Letter 110

From my estate at Nomentum I send you greetings, and I bid you keep a sound mind—that is, to have all the gods favorable to you; for they are appeased and well-disposed toward anyone who has made himself favorable to himself. Set aside for the moment the belief held by certain people, that to each one of us a god is assigned as a guardian—not, indeed, a god of the regular order, but one of lower standing, from the number of those whom Ovid calls "gods of the common crowd." Still, I want you to set this aside in such a way that you remember our ancestors, who held this belief, were Stoics; for they assigned both a Genius and a Juno to each individual. [Romans believed each man had a personal guardian spirit, a Genius, and each woman a Juno.] [2] Later on we shall consider whether the gods have so much leisure that they manage the affairs of private persons. For now, know this: whether we have been assigned guardians or neglected and handed over to Fortune, you can call down no curse upon anyone heavier than to pray that he be at odds with himself. But there is no reason to wish, for anyone you judge deserving of punishment, that he have the gods hostile to him: he has them hostile, I tell you, even if he seems to be advanced by their favor. [3] Apply your careful attention and look hard at what our affairs really are, not what they are called, and you will see that more evils befall us than actually harm us. For how often has what was called a disaster proved to be the very cause and beginning of good fortune! How often has a thing welcomed with great congratulation built for itself a stairway over a precipice and lifted still higher a man already eminent—as though he had until then been standing in a place from which men fall safely! [4] But that very falling has nothing of evil in it, if you look to the end, beyond which nature has cast no man down. The boundary of all things is near—near, I say—both the point from which the prosperous man is thrown out and the point from which the unfortunate is released: we ourselves stretch both out, and we lengthen them by long hope and fear. But if you are wise, measure all things by the human condition; draw in at once both what you rejoice over and what you fear. Indeed, it is worth nothing to rejoice over anything for long, lest you fear anything for long. [5] But why am I narrowing down this evil? There is no reason for you to think anything is to be feared: these things that disturb us, that keep us thunderstruck, are empty. None of us has sifted out what was true; instead, one man has handed his fear on to another. No one has dared to approach the thing by which he was troubled and to learn the nature—and the good—of his own fear. And so a false and empty thing still keeps its credit, because it is never refuted. [6] Let us count it worth our while to fix our eyes upon it: it will at once be plain how brief, how uncertain, how harmless are the things we fear. The confusion of our minds is just as Lucretius saw it: ["As children tremble and fear everything in the blind darkness, so we in the light sometimes fear things no more to be feared than what children dread in the dark."] What then? Are we not more foolish than every child, we who fear in the light? [7] But it is false, Lucretius: we do not fear in the light—we have made everything into darkness for ourselves. We see nothing, neither what may harm nor what may help us; all our life long we keep blundering on, and we do not on this account stop or set our foot down more cautiously. Yet you see what a mad thing it is to rush headlong in the dark. And by Hercules, we are working to be called back from a greater distance, and though we do not know where we are being carried, we nevertheless press on swiftly toward the place we are aiming at. [8] But it can grow light, if we are willing. And it can be done in only one way: if someone takes up this knowledge of things human and divine; if he does not merely splash himself with it but soaks himself in it; if, although he knows it, he goes over it again and refers it often to himself; if he asks what things are good, what evil, and to which the name has been falsely attached; if he inquires about what is honorable and base, about providence. [9] Nor does the keenness of the human mind halt within these limits: it desires to look out beyond the universe as well—where it is being carried, from what it arose, toward what end this great speed of things is hurrying. We have dragged the mind, drawn away from this divine contemplation, into sordid and lowly things, so that it might be a slave to greed; so that, abandoning the universe with its boundaries and the masters who turn all things, it might rummage through the earth and search out what evil it could dig from it, not content with what was offered. [10] Whatever was going to be a good for us, God, our father, placed close at hand; he did not wait for us to search for it, but gave it of his own accord: what would harm us he pressed down deepest. We can