Letter 23

Do you suppose I am going to write to you about how kindly winter has treated us, with a short and mild season, or about what a nasty spring we are having, with cold weather out of place, or about all the other trivialities people write when they have run out of things to say? No. I will send you something that can help both you and me. And what will that be, if not an encouragement toward a sound mind? Do you ask what the foundation of a sound mind is? It is not finding joy in useless things. I called this the foundation, but it is really the summit. We have reached the heights when we know what we find joy in and have not placed our happiness under the control of externals. A person who is driven forward by hope for anything, even if the thing is within reach, easy to get, and never yet disappointed him, is troubled and unsure of himself. Above all, my dear Lucilius, make this your task: learn how to feel joy. Do you think I am robbing you of many pleasures when I try to remove the gifts of chance, when I advise you to avoid hope, the sweetest thing that flatters the heart? Quite the opposite. I do not want you ever to be without gladness. I want it to be born in your own house, and it is born there if only it is born inside you. Other forms of cheer do not fill the heart; they merely smooth the forehead, and they are unstable - unless, perhaps, you think the person who laughs is joyful. The soul itself must be happy and confident, lifted above every circumstance. Real joy, believe me, is a serious thing. Do you think someone can despise death with a carefree expression, or with the bright and breezy look our young dandies talk about? Can he open his door to poverty, keep pleasure under control, or contemplate the endurance of pain that way? The person who turns these things over in his heart is indeed full of joy, but it is not a frivolous joy. This is the joy I want you to possess, because once you have found its source it will never fail you. Poor mines have their yield on the surface. The truly rich ones have veins hidden deep, and they give a fuller return to the person who keeps digging. So too the trinkets that delight the crowd give only a thin pleasure, a surface coating. Every joy that is merely plated lacks a real base. But the joy I am speaking of, the one toward which I am trying to lead you, is solid, and it reveals itself more fully the deeper you go. So I beg you, my dearest Lucilius: do the one thing that can make you truly happy. Cast aside and trample underfoot all the things that glitter on the outside, the things held out to you by someone else or as something to be obtained from someone else. Look toward the true good, and rejoice only in what comes from your own store. What do I mean by "your own store"? I mean your very self, the best part of you. The frail body, too, even though we can do nothing without it, should be treated as necessary rather than important. It entangles us in empty pleasures, short-lived and soon regretted, pleasures that, unless they are held in by strict self-control, turn into their opposite. This is what I mean: pleasure, unless it has been kept within bounds, rushes headlong into pain. But it is hard to keep within bounds when you believe the thing is good. The real good can be desired safely. Do you ask what this real good is, and where it comes from? I will tell you: it comes from a good conscience, from honorable purposes, from right actions, from contempt for the gifts of chance, and from an even, calm way of living that follows a single path. People who leap from one purpose to another - or do not even leap, but are carried along by accident - cannot possess any fixed and lasting good while they are themselves wavering and unstable. Only a few people guide themselves and their affairs by a settled plan. The rest do not proceed; they are swept along like things floating in a river. Some are held back by sluggish water and carried gently; others are torn along by a violent current; some, close to the bank, are left there when the current slackens; others are carried out to sea by the rush of the stream. So we should decide what we want, and then hold to the decision. Now it is time for me to pay my debt. I can give you a saying from your friend Epicurus and clear this letter of its obligation: "It is troublesome always to be beginning life." Or perhaps this version expresses the meaning better: "People live badly when they are always beginning to live." You are right to ask why; the saying does need explanation. It is because the life of such people is always incomplete. But a person cannot stand ready for death if he has only just begun to live. We must aim to have already lived enough. No one thinks he has done that if he is only now planning his life. Do not imagine that there are only a few people of this kind. Almost everyone is like this. Some people, in fact, begin to live only when it is time to stop. And if that surprises you, I will add something still more surprising: some people have stopped living before they ever began. Farewell.

