Peace of Mind

I. [Serenus.]

I. [Serenus.]

When I examine myself, Seneca, some vices appear on the surface, and so that I can lay my hands upon them, while others are less distinct and harder to reach, and some are not always present, but recur at intervals: and these I should call the most troublesome, being like a roving enemy that assails one when he sees his opportunity, and who will neither let one stand on one’s guard as in war, nor yet take one’s rest without fear as in peace. The position in which I find myself more especially (for why should I not tell you the truth as I would to a physician), is that of neither being thoroughly set free from the vices which I fear and hate, nor yet quite in bondage to them: my state of mind, though not the worst possible, is a particularly discontented and sulky one: I am neither ill nor well, It is of no use for you to tell me that all virtues are weakly at the outset, and that they acquire strength and solidity by time, for I am well aware that even those which do but help our outward show, such as grandeur, a reputation for eloquence, and everything that appeals to others, gain power by time. Both those which afford us real strength and those which do but trick us out in a more attractive form, require long years before they gradually are adapted to us by time. But I fear that custom, which confirms most things, implants this vice more and more deeply in me. Long acquaintance with both good and bad people leads one to esteem them all alike. What this state of weakness really is, when the mind halts between two opinions without any strong inclination towards either good or evil, I shall be better able to show you piecemeal than all at once. I will tell you what befalls me, you must find out the name of the disease. I have to confess the greatest possible love of thrift: I do not care for a bed with gorgeous hangings, nor for clothes brought out of a chest, or pressed under weights and made glossy by frequent manglings, but for common and cheap ones, that require no care either to keep them or to put them on. For food I do not want what needs whole troops of servants to prepare it and admire it, nor what is ordered many days before and served up by many hands, but something handy and easily come at, with nothing far-fetched or costly about it, to be had in every part of the world, burdensome neither to one’s fortune nor one’s body, not likely to go out of the body by the same path by which it came in. I like¹ a rough and unpolished homebred servant, I like my servant born in my house: I like my country-bred father’s heavy silver plate stamped with no maker’s name: I do not want a table that is beauteous with dappled spots, or known to all the town by the number of fashionable people to whom it has successively belonged, but one which stands merely for use, and which causes no guest’s eye to dwell upon it with pleasure or to kindle at it with envy. While I am well satisfied with this, I am reminded of the clothes of a certain schoolboy, dressed with no ordinary care and splendour, of slaves bedecked with gold and a whole regiment of glittering attendants. I think of houses too, where one treads on precious stones, and where valuables lie about in every corner, where the very roof is brilliantly painted, and a whole nation attends and accompanies an inheritance on the road to ruin. What shall I say of waters, transparent to the very bottom, which flow round the guests, and banquets worthy of the theatre in which they take place? Coming as I do from a long course of dull thrift, I find myself surrounded by the most brilliant luxury, which echoes around me on every side: my sight becomes a little dazzled by it: I can lift up my heart against it more easily than my eyes. When I return from seeing it I am a sadder, though not a worse man, I cannot walk amid my own paltry possessions with so lofty a step as before, and silently there steals over me a feeling of vexation, and a doubt whether that way of life may not be better than mine. None of these things alter my principles, yet all of them disturb me. At one time I would obey the maxims of our school and plunge into public life, I would obtain office and become consul, not because the purple robe and lictor’s axes attract me, but in order that I may be able to be of use to my friends, my relatives, to all my countrymen, and indeed to all mankind. Ready and determined, I follow the advice of Zeno, Cleanthes, and Chrysippus, all of whom bid one take part in public affairs, though none of them ever did so himself: and then, as soon as something disturbs my mind, which is not used to receiving shocks, as soon as something occurs which is either disgraceful, such as often occurs in all men’s lives, or which does not proceed quite easily, or when subjects of very little importance require me to devote a great deal of time to them, I go back to my life of leisure, and, just as even tired cattle go faster when they are going home, I wish to retire and pass my life within the walls of my house. “No one,” I say, “that will give me no compensation worth such a loss shall ever rob me of a day. Let my mind be contained within itself and improve itself: let it take no part with other men’s affairs, and do nothing which depends on the approval of others: let me enjoy a tranquillity undisturbed by either public or private troubles.” But whenever my spirit is roused by reading some brave words, or some noble example spurs me into action, I want to rush into the law courts, to place my voice at one man’s disposal, my services at another’s, and to try to help him even though I may not succeed, or to quell the pride of some lawyer who is puffed up by ill-deserved success: but I think, by Hercules, that in philosophical speculation it is better to view things as they are, and to speak of them on their own account, and as for words, to trust to things for them, and to let one’s speech simply follow whither they lead. “Why do you want to construct a fabric that will endure for ages? Do you not wish to do this in order that posterity may talk of you: yet you were born to die, and a silent death is the least wretched. Write something therefore in a simple style, merely to pass the time, for your own use, and not for publication. Less labour is needed when one does not look beyond the present.” Then again, when the mind is elevated by the greatness of its thoughts, it becomes ostentatious in its use of words, the loftier its aspirations, the more loftily it desires to express them, and its speech rises to the dignity of its subject. At such times I forget my mild and moderate determination and soar higher than is my wont, using a language that is not my own. Not to multiply examples, I am in all things attended by this weakness of a well-meaning mind, to whose level I fear that I shall be gradually brought down, or, what is even more worrying, that I may always hang as though about to fall, and that there may be more the matter with me than I myself perceive: for we take a friendly view of our own private affairs, and partiality always obscures our judgment. I fancy that many men would have arrived at wisdom had they not believed themselves to have arrived there already, had they not purposely deceived themselves as to some parts of their character, and passed by others with their eyes shut: for you have no grounds for supposing that other people’s flattery is more ruinous to us than our own. Who dares to tell himself the truth? Who is there, by however large a troop of caressing courtiers he may be surrounded, who in spite of them is not his own greatest flatterer? I beg you, therefore, if you have any remedy by which you could stop this vacillation of mine, to deem me worthy to owe my peace of mind to you. I am well aware that these oscillations of mind are not perilous and that they threaten me with no serious disorder: to express what I complain of by an exact simile, I am not suffering from a storm, but from sea-sickness. Take from me, then, this evil, whatever it may be, and help one who is in distress within sight of land.

When I examine myself, Seneca, some faults lie on the surface, where I can put my hands on them. Others are less clear and harder to reach. Some are not always present but return from time to time. I would call these the most troublesome. They are like a roaming enemy who attacks whenever he sees an opening. Such an enemy neither lets you stay on guard, as in war, nor rest without fear, as in peace. My own situation is chiefly this: I am neither completely free from the faults I fear and hate nor entirely enslaved to them. Why should I not tell you the truth, as I would a doctor? My state of mind is not the worst possible, but it is especially restless and sullen. I am neither sick nor well. There is no use telling me that all virtues are weak at first and grow stronger and steadier with time. I know that even qualities that merely improve our outward appearance gain strength with time. These include grandeur, a reputation for eloquence, and everything that impresses other people. Some qualities give us real strength, while others merely dress us up more attractively. Both kinds need many years to become gradually part of us. But I fear that habit, which strengthens most things, is planting this fault ever more deeply within me. Long familiarity with both good and bad people leads us to value them alike. My mind hesitates between two views, without leaning strongly toward either good or evil. I can explain this weakness better through separate examples than through one general account. I will tell you what happens to me. You must name the disease. I must confess to the greatest possible love of thrift. I do not care for a bed with splendid curtains. Nor do I want clothes taken from storage, pressed under weights, and made glossy by repeated pressing. I prefer ordinary, cheap clothes that need no special care to store or put on. I do not want food that needs whole troops of servants to prepare and admire it. Nor do I want meals ordered days in advance and served by many hands. I want food that is convenient and easy to find, with nothing exotic or expensive about it. Such food should be available anywhere in the world and burden neither my purse nor my body. It should not be likely to leave my body by the same route it entered. I like¹ a rough, unpolished servant born and raised at home. I like my servant to have been born in my own house. I like my country-bred father’s heavy silver dishes, stamped with no maker’s name. I do not want a table made beautiful by mottled markings. Nor do I want one known throughout the town for the many fashionable people who have owned it. I want a table that simply serves its purpose. No guest should gaze at it with pleasure or envy. Yet while I am quite satisfied with this simplicity, other sights come to mind. I remember a certain schoolboy’s clothes, chosen with exceptional care and splendor. I remember slaves covered in gold and a whole regiment of glittering attendants. I think of houses where people walk on precious stones and valuables lie in every corner. Even the ceilings are brilliantly painted. A whole nation of servants attends and escorts an inherited fortune on its road to ruin. What can I say about pools so clear you can see the bottom, flowing around the guests? Or about banquets worthy of the theatrical settings in which they take place? After a long stretch of dull thrift, I find myself surrounded by dazzling luxury, resounding all around me. The sight dazzles me a little. I find it easier to steel my heart against such luxury than to turn my eyes away. When I return home, I am sadder, though no worse a man. I cannot walk among my own shabby possessions with the same proud step as before. Quietly, irritation creeps over me, along with doubt about whether that luxurious way of life might be better than mine. None of these things changes my principles, yet all of them unsettle me. At one moment, I want to follow our school’s teachings and throw myself into public life. I want to hold office and become consul. The purple robe and the lictor’s axes do not attract me. Rather, I want to help my friends, relatives, and all my fellow citizens, indeed all humanity. Ready and determined, I follow the advice of Zeno, Cleanthes, and Chrysippus. All three urge us to take part in public affairs, though none ever did so himself. Then something disturbs my mind, which is unused to shocks. Something disgraceful happens, as so often happens in everyone’s life. Or something fails to go smoothly, or some trivial matter demands a great deal of my time. At once I return to a life of leisure. Even tired cattle move faster when heading home. In the same way, I long to withdraw and spend my life within my own walls. “No one,” I say, “shall ever rob me of a day unless he offers something worth that loss. Let my mind remain within itself and improve itself. Let my mind stay out of other people’s affairs and do nothing that depends on their approval. Let me enjoy peace undisturbed by either public or private troubles.” But then I read some courageous words that stir my spirit, or some noble example spurs me to act. I want to rush into the law courts. I want to put my voice at one man’s disposal and my services at another’s. I want to try to help him, even if I fail. Or I want to humble some lawyer swollen with pride over success he does not deserve. But in philosophical inquiry, I think, by Hercules, we should see things as they are and discuss them for themselves. As for words, we should let the subject supply them and simply follow where the subject leads. “Why do you want to build something that will last for ages? Don’t you want this so that future generations will talk about you? Yet you were born to die, and a death that passes unnoticed is the least miserable. So write something simply, just to pass the time, for your own use rather than for publication. Less effort is needed when you look no further than the present.” Then again, when great thoughts lift the mind, the mind grows showy in its choice of words. The higher its ambitions, the more elevated the language it wants. Its speech rises to match the dignity of its subject. At such moments, I forget my gentle, modest resolve and soar higher than usual, using language that is not mine. Without piling up examples, this weakness follows me in everything, though my mind means well. I fear that I will gradually sink to the level of this weakness. More troubling still, I fear I may always hang on the edge of a fall. Perhaps more is wrong with me than I realize. We take a favorable view of our own affairs, and bias always clouds our judgment. I think many people would have reached wisdom if they had not believed they had already reached it. They deliberately deceived themselves about some parts of their character and shut their eyes to others. You have no reason to suppose that other people’s flattery harms us more than our own. Who dares to tell himself the truth? However large a crowd of flattering courtiers surrounds a man, who is not still his own greatest flatterer? So I beg you, if you have a remedy that can stop my wavering, consider me worthy of your help. Let me owe my peace of mind to you. I know very well that these swings of mind are not dangerous and threaten no serious illness. To describe my complaint with an exact comparison, I am not suffering from a storm but from seasickness. Then free me from this trouble, whatever it may be. Help a man who is in distress within sight of land.

