Letter 75

You complain that the letters I send you are too carelessly composed. But who speaks with care unless he wants to speak in an affected, overwrought way? I want my letters to be just like my conversation would be if we were sitting together or walking side by side: unlabored and easy, with nothing forced or contrived in them. If it could be done, I would rather show you what I feel than say it. Even if I were arguing a case, I would not stamp my foot, fling my hand about, or raise my voice; I would leave all that to the orators, content simply to have conveyed my thoughts to you, neither dressing them up nor throwing them away. This one thing I would clearly like to prove to you: that I feel everything I say, and not only feel it but love it. A man kisses his mistress one way and his children another; yet even in this embrace, so chaste and restrained, the affection shows plainly enough. I certainly do not want what is said about such great matters to be barren and dry (for philosophy does not renounce native talent); still, one ought not to lavish much effort on words. Let this be the sum of our aim: let us say what we feel, and feel what we say; let speech be in harmony with life. That man has fulfilled his promise who is the same whether you see him or hear him. We shall see what kind of man he is and how great he is: he is one and the same. Let our words not delight but profit. Yet if eloquence can be had without anxious effort, if it is either ready at hand or comes at little cost, let it be present and attend upon the noblest matters; but let it be such that it displays the subject rather than itself. The other arts belong wholly to talent; here the business of the soul is at stake. A sick man does not look for an eloquent physician; but if it happens that the very man who can cure him also discourses elegantly about what must be done, the patient will count it a good thing. Still, he will have no reason to congratulate himself for having fallen in with a physician who is also articulate; this is much the same as if a skilled helmsman happened also to be handsome. Why do you scratch my ears? Why do you delight them? Something else is at issue: I must be cauterized, cut open, put on a strict diet. It is for this that you were called in; you must cure a disease that is old, grave, and shared by all. You have as great a task on your hands as a physician in a time of plague. Are you busy with words? Rejoice at once if you are equal to the realities. When will you learn so many things? When will you fix what you have learned so firmly in yourself that it cannot fall away? When will you put it to the test? For it is not enough, as with other matters, to have committed it to memory: these things must be tried in action; he is not happy who knows them, but he who does them. "What then? Are there no degrees below that man? Is the drop from wisdom immediate and sheer?" Not so, in my judgment; for the one who makes progress is indeed still among the number of fools, yet he is separated from them by a great distance. Even among those who are progressing there are great differences: they are divided, as some hold, into three classes. The first are those who do not yet possess wisdom but have already taken their stand in its vicinity; yet even what is near is still outside. You ask who these are? Those who have already laid aside all the passions and vices, who have learned what was to be embraced, but whose confidence is still untried. They do not yet have the use of their own good, yet they can no longer fall back into the things they have fled; they are already at the point from which there is no slipping back, but this is not yet clear to them about themselves. As I recall writing in a certain letter, "they do not know that they know." It has already fallen to them to enjoy their good, but not yet to be confident in it. Some describe this class of those making progress, of which I have spoken, in such a way that they say these men have already escaped the diseases of the soul but not yet the passions, and that they still stand on slippery ground; for no one is beyond the danger of evil except the man who has shaken it off entirely, and no one has shaken it off except the man who has taken up wisdom in its place. I have already often said what the difference is between diseases of the soul and passions. Now too I shall remind you: diseases are inveterate and hardened vices, such as greed, such as ambition; these have wrapped themselves around the soul too tightly and have begun to be its permanent ills. To define it briefly: a disease is a judgment stubbornly persisting in something perverse, treating as greatly to be desired things that are only mildly to be desired; or, if you prefer, let us define it thus: to press too hard after things that should be sought only mildly, or not sought at all, or to hold in great esteem things that should be held in some slight esteem, or in none. Passions are movements of the soul that are objectionable, sudden and agitated; when frequent and neglected they have produced a disease, just as a single discharge, not yet settled into a habit, produces a cough, but a constant and long-standing one produces consumption. And so those who have made the most progress are beyond the diseases; they still feel the passions, though they are very near the perfect state. The second class consists of those who have laid down both the greatest ills of the soul and the passions, but in such a way that they do not have secure possession of their own peace of mind; for they can still slip back into the same state. That third class is beyond many great vices, but not beyond all of them. A man of this kind has escaped greed but still feels anger; he is no longer troubled by lust, but still by ambition; he no longer craves, but still fears, and in that very fear he is firm enough against some things while yielding to others: he scorns death but dreads pain. Let us think a little about this position: it will go well with us if we are admitted to this number. The second rank is reached only by great good fortune of nature and by great and unremitting concentration of study; but not even this third hue is to be despised. Consider how much evil you see around you; observe how there is no wickedness without its example, how much vice gains ground every day, how much wrongdoing there is both in public and in private: you will understand that we achieve enough if we are not among the very worst. "But I, for my part," you say, "hope that I can rise even into a higher order." I would wish this for us rather than promise it: we are already preoccupied, straining toward virtue while pulled apart among vices. I am ashamed to say it: we cultivate what is honorable only as much as we have free time. But how great a reward awaits us if we break off our preoccupations and the most tenacious of our evils! Then neither desire nor fear will drive us; unshaken by terrors, uncorrupted by pleasures, we shall dread neither death nor the gods; we shall know that death is not an evil, and that the gods are not the source of evil. That which harms is as weak as that which is harmed: things that are best are free from any power to harm. There await us, if we ever escape from this dregs of ours into that high and lofty place, tranquility of soul and, once errors have been driven out, complete freedom. You ask what that freedom is? To fear neither men nor gods; to want nothing base and nothing excessive; to have the greatest power over oneself. It is an inestimable good to become one's own. Farewell.