Do you suppose that I shall write you how kindly the winter season has dealt with us,—a short season and a mild one,—or what a nasty spring we are having,—cold weather out of season,—and all the other trivialities which people write when they are at a loss for topics of conversation? No; I shall communicate something which may help both you and myself. And what shall this “something” be, if not an exhortation to soundness of mind? Do you ask what is the foundation of a sound mind? It is, not to find joy in useless things. I said that it was the foundation; it is really the pinnacle. We have reached the heights if we know what it is that we find joy in and if we have not placed our happiness in the control of externals. The man who is goaded ahead by hope of anything, though it be within reach, though it be easy of access, and though his ambitions have never played him false, is troubled and unsure of himself. Above all, my dear Lucilius, make this your business: learn how to feel joy. Do you think that I am now robbing you of many pleasures when I try to do away with the gifts of chance, when I counsel the avoidance of hope, the sweetest thing that gladdens our hearts? Quite the contrary; I do not wish you ever to be deprived of gladness. I would have it born in your house; and it is born there, if only it be inside of you. Other objects of cheer do not fill a man’s bosom; they merely smooth his brow and are inconstant,—unless perhaps you believe that he who laughs has joy. The very soul must be happy and confident, lifted above every circumstance. Real joy, believe me, is a stern matter. Can one, do you think, despise death with a care-free countenance, or with a “blithe and gay” expression, as our young dandies are accustomed to say? Or can one thus open his door to poverty, or hold the curb on his pleasures, or contemplate the endurance of pain? He who ponders these things in his heart is indeed full of joy; but it is not a cheerful joy. It is just this joy, however, of which I would have you become the owner; for it will never fail you when once you have found its source. The yield of poor mines is on the surface; those are really rich whose veins lurk deep, and they will make more bountiful returns to him who delves unceasingly. So too those baubles which delight the common crowd afford but a thin pleasure, laid on as a coating, and every joy that is only plated lacks a real basis. But the joy of which I speak, that to which I am endeavouring to lead you, is something solid, disclosing itself the more fully as you penetrate into it. Therefore I pray you, my dearest Lucilius, do the one thing that can render you really happy: cast aside and trample under foot all those things that glitter outwardly and are held out to you by another or as obtainable from another; look toward the true good, and rejoice only in that which comes from your own store. And what do I mean by “from your own store”? I mean from your very self, that which is the best part of you. The frail body, also, even though we can accomplish nothing without it, is to be regarded as necessary rather than as important; it involves us in vain pleasures, short-lived, and soon to be regretted, which, unless they are reined in by extreme self-control, will be transformed into the opposite. This is what I mean: pleasure, unless it has been kept within bounds, tends to rush headlong into the abyss of sorrow. But it is hard to keep within bounds in that which you believe to be good. The real good may be coveted with safety. Do you ask me what this real good is, and whence it derives? I will tell you: it comes from a good conscience, from honourable purposes, from right actions, from contempt of the gifts of chance, from an even and calm way of living which treads but one path. For men who leap from one purpose to another, or do not even leap but are carried over by a sort of hazard,—how can such wavering and unstable persons possess any good that is fixed and lasting? There are only a few who control themselves and their affairs by a guiding purpose; the rest do not proceed; they are merely swept along, like objects afloat in a river. And of these objects, some are held back by sluggish waters and are transported gently; others are torn along by a more violent current; some, which are nearest the bank, are left there as the current slackens; and others are carried out to sea by the onrush of the stream. Therefore, we should decide what we wish, and abide by the decision. Now is the time for me to pay my debt. I can give you a saying of your friend Epicurus and thus clear this letter of its obligation: “It is bothersome always to be beginning life.” Or another, which will perhaps express the meaning better: “They live ill who are always beginning to live.” You are right in asking why; the saying certainly stands in need of a commentary. It is because the life of such persons is always incomplete. But a man cannot stand prepared for the approach of death if he has just begun to live. We must make it our aim already to have lived long enough. No one deems that he has done so, if he is just on the point of planning his life. You need not think that there are few of this kind; practically everyone is of such a stamp. Some men, indeed, only begin to live when it is time for them to leave off living. And if this seems surprising to you, I shall add that which will surprise you still more: Some men have left off living before they have begun. Farewell.