II. [Seneca.] I have long been silently asking myself, my friend Serenus, to what I should liken such a condition of mind, and I find that nothing more closely resembles it than the conduct of those who, after having recovered from a long and serious illness, occasionally experience slight touches and twinges, and, although they have passed through the final stages of the disease, yet have suspicions that it has not left them, and though in perfect health yet hold out their pulse to be felt by the physician, and whenever they feel warm suspect that the fever is returning. Such men, Serenus, are not unhealthy, but they are not accustomed to being healthy; just as even a quiet sea or lake nevertheless displays a certain amount of ripple when its waters are subsiding after a storm. What you need, therefore, is, not any of those harsher remedies to which allusion has been made, not that you should in some cases check yourself, in others be angry with yourself, in others sternly reproach yourself, but that you should adopt that which comes last in the list, have confidence in yourself, and believe that you are proceeding on the right path, without being led aside by the numerous divergent tracks of wanderers which cross it in every direction, some of them circling about the right path itself. What you desire, to be undisturbed, is a great thing, nay, the greatest thing of all, and one which raises a man almost to the level of a god. The Greeks call this calm steadiness of mind euthymia, and Democritus’s treatise upon it is excellently written: I call it peace of mind: for there is no necessity for translating so exactly as to copy the words of the Greek idiom: the essential point is to mark the matter under discussion by a name which ought to have the same meaning as its Greek name, though perhaps not the same form. What we are seeking, then, is how the mind may always pursue a steady, unruffled course, may be pleased with itself, and look with pleasure upon its surroundings, and experience no interruption of this joy, but abide in a peaceful condition without being ever either elated or depressed: this will be “peace of mind.” Let us now consider in a general way how it may be attained: then you may apply as much as you choose of the universal remedy to your own case. Meanwhile we must drag to light the entire disease, and then each one will recognize his own part of it: at the same time you will understand how much less you suffer by your self-depreciation than those who are bound by some showy declaration which they have made, and are oppressed by some grand title of honour, so that shame rather than their own free will forces them to keep up the pretence. The same thing applies both to those who suffer from fickleness and continual changes of purpose, who always are fondest of what they have given up, and those who merely yawn and dawdle: add to these those who, like bad sleepers, turn from side to side, and settle themselves first in one manner and then in another, until at last they find rest through sheer weariness: in forming the habits of their lives they often end by adopting some to which they are not kept by any dislike of change, but in the practice of which old age, which is slow to alter, has caught them living: add also those who are by no means fickle, yet who must thank their dulness, not their consistency for being so, and who go on living not in the way they wish, but in the way they have begun to live. There are other special forms of this disease without number, but it has but one effect, that of making people dissatisfied with themselves. This arises from a distemperature of mind and from desires which one is afraid to express or unable to fulfil, when men either dare not attempt as much as they wish to do, or fail in their efforts and depend entirely upon hope: such people are always fickle and changeable, which is a necessary consequence of living in a state of suspense: they take any way to arrive at their ends, and teach and force themselves to use both dishonourable and difficult means to do so, so that when their toil has been in vain they are made wretched by the disgrace of failure, and do not regret having longed for what was wrong, but having longed for it in vain. They then begin to feel sorry for what they have done, and afraid to begin again, and their mind falls by degrees into a state of endless vacillation, because they can neither command nor obey their passions, of hesitation, because their life cannot properly develope itself, and of decay, as the mind becomes stupefied by disappointments. All these symptoms become aggravated when their dislike of a laborious misery has driven them to idleness and to secret studies, which are unendurable to a mind eager to take part in public affairs, desirous of action and naturally restless, because, of course, it finds too few resources within itself: when therefore it loses the amusement which business itself affords to busy men, it cannot endure home, loneliness, or the walls of a room, and regards itself with dislike when left to itself. Hence arises that weariness and dissatisfaction with oneself, that tossing to and fro of a mind which can nowhere find rest, that unhappy and unwilling endurance of enforced leisure. In all cases where one feels ashamed to confess the real cause of one’s suffering, and where modesty leads one to drive one’s sufferings inward, the desires pent up in a little space without any vent choke one another. Hence comes melancholy and drooping of spirit, and a thousand waverings of the unsteadfast mind, which is held in suspense by unfulfilled hopes, and saddened by disappointed ones: hence comes the state of mind of those who loathe their idleness, complain that they have nothing to do, and view the progress of others with the bitterest jealousy: for an unhappy sloth favours the growth of envy, and men who cannot succeed themselves wish every one else to be ruined. This dislike of other men’s progress and despair of one’s own produces a mind angered against fortune, addicted to complaining of the age in which it lives, to retiring into corners and brooding over its misery, until it becomes sick and weary of itself: for the human mind is naturally nimble and apt at movement: it delights in every opportunity of excitement and forgetfulness of itself, and the worse a man’s disposition the more he delights in this, because he likes to wear himself out with busy action, just as some sores long for the hands that injure them and delight in being touched, and the foul itch enjoys anything that scratches it. Similarly I assure you that these minds, over which desires have spread like evil ulcers, take pleasure in toils and troubles, for there are some things which please our body while at the same time they give it a certain amount of pain, such as turning oneself over and changing one’s side before it is wearied, or cooling oneself in one position after another. It is like Homer’s Achilles, lying first upon its face, then upon its back, placing itself in various attitudes, and, as sick people are wont, enduring none of them for long, and using changes as though they were remedies. Hence men undertake aimless wanderings, travel along distant shores, and at one time at sea, at another by land, try to soothe that fickleness of disposition which always is dissatisfied with the present. “Now let us make for Campania: now I am sick of rich cultivation: let us see wild regions, let us thread the passes of Bruttii and Lucania: yet amid this wilderness one wants something of beauty to relieve our pampered eyes after so long dwelling on savage wastes: let us seek Tarentum with its famous harbour, its mild winter climate, and its district, rich enough to support even the great hordes of ancient times. Let us now return to town: our ears have too long missed its shouts and noise: it would be pleasant also to enjoy the sight of human bloodshed.” Thus one journey succeeds another, and one sight is changed for another. As Lucretius says:—

II. [Seneca.] I have long been asking myself in silence, my friend Serenus, what I should compare this state of mind to. Nothing seems closer than the behavior of people recovering from a long, serious illness. They occasionally feel slight aches and twinges. Although they have passed through the disease’s final stages, they suspect that it has not left them. Though perfectly healthy, they hold out their wrists for the doctor to check their pulse. Whenever they feel warm, they suspect the fever is returning. Such people, Serenus, are not unhealthy. They are simply not used to being healthy. Even a calm sea or lake still has ripples as its waters settle after a storm. So you do not need any of the harsher remedies already mentioned. You need not sometimes restrain yourself, sometimes be angry with yourself, and sometimes scold yourself severely. Instead, adopt the last remedy on the list: have confidence in yourself. Believe that you are following the right path. Do not let the many tracks of wandering travelers lead you astray. These tracks cross your path in every direction, and some even circle the right path itself. What you want, to remain undisturbed, is a great thing. Indeed, it is the greatest thing of all, raising a person almost to the level of a god. The Greeks call this calm steadiness of mind euthymia, and Democritus wrote an excellent treatise about it. I call it peace of mind. We need not translate so literally that we copy Greek expressions. The essential thing is to name our subject with a term that means the same as the Greek. Its form may perhaps be different. What we seek, then, is a way for the mind always to follow a steady, untroubled course. We want the mind to be content with itself and to take pleasure in its surroundings. We want this joy to continue without interruption, keeping the mind peaceful, never either elated or depressed. This will be “peace of mind.” Let us first consider in general how to achieve it. Then you may apply as much of this universal remedy to your own case as you choose. Meanwhile, we must bring the whole disease into the light. Then everyone will recognize their own share of it. You will also understand how much less you suffer from putting yourself down than some others do. They are trapped by some impressive declaration they have made, or weighed down by some grand title of honor. Shame, rather than their own free choice, forces them to maintain the pretense. The same condition affects people who are fickle and constantly change their plans, always preferring what they have abandoned. It also affects those who merely yawn and waste time. Add those who resemble poor sleepers, turning from side to side and trying one position after another. At last, sheer exhaustion brings them rest. In shaping their lives, they often settle into habits, but not because they dislike change. Rather, old age, which is slow to change, catches them living that way. Add those who are not at all fickle, but owe this to dullness rather than consistency. They go on living not as they wish, but as they began. There are countless other particular forms of this disease, but it has only one effect: dissatisfaction with oneself. It arises from a disordered mind and desires people are afraid to express or unable to fulfill. They either dare not attempt as much as they wish, or fail in their efforts and depend entirely on hope. Such people are always fickle and changeable, as they must be when living in suspense. They try any route to their goals. They train and force themselves to use means that are both dishonorable and difficult. So when their efforts prove useless, the disgrace of failure makes them miserable. They regret not that they wanted something wrong, but that they wanted it in vain. Then they begin to regret what they have done and fear making another attempt. Gradually, their minds fall into endless wavering, because they can neither control their passions nor obey them. They become hesitant, because their lives cannot develop as they should. Their minds also decline, growing numb through disappointment. All these symptoms worsen when their dislike of miserable toil drives them into idleness and solitary study. Such withdrawal is unbearable for a mind eager for public life, hungry for action, and naturally restless. The reason, of course, is that such a mind finds too few resources within itself. Work itself provides busy people with distraction. When this mind loses that distraction, it cannot bear home, solitude, or the walls of a room. Left alone with itself, it looks on itself with dislike. This produces weariness and dissatisfaction with oneself. The mind tosses about, unable to find rest anywhere, and unhappily endures leisure it neither wants nor can escape. Whenever people are ashamed to admit the true cause of their suffering, shame drives their distress inward. Their desires, confined in a narrow space with no outlet, choke one another. From this come sadness, low spirits, and a thousand shifts of an unsteady mind. Unfulfilled hopes keep that mind in suspense, and disappointed hopes weigh it down. From this also comes the condition of people who hate their idleness and complain that they have nothing to do. They watch other people’s progress with the bitterest jealousy. Unhappy idleness encourages envy, and people who cannot succeed themselves want everyone else ruined. Resentment of others’ progress and despair about their own make such people angry with fortune. They constantly complain about the age they live in. They retreat into corners and brood over their misery until they become sick and tired of themselves. For the human mind is naturally quick and ready for movement. It welcomes every chance for excitement and escape from itself. The worse a person’s character, the more pleasure they take in this, because they enjoy exhausting themselves with activity. Some sores similarly crave the hands that hurt them and welcome being touched. A foul itch takes pleasure in anything that scratches it. In the same way, I assure you, minds covered with desires like malignant ulcers enjoy toil and trouble. Some things please our bodies while also causing a certain amount of pain. We turn over and change sides before one side grows tired, or seek coolness in one position after another. It is like Homer’s Achilles, lying first face down, then on his back, trying various positions. Like sick people, he cannot endure any position for long and treats each change as a remedy. So people undertake aimless journeys and travel along distant shores. Now by sea, now by land, they try to soothe their restless nature, which is always dissatisfied with the present. “Now let us head for Campania. Now I am tired of richly cultivated land. Let us see wild country and make our way through the passes of Bruttii and Lucania. Yet amid this wilderness, we want something beautiful to refresh our pampered eyes after looking so long at savage wastes. Let us seek Tarentum, with its famous harbor and mild winter climate. Its countryside is rich enough to support even the great multitudes of ancient times. Now let us return to town. Our ears have gone too long without its shouting and noise. It would also be pleasant to enjoy the sight of human bloodshed.” So one journey follows another, and one spectacle replaces another. As Lucretius says:

but what does he gain by so doing if he does not escape from himself? he follows himself and weighs himself down by his own most burdensome companionship. We must understand, therefore, that what we suffer from is not the fault of the places but of ourselves: we are weak when there is anything to be endured, and cannot support either labour or pleasure, either one’s own business or any one else’s for long. This has driven some men to death, because by frequently altering their purpose they were always brought back to the same point, and had left themselves no room for anything new. They had become sick of life and of the world itself, and as all indulgences palled upon them they began to ask themselves the question, “How long are we to go on doing the same thing?”

But what does he gain by doing so if he cannot escape himself? He follows himself everywhere, weighed down by his own deeply burdensome company. So we must understand that our suffering comes not from the places we visit, but from ourselves. We are weak whenever we have something to endure. We cannot bear work or pleasure for long, or attend to our own business or anyone else’s. This weakness has driven some men to death. By repeatedly changing their plans, they always returned to the same point, leaving themselves no room for anything new. They had grown sick of life and of the world itself. As all pleasures lost their appeal, they began to ask themselves, “How long must we keep doing the same thing?”

