Letter 78

[1] That you are plagued by frequent catarrhs and by the slight fevers which follow upon long-standing, habitual catarrhs grieves me all the more because I have had experience of this kind of ill health myself. At the outset I made light of it -- my youth was still able to bear the assaults and to carry itself stubbornly against disease -- but then I gave way, and was brought to such a pass that I was all catarrh myself, reduced to the utmost thinness. [2] Often I conceived the impulse to break off my life; the old age of my most indulgent father held me back. For I considered not how bravely I myself might be able to die, but how little bravely he would be able to endure the loss. And so I commanded myself to live; for sometimes even to go on living is an act of courage. [3] I will tell you what was then my consolation, once I have first said this: that these very things in which I found my rest had the force of medicine. Honorable consolations turn into a cure, and whatever has lifted up the mind is also of benefit to the body. My studies -- our studies -- were my salvation. To philosophy I credit it that I rose again, that I recovered; to her I owe my life, and that is the least I owe her. [4] But my friends too contributed much toward my good health, by whose exhortations, vigils at my bedside, and conversation I was relieved. Nothing, Lucilius, best of men, so restores and aids the sick as the affection of friends; nothing so steals away the expectation of death and its fear. I did not judge that I was dying, when I was leaving them behind to survive me. I thought, I say, that I would go on living not with them, but through them; I seemed to myself not to be pouring out my spirit, but handing it over. These things gave me the will to help myself and to endure every torment; for otherwise it is the most wretched thing, when you have cast away the resolve to die, to have none for living. [5] Betake yourself, then, to these remedies. The physician will show you how much you should walk, how much you should exercise; that you should not indulge in idleness, toward which a feeble state of health inclines; that you should read aloud more vigorously and so exercise the breath, whose passage and chamber are in distress; that you should sail and shake up your inner organs with a gentle tossing; which foods you should use, when you should call in wine for the sake of strength, and when you should leave it off lest it irritate and aggravate the cough. But I prescribe for you that which is a remedy not only for this disease but for the whole of life: despise death. Nothing is grievous once we have escaped the fear of death. [6] These three things are oppressive in every illness: the fear of death, bodily pain, and the interruption of pleasures. Of death enough has been said; I will say only this one thing -- that this is a fear not of disease but of nature. Disease has postponed the death of many, and the appearance of perishing has been their salvation. You will die, not because you are sick, but because you are alive. That same outcome awaits you even when cured; when you have recovered, you will have escaped not death but ill health. [7] Let us now return to the trouble peculiar to disease: illness brings great torments, but intervals make them bearable. For the straining of the highest pain finds its limit; no one can suffer intensely and for long. Nature, who loves us most, has so arranged things that she has made pain either bearable or brief. [8] The greatest pains take their seat in the thinnest parts of the body: the sinews and joints, and whatever else is slender, rage most fiercely when they have conceived their disorders within a narrow space. But these parts quickly grow numb, and by the very pain lose the sensation of pain -- whether because the breath of life, prevented from its natural course and changed for the worse, loses the force by which it thrives and gives us warning; or because the corrupted humor, when it has ceased to have anywhere to flow together, crushes itself and shakes off sensation from the parts it has too greatly filled. [9] Thus gout in the feet and gout in the hands, and all pain of the vertebrae and the sinews, falls quiet when it has dulled the very parts it was torturing; the first creeping irritation of all these afflictions torments us, the onset is extinguished by delay, and the end of the pain is to have grown numb. The pain of teeth, eyes, and ears is for this very reason most acute, because it is born among the narrow places of the body -- no less, by Hercules, than the pain of the head itself; but if it grows too violent, it turns into delirium and stupor. [10] This, then, is the consolation of vast pain: that you must necessarily cease to feel it if you have felt it too much. But here is what troubles the inexperienced amid bodily affliction: they have not grown accustomed to be content with the mind; they have had much to do with the body. Therefore the great and prudent man draws his mind apart from the body and dwells much with the better and divine part, and only as much as is necessary with this querulous and fragile one. [11] "But it is troublesome," he says, "to do without