[1] Putas me tibi scripturum quam humane nobiscum hiemps gerit, quae et remissa fuit et brevis, quam malignum ver sit, quam praeposterum frigus, et alias ineptias verba quaerentium? Ego vero aliquid quod et mihi et tibi prodesse possit scribam. Quid autem id erit nisi ut te exhorter ad bonam mentem? Huius fundamentum quod sit quaeris? ne gaudeas vanis. Fundamentum hoc esse dixi: culmen est. Ad summa pervenit qui scit quo gaudeat, qui felicitatem suam in aliena potestate non posuit; sollicitus est et incertus sui quem spes aliqua proritat, licet ad manum sit, licet non ex difficili petatur, licet numquam illum sperata deceperint. [3] Hoc ante omnia fac, mi Lucili: disce gaudere. Existimas nunc me detrahere tibi multas voluptates qui fortuita summoveo, qui spes, dulcissima oblectamenta, devitandas existimo? immo contra nolo tibi umquam deesse laetitiam. Volo illam tibi domi nasci: nascitur si modo intra te ipsum fit. Ceterae hilaritates non implent pectus; frontem remittunt, leves sunt, nisi forte tu iudicas eum gaudere qui ridet: animus esse debet alacer et fidens et supra omnia erectus. [4] Mihi crede, verum gaudium res severa est. An tu existimas quemquam soluto vultu et, ut isti delicati loquuntur, hilariculo mortem contemnere, paupertati domum aperire, voluptates tenere sub freno, meditari dolorum patientiam? Haec qui apud se versat in magno gaudio est, sed parum blando. In huius gaudii possessione esse te volo: numquam deficiet, cum semel unde petatur inveneris. [5] Levium metallorum fructus in summo est: illa opulentissima sunt quorum in alto latet vena assidue plenius responsura fodienti. Haec quibus delectatur vulgus tenuem habent ac perfusoriam voluptatem, et quodcumque invecticium gaudium est fundamento caret: hoc de quo loquor, ad quod te conor perducere, solidum est et quod plus pateat introrsus. [6] Fac, oro te, Lucili carissime, quod unum potest praestare felicem: dissice et conculca ista quae extrinsecus splendent, quae tibi promittuntur ab alio vel ex alio; ad verum bonum specta et de tuo gaude. Quid est autem hoc 'de tuo'? te ipso et tui optima parte. Corpusculum bonum esse credideris: veri boni aviditas tuta est. [7] Quod sit istud interrogas, aut unde subeat? Dicam: ex bona conscientia, ex honestis consiliis, ex rectis actionibus, ex contemptu fortuitorum, ex placido vitae et continuo tenore unam prementis viam. Nam illi qui ex aliis propositis in alia transiliunt aut ne transiliunt quidem sed casu quodam transmittuntur, quomodo habere quicquam certum mansurumve possunt suspensi et vagi? [8] Pauci sunt qui consilio se suaque disponant: ceteri, eorum more quae fluminibus innatant, non eunt sed feruntur; ex quibus alia lenior unda detinuit ac mollius vexit, alia vehementior rapuit, alia proxima ripae cursu languescente deposuit, alia torrens impetus in mare eiecit. Ideo constituendum est quid velimus et in eo perseverandum. [9] Hic est locus solvendi aeris alieni. Possum enim tibi vocem Epicuri tui reddere et hanc epistulam liberare: 'molestum est semper vitam inchoare'; aut si hoc modo magis sensus potest exprimi, 'male vivunt qui semper vivere incipiunt'. [10] 'Quare?' inquis; desiderat enim explanationem ista vox. Quia semper illis imperfecta vita est; non potest autem stare paratus ad mortem qui modo incipit vivere. Id agendum est ut satis vixerimus: nemo hoc praestat qui orditur cum maxime vitam. [11] Non est quod existimes paucos.esse hos: propemodum omnes sunt. Quidam vero tunc incipiunt cum desinendum est. Si hoc iudicas mirum, adiciam quod magis admireris: quidam ante vivere desierunt quam inciperent. Vale.