Letter 101

Every day, every hour shows us how little we are, and with some fresh piece of evidence reminds us, who have forgotten our own frailty; then, when we have been meditating on things eternal, it forces us to turn our eyes toward death. You ask what this opening is driving at? You knew Cornelius Senecio, a brilliant and obliging Roman knight: from a slender start he had pushed himself up, and already the rest of his course was running downhill, for rank grows more easily than it begins. Money, too, lingers longest around the threshold of poverty; while it is crawling free of it, it sticks fast. By now Senecio was on the verge of riches, drawn toward them by two of the most effective things there are: skill in acquiring and skill in keeping, either one of which by itself could have made a man wealthy. This man of the utmost frugality, no less careful of his estate than of his body, had seen me in the morning as was his custom; then, when he had sat all day long, and on into the night, beside a friend who was gravely stricken and lay without hope; then, when he had dined in good spirits, he was seized by a sudden and headlong kind of illness, quinsy, and with the breath barely forced through his constricted throat he dragged it on till daylight. So within a very few hours after he had performed all the duties of a sound and vigorous man, he died. The man who kept his money in motion by sea and by land, who had also gone into public affairs, leaving no kind of profit untried, in the very act of his ventures prospering, in the very onrush of money rolling in, was carried off. How foolish it is to map out one's lifetime, when one is not even master of tomorrow! What great madness it is for men to begin on far-reaching hopes: "I will buy, I will build, I will lend, I will call in debts, I will hold offices, and then at last I will retire my weary, sated old age into leisure." Everything, believe me, is uncertain, even for the fortunate; no one ought to promise himself anything about the future. Even what we hold slips through our hands, and chance falls upon the very hour we are pressing tight. Time rolls on by a fixed law, indeed, but in the dark: and what is it to me whether a thing is certain to Nature that is uncertain to me? We set before ourselves long voyages and late returns to our homeland after wandering over foreign shores, military service and the slow pay of campaign hardships, governorships and advancement through office after office, while all the while death is at our side. Because it is never thought about except when it strikes others, examples of our mortality are thrust upon us again and again, only to stay no longer than while we are marveling at them. But what is more foolish than to marvel that a thing has happened on some one day, when it can happen on any day? Our boundary stands fixed where the inexorable necessity of the fates has set it, but none of us knows how near he is to the boundary. So, then, let us shape the mind as though we had come to the very end. Let us put nothing off; let us each day settle our accounts with life. The greatest fault of life is that it is always unfinished, that some part of it is postponed. The man who each day has laid the finishing hand upon his life has no need of time; but out of that neediness are born fear and a craving for the future that gnaws away the mind. Nothing is more wretched than uncertainty about how things still to come will turn out; how great that remaining portion is, or of what kind, sets a worried mind churning with inexplicable dread. How shall we escape this turmoil? By one means only: if our life does not jut out ahead of itself, if it is gathered into itself. For that man hangs suspended from the future for whom the present is worthless. But once whatever I owed to myself has been paid back, once a settled mind knows that there is no difference between a day and an age, then it looks down from on high upon whatever days and events are to come thereafter, and with much laughter it ponders the long succession of the times. For what will the variety and mutability of chance events disturb, if you are certain in the face of the uncertain? Therefore make haste to live, my dear Lucilius, and count each single day as a single life. The man who has fitted himself to this, whose every day has been a whole life to him, is free of care: but for those who live in hope, each next stretch of time slips away, and there steals in upon them greed, and the fear of death, which makes a man and everything about him utterly wretched. From this came that most shameful prayer of Maecenas, in which he refuses neither weakness nor deformity nor, as the climax, the sharp cross, provided only that among these evils his breath be prolonged: [The verse of Maecenas is not given in full here; what follows is Seneca's comment.] What would be most wretched if it befell him, he prays for, and as though it were life he begs for a delay of his torture. I should think it utterly contemptible if he wished to live right up to the cross: "You may cripple me," he says, "so long as breath remains in my broken and useless body; you may deform me, so long as some span of time is added to a monstrous and twisted frame; you may impale me and set a sharp cross beneath me to sit on." Is it worth so much to press upon one's own wound and hang stretched upon the gibbet, only to put off what is the best thing among evils, the end of torture? Is it worth so much to keep one's breath, only in order to give it up? What could you wish for such a man, except that the gods be lenient to him? What does that shameful effeminacy of verse mean? What does this bargain struck by utterly mad fear mean? What does so foul a begging for life mean? Could you imagine that Vergil ever recited his lines for this man? [Here Seneca cites a line of Vergil, not reproduced in the text.] He prays for the worst of evils, and longs to have what is hardest to bear drawn out and prolonged: at what price? Plainly, that of a longer life. But what is it to live long, but to die long? Is anyone to be found who would wish to rot away amid tortures, to perish limb by limb, and to let out his soul so many times drop by drop, rather than breathe it out once and for all? Is anyone to be found who, driven to that wretched timber, already crippled, already twisted and crushed into a hideous lump on shoulders and chest, who had many reasons to die even short of the cross, would still wish to drag out a breath that was destined to drag out so many torments? Deny now that it is a great gift of Nature that we must die! Many are ready to strike still worse bargains: even to betray a friend in order to live longer, and to hand over their own children with their own hands to be debauched, so that they may go on seeing the daylight that has witnessed so many of their crimes. The craving for life must be shaken off, and we must learn that it makes no difference when you suffer what at some time must be suffered; that what matters is how well you live, not how long; and that often living well consists precisely in not living long. Farewell.

