Letter 57

[1] When I had to make my way back from Baiae to Naples, I readily believed there was a storm, so as not to risk the ship a second time; yet there was so much mud the whole way that I might just as well be thought to have sailed all the same. That day I had to endure the athlete's full lot: after the wrestler's ointment, the sand-sprinkle caught us in the Crypta Neapolitana [the tunnel through the Posillipo ridge connecting Naples and the Bay of Baiae]. [2] Nothing is longer than that prison, nothing dimmer than those torches, which afford us not the means to see through the darkness, but to see the darkness itself. And besides, even if the place had light, the dust would carry it off, dust which is a heavy and troublesome thing even in the open. What of it there, where it rolls about upon itself and, shut in without any vent, settles back upon the very people who stirred it up? We endured two discomforts at once, opposite to each other: on the same road, on the same day, we suffered from both mud and dust. [3] That darkness, however, gave me something to reflect on: I felt a certain jolt of the mind, and a change unaccompanied by fear, which the strangeness of an unusual thing, together with its foulness, had produced. I am not now speaking to you about myself, who am far from being a tolerable man, let alone a perfect one, but about that man over whom Fortune has lost her right: his mind too will be struck, his color will change. [4] For there are certain things, my dear Lucilius, that no virtue can escape; nature reminds it of its own mortality. And so it will draw the face into a frown at grim sights, will shudder at sudden things, and will be dizzied if, set on the very edge of it, it looks down into a vast depth: this is not fear, but a natural feeling that reason cannot conquer. [5] And so certain brave men, most ready to shed their own blood, cannot bear to see another's; some collapse and faint away at the handling and inspection of a fresh wound, others at that of an old and festering one; some take a sword-thrust more easily than they look at it. [6] So I felt, as I was saying, not indeed a disturbance, but a change; and again, at the first sight of the daylight given back to me, cheerfulness returned, unbidden and unconsidered. Then I began to say to myself how foolishly we fear some things more and others less, when the end of all is the same. For what difference does it make whether a watchtower or a mountain falls upon someone? You will find none. Yet there will be those who fear this latter ruin more, although each is equally deadly; so true is it that fear regards not the effect, but the agency that produces it. [7] Do you suppose I am now speaking about the Stoics, who hold that the soul of a man crushed under a great weight cannot endure but is scattered at once, because it has not had a free way out? I, for my part, do not say this: those who say it seem to me to be in error. [8] Just as flame cannot be pressed out - for it flees around whatever bears down on it - just as the air is not harmed by lash and blow, and is not even cut, but flows back around the thing to which it has yielded, so the soul, which is composed of the finest substance, cannot be caught or struck dead within the body, but by the benefit of its own subtlety bursts out through the very things by which it is pressed. As the lightning bolt, even when it has struck and flashed over the widest space, has its return through a tiny opening, so for the soul, which is still finer than fire, there is an escape through the whole body. [9] And so the question to be raised about it is whether it can be immortal. Of this at least be certain: if it survives the body, it can in no way be crushed out, since no immortality admits of an exception, and nothing harmful can touch what is eternal. Farewell.

When it was time for me to return to Naples from Baiae, I easily persuaded myself that a storm was raging, that I might avoid another trip by sea; and yet the road was so deep in mud, all the way, that I may be thought none the less to have made a voyage. On that day I had to endure the full fate of an athlete; the anointing with which we began was followed by the sand-sprinkle in the Naples tunnel. No place could be longer than that prison; nothing could be dimmer than those torches, which enabled us, not to see amid the darkness, but to see the darkness. But, even supposing that there was light in the place, the dust, which is an oppressive and disagreeable thing even in the open air, would destroy the light; how much worse the dust is there, where it rolls back upon itself, and, being shut in without ventilation, blows back in the faces of those who set it going! So we endured two inconveniences at the same time, and they were diametrically different: we struggled both with mud and with dust on the same road and on the same day. The gloom, however, furnished me with some food for thought; I felt a certain mental thrill, and a transformation unaccompanied by fear, due to the novelty and the unpleasantness of an unusual occurrence. Of course I am not speaking to you of myself at this point, because I am far from being a perfect person, or even a man of middling qualities; I refer to one over whom fortune has lost her control. Even such a man’s mind will be smitten with a thrill and he will change colour. For there are certain emotions, my dear Lucilius, which no courage can avoid; nature reminds courage how perishable a thing it is. And so he will contract his brow when the prospect is forbidding, will shudder at sudden apparitions, and will become dizzy when he stands at the edge of a high precipice and looks down. This is not fear; it is a natural feeling which reason cannot rout. That is why certain brave men, most willing to shed their own blood, cannot bear to see the blood of others. Some persons collapse and faint at the sight of a freshly inflicted wound; others are affected similarly on handling or viewing an old wound which is festering. And others meet the sword-stroke more readily than they see it dealt. Accordingly, as I said, I experienced a certain transformation, though it could not be called confusion. Then at the first glimpse of restored daylight my good spirits returned without forethought or command. And I began to muse and think how foolish we are to fear certain objects to a greater or less degree, since all of them end in the same way. For what difference does it make whether a watchtower or a mountain crashes down upon us? No difference at all, you will find. Nevertheless, there will be some men who fear the latter mishap to a greater degree, though both accidents are equally deadly; so true it is that fear looks not to the effect, but to the cause of the effect. Do you suppose that I am now referring to the Stoics, who hold that the soul of a man crushed by a great weight cannot abide, and is scattered forthwith, because it has not had a free opportunity to depart? That is not what I am doing; those who think thus are, in my opinion, wrong. Just as fire cannot be crushed out, since it will escape round the edges of the body which overwhelms it; just as the air cannot be damaged by lashes and blows, or even cut into, but flows back about the object to which it gives place; similarly the soul, which consists of the subtlest particles, cannot be arrested or destroyed inside the body, but, by virtue of its delicate substance, it will rather escape through the very object by which it is being crushed. Just as lightning, no matter how widely it strikes and flashes, makes its return through a narrow opening, so the soul, which is still subtler than fire, has a way of escape through any part of the body. We therefore come to this question,—whether the soul can be immortal. But be sure of this: if the soul survives the body after the body is crushed, the soul can in no wise be crushed out, precisely because it does not perish; for the rule of immortality never admits of exceptions, and nothing can harm that which is everlasting. Farewell.

