Letter 24

You write that you are anxious about the outcome of a lawsuit with which an angry opponent is threatening you. You expect me to advise you to imagine a happier result and rest in the comforts of hope. But why summon trouble before it arrives, when it will have to be endured soon enough if it comes? Why anticipate trouble and spoil the present through fear of the future? It is foolish to be unhappy now because you may be unhappy later. I will lead you to peace of mind by another route. If you want to set worry aside, assume that the thing you fear will certainly happen. Whatever the trouble is, measure it in your mind and estimate the size of your fear. You will then understand that what you fear is either insignificant or short-lived. You need not spend long gathering examples to strengthen you. Every age has produced them. Let your thoughts travel through any period of Roman or foreign history, and examples of high achievement, or at least high endeavor, will crowd before you. If you lose this case, can anything more severe happen than exile or prison? Is there any worse fate a person fears than being burned or killed? Name the punishments one by one, and name the people who have scorned them. You do not need to hunt; you only need to choose. Rutilius bore conviction as though the only thing that troubled him was the injustice of the verdict. Metellus endured exile bravely, Rutilius even gladly: Metellus agreed to return only because his country called him; Rutilius refused to return when Sulla summoned him, and in those days no one said no to Sulla. Socrates talked philosophy in prison and refused to flee when people offered him the chance. He stayed there so that he might free humanity from fear of the two things thought most terrible: death and imprisonment. Mucius put his hand into the fire. It is painful to be burned; how much more painful to inflict that suffering on yourself. Here was a man with no learning, not armed for death and pain by any teaching of wisdom, equipped only with a soldier's courage. He punished himself for his failed daring. He stood watching his own right hand drop away piece by piece on the enemy's brazier, and he did not withdraw the dissolving limb, its bones uncovered, until his enemy removed the fire. He might have accomplished something more successful in that camp, but never anything braver. See how much more eager the brave person is to seize danger than the cruel person is to inflict it. Porsenna was readier to pardon Mucius for wanting to kill him than Mucius was to pardon himself for failing to kill Porsenna. "Oh," you say, "these stories have been repeated to death in all the schools. Soon, when you reach the topic of despising death, you will tell me about Cato." Why should I not tell you about Cato: how on that last glorious night he read Plato's book with a sword laid beside his pillow? He had provided himself with two things for his final moments: first, the will to die; second, the means. So he put his affairs in order, as far as anything ruined and near its end could be put in order, and decided that no one should have the power to kill Cato or the good fortune to save him. Drawing the sword, which he had kept unstained by blood until that final day, he cried: "Fortune, you have accomplished nothing by resisting all my efforts. Until now I have fought for my country's freedom, not my own. I did not struggle so stubbornly in order to be free, but in order to live among the free. Now, since human affairs are beyond hope, let Cato be withdrawn to safety." With these words he gave his body a fatal wound. After the physicians bound it up, Cato had less blood and less strength, but no less courage. Angry now not only at Caesar but at himself, he drove his unarmed hands into the wound and forced out, rather than released, that noble spirit which had defied every earthly power. I am not piling up these examples to display my wit, but to encourage you to face what people think most terrible. I will encourage you more easily by showing that not only resolute men have despised the moment when the soul breathes its last, but that some people cowardly in other respects have matched the bravest in this one matter. Take Scipio, father-in-law of Gnaeus Pompey. A head wind drove him back onto the African coast, and he saw his ship in the power of the enemy. He pierced his body with a sword, and when they asked where the commander was, he replied, "All is well with the commander." Those words raised him to the level of his