Letter 15

The old Romans had a custom, preserved down to my own lifetime, of adding these first words to a letter: "If you are well, it is good; I am well." People like us should rightly say, "If you are practicing philosophy, it is good." For that, and only that, is what being well means. Without it the mind is sick; and the body too, even if it has great strength, is strong only in the way a madman or a fevered person is strong. So take care of this health first, and then of the other, secondary kind. Physical health will not cost you much if you want to be well. It is foolish, my dear Lucilius, and quite unworthy of a cultivated person, to be occupied with exercising the arms, broadening the neck, and strengthening the chest. Even if your fattening diet succeeds and your muscles grow, you will never match the strength or weight of a prize bull. Add to this that when the body is made heavier, the mind is crushed and becomes less agile. So, as far as you can, restrict the body and make room for the spirit. Many inconveniences follow those who devote themselves to this care. First come the exercises, whose labor drains the breath and makes it unfit for concentration and sharper studies. Then an abundance of food blocks subtlety of mind. Besides, people put themselves under the instruction of slaves of the worst sort: men occupied with oil and wine, whose day has gone according to plan if they have sweated well and then poured back into an empty stomach a great deal of drink, which will sink deeper because of the fasting. Drinking and sweating is the life of a dyspeptic. There are exercises that are easy and brief, which tire the body quickly and save time, and time is something we must keep careful account of: running, moving the hands with some weight, and jumping - either the kind that lifts the body upward, the kind that sends it forward, the kind I might call the priests' dance, or, less politely, the laundryman's jump. Choose any of these and practice it; you will find it simple and easy. Whatever you do, return quickly from the body to the mind. Exercise the mind night and day. It is nourished by moderate effort. Cold, heat, and even old age will not hinder this exercise. Care for the good that improves with age. I am not ordering you always to bend over a book or writing tablets. The mind must be given some interval, but in such a way that it is relaxed, not dissolved. Riding in a carriage shakes the body and does not interfere with study: you can read, dictate, converse, or listen. Walking does not prevent any of these either. You need not despise training the voice, though I forbid you to raise and lower it through scales and fixed intervals. What if you next decide to learn how to walk? Admit those people whom hunger has taught new arts, and there will be someone to regulate your steps, watch your cheeks while you eat, and go as far as your patience and credulity have encouraged his boldness to go. "What then? Should my voice begin at once with shouting and the highest strain?" No. It is natural for it to be stirred gradually, just as people arguing begin with conversation and pass into shouting. No one starts a speech by immediately crying, "Help me, citizens!" So whenever the impulse of your spirit urges you, rebuke your vices sometimes more forcefully, sometimes more gently, as your voice and spirit prompt you. When you draw the voice back and call it down again, let it descend modestly, not collapse. Let it hold a middle tone, and not rage in an uncultivated, rustic way. Our purpose is not to exercise the voice, but to have the voice exercise us. I have removed no small trouble from you. One little payment, and a Greek one too, will be added to these services. Here is a striking maxim: "The fool's life is ungrateful, fearful, and wholly carried toward the future." "Who says this?" you ask. The same writer as before. And what kind of life do you think he means by the fool's life? That of Baba and Isio [stock names for fools]? No. He means our own life: we are driven by blind desires into things that will harm us and certainly will never satisfy us. If anything could have been enough for us, it would have been enough already. We do not consider how pleasant it is to ask for nothing, how magnificent it is to be full and not depend on Fortune. So remind yourself often, Lucilius, how much you have already achieved. When you see how many are ahead of you, think how many follow behind you. If you want to be grateful to the gods and to your life, think how many people you have surpassed. But what do you have to do with others? You have surpassed yourself. Set a limit that you would not even be able to cross if you wished. Let these treacherous goods finally depart. They look better to those hoping for them than to those who have gained them. If there were anything solid in them, sooner or later they would fill us. As it is, they only stir the thirst of those who drink. Let the flashy display be sent away. As for whatever uncertain lot future time is turning over, why should I ask Fortune to give it rather than ask myself not to desire it? Why should I desire it at all? Shall I pile things up, forgetting human frailty? Toward what end should I work? Look: this day is the last. If it is not, it is near the last. Farewell.