complain of nothing but ourselves: the things by which we would perish we have brought forth, though Nature was unwilling and kept them hidden. We have bound our mind over to pleasure—to indulge which is the beginning of all evils—we have handed it over to ambition and reputation, and to other things equally hollow and empty. [11] What, then, do I now urge you to do? Nothing new—for remedies are not sought for new evils—but this first of all: that you yourself work out within your own mind what is necessary and what is superfluous. The necessities will meet you everywhere; the superfluous must always, and with your whole mind, be hunted out. [12] But there is no reason to praise yourself too much if you have come to despise golden couches and jewel-studded furniture; for what virtue is there in despising what is superfluous? Admire yourself then, when you have come to despise the necessities. You do no great thing in being able to live without royal apparatus, in not craving boars weighing a thousand pounds, nor flamingo tongues, nor the other monstrosities of a luxury that now scorns whole animals and picks out particular parts from each one: I shall admire you then, if you have come to despise even coarse bread, if you have persuaded yourself that grass, where need requires, springs up not only for cattle but for man, if you have learned that the tips of trees are filling enough for that belly into which we heap precious things as though it kept what it received. It must be filled without fastidiousness; for what does it matter to the point what it receives, since it will lose whatever it has received? [13] You take delight in arrangements of what is caught on land and sea, some more welcome if they are carried fresh to the table, others if, after long feeding and forced fattening, they grow soft and can scarcely hold their own fat; you take delight in the elegance of these, achieved by art. But by Hercules, those very things, anxiously sought out and seasoned in various ways, once they have passed into the belly, will be overtaken by one and the same foulness. Do you wish to despise the pleasure of food? Look to its end. [14] I remember Attalus saying these things, to the great admiration of all: "For a long time," he said, "riches deceived me. I used to be stunned whenever something of them gleamed in one place and another; I supposed that what lay hidden was like what was displayed. But at a certain show I saw the whole wealth of the city—objects worked in gold and silver and in materials that have outdone the price of gold and silver, exquisite colors and garments fetched not only from beyond our own borders but from beyond the borders of our enemies; on this side, troops of slave-boys remarkable for their grooming and beauty, on that side, troops of women, and other things that the fortune of supreme power had brought out as it took stock of its possessions. [15] 'What is this,' I said, 'but the inflaming of human desires that are already incited of themselves? What does this parade of money mean? Have we gathered to learn greed?' But by Hercules, I carried off less desire from that place than I had brought in. I came to despise riches, not because they are superfluous, but because they are paltry. [16] Did you see how, within a few hours, that procession passed by, however slow-moving and carefully arranged? Shall this fill up our whole life, when it could not fill up a whole day? This thought came to me too: those riches seemed as superfluous to those who owned them as they were to those who looked on. [17] And so I say this to myself whenever some such thing dazzles my eyes, whenever I come upon a splendid house, a polished retinue of slaves, a litter carried by handsome bearers: 'Why do you marvel? Why are you stunned? It is a parade. These things are put on show, not possessed, and while they please they pass away.' [18] Turn yourself rather to true riches; learn to be content with little, and cry out, great and high-spirited: We have water, we have barley-porridge; let us contend with Jupiter himself over happiness. Let us do so, I beg you, even if these things should be lacking; it is shameful to make the happy life rest on gold and silver, and equally shameful to make it rest on water and porridge. 'What, then, shall I do if these are lacking?' [19] Do you ask what the remedy for want is? Hunger puts an end to hunger; otherwise, what difference does it make whether the things that force you to be a slave are great or small? What does it matter how little it is that Fortune can refuse you? [20] This very water and porridge falls under another's control; but the free man is not the one over whom Fortune has little power, but the one over whom she has none. So it is: you must desire nothing, if you wish to challenge Jupiter, who desires nothing." This is what Attalus told us; Nature has told it to all. If you are willing to ponder it often, you will work to be happy, not to seem so, and to seem so to yourself rather than to others. Farewell.