ancestors and did not allow the glory that fate gave the Scipios in Africa to lose its continuity. It was a great thing to conquer Carthage; it was greater to conquer death. "All is well with the commander!" Should a general die otherwise, especially one of Cato's generals? I will not send you back to history or collect examples from all the ages of people who have despised death; there are too many. Look at our own times, which we complain are weakened and over-refined. Even they will include people of every rank, every condition, and every age who have cut short their misfortunes by death. Believe me, Lucilius: death is so little to be feared that, thanks to death, nothing is to be feared. So when your enemy threatens, listen calmly. Your conscience gives you confidence; still, since many things have weight outside the merits of your case, both hope for perfect justice and prepare yourself for perfect injustice. Above all, remember to strip things of everything that disturbs and confuses them, and to see what each thing is at bottom. You will then understand that they contain nothing frightening except fear itself. What you see happening to boys happens also to us, who are only slightly larger boys. When people they love, see every day, and play with appear wearing masks, the boys are terrified. We should strip the mask not only from people but from things, and restore each object to its own face. "Why do you hold up before my eyes swords, fires, and a crowd of executioners raging around you? Take away all that empty display behind which you lurk and frighten fools. You are nothing but death, which only yesterday a slave of mine, man or woman, despised. Why do you again spread out before me the whip and the rack with such ceremony? Why are engines of torture set ready, one for each limb, and all the countless machines for tearing a person apart piece by piece? Away with all this equipment that freezes us with terror. Silence the groans, the cries, and the bitter shrieks forced from the victim as he is torn on the rack. You are nothing but pain, scorned by that person with gout, endured by that dyspeptic in the middle of his delicacies, borne bravely by the girl in labor. You are slight if I can bear you; you are short if I cannot." Ponder these words, which you have often heard and often spoken. Then prove by the result whether what you have heard and spoken is true. For a very disgraceful charge is often brought against our school: that we deal in the words of philosophy, not its deeds. Have you only just now learned that death hangs over your head? That exile hangs there? That grief hangs there? You were born to these risks. Let us think of everything that can happen as something that will happen. I know that you have truly done what I advise. Now I warn you not to drown your soul in these small anxieties of yours. If you do, the soul will be dulled and will have too little strength left when the time comes for it to rise. Move your mind from your own lawsuit to the condition of humanity. Say to yourself that our little bodies are mortal and frail. Pain can reach them from sources other than injustice or the power of the stronger. Our pleasures themselves become torments. Banquets bring indigestion, drinking bouts bring paralysis and palsy, sensual habits afflict the feet, the hands, and every joint. I may become poor; then I shall be one among many. I may be exiled; then I shall regard myself as born in the place to which I am sent. They may put me in chains. What then? Am I free from chains now? Look at this heavy burden of a body to which nature has fastened me. "I shall die," you say. You mean, "I shall stop being at risk of sickness; I shall stop being at risk of imprisonment; I shall stop being at risk of death." I am not so foolish as to rehearse here the arguments Epicurus keeps repeating, saying that the terrors of the underworld are empty: that Ixion is not whirled around on his wheel, that Sisyphus does not push his stone uphill, that a person's entrails cannot be restored and devoured every day. No one is so childish as to fear Cerberus, the shadows, or the ghostly costume of those held together by nothing but bare bones. Death either annihilates us or strips us bare. If we are released, the better part remains after the burden has been removed; if we are annihilated, nothing remains. Good and bad are both taken away. Allow me here to quote a verse of your own, while first suggesting that when you wrote it, you meant it for yourself no less than for