Every day and every hour reveal to us what a nothing we are, and remind us with some fresh evidence that we have forgotten our weakness; then, as we plan for eternity, they compel us to look over our shoulders at Death. Do you ask me what this preamble means? It refers to Cornelius Senecio, a distinguished and capable Roman knight, whom you knew: from humble beginnings he had advanced himself to fortune, and the rest of the path already lay downhill before him. For it is easier to grow in dignity than to make a start; and money is very slow to come where there is poverty; until it can creep out of that, it goes halting. Senecio was already bordering upon wealth, helped in that direction by two very powerful assets—knowing how to make money and how to keep it also; either one of these gifts might have made him a rich man. Here was a person who lived most simply, careful of health and wealth alike. He had, as usual, called upon me early in the morning, and had then spent the whole day, even up to nightfall, at the bedside of a friend who was seriously and hopelessly ill. After a comfortable dinner, he was suddenly seized with an acute attack of quinsy, and, with the breath clogged tightly in his swollen throat, barely lived until daybreak. So within a very few hours after the time when he had been performing all the duties of a sound and healthy man, he passed away. He who was venturing investments by land and sea, who had also entered public life and left no type of business untried, during the very realization of financial success and during the very onrush of the money that flowed into his coffers, was snatched from the world! Graft now thy pears, Meliboeus, and set out thy vines in their order! But how foolish it is to set out one’s life, when one is not even owner of the morrow! O what madness it is to plot out far-reaching hopes! To say: “I will buy and build, loan and call in money, win titles of honour, and then, old and full of years, I will surrender myself to a life of ease.” Believe me when I say that everything is doubtful, even for those who are prosperous. No one has any right to draw for himself upon the future. The very thing that we grasp slips through our hands, and chance cuts into the actual hour which we are crowding so full. Time does indeed roll along by fixed law, but as in darkness; and what is it to me whether Nature’s course is sure, when my own is unsure? We plan distant voyages and long-postponed home-comings after roaming over foreign shores, we plan for military service and the slow rewards of hard campaigns, we canvass for governorships and the promotions of one office after another—and all the while death stands at our side; but since we never think of it except as it affects our neighbour, instances of mortality press upon us day by day, to remain in our minds only as long as they stir our wonder. Yet what is more foolish than to wonder that something which may happen every day has happened on any one day? There is indeed a limit fixed for us, just where the remorseless law of Fate has fixed it; but none of us knows how near he is to this limit. Therefore, let us so order our minds as if we had come to the very end. Let us postpone nothing. Let us balance life’s account every day. The greatest flaw in life is that it is always imperfect, and that a certain part of it is postponed. One who daily puts the finishing touches to his life is never in want of time. And yet, from this want arise fear and a craving for the future which eats away the mind. There is nothing more wretched than worry over the outcome of future events; as to the amount or the nature of that which remains, our troubled minds are set a-flutter with unaccountable fear. How, then, shall we avoid this vacillation? In one way only,—if there be no reaching forward in our life, if it is withdrawn into itself. For he only is anxious about the future, to whom the present is unprofitable. But when I have paid my soul its due, when a soundly-balanced mind knows that a day differs not a whit from eternity—whatever days or problems the future may bring—then the soul looks forth from lofty heights and laughs heartily to itself when it thinks upon the ceaseless succession of the ages. For what disturbance can result from the changes and the instability of Chance, if