III. You ask me what I think we had better make use of to help us to support this ennui. “The best thing,” as Athenodorus says, “is to occupy oneself with business with the management of affairs of state and the duties of a citizen: for as some pass the day in exercising themselves in the sun and in taking care of their bodily health, and athletes find it most useful to spend the greater part of their time in feeding up the muscles and strength to whose cultivation they have devoted their lives; so too for you who are training your mind to take part in the struggles of political life, it is far more honourable to be thus at work than to be idle. He whose object is to be of service to his countrymen and to all mortals, exercises himself and does good at the same time when he is engrossed in business and is working to the best of his ability both in the interests of the public and of private men. But,” continues he, “because innocence is hardly safe among such furious ambitions and so many men who turn one aside from the right path, and it is always sure to meet with more hindrance than help, we ought to withdraw ourselves from the forum and from public life, and a great mind even in a private station can find room wherein to expand freely. Confinement in dens restrains the springs of lions and wild creatures, but this does not apply to human beings, who often effect the most important works in retirement. Let a man, however, withdraw himself only in such a fashion that wherever he spends his leisure his wish may still be to benefit individual men and mankind alike, both with his intellect, his voice, and his advice. The man that does good service to the state is not only he who brings forward candidates for public office, defends accused persons, and gives his vote on questions of peace and war, but he who encourages young men in well-doing, who supplies the present dearth of good teachers by instilling into their minds the principles of virtue, who seizes and holds back those who are rushing wildly in pursuit of riches and luxury, and, if he does nothing else, at least checks their course—such a man does service to the public though in a private station. Which does the most good, he who decides between foreigners and citizens (as praetor peregrinus), or, as praetor urbanus, pronounces sentence to the suitors in his court at his assistant’s dictation, or he who shows them what is meant by justice, filial feeling, endurance, courage, contempt of death and knowledge of the gods, and how much a man is helped by a good conscience? If then you transfer to philosophy the time which you take away from the public service, you will not be a deserter or have refused to perform your proper task. A soldier is not merely one who stands in the ranks and defends the right or the left wing of the army, but he also who guards the gates—a service which, though less dangerous, is no sinecure—who keeps watch, and takes charge of the arsenal: though all these are bloodless duties, yet they count as military service. As soon as you have devoted yourself to philosophy, you will have overcome all disgust at life: you will not wish for darkness because you are weary of the light, nor will you be a trouble to yourself and useless to others: you will acquire many friends, and all the best men will be attracted towards you: for virtue, in however obscure a position, cannot be hidden, but gives signs of its presence: any one who is worthy will trace it out by its footsteps: but if we give up all society, turn our backs upon the whole human race, and live communing with ourselves alone, this solitude without any interesting occupation will lead to a want of something to do: we shall begin to build up and to pull down, to dam out the sea, to cause waters to flow through natural obstacles, and generally to make a bad disposal of the time which Nature has given us to spend: some of us use it grudgingly, others wastefully; some of us spend it so that we can show a profit and loss account, others so that they have no assets remaining: than which nothing can be more shameful. Often a man who is very old in years has nothing beyond his age by which he can prove that he has lived a long time.”

III. You ask me what I think we should use to help us bear this weariness with life. “The best thing,” as Athenodorus says, “is to keep busy with public affairs and the duties of a citizen. Some people spend the day exercising in the sun and caring for their physical health. Athletes find it most useful to spend most of their time building muscle and strength. They have devoted their lives to developing these qualities. In the same way, you are training your mind for the struggles of political life. So working at these tasks is far more honorable for you than being idle. A man who aims to serve his fellow citizens and all humanity trains himself while doing good. He does both when he works hard, doing his best for the public and for individuals. But,” he continues, “innocence is hardly safe amid such fierce ambition and so many people who lead others astray. Innocence is always sure to meet more obstacles than support. Because of these dangers, we should withdraw from the forum and public life. Even in private life, a great mind can find room to develop freely. Confinement in dens limits the leaps of lions and other wild animals. But human beings are different. They often accomplish their most important work in retirement. A man should withdraw, however, only if he still wishes to benefit both individuals and humanity wherever he spends his leisure. He should seek to help through his intellect, his voice, and his advice. Service to the state is not limited to proposing candidates for office, defending the accused, or voting on peace and war. A man also serves the public in private life when he encourages young men to do good. He helps fill the current shortage of good teachers by planting the principles of virtue in their minds. He catches and holds back those rushing recklessly after wealth and luxury. Even if he does nothing else, he at least slows their rush. Who does more good? Is it the praetor peregrinus, who settles disputes between foreigners and citizens? Or the praetor urbanus, who delivers judgments to those in his court as his assistant dictates? Or is it the man who teaches people the meaning of justice, devotion to parents, endurance, and courage? He also teaches them to dismiss the fear of death and to understand the gods. And he shows them how much a good conscience helps a person. So if you give philosophy the time you take away from public service, you will not be a deserter. Nor will you have refused your proper duty. A soldier is not only someone who stands in the ranks and defends the army’s right or left wing. The man guarding the gates is also a soldier. His duty is less dangerous, but it is no easy job. So are those who keep watch and look after the weapons store. Though these duties involve no bloodshed, they still count as military service. As soon as you devote yourself to philosophy, you will overcome all disgust with life. You will not wish for darkness because you are tired of the light. Nor will you be a burden to yourself and useless to others. You will gain many friends, and all the best men will be drawn to you. For virtue cannot remain hidden, however obscure its position. Virtue shows signs of its presence, and anyone worthy will follow its tracks and find it. But suppose we give up all company, turn our backs on the whole human race, and converse only with ourselves. Such solitude, without any engaging occupation, will leave us with nothing to do. We will begin building and tearing down, holding back the sea, and making water flow through natural barriers. In short, we will misuse the time Nature has given us to spend. Some of us use time grudgingly, others wastefully. Some spend time so that they can show an account of profit and loss. Others spend it until they have no assets left. Nothing could be more shameful. Often a very old man has nothing but his age to prove that he has lived a long time.”

IV. To me, my dearest Serenus, Athenodorus seems to have yielded too completely to the times, to have fled too soon: I will not deny that sometimes one must retire, but one ought to retire slowly, at a foot’s pace, without losing one’s ensigns or one’s honour as a soldier: those who make terms with arms in their hands are more respected by their enemies and more safe in their hands. This is what I think ought to be done by virtue and by one who practises virtue: if Fortune get the upper hand and deprive him of the power of action, let him not straightway turn his back to the enemy, throw away his arms, and run away seeking for a hiding-place, as if there were any place whither Fortune could not pursue him, but let him be more sparing in his acceptance of public office, and after due deliberation discover some means by which he can be of use to the state. He is not able to serve in the army: then let him become a candidate for civic honours: must he live in a private station? then let him be an advocate: is he condemned to keep silence? then let him help his countrymen with silent counsel. Is it dangerous for him even to enter the forum? then let him prove himself a good comrade, a faithful friend, a sober guest in people’s houses, at public shows, and at wine-parties. Suppose that he has lost the status of a citizen; then let him exercise that of a man: our reason for magnanimously refusing to confine ourselves within the walls of one city, for having gone forth to enjoy intercourse with all lands and for professing ourselves to be citizens of the world is that we may thus obtain a wider theatre on which to display our virtue. Is the bench of judges closed to you, are you forbidden to address the people from the hustings, or to be a candidate at elections? then turn your eyes away from Rome, and see what a wide extent of territory, what a number of nations present themselves before you. Thus, it is never possible for so many outlets to be closed against your ambition that more will not remain open to it: but see whether the whole prohibition does not arise from your own fault. You do not choose to direct the affairs of the state except as consul or prytanis² or meddix³ or sufes:⁴ what should we say if you refused to serve in the army save as general or military tribune? Even though others may form the first line, and your lot may have placed you among the veterans of the third, do your duty there with your voice, encouragement, example, and spirit: even though a man’s hands be cut off, he may find means to help his side in a battle, if he stands his ground and cheers on his comrades. Do something of that sort yourself: if Fortune removes you from the front rank, stand your ground nevertheless and cheer on your comrades, and if somebody stops your mouth, stand nevertheless and help your side in silence. The services of a good citizen are never thrown away: he does good by being heard and seen, by his expression, his gestures, his silent determination, and his very walk. As some remedies benefit us by their smell as well as by their their taste and touch, so virtue even when concealed and at a distance sheds usefulness around. Whether she moves at her ease and enjoys her just rights, or can only appear abroad on sufferance and is forced to shorten sail to the tempest, whether it be unemployed, silent, and pent up in a narrow lodging, or openly displayed, in whatever guise she may appear, she always does good. What? do you think that the example of one who can rest nobly has no value? It is by far the best plan, therefore, to mingle leisure with business, whenever chance impediments or the state of public affairs forbid one’s leading an active life: for one is never so cut off from all pursuits as to find no room left for honourable action.

IV. My dearest Serenus, I think Athenodorus gave in too completely to the times and retreated too soon. I do not deny that we must sometimes withdraw. But we should withdraw slowly, one step at a time, without losing our military standards or our honor as soldiers. Those who negotiate with weapons still in hand win greater respect from their enemies and are safer in their hands. Here is how I think virtue, and anyone who practices virtue, should act. If Fortune gains the upper hand and takes away his power to act, he should not immediately turn his back. He should not throw away his weapons and run for cover, as if Fortune could not follow him anywhere. Instead, he should accept public office more cautiously. After careful thought, he should find some way to serve the state. Can he not serve in the army? Then let him run for public office. Must he live as a private citizen? Then let him represent others in court. Is he forced to remain silent? Then let him help his fellow citizens with advice given in private. Is even entering the forum dangerous for him? Then let him show himself a good companion, a loyal friend, and a restrained guest. He can do so in people's homes, at public shows, and at drinking parties. Suppose he has lost his standing as a citizen. Then let him exercise his standing as a human being. We have generously refused to limit ourselves to the walls of one city. We have gone out to associate with people in every land and declared ourselves citizens of the world. We have done so to gain a wider stage on which to show our virtue. Are you barred from serving as a judge? Are you forbidden to address the people from the speakers' platform or run for office? Then look beyond Rome. See how much territory and how many nations lie before you. So many paths can never be closed to your ambition that more do not remain open. But consider whether you yourself are to blame for all these restrictions. You refuse to manage public affairs unless you are consul or prytanis² or meddix³ or sufes:⁴ What should we say if you refused military service unless you were a general or military tribune? Others may hold the front line, while your lot has placed you among the veterans in the third. Even so, do your duty there through your voice, encouragement, example, and spirit. Even a man whose hands have been cut off may find ways to help his side in battle. He can stand his ground and cheer on his comrades. Do something like that yourself. If Fortune removes you from the front rank, stand your ground anyway and cheer on your comrades. If someone silences you, stand your ground anyway and help your side without speaking. A good citizen's service is never wasted. He does good by being heard and seen, through his expression, gestures, silent resolve, and even his walk. Some remedies help us through their smell as well as their taste and touch. In the same way, virtue spreads benefits around her even when hidden and far away. She may move freely and enjoy her rightful freedoms. Or she may be allowed out only grudgingly, forced to shorten sail before the storm. She may be inactive, silent, and confined to a cramped room, or she may be openly displayed. Whatever form she takes, she always does good. What? Do you think the example of someone who can live nobly in retirement has no value? By far the best course, then, is to combine leisure with public service when circumstances prevent a fully active life. Those obstacles may arise by chance or from the state of public affairs. For no one is ever so cut off from every pursuit that no room remains for honorable action.