The old Romans had a custom which survived even into my lifetime. They would add to the opening words of a letter: “If you are well, it is well; I also am well.” Persons like ourselves would do well to say: “If you are studying philosophy, it is well.” For this is just what “being well” means. Without philosophy the mind is sickly, and the body, too, though it may be very powerful, is strong only as that of a madman or a lunatic is strong. This, then, is the sort of health you should primarily cultivate; the other kind of health comes second, and will involve little effort, if you wish to be well physically. It is indeed foolish, my dear Lucilius, and very unsuitable for a cultivated man, to work hard over developing the muscles and broadening the shoulders and strengthening the lungs. For although your heavy feeding produce good results and your sinews grow solid, you can never be a match, either in strength or in weight, for a first-class bull. Besides, by overloading the body with food you strangle the soul and render it less active. Accordingly, limit the flesh as much as possible, and allow free play to the spirit. Many inconveniences beset those who devote themselves to such pursuits. In the first place, they have their exercises, at which they must work and waste their life-force and render it less fit to bear a strain or the severer studies. Second, their keen edge is dulled by heavy eating. Besides, they must take orders from slaves of the vilest stamp,—men who alternate between the oil-flask and the flagon, whose day passes satisfactorily if they have got up a good perspiration and quaffed, to make good what they have lost in sweat, huge draughts of liquor which will sink deeper because of their fasting. Drinking and sweating,—it’s the life of a dyspeptic! Now there are short and simple exercises which tire the body rapidly, and so save our time; and time is something of which we ought to keep strict account. These exercises are running, brandishing weights, and jumping,—high-jumping or broad-jumping, or the kind which I may call, “the Priest’s dance,” or, in slighting terms, “the clothes-cleaner’s jump.” Select for practice any one of these, and you will find it plain and easy. But whatever you do, come back soon from body to mind. The mind must be exercised both day and night, for it is nourished by moderate labour; and this form of exercise need not be hampered by cold or hot weather, or even by old age. Cultivate that good which improves with the years. Of course I do not command you to be always bending over your books and your writing materials; the mind must have a change,—but a change of such a kind that it is not unnerved, but merely unbent. Riding in a litter shakes up the body, and does not interfere with study; one may read, dictate, converse, or listen to another; nor does walking prevent any of these things. You need not scorn voice-culture; but I forbid you to practise raising and lowering your voice by scales and specific intonations. What if you should next propose to take lessons in walking! If you consult the sort of person whom starvation has taught new tricks, you will have someone to regulate your steps, watch every mouthful as you eat, and go to such lengths as you yourself, by enduring him and believing in him, have encouraged his effrontery to go. “What, then?” you will ask; “is my voice to begin at the outset with shouting and straining the lungs to the utmost?” No; the natural thing is that it be aroused to such a pitch by easy stages, just as persons who are wrangling begin with ordinary conversational tones and then pass to shouting at the top of their lungs. No speaker cries “Help me, citizens!” at the outset of his speech. Therefore, whenever your spirit’s impulse prompts you, raise a hubbub, now in louder now in milder tones, according as your voice, as well as your spirit, shall suggest to you, when you are moved to such a performance. Then let your voice, when you rein it in and call it back to earth, come down gently, not collapse; it should trail off in tones half way between high and low, and should not abruptly drop from its raving in the uncouth manner of countrymen. For our purpose is, not to give the voice exercise, but to make it give us exercise. You see, I have relieved you of no slight bother; and I shall throw in a little complementary present,—it is Greek, too. Here is the proverb; it is an excellent one: “The fool’s life is empty of gratitude and full of fears; its course lies wholly toward the future.” “Who uttered these words?” you say. The same writer whom I mentioned before. And what sort of life do you think is meant by the fool’s life? That of Baba and Isio? No; he means our own, for we are plunged by our blind desires into ventures which will harm us, but certainly will never satisfy us; for if we could be satisfied with anything, we should have been satisfied long ago; nor do we reflect how pleasant it is to demand nothing, how noble it is to be contented and not to be dependent upon Fortune. Therefore continually remind yourself, Lucilius, how many ambitions you have attained. When you see many ahead of you, think how many are behind! If you would thank the gods, and be grateful for your past life, you should contemplate how many men you have outstripped. But what have you to do with the others? You have outstripped yourself. Fix a limit which you will not even desire to pass, should you have the power. At last, then, away with all these treacherous goods! They look better to those who hope for them than to those who have attained them. If there were anything substantial in them, they would sooner or later satisfy you; as it is, they merely rouse the drinkers' thirst. Away with fripperies which only serve for show! As to what the future’s uncertain lot has in store, why should I demand of Fortune that she give, rather than demand of myself that I should not crave? And why should l crave? Shall I heap up my winnings, and forget that man’s lot is unsubstantial? For what end should I toil? Lo, to-day is the last; if not, it is near the last. Farewell.