From my villa at Nomentum I send you greeting and bid you keep a sound spirit within you—in other words, gain the blessing of all the gods, for he is assured of their grace and favour who has become a blessing to himself. Lay aside for the present the belief of certain persons—that a god is assigned to each one of us as a sort of attendant—not a god of regular rank, but one of a lower grade—one of those whom Ovid calls “plebeian gods.” Yet, while laying aside this belief, I would have you remember that our ancestors, who followed such a creed, have become Stoics; for they have assigned a Genius or a Juno to every individual. Later on we shall investigate whether the gods have enough time on their hands to care for the concerns of private individuals; in the meantime, you must know that whether we are allotted to special guardians, or whether we are neglected and consigned to Fortune, you can curse a man with no heavier curse than to pray that he may be at enmity with himself. There is no reason, however, why you should ask the gods to be hostile to anyone whom you regard as deserving of punishment; they are hostile to such a person, I maintain, even though he seems to be advanced by their favour. Apply careful investigation, considering how our affairs actually stand, and not what men say of them; you will then understand that evils are more likely to help us than to harm us. For how often has so-called affliction been the source and the beginning of happiness! How often have privileges which we welcomed with deep thanksgiving built steps for themselves to the top of a precipice, still uplifting men who were already distinguished—just as if they had previously stood in a position whence they could fall in safety! But this very fall has in it nothing evil, if you consider the end, after which nature lays no man lower. The universal limit is near; yes, there is near us the point where the prosperous man is upset, and the point where the unfortunate is set free. It is we ourselves that extend both these limits, lengthening them by our hopes and by our fears. If, however, you are wise, measure all things according to the state of man; restrict at the same time both your joys and your fears. Moreover, it is worth while not to rejoice at anything for long, so that you may not fear anything for long. But why do I confine the scope of this evil? There is no reason why you should suppose that anything is to be feared. All these things which stir us and keep us a-flutter, are empty things. None of us has sifted out the truth; we have passed fear on to one another; none has dared to approach the object which caused his dread, and to understand the nature of his fear—aye, the good behind it. That is why falsehood and vanity still gain credit—because they are not refuted. Let us account it worth while to look closely at the matter; then it will be clear how fleeting, how unsure, and how harmless are the things which we fear. The disturbance in our spirits is similar to that which Lucretius detected: Like boys who cower frightened in the dark, So grown-ups in the light of day feel fear. What, then? Are we not more foolish than any child, we who “in the light of day feel fear”? But you were wrong, Lucretius; we are not afraid in the daylight; we have turned everything into a state of darkness. We see neither what injures nor what profits us; all our lives through we blunder along, neither stopping nor treading more carefully on this account. But you see what madness it is to rush ahead in the dark. Indeed, we are bent on getting ourselves called back from a greater distance; and though we do not know our goal, yet we hasten with wild speed in the direction whither we are straining. The light, however, may begin to shine, provided we are willing. But such a result can come about only in one way—if we acquire by knowledge this familiarity with things divine and human, if we not only flood ourselves but steep ourselves therein, if a man reviews the same principles even though he understands them and applies them again and again to himself, if he has investigated what is good, what is evil, and what has falsely been so entitled; and, finally, if he has investigated honour and baseness, and Providence. The range of the human intelligence is not confined within these limits; it may also explore outside the universe—its destination and its source, and the ruin towards which all nature hastens so rapidly. We have withdrawn the soul from this divine contemplation and dragged it into mean and lowly tasks, so that it might be a slave to greed, so that it might forsake the universe and its confines, and, under the command of masters who try all possible schemes, pry beneath the earth and seek what evil it can dig up therefrom—discontented with that which was freely offered to it. Now God, who is the Father of us all, has placed ready to our hands those things which he intended for our own good; he did not wait for any search on our part, and he gave them to us voluntarily. But that which would be injurious, he buried deep in the earth. We can complain of nothing but ourselves; for we have brought to light the materials