complaint, "I have been harmed," and the harm is
taken away. That which does not make a man worse than he was, also does not
make his life worse, nor does it harm him either from without or from within.
The nature of that which is universally useful has been compelled to do this.
Consider that everything which happens, happens justly, and if thou observest
carefully, thou wilt find it to be so. I do not say only with respect to the
continuity of the series of things, but with respect to what is just, and as if it
were done by one who assigns to each thing its value. Observe then as thou hast
begun; and whatever thou doest, do it in conjunction with this, the being good,
and in the sense in which a man is properly understood to be good. Keep to this
in every action.
Do not have such an opinion of things as he has who does thee wrong, or such
as he wishes thee to have, but look at them as they are in truth.
A man should always have these two rules in readiness; the one, to do only
whatever the reason of the ruling and legislating faculty may suggest for the use
of men; the other, to change thy opinion, if there is any one at hand who sets
thee right and moves thee from any opinion. But this change of opinion must
proceed only from a certain persuasion, as of what is just or of common
advantage, and the like, not because it appears pleasant or brings reputation.
Hast thou reason? I have.- Why then dost not thou use it? For if this does its
own work, what else dost thou wish?
Thou hast existed as a part. Thou shalt disappear in that which produced thee;
but rather thou shalt be received back into its seminal principle by transmutation.
Many grains of frankincense on the same altar: one falls before, another falls
after; but it makes no difference.
Within ten days thou wilt seem a god to those to whom thou art now a beast
and an ape, if thou wilt return to thy principles and the worship of reason.
Do not act as if thou wert going to live ten thousand years. Death hangs over
thee. While thou livest, while it is in thy power, be good.
How much trouble he avoids who does not look to see what his neighbour
says or does or thinks, but only to what he does himself, that it may be just and
pure; or as Agathon says, look not round at the depraved morals of others, but
run straight along the line without deviating from it.
He who has a vehement desire for posthumous fame does not consider that
every one of those who remember him will himself also die very soon; then
again also they who have succeeded them, until the whole remembrance shall
have been extinguished as it is transmitted through men who foolishly admire
and perish. But suppose that those who will remember are even immortal, and
that the remembrance will be immortal, what then is this to thee? And I say not
what is it to the dead, but what is it to the living? What is praise except indeed so
far as it has a certain utility? For thou now rejectest unseasonably the gift of
nature, clinging to something else...
Everything which is in any way beautiful is beautiful in itself, and terminates
in itself, not having praise as part of itself. Neither worse then nor better is a
thing made by being praised. I affirm this also of the things which are called
beautiful by the vulgar, for example, material things and works of art. That
which is really beautiful has no need of anything; not more than law, not more
than truth, not more than benevolence or modesty. Which of these things is
beautiful because it is praised, or spoiled by being blamed? Is such a thing as an
emerald made worse than it was, if it is not praised? Or gold, ivory, purple, a
lyre, a little knife, a flower, a shrub?
If souls continue to exist, how does the air contain them from eternity?- But
how does the earth contain the bodies of those who have been buried from time
so remote? For as here the mutation of these bodies after a certain continuance,
whatever it may be, and their dissolution make room for other dead bodies; so
the souls which are removed into the air after subsisting for some time are
transmuted and diffused, and assume a fiery nature by being received into the
seminal intelligence of the universe, and in this way make room for the fresh
souls which come to dwell there. And this is the answer which a man might give
on the hypothesis of souls continuing to exist. But we must not only think of the
number of bodies which are thus buried, but also of the number of animals
which are daily eaten by us and the other animals. For what a number is
consumed, and thus in a manner buried in the bodies of those who feed on them!
And nevertheless this earth receives them by reason of the changes of these
bodies into blood, and the transformations into the aerial or the fiery element.
What is the investigation into the truth in this matter? The division into that
which is material and that which is the cause of form, the formal.
Do not be whirled about, but in every movement have respect to justice, and
on the occasion of every impression maintain the faculty of comprehension or
understanding.
Everything harmonizes with me, which is harmonious to thee, O Universe.
Nothing for me is too early nor too late, which is in due time for thee.
Everything is fruit to me which thy seasons bring, O Nature: from thee are all
things, in thee are all things, to thee all things return. The poet says, Dear city of
Cecrops; and wilt not thou say, Dear city of Zeus?
Occupy thyself with few things, says the philosopher, if thou wouldst be
tranquil.- But consider if it would not be better to say, Do what is necessary, and
whatever the reason of the animal which is naturally social requires, and as it
requires. For this brings not only the tranquility which comes from doing well,
but also that which comes from doing few things. For the greatest part of what
we say and do being unnecessary, if a man takes this away, he will have more
leisure and less uneasiness. Accordingly on every occasion a man should ask
himself, Is this one of the unnecessary things? Now a man should take away not
only unnecessary acts, but also, unnecessary thoughts, for thus superfluous acts
will not follow after.
Try how the life of the good man suits thee, the life of him who is satisfied
with his portion out of the whole, and satisfied with his own just acts and
benevolent disposition.
Hast thou seen those things? Look also at these. Do not disturb thyself. Make
thyself all simplicity. Does any one do wrong? It is to himself that he does the
wrong. Has anything happened to thee?
Well; out of the universe from the beginning everything which happens has
been apportioned and spun out to thee. In a word, thy life is short. Thou must
turn to profit the present by the aid of reason and justice. Be sober in thy
relaxation.
Either it is a well-arranged universe or a chaos huddled together, but still a
universe. But can a certain order subsist in thee, and disorder in the All? And
this too when all things are so separated and diffused and sympathetic.
A black character, a womanish character, a stubborn character, bestial,
childish, animal, stupid, counterfeit, scurrilous, fraudulent, tyrannical.
If he is a stranger to the universe who does not know what is in it, no less is he
a stranger who does not know what is going on in it. He is a runaway, who flies
from social reason; he is blind, who shuts the eyes of the understanding; he is
poor, who has need of another, and has not from himself all things which are
useful for life. He is an abscess on the universe who withdraws and separates
himself from the reason of our common nature through being displeased with the
things which happen, for the same nature produces this, and has produced thee
too: he is a piece rent asunder from the state, who tears his own soul from that of
reasonable animals, which is one.
The one is a philosopher without a tunic, and the other without a book: here is
another half naked: Bread I have not, he says, and I abide by reason.- And I do
not get the means of living out of my learning, and I abide by my reason.
Love the art, poor as it may be, which thou hast learned, and be content with
it; and pass through the rest of life like one who has intrusted to the gods with
his whole soul all that he has, making thyself neither the tyrant nor the slave of
any man.
Consider, for example, the times of Vespasian. Thou wilt see all these things,
people marrying, bringing up children, sick, dying, warring, feasting, trafficking,
cultivating the ground, flattering, obstinately arrogant, suspecting, plotting,
wishing for some to die, grumbling about the present, loving, heaping up
treasure, desiring counsulship, kingly power. Well then, that life of these people
no longer exists at all. Again, remove to the times of Trajan. Again, all is the
same. Their life too is gone. In like manner view also the other epochs of time
and of whole nations, and see how many after great efforts soon fell and were
resolved into the elements. But chiefly thou shouldst think of those whom thou
hast thyself known distracting themselves about idle things, neglecting to do
what was in accordance with their proper constitution, and to hold firmly to this
and to be content with it. And herein it is necessary to remember that the
attention given to everything has its proper value and proportion. For thus thou
wilt not be dissatisfied, if thou appliest thyself to smaller matters no further than
is fit.
The words which were formerly familiar are now antiquated: so also the
names of those who were famed of old, are now in a manner antiquated,
Camillus, Caeso, Volesus, Leonnatus, and a little after also Scipio and Cato, then
Augustus, then also Hadrian and Antoninus. For all things soon pass away and
become a mere tale, and complete oblivion soon buries them. And I say this of
those who have shone in a wondrous way. For the rest, as soon as they have
breathed out their breath, they are gone, and no man speaks of them. And, to
conclude the matter, what is even an eternal remembrance? A mere nothing.
What then is that about which we ought to employ our serious pains? This one
thing, thoughts just, and acts social, and words which never lie, and a disposition
which gladly accepts all that happens, as necessary, as usual, as flowing from a
principle and source of the same kind.
Willingly give thyself up to Clotho, one of the Fates, allowing her to spin thy
thread into whatever things she pleases.
Everything is only for a day, both that which remembers and that which is
remembered.
Observe constantly that all things take place by change, and accustom thyself
to consider that the nature of the Universe loves nothing so much as to change
the things which are and to make new things like them. For everything that
exists is in a manner the seed of that which will be. But thou art thinking only of
seeds which are cast into the earth or into a womb: but this is a very vulgar
notion.
Thou wilt soon die, and thou art not yet simple, not free from perturbations,
nor without suspicion of being hurt by external things, nor kindly disposed
towards all; nor dost thou yet place wisdom only in acting justly.
Examine men's ruling principles, even those of the wise, what kind of things
they avoid, and what kind they pursue.
What is evil to thee does not subsist in the ruling principle of another; nor yet
in any turning and mutation of thy corporeal covering. Where is it then? It is in
that part of thee in which subsists the power of forming opinions about evils. Let
this power then not form such opinions, and all is well. And if that which is
nearest to it, the poor body, is burnt, filled with matter and rottenness,
nevertheless let the part which forms opinions about these things be quiet, that
is, let it judge that nothing is either bad or good which can happen equally to the
bad man and the good. For that which happens equally to him who lives contrary
to nature and to him who lives according to nature, is neither according to nature
nor contrary to nature.
Constantly regard the universe as one living being, having one substance and
one soul; and observe how all things have reference to one perception, the
perception of this one living being; and how all things act with one movement;
and how all things are the cooperating causes of all things which exist; observe
too the continuous spinning of the thread and the contexture of the web.
Thou art a little soul bearing about a corpse, as Epictetus used to say.
It is no evil for things to undergo change, and no good for things to subsist in
consequence of change.
Time is like a river made up of the events which happen, and a violent stream;
for as soon as a thing has been seen, it is carried away, and another comes in its
place, and this will be carried away too.
Everything which happens is as familiar and well known as the rose in spring
and the fruit in summer; for such is disease, and death, and calumny, and
treachery, and whatever else delights fools or vexes them.
In the series of things those which follow are always aptly fitted to those
which have gone before; for this series is not like a mere enumeration of
disjointed things, which has only a necessary sequence, but it is a rational
connection: and as all existing things are arranged together harmoniously, so the
things which come into existence exhibit no mere succession, but a certain
wonderful relationship.
Always remember the saying of Heraclitus, that the death of earth is to
become water, and the death of water is to become air, and the death of air is to
become fire, and reversely. And think too of him who forgets whither the way
leads, and that men quarrel with that with which they are most constantly in
communion, the reason which governs the universe; and the things which daily
meet with seem to them strange: and consider that we ought not to act and speak
as if we were asleep, for even in sleep we seem to act and speak; and that we
ought not, like children who learn from their parents, simply to act and speak as
we have been taught.
If any god told thee that thou shalt die tomorrow, or certainly on the day after
tomorrow, thou wouldst not care much whether it was on the third day or on the
morrow, unless thou wast in the highest degree mean-spirited- for how small is
the difference?- So think it no great thing to die after as many years as thou canst
name rather than tomorrow.
Think continually how many physicians are dead after often contracting their
eyebrows over the sick; and how many astrologers after predicting with great
pretensions the deaths of others; and how many philosophers after endless
discourses on death or immortality; how many heroes after killing thousands;
and how many tyrants who have used their power over men's lives with terrible
insolence as if they were immortal; and how many cities are entirely dead, so to
speak, Helice and Pompeii and Herculaneum, and others innumerable. Add to
the reckoning all whom thou hast known, one after another. One man after
burying another has been laid out dead, and another buries him: and all this in a
short time. To conclude, always observe how ephemeral and worthless human
things are, and what was yesterday a little mucus tomorrow will be a mummy or
ashes. Pass then through this little space of time conformably to nature, and end
thy journey in content, just as an olive falls off when it is ripe, blessing nature
who produced it, and thanking the tree on which it grew.
Be like the promontory against which the waves continually break, but it
stands firm and tames the fury of the water around it.
Unhappy am I because this has happened to me.- Not so, but happy am I,
though this has happened to me, because I continue free from pain, neither
crushed by the present nor fearing the future. For such a thing as this might have
happened to every man; but every man would not have continued free from pain
on such an occasion. Why then is that rather a misfortune than this a good
fortune? And dost thou in all cases call that a man's misfortune, which is not a
deviation from man's nature? And does a thing seem to thee to be a deviation
from man's nature, when it is not contrary to the will of man's nature? Well, thou
knowest the will of nature. Will then this which has happened prevent thee from
being just, magnanimous, temperate, prudent, secure against inconsiderate
opinions and falsehood; will it prevent thee from having modesty, freedom, and
everything else, by the presence of which man's nature obtains all that is its
own? Remember too on every occasion which leads thee to vexation to apply
this principle: not that this is a misfortune, but that to bear it nobly is good
fortune.
It is a vulgar, but still a useful help towards contempt of death, to pass in
review those who have tenaciously stuck to life. What more then have they
gained than those who have died early? Certainly they lie in their tombs
somewhere at last, Cadicianus, Fabius, Julianus, Lepidus, or any one else like
them, who have carried out many to be buried, and then were carried out
themselves. Altogether the interval is small between birth and death; and
consider with how much trouble, and in company with what sort of people and
in what a feeble body this interval is laboriously passed. Do not then consider
life a thing of any value. For look to the immensity of time behind thee, and to
the time which is before thee, another boundless space. In this infinity then what
is the difference between him who lives three days and him who lives three
generations?
Always run to the short way; and the short way is the natural: accordingly say
and do everything in conformity with the soundest reason. For such a purpose
frees a man from trouble, and warfare, and all artifice and ostentatious display.
BOOK FIVE
IN THE morning when thou risest unwillingly, let this thought be presentI am
rising to the work of a human being. Why then am I dissatisfied if I am going to
do the things for which I exist and for which I was brought into the world? Or
have I been made for this, to lie in the bed-clothes and keep myself warm?- But
this is more pleasant.- Dost thou exist then to take thy pleasure, and not at all for
action or exertion? Dost thou not see the little plants, the little birds, the ants, the
spiders, the bees working together to put in order their several parts of the
universe? And art thou unwilling to do the work of a human being, and dost thou
not make haste to do that which is according to thy nature?- But it is necessary to
take rest also.- It is necessary: however nature has fixed bounds to this too: she
has fixed bounds both to eating and drinking, and yet thou goest beyond these
bounds, beyond what is sufficient; yet in thy acts it is not so, but thou stoppest
short of what thou canst do. So thou lovest not thyself, for if thou didst, thou
wouldst love thy nature and her will. But those who love their several arts
exhaust themselves in working at them unwashed and without food; but thou
valuest thy own own nature less than the turner values the turning art, or the
dancer the dancing art, or the lover of money values his money, or the
vainglorious man his little glory. And such men, when they have a violent
affection to a thing, choose neither to eat nor to sleep rather than to perfect the
things which they care for. But are the acts which concern society more vile in
thy eyes and less worthy of thy labour?
How easy it is to repel and to wipe away every impression which is
troublesome or unsuitable, and immediately to be in all tranquility.
Judge every word and deed which are according to nature to be fit for thee;
and be not diverted by the blame which follows from any people nor by their
words, but if a thing is good to be done or said, do not consider it unworthy of
thee. For those persons have their peculiar leading principle and follow their
peculiar movement; which things do not thou regard, but go straight on,
following thy own nature and the common nature; and the way of both is one.
I go through the things which happen according to nature until I shall fall and
rest, breathing out my breath into that element out of which I daily draw it in,
and falling upon that earth out of which my father collected the seed, and my
mother the blood, and my nurse the milk; out of which during so many years I
have been supplied with food and drink; which bears me when I tread on it and
abuse it for so many purposes.
Thou sayest, Men cannot admire the sharpness of thy wits.- Be it so: but there
are many other things of which thou canst not say, I am not formed for them by
nature. Show those qualities then which are altogether in thy power, sincerity,
gravity, endurance of labour, aversion to pleasure, contentment with thy portion
and with few things, benevolence, frankness, no love of superfluity, freedom
from trifling magnanimity. Dost thou not see how many qualities thou art
immediately able to exhibit, in which there is no excuse of natural incapacity and
unfitness, and yet thou still remainest voluntarily below the mark? Or art thou
compelled through being defectively furnished by nature to murmur, and to be
stingy, and to flatter, and to find fault with thy poor body, and to try to please
men, and to make great display, and to be so restless in thy mind? No, by the
gods: but thou mightest have been delivered from these things long ago. Only if
in truth thou canst be charged with being rather slow and dull of comprehension,
thou must exert thyself about this also, not neglecting it nor yet taking pleasure
in thy dulness.
One man, when he has done a service to another, is ready to set it down to his
account as a favour conferred. Another is not ready to do this, but still in his own
mind he thinks of the man as his debtor, and he knows what he has done. A third
in a manner does not even know what he has done, but he is like a vine which
has produced grapes, and seeks for nothing more after it has once produced its
proper fruit. As a horse when he has run, a dog when he has tracked the game, a
bee when it has made the honey, so a man when he has done a good act, does not
call out for others to come and see, but he goes on to another act, as a vine goes
on to produce again the grapes in season.- Must a man then be one of these, who
in a manner act thus without observing it?- Yes.- But this very thing is
necessary, the observation of what a man is doing: for, it may be said, it is
characteristic of the social animal to perceive that he is working in a social
manner, and indeed to wish that his social partner also should perceive it.- It is
true what thou sayest, but thou dost not rightly understand what is now said: and
for this reason thou wilt become one of those of whom I spoke before, for even
they are misled by a certain show of reason. But if thou wilt choose to
understand the meaning of what is said, do not fear that for this reason thou wilt
omit any social act.
A prayer of the Athenians: Rain, rain, O dear Zeus, down on the ploughed
fields of the Athenians and on the plains.- In truth we ought not to pray at all, or
we ought to pray in this simple and noble fashion.
Just as we must understand when it is said, That Aesculapius prescribed to this
man horse-exercise, or bathing in cold water or going without shoes; so we must
understand it when it is said, That the nature of the universe prescribed to this
man disease or mutilation or loss or anything else of the kind. For in the first
case Prescribed means something like this: he prescribed this for this man as a
thing adapted to procure health; and in the second case it means: That which
happens to (or, suits) every man is fixed in a manner for him suitably to his
destiny. For this is what we mean when we say that things are suitable to us, as
the workmen say of squared stones in walls or the pyramids, that they are
suitable, when they fit them to one another in some kind of connexion. For there
is altogether one fitness, harmony. And as the universe is made up out of all
bodies to be such a body as it is, so out of all existing causes necessity (destiny)
is made up to be such a cause as it is. And even those who are completely
ignorant understand what I mean, for they say, It (necessity, destiny) brought
this to such a person.- This then was brought and this was precribed to him. Let
us then receive these things, as well as those which Aesculapius prescribes.
Many as a matter of course even among his prescriptions are disagreeable, but
we accept them in the hope of health. Let the perfecting and accomplishment of
the things, which the common nature judges to be good, be judged by thee to be
of the same kind as thy health. And so accept everything which happens, even if
it seem disagreeable, because it leads to this, to the health of the universe and to
the prosperity and felicity of Zeus (the universe).
For he would not have brought on any man what he has brought, if it were not
useful for the whole. Neither does the nature of anything, whatever it may be,
cause anything which is not suitable to that which is directed by it. For two
reasons then it is right to be content with that which happens to thee; the one,
because it was done for thee and prescribed for thee, and in a manner had
reference to thee, originally from the most ancient causes spun with thy destiny;
and the other, because even that which comes severally to every man is to the
power which administers the universe a cause of felicity and perfection, nay
even of its very continuance. For the integrity of the whole is mutilated, if thou
cuttest off anything whatever from the conjunction and the continuity either of
the parts or of the causes.
And thou dost cut off, as far as it is in thy power, when thou art dissatisfied,
and in a manner triest to put anything out of the way.
Be not disgusted, nor discouraged, nor dissatisfied, if thou dost not succeed in
doing everything according to right principles; but when thou bast failed, return
back again, and be content if the greater part of what thou doest is consistent
with man's nature, and love this to which thou returnest; and do not return to
philosophy as if she were a master, but act like those who have sore eyes and
apply a bit of sponge and egg, or as another applies a plaster, or drenching with
water. For thus thou wilt not fail to obey reason, and thou wilt repose in it. And
remember that philosophy requires only the things which thy nature requires; but
thou wouldst have something else which is not according to nature.- It may be
objected, Why what is more agreeable than this which I am doing?- But is not
this the very reason why pleasure deceives us? And consider if magnanimity,
freedom, simplicity, equanimity, piety, are not more agreeable. For what is more
agreeable than wisdom itself, when thou thinkest of the security and the happy
course of all things which depend on the faculty of understanding and
knowledge?
Things are in such a kind of envelopment that they have seemed to
philosophers, not a few nor those common philosophers, altogether
unintelligible; nay even to the Stoics themselves they seem difficult to
understand. And all our assent is changeable; for where is the man who never
changes? Carry thy thoughts then to the objects themselves, and consider how
short-lived they are and worthless, and that they may be in the possession of a
filthy wretch or a whore or a robber.
Then turn to the morals of those who live with thee, and it is hardly possible
to endure even the most agreeable of them, to say nothing of a man being hardly
able to endure himself. In such darkness then and dirt and in so constant a flux
both of substance and of time, and of motion and of things moved, what there is
worth being highly prized or even an object of serious pursuit, I cannot imagine.
But on the contrary it is a man's duty to comfort himself, and to wait for the
natural dissolution and not to be vexed at the delay, but to rest in these principles
only: the one, that nothing will happen to me which is not conformable to the
nature of the universe; and the other, that it is in my power never to act contrary
to my god and daemon: for there is no man who will compel me to this.
About what am I now employing my own soul? On every occasion I must ask
myself this question, and inquire, what have I now in this part of me which they
call the ruling principle? And whose soul have I now? That of a child, or of a
young man, or of a feeble woman, or of a tyrant, or of a domestic animal, or of a
wild beast?
What kind of things those are which appear good to the many, we may learn
even from this. For if any man should conceive certain things as being really
good, such as prudence, temperance, justice, fortitude, he would not after having
first conceived these endure to listen to anything which should not be in
harmony with what is really good. But if a man has first conceived as good the
things which appear to the many to be good, he will listen and readily receive as
very applicable that which was said by the comic writer. Thus even the many
perceive the difference. For were it not so, this saying would not offend and
would not be rejected in the first case, while we receive it when it is said of
wealth, and of the means which further luxury and fame, as said fitly and wittily.
Go on then and ask if we should value and think those things to be good, to
which after their first conception in the mind the words of the comic writer
might be aptly applied-that he who has them, through pure abundance has not a
place to ease himself in.
I am composed of the formal and the material; and neither of them will perish
into non-existence, as neither of them came into existence out of non-existence.
Every part of me then will be reduced by change into some part of the universe,
and that again will change into another part of the universe, and so on for ever.
And by consequence of such a change I too exist, and those who begot me, and
so on for ever in the other direction. For nothing hinders us from saying so, even
if the universe is administered according to definite periods of revolution.
Reason and the reasoning art (philosophy) are powers which are sufficient for
themselves and for their own works. They move then from a first principle
which is their own, and they make their way to the end which is proposed to
them; and this is the reason why such acts are named catorthoseis or right acts,
which word signifies that they proceed by the right road.
None of these things ought to be called a man's, which do not belong to a man,
as man. They are not required of a man, nor does man's nature promise them, nor
are they the means of man's nature attaining its end. Neither then does the end of
man lie in these things, nor yet that which aids to the accomplishment of this
end, and that which aids towards this end is that which is good. Besides, if any
of these things did belong to man, it would not be right for a man to despise
them and to set himself against them; nor would a man be worthy of praise who
showed that he did not want these things, nor would he who stinted himself in
any of them be good, if indeed these things were good. But now the more of
these things a man deprives himself of, or of other things like them, or even
when he is deprived of any of them, the more patiently he endures the loss, just
in the same degree he is a better man.
Such as are thy habitual thoughts, such also will be the character of thy mind;
for the soul is dyed by the thoughts. Dye it then with a continuous series of such
thoughts as these: for instance, that where a man can live, there he can also live
well. But he must live in a palace;- well then, he can also live well in a palace.
And again, consider that for whatever purpose each thing has been constituted,
for this it has been constituted, and towards this it is carried; and its end is in that
towards which it is carried; and where the end is, there also is the advantage and
the good of each thing. Now the good for the reasonable animal is society; for
that we are made for society has been shown above. Is it not plain that the
inferior exist for the sake of the superior? But the things which have life are
superior to those which have not life, and of those which have life the superior
are those which have reason.
To seek what is impossible is madness: and it is impossible that the bad
should not do something of this kind.
Nothing happens to any man which he is not formed by nature to bear. The
same things happen to another, and either because he does not see that they have
happened or because he would show a great spirit he is firm and remains
unharmed. It is a shame then that ignorance and conceit should be stronger than
wisdom.
Things themselves touch not the soul, not in the least degree; nor have they
admission to the soul, nor can they turn or move the soul: but the soul turns and
moves itself alone, and whatever judgements it may think proper to make, such
it makes for itself the things which present themselves to it.
In one respect man is the nearest thing to me, so far as I must do good to men
and endure them. But so far as some men make themselves obstacles to my
proper acts, man becomes to me one of the things which are indifferent, no less
than the sun or wind or a wild beast. Now it is true that these may impede my
action, but they are no impediments to my affects and disposition, which have
the power of acting conditionally and changing: for the mind converts and
changes every hindrance to its activity into an aid; and so that which is a
hindrance is made a furtherance to an act; and that which is an obstacle on the
road helps us on this road.
Reverence that which is best in the universe; and this is that which makes use
of all things and directs all things. And in like manner also reverence that which
is best in thyself; and this is of the same kind as that. For in thyself also, that
which makes use of everything else, is this, and thy life is directed by this.
That which does no harm to the state, does no harm to the citizen. In the case
of every appearance of harm apply this rule: if the state is not harmed by this,
neither am I harmed. But if the state is harmed, thou must not be angry with him
who does harm to the state.
Show him where his error is.
Often think of the rapidity with which things pass by and disappear, both the
things which are and the things which are produced. For substance is like a river
in a continual flow, and the activities of things are in constant change, and the
causes work in infinite varieties; and there is hardly anything which stands still.
And consider this which is near to thee, this boundless abyss of the past and of
the future in which all things disappear. How then is he not a fool who is puffed
up with such things or plagued about them and makes himself miserable? for
they vex him only for a time, and a short time.
Think of the universal substance, of which thou hast a very small portion; and
of universal time, of which a short and indivisible interval has been assigned to
thee; and of that which is fixed by destiny, and how small a part of it thou art.
Does another do me wrong? Let him look to it. He has his own disposition, his
own activity. I now have what the universal nature wills me to have; and I do
what my nature now wills me to do.
Let the part of thy soul which leads and governs be undisturbed by the
movements in the flesh, whether of pleasure or of pain; and let it not unite with
them, but let it circumscribe itself and limit those affects to their parts. But when
these affects rise up to the mind by virtue of that other sympathy that naturally
exists in a body which is all one, then thou must not strive to resist the sensation,
for it is natural: but let not the ruling part of itself add to the sensation the
opinion that it is either good or bad.
Live with the gods. And he does live with the gods who constantly shows to
them, his own soul is satisfied with that which is assigned to him, and that it
does all that the daemon wishes, which Zeus hath given to every man for his
guardian and guide, a portion of himself.
And this is every man's understanding and reason.
Art thou angry with him whose armpits stink? Art thou angry with him whose
mouth smells foul? What good will this danger do thee? He has such a mouth, he
has such armpits: it is necessary that such an emanation must come from such
things-but the man has reason, it will be said, and he is able, if he takes pain, to
discover wherein he offends-I wish thee well of thy discovery. Well then, and
thou hast reason: by thy rational faculty stir up his rational faculty; show him his
error, admonish him. For if he listens, thou wilt cure him, and there is no need of
anger. Neither tragic actor nor whore...
As thou intendest to live when thou art gone out,...so it is in thy power to live
here. But if men do not permit thee, then get away out of life, yet so as if thou
wert suffering no harm. The house is smoky, and I quit it. Why dost thou think
that this is any trouble? But so long as nothing of the kind drives me out, I
remain, am free, and no man shall hinder me from doing what I choose; and I
choose to do what is according to the nature of the rational and social animal.
The intelligence of the universe is social. Accordingly it has made the inferior
things for the sake of the superior, and it has fitted the superior to one another.
Thou seest how it has subordinated, co-ordinated and assigned to everything its
proper portion, and has brought together into concord with one another the
things which are the best.
How hast thou behaved hitherto to the gods, thy parents, brethren, children,
teachers, to those who looked after thy infancy, to thy friends, kinsfolk, to thy
slaves? Consider if thou hast hitherto behaved to all in such a way that this may
be said of thee: Never has wronged a man in deed or word.
And call to recollection both how many things thou hast passed through, and
how many things thou hast been able to endure: and that the history of thy life is
now complete and thy service is ended: and how many beautiful things thou hast
seen: and how many pleasures and pains thou hast despised; and how many
things called honourable thou hast spurned; and to how many ill-minded folks
thou hast shown a kind disposition.
Why do unskilled and ignorant souls disturb him who has skill and
knowledge? What soul then has skill and knowledge? That which knows
beginning and end, and knows the reason which pervades all substance and
through all time by fixed periods (revolutions) administers the universe.
Soon, very soon, thou wilt be ashes, or a skeleton, and either a name or not
even a name; but name is sound and echo. And the things which are much
valued in life are empty and rotten and trifling, and like little dogs biting one
another, and little children quarrelling, laughing, and then straightway weeping.
But fidelity and modesty and justice and truth are fled
Up to Olympus from the widespread earth.
What then is there which still detains thee here? If the objects of sense are
easily changed and never stand still, and the organs of perception are dull and
easily receive false impressions; and the poor soul itself is an exhalation from
blood. But to have good repute amidst such a world as this is an empty thing.
Why then dost thou not wait in tranquility for thy end, whether it is extinction or
removal to another state? And until that time comes, what is sufficient? Why,
what else than to venerate the gods and bless them, and to do good to men, and
to practise tolerance and self-restraint; but as to everything which is beyond the
limits of the poor flesh and breath, to remember that this is neither thine nor in
thy power.
Thou canst pass thy life in an equable flow of happiness, if thou canst go by
the right way, and think and act in the right way. These two things are common
both to the soul of God and to the soul of man, and to the soul of every rational
being, not to be hindered by another; and to hold good to consist in the
disposition to justice and the practice of it, and in this to let thy desire find its
termination.
If this is neither my own badness, nor an effect of my own badness, and the
common weal is not injured, why am I troubled about it? And what is the harm
to the common weal?
Do not be carried along inconsiderately by the appearance of things, but give
help to all according to thy ability and their fitness; and if they should have
sustained loss in matters which are indifferent, do not imagine this to be a
damage. For it is a bad habit. But as the old man, when he went away, asked
back his foster-child's top, remembering that it was a top, so do thou in this case
also.
When thou art calling out on the Rostra, hast thou forgotten, man, what these
things are?- Yes; but they are objects of great concern to these people-wilt thou
too then be made a fool for these things?- I was once a fortunate man, but I lost
it, I know not how.- But fortunate means that a man has assigned to himself a
good fortune: and a good fortune is good disposition of the soul, good emotions,
good actions.
BOOK SIX
THE substance of the universe is obedient and compliant; and the reason
which governs it has in itself no cause for doing evil, for it has no malice, nor
does it do evil to anything, nor is anything harmed by it. But all things are made
and perfected according to this reason.
Let it make no difference to thee whether thou art cold or warm, if thou art
doing thy duty; and whether thou art drowsy or satisfied with sleep; and whether
ill-spoken of or praised; and whether dying or doing something else. For it is one
of the acts of life, this act by which we die: it is sufficient then in this act also to
do well what we have in hand.
Look within. Let neither the peculiar quality of anything nor its value escape
thee.
All existing things soon change, and they will either be reduced to vapour, if
indeed all substance is one, or they will be dispersed.
The reason which governs knows what its own disposition is, and what it
does, and on what material it works.
The best way of avenging thyself is not to become like the wrong doer.
Take pleasure in one thing and rest in it, in passing from one social act to
another social act, thinking of God.
The ruling principle is that which rouses and turns itself, and while it makes
itself such as it is and such as it wills to be, it also makes everything which
happens appear to itself to be such as it wills.
In conformity to the nature of the universe every single thing is accomplished,
for certainly it is not in conformity to any other nature that each thing is
accomplished, either a nature which externally comprehends this, or a nature
which is comprehended within this nature, or a nature external and independent
of this.
The universe is either a confusion, and a mutual involution of things, and a
dispersion; or it is unity and order and providence. If then it is the former, why
do I desire to tarry in a fortuitous combination of things and such a disorder?
And why do I care about anything else than how I shall at last become earth?
And why am I disturbed, for the dispersion of my elements will happen whatever
I do. But if the other supposition is true, I venerate, and I am firm, and I trust in
him who governs.
When thou hast been compelled by circumstances to be disturbed in a manner,
quickly return to thyself and do not continue out of tune longer than the
compulsion lasts; for thou wilt have more mastery over the harmony by
continually recurring to it.
If thou hadst a step-mother and a mother at the same time, thou wouldst be
dutiful to thy step-mother, but still thou wouldst constantly return to thy mother.
Let the court and philosophy now be to thee step-mother and mother: return to
philosophy frequently and repose in her, through whom what thou meetest with
in the court appears to thee tolerable, and thou appearest tolerable in the court.
When we have meat before us and such eatables we receive the impression,
that this is the dead body of a fish, and this is the dead body of a bird or of a pig;
and again, that this Falernian is only a little grape juice, and this purple robe
some sheep's wool dyed with the blood of a shellfish: such then are these
impressions, and they reach the things themselves and penetrate them, and so we
see what kind of things they are. Just in the same way ought we to act all through
life, and where there are things which appear most worthy of our approbation,
we ought to lay them bare and look at their worthlessness and strip them of all
the words by which they are exalted. For outward show is a wonderful perverter
of the reason, and when thou art most sure that thou art employed about things
worth thy pains, it is then that it cheats thee most.
Consider then what Crates says of Xenocrates himself. Most of the things
which the multitude admire are referred to objects of the most general kind,
those which are held together by cohesion or natural organization, such as
stones, wood, fig-trees, vines, olives. But those which are admired by men who
are a little more reasonable are referred to the things which are held together by
a living principle, as flocks, herds. Those which are admired by men who are
still more instructed are the things which are held together by a rational soul, not
however a universal soul, but rational so far as it is a soul skilled in some art, or
expert in some other way, or simply rational so far as it possesses a number of
slaves. But he who values rational soul, a soul universal and fitted for political
life, regards nothing else except this; and above all things he keeps his soul in a
condition and in an activity conformable to reason and social life, and he
cooperates to this end with those who are of the same kind as himself.
Some things are hurrying into existence, and others are hurrying out of it; and
of that which is coming into existence part is already extinguished. Motions and
changes are continually renewing the world, just as the uninterrupted course of
time is always renewing the infinite duration of ages. In this flowing stream
then, on which there is no abiding, what is there of the things which hurry by on
which a man would set a high price? It would be just as if a man should fall in
love with one of the sparrows which fly by, but it has already passed out of sight.
Something of this kind is the very life of every man, like the exhalation of the
blood and the respiration of the air. For such as it is to have once drawn in the air
and to have given it back, which we do every moment, just the same is it with
the whole respiratory power, which thou didst receive at thy birth yesterday and
the day before, to give it back to the element from which thou didst first draw it.
Neither is transpiration, as in plants, a thing to be valued, nor respiration, as in
domesticated animals and wild beasts, nor the receiving of impressions by the
appearances of things, nor being moved by desires as puppets by strings, nor
assembling in herds, nor being nourished by food; for this is just like the act of
separating and parting with the useless part of our food. What then is worth
being valued? To be received with clapping of hands? No. Neither must we
value the clapping of tongues, for the praise which comes from the many is a
clapping of tongues. Suppose then that thou hast given up this worthless thing
called fame, what remains that is worth valuing? This in my opinion, to move
thyself and to restrain thyself in conformity to thy proper constitution, to which
end both all employments and arts lead. For every art aims at this, that the thing
which has been made should be adapted to the work for which it has been made;
and both the vine-planter who looks after the vine, and the horse-breaker, and he
who trains the dog, seek this end. But the education and the teaching of youth
aim at something. In this then is the value of the education and the teaching. And
if this is well, thou wilt not seek anything else. Wilt thou not cease to value
many other things too? Then thou wilt be neither free, nor sufficient for thy own
happiness, nor without passion. For of necessity thou must be envious, jealous,
and suspicious of those who can take away those things, and plot against those
who have that which is valued by thee. Of necessity a man must be altogether in
a state of perturbation who wants any of these things; and besides, he must often
find fault with the gods. But to reverence and honour thy own mind will make
thee content with thyself, and in harmony with society, and in agreement with
the gods, that is, praising all that they give and have ordered.
Above, below, all around are the movements of the elements. But the motion
of virtue is in none of these: it is something more divine, and advancing by a
way hardly observed it goes happily on its road.
How strangely men act. They will not praise those who are living at the same
time and living with themselves; but to be themselves praised by posterity, by
those whom they have never seen or ever will see, this they set much value on.
But this is very much the same as if thou shouldst be grieved because those who
have lived before thee did not praise thee.
If a thing is difficult to be accomplished by thyself, do not think that it is
impossible for man: but if anything is possible for man and conformable to his
nature, think that this can be attained by thyself too.
In the gymnastic exercises suppose that a man has torn thee with his nails, and
by dashing against thy head has inflicted a wound. Well, we neither show any
signs of vexation, nor are we offended, nor do we suspect him afterwards as a
treacherous fellow; and yet we are on our guard against him, not however as an
enemy, nor yet with suspicion, but we quietly get out of his way. Something like
this let thy behaviour be in all the other parts of life; let us overlook many things
in those who are like antagonists in the gymnasium. For it is in our power, as I
said, to get out of the way, and to have no suspicion nor hatred.
If any man is able to convince me and show me that I do not think or act right,
I will gladly change; for I seek the truth by which no man was ever injured. But
he is injured who abides in his error and ignorance.
I do my duty: other things trouble me not; for they are either things without
life, or things without reason, or things that have rambled and know not the way.
As to the animals which have no reason and generally all things and objects,
do thou, since thou hast reason and they have none, make use of them with a
generous and liberal spirit. But towards human beings, as they have reason,
behave in a social spirit. And on all occasions call on the gods, and do not
perplex thyself about the length of time in which thou shalt do this; for even
three hours so spent are sufficient.
Alexander the Macedonian and his groom by death were brought to the same
state; for either they were received among the same seminal principles of the
universe, or they were alike dispersed among the atoms.
Consider how many things in the same indivisible time take place in each of
us, things which concern the body and things which concern the soul: and so
thou wilt not wonder if many more things, or rather all things which come into
existence in that which is the one and all, which we call Cosmos, exist in it at the
same time.
If any man should propose to thee the question, how the name Antoninus is
written, wouldst thou with a straining of the voice utter each letter? What then if
they grow angry, wilt thou be angry too?
Wilt thou not go on with composure and number every letter? just so then in
this life also remember that every duty is made up of certain parts. These it is thy
duty to observe and without being disturbed or showing anger towards those
who are angry with thee to go on thy way and finish that which is set before
thee.
How cruel it is not to allow men to strive after the things which appear to
them to be suitable to their nature and profitable! And yet in a manner thou dost
not allow them to do this, when thou art vexed because they do wrong. For they
are certainly moved towards things because they suppose them to be suitable to
their nature and profitable to them.- But it is not so.- Teach them then, and show
them without being angry.
Death is a cessation of the impressions through the senses, and of the pulling
of the strings which move the appetites, and of the discursive movements of the
thoughts, and of the service to the flesh.
It is a shame for the soul to be first to give way in this life, when thy body
does not give way.
Take care that thou art not made into a Caesar, that thou art not dyed with this
dye; for such things happen. Keep thyself then simple, good, pure, serious, free
from affectation, a friend of justice, a worshipper of the gods, kind, affectionate,
strenuous in all proper acts. Strive to continue to be such as philosophy wished
to make thee. Reverence the gods, and help men. Short is life. There is only one
fruit of this terrene life, a pious disposition and social acts. Do everything as a
disciple of Antoninus. Remember his constancy in every act which was
conformable to reason, and his evenness in all things, and his piety, and the
serenity of his countenance, and his sweetness, and his disregard of empty fame,
and his efforts to understand things; and how he would never let anything pass
without having first most carefully examined it and clearly understood it; and
how he bore with those who blamed him unjustly without blaming them in
return; how he did nothing in a hurry; and how he listened not to calumnies, and
how exact an examiner of manners and actions he was; and not given to reproach
people, nor timid, nor suspicious, nor a sophist; and with how little he was
satisfied, such as lodging, bed, dress, food, servants; and how laborious and
patient; and how he was able on account of his sparing diet to hold out to the
evening, not even requiring to relieve himself by any evacuations except at the
usual hour; and his firmness and uniformity in his friendships; and how he
tolerated freedom of speech in those who opposed his opinions; and the pleasure
that he had when any man showed him anything better; and how religious he
was without superstition.
Imitate all this that thou mayest have as good a conscience, when thy last hour
comes, as he had. Return to thy sober senses and call thyself back; and when
thou hast roused thyself from sleep and hast perceived that they were only
dreams which troubled thee, now in thy waking hours look at these (the things
about thee) as thou didst look at those (the dreams).
I consist of a little body and a soul. Now to this little body all things are
indifferent, for it is not able to perceive differences.
But to the understanding those things only are indifferent, which are not the
works of its own activity. But whatever things are the works of its own activity,
all these are in its power. And of these however only those which are done with
reference to the present; for as to the future and the past activities of the mind,
even these are for the present indifferent.
Neither the labour which the hand does nor that of the foot is contrary to
nature, so long as the foot does the foot's work and the hand the hand's. So then
neither to a man as a man is his labour contrary to nature, so long as it does the
things of a man. But if the labour is not contrary to his nature, neither is it an evil
to him. How many pleasures have been enjoyed by robbers, patricides, tyrants.
Dost thou not see how the handicraftsmen accommodate themselves up to a
certain point to those who are not skilled in their craft-nevertheless they cling to
the reason (the principles) of their art and do not endure to depart from it? Is it
not strange if the architect and the physician shall have more respect to the
reason (the principles) of their own arts than man to his own reason, which is
common to him and the gods?
Asia, Europe are corners of the universe: all the sea a drop in the universe;
Athos a little clod of the universe: all the present time is a point in eternity. All
things are little, changeable, perishable. All things come from thence, from that
universal ruling power either directly proceeding or by way of sequence. And
accordingly the lion's gaping jaws, and that which is poisonous, and every
harmful thing, as a thorn, as mud, are after-products of the grand and beautiful.
Do not then imagine that they are of another kind from that which thou dost
venerate, but form a just opinion of the source of all.
He who has seen present things has seen all, both everything which has taken
place from all eternity and everything which will be for time without end; for all
things are of one kin and of one form.
Frequently consider the connexion of all things in the universe and their
relation to one another. For in a manner all things are implicated with one
another, and all in this way are friendly to one another; for one thing comes in
order after another, and this is by virtue of the active movement and mutual
conspiration and the unity of the substance.
Adapt thyself to the things with which thy lot has been cast: and the men
among whom thou hast received thy portion, love them, but do it truly, sincerely.
Every instrument, tool, vessel, if it does that for which it has been made, is
well, and yet he who made it is not there. But in the things which are held
together by nature there is within and there abides in them the power which
made them; wherefore the more is it fit to reverence this power, and to think,
that, if thou dost live and act according to its will, everything in thee is in
conformity to intelligence. And thus also in the universe the things which belong
to it are in conformity to intelligence.
Whatever of the things which are not within thy power thou shalt suppose to
be good for thee or evil, it must of necessity be that, if such a bad thing befall
thee or the loss of such a good thing, thou wilt blame the gods, and hate men too,
those who are the cause of the misfortune or the loss, or those who are suspected
of being likely to be the cause; and indeed we do much injustice, because we
make a difference between these things. But if we judge only those things which
are in our power to be good or bad, there remains no reason either for finding
fault with God or standing in a hostile attitude to man.
We are all working together to one end, some with knowledge and design, and
others without knowing what they do; as men also when they are asleep, of
whom it is Heraclitus, I think, who says that they are labourers and co-operators
in the things which take place in the universe. But men co-operate after different
fashions: and even those co-operate abundantly, who find fault with what
happens and those who try to oppose it and to hinder it; for the universe had
need even of such men as these. It remains then for thee to understand among
what kind of workmen thou placest thyself; for he who rules all things will
certainly make a right use of thee, and he will receive thee among some part of
the co-operators and of those whose labours conduce to one end. But be not thou
such a part as the mean and ridiculous verse in the play, which Chrysippus
speaks of.
Does the sun undertake to do the work of the rain, or Aesculapius the work of
the Fruit-bearer (the earth)? And how is it with respect to each of the stars, are
they not different and yet they work together to the same end?
If the gods have determined about me and about the things which must happen
to me, they have determined well, for it is not easy even to imagine a deity
without forethought; and as to doing me harm, why should they have any desire
towards that? For what advantage would result to them from this or to the whole,
which is the special object of their providence? But if they have not determined
about me individually, they have certainly determined about the whole at least,
and the things which happen by way of sequence in this general arrangement I
ought to accept with pleasure and to be content with them. But if they determine
about nothing-which it is wicked to believe, or if we do believe it, let us neither
sacrifice nor pray nor swear by them nor do anything else which we do as if the
gods were present and lived with us-but if however the gods determine about
none of the things which concern us, I am able to determine about myself, and I
can inquire about that which is useful; and that is useful to every man which is
conformable to his own constitution and nature. But my nature is rational and
social; and my city and country, so far as I am Antoninus, is Rome, but so far as
I am a man, it is the world. The things then which are useful to these cities are
alone useful to me. Whatever happens to every man, this is for the interest of the
universal: this might be sufficient. But further thou wilt observe this also as a
general truth, if thou dost observe, that whatever is profitable to any man is
profitable also to other men. But let the word profitable be taken here in the
common sense as said of things of the middle kind, neither good nor bad.
As it happens to thee in the amphitheatre and such places, that the continual
sight of the same things and the uniformity make the spectacle wearisome, so it
is in the whole of life; for all things above, below, are the same and from the
same. How long then?
Think continually that all kinds of men and of all kinds of pursuits and of all
nations are dead, so that thy thoughts come down even to Philistion and Phoebus
and Origanion. Now turn thy thoughts to the other kinds of men. To that place
then we must remove, where there are so many great orators, and so many noble
philosophers, Heraclitus, Pythagoras, Socrates; so many heroes of former days,
and so many generals after them, and tyrants; besides these, Eudoxus,
Hipparchus, Archimedes, and other men of acute natural talents, great minds,
lovers of labour, versatile, confident, mockers even of the perishable and
ephemeral life of man, as Menippus and such as are like him. As to all these
consider that they have long been in the dust. What harm then is this to them;
and what to those whose names are altogether unknown? One thing here is worth
a great deal, to pass thy life in truth and justice, with a benevolent disposition
even to liars and unjust men.
When thou wishest to delight thyself, think of the virtues of those who live
with thee; for instance, the activity of one, and the modesty of another, and the
liberality of a third, and some other good quality of a fourth. For nothing delights
so much as the examples of the virtues, when they are exhibited in the morals of
those who live with us and present themselves in abundance, as far as is
possible.
Wherefore we must keep them before us.
Thou art not dissatisfied, I suppose, because thou weighest only so many litrae
and not three hundred. Be not dissatisfied then that thou must live only so many
years and not more; for as thou art satisfied with the amount of substance which
has been assigned to thee, so be content with the time.
Let us try to persuade them (men). But act even against their will, when the
principles of justice lead that way. If however any man by using force stands in
thy way, betake thyself to contentment and tranquility, and at the same time
employ the hindrance towards the exercise of some other virtue; and remember
that thy attempt was with a reservation, that thou didst not desire to do
impossibilities. What then didst thou desire?- Some such effort as this.- But thou
attainest thy object, if the things to which thou wast moved are accomplished.
He who loves fame considers another man's activity to be his own good; and
he who loves pleasure, his own sensations; but he who has understanding,
considers his own acts to be his own good.
It is in our power to have no opinion about a thing, and not to be disturbed in
our soul; for things themselves have no natural power to form our judgements.
Accustom thyself to attend carefully to what is said by another, and as much
as it is possible, be in the speaker's mind.
That which is not good for the swarm, neither is it good for the bee.
If sailors abused the helmsman or the sick the doctor, would they listen to
anybody else; or how could the helmsman secure the safety of those in the ship
or the doctor the health of those whom he attends?
How many together with whom I came into the world are already gone out of
it.
To the jaundiced honey tastes bitter, and to those bitten by mad dogs water
causes fear; and to little children the ball is a fine thing. Why then am I angry?
Dost thou think that a false opinion has less power than the bile in the jaundiced
or the poison in him who is bitten by a mad dog?
No man will hinder thee from living according to the reason of thy own
nature: nothing will happen to thee contrary to the reason of the universal nature.
What kind of people are those whom men wish to please, and for what
objects, and by what kind of acts? How soon will time cover all things, and how
many it has covered already.
BOOK SEVEN
WHAT is badness? It is that which thou hast often seen. And on the occasion
of everything which happens keep this in mind, that it is that which thou hast
often seen. Everywhere up and down thou wilt find the same things, with which
the old histories are filled, those of the middle ages and those of our own day;
with which cities and houses are filled now. There is nothing new: all things are
both familiar and short-lived.
How can our principles become dead, unless the impressions (thoughts) which
correspond to them are extinguished? But it is in thy power continuously to fan
these thoughts into a flame. I can have that opinion about anything, which I
ought to have. If I can, why am I disturbed? The things which are external to my
mind have no relation at all to my mind.- Let this be the state of thy affects, and
thou standest erect. To recover thy life is in thy power. Look at things again as
thou didst use to look at them; for in this consists the recovery of thy life.
The idle business of show, plays on the stage, flocks of sheep, herds, exercises
with spears, a bone cast to little dogs, a bit of bread into fish-ponds, labourings
of ants and burden-carrying, runnings about of frightened little mice, puppets
pulled by strings-all alike. It is thy duty then in the midst of such things to show
good humour and not a proud air; to understand however that every man is worth
just so much as the things are worth about which he busies himself.
In discourse thou must attend to what is said, and in every movement thou
must observe what is doing. And in the one thou shouldst see immediately to
what end it refers, but in the other watch carefully what is the thing signified.
Is my understanding sufficient for this or not? If it is sufficient, I use it for the
work as an instrument given by the universal nature. But if it is not sufficient,
then either I retire from the work and give way to him who is able to do it better,
unless there be some reason why I ought not to do so; or I do it as well as I can,
taking to help me the man who with the aid of my ruling principle can do what is
now fit and useful for the general good. For whatsoever either by myself or with
another I can do, ought to be directed to this only, to that which is useful and
well suited to society.
How many after being celebrated by fame have been given up to oblivion; and
how many who have celebrated the fame of others have long been dead.
Be not ashamed to be helped; for it is thy business to do thy duty like a soldier
in the assault on a town. How then, if being lame thou canst not mount up on the
battlements alone, but with the help of another it is possible?
Let not future things disturb thee, for thou wilt come to them, if it shall be
necessary, having with thee the same reason which now thou usest for present
things.
All things are implicated with one another, and the bond is holy; and there is
hardly anything unconnected with any other thing. For things have been coordinated, and they combine to form the same universe (order). For there is one
universe made up of all things, and one God who pervades all things, and one
substance, and one law, one common reason in all intelligent animals, and one
truth; if indeed there is also one perfection for all animals which are of the same
stock and participate in the same reason.
Everything material soon disappears in the substance of the whole; and
everything formal (causal) is very soon taken back into the universal reason; and
the memory of everything is very soon overwhelmed in time.
To the rational animal the same act is according to nature and according to
reason.
Be thou erect, or be made erect.
Just as it is with the members in those bodies which are united in one, so it is
with rational beings which exist separate, for they have been constituted for one
cooperation. And the perception of this will be more apparent to thee, if thou
often sayest to thyself that I am a member (melos) of the system of rational
beings. But if (using the letter r) thou sayest that thou art a part (meros) thou dost
not yet love men from thy heart; beneficence does not yet delight thee for its
own sake; thou still doest it barely as a thing of propriety, and not yet as doing
good to thyself.
Let there fall externally what will on the parts which can feel the effects of
this fall. For those parts which have felt will complain, if they choose. But I,
unless I think that what has happened is an evil, am not injured. And it is in my
power not to think so.
Whatever any one does or says, I must be good, just as if the gold, or the
emerald, or the purple were always saying this, Whatever any one does or says, I
must be emerald and keep my colour.
The ruling faculty does not disturb itself; I mean, does not frighten itself or
cause itself pain. But if any one else can frighten or pain it, let him do so. For the
faculty itself will not by its own opinion turn itself into such ways. Let the body
itself take care, if it can, that is suffer nothing, and let it speak, if it suffers.
But the soul itself, that which is subject to fear, to pain, which has completely
the power of forming an opinion about these things, will suffer nothing, for it
will never deviate into such a judgement. The leading principle in itself wants
nothing, unless it makes a want for itself; and therefore it is both free from
perturbation and unimpeded, if it does not disturb and impede itself.
Eudaemonia (happiness) is a good daemon, or a good thing. What then art
thou doing here, O imagination? Go away, I entreat thee by the gods, as thou
didst come, for I want thee not. But thou art come according to thy old fashion. I
am not angry with thee: only go away.
Is any man afraid of change? Why what can take place without change? What
then is more pleasing or more suitable to the universal nature? And canst thou
take a bath unless the wood undergoes a change? And canst thou be nourished,
unless the food undergoes a change? And can anything else that is useful be
accomplished without change? Dost thou not see then that for thyself also to
change is just the same, and equally necessary for the universal nature?
Through the universal substance as through a furious torrent all bodies are
carried, being by their nature united with and cooperating with the whole, as the
parts of our body with one another.
How many a Chrysippus, how many a Socrates, how many an Epictetus has
time already swallowed up? And let the same thought occur to thee with
reference to every man and thing.
One thing only troubles me, lest I should do something which the constitution
of man does not allow, or in the way which it does not allow, or what it does not
allow now.
Near is thy forgetfulness of all things; and near the forgetfulness of thee by
all.
It is peculiar to man to love even those who do wrong. And this happens, if
when they do wrong it occurs to thee that they are kinsmen, and that they do
wrong through ignorance and unintentionally, and that soon both of you will die;
and above all, that the wrongdoer has done thee no harm, for he has not made
thy ruling faculty worse than it was before.
The universal nature out of the universal substance, as if it were wax, now
moulds a horse, and when it has broken this up, it uses the material for a tree,
then for a man, then for something else; and each of these things subsists for a
very short time. But it is no hardship for the vessel to be broken up, just as there
was none in its being fastened together.
A scowling look is altogether unnatural; when it is often assumed, the result is
that all comeliness dies away, and at last is so completely extinguished that it
cannot be again lighted up at all. Try to conclude from this very fact that it is
contrary to reason. For if even the perception of doing wrong shall depart, what
reason is there for living any longer?
Nature which governs the whole will soon change all things which thou seest,
and out of their substance will make other things, and again other things from
the substance of them, in order that the world may be ever new.
When a man has done thee any wrong, immediately consider with what
opinion about good or evil he has done wrong. For when thou hast seen this,
thou wilt pity him, and wilt neither wonder nor be angry.
For either thou thyself thinkest the same thing to be good that he does or
another thing of the same kind. It is thy duty then to pardon him. But if thou dost
not think such things to be good or evil, thou wilt more readily be well disposed
to him who is in error.
Think not so much of what thou hast not as of what thou hast: but of the
things which thou hast select the best, and then reflect how eagerly they would
have been sought, if thou hadst them not. At the same time however take care
that thou dost not through being so pleased with them accustom thyself to
overvalue them, so as to be disturbed if ever thou shouldst not have them.
Retire into thyself. The rational principle which rules has this nature, that it is
content with itself when it does what is just, and so secures tranquility.
Wipe out the imagination. Stop the pulling of the strings. Confine thyself to
the present. Understand well what happens either to thee or to another. Divide
and distribute every object into the causal (formal) and the material. Think of thy
last hour. Let the wrong which is done by a man stay there where the wrong was
done.
Direct thy attention to what is said. Let thy understanding enter into the things
that are doing and the things which do them.
Adorn thyself with simplicity and modesty and with indifference towards the
things which lie between virtue and vice. Love mankind.
Follow God. The poet says that Law rules all.- And it is enough to remember
that Law rules all.
About death: Whether it is a dispersion, or a resolution into atoms, or
annihilation, it is either extinction or change.
About pain: The pain which is intolerable carries us off; but that which lasts a
long time is tolerable; and the mind maintains its own tranquility by retiring into
itself, and the ruling faculty is not made worse. But the parts which are harmed
by pain, let them, if they can, give their opinion about it.
About fame: Look at the minds of those who seek fame, observe what they
are, and what kind of things they avoid, and what kind of things they pursue.
And consider that as the heaps of sand piled on one another hide the former
sands, so in life the events which go before are soon covered by those which
come after.
From Plato: The man who has an elevated mind and takes a view of all time
and of all substance, dost thou suppose it possible for him to think that human
life is anything great? it is not possible, he said.- Such a man then will think that
death also is no evil.- Certainly not. From Antisthenes: It is royal to do good and
to be abused.
It is a base thing for the countenance to be obedient and to regulate and
compose itself as the mind commands, and for the mind not to be regulated and
composed by itself.
It is not right to vex ourselves at things, For they care nought about it.To the
immortal gods and us give joy. Life must be reaped like the ripe ears of corn:
One man is born; another dies. If gods care not for me and for my children,
There is a reason for it. For the good is with me, and the just. No joining others
in their wailing, no violent emotion.
From Plato: But I would make this man a sufficient answer, which is this:
Thou sayest not well, if thou thinkest that a man who is good for anything at all
ought to compute the hazard of life or death, and should not rather look to this
only in all that he does, whether he is doing what is just or unjust, and the works
of a good or a bad man.
For thus it is, men of Athens, in truth: wherever a man has placed himself
thinking it the best place for him, or has been placed by a commander, there in
my opinion he ought to stay and to abide the hazard, taking nothing into the
reckoning, either death or anything else, before the baseness of deserting his
post.
But, my good friend, reflect whether that which is noble and good is not
something different from saving and being saved; for as to a man living such or
such a time, at least one who is really a man, consider if this is not a thing to be
dismissed from the thoughts: and there must be no love of life: but as to these
matters a man must intrust them to the deity and believe what the women say,
that no man can escape his destiny, the next inquiry being how he may best live
the time that he has to live.
Look round at the courses of the stars, as if thou wert going along with them;
and constantly consider the changes of the elements into one another; for such
thoughts purge away the filth of the terrene life.
This is a fine saying of Plato: That he who is discoursing about men should
look also at earthly things as if he viewed them from some higher place; should
look at them in their assemblies, armies, agricultural labours, marriages, treaties,
births, deaths, noise of the courts of justice, desert places, various nations of
barbarians, feasts, lamentations, markets, a mixture of all things and an orderly
combination of contraries.
Consider the past; such great changes of political supremacies. Thou mayest
foresee also the things which will be. For they will certainly be of like form, and
it is not possible that they should deviate from the order of the things which take
place now: accordingly to have contemplated human life for forty years is the
same as to have contemplated it for ten thousand years. For what more wilt thou
see? That which has grown from the earth to the earth, But that which has
sprung from heavenly seed, Back to the heavenly realms returns.
This is either a dissolution of the mutual involution of the atoms, or a similar
dispersion of the unsentient elements.
With food and drinks and cunning magic arts Turning the channel's course to
'scape from death.
The breeze which heaven has sent
We must endure, and toil without complaining.
Another may be more expert in casting his opponent; but he is not more
social, nor more modest, nor better disciplined to meet all that happens, nor more
considerate with respect to the faults of his neighbours.
Where any work can be done conformably to the reason which is common to
gods and men, there we have nothing to fear: for where we are able to get profit
by means of the activity which is successful and proceeds according to our
constitution, there no harm is to be suspected.
Everywhere and at all times it is in thy power piously to acquiesce in thy
present condition, and to behave justly to those who are about thee, and to exert
thy skill upon thy present thoughts, that nothing shall steal into them without
being well examined.
Do not look around thee to discover other men's ruling principles, but look
straight to this, to what nature leads thee, both the universal nature through the
things which happen to thee, and thy own nature through the acts which must be
done by thee. But every being ought to do that which is according to its
constitution; and all other things have been constituted for the sake of rational
beings, just as among irrational things the inferior for the sake of the superior,
but the rational for the sake of one another.
The prime principle then in man's constitution is the social. And the second is
not to yield to the persuasions of the body, for it is the peculiar office of the
rational and intelligent motion to circumscribe itself, and never to be
overpowered either by the motion of the senses or of the appetites, for both are
animal; but the intelligent motion claims superiority and does not permit itself to
be overpowered by the others. And with good reason, for it is formed by nature
to use all of them. The third thing in the rational constitution is freedom from
error and from deception. Let then the ruling principle holding fast to these
things go straight on, and it has what is its own.
Consider thyself to be dead, and to have completed thy life up to the present
time; and live according to nature the remainder which is allowed thee.
Love that only which happens to thee and is spun with the thread of thy
destiny. For what is more suitable?
In everything which happens keep before thy eyes those to whom the same
things happened, and how they were vexed, and treated them as strange things,
and found fault with them: and now where are they?
Nowhere. Why then dost thou too choose to act in the same way? And why
dost thou not leave these agitations which are foreign to nature, to those who
cause them and those who are moved by them? And why art thou not altogether
intent upon the right way of making use of the things which happen to thee? For
then thou wilt use them well, and they will be a material for thee to work on.
Only attend to thyself, and resolve to be a good man in every act which thou
doest: and remember...
Look within. Within is the fountain of good, and it will ever bubble up, if thou
wilt ever dig.
The body ought to be compact, and to show no irregularity either in motion or
attitude. For what the mind shows in the face by maintaining in it the expression
of intelligence and propriety, that ought to be required also in the whole body.
But all of these things should be observed without affectation.
The art of life is more like the wrestler's art than the dancer's, in respect of
this, that it should stand ready and firm to meet onsets which are sudden and
unexpected.
Constantly observe who those are whose approbation thou wishest to have,
and what ruling principles they possess. For then thou wilt neither blame those
who offend involuntarily, nor wilt thou want their approbation, if thou lookest to
the sources of their opinions and appetites.
Every soul, the philosopher says, is involuntarily deprived of truth;
consequently in the same way it is deprived of justice and temperance and
benevolence and everything of the kind. It is most necessary to bear this
constantly in mind, for thus thou wilt be more gentle towards all.
In every pain let this thought be present, that there is no dishonour in it, nor
does it make the governing intelligence worse, for it does not damage the
intelligence either so far as the intelligence is rational or so far as it is social.
Indeed in the case of most pains let this remark of Epicurus aid thee, that pain is
neither intolerable nor everlasting, if thou bearest in mind that it has its limits,
and if thou addest nothing to it in imagination: and remember this too, that we do
not perceive that many things which are disagreeable to us are the same as pain,
such as excessive drowsiness, and the being scorched by heat, and the having no
appetite. When then thou art discontented about any of these things, say to
thyself, that thou art yielding to pain.
Take care not to feel towards the inhuman, as they feel towards men.
How do we know if Telauges was not superior in character to Socrates? For it
is not enough that Socrates died a more noble death, and disputed more skilfully
with the sophists, and passed the night in the cold with more endurance, and that
when he was bid to arrest Leon of Salamis, he considered it more noble to
refuse, and that he walked in a swaggering way in the streets-though as to this
fact one may have great doubts if it was true. But we ought to inquire, what kind
of a soul it was that Socrates possessed, and if he was able to be content with
being just towards men and pious towards the gods, neither idly vexed on
account of men's villainy, nor yet making himself a slave to any man's
ignorance, nor receiving as strange anything that fell to his share out of the
universal, nor enduring it as intolerable, nor allowing his understanding to
sympathize with the affects of the miserable flesh.
Nature has not so mingled the intelligence with the composition of the body,
as not to have allowed thee the power of circumscribing thyself and of bringing
under subjection to thyself all that is thy own; for it is very possible to be a
divine man and to be recognised as such by no one. Always bear this in mind;
and another thing too, that very little indeed is necessary for living a happy life.
And because thou hast despaired of becoming a dialectician and skilled in the
knowledge of nature, do not for this reason renounce the hope of being both free
and modest and social and obedient to God.
It is in thy power to live free from all compulsion in the greatest tranquility of
mind, even if all the world cry out against thee as much as they choose, and even
if wild beasts tear in pieces the members of this kneaded matter which has grown
around thee. For what hinders the mind in the midst of all this from maintaining
itself in tranquility and in a just judgement of all surrounding things and in a
ready use of the objects which are presented to it, so that the judgement may say
to the thing which falls under its observation: This thou art in substance (reality),
though in men's opinion thou mayest appear to be of a different kind; and the use
shall say to that which falls under the hand: Thou art the thing that I was
seeking; for to me that which presents itself is always a material for virtue both
rational and political, and in a word, for the exercise of art, which belongs to
man or God. For everything which happens has a relationship either to God or
man, and is neither new nor difficult to handle, but usual and apt matter to work
on.
The perfection of moral character consists in this, in passing every day as the
last, and in being neither violently excited nor torpid nor playing the hypocrite.
The gods who are immortal are not vexed because during so long a time they
must tolerate continually men such as they are and so many of them bad; and
besides this, they also take care of them in all ways. But thou, who art destined
to end so soon, art thou wearied of enduring the bad, and this too when thou art
one of them?
It is a ridiculous thing for a man not to fly from his own badness, which is
indeed possible, but to fly from other men's badness, which is impossible.
Whatever the rational and political (social) faculty finds to be neither
intelligent nor social, it properly judges to be inferior to itself.
When thou hast done a good act and another has received it, why dost thou
look for a third thing besides these, as fools do, either to have the reputation of
having done a good act or to obtain a return?
No man is tired of receiving what is useful. But it is useful to act according to
nature. Do not then be tired of receiving what is useful by doing it to others.
The nature of the An moved to make the universe. But now either everything
that takes place comes by way of consequence or continuity; or even the chief
things towards which the ruling power of the universe directs its own movement
are governed by no rational principle. If this is remembered it will make thee
more tranquil in many things.
BOOK EIGHT
THIS reflection also tends to the removal of the desire of empty fame, that it
is no longer in thy power to have lived the whole of thy life, or at least thy life
from thy youth upwards, like a philosopher; but both to many others and to
thyself it is plain that thou art far from philosophy. Thou hast fallen into disorder
then, so that it is no longer easy for thee to get the reputation of a philosopher;
and thy plan of life also opposes it. If then thou hast truly seen where the matter
lies, throw away the thought, How thou shalt seem to others, and be content if
thou shalt live the rest of thy life in such wise as thy nature wills. Observe then
what it wills, and let nothing else distract thee; for thou hast had experience of
many wanderings without having found happiness anywhere, not in syllogisms,
nor in wealth, nor in reputation, nor in enjoyment, nor anywhere. Where is it
then? In doing what man's nature requires. How then shall a man do this? If he
has principles from which come his affects and his acts. What principles? Those
which relate to good and bad: the belief that there is nothing good for man,
which does not make him just, temperate, manly, free; and that there is nothing
bad, which does not do the contrary to what has been mentioned.
On the occasion of every act ask thyself, How is this with respect to me? Shall
I repent of it? A little time and I am dead, and all is gone. What more do I seek,
if what I am now doing is work of an intelligent living being, and a social being,
and one who is under the same law with God?
Alexander and Gaius and Pompeius, what are they in comparison with
Diogenes and Heraclitus and Socrates? For they were acquainted with things,
and their causes (forms), and their matter, and the ruling principles of these men
were the same. But as to the others, how many things had they to care for, and to
how many things were they slaves?
Consider that men will do the same things nevertheless, even though thou
shouldst burst.
This is the chief thing: Be not perturbed, for all things are according to the
nature of the universal; and in a little time thou wilt be nobody and nowhere, like
Hadrian and Augustus. In the next place having fixed thy eyes steadily on thy
business look at it, and at the same time remembering that it is thy duty to be a
good man, and what man's nature demands, do that without turning aside; and
speak as it seems to thee most just, only let it be with a good disposition and
with modesty and without hypocrisy.
The nature of the universal has this work to do, to remove to that place the
things which are in this, to change them, to take them away hence, and to carry
them there. All things are change, yet we need not fear anything new. All things
are familiar to us; but the distribution of them still remains the same.
Every nature is contented with itself when it goes on its way well; and a
rational nature goes on its way well, when in its thoughts it assents to nothing
false or uncertain, and when it directs its movements to social acts only, and
when it confines its desires and aversions to the things which are in its power,
and when it is satisfied with everything that is assigned to it by the common
nature.
For of this common nature every particular nature is a part, as the nature of the
leaf is a part of the nature of the plant; except that in the plant the nature of the
leaf is part of a nature which has not perception or reason, and is subject to be
impeded; but the nature of man is part of a nature which is not subject to
impediments, and is intelligent and just, since it gives to everything in equal
portions and according to its worth, times, substance, cause (form), activity, and
incident. But examine, not to discover that any one thing compared with any
other single thing is equal in all respects, but by taking all the parts together of
one thing and comparing them with all the parts together of another.
Thou hast not leisure or ability to read. But thou hast leisure or ability to
check arrogance: thou hast leisure to be superior to pleasure and pain: thou hast
leisure to be superior to love of fame, and not to be vexed at stupid and
ungrateful people, nay even to care for them.
Let no man any longer hear thee finding fault with the court life or with thy
own.
Repentance is a kind of self-reproof for having neglected something useful;
but that which is good must be something useful, and the perfect good man
should look after it. But no such man would ever repent of having refused any
sensual pleasure. Pleasure then is neither good nor useful.
This thing, what is it in itself, in its own constitution? What is its substance
and material? And what its causal nature (or form)? And what is it doing in the
world? And how long does it subsist?
When thou risest from sleep with reluctance, remember that it is according to
thy constitution and according to human nature to perform social acts, but
sleeping is common also to irrational animals. But that which is according to
each individual's nature is also more peculiarly its own, and more suitable to its
nature, and indeed also more agreeable.
Constantly and, if it be possible, on the occasion of every impression on the
soul, apply to it the principles of Physic, of Ethic, and of Dialectic.
Whatever man thou meetest with, immediately say to thyself: What opinions
has this man about good and bad? For if with respect to pleasure and pain and
the causes of each, and with respect to fame and ignominy, death and life, he has
such and such opinions, it will seem nothing wonderful or strange to me, if he
does such and such things; and I shall bear in mind that he is compelled to do so.
Remember that as it is a shame to be surprised if the fig-tree produces figs, so
it is to be surprised if the world produces such and such things of which it is
productive; and for the physician and the helmsman it is a shame to be surprised,
if a man has a fever, or if the wind is unfavourable.
Remember that to change thy opinion and to follow him who corrects thy
error is as consistent with freedom as it is to persist in thy error. For it is thy
own, the activity which is exerted according to thy own movement and
judgement, and indeed according to thy own understanding too.
If a thing is in thy own power, why dost thou do it? But if it is in the power of
another, whom dost thou blame? The atoms (chance) or the gods? Both are
foolish. Thou must blame nobody. For if thou canst, correct that which is the
cause; but if thou canst not do this, correct at least the thing itself; but if thou
canst not do even this, of what use is it to thee to find fault? For nothing should
be done without a purpose.
That which has died falls not out of the universe. If it stays here, it also
changes here, and is dissolved into its proper parts, which are elements of the
universe and of thyself. And these too change, and they murmur not.
Everything exists for some end, a horse, a vine. Why dost thou wonder? Even
the sun will say, I am for some purpose, and the rest of the gods will say the
same. For what purpose then art thou? To enjoy pleasure? See if common sense
allows this.
Nature has had regard in everything no less to the end than to the beginning
and the continuance, just like the man who throws up a ball. What good is it then
for the ball to be thrown up, or harm for it to come down, or even to have fallen?
And what good is it to the bubble while it holds together, or what harm when it
is burst? The same may be said of a light also.
Turn it (the body) inside out, and see what kind of thing it is; and when it has
grown old, what kind of thing it becomes, and when it is diseased.
Short-lived are both the praiser and the praised, and the rememberer and the
remembered: and all this in a nook of this part of the world; and not even here do
all agree, no, not any one with himself: and the whole earth too is a point.
Attend to the matter which is before thee, whether it is an opinion or an act or
a word.
Thou sufferest this justly: for thou choosest rather to become good tomorrow
than to be good to-day.
Am I doing anything? I do it with reference to the good of mankind. Does
anything happen to me? I receive it and refer it to the gods, and the source of all
things, from which all that happens is derived.
Such as bathing appears to thee-oil, sweat, dirt, filthy water, all things
disgusting-so is every part of life and everything. Lucilla saw Verus die, and
then Lucilla died. Secunda saw Maximus die, and then Secunda died.
Epitynchanus saw Diotimus die, and
Epitynchanus died. Antoninus saw Faustina die, and then Antoninus died.
Such is everything. Celer saw Hadrian die, and then Celer died. And those sharpwitted men, either seers or men inflated with pride, where are they? For instance
the sharp-witted men, Charax and
Demetrius the Platonist and Eudaemon, and any one else like them. All
ephemeral, dead long ago. Some indeed have not been remembered even for a
short time, and others have become the heroes of fables, and again others have
disappeared even from fables. Remember this then, that this little compound,
thyself, must either be dissolved, or thy poor breath must be extinguished, or be
removed and placed elsewhere.
It is satisfaction to a man to do the proper works of a man. Now it is a proper
work of a man to be benevolent to his own kind, to despise the movements of the
senses, to form a just judgement of plausible appearances, and to take a survey
of the nature of the universe and of the things which happen in it.
There are three relations between thee and other things: the one to the body
which surrounds thee; the second to the divine cause from which all things come
to all; and the third to those who live with thee.
Pain is either an evil to the body-then let the body say what it thinks of it-or to
the soul; but it is in the power of the soul to maintain its own serenity and
tranquility, and not to think that pain is an evil. For every judgement and
movement and desire and aversion is within, and no evil ascends so high.
Wipe out thy imaginations by often saying to thyself: now it is in my power to
let no badness be in this soul, nor desire nor any perturbation at all; but looking
at all things I see what is their nature, and I use each according to its value.Remember this power which thou hast from nature.
Speak both in the senate and to every man, whoever he may be, appropriately,
not with any affectation: use plain discourse.
Augustus' court, wife, daughter, descendants, ancestors, sister, Agrippa,
kinsmen, intimates, friends, Areius, Maecenas, physicians and sacrificing
priests-the whole court is dead. Then turn to the rest, not considering the death of
a single man, but of a whole race, as of the Pompeii; and that which is inscribed
on the tombs-The last of his race. Then consider what trouble those before them
have had that they might leave a successor; and then, that of necessity some one
must be the last. Again here consider the death of a whole race.
It is thy duty to order thy life well in every single act; and if every act does its
duty, as far as is possible, be content; and no one is able to hinder thee so that
each act shall not do its duty.- But something external will stand in the way.Nothing will stand in the way of thy acting justly and soberly and considerately.But perhaps some other active power will be hindered.- Well, but by acquiescing
in the hindrance and by being content to transfer thy efforts to that which is
allowed, another opportunity of action is immediately put before thee in place of
that which was hindered, and one which will adapt itself to this ordering of
which we are speaking.
Receive wealth or prosperity without arrogance; and be ready to let it go.
If thou didst ever see a hand cut off, or a foot, or a head, lying anywhere apart
from the rest of the body, such does a man make himself, as far as he can, who is
not content with what happens, and separates himself from others, or does
anything unsocial. Suppose that thou hast detached thyself from the natural
unity-for thou wast made by nature a part, but now thou hast cut thyself off-yet
here there is this beautiful provision, that it is in thy power again to unite thyself.
God has allowed this to no other part, after it has been separated and cut asunder,
to come together again. But consider the kindness by which he has distinguished
man, for he has put it in his power not to be separated at all from the universal;
and when he has been separated, he has allowed him to return and to be united
and to resume his place as a part.
As the nature of the universal has given to every rational being all the other
powers that it has, so we have received from it this power also. For as the
universal nature converts and fixes in its predestined place everything which
stands in the way and opposes it, and makes such things a part of itself, so also
the rational animal is able to make every hindrance its own material, and to use it
for such purposes as it may have designed.
Do not disturb thyself by thinking of the whole of thy life. Let not thy
thoughts at once embrace all the various troubles which thou mayest expect to
befall thee: but on every occasion ask thyself, What is there in this which is
intolerable and past bearing? For thou wilt be ashamed to confess. In the next
place remember that neither the future nor the past pains thee, but only the
present.
But this is reduced to a very little, if thou only circumscribest it, and chidest
thy mind, if it is unable to hold out against even this.
Does Panthea or Pergamus now sit by the tomb of Verus? Does Chaurias or
Diotimus sit by the tomb of Hadrian? That would be ridiculous.
Well, suppose they did sit there, would the dead be conscious of it? And if the
dead were conscious, would they be pleased? And if they were pleased, would
that make them immortal? Was it not in the order of destiny that these persons
too should first become old women and old men and then die? What then would
those do after these were dead? All this is foul smell and blood in a bag.
If thou canst see sharp, look and judge wisely, says the philosopher.
In the constitution of the rational animal I see no virtue which is opposed to
justice; but I see a virtue which is opposed to love of pleasure, and that is
temperance.
If thou takest away thy opinion about that which appears to give thee pain,
thou thyself standest in perfect security.- Who is this self?- The reason.- But I
am not reason.- Be it so. Let then the reason itself not trouble itself. But if any
other part of thee suffers, let it have its own opinion about itself.
Hindrance to the perceptions of sense is an evil to the animal nature.
Hindrance to the movements (desires) is equally an evil to the animal nature.
And something else also is equally an impediment and an evil to the constitution
of plants. So then that which is a hindrance to the intelligence is an evil to the
intelligent nature.
Apply all these things then to thyself. Does pain or sensuous pleasure affect
thee? The senses will look to that.- Has any obstacle opposed thee in thy efforts
towards an object? if indeed thou wast making this effort absolutely
(unconditionally, or without any reservation), certainly this obstacle is an evil to
thee considered as a rational animal. But if thou takest into consideration the
usual course of things, thou hast not yet been injured nor even impeded. The
things however which are proper to the understanding no other man is used to
impede, for neither fire, nor iron, nor tyrant, nor abuse, touches it in any way.
When it has been made a sphere, it continues a sphere.
It is not fit that I should give myself pain, for I have never intentionally given
pain even to another. Different things delight different people. But it is my
delight to keep the ruling faculty sound without turning away either from any
man or from any of the things which happen to men, but looking at and receiving
all with welcome eyes and using everything according to its value.
See that thou secure this present time to thyself: for those who rather pursue
posthumous fame do consider that the men of after time will be exactly such as
these whom they cannot bear now; and both are mortal. And what is it in any
way to thee if these men of after time utter this or that sound, or have this or that
opinion about thee?
Take me and cast me where thou wilt; for there I shall keep my divine part
tranquil, that is, content, if it can feel and act conformably to its proper
constitution. Is this change of place sufficient reason why my soul should be
unhappy and worse than it was, depressed, expanded, shrinking, affrighted? And
what wilt thou find which is sufficient reason for this?
Nothing can happen to any man which is not a human accident, nor to an ox
which is not according to the nature of an ox, nor to a vine which is not
according to the nature of a vine, nor to a stone which is not proper to a stone. If
then there happens to each thing both what is usual and natural, why shouldst
thou complain? For the common nature brings nothing which may not be borne
by thee.
If thou art pained by any external thing, it is not this thing that disturbs thee,
but thy own judgement about it. And it is in thy power to wipe out this
judgement now. But if anything in thy own disposition gives thee pain, who
hinders thee from correcting thy opinion? And even if thou art pained because
thou art not doing some particular thing which seems to thee to be right, why
dost thou not rather act than complain?- But some insuperable obstacle is in the
way?- Do not be grieved then, for the cause of its not being done depends not on
thee.- But it is not worth while to live if this cannot be done.- Take thy departure
then from life contentedly, just as he dies who is in full activity, and well pleased
too with the things which are obstacles.
Remember that the ruling faculty is invincible, when self-collected it is
satisfied with itself, if it does nothing which it does not choose to do, even if it
resist from mere obstinacy.
What then will it be when it forms a judgement about anything aided by
reason and deliberately? Therefore the mind which is free from passions is a
citadel, for man has nothing more secure to which he can fly for, refuge and for
the future be inexpugnable. He then who has not seen this is an ignorant man;
but he who has seen it and does not fly to this refuge is unhappy.
Say nothing more to thyself than what the first appearances report. Suppose
that it has been reported to thee that a certain person speaks ill of thee. This has
been reported; but that thou hast been injured, that has not been reported. I see
that my child is sick. I do see; but that he is in danger, I do not see. Thus then
always abide by the first appearances, and add nothing thyself from within, and
then nothing happens to thee. Or rather add something, like a man who knows
everything that happens in the world.
A cucumber is bitter.- Throw it away.- There are briars in the road.- Turn
aside from them.- This is enough. Do not add, And why were such things made
in the world? For thou wilt be ridiculed by a man who is acquainted with nature,
as thou wouldst be ridiculed by a carpenter and shoemaker if thou didst find fault
because thou seest in their workshop shavings and cuttings from the things
which they make. And yet they have places into which they can throw these
shavings and cuttings, and the universal nature has no external space; but the
wondrous part of her art is that though she has circumscribed herself, everything
within her which appears to decay and to grow old and to be useless she changes
into herself, and again makes other new things from these very same, so that she
requires neither substance from without nor wants a place into which she may
cast that which decays.
She is content then with her own space, and her own matter and her own art.
Neither in thy actions be sluggish nor in thy conversation without method, nor
wandering in thy thoughts, nor let there be in thy soul inward contention nor
external effusion, nor in life be so busy as to have no leisure.
Suppose that men kill thee, cut thee in pieces, curse thee. What then can these
things do to prevent thy mind from remaining pure, wise, sober, just? For
instance, if a man should stand by a limpid pure spring, and curse it, the spring
never ceases sending up potable water; and if he should cast clay into it or filth,
it will speedily disperse them and wash them out, and will not be at all polluted.
How then shalt thou possess a perpetual fountain and not a mere well? By
forming thyself hourly to freedom conjoined with contentment, simplicity and
modesty.
He who does not know what the world is, does not know where he is. And he
who does not know for what purpose the world exists, does not know who he is,
nor what the world is. But he who has failed in any one of these things could not
even say for what purpose he exists himself. What then dost thou think of him
who avoids or seeks the praise of those who applaud, of men who know not
either where they are or who they are?
Dost thou wish to be praised by a man who curses himself thrice every hour?
Wouldst thou wish to please a man who does not please himself? Does a man
please himself who repents of nearly everything that he does?
No longer let thy breathing only act in concert with the air which surrounds
thee, but let thy intelligence also now be in harmony with the intelligence which
embraces all things. For the intelligent power is no less diffused in all parts and
pervades all things for him who is willing to draw it to him than the aerial power
for him who is able to respire it.
Generally, wickedness does no harm at all to the universe; and particularly,
the wickedness of one man does no harm to another. It is only harmful to him
who has it in his power to be released from it, as soon as he shall choose.
To my own free will the free will of my neighbour is just as indifferent as his
poor breath and flesh. For though we are made especially for the sake of one
another, still the ruling power of each of us has its own office, for otherwise my
neighbour's wickedness would be my harm, which God has not willed in order
that my unhappiness may not depend on another.
The sun appears to be poured down, and in all directions indeed it is diffused,
yet it is not effused. For this diffusion is extension: Accordingly its rays are
called Extensions [aktines] because they are extended [apo tou ekteinesthai]. But
one may judge what kind of a thing a ray is, if he looks at the sun's light passing
through a narrow opening into a darkened room, for it is extended in a right line,
and as it were is divided when it meets with any solid body which stands in the
way and intercepts the air beyond; but there the light remains fixed and does not
glide or fall off. Such then ought to be the outpouring and diffusion of the
understanding, and it should in no way be an effusion, but an extension, and it
should make no violent or impetuous collision with the obstacles which are in its
way; nor yet fall down, but be fixed and enlighten that which receives it. For a
body will deprive itself of the illumination, if it does not admit it.
He who fears death either fears the loss of sensation or a different kind of
sensation. But if thou shalt have no sensation, neither wilt thou feel any harm;
and if thou shalt acquire another kind of sensation, thou wilt be a different kind
of living being and thou wilt not cease to live.
Men exist for the sake of one another. Teach them then or bear with them.
In one way an arrow moves, in another way the mind. The mind indeed, both
when it exercises caution and when it is employed about inquiry, moves straight
onward not the less, and to its object.
Enter into every man's ruling faculty; and also let every other man enter into
thine.
BOOK NINE
HE WHO acts unjustly acts impiously. For since the universal nature has
made rational animals for the sake of one another to help one another according
to their deserts, but in no way to injure one another, he who transgresses her will,
is clearly guilty of impiety towards the highest divinity. And he too who lies is
guilty of impiety to the same divinity; for the universal nature is the nature of
things that are; and things that are have a relation to all things that come into
existence. And further, this universal nature is named truth, and is the prime
cause of all things that are true. He then who lies intentionally is guilty of
impiety inasmuch as he acts unjustly by deceiving; and he also who lies
unintentionally, inasmuch as he is at variance with the universal nature, and
inasmuch as he disturbs the order by fighting against the nature of the world; for
he fights against it, who is moved of himself to that which is contrary to truth,
for he had received powers from nature through the neglect of which he is not
able now to distinguish falsehood from truth. And indeed he who pursues
pleasure as good, and avoids pain as evil, is guilty of impiety. For of necessity
such a man must often find fault with the universal nature, alleging that it
assigns things to the bad and the good contrary to their deserts, because
frequently the bad are in the enjoyment of pleasure and possess the things which
procure pleasure, but the good have pain for their share and the things which
cause pain. And further, he who is afraid of pain will sometimes also be afraid of
some of the things which will happen in the world, and even this is impiety. And
he who pursues pleasure will not abstain from injustice, and this is plainly
impiety. Now with respect to the things towards which the universal nature is
equally affected-for it would not have made both, unless it was equally affected
towards both-towards these they who wish to follow nature should be of the
same mind with it, and equally affected. With respect to pain, then, and pleasure,
or death and life, or honour and dishonour, which the universal nature employs
equally, whoever is not equally affected is manifestly acting impiously. And I
say that the universal nature employs them equally, instead of saying that they
happen alike to those who are produced in continuous series and to those who
come after them by virtue of a certain original movement of Providence,
according to which it moved from a certain beginning to this ordering of things,
having conceived certain principles of the things which were to be, and having
determined powers productive of beings and of changes and of such like
successions.
It would be a man's happiest lot to depart from mankind without having had
any taste of lying and hypocrisy and luxury and pride.
However to breathe out one's life when a man has had enough of these things
is the next best voyage, as the saying is. Hast thou determined to abide with vice,
and has not experience yet induced thee to fly from this pestilence? For the
destruction of the understanding is a pestilence, much more indeed than any such
corruption and change of this atmosphere which surrounds us. For this
corruption is a pestilence of animals so far as they are animals; but the other is a
pestilence of men so far as they are men.
Do not despise death, but be well content with it, since this too is one of those
things which nature wills. For such as it is to be young and to grow old, and to
increase and to reach maturity, and to have teeth and beard and grey hairs, and to
beget, and to be pregnant and to bring forth, and all the other natural operations
which the seasons of thy life bring, such also is dissolution. This, then, is
consistent with the character of a reflecting man, to be neither careless nor
impatient nor contemptuous with respect to death, but to wait for it as one of the
operations of nature. As thou now waitest for the time when the child shall come
out of thy wife's womb, so be ready for the time when thy soul shall fall out of
this envelope. But if thou requirest also a vulgar kind of comfort which shall
reach thy heart, thou wilt be made best reconciled to death by observing the
objects from which thou art going to be removed, and the morals of those with
whom thy soul will no longer be mingled. For it is no way right to be offended
with men, but it is thy duty to care for them and to bear with them gently; and
yet to remember that thy departure will be not from men who have the same
principles as thyself. For this is the only thing, if there be any, which could draw
us the contrary way and attach us to life, to be permitted to live with those who
have the same principles as ourselves. But now thou seest how great is the
trouble arising from the discordance of those who live together, so that thou
mayest say, Come quick, O death, lest perchance I, too, should forget myself.
He who does wrong does wrong against himself. He who acts unjustly acts
unjustly to himself, because he makes himself bad.
He often acts unjustly who does not do a certain thing; not only he who does a
certain thing.
Thy present opinion founded on understanding, and thy present conduct
directed to social good, and thy present disposition of contentment with
everything which happens-that is enough.
Wipe out imagination: check desire: extinguish appetite: keep the ruling
faculty in its own power.
Among the animals which have not reason one life is distributed; but among
reasonable animals one intelligent soul is distributed: just as there is one earth of
all things which are of an earthy nature, and we see by one light, and breathe one
air, all of us that have the faculty of vision and all that have life.
All things which participate in anything which is common to them all move
towards that which is of the same kind with themselves. Everything which is
earthy turns towards the earth, everything which is liquid flows together, and
everything which is of an aerial kind does the same, so that they require
something to keep them asunder, and the application of force. Fire indeed moves
upwards on account of the elemental fire, but it is so ready to be kindled together
with all the fire which is here, that even every substance which is somewhat dry,
is easily ignited, because there is less mingled with it of that which is a
hindrance to ignition. Accordingly then everything also which participates in the
common intelligent nature moves in like manner towards that which is of the
same kind with itself, or moves even more. For so much as it is superior in
comparison with all other things, in the same degree also is it more ready to
mingle with and to be fused with that which is akin to it.
Accordingly among animals devoid of reason we find swarms of bees, and
herds of cattle, and the nurture of young birds, and in a manner, loves; for even
in animals there are souls, and that power which brings them together is seen to
exert itself in the superior degree, and in such a way as never has been observed
in plants nor in stones nor in trees. But in rational animals there are political
communities and friendships, and families and meetings of people; and in wars,
treaties and armistices. But in the things which are still superior, even though
they are separated from one another, unity in a manner exists, as in the stars.
Thus the ascent to the higher degree is able to produce a sympathy even in things
which are separated. See, then, what now takes place. For only intelligent
animals have now forgotten this mutual desire and inclination, and in them alone
the property of flowing together is not seen. But still though men strive to avoid
this union, they are caught and held by it, for their nature is too strong for them;
and thou wilt see what I say, if thou only observest. Sooner, then, will one find
anything earthy which comes in contact with no earthy thing than a man
altogether separated from other men.
Both man and God and the universe produce fruit; at the proper seasons each
produces it. But if usage has especially fixed these terms to the vine and like
things, this is nothing. Reason produces fruit both for all and for itself, and there
are produced from it other things of the same kind as reason itself.
If thou art able, correct by teaching those who do wrong; but if thou canst not,
remember that indulgence is given to thee for this purpose. And the gods, too,
are indulgent to such persons; and for some purposes they even help them to get
health, wealth, reputation; so kind they are. And it is in thy power also; or say,
who hinders thee?
Labour not as one who is wretched, nor yet as one who would be pitied or
admired: but direct thy will to one thing only, to put thyself in motion and to
check thyself, as the social reason requires.
To-day I have got out of all trouble, or rather I have cast out all trouble, for it
was not outside, but within and in my opinions.
All things are the same, familiar in experience, and ephemeral in time, and
worthless in the matter. Everything now is just as it was in the time of those
whom we have buried.
Things stand outside of us, themselves by themselves, neither knowing aught
of themselves, nor expressing any judgement. What is it, then, which does judge
about them? The ruling faculty.
Not in passivity, but in activity lie the evil and the good of the rational social
animal, just as his virtue and his vice lie not in passivity, but in activity.
For the stone which has been thrown up it is no evil to come down, nor indeed
any good to have been carried up.
Penetrate inwards into men's leading principles, and thou wilt see what judges
thou art afraid of, and what kind of judges they are of themselves.
All things are changing: and thou thyself art in continuous mutation and in a
manner in continuous destruction, and the whole universe too.
It is thy duty to leave another man's wrongful act there where it is.
Termination of activity, cessation from movement and opinion, and in a sense
their death, is no evil. Turn thy thoughts now to the consideration of thy life, thy
life as a child, as a youth, thy manhood, thy old age, for in these also every
change was a death. Is this anything to fear? Turn thy thoughts now to thy life
under thy grandfather, then to thy life under thy mother, then to thy life under
thy father; and as thou findest many other differences and changes and
terminations, ask thyself, Is this anything to fear? In like manner, then, neither
are the termination and cessation and change of thy whole life a thing to be
afraid of.
Hasten to examine thy own ruling faculty and that of the universe and that of
thy neighbour: thy own that thou mayest make it just: and that of the universe,
that thou mayest remember of what thou art a part; and that of thy neighbour,
that thou mayest know whether he has acted ignorantly or with knowledge, and
that thou mayest also consider that his ruling faculty is akin to thine.
As thou thyself art a component part of a social system, so let every act of
thine be a component part of social life. Whatever act of thine then has no
reference either immediately or remotely to a social end, this tears asunder thy
life, and does not allow it to be one, and it is of the nature of a mutiny, just as
when in a popular assembly a man acting by himself stands apart from the
general agreement.
Quarrels of little children and their sports, and poor spirits carrying about dead
bodies, such is everything; and so what is exhibited in the representation of the
mansions of the dead strikes our eyes more clearly.
Examine into the quality of the form of an object, and detach it altogether
from its material part, and then contemplate it; then determine the time, the
longest which a thing of this peculiar form is naturally made to endure.
Thou hast endured infinite troubles through not being contented with thy
ruling faculty, when it does the things which it is constituted by nature to do. But
enough of this.
When another blames thee or hates thee, or when men say about thee anything
injurious, approach their poor souls, penetrate within, and see what kind of men
they are. Thou wilt discover that there is no reason to take any trouble that these
men may have this or that opinion about thee. However thou must be well
disposed towards them, for by nature they are friends. And the gods too aid them
in all ways, by dreams, by signs, towards the attainment of those things on which
they set a value.
The periodic movements of the universe are the same, up and down from age
to age. And either the universal intelligence puts itself in motion for every
separate effect, and if this is so, be thou content with that which is the result of
its activity; or it puts itself in motion once, and everything else comes by way of
sequence in a manner; or indivisible elements are the origin of all things.- In a
word, if there is a god, all is well; and if chance rules, do not thou also be
governed by it.
Soon will the earth cover us all: then the earth, too, will change, and the things
also which result from change will continue to change for ever, and these again
for ever. For if a man reflects on the changes and transformations which follow
one another like wave after wave and their rapidity, he will despise everything
which is perishable.
The universal cause is like a winter torrent: it carries everything along with it.
But how worthless are all these poor people who are engaged in matters
political, and, as they suppose, are playing the philosopher! All drivellers. Well
then, man: do what nature now requires. Set thyself in motion, if it is in thy
power, and do not look about thee to see if any one will observe it; nor yet
expect Plato's Republic: but be content if the smallest thing goes on well, and
consider such an event to be no small matter. For who can change men's
opinions? And without a change of opinions what else is there than the slavery
of men who groan while they pretend to obey?
Come now and tell me of Alexander and Philip and Demetrius of Phalerum.
They themselves shall judge whether they discovered what the common nature
required, and trained themselves accordingly. But if they acted like tragedy
heroes, no one has condemned me to imitate them. Simple and modest is the
work of philosophy. Draw me not aside to indolence and pride.