one's accustomed pleasures, to abstain from food, to thirst, to hunger." These are grievous at the first abstinence; then the desire languishes, the very things we crave growing weary and failing of themselves. Hence the stomach becomes peevish; hence those who had an appetite for food come to loathe it. The desires themselves die away, and it is not bitter to do without that which you have ceased to crave. [12] Add to this that no pain fails to be interrupted, or is at least relieved. Add that one may guard against what is coming and oppose what is imminent with remedies; for no pain fails to send signs ahead -- at least none that returns according to its usual pattern. The endurance of disease is bearable, if you have despised that which it threatens as its worst. [13] Do not make your own ills heavier for yourself, and do not burden yourself with complaints. Pain is slight if opinion has added nothing to it. On the contrary, if you begin to exhort yourself and say, "It is nothing, or at least it is trifling; let us endure it; it will soon cease," you will make it slight by the very act of thinking it so. All things hang upon opinion: not ambition alone looks to it, and luxury, and avarice -- we feel pain according to opinion. [14] Each man is as wretched as he has believed himself to be. I think we must do away with complaints over past pains and with words like these: "No one ever had it worse. What torments, what great evils I endured! No one thought I would rise again. How often I was lamented as lost by my own people, how often given up by the physicians! Those laid upon the rack are not stretched apart as I was." Even if these things are true, they have passed: what good is it to dwell again on past pains and to be wretched because you once were so? Besides, who does not add much to his own ills and lie to himself? And then, what was bitter to bear is pleasant to have borne; it is natural to rejoice at the ending of one's ill. Two things, therefore, must be cut away: the fear of the future and the memory of past trouble -- the latter no longer concerns me, the former not yet. [15] Set in the very midst of difficulties, let him say [...]. [Here the original quotes the line of Vergil, Aeneid 1.203: "Perhaps one day it will be a joy to remember even these things."] Let him fight against them with his whole mind; he will be conquered if he yields, he will conquer if he strains himself against his pain. As it is, most men do this: they drag down upon themselves the ruin they ought to resist. That which presses, which hangs over, which bears down -- if you begin to withdraw from it, it will follow and lean more heavily; if you stand against it and choose to push back, it will be repelled. [16] How many blows do athletes take on the face, how many over the whole body! Yet they bear every torment from desire of glory, and they suffer these things not only because they are fighting, but in order to fight; the very training is a torment. Let us too conquer all things, we whose reward is no garland nor palm nor trumpeter calling for silence at the proclaiming of our name, but virtue and firmness of mind and a peace won for all time to come, once Fortune has been utterly beaten in a single contest. "I feel grievous pain." [17] What of it? Do you feel it any less if you bear it like a woman? Just as an enemy is more deadly to those who flee, so every chance misfortune presses harder upon the one who gives way and turns his back. "But it is grievous." What of it? Are we strong for this purpose, that we should carry only light burdens? Which do you prefer, that your illness be long or sharp and brief? If it is long, it has its respites, gives room for recovery, grants much time; it must necessarily rise to a peak and then cease. A brief and headlong illness will do one of two things: it will be extinguished, or it will extinguish. And what does it matter whether it is no more or I am no more? In either case there is an end of pain. [18] This too will help: to turn the mind aside to other thoughts and so to depart from pain. Think of what honorable, what brave deeds you have done; review with yourself the good parts of your life; scatter your memory over the things you have most admired. Then let every man of the greatest courage, every conqueror of pain, come before you: the man who, while he offered up his varicose veins to be cut out, persevered in reading his book; the man who did not stop laughing even when his very torturers, enraged at this, tried out on him all the instruments of their cruelty. Will pain not be conquered by reason, when it has been conquered by laughter? [19] You may say now whatever you like: catarrhs, and the force of a continuous cough that brings up portions of the inner organs, and a fever that scorches the very vitals, and thirst, and limbs twisted with the joints jutting in different directions. Worse still are the flame, the rack, the red-hot plate, and that instrument which renews the swelling wounds themselves and presses deeper upon what it has already driven in. Yet even amid these things some man has not groaned. Too little: he has not begged for mercy. Too little: he has not answered. Too little: he has