Letter 54

Poor health had granted me a long leave; then suddenly it set upon me. "Of what kind?" you ask. You are quite right to inquire: no kind is unknown to me. Yet I have been assigned, so to speak, to one particular illness, which I do not know why I should call by its Greek name; for it can be aptly enough described as "shortness of breath." Its onslaught is very brief and like a sudden squall; it usually subsides within an hour. For who breathes his last for long? Every bodily affliction and danger has passed through me: none seems to me more troublesome than this. And why not? For anything else, whatever it is, means being ill; this means breathing out your life. That is why physicians call it "the rehearsal of death"; for at some point that breath does what it has so often attempted. Do you suppose I write this to you in a cheerful mood because I have escaped? I should be as ridiculous, if I took delight in this end as though it were good health, as the man who imagines he has won his case because he has secured a postponement of his court date. But even in the very moment of suffocation I did not cease to find rest in glad and brave reflections. "What is this?" I say. "Does death test me so often? Let it: I myself tested it long ago." "When?" you ask. Before I was born. Death is not to be. What that is like I already know: what will follow me will be what came before me. If there is any torment in this matter, then it must also have existed before we came forth into the light; yet at that time we felt no distress. I ask you, would you not call him utterly foolish who supposed that a lamp is worse off when it has been put out than before it was lit? We too are both put out and lit: in that interval between we suffer something, but on either side there is deep tranquility. For in this, my dear Lucilius, unless I am mistaken, we go astray: we judge that death follows, when in fact it has both preceded and will follow. Whatever existed before us is death; for what difference does it make whether you do not begin or whether you cease, since the result of both is the same: not to be? With these and similar exhortations - silent ones, of course, for there was no room for speech - I did not cease to address myself; then little by little that shortness of breath, which had already become a mere panting, made its intervals longer and slackened. But it has remained, and even now, although it has stopped, my breath does not flow naturally; I feel a certain catch in it and a delay. Let it be as it will, provided I do not sigh from the soul. Take this assurance from me about myself: I shall not tremble at the end, I am already prepared, I give no thought to a whole day ahead. Praise and imitate the man who is not loath to die even when it is a pleasure to live; for what excellence is there in departing when you are thrown out? And yet there is excellence even here: I am indeed thrown out, but as though I were departing. And for that reason the wise man is never thrown out, because to be thrown out is to be driven from a place you leave unwillingly: the wise man does nothing unwillingly. He escapes necessity, because he wills what necessity is about to compel. Farewell.

My ill-health had allowed me a long furlough, when suddenly it resumed the attack. “What kind of ill-health?” you say. And you surely have a right to ask; for it is true that no kind is unknown to me. But I have been consigned, so to speak, to one special ailment. I do not know why I should call it by its Greek name; for it is well enough described as “shortness of breath.” Its attack is of very brief duration, like that of a squall at sea; it usually ends within an hour. Who indeed could breathe his last for long? I have passed through all the ills and dangers of the flesh; but nothing seems to me more troublesome than this. And naturally so; for anything else may be called illness; but this is a sort of continued “last gasp.” Hence physicians call it “practising how to die.” For some day the breath will succeed in doing what it has so often essayed. Do you think I am writing this letter in a merry spirit, just because I have escaped? It would be absurd to take delight in such supposed restoration to health, as it would be for a defendant to imagine that he had won his case when he had succeeded in postponing his trial. Yet in the midst of my difficult breathing I never ceased to rest secure in cheerful and brave thoughts. “What?” I say to myself; “does death so often test me? Let it do so; I myself have for a long time tested death.” “When?” you ask. Before I was born. Death is non-existence, and I know already what that means. What was before me will happen again after me. If there is any suffering in this state, there must have been such suffering also in the past, before we entered the light of day. As a matter of fact, however, we felt no discomfort then. And I ask you, would you not say that one was the greatest of fools who believed that a lamp was worse off when it was extinguished than before it was lighted? We mortals also are lighted and extinguished; the period of suffering comes in between, but on either side there is a deep peace. For, unless I am very much mistaken, my dear Lucilius, we go astray in thinking that death only follows, when in reality it has both preceded us and will in turn follow us. Whatever condition existed before our birth, is death. For what does it matter whether you do not begin at all, or whether you leave off, inasmuch as the result of both these states is non-existence? I have never ceased to encourage myself with cheering counsels of this kind, silently, of course, since I had not the power to speak; then little by little this shortness of breath, already reduced to a sort of panting, came on at greater intervals, and then slowed down and finally stopped. Even by this time, although the gasping has ceased, the breath does not come and go normally; I still feel a sort of hesitation and delay in breathing. Let it be as it pleases, provided there be no sigh from the soul. Accept this assurance from me: I shall never be frightened when the last hour comes; I am already prepared and do not plan a whole day ahead. But do you praise and imitate the man whom it does not irk to die, though he takes pleasure in living. For what virtue is there in going away when you are thrust out? And yet there is virtue even in this: I am indeed thrust out, but it is as if I were going away willingly. For that reason the wise man can never be thrust out, because that would mean removal from a place which he was unwilling to leave; and the wise man does nothing unwillingly. He escapes necessity, because he wills to do what necessity is about to force upon him. Farewell.