Look down from above on the countless herds of men and their countless
solemnities, and the infinitely varied voyagings in storms and calms, and the
differences among those who are born, who live together, and die. And consider,
too, the life lived by others in olden time, and the life of those who will live after
thee, and the life now lived among barbarous nations, and how many know not
even thy name, and how many will soon forget it, and how they who perhaps
now are praising thee will very soon blame thee, and that neither a posthumous
name is of any value, nor reputation, nor anything else.
Let there be freedom from perturbations with respect to the things which come
from the external cause; and let there be justice in the things done by virtue of
the internal cause, that is, let there be movement and action terminating in this,
in social acts, for this is according to thy nature.
Thou canst remove out of the way many useless things among those which
disturb thee, for they lie entirely in thy opinion; and thou wilt then gain for
thyself ample space by comprehending the whole universe in thy mind, and by
contemplating the eternity of time, and observing the rapid change of every
several thing, how short is the time from birth to dissolution, and the illimitable
time before birth as well as the equally boundless time after dissolution.
All that thou seest will quickly perish, and those who have been spectators of
its dissolution will very soon perish too. And he who dies at the extremest old
age will be brought into the same condition with him who died prematurely.
What are these men's leading principles, and about what kind of things are
they busy, and for what kind of reasons do they love and honour? Imagine that
thou seest their poor souls laid bare. When they think that they do harm by their
blame or good by their praise, what an idea!
Loss is nothing else than change. But the universal nature delights in change,
and in obedience to her all things are now done well, and from eternity have
been done in like form, and will be such to time without end. What, then, dost
thou say? That all things have been and all things always will be bad, and that no
power has ever been found in so many gods to rectify these things, but the world
has been condemned to be found in never ceasing evil?
The rottenness of the matter which is the foundation of everything! Water,
dust, bones, filth: or again, marble rocks, the callosities of the earth; and gold
and silver, the sediments; and garments, only bits of hair; and purple dye, blood;
and everything else is of the same kind. And that which is of the nature of breath
is also another thing of the same kind, changing from this to that.
Enough of this wretched life and murmuring and apish tricks. Why art thou
disturbed? What is there new in this? What unsettles thee? Is it the form of the
thing? Look at it. Or is it the matter? Look at it. But besides these there is
nothing. Towards the gods, then, now become at last more simple and better. It
is the same whether we examine these things for a hundred years or three.
If any man has done wrong, the harm is his own. But perhaps he has not done
wrong.
Either all things proceed from one intelligent source and cometogether as in
one body, and the part ought not to find fault with what is done for the benefit of
the whole; or there are only atoms, and nothing else than mixture and dispersion.
Why, then, art thou disturbed? Say to the ruling faculty, Art thou dead, art thou
corrupted, art thou playing the hypocrite, art thou become a beast, dost thou herd
and feed with the rest?
Either the gods have no power or they have power. If, then, they have no
power, why dost thou pray to them? But if they have power, why dost thou not
pray for them to give thee the faculty of not fearing any of the things which thou
fearest, or of not desiring any of the things which thou desirest, or not being
pained at anything, rather than pray that any of these things should not happen or
happen? For certainly if they can co-operate with men, they can co-operate for
these purposes. But perhaps thou wilt say, the gods have placed them in thy
power. Well, then, is it not better to use what is in thy power like a free man than
to desire in a slavish and abject way what is not in thy power? And who has told
thee that the gods do not aid us even in the things which are in our power?
Begin, then, to pray for such things, and thou wilt see. One man prays thus: How
shall I be able to lie with that woman? Do thou pray thus: How shall I not desire
to lie with her? Another prays thus: How shall I be released from this? Another
prays: How shall I not desire to be released? Another thus: How shall I not lose
my little son? Thou thus: How shall I not be afraid to lose him? In fine, turn thy
prayers this way, and see what comes.
Epicurus says, In my sickness my conversation was not about my bodily
sufferings, nor, says he, did I talk on such subjects to those who visited me; but I
continued to discourse on the nature of things as before, keeping to this main
point, how the mind, while participating in such movements as go on in the poor
flesh, shall be free from perturbations and maintain its proper good. Nor did I, he
says, give the physicians an opportunity of putting on solemn looks, as if they
were doing something great, but my life went on well and happily. Do, then, the
same that he did both in sickness, if thou art sick, and in any other
circumstances; for never to desert philosophy in any events that may befall us,
nor to hold trifling talk either with an ignorant man or with one unacquainted
with nature, is a principle of all schools of philosophy; but to be intent only on
that which thou art now doing and on the instrument by which thou doest it.
When thou art offended with any man's shameless conduct, immediately ask
thyself, Is it possible, then, that shameless men should not be in the world? It is
not possible. Do not, then, require what is impossible. For this man also is one of
those shameless men who must of necessity be in the world. Let the same
considerations be present to thy mind in the case of the knave, and the faithless
man, and of every man who does wrong in any way. For at the same time that
thou dost remind thyself that it is impossible that such kind of men should not
exist, thou wilt become more kindly disposed towards every one individually. It
is useful to perceive this, too, immediately when the occasion arises, what virtue
nature has given to man to oppose to every wrongful act. For she has given to
man, as an antidote against the stupid man, mildness, and against another kind of
man some other power. And in all cases it is possible for thee to correct by
teaching the man who is gone astray; for every man who errs misses his object
and is gone astray. Besides wherein hast thou been injured? For thou wilt find
that no one among those against whom thou art irritated has done anything by
which thy mind could be made worse; but that which is evil to thee and harmful
has its foundation only in the mind. And what harm is done or what is there
strange, if the man who has not been instructed does the acts of an uninstructed
man? Consider whether thou shouldst not rather blame thyself, because thou
didst not expect such a man to err in such a way. For thou hadst means given
thee by thy reason to suppose that it was likely that he would commit this error,
and yet thou hast forgotten and art amazed that he has erred. But most of all
when thou blamest a man as faithless or ungrateful, turn to thyself. For the fault
is manifestly thy own, whether thou didst trust that a man who had such a
disposition would keep his promise, or when conferring thy kindness thou didst
not confer it absolutely, nor yet in such way as to have received from thy very
act all the profit. For what more dost thou want when thou hast done a man a
service? Art thou not content that thou hast done something conformable to thy
nature, and dost thou seek to be paid for it? Just as if the eye demanded a
recompense for seeing, or the feet for walking. For as these members are formed
for a particular purpose, and by working according to their several constitutions
obtain what is their own; so also as man is formed by nature to acts of
benevolence, when he has done anything benevolent or in any other way
conducive to the common interest, he has acted conformably to his constitution,
and he gets what is his own.
BOOK TEN
WILT thou, then, my soul, never be good and simple and one and naked, more
manifest than the body which surrounds thee? Wilt thou never enjoy an
affectionate and contented disposition? Wilt thou never be full and without a
want of any kind, longing for nothing more, nor desiring anything, either
animate or inanimate, for the enjoyment of pleasures? Nor yet desiring time
wherein thou shalt have longer enjoyment, or place, or pleasant climate, or
society of men with whom thou mayest live in harmony? But wilt thou be
satisfied with thy present condition, and pleased with all that is about thee, and
wilt thou convince thyself that thou hast everything and that it comes from the
gods, that everything is well for thee, and will be well whatever shall please
them, and whatever they shall give for the conservation of the perfect living
being, the good and just and beautiful, which generates and holds together all
things, and contains and embraces all things which are dissolved for the
production of other like things? Wilt thou never be such that thou shalt so dwell
in community with gods and men as neither to find fault with them at all, nor to
be condemned by them?
Observe what thy nature requires, so far as thou art governed by nature only:
then do it and accept it, if thy nature, so far as thou art a living being, shall not be
made worse by it.
And next thou must observe what thy nature requires so far as thou art a living
being. And all this thou mayest allow thyself, if thy nature, so far as thou art a
rational animal, shall not be made worse by it. But the rational animal is
consequently also a political (social) animal. Use these rules, then, and trouble
thyself about nothing else.
Everything which happens either happens in such wise as thou art formed by
nature to bear it, or as thou art not formed by nature to bear it. If, then, it happens
to thee in such way as thou art formed by nature to bear it, do not complain, but
bear it as thou art formed by nature to bear it. But if it happens in such wise as
thou art not formed by nature to bear it, do not complain, for it will perish after it
has consumed thee. Remember, however, that thou art formed by nature to bear
everything, with respect to which it depends on thy own opinion to make it
endurable and tolerable, by thinking that it is either thy interest or thy duty to do
this.
If a man is mistaken, instruct him kindly and show him his error. But if thou
art not able, blame thyself, or blame not even thyself. Whatever may happen to
thee, it was prepared for thee from all eternity; and the implication of causes was
from eternity spinning the thread of thy being, and of that which is incident to it.
Whether the universe is a concourse of atoms, or nature is a system, let this first
be established, that I am a part of the whole which is governed by nature; next, I
am in a manner intimately related to the parts which are of the same kind with
myself. For remembering this, inasmuch as I am a part, I shall be discontented
with none of the things which are assigned to me out of the whole; for nothing is
injurious to the part, if it is for the advantage of the whole. For the whole
contains nothing which is not for its advantage; and all natures indeed have this
common principle, but the nature of the universe has this principle besides, that
it cannot be compelled even by any external cause to generate anything harmful
to itself.
By remembering, then, that I am a part of such a whole, I shall be content with
everything that happens. And inasmuch as I am in a manner intimately related to
the parts which are of the same kind with myself, I shall do nothing unsocial, but
I shall rather direct myself to the things which are of the same kind with myself,
and I shall turn an my efforts to the common interest, and divert them from the
contrary. Now, if these things are done so, life must flow on happily, just as thou
mayest observe that the life of a citizen is happy, who continues a course of
action which is advantageous to his fellow-citizens, and is content with whatever
the state may assign to him.
The parts of the whole, everything, I mean, which is naturally comprehended
in the universe, must of necessity perish; but let this be understood in this sense,
that they must undergo change. But if this is naturally both an evil and a
necessity for the parts, the whole would not continue to exist in a good
condition, the parts being subject to change and constituted so as to perish in
various ways. For whether did nature herself design to do evil to the things
which are parts of herself, and to make them subject to evil and of necessity fall
into evil, or have such results happened without her knowing it? Both these
suppositions, indeed, are incredible. But if a man should even drop the term
Nature (as an efficient power), and should speak of these things as natural, even
then it would be ridiculous to affirm at the same time that the parts of the whole
are in their nature subject to change, and at the same time to be surprised or
vexed as if something were happening contrary to nature, particularly as the
dissolution of things is into those things of which each thing is composed. For
there is either a dispersion of the elements out of which everything has been
compounded, or a change from the solid to the earthy and from the airy to the
aerial, so that these parts are taken back into the universal reason, whether this at
certain periods is consumed by fire or renewed by eternal changes. And do not
imagine that the solid and the airy part belong to thee from the time of
generation. For all this received its accretion only yesterday and the day before,
as one may say, from the food and the air which is inspired. This, then, which
has received the accretion, changes, not that which thy mother brought forth. But
suppose that this which thy mother brought forth implicates thee very much with
that other part, which has the peculiar quality of change, this is nothing in fact in
the way of objection to what is said.
When thou hast assumed these names, good, modest, true, rational, a man of
equanimity, and magnanimous, take care that thou dost not change these names;
and if thou shouldst lose them, quickly return to them. And remember that the
term Rational was intended to signify a discriminating attention to every several
thing and freedom from negligence; and that Equanimity is the voluntary
acceptance of the things which are assigned to thee by the common nature; and
that Magnanimity is the elevation of the intelligent part above the pleasurable or
painful sensations of the flesh, and above that poor thing called fame, and death,
and all such things. If, then, thou maintainest thyself in the possession of these
names, without desiring to be called by these names by others, thou wilt be
another person and wilt enter on another life. For to continue to be such as thou
hast hitherto been, and to be tom in pieces and defiled in such a life, is the
character of a very stupid man and one overfond of his life, and like those halfdevoured fighters with wild beasts, who though covered with wounds and gore,
still intreat to be kept to the following day, though they will be exposed in the
same state to the same claws and bites. Therefore fix thyself in the possession of
these few names: and if thou art able to abide in them, abide as if thou wast
removed to certain islands of the Happy. But if thou shalt perceive that thou
fallest out of them and dost not maintain thy hold, go courageously into some
nook where thou shalt maintain them, or even depart at once from life, not in
passion, but with simplicity and freedom and modesty, after doing this one
laudable thing at least in thy life, to have gone out of it thus. In order, however,
to the remembrance of these names, it will greatly help thee, if thou rememberest
the gods, and that they wish not to be flattered, but wish all reasonable beings to
be made like themselves; and if thou rememberest that what does the work of a
fig-tree is a fig-tree, and that what does the work of a dog is a dog, and that what
does the work of a bee is a bee, and that what does the work of a man is a man.
Mimi, war, astonishment, torpor, slavery, will daily wipe out those holy
principles of thine. How many things without studying nature dost thou imagine,
and how many dost thou neglect? But it is thy duty so to look on and so to do
everything, that at the same time the power of dealing with circumstances is
perfected, and the contemplative faculty is exercised, and the confidence which
comes from the knowledge of each several thing is maintained without showing
it, but yet not concealed. For when wilt thou enjoy simplicity, when gravity, and
when the knowledge of every several thing, both what it is in substance, and
what place it has in the universe, and how long it is formed to exist and of what
things it is compounded, and to whom it can belong, and who are able both to
give it and take it away?
A spider is proud when it has caught a fly, and another when he has caught a
poor hare, and another when he has taken a little fish in a net, and another when
he has taken wild boars, and another when he has taken bears, and another when
he has taken Sarmatians. Are not these robbers, if thou examinest their opinions?
Acquire the contemplative way of seeing how all things change into one
another, and constantly attend to it, and exercise thyself about this part of
philosophy. For nothing is so much adapted to produce magnanimity. Such a
man has put off the body, and as he sees that he must, no one knows how soon,
go away from among men and leave everything here, he gives himself up
entirely to just doing in all his actions, and in everything else that happens he
resigns himself to the universal nature. But as to what any man shall say or think
about him or do against him, he never even thinks of it, being himself contented
with these two things, with acting justly in what he now does, and being satisfied
with what is now assigned to him; and he lays aside all distracting and busy
pursuits, and desires nothing else than to accomplish the straight course through
the law, and by accomplishing the straight course to follow God.
What need is there of suspicious fear, since it is in thy power to inquire what
ought to be done? And if thou seest clear, go by this way content, without
turning back: but if thou dost not see clear, stop and take the best advisers. But if
any other things oppose thee, go on according to thy powers with due
consideration, keeping to that which appears to be just. For it is best to reach this
object, and if thou dost fail, let thy failure be in attempting this. He who follows
reason in all things is both tranquil and active at the same time, and also cheerful
and collected.
Inquire of thyself as soon as thou wakest from sleep, whether it will make any
difference to thee, if another does what is just and right. It will make no
difference.
Thou hast not forgotten, I suppose, that those who assume arrogant airs in
bestowing their praise or blame on others, are such as they are at bed and at
board, and thou hast not forgotten what they do, and what they avoid and what
they pursue, and how they steal and how they rob, not with hands and feet, but
with their most valuable part, by means of which there is produced, when a man
chooses, fidelity, modesty, truth, law, a good daemon (happiness)?
To her who gives and takes back all, to nature, the man who is instructed and
modest says, Give what thou wilt; take back what thou wilt. And he says this not
proudly, but obediently and well pleased with her.
Short is the little which remains to thee of life. Live as on a mountain. For it
makes no difference whether a man lives there or here, if he lives everywhere in
the world as in a state (political community). Let men see, let them know a real
man who lives according to nature. If they cannot endure him, let them kill him.
For that is better than to live thus as men do. No longer talk at all about the
kind of man that a good man ought to be, but be such.
Constantly contemplate the whole of time and the whole of substance, and
consider that all individual things as to substance are a grain of a fig, and as to
time, the turning of a gimlet.
Look at everything that exists, and observe that it is already in dissolution and
in change, and as it were putrefaction or dispersion, or that everything is so
constituted by nature as to die.
Consider what men are when they are eating, sleeping, generating, easing
themselves and so forth. Then what kind of men they are when they are
imperious and arrogant, or angry and scolding from their elevated place. But a
short time ago to how many they were slaves and for what things; and after a
little time consider in what a condition they will be.
That is for the good of each thing, which the universal nature brings to each.
And it is for its good at the time when nature brings it.
"The earth loves the shower"; and "the solemn aether loves": and the universe
loves to make whatever is about to be. I say then to the universe, that I love as
thou lovest. And is not this too said, that "this or that loves (is wont) to be
produced"?
Either thou livest here and hast already accustomed thyself to it, or thou art
going away, and this was thy own will; or thou art dying and hast discharged thy
duty. But besides these things there is nothing. Be of good cheer, then.
Let this always be plain to thee, that this piece of land is like any other; and
that all things here are the same with things on top of a mountain, or on the
seashore, or wherever thou choosest to be.
For thou wilt find just what Plato says, Dwelling within the walls of a city as
in a shepherd's fold on a mountain.
What is my ruling faculty now to me? And of what nature am I now making
it? And for what purpose am I now using it? Is it void of understanding? Is it
loosed and rent asunder from social life? Is it melted into and mixed with the
poor flesh so as to move together with it?
He who flies from his master is a runaway; but the law is master, and he who
breaks the law is a runaway. And he also who is grieved or angry or afraid, is
dissatisfied because something has been or is or shall be of the things which are
appointed by him who rules all things, and he is Law, and assigns to every man
what is fit. He then who fears or is grieved or is angry is a runaway.
A man deposits seed in a womb and goes away, and then another cause takes
it, and labours on it and makes a child. What a thing from such a material!
Again, the child passes food down through the throat, and then another cause
takes it and makes perception and motion, and in fine life and strength and other
things; how many and how strange I Observe then the things which are produced
in such a hidden way, and see the power just as we see the power which carries
things downwards and upwards, not with the eyes, but still no less plainly.
Constantly consider how all things such as they now are, in time past also
were; and consider that they will be the same again. And place before thy eyes
entire dramas and stages of the same form, whatever thou hast learned from thy
experience or from older history; for example, the whole court of Hadrian, and
the whole court of Antoninus, and the whole court of Philip, Alexander,
Croesus; for all those were such dramas as we see now, only with different
actors.
Imagine every man who is grieved at anything or discontented to be like a pig
which is sacrificed and kicks and screams.
Like this pig also is he who on his bed in silence laments the bonds in which
we are held. And consider that only to the rational animal is it given to follow
voluntarily what happens; but simply to follow is a necessity imposed on all.
Severally on the occasion of everything that thou doest, pause and ask thyself,
if death is a dreadful thing because it deprives thee of this.
When thou art offended at any man's fault, forthwith turn to thyself and reflect
in what like manner thou dost err thyself; for example, in thinking that money is
a good thing, or pleasure, or a bit of reputation, and the like. For by attending to
this thou wilt quickly forget thy anger, if this consideration also is added, that the
man is compelled: for what else could he do? or, if thou art able, take away from
him the compulsion.
When thou hast seen Satyron the Socratic, think of either Eutyches or Hymen,
and when thou hast seen Euphrates, think of Eutychion or Silvanus, and when
thou hast seen Alciphron think of Tropaeophorus, and when thou hast seen
Xenophon think of Crito or Severus, and when thou hast looked on thyself, think
of any other Caesar, and in the case of every one do in like manner. Then let this
thought be in thy mind, Where then are those men? Nowhere, or nobody knows
where. For thus continuously thou wilt look at human things as smoke and
nothing at all; especially if thou reflectest at the same time that what has once
changed will never exist again in the infinite duration of time. But thou, in what
a brief space of time is thy existence? And why art thou not content to pass
through this short time in an orderly way? What matter and opportunity for thy
activity art thou avoiding? For what else are all these things, except exercises for
the reason, when it has viewed carefully and by examination into their nature the
things which happen in life? Persevere then until thou shalt have made these
things thy own, as the stomach which is strengthened makes all things its own,
as the blazing fire makes flame and brightness out of everything that is thrown
into it.
Let it not be in any man's power to say truly of thee that thou art not simple or
that thou are not good; but let him be a liar whoever shall think anything of this
kind about thee; and this is altogether in thy power. For who is he that shall
hinder thee from being good and simple? Do thou only determine to live no
longer, unless thou shalt be such. For neither does reason allow thee to live, if
thou art not such.
What is that which as to this material (our life) can be done or said in the way
most conformable to reason. For whatever this may be, it is in thy power to do it
or to say it, and do not make excuses that thou art hindered. Thou wilt not cease
to lament till thy mind is in such a condition that, what luxury is to those who
enjoy pleasure, such shall be to thee, in the matter which is subjected and
presented to thee, the doing of the things which are conformable to man's
constitution; for a man ought to consider as an enjoyment everything which it is
in his power to do according to his own nature.
And it is in his power everywhere. Now, it is not given to a cylinder to move
everywhere by its own motion, nor yet to water nor to fire, nor to anything else
which is governed by nature or an irrational soul, for the things which check
them and stand in the way are many. But intelligence and reason are able to go
through everything that opposes them, and in such manner as they are formed by
nature and as they choose. Place before thy eyes this facility with which the
reason will be carried through all things, as fire upwards, as a stone downwards,
as a cylinder down an inclined surface, and seek for nothing further. For all other
obstacles either affect the body only which is a dead thing; or, except through
opinion and the yielding of the reason itself, they do not crush nor do any harm
of any kind; for if they did, he who felt it would immediately become bad. Now,
in the case of all things which have a certain constitution, whatever harm may
happen to any of them, that which is so affected becomes consequently worse;
but in the like case, a man becomes both better, if one may say so, and more
worthy of praise by making a right use of these accidents. And finally remember
that nothing harms him who is really a citizen, which does not harm the state;
nor yet does anything harm the state, which does not harm law (order); and of
these things which are called misfortunes not one harms law. What then does not
harm law does not harm either state or citizen.
To him who is penetrated by true principles even the briefest precept is
sufficient, and any common precept, to remind him that he should be free from
grief and fear. For example-Leaves, some the wind scatters on the ground-So is
the race of men.
Leaves, also, are thy children; and leaves, too, are they who cry out as if they
were worthy of credit and bestow their praise, or on the contrary curse, or
secretly blame and sneer; and leaves, in like manner, are those who shall receive
and transmit a man's fame to aftertimes. For all such things as these "are
produced in the season of spring," as the poet says; then the wind casts them
down; then the forest produces other leaves in their places. But a brief existence
is common to all things, and yet thou avoidest and pursuest all things as if they
would be eternal. A little time, and thou shalt close thy eyes; and him who has
attended thee to thy grave another soon will lament. The healthy eye ought to
see all visible things and not to say, I wish for green things; for this is the
condition of a diseased eye. And the healthy hearing and smelling ought to be
ready to perceive all that can be heard and smelled. And the healthy stomach
ought to be with respect to all food just as the mill with respect to all things
which it is formed to grind. And accordingly the healthy understanding ought to
be prepared for everything which happens; but that which says, Let my dear
children live, and let all men praise whatever I may do, is an eye which seeks for
green things, or teeth which seek for soft things.
There is no man so fortunate that there shall not be by him when he is dying
some who are pleased with what is going to happen. Suppose that he was a good
and wise man, will there not be at last some one to say to himself, Let us at last
breathe freely being relieved from this schoolmaster? It is true that he was harsh
to none of us, but I perceived that he tacitly condemns us.- This is what is said of
a good man. But in our own case how many other things are there for which
there are many who wish to get rid of us. Thou wilt consider this then when thou
art dying, and thou wilt depart more contentedly by reflecting thus: I am going
away from such a life, in which even my associates in behalf of whom I have
striven so much, prayed, and cared, themselves wish me to depart, hoping
perchance to get some little advantage by it. Why then should a man cling to a
longer stay here? Do not however for this reason go away less kindly disposed to
them, but preserving thy own character, and friendly and benevolent and mild,
and on the other hand not as if thou wast torn away; but as when a man dies a
quiet death, the poor soul is easily separated from the body, such also ought thy
departure from men to be, for nature united thee to them and associated thee. But
does she now dissolve the union? Well, I am separated as from kinsmen, not
however dragged resisting, but without compulsion; for this too is one of the
things according to nature.
Accustom thyself as much as possible on the occasion of anything being done
by any person to inquire with thyself, For what object is this man doing this? But
begin with thyself, and examine thyself first.
Remember that this which pulls the strings is the thing which is hidden within:
this is the power of persuasion, this is life, this, if one may so say, is man. In
contemplating thyself never include the vessel which surrounds thee and these
instruments which are attached about it. For they are like to an axe, differing
only in this that they grow to the body. For indeed there is no more use in these
parts without the cause which moves and checks them than in the weaver's
shuttle, and the writer's pen and the driver's whip.
BOOK ELEVEN
THESE are the properties of the rational soul: it sees itself, analyses itself, and
makes itself such as it chooses; the fruit which it bears itself enjoys-for the fruits
of plants and that in animals which corresponds to fruits others enjoy-it obtains
its own end, wherever the limit of life may be fixed. Not as in a dance and in a
play and in such like things, where the whole action is incomplete, if anything
cuts it short; but in every part and wherever it may be stopped, it makes what has
been set before it full and complete, so that it can say, I have what is my own.
And further it traverses the whole universe, and the surrounding vacuum, and
surveys its form, and it extends itself into the infinity of time, and embraces and
comprehends the periodical renovation of all things, and it comprehends that
those who come after us will see nothing new, nor have those before us seen
anything more, but in a manner he who is forty years old, if he has any
understanding at all, has seen by virtue of the uniformity that prevails all things
which have been and all that will be. This too is a property of the rational soul,
love of one's neighbour, and truth and modesty, and to value nothing more more
than itself, which is also the property of Law. Thus then right reason differs not
at all from the reason of justice. Thou wilt set little value on pleasing song and
dancing and the pancratium, if thou wilt distribute the melody of the voice into
its several sounds, and ask thyself as to each, if thou art mastered by this; for
thou wilt be prevented by shame from confessing it: and in the matter of
dancing, if at each movement and attitude thou wilt do the same; and the like
also in the matter of the pancratium. In all things, then, except virtue and the acts
of virtue, remember to apply thyself to their several parts, and by this division to
come to value them little: and apply this rule also to thy whole life.
What a soul that is which is ready, if at any moment it must be separated from
the body, and ready either to be extinguished or dispersed or continue to exist;
but so that this readiness comes from a man's own judgement, not from mere
obstinacy, as with the Christians, but considerately and with dignity and in a way
to persuade another, without tragic show.
Have I done something for the general interest? Well then I have had my
reward. Let this always be present to thy mind, and never stop doing such good.
What is thy art? To be good. And how is this accomplished well except by
general principles, some about the nature of the universe, and others about the
proper constitution of man?
At first tragedies were brought on the stage as means of reminding men of the
things which happen to them, and that it is according to nature for things to
happen so, and that, if you are delighted with what is shown on the stage, you
should not be troubled with that which takes place on the larger stage. For you
see that these things must be accomplished thus, and that even they bear them
who cry out "O Cithaeron." And, indeed, some things are said well by the
dramatic writers, of which kind is the following especially:Me and my children if the gods neglect,
This has its reason too.
And againWe must not chale and fret at that which happens.
And
Life's harvest reap like the wheat's fruitful ear.
And other things of the same kind.
After tragedy the old comedy was introduced, which had a magisterial
freedom of speech, and by its very plainness of speaking was useful in
reminding men to beware of insolence; and for this purpose too Diogenes used
to take from these writers.
But as to the middle comedy which came next, observe what it was, and
again, for what object the new comedy was introduced, which gradually sunk
down into a mere mimic artifice. That some good things are said even by these
writers, everybody knows: but the whole plan of such poetry and dramaturgy, to
what end does it look! How plain does it appear that there is not another
condition of life so well suited for philosophising as this in which thou now
happenest to be.
A branch cut off from the adjacent branch must of necessity be cut off from
the whole tree also. So too a man when he is separated from another man has
fallen off from the whole social community. Now as to a branch, another cuts it
off, but a man by his own act separates himself from his neighbour when he
hates him and turns away from him, and he does not know that he has at the
same time cut himself off from the whole social system. Yet he has this privilege
certainly from Zeus who framed society, for it is in our power to grow again to
that which is near to us, and be to come a part which helps to make up the whole.
However, if it often happens, this kind of separation, it makes it difficult for that
which detaches itself to be brought to unity and to be restored to its former
condition. Finally, the branch, which from the first grew together with the tree,
and has continued to have one life with it, is not like that which after being cut
off is then ingrafted, for this is something like what the gardeners mean when
they say that it grows with the rest of the tree, but that it has not the same mind
with it.
As those who try to stand in thy way when thou art proceeding according to
right reason, will not be able to turn thee aside from thy proper action, so neither
let them drive thee from thy benevolent feelings towards them, but be on thy
guard equally in both matters, not only in the matter of steady judgement and
action, but also in the matter of gentleness towards those who try to hinder or
otherwise trouble thee. For this also is a weakness, to be vexed at them, as well
as to be diverted from thy course of action and to give way through fear; for both
are equally deserters from their post, the man who does it through fear, and the
man who is alienated from him who is by nature a kinsman and a friend.
There is no nature which is inferior to art, for the arts imitate the nature of
things. But if this is so, that nature which is the most perfect and the most
comprehensive of all natures, cannot fall short of the skill of art. Now all arts do
the inferior things for the sake of the superior; therefore the universal nature
does so too. And, indeed, hence is the origin of justice, and in justice the other
virtues have their foundation: for justice will not be observed, if we either care
for middle things (things indifferent), or are easily deceived and careless and
changeable.
If the things do not come to thee, the pursuits and avoidances of which disturb
thee, still in a manner thou goest to them. Let then thy judgement about them be
at rest, and they will remain quiet, and thou wilt not be seen either pursuing or
avoiding.
The spherical form of the soul maintains its figure, when it is neither extended
towards any object, nor contracted inwards, nor dispersed nor sinks down, but is
illuminated by light, by which it sees the truth, the truth of all things and the
truth that is in itself.
Suppose any man shall despise me. Let him look to that himself. But I will
look to this, that I be not discovered doing or saying anything deserving of
contempt. Shall any man hate me? Let him look to it. But I will be mild and
benevolent towards every man, and ready to show even him his mistake, not
reproachfully, nor yet as making a display of my endurance, but nobly and
honestly, like the great
Phocion, unless indeed he only assumed it. For the interior parts ought to be
such, and a man ought to be seen by the gods neither dissatisfied with anything
nor complaining. For what evil is it to thee, if thou art now doing what is
agreeable to thy own nature, and art satisfied with that which at this moment is
suitable to the nature of the universe, since thou art a human being placed at thy
post in order that what is for the common advantage may be done in some way?
Men despise one another and flatter one another; and men wish to raise
themselves above one another, and crouch before one another. How unsound and
insincere is he who says, I have determined to deal with thee in a fair way.What art thou doing, man? There is no occasion to give this notice. It will soon
show itself by acts. The voice ought to be plainly written on the forehead. Such
as a man's character is, he immediately shows it in his eyes, just as he who is
beloved forthwith reads everything in the eyes of lovers. The man who is honest
and good ought to be exactly like a man who smells strong, so that the bystander
as soon as he comes near him must smell whether he choose or not. But the
affectation of simplicity is like a crooked stick. Nothing is more disgraceful than
a wolfish friendship (false friendship). Avoid this most of all. The good and
simple and benevolent show all these things in the eyes, and there is no
mistaking.
As to living in the best way, this power is in the soul, if it be indifferent to
things which are indifferent. And it will be indifferent, if it looks on each of
these things separately and all together, and if it remembers that not one of them
produces in us an opinion about itself, nor comes to us; but these things remain
immovable, and it is we ourselves who produce the judgements about them, and,
as we may say, write them in ourselves, it beingin our power not to write them,
and it being in our power, if perchance these judgements have imperceptibly got
admission to our minds, to wipe them out; and if we remember also that such
attention will only be for a short time, and then life will be at an end. Besides,
what trouble is there at all in doing this? For if these things are according to
nature, rejoice in them, and they will be easy to thee: but if contrary to nature,
seek what is conformable to thy own nature, and strive towards this, even if it
bring no reputation; for every man is allowed to seek his own good.
Consider whence each thing is come, and of what it consists, and into what it
changes, and what kind of a thing it will be when it has changed, and that it will
sustain no harm.
If any have offended against thee, consider first: What is my relation to men,
and that we are made for one another; and in another respect, I was made to be
set over them, as a ram over the flock or a bull over the herd. But examine the
matter from first principles, from this: If all things are not mere atoms, it is
nature which orders all things: if this is so, the inferior things exist for the sake
of the superior, and these for the sake of one another.
Second, consider what kind of men they are at table, in bed, and so forth: and
particularly, under what compulsions in respect of opinions they are; and as to
their acts, consider with what pride they do what they do.
Third, that if men do rightly what they do, we ought not to be displeased; but
if they do not right, it is plain that they do so involuntarily and in ignorance. For
as every soul is unwillingly deprived of the truth, so also is it unwillingly
deprived of the power of behaving to each man according to his deserts.
Accordingly men are pained when they are called unjust, ungrateful, and greedy,
and in a word wrongdoers to their neighbours.
Fourth, consider that thou also doest many things wrong, and that thou art a
man like others; and even if thou dost abstain from certain faults, still thou hast
the disposition to commit them, though either through cowardice, or concern
about reputation, or some such mean motive, thou dost abstain from such faults.
Fifth, consider that thou dost not even understand whether men are doing
wrong or not, for many things are done with a certain reference to
circumstances. And in short, a man must learn a great deal to enable him to pass
a correct judgement on another man's acts.
Sixth, consider when thou art much vexed or grieved, that man's life is only a
moment, and after a short time we are all laid out dead.
Seventh, that it is not men's acts which disturb us, for those acts have their
foundation in men's ruling principles, but it is our own opinions which disturb
us. Take away these opinions then, and resolve to dismiss thy judgement about
an act as if it were something grievous, and thy anger is gone. How then shall I
take away these opinions? By reflecting that no wrongful act of another brings
shame on thee: for unless that which is shameful is alone bad, thou also must of
necessity do many things wrong, and become a robber and everything else.
Eighth, consider how much more pain is brought on us by the anger and
vexation caused by such acts than by the acts themselves, at which we are angry
and vexed.
Ninth, consider that a good disposition is invincible, if it be genuine, and not
an affected smile and acting a part. For what will the most violent man do to
thee, if thou continuest to be of a kind disposition towards him, and if, as
opportunity offers, thou gently admonishest him and calmly correctest his errors
at the very time when he is trying to do thee harm, saying, Not so, my child: we
are constituted by nature for something else: I shall certainly not be injured, but
thou art injuring thyself, my child.- And show him with gentle tact and by
general principles that this is so, and that even bees do not do as he does, nor any
animals which are formed by nature to be gregarious. And thou must do this
neither with any double meaning nor in the way of reproach, but affectionately
and without any rancour in thy soul; and not as if thou wert lecturing him, nor
yet that any bystander may admire, but either when he is alone, and if others are
present...
Remember these nine rules, as if thou hadst received them as a gift from the
Muses, and begin at last to be a man while thou livest. But thou must equally
avoid flattering men and being veied at them, for both are unsocial and lead to
harm. And let this truth be present to thee in the excitement of anger, that to be
moved by passion is not manly, but that mildness and gentleness, as they are
more agreeable to human nature, so also are they more manly; and he who
possesses these qualities possesses strength, nerves and courage, and not the man
who is subject to fits of passion and discontent. For in the same degree in which
a man's mind is nearer to freedom from all passion, in the same degree also is it
nearer to strength: and as the sense of pain is a characteristic of weakness, so
also is anger. For he who yields to pain and he who yields to anger, both are
wounded and both submit.
But if thou wilt, receive also a tenth present from the leader of the Muses
(Apollo), and it is this-that to expect bad men not to do wrong is madness, for he
who expects this desires an impossibility.
But to allow men to behave so to others, and to expect them not to do thee any
wrong, is irrational and tyrannical.
There are four principal aberrations of the superior faculty against which thou
shouldst be constantly on thy guard, and when thou hast detected them, thou
shouldst wipe them out and say on each occasion thus: this thought is not
necessary: this tends to destroy social union: this which thou art going to say
comes not from the real thoughts; for thou shouldst consider it among the most
absurd of things for a man not to speak from his real thoughts. But the fourth is
when thou shalt reproach thyself for anything, for this is an evidence of the
diviner part within thee being overpowered and yielding to the less honourable
and to the perishable part, the body, and to its gross pleasures.
Thy aerial part and all the fiery parts which are mingled in thee, though by
nature they have an upward tendency, still in obedience to the disposition of the
universe they are overpowered here in the compound mass (the body). And also
the whole of the earthy part in thee and the watery, though their tendency is
downward, still are raised up and occupy a position which is not their natural
one. In this manner then the elemental parts obey the universal, for when they
have been fixed in any place perforce they remain there until again the universal
shall sound the signal for dissolution. Is it not then strange that thy intelligent
part only should be disobedient and discontented with its own place? And yet no
force is imposed on it, but only those things which are conformable to its nature:
still it does not submit, but is carried in the opposite direction. For the movement
towards injustice and intemperance and to anger and grief and fear is nothing
else than the act of one who deviates from nature. And also when the ruling
faculty is discontented with anything that happens, then too it deserts its post: for
it is constituted for piety and reverence towards the gods no less than for justice.
For these qualities also are comprehended under the generic term of contentment
with the constitution of things, and indeed they are prior to acts of justice.
He who has not one and always the same object in life, cannot be one and the
same all through his life. But what I have said is not enough, unless this also is
added, what this object ought to be. For as there is not the same opinion about all
the things which in some way or other are considered by the majority to be good,
but only about some certain things, that is, things which concern the common
interest; so also ought we to propose to ourselves an object which shall be of a
common kind (social) and political. For he who directs all his own efforts to this
object, will make all his acts alike, and thus will always be the same.
Think of the country mouse and of the town mouse, and of the alarm and
trepidation of the town mouse.
Socrates used to call the opinions of the many by the name of Lamiae,
bugbears to frighten children. The Lacedaemonians at their public spectacles
used to set seats in the shade for strangers, but themselves sat down anywhere.
Socrates excused himself to Perdiccas for not going to him, saying, It is because
I would not perish by the worst of all ends, that is, I would not receive a favour
and then be unable to return it. In the writings of the Ephesians there was this
precept, constantly to think of some one of the men of former times who
practised virtue.
The Pythagoreans bid us in the morning look to the heavens that we may be
reminded of those bodies which continually do the same things and in the same
manner perform their work, and also be reminded of their purity and nudity. For
there is no veil over a star.
Consider what a man Socrates was when he dressed himself in a skin, after
Xanthippe had taken his cloak and gone out, and what Socrates said to his
friends who were ashamed of him and drew back from him when they saw him
dressed thus.
Neither in writing nor in reading wilt thou be able to lay down rules for others
before thou shalt have first learned to obey rules thyself. Much more is this so in
life.
A slave thou art: free speech is not for thee.
And my heart laughed within.
And virtue they will curse, speaking harsh words.
To look for the fig in winter is a madman's act: such is he who looks for his
child when it is no longer allowed.
When a man kisses his child, said Epictetus, he should whisper to himself,
"Tomorrow perchance thou wilt die."- But those are words of bad omen.- "No
word is a word of bad omen," said Epictetus, "which expresses any work of
nature; or if it is so, it is also a word of bad omen to speak of the ears of corn
being reaped."
The unripe grape, the ripe bunch, the dried grape, all are changes, not into
nothing, but into something which exists not yet.
No man can rob us of our free will.
Epictetus also said, A man must discover an art (or rules) with respect to
giving his assent; and in respect to his movements he must be careful that they
be made with regard to circumstances, that they be consistent with social
interests, that they have regard to the value of the object; and as to sensual
desire, he should altogether keep away from it; and as to avoidance (aversion) he
should not show it with respect to any of the things which are not in our power.
The dispute then, he said, is not about any common matter, but about being
mad or not.
Socrates used to say, What do you want? Souls of rational men or irrational?Souls of rational men.- Of what rational men? Sound or unsound?- Sound.- Why
then do you not seek for them?- Because we have them.- Why then do you fight
and quarrel?
BOOK TWELVE
ALL those things at which thou wishest to arrive by a circuitous road, thou
canst have now, if thou dost not refuse them to thyself.
And this means, if thou wilt take no notice of all the past, and trust the future
to providence, and direct the present only conformably to piety and justice.
Conformably to piety, that thou mayest be content with the lot which is assigned
to thee, for nature designed it for thee and thee for it. Conformably to justice,
that thou mayest always speak the truth freely and without disguise, and do the
things which are agreeable to law and according to the worth of each. And let
neither another man's wickedness hinder thee, nor opinion nor voice, nor yet the
sensations of the poor flesh which has grown about thee; for the passive part will
look to this. If then, whatever the time may be when thou shalt be near to thy
departure, neglecting everything else thou shalt respect only thy ruling faculty
and the divinity within thee, and if thou shalt be afraid not because thou must
some time cease to live, but if thou shalt fear never to have begun to live
according to nature-then thou wilt be a man worthy of the universe which has
produced thee, and thou wilt cease to be a stranger in thy native land, and to
wonder at things which happen daily as if they were something unexpected, and
to be dependent on this or that.
God sees the minds (ruling principles) of all men bared of the material vesture
and rind and impurities. For with his intellectual part alone he touches the
intelligence only which has flowed and been derived from himself into these
bodies. And if thou also usest thyself to do this, thou wilt rid thyself of thy much
trouble. For he who regards not the poor flesh which envelops him, surely will
not trouble himself by looking after raiment and dwelling and fame and such like
externals and show.
The things are three of which thou art composed, a little body, a little breath
(life), intelligence. Of these the first two are thine, so far as it is thy duty to take
care of them; but the third alone is properly thine. Therefore if thou shalt
separate from thyself, that is, from thy understanding, whatever others do or say,
and whatever thou hast done or said thyself, and whatever future things trouble
thee because they may happen, and whatever in the body which envelops thee or
in the breath (life), which is by nature associated with the body, is attached to
thee independent of thy will, and whatever the external circumfluent vortex
whirls round, so that the intellectual power exempt from the things of fate can
live pure and free by itself, doing what is just and accepting what happens and
saying the truth: if thou wilt separate, I say, from this ruling faculty the things
which are attached to it by the impressions of sense, and the things of time to
come and of time that is past, and wilt make thyself like Empedocles' sphere, All
round, and in its joyous rest reposing; and if thou shalt strive to live only what is
really thy life, that is, the present-then thou wilt be able to pass that portion of
life which remains for thee up to the time of thy death, free from perturbations,
nobly, and obedient to thy own daemon (to the god that is within thee).
I have often wondered how it is that every man loves himself more than all the
rest of men, but yet sets less value on his own opinion of himself than on the
opinion of others. If then a god or a wise teacher should present himself to a man
and bid him to think of nothing and to design nothing which he would not
express as soon as he conceived it, he could not endure it even for a single day.
So much more respect have we to what our neighbours shall think of us than to
what we shall think of ourselves.
How can it be that the gods after having arranged all things well and
benevolently for mankind, have overlooked this alone, that some men and very
good men, and men who, as we may say, have had most communion with the
divinity, and through pious acts and religious observances have been most
intimate with the divinity, when they have once died should never exist again,
but should be completely extinguished?
But if this is so, be assured that if it ought to have been otherwise, the gods
would have done it. For if it were just, it would also be possible; and if it were
according to nature, nature would have had it so. But because it is not so, if in
fact it is not so, be thou convinced that it ought not to have been so:- for thou
seest even of thyself that in this inquiry thou art disputing with the diety; and we
should not thus dispute with the gods, unless they were most excellent and most
just;- but if this is so, they would not have allowed anything in the ordering of
the universe to be neglected unjustly and irrationally.
Practise thyself even in the things which thou despairest of accomplishing. For
even the left hand, which is ineffectual for all other things for want of practice,
holds the bridle more vigorously than the right hand; for it has been practised in
this.
Consider in what condition both in body and soul a man should be when he is
overtaken by death; and consider the shortness of life, the boundless abyss of
time past and future, the feebleness of all matter.
Contemplate the formative principles (forms) of things bare of their coverings;
the purposes of actions; consider what pain is, what pleasure is, and death, and
fame; who is to himself the cause of his uneasiness; how no man is hindered by
another; that everything is opinion.
In the application of thy principles thou must be like the pancratiast, not like
the gladiator; for the gladiator lets fall the sword which he uses and is killed; but
the other always has his hand, and needs to do nothing else than use it.
See what things are in themselves, dividing them into matter, form and
purpose.
What a power man has to do nothing except what God will approve, and to
accept all that God may give him.
With respect to that which happens conformably to nature, we ought to blame
neither gods, for they do nothing wrong either voluntarily or involuntarily, nor
men, for they do nothing wrong except involuntarily. Consequently we should
blame nobody.
How ridiculous and what a stranger he is who is surprised at anything which
happens in life.
Either there is a fatal necessity and invincible order, or a kind Providence, or a
confusion without a purpose and without a director (Book IV). If then there is an
invincible necessity, why dost thou resist? But if there is a Providence which
allows itself to be propitiated, make thyself worthy of the help of the divinity.
But if there is a confusion without governor, be content that in such a tempest
thou hast in thyself a certain ruling intelligence. And even if the tempest carry
thee away, let it carry away the poor flesh, the poor breath, everything else; for
the intelligence at least it will not carry away.
Does the light of the lamp shine without losing its splendour until it is
extinguished; and shall the truth which is in thee and justice and temperance be
extinguished before thy death?
When a man has presented the appearance of having done wrong, say, How
then do I know if this is a wrongful act? And even if he has done wrong, how do
I know that he has not condemned himself? and so this is like tearing his own
face. Consider that he, who would not have the bad man do wrong, is like the
man who would not have the fig-tree to bear juice in the figs and infants to cry
and the horse to neigh, and whatever else must of necessity be. For what must a
man do who has such a character? If then thou art irritable, cure this man's
disposition.
If it is not right, do not do it: if it is not true, do not say it. For let thy efforts
be.
In everything always observe what the thing is which produces for thee an
appearance, and resolve it by dividing it into the formal, the material, the
purpose, and the time within which it must end.
Perceive at last that thou hast in thee something better and more divine than
the things which cause the various affects, and as it were pull thee by the strings.
What is there now in my mind? Is it fear, or suspicion, or desire, or anything of
the kind?
First, do nothing inconsiderately, nor without a purpose. Second, make thy
acts refer to nothing else than to a social end. Consider that before long thou wilt
be nobody and nowhere, nor will any of the things exist which thou now seest,
nor any of those who are now living. For all things are formed by nature to
change and be turned and to perish in order that other things in continuous
succession may exist.
Consider that everything is opinion, and opinion is in thy power. Take away
then, when thou choosest, thy opinion, and like a mariner, who has doubled the
promontory, thou wilt find calm, everything stable, and a waveless bay.
Any one activity whatever it may be, when it has ceased at its proper time,
suffers no evil because it has ceased; nor he who has done this act, does he suffer
any evil for this reason that the act has ceased. In like manner then the whole
which consists of all the acts, which is our life, if it cease at its proper time,
suffers no evil for this reason that it has ceased; nor he who has terminated this
series at the proper time, has he been ill dealt with. But the proper time and the
limit nature fixes, sometimes as in old age the peculiar nature of man, but always
the universal nature, by the change of whose parts the whole universe continues
ever young and perfect.
And everything which is useful to the universal is always good and in season.
Therefore the termination of life for every man is no evil, because neither is it
shameful, since it is both independent of the will and not opposed to the general
interest, but it is good, since it is seasonable and profitable to and congruent with
the universal. For thus too he is moved by the deity who is moved in the same
manner with the deity and moved towards the same things in his mind.
These three principles thou must have in readiness. In the things which thou
doest do nothing either inconsiderately or otherwise than as justice herself would
act; but with respect to what may happen to thee from without, consider that it
happens either by chance or according to Providence, and thou must neither
blame chance nor accuse Providence. Second, consider what every being is from
the seed to the time of its receiving a soul, and from the reception of a soul to the
giving back of the same, and of what things every being is compounded and into
what things it is resolved. Third, if thou shouldst suddenly be raised up above the
earth, and shouldst look down on human things, and observe the variety of them
how great it is, and at the same time also shouldst see at a glance how great is
the number of beings who dwell around in the air and the aether, consider that as
often as thou shouldst be raised up, thou wouldst see the same things, sameness
of form and shortness of duration. Are these things to be proud of?
Cast away opinion: thou art saved. Who then hinders thee from casting it
away?
When thou art troubled about anything, thou hast forgotten this, that all things
happen according to the universal nature; and forgotten this, that a man's
wrongful act is nothing to thee; and further thou hast forgotten this, that
everything which happens, always happened so and will happen so, and now
happens so everywhere; forgotten this too, how close is the kinship between a
man and the whole human race, for it is a community, not of a little blood or
seed, but of intelligence. And thou hast forgotten this too, that every man's
intelligence is a god, and is an efflux of the deity; and forgotten this, that nothing
is a man's own, but that his child and his body and his very soul came from the
deity; forgotten this, that everything is opinion; and lastly thou hast forgotten
that every man lives the present time only, and loses only this.
Constantly bring to thy recollection those who have complained greatly about
anything, those who have been most conspicuous by the greatest fame or
misfortunes or enmities or fortunes of any kind: then think where are they all
now? Smoke and ash and a tale, or not even a tale. And let there be present to
thy mind also everything of this sort, how Fabius Catullinus lived in the country,
and Lucius Lupus in his gardens, and Stertinius at Baiae, and Tiberius at
Capreae and Velius Rufus (or Rufus at Velia); and in fine think of the eager
pursuit of anything conjoined with pride; and how worthless everything is after
which men violently strain; and how much more philosophical it is for a man in
the opportunities presented to him to show.
THE GOLDEN SAYINGS
OF EPICTETUS
Translated by Hastings Crossley
I
Are these the only works of Providence within us? What words suffice to
praise or set them forth? Had we but understanding, should we ever cease
hymning and blessing the Divine Power, both openly and in secret, and telling of
His gracious gifts? Whether digging or ploughing or eating, should we not sing
the hymn to God:—
Great is God, for that He hath given us such instruments to till the ground
withal: Great is God, for that He hath given us hands and the power of
swallowing and digesting; of unconsciously growing and breathing while we
sleep!
Thus should we ever have sung; yea and this, the grandest and divinest hymn
of all:—
Great is God, for that He hath given us a mind to apprehend these things, and
duly to use them!
What then! seeing that most of you are blinded, should there not be some one
to fill this place, and sing the hymn to God on behalf of all men? What else can I
that am old and lame do but sing to God? Were I a nightingale, I should do after
the manner of a nightingale. Were I a swan, I should do after the manner of a
swan. But now, since I am a reasonable being, I must sing to God: that is my
work: I do it, nor will I desert this my post, as long as it is granted me to hold it;
and upon you too I call to join in this selfsame hymn.
II
How then do men act? As though one returning to his country who had
sojourned for the night in a fair inn, should be so captivated thereby as to take up
his abode there.
"Friend, thou hast forgotten thine intention! This was not thy destination, but
only lay on the way thither."
"Nay, but it is a proper place."
"And how many more of the sort there may be; only to pass through upon thy
way! Thy purpose was to return to thy country; to relieve thy kinsmen's fears for
thee; thyself to discharge the duties of a citizen; to marry a wife, to beget
offspring, and to fill the appointed round of office. Thou didst not come to
choose out what places are most pleasant; but rather to return to that wherein
thou wast born and where wert appointed to be a citizen."
III
Try to enjoy the great festival of life with other men.
IV
But I have one whom I must please, to whom I must be subject, whom I must
obey:—God, and those who come next to Him. He hath entrusted me with
myself: He hath made my will subject to myself alone and given me rules for the
right use thereof.
V
Rufus used to say, If you have leisure to praise me, what I say is naught. In
truth he spoke in such wise, that each of us who sat there, though that some one
had accused him to Rufus:—so surely did he lay his finger on the very deeds we
did: so surely display the faults of each before his very eyes.
VI
But what saith God?—"Had it been possible, Epictetus, I would have made
both that body of thine and thy possessions free and unimpeded, but as it is, be
not deceived:—it is not thine own; it is but finely tempered clay. Since then this
I could not do, I have given thee a portion of Myself, in the power of desiring
and declining and of pursuing and avoiding, and in a word the power of dealing
with the things of sense. And if thou neglect not this, but place all that thou hast
therein, thou shalt never be let or hindered; thou shalt never lament; thou shalt
not blame or flatter any. What then? Seemeth this to thee a little thing?"—God
forbid!—"Be content then therewith!"
And so I pray the Gods.
VII
What saith Antisthenes? Hast thou never heard?— It is a kingly thing, O
Cyrus, to do well and to be evil spoken of.
VIII
"Aye, but to debase myself thus were unworthy of me."
"That," said Epictetus, "is for you to consider, not for me. You know yourself
what you are worth in your own eyes; and at what price you will sell yourself.
For men sell themselves at various prices. This was why, when Florus was
deliberating whether he should appear at Nero's shows, taking part in the
performance himself, Agrippinus replied, 'But why do not you appear?' he
answered, 'Because I do not even consider the question.' For the man who has
once stooped to consider such questions, and to reckon up the value of external
things, is not far from forgetting what manner of man he is. Why, what is it that
you ask me? Is death preferable, or life? I reply, Life. Pain or pleasure? I reply,
Pleasure."
"Well, but if I do not act, I shall lose my head."
"Then go and act! But for my part I will not act."
"Why?"
"Because you think yourself but one among the many threads which make up
the texture of the doublet. You should aim at being like men in general—just as
your thread has no ambition either to be anything distinguished compared with
the other threads. But I desire to be the purple—that small and shining part
which makes the rest seem fair and beautiful. Why then do you bid me become
even as the multitude? Then were I no longer the purple."
IX
If a man could be thoroughly penetrated, as he ought, with this thought, that
we are all in an especial manner sprung from God, and that God is the Father of
men as well as of Gods, full surely he would never conceive aught ignoble or
base of himself. Whereas if Caesar were to adopt you, your haughty looks would
be intolerable; will you not be elated at knowing that you are the son of God?
Now however it is not so with us: but seeing that in our birth these two things
are commingled—the body which we share with the animals, and the Reason
and Thought which we share with the Gods, many decline towards this unhappy
kinship with the dead, few rise to the blessed kinship with the Divine. Since then
every one must deal with each thing according to the view which he forms about
it, those few who hold that they are born for fidelity, modesty, and unerring
sureness in dealing with the things of sense, never conceive aught base or
ignoble of themselves: but the multitude the contrary. Why, what am I?—A
wretched human creature; with this miserable flesh of mine. Miserable indeed!
but you have something better than that paltry flesh of yours. Why then cling to
the one, and neglect the other?
X
Thou art but a poor soul laden with a lifeless body.
XI
The other day I had an iron lamp placed beside my household gods. I heard a
noise at the door and on hastening down found my lamp carried off. I reflected
that the culprit was in no very strange case. "Tomorrow, my friend," I said, "you
will find an earthenware lamp; for a man can only lose what he has."
XII
The reason why I lost my lamp was that the thief was superior to me in
vigilance. He paid however this price for the lamp, that in exchange for it he
consented to become a thief: in exchange for it, to become faithless.
XIII
But God hath introduced Man to be a spectator of Himself and of His works;
and not a spectator only, but also an interpreter of them. Wherefore it is a shame
for man to begin and to leave off where the brutes do. Rather he should begin
there, and leave off where Nature leaves off in us: and that is at contemplation,
and understanding, and a manner of life that is in harmony with herself.
See then that ye die not without being spectators of these things.
XIV
You journey to Olympia to see the work of Phidias; and each of you holds it a
misfortune not to have beheld these things before you die. Whereas when there
is no need even to take a journey, but you are on the spot, with the works before
you, have you no care to contemplate and study these?
Will you not then perceive either who you are or unto what end you were
born: or for what purpose the power of contemplation has been bestowed on
you?
"Well, but in life there are some things disagreeable and hard to bear."
And are there none at Olympia? Are you not scorched by the heat? Are you
not cramped for room? Have you not to bathe with discomfort? Are you not
drenched when it rains? Have you not to endure the clamor and shouting and
such annoyances as these? Well, I suppose you set all this over against the
splendour of the spectacle and bear it patiently. What then? have you not
received greatness of heart, received courage, received fortitude? What care I, if
I am great of heart, for aught that can come to pass? What shall cast me down or
disturb me? What shall seem painful? Shall I not use the power to the end for
which I received it, instead of moaning and wailing over what comes to pass?
XV
If what philosophers say of the kinship of God and Man be true, what remains
for men to do but as Socrates did:—never, when asked one's country, to answer,
"I am an Athenian or a Corinthian," but "I am a citizen of the world."
XVI
He that hath grasped the administration of the World, who hath learned that
this Community, which consists of God and men, is the foremost and mightiest
and most comprehensive of all:—that from God have descended the germs of
life, not to my father only and father's father, but to all things that are born and
grow upon the earth, and in an especial manner to those endowed with Reason
(for those only are by their nature fitted to hold communion with God, being by
means of Reason conjoined with Him)—why should not such an one call himself
a citizen of the world? Why not a son of God? Why should he fear aught that
comes to pass among men? Shall kinship with Caesar, or any other of the great
at Rome, be enough to hedge men around with safety and consideration, without
a thought of apprehension: while to have God for our Maker, and Father, and
Kinsman, shall not this set us free from sorrows and fears?
XVII
I do not think that an old fellow like me need have been sitting here to try and
prevent your entertaining abject notions of yourselves, and talking of yourselves
in an abject and ignoble way: but to prevent there being by chance among you
any such young men as, after recognising their kindred to the Gods, and their
bondage in these chains of the body and its manifold necessities, should desire to
cast them off as burdens too grievous to be borne, and depart their true kindred.
This is the struggle in which your Master and Teacher, were he worthy of the
name, should be engaged. You would come to me and say: "Epictetus, we can no
longer endure being chained to this wretched body, giving food and drink and
rest and purification: aye, and for its sake forced to be subservient to this man
and that. Are these not things indifferent and nothing to us? Is it not true that
death is no evil? Are we not in a manner kinsmen of the Gods, and have we not
come from them? Let us depart thither, whence we came: let us be freed from
these chains that confine and press us down. Here are thieves and robbers and
tribunals: and they that are called tyrants, who deem that they have after a
fashion power over us, because of the miserable body and what appertains to it.
Let us show them that they have power over none."
XVIII
And to this I reply:—
"Friends, wait for God. When He gives the signal, and releases you from this
service, then depart to Him. But for the present, endure to dwell in the place
wherein He hath assigned you your post. Short indeed is the time of your
habitation therein, and easy to those that are minded. What tyrant, what robber,
what tribunals have any terrors for those who thus esteem the body and all that
belong to it as of no account? Stay; depart not rashly hence!"
XIX
Something like that is what should pass between a teacher and ingenuous
youths. As it is, what does pass? The teacher is a lifeless body, and you are
lifeless bodies yourselves. When you have had enough to eat today, you sit down
and weep about tomorrow's food. Slave! if you have it, well and good; if not,
you will depart: the door is open—why lament? What further room is there for
tears? What further occasion for flattery? Why should one envy another? Why
should you stand in awe of them that have much or are placed in power,
especially if they be also strong and passionate? Why, what should they do to
us? What they can do, we will not regard: what does concern us, that they cannot
do. Who then shall rule one that is thus minded?
XX
Seeing this then, and noting well the faculties which you have, you should
say,—"Send now, O God, any trial that Thou wilt; lo, I have means and powers
given me by Thee to acquit myself with honour through whatever comes to
pass!"—No; but there you sit, trembling for fear certain things should come to
pass, and moaning and groaning and lamenting over what does come to pass.
And then you upbraid the Gods. Such meanness of spirit can have but one result
—impiety.
Yet God has not only given us these faculties by means of which we may bear
everything that comes to pass without being crushed or depressed thereby; but
like a good King and Father, He has given us this without let or hindrance,
placed wholly at our own disposition, without reserving to Himself any power of
impediment or restraint. Though possessing all these things free and all you own,
you do not use them! you do not perceive what it is you have received nor
whence it comes, but sit moaning and groaning; some of you blind to the Giver,
making no acknowledgment to your Benefactor; others basely giving themselves
to complaints and accusations against God.
Yet what faculties and powers you possess for attaining courage and greatness
of heart, I can easily show you; what you have for upbraiding and accusation, it
is for you to show me!
XXI
How did Socrates bear himself in this regard? How else than as became one
who was fully assured that he was the kinsman of Gods?
XXII
If God had made that part of His own nature which He severed from Himself
and gave to us, liable to be hindered or constrained either by Himself or any
other, He would not have been God, nor would He have been taking care of us as
He ought . . . . If you choose, you are free; if you choose, you need blame no
man—accuse no man. All things will be at once according to your mind and
according to the Mind of God.
XXIII
Petrifaction is of two sorts. There is petrifaction of the understanding; and also
of the sense of shame. This happens when a man obstinately refuses to
acknowledge plain truths, and persists in maintaining what is self-contradictory.
Most of us dread mortification of the body, and would spare no pains to escape
anything of that kind. But of mortification of the soul we are utterly heedless.
With regard, indeed, to the soul, if a man is in such a state as to be incapable of
following or understanding anything, I grant you we do think him in a bad way.
But mortification of the sense of shame and modesty we go so far as to dub
strength of mind!
XXIV
If we were as intent upon our business as the old fellows at Rome are upon
what interests them, we too might perhaps accomplish something. I know a man
older than I am, now Superintendent of the Corn-market at Rome, and I
remember when he passed through this place on his way back from exile, what
an account he gave me of his former life, declaring that for the future, once
home again, his only care should be to pass his remaining years in quiet and
tranquility. "For how few years have I left!" he cried. "That," I said, "you will
not do; but the moment the scent of Rome is in your nostrils, you will forget it
all; and if you can but gain admission to Court, you will be glad enough to elbow
your way in, and thank God for it." "Epictetus," he replied, "if ever you find me
setting as much as one foot within the Court, think what you will of me."
Well, as it was, what did he do? Ere ever he entered the city, he was met by a
despatch from the Emperor. He took it, and forgot the whole of his resolutions.
From that moment, he has been piling one thing upon another. I should like to be
beside him to remind him of what he said when passing this way, and to add,
How much better a prophet I am than you!
What then? do I say man is not made for an active life? Far from it! . . . But
there is a great difference between other men's occupations and ours. . . . A
glance at theirs will make it clear to you. All day long they do nothing but
calculate, contrive, consult how to wring their profit out of food-stuffs, farmplots and the like. . . . Whereas, I entreat you to learn what the administration of
the World is, and what place a Being endowed with reason holds therein: to
consider what you are yourself, and wherein your Good and Evil consists.
XXV
A man asked me to write to Rome on his behalf who, as most people thought,
had met with misfortune; for having been before wealthy and distinguished, he
had afterwards lost all and was living here. So I wrote about him in a humble
style. He however on reading the letter returned it to me, with the words: "I
asked for your help, not for your pity. No evil has happened unto me."
XXVI
True instruction is this:—to learn to wish that each thing should come to pass
as it does. And how does it come to pass? As the Disposer has disposed it. Now
He has disposed that there should be summer and winter, and plenty and dearth,
and vice and virtue, and all such opposites, for the harmony of the whole.
XXVII
Have this thought ever present with thee, when thou losest any outward thing,
what thou gainest in its stead; and if this be the more precious, say not, I have
suffered loss.
XXVIII
Concerning the Gods, there are who deny the very existence of the Godhead;
others say that it exists, but neither bestirs nor concerns itself nor has forethought
for anything. A third party attributes to it existence and forethought, but only for
great and heavenly matters, not for anything that is on earth. A fourth party
admit things on earth as well as in heaven, but only in general, and not with
respect to each individual. A fifth, of whom were Ulysses and Socrates are those
that cry:—
I move not without Thy knowledge!
XXIX
Considering all these things, the good and true man submits his judgment to
Him that administers the Universe, even as good citizens to the law of the State.
And he that is being instructed should come thus minded:—How may I in all
things follow the Gods; and, How may I rest satisfied with the Divine
Administration; and, How may I become free? For he is free for whom all things
come to pass according to his will, and whom none can hinder. What then, is
freedom madness? God forbid. For madness and freedom exist not together.
"But I wish all that I desire to come to pass and in the manner that I desire."
—You are mad, you are beside yourself. Know you not that Freedom is a
glorious thing and of great worth? But that what I desired at random I should
wish at random to come to pass, so far from being noble, may well be exceeding
base.
XXX
You must know that it is no easy thing for a principle to become a man's own,
unless each day he maintain it and hear it maintained, as well as work it out in
life.
XXXI
You are impatient and hard to please. If alone, you call it solitude: if in the
company of men, you dub them conspirators and thieves, and find fault with
your very parents, children, brothers, and neighbours. Whereas when by yourself
you should have called it Tranquillity and Freedom: and herein deemed yourself
like unto the Gods. And when in the company of many, you should not have
called it a wearisome crowd and tumult, but an assembly and a tribunal; and thus
accepted all with contentment.
XXXII
What then is the chastisement of those who accept it not? To be as they are. Is
any discontented with being alone? let him be in solitude. Is any discontented
with his parents? let him be a bad son, and lament. Is any discontented with his
children? let him be a bad father.—"Throw him into prison!"—What prison?—
Where he is already: for he is there against his will; and wherever a man is
against his will, that to him is a prison. Thus Socrates was not in prison, since he
was there with his own consent.
XXXIII
Knowest thou what a speck thou art in comparison with the Universe?—-That
is, with respect to the body; since with respect to Reason, thou art not inferior to
the Gods, nor less than they. For the greatness of Reason is not measured by
length or height, but by the resolves of the mind. Place then thy happiness in that
wherein thou art equal to the Gods.
XXXIV
Asked how a man might eat acceptably to the Gods, Epictetus replied:—If
when he eats, he can be just, cheerful, equable, temperate, and orderly, can he
not thus eat acceptably to the Gods? But when you call for warm water, and your
slave does not answer, or when he answers brings it lukewarm, or is not even
found to be in the house at all, then not to be vexed nor burst with anger, is not
that acceptable to the Gods?
"But how can one endure such people?"
Slave, will you not endure your own brother, that has God to his forefather,
even as a son sprung from the same stock, and of the same high descent as
yourself? And if you are stationed in a high position, are you therefor forthwith
set up for a tyrant? Remember who you are, and whom you rule, that they are by
nature your kinsmen, your brothers, the offspring of God.
"But I paid a price for them, not they for me."
Do you see whither you are looking—down to the earth, to the pit, to those
despicable laws of the dead? But to the laws of the Gods you do not look.
XXXV
When we are invited to a banquet, we take what is set before us; and were one
to call upon his host to set fish upon the table or sweet things, he would be
deemed absurd. Yet in a word, we ask the Gods for what they do not give; and
that, although they have given us so many things!
XXXVI
Asked how a man might convince himself that every single act of his was
under the eye of God, Epictetus answered:—
"Do you not hold that things on earth and things in heaven are continuous and
in unison with each other?"
"I do," was the reply.
"Else how should the trees so regularly, as though by God's command, at His
bidding flower; at His bidding send forth shoots, bear fruit and ripen it; at His
bidding let it fall and shed their leaves, and folded up upon themselves lie in
quietness and rest? How else, as the Moon waxes and wanes, as the Sun
approaches and recedes, can it be that such vicissitude and alternation is seen in
earthly things?
"If then all things that grow, nay, our own bodies, are thus bound up with the
whole, is not this still truer of our souls? And if our souls are bound up and in
contact with God, as being very parts and fragments plucked from Himself, shall
He not feel every movement of theirs as though it were His own, and belonging
to His own nature?"
XXXVII
"But," you say, "I cannot comprehend all this at once."
"Why, who told you that your powers were equal to God's?"
Yet God hath placed by the side of each a man's own Guardian Spirit, who is
charged to watch over him—a Guardian who sleeps not nor is deceived. For to
what better or more watchful Guardian could He have committed which of us?
So when you have shut the doors and made a darkness within, remember never
to say that you are alone; for you are not alone, but God is within, and your
Guardian Spirit, and what light do they need to behold what you do? To this God
you also should have sworn allegiance, even as soldiers unto Caesar. They, when
their service is hired, swear to hold the life of Caesar dearer than all else: and
will you not swear your oath, that are deemed worthy of so many and great gifts?
And will you not keep your oath when you have sworn it? And what oath will
you swear? Never to disobey, never to arraign or murmur at aught that comes to
you from His hand: never unwillingly to do or suffer aught that necessity lays
upon you.
"Is this oath like theirs?"
They swear to hold no other dearer than Caesar: you, to hold our true selves
dearer than all else beside.
XXXVIII
"How shall my brother cease to be wroth with me?"
Bring him to me, and I will tell him. But to thee I have nothing to say about
his anger.
XXXIX
When one took counsel of Epictetus, saying, "What I seek is this, how even
though my brother be not reconciled to me, I may still remain as Nature would
have me to be," he replied: "All great things are slow of growth; nay, this is true
even of a grape or of a fig. If then you say to me now, I desire a fig, I shall
answer, It needs time: wait till it first flower, then cast its blossom, then ripen.
Whereas then the fruit of the fig-tree reaches not maturity suddenly nor yet in a
single hour, do you nevertheless desire so quickly, and easily to reap the fruit of
the mind of man?—Nay, expect it not, even though I bade you!"
XL
Epaphroditus had a shoemaker whom he sold as being good-for-nothing. This
fellow, by some accident, was afterwards purchased by one of Caesar's men, and
became a shoemaker to Caesar. You should have seen what respect Epaphroditus
paid him then. "How does the good Felicion? Kindly let me know!" And if any
of us inquired, "What is Epaphroditus doing?" the answer was, "He is consulting
about so and so with Felicion."—Had he not sold him as good-for-nothing? Who
had in a trice converted him into a wiseacre?
This is what comes of holding of importance anything but the things that
depend on the Will.
XLI
What you shun enduring yourself, attempt not to impose on others. You shun
slavery—beware of enslaving others! If you can endure to do that, one would
think you had been once upon a time a slave yourself. For Vice has nothing in
common with virtue, nor Freedom with slavery.
XLII
Has a man been raised to tribuneship? Every one that he meets congratulates
him. One kisses him on the eyes, another on the neck, while the slaves kiss his
hands. He goes home to find torches burning; he ascends to the Capitol to
sacrifice.—Who ever sacrificed for having had right desires; for having
conceived such inclinations as Nature would have him? In truth we thank the
Gods for that wherein we place our happiness.
XLIII
A man was talking to me to-day about the priesthood of Augustus. I said to
him, "Let the thing go, my good Sir; you will spend a good deal to no purpose."
"Well, but my name will be inserted in all documents and contracts."
"Will you be standing there to tell those that read them, That is my name
written there? And even if you could now be there in every case, what will you
do when you are dead?"
"At all events my name will remain."
"Inscribe it on a stone and it will remain just as well. And think, beyond
Nicopolis what memory of you will there be?"
"But I shall have a golden wreath to wear."
"If you must have a wreath, get a wreath of roses and put it on; you will look
more elegant!"
XLIV
Above all, remember that the door stands open. Be not more fearful than
children; but as they, when they weary of the game, cry, "I will play no more,"
even so, when thou art in the like case, cry, "I will play no more" and depart. But
if thou stayest, make no lamentation.
XLV
Is there smoke in the room? If it be slight, I remain; if grievous, I quit it. For
you must remember this and hold it fast, that the door stands open.
"You shall not dwell at Nicopolis!"
Well and good.
"Nor at Athens."
Then I will not dwell at Athens either.
"Nor at Rome."
Nor at Rome either.
"You shall dwell in Gyara!"
Well: but to dwell in Gyara seems to me like a grievous smoke; I depart to a
place where none can forbid me to dwell: that habitation is open unto all! As for
the last garment of all, that is the poor body; beyond that, none can do aught unto
me. This why Demetrius said to Nero: "You threaten me with death; it is Nature
who threatens you!"
XLVI
The beginning of philosophy is to know the condition of one's own mind. If a
man recognises that this is in a weakly state, he will not then want to apply it to
questions of the greatest moment. As it is, men who are not fit to swallow even a
morsel, buy whole treatises and try to devour them. Accordingly they either
vomit them up again, or suffer from indigestion, whence come gripings,
fluxions, and fevers. Whereas they should have stopped to consider their
capacity.
XLVII
In theory it is easy to convince an ignorant person: in actual life, men not only
object to offer themselves to be convinced, but hate the man who has convinced
them. Whereas Socrates used to say that we should never lead a life not
subjected to examination.
XLVIII
This is the reason why Socrates, when reminded that he should prepare for his
trial, answered: "Thinkest thou not that I have been preparing for it all my life?"
"In what way?"
"I have maintained that which in me lay!"
"How so?"
"I have never, secretly or openly, done a wrong unto any."
XLIX
In what character dost thou now come forward?
As a witness summoned by God. "Come thou," saith God, "and testify for me,
for thou art worthy of being brought forward as a witness by Me. Is aught that is
outside thy will either good or bad? Do I hurt any man? Have I placed the good
of each in the power of any other than himself? What witness dost thou bear to
God?"
"I am in evil state, Master, I am undone! None careth for me, none giveth me
aught: all men blame, all speak evil of me."
Is this the witness thou wilt bear, and do dishonour to the calling wherewith
He hath called thee, because He hath done thee so great honour, and deemed
thee worthy of being summoned to bear witness in so great a cause?
L
Wouldst thou have men speak good of thee? speak good of them. And when
thou hast learned to speak good of them, try to do good unto them, and thus thou
wilt reap in return their speaking good of thee.
LI
When thou goest in to any of the great, remember that Another from above
sees what is passing, and that thou shouldst please Him rather than man. He
therefore asks thee:—
"In the Schools, what didst thou call exile, imprisonment, bonds, death and
shame?"
"I called them things indifferent."
"What then dost thou call them now? Are they at all changed?"
"No."
"Is it then thou that art changed?"
"No."
"Say then, what are things indifferent?"
"Things that are not in our power."
"Say then, what follows?"
"That things which are not in our power are nothing to me."
"Say also what things you hold to be good."
"A will such as it ought to be, and a right use of the things of sense."
"And what is the end?"
"To follow Thee!"
LII
"That Socrates should ever have been so treated by the Athenians!"
Slave! why say "Socrates"? Speak of the thing as it is: That ever then the poor
body of Socrates should have been dragged away and haled by main force to
prison! That ever hemlock should have been given to the body of Socrates; that
that should have breathed its life away!—Do you marvel at this? Do you hold
this unjust? Is it for this that you accuse God? Had Socrates no compensation for
this? Where then for him was the ideal Good? Whom shall we hearken to, you or
him? And what says he?
"Anytus and Melitus may put me to death: to injure me is beyond their
power."
And again:—
"If such be the will of God, so let it be."
LIII
Nay, young man, for heaven's sake; but once thou hast heard these words, go
home and say to thyself:—"It is not Epictetus that has told me these things: how
indeed should he? No, it is some gracious God through him. Else it would never
have entered his head to tell me them—he that is not used to speak to any one
thus. Well, then, let us not lie under the wrath of God, but be obedient unto
Him."—-Nay, indeed; but if a raven by its croaking bears thee any sign, it is not
the raven but God that sends the sign through the raven; and if He signifies
anything to thee through human voice, will He not cause the man to say these
words to thee, that thou mayest know the power of the Divine—how He sends a
sign to some in one way and to others in another, and on the greatest and highest
matters of all signifies His will through the noblest messenger?
What else does the poet mean:—
I spake unto him erst Myself, and sent
Hermes the shining One, to check and warn him,
The husband not to slay, nor woo the wife!
LIV
In the same way my friend Heraclitus, who had a trifling suit about a petty
farm at Rhodes, first showed the judges that his cause was just, and then at the
finish cried, "I will not entreat you: nor do I care what sentence you pass. It is
you who are on your trial, not I!"—And so he ended the case.
LV
As for us, we behave like a herd of deer. When they flee from the huntsman's
feathers in affright, which way do they turn? What haven of safety do they make
for? Why, they rush upon the nets! And thus they perish by confounding what
they should fear with that wherein no danger lies. . . . Not death or pain is to be
feared, but the fear of death or pain. Well said the poet therefore:—
Death has no terror; only a Death of shame!
LVI
How is it then that certain external things are said to be natural, and other
contrary to Nature?
Why, just as it might be said if we stood alone and apart from others. A foot,
for instance, I will allow it is natural should be clean. But if you take it as a foot,
and as a thing which does not stand by itself, it will beseem it (if need be) to
walk in the mud, to tread on thorns, and sometimes even to be cut off, for the
benefit of the whole body; else it is no longer a foot. In some such way we
should conceive of ourselves also. What art thou?—A man.—Looked at as
standing by thyself and separate, it is natural for thee in health and wealth long
to live. But looked at as a Man, and only as a part of a Whole, it is for that
Whole's sake that thou shouldest at one time fall sick, at another brave the perils
of the sea, again, know the meaning of want and perhaps die an early death. Why
then repine? Knowest thou not that as the foot is no more a foot if detached from
the body, so thou in like case art no longer a Man? For what is a Man? A part of
a City:—first of the City of Gods and Men; next, of that which ranks nearest it, a
miniature of the universal City. . . . In such a body, in such a world enveloping
us, among lives like these, such things must happen to one or another. Thy part,
then, being here, is to speak of these things as is meet, and to order them as
befits the matter.
LVII
That was a good reply which Diogenes made to a man who asked him for
letters of recommendation.—"That you are a man, he will know when he sees
you;—whether a good or bad one, he will know if he has any skill in discerning
the good or bad. But if he has none, he will never know, though I write him a
thousand times."—It is as though a piece of silver money desired to be
recommended to some one to be tested. If the man be a good judge of silver, he
will know: the coin will tell its own tale.
LVIII
Even as the traveller asks his way of him that he meets, inclined in no wise to
bear to the right rather than to the left (for he desires only the way leading
whither he would go), so should we come unto God as to a guide; even as we use
our eyes without admonishing them to show us some things rather than others,
but content to receive the images of such things as they present to us. But as it is
we stand anxiously watching the victim, and with the voice of supplication call
upon the augur:—"Master, have mercy on me: vouchsafe unto me a way of
escape!" Slave, would you then have aught else then what is best? is there
anything better than what is God's good pleasure? Why, as far as in you lies,
would you corrupt your Judge, and lead your Counsellor astray?
LIX
God is beneficent. But the Good also is beneficent. It should seem then that
where the real nature of God is, there too is to be found the real nature of the
Good. What then is the real nature of God?—Intelligence, Knowledge, Right
Reason. Here then without more ado seek the real nature of the Good. For surely
thou dost not seek it in a plant or in an animal that reasoneth not.
LX
Seek then the real nature of the Good in that without whose presence thou wilt
not admit the Good to exist in aught else.—What then? Are not these other
things also works of God?—They are; but not preferred to honour, nor are they
portions of God. But thou art a thing preferred to honour: thou art thyself a
fragment torn from God:—thou hast a portion of Him within thyself. How is it
then that thou dost not know thy high descent—dost not know whence thou
comest? When thou eatest, wilt thou not remember who thou art that eatest and
whom thou feedest? In intercourse, in exercise, in discussion knowest thou not
that it is a God whom thou feedest, a God whom thou exercisest, a God whom
thou bearest about with thee, O miserable! and thou perceivest it not. Thinkest
thou that I speak of a God of silver or gold, that is without thee? Nay, thou
bearest Him within thee! all unconscious of polluting Him with thoughts impure
and unclean deeds. Were an image of God present, thou wouldest not dare to act
as thou dost, yet, when God Himself is present within thee, beholding and
hearing all, thou dost not blush to think such thoughts and do such deeds, O thou
that art insensible of thine own nature and liest under the wrath of God!
LXI
Why then are we afraid when we send a young man from the Schools into
active life, lest he should indulge his appetites intemperately, lest he should
debase himself by ragged clothing, or be puffed up by fine raiment? Knows he
not the God within him; knows he not with whom he is starting on his way?
Have we patience to hear him say to us, Would I had thee with me!—Hast thou
not God where thou art, and having Him dost thou still seek for any other!
Would He tell thee aught else than these things? Why, wert thou a statue of
Phidias, an Athena or a Zeus, thou wouldst bethink thee both of thyself and thine
artificer; and hadst thou any sense, thou wouldst strive to do no dishonour to
thyself or him that fashioned thee, nor appear to beholders in unbefitting guise.
But now, because God is thy Maker, is that why thou carest not of what sort thou
shalt show thyself to be? Yet how different the artists and their workmanship!
What human artist's work, for example, has in it the faculties that are displayed
in fashioning it? Is it aught but marble, bronze, gold, or ivory? Nay, when the
Athena of Phidias has put forth her hand and received therein a Victory, in that
attitude she stands for evermore. But God's works move and breathe; they use
and judge the things of sense. The workmanship of such an Artist, wilt thou
dishonor Him? Ay, when he not only fashioned thee, but placed thee, like a
ward, in the care and guardianship of thyself alone, wilt thou not only forget this,
but also do dishonour to what is committed to thy care! If God had entrusted
thee with an orphan, wouldst thou have thus neglected him? He hath delivered
thee to thine own care, saying, I had none more faithful than myself: keep this
man for me such as Nature hath made him—modest, faithful, high-minded, a
stranger to fear, to passion, to perturbation. . . .
Such will I show myself to you all.—"What, exempt from sickness also: from
age, from death?"—Nay, but accepting sickness, accepting death as becomes a
God!
LXII
No labour, according to Diogenes, is good but that which aims at producing
courage and strength of soul rather than of body.
LXIII
A guide, on finding a man who has lost his way, brings him back to the right
path—he does not mock and jeer at him and then take himself off. You also must
show the unlearned man the truth, and you will see that he will follow. But so
long as you do not show it him, you should not mock, but rather feel your own
incapacity.
LXIV
It was the first and most striking characteristic of Socrates never to become
heated in discourse, never to utter an injurious or insulting word—on the
contrary, he persistently bore insult from others and thus put an end to the fray.
If you care to know the extent of his power in this direction, read Xenophon's
Banquet, and you will see how many quarrels he put an end to. This is why the
Poets are right in so highly commending this faculty:—
Quickly and wisely withal even bitter feuds would he settle.
Nevertheless the practice is not very safe at present, especially in Rome. One
who adopts it, I need not say, ought not to carry it out in an obscure corner, but
boldly accost, if occasion serve, some personage of rank or wealth.
"Can you tell me, sir, to whose care you entrust your horses?"
"I can."
"Is it to the first comer, who knows nothing about them?"
"Certainly not."
"Well, what of the man who takes care of your gold, your silver or your
raiment?"
"He must be experienced also."
"And your body—have you ever considered about entrusting it to any one's
care?"
"Of course I have."
"And no doubt to a person of experience as a trainer, a physician?"
"Surely."
"And these things the best you possess, or have you anything more precious?"
"What can you mean?"
"I mean that which employs these; which weights all things; which takes
counsel and resolve."
"Oh, you mean the soul."
"You take me rightly; I do mean the soul. By Heaven, I hold that far more
precious than all else I possess. Can you show me then what care you bestow on
a soul? For it can scarcely be thought that a man of your wisdom and
consideration in the city would suffer your most precious possession to go to
ruin through carelessness and neglect."
"Certainly not."
"Well, do you take care of it yourself? Did any one teach you the right
method, or did you discover it yourself?"
Now here comes in the danger: first, that the great man may answer, "Why,
what is that to you, my good fellow? are you my master?" And then, if you
persist in troubling him, may raise his hand to strike you. It is a practice of which
I was myself a warm admirer until such experiences as these befell me.
LXV
When a youth was giving himself airs in the Theatre and saying, "I am wise,
for I have conversed with many wise men," Epictetus replied, "I too have
conversed with many rich men, yet I am not rich!"
LXVI
We see that a carpenter becomes a carpenter by learning certain things: that a
pilot, by learning certain things, becomes a pilot. Possibly also in the present
case the mere desire to be wise and good is not enough. It is necessary to learn
certain things. This is then the object of our search. The Philosophers would
have us first learn that there is a God, and that His Providence directs the
Universe; further, that to hide from Him not only one's acts but even one's
thoughts and intentions is impossible; secondly, what the nature of God is.
Whatever that nature is discovered to be, the man who would please and obey
Him must strive with all his might to be made like unto him. If the Divine is
faithful, he also must be faithful; if free, he also must be free; if beneficent, he
also must be beneficent; if magnanimous, he also must be magnanimous. Thus
as an imitator of God must he follow Him in every deed and word.
LXVII
If I show you, that you lack just what is most important and necessary to
happiness, that hitherto your attention has been bestowed on everything rather
than that which claims it most; and, to crown all, that you know neither what
God nor Man is—neither what Good or Evil is: why, that you are ignorant of
everything else, perhaps you may bear to be told; but to hear that you know
nothing of yourself, how could you submit to that? How could you stand your
ground and suffer that to be proved? Clearly not at all. You instantly turn away
in wrath. Yet what harm have I done to you? Unless indeed the mirror harms the
ill-favoured man by showing him to himself just as he is; unless the physician
can be thought to insult his patient, when he tells him:—"Friend, do you suppose
there is nothing wrong with you? why, you have a fever. Eat nothing to-day, and
drink only water." Yet no one says, "What an insufferable insult!" Whereas if
you say to a man, "Your desires are inflamed, your instincts of rejection are
weak and low, your aims are inconsistent, your impulses are not in harmony
with Nature, your opinions are rash and false," he forthwith goes away and
complains that you have insulted him.
LXVIII
Our way of life resembles a fair. The flocks and herds are passing along to be
sold, and the greater part of the crowd to buy and sell. But there are some few
who come only to look at the fair, to inquire how and why it is being held, upon
what authority and with what object. So too, in this great Fair of life, some, like
the cattle, trouble themselves about nothing but the fodder. Know all of you,
who are busied about land, slaves and public posts, that these are nothing but
fodder! Some few there are attending the Fair, who love to contemplate what the
world is, what He that administers it. Can there be no Administrator? is it
possible, that while neither city nor household could endure even a moment
without one to administer and see to its welfare, this Fabric, so fair, so vast,
should be administered in order so harmonious, without a purpose and by blind
chance? There is therefore an Administrator. What is His nature and how does
He administer? And who are we that are His children and what work were we
born to perform? Have we any close connection or relation with Him or not?
Such are the impressions of the few of whom I speak. And further, they apply
themselves solely to considering and examining the great assembly before they
depart. Well, they are derided by the multitude. So are the lookers-on by the
traders: aye, and if the beasts had any sense, they would deride those who
thought much of anything but fodder!
LXIX
I think I know now what I never knew before—the meaning of the common
saying, A fool you can neither bend nor break. Pray heaven I may never have a
wise fool for my friend! There is nothing more intractable.—"My resolve is
fixed!"—Why so madman say too; but the more firmly they believe in their
delusions, the more they stand in need of treatment.
LXX
—"O! when shall I see Athens and its Acropolis again?"—Miserable man! art
thou not contented with the daily sights that meet thine eyes? canst thou behold
aught greater or nobler than the Sun, Moon, and Stars; than the outspread Earth
and Sea? If indeed thou apprehendest Him who administers the universe, if thou
bearest Him about within thee, canst thou still hanker after mere fragments of
stone and fine rock? When thou art about to bid farewell to the Sun and Moon
itself, wilt thou sit down and cry like a child? Why, what didst thou hear, what
didst thou learn? why didst thou write thyself down a philosopher, when thou
mightest have written what was the fact, namely, "I have made one or two
Compendiums, I have read some works of Chrysippus, and I have not even
touched the hem of Philosophy's robe!"
LXXI
Friend, lay hold with a desperate grasp, ere it is too late, on Freedom, on
Tranquility, on Greatness of soul! Lift up thy head, as one escaped from slavery;
dare to look up to God, and say:—"Deal with me henceforth as Thou wilt; Thou
and I are of one mind. I am Thine: I refuse nothing that seeeth good to Thee;
lead on whither Thou wilt; clothe me in what garb Thou pleasest; wilt Thou have
me a ruler or a subject—at home or in exile—poor or rich? All these things will I
justify unto men for Thee. I will show the true nature of each. . . ."
Who would Hercules have been had he loitered at home? no Hercules, but
Eurystheus. And in his wanderings through the world how many friends and
comrades did he find? but nothing dearer to him than God. Wherefore he was
believed to be God's son, as indeed he was. So then in obedience to Him, he
went about delivering the earth from injustice and lawlessness.
But thou art not Hercules, thou sayest, and canst not deliver others from their
iniquity—not even Theseus, to deliver the soil of Attica from its monsters?
Purge away thine own, cast forth thence—from thine own mind, not robbers and
monsters, but Fear, Desire, Envy, Malignity, Avarice, Effeminacy,
Intemperance. And these may not be cast out, except by looking to God alone,
by fixing thy affections on Him only, and by consecrating thyself to His
commands. If thou choosest aught else, with sighs and groans thou wilt be
forced to follow a Might greater than thine own, ever seeking Tranquillity
without, and never able to attain unto her. For thou seekest her where she is not
to be found; and where she is, there thou seekest her not!
LXXII
If a man would pursue Philosophy, his first task is to throw away conceit. For
it is impossible for a man to begin to learn what he has a conceit that he already
knows.
LXXIII
Give me but one young man, that has come to the School with this intention,
who stands forth a champion of this cause, and says, "All else I renounce,
content if I am but able to pass my life free from hindrance and trouble; to raise
my head aloft and face all things as a free man; to look up to heaven as a friend
of God, fearing nothing that may come to pass!" Point out such a one to me, that
I may say, "Enter, young man, into possession of that which is thine own. For
thy lot is to adorn Philosophy. Thine are these possessions; thine these books,
these discourses!"
And when our champion has duly exercised himself in this part of the subject,
I hope he will come back to me and say:—"What I desire is to be free from
passion and from perturbation; as one who grudges no pains in the pursuit of
piety and philosophy, what I desire is to know my duty to the Gods, my duty to
my parents, to my brothers, to my country, to strangers."
"Enter then on the second part of the subject; it is thine also."
"But I have already mastered the second part; only I wished to stand firm and
unshaken—as firm when asleep as when awake, as firm when elated with wine
as in despondency and dejection."
"Friend, you are verily a God! you cherish great designs."
LXXIV
"The question at stake," said Epictetus, "is no common one; it is this:—Are
we in our senses, or are we not?"
LXXV
If you have given way to anger, be sure that over and above the evil involved
therein, you have strengthened the habit, and added fuel to the fire. If overcome
by a temptation of the flesh, do not reckon it a single defeat, but that you have
also strengthened your dissolute habits. Habits and faculties are necessarily
affected by the corresponding acts. Those that were not there before, spring up:
the rest gain in strength and extent. This is the account which Philosophers give
of the origin of diseases of the mind:—Suppose you have once lusted after
money: if reason sufficient to produce a sense of evil be applied, then the lust is
checked, and the mind at once regains its original authority; whereas if you have
recourse to no remedy, you can no longer look for this return—on the contrary,
the next time it is excited by the corresponding object, the flame of desire leaps
up more quickly than before. By frequent repetition, the mind in the long run
becomes callous; and thus this mental disease produces confirmed Avarice.
One who has had fever, even when it has left him, is not in the same condition
of health as before, unless indeed his cure is complete. Something of the same
sort is true also of diseases of the mind. Behind, there remains a legacy of traces
and blisters: and unless these are effectually erased, subsequent blows on the
same spot will produce no longer mere blisters, but sores. If you do not wish to
be prone to anger, do not feed the habit; give it nothing which may tend its
increase. At first, keep quiet and count the days when you were not angry: "I
used to be angry every day, then every other day: next every two, next every
three days!" and if you succeed in passing thirty days, sacrifice to the Gods in
thanksgiving.
LXXVI
How then may this be attained?—Resolve, now if never before, to approve
thyself to thyself; resolve to show thyself fair in God's sight; long to be pure with
thine own pure self and God!
LXXVII
That is the true athlete, that trains himself to resist such outward impressions
as these.
"Stay, wretched man! suffer not thyself to be carried away!" Great is the
combat, divine the task! you are fighting for Kingship, for Liberty, for
Happiness, for Tranquillity. Remember God: call upon Him to aid thee, like a
comrade that stands beside thee in the fight.
LXXVIII
Who then is a Stoic—in the sense that we call a statue of Phidias which is
modelled after that master's art? Show me a man in this sense modelled after the
doctrines that are ever upon his lips. Show me a man that is sick—and happy; an
exile—and happy; in evil report—and happy! Show me him, I ask again. So help
me Heaven, I long to see one Stoic! Nay, if you cannot show me one fully
modelled, let me at least see one in whom the process is at work—one whose
bent is in that direction. Do me that favour! Grudge it not to an old man, to
behold a sight he has never yet beheld. Think you I wish to see the Zeus or
Athena of Phidias, bedecked with gold and ivory?—Nay, show me, one of you, a
human soul, desiring to be of one mind with God, no more to lay blame on God
or man, to suffer nothing to disappoint, nothing to cross him, to yield neither to
anger, envy, nor jealousy—in a word, why disguise the matter? one that from a
man would fain become a God; one that while still imprisoned in this dead body
makes fellowship with God his aim. Show me him!—Ah, you cannot! Then why
mock yourselves and delude others? why stalk about tricked out in other men's
attire, thieves and robbers that you are of names and things to which you can
show no title!
LXXIX
If you have assumed a character beyond your strength, you have both played a
poor figure in that, and neglected one that is within your powers.
LXXX
Fellow, you have come to blows at home with a slave: you have turned the
household upside down, and thrown the neighbourhood into confusion; and do
you come to me then with airs of assumed modesty—do you sit down like a sage
and criticise my explanation of the readings, and whatever idle babble you say
has come into my head? Have you come full of envy, and dejected because
nothing is sent you from home; and while the discussion is going on, do you sit
brooding on nothing but how your father or your brother are disposed towards
you:—"What are they saying about me there? at this moment they imagine I am
making progress and saying, He will return perfectly omniscient! I wish I could
become omniscient before I return; but that would be very troublesome. No one
sends me anything—the baths at Nicopolis are dirty; things are wretched at
home and wretched here." And then they say, "Nobody is any the better for the
School."—Who comes to the School with a sincere wish to learn: to submit his
principles to correction and himself to treatment? Who, to gain a sense of his
wants? Why then be surprised if you carry home from the School exactly what
you bring into it?
LXXXI
"Epictetus, I have often come desiring to hear you speak, and you have never
given me any answer; now if possible, I entreat you, say something to me."
"Is there, do you think," replied Epictetus, "an art of speaking as of other
things, if it is to be done skilfully and with profit to the hearer?"
"Yes."
"And are all profited by what they hear, or only some among them? So that it
seems there is an art of hearing as well as of speaking. . . . To make a statue
needs skill: to view a statue aright needs skill also."
"Admitted."
"And I think all will allow that one who proposes to hear philosophers speak
needs a considerable training in hearing. Is that not so? The tell me on what
subject your are able to hear me."
"Why, on good and evil."
"The good and evil of what? a horse, an ox?"
"No; of a man."
"Do we know then what Man is? what his nature is? what is the idea we have
of him? And are our ears practised in any degree on the subject? Nay, do you
understand what Nature is? can you follow me in any degree when I say that I
shall have to use demonstration? Do you understand what Demonstration is?
what True or False is? . . . must I drive you to Philosophy? . . . Show me what
good I am to do by discoursing with you. Rouse my desire to do so. The sight of
a pasture it loves stirs in a sheep the desire to feed: show it a stone or a bit of
bread and it remains unmoved. Thus we also have certain natural desires, aye,
and one that moves us to speak when we find a listener that is worth his salt: one
that himself stirs the spirit. But if he sits by like a stone or a tuft of grass, how
can he rouse a man's desire?"
"Then you will say nothing to me?"
