Letter 45

[1] You complain that out there you have a shortage of books. It is not how many you have that matters, but how good they are: a fixed course of reading does us good, a varied one merely entertains. A man who wants to reach the place he has set out for must follow one road, not roam over many: that is not going there, but wandering astray. [2] "I would rather," you say, "that you gave me advice than books." For my part, I am ready to send whatever books I have and to empty out the whole storehouse. I would transfer my very self to you, if I could; and if I were not hoping that you will soon obtain the end of your term of duty, I would have ordered myself this old man's expedition, and neither Charybdis nor Scylla nor that fabled strait could have deterred me. I would have swum across those waters, not merely sailed over them, provided I could embrace you and judge in your presence how much you had grown in spirit. [3] But as for your wishing my own books to be sent to you, I no more think myself eloquent on that account than I would think myself handsome if you asked for my portrait. I know that this comes from your affection, not your judgment; and if it does come from your judgment, your affection imposed it on you. [4] But whatever sort they are, read them as though I were still seeking the truth and did not yet know it, and were seeking it stubbornly. For I have made myself the bondsman of no one; I bear no one's name. I trust much to the judgment of great men, but I claim something also for my own. For they too left us not things already discovered, but things still to be sought; and they might perhaps have discovered the necessary things if they had not also gone seeking the superfluous. [5] The quibbling over words robbed them of much time, those captious disputations that exercise the wits to no effect. We tie knots and bind an ambiguous meaning into our words and then untie it again: have we so much time to spare? Do we already know how to live, how to die? We must press on with our whole mind to that point where it must be foreseen that things, and not words, may deceive us. [6] Why do you mark out for me resemblances between words, by which no one has ever been caught except while he was arguing? It is things that deceive us: distinguish between those. We embrace evils in place of goods; we wish for the opposite of what we once wished; our prayers fight with our prayers, our plans with our plans. [7] How like friendship flattery is! It not only imitates friendship but surpasses and outstrips it; it is received by open and willing ears and sinks down into the very depths of the heart, pleasing for the very reason that it does harm: teach me how I may distinguish this resemblance. A flattering enemy comes to me in the guise of a friend; vices creep up on us under the name of virtues: recklessness lurks under the title of courage, restraint is called cowardice, the timid man is taken for the cautious one. In these matters we go astray at great peril: stamp sure marks upon them. [8] As for the man who is asked whether he has horns, he is not so foolish as to feel his own forehead, nor again so silly or dull as not to know he has none unless you have persuaded him by some most refined chain of reasoning. Such things deceive harmlessly, just like the conjurers' cups and pebbles, in which the very trickery delights me. Make me understand how it is done: I have lost the game. I say the same about these catches -- for what better name can I give to sophisms? -- they neither harm the man who does not know them nor help the man who does. [9] If you really want to untangle ambiguities of words, teach us this: that the happy man is not the one whom the crowd calls so, the one toward whom great wealth has flowed, but the one who has all his good in his soul, upright and lofty and trampling on marvels, who sees no one with whom he would wish to exchange places, who values a man only by that part in which he is a man, who takes Nature as his teacher, who shapes himself to her laws and lives as she has prescribed; whose goods no force can shake out of him, who turns evils into good, sure in judgment, unshaken, unafraid; whom some force may move, but none may throw into confusion; whom Fortune, when with all her might she has hurled the most harmful weapon she had, pricks but does not wound, and that rarely; for the rest of her weapons, by which the human race is overcome, bounce off him like hail, which, dashed against the rooftops, rattles and breaks up without any harm to the dweller within. [10] Why do you keep me busy with that thing you yourself call the "liar" [the pseudomenon, the liar paradox], about which so many books have been composed? Look, my whole life lies to me: refute that, bring that back to the truth, if you are so keen. It judges to be necessary the things of which a great part is superfluous; even what is not superfluous has no weight in itself toward making a man fortunate and happy. For a thing is not at once good if it is necessary: otherwise we throw away the meaning of good, if we give that name to bread and porridge and the rest of the things without which life cannot be carried on. [11] What is good is in every case necessary; what is necessary is not in every case good, since indeed some things are necessary and yet utterly cheap. No one is so far ignorant of the dignity of the good as to lower it to the level of these everyday useful things. [12] What then? Will you not rather turn your attention to this -- to show everyone that the superfluous is sought at great expense of time, and that many have passed through life while collecting the instruments of living? Review them one by one, consider them all together: there is no one whose life is not looking ahead to tomorrow. [13] You ask what evil there is in this? Infinite evil. For they do not live, but are about to live: they put everything off. Even if we paid attention, still life would run ahead of us; but as it is, while we delay, it races past as though it belonged to another, and it ends on the last day -- it perishes on every day. But so that I do not exceed the measure of a letter, which ought not to fill the reader's left hand, I will put off to another day this lawsuit with the dialecticians, who are too subtle and who attend only to this and not to this as well [i.e., to logic-chopping rather than to living]. Farewell.