[1] Cum a Bais deberem Neapolim repetere, facile credidi tempestatem esse, ne iterum navem experirer; et tantum luti tota via fuit ut possim videri nihilominus navigasse. Totum athletarum fatum mihi illo die perpetiendum fuit: a ceromate nos haphe excepit in crypta Neapolitana. [2] Nihil illo carcere longius, nihil illis facibus obscurius, quae nobis praestant non ut per tenebras videamus, sed ut ipsas. Ceterum etiam si locus haberet lucem, pulvis auferret, in aperto quoque res gravis et molesta: quid illic, ubi in se volutatur et, cum sine ullo spiramento sit inclusus, in ipsos a quibus excitatus est recidit? Duo incommoda inter sc contraria simul pertulimus: eadem via, eodem die et luto et pulvere laboravimus. [3] Aliquid tamen mihi illa obscuritas quod cogitarem dedit: sensi quendam ictum animi et sine metu mutationem quam insolitae rei novitas simul ac foeditas fecerat. Non de me nunc tecum loquor, qui multum ab homine tolerabili, nedum a perfecto absum, sed de illo in quem fortuna ius perdidit: huius quoque ferietur animus, mutabitur color. [4] Quaedam enim, mi Lucili, nulla effugere virtus potest; admonet illam natura mortalitatis suae. Itaque et vultum adducet ad tristia et inhorrescet ad subita et caligabit, si vastam altitudinem in crepidine eius constitutus despexerit: non est hoc timor, sed naturalis affectio inexpugnabilis rationi. [5] Itaque fortes quidam et paratissimi fundere suum sanguinem alienum videre non possunt; quidam ad vulneris novi, quidam ad veteris et purulenti tractationem inspectionemque succidunt ac linquuntur animo; alii gladium facilius recipiunt quam vident. [6] Sensi ergo, ut dicebam, quandam non quidem perturbationem, sed mutationem: rursus ad primum conspectum redditae lucis alacritas rediit incogitata et iniussa. Illud deinde mecum loqui coepi, quam inepte quaedam magis aut minus timeremus, cum omnium idem finis esset. Quid enim interest utrum supra aliquem vigilarium ruat an mons? nihil invenies. Erunt tamen qui hanc ruinam magis timeant, quamvis utraque mortifera aeque sit; adeo non effectu, sed efficientia timor spectat. [7] Nunc me putas de Stoicis dicere, qui existimant animam hominis magno pondere extriti permanere non posse et statim spargi, quia non fuerit illi exitus liber? Ego vero non facio: qui hoc dicunt videntur mihi errare. [8] Quemadmodum flamma non potest opprimi - nam circa id diffugit quo urgetur -, quemadmodum aer verbere atque ictu non laeditur, ne scinditur quidem, sed circa id cui cessit refunditur, sic animus, qui ex tenuissimo constat, deprehendi non potest nec intra corpus effligi, sed beneficio subtilitatis suae per ipsa quibus premitur erumpit. Quomodo fulmini, etiam cum latissime percussit ac fulsit, per exiguum foramen est reditus, sic animo, qui adhuc tenuior est igne, per omne corpus fuga est. [9] Itaque de illo quaerendum est, an possit immortalis esse. Hoc quidem certum habe: si superstes est corpori, opteri illum nullo genere posse, [propter quod non perit] quoniam nulla immortalitas cum exceptione est, nec quicquam noxium aeterno est. Vale.