You have been complaining that my letters to you are rather carelessly written. Now who talks carefully unless he also desires to talk affectedly? I prefer that my letters should be just what my conversation would be if you and I were sitting in one another’s company or taking walks together,—spontaneous and easy; for my letters have nothing strained or artificial about them. If it were possible, I should prefer to show, rather than speak, my feelings. Even if I were arguing a point, I should not stamp my foot, or toss my arms about, or raise my voice; but I should leave that sort of thing to the orator, and should be content to have conveyed my feelings to you without having either embellished them or lowered their dignity. I should like to convince you entirely of this one fact,—that I feel whatever I say, that I not only feel it, but am wedded to it. It is one sort of kiss which a man gives his mistress, and another which he gives his children; yet in the father’s embrace also, holy and restrained as it is, plenty of affection is disclosed. I prefer, however, that our conversation on matters so important should not be meagre and dry; for even philosophy does not renounce the company of cleverness. One should not, however, bestow very much attention upon mere words. Let this be the kernel of my idea: let us say what we feel, and feel what we say; let speech harmonize with life. That man has fulfilled his promise who is the same person both when you see him and when you hear him. We shall not fail to see what sort of man he is and how large a man he is, if only he is one and the same. Our words should aim not to please, but to help. If, however, you can attain eloquence without painstaking, and if you either are naturally gifted or can gain eloquence at slight cost, make the most of it and apply it to the noblest uses. But let it be of such a kind that it displays facts rather than itself. It and the other arts are wholly concerned with cleverness; but our business here is the soul. A sick man does not call in a physician who is eloquent; but if it so happens that the physician who can cure him likewise discourses elegantly about the treatment which is to be followed, the patient will take it in good part. For all that, he will not find any reason to congratulate himself on having discovered a physician who is eloquent. For the case is no different from that of a skilled pilot who is also handsome. Why do you tickle my ears? Why do you entertain me? There is other business at hand; I am to be cauterized, operated upon, or put on a diet. That is why you were summoned to treat me! You are required to cure a disease that is chronic and serious,—one which affects the general weal. You have as serious a business on hand as a physician has during a plague. Are you concerned about words? Rejoice this instant if you can cope with things. When shall you learn all that there is to learn? When shall you so plant in your mind that which you have learned, that it cannot escape? When shall you put it all into practice? For it is not sufficient merely to commit these things to memory, like other matters; they must be practically tested. He is not happy who only knows them, but he who does them. You reply: “What? Are there no degrees of happiness below your ‘happy’ man? Is there a sheer descent immediately below wisdom?” I think not. For though he who makes progress is still numbered with the fools, yet he is separated from them by a long interval. Among the very persons who are making progress there are also great spaces intervening. They fall into three classes, as certain philosophers believe. First come those who have not yet attained wisdom but have already gained a place near by. Yet even that which is not far away is still outside. These, if you ask me, are men who have already laid aside all passions and vices, who have learned what things are to be embraced; but their assurance is not yet tested. They have not yet put their good into practice, yet from now on they cannot slip back into the faults which they have escaped. They have already arrived at a point from which there is no slipping back, but they are not yet aware of the fact; as I remember writing in another letter, “They are ignorant of their knowledge.” It has now been vouchsafed to them to enjoy their good, but not yet to be sure of it. Some define this class, of which I have been speaking,—a class of men who are making progress,—as having escaped the diseases of the mind, but not yet the passions, and as still standing upon slippery ground; because no one is beyond the dangers of evil except him who has cleared himself of it wholly. But no one has so cleared himself except the man who has adopted wisdom in its stead. I have often before explained the difference between