others. It is dishonorable to say one thing and mean another; how much more dishonorable to write one thing and mean another. I remember that one day you were treating the familiar theme that we do not fall on death suddenly, but move toward it by degrees. We die every day. Every day a little of life is taken from us; even while we are growing, life is shrinking. We lose childhood, then boyhood, then youth. Count even yesterday: all past time is lost time. The very day we are now spending is divided between ourselves and death. It is not the last drop that empties the water clock, but all the water that flowed out before it. So too the final hour in which we cease to exist does not by itself bring death; it merely completes the process of dying. We reach death at that moment, but we have been on the way for a long time. When you described this, you said in your usual style - for you are always impressive, but never more pointed than when you put truth into fitting words: The death that comes is not the only one; the death that takes us off is only last. I prefer you to read your own words rather than my letter, because then it will be clear to you that the death we fear is the last death, not the only one. I see what you are looking for. You are asking what I have packed into my letter, what spirited saying from some master mind, what useful precept. I will send you something on the very subject we have been discussing. Epicurus rebukes those who crave death as much as those who shrink from it: "It is absurd to run toward death because you are tired of life, when it is your way of life that has made you run toward death." And elsewhere: "What is so absurd as seeking death when fear of death has robbed your life of peace?" Add a third saying of the same kind: "People are so thoughtless, even so mad, that some force themselves to die through fear of death." Whichever of these thoughts you ponder, you will strengthen your mind to endure both death and life. We need warning and strengthening in both directions: not to love life too much and not to hate it too much. Even when reason advises us to make an end, the impulse must not be adopted without reflection or in a rush. The brave and wise person should not flee from life, but make a fitting exit. Above all, he should avoid the weakness that has taken possession of many people: the craving for death. Just as the mind can rush unthinkingly toward other things, my dear Lucilius, it can rush unthinkingly toward death. This often seizes noble and spirited men as well as the cowardly and low. The first despise life; the second find it burdensome. Others are moved by a weariness of doing and seeing the same things, not so much by hatred of life as by disgust with it. We slip into this condition even while philosophy itself is pushing us on, and we say, "How long must I endure the same things? Shall I keep waking and sleeping, being hungry and full, shivering and sweating? Nothing ends. Everything is linked in a circle; things flee and are pursued. Night follows close on day, day on night. Summer ends in autumn, winter rushes after autumn, and winter softens into spring. All nature passes in this way, only to return. I do nothing new; I see nothing new. Sooner or later this too becomes sickening." There are many people who think living is not painful, only unnecessary. Farewell.

You write me that you are anxious about the result of a lawsuit, with which an angry opponent is threatening you; and you expect me to advise you to picture to yourself a happier issue, and to rest in the allurements of hope. Why, indeed, is it necessary to summon trouble,—which must be endured soon enough when it has once arrived,—or to anticipate trouble and ruin the present through fear of the future? It is indeed foolish to be unhappy now because you may be unhappy at some future time. But I shall conduct you to peace of mind by another route: if you would put off all worry, assume that what you fear may happen will certainly happen in any event; whatever the trouble may be, measure it in your own mind, and estimate the amount of your fear. You will thus understand that what you fear is either insignificant or short-lived. And you need not spend a long time in gathering illustrations which will strengthen you; every epoch has produced them. Let your thoughts travel into any era of Roman or foreign history, and there will throng before you notable examples of high achievement or of high endeavour. If you lose this case, can anything more severe happen