Letter 84

[1] These journeys of mine, which shake the sluggishness out of me, I judge to be of benefit both to my health and to my studies. You can see how they help my health: since my love of literature makes me lazy and neglectful of my body, I get my exercise through the work of others. As for why they benefit my studies, I will explain: I have not given up my reading. And reading is, I think, indispensable—first, so that I may not be content with myself alone, and second, so that, once I have learned what others have investigated, I may both pass judgment on what has been discovered and reflect on what is still to be discovered. Reading nourishes the mind and, when it has been wearied by study, restores it—yet not without study all the same. [2] We ought neither to write only nor to read only: the one will sadden our powers and drain them (I am speaking of the pen), the other will loosen and dilute them. We must pass back and forth between the two, tempering the one with the other, so that whatever has been gathered by reading the pen may reduce into a body of its own. [3] We ought, as people say, to imitate the bees, which roam about and pluck the flowers suitable for making honey, then arrange and distribute through their combs whatever they have brought in, and, as our Vergil says, [the verse Seneca quotes from Vergil is not preserved in the source text: ...] [4] Concerning the bees it is not sufficiently established whether they draw from the flowers a juice that is at once honey, or whether they change what they have collected into this flavor by a certain blending and by the proper quality of their own breath. For some hold that the bees do not possess the skill of making honey, but only of gathering it; and they say that among the Indians honey is found on the leaves of reeds, produced either by the dew of that climate or by the sweet and richer moisture of the reed itself; and that in our own grasses too the same power is present, though less manifest and noticeable, which the creature born for this task hunts out and draws together. Others reckon that what the bees have plucked from the most tender of green and blossoming plants is turned into this quality by a process of curing and arranging, not without a kind of—so to speak—fermentation, by which diverse elements coalesce into one. [5] But, so that I am not led away to some subject other than the one under discussion, we too ought to imitate these bees and to keep separate whatever we have amassed from our varied reading (for things are better preserved when kept distinct), and then, applying the care and capacity of our own talent, to blend those various samplings into a single flavor, so that even if it is apparent where each thing was taken from, it nevertheless appears to be something other than that from which it was taken. We see nature do this in our own body without any effort on our part [6] (the nourishment we have taken in, as long as it endures in its original quality and floats solid in the stomach, is a burden; but once it has been changed from what it was, then at last it passes into strength and into blood); let us achieve the same in those things by which our talents are nourished, so that we do not allow whatever we have absorbed to remain intact, lest it stay foreign to us. [7] Let us digest it; otherwise it will pass into the memory, not into the understanding. Let us assent to such things faithfully and make them our own, so that some one thing may be made out of many, just as one number is made out of single units when a single act of reckoning takes in the smaller and disagreeing sums. Let our mind do this: let it conceal all the things by which it has been helped, and display only what it has itself produced. [8] Even if some resemblance to a man whom your admiration has fixed more deeply in you should become apparent in you, I want you to resemble him as a son does, not as a portrait does: a portrait is a dead thing. "What then? Will it not be recognized whose style you imitate? whose mode of argument? whose maxims?" I think that sometimes it cannot even be recognized, if a man of great talent has stamped his own form upon everything he has drawn from whatever model he chose, so that those elements combine into a unity. [9] Do you not see of how many voices a chorus is composed? Yet one sound is rendered out of them all. Some voice there is high, some low, some in the middle; women are added to the men, flutes are interposed: the voices of the individuals are hidden there, the voices of all are heard. [10] I am speaking of the chorus that the old philosophers knew: at our performances there are more singers than there once were spectators in the theaters. When a line of singers has filled all the passageways, and the seating is ringed with brass-players, and from the stage every kind of flute and instrument has sounded together, a concord arises out of the discordant sounds. Such I want our mind to be: let there be many arts in it, many precepts, examples from many ages, but all conspiring into one. [11] "How," you ask, "will this be brought about?" By unremitting attention: if we do nothing except at reason's urging, and avoid nothing except at reason's urging. If you are willing to listen to her, she will say to you: leave behind those things to which men have long been rushing about; leave riches, which are either a danger or a burden to their possessors; leave the pleasures of body and mind, for they soften and unman you; leave ambition, a swollen thing, empty, windy, with no limit, as anxious that it should see no one ahead of it as that it should see no one beside it, tormented by envy, and indeed by a double envy. And you see how wretched a man is if the one who is envied also envies. [12] Do you observe those houses of the powerful, those thresholds turbulent with the brawling of those paying their respects? They hold many insults for you as you go in, and more once you have entered. Pass by those steps of the rich, and the vestibules suspended on a great mound of masonry: there you will stand not only on a sheer drop but on slippery ground. Rather direct yourself this way, toward wisdom, and seek her most tranquil and at the same time most ample possessions. [13] Whatever things seem to stand out in human affairs, however trifling they are and prominent only by comparison with the lowliest things, are nonetheless reached by difficult and steep tracks. The road to the summit of high rank is rugged; but if you wish to climb that peak to which Fortune has submitted herself, you will indeed look upon everything beneath you that is held to be most exalted, yet you will come to the heights over level ground. Farewell.

