Letter 59

I derived great pleasure from your letter. Allow me to use words in their everyday sense and not to drag them back to their Stoic meaning. We hold that pleasure is a vice. Granted, let it be so; nevertheless we are accustomed to apply the word to indicate a cheerful disposition of the mind. I know, I admit, that if we direct our words by our own register, pleasure too is a disreputable thing, and that joy falls to no one but the wise man; for it is an exaltation of a mind confident in its own true goods. In common speech, however, we talk in such a way as to say that we have received great joy from someone's consulship, or marriage, or the birth of his wife's child, things which are so far from being joys that they are often the beginnings of future sorrow; whereas it is bound up with joy that it does not cease nor turn into its opposite. And so, when our Vergil says [the evil joys of the mind], he speaks eloquently, to be sure, but not with strict propriety; for no joy is evil. He has imposed this name on pleasures, and expressed what he intended; for he meant that men take delight in their own harm. Yet I had not without reason said that I had taken great pleasure from your letter; for although an unschooled man may rejoice from an honorable cause, still, because his emotion is unruly and ready at once to swing the other way, I call it pleasure: roused by the opinion of a false good, immoderate and excessive. But, to return to my purpose, hear what delighted me in your letter: you have your words under your command. Your speech does not carry you away nor drag you further than you intended. There are many who are summoned to write what they had not planned by the charm of some pleasing word, which does not happen to you: everything is compact and fitted to the matter; you say as much as you wish, and you convey more than you say. This is the mark of something greater: it is plain that your mind too has nothing superfluous in it, nothing inflated. I do, however, find transferred uses of words [metaphors] that are not reckless but rather such as have made trial of themselves; I find images, and if anyone forbids us to use them and judges them to be permitted to the poets alone, he seems to me to have read none of the ancients, among whom applause-seeking style was not yet hunted after: those men, who spoke simply and for the sake of demonstrating their point, are crammed with comparisons, which I consider necessary, not for the same reason as for the poets, but so that they may be supports to our weakness, so as to bring both speaker and listener face to face with the matter at hand. Look, just now I am reading Sextius, a keen man, who philosophizes in Greek words but with Roman morals. An image he sets down moved me: that an army marches in a square column, ready for battle, where the enemy is to be suspected on every side. "The same thing," he says, "the wise man ought to do: let him spread out all his virtues on every side, so that wherever some hostile thing arises, there ready garrisons may be at hand and may respond to the nod of their commander without disorder." Just as we see done in those armies which great generals marshal, so that all the forces feel the commander's order at once, arranged in such a way that a signal given by one man runs through infantry and cavalry alike at the same moment, so, he says, this is considerably more necessary for us. For those soldiers have often feared the enemy without cause, and the route that was most suspect proved safest for them: foolishness has nothing at peace; fear comes to it from above just as from below; both flanks are in a panic; dangers follow it and meet it; it is terrified at everything, it is unprepared, and it is frightened even by its own reinforcements. The wise man, however, fortified against every assault, alert, will not retreat if poverty, if grief, if disgrace, if pain makes its charge: undaunted, he will advance both against them and amid them. Many things bind us, many things weaken us. We have lain long in these vices; it is hard to wash them out, for we are not merely stained but dyed through. Not to pass from one image to another, I will ask the question I often examine within myself: why does foolishness hold us so stubbornly? First, because we do not repel it bravely nor strive toward our recovery with all our force; next, because we do not put enough trust in what has been discovered by wise men, nor drink it in with open hearts, and we apply ourselves too lightly to so great a matter. And how can anyone learn against the vices as much as is sufficient, when the