You complain that in your part of the world there is a scant supply of books. But it is quality, rather than quantity, that matters; a limited list of reading benefits; a varied assortment serves only for delight. He who would arrive at the appointed end must follow a single road and not wander through many ways. What you suggest is not travelling; it is mere tramping. “But,” you say, “I should rather have you give me advice than books.” Still, I am ready to send you all the books I have, to ransack the whole storehouse. If it were possible, I should join you there myself; and were it not for the hope that you will soon complete your term of office, I should have imposed upon myself this old man’s journey; no Scylla or Charybdis or their storied straits could have frightened me away. I should not only have crossed over, but should have been willing to swim over those waters, provided that I could greet you and judge in your presence how much you had grown in spirit. Your desire, however, that I should dispatch to you my own writings does not make me think myself learned, any more than a request for my picture would flatter my beauty. I know that it is due to your charity rather than to your judgment. And even if it is the result of judgment, it was charity that forced the judgment upon you. But whatever the quality of my works may be, read them as if I were still seeking, and were not aware of, the truth, and were seeking it obstinately, too. For I have sold myself to no man; I bear the name of no master. I give much credit to the judgment of great men; but I claim something also for my own. For these men, too, have left to us, not positive discoveries, but problems whose solution is still to be sought. They might perhaps have discovered the essentials, had they not sought the superfluous also. They lost much time in quibbling about words and in sophistical argumentation; all that sort of thing exercises the wit to no purpose. We tie knots and bind up words in double meanings, and then try to untie them. Have we leisure enough for this? Do we already know how to live, or die? We should rather proceed with our whole souls towards the point where it is our duty to take heed lest things, as well as words, deceive us. Why, pray, do you discriminate between similar words, when nobody is ever deceived by them except during the discussion? It is things that lead us astray: it is between things that you must discriminate. We embrace evil instead of good; we pray for something opposite to that which we have prayed for in the past. Our prayers clash with our prayers, our plans with our plans. How closely flattery resembles friendship! It not only apes friendship, but outdoes it, passing it in the race; with wide-open and indulgent ears it is welcomed and sinks to the depths of the heart, and it is pleasing precisely wherein it does harm. Show me how I may be able to see through this resemblance! An enemy comes to me full of compliments, in the guise of a friend. Vices creep into our hearts under the name of virtues, rashness lurks beneath the appellation of bravery, moderation is called sluggishness, and the coward is regarded as prudent; there is great danger if we go astray in these matters. So stamp them with special labels. Then, too, the man who is asked whether he has horns on his head is not such a fool as to feel for them on his forehead, nor again so silly or dense that you can persuade him by means of argumentation, no matter how subtle, that he does not know the facts. Such quibbles are just as harmlessly deceptive as the juggler’s cup and dice, in which it is the very trickery that pleases me. But show me how the trick is done, and I have lost my interest therein. And I hold the same opinion about these tricky word-plays; for by what other name can one call such sophistries? Not to know them does no harm, and mastering them does no good. At any rate, if