you are sure in the face of that which is unsure? Therefore, my dear Lucilius, begin at once to live, and count each separate day as a separate life. He who has thus prepared himself, he whose daily life has been a rounded whole, is easy in his mind; but those who live for hope alone find that the immediate future always slips from their grasp and that greed steals along in its place, and the fear of death, a curse which lays a curse upon everything else. Thence came that most debased of prayers, in which Maecenas does not refuse to suffer weakness, deformity, and as a climax the pain of crucifixion provided only that he may prolong the breath of life amid these sufferings: Fashion me with a palsied hand, Weak of foot, and a cripple; Build upon me a crook-backed hump; Shake my teeth till they rattle; All is well, if my life remains. Save, oh, save it, I pray you, Though I sit on the piercing cross! There he is, praying for that which, if it had befallen him, would be the most pitiable thing in the world! And seeking a postponement of suffering, as if he were asking for life! I should deem him most despicable had he wished to live up to the very time of crucifixion: “Nay,” he cries, “you may weaken my body if you will only leave the breath of life in my battered and ineffective carcase! Maim me if you will, but allow me, misshapen and deformed as I may be, just a little more time in the world! You may nail me up and set my seat upon the piercing cross!” Is it worth while to weigh down upon one’s own wound, and hang impaled upon a gibbet, that one may but postpone something which is the balm of troubles, the end of punishment? Is it worth all this to possess the breath of life only to give it up? What would you ask for Maecenas but the indulgence of Heaven? What does he mean by such womanish and indecent verse? What does he mean by making terms with panic fear? What does he mean by begging so vilely for life? He cannot ever have heard Vergil read the words: Tell me, is Death so wretched as that? He asks for the climax of suffering, and—what is still harder to bear—prolongation and extension of suffering; and what does he gain thereby? Merely the boon of a longer existence. But what sort of life is a lingering death? Can anyone be found who would prefer wasting away in pain, dying limb by limb, or letting out his life drop by drop, rather than expiring once for all? Can any man be found willing to be fastened to the accursed tree, long sickly, already deformed, swelling with ugly tumours on chest and shoulders, and draw the breath of life amid long-drawn-out agony? I think he would have many excuses for dying even before mounting the cross! Deny, now, if you can, that Nature is very generous in making death inevitable. Many men have been prepared to enter upon still more shameful bargains: to betray friends in order to live longer themselves, or voluntarily to debase their children and so enjoy the light of day which is witness of all their sins. We must get rid of this craving for life, and learn that it makes no difference when your suffering comes, because at some time you are bound to suffer. The point is, not how long you live, but how nobly you live. And often this living nobly means that you cannot live long. Farewell.

[1] Omnis dies, omnis hora quam nihil simus ostendit et aliquo argumento recenti admonet fragilitatis oblitos; tum aeterna meditatos respicere cogit ad mortem. Quid sibi istud principium velit quaeris? Senecionem Cornelium, equitem Romanum splendidum et officiosum, noveras: ex tenui principio seipse promoverat et iam illi declivis erat cursus ad cetera; facilius enim crescit dignitas quam incipit. [2] Pecunia quoque circa paupertatem plurimum morae habet; dum ex illa erepat haeret. Iam Senecio divitis inminebat, ad quas illum duae res ducebant efficacissimae, et quaerendi et custodiendi scientia, quarum vel altera locupletem facere potuisset. [3] Hic homo summae frugalitatis, non minus patrimonii quam corporis diligens, cum me ex consuetudine mane vidisset, cum per totum diem amico graviter adfecto et sine spe iacentiusque in noctem adsedisset, cum hilaris cenasset, genere valetudinis praecipiti arreptus, angina, vix conpressum artatis faucibus spiritum traxit in lucem. Intra paucissimas ergo horas quam omnibus erat sani ac