to you than being sent into exile or led to prison? Is there a worse fate that any man may fear than being burned or being killed? Name such penalties one by one, and mention the men who have scorned them; one does not need to hunt for them,—it is simply a matter of selection. Sentence of conviction was borne by Rutilius as if the injustice of the decision were the only thing which annoyed him. Exile was endured by Metellus with courage, by Rutilius even with gladness; for the former consented to come back only because his country called him; the latter refused to return when Sulla summoned him,—and nobody in those days said “No” to Sulla! Socrates in prison discoursed, and declined to flee when certain persons gave him the opportunity; he remained there, in order to free mankind from the fear of two most grievous things, death and imprisonment. Mucius put his hand into the fire. It is painful to be burned; but how much more painful to inflict such suffering upon oneself! Here was a man of no learning, not primed to face death and pain by any words of wisdom, and equipped only with the courage of a soldier, who punished himself for his fruitless daring; he stood and watched his own right hand falling away piecemeal on the enemy’s brazier, nor did he withdraw the dissolving limb, with its uncovered bones, until his foe removed the fire. He might have accomplished something more successful in that camp, but never anything more brave. See how much keener a brave man is to lay hold of danger than a cruel man is to inflict it: Porsenna was more ready to pardon Mucius for wishing to slay him than Mucius to pardon himself for failing to slay Porsenna! “Oh,” say you, “those stories have been droned to death in all the schools; pretty soon, when you reach the topic ‘On Despising Death,’ you will be telling me about Cato.” But why should I not tell you about Cato, how he read Plato’s book on that last glorious night, with a sword laid at his pillow? He had provided these two requisites for his last moments,—the first, that he might have the will to die, and the second, that he might have the means. So he put his affairs in order,—as well as one could put in order that which was ruined and near its end,—and thought that he ought to see to it that no one should have the power to slay or the good fortune to save Cato. Drawing the sword,—which he had kept unstained from all bloodshed against the final day,—he cried: “Fortune, you have accomplished nothing by resisting all my endeavours. I have fought, till now, for my country’s freedom, and not for my own, I did not strive so doggedly to be free, but only to live among the free. Now, since the affairs of mankind are beyond hope, let Cato be withdrawn to safety.” So saying, he inflicted a mortal wound upon his body. After the physicians had bound it up, Cato had less blood and less strength, but no less courage; angered now not only at Caesar but also at himself, he rallied his unarmed hands against his wound, and expelled, rather than dismissed, that noble soul which had been so defiant of all worldly power. I am not now heaping up these illustrations for the purpose of exercising my wit, but for the purpose of encouraging you to face that which is thought to be most terrible. And I shall encourage you all the more easily by showing that not only resolute men have despised that moment when the soul breathes its last, but that certain persons, who were craven in other respects, have equalled in this regard the courage of the bravest. Take, for example, Scipio, the father-in-law of Gnaeus Pompeius: he was driven back upon the African coast by a head-wind and saw his ship in the power of the enemy. He therefore pierced his body with a sword; and when they asked where the commander was, he replied: “All is well with the commander.” These words brought him up to the level of his ancestors and suffered not the glory which fate gave to the Scipios in Africa to lose its continuity. It was a great deed to conquer Carthage, but a greater deed to conquer death. “All is well with the commander!” Ought a general to die otherwise, especially one of Cato’s generals? I shall not refer you to history, or collect examples of those men who throughout the ages have despised death; for they are very many. Consider these times of ours, whose enervation and over-refinement call forth our complaints; they nevertheless will include men of every rank, of every lot in life, and of every age, who have cut short their misfortunes by death. Believe