you wish to sift doubtful meanings of this kind, teach us that the happy man is not he whom the crowd deems happy, namely, he into whose coffers mighty sums have flowed, but he whose possessions are all in his soul, who is upright and exalted, who spurns inconstancy, who sees no man with whom he wishes to change places, who rates men only at their value as men, who takes Nature for his teacher, conforming to her laws and living as she commands, whom no violence can deprive of his possessions, who turns evil into good, is unerring in judgment, unshaken, unafraid, who may be moved by force but never moved to distraction, whom Fortune when she hurls at him with all her might the deadliest missile in her armoury, may graze, though rarely, but never wound. For Fortune’s other missiles, with which she vanquishes mankind in general, rebound from such a one, like hail which rattles on the roof with no harm to the dweller therein, and then melts away. Why do you bore me with that which you yourself call the “liar” fallacy, about which so many books have been written? Come now, suppose that my whole life is a lie; prove that to be wrong and, if you are sharp enough, bring that back to the truth. At present it holds things to be essential of which the greater part is superfluous. And even that which is not superfluous is of no significance in respect to its power of making one fortunate and blest. For if a thing be necessary, it does not follow that it is a good. Else we degrade the meaning of “good,” if we apply that name to bread and barley-porridge and other commodities without which we cannot live. The good must in every case be necessary; but that which is necessary is not in every case a good, since certain very paltry things are indeed necessary. No one is to such an extent ignorant of the noble meaning of the word “good,” as to debase it to the level of these humdrum utilities. What, then? Shall you not rather transfer your efforts to making it clear to all men that the search for the superfluous means a great outlay of time, and that many have gone through life merely accumulating the instruments of life? Consider individuals, survey men in general; there is none whose life does not look forward to the morrow. “What harm is there in this,” you ask? Infinite harm; for such persons do not live, but are preparing to live. They postpone everything. Even if we paid strict attention, life would soon get ahead of us; but as we are now, life finds us lingering and passes us by as if it belonged to another, and though it ends on the final day, it perishes every day. But I must not exceed the bounds of a letter, which ought not to fill the reader’s left hand. So I shall postpone to another day our case against the hair-splitters, those over-subtle fellows who make argumentation supreme instead of subordinate. Farewell.

[1] Librorum istic inopiam esse quereris. Non refert quam multos sed quam bonos habeas: lectio certa prodest, varia delectat. Qui quo destinavit pervenire vult unam sequatur viam, non per multas vagetur: non ire istuc sed errare est. [2] 'Vellem' inquis '<non> magis consilium mihi quam libros dares.' Ego vero quoscumque habeo mittere paratus sum et totum horreum excutere; me quoque isto, si possem, transferrem, et nisi mature te finem officii sperarem impetraturum, hanc senilem expeditionem indixissem mihi nec me Charybdis et Scylla et fabulosum istud fretum deterrere potuissent. Tranassem ista, non solum traiecissem, dummodo te complecti possem et praesens aestimare quantum animo crevisses. [3] Ceterum quod libros meos tibi mitti desideras, non magis ideo me disertum puto quam formonsum putarem si imaginem meam peteres. Indulgentiae scio istud esse, non iudici; et si modo iudici est, indulgentia tibi imposuit. [4] Sed qualescumque sunt, tu illos sic lege tamquam verum quaeram adhuc, non sciam, et contumaciter quaeram. Non enim me cuiquam emancipavi, nullius