for our destruction, against the will of Nature, who hid them from us. We have bound over our souls to pleasure, whose service is the source of all evil; we have surrendered ourselves to self-seeking and reputation, and to other aims which are equally idle and useless. What, then, do I now encourage you to do? Nothing new—we are not trying to find cures for new evils—but this first of all: namely, to see clearly for yourself what is necessary and what is superfluous. What is necessary will meet you everywhere; what is superfluous has always to be hunted out—and with great endeavour. But there is no reason why you should flatter yourself over-much if you despise gilded couches and jewelled furniture. For what virtue lies in despising useless things? The time to admire your own conduct is when you have come to despise the necessities. You are doing no great thing if you can live without royal pomp, if you feel no craving for boars which weigh a thousand pounds, or for flamingo tongues, or for the other absurdities of a luxury that already wearies of game cooked whole, and chooses different bits from separate animals; I shall admire you only when you have learned to scorn even the common sort of bread, when you have made yourself believe that grass grows for the needs of men as well as of cattle, when you have found out that food from the treetop can fill the belly—into which we cram things of value as if it could keep what it has received. We should satisfy our stomachs without being over-nice. How does it matter what the stomach receives, since it must lose whatever it has received? You enjoy the carefully arranged dainties which are caught on land and sea; some are more pleasing if they are brought fresh to the table, others, if after long feeding and forced fattening they almost melt and can hardly retain their own grease. You like the subtly devised flavour of these dishes. But I assure you that such carefully chosen and variously seasoned dishes, once they have entered the belly, will be overtaken alike by one and the same corruption. Would you despise the pleasures of eating? Then consider its result! I remember some words of Attalus, which elicited general applause: “Riches long deceived me. I used to be dazed when I caught some gleam of them here and there. I used to think that their hidden influence matched their visible show. But once, at a certain elaborate entertainment, I saw embossed work in silver and gold equalling the wealth of a whole city, and colours and tapestry devised to match objects which surpassed the value of gold or of silver—brought not only from beyond our own borders, but from beyond the borders of our enemies; on one side were slave-boys notable for their training and beauty, on the other were throngs of slave-women, and all the other resources that a prosperous and mighty empire could offer after reviewing its possessions. What else is this, I said to myself, than a stirring-up of man’s cravings, which are in themselves provocative of lust? What is the meaning of all this display of money? Did we gather merely to learn what greed was? For my own part I left the place with less craving than I had when I entered. I came to despise riches, not because of their uselessness, but because of their pettiness. Have you noticed how, inside a few hours, that programme, however slow-moving and carefully arranged, was over and done? Has a business filled up this whole life of ours, which could not fill up a whole day? “I had another thought also: the riches seemed to me to be as useless to the possessors as they were to the onlookers. Accordingly, I say to myself, whenever a show of that sort dazzles my eyes, whenever I see a splendid palace with a well-groomed corps of attendants and beautiful bearers carrying a litter: Why wonder? Why gape in astonishment? It is all show; such things are displayed, not possessed; while they please they pass away. Turn thyself rather to the true riches. Learn to be content with little, and cry out with courage and with greatness of soul: ‘We have water, we have porridge; let us compete in happiness with Jupiter himself.’ And why not, I pray thee, make this challenge even without porridge and water? For it is base to make the happy life depend upon silver and gold, and just as base to make it depend upon water and porridge. ‘But,’ some will say, ‘what could I do without such things?’ Do you ask what is the cure for want? It is to make hunger satisfy hunger; for, all else being equal, what difference is there in the smallness or the largeness of the things that force you to be a slave? What matter how little it is that Fortune can refuse to you? Your very porridge and water can fall under another’s jurisdiction; and besides, freedom comes, not to him over whom Fortune has slight power, but to him over whom she has no power at all. This is what I mean: you must crave nothing, if you would vie with Jupiter; for Jupiter craves nothing.” This is what Attalus told us. If you are willing to think often of these things, you will strive not to seem happy, but to be happy, and, in addition, to seem happy to yourself rather than to others. Farewell.