the diseases of the mind and its passions. And I shall remind you once more: the diseases are hardened and chronic vices, such as greed and ambition; they have enfolded the mind in too close a grip, and have begun to be permanent evils thereof. To give a brief definition: by “disease” we mean a persistent perversion of the judgment, so that things which are mildly desirable are thought to be highly desirable. Or, if you prefer, we may define it thus: to be too zealous in striving for things which are only mildly desirable or not desirable at all, or to value highly things which ought to be valued but slightly or valued not at all. “Passions” are objectionable impulses of the spirit, sudden and vehement; they have come so often, and so little attention has been paid to them, that they have caused a state of disease; just as a catarrh, when there has been but a single attack and the catarrh has not yet become habitual, produces a cough, but causes consumption when it has become regular and chronic. Therefore we may say that those who have made most progress are beyond the reach of the “diseases”; but they still feel the “passions” even when very near perfection. The second class is composed of those who have laid aside both the greatest ills of the mind and its passions, but yet are not in assured possession of immunity. For they can still slip back into their former state. The third class are beyond the reach of many of the vices and particularly of the great vices, but not beyond the reach of all. They have escaped avarice, for example, but still feel anger; they no longer are troubled by lust, but are still troubled by ambition; they no longer have desire, but they still have fear. And just because they fear, although they are strong enough to withstand certain things, there are certain things to which they yield; they scorn death, but are in terror of pain. Let us reflect a moment on this topic. It will be well with us if we are admitted to this class. The second stage is gained by great good fortune with regard to our natural gifts and by great and unceasing application to study. But not even the third type is to be despised. Think of the host of evils which you see about you; behold how there is no crime that is not exemplified, how far wickedness advances every day, and how prevalent are sins in home and commonwealth. You will see, therefore, that we are making a considerable gain, if we are not numbered among the basest. “But as for me,” you say, “I hope that it is in me to rise to a higher rank than that!” I should pray, rather than promise, that we may attain this; we have been forestalled. We hasten towards virtue while hampered by vices. I am ashamed to say it; but we worship that which is honourable only in so far as we have time to spare. But what a rich reward awaits us if only we break off the affairs which forestall us and the evils that cling to us with utter tenacity! Then neither desire nor fear shall rout us. Undisturbed by fears, unspoiled by pleasures, we shall be afraid neither of death nor of the gods; we shall know that death is no evil and that the gods are not powers of evil. That which harms has no greater power than that which receives harm, and things which are utterly good have no power at all to harm. There await us, if ever we escape from these low dregs to that sublime and lofty height, peace of mind and, when all error has been driven out, perfect liberty. You ask what this freedom is? It means not fearing either men or gods; it means not craving wickedness or excess; it incans possessing supreme power over oneself. And it is a priceless good to be master of oneself. Farewell.

[1] Minus tibi accuratas a me epistulas mitti quereris. Quis enim accurate loquitur nisi qui vult putide loqui? Qualis sermo meus esset si una desideremus aut ambularemus, inlaboratus et facilis, tales esse epistulas meas volo, quae nihil habent accersitum nec fictum. [2] Si fieri posset, quid sentiam ostendere quam loqui mallem. Etiam si disputarem, nec supploderem pedem nec manum iactarem nec attollerem vocem, sed ista oratoribus reliquissem, contentus sensus meos ad te pertulisse, quos nec exornassem nec abiecissem. [3] Hoc unum plane tibi adprobare vellem, omnia me illa sentire quae dicerem, nec tantum sentire sed amare. Aliter homines amicam, aliter liberos osculantur; tamen in hoc quoque amplexu tam sancto et moderato satis apparet adfectus. Non mehercules ieiuna esse et arida volo quae de rebus tam magnis dicentur (neque enim philosophia ingenio renuntiat), multum tamen operae inpendi verbis non oportet. [4] Haec sit propositi nostri summa: quod sentimus loquamur, quod loquimur sentiamus; concordet sermo cum vita. Ille promissum suum implevit qui et cum videas illum et cum audias idem est. Videbimus qualis