time he gives to learning is only as much as is left free from his vices? None of us goes down into the depths; we have plucked only the surface, and to have spent a scant bit of time on philosophy has seemed amply enough for men who are busy. This above all impedes us: that we are quickly pleased with ourselves; if we find someone to call us good men, prudent, holy, we acknowledge it as our own. We are not content with moderate praise: whatever flattery without shame has heaped upon us, we seize as if it were owed to us. We assent to those who affirm that we are the best and wisest of men, although we know that they often lie about much; and we so indulge ourselves that we wish to be praised for the very thing whose opposite we are most of all doing. A man hears himself called most merciful in the very midst of his tortures, most generous in his plunderings, and most temperate amid his drunkenness and lusts; it follows, then, that we are unwilling to change precisely because we have believed ourselves to be the best. Alexander, when he was already roaming through India and laying waste with war peoples not even well known to their neighbors, while besieging a certain city, as he went around the walls and searched out the weakest points of the fortifications, was struck by an arrow, yet persisted in staying mounted a long while and carrying on what he had begun. Then, when, the bleeding having been stanched, the pain of the dried wound grew, and his leg, hanging from the horse, had little by little gone numb, he was forced to give up, and said: "All men swear that I am the son of Jupiter, but this wound cries out that I am a man." Let us do the same. Flattery makes each man a fool according to his own portion: let us say, "You indeed say that I am prudent, but I see how many useless things I crave, how many harmful things I desire. I do not even understand what fullness shows to animals, what limit there should be to food, what to drink; how much I can take in I still do not know." Now I shall teach you how to recognize that you are not wise. That wise man is full of joy, cheerful and serene, unshaken; he lives on equal terms with the gods. Now consult yourself: if you are never downcast, if no hope troubles your mind with expectation of the future, if through days and nights the tenor of your spirit is even and uniform, uplifted and pleased with itself, you have arrived at the summit of the human good; but if you reach after pleasures, of every kind and from every direction, know that you fall as short of wisdom as you fall short of joy. You long to arrive at this, but you err if you hope to come there amid riches, amid honors, that is, if you seek joy amid anxieties: those things, which you pursue as though they would give gladness and pleasure, are causes of pains. All men, I say, strive toward joy, but they do not know whence to obtain it stable and great: one man seeks it from banquets and luxury, another from ambition and the throng of clients surrounding him, another from a mistress, another from the empty display of liberal studies and from letters that heal nothing - all these are deceived by delusive and brief amusements, like drunkenness, which pays back the cheerful madness of a single hour with the weariness of a long time, like applause and the favor of approving acclamation, which is both acquired with great anxiety and must be atoned for with great anxiety. Reflect, then, on this: that the effect of wisdom is an evenness of joy. The mind of the wise man is like the firmament above the moon: there it is always clear. You have, then, a reason too for wishing to be wise, since the wise man is never without joy. This joy is not born except from the consciousness of the virtues: none can rejoice but the brave, the just, the temperate. "What then," you say, "do the foolish and the wicked not rejoice?" No more than lions who have caught their prey: when they have wearied themselves with wine and lust, when night has failed them amid their vices, when the pleasures, crammed into a narrow body beyond what it could hold, have begun to fester, then in their wretchedness they cry out that Vergilian line: [you know how, amid false joys, we spent that last of our nights]. The self-indulgent spend every night amid false joys, and indeed as though it were their last: but that joy which attends the gods and the rivals of the gods is not broken off, does not cease; it would cease if it had been taken from elsewhere. Because it is not the gift of another, neither is it subject to another's whim: what Fortune has not given, she does not snatch away. Farewell.