[1] Ex Nomentano meo te saluto et iubeo habere mentem bonam, hoc est propitios deos omnis, quos habet placatos et faventes quisquis sibi se propitiavit. Sepone in praesentia quae quibusdam placent, unicuique nostrum paedagogum dari deum, non quidem ordinarium, sed hunc inferioris notae ex eorum numero quos Ovidius ait 'de plebe deos'. Ita tamen hoc seponas volo ut memineris maiores nostros qui crediderunt Stoicos fuisse; singulis enim et Genium et Iunonem dederunt. [2] Postea videbimus an tantum dis vacet ut privatorum negotia procurent: interim illud scito, sive adsignati sumus sive neglecti et fortunae dati, nulli te posse inprecari quicquam gravius quam si inprecatus fueris ut se habeat iratum. Sed non est quare cuiquam quem poena putaveris dignum optes ut infestos deos habeat: habet, inquam, etiam si videtur eorum favore produci. [3] Adhibe diligentiam tuam et intuere quid sint res nostrae, non quid vocentur, et scies plura mala contingere nobis quam accidere. Quotiens enim felicitatis et causa et initium fuit quod calamitas vocabatur! quotiens magna gratulatione excepta res gradum sibi struxit in praeceps et aliquem iam eminentem adlevavit etiamnunc, tamquam adhuc ibi staret unde tuto cadunt! [4] Sed ipsum illud cadere non habet in se mali quicquam si exitum spectes, ultra quem natura neminem deiecit. Prope est rerum omnium terminus, prope est, inquam, et illud unde felix eicitur et illud unde infelix emittitur: nos utraque extendimus et longa spe ac metu facimus. Sed, si sapis, omnia humana condicione metire; simul et quod gaudes et quod times contrahe. Est autem tanti nihil diu gaudere ne quid diu timeas. [5] Sed quare istuc malum adstringo? Non est quod quicquam timendum putes: vana sunt ista quae nos movent, quae attonitos habent. Nemo nostrum quid veri esset excussit, sed metum alter alteri tradidit; nemo ausus est ad id quo perturbabatur accedere et naturam ac bonum timoris sui nosse. Itaque res falsa et inanis habet adhuc fidem quia non coarguitur. [6] Tanti putemus oculos intendere: iam apparebit quam brevia, quam incerta, quam tuta timeantur. Talis est animorum nostrorum confusio qualis Lucretio visa est: Quid ergo? non omni puero stultiores sumus qui in luce timemus? [7] Sed falsum est, Lucreti, non timemus in luce: omnia nobis fecimus tenebras. Nihil videmus, nec quid noceat nec quid expediat; tota vita incursitamus nec ob hoc resistimus aut circumspectius pedem ponimus. Vides autem quam sit furiosa res in tenebris impetus. At mehercules id agimus ut longius revocandi simus, et cum ignoremus quo feramur, velociter tamen illo quo intendimus perseveramus. [8] Sed lucescere, si velimus, potest. Uno autem modo potest, si quis hanc humanorum divinorumque notitiam [scientia] acceperit, si illa se non perfuderit sed infecerit, si eadem, quamvis sciat, retractaverit et ad se saepe rettulerit, si quaesierit quae sint bona, quae mala, quibus hoc falso sit nomen adscriptum, si quaesierit de honestis et turpibus, de providentia. [9] Nec intra haec humani ingenii sagacitas sistitur: prospicere et ultra mundum libet, quo feratur, unde surrexerit, in quem exitum tanta rerum velocitas properet. Ab hac divina contemplatione abductum animum in sordida et humilia pertraximus, ut avaritiae serviret, ut relicto mundo terminisque eius et dominis cuncta versantibus terram rimaretur et quaereret quid ex illa mali effoderet, non contentus oblatis. [10] Quidquid nobis bono futurum erat deus et parens noster in proximo posuit; non expectavit inquisitionem nostram et ultro dedit: nocitura altissime pressit. Nihil nisi de nobis queri possumus: ea quibus periremus nolente rerum natura et abscondente protulimus. Addiximus animum voluptati, cui indulgere initium omnium malorum est, tradidimus ambitioni