me, Lucilius; death is so little to be feared that through its good offices nothing is to be feared. Therefore, when your enemy threatens, listen unconcernedly. Although your conscience makes you confident, yet, since many things have weight which are outside your case, both hope for that which is utterly just, and prepare yourself against that which is utterly unjust. Remember, however, before all else, to strip things of all that disturbs and confuses, and to see what each is at bottom; you will then comprehend that they contain nothing fearful except the actual fear. What you see happening to boys happens also to ourselves, who are only slightly bigger boys: when those whom they love, with whom they daily associate, with whom they play, appear with masks on, the boys are frightened out of their wits. We should strip the mask, not only from men, but from things, and restore to each object its own aspect. “Why dost thou hold up before my eyes swords, fires, and a throng of executioners raging about thee? Take away all that vain show, behind which thou lurkest and scarest fools! Ah! thou art naught but Death, whom only yesterday a manservant of mine and a maid-servant did despise! Why dost thou again unfold and spread before me, with all that great display, the whip and the rack? Why are those engines of torture made ready, one for each several member of the body, and all the other innumerable machines for tearing a man apart piecemeal? Away with all such stuff, which makes us numb with terror! And thou, silence the groans, the cries, and the bitter shrieks ground out of the victim as he is torn on the rack! Forsooth thou are naught but Pain, scorned by yonder gout-ridden wretch, endured by yonder dyspeptic in the midst of his dainties, borne bravely by the girl in travail. Slight thou art, if I can bear thee; short thou art if I cannot bear thee!” Ponder these words which you have often heard and often uttered. Moreover, prove by the result whether that which you have heard and uttered is true. For there is a very disgraceful charge often brought against our school,—that we deal with the words, and not with the deeds, of philosophy. What, have you only at this moment learned that death is hanging over your head, at this moment exile, at this moment grief? You were born to these perils. Let us think of everything that can happen as something which will happen. I know that you have really done what I advise you to do; I now warn you not to drown your soul in these petty anxieties of yours; if you do, the soul will be dulled and will have too little vigour left when the time comes for it to arise. Remove the mind from this case of yours to the case of men in general. Say to yourself that our petty bodies are mortal and frail; pain can reach them from other sources than from wrong or the might of the stronger. Our pleasures themselves become torments; banquets bring indigestion, carousals paralysis of the muscles and palsy, sensual habits affect the feet, the hands, and every joint of the body. I may become a poor man; I shall then be one among many. I may be exiled; I shall then regard myself as born in the place to which I shall be sent. They may put me in chains. What then? Am I free from bonds now? Behold this clogging burden of a body, to which nature has fettered me! “I shall die,” you say; you mean to say “I shall cease to run the risk of sickness; I shall cease to run the risk of imprisonment; I shall cease to run the risk of death.” I am not so foolish as to go through at this juncture the arguments which Epicurus harps upon, and say that the terrors of the world below are idle,—that Ixion does not whirl round on his wheel, that Sisyphus does not shoulder his stone uphill, that a man’s entrails cannot be restored and devoured every day; no one is so childish as to fear Cerberus, or the shadows, or the spectral garb of those who are held together by naught but their unfleshed bones. Death either annihilates us or strips us bare. If we are then released, there remains the better part, after the burden has been withdrawn; if we are annihilated, nothing remains; good and bad are alike removed. Allow me at this point to quote a verse of yours, first suggesting that, when you wrote it, you meant it for yourself no less than for others. It is ignoble to say one thing and mean another; and how much more ignoble to write one thing and mean another! I remember one day you were handling the well-known commonplace,—that we do not suddenly fall on death, but advance towards it by