The journeys to which you refer—journeys that shake the laziness out of my system—I hold to be profitable both for my health and for my studies. You see why they benefit my health: since my passion for literature makes me lazy and careless about my body, I can take exercise by deputy; as for my studies, I shall show you why my journeys help them, for I have not stopped my reading in the slightest degree. And reading, I hold, is indispensable—primarily, to keep me from being satisfied with myself alone, and besides, after I have learned what others have found out by their studies, to enable me to pass judgment on their discoveries and reflect upon discoveries that remain to be made. Reading nourishes the mind and refreshes it when it is wearied with study; nevertheless, this refreshment is not obtained without study. We ought not to confine ourselves either to writing or to reading; the one, continuous writing, will cast a gloom over our strength, and exhaust it; the other will make our strength flabby and watery. It is better to have recourse to them alternately, and to blend one with the other, so that the fruits of one’s reading may be reduced to concrete form by the pen. We should follow, men say, the example of the bees, who flit about and cull the flowers that are suitable for producing honey, and then arrange and assort in their cells all that they have brought in; these bees, as our Vergil says, pack close the flowing honey, And swell their cells with nectar sweet. It is not certain whether the juice which they obtain from the flowers forms at once into honey, or whether they change that which they have gathered into this delicious object by blending something therewith and by a certain property of their breath. For some authorities believe that bees do not possess the art of making honey, but only of gathering it; and they say that in India honey has been found on the leaves of certain reeds, produced by a dew peculiar to that climate, or by the juice of the reed itself, which has an unusual sweetness, and richness. And in our own grasses too, they say, the same quality exists, although less clear and less evident; and a creature born to fulfil such a function could hunt it out and collect it. Certain others maintain that the materials which the bees have culled from the most delicate of blooming and flowering plants is transformed into this peculiar substance by a process of preserving and careful storing away, aided by what might be called fermentation,—whereby separate elements are united into one substance. But I must not be led astray into another subject than that which we are discussing. We also, I say, ought to copy these bees, and sift whatever we have gathered from a varied course of reading, for such things are better preserved if they are kept separate; then, by applying the supervising care with which our nature has endowed us,—in other words, our natural gifts,—we should so blend those several flavours into one delicious compound that, even though it betrays its origin, yet it nevertheless is clearly a different thing from that whence it came. This is what we see nature doing in our own bodies without any labour on our part; the food we have eaten, as long as it retains its original quality and floats in our stomachs as an undiluted mass, is a burden; but it passes into tissue and blood only when it has been changed from its original form. So it is with the food which nourishes our higher nature,—we should see to it that whatever we have absorbed should not be allowed to remain unchanged, or it will be no part of us. We must digest it; otherwise it will merely enter the memory and not the reasoning power. Let us loyally welcome such foods and make them our own, so that something that is one may be formed out of many elements, just as one number is formed of several elements whenever, by our reckoning, lesser sums, each different from the others, are brought together. This is what our mind should do: it should hide away all the materials by which it has been aided, and bring to light only what it has made of them. Even if there shall appear in you a likeness to him who, by reason of your admiration, has left a deep