et famae, ceteris aeque vanis et inanibus. [11] Quid ergo nunc te hortor ut facias? nihil novi — nec enim novis malis remedia quaeruntur - sed hoc primum, ut tecum ipse dispicias quid sit necessarium, quid supervacuum. Necessaria tibi ubique occurrent: supervacua et semper et toto animo quaerenda sunt. [12] Non est autem quod te nimis laudes si contempseris aureos lectos et gemmeam supellectilem; quae est enim virtus supervacua contemnere? Tunc te admirare cum contempseris necessaria. Non magnam rem facis quod vivere sine regio apparatu potes, quod non desideras milliarios apros nec linguas phoenicopterorum et alia portenta luxuriae iam tota animalia fastidientis et certa membra ex singulis eligentis: tunc te admirabor si contempseris etiam sordidum panem, si tibi persuaseris herbam, ubi necesse est, non pecori tantum sed homini nasci, si scieris cacumina arborum explementum esse ventris in quem sic pretiosa congerimus tamquam recepta servantem. Sine fastidio implendus est; quid enim ad rem pertinet quid accipiat, perditurus quidquid acceperit? [13] Delectant te disposita quae terra marique capiuntur, alia eo gratiora si recentia perferuntur ad mensam, alia si diu pasta et coacta pinguescere fluunt ac vix saginam continent suam; delectat te nitor horum arte quaesitus. At mehercules ista sollicite scrutata varieque condita, cum subierint ventrem, una atque eadem foeditas occupabit. Vis ciborum voluptatem contemnere? exitum specta. [14] Attalum memini cum magna admiratione omnium haec dicere: 'diu' inquit 'mihi inposuere divitiae. Stupebam ubi aliquid ex illis alio atque alio loco fulserat; existimabam similia esse quae laterent his quae ostenderentur. Sed in quodam apparatu vidi totas opes urbis, caelata et auro et argento et iis quae pretium auri argentique vicerunt, exquisitos colores et vestes ultra non tantum nostrum sed ultra finem hostium advectas; hinc puerorum perspicuos cultu atque forma greges, hinc feminarum, et alia quae res suas recognoscens summi imperii fortuna protulerat. [15] "Quid hoc est" inquam "aliud inritare cupiditates hominum per se incitatas? quid sibi vult ista pecuniae pompa? ad discendam avaritiam convenimus?" At mehercules minus cupiditatis istinc effero quam adtuleram. Contempsi divitias, non quia supervacuae sed quia pusillae sunt. [16] Vidistine quam intra paucas horas ille ordo quamvis lentus dispositusque transierit? Hoc totam vitam nostram occupabit quod totum diem occupare non potuit? Accessit illud quoque: tam supervacuae mihi visae sunt habentibus quam fuerunt spectantibus. [17] Hoc itaque ipse mihi dico quotiens tale aliquid praestrinxerit oculos meos, quotiens occurrit domus splendida, cohors culta servorum, lectica formonsis inposita calonibus: "quid miraris? quid stupes? pompa est. Ostenduntur istae res, non possidentur, et dum placent transeunt". [18] Ad veras potius te converte divitias; disce parvo esse contentus et illam vocem magnus atque animosus exclama: habemus aquam, habemus polentam; Iovi ipsi controversiam de felicitate faciamus. Faciamus, oro te, etiam si ista defuerint; turpe est beatam vitam in auro et argento reponere, aeque turpe in aqua et polenta. "Quid ergo faciam si ista non fuerint?" [19] Quaeris quod sit remedium inopiae? Famem fames finit: alioquin quid interest magna sint an exigua quae servire te cogant? quid refert quantulum sit quod tibi possit negare fortuna? [20] Haec ipsa aqua et polenta in alienum arbitrium cadit; liber est autem non in quem parum licet fortunae, sed in quem nihil. Ita est: nihil desideres oportet si vis Iovem provocare nihil desiderantem.' Haec nobis Attalus dixit, natura omnibus dixit; quae si voles frequenter cogitare, id ages ut sis felix, non ut videaris, et ut tibi videaris, non aliis. Vale.