I received great pleasure from your letter; kindly allow me to use these words in their everyday meaning, without insisting upon their Stoic import. For we Stoics hold that pleasure is a vice. Very likely it is a vice; but we are accustomed to use the word when we wish to indicate a happy state of mind. I am aware that if we test words by our formula, even pleasure is a thing of ill repute, and joy can be attained only by the wise. For “joy” is an elation of spirit,—of a spirit which trusts in the goodness and truth of its own possessions. The common usage, however, is that we derive great “joy” from a friend’s position as consul, or from his marriage, or from the birth of his child; but these events, so far from being matters of joy, are more often the beginnings of sorrow to come. No, it is a characteristic of real joy that it never ceases, and never changes into its opposite. Accordingly, when our Vergil speaks of The evil joys of the mind, his words are eloquent, but not strictly appropriate. For no “joy” can be evil. He has given the name “joy” to pleasures, and has thus expressed his meaning. For he has conveyed the idea that men take delight in their own evil. Nevertheless, I was not wrong in saying that I received great “pleasure” from your letter; for although an ignorant man may derive “joy” if the cause be an honourable one, yet, since his emotion is wayward, and is likely soon to take another direction, I call it “pleasure"; for it is inspired by an opinion concerning a spurious good; it exceeds control and is carried to excess. But, to return to the subject, let me tell you what delighted me in your letter. You have your words under control. You are not carried away by your language, or borne beyond the limits which you have determined upon. Many writers are tempted by the charm of some alluring phrase to some topic other than that which they had set themselves to discuss. But this has not been so in your case; all your words are compact, and suited to the subject, You say all that you wish, and you mean still more than you say. This is a proof of the importance of your subject matter, showing that your mind, as well as your words, contains nothing superfluous or bombastic. I do, however, find some metaphors, not, indeed, daring ones, but the kind which have stood the test of use. I find similes also; of course, if anyone forbids us to use them, maintaining that poets alone have that privilege, he has not, apparently, read any of our ancient prose writers, who had not yet learned to affect a style that should win applause. For those writers, whose eloquence was simple and directed only towards proving their case, are full of comparisons; and I think that these are necessary, not for the same reason which makes them necessary for the poets, but in order that they may serve as props to our feebleness, to bring both speaker and listener face to face with the subject under discussion. For example, I am at this very moment reading Sextius; he is a keen man, and a philosopher who, though he writes in Greek, has the Roman standard of ethics. One of his similes appealed especially to me, that of an army marching in hollow square, in a place where the enemy might be expected to appear from any quarter, ready for battle. “This,” said he, “is just what the wise man ought to do; he should have all his fighting qualities deployed on every side, so that wherever the attack threatens, there his supports may be ready to hand and may obey the captain’s command without confusion.” This is what we notice in armies which serve under great leaders; we see how all the troops simultaneously understand their general’s orders, since they are so arranged that a signal given by one man passes down the ranks of cavalry and infantry at the same moment. This, he declares, is still more necessary for men like ourselves; for soldiers have often feared an enemy without reason, and the march which they thought most dangerous has in fact been most secure; but folly brings no repose, fear haunts it both in the van and in the rear of the column, and both flanks are in a panic. Folly is pursued, and confronted, by peril. It blenches at everything; it is unprepared; it is frightened even by auxiliary troops. But the wise man is fortified against all inroads; he is alert; he will not retreat before the attack of poverty, or of sorrow, or of disgrace, or of pain. He will walk undaunted both against them and among them. We human beings are fettered and weakened by many vices; we have wallowed in them for a long time, and it is hard for us to be cleansed. We are not merely defiled; we are dyed by them. But, to refrain from passing from one figure to another, I will raise this question, which I often consider in my own heart: why is it that folly holds us with such an insistent grasp? It is, primarily, because we do not combat it strongly enough, because we do not struggle towards salvation with all our might; secondly, because we do not put sufficient trust in the discoveries of the wise, and do not drink in their words with open hearts; we approach this great problem in too trifling a spirit. But how can a man learn, in the struggle against his vices, an amount that is enough, if