"I can only tell you this: that one who knows not who he is and to what end he
was born; what kind of world this is and with whom he is associated therein; one
who cannot distinguish Good and Evil, Beauty and Foulness, . . . Truth and
Falsehood, will never follow Reason in shaping his desires and impulses and
repulsions, nor yet in assent, denial, or suspension of judgement; but will in one
word go about deaf and blind, thinking himself to be somewhat, when he is in
truth of no account. Is there anything new in all this? Is not this ignorance the
cause of all the mistakes and mischances of men since the human race began? . .
."
"This is all I have to say to you, and even this against the grain. Why?
Because you have not stirred my spirit. For what can I see in you to stir me, as a
spirited horse will stir a judge of horses? Your body? That you maltreat. Your
dress? That is luxurious. You behavior, your look?—Nothing whatever. When
you want to hear a philosopher, do not say, You say nothing to me'; only show
yourself worthy or fit to hear, and then you will see how you will move the
speaker."
LXXXII
And now, when you see brothers apparently good friends and living in accord,
do not immediately pronounce anything upon their friendship, though they
should affirm it with an oath, though they should declare, "For us to live apart in
a thing impossible!" For the heart of a bad man is faithless, unprincipled,
inconstant: now overpowered by one impression, now by another. Ask not the
usual questions, Were they born of the same parents, reared together, and under
the same tutor; but ask this only, in what they place their real interest—whether
in outward things or in the Will. If in outward things, call them not friends, any
more than faithful, constant, brave or free: call them not even human beings, if
you have any sense. . . . But should you hear that these men hold the Good to lie
only in the Will, only in rightly dealing with the things of sense, take no more
trouble to inquire whether they are father and son or brothers, or comrades of
long standing; but, sure of this one thing, pronounce as boldly that they are
friends as that they are faithful and just: for where else can Friendship be found
than where Modesty is, where there is an interchange of things fair and honest,
and of such only?
LXXXIII
No man can rob us of our Will—no man can lord it over that!
LXXXIV
When disease and death overtake me, I would fain be found engaged in the
task of liberating mine own Will from the assaults of passion, from hindrance,
from resentment, from slavery.
Thus would I fain to be found employed, so that I may say to God, "Have I in
aught transgressed Thy commands? Have I in aught perverted the faculties, the
senses, the natural principles that Thou didst give me? Have I ever blamed Thee
or found fault with Thine administration? When it was Thy good pleasure, I fell
sick—and so did other men: by my will consented. Because it was Thy pleasure,
I became poor: but my heart rejoiced. No power in the State was mine, because
Thou wouldst not: such power I never desired! Hast Thou ever seen me of more
doleful countenance on that account? Have I not ever drawn nigh unto Thee with
cheerful look, waiting upon Thy commands, attentive to Thy signals? Wilt Thou
that I now depart from the great Assembly of men? I go: I give Thee all thanks,
that Thou hast deemed me worthy to take part with Thee in this Assembly: to
behold Thy works, to comprehend this Thine administration."
Such I would were the subject of my thoughts, my pen, my study, when death
overtakes me.
LXXXV
Seemeth it nothing to you, never to accuse, never to blame either God or
Man? to wear ever the same countenance in going forth as in coming in? This
was the secret of Socrates: yet he never said that he knew or taught anything. . . .
Who amongst you makes this his aim? Were it indeed so, you would gladly
endure sickness, hunger, aye, death itself.
LXXXVI
How are we constituted by Nature? To be free, to be noble, to be modest (for
what other living thing is capable of blushing, or of feeling the impression of
shame?) and to subordinate pleasure to the ends for which Nature designed us, as
a handmaid and a minister, in order to call forth our activity; in order to keep us
constant to the path prescribed by Nature.
LXXXVII
The husbandman deals with land; physicians and trainers with the body; the
wise man with his own Mind.
LXXXVIII
Which of us does not admire what Lycurgus the Spartan did? A young citizen
had put out his eye, and been handed over to him by the people to be punished at
his own discretion. Lycurgus abstained from all vengeance, but on the contrary
instructed and made a good man of him. Producing him in public in the theatre,
he said to the astonished Spartans:—"I received this young man at your hands
full of violence and wanton insolence; I restore him to you in his right mind and
fit to serve his country."
LXXXIX
A money-changer may not reject Caesar's coin, nor may the seller of herbs,
but must when once the coin is shown, deliver what is sold for it, whether he will
or no. So is it also with the Soul. Once the Good appears, it attracts towards
itself; evil repels. But a clear and certain impression of the Good the Soul will
never reject, any more than men do Cæsar's coin. On this hangs every impulse
alike of Man and God.
XC
Asked what Common Sense was, Epictetus replied:—
As that may be called a Common Ear which distinguishes only sounds, while
that which distinguishes musical notes is not common but produced by training;
so there are certain things which men not entirely perverted see by the natural
principles common to all. Such a constitution of the Mind is called Common
Sense.
XCI
Canst thou judge men? . . . then make us imitators of thyself, as Socrates did.
Do this, do not do that, else will I cast thee into prison; this is not governing men
like reasonable creatures. Say rather, As God hath ordained, so do; else thou wilt
suffer chastisement and loss. Askest thou what loss? None other than this: To
have left undone what thou shouldst have done: to have lost the faithfulness, the
reverence, the modesty that is in thee! Greater loss than this seek not to find!
XCII
"His son is dead."
What has happened?
"His son is dead."
Nothing more?
"Nothing."
"His ship is lost."
"He has been haled to prison."
What has happened?
"He has been haled to prison."
But that any of these things are misfortunes to him, is an addition which every
one makes of his own. But (you say) God is unjust is this.—Why? For having
given thee endurance and greatness of soul? For having made such things to be
no evils? For placing happiness within thy reach, even when enduring them? For
open unto thee a door, when things make not for thy good?—Depart, my friend
and find fault no more!
XCIII
You are sailing to Rome (you tell me) to obtain the post of Governor of
Cnossus. You are not content to stay at home with the honours you had before;
you want something on a larger scale, and more conspicuous. But when did you
ever undertake a voyage for the purpose of reviewing your own principles and
getting rid of any of them that proved unsound? Whom did you ever visit for that
object? What time did you ever set yourself for that? What age? Run over the
times of your life—by yourself, if you are ashamed before me. Did you examine
your principles when a boy? Did you not do everything just as you do now? Or
when you were a stripling, attending the school of oratory and practising the art
yourself, what did you ever imagine you lacked? And when you were a young
man, entered upon public life, and were pleading causes and making a name,
who any longer seemed equal to you? And at what moment would you have
endured another examining your principles and proving that they were unsound?
What then am I to say to you? "Help me in this matter!" you cry. Ah, for that I
have no rule! And neither did you, if that was your object, come to me as a
philosopher, but as you might have gone to a herb-seller or a cobbler.—"What
do philosophers have rules for, then?"—Why, that whatever may betide, our
ruling faculty may be as Nature would have it, and so remain. Think you this a
small matter? Not so! but the greatest thing there is. Well, does it need but a
short time? Can it be grasped by a passer-by?—grasp it, if you can!
Then you will say, "Yes, I met Epictetus!"
Aye, just as you might a statue or a monument. You saw me! and that is all.
But a man who meets a man is one who learns the other's mind, and lets him see
his in turn. Learn my mind—show me yours; and then go and say that you met
me. Let us try each other; if I have any wrong principle, rid me of it; if you have,
out with it. That is what meeting a philosopher means. Not so, you think; this is
only a flying visit; while we are hiring the ship, we can see Epictetus too! Let us
see what he has to say. Then on leaving you cry, "Out on Epictetus for a
worthless fellow, provincial and barbarous of speech!" What else indeed did you
come to judge of?
XCIV
Whether you will or no, you are poorer than I!
"What then do I lack?"
What you have not: Constancy of mind, such as Nature would have it be:
Tranquillity. Patron or no patron, what care I? but you do care. I am richer than
you: I am not racked with anxiety as to what Caesar may think of me; I flatter
none on that account. This is what I have, instead of vessels of gold and silver!
your vessels may be of gold, but your reason, your principles, your accepted
views, your inclinations, your desires are of earthenware.
XCV
To you, all you have seems small: to me, all I have seems great. Your desire is
insatiable, mine is satisfied. See children thrusting their hands into a narrownecked jar, and striving to pull out the nuts and figs it contains: if they fill the
hand, they cannot pull it out again, and then they fall to tears.—"Let go a few of
them, and then you can draw out the rest!"—You, too, let your desire go! covet
not many things, and you will obtain.
XCVI
Pittacus wronged by one whom he had it in his power to punish, let him go
free, saying, Forgiveness is better than revenge. The one shows native
gentleness, the other savagery.
XCVII
"My brother ought not to have treated me thus."
True: but he must see to that. However he may treat me, I must deal rightly by
him. This is what lies with me, what none can hinder.
XCVIII
Nevertheless a man should also be prepared to be sufficient unto himself—to
dwell with himself alone, even as God dwells with Himself alone, shares His
repose with none, and considers the nature of His own administration, intent
upon such thoughts as are meet unto Himself. So should we also be able to
converse with ourselves, to need none else beside, to sigh for no distraction, to
bend our thoughts upon the Divine Administration, and how we stand related to
all else; to observe how human accidents touched us of old, and how they touch
us now; what things they are that still have power to hurt us, and how they may
be cured or removed; to perfect what needs perfecting as Reason would direct.
XCIX
If a man has frequent intercourse with others, either in the way of
conversation, entertainment, or simple familiarity, he must either become like
them, or change them to his own fashion. A live coal placed next a dead one will
either kindle that or be quenched by it. Such being the risk, it is well to be
cautious in admitting intimacies of this sort, remembering that one cannot rub
shoulders with a soot-stained man without sharing the soot oneself. What will
you do, supposing the talk turns on gladiators, or horses, or prizefighters, or
(what is worse) on persons, condemning this and that, approving the other? Or
suppose a man sneers and jeers or shows a malignant temper? Has any among us
the skill of the lute-player, who knows at the first touch which strings are out of
tune and sets the instrument right: has any of you such power as Socrates had, in
all his intercourse with men, of winning them over to his own convictions? Nay,
but you must needs be swayed hither and thither by the uninstructed. How comes
it then that they prove so much stronger than you? Because they speak from the
fulness of the heart—their low, corrupt views are their real convictions: whereas
your fine sentiments are but from the lips, outwards; that is why they are so
nerveless and dead. It turns one's stomach to listen to your exhortations, and hear
of your miserable Virtue, that you prate of up and down. Thus it is that the
Vulgar prove too strong for you. Everywhere strength, everywhere victory waits
your conviction!
C
In general, any methods of discipline applied to the body which tend to
modify its desires or repulsions, are good—for ascetic ends. But if done for
display, they betray at once a man who keeps an eye on outward show; who has
an ulterior purpose, and is looking for spectators to shout, "Oh what a great
man!" This is why Apollonius so well said: "If you are bent upon a little private
discipline, wait till you are choking with heat some day—then take a mouthful of
cold water, and spit it out again, and tell no man!"
CI
Study how to give as one that is sick: that thou mayest hereafter give as one
that is whole. Fast; drink water only; abstain altogether from desire, that thou
mayest hereafter conform thy desire to Reason.
CII
Thou wouldst do good unto men? then show them by thine own example what
kind of men philosophy can make, and cease from foolish trifling. Eating, do
good to them that eat with thee; drinking, to them that drink with thee; yield unto
all, give way, and bear with them. Thus shalt thou do them good: but vent not
upon them thine own evil humour!
CIII
Even as bad actors cannot sing alone, but only in chorus: so some cannot walk
alone.
Man, if thou art aught, strive to walk alone and hold converse with thyself,
instead of skulking in the chorus! at length think; look around thee; bestir
thyself, that thou mayest know who thou art!
CIV
You would fain be victor at the Olympic games, you say. Yes, but weigh the
conditions, weigh the consequences; then and then only, lay to your hand—if it
be for your profit. You must live by rule, submit to diet, abstain from dainty
meats, exercise your body perforce at stated hours, in heat or in cold; drink no
cold water, nor, it may be, wine. In a word, you must surrender yourself wholly
to your trainer, as though to a physician.
Then in the hour of contest, you will have to delve the ground, it may chance
dislocate an arm, sprain an ankle, gulp down abundance of yellow sand, be
scourge with the whip—and with all this sometimes lose the victory. Count the
cost—and then, if your desire still holds, try the wrestler's life. Else let me tell
you that you will be behaving like a pack of children playing now at wrestlers,
now at gladiators; presently falling to trumpeting and anon to stage-playing,
when the fancy takes them for what they have seen. And you are even the same:
wrestler, gladiator, philosopher, orator all by turns and none of them with your
whole soul. Like an ape, you mimic what you see, to one thing constant never;
the thing that is familiar charms no more. This is because you never undertook
aught with due consideration, nor after strictly testing and viewing it from every
side; no, your choice was thoughtless; the glow of your desire had waxed cold . .
..
Friend, bethink you first what it is you would do, and then what your own
nature is able to bear. Would you be a wrestler, consider your shoulders, your
thighs, your loins—not all men are formed to the same end. Think you to be a
philosopher while acting as you do? think you go on thus eating, thus drinking,
giving way in like manner to wrath and to displeasure? Nay, you must watch,
you must labour; overcome certain desires; quit your familiar friends, submit to
be despised by your slave, to be held in derision by them that meet you, to take
the lower place in all things, in office, in positions of authority, in courts of law.
Weigh these things fully, and then, if you will, lay to your hand; if as the price
of these things you would gain Freedom, Tranquillity, and passionless Serenity.
CV
He that hath no musical instruction is a child in Music; he that hath no letters
is a child in Learning; he that is untaught is a child in Life.
CVI
Can any profit be derived from these men? Aye, from all.
"What, even from a reviler?"
Why, tell me what profit a wrestler gains from him who exercises him
beforehand? The very greatest: he trains me in the practice of endurance, of
controlling my temper, of gentle ways. You deny it. What, the man who lays
hold of my neck, and disciplines loins and shoulders, does me good, . . . while he
that trains me to keep my temper does me none? This is what it means, not
knowing how to gain advantage from men! Is my neighbour bad? Bad to
himself, but good to me: he brings my good temper, my gentleness into play. Is
my father bad? Bad to himself, but good to me. This is the rod of Hermes; touch
what you will with it, they say, and it becomes gold. Nay, but bring what you
will and I will transmute it into Good. Bring sickness, bring death, bring poverty
and reproach, bring trial for life—all these things through the rod of Hermes
shall be turned to profit.
CVII
Till then these sound opinions have taken firm root in you, and you have
gained a measure of strength for your security, I counsel you to be cautious in
associating with the uninstructed. Else whatever impressions you receive upon
the tablets of your mind in the School will day by day melt and disappear, like
wax in the sun. Withdraw then somewhere far from the sun, while you have
these waxen sentiments.
CVIII
We must approach this matter in a different way; it is great and mystical: it is
no common thing; nor given to every man. Wisdom alone, it may be, will not
suffice for the care of youth: a man needs also a certain measure of readiness—
an aptitude for the office; aye, and certain bodily qualities; and above all, to be
counselled of God Himself to undertake this post; even as He counselled
Socrates to fill the post of one who confutes error, assigning to Diogenes the
royal office of high reproof, and to Zeno that of positive instruction. Whereas
you would fain set up for a physician provided with nothing but drugs! Where
and how they should be applied you neither know nor care.
CIX
If what charms you is nothing but abstract principles, sit down and turn them
over quietly in your mind: but never dub yourself a Philosopher, nor suffer
others to call you so. Say rather: He is in error; for my desires, my impulses are
unaltered. I give in my adhesion to what I did before; nor has my mode of
dealing with the things of sense undergone any change.
CX
When a friend inclined to Cynic views asked Epictetus, what sort of person a
true Cynic should be, requesting a general sketch of the system, he answered:
—"We will consider that at leisure. At present I content myself with saying this
much: If a man put his hand to so weighty a matter without God, the wrath of
God abides upon him. That which he covets will but bring upon him public
shame. Not even on finding himself in a well-ordered house does a man step
forward and say to himself, I must be master here! Else the lord of that house
takes notice of it, and, seeing him insolently giving orders, drags him forth and
chastises him. So it is also in this great City, the World. Here also is there a Lord
of the House, who orders all thing:—
"Thou are the Sun! in thine orbit thou hast
power to make the year and the seasons;
to bid the fruits of the earth to grow
and increase, the winds arise and fall;
thou canst in due measure cherish with
thy warmth the frames of men; go make
thy circuit, and thus minister unto all
from the greatest to the least! . . ."
"Thou canst lead a host against Troy; be Agamemnon!"
"Thou canst meet Hector in single combat; be Achilles!"
"But had Thersites stepped forward and claimed the chief command, he had
been met with a refusal, or obtained it only to his own shame and confusion of
face, before a cloud of witnesses."
CXI
Others may fence themselves with walls and houses, when they do such deeds
as these, and wrap themselves in darkness—aye, they have many a device to
hide themselves. Another may shut his door and station one before his chamber
to say, if any comes, He has gone forth! he is not at leisure! But the true Cynic
will have none of these things; instead of them, he must wrap himself in
Modesty: else he will but bring himself to shame, naked and under the open sky.
That is his house; that is his door; that is the slave that guards his chamber; that
is his darkness!
CXII
Death? let it come when it will, whether it smite but a part of the whole: Fly,
you tell me—fly! But whither shall I fly? Can any man cast me beyond the limits
of the World? It may not be! And whithersoever I go, there shall I still find Sun,
Moon, and Stars; there I shall find dreams, and omens, and converse with the
Gods!
CXIII
Furthermore the true Cynic must know that he is sent as a Messenger from
God to men, to show unto them that as touching good and evil they are in error;
looking for these where they are not to be found, nor ever bethinking themselves
where they are. And like Diogenes when brought before Philip after the battle of
Chaeronea, the Cynic must remember that he is a Spy. For a Spy he really is—to
bring back word what things are on Man's side, and what against him. And when
he had diligently observed all, he must come back with a true report, not terrified
into announcing them to be foes that are no foes, nor otherwise perturbed or
confounded by the things of sense.
CXIV
How can it be that one who hath nothing, neither raiment, nor house, nor
home, nor bodily tendance, nor servant, nor city, should yet live tranquil and
contented? Behold God hath sent you a man to show you in act and deed that it
may be so. Behold me! I have neither house nor possessions nor servants: the
ground is my couch; I have no wife, no children, no shelter—nothing but earth
and sky, and one poor cloak. And what lack I yet? am I not untouched by
sorrow, by fear? am I not free? . . . when have I laid anything to the charge of
God or Man? when have I accused any? hath any of you seen me with a
sorrowful countenance? And in what wise treat I those of whom you stand in
fear and awe? Is it not as slaves? Who when he seeth me doth not think that he
beholdeth his Master and his King?
CXV
Give thyself more diligently to reflection: know thyself: take counsel with the
Godhead: without God put thine hand unto nothing!
CXVI
"But to marry and to rear offspring," said the young man, "will the Cynic hold
himself bound to undertake this as a chief duty?"
Grant me a republic of wise men, answered Epictetus, and perhaps none will
lightly take the Cynic life upon him. For on whose account should he embrace
that method of life? Suppose however that he does, there will then be nothing to
hinder his marrying and rearing offspring. For his wife will be even such another
as himself, and likewise her father; and in like manner will his children be
brought up.
But in the present condition of things, which resembles an Army in battle
array, ought not the Cynic to be free from all distraction and given wholly to the
service of God, so that he can go in and out among men, neither fettered by the
duties nor entangled by the relations of common life? For if he transgress them,
he will forfeit the character of a good man and true; whereas if he observe them,
there is an end to him as the Messenger, the Spy, the Herald of the Gods!
CXVII
Ask me if you choose if a Cynic shall engage in the administration of the
State. O fool, seek you a nobler administration that that in which he is engaged?
Ask you if a man shall come forward in the Athenian assembly and talk about
revenue and supplies, when his business is to converse with all men, Athenians,
Corinthians, and Romans alike, not about supplies, not about revenue, nor yet
peace and war, but about Happiness and Misery, Prosperity and Adversity,
Slavery and Freedom?
Ask you whether a man shall engage in the administration of the State who
has engaged in such an Administration as this? Ask me too if he shall govern;
and again I will answer, Fool, what greater government shall he hold than he
holds already?
CXVIII
Such a man needs also to have a certain habit of body. If he appears
consumptive, thin and pale, his testimony has no longer the same authority. He
must not only prove to the unlearned by showing them what his Soul is that it is
possible to be a good man apart from all that they admire; but he must also show
them, by his body, that a plain and simple manner of life under the open sky
does no harm to the body either. "See, I am proof of this! and my body also." As
Diogenes used to do, who went about fresh of look and by the very appearance
of his body drew men's eyes. But if a Cynic is an object of pity, he seems a mere
beggar; all turn away, all are offended at him. Nor should he be slovenly of look,
so as not to scare men from him in this way either; on the contrary, his very
roughness should be clean and attractive.
CXIX
Kings and tyrants have armed guards wherewith to chastise certain persons,
though they themselves be evil. But to the Cynic conscience gives this power—
not arms and guards. When he knows that he has watched and laboured on
behalf of mankind: that sleep hath found him pure, and left him purer still: that
his thoughts have been the thought of a Friend of the Gods—of a servant, yet
one that hath a part in the government of the Supreme God: that the words are
ever on his lips:—
Lead me, O God, and thou, O Destiny!
as well as these:—
If this be God's will, so let it be!
Why should he not speak boldly unto his own brethren, unto his children—in
a word, unto all that are akin to him!
CXX
Does a Philosopher apply to people to come and hear him? does he not rather,
of his own nature, attract those that will be benefited by him—like the sun that
warms, the food that sustains them? What Physician applies to men to come and
be healed? (Though indeed I hear that the Physicians at Rome do nowadays
apply for patients—in my time they were applied to.) I apply to you to come and
hear that you are in evil case; that what deserves your attention most is the last
thing to gain it; that you know not good from evil, and are in short a hapless
wretch; a fine way to apply! though unless the words of the Philosopher affect
you thus, speaker and speech are alike dead.
CXXI
A Philosopher's school is a Surgery: pain, not pleasure, you should have felt
therein. For on entering none of you is whole. One has a shoulder out of joint,
another an abscess: a third suffers from an issue, a fourth from pains in the head.
And am I then to sit down and treat you to pretty sentiments and empty
flourishes, so that you may applaud me and depart, with neither shoulder, nor
head, nor issue, nor abscess a whit the better for your visit? Is it then for this that
young men are to quit their homes, and leave parents, friends, kinsmen and
substance to mouth out Bravo to your empty phrases!
CXXII
If any be unhappy, let him remember that he is unhappy by reason of himself
alone. For God hath made all men to enjoy felicity and constancy of good.
CXXIII
Shall we never wean ourselves—shall we never heed the teachings of
Philosophy (unless perchance they have been sounding in our ears like an
enchanter's drone):—
This World is one great City, and one is the substance whereof it is fashioned:
a certain period indeed there needs must be, while these give place to those;
some must perish for others to succeed; some move and some abide: yet all is
full of friends—first God, then Men, whom Nature hath bound by ties of kindred
each to each.
CXXIV
Nor did the hero weep and lament at leaving his children orphans. For he
knew that no man is an orphan, but it is the Father that careth for all continually
and for evermore. Not by mere report had he heard that the Supreme God is the
Father of men: seeing that he called Him Father believing Him so to be, and in
all that he did had ever his eyes fixed upon Him. Wherefore in whatsoever place
he was, there is was given him to live happily.
CXXV
Know you not that the thing is a warfare? one man's duty is to mount guard,
another must go out to reconnoitre, a third to battle; all cannot be in one place,
nor would it even be expedient. But you, instead of executing you Commander's
orders, complain if aught harsher than usual is enjoined; not understanding to
what condition you are bringing the army, so far as in you lies. If all were to
follow your example, none would dig a trench, none would cast a rampart
around the camp, none would keep watch, or expose himself to danger; but all
turn out useless for the service of war. . . . Thus it is here also. Every life is a
warfare, and that long and various. You must fulfil a soldier's duty, and obey
each order at your commander's nod: aye, if it be possible, divine what he would
have done; for between that Command and this, there is no comparison, either in
might or in excellence.
CXXVI
Have you again forgotten? Know you not that a good man does nothing for
appearance' sake, but for the sake of having done right? . . .
"Is there no reward then?"
Reward! do you seek any greater reward for a good man than doing what is
right and just? Yet at the Great Games you look for nothing else; there the
victor's crown you deem enough. Seems it to you so small a thing and worthless,
to be a good man, and happy therein?
CXXVII
It befits thee not to be unhappy by reason of any, but rather to be happy by
reason of all men, and especially by reason of God, who formed us to this end.
CXXVIII
What, did Diogenes love no man, he that was so gentle, so true a friend to
men as cheerfully to endure such bodily hardships for the common weal of all
mankind? But how loved he them? As behoved a minister of the Supreme God,
alike caring for men and subject unto God.
CXXIX
I am by Nature made for my own good; not for my own evil.
CXXX
Remind thyself that he whom thou lovest is mortal—that what thou lovest is
not thine own; it is given thee for the present, not irrevocably nor for ever, but
even as a fig or a bunch of grapes at the appointed season of the year. . . .
"But these are words of evil omen.". . .
What, callest thou aught of evil omen save that which signifies some evil
thing? Cowardice is a word of evil omen, if thou wilt, and meanness of spirit,
and lamentation and mourning, and shamelessness. . . .
But do not, I pray thee, call of evil omen a word that is significant of any
natural thing:—as well call of evil omen the reaping of the corn; for that means
the destruction of the ears, though not of the World!—as well say that the fall of
the leaf is of evil omen; that the dried fig should take the place of the green; that
raisins should be made from grapes. All these are changes from a former state
into another; not destruction, but an ordered economy, a fixed administration.
Such is leaving home, a change of small account; such is Death, a greater
change, from what now is, not to what is not, but to what is not now.
"Shall I then no longer be?"
Not so; thou wilt be; but something different, of which the World now hath
need. For thou too wert born not when thou chosest, but when the World had
need of thee.
CXXXI
Wherefore a good man and true, bearing in mind who he is and whence he
came and from whom he sprang, cares only how he may fill his post with due
discipline and obedience to God.
Wilt thou that I continue to live? Then will I live, as one that is free and noble,
as Thou wouldst have me. For Thou hast made me free from hindrance in what
appertaineth unto me. But hast Thou no further need of me? I thank Thee! Up to
this hour have I stayed for Thy sake and none other's: and now in obedience to
Thee I depart.
"How dost thou depart?"
Again I say, as Thou wouldst have me; as one that is free, as Thy servant, as
one whose ear is open unto what Thou dost enjoin, what Thou dost forbid.
CXXXII
Whatsoever place or post Thou assignest me, sooner will I die a thousand
deaths, as Socrates said, than desert it. And where wilt Thou have me to be? At
Rome or Athens? At Thebes or on a desert island? Only remember me there!
Shouldst Thou send me where man cannot live as Nature would have him, I will
depart, not in disobedience to Thee, but as though Thou wert sounding the signal
for my retreat: I am not deserting Thee—far be that from me! I only perceive
that thou needest me no longer.
CXXXIII
If you are in Gyaros, do not let your mind dwell upon life at Rome, and all the
pleasures it offered to you when living there, and all that would attend your
return. Rather be intent on this—how he that lives in Gyaros may live in Gyaros
like a man of spirit. And if you are at Rome, do not let your mind dwell upon the
life at Athens, but study only how to live at Rome.
Finally, in the room of all other pleasures put this—the pleasure which springs
from conscious obedience to God.
CXXXIV
To a good man there is no evil, either in life or death. And if God supply not
food, has He not, as a wise Commander, sounded the signal for retreat and
nothing more? I obey, I follow—speaking good of my Commander, and praising
His acts. For at His good pleasure I came; and I depart when it pleases Him; and
while I was yet alive that was my work, to sing praises unto God!
CXXXV
Reflect that the chief source of all evils to Man, and of baseness and
cowardice, is not death, but the fear of death.
Against this fear then, I pray you, harden yourself; to this let all your
reasonings, your exercises, your reading tend. Then shall you know that thus
alone are men set free.
CXXXVI
He is free who lives as he wishes to live; to whom none can do violence, none
hinder or compel; whose impulses are unimpeded, whose desires are attain their
purpose, who falls not into what he would avoid. Who then would live in error?
—None. Who would live deceived and prone to fall, unjust, intemperate, in
abject whining at his lot?—None. Then doth no wicked man live as he would,
and therefore neither is he free.
CXXXVII
Thus do the more cautious of travellers act. The road is said to be beset by
robbers. The traveller will not venture alone, but awaits the companionship on
the road of an ambassador, a quaestor or a proconsul. To him he attaches himself
and thus passes by in safety. So doth the wise man in the world. Many are the
companies of robbers and tyrants, many the storms, the straits, the losses of all a
man holds dearest. Whither shall he fall for refuge—how shall he pass by
unassailed? What companion on the road shall he await for protection? Such and
such a wealthy man, of consular rank? And how shall I be profited, if he is
stripped and falls to lamentation and weeping? And how if my fellow-traveller
himself turns upon me and robs me? What am I to do? I will become a friend of
Caesar's! in his train none will do me wrong! In the first place—O the indignities
I must endure to win distinction! O the multitude of hands there will be to rob
me! And if I succeed, Caesar too is but a mortal. While should it come to pass
that I offend him, whither shall I flee from his presence? To the wilderness? And
may not fever await me there? What then is to be done? Cannot a fellowtraveller be found that is honest and loyal, strong and secure against surprise?
Thus doth the wise man reason, considering that if he would pass through in
safety, he must attach himself unto God.
CXXXVIII
"How understandest thou attach himself to God?"
That what God wills, he should will also; that what God wills not, neither
should he will.
"How then may this come to pass?"
By considering the movements of God, and His administration.
CXXXIX
And dost thou that hast received all from another's hands, repine and blame
the Giver, if He takes anything from thee? Why, who art thou, and to what end
comest thou here? was it not He that made the Light manifest unto thee, that
gave thee fellow-workers, and senses, and the power to reason? And how
brought He thee into the world? Was it not as one born to die; as one bound to
live out his earthly life in some small tabernacle of flesh; to behold His
administration, and for a little while share with Him in the mighty march of this
great Festival Procession? Now therefore that thou hast beheld, while it was
permitted thee, the Solemn Feast and Assembly, wilt thou not cheerfully depart,
when He summons thee forth, with adoration and thanksgiving for what thou
hast seen and heard?—"Nay, but I would fain have stayed longer at the
Festival."—Ah, so would the mystics fain have the rites prolonged; so perchance
would the crowd at the Great Games fain behold more wrestlers still. But the
Solemn Assembly is over! Come forth, depart with thanksgiving and modesty—
give place to others that must come into being even as thyself.
CXL
Why art thou thus insatiable? why thus unreasonable? why encumber the
world?—"Aye, but I fain would have my wife and children with me too."—
What, are they then thine, and not His that gave them—His that made thee? Give
up then that which is not thine own: yield it to One who is better than thou.
"Nay, but why did He bring one into the world on these conditions?"—If it suits
thee not, depart! He hath no need of a spectator who finds fault with his lot!
Them that will take part in the Feast he needeth—that will lift their voices with
the rest that men may applaud the more, and exalt the Great Assembly in hymns
and songs of praise. But the wretched and the fearful He will not be displeased to
see absent from it: for when they were present, they did not behave as at a Feast,
nor fulfil their proper office; but moaned as though in pain, and found fault with
their fate, their fortune and their companions; insensible to what had fallen to
their lot, insensible to the powers they had received for a very different purpose
—the powers of Magnanimity, Nobility of Heart, of Fortitude, or Freedom!
CXLI
Art thou then free? a man may say. So help me heaven, I long and pray for
freedom! But I cannot look my masters boldly in the face; I still value the poor
body; I still set much store on its preservation whole and sound.
But I can point thee out a free man, that thou mayest be no more in search of
an example. Diogenes was free. How so? Not because he was of free parentage
(for that, indeed, was not the case), but because he was himself free. He had cast
away every handle whereby slavery might lay hold of him to enslave him, nor
was it possible for any to approach and take hold of him to enslave him. All
things sat loose upon him—all things were to him attached by but slender ties.
Hadst thou seized upon his possessions, he would rather have let them go than
have followed thee for them—aye, had it been even a limb, or mayhap his whole
body; and in like manner, relatives, friends, and country. For he knew whence
they came—from whose hands and on what terms he had received them. His true
forefathers, the Gods, his true Country, he never would have abandoned; nor
would he have yielded to any man in obedience and submission to the one nor in
cheerfully dying for the other. For he was ever mindful that everything that
comes to pass has its source and origin there; being indeed brought about for the
weal of that his true Country, and directed by Him in whose governance it is.
CXLII
Ponder on this—on these convictions, on these words: fix thine eyes on these
examples, if thou wouldst be free, if thou hast thine heart set upon the matter
according to its worth. And what marvel if thou purchase so great a thing at so
great and high a price? For the sake of this that men deem liberty, some hang
themselves, others cast themselves down from the rock; aye, time has been when
whole cities came utterly to an end: while for the sake of Freedom that is true,
and sure, and unassailable, dost thou grudge to God what He gave, when He
claims it? Wilt thou not study, as Plato saith, to endure, not death alone, but
torture, exile, stripes—in a word, to render up all that is not thine own? Else thou
wilt be a slave amid slaves, wert thou ten thousand times a consul; aye, not a
whit the less, though thou climb the Palace steps. And thou shalt know how true
the saying of Cleanthes, that though the words of philosophers may run counter
to the opinions of the world, yet have they reason on their side.
CXLIII
Asked how a man should best grieve his enemy, Epictetus replied, "By setting
himself to live the noblest life himself."
CXLIV
I am free, I am a friend of God, ready to render Him willing obedience. Of all
else I may set store by nothing—neither by mine own body, nor possessions, nor
office, nor good report, nor, in a word, aught else beside. For it is not His Will,
that I should so set store by these things. Had it been His pleasure, He would
have placed my Good therein. But now He hath not done so: therefore I cannot
transgress one jot of His commands. In everything hold fast to that which is thy
Good—but to all else (as far as is given thee) within the measure of Reason only,
contented with this alone. Else thou wilt meet with failure, ill success, let and
hindrance. These are the Laws ordained of God—these are His Edicts; these a
man should expound and interpret; to these submit himself, not to the laws of
Masurius and Cassius.
CXLV
Remember that not the love of power and wealth sets us under the heel of
others, but even the love of tranquillity, of leisure, of change of scene—of
learning in general, it matters not what the outward thing may be—to set store
by it is to place thyself in subjection to another. Where is the difference then
between desiring to be a Senator, and desiring not to be one: between thirsting
for office and thirsting to be quit of it? Where is the difference between crying,
Woe is me, I know not what to do, bound hand and foot as I am to my books so
that I cannot stir! and crying, Woe is me, I have not time to read! As though a
book were not as much an outward thing and independent of the will, as office
and power and the receptions of the great.
Or what reason hast thou (tell me) for desiring to read? For if thou aim at
nothing beyond the mere delight of it, or gaining some scrap of knowledge, thou
art but a poor, spiritless knave. But if thou desirest to study to its proper end,
what else is this than a life that flows on tranquil and serene? And if thy reading
secures thee not serenity, what profits it?—"Nay, but it doth secure it," quoth he,
"and that is why I repine at being deprived of it."—And what serenity is this that
lies at the mercy of every passer-by? I say not at the mercy of the Emperor or
Emperor's favorite, but such as trembles at a raven's croak and piper's din, a
fever's touch or a thousand things of like sort! Whereas the life serene has no
more certain mark than this, that it ever moves with constant unimpeded flow.
CXLVI
If thou hast put malice and evil speaking from thee, altogether, or in some
degree: if thou hast put away from thee rashness, foulness of tongue,
intemperance, sluggishness: if thou art not moved by what once moved thee, or
in like manner as thou once wert moved—then thou mayest celebrate a daily
festival, to-day because thou hast done well in this manner, tomorrow in that.
How much greater cause is here for offering sacrifice, than if a man should
become Consul or Prefect?
CXLVII
These things hast thou from thyself and from the Gods: only remember who it
is that giveth them—to whom and for what purpose they were given. Feeding
thy soul on thoughts like these, dost thou debate in what place happiness awaits
thee? in what place thou shalt do God's pleasure? Are not the Gods nigh unto all
places alike; see they not alike what everywhere comes to pass?
CXLVIII
To each man God hath granted this inward freedom. These are the principles
that in a house create love, in a city concord, among nations peace, teaching a
man gratitude towards God and cheerful confidence, wherever he may be, in
dealing with outward things that he knows are neither his nor worth striving
after.
CXLIX
If you seek Truth, you will not seek to gain a victory by every possible means;
and when you have found Truth, you need not fear being defeated.
CL
What foolish talk is this? how can I any longer lay claim to right principles, if
I am not content with being what I am, but am all aflutter about what I am
supposed to be?
CLI
God hath made all things in the world, nay, the world itself, free from
hindrance and perfect, and its parts for the use of the whole. No other creature is
capable of comprehending His administration thereof; but the reasonable being
Man possesses faculties for the consideration of all these things—not only that
he is himself a part, but what part he is, and how it is meet that the parts should
give place to the whole. Nor is this all. Being naturally constituted noble,
magnanimous, and free, he sees that the things which surround him are of two
kinds. Some are free from hindrance and in the power of the will. Other are
subject to hindrance, and depend on the will of other men. If then he place his
own good, his own best interest, only in that which is free from hindrance and in
his power, he will be free, tranquil, happy, unharmed, noble-hearted, and pious;
giving thanks to all things unto God, finding fault with nothing that comes to
pass, laying no charge against anything. Whereas if he place his good in outward
things, depending not on the will, he must perforce be subject to hindrance and
restraint, the slave of those that have power over the things he desires and fears;
he must perforce be impious, as deeming himself injured at the hands of God; he
must be unjust, as ever prone to claim more than his due; he must perforce be of
a mean and abject spirit.
CLII
Whom then shall I fear? the lords of the Bedchamber, lest they should shut me
out? If they find me desirous of entering in, let them shut me out, if they will.
"Then why comest thou to the door?"
Because I think it meet and right, so long as the Play lasts, to take part therein.
"In what sense art thou then shut out?"
Because, unless I am admitted, it is not my will to enter: on the contrary, my
will is simply that which comes to pass. For I esteem what God wills better than
what I will. To Him will I cleave as His minister and attendant; having the same
movements, the same desires, in a word the same Will as He. There is no such
thing as being shut out for me, but only for them that would force their way in.
CLIII
But what says Socrates?—"One man finds pleasure in improving his land,
another his horses. My pleasure lies in seeing that I myself grow better day by
day."
CLIV
The dress is suited to the craft; the craftsman takes his name from the craft,
not from the dress. For this reason Euphrates was right in saying, "I long
endeavoured to conceal my following the philosophic life; and this profited me
much. In the first place, I knew that what I did aright, I did not for the sake of
lookers-on, but for my own. I ate aright—unto myself; I kept the even tenor of
my walk, my glance composed and serene—all unto myself and unto God. Then
as I fought alone, I was alone in peril. If I did anything amiss or shameful, the
cause of Philosophy was not in me endangered; nor did I wrong the multitude by
transgressing as a professed philosopher. Wherefore those that knew not my
purpose marvelled how it came about, that whilst all my life and conversation
was passed with philosophers without exception, I was yet none myself. And
what harm that the philosopher should be known by his acts, instead of mere
outward signs and symbols?"
CLV
First study to conceal what thou art; seek wisdom a little while unto thyself.
Thus grows the fruit; first, the seed must be buried in the earth for a little space;
there it must be hid and slowly grow, that it may reach maturity. But if it
produce the ear before the jointed stalk, it is imperfect—a thing from the garden
of Adonis. Such a sorry growth art thou; thou hast blossomed too soon: the
winter cold will wither thee away!
CLVI
First of all, condemn the life thou art now leading: but when thou hast
condemned it, do not despair of thyself—be not like them of mean spirit, who
once they have yielded, abandon themselves entirely and as it were allow the
torrent to sweep them away. No; learn what the wrestling masters do. Has the
boy fallen? "Rise," they say, "wrestle again, till thy strength come to thee." Even
thus should it be with thee. For know that there is nothing more tractable than
the human soul. It needs but to will, and the thing is done; the soul is set upon
the right path: as on the contrary it needs but to nod over the task, and all is lost.
For ruin and recovery alike are from within.
CLVII
It is the critical moment that shows the man. So when the crisis is upon you,
remember that God, like a trainer of wrestlers, has matched you with a rough and
stalwart antagonist.—"To what end?" you ask. That you may prove the victor at
the Great Games. Yet without toil and sweat this may not be!
CLVIII
If thou wouldst make progress, be content to seem foolish and void of
understanding with respect to outward things. Care not to be thought to know
anything. If any should make account of thee, distrust thyself.
CLIX
Remember that in life thou shouldst order thy conduct as at a banquet. Has
any dish that is being served reached thee? Stretch forth thy hand and help
thyself modestly. Doth it pass thee by? Seek not to detain it. Has it not yet come?
Send not forth thy desire to meet it, but wait until it reaches thee. Deal thus with
children, thus with wife; thus with office, thus with wealth—and one day thou
wilt be meet to share the Banquets of the Gods. But if thou dost not so much as
touch that which is placed before thee, but despisest it, then shalt thou not only
share the Banquets of the Gods, but their Empire also.
CLX
Remember that thou art an actor in a play, and of such sort as the Author
chooses, whether long or short. If it be his good pleasure to assign thee the part
of a beggar, a ruler, or a simple citizen, thine it is to play it fitly. For thy business
is to act the part assigned thee, well: to choose it, is another's.
CLXI
Keep death and exile daily before thine eyes, with all else that men deem
terrible, but more especially Death. Then wilt thou never think a mean though,
nor covet anything beyond measure.
CLXII
As a mark is not set up in order to be missed, so neither is such a thing as
natural evil produced in the World.
CLXIII
Piety toward the Gods, to be sure, consists chiefly in thinking rightly
concerning them—that they are, and that they govern the Universe with
goodness and justice; and that thou thyself art appointed to obey them, and to
submit under all circumstances that arise; acquiescing cheerfully in whatever
may happen, sure it is brought to pass and accomplished by the most Perfect
Understanding. Thus thou wilt never find fault with the Gods, nor charge them
with neglecting thee.
CLXIV
Lose no time in setting before you a certain stamp of character and behaviour
both when by yourself and in company with others. Let silence be your general
rule; or say only what is necessary and in few words. We shall, however, when
occasion demands, enter into discourse sparingly. avoiding common topics as
gladiators, horse-races, athletes; and the perpetual talk about food and drink.
Above all avoid speaking of persons, either in way of praise or blame, or
comparison.
If you can, win over the conversation of your company to what it should be by
your own. But if you find yourself cut off without escape among strangers and
aliens, be silent.
CLXV
Laughter should not be much, nor frequent, nor unrestrained.
CLXVI
Refuse altogether to take an oath if you can, if not, as far as may be.
CLXVII
Banquets of the unlearned and of them that are without, avoid. But if you have
occasion to take part in them, let not your attention be relaxed for a moment, lest
you slip after all into evil ways. For you may rest assured that be a man ever so
pure himself, he cannot escape defilement if his associates are impure.
CLXVIII
Take what relates to the body as far as the bare use warrants—as meat, drink,
raiment, house and servants. But all that makes for show and luxury reject.
CLXIX
If you are told that such an one speaks ill of you, make no defence against
what was said, but answer, He surely knew not my other faults, else he would
not have mentioned these only!
CLXX
When you visit any of those in power, bethink yourself that you will not find
him in: that you may not be admitted: that the door may be shut in your face:
that he may not concern himself about you. If with all this, it is your duty to go,
bear what happens, and never say to yourself, It was not worth the trouble! For
that would smack of the foolish and unlearned who suffer outward things to
touch them.
CLXXI
In company avoid frequent and undue talk about your own actions and
dangers. However pleasant it may be to you to enlarge upon the risks you have
run, others may not find such pleasure in listening to your adventures. Avoid
provoking laughter also: it is a habit from which one easily slides into the ways
of the foolish, and apt to diminish the respect which your neighbors feel for you.
To border on coarse talk is also dangerous. On such occasions, if a convenient
opportunity offer, rebuke the speaker. If not, at least by relapsing into silence,
colouring, and looking annoyed, show that you are displeased with the subject.
CLXXII
When you have decided that a thing ought to be done, and are doing it, never
shun being seen doing it, even though the multitude should be likely to judge the
matter amiss. For if you are not acting rightly, shun the act itself; if rightly,
however, why fear misplaced censure?
CLXXIII
It stamps a man of mean capacity to spend much time on the things of the
body, as to be long over bodily exercises, long over eating, long over drinking,
long over other bodily functions. Rather should these things take the second
place, while all your care is directed to the understanding.
CLXXIV
Everything has two handles, one by which it may be borne, the other by which
it may not. If your brother sin against you lay not hold of it by the handle of
injustice, for by that it may not be borne: but rather by this, that he is your
brother, the comrade of your youth; and thus you will lay hold on it so that it
may be borne.
CLXXV
Never call yourself a Philosopher nor talk much among the unlearned about
Principles, but do that which follows from them. Thus at a banquet, do not
discuss how people ought to eat; but eat as you ought. Remember that Socrates
thus entirely avoided ostentation. Men would come to him desiring to be
recommended to philosophers, and he would conduct them thither himself—so
well did he bear being overlooked. Accordingly if any talk concerning principles
should arise among the unlearned, be you for the most part silent. For you run
great risk of spewing up what you have ill digested. And when a man tells you
that you know nothing and you are not nettled at it, then you may be sure that
you have begun the work.
CLXXVI
When you have brought yourself to supply the needs of the body at small cost,
do not pique yourself on that, nor if you drink only water, keep saying on each
occasion, I drink water! And if you ever want to practise endurance and toil, do
so unto yourself and not unto others—do not embrace statues!
CLXXVII
When a man prides himself on being able to understand and interpret the
writings of Chrysippus, say to yourself:—
If Chrysippus had not written obscurely, this fellow would have had nothing
to be proud of. But what is it that I desire? To understand Nature, and to follow
her! Accordingly I ask who is the Interpreter. On hearing that it is Chrysippus, I
go to him. But it seems I do not understand what he wrote. So I seek one to
interpret that. So far there is nothing to pride myself on. But when I have found
my interpreter, what remains is to put in practice his instructions. This itself is
the only thing to be proud of. But if I admire the interpretation and that alone,
what else have I turned out but a mere commentator instead of a lover of
wisdom?—except indeed that I happen to be interpreting Chrysippus instead of
Homer. So when any one says to me, Prithee, read me Chrysippus, I am more
inclined to blush, when I cannot show my deeds to be in harmony and
accordance with his sayings.
CLXXVIII
At feasts, remember that you are entertaining two guests, body and soul. What
you give to the body, you presently lose; what you give to the soul, you keep for
ever.
CLXXIX
At meals, see to it that those who serve be not more in number than those who
are served. It is absurd for a crowd of persons to be dancing attendance on half a
dozen chairs.
CLXXX
It is best to share with your attendants what is going forward, both in the
labour of preparation and in the enjoyment of the feast itself. If such a thing be
difficult at the time, recollect that you who are not weary are being served by
those that are; you who are eating and drinking by those who do neither; you
who are talking by those who are silent; you who are at ease by those who are
under constraint. Thus no sudden wrath will betray you into unreasonable
conduct, nor will you behave harshly by irritating another.
CLXXXI
When Xanthippe was chiding Socrates for making scanty preparation for
entertaining his friends, he answered:—"If they are friends of ours they will not
care for that; if they are not, we shall care nothing for them!"
CLXXXII
Asked, Who is the rich man? Epictetus replied, "He who is content."
CLXXXIII
Favorinus tells us how Epictetus would also say that there were two faults far
graver and fouler than any others—inability to bear, and inability to forbear,
when we neither patiently bear the blows that must be borne, nor abstain from
the things and the pleasures we ought to abstain from. "So," he went on, "if a
man will only have these two words at heart, and heed them carefully by ruling
and watching over himself, he will for the most part fall into no sin, and his life
will be tranquil and serene." He meant the words [Greek: Anechou kai apechou]
—"Bear and Forbear."
CLXXXIV
On all occasions these thoughts should be at hand:—
Lead me, O God, and Thou, O Destiny
Be what it may the goal appointed me,
Bravely I'll follow; nay, and if I would not,
I'd prove a coward, yet must follow still!
Again:
Who to Necessity doth bow aright,
Is learn'd in wisdom and the things of God.
Once more:—
Crito, if this be God's will, so let it be. As for me,
Anytus and Meletus can indeed put me to death, but injure me, never!
CLXXXV
We shall then be like Socrates, when we can indite hymns of praise to the
Gods in prison.
CLXXXVI
It is hard to combine and unite these two qualities, the carefulness of one who
is affected by circumstances, and the intrepidity of one who heeds them not. But
it is not impossible: else were happiness also impossible. We should act as we do
in seafaring.
"What can I do?"—Choose the master, the crew, the day, the opportunity.
Then comes a sudden storm. What matters it to me? my part has been fully done.
The matter is in the hands of another—the Master of the ship. The ship is
foundering. What then have I to do? I do the only thing that remains to me—to
be drowned without fear, without a cry, without upbraiding God, but knowing
that what has been born must likewise perish. For I am not Eternity, but a human
being—a part of the whole, as an hour is part of the day. I must come like the
hour, and like the hour must pass!
CLXXXVII
And now we are sending you to Rome to spy out the land; but none send a
coward as such a spy, that, if he hear but a noise and see a shadow moving
anywhere, loses his wits and comes flying to say, The enemy are upon us!
So if you go now, and come and tell us: "Everything at Rome is terrible:
Death is terrible, Exile is terrible, Slander is terrible, Want is terrible; fly,
comrades! the enemy are upon us!" we shall reply, Get you gone, and prophesy
to yourself! we have but erred in sending such a spy as you. Diogenes, who was
sent as a spy long before you, brought us back another report than this. He says
that Death is no evil; for it need not even bring shame with it. He says that Fame
is but the empty noise of madmen. And what report did this spy bring us of Pain,
what of Pleasure, what of Want? That to be clothed in sackcloth is better than
any purple robe; that sleeping on the bare ground is the softest couch; and in
proof of each assertion he points to his own courage, constancy, and freedom; to
his own healthy and muscular frame. "There is no enemy near," he cries, "all is
perfect peace!"
CLXXXVIII
If a man has this peace—not the peace proclaimed by Caesar (how indeed
should he have it to proclaim?), nay, but the peace proclaimed by God through
reason, will not that suffice him when alone, when he beholds and reflects:—
Now can no evil happen unto me; for me there is no robber, for me no
earthquake; all things are full of peace, full of tranquillity; neither highway nor
city nor gathering of men, neither neighbor nor comrade can do me hurt.
Another supplies my food, whose care it is; another my raiment; another hath
given me perceptions of sense and primary conceptions. And when He supplies
my necessities no more, it is that He is sounding the retreat, that He hath opened
the door, and is saying to thee, Come!—Wither? To nought that thou needest
fear, but to the friendly kindred elements whence thou didst spring. Whatsoever
of fire is in thee, unto fire shall return; whatsoever of earth, unto earth; of spirit,
unto spirit; of water, unto water. There is no Hades, no fabled rivers of Sighs, of
Lamentation, or of Fire: but all things are full of Beings spiritual and divine.
With thoughts like these, beholding the Sun, Moon, and Stars, enjoying earth
and sea, a man is neither helpless nor alone!
CLXXXIX
What wouldst thou be found doing when overtaken by Death? If I might
choose, I would be found doing some deed of true humanity, of wide import,
beneficent and noble. But if I may not be found engaged in aught so lofty, let me
hope at least for this—what none may hinder, what is surely in my power—that I
may be found raising up in myself that which had fallen; learning to deal more
wisely with the things of sense; working out my own tranquillity, and thus
rendering that which is its due to every relation of life. . . .
If death surprise me thus employed, it is enough if I can stretch forth my
hands to God and say, "The faculties which I received at Thy hands for
apprehending this thine Administration, I have not neglected. As far as in me
lay, I have done Thee no dishonour. Behold how I have used the senses, the
primary conceptions which Thou gavest me. Have I ever laid anything to Thy
charge? Have I ever murmured at aught that came to pass, or wished it
otherwise? Have I in anything transgressed the relations of life? For that Thou
didst beget me, I thank Thee for that Thou hast given: for the time during which
I have used the things that were Thine, it suffices me. Take them back and place
them wherever Thou wilt! They were all Thine, and Thou gavest them me."—If
a man depart thus minded, is it not enough? What life is fairer and more noble,
what end happier than his?
FRAGMENTS ATTRIBUTED TO EPICTETUS
I
A life entangled with Fortune is like a torrent. It is turbulent and muddy; hard
to pass and masterful of mood: noisy and of brief continuance.
II
The soul that companies with Virtue is like an everflowing source. It is a pure,
clear, and wholesome draught; sweet, rich, and generous of its store; that injures
not, neither destroys.
III
It is a shame that one who sweetens his drink with the gifts of the bee, should
embitter God's gift Reason with vice.
IV
Crows pick out the eyes of the dead, when the dead have no longer need of
them; but flatterers mar the soul of the living, and her eyes they blind.
V
Keep neither a blunt knife nor an ill-disciplined looseness of tongue.
VI
Nature hath given men one tongue but two ears, that we may hear from others
twice as much as we speak.
VII
Do not give sentence in another tribunal till you have been yourself judged in
the tribunal of Justice.
VIII
If is shameful for a Judge to be judged by others.
IX
Give me by all means the shorter and nobler life, instead of one that is longer
but of less account!
X
Freedom is the name of virtue: Slavery, of vice. . . . None is a slave whose
acts are free.
XI
Of pleasures, those which occur most rarely give the most delight.
XII
Exceed due measure, and the most delightful things become the least
delightful.
XIII
The anger of an ape—the threat of a flatterer:—these deserve equal regard.
XIV
Chastise thy passions that they avenge not themselves upon thee.
XV
No man is free who is not master of himself.
XVI
A ship should not ride on a single anchor, nor life on a single hope.
XVII
Fortify thyself with contentment: that is an impregnable stronghold.
XVIII
No man who is a lover of money, of pleasure, of glory, is likewise a lover of
Men; but only he that is a lover of whatsoever things are fair and good.
XIX
Think of God more often than thou breathest.
XX
Choose the life that is noblest, for custom can make it sweet to thee.
XXI
Let thy speech of God be renewed day by day, aye, rather than thy meat and
drink.
XXII
Even as the Sun doth not wait for prayers and incantations to rise, but shines
forth and is welcomed by all: so thou also wait not for clapping of hands and
shouts and praise to do thy duty; nay, do good of thine own accord, and thou wilt
be loved like the Sun.
XXIII
Let no man think that he is loved by any who loveth none.
XXIV
If thou rememberest that God standeth by to behold and visit all that thou
doest; whether in the body or in the soul, thou surely wilt not err in any prayer or
deed; and thou shalt have God to dwell with thee.
THE DISCOURSES OF EPICTETUS
A Selection
Translated by George Long
OF THE THINGS WHICH ARE IN OUR POWER AND NOT IN
OUR POWER
Of all the faculties (except that which I shall soon mention), you will find not
one which is capable of contemplating itself, and, consequently, not capable
either of approving or disapproving. How far does the grammatic art possess the
contemplating power? As far as forming a judgment about what is written and
spoken. And how far music? As far as judging about melody. Does either of
them then contemplate itself? By no means. But when you must write something
to your friend, grammar will tell you what words you should write; but whether
you should write or not, grammar will not tell you. And so it is with music as to
musical sounds; but whether you should sing at the present time and play on the
lute, or do neither, music will not tell you. What faculty then will tell you? That
which contemplates both itself and all other things. And what is this faculty? The
rational faculty; for this is the only faculty that we have received which
examines itself, what it is, and what power it has, and what is the value of this
gift, and examines all other faculties: for what else is there which tells us that
golden things are beautiful, for they do not say so themselves? Evidently it is the
faculty which is capable of judging of appearances. What else judges of music,
grammar, and the other faculties, proves their uses, and points out the occasions
for using them? Nothing else.
What then should a man have in readiness in such circumstances? What else
than this? What is mine, and what is not mine; and what is permitted to me, and
what is not permitted to me. I must die. Must I then die lamenting? I must be put
in chains. Must I then also lament? I must go into exile. Does any man then
hinder me from going with smiles and cheerfulness and contentment? Tell me
the secret which you possess. I will not, for this is in my power. But I will put
you in chains. Man, what are you talking about? Me, in chains? You may fetter
my leg, but my will not even Zeus himself can overpower. I will throw you into
prison. My poor body, you mean. I will cut your head off. When then have I told
you that my head alone cannot be cut off? These are the things which
philosophers should meditate on, which they should write daily, in which they
should exercise themselves.
What then did Agrippinus say? He said, "I am not a hindrance to myself."
When it was reported to him that his trial was going on in the Senate, he said: "I
hope it may turn out well; but it is the fifth hour of the day"—this was the time
when he was used to exercise himself and then take the cold bath,—"let us go
and take our exercise." After he had taken his exercise, one comes and tells him,
"You have been condemned." "To banishment," he replies, "or to death?" "To
banishment." "What about my property?" "It is not taken from you." "Let us go
to Aricia then," he said, "and dine."
HOW A MAN ON EVERY OCCASION CAN MAINTAIN HIS
PROPER CHARACTER
To the rational animal only is the irrational intolerable; but that which is
rational is tolerable. Blows are not naturally intolerable. How is that? See how
the Lacedaemonians endure whipping when they have learned that whipping is
consistent with reason. To hang yourself is not intolerable. When then you have
the opinion that it is rational, you go and hang yourself. In short, if we observe,
we shall find that the animal man is pained by nothing so much as by that which
is irrational; and, on the contrary, attracted to nothing so much as to that which is
rational.
Only consider at what price you sell your own will: if for no other reason, at
least for this, that you sell it not for a small sum. But that which is great and
superior perhaps belongs to Socrates and such as are like him. Why then, if we
are naturally such, are not a very great number of us like him? Is it true then that
all horses become swift, that all dogs are skilled in tracking footprints? What
then, since I am naturally dull, shall I, for this reason, take no pains? I hope not.
Epictetus is not superior to Socrates; but if he is not inferior, this is enough for
me; for I shall never be a Milo, and yet I do not neglect my body; nor shall I be a
Croesus, and yet I do not neglect my property; nor, in a word, do we neglect
looking after anything because we despair of reaching the highest degree.
HOW A MAN SHOULD PROCEED FROM THE
PRINCIPLE OF GOD BEING THE FATHER OF ALL MEN TO
THE REST
If a man should be able to assent to this doctrine as he ought, that we are all
sprung from God in an especial manner, and that God is the father both of men
and of gods, I suppose that he would never have any ignoble or mean thoughts
about himself. But if Cæsar (the emperor) should adopt you, no one could
endure your arrogance; and if you know that you are the son of Zeus, will you
not be elated? Yet we do not so; but since these two things are mingled in the
generation of man, body in common with the animals, and reason and
intelligence in common with the gods, many incline to this kinship, which is
miserable and mortal; and some few to that which is divine and happy. Since
then it is of necessity that every man uses everything according to the opinion
which he has about it, those, the few, who think that they are formed for fidelity
and modesty and a sure use of appearances have no mean or ignoble thoughts
about themselves; but with the many it is quite the contrary. For they say, What
am I? A poor, miserable man, with my wretched bit of flesh. Wretched, indeed;
but you possess something better than your bit of flesh. Why then do you neglect
that which is better, and why do you attach yourself to this?
Through this kinship with the flesh, some of us inclining to it become like
wolves, faithless and treacherous and mischievous; some become like lions,
savage and bestial and untamed; but the greater part of us become foxes, and
other worse animals. For what else is a slanderer and malignant man than a fox,
or some other more wretched and meaner animal? See then and take care that
you do not become some one of these miserable things.
OF PROGRESS OR IMPROVEMENT
He who is making progress, having learned from philosophers that desire
means the desire of good things, and aversion means aversion from bad things;
having learned too that happiness and tranquillity are not attainable by man
otherwise than by not failing to obtain what he desires, and not falling into that
which he would avoid; such a man takes from himself desire altogether and
confers it, but he employs his aversion only on things which are dependent on
his will. For if he attempts to avoid anything independent of his will, he knows
that sometimes he will fall in with something which he wishes to avoid, and he
will be unhappy. Now if virtue promises good fortune and tranquillity and
happiness, certainly also the progress towards virtue is progress towards each of
these things. For it is always true that to whatever point the perfecting of
anything leads us, progress is an approach towards this point.
How then do we admit that virtue is such as I have said, and yet seek progress
in other things and make a display of it? What is the product of virtue?
Tranquillity. Who then makes improvement? Is it he who has read many books
of Chrysippus? But does virtue consist in having understood Chrysippus? If this
is so, progress is clearly nothing else than knowing a great deal of Chrysippus.
But now we admit that virtue produces one thing, and we declare that
approaching near to it is another thing, namely, progress or improvement. Such a
person, says one, is already able to read Chrysippus by himself. Indeed, sir, you
are making great progress. What kind of progress? But why do you mock the
man? Why do you draw him away from the perception of his own misfortunes?
Will you not show him the effect of virtue that he may learn where to look for
improvement? Seek it there, wretch, where your work lies. And where is your
work? In desire and in aversion, that you may not be disappointed in your desire,
and that you may not fall into that which you would avoid; in your pursuit and
avoiding, that you commit no error; in assent and suspension of assent, that you
be not deceived. The first things, and the most necessary are those which I have
named. But if with trembling and lamentation you seek not to fall into that which
you avoid, tell me how you are improving.
Do you then show me your improvement in these things? If I were talking to
an athlete, I should say, Show me your shoulders; and then he might say, Here
are my Halteres. You and your Halteres look to that. I should reply, I wish to see
the effect of the Halteres. So, when you say: Take the treatise on the active
powers ([Greek: hormea]), and see how I have studied it, I reply: Slave, I am not
inquiring about this, but how you exercise pursuit and avoidance, desire and
aversion, how you design and purpose and prepare yourself, whether
conformably to nature or not. If conformably, give me evidence of it, and I will
say that you are making progress; but if not conformably, be gone, and not only
expound your books, but write such books yourself; and what will you gain by
it? Do you not know that the whole book costs only five denarii? Does then the
expounder seem to be worth more than five denarii? Never then look for the
matter itself in one place, and progress towards it in another. Where then is
progress? If any of you, withdrawing himself from externals, turns to his own
will ([Greek: proairesis]) to exercise it and to improve it by labor, so as to make
it conformable to nature, elevated, free, unrestrained, unimpeded, faithful,
modest; and if he has learned that he who desires or avoids the things which are
not in his power can neither be faithful nor free, but of necessity he must change
with them and be tossed about with them as in a tempest, and of necessity must
subject himself to others who have the power to procure or prevent what lie
desires or would avoid; finally, when he rises in the morning, if he observes and
keeps these rules, bathes as a man of fidelity, eats as a modest man; in like
manner, if in every matter that occurs he works out his chief principles ([Greek:
ta proaegoumena]) as the runner does with reference to running, and the trainer
of the voice with reference to the voice—this is the man who truly makes
progress, and this is the man who has not travelled in vain. But if he has strained
his efforts to the practice of reading books, and labors only at this, and has
travelled for this, I tell him to return home immediately, and not to neglect his
affairs there; for this for which he has travelled is nothing. But the other thing is
something, to study how a man can rid his life of lamentation and groaning, and
saying, Woe to me, and wretched that I am, and to rid it also of misfortune and
disappointment, and to learn what death is, and exile, and prison, and poison,
that he may be able to say when he is in fetters, Dear Crito, if it is the will of the
gods that it be so, let it be so; and not to say, Wretched am I, an old man: have I
kept my gray hairs for this? Who is it that speaks thus? Do you think that I shall
name some man of no repute and of low condition? Does not Priam say this?
Does not Oedipus say this? Nay, all kings say it! For what else is tragedy than
the perturbations ([Greek: pathae]) of men who value externals exhibited in this
kind of poetry? But if a man must learn by fiction that no external things which
are independent of the will concern us, for my part I should like this fiction, by
the aid of which I should live happily and undisturbed. But you must consider
for yourselves what you wish.
What then does Chrysippus teach us? The reply is, to know that these things
are not false, from which happiness comes and tranquillity arises. Take my
books, and you will learn how true and conformable to nature are the things
which make me free from perturbations. O great good fortune! O the great
benefactor who points out the way! To Triptolemus all men have erected temples
and altars, because he gave us food by cultivation; but to him who discovered
truth and brought it to light and communicated it to all, not the truth which
shows us how to live, but how to live well, who of you for this reason has built
an altar, or a temple, or has dedicated a statue, or who worships God for this?
Because the gods have given the vine, or wheat, we sacrifice to them; but
because they have produced in the human mind that fruit by which they designed
to show us the truth which relates to happiness, shall we not thank God for this?
AGAINST THE ACADEMICS
If a man, said Epictetus, opposes evident truths, it is not easy to find
arguments by which we shall make him change his opinion. But this does not
arise either from the man's strength or the teacher's weakness; for when the man,
though he has been confuted, is hardened like a stone, how shall we then be able
to deal with him by argument?
Now there are two kinds of hardening, one of the understanding, the other of
the sense of shame, when a man is resolved not to assent to what is manifest nor
to desist from contradictions. Most of us are afraid of mortification of the body,
and would contrive all means to avoid such a thing, but we care not about the
soul's mortification. And indeed with regard to the soul, if a man be in such a
state as not to apprehend anything, or understand at all, we think that he is in a
bad condition; but if the sense of shame and modesty are deadened, this we call
even power (or strength).
OF PROVIDENCE
From everything, which is or happens in the world, it is easy to praise
Providence, if a man possesses these two qualities: the faculty of seeing what
belongs and happens to all persons and things, and a grateful disposition. If he
does not possess these two qualities, one man will not see the use of things
which are and which happen: another will not be thankful for them, even if he
does know them. If God had made colors, but had not made the faculty of seeing
them, what would have been their use? None at all. On the other hand, if he had
made the faculty of vision, but had not made objects such as to fall under the
faculty, what in that case also would have been the use of it? None at all. Well,
suppose that he had made both, but had not made light? In that case, also, they
would have been of no use. Who is it then who has fitted this to that and that to
this?
What, then, are these things done in us only? Many, indeed, in us only, of
which the rational animal had peculiar need; but you will find many common to
us with irrational animals. Do they then understand what is done? By no means.
For use is one thing, and understanding is another; God had need of irrational
animals to make use of appearances, but of us to understand the use of
appearances. It is therefore enough for them to eat and to drink, and to copulate,
and to do all the other things which they severally do. But for us, to whom he
has given also the intellectual faculty, these things are not sufficient; for unless
we act in a proper and orderly manner, and conformably to the nature and
constitution of each thing, we shall never attain our true end. For where the
constitutions of living beings are different, there also the acts and the ends are
different. In those animals then whose constitution is adapted only to use, use
alone is enough; but in an animal (man), which has also the power of
understanding the use, unless there be the due exercise of the understanding, he
will never attain his proper end. Well then God constitutes every animal, one to
be eaten, another to serve for agriculture, another to supply cheese, and another
for some like use; for which purposes what need is there to understand
appearances and to be able to distinguish them? But God has introduced man to
be a spectator of God and of his works; and not only a spectator of them, but an
interpreter. For this reason it is shameful for man to begin and to end where
irrational animals do; but rather he ought to begin where they begin, and to end
where nature ends in us; and nature ends in contemplation and understanding,
and in a way of life conformable to nature. Take care then not to die without
having been spectators of these things.
But you take a journey to Olympia to see the work of Phidias, and all of you
think it a misfortune to die without having seen such things. But when there is no
need to take a journey, and where a man is, there he has the works (of God)
before him, will you not desire to see and understand them? Will you not
perceive either what you are, or what you were born for, or what this is for
which you have received the faculty of sight? But you may say, There are some
things disagreeable and troublesome in life. And are there none at Olympia? Are
you not scorched? Are you not pressed by a crowd? Are you not without
comfortable means of bathing? Are you not wet when it rains? Have you not
abundance of noise, clamor, and other disagreeable things? But I suppose that
setting all these things off against the magnificence of the spectacle, you bear
and endure. Well then and have you not received faculties by which you will be
able to bear all that happens? Have you not received greatness of soul? Have you
not received manliness? Have you not received endurance? And why do I
trouble myself about anything that can happen if I possess greatness of soul?
What shall distract my mind, or disturb me, or appear painful? Shall I not use the
power for the purposes for which I received it, and shall I grieve and lament over
what happens?
Come, then, do you also having observed these things look to the faculties
which you have, and when you have looked at them, say: Bring now, O Zeus,
any difficulty that thou pleasest, for I have means given to me by thee and
powers for honoring myself through the things which happen. You do not so; but
you sit still, trembling for fear that some things will happen, and weeping, and
lamenting, and groaning for what does happen; and then you blame the gods. For
what is the consequence of such meanness of spirit but impiety? And yet God
has not only given us these faculties, by which we shall be able to bear
everything that happens without being depressed or broken by it; but, like a good
king and a true father, He has given us these faculties free from hindrance,
subject to no compulsion, unimpeded, and has put them entirely in our own
power, without even having reserved to Himself any power of hindering or
impeding. You, who have received these powers free and as your own, use them
not; you do not even see what you have received, and from whom; some of you
being blinded to the giver, and not even acknowledging your benefactor, and
others, through meanness of spirit, betaking yourselves to fault-finding and
making charges against God. Yet I will show to you that you have powers and
means for greatness of soul and manliness; but what powers you have for finding
fault making accusations, do you show me.
HOW FROM THE FACT THAT WE ARE AKIN TO GOD
A MAN MAY PROCEED TO THE CONSEQUENCES
I indeed think that the old man ought to be sitting here, not to contrive how
you may have no mean thoughts nor mean and ignoble talk about yourselves, but
to take care that there be not among us any young men of such a mind, that when
they have recognized their kinship to God, and that we are fettered by these
bonds, the body, I mean, and its possessions, and whatever else on account of
them is necessary to us for the economy and commerce of life, they should
intend to throw off these things as if they were burdens painful and intolerable,
and to depart to their kinsmen. But this is the labor that your teacher and
instructor ought to be employed upon, if he really were what he should be. You
should come to him and say: Epictetus, we can no longer endure being bound to
this poor body, and feeding it, and giving it drink and rest, and cleaning it, and
for the sake of the body complying with the wishes of these and of those. Are
not these things indifferent and nothing to us; and is not death no evil? And are
we not in a manner kinsmen of God, and did we not come from him? Allow us
to depart to the place from which we came; allow us to be released at last from
these bonds by which we are bound and weighed down. Here there are robbers
and thieves and courts of justice, and those who are named tyrants, and think that
they have some power over us by means of the body and its possessions. Permit
us to show them that they have no power over any man. And I on my part would
say: Friends, wait for God: when he shall give the signal and release you from
this service, then go to him; but for the present endure to dwell in this place
where he has put you. Short indeed is this time of your dwelling here, and easy
to bear for those who are so disposed; for what tyrant, or what thief, or what
courts of justice are formidable to those who have thus considered as things of
no value the body and the possessions of the body? Wait then, do not depart
without a reason.
OF CONTENTMENT
With respect to gods, there are some who say that a divine being does not
exist; others say that it exists, but is inactive and careless, and takes no
forethought about anything; a third class say that such a being exists and
exercises forethought, but only about great things and heavenly things, and about
nothing on the earth; a fourth class say that a divine being exercises forethought
both about things on the earth and heavenly things, but in a general way only,
and not about things severally. There is a fifth class to whom Ulysses and
Socrates belong, who say:
I move not without thy knowledge.—Iliad, x., 278.
Before all other things then it is necessary to inquire about each of these
opinions, whether it is affirmed truly or not truly. For if there are no gods, how is
it our proper end to follow them? And if they exist, but take no care of anything,
in this case also how will it be right to follow them? But if indeed they do exist
and look after things, still if there is nothing communicated from them to men,
nor in fact to myself, how even so is it right (to follow them)? The wise and
good man then, after considering all these things, submits his own mind to him
who administers the whole, as good citizens do to the law of the state. He who is
receiving instruction ought to come to be instructed with this intention, How
shall I follow the gods in all things, how shall I be contented with the divine
administration, and how can I become free? For he is free to whom everything
happens according to his will, and whom no man can hinder. What then, is
freedom madness? Certainly not; for madness and freedom do not consist. But,
you say, I would have everything result just as I like, and in whatever way I like.
You are mad, you are beside yourself. Do you not know that freedom is a noble
and valuable thing? But for me inconsiderately to wish for things to happen as I
inconsiderately like, this appears to be not only not noble, but even most base.
For how do we proceed in the matter of writing? Do I wish to write the name of
Dion as I choose? No, but I am taught to choose to write it as it ought to be
written. And how with respect to music? In the same manner. And what
universally in every art or science? Just the same. If it were not so, it would be of
no value to know anything, if knowledge were adapted to every man's whim. Is
it then in this alone, in this which is the greatest and the chief thing, I mean
freedom, that I am permitted to will inconsiderately? By no means; but to be
instructed is this, to learn to wish that everything may happen as it does. And
how do things happen? As the disposer has disposed them? And he has
appointed summer and winter, and abundance and scarcity, and virtue and vice,
and all such opposites for the harmony of the whole; and to each of us he has
given a body, and parts of the body, and possessions, and companions.
What then remains, or what method is discovered of holding commerce with
them? Is there such a method by which they shall do what seems fit to them, and
we not the less shall be in a mood which is conformable to nature? But you are
unwilling to endure, and are discontented; and if you are alone, you call it
solitude; and if you are with men, you call them knaves and robbers; and you
find fault with your own parents and children, and brothers and neighbors. But
you ought when you are alone to call this condition by the name of tranquillity
and freedom, and to think yourself like to the gods; and when you are with
many, you ought not to call it crowd, nor trouble, nor uneasiness, but festival and
assembly, and so accept all contentedly.
What then is the punishment of those who do not accept? It is to be what they
are. Is any person dissatisfied with being alone? Let him be alone. Is a man
dissatisfied with his parents? Let him be a bad son, and lament. Is he dissatisfied
with his children? Let him be a bad father. Cast him into prison. What prison?
Where he is already, for he is there against his will; and where a man is against
his will, there he is in prison. So Socrates was not in prison, for he was there
willingly. Must my leg then be lamed? Wretch, do you then on account of one
poor leg find fault with the world? Will you not willingly surrender it for the
whole? Will you not withdraw from it? Will you not gladly part with it to him
who gave it? And will you be vexed and discontented with the things established
by Zeus, which he, with the Moirae (fates) who were present and spinning the
thread of your generation, defined and put in order? Know you not how small a
part you are compared with the whole. I mean with respect to the body, for as to
intelligence you are not inferior to the gods nor less; for the magnitude of
intelligence is not measured by length nor yet by height, but by thoughts.
HOW EVERYTHING MAY BE DONE ACCEPTABLY
TO THE GODS
When some one asked, How may a man eat acceptably to the gods, he
answered: If he can eat justly and contentedly, and with equanimity, and
temperately, and orderly, will it not be also acceptable to the gods? But when
you have asked for warm water and the slave has not heard, or if he did hear has
brought only tepid water, or he is not even found to be in the house, then not to
be vexed or to burst with passion, is not this acceptable to the gods? How then
shall a man endure such persons as this slave? Slave yourself, will you not bear
with your own brother, who has Zeus for his progenitor, and is like a son from
the same seeds and of the same descent from above? But if you have been put in
any such higher place, will you immediately make yourself a tyrant? Will you
not remember who you are, and whom you rule? That they are kinsmen, that
they are brethren by nature, that they are the offspring of Zeus? But I have
purchased them, and they have not purchased me. Do you see in what direction
you are looking, that it is towards the earth, towards the pit, that it is towards
these wretched laws of dead men? but towards the laws of the gods you are not
looking.
WHAT PHILOSOPHY PROMISES
When a man was consulting him how he should persuade his brother to cease
being angry with him, Epictetus replied: Philosophy does not propose to secure
for a man any external thing. If it did (or if it were not, as I say), philosophy
would be allowing something which is not within its province. For as the
carpenter's material is wood, and that of the statuary is copper, so the matter of
the art of living is each man's life. When then is my brother's? That again
belongs to his own art; but with respect to yours, it is one of the external things,
like a piece of land, like health, like reputation. But Philosophy promises none of
these. In every circumstance I will maintain, she says, the governing part
conformable to nature. Whose governing part? His in whom I am, she says.
How then shall my brother cease to be angry with me? Bring him to me and I
will tell him. But I have nothing to say to you about his anger.
When the man who was consulting him said, I seek to know this, How, even if
my brother is not reconciled to me, shall I maintain myself in a state
conformable to nature? Nothing great, said Epictetus, is produced suddenly,
since not even the grape or the fig is. If you say to me now that you want a fig, I
will answer to you that it requires time: let it flower first, then put forth fruit, and
then ripen. Is then the fruit of a fig-tree not perfected suddenly and in one hour,
and would you possess the fruit of a man's mind in so short a time and so easily?
Do not expect it, even if I tell you.
THAT WE OUGHT NOT TO BE ANGRY WITH THE
ERRORS (FAULTS) OF OTHERS
Ought not then this robber and this adulterer to be destroyed? By no means
say so, but speak rather in this way: This man who has been mistaken and
deceived about the most important things, and blinded, not in the faculty of
vision which distinguishes white and black, but in the faculty which
distinguishes good and bad, should we not destroy him? If you speak thus you
will see how inhuman this is which you say, and that it is just as if you would
say, Ought we not to destroy this blind and deaf man? But if the greatest harm is
the privation of the greatest things, and the greatest thing in every man is the will
or choice such as it ought to be, and a man is deprived of this will, why are you
also angry with him? Man, you ought not to be affected contrary to nature by the
bad things of another. Pity him rather; drop this readiness to be offended and to
hate, and these words which the many utter: "These accursed and odious
fellows." How have you been made so wise at once? and how are you so
peevish? Why then are we angry? Is it because we value so much the things of
which these men rob us? Do not admire your clothes, and then you will not be
angry with the thief. Consider this matter thus: you have fine clothes; your
neighbor has not; you have a window; you wish to air the clothes. The thief does
not know wherein man's good consists, but he thinks that it consist in having fine
clothes, the very thing which you also think. Must he not then come and take
them away? When you show a cake to greedy persons, and swallow it all
yourself, do you expect them not to snatch it from you? Do not provoke them; do
not have a window; do not air your clothes. I also lately had an iron lamp placed
by the side of my household gods; hearing a noise at the door, I ran down, and
found that the lamp had been carried off. I reflected that he who had taken the
lamp had done nothing strange. What then? Tomorrow, I said, you will find an
earthen lamp; for a man only loses that which he has. I have lost my garment.
The reason is that you had a garment. I have a pain in my head. Have you any
pain in your horns? Why then are you troubled? For we only lose those things,
we have only pains about those things, which we possess.
But the tyrant will chain—what? The leg. He will take away—what? The
neck. What then will he not chain and not take away? The will. This is why the
ancients taught the maxim, Know thyself. Therefore we ought to exercise
ourselves in small things, and beginning with them to proceed to the greater. I
have pain in the head. Do not say, Alas! I have pain in the ear. Do not say alas!
And I do not say that you are not allowed to groan, but do not groan inwardly;
and if your slave is slow in bringing a bandage, do not cry out and torment
yourself, and say, Every body hates me; for who would not hate such a man? For
the future, relying on these opinions, walk about upright, free; not trusting to the
size of your body, as an athlete, for a man ought not to be invincible in the way
that an ass is.
HOW WE SHOULD BEHAVE TO TYRANTS
If a man possesses any superiority, or thinks that he does when he does not,
such a man, if he is uninstructed, will of necessity be puffed up through it. For
instance, the tyrant says, I am master of all! And what can you do for me? Can
you give me desire which shall have no hindrance? How can you? Have you the
infallible power of avoiding what you would avoid? Have you the power of
moving towards an object without error? And how do you possess this power?
Come, when you are in a ship, do you trust to yourself or to the helmsman? And
when you are in a chariot, to whom do you trust but to the driver? And how is it
in all other arts? Just the same. In what, then, lies your power? All men pay
respect to me. Well, I also pay respect to my platter, and I wash it and wipe it;
and for the sake of my oil-flask, I drive a peg into the wall. Well, then, are these
things superior to me? No, but they supply some of my wants, and for this
reason I take care of them. Well, do I not attend to my ass? Do I not wash his
feet? Do I not clean him? Do you not know that every man has regard to himself,
and to you just the same as he has regard to his ass? For who has regard to you
as a man? Show me. Who wishes to become like you? Who imitates you, as he
imitates Socrates? But I can cut off your head. You say right. I had forgotten that
I must have regard to you, as I would to a fever and the bile, and raise an altar to
you, as there is at Rome an altar to fever.
What is it then that disturbs and terrifies the multitude? Is it the tyrant and his
guards? (By no means.) I hope that it is not so. It is not possible that what is by
nature free can be disturbed by anything else, or hindered by any other thing
than by itself. But it is a man's own opinions which disturb him. For when the
tyrant says to a man, I will chain your leg, he who values his leg says, Do not;
have pity. But he who values his own will says, If it appears more advantageous
to you, chain it. Do you not care? I do not care. I will show you that I am master.
You cannot do that. Zeus has set me free; do you think that he intended to allow
his own son to be enslaved? But you are master of my carcase; take it. So when
you approach me, you have no regard to me? No, but I have regard to myself;
and if you wish me to say that I have regard to you also, I tell you that I have the
same regard to you that I have to my pipkin.
What then? When absurd notions about things independent of our will, as if
they were good and (or) bad, lie at the bottom of our opinions, we must of
necessity pay regard to tyrants: for I wish that men would pay regard to tyrants
only, and not also to the bedchamber men. How is it that the man becomes all at
once wise, when Cæsar has made him superintendent of the close stool? How is
it that we say immediately, Felicion spoke sensibly to me? I wish he were
ejected from the bedchamber, that he might again appear to you to be a fool.
Has a man been exalted to the tribuneship? All who meet him offer their
congratulations; one kisses his eyes, another the neck, and the slaves kiss his
hands. He goes to his house, he finds torches lighted. He ascends the Capitol; he
offers a sacrifice on the occasion. Now who ever sacrificed for having had good
desires? for having acted conformably to nature? For in fact we thank the gods
for those things in which we place our good.
A person was talking to me to-day about the priesthood of Augustus. I say to
him: Man, let the thing alone; you will spend much for no purpose. But he
replies, Those who draw up agreements will write my name. Do you then stand
by those who read them, and say to such persons, It is I whose name is written
there? And if you can now be present on ail such occasions, what will you do
when you are dead? My name will remain. Write it on a stone, and it will
remain. But come, what remembrance of you will there be beyond Nicopolis?
But I shall wear a crown of gold. If you desire a crown at all, take a crown of
roses and put it on, for it will be more elegant in appearance.
AGAINST THOSE WHO WISH TO BE ADMIRED
When a man holds his proper station in life, he does not gape after things
beyond it. Man, what do you wish to happen to you? I am satisfied if I desire and
avoid conformably to nature, if I employ movements towards and from an object
as I am by nature formed to do, and purpose and design and assent. Why then do
you strut before us as if you had swallowed a spit? My wish has always been that
those who meet me should admire me, and those who follow me should exclaim,
O the great philosopher! Who are they by whom you wish to be admired? Are
they not those of whom you are used to say that they are mad? Well, then, do
you wish to be admired by madmen?
ON PRECOGNITIONS
Precognitions are common to all men, and precognition is not contradictory to
precognition. For who of us does not assume that Good is useful and eligible,
and in all circumstances that we ought to follow and pursue it? And who of us
does not assume that Justice is beautiful and becoming? When then does the
contradiction arise? It arises in the adaptation of the præcognitions to the
particular cases. When one man says, "He has done well; he is a brave man," and
another says, "Not so; but he has acted foolishly," then the disputes arise among
men. This is the dispute among the Jews and the Syrians and the Egyptians and
the Romans; not whether holiness should be preferred to all things and in all
cases should be pursued, but whether it is holy to eat pig's flesh or not holy. You
will find this dispute also between Agamemnon and Achilles; for call them forth.
What do you say, Agamemnon? ought not that to be done which is proper and
right? "Certainly." Well, what do you say, Achilles? do you not admit that what
is good ought to be done? "I do most certainly." Adapt your præcognitions then
to the present matter. Here the dispute begins. Agamemnon says, "I ought not to
give up Chryseis to her father." Achilles says, "You ought." It is certain that one
of the two makes a wrong adaptation of the præcognition of "ought" or "duty."
Further, Agamemnon says, "Then if I ought to restore Chryseis, it is fit that I
take his prize from some of you." Achilles replies, "Would you then take her
whom I love?" "Yes, her whom you love." "Must I then be the only man who
goes without a prize? and must I be the only man who has no prize?" Thus the
dispute begins.
What then is education? Education is the learning how to adapt the natural
præcognitions to the particular things conformably to nature; and then to
distinguish that of things some are in our power, but others are not. In our power
are will and all acts which depend on the will; things not in our power are the
body, the parts of the body, possessions, parents, brothers, children, country,
and, generally, all with whom we live in society. In what then should we place
the good? To what kind of things ([Greek: ousia]) shall we adapt it? To the
things which are in our power? Is not health then a good thing, and soundness of
limb, and life, and are not children and parents and country? Who will tolerate
you if you deny this?
Let us then transfer the notion of good to these things. Is it possible, then,
when a man sustains damage and does not obtain good things, that he can be
happy? It is not possible. And can he maintain towards society a proper
behavior? He can not. For I am naturally formed to look after my own interest. If
it is my interest to have an estate in land, it is my interest also to take it from my
neighbor. If it is my interest to have a garment, it is my interest also to steal it
from the bath. This is the origin of wars, civil commotions, tyrannies,
conspiracies. And how shall I be still able to maintain my duty towards Zeus?
For if I sustain damage and am unlucky, he takes no care of me. And what is he
to me if he cannot help me? And further, what is he to me if he allows me to be
in the condition in which I am? I now begin to hate him. Why then do we build
temples, why setup statues to Zeus, as well as to evil demons, such as to Fever;
and how is Zeus the Saviour, and how the giver of rain, and the giver of fruits?
And in truth if we place the nature of Good in any such things, all this follows.
What should we do then? This is the inquiry of the true philosopher who is in
labor. Now I do not see what the good is nor the bad. Am I not mad? Yes. But
suppose that I place the good somewhere among the things which depend on the
will; all will laugh at me. There will come some greyhead wearing many gold
rings on his fingers, and he will shake his head and say: "Hear, my child. It is
right that you should philosophize; but you ought to have some brains also; all
this that you are doing is silly. You learn the syllogism from philosophers; but
you know how to act better than philosophers do." Man why then do you blame
me, if I know? What shall I say to this slave? If I am silent, he will burst. I must
speak in this way: "Excuse me, as you would excuse lovers; I am not my own
master; I am mad."
HOW
WE
CIRCUMSTANCES
SHOULD
STRUGGLE
WITH
It is circumstances (difficulties) which show what men are. Therefore when a
difficulty falls upon you, remember that God, like a trainer of wrestlers, has
matched you with a rough young man. For what purpose? you may say. Why,
that you may become an Olympic conqueror; but it is not accomplished without
sweat. In my opinion no man has had a more profitable difficulty than you have
had, if you choose to make use of it as an athlete would deal with a young
antagonist. We are now sending a scout to Rome; but no man sends a cowardly
scout, who, if he only hears a noise and sees a shadow anywhere, comes running
back in terror and reports that the enemy is close at hand. So now if you should
come and tell us: "Fearful is the state of affairs at Rome; terrible is death; terrible
is exile; terrible is calumny; terrible is poverty; fly, my friends, the enemy is
near," we shall answer: "Begone, prophesy for yourself; we have committed only
one fault, that we sent such a scout."
Diogenes, who was sent as a scout before you, made a different report to us.
He says that death is no evil, for neither is it base; he says that fame (reputation)
is the noise of madmen. And what has this spy said about pain, about pleasure,
and about poverty? He says that to be naked is better than any purple robe, and
to sleep on the bare ground is the softest bed; and he gives as a proof of each
thing that he affirms his own courage, his tranquillity, his freedom, and the
healthy appearance and compactness of his body. There is no enemy near, he
says; all is peace. How so, Diogenes? "See," he replies, "if I am struck, if I have
been wounded, if I have fled from any man." This is what a scout ought to be.
But you come to us and tell us one thing after another. Will you not go back, and
you will see clearer when you have laid aside fear?
ON THE SAME
If these things are true, and if we are not silly, and are not acting
hypocritically when we say that the good of man is in the will, and the evil too,
and that everything else does not concern us, why are we still disturbed, why are
we still afraid? The things about which we have been busied are in no man's
power; and the things which are in the power of others, we care not for. What
kind of trouble have we still?
But give me directions. Why should I give you directions? Has not Zeus given
you directions? Has he not given to you what is your own free from hindrance
and free from impediment, and what is not your own subject to hindrance and
impediment? What directions then, what kind of orders did you bring when you
came from him? Keep by every means what is your own; do not desire what
belongs to others. Fidelity (integrity) is your own, virtuous shame is your own;
who then can take these things from you? who else than yourself will hinder you
from using them? But how do you act? When you seek what is not your own,
you lose that which is your own. Having such promptings and commands from
Zeus, what kind do you still ask from me? Am I more powerful than he, am I
more worthy of confidence? But if you observe these, do you want any others
besides? "Well, but he has not given these orders," you will say. Produce your
prcognitions ([Greek: prolaepseis]), produce these proofs of philosophers,
produce what you have often heard, and produce what you have said yourself,
produce what you have read, produce what you have meditated on; and you will
then see that all these things are from God.
If I have set my admiration on the poor body, I have given myself up to be a
slave; if on my poor possessions, I also make myself a slave. For I immediately
make it plain with what I may be caught; as if the snake draws in his head, I tell
you to strike that part of him which he guards; and do you be assured that
whatever part you choose to guard, that part your master will attack.
Remembering this, whom will you still flatter or fear?
But I should like to sit where the Senators sit. Do you see that you are putting
yourself in straits, you are squeezing yourself? How then shall I see well in any
other way in the amphitheatre? Man, do not be a spectator at all, and you will not
be squeezed. Why do you give yourself trouble? Or wait a little, and when the
spectacle is over, seat yourself in the place reserved for the Senators and sun
yourself. For remember this general truth, that it is we who squeeze ourselves,
who put ourselves in straits; that is, our opinions squeeze us and put us in straits.
For what is it to be reviled? Stand by a stone and revile it, and what will you
gain? If then a man listens like a stone, what profit is there to the reviler? But if
the reviler has as a stepping-stone (or ladder) the weakness of him who is
reviled, then he accomplishes something. Strip him. What do you mean by him?
Lay hold of his garment, strip it off. I have insulted you. Much good may it do
you.
This was the practice of Socrates; this was the reason why he always had one
face. But we choose to practise and study anything rather than the means by
which we shall be unimpeded and free. You say: "Philosophers talk paradoxes."
But are there no paradoxes in the other arts? And what is more paradoxical than
to puncture a man's eye in order that he may see? If any one said this to a man
ignorant of the surgical art, would he not ridicule the speaker? Where is the
wonder, then, if in philosophy also many things which are true appear
paradoxical to the inexperienced?
IN HOW MANY WAYS APPEARANCES EXIST, AND
WHAT AIDS WE SHOULD PROVIDE AGAINST THEM
Appearances are to us in four ways. For either things appear as they are; or
they are not, and do not even appear to be; or they are, and do not appear to be;
or they are not, and yet appear to be. Further, in all these cases to form a right
judgment (to hit the mark) is the office of an educated man. But whatever it is
that annoys (troubles) us, to that we ought to apply a remedy. If the sophisms of
Pyrrho and of the Academics are what annoys (troubles), we must apply the
remedy to them. If it is the persuasion of appearances, by which some things
appear to be good, when they are not good, let us seek a remedy for this. If it is
habit which annoys us, we must try to seek aid against habit. What aid, then, can
we find against habit? The contrary habit. You hear the ignorant say: "That
unfortunate person is dead; his father and mother are overpowered with sorrow;
he was cut off by an untimely death and in a foreign land." Hear the contrary
way of speaking. Tear yourself from these expressions; oppose to one habit the
contrary habit; to sophistry oppose reason, and the exercise and discipline of
reason; against persuasive (deceitful) appearances we ought to have manifest
præcognitions ([Greek: prolaepseis]), cleared of all impurities and ready to hand.
When death appears an evil, we ought to have this rule in readiness, that it is
fit to avoid evil things, and that death is a necessary thing. For what shall I do,
and where shall I escape it? Suppose that I am not Sarpedon, the son of Zeus, nor
able to speak in this noble way. I will go and I am resolved either to behave
bravely myself or to give to another the opportunity of doing so; if I cannot
succeed in doing anything myself, I will not grudge another the doing of
something noble. Suppose that it is above our power to act thus; is it not in our
power to reason thus? Tell me where I can escape death; discover for me the
country, show me the men to whom I must go, whom death does not visit.
Discover to me a charm against death. If I have not one, what do you wish me to
do? I cannot escape from death. Shall I not escape from the fear of death, but
shall I die lamenting and trembling? For the origin of perturbation is this, to wish
for something, and that this should not happen. Therefore if I am able to change
externals according to my wish, I change them; but if I cannot, I am ready to tear
out the eyes of him who hinders me. For the nature of man is not to endure to be
deprived of the good, and not to endure the falling into the evil. Then at last,
when I am neither able to change circumstances nor to tear out the eyes of him
who hinders me, I sit down and groan, and abuse whom I can, Zeus and the rest
of the gods. For if they do not care for me, what are they to me? Yes, but you
will be an impious man. In what respect, then, will it be worse for me than it is
now? To sum up, remember that unless piety and your interest be in the same
thing, piety cannot be maintained in any man. Do not these things seem
necessary (true)?
THAT WE OUGHT NOT TO BE ANGRY WITH MEN;
AND WHAT ARE THE SMALL AND THE GREAT THINGS
AMONG MEN
What is the cause of assenting to anything? The fact that it appears to be true.
It is not possible then to assent to that which appears not to be true. Why?
Because this is the nature of the understanding, to incline to the true, to be
dissatisfied with the false, and in matters uncertain to withhold assent. What is
the proof of this? Imagine (persuade yourself), if you can, that it is now night. It
is not possible. Take away your persuasion that it is day. It is not possible.
Persuade yourself or take away your persuasion that the stars are even in
number. It is impossible. When then any man assents to that which is false, be
assured that he did not intend to assent to it as false, for every soul is unwillingly
deprived of the truth, as Plato says; but the falsity seemed to him to be true.
Well, in acts what have we of the like kind as we have here truth or falsehood?
We have the fit and the not fit (duty and not duty), the profitable and the
unprofitable, that which is suitable to a person and that which is not, and
whatever is like these. Can then a man think that a thing is useful to him and not
choose it? He cannot. How says Medea?
"'Tis true I know what evil I shall do,
But passion overpowers the better counsel."
She thought that to indulge her passion and take vengeance on her husband
was more profitable than to spare her children. It was so; but she was deceived.
Show her plainly that she is deceived, and she will not do it; but so long as you
do not show it, what can she follow except that which appears to herself (her
opinion)? Nothing else. Why then are you angry with the unhappy woman that
she has been bewildered about the most important things, and is become a viper
instead of a human creature? And why not, if it is possible, rather pity, as we
pity the blind and the lame, so those who are blinded and maimed in the faculties
which are supreme?
Whoever then clearly remembers this, that to man the measure of every act is
the appearance (the opinion), whether the thing appears good or bad. If good, he
is free from blame; if bad, himself suffers the penalty, for it is impossible that he
who is deceived can be one person, and he who suffers another person—
whoever remembers this will not be angry with any man, will not be vexed at
any man, will not revile or blame any man, nor hate, nor quarrel with any man.