V. Could you anywhere find a [more] miserable city than that of Athens when it was being torn to pieces by the thirty tyrants? they slew thirteen hundred citizens, all the best men, and did not leave off because they had done so, but their cruelty became stimulated by exercise. In the city which possessed that most reverend tribunal, the Court of the Areopagus, which possessed a Senate, and a popular assembly which was like a Senate, there met daily a wretched crew of butchers, and the unhappy Senate House was crowded with tyrants. A state, in which there were so many tyrants that they would have been enough to form a bodyguard for one, might surely have rested from the struggle; it seemed impossible for men’s minds even to conceive hopes of recovering their liberty, nor could they see any room for a remedy for such a mass of evil: for whence could the unhappy state obtain all the Harmodiuses it would need to slay so many tyrants? Yet Socrates was in the midst of the city, and consoled its mourning Fathers, encouraged those who despaired of the republic, by his reproaches brought rich men, who feared that their wealth would be their ruin, to a tardy repentance of their avarice, and moved about as a great example to those who wished to imitate him, because he walked a free man in the midst of thirty masters. However, Athens herself put him to death in prison, and Freedom herself could not endure the freedom of one who had treated a whole band of tyrants with scorn: you may know, therefore, that even in an oppressed state a wise man can find an opportunity for bringing himself to the front, and that in a prosperous and flourishing one wanton insolence, jealousy, and a thousand other cowardly vices bear sway. We ought, therefore, to expand or contract ourselves according as the state presents itself to us, or as Fortune offers us opportunities: but in any case we ought to move and not to become frozen still by fear: nay, he is the best man who, though peril menaces him on every side and arms and chains beset his path, nevertheless neither impairs nor conceals his virtue: for to keep oneself safe does not mean to bury oneself. I think that Curius Dentatus spoke truly when he said that he would rather be dead than alive: the worst evil of all is to leave the ranks of the living before one dies: yet it is your duty, if you happen to live in an age when it is not easy to serve the state, to devote more time to leisure and to literature. Thus, just as though you were making a perilous voyage, you may from time to time put into harbour, and set yourself free from public business without waiting for it to do so.

V. Could you find a more miserable city anywhere than Athens when the thirty tyrants were tearing it apart? They killed thirteen hundred citizens, all the best men. But they did not stop there. Instead, their cruelty grew with practice. The city possessed that most respected court, the Court of the Areopagus. It also had a Senate and a popular assembly that was like a Senate. Yet a miserable gang of butchers met there daily, and the unfortunate Senate House was packed with tyrants. Surely a state with so many tyrants might have given up the struggle. There were enough tyrants to form a bodyguard for one. It seemed impossible for anyone even to imagine regaining freedom. Nor could anyone see a remedy for such overwhelming evil. Where could the unhappy state find all the Harmodiuses needed to kill so many tyrants? Yet Socrates was there in the city, comforting its grieving senators and encouraging those who despaired of the republic. He rebuked rich men who feared their wealth would destroy them, bringing them to a belated repentance for their greed. Wherever he went, he set a great example for those who wished to follow him. For he walked as a free man among thirty masters. Yet Athens herself put him to death in prison. Freedom herself could not tolerate the freedom of a man who had scorned an entire band of tyrants. So you can see that even in an oppressed state, a wise man can find an opportunity to step forward. In a prosperous, flourishing state, meanwhile, reckless arrogance, jealousy, and a thousand other cowardly vices hold power. We should therefore broaden or limit our activities according to the state's condition or the opportunities Fortune offers us. But whatever happens, we should act rather than let fear freeze us in place. Indeed, the best man neither weakens nor hides his virtue, though danger threatens him on every side. He does so even when weapons and chains block his path. For keeping yourself safe does not mean burying yourself. I think Curius Dentatus spoke truly when he said he would rather be dead than alive. The worst evil of all is to leave the ranks of the living before you die. Yet if you live in an age when serving the state is difficult, you have a duty. You must devote more time to leisure and literature. Then, as if on a dangerous voyage, you may put into harbor from time to time. You may free yourself from public business without waiting for public business to release you.

VI. We ought, however, first to examine our own selves, next the business which we propose to transact, next those for whose sake or in whose company we transact it.

VI. However, we should first examine ourselves, then the work we plan to do. Next, we should examine the people for whom or with whom we plan to do that work.

It is above all things necessary to form a true estimate of oneself, because as a rule we think that we can do more than we are able: one man is led too far through confidence in his eloquence, another demands more from his estate than it can produce, another burdens a weakly body with some toilsome duty. Some men are too shamefaced for the conduct of public affairs, which require an unblushing front: some men’s obstinate pride renders them unfit for courts: some cannot control their anger, and break into unguarded language on the slightest provocation: some cannot rein in their wit or resist making risky jokes: for all these men leisure is better than employment: a bold, haughty and impatient nature ought to avoid anything that may lead it to use a freedom of speech which will bring it to ruin. Next we must form an estimate of the matter which we mean to deal with, and compare our strength with the deed we are about to attempt: for the bearer ought always to be more powerful than his load: indeed, loads which are too heavy for their bearer must of necessity crush him: some affairs also are not so important in themselves as they are prolific and lead to much more business, which employments, as they involve us in new and various forms of work, ought to be refused. Neither should you engage in anything from which you are not free to retreat: apply yourself to something which you can finish, or at any rate can hope to finish: you had better not meddle with those operations which grow in importance, while they are being transacted, and which will not stop where you intended them to stop.

Above all, we must judge ourselves accurately, because we usually think we can do more than we can. One man goes too far because he trusts his skill as a speaker. Another expects more income from his estate than it can produce. Another burdens a weak body with exhausting work. Some men are too shy for public affairs, which require a bold face. Some are too stubbornly proud to be suited to the courts. Some cannot control their anger and speak recklessly at the slightest provocation. Some cannot restrain their wit or resist making risky jokes. For all these men, leisure is better than work. A bold, arrogant, impatient person should avoid anything that might tempt him to speak freely enough to ruin himself. Next, we must assess the task we intend to undertake and compare our strength with the work ahead. The person carrying a load should always be stronger than the load demands. Indeed, a load too heavy for its bearer must inevitably crush him. Some tasks are less significant in themselves than in the amount of further work they generate. Such commitments should be refused, because they draw us into new and varied kinds of work. Nor should you undertake anything you cannot freely withdraw from. Devote yourself to something you can finish, or at least hope to finish. You would do better to avoid projects that grow in importance as they proceed and will not stop where you intended.

VII. In all cases one should be careful in one’s choice of men, and see whether they be worthy of our bestowing a part of our life upon them, or whether we shall waste our own time and theirs also: for some even consider us to be in their debt because of our services to them. Athenodorus said that “he would not so much as dine with a man who would not be grateful to him for doing so”: meaning, I imagine, that much less would he go to dinner with those who recompense the services of their friends by their table, and regard courses of dishes as donatives, as if they overate themselves to do honour to others. Take away from these men their witnesses and spectators: they will take no pleasure in solitary gluttony. You must decide whether your disposition is better suited for vigorous action or for tranquil speculation and contemplation, and you must adopt whichever the bent of your genius inclines you for. Isocrates laid hands upon Ephorus and led him away from the forum, thinking that he would be more usefully employed in compiling chronicles; for no good is done by forcing one’s mind to engage in uncongenial work: it is vain to struggle against Nature. Yet nothing delights the mind so much as faithful and pleasant friendship: what a blessing it is when there is one whose breast is ready to receive all your secrets with safety, whose knowledge of your actions you fear less than your own conscience, whose conversation removes your anxieties, whose advice assists your plans, whose cheerfulness dispels your gloom, whose very sight delights you! We should choose for our friends men who are, as far as possible, free from strong desires: for vices are contagious, and pass from a man to his neighbour, and injure those who touch them. As, therefore, in times of pestilence we have to be careful not to sit near people who are infected and in whom the disease is raging, because by so doing, we shall run into danger and catch the plague from their very breath; so, too, in choosing our friends’ dispositions, we must take care to select those who are as far as may be unspotted by the world; for the way to breed disease is to mix what is sound with what is rotten. Yet I do not advise you to follow after or draw to yourself no one except a wise man: for where will you find him whom for so many centuries we have sought in vain? in the place of the best possible man take him who is least bad. You would hardly find any time that would have enabled you to make a happier choice than if you could have sought for a good man from among the Platos and Xenophons and the rest of the produce of the brood of Socrates, or if you had been permitted to choose one from the age of Cato: an age which bore many men worthy to be born in Cato’s time (just as it also bore many men worse than were ever known before, planners of the blackest crimes: for it needed both classes in order to make Cato understood: it wanted both good men, that he might win their approbation, and bad men, against whom he could prove his strength): but at the present day, when there is such a dearth of good men, you must be less squeamish in your choice. Above all, however, avoid dismal men who grumble at whatever happens, and find something to complain of in everything. Though he may continue loyal and friendly towards you, still one’s peace of mind is destroyed by a comrade whose mind is soured and who meets every incident with a groan.

VII. In all cases, choose your companions carefully. Ask whether they deserve a share of your life, or whether you will waste both your time and theirs. Some people even think our services to them put us in their debt. Athenodorus said that “he would not even dine with a man who would not be grateful for his company”. I imagine he meant he would be still less willing to dine with certain other people. These people repay their friends’ services with meals and treat each course as a generous gift. They act as if they stuff themselves to honor others. Take away their witnesses and spectators, and they will find no pleasure in eating to excess alone. You must decide whether your nature suits vigorous action or quiet study and reflection. Then follow the path your natural abilities point toward. Isocrates took Ephorus by the hand and led him away from the forum. He thought Ephorus would be more useful writing histories. Nothing good comes from forcing your mind into work that does not suit it. Struggling against Nature is pointless. Yet nothing delights the mind as much as loyal, pleasant friendship. What a blessing to have someone you can safely trust with all your secrets! You fear your friend’s knowledge of your actions less than you fear your own conscience. Your friend’s conversation eases your worries, and his advice helps your plans. His cheerfulness lifts your gloom, and the very sight of him delights you. We should choose friends who are as free as possible from powerful desires. Vices are contagious. They spread from one person to another and harm those who come into contact with them. During an epidemic, we must take care not to sit near infected people in whom the disease is raging. Otherwise, we risk catching the plague from their very breath. In the same way, we must choose friends whose characters are as untouched as possible by the world’s corruption. Mixing what is healthy with what is rotten breeds disease. Yet I do not advise you to seek out or welcome only a wise man. Where will you find the wise man we have sought in vain for so many centuries? Instead of the best possible man, choose the least bad. You could hardly have found a better time to choose a good man than among the Platos and Xenophons. You could also have chosen from the others who emerged from Socrates’ circle. Or you might have been allowed to choose someone from Cato’s age. That age produced many men worthy of living alongside Cato. It also produced many men worse than any known before, men who planned the darkest crimes. Both kinds were needed for Cato to be understood. Good men were needed so that he could win their approval. Bad men were needed so that he could prove his strength against them. But today, when good men are so scarce, you must be less particular in your choice. Above all, avoid gloomy men who grumble at whatever happens and find something to complain about in everything. Such a man may remain loyal and friendly toward you. Still, a bitter companion who greets every event with a groan destroys your peace of mind.

VIII. Let us now pass on to the consideration of property, that most fertile source of human sorrows: for if you compare all the other ills from which we suffer—deaths, sicknesses, fears, regrets, endurance of pains and labours— with those miseries which our money inflicts upon us, the latter will far outweigh all the others. Reflect, then, how much less a grief it is never to have had any money than to have lost it: we shall thus understand that the less poverty has to lose, the less torment it has with which to afflict us: for you are mistaken if you suppose that the rich bear their losses with greater spirit than the poor: a wound causes the same amount of pain to the greatest and the smallest body. It was a neat saying of Bion’s, “that it hurts bald men as much as hairy men to have their hairs pulled out”: you may be assured that the same thing is true of rich and poor people, that their suffering is equal: for their money clings to both classes, and cannot be torn away without their feeling it: yet it is more endurable, as I have said, and easier not to gain property than to lose it, and therefore you will find that those upon whom Fortune has never smiled are more cheerful than those whom she has deserted. Diogenes, a man of infinite spirit, perceived this, and made it impossible that anything should be taken from him. Call this security from loss poverty, want, necessity, or any contemptuous name you please: I shall consider such a man to be happy, unless you find me another who can lose nothing. If I am not mistaken, it is a royal attribute among so many misers, sharpers, and robbers, to be the one man who cannot be injured. If any one doubts the happiness of Diogenes, he would doubt whether the position of the immortal gods was one of sufficient happiness. because they have no farms or gardens, no valuable estates let to strange tenants, and no large loans in the money market. Are you not ashamed of yourself, you who gaze upon riches with astonished admiration? Look upon the universe: you will see the gods quite bare of property, and possessing nothing though they give everything. Do you think that this man who has stripped himself of all fortuitous accessories is a pauper, or one like to the immortal gods? Do you call Demetrius, Pompeius’s freedman, a happier man, he who was not ashamed to be richer than Pompeius, who was daily furnished with a list of the number of his slaves, as a general is with that of his army, though he had long deserved that all his riches should consist of a pair of underlings, and a roomier cell than the other slaves? But Diogenes’s only slave ran away from him, and when he was pointed out to Diogenes, he did not think him worth fetching back. “It is a shame,” he said, “that Manes should be able to live without Diogenes, and that Diogenes should not be able to live without Manes.” He seems to me to have said, “Fortune, mind your own business: Diogenes has nothing left that belongs to you. Did my slave run away? nay, he went away from me as a free man.” A household of slaves requires food and clothing: the bellies of so many hungry creatures have to be filled: we must buy raiment for them, we must watch their most thievish hands, and we must make use of the services of people who weep and execrate us. How far happier is he who is indebted to no man for anything except for what he can deprive himself of with the greatest ease! Since we, however, have not such strength of mind as this, we ought at any rate to diminish the extent of our property, in order to be less exposed to the assaults of fortune: those men whose bodies can be within the shelter of their armour, are more fitted for war than those whose huge size everywhere extends beyond it, and exposes them to wounds: the best amount of property to have is that which is enough to keep us from poverty, and which yet is not far removed from it.