[1] Longum mihi commeatum dederat mala valetudo; repente me invasit. 'Quo genere?' inquis. Prorsus merito interrogas: adeo nullum mihi ignotum est. Uni tamen morbo quasi assignatus sum, quem quare Graeco nomine appellem nescio; satis enim apte dici suspirium potest. Brevis autem valde et procellae similis est impetus; intra horam fere desinit: quis enim diu exspirat? [2] Omnia corporis aut incommoda aut pericula per me transierunt: nullum mihi videtur molestius. Quidni? aliud enim quidquid est aegrotare est, hoc animam egerere. Itaque medici hanc 'meditationem mortis' vocant; facit enim aliquando spiritus ille quod saepe conatus est. Hilarem me putas haec tibi scribere quia effugi? [3] Tam ridicule facio, si hoc fine quasi bona valetudine delector, quam ille, quisquis vicisse se putat cum vadimonium distulit. Ego vero et in ipsa suffocatione non desii cogitationibus laetis ac fortibus acquiescere. [4] 'Quid hoc est?' inquam 'tam saepe mors experitur me? Faciat: [at] ego illam diu expertus sum.' 'Quando?' inquis. Antequam nascerer. Mors est non esse. Id quale sit iam scio: hoc erit post me quod ante me fuit. Si quid in hac re tormenti est, necesse est et fuisse, antequam prodiremus in lucem; atqui nullam sensimus tunc vexationem. [5] Rogo, non stultissimum dicas si quis existimet lucernae peius esse cum exstincta est quam antequam accenditur? Nos quoque et exstinguimur et accendimur: medio illo tempore aliquid patimur, utrimque vero alta securitas est. In hoc enim, mi Lucili, nisi fallor, erramus, quod mortem iudicamus sequi, cum illa et praecesserit et secutura sit. Quidquid ante nos fuit mors est; quid enim refert non incipias an desinas, cum utriusque rei hic sit effectus, non esse? [6] His et eiusmodi exhortationibus - tacitis scilicet, nam verbis locus non erat - alloqui me non desii; deinde paulatim suspirium illud, quod esse iam anhelitus coeperat, intervalla maiora fecit et retardatum est. At remansit, nec adhuc, quamvis desierit, ex natura fluit spiritus; sentio haesitationem quandam eius et moram. Quomodo volet, dummodo non ex animo suspirem. [7] Hoc tibi de me recipe: non trepidabo ad extrema, iam praeparatus sum, nihil cogito de die toto. Illum tu lauda et imitare quem non piget mori, cum iuvet vivere: quae est enim virtus, cum eiciaris, exire? Tamen est et hic virtus: eicior quidem, sed tamquam exeam. Et ideo numquam eicitur sapiens quia eici est inde expelli unde invitus recedas: nihil invitus facit sapiens; necessitatem effugit, quia vult quod coactura est. Vale.