So then all these great and dreadful deeds have this origin, in the appearance
(opinion)? Yes, this origin and no other. The Iliad is nothing else than
appearance and the use of appearances. It appeared to Alexander to carry off the
wife of Menelaus. It appeared to Helene to follow him. If then it had appeared to
Menelaus to feel that it was a gain to be deprived of such a wife, what would
have happened? Not only would the Iliad have been lost, but the Odyssey also.
On so small a matter then did such great things depend? But what do you mean
by such great things? Wars and civil commotions, and the destruction of many
men and cities. And what great matter is this? Is it nothing? But what great
matter is the death of many oxen, and many sheep, and many nests of swallows
or storks being burnt or destroyed? Are these things then like those? Very like.
Bodies of men are destroyed, and the bodies of oxen and sheep; the dwellings of
men are burnt, and the nests of storks. What is there in this great or dreadful? Or
show me what is the difference between a man's house and a stork's nest, as far
as each is a dwelling; except that man builds his little houses of beams and tiles
and bricks, and the stork builds them of sticks and mud. Are a stork and a man
then like things? What say you? In body they are very much alike.
Does a man then differ in no respect from a stork? Don't suppose that I say so;
but there is no difference in these matters (which I have mentioned). In what
then is the difference? Seek and you will find that there is a difference in another
matter. See whether it is not in a man the understanding of what he does, see if it
is not in social community, in fidelity, in modesty, in steadfastness, in
intelligence. Where then is the great good and evil in men? It is where the
difference is. If the difference is preserved and remains fenced round, and
neither modesty is destroyed, nor fidelity, nor intelligence, then the man also is
preserved; but if any of these things is destroyed and stormed like a city, then the
man too perishes: and in this consist the great things. Alexander, you say,
sustained great damage then when the Hellenes invaded and when they ravaged
Troy, and when his brothers perished. By no means; for no man is damaged by
an action which is not his own; but what happened at that time was only the
destruction of stork's nests. Now the ruin of Alexander was when he lost the
character of modesty, fidelity, regard to hospitality, and to decency. When was
Achilles ruined? Was it when Patroclus died? Not so. But it happened when he
began to be angry, when he wept for a girl, when he forgot that he was at Troy
not to get mistresses, but to fight. These things are the ruin of men, this is being
besieged, this is the destruction of cities, when right opinions are destroyed,
when they are corrupted.
ON CONSTANCY (OR FIRMNESS)
The being (nature) of the good is a certain will; the being of the bad is a
certain kind of will. What, then, are externals? Materials for the will, about
which the will being conversant shall obtain its own good or evil. How shall it
obtain the good? If it does not admire (overvalue) the materials; for the opinions
about the materials, if the opinions are right, make the will good: but perverse
and distorted opinions make the will bad. God has fixed this law, and says, "If
you would have anything good, receive it from yourself." You say, No, but I will
have it from another. Do not so: but receive it from yourself. Therefore when the
tyrant threatens and calls me, I say, Whom do you threaten? If he says, I will put
you in chains, I say, You threaten my hands and my feet. If he says, I will cut off
your head, I reply, You threaten my head. If he says, I will throw you into
prison, I say, You threaten the whole of this poor body. If he threatens me with
banishment, I say the same. Does he then not threaten you at all? If I feel that all
these things do not concern me, he does not threaten me at all; but if I fear any of
them, it is I whom he threatens. Whom then do I fear? the master of what? The
master of things which are in my own power? There is no such master. Do I fear
the master of things which are not in my power? And what are these things to
me?
Do you philosophers then teach us to despise kings? I hope not. Who among
us teaches to claim against them the power over things which they possess? Take
my poor body, take my property, take my reputation, take those who are about
me. If I advise any persons to claim these things, they may truly accuse me. Yes,
but I intend to command your opinions also. And who has given you this power?
How can you conquer the opinion of another man? By applying terror to it, he
replies, I will conquer it. Do you not know that opinion conquers itself, and is
not conquered by another? But nothing else can conquer will except the will
itself. For this reason too the law of God is most powerful and most just, which
is this: Let the stronger always be superior to the weaker. Ten are stronger than
one. For what? For putting in chains, for killing, for dragging whither they
choose, for taking away what a man has. The ten therefore conquer the one in
this in which they are stronger. In what then are the ten weaker? If the one
possesses right opinions and the others do not. Well then, can the ten conquer in
this matter? How is it possible? If we were placed in the scales, must not the
heavier draw down the scale in which it is.
How strange then that Socrates should have been so treated by the Athenians.
Slave, why do you say Socrates? Speak of the thing as it is: how strange that the
poor body of Socrates should have been carried off and dragged to prison by
stronger men, and that anyone should have given hemlock to the poor body of
Socrates, and that it should breathe out the life. Do these things seem strange, do
they seem unjust, do you on account of these things blame God? Had Socrates
then no equivalent for these things? Where then for him was the nature of good?
Whom shall we listen to, you or him? And what does Socrates say? "Anytus and
Melitus can kill me, but they cannot hurt me." And further, he says, "If it so
pleases God, so let it be."
But show me that he who has the inferior principles overpowers him who is
superior in principles. You will never show this, nor come near showing it; for
this is the law of nature and of God that the superior shall always overpower the
inferior. In what? In that in which it is superior. One body is stronger than
another: many are stronger than one: the thief is stronger than he who is not a
thief. This is the reason why I also lost my lamp, because in wakefulness the
thief was superior to me. But the man bought the lamp at this price: for a lamp
he became a thief, a faithless fellow, and like a wild beast. This seemed to him a
good bargain. Be it so. But a man has seized me by the cloak, and is drawing me
to the public place: then others bawl out, Philosopher, what has been the use of
your opinions? see, you are dragged to prison, you are going to be beheaded.
And what system of philosophy ([Greek: eisagogaen)] could I have made so that,
if a stronger man should have laid hold of my cloak, I should not be dragged off;
that if ten men should have laid hold of me and cast me into prison, I should not
be cast in? Have I learned nothing else then? I have learned to see that
everything which happens, if it be independent of my will, is nothing to me. I
may ask, if you have not gained by this. Why then do you seek advantage in
anything else than in that in which you have learned that advantage is?
Will you not leave the small arguments ([Greek: logaria]) about these matters
to others, to lazy fellows, that they may sit in a corner and receive their sorry
pay, or grumble that no one gives them anything; and will you not come forward
and make use of what you have learned? For it is not these small arguments that
are wanted now; the writings of the Stoics are full of them. What then is the
thing which is wanted? A man who shall apply them, one who by his acts shall
bear testimony to his words. Assume, I intreat you, this character, that we may
no longer use in the schools the examples of the ancients, but may have some
example of our own.
To whom then does the contemplation of these matters (philosophical
inquiries) belong? To him who has leisure, for man is an animal that loves
contemplation. But it is shameful to contemplate these things as runaway slaves
do; we should sit, as in a theatre, free from distraction, and listen at one time to
the tragic actor, at another time to the lute-player; and not do as slaves do. As
soon as the slave has taken his station he praises the actor and at the same time
looks round; then if any one calls out his master's name, the slave is immediately
frightened and disturbed. It is shameful for philosophers thus to contemplate the
works of nature. For what is a master? Man is not the master of man; but death
is, and life and pleasure and pain; for if he comes without these things, bring
Caesar to me and you will see how firm I am. But when he shall come with these
things, thundering and lightning, and when I am afraid of them, what do I do
then except to recognize my master like the runaway slave? But so long as I
have any respite from these terrors, as a runaway slave stands in the theatre, so
do I. I bathe, I drink, I sing; but all this I do with terror and uneasiness. But if I
shall release myself from my masters, that is from those things by means of
which masters are formidable, what further trouble have I, what master have I
still?
What then, ought we to publish these things to all men? No, but we ought to
accommodate ourselves to the ignorant ([Greek: tois idiotais]) and to say: "This
man recommends to me that which he thinks good for himself. I excuse him."
For Socrates also excused the jailer who had the charge of him in prison and was
weeping when Socrates was going to drink the poison, and said, "How
generously he laments over us." Does he then say to the jailer that for this reason
we have sent away the women? No, but he says it to his friends who were able to
hear (understand) it; and he treats the jailer as a child.
THAT
CONFIDENCE
(COURAGE)
INCONSISTENT WITH CAUTION
IS
NOT
The opinion of the philosophers perhaps seem to some to be a paradox; but
still let us examine as well as we can, if it is true that it is possible to do
everything both with caution and with confidence. For caution seems to be in a
manner contrary to confidence, and contraries are in no way consistent. That
which seems to many to be a paradox in the matter under consideration in my
opinion is of this kind; if we asserted that we ought to employ caution and
confidence in the same things, men might justly accuse us of bringing together
things which cannot be united. But now where is the difficulty in what is said?
for if these things are true, which have been often said and often proved, that the
nature of good is in the use of appearances, and the nature of evil likewise, and
that things independent of our will do not admit either the nature of evil or of
good, what paradox do the philosophers assert if they say that where things are
not dependent on the will, there you should employ confidence, but where they
are dependent on the will, there you should employ caution? For if the bad
consists in the bad exercise of the will, caution ought only to be used where
things are dependent on the will. But if things independent of the will and not in
our power are nothing to us, with respect to these we must employ confidence;
and thus we shall both be cautious and confident, and indeed confident because
of our caution. For by employing caution towards things which are really bad, it
will result that we shall have confidence with respect to things which are not so.
We are then in the condition of deer; when they flee from the huntsmen's
feathers in fright, whither do they turn and in what do they seek refuge as safe?
They turn to the nets, and thus they perish by confounding things which are
objects of fear with things that they ought not to fear. Thus we also act: in what
cases do we fear? In things which are independent of the will. In what cases on
the contrary do we behave with confidence, as if there were no danger? In things
dependent on the will. To be deceived then, or to act rashly, or shamelessly, or
with base desire to seek something, does not concern us at all, if we only hit the
mark in things which are independent of our will. But where there is death or
exile or pain or infamy, there we attempt to run away, there we are struck with
terror. Therefore, as we may expect it to happen with those who err in the
greatest matters, we convert natural confidence (that is, according to nature) into
audacity, desperation, rashness, shamelessness; and we convert natural caution
and modesty into cowardice and meanness, which are full of fear and confusion.
For if a man should transfer caution to those things in which the will may be
exercised and the acts of the will, he will immediately by willing to be cautious
have also the power of avoiding what he chooses; but if he transfer it to the
things which are not in his power and will, and attempt to avoid the things which
are in the power of others, he will of necessity fear, he will be unstable, he will
be disturbed; for death or pain is not formidable, but the fear of pain or death.
For this reason we commend the poet, who said:
"Not death is evil, but a shameful death."
Confidence (courage) then ought to be employed against death, and caution
against the fear of death. But now we do the contrary, and employ against death
the attempt to escape; and to our opinion about it we employ carelessness,
rashness, and indifference. These things Socrates properly used to call tragic
masks; for as to children masks appear terrible and fearful from inexperience, we
also are affected in like manner by events (the things which happen in life) for
no other reason than children are by masks. For what is a child? Ignorance. What
is a child? Want of knowledge. For when a child knows these things, he is in no
way inferior to us. What is death? A tragic mask. Turn it and examine it. See, it
does not bite. The poor body must be separated from the spirit either now or later
as it was separated from it before. Why then are you troubled if it be separated
now? for if it is not separated now, it will be separated afterwards. Why? That
the period of the universe may be completed, for it has need of the present, and
of the future, and of the past. What is pain? A mask. Turn it and examine it. The
poor flesh is moved roughly, then on the contrary smoothly. If this does not
satisfy (please) you, the door is open; if it does, bear (with things). For the door
ought to be open for all occasions; and so we have no trouble.
What then is the fruit of these opinions? It is that which ought to be the most
noble and the most becoming to those who are really educated, release from
perturbation, release from fear. Freedom. For in these matters we must not
believe the many, who say that free persons only ought to be educated, but we
should rather believe the philosophers who say that the educated only are free.
How is this? In this manner: Is freedom anything else than the power of living as
we choose? Nothing else. Tell me then, ye men, do you wish to live in error? We
do not. No one then who lives in error is free. Do you wish to live in fear? Do
you wish to live in sorrow? Do you wish to live in perturbation? By no means.
No one then who is in a state of fear or sorrow or perturbation is free; but
whoever is delivered from sorrows and fears and perturbations, he is at the same
time also delivered from servitude. How then can we continue to believe you,
most dear legislators, when you say, We only allow free persons to be educated?
For philosophers say we allow none to be free except the educated; that is, God
does not allow it. When then a man has turned round before the prætor his own
slave, has he done nothing? He has done something. What? He has turned round
his own slave before the prætor. Has he done nothing more? Yes: he is also
bound to pay for him the tax called the twentieth. Well then, is not the man who
has gone through this ceremony become free? No more than he is become free
from perturbations. Have you who are able to turn round (free) others no master?
is not money your master, or a girl or a boy, or some tyrant or some friend of the
tyrant? Why do you trouble then when you are going off to any trial (danger) of
this kind? It is for this reason that I often say, study and hold in readiness these
principles by which you may determine what those things are with reference to
which you ought to be cautious, courageous in that which does not depend on
your will, cautious in that which does depend on it.
OF
TRANQUILLITY
PERTURBATION)
(FREEDOM
FROM
Consider, you who are going into court, what you wish to maintain and what
you wish to succeed in. For if you wish to maintain a will conformable to nature,
you have every security, every facility, you have no troubles. For if you wish to
maintain what is in your own power and is naturally free, and if you are content
with these, what else do you care for? For who is the master of such things?
Who can take them away? If you choose to be modest and faithful, who shall not
allow you to be so? If you choose not to be restrained or compelled, who shall
compel you to desire what you think that you ought not to desire? who shall
compel you to avoid what you do not think fit to avoid? But what do you say?
The judge will determine against you something that appears formidable; but
that you should also suffer in trying to avoid it, how can he do that? When then
the pursuit of objects and the avoiding of them are in your power, what else do
you care for? Let this be your preface, this your narrative, this your
confirmation, this your victory, this your peroration, this your applause (or the
approbation which you will receive).
Therefore Socrates said to one who was reminding him to prepare for his trial,
Do you not think then that I have been preparing for it all my life? By what kind
of preparation? I have maintained that which was in my own power. How then? I
have never done anything unjust either in my private or in my public life.
But if you wish to maintain externals also, your poor body, your little
property, and your little estimation, I advise you to make from this moment all
possible preparation, and then consider both the nature of your judge and your
adversary. If it is necessary to embrace his knees, embrace his knees; if to weep,
weep; if to groan, groan. For when you have subjected to externals what is your
own, then be a slave and do not resist, and do not sometimes choose to be a
slave, and sometimes not choose, but with all your mind be one or the other,
either free or a slave, either instructed or uninstructed, either a well-bred cock or
a mean one, either endure to be beaten until you die or yield at once; and let it
not happen to you to receive many stripes and then to yield. But if these things
are base, determine immediately. Where is the nature of evil and good? It is
where truth is: where truth is and where nature is, there is caution: where truth is,
there is courage where nature is.
For this reason also it is ridiculous to say, Suggest something to me (tell me
what to do). What should I suggest to you? Well, form my mind so as to
accommodate itself to any event. Why that is just the same as if a man who is
ignorant of letters should say, Tell me what to write when any name is proposed
to me. For if I should tell him to write Dion, and then another should come and
propose to him not the name of Dion but that of Theon, what will be done? what
will he write? But if you have practised writing, you are also prepared to write
(or to do) anything that is required. If you are not, what can I now suggest? For
if circumstances require something else, what will you say, or what will you do?
Remember then this general precept and you will need no suggestion. But if you
gape after externals, you must of necessity ramble up and down in obedience to
the will of your master. And who is the master? He who has the power over the
things which you seek to gain or try to avoid.
HOW MAGNANIMITY IS CONSISTENT WITH CARE
Things themselves (materials) are indifferent; but the use of them is not
indifferent. How then shall a man preserve firmness and tranquillity, and at the
same time be careful and neither rash nor negligent? If he imitates those who
play at dice. The counters are indifferent; the dice are indifferent. How do I
know what the cast will be? But to use carefully and dexterously the cast of the
dice, this is my business. Thus then in life also the chief business is this:
distinguish and separate things, and say: Externals are not in my power: will is in
my power. Where shall I seek the good and the bad? Within, in the things which
are my own. But in what does not belong to you call nothing either good or bad,
or profit or damage or anything of the kind.
What then? Should we use such things carelessly? In no way: for this on the
other hand is bad for the faculty of the will, and consequently against nature; but
we should act carefully because the use is not indifferent, and we should also act
with firmness and freedom from perturbations because the material is
indifferent. For where the material is not indifferent, there no man can hinder me
or compel me. Where I can be hindered and compelled, the obtaining of those
things is not in my power, nor is it good or bad; but the use is either bad or good,
and the use is in my power. But it is difficult to mingle and to bring together
these two things—the carefulness of him who is affected by the matter (or things
about him), and the firmness of him who has no regard for it; but it is not
impossible: and if it is, happiness is impossible. But we should act as we do in
the case of a voyage. What can I do? I can choose the master of the ship, the
sailors, the day, the opportunity. Then comes a storm. What more have I to care
for? for my part is done. The business belongs to another, the master. But the
ship is sinking—what then have I to do? I do the only thing that I can, not to be
drowned full of fear, nor screaming nor blaming God, but knowing that what has
been produced must also perish: for I am not an immortal being, but a man, a
part of the whole, as an hour is a part of the day: I must be present like the hour,
and past like the hour. What difference then does it make to me how I pass away,
whether by being suffocated or by a fever, for I must pass through some such
means.
How then is it said that some external things are according to nature and
others contrary to nature? It is said as it might be said if we were separated from
union (or society): for to the foot I shall say that it is according to nature for it to
be clean; but if you take it as a foot and as a thing not detached (independent), it
will befit it both to step into the mud and tread on thorns, and sometimes to be
cut off for the good of the whole body; otherwise it is no longer a foot. We
should think in some such way about ourselves also. What are you? A man. If
you consider yourself as detached from other men, it is according to nature to
live to old age, to be rich, to be healthy. But if you consider yourself as a man
and a part of a certain whole, it is for the sake of that whole that at one time you
should be sick, at another time take a voyage and run into danger, and at another
time be in want, and in some cases die prematurely. Why then are you troubled?
Do you not know, that as a foot is no longer a foot if it is detached from the
body, so you are no longer a man if you are separated from other men. For what
is a man? A part of a state, of that first which consists of gods and of men; then
of that which is called next to it, which is a small image of the universal state.
What then must I be brought to trial; must another have a fever, another sail on
the sea, another die, and another be condemned? Yes, for it is impossible in such
a universe of things, among so many living together, that such things should not
happen, some to one and others to others. It is your duty then since you are come
here, to say what you ought, to arrange these things as it is fit. Then some one
says, "I shall charge you with doing me wrong." Much good may it do you: I
have done my part; but whether you also have done yours, you must look to that;
for there is some danger of this too, that it may escape your notice.
OF INDIFFERENCE
The hypothetical proposition is indifferent: the judgment about it is not
indifferent, but it is either knowledge or opinion or error. Thus life is indifferent:
the use is not indifferent. When any man then tells you that these things also are
indifferent, do not become negligent; and when a man invites you to be careful
(about such things), do not become abject and struck with admiration of material
things. And it is good for you to know your own preparation and power, that in
those matters where you have not been prepared, you may keep quiet, and not be
vexed, if others have the advantage over you. For you too in syllogisms will
claim to have the advantage over them; and if others should be vexed at this, you
will console them by saying, "I have learned them, and you have not." Thus also
where there is need of any practice, seek not that which is acquired from the
need (of such practice), but yield in that matter to those who have had practice,
and be yourself content with firmness of mind.
Go and salute a certain person. How? Not meanly. But I have been shut out,
for I have not learned to make my way through the window; and when I have
found the door shut, I must either come back or enter through the window. But
still speak to him. In what way? Not meanly. But suppose that you have not got
what you wanted. Was this your business, and not his? Why then do you claim
that which belongs to another? Always remember what is your own, and what
belongs to another; and you will not be disturbed. Chrysippus therefore said
well, So long as future things are uncertain, I always cling to those which are
more adapted to the conservation of that which is according to nature; for God
himself has given me the faculty of such choice. But if I knew that it was fated
(in the order of things) for me to be sick, I would even move towards it; for the
foot also, if it had intelligence, would move to go into the mud. For why are ears
of corn produced? Is it not that they may become dry? And do they not become
dry that they may be reaped? for they are not separated from communion with
other things. If then they had perception, ought they to wish never to be reaped?
But this is a curse upon ears of corn to be never reaped. So we must know that in
the case of men too it is a curse not to die, just the same as not to be ripened and
not to be reaped. But since we must be reaped, and we also know that we are
reaped, we are vexed at it; for we neither know what we are nor have we studied
what belongs to man, as those who have studied horses know what belongs to
horses. But Chrysantas when he was going to strike the enemy checked himself
when he heard the trumpet sounding a retreat: so it seemed better to him to obey
the general's command than to follow his own inclination. But not one of us
chooses, even when necessity summons, readily to obey it, but weeping and
groaning we suffer what we do suffer, and we call them "circumstances." What
kind of circumstances, man? If you give the name of circumstances to the things
which are around you, all things are circumstances; but if you call hardships by
this name, what hardship is there in the dying of that which has been produced?
But that which destroys is either a sword, or a wheel, or the sea, or a tile, or a
tyrant. Why do you care about the way of going down to Hades? All ways are
equal. But if you will listen to the truth, the way which the tyrant sends you is
shorter. A tyrant never killed a man in six months: but a fever is often a year
about it. All these things are only sound and the noise of empty names.
HOW WE OUGHT TO USE DIVINATION
Through an unreasonable regard to divination many of us omit many duties.
For what more can the diviner see than death or danger or disease, or generally
things of that kind? If then I must expose myself to danger for a friend, and if it
is my duty even to die for him, what need have I then for divination? Have I not
within me a diviner who has told me the nature of good and of evil, and has
explained to me the signs (or marks) of both? What need have I then to consult
the viscera of victims or the flight of birds, and why do I submit when he says, It
is for your interest? For does he know what is for my interest, does he know
what is good; and as he has learned the signs of the viscera, has he also learned
the signs of good and evil? For if he knows the signs of these, he knows the
signs both of the beautiful and of the ugly, and of the just and of the unjust. Do
you tell me, man, what is the thing which is signified for me: is it life or death,
poverty or wealth? But whether these things are for my interest or whether they
are not, I do not intend to ask you. Why don't you give your opinion on matters
of grammar, and why do you give it here about things on which we are all in
error and disputing with one another?
What then leads us to frequent use of divination? Cowardice, the dread of
what will happen. This is the reason why we flatter the diviners. Pray, master,
shall I succeed to the property of my father? Let us see: let us sacrifice on the
occasion. Yes, master, as fortune chooses. When he has said, You shall succeed
to the inheritance, we thank him as if we received the inheritance from him. The
consequence is that they play upon us.
Will you not then seek the nature of good in the rational animal? for if it is not
there, you will not choose to say that it exists in any other thing (plant or
animal). What then? are not plants and animals also the works of God? They are;
but they are not superior things, nor yet parts of the gods. But you are a superior
thing; you are a portion separated from the Deity; you have in yourself a certain
portion of him. Why then are you ignorant of your own noble descent? Why do
you not know whence you came? will you not remember when you are eating
who you are who eat and whom you feed? When you are in social intercourse,
when you are exercising yourself, when you are engaged in discussion, know
you not that you are nourishing a god, that you are exercising a god? Wretch,
you are carrying about a god with you, and you know it not. Do you think that I
mean some god of silver or of gold, and external? You carry him within
yourself, and you perceive not that you are polluting him by impure thoughts and
dirty deeds. And if an image of God were present, you would not dare to do any
of the things which you are doing; but when God himself is present within and
sees all and hears all, you are not ashamed of thinking such things and doing
such things, ignorant as you are of your own nature and subject to the anger of
God. Then why do we fear when we are sending a young man from the school
into active life, lest he should do anything improperly, eat improperly, have
improper intercourse with women; and lest the rags in which he is wrapped
should debase him, lest fine garments should make him proud. This youth (if he
acts thus) does not know his own God; he knows not with whom he sets out (into
the world). But can we endure when he says, "I wish I had you (God) with me."
Have you not God with you? and do you seek for any other when you have him?
or will God tell you anything else than this? If you were a statue of Phidias,
either Athena or Zeus, you would think both of yourself and of the artist, and if
you had any understanding (power of perception) you would try to do nothing
unworthy of him who made you or of yourself, and try not to appear in an
unbecoming dress (attitude) to those who look upon you. But now because Zeus
has made you, for this reason do you care not how you shall appear? And yet is
the artist (in the one case) like the artist in the other? or the work in the one case
like the other? And what work of an artist, for instance, has in itself the faculties,
which the artist shows in making it? Is it not marble or bronze, or gold or ivory?
and the Athena of Phidias, when she has once extended the hand and received in
it the figure of Victory, stands in that attitude for ever. But the works of God
have power of motion, they breathe, they have the faculty of using the
appearances of things and the power of examining them. Being the work of such
an artist do you dishonor him? And what shall I say, not only that he made you,
but also entrusted you to yourself and made you a deposit to yourself? Will you
not think of this too, but do you also dishonor your guardianship? But if God had
entrusted an orphan to you, would you thus neglect him? He has delivered
yourself to your own care, and says: "I had no one fitter to entrust him to than
yourself; keep him for me such as he is by nature, modest, faithful, erect,
unterrified, free from passion and perturbation." And then you do not keep him
such.
But some will say, Whence has this fellow got the arrogance which he
displays and these supercilious looks? I have not yet so much gravity as befits a
philosopher; for I do not yet feel confidence in what I have learned and in what I
have assented to. I still fear my own weakness. Let me get confidence and then
you shall see a countenance such as I ought to have and an attitude such as I
ought to have; then I will show to you the statue, when it is perfected, when it is
polished. What do you expect? a supercilious countenance? Does the Zeus at
Olympia lift up his brow? No, his look is fixed as becomes him who is ready to
say:
Irrevocable is my word and shall not fail.—Iliad, i., 526.
Such will I show myself to you, faithful, modest, noble, free from
perturbation. What, and immortal, too, except from old age, and from sickness?
No, but dying as becomes a god, sickening as becomes a god. This power I
possess; this I can do. But the rest I do not possess, nor can I do. I will show the
nerves (strength) of a philosopher. What nerves are these? A desire never
disappointed, an aversion which never falls on that which it would avoid, a
proper pursuit ([Greek: hormaen]), a diligent purpose, an assent which is not
rash. These you shall see.
THAT WHEN WE CANNOT FULFIL THAT WHICH
THE CHARACTER OF A MAN PROMISES, WE ASSUME
THE CHARACTER OF A PHILOSOPHER
It is no common (easy) thing to do this only, to fulfil the promise of a man's
nature. For what is a man? The answer is, A rational and mortal being. Then by
the rational faculty from whom are we separated? From wild beasts. And from
what others? From sheep and like animals. Take care then to do nothing like a
wild beast; but if you do, you have lost the character of a man; you have not
fulfilled your promise. See that you do nothing like a sheep; but if you do, in this
case also the man is lost. What then do we do as sheep? When we act
gluttonously, when we act lewdly, when we act rashly, filthily, inconsiderately,
to what have we declined? To sheep. What have we lost? The rational faculty.
When we act contentiously and harmfully and passionately and violently, to
what have we declined? To wild beasts. Consequently some of us are great wild
beasts, and others little beasts, of a bad disposition and small, whence we may
say, Let me be eaten by a lion. But in all these ways the promise of a man acting
as a man is destroyed. For when is a conjunctive (complex) proposition
maintained? When it fulfils what its nature promises; so that the preservation of
a complex proposition is when it is a conjunction of truths. When is a disjunctive
maintained? When it fulfils what it promises. When are flutes, a lyre, a horse, a
dog, preserved? (When they severally keep their promise.) What is the wonder
then if man also in like manner is preserved, and in like manner is lost? Each
man is improved and preserved by corresponding acts, the carpenter by acts of
carpentry, the grammarian by acts of grammar. But if a man accustoms himself
to write ungrammatically, of necessity his art will be corrupted and destroyed.
Thus modest actions preserve the modest man, and immodest actions destroy
him; and actions of fidelity preserve the faithful man, and the contrary actions
destroy him. And on the other hand contrary actions strengthen contrary
characters: shamelessness strengthens the shameless man, faithlessness the
faithless man, abusive words the abusive man, anger the man of an angry
temper, and unequal receiving and giving make the avaricious man more
avaricious.
For this reason philosophers admonish us not to be satisfied with learning
only, but also to add study, and then practice. For we have long been accustomed
to do contrary things, and we put in practice opinions which are contrary to true
opinions. If then we shall not also put in practice right opinions, we shall be
nothing more than the expositors of the opinions of others. For now who among
us is not able to discourse according to the rules of art about good and evil things
(in this fashion)? That of things some are good, and some are bad, and some are
indifferent: the good then are virtues, and the things which participate in virtues;
and the bad are the contrary; and the indifferent are wealth, health, reputation.
Then, if in the midst of our talk there should happen some greater noise than
usual, or some of those who are present should laugh at us, we are disturbed.
Philosopher, where are the things which you were talking about? Whence did
you produce and utter them? From the lips, and thence only. Why then do you
corrupt the aids provided by others? Why do you treat the weightiest matters as
if you were playing a game of dice? For it is one thing to lay up bread and wine
as in a storehouse, and another thing to eat. That which has been eaten, is
digested, distributed, and is become sinews, flesh, bones, blood, healthy color,
healthy breath. Whatever is stored up, when you choose you can readily take and
show it; but you have no other advantage from it except so far as to appear to
possess it. For what is the difference between explaining these doctrines and
those of men who have different opinions? Sit down now and explain according
to the rules of art the opinions of Epicurus, and perhaps you will explain his
opinions in a more useful manner than Epicurus himself. Why then do you call
yourself a Stoic? Why do you deceive the many? Why do you act the part of a
Jew, when you are a Greek? Do you not see how (why) each is called a Jew, or a
Syrian, or an Egyptian? and when we see a man inclining to two sides, we are
accustomed to say, This man is not a Jew, but he acts as one. But when he has
assumed the affects of one who has been imbued with Jewish doctrine and has
adopted that sect, then he is in fact and he is named a Jew.
HOW WE MAY DISCOVER THE DUTIES OF LIFE
FROM NAMES
Consider who you are. In the first place, you are a man; and this is one who
has nothing superior to the faculty of the will, but all other things subjected to it;
and the faculty itself he possesses unenslaved and free from subjection. Consider
then from what things you have been separated by reason. You have been
separated from wild beasts; you have been separated from domestic animals
([Greek: probaton]). Further, you are a citizen of the world, and a part of it, not
one of the subservient (serving), but one of the principal (ruling) parts, for you
are capable of comprehending the divine administration and of considering the
connection of things. What then does the character of a citizen promise
(profess)? To hold nothing as profitable to himself; to deliberate about nothing
as if he were detached from the community, but to act as the hand or foot would
do, if they had reason and understood the constitution of nature, for they would
never put themselves in motion nor desire anything otherwise than with
reference to the whole. Therefore, the philosophers say well, that if the good
man had foreknowledge of what would happen, he would co-operate towards his
own sickness and death and mutilation, since he knows that these things are
assigned to him according to the universal arrangement, and that the whole is
superior to the part, and the state to the citizen. But now because we do not know
the future, it is our duty to stick to the things which are in their nature more
suitable for our choice, for we were made among other things for this.
After this, remember that you are a son. What does this character promise? To
consider that everything which is the son's belongs to the father, to obey him in
all things, never to blame him to another, nor to say or do anything which does
him injury, to yield to him in all things and give way, cooperating with him as
far as you can. After this know that you are a brother also, and that to this
character it is due to make concessions; to be easily persuaded, to speak good of
your brother, never to claim in opposition to him any of the things which are
independent of the will, but readily to give them up, that you may have the larger
share in what is dependent on the will. For see what a thing it is, in place of a
lettuce, if it should so happen, or a seat, to gain for yourself goodness of
disposition. How great is the advantage.
Next to this, if you are a senator of any state, remember that you are a senator;
if a youth, that you are a youth; if an old man, that you are an old man; for each
of such names, if it comes to be examined, marks out the proper duties. But if
you go and blame your brother, I say to you, You have forgotten who you are
and what is your name. In the next place, if you were a smith and made a wrong
use of the hammer, you would have forgotten the smith; and if you have
forgotten the brother and instead of a brother have become an enemy, would you
appear not to have changed one thing for another in that case? And if instead of a
man, who is a tame animal and social, you are become a mischievous wild beast,
treacherous, and biting, have you lost nothing? But (I suppose) you must lose a
bit of money that you may suffer damage? And does the loss of nothing else do a
man damage? If you had lost the art of grammar or music, would you think the
loss of it a damage? and if you shall lose modesty, moderation ([Greek:
chtastolaen]) and gentleness, do you think the loss nothing? And yet the things
first mentioned are lost by some cause external and independent of the will, and
the second by our own fault; and as to the first neither to have them nor to lose
them is shameful; but as to the second, not to have them and to lose them is
shameful and matter of reproach and a misfortune.
What then? shall I not hurt him who has hurt me? In the first place consider
what hurt ([Greek: blabae]) is, and remember what you have heard from the
philosophers. For if the good consists in the will (purpose, intention, [Greek:
proaireeis]), and the evil also in the will, see if what you say is not this: What
then, since that man has hurt himself by doing an unjust act to me, shall I not
hurt myself by doing some unjust act to him? Why do we not imagine to
ourselves (mentally think of) something of this kind? But where there is any
detriment to the body or to our possession, there is harm there; and where the
same thing happens to the faculty of the will, there is (you suppose) no harm; for
he who has been deceived or he who has done an unjust act neither suffers in the
head nor in the eye nor in the hip, nor does he lose his estate; and we wish for
nothing else than (security to) these things. But whether we shall have the will
modest and faithful or shameless and faithless, we care not the least, except only
in the school so far as a few words are concerned. Therefore our proficiency is
limited to these few words; but beyond them it does not exist even in the
slightest degree.
WHAT THE BEGINNING OF PHILOSOPHY IS
The beginning of philosophy, to him at least who enters on it in the right way
and by the door is a consciousness of his own weakness and inability about
necessary things; for we come into the world with no natural notion of a rightangled triangle, or of a diesis (a quarter tone), or of a half-tone; but we learn
each of these things by a certain transmission according to art; and for this
reason those who do not know them do not think that they know them. But as to
good and evil, and beautiful and ugly, and becoming and unbecoming, and
happiness and misfortune, and proper and improper, and what we ought to do
and what we ought not to do, who ever came into the world without having an
innate idea of them? Wherefore we all use these names, and we endeavor to fit
the preconceptions to the several cases (things) thus: he has done well; he has
not done well; he has done as he ought, not as he ought; he has been unfortunate,
he has been fortunate; he is unjust, he is just; who does not use these names?
who among us defers the use of them till he has learned them, as he defers the
use of the words about lines (geometrical figures) or sounds? And the cause of
this is that we come into the world already taught as it were by nature some
things on this matter ([Greek: topon]), and proceeding from these we have added
to them self-conceit ([Greek: oiaesin]). For why, a man says, do I not know the
beautiful and the ugly? Have I not the notion of it? You have. Do I not adapt it to
particulars? You do. Do I not then adapt it properly? In that lies the whole
question; and conceit is added here; for beginning from these things which are
admitted men proceed to that which is matter of dispute by means of unsuitable
adaptation; for if they possessed this power of adaptation in addition to those
things, what would hinder them from being perfect? But now since you think
that you properly adapt the preconceptions to the particulars, tell me whence you
derive this (assume that you do so). Because I think so. But it does not seem so
to another, and he thinks that he also makes a proper adaptation; or does he not
think so? He does think so. Is it possible then that both of you can properly apply
the preconceptions to things about which you have contrary opinions? It is not
possible. Can you then show us anything better towards adapting the
preconceptions beyond your thinking that you do? Does the madman do any
other things than the things which seem to him right? Is then this criterion
sufficient for him also? It is not sufficient. Come then to something which is
superior to seeming ([Greek: tou dochein]). What is this?
Observe, this is the beginning of philosophy, a perception of the disagreement
of men with one another, and an inquiry into the cause of the disagreement, and
a condemnation and distrust of that which only "seems," and a certain
investigation of that which "seems" whether it "seems" rightly, and a discovery
of some rule ([Greek: chanonos]), as we have discovered a balance in the
determination of weights, and a carpenter's rule (or square) in the case of straight
and crooked things.—This is the beginning of philosophy. Must we say that all
things are right which seem so to all? And how is it possible that contradictions
can be right?—Not all then, but all which seem to us to be right.—How more to
you than those which seem right to the Syrians? why more than what seem right
to the Egyptians? why more than what seems right to me or to any other man?
Not at all more. What then "seems" to every man is not sufficient for
determining what "is"; for neither in the case of weights nor measures are we
satisfied with the bare appearance, but in each case we have discovered a certain
rule. In this matter then is there no rule superior to what "seems"? And how is it
possible that the most necessary things among men should have no sign (mark),
and be incapable of being discovered? There is then some rule. And why then do
we not seek the rule and discover it, and afterwards use it without varying from
it, not even stretching out the finger without it? For this, I think, is that which
when it is discovered cures of their madness those who use mere "seeming" as a
measure, and misuse it; so that for the future proceeding from certain things
(principles) known and made clear we may use in the case of particular things
the preconceptions which are distinctly fixed.
What is the matter presented to us about which we are inquiring? Pleasure (for
example). Subject it to the rule, throw it into the balance. Ought the good to be
such a thing that it is fit that we have confidence in it? Yes. And in which we
ought to confide? It ought to be. Is it fit to trust to anything which is insecure?
No. Is then pleasure anything secure? No. Take it then and throw it out of the
scale, and drive it far away from the place of good things. But if you are not
sharp-sighted, and one balance is not enough for you, bring another. Is it fit to be
elated over what is good? Yes. Is it proper then to be elated over present
pleasure? See that you do not say that it is proper; but if you do, I shall then not
think you worthy even of the balance. Thus things are tested and weighed when
the rules are ready. And to philosophize is this, to examine and confirm the
rules; and then to use them when they are known is the act of a wise and good
man.
OF DISPUTATION OR DISCUSSION
What things a man must learn in order to be able to apply the art of
disputation, has been accurately shown by our philosophers (the Stoics); but with
respect to the proper use of the things, we are entirely without practice. Only
give to any of us, whom you please, an illiterate man to discuss with, and he
cannot discover how to deal with the man. But when he has moved the man a
little, if he answers beside the purpose, he does not know how to treat him, but
he then either abuses or ridicules him, and says, He is an illiterate man; it is not
possible to do anything with him. Now a guide, when he has found a man out of
the road, leads him into the right way; he does not ridicule or abuse him and then
leave him. Do you also show the illiterate man the truth, and you will see that he
follows. But so long as you do not show him the truth, do not ridicule him, but
rather feel your own incapacity.
Now this was the first and chief peculiarity of Socrates, never to be irritated in
argument, never to utter anything abusive, anything insulting, but to bear with
abusive persons and to put an end to the quarrel. If you would know what great
power he had in this way, read the Symposium of Xenophon, and you will see
how many quarrels he put an end to. Hence with good reason in the poets also
this power is most highly praised:
Quickly with skill he settles great disputes.
- Hesiod, Theogony, v. 87.
ON ANXIETY (SOLICITUDE)
When I see a man anxious, I say, What does this man want? If he did not want
something which is not in his power, how could he be anxious? For this reason a
lute player when he is singing by himself has no anxiety, but when he enters the
theatre, he is anxious, even if he has a good voice and plays well on the lute; for
he not only wishes to sing well, but also to obtain applause: but this is not in his
power. Accordingly, where he has skill, there he has confidence. Bring any
single person who knows nothing of music, and the musician does not care for
him. But in the matter where a man knows nothing and has not been practised,
there he is anxious. What matter is this? He knows not what a crowd is or what
the praise of a crowd is. However, he has learned to strike the lowest chord and
the highest; but what the praise of the many is, and what power it has in life, he
neither knows nor has he thought about it. Hence he must of necessity tremble
and grow pale. Is any man then afraid about things which are not evils? No. Is he
afraid about things which are evils, but still so far within his power that they may
not happen? Certainly he is not. If then the things which are independent of the
will are neither good nor bad, and all things which do depend on the will are
within our power, and no man can either take them from us or give them to us, if
we do not choose, where is room left for anxiety? But we are anxious about our
poor body, our little property, about the will of Caesar; but not anxious about
things internal. Are we anxious about not forming a false opinion? No, for this is
in my power. About not exerting our movements contrary to nature? No, not
even about this. When then you see a man pale, as the physician says, judging
from the complexion, this man's spleen is disordered, that man's liver; so also
say, this man's desire and aversion are disordered, he is not in the right way, he
is in a fever. For nothing else changes the color, or causes trembling or
chattering of the teeth, or causes a man to
Sink in his knees and shift from foot to foot.
Iliad, xiii., 281.
For this reason, when Zeno was going to meet Antigonus, he was not anxious,
for Antigonus had no power over any of the things which Zeno admired; and
Zeno did not care for those things over which Antigonus had power. But
Antigonus was anxious when he was going to meet Zeno, for he wished to
please Zeno; but this was a thing external (out of his power). But Zeno did not
want to please Antigonus; for no man who is skilled in any art wishes to please
one who has no such skill.
Should I try to please you? Why? I suppose, you know the measure by which
one man is estimated by another. Have you taken pains to learn what is a good
man and what is a bad man, and how a man becomes one or the other? Why then
are you not good yourself? How, he replies, am I not good? Because no good
man laments or groans or weeps, no good man is pale and trembles, or says,
How will he receive me, how will he listen to me? Slave, just as it pleases him.
Why do you care about what belongs to others? Is it now his fault if he receives
badly what proceeds from you? Certainly. And is it possible that a fault should
be one man's, and the evil in another? No. Why then are you anxious about that
which belongs to others? Your question is reasonable; but I am anxious how I
shall speak to him. Cannot you then speak to him as you choose? But I fear that I
may be disconcerted? If you are going to write the name of Dion, are you afraid
that you would be disconcerted? By no means. Why? is it not because you have
practised writing the name? Certainly. Well, if you were going to read the name,
would you not feel the same? and why? Because every art has a certain strength
and confidence in the things which belong to it. Have you then not practised
speaking? and what else did you learn in the school? Syllogisms and sophistical
propositions? For what purpose? was it not for the purpose of discoursing
skilfully? and is not discoursing skilfully the same as discoursing seasonably and
cautiously and with intelligence, and also without making mistakes and without
hindrance, and besides all this with confidence? Yes. When then you are
mounted on a horse and go into a plain, are you anxious at being matched
against a man who is on foot, and anxious in a matter in which you are practised,
and he is not? Yes, but that person (to whom I am going to speak) has power to
kill me. Speak the truth, then, unhappy man, and do not brag, nor claim to be a
philosopher, nor refuse to acknowledge your masters, but so long as you present
this handle in your body, follow every man who is stronger than yourself.
Socrates used to practice speaking, he who talked as he did to the tyrants, to the
dicasts (judges), he who talked in his prison. Diogenes had practised speaking,
he who spoke as he did to Alexander, to the pirates, to the person who bought
him. These men were confident in the things which they practised. But do you
walk off to your own affairs and never leave them: go and sit in a corner, and
weave syllogisms, and propose them to another. There is not in you the man who
can rule a state.
TO NASO
When a certain Roman entered with his son and listened to one reading,
Epictetus said, This is the method of instruction; and he stopped. When the
Roman asked him to go on, Epictetus said, Every art when it is taught causes
labor to him who is unacquainted with it and is unskilled in it, and indeed the
things which proceed from the arts immediately show their use in the purpose
for which they were made; and most of them contain something attractive and
pleasing. For indeed to be present and to observe how a shoemaker learns is not
a pleasant thing; but the shoe is useful and also not disagreeable to look at. And
the discipline of a smith when he is learning is very disagreeable to one who
chances to be present and is a stranger to the art: but the work shows the use of
the art. But you will see this much more in music; for if you are present while a
person is learning, the discipline will appear most disagreeable; and yet the
results of music are pleasing and delightful to those who know nothing of music.
And here we conceive the work of a philosopher to be something of this kind: he
must adapt his wish ([Greek: boulaesin]) to what is going on, so that neither any
of the things which are taking place shall take place contrary to our wish, nor
any of the things which do not take place shall not take place when we wish that
they should. From this the result is to those who have so arranged the work of
philosophy, not to fail in the desire, nor to fall in with that which they would
avoid; without uneasiness, without fear, without perturbation to pass through life
themselves, together with their associates maintaining the relations both natural
and acquired, as the relation of son, of father, of brother, of citizen, of man, of
wife, of neighbor, of fellow-traveller, of ruler, of ruled. The work of a
philosopher we conceive to be something like this. It remains next to inquire
how this must be accomplished.
We see then that the carpenter ([Greek: techton]) when he has learned certain
things becomes a carpenter; the pilot by learning certain things becomes a pilot.
May it not then in philosophy also not be sufficient to wish to be wise and good,
and that there is also a necessity to learn certain things? We inquire then what
these things are. The philosophers say that we ought first to learn that there is a
God and that he provides for all things; also that it is not possible to conceal
from him our acts, or even our intentions and thoughts. The next thing is to learn
what is the nature of the gods; for such as they are discovered to be, he, who
would please and obey them, must try with all his power to be like them. If the
divine is faithful, man also must be faithful; if it is free, man also must be free; if
beneficent, man also must be beneficent; if magnanimous, man also must be
magnanimous; as being then an imitator of God he must do and say everything
consistently with this fact.
TO OR AGAINST THOSE WHO OBSTINATELY
PERSIST IN WHAT THEY HAVE DETERMINED
When some persons have heard these words, that a man ought to be constant
(firm), and that the will is naturally free and not subject to compulsion, but that
all other things are subject to hindrance, to slavery, and are in the power of
others, they suppose that they ought without deviation to abide by everything
which they have determined. But in the first place that which has been
determined ought to be sound (true). I require tone (sinews) in the body, but such
as exists in a healthy body, in an athletic body; but if it is plain to me that you
have the tone of a frenzied man and you boast of it, I shall say to you, Man, seek
the physician; this is not tone, but atony (deficiency in right tone). In a different
way something of the same kind is felt by those who listen to these discourses in
a wrong manner; which was the case with one of my companions, who for no
reason resolved to starve himself to death. I heard of it when it was the third day
of his abstinence from food, and I went to inquire what had happened. "I have
resolved," he said. "But still tell me what it was which induced you to resolve;
for if you have resolved rightly, we shall sit with you and assist you to depart,
but if you have made an unreasonable resolution, change your mind." "We ought
to keep to our determinations." "What are you doing, man? We ought to keep not
to all our determinations, but to those which are right; for if you are now
persuaded that it is right, do not change your mind, if you think fit, but persist
and say, We ought to abide by our determinations. Will you not make the
beginning and lay the foundation in an inquiry whether the determination is
sound or not sound, and so then build on it firmness and security? But if you lay
a rotten and ruinous foundation, will not your miserable little building fall down
the sooner, the more and the stronger are the materials which you shall lay on it?
Without any reason would you withdraw from us out of life a man who is a
friend and a companion, a citizen of the same city, both the great and the small
city? Then while you are committing murder and destroying a man who has
done no wrong, do you say that you ought to abide by your determinations? And
if it ever in any way came into your head to kill me, ought you to abide by your
determinations?"
Now this man was with difficulty persuaded to change his mind. But it is
impossible to convince some persons at present; so that I seem now to know
what I did not know before, the meaning of the common saying, that you can
neither persuade nor break a fool. May it never be my lot to have a wise fool for
my friend; nothing is more untractable. "I am determined," the man says.
Madmen are also, but the more firmly they form a judgment on things which do
not exist, the more hellebore they require. Will you not act like a sick man and
call in the physician?—I am sick, master, help me; consider what I must do: it is
my duty to obey you. So it is here also: I know not what I ought to do, but I am
come to learn.—Not so; but speak to me about other things: upon this I have
determined.—What other things? for what is greater and more useful than for
you to be persuaded that it is not sufficient to have made your determination and
not to change it. This is the tone (energy) of madness, not of health.—I will die,
if you compel me to this.—Why, man? What has happened?—I have determined
—I have had a lucky escape that you have not determined to kill me—I take no
money. Why?—I have determined—Be assured that with the very tone (energy)
which you now use in refusing to take, there is nothing to hinder you at some
time from inclining without reason to take money, and then saying, I have
determined. As in a distempered body, subject to defluxions, the humor inclines
sometimes to these parts, and then to those, so too a sickly soul knows not which
way to incline; but if to this inclination and movement there is added a tone
(obstinate resolution), then the evil becomes past help and cure.
THAT WE DO NOT STRIVE TO USE OUR OPINIONS
ABOUT GOOD AND EVIL
Where is the good? In the will. Where is the evil? In the will. Where is neither
of them? In those things which are independent of the will. Well then? Does any
one among us think of these lessons out of the schools? Does any one meditate
(strive) by himself to give an answer to things as in the case of questions?—Is it
day?—Yes.—Is it night?—No.—Well, is the number of stars even?—I cannot
say.—When money is shown (offered) to you, have you studied to make the
proper answer, that money is not a good thing? Have you practised yourself in
these answers, or only against sophisms? Why do you wonder then if in the
cases which you have studied, in those you have improved; but in those which
you have not studied, in those you remain the same? When the rhetorician knows
that he has written well, that he has committed to memory what he has written,
and brings an agreeable voice, why is he still anxious? Because he is not
satisfied with having studied. What then does he want? To be praised by the
audience? For the purpose then of being able to practise declamation he has been
disciplined; but with respect to praise and blame he has not been disciplined. For
when did he hear from any one what praise is, what blame is, what the nature of
each is, what kind of praise should be sought, or what kind of blame should be
shunned? And when did he practise this discipline which follows these words
(things)? Why then do you still wonder, if in the matters which a man has
learned, there he surpasses others, and in those in which he has not been
disciplined, there he is the same with the many. So the lute player knows how to
play, sings well, and has a fine dress, and yet he trembles when he enters on the
stage; for these matters he understands, but he does not know what a crowd is,
nor the shouts of a crowd, nor what ridicule is. Neither does he know what
anxiety is, whether it is our work or the work of another, whether it is possible to
stop it or not. For this reason if he has been praised, he leaves the theatre puffed
up, but if he has been ridiculed, the swollen bladder has been punctured and
subsides.
This is the case also with ourselves. What do we admire? Externals. About
what things are we busy? Externals. And have we any doubt then why we fear or
why we are anxious? What then happens when we think the things, which are
coming on us, to be evils? It is not in our power not to be afraid, it is not in our
power not to be anxious. Then we say, Lord God, how shall I not be anxious?
Fool, have you not hands, did not God make them for you? Sit down now and
pray that your nose may not run. Wipe yourself rather and do not blame him.
Well then, has he given to you nothing in the present case? Has he not given to
you endurance? Has he not given to you magnanimity? Has he not given to you
manliness? When you have such hands do you still look for one who shall wipe
your nose? But we neither study these things nor care for them. Give me a man
who cares how he shall do anything, not for the obtaining of a thing, but who
cares about his own energy. What man, when he is walking about, cares for his
own energy? Who, when he is deliberating, cares about his own deliberation,
and not about obtaining that about which he deliberates? And if he succeeds, he
is elated and says, How well we have deliberated; did I not tell you, brother, that
it is impossible, when we have thought about anything, that it should not turn out
thus? But if the thing should turn out otherwise, the wretched man is humbled;
he knows not even what to say about what has taken place. Who among us for
the sake of this matter has consulted a seer? Who among us as to his actions has
not slept in indifference? Who? Give (name) to me one that I may see the man
whom I have long been looking for, who is truly noble and ingenuous, whether
young or old; name him.
What then are the things which are heavy on us and disturb us? What else than
opinions? What else than opinions lies heavy upon him who goes away and
leaves his companions and friends and places and habits of life? Now little
children, for instance, when they cry on the nurse leaving them for a short time,
forget their sorrow if they receive a small cake. Do you choose then that we
should compare you to little children? No, by Zeus, for I do not wish to be
pacified by a small cake, but by right opinions. And what are these? Such as a
man ought to study all day, and not to be affected by anything that is not his
own, neither by companion nor place nor gymnasia, and not even by his own
body, but to remember the law and to have it before his eyes. And what is the
divine law? To keep a man's own, not to claim that which belongs to others, but
to use what is given, and when it is not given, not to desire it; and when a thing
is taken away, to give it up readily and immediately, and to be thankful for the
time that a man has had the use of it, if you would not cry for your nurse and
mamma. For what matter does it make by what thing a man is subdued, and on
what he depends? In what respect are you better than he who cries for a girl, if
you grieve for a little gymnasium, and little porticos, and young men, and such
places of amusement? Another comes and laments that he shall no longer drink
the water of Dirce. Is the Marcian water worse than that of Dirce? But I was
used to the water of Dirce. And you in turn will be used to the other. Then if you
become attached to this also, cry for this too, and try to make a verse like the
verse of Euripides,
The hot baths of Nero and the Marcian water.
See how tragedy is made when common things happen to silly men.
When then shall I see Athens again and the Acropolis? Wretch, are you not
content with what you see daily? Have you anything better or greater to see than
the sun, the moon, the stars, the whole earth, the sea? But if indeed you
comprehend Him who administers the whole, and carry him about in yourself,
do you still desire small stones and a beautiful rock?
HOW WE MUST ADAPT PRECONCEPTIONS TO
PARTICULAR CASES
What is the first business of him who philosophizes? To throw away selfconceit ([Greek: oiaesis]). For it is impossible for a man to begin to learn that
which he thinks that he knows. As to things then which ought to be done and
ought not to be done, and good and bad, and beautiful and ugly, all of us talking
of them at random go to the philosophers; and on these matters we praise, we
censure, we accuse, we blame, we judge and determine about principles
honorable and dishonorable. But why do we go to the philosophers? Because we
wish to learn what we do not think that we know. And what is this? Theorems.
For we wish to learn what philosophers say as being something elegant and
acute; and some wish to learn that they may get profit from what they learn. It is
ridiculous then to think that a person wishes to learn one thing, and will learn
another; or further, that a man will make proficiency in that which he does not
learn. But the many are deceived by this which deceived also the rhetorician
Theopompus, when he blames even Plato for wishing everything to be defined.
For what does he say? Did none of us before you use the words good or just, or
do we utter the sounds in an unmeaning and empty way without understanding
what they severally signify? Now who tells you, Theopompus, that we had not
natural notions of each of these things and preconceptions ([Greek:
prolaepseis])? But it is not possible to adapt preconceptions to their
correspondent objects if we have not distinguished (analyzed) them, and
inquired what object must be subjected to each preconception. You may make
the same charge against physicians also. For who among us did not use the
words healthy and unhealthy before Hippocrates lived, or did we utter these
words as empty sounds? For we have also a certain preconception of health, but
we are not able to adapt it. For this reason one says, Abstain from food; another
says, Give food; another says, Bleed; and another says, Use cupping. What is the
reason? is it any other than that a man cannot properly adapt the preconceptions
of health to particulars?
HOW
WE
APPEARANCES
SHOULD
STRUGGLE
AGAINST
Every habit and faculty is maintained and increased by the corresponding
actions: the habit of walking by walking, the habit of running by running. If you
would be a good reader, read; if a writer, write. But when you shall not have
read for thirty days in succession, but have done something else, you will know
the consequence. In the same way, if you shall have lain down ten days, get up
and attempt to make a long walk, and you will see how your legs are weakened.
Generally then if you would make anything a habit, do it; if you would not make
it a habit, do not do it, but accustom yourself to do something else in place of it.
So it is with respect to the affections of the soul: when you have been angry,
you must know that not only has this evil befallen you, but that you have also
increased the habit, and in a manner thrown fuel upon fire.
In this manner certainly, as philosophers say, also diseases of the mind grow
up. For when you have once desired money, if reason be applied to lead to a
perception of the evil, the desire is stopped, and the ruling faculty of our mind is
restored to the original authority. But if you apply no means of cure, it no longer
returns to the same state, but being again excited by the corresponding
appearance, it is inflamed to desire quicker than before: and when this takes
place continually, it is henceforth hardened (made callous), and the disease of
the mind confirms the love of money. For he who has had a fever, and has been
relieved from it, is not in the same state that he was before, unless he has been
completely cured. Something of the kind happens also in diseases of the soul.
Certain traces and blisters are left in it, and unless a man shall completely efface
them, when he is again lashed on the same places, the lash will produce not
blisters (weals) but sores. If then you wish not to be of an angry temper, do not
feed the habit: throw nothing on it which will increase it: at first keep quiet, and
count the days on which you have not been angry. I used to be in passion every
day; now every second day; then every third, then every fourth. But if you have
intermitted thirty days, make a sacrifice to God. For the habit at first begins to be
weakened, and then is completely destroyed. "I have not been vexed to-day, nor
the day after, nor yet on any succeeding day during two or three months; but I
took care when some exciting things happened." Be assured that you are in a
good way.
How then shall this be done? Be willing at length to be approved by yourself,
be willing to appear beautiful to God, desire to be in purity with your own pure
self and with God. Then when any such appearance visits you, Plato says, Have
recourse to expiations, go a suppliant to the temples of the averting deities. It is
even sufficient if you resort to the society of noble and just men, and compare
yourself with them, whether you find one who is living or dead.
But in the first place, be not hurried away by the rapidity of the appearance,
but say, Appearances, wait for me a little; let me see who you are, and what you
are about; let me put you to the test. And then do not allow the appearance to
lead you on and draw lively pictures of the things which will follow; for if you
do, it will carry you off wherever it pleases. But rather bring in to oppose it some
other beautiful and noble appearance, and cast out this base appearance. And if
you are accustomed to be exercised in this way, you will see what shoulders,
what sinews, what strength you have. But now it is only trifling words, and
nothing more.
This is the true athlete, the man who exercises himself against such
appearances. Stay, wretch, do not be carried away. Great is the combat, divine is
the work; it is for kingship, for freedom, for happiness, for freedom from
perturbation. Remember God; call on him as a helper and protector, as men at
sea call on the Dioscuri in a storm. For what is a greater storm than that which
comes from appearances which are violent and drive away the reason? For the
storm itself, what else is it but an appearance? For take away the fear of death,
and suppose as many thunders and lightnings as you please, and you will know
what calm and serenity there is in the ruling faculty. But if you have once been
defeated and say that you will conquer hereafter, and then say the same again, be
assured that you will at last be in so wretched a condition and so weak that you
will not even know afterwards that you are doing wrong, but you will even begin
to make apologies (defences) for your wrongdoing, and then you will confirm
the saying of Hesiod to be true,
With constant ills the dilatory strives.
OF INCONSISTENCY
Some things men readily confess, and other things they do not. No one then
will confess that he is a fool or without understanding; but quite the contrary you
will hear all men saying, I wish that I had fortune equal to my understanding.
But men readily confess that they are timid, and they say: I am rather timid, I
confess; but as to other respects you will not find me to be foolish. A man will
not readily confess that he is intemperate; and that he is unjust, he will not
confess at all. He will by no means confess that he is envious or a busybody.
Most men will confess that they are compassionate. What then is the reason?
The chief thing (the ruling thing) is inconsistency and confusion in the things
which relate to good and evil. But different men have different reasons; and
generally what they imagine to be base, they do not confess at all. But they
suppose timidity to be a characteristic of a good disposition, and compassion
also; but silliness to be the absolute characteristic of a slave. And they do not at
all admit (confess) the things which are offences against society. But in the case
of most errors for this reason chiefly they are induced to confess them, because
they imagine that there is something involuntary in them as in timidity and
compassion; and if a man confess that he is in any respect intemperate, he
alleges love (or passion) as an excuse for what is involuntary. But men do not
imagine injustice to be at all involuntary. There is also in jealousy, as they
suppose, something involuntary; and for this reason they confess to jealousy
also.
Living then among such men, who are so confused, so ignorant of what they
say, and of the evils which they have or have not, and why they have them, or
how they shall be relieved of them, I think it is worth the trouble for a man to
watch constantly (and to ask) whether I also am one of them, what imagination I
have about myself, how I conduct myself, whether I conduct myself as a prudent
man, whether I conduct myself as a temperate man, whether I ever say this, that I
have been taught to be prepared for everything that may happen. Have I the
consciousness, which a man who knows nothing ought to have, that I know
nothing? Do I go to my teacher as men go to oracles, prepared to obey? or do I
like a snivelling boy go to my school to learn history and understand the books
which I did not understand before, and, if it should happen so, to explain them
also to others? Man, you have had a fight in the house with a poor slave, you
have turned the family upside down, you have frightened the neighbors, and you
come to me as if you were a wise man, and you take your seat and judge how I
have explained some word, and how I have babbled whatever came into my
head. You come full of envy, and humbled, because you bring nothing from
home; and you sit during the discussion thinking of nothing else than how your
father is disposed towards you and your brother. What are they saying about me
there? now they think that I am improving, and are saying, He will return with
all knowledge. I wish I could learn everything before I return; but much labor is
necessary, and no one sends me anything, and the baths at Nicopolis are dirty;
everything is bad at home, and bad here.
ON FRIENDSHIP
What a man applies himself to earnestly, that he naturally loves. Do men then
apply themselves earnestly to the things which are bad? By no means. Well, do
they apply themselves to things which in no way concern themselves? Not to
these either. It remains then that they employ themselves earnestly only about
things which are good; and if they are earnestly employed about things, they
love such things also. Whoever then understands what is good can also know
how to love; but he who cannot distinguish good from bad, and things which are
neither good nor bad from both, how can he possess the power of loving? To
love, then, is only in the power of the wise.
For universally, be not deceived, every animal is attached to nothing so much
as to its own interests. Whatever then appears to it an impediment to this interest,
whether this be a brother, or a father, or a child, or beloved, or lover, it hates,
spurns, curses; for its nature is to love nothing so much as its own interests: this
is father, and brother, and kinsman, and country, and God. When then the gods
appear to us to be an impediment to this, we abuse them and throw down their
statues and burn their temples, as Alexander ordered the temples of Aesculapius
to be burned when his dear friend died.
For this reason, if a man put in the same place his interest, sanctity, goodness,
and country, and parents, and friends, all these are secured: but if he puts in one
place his interest, in another his friends, and his country and his kinsmen and
justice itself, all these give way, being borne down by the weight of interest. For
where the I and the Mine are placed, to that place of necessity the animal
inclines; if in the flesh, there is the ruling power; if in the will, it is there; and if
it is in externals, it is there. If then I am there where my will is, then only shall I
be a friend such as I ought to be, and son, and father; for this will be my interest,
to maintain the character of fidelity, of modesty, of patience, of abstinence, of
active cooperation, of observing my relations (towards all). But if I put myself in
one place, and honesty in another, then the doctrine of Epicurus becomes strong,
which asserts either that there is no honesty or it is that which opinion holds to
be honest (virtuous).
It was through this ignorance that the Athenians and the Lacedaemonians
quarrelled, and the Thebans with both; and the great king quarrelled with Hellas,
and the Macedonians with both: and the Romans with the Getae. And still earlier
the Trojan war happened for these reasons. Alexander was the guest of
Menelaus, and if any man had seen their friendly disposition, he would not have
believed any one who said that they were not friends. But there was cast between
them (as between dogs) a bit of meat, a handsome woman, and about her war
arose. And now when you see brothers to be friends appearing to have one mind,
do not conclude from this anything about their friendship, not even if they swear
it and say that it is impossible for them to be separated from one another. For the
ruling principle of a bad man cannot be trusted; it is insecure, has no certain rule
by which it is directed, and is overpowered at different times by different
appearances. But examine, not what other men examine, if they are born of the
same parents and brought up together, and under the same pedagogue; but
examine this only, wherein they place their interest, whether in externals or in
the will. If in externals, do not name them friends, no more than name them
trustworthy or constant, or brave or free; do not name them even men, if you
have any judgment. For that is not a principle of human nature which makes
them bite one another, and abuse one another, and occupy deserted places or
public places, as if they were mountains, and in the courts of justice display the
acts of robbers; nor yet that which makes them intemperate and adulterers and
corrupters, nor that which makes them do whatever else men do against one
another through this one opinion only, that of placing themselves and their
interests in the things which are not within the power of their will. But if you
hear that in truth these men think the good to be only there, where will is, and
where there is a right use of appearances, no longer trouble yourself whether
they are father or son, or brothers, or have associated a long time and are
companions, but when you have ascertained this only, confidently declare that
they are friends, as you declare that they are faithful, that they are just. For
where else is friendship than where there is fidelity, and modesty, where there is
a communion of honest things and of nothing else.
But you may say, Such a one treated me with regard so long; and did he not
love me? How do you know, slave, if he did not regard you in the same way as
he wipes his shoes with a sponge, or as he takes care of his beast? How do you
know, when you have ceased to be useful as a vessel, he will not throw you
away like a broken platter? But this woman is my wife, and we have lived
together so long. And how long did Eriphyle live with Amphiaraus, and was the
mother of children and of many? But a necklace came between them: and what
is a necklace? It is the opinion about such things. That was the bestial principle,
that was the thing which broke asunder the friendship between husband and
wife, that which did not allow the woman to be a wife nor the mother to be a
mother. And let every man among you who has seriously resolved either to be a
friend himself or to have another for his friend, cut out these opinions, hate
them, drive them from his soul. And thus first of all he will not reproach himself,
he will not be at variance with himself, he will not change his mind, he will not
torture himself. In the next place, to another also, who is like himself, he will be
altogether and completely a friend. But he will bear with the man who is unlike
himself, he will be kind to him, gentle, ready to pardon on account of his
ignorance, on account of his being mistaken in things of the greatest importance;
but he will be harsh to no man, being well convinced of Plato's doctrine that
every mind is deprived of truth unwillingly. If you cannot do this, yet you can do
in all other respects as friends do, drink together, and lodge together, and sail
together, and you may be born of the same parents, for snakes also are: but
neither will they be friends, nor you, so long as you retain these bestial and
cursed opinions.
ON THE POWER OF SPEAKING
Every man will read a book with more pleasure or even with more ease, if it is
written in fairer characters. Therefore every man will also listen more readily to
what is spoken, if it is signified by appropriate and becoming words. We must
not say then that there is no faculty of expression: for this affirmation is the
characteristic of an impious and also of a timid man. Of an impious man,
because he undervalues the gifts which come from God, just as if he would take
away the commodity of the power of vision, or hearing, or of seeing. Has then
God given you eyes to no purpose? and to no purpose has he infused into them a
spirit so strong and of such skilful contrivance as to reach a long way and to
fashion the forms of things which are seen? What messenger is so swift and
vigilant? And to no purpose has he made the interjacent atmosphere so
efficacious and elastic that the vision penetrates through the atmosphere which is
in a manner moved? And to no purpose has he made light, without the presence
of which there would be no use in any other thing?
Man, be neither ungrateful for these gifts nor yet forget the things which are
superior to them. But indeed for the power of seeing and hearing, and indeed for
life itself, and for the things which contribute to support it, for the fruits which
are dry, and for wine and oil give thanks to God: but remember that he has given
you something else better than all these, I mean the power of using them,
proving them, and estimating the value of each. For what is that which gives
information about each of these powers, what each of them is worth? Is it each
faculty itself? Did you ever hear the faculty of vision saying anything about
itself? or the faculty of hearing? or wheat, or barley, or a horse, or a dog? No;
but they are appointed as ministers and slaves to serve the faculty which has the
power of making use of the appearances of things. And if you inquire what is the
value of each thing, of whom do you inquire? who answers you? How then can
any other faculty be more powerful than this, which uses the rest as ministers
and itself proves each and pronounces about them? for which of them knows
what itself is, and what is its own value? which of them knows when it ought to
employ itself and when not? what faculty is it which opens and closes the eyes,
and turns them away from objects to which it ought not to apply them and does
apply them to other objects? Is it the faculty of vision? No, but it is the faculty of
the will. What is that faculty which closes and opens the ears? what is that by
which they are curious and inquisitive, or on the contrary unmoved by what is
said? is it the faculty of hearing? It is no other than the faculty of the will. Will
this faculty then, seeing that it is amidst all the other faculties which are blind
and dumb and unable to see anything else except the very acts for which they are
appointed in order to minister to this (faculty) and serve it, but this faculty alone
sees sharp and sees what is the value of each of the rest; will this faculty declare
to us that anything else is the best, or that itself is? And what else does the eye
do when it is opened than see? But whether we ought to look on the wife of a
certain person, and in what manner, who tells us? The faculty of the will. And
whether we ought to believe what is said or not to believe it, and if we do
believe, whether we ought to be moved by it or not, who tells us? Is it not the
faculty of the will?
But if you ask me what then is the most excellent of all things, what must I
say? I cannot say the power of speaking, but the power of the will, when it is
right ([Greek: orthae]). For it is this which uses the other (the power of
speaking), and all the other faculties both small and great. For when this faculty
of the will is set right, a man who is not good becomes good: but when it fails, a
man becomes bad. It is through this that we are unfortunate, that we are
fortunate, that we blame one another, are pleased with one another. In a word, it
is this which if we neglect it makes unhappiness, and if we carefully look after it,
makes happiness.
What then is usually done? Men generally act as a traveller would do on his
way to his own country, when he enters a good inn, and being pleased with it
should remain there. Man, you have forgotten your purpose: you were not
travelling to this inn, but you were passing through it. But this is a pleasant inn.
And how many other inns are pleasant? and how many meadows are pleasant?
yet only for passing through. But your purpose is this, to return to your country,
to relieve your kinsmen of anxiety, to discharge the duties of a citizen, to marry,
to beget children, to fill the usual magistracies. For you are not come to select
more pleasant places, but to live in these where you were born and of which you
were made a citizen. Something of the kind takes place in the matter which we
are considering. Since by the aid of speech and such communication as you
receive here you must advance to perfection, and purge your will and correct the
faculty which makes use of the appearances of things; and since it is necessary
also for the teaching (delivery) of theorems to be effected by a certain mode of
expression and with a certain variety and sharpness, some persons captivated by
these very things abide in them, one captivated by the expression, another by
syllogisms, another again by sophisms, and still another by some other inn
([Greek: paudocheiou]) of the kind; and there they stay and waste away as they
were among sirens.
Man, your purpose (business) was to make yourself capable of using
conformably to nature the appearances presented to you, in your desires not to be
frustrated, in your aversion from things not to fall into that which you would
avoid, never to have no luck (as one may say), nor ever to have bad luck, to be
free, not hindered, not compelled, conforming yourself to the administration of
Zeus, obeying it, well satisfied with this, blaming no one, charging no one with
fault, able from your whole soul to utter these verses:
Lead me, O Zeus, and thou too Destiny.
TO (OR AGAINST) A PERSON WHO WAS ONE OF
THOSE WHO WERE NOT VALUED (ESTEEMED) BY HIM
A certain person said to him (Epictetus): Frequently I desired to hear you and
came to you, and you never gave me any answer; and now, if it is possible, I
entreat you to say something to me. Do you think, said Epictetus, that as there is
an art in anything else, so there is also an art in speaking, and that he who has the
art, will speak skilfully, and he who has not, will speak unskilfully?—I do think
so.—He then who by speaking receives benefit himself, and is able to benefit
others, will speak skilfully; but he who is rather damaged by speaking and does
damage to others, will he be unskilled in this art of speaking? And you may find
that some are damaged and others benefited by speaking. And are all who hear
benefited by what they hear? Or will you find that among them also some are
benefited and some damaged? There are both among these also, he said. In this
case also then those who hear skilfully are benefited, and those who hear
unskilfully are damaged? He admitted this. Is there then a skill in hearing also,
as there is in speaking? It seems so. If you choose, consider the matter in this
way also. The practice of music, to whom does it belong? To a musician. And
the proper making of a statue, to whom do you think that it belongs? To a
statuary. And the looking at a statue skilfully, does this appear to you to require
the aid of no art? This also requires the aid of art. Then if speaking properly is
the business of the skilful man, do you see that to hear also with benefit is the
business of the skilful man? Now as to speaking and hearing perfectly, and
usefully, let us for the present, if you please, say no more, for both of us are a
long way from everything of the kind. But I think that every man will allow this,
that he who is going to hear philosophers requires some amount of practice in
hearing. Is it not so?
Why then do you say nothing to me? I can only say this to you, that he who
knows not who he is, and for what purpose he exists, and what is this world, and
with whom he is associated, and what things are the good and the bad, and the
beautiful and the ugly, and who neither understands discourse nor
demonstration, nor what is true nor what is false, and who is not able to
distinguish them, will neither desire according to nature nor turn away nor move
towards, nor intend (to act), nor assent, nor dissent, nor suspend his judgment: to
say all in a few words, he will go about dumb and blind, thinking that he is
somebody, but being nobody. Is this so now for the first time? Is it not the fact
that ever since the human race existed, all errors and misfortunes have arisen
through this ignorance?
This is all that I have to say to you; and I say even this not willingly. Why?
Because you have not roused me. For what must I look to in order to be roused,
as men who are expert in riding are roused by generous horses? Must I look to
your body? You treat it disgracefully. To your dress? That is luxurious. To your
behavior, to your look? That is the same as nothing. When you would listen to a
philosopher, do not say to him, You tell me nothing; but only show yourself
worthy of hearing or fit for hearing; and you will see how you will move the
speaker.
THAT LOGIC IS NECESSARY
When one of those who were present said, Persuade me that logic is
necessary, he replied, Do you wish me to prove this to you? The answer was,
Yes. Then I must use a demonstrative form of speech. This was granted. How
then will you know if I am cheating you by my argument? The man was silent.
Do you see, said Epictetus, that you yourself are admitting that logic is
necessary, if without it you cannot know so much as this, whether logic is
necessary or not necessary?
OF FINERY IN DRESS
A certain young man, a rhetorician, came to see Epictetus, with his hair
dressed more carefully than was usual and his attire in an ornamental style;
whereupon Epictetus said, Tell me if you do not think that some dogs are
beautiful and some horses, and so of all other animals. I do think so, the youth
replied. Are not then some men also beautiful and others ugly? Certainly. Do we
then for the same reason call each of them in the same kind beautiful, or each
beautiful for something peculiar? And you will judge of this matter thus. Since
we see a dog naturally formed for one thing, and a horse for another, and for
another still, as an example, a nightingale, we may generally and not improperly
declare each of them to be beautiful then when it is most excellent according to
its nature; but since the nature of each is different, each of them seems to me to
be beautiful in a different way. Is it not so? He admitted that it was. That then
which makes a dog beautiful, makes a horse ugly; and that which makes a horse
beautiful, makes a dog ugly, if it is true that their natures are different. It seems
to be so. For I think that what makes a Pancratiast beautiful, makes a wrestler to
be not good, and a runner to be most ridiculous; and he who is beautiful for the
Pentathlon, is very ugly for wrestling. It is so, said he. What then makes a man
beautiful? Is it that which in its kind makes both a dog and a horse beautiful? It
is, he said. What then makes a dog beautiful? The possession of the excellence
of a dog. And what makes a horse beautiful? The possession of the excellence of
a horse. What then makes a man beautiful? Is it not the possession of the
excellence of a man? And do you then, if you wish to be beautiful, young man,
labor at this, the acquisition of human excellence? But what is this? Observe
whom you yourself praise, when you praise many persons without partiality: do
you praise the just or the unjust? The just. Whether do you praise the moderate
or the immoderate? The moderate. And the temperate or the intemperate? The
temperate. If then you make yourself such a person, you will know that you will
make yourself beautiful; but so long as you neglect these things, you must be
ugly ([Greek: aischron]), even though you contrive all you can to appear
beautiful.
IN WHAT A MAN OUGHT TO BE EXERCISED WHO
HAS MADE PROFICIENCY; AND THAT WE NEGLECT THE
CHIEF THINGS
There are three things (topics, [Greek: topoi]) in which a man ought to
exercise himself who would be wise and good. The first concerns the desires and
the aversions, that a man may not fail to get what he desires, and that he may not
fall into that which he does not desire. The second concerns the movements
towards an object and the movements from an object, and generally in doing
what a man ought to do, that he may act according to order, to reason, and not
carelessly. The third thing concerns freedom from deception and rashness in
judgment, and generally it concerns the assents ([Greek: sugchatatheseis]). Of
these topics the chief and the most urgent is that which relates to the affects
([Greek: ta pathae] perturbations); for an affect is produced in no other way than
by a failing to obtain that which a man desires or falling into that which a man
would wish to avoid. This is that which brings in perturbations, disorders, bad
fortune, misfortunes, sorrows, lamentations, and envy; that which makes men
envious and jealous; and by these causes we are unable even to listen to the
precepts of reason. The second topic concerns the duties of a man; for I ought
not to be free from affects ([Greek: apathae]) like a statue, but I ought to
maintain the relations ([Greek: scheseis]) natural and acquired, as a pious man,
as a son, as a father, as a citizen.
The third topic is that which immediately concerns those who are making
proficiency, that which concerns the security of the other two, so that not even in
sleep any appearance unexamined may surprise us, nor in intoxication, nor in
melancholy. This, it may be said, is above our power. But the present
philosophers neglecting the first topic and the second (the affects and duties),
employ themselves on the third, using sophistical arguments ([Greek:
metapiptontas]), making conclusions from questioning, employing hypotheses,
lying. For a man must, it is said, when employed on these matters, take care that
he is not deceived. Who must? The wise and good man. This then is all that is
wanting to you. Have you successfully worked out the rest? Are you free from
deception in the matter of money? If you see a beautiful girl do you resist the
appearance? If your neighbor obtains an estate by will, are you not vexed? Now
is there nothing else wanting to you except unchangeable firmness of mind
([Greek: ametaptosia])? Wretch, you hear these very things with fear and
anxiety that some person may despise you, and with inquiries about what any
person may say about you. And if a man come and tell you that in a certain
conversation in which the question was, Who is the best philosopher, a man who
was present said that a certain person was the chief philosopher, your little soul
which was only a finger's length stretches out to two cubits. But if another who
is present says, You are mistaken; it is not worth while to listen to a certain
person, for what does he know? he has only the first principles, and no more?
then you are confounded, you grow pale, you cry out immediately, I will show
him who I am, that I am a great philosopher. It is seen by these very things: why
do you wish to show it by others? Do you not know that Diogenes pointed out
one of the sophists in this way by stretching out his middle finger? And then
when the man was wild with rage, This, he said, is the certain person: I have
pointed him out to you. For a man is not shown by the finger, as a stone or a
piece of wood; but when any person shows the man's principles, then he shows
him as a man.
Let us look at your principles also. For is it not plain that you value not at all
your own will ([Greek: proairesis]), but you look externally to things which are
independent of your will? For instance, what will a certain person say? and what
will people think of you? Will you be considered a man of learning; have you
read Chrysippus or Antipater? for if you have read Archedamus also, you have
every thing (that you can desire). Why you are still uneasy lest you should not
show us who you are? Would you let me tell you what manner of man you have
shown us that you are? You have exhibited yourself to us as a mean fellow,
querulous, passionate, cowardly, finding fault with everything, blaming
everybody, never quiet, vain: this is what you have exhibited to us. Go away
now and read Archedamus; then if a mouse should leap down and make a noise,
you are a dead man. For such a death awaits you as it did—what was the man's
name—Crinis; and he too was proud, because he understood Archedamus.
Wretch, will you not dismiss these things that do not concern you at all? These
things are suitable to those who are able to learn them without perturbation, to
those who can say: "I am not subject to anger, to grief, to envy: I am not
hindered, I am not restrained. What remains for me? I have leisure, I am
tranquil: let us see how we must deal with sophistical arguments; let us see how
when a man has accepted an hypothesis he shall not be led away to any thing
absurd." To them such things belong. To those who are happy it is appropriate to
light a fire, to dine; if they choose, both to sing and to dance. But when the
vessel is sinking, you come to me and hoist the sails.
WHAT IS THE MATTER ON WHICH A GOOD MAN
SHOULD BE EMPLOYED, AND IN WHAT WE OUGHT
CHIEFLY TO PRACTISE OURSELVES
The material for the wise and good man is his own ruling faculty: and the
body is the material for the physician and the aliptes (the man who oils persons);
the land is the matter for the husbandman. The business of the wise and good
man is to use appearances conformably to nature: and as it is the nature of every
soul to assent to the truth, to dissent from the false, and to remain in suspense as
to that which is uncertain; so it is its nature to be moved towards the desire for
the good, and to aversion from the evil; and with respect to that which is neither
good nor bad it feels indifferent. For as the money-changer (banker) is not
allowed to reject Caesar's coin, nor the seller of herbs, but if you show the coin,
whether he chooses or not, he must give up what is sold for the coin; so it is also
in the matter of the soul. When the good appears, it immediately attracts to itself;
the evil repels from itself. But the soul will never reject the manifest appearance
of the good, any more than persons will reject Caesar's coin. On this principle
depends every movement both of man and God.
Against (or with respect to) this kind of thing chiefly a man should exercise
himself. As soon as you go out in the morning, examine every man whom you
see, every man whom you hear; answer as to a question, What have you seen? A
handsome man or woman? Apply the rule. Is this independent of the will, or
dependent? Independent. Take it away. What have you seen? A man lamenting
over the death of a child. Apply the rule. Death is a thing independent of the
will. Take it away. Has the proconsul met you? Apply the rule. What kind of a
thing is a proconsul's office? Independent of the will or dependent on it?
Independent. Take this away also; it does not stand examination; cast it away; it
is nothing to you.
If we practised this and exercised ourselves in it daily from morning to night,
something indeed would be done. But now we are forthwith caught half asleep
by every appearance, and it is only, if ever, that in the school we are roused a
little. Then when we go out, if we see a man lamenting, we say, He is undone. If
we see a consul, we say, He is happy. If we see an exiled man, we say, He is
miserable. If we see a poor man, we say, He is wretched; he has nothing to eat.
We ought then to eradicate these bad opinions, and to this end we should
direct all our efforts. For what is weeping and lamenting? Opinion. What is bad
fortune? Opinion. What is civil sedition, what is divided opinion, what is blame,
what is accusation, what is impiety, what is trifling? All these things are
opinions, and nothing more, and opinions about things independent of the will,
as if they were good and bad. Let a man transfer these opinions to things
dependent on the will, and I engage for him that he will be firm and constant,
whatever may be the state of things around him. Such as is a dish of water, such
is the soul. Such as is the ray of light which falls on the water, such are the
appearances. When the water is moved, the ray also seems to be moved, yet it is
not moved. And when then a man is seized with giddiness, it is not the arts and
the virtues which are confounded, but the spirit (the nervous power) on which
they are impressed; but if the spirit be restored to its settled state, those things
also are restored.
MISCELLANEOUS
When some person asked him how it happened that since reason has been
more cultivated by the men of the present age, the progress made in former times
was greater. In what respect, he answered, has it been more cultivated now, and
in what respect was the progress greater then? For in that in which it has now
been more cultivated, in that also the progress will now be found. At present it
has been cultivated for the purpose of resolving syllogisms, and progress is
made. But in former times it was cultivated for the purpose of maintaining the
governing faculty in a condition conformable to nature, and progress was made.
Do not then mix things which are different, and do not expect, when you are
laboring at one thing to make progress in another. But see if any man among us
when he is intent upon this, the keeping himself in a state conformable to nature
and living so always, does not make progress. For you will not find such a man.
It is not easy to exhort weak young men; for neither is it easy to hold (soft)
cheese with a hook. But those who have a good natural disposition, even if you
try to turn them aside, cling still more to reason.
TO THE ADMINISTRATOR OF THE FREE CITIES
WHO WAS AN EPICUREAN
When the administrator came to visit him, and the man was an Epicurean,
Epictetus said, It is proper for us who are not philosophers to inquire of you who
are philosophers, as those who come to a strange city inquire of the citizens and
those who are acquainted with it, what is the best thing in the world, in order that
we also after inquiry may go in quest of that which is best and look at it, as
strangers do with the things in cities. For that there are three things which relate
to man—soul, body, and things external, scarcely any man denies. It remains for
you philosophers to answer what is the best. What shall we say to men? Is the
flesh the best? and was it for this that Maximus sailed as far as Cassiope in
winter (or bad weather) with his son, and accompanied him that he might be
gratified in the flesh? When the man said that it was not, and added, Far be that
from him. Is it not fit then, Epictetus said, to be actively employed about the
best? It is certainly of all things the most fit. What then do we possess which is
better than the flesh? The soul, he replied. And the good things of the best, are
they better, or the good things of the worse? The good things of the best. And are
the good things of the best within the power of the will or not within the power
of the will? They are within the power of the will. Is then the pleasure of the soul
a thing within the power of the will? It is, he replied. And on what shall this
pleasure depend? On itself? But that cannot be conceived; for there must first
exist a certain substance or nature ([Greek: ousia]) of good, by obtaining which
we shall have pleasure in the soul. He assented to this also. On what then shall
we depend for this pleasure of the soul? for if it shall depend on things of the
soul, the substance (nature) of the good is discovered; for good cannot be one
thing, and that at which we are rationally delighted another thing; nor if that
which precedes is not good, can that which comes after be good, for in order that
the thing which comes after may be good, that which precedes must be good.
But you would not affirm this, if you are in your right mind, for you would then
say what is inconsistent both with Epicurus and the rest of your doctrines. It
remains then that the pleasure of the soul is in the pleasure from things of the
body; and again that those bodily things must be the things which precede and
the substance (nature) of the good.
Seek for doctrines which are consistent with what I say, and by making them
your guide you will with pleasure abstain from things which have such
persuasive power to lead us and overpower us. But if to the persuasive power of
these things, we also devise such a philosophy as this which helps to push us on
towards them and strengthens us to this end, what will be the consequence? In a
piece of toreutic art which is the best part? the silver or the workmanship? The
substance of the hand is the flesh; but the work of the hand is the principal part
(that which precedes and leads the rest). The duties then are also three: those
which are directed towards the existence of a thing; those which are directed
towards its existence in a particular kind; and third, the chief or leading things
themselves. So also in man we ought not to value the material, the poor flesh,
but the principal (leading things, [Greek: ta proaegoumena]). What are these?
Engaging in public business, marrying, begetting children, venerating God,
taking care of parents, and generally, having desires, aversions ([Greek:
echchlinein]), pursuits of things and avoidances, in the way in which we ought to
do these things, and according to our nature. And how are we constituted by
nature? Free, noble, modest; for what other animal blushes? what other is
capable of receiving the appearance (the impression) of shame? and we are so
constituted by nature as to subject pleasure to these things, as a minister, a
servant, in order that it may call forth our activity, in order that it may keep us
constant in acts which are conformable to nature.
HOW WE MUST EXERCISE OURSELVES AGAINST
APPEARANCES
As we exercise ourselves against sophistical questions, so we ought to
exercise ourselves daily against appearances; for these appearances also propose
questions to us. A certain person's son is dead. Answer; the thing is not within
the power of the will: it is not an evil. A father has disinherited a certain son.
What do you think of it? It is a thing beyond the power of the will, not an evil.
Cæsar has condemned a person. It is a thing beyond the power of the will, not an
evil. The man is afflicted at this. Affliction is a thing which depends on the will:
it is an evil. He has borne the condemnation bravely. That is a thing within the
power of the will: it is a good. If we train ourselves in this manner, we shall
make progress; for we shall never assent to anything of which there is not an
appearance capable of being comprehended. Your son is dead. What has
happened? Your son is dead. Nothing more? Nothing. Your ship is lost. What
has happened? Your ship is lost. A man has been led to prison. What has
happened? He has been led to prison. But that herein he has fared badly, every
man adds from his own opinion. But Zeus, you say, does not do right in these
matters. Why? because he has made you capable of endurance? because he has
made you magnanimous? because he has taken from that which befalls you the
power of being evils? because it is in your power to be happy while you are
suffering what you suffer? because he has opened the door to you, when things
do not please you? Man, go out and do not complain!
Hear how the Romans feel towards philosophers, if you would like to know.
Italicus, who was the most in repute of the philosophers, once when I was
present, being vexed with his own friends and as if he was suffering something
intolerable, said: "I cannot bear it, you are killing me; you will make me such as
that man is," pointing to me.
TO A CERTAIN RHETORICIAN WHO WAS GOING UP
TO ROME ON A SUIT
When a certain person came to him, who was going up to Rome on account of
a suit which had regard to his rank, Epictetus inquired the reason of his going to
Rome, and the man then asked what he thought about the matter. Epictetus
replied: If you ask me what you will do in Rome, whether you will succeed or
fail, I have no rule ([Greek: theoraema]) about this. But if you ask me how you
will fare, I can tell you: if you have right opinions ([Greek: dogmata]), you will
fare well; if they are false, you will fare ill. For to every man the cause of his
acting is opinion. For what is the reason why you desired to be elected governor
of the Cnossians? Your opinion. What is the reason that you are now going up to
Rome? Your opinion. And going in winter, and with danger and expense? I must
go. What tells you this? Your opinion. Then if opinions are the causes of all
actions, and a man has bad opinions, such as the cause may be, such also is the
effect! Have we then all sound opinions, both you and your adversary? And how
do you differ? But have you sounder opinions than your adversary? Why? You
think so. And so does he think that his opinions are better; and so do madmen.
This is a bad criterion. But show to me that you have made some inquiry into
your opinions and have taken some pains about them. And as now you are
sailing to Rome in order to become governor of the Cnossians, and you are not
content to stay at home with the honors which you had, but you desire something
greater and more conspicuous, so when did you ever make a voyage for the
purpose of examining your own opinions, and casting them out, if you have any
that are bad? Whom have you approached for this purpose? What time have you
fixed for it? What age? Go over the times of your life by yourself, if you are
ashamed of me (knowing the fact) when you were a boy, did you examine your
own opinions? and did you not then, as you do all things now, do as you did do?
and when you were become a youth and attended the rhetoricians, and yourself
practised rhetoric, what did you imagine that you were deficient in? And when
you were a young man and engaged in public matters, and pleaded causes
yourself, and were gaining reputation, who then seemed your equal? And when
would you have submitted to any man examining and showing that your
opinions are bad? What then do you wish me to say to you? Help me in this
matter. I have no theorem (rule) for this. Nor have you, if you came to me for
this purpose, come to me as a philosopher, but as to a seller of vegetables or a
shoemaker. For what purpose then have philosophers theorems? For this
purpose, that whatever may happen, our ruling faculty may be and continue to be
conformable to nature. Does this seem to you a small thing? No; but the greatest.
What then? does it need only a short time? and is it possible to seize it as you
pass by? If you can, seize it.
Then you will say, I met with Epictetus as I should meet with a stone or a
statue: for you saw me and nothing more. But he meets with a man as a man,
who learns his opinions, and in his turn shows his own. Learn my opinions:
show me yours; and then say that you have visited me. Let us examine one
another: if I have any bad opinion, take it away; if you have any, show it. This is
the meaning of meeting with a philosopher. Not so (you say): but this is only a
passing visit, and while we are hiring the vessel, we can also see Epictetus. Let
us see what he says. Then you go away and say: Epictetus was nothing; he used
solecisms and spoke in a barbarous way. For of what else do you come as
judges? Well, but a man may say to me, if I attend to such matters (as you do), I
shall have no land as you have none; I shall have no silver cups as you have
none, nor fine beasts as you have none. In answer to tins it is perhaps sufficient
to say: I have no need of such things; but if you possess many things you have
need of others: whether you choose or not, you are poorer than I am. What then
have I need of? Of that which you have not? of firmness, of a mind which is
conformable to nature, of being free from perturbation.
IN WHAT MANNER WE OUGHT TO BEAR SICKNESS
When the need of each opinion comes, we ought to have it in readiness: on the
occasion of breakfast, such opinions as relate to breakfast; in the bath, those that
concern the bath; in bed, those that concern bed.
Let sleep not come upon thy languid eyes
Before each daily action thou hast scann'd;
What's done amiss, what done, what left undone;
From first to last examine all, and then
Blame what is wrong, in what is right rejoice.
And we ought to retain these verses in such way that we may use them, not
that we may utter them aloud, as when we exclaim, "Paean Apollo." Again in
fever we should have ready such opinions as concern a fever; and we ought not,
as soon as the fever begins, to lose and forget all. A man who has a fever may
say: If I philosophize any longer, may I be hanged: wherever I go, I must take
care of the poor body, that a fever may not come. But what is philosophizing? Is
it not a preparation against events which may happen? Do you not understand
that you are saying something of this kind? "If I shall still prepare myself to bear
with patience what happens, may I be hanged." But this is just as if a man after
receiving blows should give up the Pancratium. In the Pancratium it is in our
power to desist and not to receive blows.
But in the other matter if we give up philosophy, what shall we gain? What
then should a man say on the occasion of each painful thing? It was for this that I
exercised myself, for this I disciplined myself. God says to you: Give me a proof
that you have duly practised athletics, that you have eaten what you ought, that
you have been exercised, that you have obeyed the aliptes (the oiler and rubber).
Then do you show yourself weak when the time for action comes? Now is the
time for the fever. Let it be borne well. Now is the time for thirst, bear it well.
Now is the time for hunger, bear it well. Is it not in your power? Who shall
hinder you? The physician will hinder you from drinking; but he cannot prevent
you from bearing thirst well: and he will hinder you from eating; but he cannot
prevent you from bearing hunger well.
But I cannot attend to my philosophical studies. And for what purpose do you
follow them? Slave, is it not that you may be happy, that you may be constant, is
it not that you may be in a state conformable to nature and live so? What hinders
you when you have a fever from having your ruling faculty conformable to
nature? Here is the proof of the thing, here is the test of the philosopher. For this
also is a part of life, like walking, like sailing, like journeying by land, so also is
fever. Do you read when you are walking? No. Nor do you when you have a
fever. But if you walk about well, you have all that belongs to a man who walks.
If you bear a fever well, you have all that belongs to a man in a fever. What is it
to bear a fever well? Not to blame God or man; not to be afflicted at that which
happens, to expect death well and nobly, to do what must be done: when the
physician comes in, not to be frightened at what he says; nor if he says you are
doing well, to be overjoyed. For what good has he told you? and when you were
in health, what good was that to you? And even if he says you are in a bad way,
do not despond. For what is it to be ill? is it that you are near the severance of
the soul and the body? what harm is there in this? If you are not near now, will
you not afterwards be near? Is the world going to be turned upside down when
you are dead? Why then do you flatter the physician? Why do you say if you
please, master, I shall be well? Why do you give him an opportunity of raising
his eyebrows (being proud; or showing his importance)? Do you not value a
physician, as you do a shoemaker when he is measuring your foot, or a carpenter
when he is building your house, and so treat the physician as to the body which
is not yours, but by nature dead? He who has a fever has an opportunity of doing
this: if he does these things, he has what belongs to him. For it is not the
business of a philosopher to look after these externals, neither his wine nor his
oil nor his poor body, but his own ruling power. But as to externals how must he
act? so far as not to be careless about them. Where then is there reason for fear?
where is there then still reason for anger, and of fear about what belongs to
others, about things which are of no value? For we ought to have these two
principles in readiness, that except the will nothing is good nor bad; and that we
ought not to lead events, but to follow them. My brother ought not to have
behaved thus to me. No, but he will see to that; and, however he may behave, I
will conduct myself towards him as I ought. For this is my own business; that
belongs to another: no man can prevent this, the other thing can be hindered.
ABOUT EXERCISE
We ought not to make our exercises consist in means contrary to nature and
adapted to cause admiration, for if we do so, we who call ourselves philosophers,
shall not differ at all from jugglers. For it is difficult even to walk on a rope; and
not only difficult, but it is also dangerous. Ought we for this reason to practice
walking on a rope, or setting up a palm-tree, or embracing statues? By no means.