laughed, and from the heart. After this, will you not bring yourself to mock at pain? [20] "But," he says, "my illness lets me do nothing; it has drawn me away from all my duties." Ill health holds your body, not your mind as well. And so it slows the feet of the runner, hampers the hands of the cobbler or the smith; but if your mind is wont to be in use, you will advise and teach, you will hear and learn, you will inquire and recall. Furthermore -- do you believe you are doing nothing if you are temperate in your sickness? You will show that disease can be overcome, or at least withstood. [21] There is, believe me, a place for virtue even in the sickbed. It is not only arms and the battle line that furnish proof of a mind that is keen and unconquered by terrors: even amid the bedclothes the brave man shows himself. You have something to do: wrestle well with your disease. If it compels you to nothing, if it wins nothing from you by entreaty, you set forth a notable example. Oh, what great material for glory there would be, if we could be watched while sick! Be your own spectator, give your own praise. [22] Besides, there are two kinds of pleasures. Disease checks bodily ones, but does not abolish them; rather, if you weigh it truly, it sharpens them. It is more pleasing to drink when thirsty, food is more welcome to the hungry; whatever comes after abstinence is received more eagerly. But those pleasures of the mind, which are greater and more certain, no physician denies to the sick. Whoever pursues these and understands them well despises all the allurements of the senses. [23] "Oh, the unhappy invalid!" Why? Because he does not dilute his wine with snow? Because he does not renew the chill of his drink, mixed in a roomy cup, by breaking yet more ice into it? Because Lucrine oysters are not opened for him at the very table? [The Lucrine Lake near Baiae was famous for its luxury oysters.] Because there is no uproar of cooks around his dining room, bringing in the very hearths along with the dishes? For luxury has by now devised even this -- that no dish grow lukewarm, that nothing fall short of heat for a palate already calloused, the kitchen attends the dinner. [24] "Oh, the unhappy invalid!" He will eat as much as he can digest; no boar will lie in his sight, banished from the table as cheap meat, nor will the breasts of birds be heaped on his serving platter -- for it is nauseating to see them served whole. What harm has been done to you? You will dine like a sick man -- indeed, sometimes like a healthy one. [25] But all these things we shall easily bear -- broth, warm water, and whatever else seems intolerable to the delicate and to those awash in luxury, who are sick more in mind than in body -- if only we cease to dread death. And cease we shall, if we have come to know the limits of goods and evils; then, and only then, will life not be a weariness nor death a terror. [26] For surfeit of itself cannot take hold of a life that surveys so many varied, great, and divine things; it is sluggish idleness that is wont to drive a man into hatred of his own life. To one who roams through the nature of things, the truth will never come to be a thing of loathing; it is falsehoods that will cloy. [27] On the other hand, if death draws near and calls -- though it be untimely, though it cut off life in its midst -- the fruit of the longest existence has already been gathered. Such a man has come to know nature in great part; he knows that honorable things do not grow with time. To those who measure all life by empty and therefore endless pleasures, it must necessarily seem short. [28] Refresh yourself with these thoughts, and meanwhile keep some time free for our letters. The day will come at length that joins and unites us once more; however small it may be, the knowledge of how to use it will make it long. For, as Posidonius says, "A single day of learned men lies more open than the longest life of the ignorant." [29] Meanwhile, hold fast to this, bite down on this: not to give way to adversity, not to trust in prosperity, to keep before your eyes the whole license of Fortune, as though she would do whatever she has the power to do. Whatever has long been awaited comes more lightly. Farewell.

That you are frequently troubled by the snuffling of catarrh and by short attacks of fever which follow after long and chronic catarrhal seizures, I am sorry to hear; particularly because I have experienced this sort of illness myself, and scorned it in its early stages. For when I was still young, I could put up with hardships and show a bold front to illness. But I finally succumbed, and arrived at such a state that I could do nothing but snuffle, reduced as I was to the extremity of thinness. I often entertained the impulse of ending my life then and there; but the thought of my kind old father kept me back. For I reflected, not how bravely I had the power to die, but how little power he had to bear bravely the loss of me. And so I commanded myself to live. For sometimes it is an act of bravery even to live. Now I shall tell you what consoled me during those days, stating at the outset that these very aids to my peace of mind were as efficacious