[1] Mos antiquis fuit, usque ad meam servatus aetatem, primis epistulae verbis adicere 'si vales bene est, ego valeo'. Recte nos dicimus 'si philosopharis, bene est'. Valere enim hoc demum est. Sine hoc aeger est animus; corpus quoque, etiam si magnas habet vires, non aliter quam furiosi aut frenetici validum est. [2] Ergo hanc praecipue valetudinem cura, deinde et illam secundam; quae non magno tibi constabit, si volueris bene valere. Stulta est enim, mi Lucili, et minime conveniens litterato viro occupatio exercendi lacertos et dilatandi cervicem ac latera firmandi; cum tibi feliciter sagina cesserit et tori creverint, nec vires umquam opimi bovis nec pondus aequabis. Adice nunc quod maiore corporis sarcina animus eliditur et minus agilis est. Itaque quantum potes circumscribe corpus tuum et animo locum laxa. [3] Multa sequuntur incommoda huic deditos curae: primum exercitationes, quarum labor spiritum exhaurit et inhabilem intentioni ac studiis acrioribus reddit; deinde copia ciborum subtilitas impeditur. Accedunt pessimae notae mancipia in magisterium recepta, homines inter oleum et vinum occupati, quibus ad votum dies actus est si bene desudaverunt, si in locum eius quod effluxit multum potionis altius in ieiuno iturae regesserunt. [4] Bibere et sudare vita cardiaci est. Sunt exercitationes et faciles et breves, quae corpus et sine mora lassent et tempori parcant, cuius praecipua ratio habenda est: cursus et cum aliquo pondere manus motae et saltus vel ille qui corpus in altum levat vel ille qui in longum mittit vel ille, ut ita dicam, saliaris aut, ut contumeliosius dicam, fullonius: quoslibet ex his elige +usum rude facile+. [5] Quidquid facies, cito redi a corpore ad animum; illum noctibus ac diebus exerce. Labore modico alitur ille; hanc exercitationem non frigus, non aestus impediet, ne senectus quidem. Id bonum cura quod vetustate fit melius. [6] Neque ego te iubeo semper imminere libro aut pugillaribus: dandum est aliquod intervallum animo, ita tamen ut non resolvatur, sed remittatur. Gestatio et corpus concutit et studio non officit: possis legere, possis dictare, possis loqui, possis audire, quorum nihil ne ambulatio quidem vetat fieri. [7] Nec tu intentionem vocis contempseris, quam veto te per gradus et certos modos extollere, deinde deprimere. Quid si velis deinde quemadmodum ambules discere? Admitte istos quos nova artificia docuit fames: erit qui gradus tuos temperet et buccas edentis observet et in tantum procedat in quantum audaciam eius patientia et credulitate produxeris. Quid ergo? a clamore protinus et a summa contentione vox tua incipiet? usque eo naturale est paulatim incitari ut litigantes quoque a sermone incipiant, ad vociferationem transeant; nemo statim Quiritium fidem implorat. [8] Ergo utcumque tibi impetus animi suaserit, modo vehementius fac vitiis convicium, modo lentius, prout vox te quoque hortabitur +in id latus+; modesta, cum recipies illam revocarisque, descendat, non decidat; +mediatorisui habeat et hoc+ indocto et rustico more desaeviat. Non enim id agimus ut exerceatur vox, sed ut exerceat. [9] Detraxi tibi non pusillum negotii: una mercedula et +unum graecum+ ad haec beneficia accedet. Ecce insigne praeceptum: 'stulta vita ingrata est, trepida; tota in futurum fertur'. 'Quis hoc' inquis 'dicit?' idem qui supra. Quam tu nunc vitam dici existimas stultam? Babae et Isionis? Non ita est: nostra dicitur, quos caeca cupiditas in nocitura, certe numquam satiatura praecipitat, quibus si quid satis esse posset, fuisset, qui non cogitamus quam iucundum sit nihil poscere, quam magnificum sit plenum esse nec ex fortuna pendere. [10] Subinde itaque, Lucili, quam multa sis consecutus recordare; cum aspexeris quot te antecedant, cogita quot sequantur. Si vis gratus esse adversus deos et adversus vitam tuam, cogita quam multos antecesseris. Quid tibi cum ceteris? te ipse antecessisti. [11] Finem constitue quem transire ne possis quidem si velis; discedant aliquando ista insidiosa bona et sperantibus meliora quam assecutis. Si quid in illis esset solidi, aliquando et implerent: nunc haurientium sitim concitant. Mittantur speciosi apparatus; et quod futuri temporis incerta sors volvit, quare potius a fortuna impetrem ut det, quam a me ne petam? Quare autem petam? oblitus fragilitatis humanae congeram? in quid laborem? Ecce hic dies ultimus est; ut non sit, prope ab ultimo est. Vale.