Every thing which is difficult and dangerous is not suitable for practice; but that
is suitable which conduces to the working out of that which is proposed to us.
And what is that which is proposed to us as a thing to be worked out? To live
with desire and aversion (avoidance of certain things) free from restraint. And
what is this? Neither to be disappointed in that which you desire, nor to fall into
anything which you would avoid. Towards this object then exercise (practice)
ought to tend. For since it is not possible to have your desire not disappointed
and your aversion free from falling into that which you would avoid, without
great and constant practice, you must know that if you allow your desire and
aversion to turn to things which are not within the power of the will, you will
neither have your desire capable of attaining your object, nor your aversion free
from the power of avoiding that which you would avoid. And since strong habit
leads (prevails), and we are accustomed to employ desire and aversion only to
things which are not within the power of our will, we ought to oppose to this
habit a contrary habit, and where there is great slipperiness in the appearances,
there to oppose the habit of exercise. Then at last, if occasion presents itself, for
the purpose of trying yourself at a proper time you will descend into the arena to
know if appearances overpower you as they did formerly. But at first fly far
from that which is stronger than yourself; the contest is unequal between a
charming young girl and a beginner in philosophy. The earthen pitcher, as the
saying is, and the rock do not agree.
WHAT SOLITUDE IS, AND WHAT KIND OF PERSON A
SOLITARY MAN IS
Solitude is a certain condition of a helpless man. For because a man is alone,
he is not for that reason also solitary; just as though a man is among numbers, he
is not therefore not solitary. When then we have lost either a brother, or a son, or
a friend on whom we were accustomed to repose, we say that we are left
solitary, though we are often in Rome, though such a crowd meet us, though so
many live in the same place, and sometimes we have a great number of slaves.
For the man who is solitary, as it is conceived, is considered to be a helpless
person and exposed to those who wish to harm him. For this reason when we
travel, then especially do we say that we are lonely when we fall among robbers,
for it is not the sight of a human creature which removes us from solitude, but
the sight of one who is faithful and modest and helpful to us. For if being alone
is enough to make solitude, you may say that even Zeus is solitary in the
conflagration and bewails himself saying, Unhappy that I am who have neither
Hera, nor Athena, nor Apollo, nor brother, nor son, nor descendant, nor kinsman.
This is what some say that he does when he is alone at the conflagration. For
they do not understand how a man passes his life when he is alone, because they
set out from a certain natural principle, from the natural desire of community and
mutual love and from the pleasure of conversation among men. But none the less
a man ought to be prepared in a manner for this also (being alone), to be able to
be sufficient for himself and to be his own companion. For as Zeus dwells with
himself, and is tranquil by himself, and thinks of his own administration and of
its nature, and is employed in thoughts suitable to himself; so ought we also to
be able to talk with ourselves, not to feel the want of others also, not to be
unprovided with the means of passing our time; to observe the divine
administration, and the relation of ourselves to everything else; to consider how
we formerly were affected towards things that happened and how at present;
what are still the things which give us pain; how these also can be cured and how
removed; if any things require improvement, to improve them according to
reason.
Well then, if some man should come upon me when I am alone and murder
me? Fool, not murder You, but your poor body.
What kind of solitude then remains? what want? why do we make ourselves
worse than children; and what do children do when they are left alone? They
take up shells and ashes, and they build something, then pull it down, and build
something else, and so they never want the means of passing the time. Shall I
then, if you sail away, sit down and weep, because I have been left alone and
solitary? Shall I then have no shells, no ashes? But children do what they do
through want of thought (or deficiency in knowledge), and we through
knowledge are unhappy.
Every great power (faculty) is dangerous to beginners. You must then bear
such things as you are able, but conformably to nature: but not ... Practise
sometimes a way of living like a person out of health that you may at some time
live like a man in health.
CERTAIN MISCELLANEOUS MATTERS
As bad tragic actors cannot sing alone, but in company with many, so some
persons cannot walk about alone. Man, if you are anything, both walk alone and
talk to yourself, and do not hide yourself in the chorus. Examine a little at last,
look around, stir yourself up, that you may know who you are.
You must root out of men these two things, arrogance (pride) and distrust.
Arrogance then is the opinion that you want nothing (are deficient in nothing);
but distrust is the opinion that you cannot be happy when so many circumstances
surround you. Arrogance is removed by confutation; and Socrates was the first
who practised this. And (to know) that the thing is not impossible inquire and
seek. This search will do you no harm; and in a manner this is philosophizing, to
seek how it is possible to employ desire and aversion ([Greek: echchlisis])
without impediment.
I am superior to you, for my father is a man of consular rank. Another says, I
have been a tribune, but you have not. If we were horses, would you say, My
father was swifter? I have much barley and fodder, or elegant neck ornaments. If
then you were saying this, I said, Be it so: let us run then. Well, is there nothing
in a man such as running in a horse, by which it will be known which is superior
and inferior? Is there not modesty ([Greek: aidos]), fidelity, justice? Show
yourself superior in these, that you may be superior as a man. If you tell me that
you can kick violently, I also will say to you, that you are proud of that which is
the act of an ass.
THAT
WE
OUGHT
TO
PROCEED
CIRCUMSPECTION TO EVERYTHING
WITH
In every act consider what precedes and what follows, and then proceed to the
act. If you do not consider, you will at first begin with spirit, since you have not
thought at all of the things which follow; but afterwards when some
consequences have shown themselves, you will basely desist (from that which
you have begun).—I wish to conquer at the Olympic games.—(And I too, by the
gods; for it is a fine thing.) But consider here what precedes and what follows;
and then, if it is for your good, undertake the thing. You must act according to
rules, follow strict diet, abstain from delicacies, exercise yourself by compulsion
at fixed times, in heat, in cold; drink no cold water, nor wine, when there is
opportunity of drinking it. In a word, you must surrender yourself to the trainer,
as you do to a physician. Next in the contest, you must be covered with sand,
sometimes dislocate a hand, sprain an ankle, swallow a quantity of dust, be
scourged with the whip; and after undergoing all this, you must sometimes be
conquered. After reckoning all these things, if you have still an inclination, go to
the athletic practice. If you do not reckon them, observe you will behave like
children who at one time play as wrestlers, then as gladiators, then blow a
trumpet, then act a tragedy, when they have seen and admired such things. So
you also do: you are at one time a wrestler (athlete), then a gladiator, then a
philosopher, then a rhetorician; but with your whole soul you are nothing: like
the ape you imitate all that you see; and always one thing after another pleases
you, but that which becomes familiar displeases you. For you have never
undertaken anything after consideration, nor after having explored the whole
matter and put it to a strict examination; but you have undertaken it at hazard
and with a cold desire. Thus some persons having seen a philosopher and having
heard one speak like Euphrates—and yet who can speak like him?—wish to be
philosophers themselves.
Man, consider first what the matter is (which you propose to do), then your
own nature also, what it is able to bear. If you are a wrestler, look at your
shoulders, your thighs, your loins: for different men are naturally formed for
different things. Do you think that, if you do (what you are doing daily), you can
be a philosopher? Do you think that you can eat as you do now, drink as you do
now, and in the same way be angry and out of humor? You must watch, labor,
conquer certain desires, you must depart from your kinsmen, be despised by
your slaves, laughed at by those who meet you, in everything you must be in an
inferior condition, as to magisterial office, in honors, in courts of justice. When
you have considered all these things completely, then, if you think proper,
approach to philosophy, if you would gain in exchange for these things freedom
from perturbations, liberty, tranquillity. If you have not considered these things,
do not approach philosophy: do not act like children, at one time a philosopher,
then a tax collector, then a rhetorician, then a procurator (officer) of Cæsar.
These things are not consistent. You must be one man either good or bad; you
must either labor at your own ruling faculty or at external things; you must either
labor at things within or at external things; that is, you must either occupy the
place of a philosopher or that of one of the vulgar.
A person said to Rufus when Galba was murdered: Is the world now governed
by Providence? But Rufus replied: Did I ever incidentally form an argument
from Galba that the world is governed by Providence?
THAT WE OUGHT WITH CAUTION TO ENTER INTO
FAMILIAR INTERCOURSE WITH MEN
If a man has frequent intercourse with others either for talk, or drinking
together, or generally for social purposes, he must either become like them, or
change them to his own fashion. For if a man places a piece of quenched
charcoal close to a piece that is burning, either the quenched charcoal will
quench the other, or the burning charcoal will light that which is quenched.
Since then the danger is so great, we must cautiously enter into such intimacies
with those of the common sort, and remember that it is impossible that a man
can keep company with one who is covered with soot without being partaker of
the soot himself. For what will you do if a man speaks about gladiators, about
horses, about athletes, or what is worse about men? Such a person is bad, such a
person is good; this was well done, this was done badly. Further, if he scoff, or
ridicule, or show an ill-natured disposition? Is any man among us prepared like a
lute-player when he takes a lute, so that as soon as he has touched the strings, he
discovers which are discordant, and tunes the instrument? Such a power as
Socrates had who in all his social intercourse could lead his companions to his
own purpose? How should you have this power? It is therefore a necessary
consequence that you are carried about by the common kind of people.
Why then are they more powerful than you? Because they utter these useless
words from their real opinions; but you utter your elegant words only from your
lips; for this reason they are without strength and dead, and it is nauseous to
listen to your exhortations and your miserable virtue, which is talked of
everywhere (up and down). In this way the vulgar have the advantage over you;
for every opinion ([Greek: dogma]) is strong and invincible. Until then the good
([Greek: chompsai]) sentiments ([Greek: hupolaepseis]) are fixed in you, and
you shall have acquired a certain power for your security, I advise you to be
careful in your association with common persons; if you are not, every day like
wax in the sun there will be melted away whatever you inscribe on your minds
in the school. Withdraw then yourselves far from the sun so long as you have
these waxen sentiments. For this reason also philosophers advise men to leave
their native country, because ancient habits distract them and do not allow a
beginning to be made of a different habit; nor can we tolerate those who meet us
and say: See such a one is now a philosopher, who was once so and so. Thus
also physicians send those who have lingering diseases to a different country and
a different air; and they do right. Do you also introduce other habits than those
which you have; fix you opinions and exercise yourselves in them. But you do
not so; you go hence to a spectacle, to a show of gladiators, to a place of exercise
([Greek: chuston]), to a circus; then you come back hither, and again from this
place you go to those places, and still the same persons. And there is no pleasing
(good) habit, nor attention, nor care about self and observation of this kind. How
shall I use the appearances presented to me? according to nature, or contrary to
nature? how do I answer to them? as I ought, or as I ought not? Do I say to those
things which are independent of the will, that they do not concern me? For if you
are not yet in this state, fly from your former habits, fly from the common sort, if
you intend ever to begin to be something.
ON PROVIDENCE
When you make any charge against Providence, consider, and you will learn
that the thing has happened according to reason. Yes, but the unjust man has the
advantage. In what? In money. Yes, for he is superior to you in this, that he
flatters, is free from shame, and is watchful. What is the wonder? But see if he
has the advantage over you in being faithful, in being modest; for you will not
find it to be so; but wherein you are superior, there you will find that you have
the advantage. And I once said to a man who was vexed because Philostorgus
was fortunate: Would you choose to lie with Sura? May it never happen, he
replied, that this day should come? Why then are you vexed, if he receives
something in return for that which he sells; or how can you consider him happy
who acquires those things by such means as you abominate; or what wrong does
Providence, if he gives the better things to the better men? Is it not better to be
modest than to be rich? He admitted this. Why are you vexed then, man, when
you possess the better thing? Remember then always and have in readiness the
truth, that this is a law of nature, that the superior has an advantage over the
inferior in that in which he is superior; and you will never be vexed.
But my wife treats me badly. Well, if any man asks you what this is, say, my
wife treats me badly. Is there then nothing more? Nothing. My father gives me
nothing. (What is this? my father gives me nothing. Is there nothing else then?
Nothing); but to say that this is an evil is something which must be added to it
externally, and falsely added. For this reason we must not get rid of poverty, but
of the opinion about poverty, and then we shall be happy.
ABOUT CYNICISM
When one of his pupils inquired of Epictetus, and he was a person who
appeared to be inclined to Cynicism, what kind of person a Cynic ought to be,
and what was the notion ([Greek: prolaepsis]) of the thing, we will inquire, said
Epictetus, at leisure; but I have so much to say to you that he who without God
attempts so great a matter, is hateful to God, and has no other purpose than to act
indecently in public.
In the first place, in the things which relate to yourself, you must not be in any
respect like what you do now; you must not blame God or man; you must take
away desire altogether, you must transfer avoidance ([Greek: echchlisis]) only to
the things which are within the power of the will; you must not feel anger nor
resentment or envy nor pity; a girl must not appear handsome to you, nor must
you love a little reputation, nor be pleased with a boy or a cake. For you ought to
know that the rest of men throw walls around them and houses and darkness
when they do any such things, and they have many means of concealment. A
man shuts the door, he sets somebody before the chamber; if a person comes, say
that he is out, he is not at leisure. But the Cynic instead of all these things must
use modesty as his protection; if he does not, he will be indecent in his
nakedness and under the open sky. This is his house, his door; this is the slave
before his bedchamber; this is his darkness. For he ought not to wish to hide
anything that he does; and if he does, he is gone, he has lost the character of a
Cynic, of a man who lives under the open sky, of a free man; he has begun to
fear some external thing, he has begun to have need of concealment, nor can he
get concealment when he chooses. For where shall he hide himself and how?
And if by chance this public instructor shall be detected, this pædagogue, what
kind of things will he be compelled to suffer? when then a man fears these
things, is it possible for him to be bold with his whole soul to superintend men?
It cannot be: it is impossible.
In the first place then you must make your ruling faculty pure, and this mode
of life also. Now (you should say), to me the matter to work on is my
understanding, as wood is to the carpenter, as hides to the shoemaker; and my
business is the right use of appearances. But the body is nothing to me: the parts
of it are nothing to me. Death? Let it come when it chooses, either death of the
whole or of a part. Fly, you say. And whither; can any man eject me out of the
world? He cannot. But wherever I go, there is the sun, there is the moon, there
are the stars, dreams, omens, and the conversation ([Greek: omilia]) with gods.
Then, if he is thus prepared, the true Cynic cannot be satisfied with this; but
he must know that he is sent a messenger from Zeus to men about good and bad
things, to show them that they have wandered and are seeking the substance of
good and evil where it is not, but where it is, they never think; and that he is a
spy, as Diogenes was carried off to Philip after the battle of Chaeroneia as a spy.
For in fact a Cynic is a spy of the things which are good for men and which are
evil, and it is his duty to examine carefully and to come and report truly, and not
to be struck with terror so as to point out as enemies those who are not enemies,
nor in any other way to be perturbed by appearances nor confounded.
It is his duty then to be able with a loud voice, if the occasion should arise,
and appearing on the tragic stage to say like Socrates: Men, whither are you
hurrying, what are you doing, wretches? like blind people you are wandering up
and down; you are going by another road, and have left the true road; you seek
for prosperity and happiness where they are not, and if another shows you where
they are, you do not believe him. Why do you seek it without? In the body? It is
not there. If you doubt, look at Myro, look at Ophellius. In possessions? It is not
there. But if you do not believe me, look at Croesus: look at those who are now
rich, with what lamentations their life is filled. In power? It is not there. If it is,
those must be happy who have been twice and thrice consuls; but they are not.
Whom shall we believe in these matters? You who from without see their affairs
and are dazzled by an appearance, or the men themselves? What do they say?
Hear them when they groan, when they grieve, when on account of these very
consulships and glory and splendor they think that they are more wretched and
in greater danger. Is it in royal power? It is not: if it were, Nero would have been
happy, and Sardanapalus. But neither was Agamemnon happy, though he was a
better man than Sardanapalus and Nero; but while others are snoring, what is he
doing?
“Much from his head he tore his rooted hair.” Iliad, x., 15.
and what does he say himself?
"I am perplexed," he says, "and disturb'd I am," and "my heart out of my
bosom Is leaping."
Iliad, x., 91.
Wretch, which of your affairs goes badly? Your possessions? No. Your body?
No. But you are rich in gold and copper. What then is the matter with you? That
part of you, whatever it is, has been neglected by you and is corrupted, the part
with which we desire, with which we avoid, with which we move towards and
move from things. How neglected? He knows not the nature of good for which
he is made by nature and the nature of evil; and what is his own, and what
belongs to another; and when anything that belongs to others goes badly, he
says, Woe to me, for the Hellenes are in danger. Wretched is his ruling faculty,
and alone neglected and uncared for. The Hellenes are going to die destroyed by
the Trojans. And if the Trojans do not kill them, will they not die? Yes; but not
all at once. What difference then does it make? For if death is an evil, whether
men die altogether, or if they die singly, it is equally an evil. Is anything else
then going to happen than the separation of the soul and the body? Nothing. And
if the Hellenes perish, is the door closed, and is it not in your power to die? It is.
Why then do you lament (and say), Oh, you are a king and have the sceptre of
Zeus? An unhappy king does not exist more than an unhappy god. What then art
thou? In truth a shepherd: for you weep as shepherds do, when a wolf has carried
off one of their sheep: and these who are governed by you are sheep. And why
did you come hither? Was your desire in any danger? was your aversion
([Greek: echchlisis])? was your movement (pursuits)? was your avoidance of
things? He replies, No; but the wife of my brother was carried off. Was it not
then a great gain to be deprived of an adulterous wife? Shall we be despised then
by the Trojans? What kind of people are the Trojans, wise or foolish? If they are
wise, why do you fight with them? If they are fools, why do you care about
them?
Do you possess the body then free or is it in servile condition? We do not
know. Do you not know that it is the slave of fever, of gout, ophthalmia,
dysentery, of a tyrant, of fire, of iron, of everything which is stronger? Yes, it is
a slave. How then is it possible that anything which belongs to the body can be
free from hindrance? and how is a thing great or valuable which is naturally
dead, or earth, or mud? Well then, do you possess nothing which is free?
Perhaps nothing. And who is able to compel you to assent to that which appears
false? No man. And who can compel you not to assent to that which appears
true? No man. By this then you see that there is something in you naturally free.
But to desire or to be averse from, or to move towards an object or to move from
it, or to prepare yourself, or to propose to do anything, which of you can do this,
unless he has received an impression of the appearance of that which is
profitable or a duty? No man. You have then in these things also something
which is not hindered and is free. Wretched men, work out this, take care of this,
seek for good here.
THAT WE OUGHT NOT TO BE MOVED BY A DESIRE
OF THOSE THINGS WHICH ARE NOT IN OUR POWER
Let not that which in another is contrary to nature be an evil to you; for you
are not formed by nature to be depressed with others nor to be unhappy with
others, but to be happy with them. If a man is unhappy, remember that his
unhappiness is his own fault; for God has made all men to be happy, to be free
from perturbations. For this purpose he has given means to them, some things to
each person as his own, and other things not as his own; some things subject to
hindrance and compulsion and deprivation; and these things are not a man's own;
but the things which are not subject to hindrances, are his own; and the nature of
good and evil, as it was fit to be done by him who takes care of us and protects
us like a father, he has made our own. But you say, I have parted from a certain
person, and he is grieved. Why did he consider as his own that which belongs to
another? why, when he looked on you and was rejoiced, did he not also reckon
that you are a mortal, that it is natural for you to part from him for a foreign
country? Therefore he suffers the consequences of his own folly. But why do
you or for what purpose bewail yourself? Is it that you also have not thought of
these things? but like poor women who are good for nothing, you have enjoyed
all things in which you took pleasure, as if you would always enjoy them, both
places and men and conversation; and now you sit and weep because you do not
see the same persons and do not live in the same places. Indeed you deserve this,
to be more wretched than crows and ravens who have the power of flying where
they please and changing their nests for others, and crossing the seas without
lamenting or regretting their former condition. Yes, but this happens to them
because they are irrational creatures. Was reason then given to us by the gods for
the purpose of unhappiness and misery, that we may pass our lives in
wretchedness and lamentation? Must all persons be immortal and must no man
go abroad, and must we ourselves not go abroad, but remain rooted like plants;
and if any of our familiar friends goes abroad, must we sit and weep; and on the
contrary, when he returns, must we dance and clap our hands like children?
But my mother laments when she does not see me. Why has she not learned
these principles? and I do not say this, that we should not take care that she may
not lament, but I say that we ought not to desire in every way what is not our
own. And the sorrow of another is another's sorrow; but my sorrow is my own. I
then will stop my own sorrow by every means, for it is in my power; and the
sorrow of another I will endeavor to stop as far as I can; but I will not attempt to
do it by every means; for if I do, I shall be fighting against God, I shall be
opposing Zeus and shall be placing myself against him in the administration of
the universe; and the reward (the punishment) of this fighting against God and of
this disobedience not only will the children of my children pay, but I also shall
myself, both by day and by night, startled by dreams, perturbed, trembling at
every piece of news, and having my tranquillity depending on the letters of
others. Some person has arrived from Rome. I only hope there is no harm. But
what harm can happen to you, where you are not? From Hellas (Greece) some
one is come; I hope that there is no harm. In this way every place may be the
cause of misfortune to you. Is it not enough for you to be unfortunate there
where you are, and must you be so even beyond sea, and by the report of letters?
Is this the way in which your affairs are in a state of security? Well then suppose
that my friends have died in the places which are far from me. What else have
they suffered than that which is the condition of mortals? Or how are you
desirous at the same time to live to old age, and at the same time not to see the
death of any person whom you love? Know you not that in the course of a long
time many and various kinds of things must happen; that a fever shall overpower
one, a robber another, and a third a tyrant? Such is the condition of things around
us, such are those who live with us in the world; cold and heat, and unsuitable
ways of living, and journeys by land, and voyages by sea, and winds, and
various circumstances which surround us, destroy one man, and banish another,
and throw one upon an embassy and another into an army. Sit down then in a
flutter at all these things, lamenting, unhappy, unfortunate, dependent on
another, and dependent not on one or two, but on ten thousands upon ten
thousands.
Did you hear this when you were with the philosophers? did you learn this? do
you not know that human life is a warfare? that one man must keep watch,
another must go out as a spy, and a third must fight? and it is not possible that all
should be in one place, nor is it better that it should be so. But you neglecting to
do the commands of the general complain when anything more hard than usual
is imposed on you, and you do not observe what you make the army become as
far as it is in your power; that if all imitate you, no man will dig a trench, no man
will put a rampart round, nor keep watch, nor expose himself to danger, but will
appear to be useless for the purposes of an army. Again, in a vessel if you go as a
sailor, keep to one place and stick to it. And if you are ordered to climb the mast,
refuse; if to run to the head of the ship, refuse; and what master of a ship will
endure you? and will he not pitch you overboard as a useless thing, an
impediment only and bad example to the other sailors? And so it is here also:
every man's life is a kind of warfare, and it is long and diversified. You must
observe the duty of a soldier and do every thing at the nod of the general; if it is
possible, divining what his wishes are; for there is no resemblance between that
general and this, neither in strength nor in superiority of character. Know you
not that a good man does nothing for the sake of appearance, but for the sake of
doing right? What advantage is it then to him to have done right? And what
advantage is it to a man who writes the name of Dion to write it as he ought?
The advantage is to have written it. Is there no reward then? Do you seek a
reward for a good man greater than doing what is good and just? At Olympia
you wish for nothing more, but it seems to you enough to be crowned at the
games. Does it seem to you so small and worthless a thing to be good and
happy? For these purposes being introduced by the gods into this city (the
world), and it being now your duty to undertake the work of a man, do you still
want nurses also and a mamma, and do foolish women by their weeping move
you and make you effeminate? Will you thus never cease to be a foolish child?
know you not that he who does the acts of a child, the older he is, the more
ridiculous he is?
So in this matter also: if you kiss your own child, or your brother or friend,
never give full license to the appearance ([Greek: phantasian]), and allow not
your pleasure to go as far as it chooses; but check it, and curb it as those who
stand behind men in their triumphs and remind them that they are mortal. Do
you also remind yourself in like manner, that he whom you love is mortal, and
that what you love is nothing of your own; it has been given to you for the
present, not that it should not be taken from you, nor has it been given to you for
all time, but as a fig is given to you or a bunch of grapes at the appointed season
of the year. But if you wish for these things in winter, you are a fool. So if you
wish for your son or friend when it is not allowed to you, you must know that
you are wishing for a fig in winter. For such as winter is to a fig, such is every
event which happens from the universe to the things which are taken away
according to its nature. And further, at the times when you are delighted with a
thing, place before yourself the contrary appearances. What harm is it while you
are kissing your child to say with a lisping voice: Tomorrow you will die; and to
a friend also: Tomorrow you will go away or I shall, and never shall we see one
another again? But these are words of bad omen—and some incantations also are
of bad omen; but because they are useful, I don't care for this; only let them be
useful. But do you call things to be of bad omen except those which are
significant of some evil? Cowardice is a word of bad omen, and meanness of
spirit, and sorrow, and grief, and shamelessness. These words are of bad omen;
and yet we ought not to hesitate to utter them in order to protect ourselves
against the things. Do you tell me that a name which is significant of any natural
thing is of evil omen? say that even for the ears of corn to be reaped is of bad
omen, for it signifies the destruction of the ears, but not of the world. Say that
the falling of the leaves also is of bad omen, and for the dried fig to take the
place of the green fig, and for raisins to be made from the grapes. For all these
things are changes from a former state into other states; not a destruction, but a
certain fixed economy and administration. Such is going away from home and a
small change: such is death, a greater change, not from the state which now is to
that which is not, but to that which is not now. Shall I then no longer exist? You
will not exist, but you will be something else, of which the world now has need;
for you also came into existence not when you chose, but when the world had
need of you.
Let these thoughts be ready to hand by night and by day; these you should
write, these you should read; about these you should talk to yourself and to
others. Ask a man: Can you help me at all for this purpose? and further, go to
another and to another. Then if anything that is said be contrary to your wish,
this reflection first will immediately relieve you, that it is not unexpected. For it
is a great thing in all cases to say: I knew that I begot a son who is mortal. For so
you also will say: I knew that I am mortal, I knew that I may leave my home, I
knew that I may be ejected from it, I knew that I may be led to prison. Then if
you turn round and look to yourself, and seek the place from which comes that
which has happened, you will forthwith recollect that it comes from the place of
things which are out of the power of the will, and of things which are not my
own. What then is it to me? Then, you will ask, and this is the chief thing: And
who is it that sent it? The leader, or the general, the state, the law of the state.
Give it me then, for I must always obey the law in everything. Then, when the
appearance (of things) pains you, for it is not in your power to prevent this,
contend against it by the aid of reason, conquer it: do not allow it to gain
strength nor to lead you to the consequences by raising images such as it pleases
and as it pleases. If you be in Gyara, do not imagine the mode of living at Rome,
and how many pleasures there were for him who lived there and how many there
would be for him who returned to Rome; but fix your mind on this matter, how a
man who lives in Gyara ought to live in Gyara like a man of courage. And if you
be in Rome, do not imagine what the life in Athens is, but think only of the life
in Rome.
Then in the place of all other delights substitute this, that of being conscious
that you are obeying God, that not in word, but in deed you are performing the
acts of a wise and good man. For what a thing it is for a man to be able to say to
himself: Now whatever the rest may say in solemn manner in the schools and
may be judged to be saying in a way contrary to common opinion (or in a
strange way), this I am doing; and they are sitting and are discoursing of my
virtues and inquiring about me and praising me; and of this Zeus has willed that
I shall receive from myself a demonstration, and shall myself know if he has a
soldier such as he ought to have, a citizen such as he ought to have, and if he has
chosen to produce me to the rest of mankind as a witness of the things which are
independent of the will: See that you fear without reason, that you foolishly
desire what you do desire; seek not the good in things external; seek it in
yourselves: if you do not, you will not find it. For this purpose he leads me at
one time hither, at another time sends me thither, shows me to men as poor,
without authority, and sick; sends me to Gyara, leads me into prison, not because
he hates me—far from him be such a meaning, for who hates the best of his
servants? nor yet because he cares not for me, for he does not neglect any even
of the smallest things; but he does this for the purpose of exercising me and
making use of me as a witness to others. Being appointed to such a service, do I
still care about the place in which I am, or with whom I am, or what men say
about me? and do I not entirely direct my thoughts to God and to his instructions
and commands?
Having these things (or thoughts) always in hand, and exercising them by
yourself, and keeping them in readiness, you will never be in want of one to
comfort you and strengthen you. For it is not shameful to be without something
to eat, but not to have reason sufficient for keeping away fear and sorrow. But if
once you have gained exemption from sorrow and fear, will there any longer be
a tyrant for you, or a tyrant's guard, or attendants on Cæsar? Or shall any
appointment to offices at court cause you pain, or shall those who sacrifice in the
Capitol on the occasion of being named to certain functions, cause pain to you
who have received so great authority from Zeus? Only do not make a proud
display of it, nor boast of it; but show it by your acts; and if no man perceives it,
be satisfied that you are yourself in a healthy state and happy.
TO THOSE WHO FALL OFF (DESIST) FROM THEIR
PURPOSE
Consider as to the things which you proposed to yourself at first, which you
have secured, and which you have not; and how you are pleased when you recall
to memory the one, and are pained about the other; and if it is possible, recover
the things wherein you failed. For we must not shrink when we are engaged in
the greatest combat, but we must even take blows. For the combat before us is
not in wrestling and the Pancration, in which both the successful and the
unsuccessful may have the greatest merit, or may have little, and in truth may be
very fortunate or very unfortunate; but the combat is for good fortune and
happiness themselves. Well then, even if we have renounced the contest in this
matter (for good fortune and happiness), no man hinders us from renewing the
combat again, and we are not compelled to wait for another four years that the
games at Olympia may come again; but as soon as you have recovered and
restored yourself, and employ the same zeal, you may renew the combat again;
and if again you renounce it, you may again renew it; and if you once gain the
victory, you are like him who has never renounced the combat. Only do not
through a habit of doing the same thing (renouncing the combat), begin to do it
with pleasure, and then like a bad athlete go about after being conquered in all
the circuit of the games like quails who have run away.
TO THOSE WHO FEAR WANT
Are you not ashamed at being more cowardly and more mean than fugitive
slaves? How do they when they run away leave their masters? on what estates do
they depend, and what domestics do they rely on? Do they not after stealing a
little, which is enough for the first days, then afterwards move on through land
or through sea, contriving one method after another for maintaining their lives?
And what fugitive slave ever died of hunger? But you are afraid lest necessary
things should fail you, and are sleepless by night. Wretch, are you so blind, and
don't you see the road to which the want of necessaries leads?—Well, where
does it lead?—to the same place to which a fever leads, or a stone that falls on
you, to death. Have you not often said this yourself to your companions? have
you not read much of this kind, and written much? and how often have you
boasted that you were easy as to death?
Learn then first what are the things which are shameful, and then tell us that
you are a philosopher: but at present do not, even if any other man calls you so,
allow it.
Is that shameful to you which is not your own act, that of which you are not
the cause, that which has come to you by accident, as a headache, as a fever? If
your parents were poor, and left their property to others, and if while they live,
they do not help you at all, is this shameful to you? Is this what you learned with
the philosophers? Did you never hear that the thing which is shameful ought to
be blamed, and that which is blamable is worthy of blame? Whom do you blame
for an act which is not his own, which he did not do himself? Did you then make
your father such as he is, or is it in your power to improve him? Is this power
given to you? Well then, ought you to wish the things which are not given to
you, or to be ashamed if you do not obtain them? And have you also been
accustomed while you were studying philosophy to look to others and to hope
for nothing from yourself? Lament then and groan and eat with fear that you
may not have food tomorrow. Tremble about your poor slaves lest they steal, lest
they run away, lest they die. So live, and continue to live, you who in name only
have approached philosophy, and have disgraced its theorems as far as you can
by showing them to be useless and unprofitable to those who take them up; you,
who have never sought constancy, freedom from perturbation, and from
passions; you who have not sought any person for the sake of this object, but
many for the sake of syllogisms; you who have never thoroughly examined any
of these appearances by yourself, Am I able to bear, or am I not able to bear?
What remains for me to do? But as if all your affairs were well and secure, you
have been resting on the third topic, that of things being unchanged, in order that
you may possess unchanged—what? cowardice, mean spirit, the admiration of
the rich, desire without attaining any end, and avoidance ([Greek: echchlisin])
which fails in the attempt? About security in these things you have been anxious.
Ought you not to have gained something in addition from reason, and then to
have protected this with security? And whom did you ever see building a
battlement all around and encircling it with a wall? And what doorkeeper is
placed with no door to watch? But you practise in order to be able to prove—
what? You practise that you may not be tossed as on the sea through sophisms,
and tossed about from what? Show me first what you hold, what you measure, or
what you weigh; and show me the scales or the medimnus (the measure); or how
long will you go on measuring the dust? Ought you not to demonstrate those
things which make men happy, which make things go on for them in the way as
they wish, and why we ought to blame no man, accuse no man, and acquiesce in
the administration of the universe?
ABOUT FREEDOM
He is free who lives as he wishes to live; who is neither subject to compulsion
nor to hindrance, nor to force; whose movements to action ([Greek: hormai]) are
not impeded, whose desires attain their purpose, and who does not fall into that
which he would avoid ([Greek: echchliseis aperiptotoi]). Who then chooses to
live in error? No man. Who chooses to live deceived, liable to mistake, unjust,
unrestrained, discontented, mean? No man. Not one then of the bad lives as he
wishes; nor is he then free. And who chooses to live in sorrow, fear, envy, pity,
desiring and failing in his desires, attempting to avoid something and falling into
it? Not one. Do we then find any of the bad free from sorrow, free from fear,
who does not fall into that which he would avoid, and does not obtain that which
he wishes? Not one; nor then do we find any bad man free.
Further, then, answer me this question, also: does freedom seem to you to be
something great and noble and valuable? How should it not seem so? Is it
possible then when a man obtains anything so great and valuable and noble to be
mean? It is not possible. When then you see any man subject to another or
flattering him contrary to his own opinion, confidently affirm that this man also
is not free; and not only if he do this for a bit of supper, but also if he does it for
a government (province) or a consulship; and call these men little slaves who for
the sake of little matters do these things, and those who do so for the sake of
great things call great slaves, as they deserve to be. This is admitted also. Do you
think that freedom is a thing independent and self-governing? Certainly.
Whomsoever then it is in the power of another to hinder and compel, declare that
he is not free. And do not look, I entreat you, after his grandfathers and greatgrandfathers, or inquire about his being bought or sold, but if you hear him
saying from his heart and with feeling, "Master," even if the twelve fasces
precede him (as consul), call him a slave. And if you hear him say, "Wretch that
I am, how much I suffer," call him a slave. If, finally, you see him lamenting,
complaining, unhappy, call him a slave, though he wears a praetexta. If, then, he
is doing nothing of this kind do not yet say that he is free, but learn his opinions,
whether they are subject to compulsion, or may produce hindrance, or to bad
fortune, and if you find him such, call him a slave who has a holiday in the
Saturnalia; say that his master is from home; he will return soon, and you will
know what he suffers.
What then is that which makes a man free from hindrance and makes him his
own master? For wealth does not do it, nor consulship, nor provincial
government, nor royal power; but something else must be discovered. What then
is that which when we write makes us free from hindrance and unimpeded? The
knowledge of the art of writing. What then is it in playing the lute? The science
of playing the lute. Therefore in life also it is the science of life. You have then
heard in a general way; but examine the thing also in the several parts. Is it
possible that he who desires any of the things which depend on others can be
free from hindrance? No. Is it possible for him to be unimpeded? No. Therefore
he cannot be free. Consider then, whether we have nothing which is in our own
power only, or whether we have all things, or whether some things are in our
own power, and others in the power of others. What do you mean? When you
wish the body to be entire (sound) is it in your power or not? It is not in my
power. When you wish it to be healthy? Neither is this in my power. When you
wish it to be handsome? Nor is this. Life or death? Neither is this in my power.
Your body then is another's, subject to every man who is stronger than yourself.
It is. But your estate is it in your power to have it when you please, and as long
as you please, and such as you please? No. And your slaves? No. And your
clothes? No. And your house? No. And your horses? Not one of these things.
And if you wish by all means your children to live, or your wife, or your brother,
or your friends, is it in your power? This also is not in my power.
Whether then have you nothing which is in your own power, which depends
on yourself only and cannot be taken from you, or have you anything of the
kind? I know not. Look at the thing then thus, and examine it. Is any man able to
make you assent to that which is false? No man. In the matter of assent then you
are free from hindrance and obstruction. Granted. Well; and can a man force you
to desire to move towards that to which you do not choose? He can, for when he
threatens me with death or bonds he compels me to desire to move towards it. If
then you despise death and bonds, do you still pay any regard to him? No. Is
then the despising of death an act of your own or is it not yours? It is my act.
When you have made this preparation, and have practised this discipline, to
distinguish that which belongs to another from that which is your own, the things
which are subject to hindrance from those which are not, to consider the things
free from hindrance to concern yourself, and those which are not free not to
concern yourself, to keep your desire steadily fixed to the things which do
concern yourself, and turned from the things which do not concern yourself; do
you still fear any man? No one. For about what will you be afraid? About the
things which are your own, in which consists the nature of good and evil? and
who has power over these things? who can take them away? who can impede
them? No man can, no more than he can impede God. But will you be afraid
about your body and your possessions, about things which are not yours, about
things which in no way concern you? and what else have you been studying
from the beginning than to distinguish between your own and not your own, the
things which are in your power and not in your power, the things subject to
hindrance and not subject? and why have you come to the philosophers? was it
that you may nevertheless be unfortunate and unhappy? You will then in this
way, as I have supposed you to have done, be without fear and disturbance. And
what is grief to you? for fear comes from what you expect, but grief from that
which is present. But what further will you desire? For of the things which are
within the power of the will, as being good and present, you have a proper and
regulated desire; but of the things which are not in the power of the will you do
not desire any one, and so you do not allow any place to that which is irrational,
and impatient, and above measure hasty.
Then after receiving everything from another and even yourself, are you angry
and do you blame the giver if he takes anything from you? Who are you, and for
what purpose did you come into the world? Did not he (God) introduce you here,
did he not show you the light, did he not give you fellow-workers, and
perceptions and reason? and as whom did he introduce you here? did he not
introduce you as subject to death, and as one to live on the earth with a little
flesh, and to observe his administration, and to join with him in the spectacle and
the festival for a short time? Will you not then, as long as you have been
permitted, after seeing the spectacle and the solemnity, when he leads you out,
go with adoration of him and thanks for what you have heard and seen? No; but I
would still enjoy the feast. The initiated too would wish to be longer in the
initiation; and perhaps also those at Olympia to see other athletes. But the
solemnity is ended; go away like a grateful and modest man; make room for
others; others also must be born, as you were, and, being born, they must have a
place, and houses, and necessary things. And if the first do not retire, what
remains? Why are you insatiable? Why are you not content? why do you
contract the world? Yes, but I would have my little children with me and my
wife. What, are they yours? do they not belong to the giver, and to him who
made you? then will you not give up what belongs to others? will you not give
way to him who is superior? Why then did he introduce me into the world on
these conditions? And if the conditions do not suit you, depart. He has no need
of a spectator who is not satisfied. He wants those who join in the festival, those
who take part in the chorus, that they may rather applaud, admire, and celebrate
with hymns the solemnity. But those who can bear no trouble, and the cowardly,
he will not unwillingly see absent from the great assembly ([Greek: panaeguris])
for they did not when they were present behave as they ought to do at a festival
nor fill up their place properly, but they lamented, found fault with the deity,
fortune, their companions; not seeing both what they had, and their own powers,
which they received for contrary purposes, the powers of magnanimity, of a
generous mind, manly spirit, and what we are now inquiring about, freedom. For
what purpose then have I received these things? To use them. How long? So
long as he who has lent them chooses. What if they are necessary to me? Do not
attach yourself to them and they will not be necessary; do not say to yourself that
they are necessary, and then they are not necessary.
You then, a man may say, are you free? I wish, by the gods, and pray to be
free; but I am not yet able to face my masters, I still value my poor body, I value
greatly the preservation of it entire, though I do not possess it entire. But I can
point out to you a free man, that you may no longer seek an example. Diogenes
was free. How was he free? Not because he was born of free parents, but
because he was himself free, because he had cast off all the handles of slavery,
and it was not possible for any man to approach him, nor had any man the means
of laying hold of him to enslave him. He had everything easily loosed,
everything only hanging to him. If you laid hold of his property, he would have
rather let it go and be yours, than he would have followed you for it; if you had
laid hold of his leg, he would have let go his leg; if of all his body, all his poor
body; his intimates, friends, country, just the same. For he knew from whence he
had them, and from whom, and on what conditions. His true parents indeed, the
gods, and his real country he would never have deserted, nor would he have
yielded to any man in obedience to them and to their orders, nor would any man
have died for his country more readily. For he was not used to inquire when he
should be considered to have done anything on behalf of the whole of things (the
universe, or all the world), but he remembered that everything which is done
comes from thence and is done on behalf of that country and is commanded by
him who administers it. Therefore see what Diogenes himself says and writes:
"For this reason," he says, "Diogenes, it is in your power to speak both with the
King of the Persians and with Archidamus the King of the Lacedaemonians, as
you please." Was it because he was born of free parents? I suppose all the
Athenians and all the Lacedaemonians, because they were born of slaves, could
not talk with them (these kings) as they wished, but feared and paid court to
them. Why then does he say that it is in his power? Because I do not consider the
poor body to be my own, because I want nothing, because law is everything to
me, and nothing else is. These were the things which permitted him to be free.
Think of these things, these opinions, these words; look to these examples, if
you would be free, if you desire the thing according to its worth. And what is the
wonder if you buy so great a thing at the price of things so many and so great?
For the sake of this which is called liberty, some hang themselves, others throw
themselves down precipices, and sometimes even whole cities have perished;
and will you not for the sake of the true and unassailable and secure liberty give
back to God when he demands them the things which he has given? Will you
not, as Plato says, study not to die only, but also to endure torture, and exile, and
scourging, and, in a word, to give up all which is not your own? If you will not,
you will be a slave among slaves, even if you be ten thousand times a consul;
and if you make your way up to the palace (Caesar's residence), you will no less
be a slave; and you will feel that perhaps philosophers utter words which are
contrary to common opinion (paradoxes), as Cleanthes also said, but not words
contrary to reason. For you will know by experience that the words are true, and
that there is no profit from the things which are valued and eagerly sought to
those who have obtained them; and to those who have not yet obtained them
there is an imagination ([Greek: phantasia]), that when these things are come, all
that is good will come with them; then, when they are come, the feverish feeling
is the same, the tossing to and fro is the same, the satiety, the desire of things,
which are not present; for freedom is acquired not by the full possession of the
things which are desired, but by removing the desire. And that you may know
that this is true, as you have labored for those things, so transfer your labor to
these: be vigilant for the purpose of acquiring an opinion which will make you
free; pay court to a philosopher instead of to a rich old man; be seen about a
philosopher's doors; you will not disgrace yourself by being seen; you will not
go away empty nor without profit, if you go to the philosopher as you ought, and
if not (if you do not succeed), try at least; the trial (attempt) is not disgraceful.
ON FAMILIAR INTIMACY
To this matter before all you must attend, that you be never so closely
connected with any of your former intimates or friends as to come down to the
same acts as he does. If you do not observe this rule, you will ruin yourself. But
if the thought arises in your mind, "I shall seem disobliging to him and he will
not have the same feeling towards me," remember that nothing is done without
cost, nor is it possible for a man if he does not do the same things to be the same
man that he was. Choose then which of the two you will have, to be equally
loved by those by whom you were formerly loved, being the same with your
former self; or, being superior, not to obtain from your friends the same that you
did before.
WHAT THINGS WE SHOULD EXCHANGE FOR
OTHER THINGS
Keep this thought in readiness, when you lose anything external, what you
acquire in place of it; and if it be worth more, never say, I have had a loss;
neither if you have got a horse in place of an ass, or an ox in place of a sheep,
nor a good action in place of a bit of money, nor in place of idle talk such
tranquillity as befits a man, nor in place of lewd talk if you have acquired
modesty. If you remember this, you will always maintain your character such as
it ought to be. But if you do not, consider that the times of opportunity are
perishing, and that whatever pains you take about yourself, you are going to
waste them all and overturn them. And it needs only a few things for the loss and
overturning of all—namely, a small deviation from reason. For the steerer of a
ship to upset it, he has no need of the same means as he has need of for saving it;
but if he turns it a little to the wind, it is lost; and if he does not do this
purposely, but has been neglecting his duty a little, the ship is lost. Something of
the kind happens in this case also; if you only fall a nodding a little, all that you
have up to this time collected is gone. Attend therefore to the appearances of
things, and watch over them; for that which you have to preserve is no small
matter, but it is modesty and fidelity and constancy, freedom from the affects, a
state of mind undisturbed, freedom from fear, tranquillity, in a word liberty. For
what will you sell these things? See what is the value of the things which you
will obtain in exchange for these.—But shall I not obtain any such thing for it?
—See, and if you do in return get that, see what you receive in place of it. I
possess decency, he possesses a tribuneship: he possesses a prætorship, I possess
modesty. But I do not make acclamations where it is not becoming: I will not
stand up where I ought not; for I am free, and a friend of God. and so I obey him
willingly. But I must not claim (seek) anything else, neither body nor possession,
nor magistracy, nor good report, nor in fact anything. For he (God) does not
allow me to claim (seek) them, for if he had chosen, he would have made them
good for me; but he has not done so, and for this reason I cannot transgress his
commands. Preserve that which is your own good in everything; and as to every
other thing, as it is permitted, and so far as to behave consistently with reason in
respect to them, content with this only. If you do not, you will be unfortunate,
you will fail in all things, you will be hindered, you will be impeded. These are
the laws which have been sent from thence (from God); these are the orders. Of
these laws a man ought to be an expositor, to these he ought to submit, not to
those of Masurius and Cassius.
TO THOSE WHO ARE DESIROUS OF PASSING LIFE
IN TRANQUILLITY
Remember that not only the desire of power and of riches makes us mean and
subject to others, but even the desire of tranquillity, and of leisure, and of
travelling abroad, and of learning. For, to speak plainly, whatever the external
thing may be, the value which we set upon it places us in subjection to others.
What then is the difference between desiring to be a senator or not desiring to be
one; what is the difference between desiring power or being content with a
private station; what is the difference between saying, I am unhappy, I have
nothing to do, but I am bound to my books as a corpse; or saying, I am unhappy,
I have no leisure for reading? For as salutations and power are things external
and independent of the will, so is a book. For what purpose do you choose to
read? Tell me. For if you only direct your purpose to being amused or learning
something, you are a silly fellow and incapable of enduring labor. But if you
refer reading to the proper end, what else is this than a tranquil and happy life
([Greek: eusoia])? But if reading does not secure for you a happy and tranquil
life, what is the use of it? But it does secure this, the man replies, and for this
reason I am vexed that I am deprived of it.—And what is this tranquil and happy
life, which any man can impede, I do not say Caesar or Caesar's friend, but a
crow, a piper, a fever, and thirty thousand other things? But a tranquil and happy
life contains nothing so sure as continuity and freedom from obstacle. Now I am
called to do something: I will go then with the purpose of observing the
measures (rules) which I must keep, of acting with modesty, steadiness, without
desire and aversion to things external; and then that I may attend to men, what
they say, how they are moved; and this not with any bad disposition, or that I
may have something to blame or to ridicule; but I turn to myself, and ask if I also
commit the same faults. How then shall I cease to commit them? Formerly I also
acted wrong, but now I do not: thanks to God.
What then is the reason of this? The reason is that we have never read for this
purpose, we have never written for this purpose, so that we may in our actions
use in a way conformable to nature the appearances presented to us; but we
terminate in this, in learning what is said, and in being able to expound it to
another, in resolving a syllogism, and in handling the hypothetical syllogism. For
this reason where our study (purpose) is, there alone is the impediment. Would
you have by all means the things which are not in your power? Be prevented
then, be hindered, fail in your purpose. But if we read what is written about
action (efforts, [Greek: hormae]), not that we may see what is said about action,
but that we may act well; if we read what is said about desire and aversion
(avoiding things), in order that we may neither fail in our desires, nor fall into
that which we try to avoid; if we read what is said about duty (officium), in order
that remembering the relations (of things to one another) we may do nothing
irrationally nor contrary to these relations; we should not be vexed, in being
hindered as to our readings, but we should be satisfied with doing the acts which
are conformable (to the relations), and we should be reckoning not what so far
we have been accustomed to reckon: To-day I have read so many verses, I have
written so many; but (we should say), To-day I have employed my action as it is
taught by the philosophers; I have not employed my desire; I have used
avoidance ([Greek: echchlisei]) only with respect to things which are within the
power of my will; I have not been afraid of such a person, I have not been
prevailed upon by the entreaties of another; I have exercised my patience, my
abstinence, my cooperation with others; and so we should thank God for what
we ought to thank him.
There is only one way to happiness, and let this rule be ready both in the
morning and during the day and by night: the rule is not to look towards things
which are out of the power of our will, to think that nothing is our own, to give
up all things to the Divinity, to Fortune; to make them the superintendents of
these things, whom Zeus also has made so; for a man to observe that only which
is his own, that which cannot be hindered; and when we read, to refer our
reading to this only, and our writing and our listening. For this reason I cannot
call the man industrious, if I hear this only, that he reads and writes; and even if
a man adds that he reads all night, I cannot say so, if he knows not to what he
should refer his reading. For neither do you say that a man is industrious if he
keeps awake for a girl, nor do I. But if he does it (reads and writes) for
reputation, I say that he is a lover of reputation. And if he does it for money, I
say that he is a lover of money, not a lover of labor; and if he does it through
love of learning, I say that he is a lover of learning. But if he refers his labor to
his own ruling power that he may keep it in a state conformable to nature and
pass his life in that state, then only do I say that he is industrious. For never
commend a man on account of these things which are common to all, but on
account of his opinions (principles); for these are the things which belong to
each man, which make his actions bad or good. Remembering these rules,
rejoice in that which is present, and be content with the things which come in
season. If you see anything which you have learned and inquired about occurring
to you in your course of life (or opportunely applied by you to the acts of life),
be delighted at it. If you have laid aside or have lessened bad disposition and a
habit of reviling; if you have done so with rash temper, obscene words,
hastiness, sluggishness; if you are not moved by what you formerly were, and
not in the same way as you once were, you can celebrate a festival daily, to-day
because you have behaved well in one act, and tomorrow because you have
behaved well in another. How much greater is this a reason for making sacrifices
than a consulship or the government of a province? These things come to you
from yourself and from the gods. Remember this, who gives these things and to
whom, and for what purpose. If you cherish yourself in these thoughts, do you
still think that it makes any difference where you shall be happy, where you shall
please God? Are not the gods equally distant from all places? Do they not see
from all places alike that which is going on?
AGAINST THE QUARRELSOME AND FEROCIOUS
The wise and good man neither himself fights with any person, nor does he
allow another, so far as he can prevent it. And an example of this as well as of all
other things is proposed to us in the life of Socrates, who not only himself on all
occasions avoided fights (quarrels), but would not allow even others to quarrel.
See in Xenophon's Symposium how many quarrels he settled, how further he
endured Thrasymachus and Polus and Callicles; how he tolerated his wife, and
how he tolerated his son who attempted to confute him and to cavil with him.
For he remembered well that no man has in his power another man's ruling
principle. He wished therefore for nothing else than that which was his own.
And what is this? Not that this or that man may act according to nature, for that
is a thing which belongs to another; but that while others are doing their own
acts, as they choose, he may nevertheless be in a condition conformable to
nature and live in it, only doing what is his own to the end that others also may
be in a state conformable to nature. For this is the object always set before him
by the wise and good man. Is it to be commander (a praetor) of an army? No; but
if it is permitted him, his object is in this matter to maintain his own ruling
principle. Is it to marry? No; but if marriage is allowed to him, in this matter his
object is to maintain himself in a condition conformable to nature. But if he
would have his son not to do wrong or his wife, he would have what belongs to
another not to belong to another: and to be instructed is this, to learn what things
are a man's own and what belongs to another.
How then is there left any place for fighting (quarrelling) to a man who has
this opinion (which he ought to have)? Is he surprised at any thing which
happens, and does it appear new to him? Does he not expect that which comes
from the bad to be worse and more grievous than that what actually befalls him?
And does he not reckon as pure gain whatever they (the bad) may do which falls
short of extreme wickedness? Such a person has reviled you. Great thanks to him
for not having struck you. But he has struck me also. Great thanks that he did not
wound you. But he wounded me also. Great thanks that he did not kill you. For
when did he learn or in what school that man is a tame animal, that men love one
another, that an act of injustice is a great harm to him who does it. Since then he
has not learned this and is not convinced of it, why shall he not follow that
which seems to be for his own interest? Your neighbor has thrown stones. Have
you then done anything wrong? But the things in the house have been broken.
Are you then a utensil? No; but a free power of will. What then is given to you
(to do) in answer to this? If you are like a wolf, you must bite in return, and
throw more stones. But, if you consider what is proper for a man, examine your
storehouse, see with what faculties you came into the world. Have you the
disposition of a wild beast, have you the disposition of revenge for an injury?
When is a horse wretched? When he is deprived of his natural faculties, not
when he cannot crow like a cock, but when he cannot run. When is a dog
wretched? Not when he cannot fly, but when he cannot track his game. Is then a
man also unhappy in this way, not because he cannot strangle lions or embrace
statues, for he did not come into the world in the possession of certain powers
from nature for this purpose, but because he has lost his probity and his fidelity?
People ought to meet and lament such a man for the misfortunes into which he
has fallen; not indeed to lament because a man has been born or has died, but
because it has happened to him in his lifetime to have lost the things which are
his own, not that which he received from his father, not his land and house, and
his inn, and his slaves; for not one of these things is a man's own, but all belong
to others, are servile, and subject to account ([Greek: hupeithuna]), at different
times given to different persons by those who have them in their power: but I
mean the things which belong to him as a man, the marks (stamps) in his mind
with which he came into the world, such as we seek also on coins, and if we find
them we approve of the coins, and if we do not find the marks we reject them.
What is the stamp on this sestertius? The stamp of Trajan. Present it. It is the
stamp of Nero. Throw it away; it cannot be accepted, it is counterfeit. So also in
this case: What is the stamp of his opinions? It is gentleness, a sociable
disposition, a tolerant temper, a disposition to mutual affections. Produce these
qualities. I accept them: I consider this man a citizen, I accept him as a neighbor,
a companion in my voyages. Only see that he has not Nero's stamp. Is he
passionate, is he full of resentment, is he fault-finding? If the whim seizes him,
does he break the heads of those who come in his way? (If so), why then did you
say that he is a man? Is everything judged (determined) by the bare form? If that
is so, say that the form in wax is an apple and has the smell and the taste of an
apple. But the external figure is not enough: neither then is the nose enough and
the eyes to make the man, but he must have the opinions of a man. Here is a man
who does not listen to reason, who does not know when he is refuted: he is an
ass; in another man the sense of shame is become dead: he is good for nothing,
he is anything rather than a man. This man seeks whom he may meet and kick or
bite, so that he is not even a sheep or an ass, but a kind of wild beast.
What then? would you have me to be despised?—By whom? by those who
know you? and how shall those who know you despise a man who is gentle and
modest? Perhaps you mean by those who do not know you? What is that to you?
For no other artisan cares for the opinion of those who know not his art. But they
will be more hostile to me for this reason. Why do you say "me"? Can any man
injure your will, or prevent you from using in a natural way the appearances
which are presented to you? In no way can he. Why then are you still disturbed
and why do you choose to show yourself afraid? And why do you not come forth
and proclaim that you are at peace with all men whatever they may do, and laugh
at those chiefly who think that they can harm you? These slaves, you can say,
know not either who I am, nor where lies my good or my evil, because they have
no access to the things which are mine.
In this way also those who occupy a strong city mock the besiegers (and say):
What trouble these men are now taking for nothing; our wall is secure, we have
food for a very long time, and all other resources. These are the things which
make a city strong and impregnable; but nothing else than his opinions makes a
man's soul impregnable. For what wall is so strong, or what body is so hard, or
what possession is so safe, or what honor (rank, character) so free from assault
(as a man's opinions)? All (other) things everywhere are perishable, easily taken
by assault, and if any man in any way is attached to them, he must be disturbed,
except what is bad, he must fear, lament, find his desires disappointed, and fall
into things which he would avoid. Then do we not choose to make secure the
only means of safety which are offered to us, and do we not choose to withdraw
ourselves from that which is perishable and servile and to labor at the things
which are imperishable and by nature free; and do we not remember that no man
either hurts another or does good to another, but that a man's opinions about each
thing, is that which hurts him, is that which overturns him; this is fighting, this is
civil discord, this is war? That which made Eteocles and Polynices enemies was
nothing else than this opinion which they had about royal power, their opinion
about exile, that the one is the extreme of evils, the other the greatest good. Now
this is the nature of every man to seek the good, to avoid the bad; to consider
him who deprives us of the one and involves us in the other an enemy and
treacherous, even if he be a brother, or a son, or a father. For nothing is more
akin to us than the good; therefore, if these things (externals) are good and evil,
neither is a father a friend to sons, nor a brother to a brother, but all the world is
everywhere full of enemies, treacherous men, and sycophants. But if the will
([Greek: proairesis], the purpose, the intention) being what it ought to be, is the
only good; and if the will being such as it ought not to be, is the only evil, where
is there any strife, where is there reviling? about what? about the things which
do not concern us? and strife with whom? with the ignorant, the unhappy, with
those who are deceived about the chief things?
Remembering this Socrates managed his own house and endured a very illtempered wife and a foolish (ungrateful?) son.
AGAINST THOSE WHO LAMENT OVER BEING
PITIED
I am grieved, a man says, at being pitied. Whether then is the fact of your
being pitied a thing which concerns you or those who pity you? Well, is it in
your power to stop this pity? It is in my power, if I show them that I do not
require pity. And whether then are you in the condition of not deserving
(requiring) pity, or are you not in that condition? I think that I am not; but these
persons do not pity me, for the things for which, if they ought to pity me, it
would be proper, I mean, for my faults; but they pity me for my poverty, for not
possessing honorable offices, for diseases and deaths and other such things.
Whether then are you prepared to convince the many, that not one of these
things is an evil, but that it is possible for a man who is poor and has no office
([Greek: anarchonti)] and enjoys no honor to be happy; or to show yourself to
them as rich and in power? For the second of these things belong to a man who
is boastful, silly, and good for nothing. And consider by what means the pretence
must be supported. It will be necessary for you to hire slaves and to possess a
few silver vessels, and to exhibit them in public, if it is possible, though they are
often the same, and to attempt to conceal the fact that they are the same, and to
have splendid garments, and all other things for display, and to show that you are
a man honored by the great, and to try to sup at their houses, or to be supposed to
sup there, and as to your person to employ some mean arts, that you may appear
to be more handsome and nobler than you are. These things you must contrive, if
you choose to go by the second path in order not to be pitied. But the first way is
both impracticable and long, to attempt the very thing which Zeus has not been
able to do, to convince all men what things are good and bad. Is this power given
to you? This only is given to you, to convince yourself; and you have not
convinced yourself. Then I ask you, do you attempt to persuade other men? and
who has lived so long with you as you with yourself? and who has so much
power of convincing you as you have of convincing yourself; and who is better
disposed and nearer to you than you are to yourself? How then have you not yet
convinced yourself in order to learn? At present are not things upside down? Is
this what you have been earnest about doing, to learn to be free from grief and
free from disturbance, and not to be humbled (abject), and to be free? Have you
not heard then that there is only one way which leads to this end, to give up
(dismiss) the things which do not depend on the will, to withdraw from them,
and to admit that they belong to others? For another man then to have an opinion
about you, of what kind is it? It is a thing independent of the will—Then is it
nothing to you? It is nothing. When then you are still vexed at this and disturbed,
do you think that you are convinced about good and evil?
ON FREEDOM FROM FEAR
What makes the tyrant formidable? The guards, you say, and their swords, and
the men of the bedchamber, and those who exclude them who would enter. Why
then if you bring a boy (child) to the tyrant when he is with his guards, is he not
afraid; or is it because the child does not understand these things? If then any
man does understand what guards are and that they have swords, and comes to
the tyrant for this very purpose because he wishes to die on account of some
circumstance and seeks to die easily by the hand of another, is he afraid of the
guards? No, for he wishes for the thing which makes the guards formidable. If
then any man neither wishing to die nor to live by all means, but only as it may
be permitted, approaches the tyrant what hinders him from approaching the
tyrant without fear? Nothing. If then a man has the same opinion about his
property as the man whom I have instanced has about his body; and also about
his children and his wife, and in a word is so affected by some madness or
despair that he cares not whether he possesses them or not, but like children who
are playing with shells (quarrel) about the play, but do not trouble themselves
about the shells, so he too has set no value on the materials (things), but values
the pleasure that he has with them and the occupation, what tyrant is then
formidable to him, or what guards or what swords?
What hinders a man, who has clearly separated (comprehended) these things,
from living with a light heart and bearing easily the reins, quietly expecting
everything which can happen, and enduring that which has already happened?
Would you have me to bear poverty? Come and you will know what poverty is
when it has found one who can act well the part of a poor man. Would you have
me to possess power? Let me have power, and also the trouble of it. Well,
banishment? Wherever I shall go, there it will be well with me; for here also
where I am, it was not because of the place that it was well with me, but because
of my opinions which I shall carry off with me, for neither can any man deprive
me of them; but my opinions alone are mine and they cannot be taken from me,
and I am satisfied while I have them, wherever I may be and whatever I am
doing. But now it is time to die. Why do you say to die? Make no tragedy show
of the thing, but speak of it as it is. It is now time for the matter (of the body) to
be resolved into the things out of which it was composed. And what is the
formidable thing here? what is going to perish of the things which are in the
universe? what new thing or wondrous is going to happen? Is it for this reason
that a tyrant is formidable? Is it for this reason that the guards appear to have
swords which are large and sharp? Say this to others; but I have considered
about all these things; no man has power over me. I have been made free; I know
his commands, no man can now lead me as a slave. I have a proper person to
assert my freedom; I have proper judges. (I say) are you not the master of my
body? What then is that to me? Are you not the master of my property? What
then is that to me? Are you not the master of my exile or of my chains? Well,
from all these things and all the poor body itself I depart at your bidding, when
you please. Make trial of your power, and you will know how far it reaches.
Whom then can I still fear? Those who are over the bedchamber? Lest they
should do, what? Shut me out? If they find that I wish to enter, let them shut me
out. Why then do you go to the doors? Because I think it befits me, while the
play (sport) lasts, to join in it. How then are you not shut out? Because unless
some one allows me to go in, I do not choose to go in, but am always content
with that which happens; for I think that what God chooses is better than what I
choose. I will attach myself as a minister and follower to him; I have the same
movements (pursuits) as he has, I have the same desires; in a word, I have the
same will ([Greek: sunthelo]). There is no shutting out for me, but for those who
would force their way in. Why then do not I force my way in? Because I know
that nothing good is distributed within to those who enter. But when I hear any
man called fortunate because he is honored by Cæsar, I say what does he happen
to get? A province (the government of a province). Does he also obtain an
opinion such as he ought? The office of a Prefect. Does he also obtain the power
of using his office well? Why do I still strive to enter (Caesar's chamber)? A man
scatters dried figs and nuts: the children seize them, and fight with one another;
men do not, for they think them to be a small matter. But if a man should throw
about shells, even the children do not seize them. Provinces are distributed: let
children look to that. Money is distributed; let children look to that. Prætorships,
consulships, are distributed; let children scramble for them, let them be shut out,
beaten, kiss the hands of the giver, of the slaves: but to me these are only dried
figs and nuts. What then? If you fail to get them, while Cæsar is scattering them
about, do not be troubled; if a dried fig come into your lap, take it and eat it; for
so far you may value even a fig. But if I shall stoop down and turn another over,
or be turned over by another, and shall flatter those who have got into (Caesar's)
chamber, neither is a dried fig worth the trouble, nor anything else of the things
which are not good, which the philosophers have persuaded me not to think
good.
TO A PERSON WHO HAD BEEN CHANGED TO A
CHARACTER OF SHAMELESSNESS
When you see another man in the possession of power (magistracy), set
against this the fact that you have not the want (desire) of power; when you see
another rich, see what you possess in place of riches: for if you possess nothing
in place of them, you are miserable; but if you have not the want of riches, know
that you possess more than this man possesses and what is worth much more.
WHAT THINGS WE OUGHT TO DESPISE AND WHAT
THINGS WE OUGHT TO VALUE
The difficulties of all men are about external things, their helplessness is about
external. What shall I do? how will it be? how will it turn out? will this happen?
will that? All these are the words of those who are turning themselves to things
which are not within the power of the will. For who says, How shall I not assent
to that which is false? how shall I not turn away from the truth? If a man be of
such a good disposition as to be anxious about these things I will remind him of
this: Why are you anxious? The thing is in your own power, be assured; do not
be precipitate in assenting before you apply the natural rule. On the other side, if
a man is anxious (uneasy) about desire, lest it fail in its purpose and miss its end,
and with respect to the avoidance of things, lest he should fall into that which he
would avoid, I will first kiss (love) him, because he throws away the things
about which others are in a flutter (others desire) and their fears, and employs his
thoughts about his own affairs and his own condition. Then I shall say to him: If
you do not choose to desire that which you will fail to obtain nor to attempt to
avoid that into which you will fall, desire nothing which belongs to (which is in
the power of) others, nor try to avoid any of the things which are not in your
power. If you do not observe this rule, you must of necessity fail in your desires
and fall into that which you would avoid. What is the difficulty here? where is
there room for the words How will it be? and How will it turn out? and Will this
happen or that?
Now is not that which will happen independent of the will? Yes. And the
nature of good and of evil, is it not in the things which are within the power of
the will? Yes. Is it in your power then to treat according to nature everything
which happens? Can any person hinder you? No man. No longer then say to me,
How will it be? For, however it may be, you will dispose of it well, and the
result to you will be a fortunate one. What would Hercules have been if he said:
How shall a great lion not appear to me, or a great boar, or savage men? And
what do you care for that? If a great boar appear, you will fight a greater fight; if
bad men appear, you will relieve the earth of the bad. Suppose then that I lose
my life in this way. You will die a good man, doing a noble act. For since he
must certainly die, of necessity a man must be found doing something, either
following the employment of a husbandman, or digging, or trading, or serving in
a consulship, or suffering from indigestion or from diarrhoea. What then do you
wish to be doing when you are found by death? I, for my part, would wish to be
found doing something which belongs to a man, beneficent, suitable to the
general interest, noble. But if I cannot be found doing things so great, I would be
found doing at least that which I cannot be hindered from doing, that which is
permitted me to do, correcting myself, cultivating the faculty which makes use
of appearances, laboring at freedom from the affects (laboring at tranquillity of
mind); rendering to the relations of life their due. If I succeed so far, also (I
would be found) touching on (advancing to) the third topic (or head) safety in
forming judgments about things. If death surprises me when I am busy about
these things, it is enough for me if I can stretch out my hands to God and say:
The means which I have received from thee for seeing thy administration (of the
world) and following it I have not neglected; I have not dishonored thee by my
acts; see how I have used my perceptions, see how I have used my
preconceptions; have I ever blamed thee? have I been discontented with
anything that happens, or wished it to be otherwise? have I wished to transgress
the (established) relations (of things)? That thou hast given me life, I thank thee
for what thou hast given. So long as I have used the things which are thine I am
content. Take them back and place them wherever thou mayest choose, for thine
were all things, thou gavest them to me. Is it not enough to depart in this state of
mind? and what life is better and more becoming than that of a man who is in
this state of mind? and what end is more happy?
ABOUT PURITY (CLEANLINESS)
Some persons raise a question whether the social feeling is contained in the
nature of man; and yet I think that these same persons would have no doubt that
love of purity is certainly contained in it, and that if man is distinguished from
other animals by anything, he is distinguished by this. When then we see any
other animal cleaning itself, we are accustomed to speak of the act with surprise,
and to add that the animal is acting like a man; and on the other hand, if a man
blames an animal for being dirty, straightway, as if we were making an excuse
for it, we say that of course the animal is not a human creature. So we suppose
that there is something superior in man, and that we first receive it from the
gods. For since the gods by their nature are pure and free from corruption, so far
as men approach them by reason, so far do they cling to purity and to a love
(habit) of purity. But since it is impossible that man's nature ([Greek: ousia]) can
be altogether pure, being mixed (composed) of such materials, reason is applied,
as far as it is possible, and reason endeavors to make human nature love purity.
The first then and highest purity is that which is in the soul; and we say the
same of impurity. Now you could not discover the impurity of the soul as you
could discover that of the body; but as to the soul, what else could you find in it
than that which makes it filthy in respect to the acts which are her own? Now the
acts of the soul are movement towards an object or movement from it, desire,
aversion, preparation, design (purpose), assent. What then is it which in these
acts makes the soul filthy and impure? Nothing else than her own bad judgments
([Greek: chrimata]). Consequently the impurity of the soul is the soul's bad
opinions; and the purification of the soul is the planting in it of proper opinions;
and the soul is pure which has proper opinions, for the soul alone in her own acts
is free from perturbation and pollution.
For we ought not even by the appearance of the body to deter the multitude
from philosophy; but as in other things, a philosopher should show himself
cheerful and tranquil, so also he should in the things that relate to the body. See,
ye men, that I have nothing, that I want nothing; see how I am without a house,
and without a city, and an exile, if it happens to be so, and without a hearth I live
more free from trouble and more happily than all of noble birth and than the rich.
But look at my poor body also and observe that it is not injured by my hard way
of living. But if a man says this to me, who has the appearance (dress) and face
of a condemned man, what god shall persuade me to approach philosophy, if it
makes men such persons? Far from it; I would not choose to do so, even if I
were going to become a wise man. I indeed would rather that a young man, who
is making his first movements towards philosophy, should come to me with his
hair carefully trimmed than with it dirty and rough, for there is seen in him a
certain notion (appearance) of beauty and a desire of (attempt at) that which is
becoming; and where he supposes it to be, there also he strives that it shall be. It
is only necessary to show him (what it is), and to say: Young man, you seek
beauty, and you do well; you must know then that it (is produced) grows in that
part of you where you have the rational faculty; seek it there where you have the
movements towards and movements from things, where you have the desires
towards and the aversion from things; for this is what you have in yourself of a
superior kind; but the poor body is naturally only earth; why do you labor about
it to no purpose? if you shall learn nothing else, you will learn from time that the
body is nothing. But if a man comes to me daubed with filth, dirty, with a
moustache down to his knees, what can I say to him, by what kind of
resemblance can I lead him on? For about what has he busied himself which
resembles beauty, that I may be able to change him and say, Beauty is not in
this, but in that? Would you have me to tell him, that beauty consists not in being
daubed with muck, but that it lies in the rational part? Has he any desire of
beauty? has he any form of it in his mind? Go and talk to a hog, and tell him not
to roll in the mud.
ON ATTENTION
When you have remitted your attention for a short time, do not imagine this,
that you will recover it when you choose; but let this thought be present to you,
that in consequence of the fault committed today your affairs must be in a worse
condition for all that follows. For first, and what causes most trouble, a habit of
not attending is formed in you; then a habit of deferring your attention. And
continually from time to time you drive away by deferring it the happiness of
life, proper behavior, the being and living conformably to nature. If then the
procrastination of attention is profitable, the complete omission of attention is
more profitable; but if it is not profitable, why do you not maintain your
attention constant? Today I choose to play. Well then, ought you not to play with
attention? I choose to sing. What then hinders you from doing so with attention?
Is there any part of life excepted, to which attention does not extend? For will
you do it (anything in life) worse by using attention, and better by not attending
at all? And what else of the things in life is done better by those who do not use
attention? Does he who works in wood work better by not attending to it? Does
the captain of a ship manage it better by not attending? and are any of the
smaller acts done better by inattention? Do you not see that when you have let
your mind loose, it is no longer in your power to recall it, either to propriety, or
to modesty, or to moderation; but you do everything that comes into your mind
in obedience to your inclinations.
First then we ought to have these (rules) in readiness, and to do nothing
without them, and we ought to keep the soul directed to this mark, to pursue
nothing external, and nothing which belongs to others (or is in the power of
others), but to do as he has appointed who has the power; we ought to pursue
altogether the things which are in the power of the will, and all other things as it
is permitted. Next to this we ought to remember who we are, and what is our
name, and to endeavor to direct our duties towards the character (nature) of our
several relations (in life) in this manner: what is the season for singing, what is
the season for play, and in whose presence; what will be the consequence of the
act; whether our associates will despise us, whether we shall despise them; when
to jeer ([Greek: schopsai]), and whom to ridicule; and on what occasion to
comply and with whom; and finally, in complying how to maintain our own
character. But wherever you have deviated from any of these rules, there is
damage immediately, not from anything external, but from the action itself.
What then? is it possible to be free from faults (if you do all this)? It is not
possible; but this is possible, to direct your efforts incessantly to being faultless.
For we must be content if by never remitting this attention we shall escape at
least a few errors. But now when you have said, Tomorrow I will begin to
attend, you must be told that you are saying this, Today I will be shameless,
disregardful of time and place, mean; it will be in the power of others to give me
pain; today I will be passionate and envious. See how many evil things you are
permitting yourself to do. If it is good to use attention tomorrow, how much
better is it to do so today? if tomorrow it is in your interest to attend, much more
is it today, that you may be able to do so tomorrow also, and may not defer it
again to the third day.
AGAINST OR TO THOSE WHO READILY TELL
THEIR OWN AFFAIRS
When a man has seemed to us to have talked with simplicity (candor) about
his own affairs, how is it that at last we are ourselves also induced to discover to
him our own secrets and we think this to be candid behavior? In the first place,
because it seems unfair for a man to have listened to the affairs of his neighbor,
and not to communicate to him also in turn our own affairs; next, because we
think that we shall not present to them the appearance of candid men when we
are silent about our own affairs. Indeed, men are often accustomed to say, I have
told you all my affairs, will you tell me nothing of your own? where is this
done? Besides, we have also this opinion that we can safely trust him who has
already told us his own affairs; for the notion rises in our mind that this man
could never divulge our affairs because he would be cautious that we also should
not divulge his. In this way also the incautious are caught by the soldiers at
Rome. A soldier sits by you in a common dress and begins to speak ill of Caesar;
then you, as if you had received a pledge of his fidelity by his having begun the
abuse, utter yourself also what you think, and then you are carried off in chains.
Something of this kind happens to us also generally. Now as this man has
confidently intrusted his affairs to me, shall I also do so to any man whom I
meet? (No), for when I have heard, I keep silence, if I am of such a disposition;
but he goes forth and tells all men what he has heard. Then, if I hear what has
been done, if I be a man like him, I resolve to be revenged, I divulge what he has
told me; I both disturb others, and am disturbed myself. But if I remember that
one man does not injure another, and that every man's acts injure and profit him,
I secure this, that I do not anything like him, but still I suffer what I do suffer
through my own silly talk.
True, but it is unfair when you have heard the secrets of your neighbor for you
in your turn to communicate nothing to him. Did I ask you for your secrets, my
man? did you communicate your affairs on certain terms, that you should in
return hear mine also? If you are a babbler and think that all who meet you are
friends, do you wish me also to be like you? But why, if you did well in
intrusting your affairs to me, and it is not well for me to intrust mine to you, do
you wish me to be so rash? It is just the same as if I had a cask which is watertight, and you one with a hole in it, and you should come and deposit with me
your wine that I might put it into my cask, and then should complain that I also
did not intrust my wine to you, for you have a cask with a hole in it. How then is
there any equality here? You intrusted your affairs to a man who is faithful and
modest, to a man who thinks that his own actions alone are injurious and (or)
useful, and that nothing external is. Would you have me intrust mine to you, a
man who has dishonored his own faculty of will, and who wishes to gain some
small bit of money or some office or promotion in the court (emperor's palace),
even if you should be going to murder your own children, like Medea? Where
(in what) is this equality (fairness)? But show yourself to me to be faithful,
modest, and steady; show me that you have friendly opinions; show that your
cask has no hole in it; and you will see how I shall not wait for you to trust me
with your own affairs, but I myself shall come to you and ask you to hear mine.
For who does not choose to make use of a good vessel? Who does not value a
benevolent and faithful adviser? Who will not willingly receive a man who is
ready to bear a share, as we may say, of the difficulty of his circumstances, and
by this very act to ease the burden, by taking a part of it.
END OF THE DISCOURSES
LETTERS FROM A STOIC
Epistulae Morales AD Lucilium
All Three Volumes
By Lucius Annaeus Seneca
Translated by Richard Mott Gummere
Letter I - On Saving Time
Greetings from Seneca to his friend Lucilius.
Continue to act thus, my dear Lucilius – set yourself free for your own sake;
gather and save your time, which till lately has been forced from you, or filched
away, or has merely slipped from your hands. Make yourself believe the truth of
my words, – that certain moments are torn from us, that some are gently
removed, and that others glide beyond our reach. The most disgraceful kind of
loss, however, is that due to carelessness. Furthermore, if you will pay close
heed to the problem, you will find that the largest portion of our life passes while
we are doing ill, a goodly share while we are doing nothing, and the whole while
we are doing that which is not to the purpose. What man can you show me who
places any value on his time, who reckons the worth of each day, who
understands that he is dying daily? For we are mistaken when we look forward
to death; the major portion of death has already passed. Whatever years be
behind us are in death's hands.
Therefore, Lucilius, do as you write me that you are doing: hold every hour in
your grasp. Lay hold of to-day's task, and you will not need to depend so much
upon tomorrow's. While we are postponing, life speeds by. Nothing, Lucilius, is
ours, except time. We were entrusted by nature with the ownership of this single
thing, so fleeting and slippery that anyone who will can oust us from possession.
What fools these mortals be! They allow the cheapest and most useless things,
which can easily be replaced, to be charged in the reckoning, after they have
acquired them; but they never regard themselves as in debt when they have
received some of that precious commodity, – time! And yet time is the one loan
which even a grateful recipient cannot repay.
You may desire to know how I, who preach to you so freely, am practising. I
confess frankly: my expense account balances, as you would expect from one
who is free-handed but careful. I cannot boast that I waste nothing, but I can at
least tell you what I am wasting, and the cause and manner of the loss; I can give
you the reasons why I am a poor man. My situation, however, is the same as that
of many who are reduced to slender means through no fault of their own: every
one forgives them, but no one comes to their rescue.
What is the state of things, then? It is this: I do not regard a man as poor, if the
little which remains is enough for him. I advise you, however, to keep what is
really yours; and you cannot begin too early. For, as our ancestors believed, it is
too late to spare when you reach the dregs of the cask. Of that which remains at
the bottom, the amount is slight, and the quality is vile. Farewell.
Letter II - On Discursiveness in Reading
Judging by what you write me, and by what I hear, I am forming a good
opinion regarding your future. You do not run hither and thither and distract
yourself by changing your abode; for such restlessness is the sign of a disordered
spirit. The primary indication, to my thinking, of a well-ordered mind is a man's
ability to remain in one place and linger in his own company. Be careful,
however, lest this reading of many authors and books of every sort may tend to
make you discursive and unsteady. You must linger among a limited number of
master thinkers, and digest their works, if you would derive ideas which shall
win firm hold in your mind. Everywhere means nowhere. When a person spends
all his time in foreign travel, he ends by having many acquaintances, but no
friends. And the same thing must hold true of men who seek intimate
acquaintance with no single author, but visit them all in a hasty and hurried
manner. Food does no good and is not assimilated into the body if it leaves the
stomach as soon as it is eaten; nothing hinders a cure so much as frequent
change of medicine; no wound will heal when one salve is tried after another; a
plant which is often moved can never grow strong. There is nothing so
efficacious that it can be helpful while it is being shifted about. And in reading
of many books is distraction.
Accordingly, since you cannot read all the books which you may possess, it is
enough to possess only as many books as you can read. "But," you reply, "I wish
to dip first into one book and then into another." I tell you that it is the sign of an
overnice appetite to toy with many dishes; for when they are manifold and
varied, they cloy but do not nourish. So you should always read standard
authors; and when you crave a change, fall back upon those whom you read
before. Each day acquire something that will fortify you against poverty, against
death, indeed against other misfortunes as well; and after you have run over
many thoughts, select one to be thoroughly digested that day. This is my own
custom; from the many things which I have read, I claim some one part for
myself.
The thought for today is one which I discovered in Epicurus; for I am wont to
cross over even into the enemy's camp, – not as a deserter, but as a scout. He
says: "Contented poverty is an honourable estate." Indeed, if it be contented, it is
not poverty at all. It is not the man who has too little, but the man who craves
more, that is poor. What does it matter how much a man has laid up in his safe,
or in his warehouse, how large are his flocks and how fat his dividends, if he
covets his neighbour's property, and reckons, not his past gains, but his hopes of
gains to come? Do you ask what is the proper limit to wealth? It is, first, to have
what is necessary, and, second, to have what is enough. Farewell.
Letter III - On True and False Friendship
You have sent a letter to me through the hand of a "friend" of yours, as you
call him. And in your very next sentence you warn me not to discuss with him
all the matters that concern you, saying that even you yourself are not
accustomed to do this; in other words, you have in the same letter affirmed and
denied that he is your friend. Now if you used this word of ours in the popular
sense, and called him "friend" in the same way in which we speak of all
candidates for election as "honourable gentlemen," and as we greet all men
whom we meet casually, if their names slip us for the moment, with the
salutation "my dear sir," – so be it. But if you consider any man a friend whom
you do not trust as you trust yourself, you are mightily mistaken and you do not
sufficiently understand what true friendship means. Indeed, I would have you
discuss everything with a friend; but first of all discuss the man himself. When
friendship is settled, you must trust; before friendship is formed, you must pass
judgment. Those persons indeed put last first and confound their duties, who,
violating the rules of Theophrastus, judge a man after they have made him their
friend, instead of making him their friend after they have judged him. Ponder for
a long time whether you shall admit a given person to your friendship; but when
you have decided to admit him, welcome him with all your heart and soul. Speak
as boldly with him as with yourself. As to yourself, although you should live in
such a way that you trust your own self with nothing which you could not entrust
even to your enemy, yet, since certain matters occur which convention keeps
secret, you should share with a friend at least all your worries and reflections.
Regard him as loyal, and you will make him loyal. Some, for example, fearing to
be deceived, have taught men to deceive; by their suspicions they have given
their friend the right to do wrong. Why need I keep back any words in the
presence of my friend? Why should I not regard myself as alone when in his
company?
There is a class of men who communicate, to anyone whom they meet,
matters which should be revealed to friends alone, and unload upon the chance
listener whatever irks them. Others, again, fear to confide in their closest
intimates; and if it were possible, they would not trust even themselves, burying
their secrets deep in their hearts. But we should do neither. It is equally faulty to
trust everyone and to trust no one. Yet the former fault is, I should say, the more
ingenuous, the latter the more safe. In like manner you should rebuke these two
kinds of men, – both those who always lack repose, and those who are always in
repose. For love of bustle is not industry, – it is only the restlessness of a hunted
mind. And true repose does not consist in condemning all motion as merely
vexation; that kind of repose is slackness and inertia. Therefore, you should note
the following saying, taken from my reading in Pomponius: "Some men shrink
into dark corners, to such a degree that they see darkly by day." No, men should
combine these tendencies, and he who reposes should act and he who acts should
take repose. Discuss the problem with Nature; she will tell you that she has
created both day and night. Farewell.
Letter IV - On the Terrors of Death
Keep on as you have begun, and make all possible haste, so that you may have
longer enjoyment of an improved mind, one that is at peace with itself.
Doubtless you will derive enjoyment during the time when you are improving
your mind and setting it at peace with itself; but quite different is the pleasure
which comes from contemplation when one's mind is so cleansed from every
stain that it shines. You remember, of course, what joy you felt when you laid
aside the garments of boyhood and donned the man's toga, and were escorted to
the forum; nevertheless, you may look for a still greater joy when you have laid
aside the mind of boyhood and when wisdom has enrolled you among men. For
it is not boyhood that still stays with us, but something worse, – boyishness. And
this condition is all the more serious because we possess the authority of old age,
together with the follies of boyhood, yea, even the follies of infancy. Boys fear
trifles, children fear shadows, we fear both.
All you need to do is to advance; you will thus understand that some things
are less to be dreaded, precisely because they inspire us with great fear. No evil
is great which is the last evil of all. Death arrives; it would be a thing to dread, if
it could remain with you. But death must either not come at all, or else must
come and pass away.
"It is difficult, however," you say, "to bring the mind to a point where it can
scorn life." But do you not see what trifling reasons impel men to scorn life? One
hangs himself before the door of his mistress; another hurls himself from the
house-top that he may no longer be compelled to bear the taunts of a badtempered master; a third, to be saved from arrest after running away, drives a
sword into his vitals. Do you not suppose that virtue will be as efficacious as
excessive fear? No man can have a peaceful life who thinks too much about
lengthening it, or believes that living through many consulships is a great
blessing. Rehearse this thought every day, that you may be able to depart from
life contentedly; for many men clutch and cling to life, even as those who are
carried down a rushing stream clutch and cling to briars and sharp rocks.
Most men ebb and flow in wretchedness between the fear of death and the
hardships of life; they are unwilling to live, and yet they do not know how to die.
For this reason, make life as a whole agreeable to yourself by banishing all
worry about it. No good thing renders its possessor happy, unless his mind is
reconciled to the possibility of loss; nothing, however, is lost with less
discomfort than that which, when lost, cannot be missed. Therefore, encourage
and toughen your spirit against the mishaps that afflict even the most powerful.
For example, the fate of Pompey was settled by a boy and a eunuch, that of
Crassus by a cruel and insolent Parthian. Gaius Caesar ordered Lepidus to bare
his neck for the axe of the tribune Dexter; and he himself offered his own throat
to Chaerea. No man has ever been so far advanced by Fortune that she did not
threaten him as greatly as she had previously indulged him. Do not trust her
seeming calm; in a moment the sea is moved to its depths. The very day the
ships have made a brave show in the games, they are engulfed. Reflect that a
highwayman or an enemy may cut your throat; and, though he is not your
master, every slave wields the power of life and death over you. Therefore I
declare to you: he is lord of your life that scorns his own. Think of those who
have perished through plots in their own home, slain either openly or by guile;
you will that just as many have been killed by angry slaves as by angry kings.
What matter, therefore, how powerful he be whom you fear, when every one
possesses the power which inspires your fear? "But," you will say, "if you
should chance to fall into the hands of the enemy, the conqueror will command
that you be led away," – yes, whither you are already being led. Why do you
voluntarily deceive yourself and require to be told now for the first time what
fate it is that you have long been labouring under? Take my word for it: since the
day you were born you are being led thither. We must ponder this thought, and
thoughts of the like nature, if we desire to be calm as we await that last hour, the
fear of which makes all previous hours uneasy.
But I must end my letter. Let me share with you the saying which pleased me
to-day. It, too, is culled from another man's Garden: "Poverty brought into
conformity with the law of nature, is great wealth." Do you know what limits
that law of nature ordains for us? Merely to avert hunger, thirst, and cold. In
order to banish hunger and thirst, it is not necessary for you to pay court at the
doors of the purse-proud, or to submit to the stern frown, or to the kindness that
humiliates; nor is it necessary for you to scour the seas, or go campaigning;
nature's needs are easily provided and ready to hand. It is the superfluous things
for which men sweat, – the superfluous things that wear our togas threadbare,
that force us to grow old in camp, that dash us upon foreign shores. That which
is enough is ready to our hands. He who has made a fair compact with poverty is
rich. Farewell.
Letter V - On the Philosopher's Mean
I commend you and rejoice in the fact that you are persistent in your studies,
and that, putting all else aside, you make it each day your endeavour to become a
better man. I do not merely exhort you to keep at it; I actually beg you to do so. I
warn you, however, not to act after the fashion of those who desire to be
conspicuous rather than to improve, by doing things which will rouse comment
as regards your dress or general way of living. Repellent attire, unkempt hair,
slovenly beard, open scorn of silver dishes, a couch on the bare earth, and any
other perverted forms of self-display, are to be avoided. The mere name of
philosophy, however quietly pursued, is an object of sufficient scorn; and what
would happen if we should begin to separate ourselves from the customs of our
fellow-men? Inwardly, we ought to be different in all respects, but our exterior
should conform to society. Do not wear too fine, nor yet too frowzy, a toga. One
needs no silver plate, encrusted and embossed in solid gold; but we should not
believe the lack of silver and gold to be proof of the simple life. Let us try to
maintain a higher standard of life than that of the multitude, but not a contrary
standard; otherwise, we shall frighten away and repel the very persons whom we
are trying to improve. We also bring it about that they are unwilling to imitate us
in anything, because they are afraid lest they might be compelled to imitate us in
everything.
The first thing which philosophy undertakes to give is fellow-feeling with all
men; in other words, sympathy and sociability. We part company with our
promise if we are unlike other men. We must see to it that the means by which
we wish to draw admiration be not absurd and odious. Our motto, as you know,
is "Live according to Nature"; but it is quite contrary to nature to torture the
body, to hate unlaboured elegance, to be dirty on purpose, to eat food that is not
only plain, but disgusting and forbidding. Just as it is a sign of luxury to seek out
dainties, so it is madness to avoid that which is customary and can be purchased
at no great price. Philosophy calls for plain living, but not for penance; and we
may perfectly well be plain and neat at the same time. This is the mean of which
I approve; our life should observe a happy medium between the ways of a sage
and the ways of the world at large; all men should admire it, but they should
understand it also.
"Well then, shall we act like other men? Shall there be no distinction between
ourselves and the world?" Yes, a very great one; let men find that we are unlike
the common herd, if they look closely. If they visit us at home, they should
admire us, rather than our household appointments. He is a great man who uses
earthenware dishes as if they were silver; but he is equally great who uses silver
as if it were earthenware. It is the sign of an unstable mind not to be able to
endure riches.
But I wish to share with you to-day's profit also. I find in the writings of our
Hecato that the limiting of desires helps also to cure fears: "Cease to hope," he
says, "and you will cease to fear." "But how," you will reply, "can things so
different go side by side?" In this way, my dear Lucilius: though they do seem at
variance, yet they are really united. Just as the same chain fastens the prisoner
and the soldier who guards him, so hope and fear, dissimilar as they are, keep
step together; fear follows hope. I am not surprised that they proceed in this way;
each alike belongs to a mind that is in suspense, a mind that is fretted by looking
forward to the future. But the chief cause of both these ills is that we do not
adapt ourselves to the present, but send our thoughts a long way ahead. And so
foresight, the noblest blessing of the human race, becomes perverted. Beasts
avoid the dangers which they see, and when they have escaped them are free
from care; but we men torment ourselves over that which is to come as well as
over that which is past. Many of our blessings bring bane to us; for memory
recalls the tortures of fear, while foresight anticipates them. The present alone
can make no man wretched. Farewell.
Letter VI - On Sharing Knowledge
I feel, my dear Lucilius, that I am being not only reformed, but transformed. I
do not yet, however, assure myself, or indulge the hope, that there are no
elements left in me which need to be changed. Of course there are many that
should be made more compact, or made thinner, or be brought into greater
prominence. And indeed this very fact is proof that my spirit is altered into
something better, – that it can see its own faults, of which it was previously
ignorant. In certain cases sick men are congratulated because they themselves
have perceived that they are sick.
I therefore wish to impart to you this sudden change in myself; I should then
begin to place a surer trust in our friendship, – the true friendship which hope
and fear and self-interest cannot sever, the friendship in which and for the sake
of which men meet death.
I can show you many who have lacked, not a friend, but a friendship; this,
however, cannot possibly happen when souls are drawn together by identical
inclinations into an alliance of honourable desires. And why can it not happen?
Because in such cases men know that they have all things in common, especially
their troubles.
You cannot conceive what distinct progress I notice that each day brings to
me. And when you say: "Give me also a share in these gifts which you have
found so helpful," I reply that I am anxious to heap all these privileges upon you,
and that I am glad to learn in order that I may teach. Nothing will ever please
me, no matter how excellent or beneficial, if I must retain the knowledge of it to
myself. And if wisdom were given me under the express condition that it must
be kept hidden and not uttered, I should refuse it. No good thing is pleasant to
possess, without friends to share it.
I shall therefore send to you the actual books; and in order that you may not
waste time in searching here and there for profitable topics, I shall mark certain
passages, so that you can turn at once to those which I approve and admire. Of
course, however, the living voice and the intimacy of a common life will help
you more than the written word. You must go to the scene of action, first,
because men put more faith in their eyes than in their ears, and second, because
the way is long if one follows precepts, but short and helpful, if one follows
patterns.
Cleanthes could not have been the express image of Zeno, if he had merely
heard his lectures; he shared in his life, saw into his hidden purposes, and
watched him to see whether he lived according to his own rules. Plato, Aristotle,
and the whole throng of sages who were destined to go each his different way,
derived more benefit from the character than from the words of Socrates. It was
not the class-room of Epicurus, but living together under the same roof, that
made great men of Metrodorus, Hermarchus, and Polyaenus. Therefore I
summon you, not merely that you may derive benefit, but that you may confer
benefit; for we can assist each other greatly.
Meanwhile, I owe you my little daily contribution; you shall be told what
pleased me to-day in the writings of Hecato; it is these words: "What progress,
you ask, have I made? I have begun to be a friend to myself." That was indeed a
great benefit; such a person can never be alone. You may be sure that such a
man is a friend to all mankind. Farewell.
Letter VII - On Crowds
Do you ask me what you should regard as especially to be avoided? I say,
crowds; for as yet you cannot trust yourself to them with safety. I shall admit my
own weakness, at any rate; for I never bring back home the same character that I
took abroad with me. Something of that which I have forced to be calm within
me is disturbed; some of the foes that I have routed return again. Just as the sick
man, who has been weak for a long time, is in such a condition that he cannot be
taken out of the house without suffering a relapse, so we ourselves are affected
when our souls are recovering from a lingering disease. To consort with the
crowd is harmful; there is no person who does not make some vice attractive to
us, or stamp it upon us, or taint us unconsciously therewith. Certainly, the
greater the mob with which we mingle, the greater the danger.
But nothing is so damaging to good character as the habit of lounging at the
games; for then it is that vice steals subtly upon one through the avenue of
pleasure. What do you think I mean? I mean that I come home more greedy,
more ambitious, more voluptuous, and even more cruel and inhuman, because I
have been among human beings. By chance I attended a mid-day exhibition,
expecting some fun, wit, and relaxation, – an exhibition at which men's eyes
have respite from the slaughter of their fellow-men. But it was quite the reverse.
The previous combats were the essence of compassion; but now all the trifling is
put aside and it is pure murder. The men have no defensive armour. They are
exposed to blows at all points, and no one ever strikes in vain. Many persons
prefer this programme to the usual pairs and to the bouts "by request." Of course
they do; there is no helmet or shield to deflect the weapon. What is the need of
defensive armour, or of skill? All these mean delaying death. In the morning
they throw men to the lions and the bears; at noon, they throw them to the
spectators. The spectators demand that the slayer shall face the man who is to
slay him in his turn; and they always reserve the latest conqueror for another
butchering. The outcome of every fight is death, and the means are fire and
sword. This sort of thing goes on while the arena is empty. You may retort: "But
he was a highway robber; he killed a man!" And what of it? Granted that, as a
murderer, he deserved this punishment, what crime have you committed, poor
fellow, that you should deserve to sit and see this show? In the morning they
cried "Kill him! Lash him! Burn him! Why does he meet the sword in so
cowardly a way? Why does he strike so feebly? Why doesn't he die game? Whip
him to meet his wounds! Let them receive blow for blow, with chests bare and
exposed to the stroke!" And when the games stop for the intermission, they
announce: "A little throat-cutting in the meantime, so that there may still be
something going on!"