as medicine. Honourable consolation results in a cure; and whatever has uplifted the soul helps the body also. My studies were my salvation. I place it to the credit of philosophy that I recovered and regained my strength. I owe my life to philosophy, and that is the least of my obligations! My friends, too, helped me greatly toward good health; I used to be comforted by their cheering words, by the hours they spent at my bedside, and by their conversation. Nothing, my excellent Lucilius, refreshes and aids a sick man so much as the affection of his friends; nothing so steals away the expectation and the fear of death. In fact, I could not believe that, if they survived me, I should be dying at all. Yes, I repeat, it seemed to me that I should continue to live, not with them, but through them. I imagined myself not to be yielding up my soul, but to be making it over to them. All these things gave me the inclination to succour myself and to endure any torture; besides, it is a most miserable state to have lost one’s zest for dying, and to have no zest in living. These, then, are the remedies to which you should have recourse. The physician will prescribe your walks and your exercise; he will warn you not to become addicted to idleness, as is the tendency of the inactive invalid; he will order you to read in a louder voice and to exercise your lungs the passages and cavity of which are affected; or to sail and shake up your bowels by a little mild motion; he will recommend the proper food, and the suitable time for aiding your strength with wine or refraining from it in order to keep your cough from being irritated and hacking. But as for me, my counsel to you is this,—and it is a cure, not merely of this disease of yours, but of your whole life,—“Despise death.” There is no sorrow in the world, when we have escaped from the fear of death. There are these three serious elements in every disease: fear of death, bodily pain, and interruption of pleasures. Concerning death enough has been said, and I shall add only a word: this fear is not a fear of disease, but a fear of nature. Disease has often postponed death, and a vision of dying has been many a man’s salvation. You will die, not because you are ill, but because you are alive; even when you have been cured, the same end awaits you; when you have recovered, it will be not death, but ill-health, that you have escaped. Let us now return to the consideration of the characteristic disadvantage of disease: it is accompanied by great suffering. The suffering, however, is rendered endurable by interruptions; for the strain of extreme pain must come to an end. No man can suffer both severely and for a long time; Nature, who loves us most tenderly, has so constituted us as to make pain either endurable or short. The severest pains have their seat in the most slender parts of our body; nerves, joints, and any other of the narrow passages, hurt most cruelly when they have developed trouble within their contracted spaces. But these parts soon become numb, and by reason of the pain itself lose the sensation of pain, whether because the life-force, when checked in its natural course and changed for the worse, loses the peculiar power through which it thrives and through which it warns us, or because the diseased humours of the body, when they cease to have a place into which they may flow, are thrown back upon themselves, and deprive of sensation the parts where they have caused congestion. So gout, both in the feet and in the hands, and all pain in the vertebrae and in the nerves, have their intervals of rest at the times when they have dulled the parts which they before had tortured; the first twinges, in all such cases, are what cause the distress, and their onset is checked by lapse of time, so that there is an end of pain when numbness has set in. Pain in the teeth, eyes, and ears is most acute for the very reason that it begins among the narrow spaces of the body,—no less acute, indeed, than in the head itself. But if it is more violent than usual, it turns to delirium and stupor. This is, accordingly, a consolation for excessive pain,—that you cannot help ceasing to feel it if you feel it to excess. The reason, however, why the inexperienced are impatient when their bodies suffer is, that they have not accustomed themselves to be contented in spirit. They have been closely associated with the body. Therefore a high-minded and sensible man divorces soul from body, and dwells much with the better or divine part, and only as far as he must with this complaining and frail portion. “But it is a hardship,” men say, “to do without our customary pleasures,—to fast, to feel thirst and hunger.” These are indeed serious when one first abstains from them. Later the desire dies down, because the appetites themselves which lead to desire are wearied and forsake us; then the stomach becomes petulant, then the food which we craved before becomes hateful. Our very wants die away. But there is no bitterness in doing without that which you have ceased to desire. Moreover, every pain sometimes stops, or at any rate slackens; moreover, one may take precautions against its return, and, when it threatens, may check