the time which he gives to learning is only the amount left over from his vices? None of us goes deep below the surface. We skim the top only, and we regard the smattering of time spent in the search for wisdom as enough and to spare for a busy man. What hinders us most of all is that we are too readily satisfied with ourselves; if we meet with someone who calls us good men, or sensible men, or holy men, we see ourselves in his description. Not content with praise in moderation, we accept everything that shameless flattery heaps upon us, as if it were our due. We agree with those who declare us to be the best and wisest of men, although we know that they are given to much lying. And we are so self-complacent that we desire praise for certain actions when we are especially addicted to the very opposite. Yonder person hears himself called “most gentle” when he is inflicting tortures, or “most generous” when he is engaged in looting, or “most temperate” when he is in the midst of drunkenness and lust. Thus it follows that we are unwilling to be reformed, just because we believe ourselves to be the best of men. Alexander was roaming as far as India, ravaging tribes that were but little known, even to their neighbours. During the blockade of a certain city, while he was reconnoitring the walls and hunting for the weakest spot in the fortifications, he was wounded by an arrow. Nevertheless, he long continued the siege, intent on finishing what he had begun. The pain of his wound, however, as the surface became dry and as the flow of blood was checked, increased; his leg gradually became numb as he sat his horse; and finally, when he was forced to withdraw, he exclaimed: “All men swear that I am the son of Jupiter, but this wound cries out that I am mortal.” Let us also act in the same way. Each man, according to his lot in life, is stultified by flattery. We should say to him who flatters us: “You call me a man of sense, but I understand how many of the things which I crave are useless, and how many of the things which I desire will do me harm. I have not even the knowledge, which satiety teaches to animals, of what should be the measure of my food or my drink. I do not yet know how much I can hold.” I shall now show you how you may know that you are not wise. The wise man is joyful, happy and calm, unshaken; he lives on a plane with the gods. Now go, question yourself; if you are never downcast, if your mind is not harassed by any apprehension, through anticipation of what is to come, if day and night your soul keeps on its even and unswerving course, upright and content with itself, then you have attained to the greatest good that mortals can possess. If, however, you seek pleasures of all kinds in all directions, you must know that you are as far short of wisdom as you are short of joy. Joy is the goal which you desire to reach, but you are wandering from the path, if you expect to reach your goal while you are in the midst of riches and official titles,—in other words, if you seek joy in the midst of cares. These objects for which you strive so eagerly, as if they would give you happiness and pleasure, are merely causes of grief. All men of this stamp, I maintain, are pressing on in pursuit of joy, but they do not know where they may obtain a joy that is both great and enduring. One person seeks it in feasting and self-indulgence; another, in canvassing for honours and in being surrounded by a throng of clients; another, in his mistress; another, in idle display of culture and in literature that has no power to heal; all these men are led astray by delights which are deceptive and short-lived—like drunkenness for example, which pays for a single hour of hilarious madness by a sickness of many days, or like applause and the popularity of enthusiastic approval which are gained, and atoned for, at the cost of great mental disquietude. Reflect, therefore, on this, that the effect of wisdom is a joy that is unbroken and continuous. The mind of the wise man is like the ultra-lunar firmament; eternal calm pervades that region. You have, then, a reason for wishing to be wise, if the wise man is never deprived of joy. This joy springs only from the knowledge that you possess the virtues. None but the brave, the just, the self-restrained, can rejoice. And when you query: “What do you mean? Do not the foolish and the wicked also rejoice?” I reply, no more than lions who have caught their prey. When men have wearied themselves with wine and lust, when night fails them before their debauch is done, when the pleasures which they have heaped upon a body that is too small to hold them begin to fester, at such times they utter in their wretchedness those lines of Vergil: Thou knowest how, amid false-glittering joys. We spent that last of nights. Pleasure-lovers spend every night amid false-glittering joys, and just as if it were their last. But the joy which comes to the gods, and to those who imitate the gods, is not broken off, nor does it cease; but it would surely cease were it borrowed from without. Just because it is not in the power of another to bestow, neither is it subject to another’s whims. That which Fortune has not given, she cannot take away. Farewell.