Come now; do you not understand even this truth, that a bad example reacts
on the agent? Thank the immortal gods that you are teaching cruelty to a person
who cannot learn to be cruel. The young character, which cannot hold fast to
righteousness, must be rescued from the mob; it is too easy to side with the
majority. Even Socrates, Cato, and Laelius might have been shaken in their
moral strength by a crowd that was unlike them; so true it is that none of us, no
matter how much he cultivates his abilities, can withstand the shock of faults that
approach, as it were, with so great a retinue. Much harm is done by a single case
of indulgence or greed; the familiar friend, if he be luxurious, weakens and
softens us imperceptibly; the neighbour, if he be rich, rouses our covetousness;
the companion, if he be slanderous, rubs off some of his rust upon us, even
though we be spotless and sincere. What then do you think the effect will be on
character, when the world at large assaults it! You must either imitate or loathe
the world.
But both courses are to be avoided; you should not copy the bad simply
because they are many, nor should you hate the many because they are unlike
you. Withdraw into yourself, as far as you can. Associate with those who will
make a better man of you. Welcome those whom you yourself can improve. The
process is mutual; for men learn while they teach. There is no reason why pride
in advertising your abilities should lure you into publicity, so that you should
desire to recite or harangue before the general public. Of course I should be
willing for you to do so if you had a stock-in-trade that suited such a mob; as it
is, there is not a man of them who can understand you. One or two individuals
will perhaps come in your way, but even these will have to be moulded and
trained by you so that they will understand you. You may say: "For what
purpose did I learn all these things?" But you need not fear that you have wasted
your efforts; it was for yourself that you learned them.
In order, however, that I may not to-day have learned exclusively for myself, I
shall share with you three excellent sayings, of the same general purport, which
have come to my attention. This letter will give you one of them as payment of
my debt; the other two you may accept as a contribution in advance. Democritus
says: "One man means as much to me as a multitude, and a multitude only as
much as one man." The following also was nobly spoken by someone or other,
for it is doubtful who the author was; they asked him what was the object of all
this study applied to an art that would reach but very few. He replied: "I am
content with few, content with one, content with none at all." The third saying –
and a noteworthy one, too – is by Epicurus, written to one of the partners of his
studies: "I write this not for the many, but for you; each of us is enough of an
audience for the other." Lay these words to heart, Lucilius, that you may scorn
the pleasure which comes from the applause of the majority. Many men praise
you; but have you any reason for being pleased with yourself, if you are a person
whom the many can understand? Your good qualities should face inwards.
Farewell.
Letter VIII - On the Philosopher's Seclusion
"Do you bid me," you say, "shun the throng, and withdraw from men, and be
content with my own conscience? Where are the counsels of your school, which
order a man to die in the midst of active work?" As to the course which I seem to
you to be urging on you now and then, my object in shutting myself up and
locking the door is to be able to help a greater number. I never spend a day in
idleness; I appropriate even a part of the night for study. I do not allow time for
sleep but yield to it when I must, and when my eyes are wearied with waking
and ready to fall shut, I keep them at their task. I have withdrawn not only from
men, but from affairs, especially from my own affairs; I am working for later
generations, writing down some ideas that may be of assistance to them. There
are certain wholesome counsels, which may be compared to prescriptions of
useful drugs; these I am putting into writing; for I have found them helpful in
ministering to my own sores, which, if not wholly cured, have at any rate ceased
to spread.
I point other men to the right path, which I have found late in life, when
wearied with wandering. I cry out to them: "Avoid whatever pleases the throng:
avoid the gifts of Chance! Halt before every good which Chance brings to you,
in a spirit of doubt and fear; for it is the dumb animals and fish that are deceived
by tempting hopes. Do you call these things the 'gifts' of Fortune? They are
snares. And any man among you who wishes to live a life of safety will avoid, to
the utmost of his power, these limed twigs of her favour, by which we mortals,
most wretched in this respect also, are deceived; for we think that we hold them
in our grasp, but they hold us in theirs. Such a career leads us into precipitous
ways, and life on such heights ends in a fall. Moreover, we cannot even stand up
against prosperity when she begins to drive us to leeward; nor can we go down,
either, 'with the ship at least on her course,' or once for all; Fortune does not
capsize us, – she plunges our bows under and dashes us on the rocks.
"Hold fast, then, to this sound and wholesome rule of life – that you indulge
the body only so far as is needful for good health. The body should be treated
more rigorously, that it may not be disobedient to the mind. Eat merely to relieve
your hunger; drink merely to quench your thirst; dress merely to keep out the
cold; house yourself merely as a protection against personal discomfort. It
matters little whether the house be built of turf, or of variously coloured
imported marble; understand that a man is sheltered just as well by a thatch as by
a roof of gold. Despise everything that useless toil creates as an ornament and an
object of beauty. And reflect that nothing except the soul is worthy of wonder;
for to the soul, if it be great, naught is great."
When I commune in such terms with myself and with future generations, do
you not think that I am doing more good than when I appear as counsel in court,
or stamp my seal upon a will, or lend my assistance in the senate, by word or
action, to a candidate? Believe me, those who seem to be busied with nothing are
busied with the greater tasks; they are dealing at the same time with things
mortal and things immortal.
But I must stop, and pay my customary contribution, to balance this letter. The
payment shall not be made from my own property; for I am still conning
Epicurus. I read to-day, in his works, the following sentence: "If you would
enjoy real freedom, you must be the slave of Philosophy." The man who submits
and surrenders himself to her is not kept waiting; he is emancipated on the spot.
For the very service of Philosophy is freedom.
It is likely that you will ask me why I quote so many of Epicurus's noble
words instead of words taken from our own school. But is there any reason why
you should regard them as sayings of Epicurus and not common property? How
many poets give forth ideas that have been uttered, or may be uttered, by
philosophers! I need not touch upon the tragedians and our writers of national
drama; for these last are also somewhat serious, and stand half-way between
comedy and tragedy. What a quantity of sagacious verses lie buried in the mime!
How many of Publilius's lines are worthy of being spoken by buskin-clad actors,
as well as by wearers of the slipper! I shall quote one verse of his, which
concerns philosophy, and particularly that phase of it which we were discussing
a moment ago, wherein he says that the gifts of Chance are not to be regarded as
part of our possessions:
Still alien is whatever you have gained/By coveting
I recall that you yourself expressed this idea much more happily and
concisely:
What Chance has made yours is not really yours.
And a third, spoken by you still more happily, shall not be omitted:
The good that could be given, can be removed.
I shall not charge this up to the expense account, because I have given it to
you from your own stock. Farewell.
Letter IX - On Philosophy and Friendship
You desire to know whether Epicurus is right when, in one of his letters, he
rebukes those who hold that the wise man is self-sufficient and for that reason
does not stand in need of friendships. This is the objection raised by Epicurus
against Stilbo and those who believe that the Supreme Good is a soul which is
insensible to feeling.
We are bound to meet with a double meaning if we try to express the Greek
term "lack of feeling" summarily, in a single word, rendering it by the Latin
word impatientia. For it may be understood in the meaning the opposite to that
which we wish it to have. What we mean to express is, a soul which rejects any
sensation of evil; but people will interpret the idea as that of a soul which can
endure no evil. Consider, therefore, whether it is not better to say "a soul that
cannot be harmed," or "a soul entirely beyond the realm of suffering." There is
this difference between ourselves and the other school: our ideal wise man feels
his troubles, but overcomes them; their wise man does not even feel them. But
we and they alike hold this idea, – that the wise man is self-sufficient.
Nevertheless, he desires friends, neighbours, and associates, no matter how
much he is sufficient unto himself. And mark how self-sufficient he is; for on
occasion he can be content with a part of himself. If he lose a hand through
disease or war, or if some accident puts out one or both of his eyes, he will be
satisfied with what is left, taking as much pleasure in his impaired and maimed
body as he took when it was sound. But while he does not pine for these parts if
they are missing, he prefers not to lose them. In this sense the wise man is selfsufficient, that he can do without friends, not that he desires to do without them.
When I say "can," I mean this: he endures the loss of a friend with equanimity.
But he need never lack friends, for it lies in his own control how soon he shall
make good a loss. Just as Phidias, if he lose a statue, can straightway carve
another, even so our master in the art of making friendships can fill the place of
a friend he has lost. If you ask how one can make oneself a friend quickly, I will
tell you, provided we are agreed that I may pay my debt at once and square the
account, so far as this letter is concerned. Hecato, says: "I can show you a
philtre, compounded without drugs, herbs, or any witch's incantation: 'If you
would be loved, love.'" Now there is great pleasure, not only in maintaining old
and established friendships, but also in beginning and acquiring new ones. There
is the same difference between winning a new friend and having already won
him, as there is between the farmer who sows and the farmer who reaps. The
philosopher Attalus used to say: "It is more pleasant to make than to keep a
friend, as it is more pleasant to the artist to paint than to have finished painting."
When one is busy and absorbed in one's work, the very absorption affords great
delight; but when one has withdrawn one's hand from the completed
masterpiece, the pleasure is not so keen. Henceforth it is the fruits of his art that
he enjoys; it was the art itself that he enjoyed while he was painting. In the case
of our children, their young manhood yields the more abundant fruits, but their
infancy was sweeter.
Let us now return to the question. The wise man, I say, self-sufficient though
he be, nevertheless desires friends if only for the purpose of practising
friendship, in order that his noble qualities may not lie dormant. Not, however,
for the purpose mentioned by Epicurus in the letter quoted above: "That there
may be someone to sit by him when he is ill, to help him when he is in prison or
in want;" but that he may have someone by whose sick-bed he himself may sit,
someone a prisoner in hostile hands whom he himself may set free. He who
regards himself only, and enters upon friendships for this reason, reckons
wrongly. The end will be like the beginning: he has made friends with one who
might assist him out of bondage; at the first rattle of the chain such a friend will
desert him. These are the so-called "fair-weather" friendships; one who is chosen
for the sake of utility will be satisfactory only so long as he is useful. Hence
prosperous men are blockaded by troops of friends; but those who have failed
stand amid vast loneliness their friends fleeing from the very crisis which is to
test their worth. Hence, also, we notice those many shameful cases of persons
who, through fear, desert or betray. The beginning and the end cannot but
harmonize. He who begins to be your friend because it pays will also cease
because it pays. A man will be attracted by some reward offered in exchange for
his friendship, if he be attracted by aught in friendship other than friendship
itself.
For what purpose, then, do I make a man my friend? In order to have someone
for whom I may die, whom I may follow into exile, against whose death I may
stake my own life, and pay the pledge, too. The friendship which you portray is a
bargain and not a friendship; it regards convenience only, and looks to the
results. Beyond question the feeling of a lover has in it something akin to
friendship; one might call it friendship run mad. But, though this is true, does
anyone love for the sake of gain, or promotion, or renown? Pure love, careless of
all other things, kindles the soul with desire for the beautiful object, not without
the hope of a return of the affection. What then? Can a cause which is more
honourable produce a passion that is base? You may retort: "We are now
discussing the question whether friendship is to be cultivated for its own sake."
On the contrary, nothing more urgently requires demonstration; for if friendship
is to be sought for its own sake, he may seek it who is self-sufficient. "How,
then," you ask, "does he seek it?" Precisely as he seeks an object of great beauty,
not attracted to it by desire for gain, nor yet frightened by the instability of
Fortune. One who seeks friendship for favourable occasions, strips it of all its
nobility.
"The wise man is self-sufficient." This phrase, my dear Lucilius, is incorrectly
explained by many; for they withdraw the wise man from the world, and force
him to dwell within his own skin. But we must mark with care what this
sentence signifies and how far it applies; the wise man is sufficient unto himself
for a happy existence, but not for mere existence. For he needs many helps
towards mere existence; but for a happy existence he needs only a sound and
upright soul, one that despises Fortune.
I should like also to state to you one of the distinctions of Chrysippus, who
declares that the wise man is in want of nothing, and yet needs many things. "On
the other hand," he says, "nothing is needed by the fool, for he does not
understand how to use anything, but he is in want of everything." The wise man
needs hands, eyes, and many things that are necessary for his daily use; but he is
in want of nothing. For want implies a necessity, and nothing is necessary to the
wise man. Therefore, although he is self-sufficient, yet he has need of friends.
He craves as many friends as possible, not, however, that he may live happily;
for he will live happily even without friends. The Supreme Good calls for no
practical aids from outside; it is developed at home, and arises entirely within
itself. If the good seeks any portion of itself from without, it begins to be subject
to the play of Fortune.
People may say: "But what sort of existence will the wise man have, if he be
left friendless when thrown into prison, or when stranded in some foreign nation,
or when delayed on a long voyage, or when out upon a lonely shore?" His life
will be like that of Jupiter, who, amid the dissolution of the world, when the
gods are confounded together and Nature rests for a space from her work, can
retire into himself and give himself over to his own thoughts. In some such way
as this the sage will act; he will retreat into himself, and live with himself. As
long as he is allowed to order his affairs according to his judgment, he is selfsufficient – and marries a wife; he is self-sufficient – and brings up children; he
is self-sufficient – and yet could not live if he had to live without the society of
man. Natural promptings, and not his own selfish needs, draw him into
Friendships. For just as other things have for us an inherent attractiveness, so has
friendship. As we hate solitude and crave society, as nature draws men to each
other, so in this matter also there is an attraction which makes us desirous of
friendship. Nevertheless, though the sage may love his friends dearly, often
comparing them with himself, and putting them ahead of himself, yet all the
good will be limited to his own being, and he will speak the words which were
spoken by the very Stilbo whom Epicurus criticizes in his letter. For Stilbo, after
his country was captured and his children and his wife lost, as he emerged from
the general desolation alone and yet happy, spoke as follows to Demetrius,
called Sacker of Cities because of the destruction he brought upon them, in
answer to the question whether he had lost anything: "I have all my goods with
me!" There is a brave and stout-hearted man for you! The enemy conquered, but
Stilbo conquered his conqueror. "I have lost nothing!" Aye, he forced Demetrius
to wonder whether he himself had conquered after all. "My goods are all with
me!" In other words, he deemed nothing that might be taken from him to be a
good.
We marvel at certain animals because they can pass through fire and suffer no
bodily harm; but how much more marvellous is a man who has marched forth
unhurt and unscathed through fire and sword and devastation! Do you
understand now how much easier it is to conquer a whole tribe than to conquer
one man? This saying of Stilbo makes common ground with Stoicism; the Stoic
also can carry his goods unimpaired through cities that have been burned to
ashes; for he is self-sufficient. Such are the bounds which he sets to his own
happiness.
But you must not think that our school alone can utter noble words; Epicurus
himself, the reviler of Stilbo, spoke similar language; put it down to my credit,
though I have already wiped out my debt for the present day. He says: "Whoever
does not regard what he has as most ample wealth, is unhappy, though he be
master of the whole world." Or, if the following seems to you a more suitable
phrase, – for we must try to render the meaning and not the mere words: "A man
may rule the world and still be unhappy, if he does not feel that he is supremely
happy." In order, however, that you may know that these sentiments are
universal, suggested, of course, by Nature, you will find in one of the comic
poets this verse;
Unblest is he who thinks himself unblest.
or what does your condition matter, if it is bad in your own eyes? You may
say; "What then? If yonder man, rich by base means, and yonder man, lord of
many but slave of more, shall call themselves happy, will their own opinion
make them happy?" It matters not what one says, but what one feels; also, not
how one feels on one particular day, but how one feels at all times. There is no
reason, however, why you should fear that this great privilege will fall into
unworthy hands; only the wise man is pleased with his own. Folly is ever
troubled with weariness of itself. Farewell.
Letter X - On Living to Oneself
Yes, I do not change my opinion: avoid the many, avoid the few, avoid even
the individual. I know of no one with whom I should be willing to have you
shared. And see what an opinion of you I have; for I dare to trust you with your
own self. Crates, they say, the disciple of the very Stilbo whom I mentioned in a
former letter, noticed a young man walking by himself, and asked him what he
was doing all alone. "I am communing with myself," replied the youth. "Pray be
careful, then," said Crates, "and take good heed; you are communing with a bad
man!"
When persons are in mourning, or fearful about something, we are
accustomed to watch them that we may prevent them from making a wrong use
of their loneliness. No thoughtless person ought to be left alone; in such cases he
only plans folly, and heaps up future dangers for himself or for others; he brings
into play his base desires; the mind displays what fear or shame used to repress;
it whets his boldness, stirs his passions, and goads his anger. And finally, the
only benefit that solitude confers, – the habit of trusting no man, and of fearing
no witnesses, – is lost to the fool; for he betrays himself.
Mark therefore what my hopes are for you, – nay, rather, what I am promising
myself, inasmuch as hope is merely the title of an uncertain blessing: I do not
know any person with whom I should prefer you to associate rather than
yourself. I remember in what a great-souled way you hurled forth certain
phrases, and how full of strength they were! I immediately congratulated myself
and said: "These words did not come from the edge of the lips; these utterances
have a solid foundation. This man is not one of the many; he has regard for his
real welfare." Speak, and live, in this way; see to it that nothing keeps you down.
As for your former prayers, you may dispense the gods from answering them;
offer new prayers; pray for a sound mind and for good health, first of soul and
then of body. And of course you should offer those prayers frequently. Call
boldly upon God; you will not be asking him for that which belongs to another.
But I must, as is my custom, send a little gift along with this letter. It is a true
saying which I have found in Athenodorus: "Know that thou art freed from all
desires when thou hast reached such a point that thou prayest to God for nothing
except what thou canst pray for openly." But how foolish men are now! They
whisper the basest of prayers to heaven; but if anyone listens, they are silent at
once. That which they are unwilling for men to know, they communicate to God.
Do you not think, then, that some such wholesome advice as this could be given
you: "Live among men as if God beheld you; speak with God as if men were
listening"? Farewell.
Letter XI - On the Blush of Modesty
Your friend and I have had a conversation. He is a man of ability; his very
first words showed what spirit and understanding he possesses, and what
progress he has already made. He gave me a foretaste, and he will not fail to
answer thereto. For he spoke not from forethought, but was suddenly caught off
his guard. When he tried to collect himself, he could scarcely banish that hue of
modesty, which is a good sign in a young man; the blush that spread over his
face seemed so to rise from the depths. And I feel sure that his habit of blushing
will stay with him after he has strengthened his character, stripped off all his
faults, and become wise. For by no wisdom can natural weaknesses of the body
be removed. That which is implanted and inborn can be toned down by training,
but not overcome. The steadiest speaker, when before the public, often breaks
into a perspiration, as if he had wearied or overheated himself; some tremble in
the knees when they rise to speak; I know of some whose teeth chatter, whose
tongues falter, whose lips quiver. Training and experience can never shake off
this habit; nature exerts her own power and through such a weakness makes her
presence known even to the strongest. I know that the blush, too, is a habit of
this sort, spreading suddenly over the faces of the most dignified men. It is,
indeed more prevalent in youth, because of the warmer blood and the sensitive
countenance; nevertheless, both seasoned men and aged men are affected by it.
Some are most dangerous when they redden, as if they were letting all their
sense of shame escape. Sulla, when the blood mantled his cheeks, was in his
fiercest mood. Pompey had the most sensitive cast of countenance; he always
blushed in the presence of a gathering, and especially at a public assembly.
Fabianus also, I remember, reddened when he appeared as a witness before the
senate; and his embarrassment became him to a remarkable degree. Such a habit
is not due to mental weakness, but to the novelty of a situation; an inexperienced
person is not necessarily confused, but is usually affected, because he slips into
this habit by natural tendency of the body. Just as certain men are full-blooded,
so others are of a quick and mobile blood, that rushes to the face at once.
As I remarked, Wisdom can never remove this habit; for if she could rub out
all our faults, she would be mistress of the universe. Whatever is assigned to us
by the terms of our birth and the blend in our constitutions, will stick with us, no
matter how hard or how long the soul may have tried to master itself. And we
cannot forbid these feelings any more than we can summon them. Actors in the
theatre, who imitate the emotions, who portray fear and nervousness, who depict
sorrow, imitate bashfulness by hanging their heads, lowering their voices, and
keeping their eyes fixed and rooted upon the ground. They cannot, however,
muster a blush; for the blush cannot be prevented or acquired. Wisdom will not
assure us of a remedy, or give us help against it; it comes or goes unbidden, and
is a law unto itself.
But my letter calls for its closing sentence. Hear and take to heart this useful
and wholesome motto: "Cherish some man of high character, and keep him ever
before your eyes, living as if he were watching you, and ordering all your actions
as if he beheld them." Such, my dear Lucilius, is the counsel of Epicurus; he has
quite properly given us a guardian and an attendant. We can get rid of most sins,
if we have a witness who stands near us when we are likely to go wrong. The
soul should have someone whom it can respect, – one by whose authority it may
make even its inner shrine more hallowed. Happy is the man who can make
others better, not merely when he is in their company, but even when he is in
their thoughts! And happy also is he who can so revere a man as to calm and
regulate himself by calling him to mind! One who can so revere another, will
soon be himself worthy of reverence. Choose therefore a Cato; or, if Cato seems
too severe a model, choose some Laelius, a gentler spirit. Choose a master
whose life, conversation, and soul-expressing face have satisfied you; picture
him always to yourself as your protector or your pattern. For we must indeed
have someone according to whom we may regulate our characters; you can
never straighten that which is crooked unless you use a ruler. Farewell.
Letter XII - On Old Age
Wherever I turn, I see evidences of my advancing years. I visited lately my
country-place, and protested against the money which was spent on the tumbledown building. My bailiff maintained that the flaws were not due to his own
carelessness; "he was doing everything possible, but the house was old." And
this was the house which grew under my own hands! What has the future in
store for me, if stones of my own age are already crumbling? I was angry, and I
embraced the first opportunity to vent my spleen in the bailiff's presence. "It is
clear," I cried, "that these plane-trees are neglected; they have no leaves. Their
branches are so gnarled and shrivelled; the boles are so rough and unkempt! This
would not happen, if someone loosened the earth at their feet, and watered
them." The bailiff swore by my protecting deity that "he was doing everything
possible, and never relaxed his efforts, but those trees were old." Between you
and me, I had planted those trees myself, I had seen them in their first leaf. Then
I turned to the door and asked: "Who is that broken-down dotard? You have
done well to place him at the entrance; for he is outward bound. Where did you
get him? What pleasure did it give you to take up for burial some other man's
dead?" But the slave said: "Don't you know me, sir? I am Felicio; you used to
bring me little images. My father was Philositus the steward, and I am your pet
slave." "The man is clean crazy," I remarked. "Has my pet slave become a little
boy again? But it is quite possible; his teeth are just dropping out."
I owe it to my country-place that my old age became apparent whithersoever I
turned. Let us cherish and love old age; for it is full of pleasure if one knows
how to use it. Fruits are most welcome when almost over; youth is most
charming at its close; the last drink delights the toper, the glass which souses
him and puts the finishing touch on his drunkenness. Each pleasure reserves to
the end the greatest delights which it contains. Life is most delightful when it is
on the downward slope, but has not yet reached the abrupt decline. And I myself
believe that the period which stands, so to speak, on the edge of the roof,
possesses pleasures of its own. Or else the very fact of our not wanting pleasures
has taken the place of the pleasures themselves. How comforting it is to have
tired out one's appetites, and to have done with them! "But," you say, "it is a
nuisance to be looking death in the face!" Death, however, should be looked in
the face by young and old alike. We are not summoned according to our rating
on the censor's list. Moreover, no one is so old that it would be improper for him
to hope for another day of existence. And one day, mind you, is a stage on life's
journey.
Our span of life is divided into parts; it consists of large circles enclosing
smaller. One circle embraces and bounds the rest; it reaches from birth to the last
day of existence. The next circle limits the period of our young manhood. The
third confines all of childhood in its circumference. Again, there is, in a class by
itself, the year; it contains within itself all the divisions of time by the
multiplication of which we get the total of life. The month is bounded by a
narrower ring. The smallest circle of all is the day; but even a day has its
beginning and its ending, its sunrise and its sunset. Hence Heraclitus, whose
obscure style gave him his surname, remarked: "One day is equal to every day."
Different persons have interpreted the saying in different ways. Some hold that
days are equal in number of hours, and this is true; for if by "day" we mean
twenty-four hours' time, all days must be equal, inasmuch as the night acquires
what the day loses. But others maintain that one day is equal to all days through
resemblance, because the very longest space of time possesses no element which
cannot be found in a single day, – namely, light and darkness, – and even to
eternity day makes these alternations more numerous, not different when it is
shorter and different again when it is longer. Hence, every day ought to be
regulated as if it closed the series, as if it rounded out and completed our
existence.
Pacuvius, who by long occupancy made Syria his own, used to hold a regular
burial sacrifice in his own honour, with wine and the usual funeral feasting, and
then would have himself carried from the dining-room to his chamber, while
eunuchs applauded and sang in Greek to a musical accompaniment: "He has
lived his life, he has lived his life!" Thus Pacuvius had himself carried out to
burial every day. Let us, however, do from a good motive what he used to do
from a debased motive; let us go to our sleep with joy and gladness; let us say:
I have lived; the course which Fortune set for me/Is finished.
And if God is pleased to add another day, we should welcome it with glad
hearts. That man is happiest, and is secure in his own possession of himself, who
can await the morrow without apprehension. When a man has said: "I have
lived!", every morning he arises he receives a bonus.
But now I ought to close my letter. "What?" you say; "shall it come to me
without any little offering? "Be not afraid; it brings something, – nay, more than
something, a great deal. For what is more noble than the following saying of
which I make this letter the bearer: "It is wrong to live under constraint; but no
man is constrained to live under constraint." Of course not. On all sides lie many
short and simple paths to freedom; and let us thank God that no man can be kept
in life. We may spurn the very constraints that hold us. "Epicurus," you reply,
"uttered these words; what are you doing with another's property?" Any truth, I
maintain, is my own property. And I shall continue to heap quotations from
Epicurus upon you, so that all persons who swear by the words of another, and
put a value upon the speaker and not upon the thing spoken, may understand that
the best ideas are common property. Farewell.
Letter XIII - On Groundless Fears
I know that you have plenty of spirit; for even before you began to equip
yourself with maxims which were wholesome and potent to overcome obstacles,
you were taking pride in your contest with Fortune; and this is all the more true,
now that you have grappled with Fortune and tested your powers. For our
powers can never inspire in us implicit faith in ourselves except when many
difficulties have confronted us on this side and on that, and have occasionally
even come to close quarters with us. It is only in this way that the true spirit can
be tested, – the spirit that will never consent to come under the jurisdiction of
things external to ourselves. This is the touchstone of such a spirit; no
prizefighter can go with high spirits into the strife if he has never been beaten
black and blue; the only contestant who can confidently enter the lists is the man
who has seen his own blood, who has felt his teeth rattle beneath his opponent's
fist, who has been tripped and felt the full force of his adversary's charge, who
has been downed in body but not in spirit, one who, as often as he falls, rises
again with greater defiance than ever. So then, to keep up my figure, Fortune has
often in the past got the upper hand of you, and yet you have not surrendered,
but have leaped up and stood your ground still more eagerly. For manliness
gains much strength by being challenged; nevertheless, if you approve, allow me
to offer some additional safeguards by which you may fortify yourself.
There are more things, Lucilius, likely to frighten us than there are to crush us;
we suffer more often in imagination than in reality. I am not speaking with you
in the Stoic strain but in my milder style. For it is our Stoic fashion to speak of
all those things, which provoke cries and groans, as unimportant and beneath
notice; but you and I must drop such great-sounding words, although, heaven
knows, they are true enough. What I advise you to do is, not to be unhappy
before the crisis comes; since it may be that the dangers before which you paled
as if they were threatening you, will never come upon you; they certainly have
not yet come. Accordingly, some things torment us more than they ought; some
torment us before they ought; and some torment us when they ought not to
torment us at all. We are in the habit of exaggerating, or imagining, or
anticipating, sorrow.
The first of these three faults may be postponed for the present, because the
subject is under discussion and the case is still in court, so to speak. That which I
should call trifling, you will maintain to be most serious; for of course I know
that some men laugh while being flogged, and that others wince at a box on the
ear. We shall consider later whether these evils derive their power from their
own strength, or from our own weakness.
Do me the favour, when men surround you and try to talk you into believing
that you are unhappy, to consider not what you hear but what you yourself feel,
and to take counsel with your feelings and question yourself independently,
because you know your own affairs better than anyone else does. Ask: "Is there
any reason why these persons should condole with me? Why should they be
worried or even fear some infection from me, as if troubles could be transmitted?
Is there any evil involved, or is it a matter merely of ill report, rather than an
evil?" Put the question voluntarily to yourself: "Am I tormented without
sufficient reason, am I morose, and do I convert what is not an evil into what is
an evil?" You may retort with the question: "How am I to know whether my
sufferings are real or imaginary?" Here is the rule for such matters: we are
tormented either by things present, or by things to come, or by both. As to things
present, the decision is easy. Suppose that your person enjoys freedom and
health, and that you do not suffer from any external injury. As to what may
happen to it in the future, we shall see later on. To-day there is nothing wrong
with it. "But," you say, "something will happen to it." First of all, consider
whether your proofs of future trouble are sure. For it is more often the case that
we are troubled by our apprehensions, and that we are mocked by that mocker,
rumour, which is wont to settle wars, but much more often settles individuals.
Yes, my dear Lucilius; we agree too quickly with what people say. We do not
put to the test those things which cause our fear; we do not examine into them;
we blench and retreat just like soldiers who are forced to abandon their camp
because of a dust-cloud raised by stampeding cattle, or are thrown into a panic
by the spreading of some unauthenticated rumour. And somehow or other it is
the idle report that disturbs us most. For truth has its own definite boundaries,
but that which arises from uncertainty is delivered over to guesswork and the
irresponsible license of a frightened mind. That is why no fear is so ruinous and
so uncontrollable as panic fear. For other fears are groundless, but this fear is
witless.
Let us, then, look carefully into the matter. It is likely that some troubles will
befall us; but it is not a present fact. How often has the unexpected happened!
How often has the expected never come to pass! And even though it is ordained
to be, what does it avail to run out to meet your suffering? You will suffer soon
enough, when it arrives; so look forward meanwhile to better things. What shall
you gain by doing this? Time. There will be many happenings meanwhile which
will serve to postpone, or end, or pass on to another person, the trials which are
near or even in your very presence. A fire has opened the way to flight. Men
have been let down softly by a catastrophe. Sometimes the sword has been
checked even at the victim's throat. Men have survived their own executioners.
Even bad fortune is fickle. Perhaps it will come, perhaps not; in the meantime it
is not. So look forward to better things.
The mind at times fashions for itself false shapes of evil when there are no
signs that point to any evil; it twists into the worst construction some word of
doubtful meaning; or it fancies some personal grudge to be more serious than it
really is, considering not how angry the enemy is, but to what lengths he may go
if he is angry. But life is not worth living, and there is no limit to our sorrows, if
we indulge our fears to the greatest possible extent; in this matter, let prudence
help you, and contemn with a resolute spirit even when it is in plain sight. If you
cannot do this, counter one weakness with another, and temper your fear with
hope. There is nothing so certain among these objects of fear that it is not more
certain still that things we dread sink into nothing and that things we hope for
mock us.
Accordingly, weigh carefully your hopes as well as your fears, and whenever
all the elements are in doubt, decide in your own favour; believe what you
prefer. And if fear wins a majority of the votes, incline in the other direction
anyhow, and cease to harass your soul, reflecting continually that most mortals,
even when no troubles are actually at hand or are certainly to be expected in the
future, become excited and disquieted. No one calls a halt on himself, when he
begins to be urged ahead; nor does he regulate his alarm according to the truth.
No one says; "The author of the story is a fool, and he who has believed it is a
fool, as well as he who fabricated it." We let ourselves drift with every breeze;
we are frightened at uncertainties, just as if they were certain. We observe no
moderation. The slightest thing turns the scales and throws us forthwith into a
panic.
But I am ashamed either to admonish you sternly or to try to beguile you with
such mild remedies. Let another say. "Perhaps the worst will not happen." You
yourself must say. "Well, what if it does happen? Let us see who wins! Perhaps
it happens for my best interests; it may be that such a death will shed credit upon
my life." Socrates was ennobled by the hemlock draught. Wrench from Cato's
hand his sword, the vindicator of liberty, and you deprive him of the greatest
share of his glory. I am exhorting you far too long, since you need reminding
rather than exhortation. The path on which I am leading you is not different from
that on which your nature leads you; you were born to such conduct as I
describe. Hence there is all the more reason why you should increase and
beautify the good that is in you.
But now, to close my letter, I have only to stamp the usual seal upon it, in
other words, to commit thereto some noble message to be delivered to you: "The
fool, with all his other faults, has this also, he is always getting ready to live."
Reflect, my esteemed Lucilius, what this saying means, and you will see how
revolting is the fickleness of men who lay down every day new foundations of
life, and begin to build up fresh hopes even at the brink of the grave. Look
within your own mind for individual instances; you will think of old men who
are preparing themselves at that very hour for a political career, or for travel, or
for business. And what is baser than getting ready to live when you are already
old? I should not name the author of this motto, except that it is somewhat
unknown to fame and is not one of those popular sayings of Epicurus which I
have allowed myself to praise and to appropriate. Farewell.
Letter XIV - On the Reasons for Withdrawing from the
World
I confess that we all have an inborn affection for our body; I confess that we
are entrusted with its guardianship. I do not maintain that the body is not to be
indulged at all; but I maintain that we must not be slaves to it. He will have
many masters who makes his body his master, who is over-fearful in its behalf,
who judges everything according to the body. We should conduct ourselves not
as if we ought to live for the body, but as if we could not live without it. Our too
great love for it makes us restless with fears, burdens us with cares, and exposes
us to insults. Virtue is held too cheap by the man who counts his body too dear.
We should cherish the body with the greatest care; but we should also be
prepared, when reason, self-respect, and duty demand the sacrifice, to deliver it
even to the flames.
Let us, however, in so far as we can, avoid discomforts as well as dangers, and
withdraw to safe ground, by thinking continually how we may repel all objects
of fear. If I am not mistaken, there are three main classes of these: we fear want,
we fear sickness, and we fear the troubles which result from the violence of the
stronger. And of all these, that which shakes us most is the dread which hangs
over us from our neighbour's ascendancy; for it is accompanied by great outcry
and uproar. But the natural evils which I have mentioned, – want and sickness,
steal upon us silently with no shock of terror to the eye or to the ear. The other
kind of evil comes, so to speak, in the form of a huge parade. Surrounding it is a
retinue of swords and fire and chains and a mob of beasts to be let loose upon
the disembowelled entrails of men. Picture to yourself under this head the prison,
the cross, the rack, the hook, and the stake which they drive straight through a
man until it protrudes from his throat. Think of human limbs torn apart by
chariots driven in opposite directions, of the terrible shirt smeared and
interwoven with inflammable materials, and of all the other contrivances devised
by cruelty, in addition to those which I have mentioned! It is not surprising, then,
if our greatest terror is of such a fate; for it comes in many shapes and its
paraphernalia are terrifying. For just as the torturer accomplishes more in
proportion to the number of instruments which he displays, – indeed, the
spectacle overcomes those who would have patiently withstood the suffering, –
similarly, of all the agencies which coerce and master our minds, the most
effective are those which can make a display. Those other troubles are of course
not less serious; I mean hunger, thirst, ulcers of the stomach, and fever that
parches our very bowels. They are, however, secret; they have no bluster and no
heralding; but these, like huge arrays of war, prevail by virtue of their display
and their equipment.
Let us, therefore, see to it that we abstain from giving offence. It is sometimes
the people that we ought to fear; or sometimes a body of influential oligarchs in
the Senate, if the method of governing the State is such that most of the business
is done by that body; and sometimes individuals equipped with power by the
people and against the people. It is burdensome to keep the friendship of all such
persons; it is enough not to make enemies of them. So the wise man will never
provoke the anger of those in power; nay, he will even turn his course, precisely
as he would turn from a storm if he were steering a ship. When you travelled to
Sicily, you crossed the Straits. The reckless pilot scorned the blustering South
Wind, – the wind which roughens the Sicilian Sea and forces it into choppy
currents; he sought not the shore on the left, but the strand hard by the place
where Charybdis throws the seas into confusion. Your more careful pilot,
however, questions those who know the locality as to the tides and the meaning
of the clouds; he holds his course far from that region notorious for its swirling
waters. Our wise man does the same he shuns a strong man who may be
injurious to him, making a point of not seeming to avoid him, because an
important part of one's safety lies in not seeking safety openly; for what one
avoids, one condemns,
We should therefore look about us, and see how we may protect ourselves
from the mob. And first of all, we should have no cravings like theirs; for rivalry
results in strife. Again, let us possess nothing that can be snatched from us to the
great profit of a plotting foe. Let there be as little booty as possible on your
person. No one sets out to shed the blood of his fellow-men for the sake of
bloodshed, – at any rate very few. More murderers speculate on their profits than
give vent to hatred. If you are empty-handed, the highwayman passes you by:
even along an infested road, the poor may travel in peace. Next, we must follow
the old adage and avoid three things with special care: hatred, jealousy, and
scorn. And wisdom alone can show you how this may be done. It is hard to
observe a mean; we must be chary of letting the fear of jealousy lead us into
becoming objects of scorn, lest, when we choose not to stamp others down, we
let them think that they can stamp us down. The power to inspire fear has caused
many men to be in fear. Let us withdraw ourselves in every way; for it is as
harmful to be scorned as to be admired.
One must therefore take refuge in philosophy; this pursuit, not only in the eyes
of good men, but also in the eyes of those who are even moderately bad, is a sort
of protecting emblem. For speechmaking at the bar, or any other pursuit that
claims the people's attention, wins enemies for a man; but philosophy is peaceful
and minds her own business. Men cannot scorn her; she is honoured by every
profession, even the vilest among them. Evil can never grow so strong, and
nobility of character can never be so plotted against, that the name of philosophy
shall cease to be worshipful and sacred.
Philosophy itself, however should be practised with calmness and moderation.
"Very well, then," you retort, "do you regard the philosophy of Marcus Cato as
moderate? Cato's voice strove to check a civil war. Cato parted the swords of
maddened chieftains. When some fell foul of Pompey and others fell foul of
Caesar, Cato defied both parties at once!" Nevertheless, one may well question
whether, in those days, a wise man ought to have taken any part in public affairs,
and ask: "What do you mean, Marcus Cato? It is not now a question of freedom;
long since has freedom gone to rack and ruin. The question is, whether it is
Caesar or Pompey who controls the State. Why, Cato, should you take sides in
that dispute? It is no business of yours; a tyrant is being selected. What does it
concern you who conquers? The better man may win; but the winner is bound to
be the worse man." I have referred to Cato's final role. But even in previous
years the wise man was not permitted to intervene in such plundering of the
state; for what could Cato do but raise his voice and utter unavailing words? At
one time he was "bustled" by the mob and spat upon and forcibly removed from
the forum and marked for exile; at another, he was taken straight to prison from
the senate-chamber.
However, we shall consider later whether the wise man ought to give his
attention to politics; meanwhile, I beg you to consider those Stoics who, shut out
from public life, have withdrawn into privacy for the purpose of improving
men's existence and framing laws for the human race without incurring the
displeasure of those in power. The wise man will not upset the customs of the
people, nor will he invite the attention of the populace by any novel ways of
living.
"What then? Can one who follows out this Plan be safe in any case?" I cannot
guarantee you this any more than I can guarantee good health in the case of a
man who observes moderation; although, as a matter of fact, good health results
from such moderation. Sometimes a vessel perishes in harbour; but what do you
think happens on the open sea? And how much more beset with danger that man
would be, who even in his leisure is not secure, if he were busily working at
many things! Innocent persons sometimes perish; who would deny that? But the
guilty perish more frequently. A soldier's skill is not at fault if he receives the
death-blow through his armour. And finally, the wise man regards the reason for
all his actions, but not the results. The beginning is in our own power; fortune
decides the issue, but I do not allow her to pass sentence upon myself. You may
say: "But she can inflict a measure of suffering and of trouble." The
highwayman does not pass sentence when he slays.
Now you are stretching forth your hand for the daily gift. Golden indeed will
be the gift with which I shall load you; and, inasmuch as we have mentioned
gold, let me tell you how its use and enjoyment may bring you greater pleasure.
"He who needs riches least, enjoys riches most." "Author's name, please!" you
say. Now, to show you how generous I am, it is my intent to praise the dicta of
other schools. The phrase belongs to Epicurus, or Metrodorus, or some one of
that particular thinking-shop. But what difference does it make who spoke the
words? They were uttered for the world. He who craves riches feels fear on their
account. No man, however, enjoys a blessing that brings anxiety; he is always
trying to add a little more. While he puzzles over increasing his wealth, he
forgets how to use it. He collects his accounts, he wears out the pavement in the
forum, he turns over his ledger, – in short, he ceases to be master and becomes a
steward. Farewell.
Letter XV - On Brawn and Brains
The old Romans had a custom which survived even into my lifetime. They
would add to the opening words of a letter: "If you are well, it is well; I also am
well." Persons like ourselves would do well to say. "If you are studying
philosophy, it is well." For this is just what "being well" means. Without
philosophy the mind is sickly, and the body, too, though it may be very
powerful, is strong only as that of a madman or a lunatic is strong. This, then, is
the sort of health you should primarily cultivate; the other kind of health comes
second, and will involve little effort, if you wish to be well physically. It is
indeed foolish, my dear Lucilius, and very unsuitable for a cultivated man, to
work hard over developing the muscles and broadening the shoulders and
strengthening the lungs. For although your heavy feeding produce good results
and your sinews grow solid, you can never be a match, either in strength or in
weight, for a first-class bull. Besides, by overloading the body with food you
strangle the soul and render it less active. Accordingly, limit the flesh as much as
possible, and allow free play to the spirit. Many inconveniences beset those who
devote themselves to such pursuits. In the first place, they have their exercises, at
which they must work and waste their life-force and render it less fit to bear a
strain or the severer studies. Second, their keen edge is dulled by heavy eating.
Besides, they must take orders from slaves of the vilest stamp, – men who
alternate between the oil-flask and the flagon, whose day passes satisfactorily if
they have got up a good perspiration and quaffed, to make good what they have
lost in sweat, huge draughts of liquor which will sink deeper because of their
fasting. Drinking and sweating, – it's the life of a dyspeptic!
Now there are short and simple exercises which tire the body rapidly, and so
save our time; and time is something of which we ought to keep strict account.
These exercises are running, brandishing weights, and jumping, – high-jumping
or broad-jumping, or the kind which I may call, "the Priest's dance," or, in
slighting terms, "the clothes-cleaner's jump." Select for practice any one of these,
and you will find it plain and easy. But whatever you do, come back soon from
body to mind. The mind must be exercised both day and night, for it is nourished
by moderate labour. and this form of exercise need not be hampered by cold or
hot weather, or even by old age. Cultivate that good which improves with the
years. Of course I do not command you to be always bending over your books
and your writing materials; the mind must have a change, – but a change of such
a kind that it is not unnerved, but merely unbent. Riding in a litter shakes up the
body, and does not interfere with study: one may read, dictate, converse, or
listen to another; nor does walking prevent any of these things.
You need not scorn voice-culture; but I forbid you to practise raising and
lowering your voice by scales and specific intonations. What if you should next
propose to take lessons in walking! If you consult the sort of person whom
starvation has taught new tricks, you will have someone to regulate your steps,
watch every mouthful as you eat, and go to such lengths as you yourself, by
enduring him and believing in him, have encouraged his effrontery to go. "What,
then?" you will ask; "is my voice to begin at the outset with shouting and
straining the lungs to the utmost?" No; the natural thing is that it be aroused to
such a pitch by easy stages, just as persons who are wrangling begin with
ordinary conversational tones and then pass to shouting at the top of their lungs.
No speaker cries "Help me, citizens!" at the outset of his speech. Therefore,
whenever your spirit's impulse prompts you, raise a hubbub, now in louder now
in milder tones, according as your voice, as well as your spirit, shall suggest to
you, when you are moved to such a performance. Then let your voice, when you
rein it in and call it back to earth, come down gently, not collapse; it should trail
off in tones half way between high and low, and should not abruptly drop from
its raving in the uncouth manner of countrymen. For our purpose is, not to give
the voice exercise, but to make it give us exercise.
You see, I have relieved you of no slight bother; and I shall throw in a little
complementary present, – it is Greek, too. Here is the proverb; it is an excellent
one: "The fool's life is empty of gratitude and full of fears; its course lies wholly
toward the future." "Who uttered these words?" you say. The same writer whom
I mentioned before. And what sort of life do you think is meant by the fool's
life? That of Baba and Isio? No; he means our own, for we are plunged by our
blind desires into ventures which will harm us, but certainly will never satisfy
us; for if we could be satisfied with anything, we should have been satisfied long
ago; nor do we reflect how pleasant it is to demand nothing, how noble it is to be
contented and not to be dependent upon Fortune. Therefore continually remind
yourself, Lucilius, how many ambitions you have attained. When you see many
ahead of you, think how many are behind! If you would thank the gods, and be
grateful for your past life, you should contemplate how many men you have
outstripped. But what have you to do with the others? You have outstripped
yourself.
Fix a limit which you will not even desire to pass, should you have the power.
At last, then, away with all these treacherous goods! They look better to those
who hope for them than to those who have attained them. If there were anything
substantial in them, they would sooner or later satisfy you; as it is, they merely
rouse the drinkers' thirst. Away with fripperies which only serve for show! As to
what the future's uncertain lot has in store, why should I demand of Fortune that
she give rather than demand of myself that I should not crave? And why should l
crave? Shall I heap up my winnings, and forget that man's lot is unsubstantial?
For what end should I toil? Lo, to-day is the last; if not, it is near the last.
Farewell.
Letter XVI - On Philosophy, the Guide of Life
It is clear to you, I am sure, Lucilius, that no man can live a happy life, or
even a supportable life, without the study of wisdom; you know also that a
happy life is reached when our wisdom is brought to completion, but that life is
at least endurable even when our wisdom is only begun. This idea, however,
clear though it is, must be strengthened and implanted more deeply by daily
reflection; it is more important for you to keep the resolutions you have already
made than to go on and make noble ones. You must persevere, must develop
new strength by continuous study, until that which is only a good inclination
becomes a good settled purpose. Hence you no longer need to come to me with
much talk and protestations; I know that you have made great progress. I
understand the feelings which prompt your words; they are not feigned or
specious words. Nevertheless I shall tell you what I think, – that at present I have
hopes for you, but not yet perfect trust. And I wish that you would adopt the
same attitude towards yourself; there is no reason why you should put
confidence in yourself too quickly and readily. Examine yourself; scrutinize and
observe yourself in divers ways; but mark, before all else, whether it is in
philosophy or merely in life itself that you have made progress. Philosophy is no
trick to catch the public; it is not devised for show. It is a matter, not of words,
but of facts. It is not pursued in order that the day may yield some amusement
before it is spent, or that our leisure may be relieved of a tedium that irks us. It
moulds and constructs the soul; it orders our life, guides our conduct, shows us
what we should do and what we should leave undone; it sits at the helm and
directs our course as we waver amid uncertainties. Without it, no one can live
fearlessly or in peace of mind. Countless things that happen every hour call for
advice; and such advice is to be sought in philosophy.
Perhaps someone will say: "How can philosophy help me, if Fate exists? Of
what avail is philosophy, if God rules the universe? Of what avail is it, if Chance
governs everything? For not only is it impossible to change things that are
determined, but it is also impossible to plan beforehand against what is
undetermined; either God has forestalled my plans, and decided what I am to do,
or else Fortune gives no free play to my plans." Whether the truth, Lucilius, lies
in one or in all of these views, we must be philosophers; whether Fate binds us
down by an inexorable law, or whether God as arbiter of the universe has
arranged everything, or whether Chance drives and tosses human affairs without
method, philosophy ought to be our defence. She will encourage us to obey God
cheerfully, but Fortune defiantly; she will teach us to follow God and endure
Chance. But it is not my purpose now to be led into a discussion as to what is
within our own control, – if foreknowledge is supreme, or if a chain of fated
events drags us along in its clutches, or if the sudden and the unexpected play the
tyrant over us; I return now to my warning and my exhortation, that you should
not allow the impulse of your spirit to weaken and grow cold. Hold fast to it and
establish it firmly, in order that what is now impulse may become a habit of the
mind.
If I know you well, you have already been trying to find out, from the very
beginning of my letter, what little contribution it brings to you. Sift the letter,
and you will find it. You need not wonder at any genius of mine; for as yet I am
lavish only with other men's property. – But why did I say "other men"?
Whatever is well said by anyone is mine. This also is a saying of Epicurus: "If
you live according to nature, you will never be poor; if you live according to
opinion, you will never be rich." Nature's wants are slight; the demands of
opinion are boundless. Suppose that the property of many millionaires is heaped
up in your possession. Assume that fortune carries you far beyond the limits of a
private income, decks you with gold, clothes you in purple, and brings you to
such a degree of luxury and wealth that you can bury the earth under your
marble floors; that you may not only possess, but tread upon, riches. Add
statues, paintings, and whatever any art has devised for the luxury; you will only
learn from such things to crave still greater.
Natural desires are limited; but those which spring from false opinion can
have no stopping-point. The false has no limits. When you are travelling on a
road, there must be an end; but when astray, your wanderings are limitless.
Recall your steps, therefore, from idle things, and when you would know
whether that which you seek is based upon a natural or upon a misleading desire,
consider whether it can stop at any definite point. If you find, after having
travelled far, that there is a more distant goal always in view, you may be sure
that this condition is contrary to nature. Farewell.
Letter XVII - On Philosophy and Riches
Cast away everything of that sort, if you are wise; nay, rather that you may be
wise; strive toward a sound mind at top speed and with your whole strength. If
any bond holds you back, untie it, or sever it. "But," you say, "my estate delays
me; I wish to make such disposition of it that it may suffice for me when I have
nothing to do, lest either poverty be a burden to me, or I myself a burden to
others." You do not seem, when you say this, to know the strength and power of
that good which you are considering. You do indeed grasp the all important
thing, the great benefit which philosophy confers, but you do not yet discern
accurately its various functions, nor do you yet know how great is the help we
receive from philosophy in everything, everywhere, – how, (to use Cicero's
language,) it not only succours us in the greatest matters but also descends to the
smallest. Take my advice; call wisdom into consultation; she will advise you not
to sit for ever at your ledger. Doubtless, your object, what you wish to attain by
such postponement of your studies, is that poverty may not have to be feared by
you. But what if it is something to be desired? Riches have shut off many a man
from the attainment of wisdom; poverty is unburdened and free from care. When
the trumpet sounds, the poor man knows that he is not being attacked; when
there is a cry of "Fire,"he only seeks a way of escape, and does not ask what he
can save; if the poor man must go to sea, the harbour does not resound, nor do
the wharves bustle with the retinue of one individual. No throng of slaves
surrounds the poor man, – slaves for whose mouths the master must covet the
fertile crops of regions beyond the sea. It is easy to fill a few stomachs, when
they are well trained and crave nothing else but to be filled. Hunger costs but
little; squeamishness costs much. Poverty is contented with fulfilling pressing
needs.
Why, then, should you reject Philosophy as a comrade? Even the rich man
copies her ways when he is in his senses. If you wish to have leisure for your
mind, either be a poor man, or resemble a poor man. Study cannot be helpful
unless you take pains to live simply; and living simply is voluntary poverty.
Away, then, with all excuses like: "I have not yet enough; when I have gained
the desired amount, then I shall devote myself wholly to philosophy." And yet
this ideal, which you are putting off and placing second to other interests, should
be secured first of all; you should begin with it. You retort: "I wish to acquire
something to live on." Yes, but learn while you are acquiring it; for if anything
forbids you to live nobly, nothing forbids you to die nobly. There is no reason
why poverty should call us away from philosophy, – no, nor even actual want.
For when hastening after wisdom, we must endure even hunger. Men have
endured hunger when their towns were besieged, and what other reward for their
endurance did they obtain than that they did not fall under the conqueror's
power? How much greater is the promise of the prize of everlasting liberty, and
the assurance that we need fear neither God nor man! Even though we starve, we
must reach that goal. Armies have endured all manner of want, have lived on
roots, and have resisted hunger by means of food too revolting to mention. All
this they have suffered to gain a kingdom, and, – what is more marvellous, – to
gain a kingdom that will be another's. Will any man hesitate to endure poverty,
in order that he may free his mind from madness?
Therefore one should not seek to lay up riches first; one may attain to
philosophy, however, even without money for the journey. It is indeed so. After
you have come to possess all other things, shall you then wish to possess
wisdom also? Is philosophy to be the last requisite in life, – a sort of
supplement? Nay, your plan should be this: be a philosopher now, whether you
have anything or not, – for if you have anything, how do you know that you have
not too much already? – but if you have nothing, seek understanding first, before
anything else. "But," you say, "I shall lack the necessities of life." In the first
place, you cannot lack them; because nature demands but little, and the wise
man suits his needs to nature. But if the utmost pinch of need arrives, he will
quickly take leave of life and cease being a trouble to himself. If, however, his
means of existence are meagre and scanty, he will make the best of them,
without being anxious or worried about anything more than the bare necessities;
he will do justice to his belly and his shoulders; with free and happy spirit he
will laugh at the bustling of rich men, and the flurried ways of those who are
hastening after wealth, and say: "Why of your own accord postpone your real
life to the distant future? Shall you wait for some interest to fall due, or for some
income on your merchandise, or for a place in the will of some wealthy old man,
when you can be rich here and now. Wisdom offers wealth in ready money, and
pays it over to those in whose eyes she has made wealth superfluous." These
remarks refer to other men; you are nearer the rich class. Change the age in
which you live, and you have too much. But in every age, what is enough
remains the same.
I might close my letter at this point, if I had not got you into bad habits. One
cannot greet Parthian royalty without bringing a gift; and in your case I cannot
say farewell without paying a price. But what of it? I shall borrow from
Epicurus: "The acquisition of riches has been for many men, not an end, but a
change, of troubles." I do not wonder. For the fault is not in the wealth, but in the
mind itself. That which had made poverty a burden to us, has made riches also a
burden. Just as it matters little whether you lay a sick man on a wooden or on a
golden bed, for whithersoever he be moved he will carry his malady with him;
so one need not care whether the diseased mind is bestowed upon riches or upon
poverty. His malady goes with the man. Farewell,
Letter XVIII - On Festivals and Fasting
It is the month of December, and yet the city is at this very moment in a
sweat. License is given to the general merrymaking. Everything resounds with
mighty preparations, – as if the Saturnalia differed at all from the usual business
day! So true it is that the difference is nil, that I regard as correct the remark of
the man who said: "Once December was a month; now it is a year."
If I had you with me, I should be glad to consult you and find out what you
think should be done, – whether we ought to make no change in our daily
routine, or whether, in order not to be out of sympathy with the ways of the
public, we should dine in gayer fashion and doff the toga. As it is now, we
Romans have changed our dress for the sake of pleasure and holiday-making,
though in former times that was only customary when the State was disturbed
and had fallen on evil days. I am sure that, if I know you aright, playing the part
of an umpire you would have wished that we should be neither like the libertycapped throng in all ways, nor in all ways unlike them; unless, perhaps, this is
just the season when we ought to lay down the law to the soul, and bid it be
alone in refraining from pleasures just when the whole mob has let itself go in
pleasures; for this is the surest proof which a man can get of his own constancy,
if he neither seeks the things which are seductive and allure him to luxury, nor is
led into them. It shows much more courage to remain dry and sober when the
mob is drunk and vomiting; but it shows greater self-control to refuse to
withdraw oneself and to do what the crowd does, but in a different way, – thus
neither making oneself conspicuous nor becoming one of the crowd. For one
may keep holiday without extravagance.
I am so firmly determined, however, to test the constancy of your mind that,
drawing from the teachings of great men, I shall give you also a lesson: Set aside
a certain number of days, during which you shall be content with the scantiest
and cheapest fare, with coarse and rough dress, saying to yourself the while: "Is
this the condition that I feared?" It is precisely in times of immunity from care
that the soul should toughen itself beforehand for occasions of greater stress, and
it is while Fortune is kind that it should fortify itself against her violence. In days
of peace the soldier performs manoeuvres, throws up earthworks with no enemy
in sight, and wearies himself by gratuitous toil, in order that he may be equal to
unavoidable toil. If you would not have a man flinch when the crisis comes, train
him before it comes. Such is the course which those men have followed who, in
their imitation of poverty, have every month come almost to want, that they
might never recoil from what they had so often rehearsed.
You need not suppose that I mean meals like Timon's, or "paupers' huts," or
any other device which luxurious millionaires use to beguile the tedium of their
lives. Let the pallet be a real one, and the coarse cloak; let the bread be hard and
grimy. Endure all this for three or four days at a time, sometimes for more, so
that it may be a test of yourself instead of a mere hobby. Then, I assure you, my
dear Lucilius, you will leap for joy when filled with a pennyworth of food, and
you will understand that a man's peace of mind does not depend upon Fortune;
for, even when angry she grants enough for our needs.
There is no reason, however, why you should think that you are doing
anything great; for you will merely be doing what many thousands of slaves and
many thousands of poor men are doing every day. But you may credit yourself
with this item, – that you will not be doing it under compulsion, and that it will
be as easy for you to endure it permanently as to make the experiment from time
to time. Let us practise our strokes on the "dummy"; let us become intimate with
poverty, so that Fortune may not catch us off our guard. We shall be rich with all
the more comfort, if we once learn how far poverty is from being a burden.
Even Epicurus, the teacher of pleasure, used to observe stated intervals, during
which he satisfied his hunger in niggardly fashion; he wished to see whether he
thereby fell short of full and complete happiness, and, if so, by what amount he
fell short, and whether this amount was worth purchasing at the price of great
effort. At any rate, he makes such a statement in the well known letter written to
Polyaenus in the archonship of Charinus. Indeed, he boasts that he himself lived
on less than a penny, but that Metrodorus, whose progress was not yet so great,
needed a whole penny. Do you think that there can be fullness on such fare?
Yes, and there is pleasure also, – not that shifty and fleeting Pleasure which
needs a fillip now and then, but a pleasure that is steadfast and sure. For though
water, barley-meal, and crusts of barley-bread, are not a cheerful diet, yet it is
the highest kind of Pleasure to be able to derive pleasure from this sort of food,
and to have reduced one's needs to that modicum which no unfairness of Fortune
can snatch away. Even prison fare is more generous; and those who have been
set apart for capital punishment are not so meanly fed by the man who is to
execute them. Therefore, what a noble soul must one have, to descend of one's
own free will to a diet which even those who have been sentenced to death have
not to fear! This is indeed forestalling the spear thrusts of Fortune.
So begin, my dear Lucilius, to follow the custom of these men, and set apart
certain days on which you shall withdraw from your business and make yourself
at home with the scantiest fare. Establish business relations with poverty.
Dare, O my friend, to scorn the sight of wealth,
And mould thyself to kinship with thy God.
For he alone is in kinship with God who has scorned wealth. Of course I do
not forbid you to possess it, but I would have you reach the point at which you
possess it dauntlessly; this can be accomplished only by persuading yourself that
you can live happily without it as well as with it, and by regarding riches always
as likely to elude you.
But now I must begin to fold up my letter. "Settle your debts first," you cry.
Here is a draft on Epicurus; he will pay down the sum: "Ungoverned anger
begets madness." You cannot help knowing the truth of these words, since you
have had not only slaves, but also enemies. But indeed this emotion blazes out
against all sorts of persons; it springs from love as much as from hate, and shows
itself not less in serious matters than in jest and sport. And it makes no
difference how important the provocation may be, but into what kind of soul it
penetrates. Similarly with fire; it does not matter how great is the flame, but
what it falls upon. For solid timbers have repelled a very great fire; conversely,
dry and easily inflammable stuff nourishes the slightest spark into a
conflagration. So it is with anger, my dear Lucilius; the outcome of a mighty
anger is madness, and hence anger should be avoided, not merely that we may
escape excess, but that we may have a healthy mind. Farewell.
Letter XIX - On Worldliness and Retirement
I leap for joy whenever I receive letters from you. For they fill me with hope;
they are now not mere assurances concerning you, but guarantees. And I beg and
pray you to proceed in this course; for what better request could I make of a
friend than one which is to be made for his own sake? If possible, withdraw
yourself from all the business of which you speak; and if you cannot do this, tear
yourself away. We have dissipated enough of our time already – let us in old age
begin to pack up our baggage. Surely there is nothing in this that men can
begrudge us. We have spent our lives on the high seas; let us die in harbour. Not
that I would advise you to try to win fame by your retirement; one's retirement
should neither be paraded nor concealed. Not concealed, I say, for I shall not go
so far in urging you as to expect you to condemn all men as mad and then seek
out for yourself a hiding-place and oblivion; rather make this your business, that
your retirement be not conspicuous, though it should be obvious. In the second
place, while those whose choice is unhampered from the start will deliberate on
that other question, whether they wish to pass their lives in obscurity, in your
case there is not a free choice. Your ability and energy have thrust you into the
work of the world; so have the charm of your writings and the friendships you
have made with famous and notable men. Renown has already taken you by
storm. You may sink yourself into the depths of obscurity and utterly hide
yourself; yet your earlier acts will reveal you. You cannot keep lurking in the
dark; much of the old gleam will follow you wherever you fly.
Peace you can claim for yourself without being disliked by anyone, without
any sense of loss, and without any pangs of spirit. For what will you leave
behind you that you can imagine yourself reluctant to leave? Your clients? But
none of these men courts you for yourself; they merely court something from
you. People used to hunt friends, but now they hunt pelf; if a lonely old man
changes his will, the morning-caller transfers himself to another door. Great
things cannot be bought for small sums; so reckon up whether it is preferable to
leave your own true self, or merely some of your belongings. Would that you
had had the privilege of growing old amid the limited circumstances of your
origin, and that fortune had not raised you to such heights! You were removed
far from the sight of wholesome living by your swift rise to prosperity, by your
province, by your position as procurator, and by all that such things promise;
you will next acquire more important duties and after them still more. And what
will be the result? Why wait until there is nothing left for you to crave? That
time will never come. We hold that there is a succession of causes, from which
fate is woven; similarly, you may be sure, there is a succession in our desires; for
one begins where its predecessor ends. You have been thrust into an existence
which will never of itself put an end to your wretchedness and your slavery.
Withdraw your chafed neck from the yoke; it is better that it should be cut off
once for all, than galled for ever. If you retreat to privacy, everything will be on
a smaller scale, but you will be satisfied abundantly; in your present condition,
however, there is no satisfaction in the plenty which is heaped upon you on all
sides. Would you rather be poor and sated, or rich and hungry? Prosperity is not
only greedy, but it also lies exposed to the greed of others. And as long as
nothing satisfies you, you yourself cannot satisfy others.
"But," you say, "how can I take my leave?" Any way you please. Reflect how
many hazards you have ventured for the sake of money, and how much toil you
have undertaken for a title! You must dare something to gain leisure, also, – or
else grow old amid the worries of procuratorships abroad and subsequently of
civil duties at home, living in turmoil and in ever fresh floods of responsibilities,
which no man has ever succeeded in avoiding by unobtrusiveness or by
seclusion of life. For what bearing on the case has your personal desire for a
secluded life? Your position in the world desires the opposite! What if, even
now, you allow that position to grow greater? But all that is added to your
successes will be added to your fears. At this point I should like to quote a
saying of Maecenas, who spoke the truth when he stood on the very summit:
"There's thunder even on the loftiest peaks." If you ask me in what book these
words are found, they occur in the volume entitled Prometheus. He simply meant
to say that these lofty peaks have their tops surrounded with thunder-storms. But
is any power worth so high a price that a man like you would ever, in order to
obtain it, adopt a style so debauched as that? Maecenas was indeed a man of
parts, who would have left a great pattern for Roman oratory to follow, had his
good fortune not made him effeminate, – nay, had it not emasculated him! An
end like his awaits you also, unless you forthwith shorten sail and, – as
Maecenas was not willing to do until it was too late, – hug the shore!
This saying of Maecenas's might have squared my account with you; but I feel
sure, knowing you, that you will get out an injunction against me, and that you
will be unwilling to accept payment of my debt in such crude and debased
currency. However that may be, I shall draw on the account of Epicurus. He
says: "You must reflect carefully beforehand with whom you are to eat and
drink, rather than what you are to eat and drink. For a dinner of meats without
the company of a friend is like the life of a lion or a wolf." This privilege will
not be yours unless you withdraw from the world; otherwise, you will have as
guests only those whom your slave-secretary sorts out from the throng of callers.
It is, however, a mistake to select your friend in the reception-hall or to test him
at the dinner-table. The most serious misfortune for a busy man who is
overwhelmed by his possessions is, that he believes men to be his friends when
he himself is not a friend to them, and that he deems his favours to be effective
in winning friends, although, in the case of certain men, the more they owe, the
more they hate. A trifling debt makes a man your debtor; a large one makes him
an enemy. "What," you say, "do not kindnesses establish friendships?" They do,
if one has had the privilege of choosing those who are to receive them, and if
they are placed judiciously, instead of being scattered broadcast.
Therefore, while you are beginning to call your mind your own, meantime
apply this maxim of the wise: consider that it is more important who receives a
thing, than what it is he receives. Farewell.
Letter XX - On Practising what you Preach
If you are in good health and if you think yourself worthy of becoming at last
your own master, I am glad. For the credit will be mine, if I can drag you from
the floods in which you are being buffeted without hope of emerging. This,
however, my dear Lucilius, I ask and beg of you, on your part, that you let
wisdom sink into your soul, and test your progress, not by mere speech or
writings, but by stoutness of heart and decrease of desire. Prove your words by
your deeds.
Far different is the purpose of those who are speechmaking and trying to win
the approbation of a throng of hearers, far different that of those who allure the
ears of young men and idlers by many-sided or fluent argumentation; philosophy
teaches us to act, not to speak; it exacts of every man that he should live
according to his own standards, that his life should not be out of harmony with
his words, and that, further, his inner life should be of one hue and not out of
harmony with all his activities. This, I say, is the highest duty and the highest
proof of wisdom, – that deed and word should be in accord, that a man should be
equal to himself under all conditions, and always the same.
"But," you reply, "who can maintain this standard?" Very few, to be sure; but
there are some. It is indeed a hard undertaking, and I do not say that the
philosopher can always keep the same pace. But he can always travel the same
path. Observe yourself, then, and see whether your dress and your house are
inconsistent, whether you treat yourself lavishly and your family meanly,
whether you eat frugal dinners and yet build luxurious houses. You should lay
hold, once for all, upon a single norm to live by, and should regulate your whole
life according to this norm. Some men restrict themselves at home, but strut with
swelling port before the public; such discordance is a fault, and it indicates a
wavering mind which cannot yet keep its balance. And I can tell you, further,
whence arise this unsteadiness and disagreement of action and purpose; it is
because no man resolves upon what he wishes, and, even if he has done so, he
does not persist in it, but jumps the track; not only does he change, but he returns
and slips back to the conduct which he has abandoned and abjured. Therefore, to
omit the ancient definitions of wisdom and to include the whole manner of
human life, I can be satisfied with the following: "What is wisdom? Always
desiring the same things, and always refusing the same things." You may be
excused from adding the little proviso, – that what you wish, should be right;
since no man can always be satisfied with the same thing, unless it is right.
For this reason men do not know what they wish, except at the actual moment
of wishing; no man ever decided once and for all to desire or to refuse. Judgment
varies from day to day, and changes to the opposite, making many a man pass
his life in a kind of game. Press on, therefore, as you have begun; perhaps you
will be led to perfection, or to a point which you alone understand is still short of
perfection.
"But what," you say, "will become of my crowded household without a
household income?" If you stop supporting that crowd, it will support itself; or
perhaps you will learn by the bounty of poverty what you cannot learn by your
own bounty. Poverty will keep for you your true and tried friends; you will be
rid of the men who were not seeking you for yourself, but for something which
you have. Is it not true, however, that you should love poverty, if only for this
single reason, – that it will show you those by whom you are loved? O when will
that time come, when no one shall tell lies to compliment you! Accordingly, let
your thoughts, your efforts, your desires, help to make you content with your
own self and with the goods that spring from yourself; and commit all your other
prayers to God's keeping! What happiness could come closer home to you?
Bring yourself down to humble conditions, from which you cannot be ejected
and in order that you may do so with greater alacrity, the contribution contained
in this letter shall refer to that subject; I shall bestow it upon you forthwith.
Although you may look askance, Epicurus will once again be glad to settle my
indebtedness: "Believe me, your words will be more imposing if you sleep on a
cot and wear rags. For in that case you will not be merely saying them; you will
be demonstrating their truth." I, at any rate, listen in a different spirit to the
utterances of our friend Demetrius, after I have seen him reclining without even
a cloak to cover him, and, more than this, without rugs to lie upon. He is not
only a teacher of the truth, but a witness to the truth. "May not a man, however,
despise wealth when it lies in his very pocket?" Of course; he also is greatsouled, who sees riches heaped up round him and, after wondering long and
deeply because they have come into his possession, smiles, and hears rather than
feels that they are his. It means much not to be spoiled by intimacy with riches;
and he is truly great who is poor amidst riches. "Yes, but I do not know," you
say, "how the man you speak of will endure poverty, if he falls into it suddenly."
Nor do I, Epicurus, know whether the poor man you speak of will despise riches,
should he suddenly fall into them; accordingly, in the case of both, it is the mind
that must be appraised, and we must investigate whether your man is pleased
with his poverty, and whether my man is displeased with his riches. Otherwise,
the cot-bed and the rags are slight proof of his good intentions, if it has not been
made clear that the person concerned endures these trials not from necessity but
from preference.
It is the mark, however, of a noble spirit not to precipitate oneself into such
things on the ground that they are better, but to practise for them on the ground
that they are thus easy to endure. And they are easy to endure, Lucilius; when,
however, you come to them after long rehearsal, they are even pleasant; for they
contain a sense of freedom from care, – and without this nothing is pleasant. I
hold it essential, therefore, to do as I have told you in a letter that great men have
often done: to reserve a few days in which we may prepare ourselves for real
poverty by means of fancied poverty. There is all the more reason for doing this,
because we have been steeped in luxury and regard all duties as hard and
onerous. Rather let the soul be roused from its sleep and be prodded, and let it be
reminded that nature has prescribed very little for us. No man is born rich. Every
man, when he first sees light, is commanded to be content with milk and rags.
Such is our beginning, and yet kingdoms are all too small for us! Farewell.
Letter XXI - On the Renown which my Writings will Bring
you
Do you conclude that you are having difficulties with those men about whom
you wrote to me? Your greatest difficulty is with yourself; for you are your own
stumbling-block. You do not know what you want. You are better at approving
the right course than at following it out. You see where the true happiness lies,
but you have not the courage to attain it. Let me tell you what it is that hinders
you, inasmuch as you do not of yourself discern it.
You think that this condition, which you are to abandon, is one of importance,
and after resolving upon that ideal state of calm into which you hope to pass, you
are held back by the lustre of your present life, from which it is your intention to
depart, just as if you were about to fall into a state of filth and darkness. This is a
mistake, Lucilius; to go from your present life into the other is a promotion.
There is the same difference between these two lives as there is between mere
brightness and real light; the latter has a definite source within itself, the other
borrows its radiance; the one is called forth by an illumination coming from the
outside, and anyone who stands between the source and the object immediately
turns the latter into a dense shadow; but the other has a glow that comes from
within.
It is your own studies that will make you shine and will render you eminent,
Allow me to mention the case of Epicurus. He was writing to Idomeneus and
trying to recall him from a showy existence to sure and steadfast renown.
Idomeneus was at that time a minister of state who exercised a rigorous authority
and had important affairs in hand. "If," said Epicurus, "you are attracted by
fame, my letters will make you more renowned than all the things which you
cherish and which make you cherished." Did Epicurus speak falsely? Who
would have known of Idomeneus, had not the philosopher thus engraved his
name in those letters of his? All the grandees and satraps, even the king himself,
who was petitioned for the title which Idomeneus sought, are sunk in deep
oblivion. Cicero's letters keep the name of Atticus from perishing. It would have
profited Atticus nothing to have an Agrippa for a son-in-law, a Tiberius for the
husband of his grand-daughter, and a Drusus Caesar for a great-grandson; amid
these mighty names his name would never be spoken, had not Cicero bound him
to himself. The deep flood of time will roll over us; some few great men will
raise their heads above it, and, though destined at the last to depart into the same
realms of silence, will battle against oblivion and maintain their ground for long.
That which Epicurus could promise his friend, this I promise you, Lucilius. I
shall find favour among later generations; I can take with me names that will
endure as long as mine. Our poet Vergil promised an eternal name to two heroes,
and is keeping his promise:
Blest heroes twain! If power my song possess,
The record of your names shall never be
Erased from out the book of Time, while yet
Aeneas' tribe shall keep the Capitol,
That rock immovable, and Roman sire
Shall empire hold.
Whenever men have been thrust forward by fortune, whenever they have
become part and parcel of another's influence, they have found abundant favour,
their houses have been thronged, only so long as they themselves have kept their
position; when they themselves have left it, they have slipped at once from the
memory of men. But in the case of innate ability, the respect in which it is held
increases, and not only does honour accrue to the man himself, but whatever has
attached itself to his memory is passed on from one to another.
In order that Idomeneus may not be introduced free of charge into my letter,
he shall make up the indebtedness from his own account. It was to him that
Epicurus addressed the well-known saying urging him to make Pythocles rich,
but not rich in the vulgar and equivocal way. "If you wish," said he, "to make
Pythocles rich, do not add to his store of money, but subtract from his desires."
This idea is too clear to need explanation, and too clever to need reinforcement.
There is, however, one point on which I would warn you, – not to consider that
this statement applies only to riches; its value will be the same, no matter how
you apply it. "If you wish to make Pythocles honourable, do not add to his
honours, but subtract from his desires"; "if you wish Pythocles to have pleasure
for ever, do not add to his pleasures, but subtract from his desires"; "if you wish
to make Pythocles an old man, filling his life to the full, do not add to his years,
but subtract from his desires." There is no reason why you should hold that these
words belong to Epicurus alone; they are public property. I think we ought to do
in philosophy as they are wont to do in the Senate: when someone has made a
motion, of which I approve to a certain extent, I ask him to make his motion in
two parts, and I vote for the part which I approve. So I am all the more glad to
repeat the distinguished words of Epicurus, in order that I may prove to those
who have recourse to him through a bad motive, thinking that they will have in
him a screen for their own vices, that they must live honourably, no matter what
school they follow.
Go to his Garden and read the motto carved there:
"Stranger, here you will do well to tarry; here our highest good is pleasure."
The caretaker of that abode, a kindly host, will be ready for you; he will
welcome you with barley-meal and serve you water also in abundance, with
these words: "Have you not been well entertained?" "This garden," he says,
"does not whet your appetite; it quenches it. Nor does it make you more thirsty
with every drink; it slakes the thirst by a natural cure, a cure that demands no
fee. This is the 'pleasure' in which I have grown old."
In speaking with you, however, I refer to those desires which refuse
alleviation, which must be bribed to cease. For in regard to the exceptional
desires, which may be postponed, which may be chastened and checked, I have
this one thought to share with you: a pleasure of that sort is according to our
nature, but it is not according to our needs; one owes nothing to it; whatever is
expended upon it is a free gift. The belly will not listen to advice; it makes
demands, it importunes. And yet it is not a troublesome creditor; you can send it
away at small cost, provided only that you give it what you owe, not merely all
you are able to give. Farewell.
Letter XXII - On the Futility of Half-Way Measures
You understand by this time that you must withdraw yourself from those
showy and depraved pursuits; but you still wish to know how this may be
accomplished. There are certain things which can be pointed out only by
someone who is present. The physician cannot prescribe by letter the proper time
for eating or bathing; he must feel the pulse. There is an old adage about
gladiators, – that they plan their fight in the ring; as they intently watch,
something in the adversary's glance, some movement of his hand, even some
slight bending of his body, gives a warning. We can formulate general rules and
commit them to writing, as to what is usually done, or ought to be done; such
advice may be given, not only to our absent friends, but also to succeeding
generations. In regard, however, to that second question, – when or how your
plan is to be carried out, – no one will advise at long range; we must take
counsel in the presence of the actual situation. You must be not only present in
the body, but watchful in mind, if you would avail yourself of the fleeting
opportunity. Accordingly, look about you for the opportunity; if you see it, grasp
it, and with all your energy and with all your strength devote yourself to this task
– to rid yourself of those business duties.
Now listen carefully to the opinion which I shall offer; it is my opinion that
you should withdraw either from that kind of existence, or else from existence
altogether. But I likewise maintain that you should take a gentle path, that you
may loosen rather than cut the knot which you have bungled so badly in tying, –
provided that if there shall be no other way of loosening it, you may actually cut
it. No man is so faint-hearted that he would rather hang in suspense for ever than
drop once for all. Meanwhile, – and this is of first importance, – do not hamper
yourself; be content with the business into which you have lowered yourself, or,
as you prefer to have people think, have tumbled. There is no reason why you
should be struggling on to something further; if you do, you will lose all grounds
of excuse, and men will see that it was not a tumble. The usual explanation
which men offer is wrong: "I was compelled to do it. Suppose it was against my
will; I had to do it." But no one is compelled to pursue prosperity at top speed; it
means something to call a halt, – even if one does not offer resistance, – instead
of pressing eagerly after favouring fortune. Shall you then be put out with me, if
I not only come to advise you, but also call in others to advise you, – wiser heads
than my own, men before whom I am wont to lay any problem upon which l am
pondering? Read the letter of Epicurus which appears on this matter; it is
addressed to Idomeneus. The writer asks him to hasten as fast as he can, and beat
a retreat before some stronger influence comes between and takes from him the
liberty to withdraw. But he also adds that one should attempt nothing except at
the time when it can be attempted suitably and seasonably. Then, when the longsought occasion comes, let him be up and doing. Epicurus forbids us to doze
when we are meditating escape; he bids us hope for a safe release from even the
hardest trials, provided that we are not in too great a hurry before the time, nor
too dilatory when the time arrives.
Now, I suppose, you are looking for a Stoic motto also. There is really no
reason why anyone should slander that school to you on the ground of its
rashness; as a matter of fact, its caution is greater than its courage. You are
perhaps expecting the sect to utter such words as these: "It is base to flinch under
a burden. Wrestle with the duties which you have once undertaken. No man is
brave and earnest if he avoids danger, if his spirit does not grow with the very
difficulty of his task." Words like these will indeed be spoken to you, if only
your perseverance shall have an object that is worth while, if only you will not
have to do or to suffer anything unworthy of a good man; besides, a good man
will not waste himself upon mean and discreditable work or be busy merely for
the sake of being busy. Neither will he, as you imagine, become so involved in
ambitious schemes that he will have continually to endure their ebb and flow.
Nay, when he sees the dangers, uncertainties, and hazards in which he was
formerly tossed about, he will withdraw, – not turning his back to the foe, but
falling back little by little to a safe position. From business, however, my dear
Lucilius, it is easy to escape, if only you will despise the rewards of business.
We are held back and kept from escaping by thoughts like these: "What then?
Shall I leave behind me these great prospects? Shall I depart at the very time of
harvest? Shall I have no slaves at my side? no retinue for my litter? no crowd in
my reception room?"
Hence men leave such advantages as these with reluctance; they love the
reward of their hardships, but curse the hardships themselves. Men complain
about their ambitions as they complain about their mistresses; in other words, if
you penetrate their real feelings, you will find, not hatred, but bickering. Search
the minds of those who cry down what they have desired, who talk about
escaping from things which they are unable to do without; you will comprehend
that they are lingering of their own free will in a situation which they declare
they find it hard and wretched to endure. It is so, my dear Lucilius; there are a
few men whom slavery holds fast, but there are many more who hold fast to
slavery.
If, however, you intend to be rid of this slavery; if freedom is genuinely
pleasing in your eyes; and if you seek counsel for this one purpose, – that you
may have the good fortune to accomplish this purpose without perpetual
annoyance, – how can the whole company of Stoic thinkers fail to approve your
course? Zeno, Chrysippus, and all their kind will give you advice that is
temperate, honourable, and suitable. But if you keep turning round and looking
about, in order to see how much you may carry away with you, and how much
money you may keep to equip yourself for the life of leisure, you will never find
a way out. No man can swim ashore and take his baggage with him. Rise to a
higher life, with the favour of the gods; but let it not be favour of such a kind as
the gods give to men when with kind and genial faces they bestow magnificent
ills, justified in so doing by the one fact that the things which irritate and torture
have been bestowed in answer to prayer.
I was just putting the seal upon this letter; but it must be broken again, in
order that it may go to you with its customary contribution, bearing with it some
noble word. And lo, here is one that occurs to my mind; I do not know whether
its truth or its nobility of utterance is the greater. "Spoken by whom?" you ask.
By Epicurus; for I am still appropriating other men's belongings. The words are:
"Everyone goes out of life just as if he had but lately entered it." Take anyone off
his guard, young, old, or middle-aged; you will find that all are equally afraid of
death, and equally ignorant of life. No one has anything finished, because we
have kept putting off into the future all our undertakings. No thought in the
quotation given above pleases me more than that it taunts old men with being
infants. "No one," he says, "leaves this world in a different manner from one
who has just been born." That is not true; for we are worse when we die than
when we were born; but it is our fault, and not that of Nature. Nature should
scold us, saying: "What does this mean? I brought you into the world without
desires or fears, free from superstition, treachery and the other curses. Go forth
as you were when you entered!"
A man has caught the message of wisdom, if he can die as free from care as he
was at birth; but as it is we are all aflutter at the approach of the dreaded end.
Our courage fails us, our cheeks blanch; our tears fall, though they are
unavailing. But what is baser than to fret at the very threshold of peace? The
reason, however is, that we are stripped of all our goods, we have jettisoned our
cargo of life and are in distress; for no part of it has been packed in the hold; it
has all been heaved overboard and has drifted away. Men do not care how nobly
they live, but only how long, although it is within the reach of every man to live
nobly, but within no man's power to live long. Farewell.
Letter XXIII - On the True Joy which Comes from
Philosophy
Do you suppose that I shall write you how kindly the winter season has dealt
with us, – a short season and a mild one, – or what a nasty spring we are having,
– cold weather out of season, – and all the other trivialities which people write
when they are at a loss for topics of conversation? No; I shall communicate
something which may help both you and myself. And what shall this
"something" be, if not an exhortation to soundness of mind? Do you ask what is
the foundation of a sound mind? It is, not to find joy in useless things. I said that
it was the foundation; it is really the pinnacle. We have reached the heights if we
know what it is that we find joy in and if we have not placed our happiness in the
control of externals. The man who is goaded ahead by hope of anything, though
it be within reach, though it be easy of access, and though his ambitions have
never played him false, is troubled and unsure of himself. Above all, my dear
Lucilius, make this your business: learn how to feel joy.
Do you think that I am now robbing you of many pleasures when I try to do
away with the gifts of chance, when I counsel the avoidance of hope, the
sweetest thing that gladdens our hearts? Quite the contrary; I do not wish you
ever to be deprived of gladness. I would have it born in your house; and it is
born there, if only it be inside of you. Other objects of cheer do not fill a man's
bosom; they merely smooth his brow and are inconstant, – unless perhaps you
believe that he who laughs has joy. The very soul must be happy and confident,
lifted above every circumstance.
Real joy, believe me, is a stern matter. Can one, do you think, despise death
with a care-free countenance, or with a "blithe and gay" expression, as our young
dandies are accustomed to say? Or can one thus open his door to poverty, or hold
the curb on his pleasures, or contemplate the endurance of pain? He who ponders
these things in his heart is indeed full of joy; but it is not a cheerful joy. It is just
this joy, however, of which I would have you become the owner; for it will
never fail you when once you have found its source. The yield of poor mines is
on the surface; those are really rich whose veins lurk deep, and they will make
more bountiful returns to him who delves unceasingly. So too those baubles
which delight the common crowd afford but a thin pleasure, laid on as a coating,
and even joy that is only plated lacks a real basis. But the joy of which I speak,
that to which I am endeavouring to lead you, is something solid, disclosing itself
the more fully as you penetrate into it. Therefore I pray you, my dearest Lucilius,
do the one thing that can render you really happy: cast aside and trample under
foot all the things that glitter outwardly and are held out to you by another or as
obtainable from another; look toward the true good, and rejoice only in that
which comes from your own store. And what do I mean by "from your own
store"? I mean from your very self, that which is the best part of you. The frail
body, also, even though we can accomplish nothing without it, is to be regarded
as necessary rather than as important; it involves us in vain pleasures, shortlived, and soon to be regretted, which, unless they are reined in by extreme selfcontrol, will be transformed into the opposite. This is what I mean: pleasure,
unless it has been kept within bounds, tends to rush headlong into the abyss of
sorrow.
But it is hard to keep within bounds in that which you believe to be good. The
real good may be coveted with safety. Do you ask me what this real good is, and
whence it derives? I will tell you: it comes from a good conscience, from
honourable purposes, from right actions, from contempt of the gifts of chance,
from an even and calm way of living which treads but one path. For men who
leap from one purpose to another, or do not even leap but are carried over by a
sort of hazard, – how can such wavering and unstable persons possess any good
that is fixed and lasting? There are only a few who control themselves and their
affairs by a guiding purpose; the rest do not proceed; they are merely swept
along, like objects afloat in a river. And of these objects, some are held back by
sluggish waters and are transported gently; others are torn along by a more
violent current; some, which are nearest the bank, are left there as the current
slackens; and others are carried out to sea by the onrush of the stream. Therefore,
we should decide what we wish, and abide by the decision.
Now is the time for me to pay my debt. I can give you a saying of your friend
Epicurus and thus clear this letter of its obligation. "It is bothersome always to
be beginning life." Or another, which will perhaps express the meaning better:
"They live ill who are always beginning to live." You are right in asking why;
the saying certainly stands in need of a commentary. It is because the life of such
persons is always incomplete. But a man cannot stand prepared for the approach
of death if he has just begun to live. We must make it our aim already to have
lived long enough. No one deems that he has done so, if he is just on the point of
planning his life. You need not think that there are few of this kind; practically
everyone is of such a stamp. Some men, indeed, only begin to live when it is
time for them to leave off living. And if this seems surprising to you, I shall add
that which will surprise you still more: Some men have left off living before they
have begun. Farewell.
Letter XXIV - On Despising Death
You write me that you are anxious about the result of a lawsuit, with which an
angry opponent is threatening you; and you expect me to advise you to picture to
yourself a happier issue, and to rest in the allurements of hope. Why, indeed, is it
necessary to summon trouble, – which must be endured soon enough when it has
once arrived, or to anticipate trouble and ruin the present through fear of the
future? It is indeed foolish to be unhappy now because you may be unhappy at
some future time. But I shall conduct you to peace of mind by another route: if
you would put off all worry, assume that what you fear may happen will
certainly happen in any event; whatever the trouble may be, measure it in your
own mind, and estimate the amount of your fear. You will thus understand that
what you fear is either insignificant or short-lived. And you need not spend a
long time in gathering illustrations which will strengthen you; every epoch has
produced them. Let your thoughts travel into any era of Roman or foreign
history, and there will throng before you notable examples of high achievement
or of high endeavour.
If you lose this case, can anything more severe happen to you than being sent
into exile or led to prison? Is there a worse fate that any man may fear than being
burned or being killed? Name such penalties one by one, and mention the men
who have scorned them; one does not need to hunt for them, – it is simply a
matter of selection. Sentence of conviction was borne by Rutilius as if the
injustice of the decision were the only thing which annoyed him. Exile was
endured by Metellus with courage, by Rutilius even with gladness; for the
former consented to come back only because his country called him; the latter
refused to return when Sulla summoned him, – and nobody in those days said
"No" to Sulla! Socrates in prison discoursed, and declined to flee when certain
persons gave him the opportunity; he remained there, in order to free mankind
from the fear of two most grievous things, death and imprisonment. Mucius put
his hand into the fire. It is painful to be burned; but how much more painful to
inflict such suffering upon oneself! Here was a man of no learning, not primed to
face death and pain by any words of wisdom, and equipped only with the
courage of a soldier, who punished himself for his fruitless daring; he stood and
watched his own right hand falling away piecemeal on the enemy's brazier, nor
did he withdraw the dissolving limb, with its uncovered bones, until his foe
removed the fire. He might have accomplished something more successful in
that camp, but never anything more brave. See how much keener a brave man is
to lay hold of danger than a cruel man is to inflict it: Porsenna was more ready to
pardon Mucius for wishing to slay him than Mucius to pardon himself for failing
to slay Porsenna!
"Oh," say you, "those stories have been droned to death in all the schools;
pretty soon, when you reach the topic 'On Despising Death,' you will be telling
me about Cato." But why should I not tell you about Cato, how he read Plato's
book on that last glorious night, with a sword laid at his pillow? He had provided
these two requisites for his last moments, – the first, that he might have the will
to die, and the second, that he might have the means. So he put his affairs in
order, – as well as one could put in order that which was ruined and near its end,
– and thought that he ought to see to it that no one should have the power to slay
or the good fortune to save Cato. Drawing the sword, – which he had kept
unstained from all bloodshed against the final day, he cried: "Fortune, you have
accomplished nothing by resisting all my endeavours. I have fought, till now, for
my country's freedom, and not for my own, I did not strive so doggedly to be
free, but only to live among the free. Now, since the affairs of mankind are
beyond hope, let Cato be withdrawn to safety." So saying, he inflicted a mortal
wound upon his body. After the physicians had bound it up, Cato had less blood
and less strength, but no less courage; angered now not only at Caesar but also at
himself, he rallied his unarmed hands against his wound, and expelled, rather
than dismissed, that noble soul which had been so defiant of all worldly power.
I am not now heaping up these illustrations for the purpose of exercising my
wit, but for the purpose of encouraging you to face that which is thought to be
most terrible. And I shall encourage you all the more easily by showing that not
only resolute men have despised that moment when the soul breathes its last, but
that certain persons, who were craven in other respects, have equalled in this
regard the courage of the bravest. Take, for example, Scipio, the father-in-law of
Gnaeus Pompeius: he was driven back upon the African coast by a head-wind
and saw his ship in the power of the enemy. He therefore pierced his body with a
sword; and when they asked where the commander was, he replied: "All is well
with the commander." These words brought him up to the level of his ancestors
and suffered not the glory which fate gave to the Scipios in Africa to lose its
continuity. It was a great deed to conquer Carthage, but a greater deed to
conquer death. "All is well with the commander!" Ought a general to die
otherwise, especially one of Cato's generals? I shall not refer you to history, or
collect examples of those men who throughout the ages have despised death; for
they are very many. Consider these times of ours, whose enervation and overrefinement call forth our complaints; they nevertheless will include men of every
rank, of every lot in life, and of every age, who have cut short their misfortunes
by death.
Believe me, Lucilius; death is so little to be feared that through its good
offices nothing is to be feared. Therefore, when your enemy threatens, listen
unconcernedly. Although your conscience makes you confident, yet, since many
things have weight which are outside your case, both hope for that which is
utterly just, and prepare yourself against that which is utterly unjust. Remember,
however, before all else, to strip things of all that disturbs and confuses, and to
see what each is at bottom; you will then comprehend that they contain nothing
fearful except the actual fear. That you see happening to boys happens also to
ourselves, who are only slightly bigger boys: when those whom they love, with
whom they daily associate, with whom they play, appear with masks on, the
boys are frightened out of their wits. We should strip the mask, not only from
men, but from things, and restore to each object its own aspect.
"Why dost thou hold up before my eyes swords, fires, and a throng of
executioners raging about thee? Take away all that vain show, behind which
thou lurkest and scarest fools! Ah! thou art naught but Death, whom only
yesterday a manservant of mine and a maid-servant did despise! Why dost thou
again unfold and spread before me, with all that great display, the whip and the
rack? Why are those engines of torture made ready, one for each several member
of the body, and all the other innumerable machines for tearing a man apart
piecemeal? Away with all such stuff, which makes us numb with terror! And
thou, silence the groans the cries, and the bitter shrieks ground out of the victim
as he is torn on the rack! Forsooth thou are naught but Pain, scorned by yonder
gout-ridden wretch, endured by yonder dyspeptic in the midst of his dainties,
borne bravely by the girl in travail. Slight thou art, if I can bear thee; short thou
art if I cannot bear thee!"
Ponder these words which you have often heard and often uttered. Moreover,
prove by the result whether that which you have heard and uttered is true. For
there is a very disgraceful charge often brought against our school, – that we
deal with the words, and not with the deeds, of philosophy.
What, have you only at this moment learned that death is hanging over your
head, at this moment exile, at this moment grief? You were born to these perils.
Let us think of everything that can happen as something which will happen. I
know that you have really done what I advise you to do; I now warn you not to
drown your soul in these petty anxieties of yours; if you do, the soul will be
dulled and will have too little vigour left when the time comes for it to arise.
Remove the mind from this case of yours to the case of men in general. Say to
yourself that our petty bodies are mortal and frail; pain can reach them from
other sources than from wrong or the might of the stronger. Our pleasures
themselves become torments; banquets bring indigestion, carousals paralysis of
the muscles and palsy, sensual habits affect the feet, the hands, and every joint of
the body.
I may become a poor man; I shall then be one among many. I may be exiled; I
shall then regard myself as born in the place to which I shall be sent. They may
put me in chains. What then? Am I free from bonds now? Behold this clogging
burden of a body, to which nature has fettered me! "I shall die," you say; you
mean to say "I shall cease to run the risk of sickness; I shall cease to run the risk
of imprisonment; I shall cease to run the risk of death." I am not so foolish as to
go through at this juncture the arguments which Epicurus harps upon, and say
that the terrors of the world below are idle, – that Ixion does not whirl round on
his wheel, that Sisyphus does not shoulder his stone uphill, that a man's entrails
cannot be restored and devoured every day; no one is so childish as to fear
Cerberus, or the shadows, or the spectral garb of those who are held together by
naught but their unfleshed bones. Death either annihilates us or strips us bare. If
we are then released, there remains the better part, after the burden has been
withdrawn; if we are annihilated, nothing remains; good and bad are alike
removed.
Allow me at this point to quote a verse of yours, first suggesting that, when
you wrote it, you meant it for yourself no less than for others. It is ignoble to say
one thing and mean another; and how much more ignoble to write one thing and
mean another! I remember one day you were handling the well-known
commonplace, – that we do not suddenly fall on death, but advance towards it by
slight degrees; we die every day. For every day a little of our life is taken from
us; even when we are growing, our life is on the wane. We lose our childhood,
then our boyhood, and then our youth. Counting even yesterday, all past time is
lost time; the very day which we are now spending is shared between ourselves
and death. It is not the last drop that empties the water-clock, but all that which
previously has flowed out; similarly, the final hour when we cease to exist does
not of itself bring death; it merely of itself completes the death-process. We
reach death at that moment, but we have been a long time on the way. In
describing this situation, you said in your customary, style (for you are always
impressive, but never more pungent than when you are putting the truth in
appropriate words):
Not single is the death which comes; the death
Which takes us off is but the last of all.
I prefer that you should read your own words rather than my letter; for then it
will be clear to you that this death, of which we are afraid, is the last but not the
only death. I see what you are looking for; you are asking what I have packed
into my letter, what inspiriting saying from some master-mind, what useful
precept. So I shall send you something dealing with this very subject which has
been under discussion. Epicurus upbraids those who crave, as much as those
who shrink from, death: "It is absurd," he says, "to run towards death because
you are tired of life, when it is your manner of life that has made you run
towards death." And in another passage: "What is so absurd as to seek death,
when it is through fear of death that you have robbed your life of peace?" And
you may add a third statement, of the same stamp: "Men are so thoughtless, nay,
so mad, that some, through fear of death, force themselves to die."
Whichever of these ideas you ponder, you will strengthen your mind for the
endurance alike of death and of life. For we need to be warned and strengthened
in both directions, – not to love or to hate life overmuch; even when reason
advises us to make an end of it, the impulse is not to be adopted without
reflection or at headlong speed. The grave and wise man should not beat a hasty
retreat from life; he should make a becoming exit. And above all, he should
avoid the weakness which has taken possession of so many, – the lust for death.