valentis officiis functus decessit. [4] Ille qui et mari et terra pecuniam agitabat, qui ad publica quoque nullum relinquens inexpertum genus quaestus accesserat, in ipso actu bene cedentium rerum, in ipso procurrentis pecuniae impeturaptus est. Quam stultum est aetatem disponere ne crastini quidem dominum! o quanta dementia est spes longas inchoantium: emam, aedificabo, credam, exigam, honores geram, tum deinde lassam et plenam senectutem in otium referam. [5] Omnia, mihi crede, etiam felicibus dubia sunt; nihil sibi quisquam de futuro debet promittere; id quoque quod tenetur per manus exit et ipsam quam premimus horam casus incidit. Volvitur tempus rata quidem lege, sed per obscurum: quid autem ad me an naturae certum sit quod mihi incertumest? [6] Navigationes longas et pererratis litoribus alienis seros in patriam reditus proponimus, militiam et castrensium laborum tarda manipretia, procurationes officiorumque per officia processus, cum interim ad latus mors est, quae quoniam numquam cogitatur nisi aliena, subinde nobis ingeruntur mortalitatis exempla non diutius quam dum miramur haesura. [7] Quid autem stultius quam mirari id ullo die factum quod omni potest fieri? Stat quidem terminusnobis ubi illum inexorabilis fatorum necessitas fixit, sed nemo scit nostrumquam prope versetur a termino; sic itaque formemus animum tamquam ad extremaventum sit. Nihil differamus; cotidie cum vita paria faciamus. [8] Maximum vitae vitium est quod inperfecta semper est, quod [in] aliquid ex illa differtur. Qui cotidie vitae suae summam manum inposuit non indiget tempore;ex hac autem indigentia timor nascitur et cupiditas futuri exedens animum. Nihil est miserius dubitatione venientium quorsus evadant; quantum sit illud quod restat aut quale sollicita mens inexplicabili formidine agitatur. [9] Quo modo effugiemus hanc volutationem? Uno: si vita nostra non prominebit, si in se colligitur; ille enim ex futuro suspenditur cui inritum est praesens. Ubi vero quidquid mihi debui redditum est, ubi stabilita mens scit nihil interesse inter diem et saeculum, quidquid deinceps dierum rerumque venturum est ex alto prospicit et cum multo risu seriem temporum cogitat. Quid enim varietas mobilitasque casuum perturbabit, si certus sis adversus incerta? [10] Ideo propera, Lucili mi, vivere, et singulos dies singulas vitas puta. Qui hoc modo se aptavit, cui vita sua cotidie fuit tota, securus est: inspem viventibus proximum quodque tempus elabitur, subitque aviditas et miserrimus ac miserrima omnia efficiens metus mortis. Inde illud Maecenatis turpissimum votum quo et debilitatem non recusat et deformitatem et novissime acutam crucem, dummodo inter haec mala spiritus prorogetur: [12] Quod miserrimum erat si incidisset optatur, et tamquam vita petitur supplici mora. Contemptissimum putarem si vivere vellet usque ad crucem:'tu vero' inquit 'me debilites licet, dum spiritus in corpore fracto et inutili maneat; depraves licet, dum monstroso et distorto temporis aliquid accedat; suffigas licet et acutam sessuro crucem subdas': est tanti vulnus suum premere et patibulo pendere districtum, dum differat id quod est in malis optimum, supplici finem? est tanti habere animam ut agam? [13] Quid huic optes nisi deos faciles? quid sibi vult ista carminis effeminati turpitudo? quid timoris dementissimi pactio? quid tam foeda vitae mendicatio? Huic putes umquam recitasse Vergilium: Optat ultima malorum et quae pati gravissimum est extendi ac sustineri cupit: qua mercede? scilicet vitae longioris. Quod autem vivere est diu mori? [14] Invenitur aliquis qui velit inter supplicia tabescere et perire membratim et totiens per stilicidia emittere animam quam semel exhalare? Invenitur qui velit adactus ad illud infelix lignum, iam debilis, iam pravuset in foedum scapularum ac pectoris tuber elisus, cui multae moriendi causae etiam citra crucem fuerant, trahere animam tot tormenta tracturam? Nega nunc magnum beneficium esse naturae quod necesse est mori. [15] Multi peiora adhuc pacisci parati sunt: etiam amicum prodere, ut diutius vivant, et liberos ad stuprum manu sua tradere, ut contingat lucem videre tot consciam scelerum. Excutienda vitae cupido est discendumque nihil interesse quando patiaris quod quandoque patiendum est; quam bene vivas referre, non quamdiu; saepe autem in hoc esse bene, ne diu. Vale.