VIII. Let us now turn to property, the richest source of human sorrow. Compare all our other troubles with the misery our money brings us. Deaths, illnesses, fears, regrets, pain, and hard work together weigh far less than our financial troubles. Consider how much less painful it is never to have had money than to have lost it. We can then understand that the less poverty has to lose, the less suffering it can cause us. You are mistaken if you think the rich bear their losses more bravely than the poor. A wound hurts just as much in the largest body as in the smallest. Bion put it neatly: “Having their hair pulled out hurts bald men as much as men with plenty of hair.” You can be sure the same is true of rich and poor: both suffer equally. Money clings to both, and neither can have it torn away without feeling the pain. Yet, as I have said, never acquiring property is easier to bear than losing it. So you will find those whom Fortune has never favored more cheerful than those she has abandoned. Diogenes, a man of boundless spirit, understood this and made it impossible for anything to be taken from him. Call this freedom from loss poverty, deprivation, hardship, or any insulting name you please. I will consider such a man happy, unless you can find me another who can lose nothing. If I am not mistaken, there is something kingly about being the one man no one can harm. This is especially true among so many misers, cheats, and robbers. Anyone who doubts Diogenes’s happiness would also doubt whether the immortal gods are happy enough. After all, the gods have no farms or gardens, no valuable estates rented to strangers, and no large loans earning interest. Are you not ashamed of yourself, you who stare at riches in wonder and admiration? Look at the universe. You will see the gods entirely without property, owning nothing although they give everything. Diogenes has stripped himself of everything that depends on chance. Do you think he is a pauper, or a man like the immortal gods? Do you call Demetrius, Pompeius’s freedman, happier? He felt no shame at being richer than Pompeius. Every day he received a count of his slaves, as a general receives a count of his soldiers. Yet he had long deserved to own nothing but a pair of underlings and a roomier cell than the other slaves. By contrast, Diogenes’s only slave ran away. When someone pointed the slave out to him, Diogenes did not think him worth bringing back. “It is a shame,” he said, “that Manes can live without Diogenes, but Diogenes cannot live without Manes.” He seems to me to have said, “Fortune, mind your own business. Diogenes has nothing left that belongs to you. Did my slave run away? No, he left me as a free man.” A household of slaves needs food and clothing. So many hungry mouths must be fed. We must buy clothes for them and watch their thieving hands. And we must rely on the services of people who weep and curse us. How much happier is the man who owes anyone only things he can very easily do without! But since we lack such strength of mind, we should at least reduce our possessions. Then we will be less exposed to Fortune’s attacks. Men whose bodies fit within their armor are better suited to war. Larger men stick out beyond their armor everywhere, leaving themselves exposed to wounds. The best amount of property is enough to keep us out of poverty, but not far from it.

IX. We shall be pleased with this measure of wealth if we have previously taken pleasure in thrift, without which no riches are sufficient, and with which none are insufficient, especially as the remedy is always at hand, and poverty itself by calling in the aid of thrift can convert itself into riches. Let us accustom ourselves to set aside mere outward show, and to measure things by their uses, not by their ornamental trappings: let our hunger be tamed by food, our thirst quenched by drinking, our lust confined within needful bounds; let us learn to use our limbs, and to arrange our dress and way of life according to what was approved of by our ancestors, not in imitation of new-fangled models: let us learn to increase our continence, to repress luxury, to set bounds to our pride, to assuage our anger, to look upon poverty without prejudice, to practise thrift, albeit many are ashamed to do so, to apply cheap remedies to the wants of nature, to keep all undisciplined hopes and aspirations as it were under lock and key, and to make it our business to get our riches from ourselves and not from Fortune. We never can so thoroughly defeat the vast diversity and malignity of misfortune with which we are threatened as not to feel the weight of many gusts if we offer a large spread of canvas to the wind: we must draw our affairs into a small compass, to make the darts of Fortune of no avail. For this reason, sometimes slight mishaps have turned into remedies, and more serious disorders have been healed by slighter ones. When the mind pays no attention to good advice, and cannot be brought to its senses by milder measures, why should we not think that its interests are being served by poverty, disgrace, or financial ruin being applied to it? one evil is balanced by another. Let us then teach ourselves to be able to dine without all Rome to look on, to be the slaves of fewer slaves, to get clothes which fulfil their original purpose, and to live in a smaller house. The inner curve is the one to take, not only in running races and in the contests of the circus, but also in the race of life; even literary pursuits, the most becoming thing for a gentleman to spend money upon, are only justifiable as long as they are kept within bounds. What is the use of possessing numberless books and libraries, whose titles their owner can hardly read through in a lifetime? A student is overwhelmed by such a mass, not instructed, and it is much better to devote yourself to a few writers than to skim through many. Forty thousand books were burned at Alexandria: some would have praised this library as a most noble memorial of royal wealth, like Titus Livius, who says that it was “a splendid result of the taste and attentive care of the kings.”⁵ It had nothing to do with taste or care, but was a piece of learned luxury, nay, not even learned, since they amassed it, not for the sake of learning, but to make a show, like many men who know less about letters than a slave is expected to know, and who uses his books not to help him in his studies but to ornament his dining-room. Let a man, then, obtain as many books as he wants, but none for show. “It is more respectable,” say you, “to spend one’s money on such books than on vases of Corinthian brass and paintings.” Not so: everything that is carried to excess is wrong. What excuses can you find for a man who is eager to buy bookcases of ivory and citrus wood, to collect the works of unknown or discredited authors, and who sits yawning amid so many thousands of books, whose backs and titles please him more than any other part of them? Thus in the houses of the laziest of men you will see the works of all the orators and historians stacked upon book-shelves reaching right up to the ceiling. At the present day a library has become as necessary an appendage to a house as a hot and cold bath. I would excuse them straightway if they really were carried away by an excessive zeal for literature; but as it is, these costly works of sacred genius, with all the illustrations that adorn them, are merely bought for display and to serve as wall-furniture.

IX. We will be content with this amount of wealth if we have first learned to enjoy thrift. Without thrift, no riches are enough. With thrift, no wealth is too little. The remedy is always at hand, especially since even poverty can turn itself into wealth by calling on thrift. Let us get used to putting aside outward show and judging things by their usefulness, not their decoration. Let food satisfy our hunger and drink quench our thirst. Let us keep sexual desire within necessary limits. Let us learn to use our limbs. Let us dress and live according to our ancestors’ standards, rather than copy the latest fashions. Let us learn greater self-restraint, curb luxury, limit our pride, and calm our anger. Let us view poverty without prejudice and practice thrift, though many are ashamed to do so. Let us meet nature’s needs with inexpensive remedies. Let us keep all uncontrolled hopes and ambitions under lock and key, so to speak. Let us make it our business to draw our wealth from ourselves, not from Fortune. We can never completely defeat the many forms of hostile misfortune that threaten us. If we spread too much sail, we will feel the force of many gusts. We must keep our affairs within narrow limits so that Fortune’s arrows cannot hurt us. For this reason, small misfortunes have sometimes become remedies, and lesser troubles have cured greater ones. Sometimes the mind ignores good advice and cannot be brought to its senses by gentler methods. Why should we not think poverty, disgrace, or financial ruin serves such a mind’s interests? One evil offsets another. Let us then teach ourselves to dine without all Rome watching, and to be slaves to fewer slaves. Let us buy clothes that serve their original purpose and live in smaller houses. Take the inside curve, not only in footraces and circus contests, but also in the race of life. Even literary pursuits, the most fitting expense for a gentleman, are justified only when kept within limits. What use are countless books and libraries when their owner can hardly read through their titles in a lifetime? Such a mass overwhelms a student rather than teaching him. It is far better to study a few writers closely than to skim through many. Forty thousand books burned at Alexandria. Some would have praised this library as a noble monument to royal wealth. Titus Livius, for example, calls it “a splendid result of the taste and attentive care of the kings.”⁵ The library had nothing to do with taste or care. It was scholarly extravagance, or rather, not even scholarly. The kings amassed the books not for learning, but for show. Many men do the same, though they know less about literature than a slave is expected to know. They use their books not to help them study, but to decorate their dining rooms. Let a man, then, get as many books as he needs, but none for show. “It is more respectable,” you say, “to spend money on such books than on Corinthian bronze vases and paintings.” Not so. Anything taken to excess is wrong. What excuse can you find for a man eager to buy bookcases of ivory and citrus wood? He collects unknown or discredited authors, then sits yawning among so many thousands of books. Their spines and titles please him more than anything else about them. So, in the homes of the laziest men, you will see the works of all the orators and historians. Their books fill shelves that reach to the ceiling. Nowadays, a library has become as necessary a feature of a house as a hot and cold bath. I would readily excuse these men if excessive enthusiasm for literature really did carry them away. But as things stand, they buy these costly works of inspired genius, with all their illustrations, merely for display. The books serve as wall decorations.

X. Suppose, however, that your life has become full of trouble, and that without knowing what you were doing you have fallen into some snare which either public or private Fortune has set for you, and that you can neither untie it nor break it: then remember that fettered men suffer much at first from the burdens and clogs upon their legs: afterwards, when they have made up their minds not to fret themselves about them, but to endure them, necessity teaches them to bear them bravely, and habit to bear them easily. In every station of life you will find amusements, relaxations, and enjoyments; that is, provided you be willing to make light of evils rather than to hate them. Knowing to what sorrows we were born, there is nothing for which Nature more deserves our thanks than for having invented habit as an alleviation of misfortune, which soon accustoms us to the severest evils. No one could hold out against misfortune if it permanently exercised the same force as at its first onset. We are all chained to Fortune: some men’s chain is loose and made of gold, that of others is tight and of meaner metal: but what difference does this make? we are all included in the same captivity, and even those who have bound us are bound themselves, unless you think that a chain on the left side is lighter to bear: one man may be bound by public office, another by wealth: some have to bear the weight of illustrious, some of humble birth: some are subject to the commands of others, some only to their own: some are kept in one place by being banished thither, others by being elected to the priesthood. All life is slavery: let each man therefore reconcile himself to his lot, complain of it as little as possible, and lay hold of whatever good lies within his reach. No condition can be so wretched that an impartial mind can find no compensations in it. Small sites, if ingeniously divided, may be made use of for many different purposes, and arrangement will render ever so narrow a room habitable. Call good sense to your aid against difficulties: it is possible to soften what is harsh, to widen what is too narrow, and to make heavy burdens press less severely upon one who bears them skilfully. Moreover, we ought not to allow our desires to wander far afield, but we must make them confine themselves to our immediate neighbourhood, since they will not endure to be altogether locked up. We must leave alone things which either cannot come to pass or can only be effected with difficulty, and follow after such things as are near at hand and within reach of our hopes, always remembering that all things are equally unimportant, and that though they have a different outward appearance, they are all alike empty within. Neither let us envy those who are in high places: the heights which look lofty to us are steep and rugged. Again, those whom unkind fate has placed in critical situations will be safer if they show as little pride in their proud position as may be, and do all they are able to bring down their fortunes to the level of other men’s. There are many who must needs cling to their high pinnacle of power, because they cannot descend from it save by falling headlong: yet they assure us that their greatest burden is being obliged to be burdensome to others, and that they are nailed to their lofty post rather than raised to it: let them then, by dispensing justice, clemency, and kindness with an open and liberal hand, provide themselves with assistance to break their fall, and looking forward to this maintain their position more hopefully. Yet nothing sets us free from these alternations of hope and fear so well as always fixing some limit to our successes, and not allowing Fortune to choose when to stop our career, but to halt of our own accord long before we apparently need do so. By acting thus certain desires will rouse up our spirits, and yet being confined within bounds, will not lead us to embark on vast and vague enterprises.