sit, quantus sit: unus est. [5] Non delectent verba nostra sed prosint. Si tamen contingere eloquentia non sollicito potest, si aut parata est aut parvo constat, adsit et res pulcherrimas prosequatur: sit talis ut res potius quam se ostendat. Aliae artes ad ingenium totae pertinent, hic animi negotium agitur. [6] Non quaerit aeger medicum eloquentem, sed si ita competit ut idem ille qui sanare potest compte de iis quae facienda sunt disserat, boni consulet. Non tamen erit quare gratuletur sibi quod inciderit in medicum etiam disertum; hoc enim tale est quale si peritus gubernator etiam formosus est. [7] Quid aures meas scabis? quid oblectas? aliud agitur: urendus, secandus, abstinendus sum. Ad haec adhibitus es; curare debes morbum veterem, gravem, publicum; tantum negotii habes quantum in pestilentia medicus. Circa verba occupatus es? iamdudum gaude si sufficis rebus. Quando tam multa disces? quando quae didiceris adfiges tibi ita ut excidere non possint? quando illa experieris? Non enim, ut cetera, memoriae tradidisse satis est: in opere temptanda sunt; non est beatus qui scit illa, sed <qui> facit. [8] 'Quid ergo? infra illum nulli gradus sunt? statim a sapientia praeceps est?' Non, ut existimo; nam qui proficit in numero quidem stultorum est, magno tamen intervallo ab illis diducitur. Inter ipsos quoque proficientes sunt magna discrimina: in tres classes, ut quibusdam placet, dividuntur. [9] Primi sunt qui sapientiam nondum habent sed iam in vicinia eius constiterunt; tamen etiam quod prope est extra est. Qui sint hi quaeris? qui omnes iam adfectus ac vitia posuerunt, quae erant conplectenda didicerunt, sed illis adhuc inexperta fiducia est. Bonum suum nondum in usu habent, iam tamen in illa quae fugerunt decidere non possunt; iam ibi sunt unde non est retro lapsus, sed hoc illis de se nondum liquet: quod in quadam epistula scripsisse me memini, 'scire se nesciunt'. Iam contigit illis bono suo frui, nondum confidere. [10] Quidam hoc proficientium genus de quo locutus sum ita conplectuntur ut illos dicant iam effugisse morbos animi, adfectus nondum, et adhuc in lubrico stare, quia nemo sit extra periculum malitiae nisi qui totam eam excussit; nemo autem illam excussit nisi qui pro illa sapientiam adsumpsit. [11] Quid inter morbos animi intersit et adfectus saepe iam dixi. Nunc quoque te admonebo: morbi sunt inveterata vitia et dura, ut avaritia, ut ambitio; nimio artius haec animum inplicuerunt et perpetua eius mala esse coeperunt. Ut breviter finiam, morbus est iudicium in pravo pertinax, tamquam valde expetenda sint quae leviter expetenda sunt; vel, si mavis, ita finiamus: nimis inminere leviter petendis vel ex toto non petendis, aut in magno pretio habere in aliquo habenda vel in nullo. [12] Adfectus sunt motus animi inprobabiles, subiti et concitati, qui frequentes neglectique fecere morbum, sicut destillatio una nec adhuc in morem adducta tussim facit, adsidua et vetus pthisin. Itaque qui plurimum profecere extra morbos sunt, adfectus adhuc sentiunt perfecto proximi. [13] Secundum genus est eorum qui et maxima animi mala et adfectus deposuerunt, sed ita ut non sit illis securitatis suae certa possessio; possunt enim in eadem relabi. [14] Tertium illud genus extra multa et magna vitia est, sed non extra omnia. Effugit avaritiam sed iram adhuc sentit; iam non sollicitatur libidine, etiamnunc ambitione; iam non concupiscit, sed adhuc timet, et in ipso metu ad quaedam satis firmus est, quibusdam cedit: mortem contemnit, dolorem reformidat. [15] De hoc loco aliquid cogitemus: bene nobiscum agetur, si in hunc admittimur numerum. Magna felicitate naturae magnaque et adsidua intentione studii secundus occupatur gradus; sed ne hic quidem contemnendus est color tertius. Cogita quantum circa te videas malorum; aspice quam nullum sit nefas sine exemplo, quantum cotidie nequitia proficiat, quantum publice privatimque peccetur: intelleges satis nos consequi, si inter pessimos non sumus. [16] 'Ego vero' inquis 'spero me posse et amplioris ordinis fieri.' Optaverim hoc nobis magis quam promiserim: praeoccupati sumus, ad virtutem contendimus inter vitia districti. Pudet dicere: honesta colimus quantum vacat. At quam grande praemium expectat, si occupationes nostras et mala tenacissima abrumpimus! [17] Non cupiditas nos, non timor pellet; inagitati terroribus, incorrupti voluptatibus, nec mortem horrebimus nec deos; sciemus mortem malum non esse, deos malo non esse. Tam inbecillum est quod nocet quam cui nocetur: optima vi noxia carent. [18] Expectant nos, <si> ex hac aliquando faece in illud evadimus sublime et excelsum, tranquillitas animi et expulsis erroribus absoluta libertas. Quaeris quae sit ista? Non homines timere, non deos; nec turpia velle nec nimia; in se ipsum habere maximam potestatem: inaestimabile bonum est suum fieri. Vale.