it by means of remedies. Every variety of pain has its premonitory symptoms; this is true, at any rate, of pain that is habitual and recurrent. One can endure the suffering which disease entails, if one has come to regard its results with scorn. But do not of your own accord make your troubles heavier to bear and burden yourself with complaining. Pain is slight if opinion has added nothing to it; but if, on the other hand, you begin to encourage yourself and say, “It is nothing,—a trifling matter at most; keep a stout heart and it will soon cease”; then in thinking it slight, you will make it slight. Everything depends on opinion; ambition, luxury, greed, hark back to opinion. It is according to opinion that we suffer. A man is as wretched as he has convinced himself that he is. I hold that we should do away with complaint about past sufferings and with all language like this: “None has ever been worse off than I. What sufferings, what evils have I endured! No one has thought that I shall recover. How often have my family bewailed me, and the physicians given me over! Men who are placed on the rack are not torn asunder with such agony!” However, even if all this is true, it is over and gone. What benefit is there in reviewing past sufferings, and in being unhappy, just because once you were unhappy? Besides, every one adds much to his own ills, and tells lies to himself. And that which was bitter to bear is pleasant to have borne; it is natural to rejoice at the ending of one’s ills. Two elements must therefore be rooted out once for all,—the fear of future suffering, and the recollection of past suffering; since the latter no longer concerns me, and the former concerns me not yet. But when set in the very midst of troubles one should say: Perchance some day the memory of this sorrow Will even bring delight. Let such a man fight against them with all his might: if he once gives way, he will be vanquished; but if he strives against his sufferings, he will conquer. As it is, however, what most men do is to drag down upon their own heads a falling ruin which they ought to try to support. If you begin to withdraw your support from that which thrusts toward you and totters and is ready to plunge, it will follow you and lean more heavily upon you; but if you hold your ground and make up your mind to push against it, it will be forced back. What blows do athletes receive on their faces and all over their bodies! Nevertheless, through their desire for fame they endure every torture, and they undergo these things not only because they are fighting but in order to be able to fight. Their very training means torture. So let us also win the way to victory in all our struggles,—for the reward is not a garland or a palm or a trumpeter who calls for silence at the proclamation of our names, but rather virtue, steadfastness of soul, and a peace that is won for all time, if fortune has once been utterly vanquished in any combat. You say, “I feel severe pain.” What then; are you relieved from feeling it, if you endure it like a woman? Just as an enemy is more dangerous to a retreating army, so every trouble that fortune brings attacks us all the harder if we yield and turn our backs. “But the trouble is serious.” What? Is it for this purpose that we are strong,—that we may have light burdens to bear? Would you have your illness long-drawn-out, or would you have it quick and short? If it is long, it means a respite, allows you a period for resting yourself, bestows upon you the boon of time in plenty; as it arises, so it must also subside. A short and rapid illness will do one of two things: it will quench or be quenched. And what difference does it make whether it is not or I am not? In either case there is an end of pain. This, too, will help—to turn the mind aside to thoughts of other things and thus to depart from pain. Call to mind what honourable or brave deeds you have done; consider the good side of your own life. Run over in your memory those things which you have particularly admired. Then think of all the brave men who have conquered pain: of him who continued to read his book as he allowed the cutting out of varicose veins; of him who did not cease to smile, though that very smile so enraged his torturers that they tried upon him every instrument of their cruelty. If pain can be conquered by a smile, will it not be conquered by reason? You may tell me now of whatever you like—of colds, hard coughing-spells that bring up parts of our entrails, fever that parches our very vitals, thirst, limbs so twisted that the joints protrude in different directions; yet worse than these are the stake, the rack, the red-hot plates, the instrument that reopens wounds while the wounds themselves are still swollen and that drives their imprint still deeper. Nevertheless there have been men who have not uttered a moan amid these tortures. “More yet!” says the torturer; but the victim has not begged for release. “More yet!” he says again; but no answer has come. “More yet!” the victim has smiled, and heartily, too. Can you not bring yourself, after an example like this, to make a mock at pain? “But,” you object, “my illness does not allow me to be doing anything; it