For just as there is an unreflecting tendency of the mind towards other things, so,
my dear Lucilius, there is an unreflecting tendency towards death; this often
seizes upon the noblest and most spirited men, as well as upon the craven and
the abject. The former despise life; the latter find it irksome.
Others also are moved by a satiety of doing and seeing the same things, and
not so much by a hatred of life as because they are cloyed with it. We slip into
this condition, while philosophy itself pushes us on, and we say; "How long
must I endure the same things? Shall I continue to wake and sleep, be hungry
and be cloyed, shiver and perspire? There is an end to nothing; all things are
connected in a sort of circle; they flee and they are pursued. Night is close at the
heels of day, day at the heels of night; summer ends in autumn, winter rushes
after autumn, and winter softens into spring; all nature in this way passes, only to
return. I do nothing new; I see nothing new; sooner or later one sickens of this,
also." There are many who think that living is not painful, but superfluous.
Farewell.
Letter XXV - On Reformation
With regard to these two friends of ours, we must proceed along different
lines; the faults of the one are to be corrected, the other's are to be crushed out. I
shall take every liberty; for I do not love this one if I am unwilling to hurt his
feelings. "What," you say, "do you expect to keep a forty-year-old ward under
your tutelage? Consider his age, how hardened it now is, and past handling!
Such a man cannot be re-shaped; only young minds are moulded." I do not know
whether I shall make progress; but I should prefer to lack success rather than to
lack faith. You need not despair of curing sick men even when the disease is
chronic, if only you hold out against excess and force them to do and submit to
many things against their will. As regards our other friend I am not sufficiently
confident, either, except for the fact that he still has sense of shame enough to
blush for his sins. This modesty should be fostered; so long as it endures in his
soul, there is some room for hope. But as for this veteran of yours, I think we
should deal more carefully with him, that he may not become desperate about
himself. There is no better time to approach him than now, when he has an
interval of rest and seems like one who has corrected his faults. Others have
been cheated by this interval of virtue on his part, but he does not cheat me. I
feel sure that these faults will return, as it were, with compound interest, for just
now, I am certain, they are in abeyance but not absent. I shall devote some time
to the matter, and try to see whether or not something can be done.
But do you yourself, as indeed you are doing, show me that you are stouthearted; lighten your baggage for the march. None of our possessions is
essential. Let us return to the law of nature; for then riches are laid up for us. The
things which we actually need are free for all, or else cheap; nature craves only
bread and water. No one is poor according to this standard; when a man has
limited his desires within these bounds, he can challenge the happiness of Jove
himself, as Epicurus says. I must insert in this letter one or two more of his
sayings: "Do everything as if Epicurus were watching you." There is no real
doubt that it is good for one to have appointed a guardian over oneself, and to
have someone whom you may look up to, someone whom you may regard as a
witness of your thoughts. It is, indeed, nobler by far to live as you would live
under the eyes of some good man, always at your side; but nevertheless I am
content if you only act, in whatever you do, as you would act if anyone at all
were looking on; because solitude prompts us to all kinds of evil. And when you
have progressed so far that you have also respect for yourself, you may send
away your attendant; but until then, set as a guard over yourself the authority of
some man, whether your choice be the great Cato or Scipio, or Laelius, – or any
man in whose presence even abandoned wretches would check their bad
impulses. Meantime, you are engaged in making of yourself the sort of person in
whose company you would not dare to sin. When this aim has been
accomplished and you begin to hold yourself in some esteem, I shall gradually
allow you to do what Epicurus, in another passage, suggests: "The time when
you should most of all withdraw into yourself is when you are forced to be in a
crowd."
You ought to make yourself of a different stamp from the multitude.
Therefore, while it is not yet safe to withdraw into solitude, seek out certain
individuals; for everyone is better off in the company of somebody or other, – no
matter who, – than in his own company alone. "The time when you should most
of all withdraw into yourself is when you are forced to be in a crowd." Yes,
provided that you are a good, tranquil, and self-restrained man; otherwise, you
had better withdraw into a crowd in order to get away from your self. Alone, you
are too close to a rascal. Farewell.
Letter XXVI - On Old Age and Death
I was just lately telling you that I was within sight of old age. I am now afraid
that I have left old age behind me. For some other word would now apply to my
years, or at any rate to my body; since old age means a time of life that is weary
rather than crushed. You may rate me in the worn-out class, – of those who are
nearing the end.
Nevertheless, I offer thanks to myself, with you as witness; for I feel that age
has done no damage to my mind, though I feel its effects on my constitution.
Only my vices, and the outward aids to these vices, have reached senility; my
mind is strong and rejoices that it has but slight connexion with the body. It has
laid aside the greater part of its load. It is alert; it takes issue with me on the
subject of old age; it declares that old age is its time of bloom. Let me take it at
its word, and let it make the most of the advantages it possesses. The mind bids
me do some thinking and consider how much of this peace of spirit and
moderation of character I owe to wisdom and how much to my time of life; it
bids me distinguish carefully what I cannot do and what I do not want to do. For
why should one complain or regard it as a disadvantage, if powers which ought
to come to an end have failed? "But," you say, "it is the greatest possible
disadvantage to be worn out and to die off, or rather, if I may speak literally, to
melt away! For we are not suddenly smitten and laid low; we are worn away,
and every day reduces our powers to a certain extent."
But is there any better end to it all than to glide off to one's proper haven,
when nature slips the cable? Not that there is anything painful in a shock and a
sudden departure from existence; it is merely because this other way of departure
is easy, – a gradual withdrawal. I, at any rate, as if the test were at hand and the
day were come which is to pronounce its decision concerning all the years of my
life, watch over myself and commune thus with myself: "The showing which we
have made up to the present time, in word or deed, counts for nothing. All this is
but a trifling and deceitful pledge of our spirit, and is wrapped in much
charlatanism. I shall leave it to Death to determine what progress I have made.
Therefore with no faint heart I am making ready for the day when, putting aside
all stage artifice and actor's rouge, I am to pass judgment upon myself, – whether
I am merely declaiming brave sentiments, or whether I really feel them; whether
all the bold threats I have uttered against fortune are a pretence and a farce. Put
aside the opinion of the world; it is always wavering and always takes both
sides. Put aside the studies which you have pursued throughout your life; Death
will deliver the final judgment in your case. This is what I mean: your debates
and learned talks, your maxims gathered from the teachings of the wise, your
cultured conversation, – all these afford no proof of the real strength of your
soul. Even the most timid man can deliver a bold speech. What you have done in
the past will be manifest only at the time when you draw your last breath. I
accept the terms; I do not shrink from the decision." This is what I say to
myself, but I would have you think that I have said it to you also. You are
younger; but what does that matter? There is no fixed count of our years. You do
not know where death awaits you; so be ready for it everywhere.
I was just intending to stop, and my hand was making ready for the closing
sentence; but the rites are still to be performed and the travelling money for the
letter disbursed. And just assume that I am not telling where I intend to borrow
the necessary sum; you know upon whose coffers I depend. Wait for me but a
moment, and I will pay you from my own account; meanwhile, Epicurus will
oblige me with these words: "Think on death," or rather, if you prefer the phrase,
on "migration to heaven." The meaning is clear, – that it is a wonderful thing to
learn thoroughly how to die. You may deem it superfluous to learn a text that
can be used only once; but that is just the reason why we ought to think on a
thing. When we can never prove whether we really know a thing, we must
always be learning it. "Think on death." In saying this, he bids us think on
freedom. He who has learned to die has unlearned slavery; he is above any
external power, or, at any rate, he is beyond it. What terrors have prisons and
bonds and bars for him? His way out is clear. There is only one chain which
binds us to life, and that is the love of life. The chain may not be cast off, but it
may be rubbed away, so that, when necessity shall demand, nothing may retard
or hinder us from being ready to do at once that which at some time we are
bound to do. Farewell.
Letter XXVII - On the Good which Abides
"What," say you, "are you giving me advice? Indeed, have you already
advised yourself, already corrected your own faults? Is this the reason why you
have leisure to reform other men?" No, I am not so shameless as to undertake to
cure my fellow-men when I am ill myself. I am, however, discussing with you
troubles which concern us both, and sharing the remedy with you, just as if we
were lying ill in the same hospital. Listen to me, therefore, as you would if I
were talking to myself. I am admitting you to my inmost thoughts, and am
having it out with myself, merely making use of you as my pretext. I keep crying
out to myself: "Count your years, and you will be ashamed to desire and pursue
the same things you desired in your boyhood days. Of this one thing make sure
against your dying day, – let your faults die before you die. Away with those
disordered pleasures, which must be dearly paid for; it is not only those which
are to come that harm me, but also those which have come and gone. Just as
crimes, even if they have not been detected when they were committed, do not
allow anxiety to end with them; so with guilty pleasures, regret remains even
after the pleasures are over. They are not substantial, they are not trustworthy;
even if they do not harm us, they are fleeting. Cast about rather for some good
which will abide. But there can be no such good except as the soul discovers it
for itself within itself. Virtue alone affords everlasting and peace-giving joy;
even if some obstacle arise, it is but like an intervening cloud, which floats
beneath the sun but never prevails against it."
When will it be your lot to attain this joy? Thus far, you have indeed not been
sluggish, but you must quicken your pace. Much toil remains; to confront it, you
must yourself lavish all your waking hours, and all your efforts, if you wish the
result to be accomplished. This matter cannot be delegated to someone else. The
other kind of literary activity admits of outside assistance. Within our own time
there was a certain rich man named Calvisius Sabinus; he had the bank-account
and the brains of a freedman. I never saw a man whose good fortune was a
greater offence against propriety. His memory was so faulty that he would
sometimes forget the name of Ulysses, or Achilles, or Priam, – names which we
know as well as we know those of our own attendants. No major-domo in his
dotage, who cannot give men their right names, but is compelled to invent names
for them, – no such man, I say, calls off the names of his master's tribesmen so
atrociously as Sabinus used to call off the Trojan and Achaean heroes. But none
the less did he desire to appear learned. So he devised this short cut to learning:
he paid fabulous prices for slaves, – one to know Homer by heart and another to
know Hesiod; he also delegated a special slave to each of the nine lyric poets.
You need not wonder that he paid high prices for these slaves; if he did not find
them ready to hand he had them made to order. After collecting this retinue, he
began to make life miserable for his guests; he would keep these fellows at the
foot of his couch, and ask them from time to time for verses which he might
repeat, and then frequently break down in the middle of a word. Satellius
Quadratus, a feeder, and consequently a fawner, upon addle-pated millionaires,
and also (for this quality goes with the other two) a flouter of them, suggested to
Sabinus that he should have philologists to gather up the bits. Sabinus remarked
that each slave cost him one hundred thousand sesterces; Satellius replied: "You
might have bought as many book-cases for a smaller sum." But Sabinus held to
the opinion that what any member of his household knew, he himself knew also.
This same Satellius began to advise Sabinus to take wrestling lessons, – sickly,
pale, and thin as he was, Sabinus answered: "How can I? I can scarcely stay
alive now." "Don't say that, I implore you," replied the other, "consider how
many perfectly healthy slaves you have!" No man is able to borrow or buy a
sound mind; in fact, as it seems to me, even though sound minds were for sale,
they would not find buyers. Depraved minds, however, are bought and sold
every day.
But let me pay off my debt and say farewell: "Real wealth is poverty adjusted
to the law of Nature." Epicurus has this saying in various ways and contexts; but
it can never be repeated too often, since it can never be learned too well. For
some persons the remedy should be merely prescribed; in the case of others, it
should be forced down their throats. Farewell.
Letter XXVIII - On Travel as a Cure for Discontent
Do you suppose that you alone have had this experience? Are you surprised,
as if it were a novelty, that after such long travel and so many changes of scene
you have not been able to shake off the gloom and heaviness of your mind? You
need a change of soul rather than a change of climate. Though you may cross
vast spaces of sea, and though, as our Vergil remarks,
Lands and cities are left astern
your faults will follow you whithersoever you travel. Socrates made the same
remark to one who complained; he said: "Why do you wonder that globe-trotting
does not help you, seeing that you always take yourself with you? The reason
which set you wandering is ever at your heels." What pleasure is there in seeing
new lands? Or in surveying cities and spots of interest? All your bustle is
useless. Do you ask why such flight does not help you? It is because you flee
along with yourself. You must lay aside the burdens of the mind; until you do
this, no place will satisfy you. Reflect that your present behaviour is like that of
the prophetess whom Vergil describes: she is excited and goaded into fury, and
contains within herself much inspiration that is not her own:
The priestess raves, if haply she may shake
The great god from her heart.
You wander hither and yon, to rid yourself of the burden that rests upon you,
though it becomes more troublesome by reason of your very restlessness, just as
in a ship the cargo when stationary makes no trouble, but when it shifts to this
side or that, it causes the vessel to heel more quickly in the direction where it has
settled. Anything you do tells against you, and you hurt yourself by your very
unrest; for you are shaking up a sick man.
That trouble once removed, all change of scene will become pleasant; though
you may be driven to the uttermost ends of the earth, in whatever corner of a
savage land you may find yourself, that place, however forbidding, will be to
you a hospitable abode. The person you are matters more than the place to which
you go; for that reason we should not make the mind a bondsman to any one
place. Live in this belief: "I am not born for any one corner of the universe; this
whole world is my country." If you saw this fact clearly, you would not be
surprised at getting no benefit from the fresh scenes to which you roam each
time through weariness of the old scenes. For the first would have pleased you in
each case, had you believed it wholly yours. As it is, however, you are not
journeying; you are drifting and being driven, only exchanging one place for
another, although that which you seek, – to live well, – is found everywhere. Can
there be any spot so full of confusion as the Forum? Yet you can live quietly
even there, if necessary. Of course, if one were allowed to make one's own
arrangements, I should flee far from the very sight and neighbourhood of the
Forum. For just as pestilential places assail even the strongest constitution, so
there are some places which are also unwholesome for a healthy mind which is
not yet quite sound, though recovering from its ailment. I disagree with those
who strike out into the midst of the billows and, welcoming a stormy existence,
wrestle daily in hardihood of soul with life's problems. The wise man will endure
all that, but will not choose it; he will prefer to be at peace rather than at war. It
helps little to have cast out your own faults if you must quarrel with those of
others. Says one: "There were thirty tyrants surrounding Socrates, and yet they
could not break his spirit"; but what does it matter how many masters a man has?
"Slavery" has no plural; and he who has scorned it is free, – no matter amid how
large a mob of over-lords he stands.
It is time to stop, but not before I have paid duty. "The knowledge of sin is the
beginning of salvation." This saying of Epicurus seems to me to be a noble one.
For he who does not know that he has sinned does not desire correction; you
must discover yourself in the wrong before you can reform yourself. Some boast
of their faults. Do you think that the man has any thought of mending his ways
who counts over his vices as if they were virtues? Therefore, as far as possible,
prove yourself guilty, hunt up charges against yourself; play the part, first of
accuser, then of judge, last of intercessor. At times be harsh with yourself.
Farewell.
Letter XXIX - On the Critical Condition of Marcellinus
You have been inquiring about our friend Marcellinus and you desire to know
how he is getting along. He seldom comes to see me, for no other reason than
that he is afraid to hear the truth, and at present he is removed from my danger of
hearing it; for one must not talk to a man unless he is willing to listen. That is
why it is often doubted whether Diogenes and the other Cynics, who employed
an undiscriminating freedom of speech and offered advice to any who came in
their way, ought to have pursued such a plan. For what if one should chide the
deaf or those who are speechless from birth or by illness? But you answer: "Why
should I spare words? They cost nothing. I cannot know whether I shall help the
man to whom I give advice; but I know well that I shall help someone if I advise
many. I must scatter this advice by the handful. It is impossible that one who
tries often should not sometime succeed."
This very thing, my dear Lucilius, is, I believe, exactly what a great-souled
man ought not to do; his influence is weakened; it has too little effect upon those
whom it might have set right if it had not grown so stale. The archer ought not to
hit the mark only sometimes; he ought to miss it only sometimes. That which
takes effect by chance is not an art. Now wisdom is an art; it should have a
definite aim, choosing only those who will make progress, but withdrawing from
those whom it has come to regard as hopeless, – yet not abandoning them too
soon, and just when the case is becoming hopeless trying drastic remedies.
As to our friend Marcellinus, I have not yet lost hope. He can still be saved,
but the helping hand must be offered soon. There is indeed danger that he may
pull his helper down; for there is in him a native character of great vigour,
though it is already inclining to wickedness. Nevertheless I shall brave this
danger and be bold enough to show him his faults. He will act in his usual way;
he will have recourse to his wit, – the wit that can call forth smiles even from
mourners. He will turn the jest, first against himself, and then against me. He
will forestall every word which I am about to utter. He will quiz our philosophic
systems; he will accuse philosophers of accepting doles, keeping mistresses, and
indulging their appetites. He will point out to me one philosopher who has been
caught in adultery, another who haunts the cafes, and another who appears at
court. He will bring to my notice Aristo, the philosopher of Marcus Lepidus,
who used to hold discussions in his carriage; for that was the time which he had
taken for editing his researches, so that Scaurus said of him when asked to what
school he belonged: "At any rate, he isn't one of the Walking Philosophers."
Julius Graecinus, too, a man of distinction, when asked for an opinion on the
same point, replied: "I cannot tell you; for I don't know what he does when
dismounted," as if the query referred to a chariot-gladiator. It is mountebanks of
that sort, for whom it would be more creditable to have left philosophy alone
than to traffic in her, whom Marcellinus will throw in my teeth. But I have
decided to put up with taunts; he may stir my laughter, but I perchance shall stir
him to tears; or, if he persist in his jokes, I shall rejoice, so to speak, in the midst
of sorrow, because he is blessed with such a merry sort of lunacy. But that kind
of merriment does not last long. Observe such men, and you will note that within
a short space of time they laugh to excess and rage to excess. It is my plan to
approach him and to show him how much greater was his worth when many
thought it less. Even though I shall not root out his faults, I shall put a check
upon them; they will not cease, but they will stop for a time; and perhaps they
will even cease, if they get the habit of stopping. This is a thing not to be
despised, since to men who are seriously stricken the blessing of relief is a
substitute for health. So while I prepare myself to deal with Marcellinus, do you
in the meantime, who are able, and who understand whence and whither you
have made your way, and who for that reason have an inkling of the distance yet
to go, regulate your character, rouse your courage, and stand firm in the face of
things which have terrified you. Do not count the number of those who inspire
fear in you. Would you not regard as foolish one who was afraid of a multitude
in a place where only one at a time could pass? Just so, there are not many who
have access to you to slay you, though there are many who threaten you with
death. Nature has so ordered it that, as only one has given you life, so only one
will take it away.
If you had any shame, you would have let me off from paying the last
instalment. Still, I shall not be niggardly either, but shall discharge my debts to
the last penny and force upon you what I still owe: "I have never wished to cater
to the crowd; for what I know, they do not approve, and what they approve, I do
not know." "Who said this?" you ask, as if you were ignorant whom I am
pressing into service; it is Epicurus. But this same watchword rings in your ears
from every sect, – Peripatetic, Academic, Stoic, Cynic. For who that is pleased
by virtue can please the crowd? It takes trickery to win popular approval; and
you must needs make yourself like unto them; they will withhold their approval
if they do not recognise you as one of themselves. However, what you think of
yourself is much more to the point than what others think of you. The favour of
ignoble men can be won only by ignoble means. What benefit, then, will that
vaunted philosophy confer, whose praises we sing, and which, we are told, is to
be preferred to every art and every possession? Assuredly, it will make you
prefer to please yourself rather than the populace, it will make you weigh, and
not merely count, men's judgments, it will make you live without fear of gods or
men, it will make you either overcome evils or end them. Otherwise, if I see you
applauded by popular acclamation, if your entrance upon the scene is greeted by
a roar of cheering and clapping, marks of distinction meet only for actors, – if
the whole state, even the women and children, sing your praises, how can I help
pitying you? For I know what pathway leads to such popularity. Farewell.
Letter XXX - On Conquering the Conqueror
I have beheld Aufidius Bassus, that noble man, shattered in health and
wrestling with his years. But they already bear upon him so heavily that he
cannot be raised up; old age has settled down upon him with great, – yes, with its
entire, weight. You know that his body was always delicate and sapless. For a
long time he has kept it in hand, or, to speak more correctly, has kept it together;
of a sudden it has collapsed. Just as in a ship that springs a leak, you can always
stop the first or the second fissure, but when many holes begin to open and let in
water, the gaping hull cannot be saved; similarly, in an old man's body, there is a
certain limit up to which you can sustain and prop its weakness. But when it
comes to resemble a decrepit building, when every joint begins to spread and
while one is being repaired another falls apart, – then it is time for a man to look
about him and consider how he may get out.
But the mind of our friend Bassus is active. Philosophy bestows this boon
upon us; it makes us joyful in the very sight of death, strong and brave no matter
in what state the body may be, cheerful and never failing though the body fail us.
A great pilot can sail even when his canvas is rent; if his ship be dismantled, he
can yet put in trim what remains of her hull and hold her to her course. This is
what our friend Bassus is doing; and he contemplates his own end with the
courage and countenance which you would regard as undue indifference in a
man who so contemplated another's.
This is a great accomplishment, Lucilius, and one which needs long practice
to learn, – to depart calmly when the inevitable hour arrives. Other kinds of
death contain an ingredient of hope: a disease comes to an end; a fire is
quenched; falling houses have set down in safety those whom they seemed
certain to crush; the sea has cast ashore unharmed those whom it had engulfed,
by the same force through which it drew them down; the soldier has drawn back
his sword from the very neck of his doomed foe. But those whom old age is
leading away to death have nothing to hope for; old age alone grants no reprieve.
No ending, to be sure, is more painless; but there is none more lingering.
Our friend Bassus seemed to me to be attending his own funeral, and laying
out his own body for burial, and living almost as if he had survived his own
death, and bearing with wise resignation his grief at his own departure. For he
talks freely about death, trying hard to persuade us that if this process contains
any element of discomfort or of fear, it is the fault of the dying person, and not
of death itself; also, that there is no more inconvenience at the actual moment
than there is after it is over. "And it is just as insane," he adds, "for a man to fear
what will not happen to him, as to fear what he will not feel if it does happen."
Or does anyone imagine it to be possible that the agency by which feeling is
removed can be itself felt? "Therefore," says Bassus, "death stands so far beyond
all evil that it is beyond all fear of evils."
I know that all this has often been said and should be often repeated; but
neither when I read them were such precepts so effective with me, nor when I
heard them from the lips of those who were at a safe distance from the fear of
the things which they declared were not to be feared. But this old man had the
greatest weight with me when he discussed death and death was near. For I must
tell you what I myself think: I hold that one is braver at the very moment of
death than when one is approaching death. For death, when it stands near us,
gives even to inexperienced men the courage not to seek to avoid the inevitable.
So the gladiator, who throughout the fight has been no matter how faint-hearted,
offers his throat to his opponent and directs the wavering blade to the vital spot.
But an end that is near at hand, and is bound to come, calls for tenacious courage
of soul; this is a rarer thing, and none but the wise man can manifest it.
Accordingly, I listened to Bassus with the deepest pleasure; he was casting his
vote concerning death and pointing out what sort of a thing it is when it is
observed, so to speak, nearer at hand. I suppose that a man would have your
confidence in a larger degree, and would have more weight with you, if he had
come back to life and should declare from experience that there is no evil in
death; and so, regarding the approach of death, those will tell you best what
disquiet it brings who have stood in its path, who have seen it coming and have
welcomed it. Bassus may be included among these men; and he had no wish to
deceive us. He says that it is as foolish to fear death as to fear old age; for death
follows old age precisely as old age follows youth. He who does not wish to die
cannot have wished to live. For life is granted to us with the reservation that we
shall die; to this end our path leads. Therefore, how foolish it is to fear it, since
men simply await that which is sure, but fear only that which is uncertain!
Death has its fixed rule, – equitable and unavoidable. Who can complain when
he is governed by terms which include everyone? The chief part of equity,
however, is equality.
But it is superfluous at the present time to plead Nature's cause; for she wishes
our laws to be identical with her own; she but resolves that which she has
compounded, and compounds again that which she has resolved. Moreover, if it
falls to the lot of any man to be set gently adrift by old age, – not suddenly torn
from life, but withdrawn bit by bit, oh, verily he should thank the gods, one and
all, because, after he has had his fill, he is removed to a rest which is ordained
for mankind, a rest that is welcome to the weary. You may observe certain men
who crave death even more earnestly than others are wont to beg for life. And I
do not know which men give us greater courage, – those who call for death, or
those who meet it cheerfully and tranquilly, – for the first attitude is sometimes
inspired by madness and sudden anger, the second is the calm which results from
fixed judgment. Before now men have gone to meet death in a fit of rage; but
when death comes to meet him, no one welcomes it cheerfully, except the man
who has long since composed himself for death.
I admit, therefore, that I have visited this dear friend of mine more frequently
on many pretexts, but with the purpose of learning whether I should find him
always the same, and whether his mental strength was perhaps waning in
company with his bodily powers. But it was on the increase, just as the joy of the
charioteer is wont to show itself more clearly when he is on the seventh round of
the course, and nears the prize. Indeed, he often said, in accord with the counsels
of Epicurus: "I hope, first of all, that there is no pain at the moment when a man
breathes his last; but if there is, one will find an element of comfort in its very
shortness. For no great pain lasts long. And at all events, a man will find relief at
the very time when soul and body are being torn asunder, even though the
process be accompanied by excruciating pain, in the thought that after this pain
is over he can feel no more pain. I am sure, however, that an old man's soul is on
his very lips, and that only a little force is necessary to disengage it from the
body. A fire which has seized upon a substance that sustains it needs water to
quench it, or, sometimes, the destruction of the building itself; but the fire which
lacks sustaining fuel dies away of its own accord."
I am glad to hear such words, my dear Lucilius, not as new to me, but as
leading me into the presence of an actual fact. And what then? Have I not seen
many men break the thread of life? I have indeed seen such men; but those have
more weight with me who approach death without any loathing for life, letting
death in, so to speak, and not pulling it towards them. Bassus kept saying: "It is
due to our own fault that we feel this torture, because we shrink from dying only
when we believe that our end is near at hand." But who is not near death? It is
ready for us in all places and at all times. "Let us consider," he went on to say,
"when some agency of death seems imminent, how much nearer are other
varieties of dying which are not feared by us." A man is threatened with death by
an enemy, but this form of death is anticipated by an attack of indigestion. And
if we are willing to examine critically the various causes of our fear, we shall
find that some exist, and others only seem to be. We do not fear death; we fear
the thought of death. For death itself is always the same distance from us;
wherefore, if it is to be feared at all, it is to be feared always. For what season of
our life is exempt from death?
But what I really ought to fear is that you will hate this long letter worse than
death itself; so I shall stop. Do you, however, always think on death in order that
you may never fear it. Farewell.
Letter XXXI - On Siren Songs
Now I recognize my Lucilius! He is beginning to reveal the character of
which he gave promise. Follow up the impulse which prompted you to make for
all that is best, treading under your feet that which is approved by the crowd. I
would not have you greater or better than you planned; for in your case the mere
foundations have covered a large extent of ground; only finish all that you have
laid out, and take in hand the plans which you have had in mind. In short, you
will be a wise man, if you stop up your ears; nor is it enough to close them with
wax; you need a denser stopple than that which they say Ulysses used for his
comrades. The song which he feared was alluring, but came not from every side;
the song, however, which you have to fear, echoes round you not from a single
headland, but from every quarter of the world. Sail, therefore, not past one
region which you mistrust because of its treacherous delights, but past every
city. Be deaf to those who love you most of all; they pray for bad things with
good intentions. And, if you would be happy, entreat the gods that none of their
fond desires for you may be brought to pass. What they wish to have heaped
upon you are not really good things; there is only one good, the cause and the
support of a happy life, – trust in oneself. But this cannot be attained, unless one
has learned to despise toil and to reckon it among the things which are neither
good nor bad. For it is not possible that a single thing should be bad at one time
and good at another, at times light and to be endured, and at times a cause of
dread. Work is not a good. Then what is a good? I say, the scorning of work.
That is why I should rebuke men who toil to no purpose. But when, on the other
hand, a man is struggling towards honourable things, in proportion as he applies
himself more and more, and allows himself less and less to be beaten or to halt, I
shall recommend his conduct and shout my encouragement, saying: "By so
much you are better! Rise, draw a fresh breath, and surmount that hill, if
possible, at a single spurt!"
Work is the sustenance of noble minds. There is, then, no reason why, in
accordance with that old vow of your parents, you should pick and choose what
fortune you wish should fall to your lot, or what you should pray for; besides, it
is base for a man who has already travelled the whole round of highest honours
to be still importuning the gods. What need is there of vows? Make yourself
happy through your own efforts; you can do this, if once you comprehend that
whatever is blended with virtue is good, and that whatever is joined to vice is
bad. Just as nothing gleams if it has no light blended with it, and nothing is black
unless it contains darkness or draws to itself something of dimness, and as
nothing is hot without the aid of fire, and nothing cold without air; so it is the
association of virtue and vice that makes things honourable or base.
What then is good? The knowledge of things. What is evil? The lack of
knowledge of things. Your wise man, who is also a craftsman, will reject or
choose in each case as it suits the occasion; but he does not fear that which he
rejects, nor does he admire that which he chooses, if only he has a stout and
unconquerable soul. I forbid you to be cast down or depressed. It is not enough if
you do not shrink from work; ask for it. "But," you say, "is not trifling and
superfluous work, and work that has been inspired by ignoble causes, a bad sort
of work?" No; no more than that which is expended upon noble endeavours,
since the very quality that endures toil and rouses itself to hard and uphill effort,
is of the spirit, which says: "Why do you grow slack? It is not the part of a man
to fear sweat." And besides this, in order that virtue may be perfect, there should
be an even temperament and a scheme of life that is consistent with itself
throughout; and this result cannot be attained without knowledge of things, and
without the art which enables us to understand things human and things divine.
That is the greatest good. If you seize this good, you begin to be the associate of
the gods, and not their suppliant.
"But how," you ask, "does one attain that goal?" You do not need to cross the
Pennine or Graian hills, or traverse the Candavian waste, or face the Syrtes, or
Scylla, or Charybdis, although you have travelled through all these places for the
bribe of a petty governorship; the journey for which nature has equipped you is
safe and pleasant. She has given you such gifts that you may, if you do not prove
false to them, rise level with God. Your money, however, will not place you on a
level with God; for God has no property. Your bordered robe will not do this; for
God is not clad in raiment; nor will your reputation, nor a display of self, nor a
knowledge of your name widespread throughout the world; for no one has
knowledge of God; many even hold him in low esteem, and do not suffer for so
doing. The throng of slaves which carries your litter along the city streets and in
foreign places will not help you; for this God of whom I speak, though the
highest and most powerful of beings, carries all things on his own shoulders.
Neither can beauty or strength make you blessed, for none of these qualities can
withstand old age.
What we have to seek for, then, is that which does not each day pass more and
more under the control of some power which cannot be withstood. And what is
this? It is the soul, – but the soul that is upright, good, and great. What else could
you call such a soul than a god dwelling as a guest in a human body? A soul like
this may descend into a Roman knight just as well as into a freedman's son or a
slave. For what is a Roman knight, or a freedmen's son, or a slave? They are
mere titles, born of ambition or of wrong. One may leap to heaven from the very
slums. Only rise
And mould thyself to kinship with thy God.
This moulding will not be done in gold or silver; an image that is to be in the
likeness of God cannot be fashioned of such materials; remember that the gods,
when they were kind unto men, were moulded in clay. Farewell.
Letter XXXII - On Progress
I have been asking about you, and inquiring of everyone who comes from
your part of the country, what you are doing, and where you are spending your
time, and with whom. You cannot deceive me; for I am with you. Live just as if I
were sure to get news of your doings, nay, as if I were sure to behold them. And
if you wonder what particularly pleases me that I hear concerning you, it is that I
hear nothing, that most of those whom I ask do not know what you are doing.
This is sound practice – to refrain from associating with men of different
stamp and different aims. And I am indeed confident that you cannot be warped,
that you will stick to your purpose, even though the crowd may surround and
seek to distract you. What, then, is on my mind? I am not afraid lest they work a
change in you; but I am afraid lest they may hinder your progress. And much
harm is done even by one who holds you back, especially since life is so short;
and we make it still shorter by our unsteadiness, by making ever fresh
beginnings at life, now one and immediately another. We break up life into little
bits, and fritter it away. Hasten ahead, then, dearest Lucilius, and reflect how
greatly you would quicken your speed if an enemy were at your back, or if you
suspected the cavalry were approaching and pressing hard upon your steps as
you fled. It is true; the enemy is indeed pressing upon you; you should therefore
increase your speed and escape away and reach a safe position, remembering
continually what a noble thing it is to round out your life before death comes,
and then await in peace the remaining portion of your time, claiming nothing for
yourself, since you are in possession of the happy life; for such a life is not made
happier for being longer. O when shall you see the time when you shall know
that time means nothing to you, when you shall be peaceful and calm, careless of
the morrow, because you are enjoying your life to the full?
Would you know what makes men greedy for the future? It is because no one
has yet found himself. Your parents, to be sure, asked other blessings for you;
but I myself pray rather that you may despise all those things which your parents
wished for you in abundance. Their prayers plunder many another person,
simply that you may be enriched. Whatever they make over to you must be
removed from someone else. I pray that you may get such control over yourself
that your mind, now shaken by wandering thoughts, may at last come to rest and
be steadfast, that it may be content with itself and, having attained an
understanding of what things are truly good, – and they are in our possession as
soon as we have this knowledge, – that it may have no need of added years. He
has at length passed beyond all necessities – he has won his honourable
discharge and is free, – who still lives after his life has been completed.
Farewell.
Letter XXXIII - On the Futility of Learning Maxims
You wish me to close these letters also, as I closed my former letters, with
certain utterances taken from the chiefs of our school. But they did not interest
themselves in choice extracts; the whole texture of their work is full of strength.
There is unevenness, you know, when some objects rise conspicuous above
others. A single tree is not remarkable if the whole forest rises to the same
height. Poetry is crammed with utterances of this sort, and so is history. For this
reason I would not have you think that these utterances belong to Epicurus. they
are common property and are emphatically our own. They are, however, more
noteworthy in Epicurus, because they appear at infrequent intervals and when
you do not expect them, and because it is surprising that brave words should be
spoken at any time by a man who made a practice of being effeminate. For that
is what most persons maintain. In my own opinion, however, Epicurus is really a
brave man, even though he did wear long sleeves. Fortitude, energy, and
readiness for battle are to be found among the Persians, just as much as among
men who have girded themselves up high.
Therefore, you need not call upon me for extracts and quotations; such
thoughts as one may extract here and there in the works of other philosophers
run through the whole body of our writings. Hence we have no "show-window
goods," nor do we deceive the purchaser in such a way that, if he enters our
shop, he will find nothing except that which is displayed in the window. We
allow the purchasers themselves to get their samples from anywhere they please.
Suppose we should desire to sort out each separate motto from the general stock;
to whom shall we credit them? To Zeno, Cleanthes, Chrysippus, Panaetius, or
Posidonius? We Stoics are not subjects of a despot: each of us lays claim to his
own freedom. With them, on the other hand, whatever Hermarchus says or
Metrodorus, is ascribed to one source. In that brotherhood, everything that any
man utters is spoken under the leadership and commanding authority of one
alone. We cannot, I maintain, no matter how we try, pick out anything from so
great a multitude of things equally good.
Only the poor man counts his flock.
Wherever you direct your gaze, you will meet with something that might
stand out from the rest, if the context in which you read it were not equally
notable.
For this reason, give over hoping that you can skim, by means of epitomes,
the wisdom of distinguished men. Look into their wisdom as a whole; study it as
a whole. They are working out a plan and weaving together, line upon line, a
masterpiece, from which nothing can be taken away without injury to the whole.
Examine the separate parts, if you like, provided you examine them as parts of
the man himself. She is not a beautiful woman whose ankle or arm is praised,
but she whose general appearance makes you forget to admire her single
attributes.
If you insist, however, I shall not be niggardly with you, but lavish; for there
is a huge multitude of these passages; they are scattered about in profusion, –
they do not need to be gathered together, but merely to be picked up. They do
not drip forth occasionally; they flow continuously. They are unbroken and are
closely connected. Doubtless they would be of much benefit to those who are
still novices and worshipping outside the shrine; for single maxims sink in more
easily when they are marked off and bounded like a line of verse. That is why
we give to children a proverb, or that which the Greeks call Chria, to be learned
by heart; that sort of thing can be comprehended by the young mind, which
cannot as yet hold more. For a man, however, whose progress is definite, to
chase after choice extracts and to prop his weakness by the best known and the
briefest sayings and to depend upon his memory, is disgraceful; it is time for him
to lean on himself. He should make such maxims and not memorize them. For it
is disgraceful even for an old man, or one who has sighted old age, to have a
notebook knowledge. "This is what Zeno said." But what have you yourself
said? "This is the opinion of Cleanthes." But what is your own opinion? How
long shall you march under another man's orders? Take command, and utter
some word which posterity will remember. Put forth something from your own
stock. For this reason I hold that there is nothing of eminence in all such men as
these, who never create anything themselves, but always lurk in the shadow of
others, playing the role of interpreters, never daring to put once into practice
what they have been so long in learning. They have exercised their memories on
other men's material. But it is one thing to remember, another to know.
Remembering is merely safeguarding something entrusted to the memory;
knowing, however, means making everything your own; it means not depending
upon the copy and not all the time glancing back at the master. "Thus said Zeno,
thus said Cleanthes, indeed!" Let there be a difference between yourself and
your book! How long shall you be a learner? From now on be a teacher as well!
"But why," one asks, "should I have to continue hearing lectures on what I can
read?" "The living voice," one replies, "is a great help." Perhaps, but not the
voice which merely makes itself the mouthpiece of another's words, and only
performs the duty of a reporter.
Consider this fact also. Those who have never attained their mental
independence begin, in the first place, by following the leader in cases where
everyone has deserted the leader; then, in the second place, they follow him in
matters where the truth is still being investigated. However, the truth will never
be discovered if we rest contented with discoveries already made. Besides, he
who follows another not only discovers nothing but is not even investigating.
What then? Shall I not follow in the footsteps of my predecessors? I shall indeed
use the old road, but if I find one that makes a shorter cut and is smoother to
travel, I shall open the new road. Men who have made these discoveries before
us are not our masters, but our guides. Truth lies open for all; it has not yet been
monopolized. And there is plenty of it left even for posterity to discover.
Farewell.
Letter XXXIV - On a Promising Pupil
I grow in spirit and leap for joy and shake off my years and my blood runs
warm again, whenever I understand, from your actions and your letters, how far
you have outdone yourself; for as to the ordinary man, you left him in the rear
long ago. If the farmer is pleased when his tree develops so that it bears fruit, if
the shepherd takes pleasure in the increase of his flocks, if every man regards his
pupil as though he discerned in him his own early manhood, – what, then, do
you think are the feelings of those who have trained a mind and moulded a
young idea, when they see it suddenly grown to maturity?
I claim you for myself; you are my handiwork. When I saw your abilities, I
laid my hand upon you, I exhorted you, I applied the goad and did not permit
you to march lazily, but roused you continually. And now I do the same; but by
this time I am cheering on one who is in the race and so in turn cheers me on.
"What else do you want of me, then?" you ask; "the will is still mine." Well,
the will in this case is almost everything, and not merely the half, as in the
proverb "A task once begun is half done." It is more than half, for the matter of
which we speak is determined by the soul. Hence it is that the larger part of
goodness is the will to become good. You know what I mean by a good man?
One who is complete, finished, – whom no constraint or need can render bad. I
see such a person in you, if only you go steadily on and bend to your task, and
see to it that all your actions and words harmonize and correspond with each
other and are stamped in the same mould. If a man's acts are out of harmony, his
soul is crooked. Farewell.
Letter XXXV - On the Friendship of Kindred Minds
When I urge you so strongly to your studies, it is my own interest which I am
consulting; I want your friendship, and it cannot fall to my lot unless you
proceed, as you have begun, with the task of developing yourself. For now,
although you love me, you are not yet my friend. "But," you reply, "are these
words of different meaning?" Nay, more, they are totally unlike in meaning. A
friend loves you, of course; but one who loves you is not in every case your
friend. Friendship, accordingly, is always helpful, but love sometimes even does
harm. Try to perfect yourself, if for no other reason, in order that you may learn
how to love.
Hasten, therefore, in order that, while thus perfecting yourself for my benefit,
you may not have learned perfection for the benefit of another. To be sure, I am
already deriving some profit by imagining that we two shall be of one mind, and
that whatever portion of my strength has yielded to age will return to me from
your strength, although there is not so very much difference in our ages. But yet
I wish to rejoice in the accomplished fact. We feel a joy over those whom we
love, even when separated from them, but such a joy is light and fleeting; the
sight of a man, and his presence, and communion with him, afford something of
living pleasure; this is true, at any rate, if one not only sees the man one desires,
but the sort of man one desires. Give yourself to me, therefore, as a gift of great
price, and, that you may strive the more, reflect that you yourself are mortal, and
that I am old. Hasten to find me, but hasten to find yourself first. Make progress,
and, before all else, endeavour to be consistent with yourself. And when you
would find out whether you have accomplished anything, consider whether you
desire the same things today that you desired yesterday. A shifting of the will
indicates that the mind is at sea, heading in various directions, according to the
course of the wind. But that which is settled and solid does not wander from its
place. This is the blessed lot of the completely wise man, and also, to a certain
extent, of him who is progressing and has made some headway. Now what is the
difference between these two classes of men? The one is in motion, to be sure,
but does not change its position; it merely tosses up and down where it is; the
other is not in motion at all. Farewell.
Letter XXXVI - On the Value of Retirement
Encourage your friend to despise stout-heartedly those who upbraid him
because he has sought the shade of retirement and has abdicated his career of
honours, and, though he might have attained more, has preferred tranquillity to
them all. Let him prove daily to these detractors how wisely he has looked out
for his own interests. Those whom men envy will continue to march past him;
some will be pushed out of the ranks, and others will fall. Prosperity is a
turbulent thing; it torments itself. It stirs the brain in more ways than one,
goading men on to various aims, – some to power, and others to high living.
Some it puffs up; others it slackens and wholly enervates.
"But," the retort comes, "so-and-so carries his prosperity well." Yes; just as he
carries his liquor. So you need not let this class of men persuade you that one
who is besieged by the crowd is happy; they run to him as crowds rush for a pool
of water, rendering it muddy while they drain it. But you say: "Men call our
friend a trifler and a sluggard." There are men, you know, whose speech is awry,
who use the contrary terms. They called him happy; what of it? Was he happy?
Even the fact that to certain persons he seems a man of a very rough and gloomy
cast of mind, does not trouble me. Aristo used to say that he preferred a youth of
stern disposition to one who was a jolly fellow and agreeable to the crowd.
"For," he added, "wine which, when new, seemed harsh and sour, becomes good
wine; but that which tasted well at the vintage cannot stand age." So let them call
him stern and a foe to his own advancement, it is just this sternness that will go
well when it is aged, provided only that he continues to cherish virtue and to
absorb thoroughly the studies which make for culture, – not those with which it
is sufficient for a man to sprinkle himself, but those in which the mind should be
steeped. Now is the time to learn. "What? Is there any time when a man should
not learn?" By no means; but just as it is creditable for every age to study, so it is
not creditable for every age to be instructed. An old man learning his A B C is a
disgraceful and absurd object; the young man must store up, the old man must
use. You will therefore be doing a thing most helpful to yourself if you make this
friend of yours as good a man as possible; those kindnesses, they tell us, are to
be both sought for and bestowed, which benefit the giver no less than the
receiver; and they are unquestionably the best kind.
Finally, he has no longer any freedom in the matter; he has pledged his word.
And it is less disgraceful to compound with a creditor than to compound with a
promising future. To pay his debt of money, the business man must have a
prosperous voyage, the farmer must have fruitful fields and kindly weather; but
the debt which your friend owes can be completely paid by mere goodwill.
Fortune has no jurisdiction over character. Let him so regulate his character that
in perfect peace he may bring to perfection that spirit within him which feels
neither loss nor gain, but remains in the same attitude, no matter how things fall
out. A spirit like this, if it is heaped with worldly goods, rises superior to its
wealth; if, on the other hand, chance has stripped him of a part of his wealth, or
even all, it is not impaired.
If your friend had been born in Parthia, he would have begun, when a child, to
bend the bow; if in Germany, he would forthwith have been brandishing his
slender spear; if he had been born in the days of our forefathers, he would have
learned to ride a horse and smite his enemy hand to hand. These are the
occupations which the system of each race recommends to the individual, – yes,
prescribes for him. To what, then, shall this friend of yours devote his attention?
I say, let him learn that which is helpful against all weapons, against every kind
of foe, – contempt of death; because no one doubts that death has in it something
that inspires terror, so that it shocks even our souls, which nature has so moulded
that they love their own existence; for otherwise there would be no need to
prepare ourselves, and to whet our courage, to face that towards which we
should move with a sort of voluntary instinct, precisely as all men tend to
preserve their existence. No man learns a thing in order that, if necessity arises,
he may lie down with composure upon a bed of roses; but he steels his courage
to this end, that he may not surrender his plighted faith to torture, and that, if
need be, he may some day stay out his watch in the trenches, even though
wounded, without even leaning on his spear; because sleep is likely to creep over
men who support themselves by any prop whatsoever.
In death there is nothing harmful; for there must exist something to which it is
harmful. And yet, if you are possessed by so great a craving for a longer life,
reflect that none of the objects which vanish from our gaze and are re-absorbed
into the world of things, from which they have come forth and are soon to come
forth again, is annihilated; they merely end their course and do not perish. And
death, which we fear and shrink from, merely interrupts life, but does not steal it
away; the time will return when we shall be restored to the light of day; and
many men would object to this, were they not brought back in forgetfulness of
the past.
But I mean to show you later, with more care, that everything which seems to
perish merely changes. Since you are destined to return, you ought to depart with
a tranquil mind. Mark how the round of the universe repeats its course; you will
see that no star in our firmament is extinguished, but that they all set and rise in
alternation. Summer has gone, but another year will bring it again; winter lies
low, but will be restored by its own proper months; night has overwhelmed the
sun, but day will soon rout the night again. The wandering stars retrace their
former courses; a part of the sky is rising unceasingly, and a part is sinking. One
word more, and then I shall stop; infants, and boys, and those who have gone
mad, have no fear of death, and it is most shameful if reason cannot afford us
that peace of mind to which they have been brought by their folly. Farewell.
Letter XXXVII - On Allegiance to Virtue
You have promised to be a good man; you have enlisted under oath; that is the
strongest chain which will hold you to a sound understanding. Any man will be
but mocking you, if he declares that this is an effeminate and easy kind of
soldiering. I will not have you deceived. The word of this most honourable
compact are the same as the words of that most disgraceful one, to wit: "Through
burning, imprisonment, or death by the sword." From the men who hire out their
strength for the arena, who eat and drink what they must pay for with their
blood, security is taken that they will endure such trials even though they be
unwilling; from you, that you will endure them willingly and with alacrity. The
gladiator may lower his weapon and test the pity of the people; but you will
neither lower your weapon nor beg for life. You must die erect and unyielding.
Moreover, what profit is it to gain a few days or a few years? There is no
discharge for us from the moment we are born.
"Then how can I free myself?" you ask. You cannot escape necessities, but
you can overcome them
By force a way is made.
And this way will be afforded you by philosophy. Betake yourself therefore to
philosophy if you would be safe, untroubled, happy, in fine, if you wish to be, –
and that is most important, – free. There is no other way to attain this end. Folly
is low, abject, mean, slavish, and exposed to many of the cruellest passions.
These passions, which are heavy taskmasters, sometimes ruling by turns, and
sometimes together, can be banished from you by wisdom, which is the only real
freedom. There is but one path leading thither, and it is a straight path; you will
not go astray. Proceed with steady step, and if you would have all things under
your control, put yourself under the control of reason; if reason becomes your
ruler, you will become ruler over many. You will learn from her what you
should undertake, and how it should be done; you will not blunder into things.
You can show me no man who knows how he began to crave that which he
craves. He has not been led to that pass by forethought; he has been driven to it
by impulse. Fortune attacks us as often as we attack Fortune. It is disgraceful,
instead of proceeding ahead, to be carried along, and then suddenly, amid the
whirlpool of events, to ask in a dazed way: "How did I get into this condition?"
Farewell.
Letter XXXVIII - On Quiet Conversation
You are right when you urge that we increase our mutual traffic in letters. But
the greatest benefit is to be derived from conversation, because it creeps by
degrees into the soul. Lectures prepared beforehand and spouted in the presence
of a throng have in them more noise but less intimacy. Philosophy is good
advice; and no one can give advice at the top of his lungs. Of course we must
sometimes also make use of these harangues, if I may so call them, when a
doubting member needs to be spurred on; but when the aim is to make a man
learn and not merely to make him wish to learn, we must have recourse to the
low-toned words of conversation. They enter more easily, and stick in the
memory; for we do not need many words, but, rather, effective words.
Words should be scattered like seed; no matter how small the seed may be, if
it has once found favourable ground, it unfolds its strength and from an
insignificant thing spreads to its greatest growth. Reason grows in the same way;
it is not large to the outward view, but increases as it does its work. Few words
are spoken; but if the mind has truly caught them, they come into their strength
and spring up. Yes, precepts and seeds have the same quality; they produce
much, and yet they are slight things. Only, as I said, let a favourable mind
receive and assimilate them. Then of itself the mind also will produce
bounteously in its turn, giving back more than it has received. Farewell.
Letter XXXIX - On Noble Aspirations
I shall indeed arrange for you, in careful order and narrow compass, the notes
which you request. But consider whether you may not get more help from the
customary method than from that which is now commonly called a "breviary,"
though in the good old days, when real Latin was spoken, it was called a
"summary." The former is more necessary to one who is learning a subject, the
latter to one who knows it. For the one teaches, the other stirs the memory. But I
shall give you abundant opportunity for both. A man like you should not ask me
for this authority or that; he who furnishes a voucher for his statements argues
himself unknown. I shall therefore write exactly what you wish, but I shall do it
in my own way; until then, you have many authors whose works will
presumably keep your ideas sufficiently in order. Pick up the list of the
philosophers; that very act will compel you to wake up, when you see how many
men have been working for your benefit. You will desire eagerly to be one of
them yourself, for this is the most excellent quality that the noble soul has within
itself, that it can be roused to honourable things.
No man of exalted gifts is pleased with that which is low and mean; the vision
of great achievement summons him and uplifts him. Just as the flame springs
straight into the air and cannot be cabined or kept down any more than it can
repose in quiet, so our soul is always in motion, and the more ardent it is, the
greater its motion and activity. But happy is the man who has given it this
impulse toward better things! He will place himself beyond the jurisdiction of
chance; he will wisely control prosperity; he will lessen adversity, and will
despise what others hold in admiration. It is the quality of a great soul to scorn
great things and to prefer that which is ordinary rather than that which is too
great. For the one condition is useful and life-giving; but the other does harm
just because it is excessive. Similarly, too rich a soil makes the grain fall flat,
branches break down under too heavy a load, excessive productiveness does not
bring fruit to ripeness. This is the case with the soul also; for it is ruined by
uncontrolled prosperity, which is used not only to the detriment of others, but
also to the detriment of itself. What enemy was ever so insolent to any opponent
as are their pleasures to certain men? The only excuse that we can allow for the
incontinence and mad lust of these men is the fact that they suffer the evils
which they have inflicted upon others. And they are rightly harassed by this
madness, because desire must have unbounded space for its excursions, if it
transgresses nature's mean. For this has its bounds, but waywardness and the acts
that spring from wilful lust are without boundaries. Utility measures our needs;
but by what standard can you check the superfluous? It is for this reason that
men sink themselves in pleasures, and they cannot do without them when once
they have become accustomed to them, and for this reason they are most
wretched, because they have reached such a pass that what was once superfluous
to them has become indispensable. And so they are the slaves of their pleasures
instead of enjoying them; they even love their own ills, – and that is the worst ill
of all! Then it is that the height of unhappiness is reached, when men are not
only attracted, but even pleased, by shameful things, and when there is no longer
any room for a cure, now that those things which once were vices have become
habits. Farewell.
Letter XL - On the Proper Style for a Philosopher's
Discourse
I thank you for writing to me so often; for you are revealing your real self to
me in the only way you can. I never receive a letter from you without being in
your company forthwith. If the pictures of our absent friends are pleasing to us,
though they only refresh the memory and lighten our longing by a solace that is
unreal and unsubstantial, how much more pleasant is a letter, which brings us
real traces, real evidences, of an absent friend! For that which is sweetest when
we meet face to face is afforded by the impress of a friend's hand upon his letter,
– recognition.
You write me that you heard a lecture by the philosopher Serapio, when he
landed at your present place of residence. "He is wont," you say, "to wrench up
his words with a mighty rush, and he does not let them flow forth one by one,
but makes them crowd and dash upon each other. For the words come in such
quantity that a single voice is inadequate to utter them." I do not approve of this
in a philosopher; his speech, like his life, should be composed; and nothing that
rushes headlong and is hurried is well ordered. That is why, in Homer, the rapid
style, which sweeps down without a break like a snow-squall, is assigned to the
younger speaker; from the old man eloquence flows gently, sweeter than honey.
Therefore, mark my words; that forceful manner of speech, rapid and copious,
is more suited to a mountebank than to a man who is discussing and teaching an
important and serious subject. But I object just as strongly that he should drip
out his words as that he should go at top speed; he should neither keep the ear on
the stretch, nor deafen it. For that poverty-stricken and thin-spun style also
makes the audience less attentive because they are weary of its stammering
slowness; nevertheless, the word which has been long awaited sinks in more
easily than the word which flits past us on the wing. Finally, people speak of
"handing down" precepts to their pupils; but one is not "handing down" that
which eludes the grasp. Besides, speech that deals with the truth should be
unadorned and plain. This popular style has nothing to do with the truth; its aim
is to impress the common herd, to ravish heedless ears by its speed; it does not
offer itself for discussion, but snatches itself away from discussion. But how can
that speech govern others which cannot itself be governed? May I not also
remark that all speech which is employed for the purpose of healing our minds,
ought to sink into us? Remedies do not avail unless they remain in the system.
Besides, this sort of speech contains a great deal of sheer emptiness; it has
more sound than power. My terrors should be quieted, my irritations soothed,
my illusions shaken off, my indulgences checked, my greed rebuked. And which
of these cures can be brought about in a hurry? What physician can heal his
patient on a flying visit? May I add that such a jargon of confused and ill-chosen
words cannot afford pleasure, either? No; but just as you are well satisfied, in the
majority of cases, to have seen through tricks which you did not think could
possibly be done, so in the case of these word-gymnasts to have heard them once
is amply sufficient. For what can a man desire to learn or to imitate in them?
What is he to think of their souls, when their speech is sent into the charge in
utter disorder, and cannot be kept in hand? Just as, when you run down hill, you
cannot stop at the point where you had decided to stop, but your steps are carried
along by the momentum of your body and are borne beyond the place where you
wished to halt; so this speed of speech has no control over itself, nor is it seemly
for philosophy; since philosophy should carefully place her words, not fling
them out, and should proceed step by step.
"What then?" you say; "should not philosophy sometimes take a loftier tone?"
Of course she should; but dignity of character should be preserved, and this is
stripped away by such violent and excessive force. Let philosophy possess great
forces, but kept well under control; let her stream flow unceasingly, but never
become a torrent. And I should hardly allow even to an orator a rapidity of
speech like this, which cannot be called back, which goes lawlessly ahead; for
how could it be followed by jurors, who are often inexperienced and untrained?
Even when the orator is carried away by his desire to show off his powers, or by
uncontrollable emotion, even then he should not quicken his pace and heap up
words to an extent greater than the ear can endure.
You will be acting rightly, therefore, if you do not regard those men who seek
how much they may say, rather than how they shall say it, and if for yourself you
choose, provided a choice must be made, to speak as Publius Vinicius the
stammerer does. When Asellius was asked how Vinicius spoke, he replied:
"Gradually"! (It was a remark of Geminus Varius, by the way: "I don't see how
you can call that man 'eloquent'; why, he can't get out three words together.")
Why, then, should you not choose to speak as Vinicius does? Though of course
some wag may cross your path, like the person who said, when Vinicius was
dragging out his words one by one, as if he were dictating and not speaking.
"Say, haven't you anything to say?" And yet that were the better choice, for the
rapidity of Quintus Haterius, the most famous orator of his age, is, in my
opinion, to be avoided by a man of sense. Haterius never hesitated, never
paused; he made only one start, and only one stop.
However, I suppose that certain styles of speech are more or less suitable to
nations also; in a Greek you can put up with the unrestrained style, but we
Romans, even when writing, have become accustomed to separate our words.
And our compatriot Cicero, with whom Roman oratory sprang into prominence,
was also a slow pacer. The Roman language is more inclined to take stock of
itself, to weigh, and to offer something worth weighing. Fabianius, a man
noteworthy because of his life, his knowledge, and, less important than either of
these, his eloquence also, used to discuss a subject with dispatch rather than with
haste; hence you might call it ease rather than speed. I approve this quality in the
wise man; but I do not demand it; only let his speech proceed unhampered,
though I prefer that it should be deliberately uttered rather than spouted.
However, I have this further reason for frightening you away from the latter
malady, namely, that you could only be successful in practising this style by
losing your sense of modesty; you would have to rub all shame from your
countenance, and refuse to hear yourself speak. For that heedless flow will carry
with it many expressions which you would wish to criticize. And, I repeat, you
could not attain it and at the same time preserve your sense of shame. Moreover,
you would need to practise every day, and transfer your attention from subject
matter to words. But words, even if they came to you readily and flowed without
any exertion on your part, yet would have to be kept under control. For just as a
less ostentatious gait becomes a philosopher, so does a restrained style of speech,
far removed from boldness. Therefore, the ultimate kernel of my remarks is this:
I bid you be slow of speech. Farewell
Letter XLI - On the God within Us
You are doing an excellent thing, one which will be wholesome for you, if, as
you write me, you are persisting in your effort to attain sound understanding; it
is foolish to pray for this when you can acquire it from yourself. We do not need
to uplift our hands towards heaven, or to beg the keeper of a temple to let us
approach his idol's ear, as if in this way our prayers were more likely to be heard.
God is near you, he is with you, he is within you. This is what I mean, Lucilius:
a holy spirit indwells within us, one who marks our good and bad deeds, and is
our guardian. As we treat this spirit, so are we treated by it. Indeed, no man can
be good without the help of God. Can one rise superior to fortune unless God
helps him to rise? He it is that gives noble and upright counsel. In each good
man
A god doth dwell, but what god know we not.
If ever you have come upon a grove that is full of ancient trees which have
grown to an unusual height, shutting out a view of the sky by a veil of pleached
and intertwining branches, then the loftiness of the forest, the seclusion of the
spot, and your marvel at the thick unbroken shade in the midst of the open
spaces, will prove to you the presence of deity. Or if a cave, made by the deep
crumbling of the rocks, holds up a mountain on its arch, a place not built with
hands but hollowed out into such spaciousness by natural causes, your soul will
be deeply moved by a certain intimation of the existence of God. We worship
the sources of mighty rivers; we erect altars at places where great streams burst
suddenly from hidden sources; we adore springs of hot water as divine, and
consecrate certain pools because of their dark waters or their immeasurable
depth. If you see a man who is unterrified in the midst of dangers, untouched by
desires, happy in adversity, peaceful amid the storm, who looks down upon men
from a higher plane, and views the gods on a footing of equality, will not a
feeling of reverence for him steal over you, will you not say: "This quality is too
great and too lofty to be regarded as resembling this petty body in which it
dwells? A divine power has descended upon that man." When a soul rises
superior to other souls, when it is under control, when it passes through every
experience as if it were of small account, when it smiles at our fears and at our
prayers, it is stirred by a force from heaven. A thing like this cannot stand
upright unless it be propped by the divine. Therefore, a greater part of it abides
in that place from whence it came down to earth. Just as the rays of the sun do
indeed touch the earth, but still abide at the source from which they are sent;
even so the great and hallowed soul, which has come down in order that we may
have a nearer knowledge of divinity, does indeed associate with us, but still
cleaves to its origin; on that source it depends, thither it turns its gaze and strives
to go, and it concerns itself with our doings only as a being superior to ourselves.
What, then, is such a soul? One which is resplendent with no external good,
but only with its own. For what is more foolish than to praise in a man the
qualities which come from without? And what is more insane than to marvel at
characteristics which may at the next instant be passed on to someone else? A
golden bit does not make a better horse. The lion with gilded mane, in process of
being trained and forced by weariness to endure the decoration, is sent into the
arena in quite a different way from the wild lion whose spirit is unbroken; the
latter, indeed, bold in his attack, as nature wished him to be, impressive because
of his wild appearance, – and it is his glory that none can look upon him without
fear, – is favoured in preference to the other lion, that languid and gilded brute.
No man ought to glory except in that which is his own. We praise a vine if it
makes the shoots teem with increase, if by its weight it bends to the ground the
very poles which hold its fruit; would any man prefer to this vine one from
which golden grapes and golden leaves hang down? In a vine the virtue
peculiarly its own is fertility; in man also we should praise that which is his own.
Suppose that he has a retinue of comely slaves and a beautiful house, that his
farm is large and large his income; none of these things is in the man himself;
they are all on the outside. Praise the quality in him which cannot be given or
snatched away, that which is the peculiar property of the man. Do you ask what
this is? It is soul, and reason brought to perfection in the soul. For man is a
reasoning animal. Therefore, man's highest good is attained, if he has fulfilled
the good for which nature designed him at birth. And what is it which this reason
demands of him? The easiest thing in the world, – to live in accordance with his
own nature. But this is turned into a hard task by the general madness of
mankind; we push one another into vice. And how can a man be recalled to
salvation, when he has none to restrain him, and all mankind to urge him on?
Farewell.
Letter XLII - On Values
Has that friend of yours already made you believe that he is a good man? And
yet it is impossible in so short a time for one either to become good or be known
as such. Do you know what kind of man I now mean when I speak of "a good
man"? I mean one of the second grade, like your friend. For one of the first class
perhaps springs into existence, like the phoenix, only once in five hundred years.
And it is not surprising, either, that greatness develops only at long intervals;
Fortune often brings into being commonplace powers, which are born to please
the mob; but she holds up for our approval that which is extraordinary by the
very fact that she makes it rare.
This man, however, of whom you spoke, is still far from the state which he
professes to have reached. And if he knew what it meant to be "a good man," he
would not yet believe himself such; perhaps he would even despair of his ability
to become good. "But," you say, "he thinks ill of evil men." Well, so do evil men
themselves; and there is no worse penalty for vice than the fact that it is
dissatisfied with itself and all its fellows. "But he hates those who make an
ungoverned use of great power suddenly acquired." I retort that he will do the
same thing as soon as he acquires the same powers. In the case of many men,
their vices, being powerless, escape notice; although, as soon as the persons in
question have become satisfied with their own strength, the vices will be no less
daring than those which prosperity has already disclosed. These men simply lack
the means whereby they may unfold their wickedness. Similarly, one can handle
even a poisonous snake while it is stiff with cold; the poison is not lacking; it is
merely numbed into inaction. In the case of many men, their cruelty, ambition,
and indulgence only lack the favour of Fortune to make them dare crimes that
would match the worst. That their wishes are the same you will in a moment
discover, in this way: give them the power equal to their wishes.
Do you remember how, when you declared that a certain person was under
your influence, I pronounced him fickle and a bird of passage, and said that you
held him not by the foot but merely by a wing? Was I mistaken? You grasped
him only by a feather; he left it in your hands and escaped. You know what an
exhibition he afterwards made of himself before you, how many of the things he
attempted were to recoil upon his own head. He did not see that in endangering
others he was tottering to his own downfall. He did not reflect how burdensome
were the objects which he was bent upon attaining, even if they were not
superfluous.
Therefore, with regard to the objects which we pursue, and for which we
strive with great effort, we should note this truth; either there is nothing desirable
in them, or the undesirable is preponderant. Some objects are superfluous; others
are not worth the price we pay for them. But we do not see this clearly, and we
regard things as free gifts when they really cost us very dear. Our stupidity may
be clearly proved by the fact that we hold that "buying" refers only to the objects
for which we pay cash, and we regard as free gifts the things for which we spend
our very selves. These we should refuse to buy, if we were compelled to give in
payment for them our houses or some attractive and profitable estate; but we are
eager to attain them at the cost of anxiety, of danger, and of lost honour, personal
freedom, and time; so true it is that each man regards nothing as cheaper than
himself.
Let us therefore act, in all our plans and conduct, just as we are accustomed to
act whenever we approach a huckster who has certain wares for sale; let us see
how much we must pay for that which we crave. Very often the things that cost
nothing cost us the most heavily; I can show you many objects the quest and
acquisition of which have wrested freedom from our hands. We should belong to
ourselves, if only these things did not belong to us.
I would therefore have you reflect thus, not only when it is a question of gain,
but also when it is a question of loss. "This object is bound to perish." Yes, it
was a mere extra; you will live without it just as easily as you have lived before.
If you have possessed it for a long time, you lose it after you have had your fill
of it; if you have not possessed it long, then you lose it before you have become
wedded to it. "You will have less money." Yes, and less trouble. "Less
influence." Yes, and less envy. Look about you and note the things that drive us
mad, which we lose with a flood of tears; you will perceive that it is not the loss
that troubles us with reference to these things, but a notion of loss. No one feels
that they have been lost, but his mind tells him that it has been so. He that owns
himself has lost nothing. But how few men are blessed with ownership of self!
Farewell.
Letter XLIII - On the Relativity of Fame
Do you ask how the news reached me, and who informed me, that you were
entertaining this idea, of which you had said nothing to a single soul? It was that
most knowing of persons, – gossip. "What," you say, "am I such a great
personage that I can stir up gossip?" Now there is no reason why you should
measure yourself according to this part of the world; have regard only to the
place where you are dwelling. Any point which rises above adjacent points is
great, at the spot where it rises. For greatness is not absolute; comparison
increases it or lessens it. A ship which looms large in the river seems tiny when
on the ocean. A rudder which is large for one vessel, is small for another.
So you in your province are really of importance, though you scorn yourself.
Men are asking what you do, how you dine, and how you sleep, and they find
out, too; hence there is all the more reason for your living circumspectly. Do not,
however, deem yourself truly happy until you find that you can live before men's
eyes, until your walls protect but do not hide you; although we are apt to believe
that these walls surround us, not to enable us to live more safely, but that we
may sin more secretly. I shall mention a fact by which you may weigh the worth
of a man's character: you will scarcely find anyone who can live with his door
wide open. It is our conscience, not our pride, that has put doorkeepers at our
doors; we live in such a fashion that being suddenly disclosed to view is
equivalent to being caught in the act. What profits it, however, to hide ourselves
away, and to avoid the eyes and ears of men? A good conscience welcomes the
crowd, but a bad conscience, even in solitude, is disturbed and troubled. If your
deeds are honourable, let everybody know them; if base, what matters it that no
one knows them, as long as you yourself know them? How wretched you are if
you despise such a witness! Farewell.
Letter XLIV - On Philosophy and Pedigrees
You are again insisting to me that you are a nobody, and saying that nature in
the first place, and fortune in the second, have treated you too scurvily, and this
in spite of the fact that you have it in your power to separate yourself from the
crowd and rise to the highest human happiness! If there is any good in
philosophy, it is this, – that it never looks into pedigrees. All men, if traced back
to their original source, spring from the gods. You are a Roman knight, and your
persistent work promoted you to this class; yet surely there are many to whom
the fourteen rows are barred; the senate-chamber is not open to all; the army,
too, is scrupulous in choosing those whom it admits to toil and danger. But a
noble mind is free to all men; according to this test, we may all gain distinction.
Philosophy neither rejects nor selects anyone; its light shines for all. Socrates
was no aristocrat. Cleanthes worked at a well and served as a hired man watering
a garden. Philosophy did not find Plato already a nobleman; it made him one.
Why then should you despair of becoming able to rank with men like these?
They are all your ancestors, if you conduct yourself in a manner worthy of them;
and you will do so if you convince yourself at the outset that no man outdoes
you in real nobility. We have all had the same number of forefathers; there is no
man whose first beginning does not transcend memory. Plato says: "Every king
springs from a race of slaves, and every slave has had kings among his
ancestors." The flight of time, with its vicissitudes, has jumbled all such things
together, and Fortune has turned them upside down. Then who is well-born? He
who is by nature well fitted for virtue. That is the one point to be considered;
otherwise, if you hark back to antiquity, every one traces back to a date before
which there is nothing. From the earliest beginnings of the universe to the
present time, we have been led forward out of origins that were alternately
illustrious and ignoble. A hall full of smoke-begrimed busts does not make the
nobleman. No past life has been lived to lend us glory, and that which has
existed before us is not ours; the soul alone renders us noble, and it may rise
superior to Fortune out of any earlier condition, no matter what that condition
has been.
Suppose, then, that you were not that Roman knight, but a freedman, you
might nevertheless by your own efforts come to be the only free man amid a
throng of gentlemen. "How?" you ask. Simply by distinguishing between good
and bad things without patterning your opinion from the populace. You should
look, not to the source from which these things come, but to the goal towards
which they tend. If there is anything that can make life happy, it is good on its
own merits; for it cannot degenerate into evil. Where, then, lies the mistake,
since all men crave the happy life? It is that they regard the means for producing
happiness as happiness itself, and, while seeking happiness, they are really
fleeing from it. For although the sum and substance of the happy life is
unalloyed freedom from care, and though the secret of such freedom is unshaken
confidence, yet men gather together that which causes worry, and, while
travelling life's treacherous road, not only have burdens to bear, but even draw
burdens to themselves; hence they recede farther and farther from the
achievement of that which they seek, and the more effort they expend, the more
they hinder themselves and are set back. This is what happens when you hurry
through a maze; the faster you go, the worse you are entangled. Farewell.
Letter XLV - On Sophistical Argumentation
You complain that in your part of the world there is a scant supply of books.
But it is quality, rather than quantity, that matters; a limited list of reading
benefits; a varied assortment serves only for delight. He who would arrive at the
appointed end must follow a single road and not wander through many ways.
What you suggest is not travelling; it is mere tramping.
"But," you say, "I should rather have you give me advice than books." Still, I
am ready to send you all the books I have, to ransack the whole storehouse. If it
were possible, I should join you there myself; and were it not for the hope that
you will soon complete your term of office, I should have imposed upon myself
this old man's journey; no Scylla or Charybdis or their storied straits could have
frightened me away. I should not only have crossed over, but should have been
willing to swim over those waters, provided that I could greet you and judge in
your presence how much you had grown in spirit.
Your desire, however, that I should dispatch to you my own writings does not
make me think myself learned, any more than a request for my picture would
flatter my beauty. I know that it is due to your charity rather than to your
judgment. And even if it is the result of judgment, it was charity that forced the
judgment upon you. But whatever the quality of my works may be, read them as
if I were still seeking, and were not aware of, the truth, and were seeking it
obstinately, too. For I have sold myself to no man; I bear the name of no master.
I give much credit to the judgment of great men; but I claim something also for
my own. For these men, too, have left to us, not positive discoveries, but
problems whose solution is still to be sought. They might perhaps have
discovered the essentials, had they not sought the superfluous also. They lost
much time in quibbling about words and in sophistical argumentation; all that
sort of thing exercises the wit to no purpose. We tie knots and bind up words in
double meanings, and then try to untie them.
Have we leisure enough for this? Do we already know how to live, or die? We
should rather proceed with our whole souls towards the point where it is our duty
to take heed lest things, as well as words, deceive us. Why, pray, do you
discriminate between similar words, when nobody is ever deceived by them
except during the discussion? It is things that lead us astray: it is between things
that you must discriminate. We embrace evil instead of good; we pray for
something opposite to that which we have prayed for in the past. Our prayers
clash with our prayers, our plans with our plans. How closely flattery resembles
friendship! It not only apes friendship, but outdoes it, passing it in the race; with
wide-open and indulgent ears it is welcomed and sinks to the depths of the heart,
and it is pleasing precisely wherein it does harm. Show me how I may be able to
see through this resemblance! An enemy comes to me full of compliments, in the
guise of a friend. Vices creep into our hearts under the name of virtues, rashness
lurks beneath the appellation of bravery, moderation is called sluggishness, and
the coward is regarded as prudent; there is great danger if we go astray in these
matters. So stamp them with special labels.
Then, too, the man who is asked whether he has horns on his head is not such
a fool as to feel for them on his forehead, nor again so silly or dense that you can
persuade him by means of argumentation, no matter how subtle, that he does not
know the facts. Such quibbles are just as harmlessly deceptive as the juggler's
cup and dice, in which it is the very trickery that pleases me. But show me how
the trick is done, and I have lost my interest therein. And I hold the same opinion
about these tricky word-plays; for by what other name can one call such
sophistries? Not to know them does no harm, and mastering them does no good.
At any rate, if you wish to sift doubtful meanings of this kind, teach us that the
happy man is not he whom the crowd deems happy, namely, he into whose
coffers mighty sums have flowed, but he whose possessions are all in his soul,
who is upright and exalted, who spurns inconstancy, who sees no man with
whom he wishes to change places, who rates men only at their value as men,
who takes Nature for his teacher, conforming to her laws and living as she
commands, whom no violence can deprive of his possessions, who turns evil
into good, is unerring in judgment, unshaken, unafraid, who may be moved by
force but never moved to distraction, whom Fortune when she hurls at him with
all her might the deadliest missile in her armoury, may graze, though rarely, but
never wound. For Fortune's other missiles, with which she vanquishes mankind
in general, rebound from such a one, like hail which rattles on the roof with no
harm to the dweller therein, and then melts away.
Why do you bore me with that which you yourself call the "liar fallacy,"about
which so many books have been written? Come now, suppose that my whole life
is a lie; prove that to be wrong and, if you are sharp enough, bring that back to
the truth. At present it holds things to be essential of which the greater part is
superfluous. And even that which is not superfluous is of no significance in
respect to its power of making one fortunate and blest. For if a thing be
necessary, it does not follow that it is a good. Else we degrade the meaning of
"good," if we apply that name to bread and barley-porridge and other
commodities without which we cannot live. The good must in every case be
necessary; but that which is necessary is not in every case a good, since certain
very paltry things are indeed necessary. No one is to such an extent ignorant of
the noble meaning of the word "good," as to debase it to the level of these
humdrum utilities.
What, then? Shall you not rather transfer your efforts to making it clear to all
men that the search for the superfluous means a great outlay of time, and that
many have gone through life merely accumulating the instruments of life?
Consider individuals, survey men in general; there is none whose life does not
look forward to the morrow. "What harm is there in this," you ask? Infinite
harm; for such persons do not live, but are preparing to live. They postpone
everything. Even if we paid strict attention, life would soon get ahead of us; but
as we are now, life finds us lingering and passes us by as if it belonged to
another, and though it ends on the final day, it perishes every day.
But I must not exceed the bounds of a letter, which ought not to fill the
reader's left hand. So I shall postpone to another day our case against the hairsplitters, those over-subtle fellows who make argumentation supreme instead of
subordinate. Farewell.
Letter XLVI - On a New Book by Lucilius
I received the book of yours which you promised me. I opened it hastily with
the idea of glancing over it at leisure; for I meant only to taste the volume. But
by its own charm the book coaxed me into traversing it more at length. You may
understand from this fact how eloquent it was; for it seemed to be written in the
smooth style, and yet did not resemble your handiwork or mine, but at first sight
might have been ascribed to Titus Livius or to Epicurus. Moreover, I was so
impressed and carried along by its charm that I finished it without any
postponement. The sunlight called to me, hunger warned, and clouds were
lowering; but I absorbed the book from beginning to end.
I was not merely pleased; I rejoiced. So full of wit and spirit it was! I should
have added "force," had the book contained moments of repose, or had it risen to
energy only at intervals. But I found that there was no burst of force, but an even
flow, a style that was vigorous and chaste. Nevertheless I noticed from time to
time your sweetness, and here and there that mildness of yours. Your style is
lofty and noble; I want you to keep to this manner and this direction. Your
subject also contributed something; for this reason you should choose productive
topics, which will lay hold of the mind and arouse it.
I shall discuss the book more fully after a second perusal; meantime, my
judgment is somewhat unsettled, just as if I had heard it read aloud, and had not
read it myself. You must allow me to examine it also. You need not be afraid;
you shall hear the truth. Lucky fellow, to offer a man no opportunity to tell you
lies at such long range! Unless perhaps, even now, when excuses for lying are
taken away, custom serves as an excuse for our telling each other lies! Farewell.
Letter XLVII - On Master and Slave
I am glad to learn, through those who come from you, that you live on
friendly terms with your slaves. This befits a sensible and well-educated man
like yourself. "They are slaves," people declare. Nay, rather they are men.
"Slaves!" No, comrades. "Slaves!" No, they are unpretentious friends. "Slaves!"
No, they are our fellow-slaves, if one reflects that Fortune has equal rights over
slaves and free men alike.
That is why I smile at those who think it degrading for a man to dine with his
slave. But why should they think it degrading? It is only because purse-proud
etiquette surrounds a householder at his dinner with a mob of standing slaves.
The master eats more than he can hold, and with monstrous greed loads his belly
until it is stretched and at length ceases to do the work of a belly; so that he is at
greater pains to discharge all the food than he was to stuff it down. All this time
the poor slaves may not move their lips, even to speak. The slightest murmur is
repressed by the rod; even a chance sound, – a cough, a sneeze, or a hiccup, – is
visited with the lash. There is a grievous penalty for the slightest breach of
silence. All night long they must stand about, hungry and dumb.
The result of it all is that these slaves, who may not talk in their master's
presence, talk about their master. But the slaves of former days, who were
permitted to converse not only in their master's presence, but actually with him,
whose mouths were not stitched up tight, were ready to bare their necks for their
master, to bring upon their own heads any danger that threatened him; they
spoke at the feast, but kept silence during torture. Finally, the saying, in allusion
to this same high-handed treatment, becomes current: "As many enemies as you
have slaves." They are not enemies when we acquire them; we make them
enemies.
I shall pass over other cruel and inhuman conduct towards them; for we
maltreat them, not as if they were men, but as if they were beasts of burden.
When we recline at a banquet, one slave mops up the disgorged food, another
crouches beneath the table and gathers up the left-overs of the tipsy guests.
Another carves the priceless game birds; with unerring strokes and skilled hand
he cuts choice morsels along the breast or the rump. Hapless fellow, to live only
for the purpose of cutting fat capons correctly – unless, indeed, the other man is
still more unhappy than he, who teaches this art for pleasure's sake, rather than
he who learns it because he must. Another, who serves the wine, must dress like
a woman and wrestle with his advancing years; he cannot get away from his
boyhood; he is dragged back to it; and though he has already acquired a soldier's
figure, he is kept beardless by having his hair smoothed away or plucked out by
the roots, and he must remain awake throughout the night, dividing his time
between his master's drunkenness and his lust; in the chamber he must be a man,
at the feast a boy. Another, whose duty it is to put a valuation on the guests, must
stick to his task, poor fellow, and watch to see whose flattery and whose
immodesty, whether of appetite or of language, is to get them an invitation for
tomorrow. Think also of the poor purveyors of food, who note their masters'
tastes with delicate skill, who know what special flavours will sharpen their
appetite, what will please their eyes, what new combinations will rouse their
cloyed stomachs, what food will excite their loathing through sheer satiety, and
what will stir them to hunger on that particular day. With slaves like these the
master cannot bear to dine; he would think it beneath his dignity to associate
with his slave at the same table! Heaven forfend!
But how many masters is he creating in these very men! I have seen standing
in the line, before the door of Callistus, the former master, of Callistus; I have
seen the master himself shut out while others were welcomed, – the master who
once fastened the "For Sale" ticket on Callistus and put him in the market along
with the good-for-nothing slaves. But he has been paid off by that slave who was
shuffled into the first lot of those on whom the crier practises his lungs; the
slave, too, in his turn has cut his name from the list and in his turn has adjudged
him unfit to enter his house. The master sold Callistus, but how much has
Callistus made his master pay for!
Kindly remember that he whom you call your slave sprang from the same
stock, is smiled upon by the same skies, and on equal terms with yourself
breathes, lives, and dies. It is just as possible for you to see in him a free-born
man as for him to see in you a slave. As a result of the massacres in Marius's
day, many a man of distinguished birth, who was taking the first steps toward
senatorial rank by service in the army, was humbled by fortune, one becoming a
shepherd, another a caretaker of a country cottage. Despise, then, if you dare,
those to whose estate you may at any time descend, even when you are despising
them.
I do not wish to involve myself in too large a question, and to discuss the
treatment of slaves, towards whom we Romans are excessively haughty, cruel,
and insulting. But this is the kernel of my advice: Treat your inferiors as you
would be treated by your betters. And as often as you reflect how much power
you have over a slave, remember that your master has just as much power over
you. "But I have no master," you say. You are still young; perhaps you will have
one. Do you not know at what age Hecuba entered captivity, or Croesus, or the
mother of Darius, or Plato, or Diogenes?
Associate with your slave on kindly, even on affable, terms; let him talk with
you, plan with you, live with you. I know that at this point all the exquisites will
cry out against me in a body; they will say: "There is nothing more debasing,
more disgraceful, than this." But these are the very persons whom I sometimes
surprise kissing the hands of other men's slaves. Do you not see even this, how
our ancestors removed from masters everything invidious, and from slaves
everything insulting? They called the master "father of the household," and the
slaves "members of the household," a custom which still holds in the mime.
They established a holiday on which masters and slaves should eat together, –
not as the only day for this custom, but as obligatory on that day in any case.
They allowed the slaves to attain honours in the household and to pronounce
judgment; they held that a household was a miniature commonwealth.
"Do you mean to say," comes the retort, "that I must seat all my slaves at my
own table?" No, not any more than that you should invite all free men to it. You
are mistaken if you think that I would bar from my table certain slaves whose
duties are more humble, as, for example, yonder muleteer or yonder herdsman; I
propose to value them according to their character, and not according to their
duties. Each man acquires his character for himself, but accident assigns his
duties. Invite some to your table because they deserve the honor, and others that
they may come to deserve it. For if there is any slavish quality in them as the
result of their low associations, it will be shaken off by intercourse with men of
gentler breeding. You need not, my dear Lucilius, hunt for friends only in the
forum or in the Senate-house; if you are careful and attentive, you will find them
at home also. Good material often stands idle for want of an artist; make the
experiment, and you will find it so. As he is a fool who, when purchasing a
horse, does not consider the animal's points, but merely his saddle and bridle; so
he is doubly a fool who values a man from his clothes or from his rank, which
indeed is only a robe that clothes us.
"He is a slave." His soul, however, may be that of a freeman. "He is a slave."
But shall that stand in his way? Show me a man who is not a slave; one is a slave
to lust, another to greed, another to ambition, and all men are slaves to fear. I
will name you an ex-consul who is slave to an old hag, a millionaire who is slave
to a serving-maid; I will show you youths of the noblest birth in serfdom to
pantomime players! No servitude is more disgraceful than that which is selfimposed.
You should therefore not be deterred by these finicky persons from showing
yourself to your slaves as an affable person and not proudly superior to them;
they ought to respect you rather than fear you. Some may maintain that I am now
offering the liberty-cap to slaves in general and toppling down lords from their
high estate, because I bid slaves respect their masters instead of fearing them.
They say: "This is what he plainly means: slaves are to pay respect as if they
were clients or early-morning callers!" Anyone who holds this opinion forgets
that what is enough for a god cannot be too little for a master. Respect means
love, and love and fear cannot be mingled. So I hold that you are entirely right in
not wishing to be feared by your slaves, and in lashing them merely with the
tongue; only dumb animals need the thong.
That which annoys us does not necessarily injure us; but we are driven into
wild rage by our luxurious lives, so that whatever does not answer our whims
arouses our anger. We don the temper of kings. For they, too, forgetful alike of
their own strength and of other men's weakness, grow white-hot with rage, as if
they had received an injury, when they are entirely protected from danger of
such injury by their exalted station. They are not unaware that this is true, but by
finding fault they seize upon opportunities to do harm; they insist that they have
received injuries, in order that they may inflict them.
I do not wish to delay you longer; for you need no exhortation. This, among
other things, is a mark of good character: it forms its own judgments and abides
by them; but badness is fickle and frequently changing, not for the better, but for
something different. Farewell.
Letter XLVIII - On Quibbling as Unworthy of the
Philosopher
In answer to the letter which you wrote me while travelling, – a letter as long
as the journey itself, – I shall reply later. I ought to go into retirement, and
consider what sort of advice I should give you. For you yourself, who consult
me, also reflected for a long time whether to do so; how much more, then,
should I myself reflect, since more deliberation is necessary in settling than in
propounding a problem! And this is particularly true when one thing is
advantageous to you and another to me. Am I speaking again in the guise of an
Epicurean? But the fact is, the same thing is advantageous to me which is
advantageous to you; for I am not your friend unless whatever is at issue
concerning you is my concern also. Friendship produces between us a
partnership in all our interests. There is no such thing as good or bad fortune for
the individual; we live in common. And no one can live happily who has regard
to himself alone and transforms everything into a question of his own utility; you
must live for your neighbour, if you would live for yourself. This fellowship,
maintained with scrupulous care, which makes us mingle as men with our
fellow-men and holds that the human race have certain rights in common, is also
of great help in cherishing the more intimate fellowship which is based on
friendship, concerning which I began to speak above. For he that has much in
common with a fellow-man will have all things in common with a friend.
And on this point, my excellent Lucilius, I should like to have those subtle
dialecticians of yours advise me how I ought to help a friend, or how a fellow
man, rather than tell me in how many ways the word "friend" is used, and how
many meanings the word "man" possesses. Lo, Wisdom and Folly are taking
opposite sides. Which shall I join? Which party would you have me follow? On
that side, "man" is the equivalent of "friend"; on the other side, "friend" is not
the equivalent of "man." The one wants a friend for his own advantage; the other
wants to make himself an advantage to his friend. What you have to offer me is
nothing but distortion of words and splitting of syllables. It is clear that unless I
can devise some very tricky premisses and by false deductions tack on to them a
fallacy which springs from the truth, I shall not be able to distinguish between
what is desirable and what is to be avoided! I am ashamed! Old men as we are,
dealing with a problem so serious, we make play of it!
"'Mouse' is a syllable. Now a mouse eats its cheese; therefore, a syllable eats
cheese." Suppose now that I cannot solve this problem; see what peril hangs
over my head as a result of such ignorance! What a scrape I shall be in! Without
doubt I must beware, or some day I shall be catching syllables in a mousetrap,
or, if I grow careless, a book may devour my cheese! Unless, perhaps, the
following syllogism is shrewder still: "'Mouse' is a syllable. Now a syllable does
not eat cheese. Therefore a mouse does not eat cheese." What childish nonsense!
Do we knit our brows over this sort of problem? Do we let our beards grow long
for this reason? Is this the matter which we teach with sour and pale faces?
Would you really know what philosophy offers to humanity? Philosophy
offers counsel. Death calls away one man, and poverty chafes another; a third is
worried either by his neighbour's wealth or by his own. So-and-so is afraid of
bad luck; another desires to get away from his own good fortune. Some are illtreated by men, others by the gods. Why, then, do you frame for me such games
as these? It is no occasion for jest; you are retained as counsel for unhappy
mankind. You have promised to help those in peril by sea, those in captivity, the
sick and the needy, and those whose heads are under the poised axe. Whither are
you straying? What are you doing?
This friend, in whose company you are jesting, is in fear. Help him, and take
the noose from about his neck. Men are stretching out imploring hands to you on
all sides; lives ruined and in danger of ruin are begging for some assistance;
men's hopes, men's resources, depend upon you. They ask that you deliver them
from all their restlessness, that you reveal to them, scattered and wandering as
they are, the clear light of truth. Tell them what nature has made necessary, and
what superfluous; tell them how simple are the laws that she has laid down, how
pleasant and unimpeded life is for those who follow these laws, but how bitter
and perplexed it is for those who have put their trust in opinion rather than in
nature.
I should deem your games of logic to be of some avail in relieving men's
burdens, if you could first show me what part of these burdens they will relieve.
What among these games of yours banishes lust? Or controls it? Would that I
could say that they were merely of no profit! They are positively harmful. I can
make it perfectly clear to you whenever you wish, that a noble spirit when
involved in such subtleties is impaired and weakened. I am ashamed to say what
weapons they supply to men who are destined to go to war with fortune, and
how poorly they equip them! Is this the path to the greatest good? Is philosophy
to proceed by such claptrap and by quibbles which would be a disgrace and a
reproach even for expounders of the law? For what else is it that you men are
doing, when you deliberately ensnare the person to whom you are putting
questions, than making it appear that the man has lost his case on a technical
error? But just as the judge can reinstate those who have lost a suit in this way,
so philosophy has reinstated these victims of quibbling to their former condition.
Why do you men abandon your mighty promises, and, after having assured me
in high-sounding language that you will permit the glitter of gold to dazzle my
eyesight no more than the gleam of the sword, and that I shall, with mighty
steadfastness, spurn both that which all men crave and that which all men fear,
why do you descend to the ABC's of scholastic pedants? What is your answer?
Is this the path to heaven?
For that is exactly what philosophy promises to me, that I shall be made equal
to God. For this I have been summoned, for this purpose have I come.
Philosophy, keep your promise!
Therefore, my dear Lucilius, withdraw yourself as far as possible from these
exceptions and objections of so-called philosophers. Frankness, and simplicity
beseem true goodness. Even if there were many years left to you, you would
have had to spend them frugally in order to have enough for the necessary
things; but as it is, when your time is so scant, what madness it is to learn
superfluous things! Farewell.
Letter XLIX - On the Shortness of Life
A man is indeed lazy and careless, my dear Lucilius, if he is reminded of a
friend only by seeing some landscape which stirs the memory; and yet there are
times when the old familiar haunts stir up a sense of loss that has been stored
away in the soul, not bringing back dead memories, but rousing them from their
dormant state, just as the sight of a lost friend's favourite slave, or his cloak, or
his house, renews the mourner's grief, even though it has been softened by time.
Now, lo and behold, Campania, and especially Naples and your beloved
Pompeii, struck me, when I viewed them, with a wonderfully fresh sense of
longing for you. You stand in full view before my eyes. I am on the point of
parting from you. I see you choking down your tears and resisting without
success the emotions that well up at the very moment when you try to check
them. I seem to have lost you but a moment ago. For what is not "but a moment
ago" when one begins to use the memory? It was but a moment ago that I sat, as
a lad, in the school of the philosopher Sotion, but a moment ago that I began to
plead in the courts, but a moment ago that I lost the desire to plead, but a
moment ago that I lost the ability. Infinitely swift is the flight of time, as those
see more clearly who are looking backwards. For when we are intent on the
present, we do not notice it, so gentle is the passage of time's headlong flight. Do
you ask the reason for this? All past time is in the same place; it all presents the
same aspect to us, it lies together. Everything slips into the same abyss. Besides,
an event which in its entirety is of brief compass cannot contain long intervals.
The time which we spend in living is but a point, nay, even less than a point. But
this point of time, infinitesimal as it is, nature has mocked by making it seem
outwardly of longer duration; she has taken one portion thereof and made it
infancy, another childhood, another youth, another the gradual slope, so to
speak, from youth to old age, and old age itself is still another. How many steps
for how short a climb! It was but a moment ago that I saw you off on your
journey; and yet this "moment ago" makes up a goodly share of our existence,
which is so brief, we should reflect, that it will soon come to an end altogether.
In other years time did not seem to me to go so swiftly; now, it seems fast
beyond belief, perhaps, because I feel that the finish-line is moving closer to me,
or it may be that I have begun to take heed and reckon up my losses.
For this reason I am all the more angry that some men claim the major portion
of this time for superfluous things, – time which, no matter how carefully it is
guarded, cannot suffice even for necessary things. Cicero declared that if the
number of his days were doubled, he should not have time to read the lyric
poets. And you may rate the dialecticians in the same class; but they are foolish
in a more melancholy way. The lyric poets are avowedly frivolous; but the
dialecticians believe that they are themselves engaged upon serious business. I
do not deny that one must cast a glance at dialectic; but it ought to be a mere
glance, a sort of greeting from the threshold, merely that one may not be
deceived, or judge these pursuits to contain any hidden matters of great worth.
Why do you torment yourself and lose weight over some problem which it is
more clever to have scorned than to solve? When a soldier is undisturbed and
travelling at his ease, he can hunt for trifles along his way; but when the enemy
is closing in on the rear, and a command is given to quicken the pace, necessity
makes him throw away everything which he picked up in moments of peace and
leisure. I have no time to investigate disputed inflections of words, or to try my
cunning upon them.
Behold the gathering clans, the fast-shut gates,
And weapons whetted ready for the war.
I need a stout heart to hear without flinching this din of battle which sounds
round about. And all would rightly think me mad if, when graybeards and
women were heaping up rocks for the fortifications, when the armour-clad
youths inside the gates were awaiting, or even demanding, the order for a sally,
when the spears of the foemen were quivering in our gates and the very ground
was rocking with mines and subterranean passages, – I say, they would rightly
think me mad if I were to sit idle, putting such petty posers as this: "What you
have not lost, you have. But you have not lost any horns. Therefore, you have
horns," or other tricks constructed after the model of this piece of sheer silliness.
And yet I may well seem in your eyes no less mad, if I spend my energies on
that sort of thing; for even now I am in a state of siege. And yet, in the former
case it would be merely a peril from the outside that threatened me, and a wall
that sundered me from the foe; as it is now, death-dealing perils are in my very
presence. I have no time for such nonsense; a mighty undertaking is on my
hands. What am I to do? Death is on my trail, and life is fleeting away; teach me
something with which to face these troubles. Bring it to pass that I shall cease
trying to escape from death, and that life may cease to escape from me. Give me
courage to meet hardships; make me calm in the face of the unavoidable. Relax
the straitened limits of the time which is allotted me. Show me that the good in
life does not depend upon life's length, but upon the use we make of it; also, that
it is possible, or rather usual, for a man who has lived long to have lived too
little. Say to me when I lie down to sleep: "You may not wake again!" And when
I have waked: "You may not go to sleep again!" Say to me when I go forth from
my house: "You may not return!" And when I return: "You may never go forth
again!" You are mistaken if you think that only on an ocean voyage there is a
very slight space between life and death. No, the distance between is just as
narrow everywhere. It is not everywhere that death shows himself so near at
hand; yet everywhere he is as near at hand.
Rid me of these shadowy terrors; then you will more easily deliver to me the
instruction for which I have prepared myself. At our birth nature made us
teachable, and gave us reason, not perfect, but capable of being perfected.
Discuss for me justice, duty, thrift, and that twofold purity, both the purity which
abstains from another's person, and that which takes care of one's own self. If
you will only refuse to lead me along by-paths, I shall more easily reach the goal
at which I am aiming. For, as the tragic poet says:
The language of truth is simple.
We should not, therefore, make that language intricate; since there is nothing
less fitting for a soul of great endeavour than such crafty cleverness. Farewell.
Letter L - On our Blindness and its Cure
I received your letter many months after you had posted it; accordingly, I
thought it useless to ask the carrier what you were busied with. He must have a
particularly good memory if he can remember that! But I hope by this time you
are living in such a way that I can be sure what it is you are busied with, no
matter where you may be. For what else are you busied with except improving
yourself every day, laying aside some error, and coming to understand that the
faults which you attribute to circumstances are in yourself? We are indeed apt to
ascribe certain faults to the place or to the time; but those faults will follow us,
no matter how we change our place.