impress upon you, I would have you resemble him as a child resembles his father, and not as a picture resembles its original; for a picture is a lifeless thing. “What,” you say, “will it not be seen whose style you are imitating, whose method of reasoning, whose pungent sayings?” I think that sometimes it is impossible for it to be seen who is being imitated, if the copy is a true one; for a true copy stamps its own form upon all the features which it has drawn from what we may call the original, in such a way that they are combined into a unity. Do you not see how many voices there are in a chorus? Yet out of the many only one voice results. In that chorus one voice takes the tenor, another the bass, another the baritone. There are women, too, as well as men, and the flute is mingled with them. In that chorus the voices of the individual singers are hidden; what we hear is the voices of all together. To be sure, I am referring to the chorus which the old-time philosophers knew; in our present-day exhibitions we have a larger number of singers than there used to be spectators in the theatres of old. All the aisles are filled with rows of singers; brass instruments surround the auditorium; the stage resounds with flutes and instruments of every description; and yet from the discordant sounds a harmony is produced. I would have my mind of such a quality as this; it should be equipped with many arts, many precepts, and patterns of conduct taken from many epochs of history; but all should blend harmoniously into one. “How,” you ask, “can this be accomplished?” By constant effort, and by doing nothing without the approval of reason. And if you are willing to hear her voice, she will say to you: “Abandon those pursuits which heretofore have caused you to run hither and thither. Abandon riches, which are either a danger or a burden to the possessor. Abandon the pleasures of the body and of the mind; they only soften and weaken you. Abandon your quest for office; it is a swollen, idle, and empty thing, a thing that has no goal, as anxious to see no one outstrip it as to see no one at its heels. It is afflicted with envy, and in truth with a twofold envy; and you see how wretched a man’s plight is if he who is the object of envy feels envy also.” Do you behold yonder homes of the great, yonder thresholds uproarious with the brawling of those who would pay their respects? They have many an insult for you as you enter the door, and still more after you have entered. Pass by the steps that mount to rich men’s houses, and the porches rendered hazardous by the huge throng; for there you will be standing, not merely on the edge of a precipice but also on slippery ground. Instead of this, direct your course hither to wisdom, and seek her ways, which are ways of surpassing peace and plenty. Whatever seems conspicuous in the affairs of men—however petty it may really be and prominent only by contrast with the lowest objects—is nevertheless approached by a difficult and toilsome pathway. It is a rough road that leads to the heights of greatness; but if you desire to scale this peak, which lies far above the range of Fortune, you will indeed look down from above upon all that men regard as most lofty, but none the less you can proceed to the top over level ground. Farewell.

[1] Itinera ista quae segnitiam mihi excutiunt et valetudini meae prodesse iudico et studiis. Quare valetudinem adiuvent vides: cum pigrum me et neglegentem corporis litterarum amor faciat, aliena opera exerceor. Studio quare prosint indicabo: a lectionibus <non> recessi. Sunt autem, ut existimo, necessariae, primum ne sim me uno contentus, deinde ut, cum ab aliis quaesita cognovero, tum et de inventis iudicem et cogitem de inveniendis. Alit lectio ingenium et studio fatigatum, non sine studio tamen, reficit. [2] Nec scribere tantum nec tantum legere debemus: altera res contristabit vires et exhauriet (de stilo dico), altera solvet ac diluet. Invicem hoc et illo commeandum est et alterum altero temperandum, ut quidquid lectione collectum est stilus redigat in corpus. [3] Apes, ut aiunt, debemus imitari, quae vagantur et flores ad mel faciendum idoneos carpunt, deinde quidquid attulere