X. Suppose, however, that your life has become full of trouble. Without realizing what you were doing, you have fallen into a trap set by public or private Fortune. You can neither untie the trap nor break free. Then remember how chained men suffer at first from the weights and shackles on their legs. Later, they resolve to endure their chains rather than struggle against them. Necessity teaches them to bear their chains bravely, and habit teaches them to bear them easily. In every situation in life, you will find amusement, relaxation, and pleasure. But you must be willing to make light of your troubles rather than hate them. Given the sorrows we were born to face, nothing deserves our thanks to Nature more than habit. Nature gave us habit to ease misfortune, and habit soon accustoms us to even the worst troubles. No one could withstand misfortune if its force always remained as strong as at the first blow. We are all chained to Fortune. Some have loose chains made of gold, while others have tight chains made of cheaper metal. But what difference does that make? We all share the same captivity, and even those who chained us are themselves chained. Unless, of course, you think a chain on the left side is easier to bear. One person is bound by public office, another by wealth. Some bear the burden of distinguished birth, others of humble birth. Some obey the commands of others, while some obey only their own. Some are confined to one place by exile, others by election to the priesthood. All life is slavery. So everyone should accept their lot, complain as little as possible, and seize whatever good is within reach. No condition can be so miserable that a fair-minded person can find nothing to make up for it. Small plots of land can serve many purposes if cleverly divided. Careful arrangement can make even the narrowest room livable. Use good sense to help you face difficulties. What is harsh can be softened, and what is too narrow can be widened. Heavy burdens can weigh less on someone who knows how to carry them. Moreover, we should not let our desires wander far. We must keep them close to home, since they will not tolerate being shut away completely. We must leave alone whatever cannot happen or can happen only with difficulty. Instead, we should pursue what is close at hand and within the reach of our hopes. We must always remember that all things are equally unimportant. Though they look different on the outside, they are all equally empty within. Nor should we envy people in high positions. The heights that look so impressive to us are steep and rugged. Those whom unkind fate has placed in dangerous positions will be safer if they show as little pride as possible. They should also do everything they can to bring their fortunes down to the level of other people's. Many must cling to the peak of power because they cannot come down without falling headfirst. Yet they tell us their greatest burden is having to be a burden to others. They say they are nailed to their lofty position rather than raised to it. So let them freely and generously offer justice, mercy, and kindness. By doing so, they can secure help to break their fall. With that help in view, they can hold their position with greater hope. Yet nothing frees us from these swings between hope and fear better than setting a limit to our successes. We should not let Fortune decide when our progress ends. Instead, we should stop voluntarily, long before stopping seems necessary. In this way, certain desires will stir our spirits. But because those desires remain within bounds, they will not draw us into vast, ill-defined ventures.

XI. These remarks of mine apply only to imperfect, commonplace, and unsound natures, not to the wise man, who needs not to walk with timid and cautious gait: for he has such confidence in himself that he does not hesitate to go directly in the teeth of Fortune, and never will give way to her. Nor indeed has he any reason for fearing her, for he counts not only chattels, property, and high office, but even his body, his eyes, his hands, and everything whose use makes life dearer to us, nay, even his very self, to be things whose possession is uncertain; he lives as though he had borrowed them, and is ready to return them cheerfully whenever they are claimed. Yet he does not hold himself cheap, because he knows that he is not his own, but performs all his duties as carefully and prudently as a pious and scrupulous man would take care of property left in his charge as trustee. When he is bidden to give them up, he will not complain of Fortune, but will say, “I thank you for what I have had possession of: I have managed your property so as largely to increase it, but since you order me, I give it back to you and return it willingly and thankfully. If you still wish me to own anything of yours, I will keep it for you: if you have other views, I restore into your hands and make restitution of all my wrought and coined silver, my house and my household. Should Nature recall what she previously entrusted us with, let us say to her also: ‘Take back my spirit, which is better than when you gave it me: I do not shuffle or hang back. Of my own free will I am ready to return what you gave me before I could think: take me away,’ ” What hardship can there be in returning to the place from whence one came? a man cannot live well if he knows not how to die well. We must, therefore, take away from this commodity its original value, and count the breath of life as a cheap matter. “We dislike gladiators,” says Cicero, “if they are eager to save their lives by any means whatever: but we look favourably upon them if they are openly reckless of them,” You may be sure that the same thing occurs with us: we often die because we are afraid of death. Fortune, which regards our lives as a show in the arena for her own enjoyment, says, “Why should I spare you, base and cowardly creature that you are? you will be pierced and hacked with all the more wounds because you know not how to offer your throat to the knife: whereas you, who receive the stroke without drawing away your neck or putting up your hands to stop it, shall both live longer and die more quickly,” He who fears death will never act as becomes a living man: but he who knows that this fate was laid upon him as soon as he was conceived will live according to it, and by this strength of mind will gain this further advantage, that nothing can befal him unexpectedly: for by looking forward to everything which can happen as though it would happen to him, he takes the sting out of all evils, which can make no difference to those who expect it and are prepared to meet it: evil only comes hard upon those who have lived without giving it a thought and whose attention has been exclusively directed to happiness. Disease, captivity, disaster, conflagration, are none of them unexpected: I always knew with what disorderly company Nature had associated me. The dead have often been wailed for in my neighbourhood: the torch and taper have often been borne past my door before the bier of one who has died before his time: the crash of falling buildings has often resounded by my side: night has snatched away many of those with whom I have become intimate in the forum, the Senate-house, and in society, and has sundered the hands which were joined in friendship: ought I to be surprised if the dangers which have always been circling around me at last assail me? How large a part of mankind never think of storms when about to set sail? I shall never be ashamed to quote a good saying because it comes from a bad author. Publilius, who was a more powerful writer than any of our other playwrights, whether comic or tragic, whenever he chose to rise above farcical absurdities and speeches addressed to the gallery, among many other verses too noble even for tragedy, let alone for comedy, has this one:—

XI. These remarks apply only to imperfect, ordinary, and flawed characters, not to the wise man. He has no need to walk timidly or cautiously. He trusts himself so completely that he does not hesitate to face Fortune head-on. He will never yield to her. Indeed, he has no reason to fear her. He regards not only possessions, property, and high office as things he cannot count on keeping. He takes the same view of his body, eyes, hands, and everything that makes life dearer to us. He even regards his own self in this way. He lives as though he has borrowed everything, ready to return it cheerfully whenever it is claimed. Yet knowing that he does not belong to himself does not make him undervalue himself. Instead, he carries out all his duties carefully and wisely. He acts like a devout, conscientious man caring for property entrusted to him. When ordered to give everything up, he will not complain about Fortune. Instead, he will say, “I thank you for everything I have had. I have managed your property and greatly increased it. But since you order me to return it, I do so willingly and gratefully. If you still wish me to possess anything of yours, I will keep it for you. If you have other plans, I place everything back in your hands. I return all my silverware and silver coins, my house, and my household. If Nature takes back what she once entrusted to us, let us say to her too: ‘Take back my spirit. It is better than when you gave it to me. I do not evade you or hold back. I freely offer to return what you gave me before I could think. Take me away.’” What hardship is there in returning to the place we came from? A man cannot live well unless he knows how to die well. We must therefore strip life of the value we first placed on it and set little store by merely breathing. “We dislike gladiators,” says Cicero, “if they are eager to save their lives by any means whatever. But we look favorably on them if they openly show no concern for their lives.” You can be sure that the same is true of us. We often die because we fear death. Fortune treats our lives as an arena show for her own amusement. She says, “Why should I spare you, vile coward? You will suffer all the more stab wounds and cuts because you do not know how to offer your throat. But you who accept the blow without pulling back your neck or raising your hands to stop it will live longer. You will also die more quickly.” Anyone who fears death will never act as a living man should. But a man who knows death was his fate from conception will live with that knowledge. His strength of mind will also give him another advantage: nothing can happen to him unexpectedly. He anticipates everything that could happen as though it will happen to him. In this way, he takes the sting out of every misfortune. Misfortunes cannot disturb those who expect them and are ready to face them. Misfortune strikes hard only at those who have never considered it and have focused entirely on happiness. Disease, captivity, disaster, and fire are none of them unexpected. I have always known what unruly company Nature placed me among. People have often mourned the dead in my neighborhood. Torches and candles have often passed my door ahead of the bier of someone who died before his time. Buildings have often crashed down beside me. Night has carried off many people I grew close to in the forum, the Senate-house, and society. It has pulled apart hands joined in friendship. Should I be surprised if dangers that have always circled me finally attack me? How many people never think of storms when they are about to set sail? I will never be ashamed to quote a good saying because its author is bad. Publilius could write more powerfully than any of our other playwrights, whether comic or tragic. He did so whenever he chose to rise above farcical nonsense and speeches aimed at the cheap seats. Many of his verses were too noble even for tragedy, let alone comedy. Among them is this one:

If a man takes this into his inmost heart and looks upon all the misfortunes of other men, of which there is always a great plenty, in this spirit, remembering that there is nothing to prevent their coming upon him also, he will arm himself against them long before they attack him. It is too late to school the mind to endurance of peril after peril has come. “I did not think this would happen,” and “Would you ever have believed that this would have happened?” say you. But why should it not? Where are the riches after which want, hunger, and beggary do not follow? what office is there whose purple robe, augur’s staff, and patrician reins have not as their accompaniment rags and banishment, the brand of infamy, a thousand disgraces, and utter reprobation? what kingdom is there for which ruin, trampling under foot, a tyrant and a butcher are not ready at hand? nor are these matters divided by long periods of time, but there is but the space of an hour between sitting on the throne ourselves and clasping the knees of some one else as suppliants. Know then that every station of life is transitory, and that what has ever happened to anybody may happen to you also. You are wealthy: are you wealthier than Pompeius?⁶ Yet when Gaius,⁷ his old relative and new host, opened Caesar’s house to him in order that he might close his own, he lacked both bread and water: though he owned so many rivers which both rose and discharged themselves within his dominions, yet he had to beg for drops of water: he perished of hunger and thirst in the palace of his relative, while his heir was contracting for a public funeral for one who was in want of food. You have filled public offices: were they either as important, as unlooked for, or as all-embracing as those of Sejanus? Yet on the day on which the Senate disgraced him, the people tore him to pieces: the executioner⁸ could find no part left large enough to drag to the Tiber, of one upon whom gods and men had showered all that could be given to man. You are a king: I will not bid you go to Croesus for an example, he who while yet alive saw his funeral pile both lighted and extinguished, being made to outlive not only his kingdom but even his own death, nor to Jugurtha, whom the people of Rome beheld as a captive within the year in which they had feared him. We have seen Ptolemaeus King of Africa, and Mithridates King of Armenia, under the charge of Gaius’s⁹ guards: the former was sent into exile, the latter chose it in order to make his exile more honourable. Among such continual topsy-turvy changes, unless you expect that whatever can happen will happen to you, you give adversity power against you, a power which can be destroyed by any one who looks at it beforehand.