You know Harpaste, my wife's female clown; she has remained in my house,
a burden incurred from a legacy. I particularly disapprove of these freaks;
whenever I wish to enjoy the quips of a clown, I am not compelled to hunt far; I
can laugh at myself. Now this clown suddenly became blind. The story sounds
incredible, but I assure you that it is true: she does not know that she is blind.
She keeps asking her attendant to change her quarters; she says that her
apartments are too dark.
You can see clearly that that which makes us smile in the case of Harpaste
happens to all the rest of us; nobody understands that he is himself greedy, or
that he is covetous. Yet the blind ask for a guide, while we wander without one,
saying: "I am not self-seeking; but one cannot live at Rome in any other way. I
am not extravagant, but mere living in the city demands a great outlay. It is not
my fault that I have a choleric disposition, or that I have not settled down to any
definite scheme of life; it is due to my youth." Why do we deceive ourselves?
The evil that afflicts us is not external, it is within us, situated in our very vitals;
for that reason we attain soundness with all the more difficulty, because we do
not know that we are diseased.
Suppose that we have begun the cure; when shall we throw off all these
diseases, with all their virulence? At present, we do not even consult the
physician, whose work would be easier if he were called in when the complaint
was in its early stages. The tender and the inexperienced minds would follow his
advice if he pointed out the right way. No man finds it difficult to return to
nature, except the man who has deserted nature. We blush to receive instruction
in sound sense; but, by Heaven, if we think it base to seek a teacher of this art,
we should also abandon any hope that so great a good could be instilled into us
by mere chance.
No, we must work. To tell the truth, even the work is not great, if only, as I
said, we begin to mould and reconstruct our souls before they are hardened by
sin. But I do not despair even of a hardened sinner. There is nothing that will not
surrender to persistent treatment, to concentrated and careful attention; however
much the timber may be bent, you can make it straight again. Heat unbends
curved beams, and wood that grew naturally in another shape is fashioned
artificially according to our needs. How much more easily does the soul permit
itself to be shaped, pliable as it is and more yielding than any liquid! For what
else is the soul than air in a certain state? And you see that air is more adaptable
than any other matter, in proportion as it is rarer than any other.
There is nothing, Lucilius, to hinder you from entertaining good hopes about
us, just because we are even now in the grip of evil, or because we have long
been possessed thereby. There is no man to whom a good mind comes before an
evil one. It is the evil mind that gets first hold on all of us. Learning virtue means
unlearning vice. We should therefore proceed to the task of freeing ourselves
from faults with all the more courage because, when once committed to us, the
good is an everlasting possession; virtue is not unlearned. For opposites find
difficulty in clinging where they do not belong, therefore they can be driven out
and hustled away; but qualities that come to a place which is rightfully theirs
abide faithfully. Virtue is according to nature; vice is opposed to it and hostile.
But although virtues, when admitted, cannot depart and are easy to guard, yet the
first steps in the approach to them are toilsome, because it is characteristic of a
weak and diseased mind to fear that which is unfamiliar. The mind must,
therefore, be forced to make a beginning; from then on, the medicine is not
bitter; for just as soon as it is curing us it begins to give pleasure. One enjoys
other cures only after health is restored, but a draught of philosophy is at the
same moment wholesome and pleasant. Farewell.
Letter LI - On Baiae and Morals
Every man does the best he can, my dear Lucilius! You over there have Etna,
that lofty and most celebrated mountain of Sicily; (although I cannot make out
why Messala, – or was it Valgius? for I have been reading in both, – has called it
"unique," inasmuch as many regions belch forth fire, not merely the lofty ones
where the phenomenon is more frequent, – presumably because fire rises to the
greatest possible height, – but lowlying places also.) As for myself, I do the best
I can; I have had to be satisfied with Baiae; and I left it the day after I reached it;
for Baiae is a place to be avoided, because, though it has certain natural
advantages, luxury has claimed it for her own exclusive resort. "What then," you
say, "should any place be singled out as an object of aversion?" Not at all. But
just as, to the wise and upright man, one style of clothing is more suitable than
another, without his having an aversion for any particular colour, but because he
thinks that some colours do not befit one who has adopted the simple life; so
there are places also, which the wise man or he who is on the way toward
wisdom will avoid as foreign to good morals. Therefore, if he is contemplating
withdrawal from the world, he will not select Canopus (although Canopus does
not keep any man from living simply), nor Baiae either; for both places have
begun to be resorts of vice. At Canopus luxury pampers itself to the utmost
degree; at Baiae it is even more lax, as if the place itself demanded a certain
amount of licence.
We ought to select abodes which are wholesome not only for the body but
also for the character. Just as I do not care to live in a place of torture, neither do
I care to live in a cafe. To witness persons wandering drunk along the beach, the
riotous revelling of sailing parties, the lakes a-din with choral song, and all the
other ways in which luxury, when it is, so to speak, released from the restraints
of law not merely sins, but blazons its sins abroad, – why must I witness all this?
We ought to see to it that we flee to the greatest possible distance from
provocations to vice. We should toughen our minds, and remove them far from
the allurements of pleasure. A single winter relaxed Hannibal's fibre; his
pampering in Campania took the vigour out of that hero who had triumphed over
Alpine snows. He conquered with his weapons, but was conquered by his vices.
We too have a war to wage, a type of warfare in which there is allowed no rest
or furlough. To be conquered, in the first place, are pleasures, which, as you see,
have carried off even the sternest characters. If a man has once understood how
great is the task which he has entered upon, he will see that there must be no
dainty or effeminate conduct. What have I to do with those hot baths or with the
sweating-room where they shut in the dry steam which is to drain your strength?
Perspiration should flow only after toil.
Suppose we do what Hannibal did, – check the course of events, give up the
war, and give over our bodies to be coddled. Every one would rightly blame us
for our untimely sloth, a thing fraught with peril even for the victor, to say
nothing of one who is only on the way to victory. And we have even less right to
do this than those followers of the Carthaginian flag; for our danger is greater
than theirs if we slacken, and our toil is greater than theirs even if we press
ahead. Fortune is fighting against me, and I shall not carry out her commands. I
refuse to submit to the yoke; nay rather, I shake off the yoke that is upon me, –
an act which demands even greater courage. The soul is not to be pampered;
surrendering to pleasure means also surrendering to pain, surrendering to toil,
surrendering to poverty. Both ambition and anger will wish to have the same
rights over me as pleasure, and I shall be torn asunder, or rather pulled to pieces,
amid all these conflicting passions. I have set freedom before my eyes; and I am
striving for that reward. And what is freedom, you ask? It means not being a
slave to any circumstance, to any constraint, to any chance; it means compelling
Fortune to enter the lists on equal terms. And on the day when I know that I have
the upper hand, her power will be naught. When I have death in my own control,
shall I take orders from her?
Therefore, a man occupied with such reflections should choose an austere and
pure dwelling-place. The spirit is weakened by surroundings that are too
pleasant, and without a doubt one's place of residence can contribute towards
impairing its vigour. Animals whose hoofs are hardened on rough ground can
travel any road; but when they are fattened on soft marshy meadows their hoofs
are soon worn out. The bravest soldier comes from rock-ribbed regions; but the
town-bred and the home-bred are sluggish in action. The hand which turns from
the plough to the sword never objects to toil; but your sleek and well-dressed
dandy quails at the first cloud of dust. Being trained in a rugged country
strengthens the character and fits it for great undertakings. It was more
honourable in Scipio to spend his exile at Liternum, than at Baiae; his downfall
did not need a setting so effeminate. Those also into whose hands the rising
fortunes of Rome first transferred the wealth of the state, Gaius Marius, Gnaeus
Pompey, and Caesar, did indeed build villas near Baiae; but they set them on the
very tops of the mountains. This seemed more soldier-like, to look down from a
lofty height upon lands spread far and wide below. Note the situation, position,
and type of building which they chose; you will see that they were not countryplaces, – they were camps. Do you suppose that Cato would ever have dwelt in a
pleasure-palace, that he might count the lewd women as they sailed past, the
many kinds of barges painted in all sorts of colours, the roses which were wafted
about the lake, or that he might listen to the nocturnal brawls of serenaders?
Would he not have preferred to remain in the shelter of a trench thrown up by his
own hands to serve for a single night? Would not anyone who is a man have his
slumbers broken by a war-trumpet rather than by a chorus of serenaders?
But I have been haranguing against Baiae long enough; although I never could
harangue often enough against vice. Vice, Lucilius, is what I wish you to
proceed against, without limit and without end. For it has neither limit nor end.
If any vice rend your heart, cast it away from you; and if you cannot be rid of it
in any other way, pluck out your heart also. Above all, drive pleasures from your
sight. Hate them beyond all other things, for they are like the bandits whom the
Egyptians call "lovers," who embrace us only to garrotte us. Farewell.
Letter LII - On Choosing our Teachers
What is this force, Lucilius, that drags us in one direction when we are aiming
in another, urging us on to the exact place from which we long to withdraw?
What is it that wrestles with our spirit, and does not allow us to desire anything
once for all? We veer from plan to plan. None of our wishes is free, none is
unqualified, none is lasting. "But it is the fool," you say, "who is inconsistent;
nothing suits him for long." But how or when can we tear ourselves away from
this folly? No man by himself has sufficient strength to rise above it; he needs a
helping hand, and some one to extricate him.
Epicurus remarks that certain men have worked their way to the truth without
any one's assistance, carving out their own passage. And he gives special praise
to these, for their impulse has come from within, and they have forged to the
front by themselves. Again, he says, there are others who need outside help, who
will not proceed unless someone leads the way, but who will follow faithfully.
Of these, he says, Metrodorus was one; this type of man is also excellent, but
belongs to the second grade. We ourselves are not of that first class, either; we
shall be well treated if we are admitted into the second. Nor need you despise a
man who can gain salvation only with the assistance of another; the will to be
saved means a great deal, too.
You will find still another class of man, – and a class not to be despised, –
who can be forced and driven into righteousness, who do not need a guide as
much as they require someone to encourage and, as it were, to force them along.
This is the third variety. If you ask me for a man of this pattern also, Epicurus
tells us that Hermarchus was such. And of the two last-named classes, he is more
ready to congratulate the one, but he feels more respect for the other; for
although both reached the same goal, it is a greater credit to have brought about
the same result with the more difficult material upon which to work.
Suppose that two buildings have been erected, unlike as to their foundations,
but equal in height and in grandeur. One is built on faultless ground, and the
process of erection goes right ahead. In the other case, the foundations have
exhausted the building materials, for they have been sunk into soft and shifting
ground and much labour has been wasted in reaching the solid rock. As one
looks at both of them, one sees clearly what progress the former has made but
the larger and more difficult part of the latter is hidden. So with men's
dispositions; some are pliable and easy to manage, but others have to be
laboriously wrought out by hand, so to speak, and are wholly employed in the
making of their own foundations. I should accordingly deem more fortunate the
man who has never had any trouble with himself; but the other, I feel, has
deserved better of himself, who has won a victory over the meanness of his own
nature, and has not gently led himself, but has wrestled his way, to wisdom.
You may be sure that this refractory nature, which demands much toil, has
been implanted in us. There are obstacles in our path; so let us fight, and call to
our assistance some helpers. "Whom," you say, "shall I call upon? Shall it be this
man or that?" There is another choice also open to you; you may go to the
ancients; for they have the time to help you. We can get assistance not only from
the living, but from those of the past. Let us choose, however, from among the
living, not men who pour forth their words with the greatest glibness, turning out
commonplaces and holding. as it were, their own little private exhibitions, – not
these, I say, but men who teach us by their lives, men who tell us what we ought
to do and then prove it by practice, who show us what we should avoid, and then
are never caught doing that which they have ordered us to avoid.
Choose as a guide one whom you will admire more when you see him act than
when you hear him speak. Of course I would not prevent you from listening also
to those philosophers who are wont to hold public meetings and discussions,
provided they appear before the people for the express purpose of improving
themselves and others, and do not practise their profession for the sake of selfseeking. For what is baser than philosophy courting applause? Does the sick man
praise the surgeon while he is operating? In silence and with reverent awe
submit to the cure. Even though you cry applause, I shall listen to your cries as if
you were groaning when your sores were touched. Do you wish to bear witness
that you are attentive, that you are stirred by the grandeur of the subject? You
may do this at the proper time; I shall of course allow you to pass judgment and
cast a vote as to the better course. Pythagoras made his pupils keep silence for
five years; do you think that they had the right on that account to break out
immediately into applause?
How mad is he who leaves the lecture-room in a happy frame of mind simply
because of applause from the ignorant! Why do you take pleasure in being
praised by men whom you yourself cannot praise? Fabianus used to give popular
talks, but his audience listened with self-control. Occasionally a loud shout of
praise would burst forth, but it was prompted by the greatness of his subject, and
not by the sound of oratory that slipped forth pleasantly and softly. There should
be a difference between the applause of the theatre and the applause of the
school; and there is a certain decency even in bestowing praise. If you mark
them carefully, all acts are always significant, and you can gauge character by
even the most trifling signs. The lecherous man is revealed by his gait, by a
movement of the hand, sometimes by a single answer, by his touching his head
with a finger, by the shifting of his eye. The scamp is shown up by his laugh; the
madman by his face and general appearance. These qualities become known by
certain marks; but you can tell the character of every man when you see how he
gives and receives praise. The philosopher's audience, from this corner and that,
stretch forth admiring hands, and sometimes the adoring crowd almost hang over
the lecturer's head. But, if you really understand, that is not praise; it is merely
applause. These outcries should be left for the arts which aim to please the
crowd; let philosophy be worshipped in silence. Young men, indeed, must
sometimes have free play to follow their impulses, but it should only be at times
when they act from impulse, and when they cannot force themselves to be silent.
Such praise as that gives a certain kind of encouragement to the hearers
themselves, and acts as a spur to the youthful mind. But let them be roused to the
matter, and not to the style; otherwise, eloquence does them harm, making them
enamoured of itself, and not of the subject.
I shall postpone this topic for the present; it demands a long and special
investigation, to show how the public should be addressed, what indulgences
should be allowed to a speaker on a public occasion, and what should be allowed
to the crowd itself in the presence of the speaker. There can be no doubt that
philosophy has suffered a loss, now that she has exposed her charms for sale.
But she can still be viewed in her sanctuary, if her exhibitor is a priest and not a
pedlar. Farewell.
Letter LIII - On the Faults of the Spirit
You can persuade me into almost anything now, for I was recently persuaded
to travel by water. We cast off when the sea was lazily smooth; the sky, to be
sure, was heavy with nasty clouds, such as usually break into rain or squalls.
Still, I thought that the few miles between Puteoli and your dear Parthenope
might be run off in quick time, despite the uncertain and lowering sky. So, in
order to get away more quickly, I made straight out to sea for Nesis, with the
purpose of cutting across all the inlets. But when we were so far out that it made
little difference to me whether I returned or kept on, the calm weather, which
had enticed me, came to naught. The storm had not yet begun, but the groundswell was on, and the waves kept steadily coming faster. I began to ask the pilot
to put me ashore somewhere; he replied that the coast was rough and a bad place
to land, and that in a storm he feared a lee shore more than anything else. But I
was suffering too grievously to think of the danger, since a sluggish seasickness
which brought no relief was racking me, the sort that upsets the liver without
clearing it. Therefore I laid down the law to my pilot, forcing him to make for
the shore, willy-nilly. When we drew near, I did not wait for things to be done in
accordance with Vergil's orders, until
Prow faced seawards
or
Anchor plunged from bow
I remembered my profession as a veteran devotee of cold water, and, clad as I
was in my cloak, let myself down into the sea, just as a cold-water bather should.
What do you think my feelings were, scrambling over the rocks, searching out
the path, or making one for myself? l understood that sailors have good reason to
fear the land. It is hard to believe what I endured when I could not endure
myself; you may be sure that the reason why Ulysses was shipwrecked on every
possible occasion was not so much because the sea-god was angry with him
from his birth; he was simply subject to seasickness. And in the future I also, if I
must go anywhere by sea, shall only reach my destination in the twentieth year.
When I finally calmed my stomach (for you know that one does not escape
seasickness by escaping from the sea) and refreshed my body with a rubdown, I
began to reflect how completely we forget or ignore our failings, even those that
affect the body, which are continually reminding us of their existence, – not to
mention those which are more serious in proportion as they are more hidden. A
slight ague deceives us; but when it has increased and a genuine fever has begun
to burn, it forces even a hardy man, who can endure much suffering, to admit
that he is ill. There is pain in the foot, and a tingling sensation in the joints; but
we still hide the complaint and announce that we have sprained a joint, or else
are tired from over-exercise. Then the ailment, uncertain at first, must be given a
name; and when it begins to swell the ankles also, and has made both our feet
"right" feet, we are bound to confess that we have the gout. The opposite holds
true of diseases of the soul; the worse one is, the less one perceives it. You need
not be surprised, my beloved Lucilius. For he whose sleep is light pursues
visions during slumber, and sometimes, though asleep, is conscious that he is
asleep; but sound slumber annihilates our very dreams and sinks the spirit down
so deep that it has no perception of self. Why will no man confess his faults?
Because he is still in their grasp; only he who is awake can recount his dream,
and similarly a confession of sin is a proof of sound mind.
Let us, therefore, rouse ourselves, that we may be able to correct our mistakes.
Philosophy, however, is the only power that can stir us, the only power that can
shake off our deep slumber. Devote yourself wholly to philosophy. You are
worthy of her; she is worthy of you; greet one another with a loving embrace.
Say farewell to all other interests with courage and frankness. Do not study
philosophy merely during your spare time.
If you were ill, you would stop caring for your personal concerns, and forget
your business duties; you would not think highly enough of any client to take
active charge of his case during a slight abatement of your sufferings. You
would try your hardest to be rid of the illness as soon as possible. What, then?
Shall you not do the same thing now? Throw aside all hindrances and give up
your time to getting a sound mind; for no man can attain it if he is engrossed in
other matters. Philosophy wields her own authority; she appoints her own time
and does not allow it to be appointed for her. She is not a thing to be followed at
odd times, but a subject for daily practice; she is mistress, and she commands
our attendance. Alexander, when a certain state promised him a part of its
territory and half its entire property, replied: "I invaded Asia with the intention,
not of accepting what you might give, but of allowing you to keep what I might
leave." Philosophy likewise keeps saying to all occupations: "I do not intend to
accept the time which you have left over, but I shall allow you to keep what I
myself shall leave."
Turn to her, therefore, with all your soul, sit at her feet, cherish her; a great
distance will then begin to separate you from other men. You will be far ahead
of all mortals, and even the gods will not be far ahead of you. Do you ask what
will be the difference between yourself and the gods? They will live longer. But,
by my faith, it is the sign of a great artist to have confined a full likeness to the
limits of a miniature. The wise man's life spreads out to him over as large a
surface as does all eternity to a god. There is one point in which the sage has an
advantage over the god; for a god is freed from terrors by the bounty of nature,
the wise man by his own bounty. What a wonderful privilege, to have the
weaknesses of a man and the serenity of a god! The power of philosophy to
blunt the blows of chance is beyond belief. No missile can settle in her body; she
is well-protected and impenetrable. She spoils the force of some missiles and
wards them off with the loose folds of her gown, as if they had no power to
harm; others she dashes aside, and hurls them back with such force that they
recoil upon the sender. Farewell.
Letter LIV - On Asthma and Death
My ill-health had allowed me a long furlough, when suddenly it resumed the
attack. "What kind of ill-health?" you say. And you surely have a right to ask;
for it is true that no kind is unknown to me. But I have been consigned, so to
speak, to one special ailment. I do not know why I should call it by its Greek
name; for it is well enough described as "shortness of breath." Its attack is of
very brief duration, like that of a squall at sea; it usually ends within an hour.
Who indeed could breathe his last for long? I have passed through all the ills and
dangers of the flesh; but nothing seems to me more troublesome than this. And
naturally so; for anything else may be called illness; but this is a sort of
continued "last gasp." Hence physicians call it "practising how to die." For some
day the breath will succeed in doing what it has so often essayed. Do you think I
am writing this letter in a merry spirit, just because I have escaped? It would be
absurd to take delight in such supposed restoration to health, as it would be for a
defendant to imagine that he had won his case when he had succeeded in
postponing his trial. Yet in the midst of my difficult breathing I never ceased to
rest secure in cheerful and brave thoughts.
"What?" I say to myself; "does death so often test me? Let it do so; I myself
have for a long time tested death." "When?" you ask. Before I was born. Death is
non-existence, and I know already what that means. What was before me will
happen again after me. If there is any suffering in this state, there must have
been such suffering also in the past, before we entered the light of day. As a
matter of fact, however, we felt no discomfort then. And I ask you, would you
not say that one was the greatest of fools who believed that a lamp was worse off
when it was extinguished than before it was lighted? We mortals also are lighted
and extinguished; the period of suffering comes in between, but on either side
there is a deep peace. For, unless I am very much mistaken, my dear Lucilius,
we go astray in thinking that death only follows, when in reality it has both
preceded us and will in turn follow us. Whatever condition existed before our
birth, is death. For what does it matter whether you do not begin at all, or
whether you leave off, inasmuch as the result of both these states is nonexistence?
I have never ceased to encourage myself with cheering counsels of this kind,
silently, of course, since I had not the power to speak; then little by little this
shortness of breath, already reduced to a sort of panting, came on at greater
intervals, and then slowed down and finally stopped. Even by this time, although
the gasping has ceased, the breath does not come and go normally; I still feel a
sort of hesitation and delay in breathing. Let it be as it pleases, provided there be
no sigh from the soul. Accept this assurance from me – I shall never be
frightened when the last hour comes; I am already prepared and do not plan a
whole day ahead. But do you praise and imitate the man whom it does not irk to
die, though he takes pleasure in living. For what virtue is there in going away
when you are thrust out? And yet there is virtue even in this: I am indeed thrust
out, but it is as if I were going away willingly. For that reason the wise man can
never be thrust out, because that would mean removal from a place which he
was unwilling to leave; and the wise man does nothing unwillingly. He escapes
necessity, because he wills to do what necessity is about to force upon him.
Farewell.
Letter LV - On Vatia's Villa
I have just returned from a ride in my litter; and I am as weary as if I had
walked the distance, instead of being seated. Even to be carried for any length of
time is hard work, perhaps all the more so because it is an unnatural exercise; for
Nature gave us legs with which to do our own walking, and eyes with which to
do our own seeing. Our luxuries have condemned us to weakness; we have
ceased to be able to do that which we have long declined to do. Nevertheless, I
found it necessary to give my body a shaking up, in order that the bile which had
gathered in my throat, if that was my trouble, might be shaken out, or, if the very
breath within me had become, for some reason, too thick, that the jolting, which
I have felt was a good thing for me, might make it thinner. So I insisted on being
carried longer than usual, along an attractive beach, which bends between
Cumae and Servilius Vatia's country-house, shut in by the sea on one side and
the lake on the other, just like a narrow path. It was packed firm under foot,
because of a recent storm; since, as you know, the waves, when they beat upon
the beach hard and fast, level it out; but a continuous period of fair weather
loosens it, when the sand, which is kept firm by the water, loses its moisture.
As my habit is, I began to look about for something there that might be of
service to me, when my eyes fell upon the villa which had once belonged to
Vatia. So this was the place where that famous praetorian millionaire passed his
old age! He was famed for nothing else than his life of leisure, and he was
regarded as lucky only for that reason. For whenever men were ruined by their
friendship with Asinius Gallus whenever others were ruined by their hatred of
Sejanus, and later by their intimacy with him, – for it was no more dangerous to
have offended him than to have loved him, – people used to cry out: "O Vatia,
you alone know how to live!" But what he knew was how to hide, not how to
live; and it makes a great deal of difference whether your life be one of leisure or
one of idleness. So I never drove past his country-place during Vatia's lifetime
without saying to myself: "Here lies Vatia!"
But, my dear Lucilius, philosophy is a thing of holiness, something to be
worshipped, so much so that the very counterfeit pleases. For the mass of
mankind consider that a person is at leisure who has withdrawn from society, is
free from care, self-sufficient, and lives for himself; but these privileges can be
the reward only of the wise man. Does he who is a victim of anxiety know how
to live for himself? What? Does he even know (and that is of first importance)
how to live at all? For the man who has fled from affairs and from men, who has
been banished to seclusion by the unhappiness which his own desires have
brought upon him, who cannot see his neighbour more happy than himself, who
through fear has taken to concealment, like a frightened and sluggish animal. –
this person is not living for himself he is living for his belly, his sleep, and his
lust, – and that is the most shameful thing in the world. He who lives for no one
does not necessarily live for himself. Nevertheless, there is so much in
steadfastness and adherence to one's purpose that even sluggishness, if
stubbornly maintained, assumes an air of authority with us.
I could not describe the villa accurately; for I am familiar only with the front
of the house, and with the parts which are in public view and can be seen by the
mere passer-by. There are two grottoes, which cost a great deal of labour, as big
as the most spacious hall, made by hand. One of these does not admit the rays of
the sun, while the other keeps them until the sun sets. There is also a stream
running through a grove of plane-trees, which draws for its supply both on the
sea and on Lake Acheron; it intersects the grove just like a race-way and is large
enough to support fish, although its waters are continually being drawn off.
When the sea is calm, however, they do not use the stream, only touching the
well-stocked waters when the storms give the fishermen a forced holiday. But
the most convenient thing about the villa is the fact that Baiae is next door, it is
free from all the inconveniences of that resort, and yet enjoys its pleasures. I
myself understand these attractions, and I believe that it is a villa suited to every
season of the year. It fronts the west wind, which it intercepts in such a way that
Baiae is denied it. So it seems that Vatia was no fool when he selected this place
as the best in which to spend his leisure when it was already unfruitful and
decrepit.
The place where one lives, however, can contribute little towards tranquillity;
it is the mind which must make everything agreeable to itself. I have seen men
despondent in a gay and lovely villa, and I have seen them to all appearance full
of business in the midst of a solitude. For this reason you should not refuse to
believe that your life is well-placed merely because you are not now in
Campania. But why are you not there? Just let your thoughts travel, even to this
place. You may hold converse with your friends when they are absent, and
indeed as often as you wish and for as long as you wish. For we enjoy this, the
greatest of pleasures, all the more when we are absent from one another. For the
presence of friends makes us fastidious; and because we can at any time talk or
sit together, when once we have parted we give not a thought to those whom we
have just beheld. And we ought to bear the absence of friends cheerfully, just
because everyone is bound to be often absent from his friends even when they
are present. Include among such cases, in the first place, the nights spent apart,
then the different engagements which each of two friends has, then the private
studies of each and their excursions into the country, and you will see that
foreign travel does not rob us of much. A friend should be retained in the spirit;
such a friend can never be absent. He can see every day whomsoever he desires
to see.
I would therefore have you share your studies with me, your meals, and your
walks. We should be living within too narrow limits if anything were barred to
our thoughts. I see you, my dear Lucilius, and at this very moment I hear you; I
am with you to such an extent that I hesitate whether I should not begin to write
you notes instead of letters. Farewell.
Letter LVI - On Quiet and Study
Beshrew me if I think anything more requisite than silence for a man who
secludes himself in order to study! Imagine what a variety of noises reverberates
about my ears! I have lodgings right over a bathing establishment. So picture to
yourself the assortment of sounds, which are strong enough to make me hate my
very powers of hearing! When your strenuous gentleman, for example, is
exercising himself by flourishing leaden weights; when he is working hard, or
else pretends to be working hard, I can hear him grunt; and whenever he releases
his imprisoned breath, I can hear him panting in wheezy and high-pitched tones.
Or perhaps I notice some lazy fellow, content with a cheap rubdown, and hear
the crack of the pummelling hand on his shoulder, varying in sound according as
the hand is laid on flat or hollow. Then, perhaps, a professional comes along,
shouting out the score; that is the finishing touch. Add to this the arresting of an
occasional roisterer or pickpocket, the racket of the man who always likes to
hear his own voice in the bathroom, or the enthusiast who plunges into the
swimming-tank with unconscionable noise and splashing. Besides all those
whose voices, if nothing else, are good, imagine the hair-plucker with his
penetrating, shrill voice, – for purposes of advertisement, – continually giving it
vent and never holding his tongue except when he is plucking the armpits and
making his victim yell instead. Then the cakeseller with his varied cries, the
sausageman, the confectioner, and all the vendors of food hawking their wares,
each with his own distinctive intonation.
So you say: "What iron nerves or deadened ears, you must have, if your mind
can hold out amid so many noises, so various and so discordant, when our friend
Chrysippus is brought to his death by the continual good-morrows that greet
him!" But I assure you that this racket means no more to me than the sound of
waves or falling water; although you will remind me that a certain tribe once
moved their city merely because they could not endure the din of a Nile cataract.
Words seem to distract me more than noises; for words demand attention, but
noises merely fill the ears and beat upon them. Among the sounds that din round
me without distracting, I include passing carriages, a machinist in the same
block, a saw-sharpener near by, or some fellow who is demonstrating with little
pipes and flutes at the Trickling Fountain, shouting rather than singing.
Furthermore, an intermittent noise upsets me more than a steady one. But by
this time I have toughened my nerves against all that sort of thing, so that I can
endure even a boatswain marking the time in high-pitched tones for his crew.
For I force my mind to concentrate, and keep it from straying to things outside
itself; all outdoors may be bedlam, provided that there is no disturbance within,
provided that fear is not wrangling with desire in my breast, provided that
meanness and lavishness are not at odds, one harassing the other. For of what
benefit is a quiet neighbourhood, if our emotions are in an uproar?
'Twas night, and all the world was lulled to rest.
This is not true; for no real rest can be found when reason has not done the
lulling. Night brings our troubles to the light, rather than banishes them; it
merely changes the form of our worries. For even when we seek slumber, our
sleepless moments are as harassing as the daytime. Real tranquillity is the state
reached by an unperverted mind when it is relaxed. Think of the unfortunate man
who courts sleep by surrendering his spacious mansion to silence, who, that his
ear may be disturbed by no sound, bids the whole retinue of his slaves be quiet
and that whoever approaches him shall walk on tiptoe; he tosses from this side to
that and seeks a fitful slumber amid his frettings! He complains that he has heard
sounds, when he has not heard them at all. The reason, you ask? His soul's in an
uproar; it must be soothed, and its rebellious murmuring checked. You need not
suppose that the soul is at peace when the body is still. Sometimes quiet means
disquiet.
We must therefore rouse ourselves to action and busy ourselves with interests
that are good, as often as we are in the grasp of an uncontrollable sluggishness.
Great generals, when they see that their men are mutinous, check them by some
sort of labour or keep them busy with small forays. The much occupied man has
no time for wantonness, and it is an obvious commonplace that the evils of
leisure can be shaken off by hard work. Although people may often have thought
that I sought seclusion because I was disgusted with politics and regretted my
hapless and thankless position, yet, in the retreat to which apprehension and
weariness have driven me, my ambition sometimes develops afresh. For it is not
because my ambition was rooted out that it has abated, but because it was
wearied or perhaps even put out of temper by the failure of its plans. And so
with luxury, also, which sometimes seems to have departed, and then when we
have made a profession of frugality, begins to fret us and, amid our economies,
seeks the pleasures which we have merely left but not condemned. Indeed, the
more stealthily it comes, the greater is its force. For all unconcealed vices are
less serious; a disease also is farther on the road to being cured when it breaks
forth from concealment and manifests its power. So with greed, ambition, and
the other evils of the mind, – you may be sure that they do most harm when they
are hidden behind a pretence of soundness.
Men think that we are in retirement, and yet we are not. For if we have
sincerely retired, and have sounded the signal for retreat, and have scorned
outward attractions, then, as I remarked above, no outward thing will distract us;
no music of men or of birds can interrupt good thoughts, when they have once
become steadfast and sure. The mind which starts at words or at chance sounds
is unstable and has not yet withdrawn into itself; it contains within itself an
element of anxiety and rooted fear, and this makes one a prey to care, as our
Vergil says:
I, whom of yore no dart could cause to flee,
Nor Greeks, with crowded lines of infantry.
Now shake at every sound, and fear the air,
Both for my child and for the load I bear.
This man in his first state is wise; he blenches neither at the brandished spear,
nor at the clashing armour of the serried foe, nor at the din of the stricken city.
This man in his second state lacks knowledge fearing for his own concerns, he
pales at every sound; any cry is taken for the battle-shout and overthrows him;
the slightest disturbance renders him breathless with fear. It is the load that
makes him afraid. Select anyone you please from among your favourites of
Fortune, trailing their many responsibilities, carrying their many burdens, and
you will behold a picture of Vergil's hero, "fearing both for his child and for the
load he bears."
You may therefore be sure that you are at peace with yourself, when no noise
readies you, when no word shakes you out of yourself, whether it be of flattery
or of threat, or merely an empty sound buzzing about you with unmeaning din.
"What then?" you say, "is it not sometimes a simpler matter just to avoid the
uproar?" I admit this. Accordingly, I shall change from my present quarters. I
merely wished to test myself and to give myself practice. Why need I be
tormented any longer, when Ulysses found so simple a cure for his comrades
even against the songs of the Sirens? Farewell.
Letter LVII - On the Trials of Travel
When it was time for me to return to Naples from Baiae, I easily persuaded
myself that a storm was raging, that I might avoid another trip by sea; and yet
the road was so deep in mud, all the way, that I may be thought none the less to
have made a voyage. On that day I had to endure the full fate of an athlete; the
anointing with which we began was followed by the sand-sprinkle in the Naples
tunnel. No place could be longer than that prison; nothing could be dimmer than
those torches, which enabled us, not to see amid the darkness, but to see the
darkness. But, even supposing that there was light in the place, the dust, which is
an oppressive and disagreeable thing even in the open air, would destroy the
light; how much worse the dust is there, where it rolls back upon itself, and,
being shut in without ventilation, blows back in the faces of those who set it
going! So we endured two inconveniences at the same time, and they were
diametrically different: we struggled both with mud and with dust on the same
road and on the same day.
The gloom, however, furnished me with some food for thought; I felt a certain
mental thrill, and a transformation unaccompanied by fear, due to the novelty
and the unpleasantness of an unusual occurrence. Of course I am not speaking to
you of myself at this point, because I am far from being a perfect person, or even
a man of middling qualities; I refer to one over whom fortune has lost her
control. Even such a man's mind will be smitten with a thrill and he will change
colour. For there are certain emotions, my dear Lucilius, which no courage can
avoid; nature reminds courage how perishable a thing it is. And so he will
contract his brow when the prospect is forbidding, will shudder at sudden
apparitions, and will become dizzy when he stands at the edge of a high
precipice and looks down. This is not fear; it is a natural feeling which reason
cannot rout. That is why certain brave men, most willing to shed their own
blood, cannot bear to see the blood of others. Some persons collapse and faint at
the sight of a freshly inflicted wound; others are affected similarly on handling
or viewing an old wound which is festering. And others meet the sword-stroke
more readily than they see it dealt.
Accordingly, as I said, I experienced a certain transformation, though it could
not be called confusion. Then at the first glimpse of restored daylight my good
spirits returned without forethought or command. And I began to muse and think
how foolish we are to fear certain objects to a greater or less degree, since all of
them end in the same way. For what difference does it make whether a
watchtower or a mountain crashes down upon us? No difference at all, you will
find. Nevertheless, there will be some men who fear the latter mishap to a
greater degree, though both accidents are equally deadly; so true it is that fear
looks not to the effect, but to the cause of the effect. Do you suppose that I am
now referring to the Stoics, who hold that the soul of a man crushed by a great
weight cannot abide, and is scattered forthwith, because it has not had a free
opportunity to depart? That is not what I am doing; those who think thus are, in
my opinion, wrong. Just as fire cannot be crushed out, since it will escape round
the edges of the body which overwhelms it; just as the air cannot be damaged by
lashes and blows, or even cut into, but flows back about the object to which it
gives place; similarly the soul, which consists of the subtlest particles, cannot be
arrested or destroyed inside the body, but, by virtue of its delicate substance, it
will rather escape through the very object by which it is being crushed. Just as
lightning, no matter how widely it strikes and flashes, makes its return through a
narrow opening, so the soul, which is still subtler than fire, has a way of escape
through any part of the body. We therefore come to this question, – whether the
soul can be immortal. But be sure of this: if the soul survives the body after the
body is crushed, the soul can in no wise be crushed out, precisely because it does
not perish; for the rule of immortality never admits of exceptions, and nothing
can harm that which is everlasting. Farewell.
Letter LVIII - On Being
How scant of words our language is, nay, how poverty-stricken, I have not
fully understood until to-day. We happened to be speaking of Plato, and a
thousand subjects came up for discussion, which needed names and yet
possessed none; and there were certain others which once possessed, but have
since lost, their words because we were too nice about their use. But who can
endure to be nice in the midst of poverty? There is an insect, called by the
Greeks oestrus, which drives cattle wild and scatters them all over their
pasturing grounds; it used to be called asilus in our language, as you may believe
on the authority of Vergil:Near Silarus groves, and eke Alburnus' shades
Of green-clad oak-trees flits an insect, named
Asilus by the Romans; in the Greek
The word is rendered oestrus. With a rough
And strident sound it buzzes and drives wild
The terror-stricken herds throughout the woods.
By which I infer that the word has gone out of use. And, not to keep you
waiting too long, there were certain uncompounded words current, like cernere
ferro inter se, as will be proved again by Vergil:Great heroes, born in various lands, had come
To settle matters mutually with the sword.
This "settling matters" we now express by decernere. The plain word has
become obsolete. The ancients used to say iusso, instead of iussero, in
conditional clauses. You need not take my word, but you may turn again to
Vergil:The other soldiers shall conduct the fight
With me, where I shall bid.
It is not in my purpose to show, by this array of examples, how much time I
have wasted on the study of language; I merely wish you to understand how
many words, that were current in the works of Ennius and Accius, have become
mouldy with age; while even in the case of Vergil, whose works are explored
daily, some of his words have been filched away from us.
You will say, I suppose: "What is the purpose and meaning of this preamble?"
I shall not keep you in the dark; I desire, if possible, to say the word essentia to
you and obtain a favourable hearing. If I cannot do this, I shall risk it even
though it put you out of humour. I have Cicero, as authority for the use of this
word, and I regard him as a powerful authority. If you desire testimony of a later
date, I shall cite Fabianus, careful of speech, cultivated, and so polished in style
that he will suit even our nice tastes. For what can we do, my dear Lucilius?
How otherwise can we find a word for that which the Greeks call οὐσία,
something that is indispensable, something that is the natural substratum of
everything? I beg you accordingly to allow me to use this word essentia. I shall
nevertheless take pains to exercise the privilege, which you have granted me,
with as sparing a hand as possible; perhaps I shall be content with the mere right.
Yet what good will your indulgence do me, if, lo and behold, I can in no wise
express in Latin the meaning of the word which gave me the opportunity to rail
at the poverty of our language? And you will condemn our narrow Roman limits
even more, when you find out that there is a word of one syllable which I cannot
translate. "What is this?" you ask. It is the word ὄν. You think me lacking in
facility; you believe that the word is ready to hand, that it might be translated by
quod est. I notice, however, a great difference; you are forcing me to render a
noun by a verb. But if I must do so, I shall render it by quod est. There are six
ways in which Plato expresses this idea, according to a friend of ours, a man of
great learning, who mentioned the fact to-day. And I shall explain all of them to
you, if I may first point out that there is something called genus and something
called species.
For the present, however, we are seeking the primary idea of genus, on which
the others, the different species, depend, which is the source of all classification,
the term under which universal ideas are embraced. And the idea of genus will
be reached if we begin to reckon back from particulars; for in this way we shall
be conducted back to the primary notion. Now "man" is a species, as Aristotle
says; so is "horse," or "dog." We must therefore discover some common bond
for all these terms, one which embraces them and holds them subordinate to
itself. And what is this? It is "animal." And so there begins to be a genus
"animal," including all these terms, "man," "horse," and "dog." But there are
certain things which have life (anima) and yet are not "animals." For it is agreed
that plants and trees possess life, and that is why we speak of them as living and
dying. Therefore the term "living things" will occupy a still higher place,
because both animals and plants are included in this category. Certain objects,
however, lack life, – such as rocks. There will therefore be another term to take
precedence over "living things," and that is "substance." I shall classify
"substance" by saying that all substances are either animate or inanimate. But
there is still something superior to "substance"; for we speak of certain things as
possessing substance, and certain things as lacking substance. What, then, will
be the term from which these things are derived? It is that to which we lately
gave an inappropriate name, "that which exists." For by using this term they will
be divided into species, so that we can say: that which exists either possesses, or
lacks, substance.
This, therefore, is what genus is, – the primary, original, and (to play upon the
word) "general." Of course there are the other genera: but they are "special"
genera: "man" being, for example, a genus. For "man" comprises species: by
nations, – Greek, Roman, Parthian; by colours, – white, black, yellow. The term
comprises individuals also: Cato, Cicero, Lucretius. So "man" falls into the
category genus, in so far as it includes many kinds; but in so far as it is
subordinate to another term, it falls into the category species. But the genus "that
which exists" is general, and has no term superior to it. It is the first term in the
classification of things, and all things are included under it.
The Stoics would set ahead of this still another genus, even more primary;
concerning which I shall immediately speak, after proving that the genus which
has been discussed above, has rightly been placed first, being, as it is, capable of
including everything. I therefore distribute "that which exists" into these two
species, – things with, and things without, substance. There is no third class. And
how do I distribute "substance"? By saying that it is either animate or inanimate.
And how do I distribute the "animate"? By saying: "Certain things have mind,
while others have only life." Or the idea may be expressed as follows: "Certain
things have the power of movement, of progress, of change of position, while
others are rooted in the ground; they are fed and they grow only through their
roots." Again, into what species do I divide "animals"? They are either
perishable or imperishable. Certain of the Stoics regard the primary genus as the
"something." I shall add the reasons they give for their belief; they say: "in the
order of nature some things exist, and other things do not exist. And even the
things that do not exist are really part of the order of nature. What these are will
readily occur to the mind, for example centaurs, giants, and all other figments of
unsound reasoning, which have begun to have a definite shape, although they
have no bodily consistency."
But I now return to the subject which I promised to discuss for you, namely,
how it is that Plato divides all existing things in six different ways. The first
class of "that which exists" cannot be grasped by the sight or by the touch, or by
any of the senses; but it can be grasped by the thought. Any generic conception,
such as the generic idea "man," does not come within the range of the eyes; but
"man" in particular does; as, for example, Cicero, Cato. The term "animal" is not
seen; it is grasped by thought alone. A particular animal, however, is seen, for
example, a horse, a dog.
The second class of "things which exist," according to Plato, is that which is
prominent and stands out above everything else; this, he says, exists in a preeminent degree. The word "poet" is used indiscriminately, for this term is
applied to all writers of verse; but among the Greeks it has come to be the
distinguishing mark of a single individual. You know that Homer is meant when
you hear men say "the poet." What, then, is this pre-eminent Being? God, surely,
one who is greater and more powerful than anyone else.
The third class is made up of those things which exist in the proper sense of
the term; they are countless in number, but are situated beyond our sight. "What
are these?" you ask. They are Plato's own furniture, so to speak; he calls them
"ideas," and from them all visible things are created, and according to their
pattern all things are fashioned. They are immortal, unchangeable, inviolable.
And this "idea," or rather, Plato's conception of it, is as follows: "The 'idea' is the
everlasting pattern of those things which are created by nature." I shall explain
this definition, in order to set the subject before you in a clearer light: Suppose
that I wish to make a likeness of you; I possess in your own person the pattern of
this picture, wherefrom my mind receives a certain outline, which it is to
embody in its own handiwork. That outward appearance, then, which gives me
instruction and guidance, this pattern for me to imitate, is the "idea." Such
patterns, therefore, nature possesses in infinite number, – of men, fish, trees,
according to whose model everything that nature has to create is worked out.
In the fourth place we shall put "form." And if you would know what "form"
means, you must pay close attention, calling Plato, and not me, to account for the
difficulty of the subject. However, we cannot make fine distinctions without
encountering difficulties. A moment ago I made use of the artist as an
illustration. When the artist desired to reproduce Vergil in colours he would gaze
upon Vergil himself. The "idea" was Vergil's outward appearance, and this was
the pattern of the intended work. That which the artist draws from this "idea" and
has embodied in his own work, is the "form." Do you ask me where the
difference lies? The former is the pattern; while the latter is the shape taken from
the pattern and embodied in the work. Our artist follows the one, but the other he
creates. A statue has a certain external appearance; this external appearance of
the statue is the "form." And the pattern itself has a certain external appearance,
by gazing upon which the sculptor has fashioned his statue; this is the "idea." If
you desire a further distinction, I will say that the "form" is in the artist's work,
the "idea" outside his work, and not only outside it, but prior to it.
The fifth class is made up of the things which exist in the usual sense of the
term. These things are the first that have to do with us; here we have all such
things as men, cattle, and things. In the sixth class goes all that which has a
fictitious existence, like void, or time.
Whatever is concrete to the sight or touch, Plato does not include among the
things which he believes to be existent in the strict sense of the term. These
things are the first that have to do with us: here we have all such things as men,
cattle, and things. For they are in a state of flux, constantly diminishing or
increasing. None of us is the same man in old age that he was in youth; nor the
same on the morrow as on the day preceding. Our bodies are burned along like
flowing waters; every visible object accompanies time in its flight; of the things
which we see, nothing is fixed. Even I myself as I comment on this change, am
changed myself. This is just what Heraclitus says: "We go down twice into the
same river, and yet into a different river." For the stream still keeps the same
name, but the water has already flowed past. Of course this is much more
evident in rivers than in human beings. Still, we mortals are also carried past in
no less speedy a course; and this prompts me to marvel at our madness in
cleaving with great affection to such a fleeting thing as the body, and in fearing
lest some day we may die, when every instant means the death of our previous
condition. Will you not stop fearing lest that may happen once which really
happens every day? So much for man, – a substance that flows away and falls,
exposed to every influence; but the universe, too, immortal and enduring as it is,
changes and never remains the same. For though it has within itself all that it has
had, it has it in a different way from that in which it has had it; it keeps changing
its arrangement.
. "Very well," say you, "what good shall I get from all this fine reasoning?"
None, if you wish me to answer your question. Nevertheless, just as an engraver
rests his eyes when they have long been under a strain and are weary, and calls
them from their work, and "feasts" them, as the saying is; so we at times should
slacken our minds and refresh them with some sort of entertainment. But let
even your entertainment be work; and even from these various forms of
entertainment you will select, if you have been watchful, something that may
prove wholesome. That is my habit, Lucilius: I try to extract and render useful
some element from every field of thought, no matter how far removed it may be
from philosophy. Now what could be less likely to reform character than the
subjects which we have been discussing? And how can I be made a better man
by the "ideas" of Plato? What can I draw from them that will put a check on my
appetites? Perhaps the very thought, that all these things which minister to our
senses, which arouse and excite us, are by Plato denied a place among the things
that really exist. Such things are therefore imaginary, and though they for the
moment present a certain external appearance, yet they are in no case permanent
or substantial; none the less, we crave them as if they were always to exist, or as
if we were always to possess them.
We are weak, watery beings standing in the midst of unrealities; therefore let
us turn our minds to the things that are everlasting. Let us look up to the ideal
outlines of all things, that flit about on high, and to the God who moves among
them and plans how he may defend from death that which he could not make
imperishable because its substance forbade, and so by reason may overcome the
defects of the body. For all things abide, not because they are everlasting, but
because they are protected by the care of him who governs all things; but that
which was imperishable would need no guardian. The Master Builder keeps
them safe, overcoming the weakness of their fabric by his own power. Let us
despise everything that is so little an object of value that it makes us doubt
whether it exists at all. Let us at the same time reflect, seeing that Providence
rescues from its perils the world itself, which is no less mortal than we ourselves,
that to some extent our petty bodies can be made to tarry longer upon earth by
our own providence, if only we acquire the ability to control and check those
pleasures whereby the greater portion of mankind perishes. Plato himself, by
taking pains, advanced to old age. To be sure, he was the fortunate possessor of a
strong and sound body (his very name was given him because of his broad
chest); but his strength was much impaired by sea voyages and desperate
adventures. Nevertheless, by frugal living, by setting a limit upon all that rouses
the appetites, and by painstaking attention to himself, he reached that advanced
age in spite of many hindrances. You know, I am sure, that Plato had the good
fortune, thanks to his careful living, to die on his birthday, after exactly
completing his eighty-first year. For this reason wise men of the East, who
happened to be in Athens at that time, sacrificed to him after his death, believing
that his length of days was too full for a mortal man, since he had rounded out
the perfect number of nine times nine. I do not doubt that he would have been
quite willing to forgo a few days from this total, as well as the sacrifice.
Frugal living can bring one to old age; and to my mind old age is not to be
refused any more than is to be craved. There is a pleasure in being in one's own
company as long as possible, when a man has made himself worth enjoying. The
question, therefore, on which we have to record our judgment is, whether one
should shrink from extreme old age and should hasten the end artificially,
instead of waiting for it to come. A man who sluggishly awaits his fate is almost
a coward, just as he is immoderately given to wine who drains the jar dry and
sucks up even the dregs. But we shall ask this question also: "Is the extremity of
life the dregs, or is it the clearest and purest part of all, provided only that the
mind is unimpaired, and the senses, still sound, give their support to the spirit,
and the body is not worn out and dead before its time?" For it makes a great deal
of difference whether a man is lengthening his life or his death. But if the body
is useless for service, why should one not free the struggling soul? Perhaps one
ought to do this a little before the debt is due, lest, when it falls due, he may be
unable to perform the act. And since the danger of living in wretchedness is
greater than the danger of dying soon, he is a fool who refuses to stake a little
time and win a hazard of great gain.
Few have lasted through extreme old age to death without impairment, and
many have lain inert, making no use of themselves. How much more cruel, then,
do you suppose it really is to have lost a portion of your life, than to have lost
your right to end that life? . Do not hear me with reluctance, as if my statement
applied directly to you, but weigh what I have to say. It is this, that I shall not
abandon old age, if old age preserves me intact for myself, and intact as regards
the better part of myself; but if old age begins to shatter my mind, and to pull its
various faculties to pieces, if it leaves me, not life, but only the breath of life, I
shall rush out of a house that is crumbling and tottering. I shall not avoid illness
by seeking death, as long as the illness is curable and does not impede my soul. I
shall not lay violent hands upon myself just because I am in pain; for death
under such circumstances is defeat. But if I find out that the pain must always be
endured, I shall depart, not because of the pain but because it will be a hindrance
to me as regards all my reasons for living. He who dies just because he is in pain
is a weakling, a coward; but he who lives merely to brave out this pain, is a fool.
But I am running on too long; and, besides, there is matter here to fill a day.
And how can a man end his life, if he cannot end a letter? So farewell. This last
word you will read with greater pleasure than all my deadly talk about death.
Farewell.
Letter LIX - On Pleasure and Joy
I received great pleasure from your letter; kindly allow me to use these words
in their everyday meaning, without insisting upon their Stoic import. For we
Stoics hold that pleasure is a vice. Very likely it is a vice; but we are accustomed
to use the word when we wish to indicate a happy state of mind. I am aware that
if we test words by our formula, even pleasure is a thing of ill repute, and joy
can be attained only by the wise. For "joy" is an elation of spirit, of a spirit
which trusts in the goodness and truth of its own possessions. The common
usage, however, is that we derive great "joy" from a friend's position as consul,
or from his marriage, or from the birth of his child; but these events, so far from
being matters of joy, are more often the beginnings of sorrow to come. No, it is a
characteristic of real joy that it never ceases, and never changes into its opposite.
Accordingly, when our Vergil speaks of
The evil joys of the mind,
his words are eloquent, but not strictly appropriate. For no "joy" can be evil.
He has given the name "joy" to pleasures, and has thus expressed his meaning.
For he has conveyed the idea that men take delight in their own evil.
Nevertheless, I was not wrong in saying that I received great "pleasure" from
your letter; for although an ignorant man may derive "joy" if the cause be an
honourable one, yet, since his emotion is wayward, and is likely soon to take
another direction, I call it "pleasure"; for it is inspired by an opinion concerning
a spurious good; it exceeds control and is carried to excess.
But, to return to the subject, let me tell you what delighted me in your letter.
You have your words under control. You are not carried away by your language,
or borne beyond the limits which you have determined upon. Many writers are
tempted by the charm of some alluring phrase to some topic other than that
which they had set themselves to discuss. But this has not been so in your case;
all your words are compact, and suited to the subject, You say all that you wish,
and you mean still more than you say. This is a proof of the importance of your
subject matter, showing that your mind, as well as your words, contains nothing
superfluous or bombastic.
I do, however, find some metaphors, not, indeed, daring ones, but the kind
which have stood the test of use. I find similes also; of course, if anyone forbids
us to use them, maintaining that poets alone have that privilege, he has not,
apparently, read any of our ancient prose writers, who had not yet learned to
affect a style that should win applause. For those writers, whose eloquence was
simple and directed only towards proving their case, are full of comparisons; and
I think that these are necessary, not for the same reason which makes them
necessary for the poets, but in order that they may serve as props to our
feebleness, to bring both speaker and listener face to face with the subject under
discussion. For example, I am at this very moment reading Sextius; he is a keen
man, and a philosopher who, though he writes in Greek, has the Roman standard
of ethics. One of his similes appealed especially to me, that of an army marching
in hollow square, in a place where the enemy might be expected to appear from
any quarter, ready for battle. "This," said he, "is just what the wise man ought to
do; he should have all his fighting qualities deployed on every side, so that
wherever the attack threatens, there his supports may be ready to hand and may
obey the captain's command without confusion." This is what we notice in
armies which serve under great leaders; we see how all the troops
simultaneously understand their general's orders, since they are so arranged that
a signal given by one man passes down the ranks of cavalry and infantry at the
same moment. This, he declares, is still more necessary for men like ourselves;
for soldiers have often feared an enemy without reason, and the march which
they thought most dangerous has in fact been most secure; but folly brings no
repose, fear haunts it both in the van and in the rear of the column, and both
flanks are in a panic. Folly is pursued, and confronted, by peril. It blenches at
everything; it is unprepared; it is frightened even by auxiliary troops. But the
wise man is fortified against all inroads; he is alert; he will not retreat before the
attack of poverty, or of sorrow, or of disgrace, or of pain. He will walk
undaunted both against them and among them.
We human beings are fettered and weakened by many vices; we have
wallowed in them for a long time and it is hard for us to be cleansed. We are not
merely defiled; we are dyed by them. But, to refrain from passing from one
figure to another, I will raise this question, which I often consider in my own
heart: why is it that folly holds us with such an insistent grasp? It is, primarily,
because we do not combat it strongly enough, because we do not struggle
towards salvation with all our might; secondly, because we do not put sufficient
trust in the discoveries of the wise, and do not drink in their words with open
hearts; we approach this great problem in too trifling a spirit. But how can a man
learn, in the struggle against his vices, an amount that is enough, if the time
which he gives to learning is only the amount left over from his vices? None of
us goes deep below the surface. We skim the top only, and we regard the
smattering of time spent in the search for wisdom as enough and to spare for a
busy man. What hinders us most of all is that we are too readily satisfied with
ourselves; if we meet with someone who calls us good men, or sensible men, or
holy men, we see ourselves in his description, not content with praise in
moderation, we accept everything that shameless flattery heaps upon us, as if it
were our due. We agree with those who declare us to be the best and wisest of
men, although we know that they are given to much lying. And we are so selfcomplacent that we desire praise for certain actions when we are especially
addicted to the very opposite. Yonder person hears himself called "most gentle"
when he is inflicting tortures, or "most generous" when he is engaged in looting,
or "most temperate" when he is in the midst of drunkenness and lust. Thus it
follows that we are unwilling to be reformed, just because we believe ourselves
to be the best of men.
Alexander was roaming as far as India, ravaging tribes that were but little
known, even to their neighbours. During the blockade of a certain city, while he
was reconnoitring the walls and hunting for the weakest spot in the fortifications,
he was wounded by an arrow. Nevertheless, he long continued the siege, intent
on finishing what he had begun. The pain of his wound, however, as the surface
became dry and as the flow of blood was checked, increased; his leg gradually
became numb as he sat his horse; and finally, when he was forced to withdraw,
he exclaimed: "All men swear that I am the son of Jupiter, but this wound cries
out that I am mortal." Let us also act in the same way. Each man, according to
his lot in life, is stultified by flattery. We should say to him who flatters us: "You
call me a man of sense, but I understand how many of the things which I crave
are useless, and how many of the things which I desire will do me harm. I have
not even the knowledge, which satiety teaches to animals, of what should be the
measure of my food or my drink. I do not yet know how much I can hold."
I shall now show you how you may know that you are not wise. The wise man
is joyful, happy and calm, unshaken, he lives on a plane with the gods. Now go,
question yourself; if you are never downcast, if your mind is not harassed by my
apprehension, through anticipation of what is to come, if day and night your soul
keeps on its even and unswerving course, upright and content with itself, then
you have attained to the greatest good that mortals can possess. If, however, you
seek pleasures of all kinds in all directions, you must know that you are as far
short of wisdom as you are short of joy. Joy is the goal which you desire to
reach, but you are wandering from the path, if you expect to reach your goal
while you are in the midst of riches and official titles, – in other words, if you
seek joy in the midst of cares, these objects for which you strive so eagerly, as if
they would give you happiness and pleasure, are merely causes of grief.
All men of this stamp, I maintain, are pressing on in pursuit of joy, but they do
not know where they may obtain a joy that is both great and enduring. One
person seeks it in feasting and self-indulgence; another, in canvassing for
honours and in being surrounded by a throng of clients; another, in his mistress;
another, in idle display of culture and in literature that has no power to heal; all
these men are led astray by delights which are deceptive and short-lived – like
drunkenness for example, which pays for a single hour of hilarious madness by a
sickness of many days, or like applause and the popularity of enthusiastic
approval which are gained, and atoned for, at the cost of great mental
disquietude.
Reflect, therefore, on this, that the effect of wisdom is a joy that is unbroken
and continuous. The mind of the wise man is like the ultra-lunar firmament;
eternal calm pervades that region. You have, then, a reason for wishing to be
wise, if the wise man is never deprived of joy. This joy springs only from the
knowledge that you possess the virtues. None but the brave, the just, the selfrestrained, can rejoice. And when you query: "What do you mean? Do not the
foolish and the wicked also rejoice?" I reply, no more than lions who have
caught their prey. When men have wearied themselves with wine and lust, when
night fails them before their debauch is done, when the pleasures which they
have heaped upon a body that is too small to hold them begin to fester, at such
times they utter in their wretchedness those lines of Vergil:
Thou knowest how, amid false-glittering joys.
We spent that last of nights.
Pleasure-lovers spend every night amid false-glittering joys, and just as if it
were their last. But the joy which comes to the gods, and to those who imitate
the gods, is not broken off, nor does it cease; but it would surely cease were it
borrowed from without. Just because it is not in the power of another to bestow,
neither is it subject to another's whims. That which Fortune has not given, she
cannot take away. Farewell.
Letter LX - On Harmful Prayers
I file a complaint, I enter a suit, I am angry. Do you still desire what your
nurse, your guardian, or your mother, have prayed for in your behalf? Do you
not yet understand what evil they prayed for? Alas, how hostile to us are the
wishes of our own folk! And they are all the more hostile in proportion as they
are more completely fulfilled. It is no surprise to me, at my age, that nothing but
evil attends us from our early youth; for we have grown up amid the curses
invoked by our parents. And may the gods give ear to our cry also, uttered in our
own behalf, – one which asks no favours!
How long shall we go on making demands upon the gods, as if we were still
unable to support ourselves? How long shall we continue to fill with grain the
market-places of our great cities? How long must the people gather it in for us?
How long shall many ships convey the requisites for a single meal, bringing
them from no single sea? The bull is filled when he feeds over a few acres; and
one forest is large enough for a herd of elephants. Man, however, draws
sustenance both from the earth and from the sea. What, then? Did nature give us
bellies so insatiable, when she gave us these puny bodies, that we should outdo
the hugest and most voracious animals in greed? Not at all. How small is the
amount which will satisfy nature? A very little will send her away contented. It
is not the natural hunger of our bellies that costs us dear, but our solicitous
cravings. Therefore those who, as Sallust puts it, "hearken to their bellies,"
should be numbered among the animals, and not among men; and certain men,
indeed, should be numbered, not even among the animals, but among the dead.
He really lives who is made use of by many; he really lives who makes use of
himself. Those men, however, who creep into a hole and grow torpid are no
better off in their homes than if they were in their tombs. Right there on the
marble lintel of the house of such a man you may inscribe his name, for he has
died before he is dead. Farewell.
Letter LXI - On Meeting Death Cheerfully
Let us cease to desire that which we have been desiring. I, at least, am doing
this: in my old age I have ceased to desire what I desired when a boy. To this
single end my days and my nights are passed; this is my task, this the object of
my thoughts, – to put an end to my chronic ills. I am endeavouring to live every
day as if it were a complete life. I do not indeed snatch it up as if it were my last;
I do regard it, however, as if it might even be my last. The present letter is
written to you with this in mind as if death were about to call me away in the
very act of writing. I am ready to depart, and I shall enjoy life just because I am
not over-anxious as to the future date of my departure.
Before I became old I tried to live well; now that I am old, I shall try to die
well; but dying well means dying gladly. See to it that you never do anything
unwillingly. That which is bound to be a necessity if you rebel, is not a
necessity if you desire it. This is what I mean: he who takes his orders gladly,
escapes the bitterest part of slavery, – doing what one does not want to do. The
man who does something under orders is not unhappy; he is unhappy who does
something against his will. Let us therefore so set our minds in order that we
may desire whatever is demanded of us by circumstances, and above all that we
may reflect upon our end without sadness. We must make ready for death before
we make ready for life. Life is well enough furnished, but we are too greedy
with regard to its furnishings; something always seems to us lacking, and will
always seem lacking. To have lived long enough depends neither upon our years
nor upon our days, but upon our minds. I have lived, my dear friend Lucilius,
long enough. I have had my fill; I await death. Farewell.
Letter LXII - On Good Company
We are deceived by those who would have us believe that a multitude of
affairs blocks their pursuit of liberal studies; they make a pretence of their
engagements, and multiply them, when their engagements are merely with
themselves. As for me, Lucilius, my time is free; it is indeed free, and wherever I
am, I am master of myself. For I do not surrender myself to my affairs, but loan
myself to them, and I do not hunt out excuses for wasting my time. And
wherever I am situated, I carry on my own meditations and ponder in my mind
some wholesome thought. When I give myself to my friends, I do not withdraw
from my own company, nor do I linger with those who are associated with me
through some special occasion or some case which arises from my official
position. But I spend my time in the company of all the best; no matter in what
lands they may have lived, or in what age, I let my thoughts fly to them.
Demetrius, for instance, the best of men, I take about with me, and, leaving the
wearers of purple and fine linen, I talk with him, half-naked as he is, and hold
him in high esteem. Why should I not hold him in high esteem? I have found
that he lacks nothing. It is in the power of any man to despise all things, but of
no man to possess all things. The shortest cut to riches is to despise riches. Our
friend Demetrius, however, lives not merely as if he has learned to despise all
things, but as if he has handed them over for others to possess. Farewell.
Letter LXIII - On Grief for Lost Friends
I am grieved to hear that your friend Flaccus is dead, but I would not have you
sorrow more than is fitting. That you should not mourn at all I shall hardly dare
to insist; and yet I know that it is the better way. But what man will ever be so
blessed with that ideal steadfastness of soul, unless he has already risen far
above the reach of Fortune? Even such a man will be stung by an event like this,
but it will be only a sting. We, however, may be forgiven for bursting into tears,
if only our tears have not flowed to excess, and if we have checked them by our
own efforts. Let not the eyes be dry when we have lost a friend, nor let them
overflow. We may weep, but we must not wail.
Do you think that the law which I lay down for you is harsh, when the greatest
of Greek poets has extended the privilege of weeping to one day only, in the
lines where he tells us that even Niobe took thought of food? Do you wish to
know the reason for lamentations and excessive weeping? It is because we seek
the proofs of our bereavement in our tears, and do not give way to sorrow, but
merely parade it. No man goes into mourning for his own sake. Shame on our
ill-timed folly! There is an element of self-seeking even in our sorrow.
"What," you say, "am I to forget my friend?" It is surely a short-lived memory
that you vouchsafe to him, if it is to endure only as long as your grief; presently
that brow of yours will be smoothed out in laughter by some circumstance,
however casual. It is to a time no more distant than this that I put off the
soothing of every regret, the quieting of even the bitterest grief. As soon as you
cease to observe yourself, the picture of sorrow which you have contemplated
will fade away; at present you are keeping watch over your own suffering. But
even while you keep watch it slips away from you, and the sharper it is, the more
speedily it comes to an end.
Let us see to it that the recollection of those whom we have lost becomes a
pleasant memory to us. No man reverts with pleasure to any subject which he
will not be able to reflect upon without pain. So too it cannot but be that the
names of those whom we have loved and lost come back to us with a sort of
sting; but there is a pleasure even in this sting. For, as my friend Attalus used to
say: "The remembrance of lost friends is pleasant in the same way that certain
fruits have an agreeably acid taste, or as in extremely old wines it is their very
bitterness that pleases us. Indeed, after a certain lapse of time, every thought that
gave pain is quenched, and the pleasure comes to us unalloyed." If we take the
word of Attalus for it, "to think of friends who are alive and well is like enjoying
a meal of cakes and honey; the recollection of friends who have passed away
gives a pleasure that is not without a touch of bitterness. Yet who will deny that
even these things, which are bitter and contain an element of sourness, do serve
to arouse the stomach?" For my part, I do not agree with him. To me, the thought
of my dead friends is sweet and appealing. For I have had them as if I should one
day lose them; I have lost them as if I have them still.
Therefore, Lucilius, act as befits your own serenity of mind, and cease to put a
wrong interpretation on the gifts of Fortune. Fortune has taken away, but Fortune
has given. Let us greedily enjoy our friends, because we do not know how long
this privilege will be ours. Let us think how often we shall leave them when we
go upon distant journeys, and how often we shall fail to see them when we tarry
together in the same place; we shall thus understand that we have lost too much
of their time while they were alive. But will you tolerate men who are most
careless of their friends, and then mourn them most abjectly, and do not love
anyone unless they have lost him? The reason why they lament too
unrestrainedly at such times is that they are afraid lest men doubt whether they
really have loved; all too late they seek for proofs of their emotions. If we have
other friends, we surely deserve ill at their hands and think ill of them, if they are
of so little account that they fail to console us for the loss of one. If, on the other
hand, we have no other friends, we have injured ourselves more than Fortune has
injured us; since Fortune has robbed us of one friend, but we have robbed
ourselves of every friend whom we have failed to make. Again, he who has been
unable to love more than one, has had none too much love even for that one. If a
man who has lost his one and only tunic through robbery chooses to bewail his
plight rather than look about him for some way to escape the cold, or for
something with which to cover his shoulders, would you not think him an utter
fool?
You have buried one whom you loved; look about for someone to love. It is
better to replace your friend than to weep for him. What I am about to add is, I
know, a very hackneyed remark, but I shall not omit it simply because it is a
common phrase: a man ends his grief by the mere passing of time, even if he has
not ended it of his own accord. But the most shameful cure for sorrow, in the
case of a sensible man, is to grow weary of sorrowing. I should prefer you to
abandon grief, rather than have grief abandon you; and you should stop grieving
as soon as possible, since, even if you wish to do so, it is impossible to keep it up
for a long time. Our forefathers have enacted that, in the case of women, a year
should be the limit for mourning; not that they needed to mourn for so long, but
that they should mourn no longer. In the case of men, no rules are laid down,
because to mourn at all is not regarded as honourable. For all that, what woman
can you show me, of all the pathetic females that could scarcely be dragged
away from the funeral-pile or torn from the corpse, whose tears have lasted a
whole month? Nothing becomes offensive so quickly as grief; when fresh, it
finds someone to console it and attracts one or another to itself; but after
becoming chronic, it is ridiculed, and rightly. For it is either assumed or foolish.
He who writes these words to you is no other than I, who wept so excessively
for my dear friend Annaeus Serenus that, in spite of my wishes, I must be
included among the examples of men who have been overcome by grief. To-day,
however, I condemn this act of mine, and I understand that the reason why I
lamented so greatly was chiefly that I had never imagined it possible for his
death to precede mine. The only thought which occurred to my mind was that he
was the younger, and much younger, too, – as if the Fates kept to the order of
our ages!
Therefore let us continually think as much about our own mortality as about
that of all those we love. In former days I ought to have said: "My friend Serenus
is younger than I; but what does that matter? He would naturally die after me,
but he may precede me." It was just because I did not do this that I was
unprepared when Fortune dealt me the sudden blow. Now is the time for you to
reflect, not only that all things are mortal, but also that their mortality is subject
to no fixed law. Whatever can happen at any time can happen to-day. Let us
therefore reflect, my beloved Lucilius, that we shall soon come to the goal which
this friend, to our own sorrow, has reached. And perhaps, if only the tale told by
wise men is true and there is a bourne to welcome us, then he whom we think we
have lost has only been sent on ahead. Farewell.
Letter LXIV - On the Philosopher's Task
Yesterday you were with us. You might complain if I said "yesterday" merely.
This is why I have added "with us." For, so far as I am concerned, you are
always with me. Certain friends had happened in, on whose account a somewhat
brighter fire was laid, – not the kind that generally bursts from the kitchen
chimneys of the rich and scares the watch, but the moderate blaze which means
that guests have come. Our talk ran on various themes, as is natural at a dinner; it
pursued no chain of thought to the end, but jumped from one topic to another.
We then had read to us a book by Quintus Sextius the Elder. He is a great man, if
you have any confidence in my opinion, and a real Stoic, though he himself
denies it. Ye Gods, what strength and spirit one finds in him! This is not the case
with all philosophers; there are some men of illustrious name whose writings are
sapless. They lay down rules, they argue, and they quibble; they do not infuse
spirit simply because they have no spirit. But when you come to read Sextius
you will say: "He is alive; he is strong; he is free; he is more than a man; he fills
me with a mighty confidence before I close his book." I shall acknowledge to
you the state of mind I am in when I read his works: I want to challenge every
hazard; I want to cry: "Why keep me waiting, Fortune? Enter the lists! Behold, I
am ready for you!" I assume the spirit of a man who seeks where he may make
trial of himself where he may show his worth:
And fretting 'mid the unwarlike flocks he prays
Some foam-flecked boar may cross his path, or else
A tawny lion stalking down the hills.
I want something to overcome, something on which I may test my endurance.
For this is another remarkable quality that Sextius possesses: he will show you
the grandeur of the happy life and yet will not make you despair of attaining it;
you will understand that it is on high, but that it is accessible to him who has the
will to seek it.
And virtue herself will have the same effect upon you, of making you admire
her and yet hope to attain her. In my own case, at any rate the very
contemplation of wisdom takes much of my time; I gaze upon her with
bewilderment, just as I sometimes gaze upon the firmament itself, which I often
behold as if I saw it for the first time. Hence I worship the discoveries of wisdom
and their discoverers; to enter, as it were, into the inheritance of many
predecessors is a delight. It was for me that they laid up this treasure; it was for
me that they toiled. But we should play the part of a careful householder; we
should increase what we have inherited. This inheritance shall pass from me to
my descendants larger than before. Much still remains to do, and much will
always remain, and he who shall be born a thousand ages hence will not be
barred from his opportunity of adding something further. But even if the old
masters have discovered everything, one thing will be always new, – the
application and the scientific study and classification of the discoveries made by
others. Assume that prescriptions have been handed down to us for the healing
of the eyes; there is no need of my searching for others in addition; but for all
that, these prescriptions must be adapted to the particular disease and to the
particular stage of the disease. Use this prescription to relieve granulation of the
eyelids, that to reduce the swelling of the lids, this to prevent sudden pain or a
rush of tears, that to sharpen the vision. Then compound these several
prescriptions, watch for the right time of their application, and supply the proper
treatment in each case.
The cures for the spirit also have been discovered by the ancients; but it is our
task to learn the method and the time of treatment. Our predecessors have
worked much improvement, but have not worked out the problem. They deserve
respect, however, and should be worshipped with a divine ritual. Why should I
not keep statues of great men to kindle my enthusiasm, and celebrate their
birthdays? Why should I not continually greet them with respect and honour?
The reverence which I owe to my own teachers I owe in like measure to those
teachers of the human race, the source from which the beginnings of such great
blessings have flowed. If I meet a consul or a praetor, I shall pay him all the
honour which his post of honour is wont to receive: I shall dismount, uncover,
and yield the road. What, then? Shall I admit into my soul with less than the
highest marks of respect Marcus Cato, the Elder and the Younger, Laelius the
Wise, Socrates and Plato, Zeno and Cleanthes? I worship them in very truth, and
always rise to do honour to such noble names. Farewell.
Letter LXV - On the First Cause
I shared my time yesterday with ill health; it claimed for itself all the period
before noon; in the afternoon, however, it yielded to me. And so I first tested my
spirit by reading; then, when reading was found to be possible, I dared to make
more demands upon the spirit, or perhaps I should say, to make more
concessions to it. I wrote a little, and indeed with more concentration than usual,
for I am struggling with a difficult subject and do not wish to be downed. In the
midst of this, some friends visited me, with the purpose of employing force and
of restraining me, as if I were a sick man indulging in some excess. So
conversation was substituted for writing; and from this conversation I shall
communicate to you the topic which is still the subject of debate; for we have
appointed you referee. You have more of a task on your hands than you suppose,
for the argument is threefold.
Our Stoic philosophers, as you know, declare that there are two things in the
universe which are the source of everything, – namely, cause and matter. Matter
lies sluggish, a substance ready for any use, but sure to remain unemployed if no
one sets it in motion. Cause, however, by which we mean reason, moulds matter
and turns it in whatever direction it will, producing thereby various concrete
results. Accordingly, there must be, in the case of each thing, that from which it
is made, and, next, an agent by which it is made. The former is its material, the
latter its cause.
All art is but imitation of nature; therefore, let me apply these statements of
general principles to the things which have to be made by man. A statue, for
example, has afforded matter which was to undergo treatment at the hands of the
artist, and has had an artist who was to give form to the matter. Hence, in the
case of the statue, the material was bronze, the cause was the workman. And so
it goes with all things, – they consist of that which is made and of the maker.
The Stoics believe in one cause only – the maker; but Aristotle thinks that the
word "cause" can be used in three ways: "The first cause," he says, "is the actual
matter, without which nothing can be created. The second is the workman. The
third is the form, which is impressed upon every work, – a statue, for example."
This last is what Aristotle calls the idos. "There is, too," says he, "a fourth, – the
purpose of the work as a whole." Now I shall show you what this last means.
Bronze is the "first cause" of the statue, for it could never have been made unless
there had been something from which it could be cast and moulded. The "second
cause" is the artist; for without the skilled hands of a workman that bronze could
not have been shaped to the outlines of the statue. The "third cause" is the form,
inasmuch as our statue could never be called The Lance-Bearer or The Boy
Binding his Hair had not this special shape been stamped upon it. The "fourth
cause" is the purpose of the work. For if this purpose had not existed, the statue
would not have been made. Now what is this purpose? It is that which attracted
the artist which he followed when he made the statue. It may have been money,
if he has made it for sale; or renown, if he has worked for reputation; or religion,
if he has wrought it as a gift for a temple. Therefore this also is a cause
contributing towards the making of the statue; or do you think that we should
avoid including, among the causes of a thing which has been made, that element
without which the thing in question would not have been made?
To these four Plato adds a fifth cause, – the pattern which he himself calls the
"idea"; for it is this that the artist gazed upon when he created the work which he
had decided to carry out. Now it makes no difference whether he has this pattern
outside himself, that he may direct his glance to it, or within himself, conceived
and placed there by himself. God has within himself these patterns of all things,
and his mind comprehends the harmonies and the measures of the whole totality
of things which are to be carried out; he is filled with these shapes which Plato
calls the "ideas," – imperishable, unchangeable, not subject to decay. And
therefore, though men die, humanity itself, or the idea of man, according to
which man is moulded, lasts on, and though men toil and perish, it suffers no
change. Accordingly, there are five causes, as Plato says: the material, the agent,
the make-up, the model, and the end in view. Last comes the result of all these.
Just as in the case of the statue, – to go back to the figure with which we began,
– the material is the bronze, the agent is the artist, the make-up is the form which
is adapted to the material, the model is the pattern imitated by the agent, the end
in view is the purpose in the maker's mind, and, finally, the result of all these is
the statue itself. The universe also, in Plato's opinion, possesses all these
elements. The agent is God; the source, matter; the form, the shape and the
arrangement of the visible world. The pattern is doubtless the model according
to which God has made this great and most beautiful creation. The purpose is his
object in so doing. Do you ask what God's purpose is? It is goodness. Plato, at
any rate, says: "What was God's reason for creating the world? God is good, and
no good person is grudging of anything that is good. Therefore, God made it the
best world possible." Hand down your opinion, then, O judge; state who seems
to you to say what is truest, and not who says what is absolutely true. For to do
that is as far beyond our ken as truth itself.
This throng of causes, defined by Aristotle and by Plato, embraces either too
much or too little. For if they regard as "causes" of an object that is to be made
everything without which the object cannot be made, they have named too few.
Time must be included among the causes; for nothing can be made without time.
They must also include place; for if there be no place where a thing can be made,
it will not be made. And motion too; nothing is either made or destroyed without
motion. There is no art without motion, no change of any kind. Now, however, I
am searching for the first, the general cause; this must be simple, inasmuch as
matter, too, is simple. Do we ask what cause is? It is surely Creative Reason, – in
other words, God. For those elements to which you referred are not a great series
of independent causes; they all hinge on one alone, and that will be the creative
cause. Do you maintain that form is a cause? This is only what the artist stamps
upon his work; it is part of a cause, but not the cause. Neither is the pattern a
cause, but an indispensable tool of the cause. His pattern is as indispensable to
the artist as the chisel or the file; without these, art can make no progress. But for
all that, these things are neither parts of the art, nor causes of it. "Then," perhaps
you will say, "the purpose of the artist, that which leads him to undertake to
create something, is the cause." It may be a cause; it is not, however, the
efficient cause, but only an accessory cause. But there are countless accessory
causes; what we are discussing is the general cause. Now the statement of Plato
and Aristotle is not in accord with their usual penetration, when they maintain
that the whole universe, the perfectly wrought work, is a cause. For there is a
great difference between a work and the cause of a work.
Either give your opinion, or, as is easier in cases of this kind, declare that the
matter is not clear and call for another hearing. But you will reply: "What
pleasure do you get from wasting your time on these problems, which relieve
you of none of your emotions, rout none of your desires?" So far as I am
concerned, I treat and discuss them as matters which contribute greatly toward
calming the spirit, and I search myself first, and then the world about me. And
not even now am I, as you think, wasting my time. For all these questions,
provided that they be not chopped up and torn apart into such unprofitable
refinements, elevate and lighten the soul, which is weighted down by a heavy
burden and desires to be freed and to return to the elements of which it was once
a part. For this body of ours is a weight upon the soul and its penance; as the
load presses down the soul is crushed and is in bondage, unless philosophy has
come to its assistance and has bid it take fresh courage by contemplating the
universe, and has turned it from things earthly to things divine. There it has its
liberty, there it can roam abroad; meantime it escapes the custody in which it is
bound, and renews its life in heaven. Just as skilled workmen, who have been
engaged upon some delicate piece of work which wearies their eyes with
straining, if the light which they have is niggardly or uncertain, go forth into the
open air and in some park devoted to the people's recreation delight their eyes in
the generous light of day; so the soul, imprisoned as it has been in this gloomy
and darkened house, seeks the open sky whenever it can, and in the
contemplation of the universe finds rest.
The wise man, the seeker after wisdom, is bound closely, indeed, to his body,
but he is an absentee so far as his better self is concerned, and he concentrates
his thoughts upon lofty things. Bound, so to speak, to his oath of allegiance, he
regards the period of life as his term of service. He is so trained that he neither
loves nor hates life; he endures a mortal lot, although he knows that an ampler
lot is in store for him. Do you forbid me to contemplate the universe? Do you
compel me to withdraw from the whole and restrict me to a part? May I not ask
what are the beginnings of all things, who moulded the universe, who took the
confused and conglomerate mass of sluggish matter, and separated it into its
parts? May I not inquire who is the Master-Builder of this universe, how the
mighty bulk was brought under the control of law and order, who gathered
together the scattered atoms, who separated the disordered elements and
assigned an outward form to elements that lay in one vast shapelessness? Or
whence came all the expanse of light? And whether is it fire, or even brighter
than fire? Am I not to ask these questions? Must I be ignorant of the heights
whence I have descended? Whether I am to see this world but once, or to be
born many times? What is my destination afterwards? What abode awaits my
soul on its release from the laws of slavery among men? Do you forbid me to
have a share in heaven? In other words, do you bid me live with my head bowed
down? No, I am above such an existence; I was born to a greater destiny than to
be a mere chattel of my body, and I regard this body as nothing but a chain
which manacles my freedom. Therefore, I offer it as a sort of buffer to fortune,
and shall allow no wound to penetrate through to my soul. For my body is the
only part of me which can suffer injury. In this dwelling, which is exposed to
peril, my soul lives free. Never shall this flesh drive me to feel fear or to assume
any pretence that is unworthy of a good man. Never shall I lie in order to honour
this petty body. When it seems proper, I shall sever my connexion with it. And at
present, while we are bound together, our alliance shall nevertheless not be one
of equality; the soul shall bring all quarrels before its own tribunal. To despise
our bodies is sure freedom.
To return to our subject; this freedom will be greatly helped by the
contemplation of which we were just speaking. All things are made up of matter
and of God; God controls matter, which encompasses him and follows him as its
guide and leader. And that which creates, in other words, God, is more powerful
and precious than matter, which is acted upon by God. God's place in the
universe corresponds to the soul's relation to man. World-matter corresponds to
our mortal body; therefore let the lower serve the higher. Let us be brave in the
face of hazards. Let us not fear wrongs, or wounds, or bonds, or poverty. And
what is death? It is either the end, or a process of change. I have no fear of
ceasing to exist; it is the same as not having begun. Nor do I shrink from
changing into another state, because I shall, under no conditions, be as cramped
as I am now. Farewell.
Letter LXVI - On Various Aspects of Virtue
I have just seen my former school-mate Claranus for the first time in many
years. You need not wait for me to add that he is an old man; but I assure you
that I found him hale in spirit and sturdy, although he is wrestling with a frail
and feeble body. For Nature acted unfairly when she gave him a poor domicile
for so rare a soul; or perhaps it was because she wished to prove to us that an
absolutely strong and happy mind can lie hidden under any exterior. Be that as it
may, Claranus overcomes all these hindrances, and by despising his own body
has arrived at a stage where he can despise other things also. The poet who sang
Worth shows more pleasing in a form that's fair
is, in my opinion, mistaken. For virtue needs nothing to set it off; it is its own
great glory, and it hallows the body in which it dwells. At any rate, I have begun
to regard Claranus in a different light; he seems to me handsome, and as wellsetup in body as in mind. A great man can spring from a hovel; so can a
beautiful and great soul from an ugly and insignificant body. For this reason
Nature seems to me to breed certain men of this stamp with the idea of proving
that virtue springs into birth in any place whatever. Had it been possible for her
to produce souls by themselves and naked, she would have done so; as it is,
Nature does a still greater thing, for she produces certain men who, though
hampered in their bodies, none the less break through the obstruction. I think
Claranus has been produced as a pattern, that we might be enabled to understand
that the soul is not disfigured by the ugliness of the body, but rather the opposite,
that the body is beautified by the comeliness of the soul.
Now, though Claranus and I have spent very few days together, we have
nevertheless had many conversations, which I will at once pour forth and pass on
to you. The first day we investigated this problem: how can goods be equal if
they are of three kinds? For certain of them, according to our philosophical
tenets, are primary, such as joy, peace, and the welfare of one's country. Others
are of the second order, moulded in an unhappy material, such as the endurance
of suffering, and self-control during severe illness. We shall pray outright for the
goods of the first class; for the second class we shall pray only if the need shall
arise. There is still a third variety, as, for example, a modest gait, a calm and
honest countenance, and a bearing that suits the man of wisdom. Now how can
these things be equal when we compare them, if you grant that we ought to pray
for the one and avoid the other? If we would make distinctions among them, we
had better return to the First Good, and consider what its nature is: the soul that
gazes upon truth, that is skilled in what should be sought and what should be
avoided, establishing standards of value not according to opinion, but according
to nature, – the soul that penetrates the whole world and directs its contemplating
gaze upon all its Phenomena, paying strict attention to thoughts and actions,
equally great and forceful, superior alike to hardships and blandishments,
yielding itself to neither extreme of fortune, rising above all blessings and
tribulations, absolutely beautiful, perfectly equipped with grace as well as with
strength, healthy and sinewy, unruffled, undismayed, one which no violence can
shatter, one which acts of chance can neither exalt nor depress, – a soul like this
is virtue itself. There you have its outward appearance, if it should ever come
under a single view and show itself once in all its completeness. But there are
many aspects of it. They unfold themselves according as life varies and as
actions differ; but virtue itself does not become less or greater. For the Supreme
Good cannot diminish, nor may virtue retrograde; rather is it transformed, now
into one quality and now into another, shaping itself according to the part which
it is to play. Whatever it has touched it brings into likeness with itself, and dyes
with its own colour. It adorns our actions, our friendships, and sometimes entire
households which it has entered and set in order. Whatever it has handled it
forthwith makes lovable, notable, admirable.
Therefore the power and the greatness of virtue cannot rise to greater heights,
because increase is denied to that which is superlatively great. You will find
nothing straighter than the straight, nothing truer than the truth, and nothing
more temperate than that which is temperate. Every virtue is limitless; for limits
depend upon definite measurements. Constancy cannot advance further, any
more than fidelity, or truthfulness, or loyalty. What can be added to that which is
perfect? Nothing otherwise that was not perfect to which something has been
added. Nor can anything be added to virtue, either, for if anything can be added
thereto, it must have contained a defect. Honour, also, permits of no addition; for
it is honourable because of the very qualities which I have mentioned. What
then? Do you think that propriety, justice, lawfulness, do not also belong to the
same type, and that they are kept within fixed limits? The ability to increase is
proof that a thing is still imperfect.
The good, in every instance, is subject to these same laws. The advantage of
the state and that of the individual are yoked together; indeed it is as impossible
to separate them as to separate the commendable from the desirable. Therefore,
virtues are mutually equal; and so are the works of virtue, and all men who are
so fortunate as to possess these virtues. But, since the virtues of plants and of
animals are perishable, they are also frail and fleeting and uncertain. They spring
up, and they sink down again, and for this reason they are not rated at the same
value; but to human virtues only one rule applies. For right reason is single and
of but one kind. Nothing is more divine than the divine, or more heavenly than
the heavenly. Mortal things decay, fall, are worn out, grow up, are exhausted,
and replenished. Hence, in their case, in view of the uncertainty of their lot, there
is inequality; but of things divine the nature is one. Reason, however, is nothing
else than a portion of the divine spirit set in a human body. If reason is divine,
and the good in no case lacks reason, then the good in every case is divine. And
furthermore, there is no distinction between things divine; hence there is none
between goods, either. Therefore it follows that joy and a brave unyielding
endurance of torture are equal goods; for in both there is the same greatness of
soul relaxed and cheerful in the one case, in the other combative and braced for
action. What? Do you not think that the virtue of him who bravely storms the
enemy's stronghold is equal to that of him who endures a siege with the utmost
patience? Great is Scipio when he invests Numantia, and constrains and compels
the hands of an enemy, whom he could not conquer, to resort to their own
destruction. Great also are the souls of the defenders – men who know that, as
long as the path to death lies open, the blockade is not complete, men who
breathe their last in the arms of liberty. In like manner, the other virtues are also
equal as compared with one another: tranquillity, simplicity, generosity,
constancy, equanimity, endurance. For underlying them all is a single virtue –
that which renders the soul straight and unswerving.
"What then," you say; "is there no difference between joy and unyielding
endurance of pain?" None at all, as regards the virtues themselves; very great,
however, in the circumstances in which either of these two virtues is displayed.
In the one case, there is a natural relaxation and loosening of the soul; in the
other there is an unnatural pain. Hence these circumstances, between which a
great distinction can be drawn, belong to the category of indifferent things, but
the virtue shown in each case is equal. Virtue is not changed by the matter with
which it deals; if the matter is hard and stubborn, it does not make the virtue
worse; if pleasant and joyous, it does not make it better. Therefore, virtue
necessarily remains equal. For, in each case, what is done is done with equal
uprightness, with equal wisdom, and with equal honour. Hence the states of
goodness involved are equal, and it is impossible for a man to transcend these
states of goodness by conducting himself better, either the one man in his joy, or
the other amid his suffering. And two goods, neither of which can possibly be
better, are equal. For if things which are extrinsic to virtue can either diminish or
increase virtue, then that which is honourable ceases to be the only good. If you
grant this, honour has wholly perished. And why? Let me tell you: it is because
no act is honourable that is done by an unwilling agent, that is compulsory.
Every honourable act is voluntary. Alloy it with reluctance, complaints,
cowardice, or fear, and it loses its best characteristic – self-approval. That which
is not free cannot be honourable; for fear means slavery. The honourable is
wholly free from anxiety and is calm; if it ever objects, laments, or regards
anything as an evil, it becomes subject to disturbance and begins to flounder
about amid great confusion. For on one side the semblance of right calls to it, on
the other the suspicion of evil drags it back, therefore, when a man is about to do
something honourable, he should not regard any obstacles as evils, even though
he regard them as inconvenient, but he should will to do the deed, and do it
willingly. For every honourable act is done without commands or compulsion; it
is unalloyed and contains no admixture of evil.
I know what you may reply to me at this point: "Are you trying to make us
believe that it does not matter whether a man feels joy, or whether he lies upon
the rack and tires out his torturer?" I might say in answer: "Epicurus also
maintains that the wise man, though he is being burned in the bull of Phalaris,
will cry out: 'Tis pleasant, and concerns me not at all.'" Why need you wonder, if
I maintain that he who reclines at a banquet and the victim who stoutly
withstands torture possess equal goods, when Epicurus maintains a thing that is
harder to believe, namely, that it is pleasant to be roasted in this way? But the
reply which I do make, is that there is great difference between joy and pain; if I
am asked to choose, I shall seek the former and avoid the latter. The former is
according to nature, the latter contrary to it. So long as they are rated by this
standard, there is a great gulf between; but when it comes to a question of the
virtue involved, the virtue in each case is the same, whether it comes through joy
or through sorrow. Vexation and pain and other inconveniences are of no
consequence, for they are overcome by virtue. Just as the brightness of the sun
dims all lesser lights, so virtue, by its own greatness, shatters and overwhelms all
pains, annoyances, and wrongs; and wherever its radiance reaches, all lights
which shine without the help of virtue are extinguished; and inconveniences,
when they come in contact with virtue, play no more important a part than does a
storm-cloud at sea.
This can be proved to you by the fact that the good man will hasten
unhesitatingly to any noble deed; even though he be confronted by the hangman,
the torturer, and the stake, he will persist, regarding not what he must suffer, but
what he must do; and he will entrust himself as readily to an honourable deed as
he would to a good man; he will consider it advantageous to himself, safe,
propitious. And he will hold the same view concerning an honourable deed, even
though it be fraught with sorrow and hardship, as concerning a good man who is
poor or wasting away in exile. Come now, contrast a good man who is rolling in
wealth with a man who has nothing, except that in himself he has all things; they
will be equally good, though they experience unequal fortune. This same
standard, as I have remarked, is to be applied to things as well as to men; virtue
is just as praiseworthy if it dwells in a sound and free body, as in one which is
sickly or in bondage. Therefore, as regards your own virtue also, you will not
praise it any more, if fortune has favoured it by granting you a sound body, than
if fortune has endowed you with a body that is crippled in some member, since
that would mean rating a master low because he is dressed like a slave. For all
those things over which Chance holds sway are chattels, money, person,
position; they are weak, shifting, prone to perish, and of uncertain tenure. On the
other hand, the works of virtue are free and unsubdued, neither more worthy to
be sought when fortune treats them kindly, nor less worthy when any adversity
weighs upon them.
Now friendship in the case of men corresponds to desirability in the case of
things. You would not, I fancy, love a good man if he were rich any more than if
he were poor, nor would you love a strong and muscular person more than one
who was slender and of delicate constitution. Accordingly, neither will you seek
or love a good thing that is mirthful and tranquil more than one that is full of
perplexity and toil. Or, if you do this, you will, in the case of two equally good
men, care more for him who is neat and well-groomed than for him who is dirty
and unkempt. You would next go so far as to care more for a good man who is
sound in all his limbs and without blemish, than for one who is weak or
purblind; and gradually your fastidiousness would reach such a point that, of two
equally just and prudent men, you would choose him who has long curling hair!
Whenever the virtue in each one is equal, the inequality in their other attributes
is not apparent. For all other things are not parts, but merely accessories. Would
any man judge his children so unfairly as to care more for a healthy son than for
one who was sickly, or for a tall child of unusual stature more than for one who
was short or of middling height? Wild beasts show no favouritism among their
offspring; they lie down in order to suckle all alike; birds make fair distribution
of their food. Ulysses hastens back to the rocks of his Ithaca as eagerly as
Agamemnon speeds to the kingly walls of Mycenae. For no man loves his native
land because it is great; he loves it because it is his own.
And what is the purpose of all this? That you may know that virtue regards all
her works in the same light, as if they were her children, showing equal kindness
to all, and still deeper kindness to those which encounter hardships; for even
parents lean with more affection towards those of their offspring for whom they
feel pity. Virtue, too, does not necessarily love more deeply those of her works
which she beholds in trouble and under heavy burdens, but, like good parents,
she gives them more of her fostering care.
Why is no good greater than any other good? It is because nothing can be
more fitting than that which is fitting, and nothing more level than that which is
level. You cannot say that one thing is more equal to a given object than another
thing; hence also nothing is more honourable than that which is honourable.
Accordingly, if all the virtues are by nature equal, the three varieties of goods are
equal. This is what I mean: there is an equality between feeling joy with selfcontrol and suffering pain with self-control. The joy in the one case does not
surpass in the other the steadfastness of soul that gulps down the groan when the
victim is in the clutches of the torturer; goods of the first kind are desirable,
while those of the second are worthy of admiration; and in each case they are
none the less equal, because whatever inconvenience attaches to the latter is
compensated by the qualities of the good, which is so much greater. Any man
who believes them to be unequal is turning away from the virtues themselves
and is surveying mere externals; true goods have the same weight and the same
width. The spurious sort contain much emptiness; hence, when they are weighed
in the balance, they are found wanting, although they look imposing and grand
to the gaze.
Yes, my dear Lucilius, the good which true reason approves is solid and
everlasting; it strengthens the spirit and exalts it, so that it will always be on the
heights; but those things which are thoughtlessly praised, and are goods in the
opinion of the mob merely puff us up with empty joy. And again, those things
which are feared as if they were evils merely inspire trepidation in men's minds,
for the mind is disturbed by the semblance of danger, just as animals are
disturbed. Hence it is without reason that both these things distract and sting the
spirit; the one is not worthy of joy, nor the other of fear. It is reason alone that is
unchangeable, that holds fast to its decisions. For reason is not a slave to the
senses, but a ruler over them. Reason is equal to reason, as one straight line to
another; therefore virtue also is equal to virtue. Virtue is nothing else than right
reason. All virtues are reasons. Reasons are reasons, if they are right reasons. If
they are right, they are also equal. As reason is, so also are actions; therefore all
actions are equal. For since they resemble reason, they also resemble each other.
Moreover, I hold that actions are equal to each other in so far as they are
honourable and right actions. There will be, of course, great differences
according as the material varies, as it becomes now broader and now narrower,
now glorious and now base, now manifold in scope and now limited. Howeve