disponunt ac per favos digerunt et, ut Vergilius noster ait, [4] De illis non satis constat utrum sucum ex floribus ducant qui protinus mel sit, an quae collegerunt in hunc saporem mixtura quadam et proprietate spiritus sui mutent. Quibusdam enim placet non faciendi mellis scientiam esse illis sed colligendi. Aiunt inveniri apud Indos mel in arundinum foliis, quod aut ros illius caeli aut ipsius arundinis umor dulcis et pinguior gignat; in nostris quoque herbis vim eandem sed minus manifestam et notabilem poni, quam persequatur et contrahat animal huic rei genitum. Quidam existimant conditura et dispositione in hanc qualitatem verti quae ex tenerrimis virentium florentiumque decerpserint, non sine quodam, ut ita dicam, fermento, quo in unum diversa coalescunt. [5] Sed ne ad aliud quam de quo agitur abducar, nos quoquehas apes debemus imitari et quaecumque ex diversa lectione congessimus separare (melius enim distincta servantur), deinde adhibita ingenii nostri cura et facultate in unum saporem varia illa libamenta confundere, ut etiam si apparuerit unde sumptum sit, aliud tamen esse quam unde sumptum est appareat. Quod in corpore nostro videmus sine ulla opera nostra facere naturam [6] (alimenta quae accepimus, quamdiu in sua qualitate perdurant et solida innatant stomacho, onera sunt; at cum ex eo quod erant mutata sunt, tunc demum in vires et in sanguinem transeunt), idem in his quibus aluntur ingenia praestemus, ut quaecumque hausimus non patiamur integra esse, ne aliena sint. [7] Concoquamus illa; alioqui in memoriam ibunt, non in ingenium. Adsentiamur illis fideliter et nostra faciamus, ut unum quiddam fiat ex multis, sicut unus numerus fit ex singulis cum minores summas et dissidentes conputatio una conprendit. Hoc faciat animus noster: omnia quibus est adiutus abscondat, ipsum tantum ostendat quod effecit. [8] Etiam si cuius in te comparebit similitudo quem admiratio tibi altius fixerit, similem esse te volo quomodo filium, non quomodo imaginem: imago res mortua est. 'Quid ergo? non intellegetur cuius imiteris orationem? cuius argumentationem? cuius sententias?' Puto aliquando ne intellegi quidem posse, si magni vir ingenii omnibus quae ex quo voluit exemplari traxit formam suam inpressit, ut in unitatem illa conpetant. [9] Non vides quam multorum vocibus chorus constet? unus tamen ex omnibus redditur. Aliqua illic acuta est, aliqua gravis, aliqua media; accedunt viris feminae, interponuntur tibiae: singulorum illic latent voces, omnium apparent. [10] De choro dico quem veteres philosophi noverant: in commissionibus nostris plus cantorum est quam in theatris olim spectatorum fuit. Cum omnes vias ordo canentium implevit et cavea aeneatoribus cincta est et ex pulpito omne tibiarum genus organorumque consonuit, fit concentus ex dissonis. Talem animum esse nostrum volo: multae in illo artes, multa praecepta sint, multarum aetatum exempla, sed in unum conspirata. [11] 'Quomodo' inquis 'hoc effici poterit?' Adsidua intentione:si nihil egerimus nisi ratione suadente, nihil vitaverimus nisi ratione suadente. Hanc si audire volueris, dicet tibi: relinque ista iamdudum ad quae discurritur; relinque divitias, aut periculum possidentium aut onus; relinque corporis atque animi voluptates, molliunt et enervant; relinque ambitum, tumida res est, vana, ventosa, nullum habet terminum, tam sollicita est ne quem ante se videat quam ne secum, laborat invidia et quidem duplici. Vides autem quam miser sit si is cui invidetur et invidet. [12] Intueris illas potentium domos, illa tumultuosa rixa salutantium limina? multum habent contumeliarum ut intres, plus cum intraveris. Praeteri istos gradus divitum et magno adgestu suspensa vestibula: non in praerupto tantum istic stabis sed in lubrico. Huc potius te ad sapientiam derige, tranquillissimasque res eius et simul amplissimas pete. [13] Quaecumque videntur eminere in rebus humanis, quamvis pusilla sint et comparatione humillimorum exstent, per difficiles tamen et arduos tramites adeuntur. Confragosa in fastigium dignitatis via est; at si conscendere hunc verticem libet, cui se fortuna summisit, omnia quidem sub te quae pro excelsissimis habentur aspicies, sed tamen venies ad summa per planum. Vale.