has withdrawn me from all my duties.” It is your body that is hampered by ill-health, and not your soul as well. It is for this reason that it clogs the feet of the runner and will hinder the handiwork of the cobbler or the artisan; but if your soul be habitually in practice, you will plead and teach, listen and learn, investigate and meditate. What more is necessary? Do you think that you are doing nothing if you possess self-control in your illness? You will be showing that a disease can be overcome, or at any rate endured. There is, I assure you, a place for virtue even upon a bed of sickness. It is not only the sword and the battle-line that prove the soul alert and unconquered by fear; a man can display bravery even when wrapped in his bed-clothes. You have something to do: wrestle bravely with disease. If it shall compel you to nothing, beguile you to nothing, it is a notable example that you display. O what ample matter were there for renown, if we could have spectators of our sickness! Be your own spectator; seek your own applause. Again, there are two kinds of pleasures. Disease checks the pleasures of the body, but does not do away with them. Nay, if the truth is to be considered, it serves to excite them; for the thirstier a man is, the more he enjoys a drink; the hungrier he is, the more pleasure he takes in food. Whatever falls to one’s lot after a period of abstinence is welcomed with greater zest. The other kind, however, the pleasures of the mind, which are higher and less uncertain, no physician can refuse to the sick man. Whoever seeks these and knows well what they are, scorns all the blandishments of the senses. Men say, “Poor sick fellow!” But why? Is it because he does not mix snow with his wine, or because he does not revive the chill of his drink—mixed as it is in a good-sized bowl—by chipping ice into it? Or because he does not have Lucrine oysters opened fresh at his table? Or because there is no din of cooks about his dining-hall, as they bring in their very cooking apparatus along with their viands? For luxury has already devised this fashion—of having the kitchen accompany the dinner, so that the food may not grow luke-warm, or fail to be hot enough for a palate which has already become hardened. “Poor sick fellow!”—he will eat as much as he can digest. There will be no boar lying before his eyes, banished from the table as if it were a common meat; and on his sideboard there will be heaped together no breast-meat of birds, because it sickens him to see birds served whole. But what evil has been done to you? You will dine like a sick man, nay, sometimes like a sound man. All these things, however, can be easily endured—gruel, warm water, and anything else that seems insupportable to a fastidious man, to one who is wallowing in luxury, sick in soul rather than in body—if only we cease to shudder at death. And we shall cease, if once we have gained a knowledge of the limits of good and evil; then, and then only, life will not weary us, neither will death make us afraid. For surfeit of self can never seize upon a life that surveys all the things which are manifold, great, divine; only idle leisure is wont to make men hate their lives. To one who roams through the universe, the truth can never pall; it will be the untruths that will cloy. And, on the other hand, if death comes near with its summons, even though it be untimely in its arrival, though it cut one off in one’s prime, a man has had a taste of all that the longest life can give. Such a man has in great measure come to understand the universe. He knows that honourable things do not depend on time for their growth; but any life must seem short to those who measure its length by pleasures which are empty and for that reason unbounded. Refresh yourself with such thoughts as these, and meanwhile reserve some hours for our letters. There will come a time when we shall be united again and brought together; however short this time may be, we shall make it long by knowing how to employ it. For, as Posidonius says: “A single day among the learned lasts longer than the longest life of the ignorant.” Meanwhile, hold fast to this thought, and grip it close: yield not to adversity; trust not to prosperity; keep before your eyes the full scope of Fortune’s power, as if she would surely do whatever is in her power to do. That which has been long expected comes more gently. Farewell.

[1] Vexari te destillationibus crebris ac febriculis, quae longas destillationes et in consuetudinem adductas sequuntur, eo molestius mihi est quia expertus sum hoc genus valetudinis, quod inter initia contempsi -- poterat adhuc adulescentia iniurias ferre et se adversus morbos contumaciter gerere -- deinde succubui et eo perductus sum ut ipse destillarem, ad summam maciem deductus. [2] Saepe impetum cepi abrumpendae vitae: patris me indulgentissimi senectus retinuit. Cogitavi enim non quam fortiter ego mori possem, sed quam ille fortiter desiderare non posset. Itaque imperavi mihi ut viverem; aliquando enim et vivere fortiter facere est. [3] Quae mihi tunc fuerint solacio dicam, si prius hoc dixero, haec ipsa quibus adquiescebam medicinae vim habuisse; in remedium cedunt honesta