slight degrees; we die every day. For every day a little of our life is taken from us; even when we are growing, our life is on the wane. We lose our childhood, then our boyhood, and then our youth. Counting even yesterday, all past time is lost time; the very day which we are now spending is shared between ourselves and death. It is not the last drop that empties the water-clock, but all that which previously has flowed out; similarly, the final hour when we cease to exist does not of itself bring death; it merely of itself completes the death-process. We reach death at that moment, but we have been a long time on the way. In describing this situation, you said in your customary, style (for you are always impressive, but never more pungent than when you are putting the truth in appropriate words):— Not single is the death which comes; the death Which takes us off is but the last of all. I prefer that you should read your own words rather than my letter; for then it will be clear to you that this death, of which we are afraid, is the last but not the only death. I see what you are looking for; you are asking what I have packed into my letter, what inspiriting saying from some master-mind, what useful precept. So I shall send you something dealing with this very subject which has been under discussion. Epicurus upbraids those who crave, as much as those who shrink from, death: “It is absurd,” he says, “to run towards death because you are tired of life, when it is your manner of life that has made you run towards death.” And in another passage: “What is so absurd as to seek death, when it is through fear of death that you have robbed your life of peace?” And you may add a third statement, of the same stamp: “Men are so thoughtless, nay, so mad, that some, through fear of death, force themselves to die.” Whichever of these ideas you ponder, you will strengthen your mind for the endurance alike of death and of life. For we need to be warned and strengthened in both directions,—not to love or to hate life overmuch; even when reason advises us to make an end of it, the impulse is not to be adopted without reflection or at headlong speed. The brave and wise man should not beat a hasty retreat from life; he should make a becoming exit. And above all, he should avoid the weakness which has taken possession of so many,—the lust for death. For just as there is an unreflecting tendency of the mind towards other things, so, my dear Lucilius, there is an unreflecting tendency towards death; this often seizes upon the noblest and most spirited men, as well as upon the craven and the abject. The former despise life; the latter find it irksome. Others also are moved by a satiety of doing and seeing the same things, and not so much by a hatred of life as because they are cloyed with it. We slip into this condition, while philosophy itself pushes us on, and we say: “How long must I endure the same things? Shall I continue to wake and sleep, be hungry and be cloyed, shiver and perspire? There is an end to nothing; all things are connected in a sort of circle; they flee and they are pursued. Night is close at the heels of day, day at the heels of night; summer ends in autumn, winter rushes after autumn, and winter softens into spring; all nature in this way passes, only to return. I do nothing new; I see nothing new; sooner or later one sickens of this, also.” There are many who think that living is not painful, but superfluous. Farewell.

[1] Sollicitum esse te scribis de iudici eventu quod tibi furor inimici denuntiat; existimas me suasurum ut meliora tibi ipse proponas et acquiescas spei blandae. Quid enim necesse est mala accersere, satis cito patienda cum venerint praesumere, ac praesens tempus futuri metu perdere? Est sine dubio stultum, quia quandoque sis futurus miser, esse iam miserum. [2] Sed ego alia te ad securitatem via ducam: si vis omnem sollicitudinem exuere, quidquid vereris ne eveniat eventurum utique propone, et quodcumque est illud malum, tecum ipse metire ac timorem tuum taxa: intelleges profecto aut non magnum aut non longum esse quod metuis. [3] Nec diu exempla quibus confirmeris colligenda sunt: omnis illa aetas tulit. In quamcumque partem rerum vel civilium vel externarum memoriam miseris, occurrent tibi ingenia aut profectus aut impetus magni. Numquid accidere tibi, si damnaris, potest durius quam ut mittaris in exilium, ut ducaris in carcerem? Numquid ultra quicquam ulli timendum est quam ut uratur, quam ut pereat? Singula ista constitue et contemptores eorum