[1] Magnam ex epistula tua percepi voluptatem; permitte enim mihi uti verbis publicis nec illa ad significationem Stoicam revoca. Vitium esse voluptatem credimus. Sit sane; ponere tamen illam solemus ad demonstrandam animi hilarem affectionem. [2] Scio, inquam, et voluptatem, si ad nostrum album verba derigimus, rem infamem esse et gaudium nisi sapienti non contingere; est enim animi elatio suis bonis verisque fidentis. Vulgo tamen sic loquimur ut dicamus magnum gaudium nos ex illius consulatu aut nuptiis aut ex partu uxoris percepisse, quae adeo non sunt gaudia ut saepe initia futurae tristitiae sint; gaudio autem iunctum est non desinere nec in contrarium verti. [3] Itaque cum dicit Vergilius noster diserte quidem dicit, sed parum proprie; nullum enim malum gaudium est. Voluptatibus hoc nomen imposuit et quod voluit expressit; significavit enim homines malo suo laetos. [4] Tamen ego non immerito dixeram cepisse me magnam ex epistula tua voluptatem; quamvis enim ex honesta causa imperitus homo gaudeat, tamen affectum eius impotentem et in diversum statim inclinaturum voluptatem voco, opinione falsi boni motam, immoderatam et immodicam. Sed ut ad propositum revertar, audi quid me in epistula tua delectaverit: habes verba in potestate, non effert te oratio nec longius quam destinasti trahit. [5] Multi sunt qui ad id quod non proposuerant scribere alicuius verbi placentis decore vocentur, quod tibi non evenit: pressa sunt omnia et rei aptata; loqueris quantum vis et plus significas quam loqueris. Hoc maioris rei indicium est: apparet animum quoque nihil habere supervacui, nihil tumidi. [6] Invenio tamen translationes verborum ut non temerarias ita quae periculum sui fecerint; invenio imagines, quibus si quis nos uti vetat et poetis illas solis iudicat esse concessas, neminem mihi videtur ex antiquis legisse, apud quos nondum captabatur plausibilis oratio: illi, qui simpliciter et demonstrandae rei causa eloquebantur, parabolis referti sunt, quas existimo necessarias, non ex eadem causa qua poetis, sed ut imbecillitas nostrae adminicula sint, ut et dicentem et audientem in rem praesentem adducant. [7] Sextium ecce cum maxime lego, virum acrem, Graecis verbis, Romanis moribus philosophantem. Movit me imago ab illo posita: ire quadrato agmine exercitum, ubi hostis ab omni parte suspectus est, pugnae paratum. 'Idem' inquit 'sapiens facere debet: omnis virtutes suas undique expandat, ut ubicumque infesti aliquid orietur, illic parata praesidia sint et ad nutum regentis sine tumultu respondeant.' Quod in exercitibus iis quos imperatores magni ordinant fieri videmus, ut imperium ducis simul omnes copiae sentiant, sic dispositae ut signum ab uno datum peditem simul equitemque percurrat, hoc aliquanto magis necessarium esse nobis ait. [8] Illi enim saepe hostem timuere sine causa, tutissimumque illis iter quod suspectissimum fuit: nihil stultitia pacatum habet; tam superne illi metus est quam infra; utrumque trepidat latus; sequuntur pericula et occurrunt; ad omnia pavet, imparata est et ipsis terretur auxiliis. Sapiens autem, ad omnem incursum munitus, intentus, non si paupertas, non si luctus, non si ignominia, non si dolor impetum faciat, pedem referet: interritus et contra illa ibit et inter illa. [9] Nos multa alligant, multa debilitant. Diu in istis vitiis iacuimus, elui difficile est; non enim inquinati sumus sed infecti. Ne ab alia imagine ad aliam transeamus, hoc quaeram quod saepe mecum dispicio, quid ita nos stultitia tam pertinaciter teneat? Primo quia non fortiter illam repellimus nec toto ad salutem impetu nitimur, deinde quia illa quae a sapientibus viris reperta sunt non satis credimus nec apertis pectoribus haurimus leviterque tam magnae rei insistimus. [10] Quemadmodum autem potest