solacia, et quidquid animum erexit etiam corpori prodest. Studia mihi nostra saluti fuerunt; philosophiae acceptum fero quod surrexi, quod convalui; illi vitam debeo et nihil illi minus debeo. [4] Multum autem mihi contulerunt ad bonam valetudinem <et> amici, quorum adhortationibus, vigiliis, sermonibus adlevabar. Nihil aeque, Lucili, virorum optime, aegrum reficit atque adiuvat quam amicorum adfectus, nihil aeque expectationem mortis ac metum subripit: non iudicabam me, cum illos superstites relinquerem, mori. Putabam, inquam, me victurum non cum illis, sed per illos; non effundere mihi spiritum videbar, sed tradere. Haec mihi dederunt voluntatem adiuvandi me et patiendi omne tormentum; alioqui miserrimum est, cum animum moriendi proieceris, non habere vivendi. [5] Ad haec ergo remedia te confer. Medicus tibi quantum ambules, quantum exercearis monstrabit; ne indulgeas otio, ad quod vergit iners valetudo; ut legas clarius et spiritum, cuius iter ac receptaculum laborat, exerceas; ut naviges et viscera molli iactatione concutias; quibus cibis utaris, vinum quando virium causa advoces, quando intermittas ne inritet et exasperet tussim. Ego tibi illud praecipio quod non tantum huius morbi sed totius vitae remedium est: contemne mortem. Nihil triste est cum huius metum effugimus. [6] Tria haec in omni morbo gravia sunt: metus mortis, dolor corporis, intermissio voluptatum. De morte satis dictum est: hoc unum dicam, non morbi hunc esse sed naturae metum. Multorum mortem distulit morbus et saluti illis fuit videri perire. Morieris, non quia aegrotas, sed quia vivis. Ista te res et sanatum manet; cum convalueris, non mortem sed valetudinem effugeris. [7] Ad illud nunc proprium incommodum revertamur: magnos cruciatus habet morbus, sed hos tolerabiles intervalla faciunt. Nam summi doloris intentio invenit finem; nemo potest valde dolere et diu; sic nos amantissima nostri natura disposuit ut dolorem aut tolerabilem aut brevem faceret. [8] Maximi dolores consistunt in macerrimis corporis partibus: nervi articulique et quidquid aliud exile est acerrime saevit cum in arto vitia concepit. Sed cito hae partes obstupescunt et ipso dolore sensum doloris amittunt, sive quia spiritus naturali prohibitus cursu et mutatus in peius vim suam qua viget admonetque nos perdit, sive quia corruptus umor, cum desiit habere quo confluat, ipse se elidit et iis quae nimis implevit excutit sensum. [9] Sic podagra et cheragra et omnis vertebrarum dolor nervorumque interquiescit cum illa quae torquebat hebetavit; omnium istorum prima verminatio vexat, impetus mora extinguitur et finis dolendi est optorpuisse. Dentium, oculorum, aurium dolor ob hoc ipsum acutissimus est quod inter angusta corporis nascitur, non minus, mehercule, quam capitis ipsius; sed si incitatior est, in alienationem soporemque convertitur. [10] Hoc itaque solacium vasti doloris est, quod necesse est desinas illum sentire si nimis senseris. Illud autem est quod inperitos in vexatione corporis male habet: non adsueverunt animo esse contenti; multum illis cum corpore fuit. Ideo vir magnus ac prudens animum diducit a corpore et multum cum meliore ac divina parte versatur, cum hac querula et fragili quantum necesse est. [11] 'Sed molestum est' inquit 'carere adsuetis voluptatibus, abstinere cibo, sitire, esurire.' Haec prima abstinentia gravia sunt, deinde cupiditas relanguescit ipsis per [se] quae cupimus fatigatis ac deficientibus; inde morosus est stomachus, inde quibus fuit aviditas cibi odium est. Desideria ipsa moriuntur; non est autem acerbum carere eo quod cupere desieris. [12] Adice quod nullus non intermittitur dolor aut certe remittitur. Adice quod licet cavere venturum et obsistere inminenti remediis; nullus enim non signa praemittit, utique qui ex solito revertitur. Tolerabilis est morbi patientia, si contempseris id quod extremum minatur. [13] Noli mala tua facere tibi ipse graviora et te querelis onerare: levis est dolor si nihil illi opinio adiecerit. Contra si exhortari te coeperis ac dicere 'nihil est aut certe exiguum est; duremus; iam desinet', levem illum, dum putas, facies. Omnia ex opinione suspensa sunt; non ambitio tantum ad illam respicit et luxuria et avaritia: ad opinionem dolemus. [14] Tam miser est quisque quam credidit. Detrahendas praeteritorum dolorum conquestiones puto et illa verba: 'nulli umquam fuit peius. Quos cruciatus, quanta mala pertuli! Nemo me surrecturum putavit. Quotiens deploratus sum a meis, quotiens a medicis relictus! In eculeum inpositi non sic distrahuntur.' Etiam si sunt vera ista, transierunt: quid iuvat praeteritos dolores retractare et miserum esse quia fueris? Quid quod nemo non multum malis suis adicit et sibi ipse mentitur? Deinde quod acerbum fuit ferre, tulisse iucundum est: naturale est mali sui fine gaudere. Circumcidenda ergo duo sunt, et futuri timor et veteris incommodi memoria: hoc ad me iam non pertinet, illud nondum. [15] In ipsis positus difficultatibus dicat, Toto contra ille pugnet animo; vincetur si cesserit, vincet si se contra dolorem suum intenderit: nunc hoc plerique faciunt, adtrahunt in se ruinam cui obstandum est. Istud quod premit, quod inpendet, quod urguet, si subducere te coeperis, sequetur et gravius incumbet; si contra steteris et obniti volueris, repelletur. [16] Athletae quantum plagarum ore, quantum toto corpore excipiunt! ferunt tamen omne tormentum gloriae cupiditate nec tantum quia pugnant ista patiuntur, sed ut pugnent: exercitatio ipsa tormentum est. Nos quoque evincamus omnia, quorum praemium non corona nec palma est nec tubicen praedicationi nominis nostri silentium faciens, sed virtus et firmitas animi et pax in ceterum parta, si semel in aliquo certamine debellata fortuna est. 