cita, qui non quaerendi sed eligendi sunt. [4] Damnationem suam Rutilius sic tulit tamquam nihil illi molestum aliud esset quam quod male iudicaretur. Exilium Metellus fortiter tulit, Rutilius etiam libenter; alter ut rediret rei publicae praestitit, alter reditum suum Sullae negavit, cui nihil tunc negabatur. In carcere Socrates disputavit et exire, cum essent qui promitterent fugam, noluit remansitque, ut duarum rerum gravissimarum hominibus metum demeret, mortis et carceris. [5] Mucius ignibus manum imposuit. Acerbum est uri: quanto acerbius si id te faciente patiaris! Vides hominem non eruditum nec ullis praeceptis contra mortem aut dolorem subornatum, militari tantum robore instructum, poenas a se irriti conatus exigentem; spectator destillantis in hostili foculo dexterae stetit nec ante removit nudis ossibus fluentem manum quam ignis illi ab hoste subductus est. Facere aliquid in illis castris felicius potuit, nihil fortius. Vide quanto acrior sit ad occupanda pericula virtus quam crudelitas ad irroganda: facilius Porsina Mucio ignovit quod voluerat occidere quam sibi Mucius quod non occiderat. [6] 'Decantatae' inquis 'in omnibus scholis fabulae istae sunt; iam mihi, cum ad contemnendam mortem ventum fuerit, Catonem narrabis.' Quidni ego narrem ultima illa nocte Platonis librum legentem posito ad caput gladio? Duo haec in rebus extremis instrumenta prospexerat, alterum ut vellet mori, alterum ut posset. Compositis ergo rebus, utcumque componi fractae atque ultimae poterant, id agendum existimavit ne cui Catonem aut occidere liceret aut servare contingeret; [7] et stricto gladio quem usque in illum diem ab omni caede purum servaverat, 'nihil' inquit 'egisti, fortuna, omnibus conatibus meis obstando. Non pro mea adhuc sed pro patriae libertate pugnavi, nec agebam tanta pertinacia ut liber, sed ut inter liberos, viverem: nunc quoniam deploratae sunt res generis humani, Cato deducatur in tutum.' [8] Impressit deinde mortiferum corpori vulnus; quo obligato a medicis cum minus sanguinis haberet, minus virium, animi idem, iam non tantum Caesari sed sibi iratus nudas in vulnus manus egit et generosum illum contemptoremque omnis potentiae spiritum non emisit sed eiecit. [9] Non in hoc exempla nunc congero ut ingenium exerceam, sed ut te adversus id quod maxime terribile videtur exhorter; facilius autem exhortabor, si ostendero non fortes tantum viros hoc momentum efflandae animae contempsisse sed quosdam ad alia ignavos in hac re aequasse animum fortissimorum, sicut illum Cn. Pompei socerum Scipionem, qui contrario in Africam vento relatus cum teneri navem suam vidisset ab hostibus, ferro se transverberavit et quaerentibus ubi imperator esset, 'imperator' inquit 'se bene habet'. [10] Vox haec illum parem maioribus fecit et fatalem Scipionibus in Africa gloriam non est interrumpi passa. Multum fuit Carthaginem vincere, sed amplius mortem. 'Imperator' inquit 'se bene habet': an aliter debebat imperator, et quidem Catonis, mori? [11] Non revoco te ad historias nec ex omnibus saeculis contemptores mortis, qui sunt plurimi, colligo; respice ad haec nostra tempora, de quorum languore ac delicis querimur: omnis ordinis homines suggerent, omnis fortunae, omnis aetatis, qui mala sua morte praeciderint. Mihi crede, Lucili, adeo mors timenda non est ut beneficio eius nihil timendum sit. [12] Securus itaque inimici minas audi; et quamvis conscientia tibi tua fiduciam faciat, tamen, quia multa extra causam valent, et quod aequissimum est spera et ad id te quod est iniquissimum compara. Illud autem ante omnia memento, demere rebus tumultum ac videre quid in quaque re sit: scies nihil esse in istis terribile nisi ipsum timorem. [13] Quod vides accidere pueris, hoc nobis quoque maiusculis pueris evenit: illi quos amant, quibus assueverunt, cum quibus ludunt, si personatos vident, expavescunt: non hominibus tantum sed rebus persona demenda est et reddenda facies sua. [14] Quid mihi gladios et ignes ostendis et turbam carnificum circa te frementem? Tolle istam pompam sub qua lates et stultos territas: mors es, quam nuper servus meus, quam ancilla contempsit. Quid tu rursus mihi flagella et eculeos magno apparatu explicas? quid singulis articulis singula machinamenta quibus extorqueantur aptata et mille alia instrumenta excarnificandi particulatim hominis? Pone ista quae nos obstupefaciunt; iube conticiscere gemitus et exclamationes et vocum inter lacerationem elisarum acerbitatem: nempe dolor es, quem podagricus ille contemnit, quem stomachicus ille in ipsis delicis perfert, quem in