aliquis quantum satis sit adversus vitia discere, qui quantum a vitiis vacat discit? Nemo nostrum in altum descendit; summa tantum decerpsimus et exiguum temporis inpendisse philosophiae satis abundeque occupatis fuit. [11] Illud praecipue inpedit, quod cito nobis placemus; si invenimus qui nos bonos viros dicat, qui prudentes, qui sanctos, adgnoscimus. Non sumus modica laudatione contenti: quidquid in nos adulatio sinc pudore congessit tamquam debitum prendimus. Optimos nos esse, sapientissimos adfirmantibus adsentimur, cum sciamus illos saepe multa mentiri; adeoque indulgemus nobis ut laudari velimus in id cu: contraria cum maxime facimus. Mitissimum ille se in ipsis suppliciis audit, in rapinis liberalissimum et in ebrietatibus ac libidinibus temperantissimum; sequitur itaque ut ideo mutari nolimus quia nos optimos esse credidimus. [12] Alexander cum iam in India vagaretur et gentes ne finitimis quidem satis notas bello vastaret, in obsidione cuiusdam urbis, <dum> circumit muros et inbecillissima moenium quaerit, sagitta ictus diu persedere et incepta agere perseveravit. Deinde cum represso sanguine sicci vulneris dolor cresceret et crus suspensum equo paulatim obtorpuisset, coactus absistere 'omnes' inquit 'iurant esse me Iovis filium, sed vulnus hoc hominem esse me clamat'. [13] Idem nos faciamus. Pro sua quemque portione adulatio infatuat: dicamus, 'vos quidem dicitis me prudentem esse, ego autem video quam multa inutilia concupiscam, nocitura optem. Ne hoc quidem intellego quod animalibus satietas monstrat, quis cibo debeat esse, quis potioni modus; quantum capiam adhuc nescio.' [14] Iam docebo quemadmodum intellegas te non esse sapientem. Sapiens ille plenus est gaudio, hilaris et placidus, inconcussus; cum dis ex pari vivit. Nunc ipse te consule: si numquam maestus es, <si> nulla spes animum tuum futuri exspectatione sollicitat, si per dies noctesque par et aequalis animi tenor erecti et placentis sibi est, pervenisti ad humani boni summam; sed si appetis voluptates et undique et cmnes, scito tantum tibi ex sapientia quantum ex gaudio deesse. Ad hoc cupis pervenire, sed erras, qui inter divitias illuc venturum esse te speras, inter honores, id est gaudium inter sollicitudines quaeris: ista, quae sic petis tamquam datura laetitiam ac voluptatem, causae dolorum sunt. [15] Omnes, inquam, illo tendunt ad gaudium, sed unde stabile magnumque consequantur ignorant: ille ex conviviis et luxuria, ille ex ambitione et circumfusa clientium turba, ille ex amica, alius ex studiorum liberalium vana ostentatione et nihil sanantibus litteris - omnes istos oblectamenta fallacia et brevia decipiunt, sicut ebrietas, quae unius horae hilarem insaniam longi temporis taedio pensat, sicut plausus et acclamationis secundae favor, qui magna sollicitudine et partus est et expiandus. [16] Hoc ergo cogita, hunc esse sapientiae effectum, gaudii aequalitatem. Talis est sapientis animus qualis mundus super lunam: semper illic serenum est. Habes ergo et quare velis sapiens esse, si numquam sine gaudio est. Gaudium hoc non nascitur nisi ex virtutum conscientia: non potest gaudere nisi fortis, nisi iustus, nisi temperans. [17] 'Quid ergo' inquis, 'stulti ac mali non gaudent?' Non magis quam praedam nancti leones: cum fatigaverunt se vino ac libidinibus, cum illos nox inter vitia defecit, cum voluptates angusto corpori ultra quam capiebat ingestae suppurare coeperunt, tunc exclamant miseri Vergilianum illum versum: [18] Omnem luxuriosi noctem inter falsa gaudia et quidem tamquam supremam agunt: illud gaudium quod deos deorumque aemulos sequitur non interrumpitur, non desinit; desineret, si sumptum esset aliunde. Quia non est alieni muneris, ne arbitrii quidem alieni est: quod non dedit fortuna non eripit. Vale.