If a man takes this lesson to heart, he will view other people’s misfortunes in the same spirit. There are always plenty of misfortunes to consider. He must remember that nothing prevents those same troubles from happening to him. Then he will prepare himself long before they strike. Once danger has arrived, it is too late to train the mind to endure it. “I did not think this would happen,” and “Would you ever have believed this would happen?” you say. But why should it not? What wealth is never followed by poverty, hunger, and begging? What public office, with its purple robe, augur’s staff, and patrician reins, does not also bring rags and exile? What office does not bring the mark of shame, a thousand humiliations, and universal condemnation? What kingdom does not face ruin, trampling underfoot, a tyrant, and a butcher waiting nearby? Nor do long stretches of time separate these reversals. Only an hour separates sitting on a throne from clasping someone else’s knees as a beggar. Know, then, that every position in life is temporary. Whatever has happened to anyone may happen to you too. You are wealthy: are you wealthier than Pompeius?⁶ Yet Gaius,⁷ his longtime relative and new host, opened Caesar’s house to him so that he could close his own. Then Pompeius lacked both bread and water. Though he owned many rivers that rose and emptied entirely within his lands, he had to beg for drops of water. He died of hunger and thirst in his relative’s palace. Meanwhile, his heir was arranging a public funeral for a man who lacked food. You have held public offices. Were those offices as important, as unexpected, or as far-reaching as those of Sejanus? Yet on the day the Senate disgraced him, the people tore him to pieces. The executioner⁸ could find no piece large enough to drag to the Tiber. Yet gods and men had showered Sejanus with everything a man could receive. You are a king. I will not tell you to look to Croesus for an example. While still alive, he saw his funeral pyre both lit and extinguished. He was made to outlive not only his kingdom but even his own death. Nor will I point to Jugurtha. The people of Rome saw him as a captive within the same year they had feared him. We have seen Ptolemaeus, King of Africa, and Mithridates, King of Armenia, in the custody of Gaius’s⁹ guards. Ptolemaeus was sent into exile. Mithridates chose exile to make his banishment more honorable. Amid such constant upheavals, unless you expect whatever can happen to happen to you, you give adversity power over you. Anyone can destroy that power by facing adversity in advance.

XII. The next point to these will be to take care that we do not labour for what is vain, or labour in vain: that is to say, neither to desire what we are not able to obtain, nor yet, having obtained our desire too late, and after much toil to discover the folly of our wishes: in other words, that our labour may not be without result, and that the result may not be unworthy of our labour: for as a rule sadness arises from one of these two things, either from want of success or from being ashamed of having succeeded. We must limit the running to and fro which most men practise, rambling about houses, theatres, and market-places. They mind other men’s business, and always seem as though they themselves had something to do. If you ask one of them as he comes out of his own door, “Whither are you going?” he will answer, “By Hercules, I do not know: but I shall see some people and do something.” They wander purposelessly seeking for something to do, and do, not what they have made up their minds to do, but what has casually fallen in their way. They move uselessly and without any plan, just like ants crawling over bushes, which creep up to the top and then down to the bottom again without gaining anything. Many men spend their lives in exactly the same fashion, which one may call a state of restless indolence. You would pity some of them when you see them running as if their house was on fire: they actually jostle all whom they meet, and hurry along themselves and others with them, though all the while they are going to salute some one who will not return their greeting, or to attend the funeral of some one whom they did not know: they are going to hear the verdict on one who often goes to law, or to see the wedding of one who often gets married: they will follow a man’s litter, and in some places will even carry it: afterwards returning home weary with idleness, they swear that they themselves do not know why they went out, or where they have been, and on the following day they will wander through the same round again. Let all your work, therefore, have some purpose, and keep some object in view: these restless people are not made restless by labour, but are driven out of their minds by mistaken ideas: for even they do not put themselves in motion without any hope: they are excited by the outward appearance of something, and their crazy mind cannot see its futility. In the same way every one of those who walk out to swell the crowd in the streets, is led round the city by worthless and empty reasons; the dawn drives him forth, although he has nothing to do, and after he has pushed his way into many men’s doors, and saluted their nomenclators one after the other, and been turned away from many others, he finds that the most difficult person of all to find at home is himself. From this evil habit comes that worst of all vices, talebearing and prying into public and private secrets, and the knowledge of many things which it is neither safe to tell nor safe to listen to.

XII. Next, we must take care not to work for worthless goals or work without results. We should neither desire what we cannot obtain nor discover our wishes were foolish after achieving them too late, with great effort. In other words, our work should produce results, and those results should be worthy of our work. For sadness generally comes from one of two things: failure, or shame at having succeeded. We must limit the rushing about that most people do, wandering through houses, theaters, and marketplaces. They busy themselves with other people’s affairs and always look as though they have something to do themselves. If you ask one of them as he leaves his house, “Where are you going?” he will answer, “By Hercules, I don’t know. But I’ll see some people and do something.” They wander aimlessly, looking for something to do. Instead of doing what they have decided to do, they do whatever happens to come their way. Their movements are useless and unplanned, like ants crawling over bushes. The ants climb to the top, then back down again, without gaining anything. Many people spend their lives in exactly this way. We might call it restless idleness. You would pity some of them when you see them running as if their house were on fire. They jostle everyone they meet, hurrying themselves and others along. Yet they are only going to greet someone who will not return their greeting. Or they are attending the funeral of someone they never knew. They are going to hear the verdict in the case of someone who is always taking people to court. Or they are going to the wedding of someone who is always getting married. They will follow a man’s litter, and in some places they will even carry it. Then they return home, exhausted by idleness. They swear they have no idea why they went out or where they have been. The next day, they will make the same rounds again. So let all your work have a purpose, and keep a goal in view. Work does not make these restless people restless. Mistaken ideas drive them out of their minds. For even these people do not set themselves in motion without some hope. Something’s outward appearance excites them, and their unbalanced minds cannot see how pointless it is. In the same way, everyone who goes out to swell the street crowds is led around the city by empty, worthless motives. Dawn drives him out, although he has nothing to do. He pushes his way through many people’s doors and greets their nomenclators, the servants who announce visitors, one after another. He is turned away from many other doors. After all this, he finds that the hardest person of all to find at home is himself. This bad habit breeds the worst of all vices: spreading gossip and prying into public and private secrets. It also brings knowledge of many things that are neither safe to tell nor safe to hear.

XIII. It was, I imagine, following out this principle that Democritis taught that “he who would live at peace must not do much business either public or private,” referring of course to unnecessary business: for if there be any necessity for it we ought to transact not only much but endless business, both public and private; in cases, however, where no solemn duty invites us to act, we had better keep ourselves quiet: for he who does many things often puts himself in Fortune’s power, and it is safest not to tempt her often, but always to remember her existence, and never to promise oneself anything on her security. I will set sail unless anything happens to prevent me, I shall be praetor, if nothing hinders me, my financial operations will succeed, unless anything goes wrong with them. This is why we say that nothing befals the wise man which he did not expect—we do not make him exempt from the chances of human life, but from its mistakes, nor does everything happen to him as he wished it would, but as he thought it would: now his first thought was that his purpose might meet with some resistance, and the pain of disappointed wishes must affect a man’s mind less severely if he has not been at all events confident of success.

XIII. Democritis was, I imagine, following this principle when he taught that “anyone who wants peace should avoid much public or private business.” Of course, he meant unnecessary business. For when business is necessary, we should take on not just much but endless business, both public and private. But when no binding duty calls us to act, we are better off keeping quiet. For anyone who does many things often puts himself in Fortune’s power. It is safest not to tempt her often, but always to remember she exists. We should never count on Fortune to guarantee anything. I will set sail unless something prevents me. I shall be praetor if nothing stands in my way. My financial dealings will succeed unless something goes wrong with them. This is why we say that nothing happens to the wise man that he did not expect. We do not place him beyond the uncertainties of human life, but beyond its mistakes. Nor does everything happen as he wished, but as he thought it would. His first thought was that his plans might meet with resistance. So disappointment must hurt a person less if he was never certain of success.

XIV. Moreover, we ought to cultivate an easy temper, and not become over fond of the lot which fate has assigned to us, but transfer ourselves to whatever other condition chance may lead us to, and fear no alteration, either in our purposes or our position in life, provided that we do not become subject to caprice, which of all vices is the most hostile to repose: for obstinacy, from which Fortune often wrings some concession, must needs be anxious and unhappy, but caprice, which can never restrain itself, must be more so. Both of these qualities, both that of altering nothing, and that of being dissatisfied with everything, are energies to repose. The mind ought in all cases to be called away from the contemplation of external things to that of itself: let it confide in itself, rejoice in itself, admire its own works; avoid as far as may be those of others, and devote itself to itself; let it not feel losses, and put a good construction even upon misfortunes. Zeno, the chief of our school, when he heard the news of a shipwreck, in which all his property had been lost, remarked, “Fortune bids me follow philosophy in lighter marching order.” A tyrant threatened Theodorus with death, and even with want of burial. “You are able to please yourself,” he answered, “my half pint of blood is in your power: for, as for burial, what a fool you must be if you suppose that I care whether I rot above ground or under it.” Julius Kanus, a man of peculiar greatness, whom even the fact of his having been born in this century does not prevent our admiring, had a long dispute with Gaius, and when as he was going away that Phalaris of a man said to him, “That you may not delude yourself with any foolish hopes, I have ordered you to be executed,” he answered, “I thank you, most excellent prince.” I am not sure what he meant: for many ways of explaining his conduct occur to me. Did he wish to be reproachful, and to show him how great his cruelty must be if death became a kindness? or did he upbraid him with his accustomed insanity? for even those whose children were put to death, and whose goods were confiscated, used to thank him: or was it that he willingly received death, regarding it as freedom? Whatever he meant, it was a magnanimous answer. Some one may say, “After this Gaius might have let him live.” Kanus had no fear of this: the good faith with which Gaius carried out such orders as these was well known. Will you believe that he passed the ten intervening days before his execution without the slightest despondency? it is marvellous how that man spoke and acted, and how peaceful he was. He was playing at draughts when the centurion in charge of a number of those who where going to be executed bade him join them: on the summons he counted his men and said to his companion, “Mind you do not tell a lie after my death, and say that you won;” then, turning to the centurion, he said “You will bear me witness that I am one man ahead of him.” Do you think that Kanus played upon that draught-board? nay, he played with it. His friends were sad at being about to lose so great a man: “Why,” asked he, “are you sorrowful? you are enquiring whether our souls are immortal, but I shall presently know.” Nor did he up to the very end cease his search after truth, and raised arguments upon the subject of his own death. His own teacher of philosophy accompanied him, and they were not far from the hill on which the daily sacrifice to Caesar our god was offered, when he said, “What are you thinking of now, Kanus? or what are your ideas?” “I have decided,” answered Kanus, “at that most swiftly-passing moment of all to watch whether the spirit will be conscious of the act of leaving the body.” He promised, too, that if he made any discoveries, he would come round to his friends and tell them what the condition of the souls of the departed might be. Here was peace in the very midst of the storm: here was a soul worthy of eternal life, which used its own fate as a proof of truth, which when at the last step of life experimented upon his fleeting breath, and did not merely continue to learn until he died, but learned something even from death itself. No man has carried the life of a philosopher further. I will not hastily leave the subject of a great man, and one who deserves to be spoken of with respect: I will hand thee down to all posterity, thou most noble heart, chief among the many victims of Gaius.

XIV. We should also cultivate an easygoing temper. We should not grow too attached to the lot fate has given us. Instead, we should adapt to whatever other circumstances chance brings. We should fear no change in our plans or position in life, provided we do not become fickle. Of all faults, fickleness is the most hostile to peace of mind. Stubbornness must bring anxiety and unhappiness, since Fortune often forces stubborn people to give way. But fickleness, which can never control itself, must bring even more. Both refusing to change anything and being dissatisfied with everything are enemies of peace of mind. In every situation, the mind should turn away from external things and look within itself. Let the mind trust itself, take joy in itself, and admire its own work. Let it avoid other people's work as far as possible and devote itself to its own. Let it be unmoved by losses and find a favorable interpretation even of misfortunes. Zeno, the founder of our school, heard that a shipwreck had cost him all his property. He remarked, “Fortune tells me to pursue philosophy with less baggage.” A tyrant threatened Theodorus with death and even with being left unburied. “You may do as you please,” he answered. “My half pint of blood is in your power. As for burial, what a fool you must be to think I care whether I rot above ground or below.” Julius Kanus was an exceptionally great man. Even his birth in this century cannot keep us from admiring him. He had a long argument with Gaius. As Kanus was leaving, that Phalaris of a man spoke to him. “So that you do not deceive yourself with foolish hopes, I have ordered your execution.” Kanus answered, “Thank you, most excellent prince.” I am not sure what he meant, since several explanations occur to me. Did he mean to rebuke Gaius by showing how great his cruelty must be if death became a kindness? Or was he mocking Gaius for his usual madness? Even people whose children Gaius executed and whose property he seized used to thank him. Or did Kanus welcome death because he saw death as freedom? Whatever he meant, his answer showed greatness of spirit. Someone may say, “After that, Gaius might have let him live.” Kanus had no such fear. Gaius was well known for faithfully carrying out orders like these. Can you believe Kanus spent the ten days before his execution without the slightest despair? His words, his actions, and his calm were remarkable. He was playing draughts when a centurion ordered him to join a group being led to execution. At the summons, Kanus counted his pieces and said to his opponent, “Don't lie after my death and claim you won.” Then he turned to the centurion. “You will be my witness that I am one piece ahead of him.” Do you think Kanus was merely playing on that draughtboard? No, he was making a game of death itself. His friends were sad at the thought of losing so great a man. “Why are you grieving?” he asked. “You are asking whether our souls are immortal, but I will soon know.” Until the very end, Kanus continued searching for truth and debating questions about his own death. His philosophy teacher accompanied him. They were near the hill where the daily sacrifice was offered to Caesar, our god. The teacher asked, “What are you thinking about now, Kanus? What is on your mind?” Kanus answered, “I have decided to watch, in that briefest of moments, whether the spirit knows it is leaving the body.” He also promised that, if he discovered anything, he would visit his friends. He would tell them what state the souls of the dead were in. Here was peace in the very heart of the storm. Here was a soul worthy of eternal life, using its own fate to test the truth. At life's last step, Kanus studied his own fleeting breath. He did not simply keep learning until he died. He learned something even from death itself. No one has taken the philosopher's life further. I will not hurry away from so great a man, who deserves to be spoken of with respect. I will preserve your memory for all future generations, most noble soul, foremost among the many victims of Gaius.