'Dolorem gravem sentio.' [17] Quid ergo? non sentis si illum muliebriter tuleris? Quemadmodum perniciosior est hostis fugientibus, sic omne fortuitum incommodum magis instat cedenti et averso. 'Sed grave est.' Quid? nos ad hoc fortes sumus, ut levia portemus? Utrum vis longum esse morbum an concitatum et brevem? Si longus est, habet intercapedinem, dat refectioni locum, multum temporis donat, necesse est, ut exsurgat, et desinat: brevis morbus ac praeceps alterutrum faciet, aut extinguetur aut extinguet. Quid autem interest, non sit an non sim? in utroque finis dolendi est. [18] Illud quoque proderit, ad alias cogitationes avertere animum et a dolore discedere. Cogita quid honeste, quid fortiter feceris; bonas partes tecum ipse tracta; memoriam in ea quae maxime miratus es sparge; tunc tibi fortissimus quisque et victor doloris occurrat: ille qui dum varices exsecandas praeberet legere librum perseveravit, ille qui non desiit ridere cum hoc ipsum irati tortores omnia instrumenta crudelitatis suae experirentur. Non vincetur dolor ratione, qui victus est risu? [19] Quidquid vis nunc licet dicas, destillationes et vim continuae tussis egerentem viscerum partes et febrem praecordia ipsa torrentem et sitim et artus in diversum articulis exeuntibus tortos: plus est flamma et eculeus et lamina et vulneribus ipsis intumescentibus quod illa renovaret et altius urgueret inpressum. Inter haec tamen aliquis non gemuit. Parum est: non rogavit. Parum est: non respondit. Parum est: risit et quidem ex animo. Vis tu post hoc dolorem deridere? [20] 'Sed nihil' inquit 'agere sinit morbus, qui me omnibus abduxit officiis.' Corpus tuum valetudo tenet, non et animum. Itaque cursoris moratur pedes, sutoris aut fabri manus inpedit: si animus tibi esse in usu solet, suadebis docebis, audies disces, quaeres recordaberis. Quid porro? nihil agere te credis si temperans aeger sis? ostendes morbum posse superari vel certe sustineri. [21] Est, mihi crede, virtuti etiam in lectulo locus. Non tantum arma et acies dant argumenta alacris animi indomitique terroribus: et in vestimentis vir fortis apparet. Habes quod agas: bene luctare cum morbo. Si nihil te coegerit, si nihil exoraverit, insigne prodis exemplum. O quam magna erat gloriae materia, si spectaremur aegri! ipse te specta, ipse te lauda. [22] Praeterea duo genera sunt voluptatum. Corporales morbus inhibet, non tamen tollit; immo, si verum aestimes, incitat. Magis iuvat bibere sitientem, gratior est esurienti cibus; quidquid ex abstinentia contingit avidius excipitur. Illas vero animi voluptates, quae maiores certioresque sunt, nemo medicus aegro negat. Has quisquis sequitur et bene intellegit omnia sensuum blandimenta contemnit. [23] 'O infelicem aegrum!' Quare? quia non vino nivem diluit? quia non rigorem potionis suae, quam capaci scypho miscuit, renovat fracta insuper glacie? quia non ostrea illi Lucrina in ipsa mensa aperiuntur? quia non circa cenationem eius tumultus cocorum est ipsos cum opsoniis focos transferentium? Hoc enim iam luxuria commenta est: ne quis intepescat cibus, ne quid palato iam calloso parum ferveat, cenam culina prosequitur. [24] 'O infelicem aegrum!' Edet quantum concoquat; non iacebit in conspectu aper ut vilis caro a mensa relegatus, nec in repositorio eius pectora avium (totas enim videre fastidium est) congesta ponentur. Quid tibi mali factum est? cenabis tamquam aeger, immo aliquando tamquam sanus. [25] Sed omnia ista facile perferemus, sorbitionem, aquam calidam, et quidquid aliud intolerabile videtur delicatis et luxu fluentibus magisque animo quam corpore morbidis: tantum mortem desinamus horrere. Desinemus autem, si fines bonorum ac malorum cognoverimus; ita demum nec vita taedio erit nec mors timori. [26] Vitam enim occupare satietas sui non potest tot res varias, magnas, divinas percensentem: in odium illam sui adducere solet iners otium. Rerum naturam peragranti numquam in fastidium veritas veniet: falsa satiabunt. [27] Rursus si mors accedit et vocat, licet inmatura sit, licet mediam praecidat aetatem, perceptus longissimae fructus est. Cognita est illi ex magna parte natura; scit tempore honesta non crescere: iis necesse est videri omnem vitam brevem qui illam voluptatibus vanis et ideo infinitis metiuntur. [28] His te cogitationibus recrea et interim epistulis nostris vaca. Veniet aliquando tempus quod nos iterum iungat ac misceat; quantulumlibet sit illud, longum faciet scientia utendi. Nam, ut Posidonius ait, 'unus dies hominum eruditorum plus patet quam inperitis longissima aetas'. [29] Interim hoc tene, hoc morde: adversis non succumbere, laetis non credere, omnem fortunae licentiam in oculis habere, tamquam quidquid potest facere factura sit. Quidquid expectatum est diu, levius accedit. Vale.