puerperio puella perpetitur. Levis es si ferre possum; brevis es si ferre non possum. [15] Haec in animo voluta, quae saepe audisti, saepe dixisti; sed an vere audieris, an vere dixeris, effectu proba; hoc enim turpissimum est quod nobis obici solet, verba nos philosophiae, non opera tractare. Quid? tu nunc primum tibi mortem imminere scisti, nunc exilium, nunc dolorem? in haec natus es; quidquid fieri potest quasi futurum cogitemus. [16] Quod facere te moneo scio certe fecisse: nunc admoneo ut animum tuum non mergas in istam sollicitudinem; hebetabitur enim et minus habebit vigoris cum exsurgendum erit. Abduc illum a privata causa ad publicam; dic mortale tibi et fragile corpusculum esse, cui non ex iniuria tantum aut ex potentioribus viribus denuntiabitur dolor: ipsae voluptates in tormenta vertuntur, epulae cruditatem afferunt, ebrietates nervorum torporem tremoremque, libidines pedum, manuum, articulorum omnium depravationes. [17] Pauper fiam: inter plures ero. Exul fiam: ibi me natum putabo quo mittar. Alligabor: quid enim? nunc solutus sum? ad hoc me natura grave corporis mei pondus adstrinxit. Moriar: hoc dicis, desinam aegrotare posse, desinam alligari posse, desinam mori posse. [18] Non sum tam ineptus ut Epicuream cantilenam hoc loco persequar et dicam vanos esse inferorum metus, nec Ixionem rota volvi nec saxum umeris Sisyphi trudi in adversum nec ullius viscera et renasci posse cotidie et carpi: nemo tam puer est ut Cerberum timeat et tenebras et larvalem habitum nudis ossibus cohaerentium. Mors nos aut consumit aut exuit; emissis meliora restant onere detracto, consumptis nihil restat, bona pariter malaque summota sunt. [19] Permitte mihi hoc loco referre versum tuum, si prius admonuero ut te iudices non aliis scripsisse ista sed etiam tibi. Turpe est aliud loqui, aliud sentire: quanto turpius aliud scribere, aliud sentire! Memini te illum locum aliquando tractasse, non repente nos in mortem incidere sed minutatim procedere. [20] Cotidie morimur; cotidie enim demitur aliqua pars vitae, et tunc quoque cum crescimus vita decrescit. Infantiam amisimus, deinde pueritiam, deinde adulescentiam. Usque ad hesternum quidquid trans;t temporis perit; hunc ipsum quem agimus diem cum morte dividimus. Quemadmodum clepsydram non extremum stilicidium exhaurit sed quidquid ante defluxit, sic ultima hora qua esse desinimus non sola mortem facit sed sola consummat; tunc ad illam pervenimus, sed diu venimus. [21] Haec cum descripsisses quo soles ore, semper quidem magnus, numquam tamen acrior quam ubi veritati commodas verba, dixisti, mors non una venit, sed quae rapit ultima mors est. Malo te legas quam epistulam meam; apparebit enim tibi hanc quam timemus mortem extremam esse, non solam. [22] Video quo spectes: quaeris quid huic epistulae infulserim, quod dictum alicuius animosum, quod praeceptum utile. Ex hac ipsa materia quae in manibus fuit mittetur aliquid. Obiurgat Epicurus non minus eos qui mortem concupiscunt quam eos qui timent, et ait: 'ridiculum est currere ad mortem taedio vitae, cum genere vitae ut currendum ad mortem esset effeceris'. [23] Item alio loco dicit: 'quid tam ridiculum quam appetere mortem, cum vitam inquietam tibi feceris metu mortis?' His adicias et illud eiusdem notae licet, tantam hominum imprudentiam esse, immo dementiam, ut quidam timore mortis cogantur ad mortem. [24] Quidquid horum tractaveris, confirmabis animum vel ad mortis vel ad vitae patientiam; [at] in utrumque enim monendi ac firmandi sumus, et ne nimis amemus vitam et ne nimis oderimus. Etiam cum ratio suadet finire se, non temere nec cum procursu capiendus est impetus. [25] Vir fortis ac sapiens non fugere debet e vita sed exire; et ante omnia ille quoque vitetur affectus qui multos occupavit, libido moriendi. Est enim, mi Lucili, ut ad alia, sic etiam ad moriendum inconsulta animi inclinatio, quae saepe generosos atque acerrimae indolis viros corripit, saepe ignavos iacentesque: illi contemnunt vitam, hi gravantur. [26] Quosdam subit eadem faciendi videndique satietas et vitae non odium sed fastidium, in quod prolabimur ipsa impellente philosophia, dum dicimus 'quousque eadem? nempe ex pergiscar dormiam, <edam> esuriam, algebo aestuabo. Nullius rei finis est, sed in orbem nexa sunt omnia, fugiunt ac sequuntur; diem nox premit, dies noctem, aestas in autumnum desinit, autumno hiemps instat, quae vere compescitur; omnia sic transeunt ut revertantur. Nihil novi facio, nihil novi video: fit aliquando et huius rei nausia.' Multi sunt qui non acerbum iudicent vivere sed supervacuum. Vale.