nomen fero; multum magnorum virorum iudicio credo, aliquid et meo vindico. Nam illi quoque non inventa sed quaerenda nobis reliquerunt, et invenissent forsitan necessaria nisi et supervacua quaesissent. [5] Multum illis temporis verborum cavillatio eripuit, captiosae disputationes quae acumen irritum exercent. Nectimus nodos et ambiguam significationem verbis illigamus ac deinde dissolvimus: tantum nobis vacat? iam vivere, iam mori scimus? Tota illo mente pergendum est ubi provideri debet ne res nos, non verba decipiant. [6] Quid mihi vocum similitudines distinguis, quibus nemo umquam nisi dum disputat captus est? Res fallunt: illas discerne. Pro bonis mala amplectimur; optamus contra id quod optavimus; pugnant vota nostra cum votis, consilia cum consilis. [7] Adulatio quam similis est amicitiae! Non imitatur tantum illam sed vincit et praeterit; apertis ac propitiis auribus recipitur et in praecordia ima descendit, eo ipso gratiosa quo laedit: doce quemadmodum hanc similitudinem possim dinoscere. Venit ad me pro amico blandus inimicus; vitia nobis sub virtutum nomine obrepunt: temeritas sub titulo fortitudinis latet, moderatio vocatur ignavia, pro cauto timidus accipitur. In his magno periculo erramus: his certas notas imprime. [8] Ceterum qui interrogatur an cornua habeat non est tam stultus ut frontem suam temptet, nec rursus tam ineptus aut hebes ut nesciat <nisi> tu illi subtilissima collectione persuaseris. Sic ista sine noxa decipiunt quomodo praestigiatorum acetabula et calculi, in quibus me fallacia ipsa delectat. Effice ut quomodo fiat intellegam: perdidi lusum. Idem de istis captionibus dico - quo enim nomine potius sophismata appellem? -: nec ignoranti nocent nec scientem iuvant. [9] Si utique vis verborum ambiguitates diducere, hoc nos doce, beatum non eum esse quem vulgus appellat, ad quem pecunia magna confluxit, sed illum cui bonum omne in animo est, erectum et excelsum et mirabilia calcantem, qui neminem videt cum quo se commutatum velit, qui hominem ea sola parte aestimat qua homo est, qui natura magistra utitur, ad illius leges componitur, sic vivit quomodo illa praescripsit; cui bona sua nulla vis excutit, qui mala in bonum vertit, certus iudicii, inconcussus, intrepidus; quem aliqua vis movet, nulla perturbat; quem fortuna, cum quod habuit telum nocentissimum vi maxima intorsit, pungit, non vulnerat, et hoc raro; nam cetera eius tela, quibus genus humanum debellatur, grandinis more dissultant, quae incussa tectis sine ullo habitatoris incommodo crepitat ac solvitur. [10] Quid me detines in eo quem tu ipse pseudomenon appellas, de quo tantum librorum compositum est? Ecce tota mihi vita mentitur: hanc coargue, hanc ad verum, si acutus es, redige. Necessaria iudicat quorum magna pars supervacua est; etiam quae non est supervacua nihil in se momenti habet in hoc, ut possit fortunatum beatumque praestare. Non enim statim bonum est, si quid necessarium est: aut proicimus bonum, si hoc nomen pani et polentae damus et ceteris sine quibus vita non ducitur. [11] Quod bonum est utique necessarium est: quod necessarium est non utique bonum est, quoniam quidem necessaria sunt quaedam eademque vilissima. Nemo usque eo dignitatem boni ignorat ut illud ad haec in diem utilia demittat. [12] Quid ergo? non eo potius curam transferes, ut ostendas omnibus magno temporis impendio quaeri supervacua et multos transisse vitam dum vitae instrumenta conquirunt? Recognosce singulos, considera universos: nullius non vita spectat in crastinum. [13] Quid in hoc sit mali quaeris? Infinitum. Non enim vivunt sed victuri sunt: omnia differunt. Etiamsi attenderemus, tamen nos vita praecurreret; nunc vero cunctantes quasi aliena transcurrit et ultimo die finitur, omni perit. Sed ne epistulae modum excedam, quae non debet sinistram manum legentis implere, in alium diem hanc litem cum dialecticis differam nimium subtilibus et hoc solum curantibus, non et hoc. Vale.