XV. Yet we gain nothing by getting rid of all personal causes of sadness, for sometimes we are possessed by hatred of the human race. When you reflect how rare simplicity is, how unknown innocence, how seldom faith is kept, unless it be to our advantage, when you remember such numbers of successful crimes, so many equally hateful losses and gains of lust, and ambition so impatient even of its own natural limits that it is willing to purchase distinction by baseness, the mind seems as it were cast into darkness, and shadows rise before it as though the virtues were all overthrown and we were no longer allowed to hope to possess them or benefited by their possession. We ought therefore to bring ourselves into such a state of mind that all the vices of the vulgar may not appear hateful to us, but merely ridiculous, and we should imitate Democritus rather than Heraclitus. The latter of these, whenever be appeared in public, used to weep, the former to laugh: the one thought all human doings to be follies, the other thought them to be miseries. We must take a higher view of all things, and bear with them more easily: it better becomes a man to scoff at life than to lament over it. Add to this that he who laughs at the human race deserves better of it than he who mourns for it, for the former leaves it some good hopes of improvement, while the latter stupidly weeps over what he has given up all hopes of mending. He who after surveying the universe cannot control his laughter shows, too, a greater mind than he who cannot restrain his tears, because his mind is only affected in the slightest possible degree, and he does not think that any part of all this apparatus is either important, or serious, or unhappy. As for the several causes which render us happy or sorrowful, let every one describe them for himself, and learn the truth of Bion’s saying, “That all the doings of men were very like what he began with, and that there is nothing in their lives which is more holy or decent than their conception.” Yet it is better to accept public morals and human vices calmly without bursting into either laughter or tears; for to be hurt by the sufferings of others is to be for ever miserable, while to enjoy the sufferings of others is an inhuman pleasure, just as it is a useless piece of humanity to weep and pull a long face because some one is burying his son. In one’s own misfortunes, also, one ought so to conduct oneself as to bestow upon them just as much sorrow as reason, not as much as custom requires: for many shed tears in order to show them, and whenever no one is looking at them their eyes are dry, but they think it disgraceful not to weep when every one does so. So deeply has this evil of being guided by the opinion of others taken root in us, that even grief, the simplest of all emotions, begins to be counterfeited.

XV. Yet we gain nothing by removing all personal causes of sadness, for sometimes hatred of humanity takes hold of us. Consider how rare honesty is, how unknown innocence is, and how seldom people keep their word unless they benefit. Remember how many crimes succeed, and how lust brings losses and gains that are equally hateful. Think of ambition, so impatient even with its natural limits that it buys distinction through disgrace. These thoughts seem to cast the mind into darkness. Shadows rise before us, as though all virtues had been overthrown. We seem no longer allowed to hope for virtue or to benefit from possessing it. We should therefore train ourselves to see all the faults of ordinary people as ridiculous rather than hateful. We should imitate Democritus rather than Heraclitus. Whenever Heraclitus appeared in public, he would weep, while Democritus would laugh. Democritus thought all human actions were foolish, while Heraclitus thought they were miserable. We must take a broader view of everything and put up with things more easily. Mocking life is more fitting than mourning over it. Besides, someone who laughs at humanity serves it better than someone who mourns for it. The first leaves humanity some good hope of improvement. The second foolishly weeps over what he has given up all hope of improving. Someone who surveys the universe and cannot stop laughing also shows a greater mind than someone who cannot stop crying. For the laughing person's mind is disturbed as little as possible. He considers no part of this whole spectacle important, serious, or unhappy. As for the particular things that make us happy or sad, let everyone describe them for themselves. Let everyone also learn the truth of Bion’s saying: “Everything people do is much like the act that began their lives. Nothing in their lives is more sacred or decent than their conception.” Yet it is better to accept society’s morals and human faults calmly, without bursting into laughter or tears. For being hurt by other people’s suffering means being miserable forever. But taking pleasure in other people’s suffering is inhuman. Likewise, weeping and looking mournful because someone is burying his son is a useless display of human sympathy. In our own misfortunes, too, we should allow ourselves only as much sorrow as reason requires, not as much as custom demands. For many people shed tears to be seen shedding them. Their eyes are dry whenever no one is watching. Yet they think it disgraceful not to weep when everyone else does. The evil of following other people’s opinions has taken such deep root in us that even grief becomes an act. And grief is the simplest of all emotions.

XVI. There comes now a part of our subject which is wont with good cause to make one sad and anxious: I mean when good men come to bad ends; when Socrates is forced to die in prison, Rutilius to live in exile, Pompeius and Cicero to offer their necks to the swords of their own followers, when the great Cato, that living image of virtue, falls upon his sword and rips up both himself and the republic, one cannot help being grieved that Fortune should bestow her gifts so unjustly: what, too, can a good man hope to obtain when he sees the best of men meeting with the worst fates. Well, but see how each of them endured his fate, and if they endured it bravely, long in your heart for courage as great as theirs; if they died in a womanish and cowardly manner, nothing was lost: either they deserved that you should admire their courage, or else they did not deserve that you should wish to imitate their cowardice: for what can be more shameful than that the greatest men should die so bravely as to make people cowards. Let us praise one who deserves such constant praises, and say, “The braver you are the happier you are! You have escaped from all accidents, jealousies, diseases: you have escaped from prison: the gods have not thought you worthy of ill-fortune, but have thought that fortune no longer deserved to have any power over you”: but when any one shrinks back in the hour of death and looks longingly at life, we must lay hands upon him. I will never weep for a man who dies cheerfully, nor for one who dies weeping: the former wipes away my tears, the latter by his tears makes himself unworthy that any should be shed for him. Shall I weep for Hercules because he was burned alive, or for Regulus because he was pierced by so many nails, or for Cato because he tore open his wounds a second time? All these men discovered how at the cost of a small portion of time they might obtain immortality, and by their deaths gained eternal life.

XVI. We now come to a part of our subject that rightly brings sadness and anxiety: good men meeting bad ends. Socrates is forced to die in prison, Rutilius to live in exile. Pompeius and Cicero must offer their necks to the swords of their own followers. The great Cato, the living image of virtue, falls on his sword, tearing apart both himself and the republic. We cannot help grieving that Fortune distributes her gifts so unjustly. What can a good man hope to gain when he sees the best men suffer the worst fates? But look at how each man faced his fate. If they faced it bravely, wish with all your heart for courage as great as theirs. If they died like cowardly women, nothing was lost. Either they deserved your admiration for their courage, or their cowardice made them unworthy of imitation. What could be more shameful than for the greatest men to die so bravely that their deaths make others cowards? Let us praise the man who deserves such lasting praise, and say, “The braver you are, the happier you are! You have escaped all accidents, jealousy, and disease. You have escaped prison. The gods have not judged you worthy of misfortune. Instead, they have judged that fortune no longer deserved any power over you”. But when someone shrinks back at the moment of death and looks longingly toward life, we must seize him. I will never weep for a man who dies gladly, nor for one who dies in tears. The first wipes away my tears. The second, by his own tears, makes himself unworthy of mine. Should I weep for Hercules because he was burned alive? Or for Regulus because he was pierced by so many nails? Or for Cato because he tore his wounds open a second time? All these men discovered how to gain immortality at the cost of a little time. Through their deaths, they gained eternal life.

XVII. It also proves a fertile source of troubles if you take pains to conceal your feelings and never show yourself to any one undisguised, but, as many men do, live an artificial life, in order to impose upon others: for the constant watching of himself becomes a torment to a man, and he dreads being caught doing something at variance with his usual habits, and, indeed, we never can be at our ease if we imagine that every one who looks at us is weighing our real value: for many things occur which strip people of their disguise, however reluctantly they may part with it, and even if all this trouble about oneself is successful, still life is neither happy nor safe when one always has to wear a mask. But what pleasure there is in that honest straight-forwardness which is its own ornament, and which conceals no part of its character? Yet even this life, which hides nothing from any one runs some risk of being despised; for there are people who disdain whatever they come close to: but there is no danger of virtue’s becoming contemptible when she is brought near our eyes, and it is better to be scorned for one’s simplicity than to bear the burden of unceasing hypocrisy. Still, we must observe moderation in this matter, for there is a great difference between living simply and living slovenly. Moreover, we ought to retire a great deal into ourselves: for association with persons unlike ourselves upsets all that we had arranged, rouses the passions which were at rest, and rubs into a sore any weak or imperfectly healed place in our minds. Nevertheless we ought to mix up these two things, and to pass our lives alternately in solitude and among throngs of people; for the former will make us long for the society of mankind, the latter for that of ourselves, and the one will counteract the other: solitude will cure us when we are sick of crowds, and crowds will cure us when we are sick of solitude. Neither ought we always to keep the mind strained to the same pitch, but it ought sometimes to be relaxed by amusement. Socrates did not blush to play with little boys, Cato used to refresh his mind with wine after he had wearied it with application to affairs of state, and Scipio would move his triumphal and soldierly limbs to the sound of music, not with a feeble and halting gait, as is the fashion now-a-days, when we sway in our very walk with more than womanly weakness, but dancing as men were wont in the days of old on sportive and festal occasions, with manly bounds, thinking it no harm to be seen so doing even by their enemies. Men’s minds ought to have relaxation: they rise up better and more vigorous after rest. We must not force crops from rich fields, for an unbroken course of heavy crops will soon exhaust their fertility, and so also the liveliness of our minds will be destroyed by unceasing labour, but they will recover their strength after a short period of rest and relief: for continuous toil produces a sort of numbness and sluggishness. Men would not be so eager for this, if play and amusement did not possess natural attractions for them, although constant indulgence in them takes away all gravity and all strength from the mind: for sleep, also, is necessary for our refreshment, yet if you prolong it for days and nights together it will become death. There is a great difference between slackening your hold of a thing and letting it go. The founders of our laws appointed festivals, in order that men might be publicly encouraged to be cheerful, and they thought it necessary to vary our labours with amusements, and, as I said before, some great men have been wont to give themselves a certain number of holidays in every month, and some divided every day into play-time and work-time. Thus, I remember that great orator Asinius Pollio would not attend to any business after the tenth hour: he would not even read letters after that time for fear some new trouble should arise, but in those two hours¹⁰ used to get rid of the weariness which he had contracted during the whole day. Some rest in the middle of the day, and reserve some light occupation for the afternoon. Our ancestors, too, forbade any new motion to be made in the Senate after the tenth hour. Soldiers divide their watches, and those who have just returned from active service are allowed to sleep the whole night undisturbed. We must humour our minds and grant them rest from time to time, which acts upon them like food, and restores their strength. It does good also to take walks out of doors, that our spirits may be raised and refreshed by the open air and fresh breeze: sometimes we gain strength by driving in a carriage, by travel, by change of air, or by social meals and a more generous allowance of wine: at times we ought to drink even to intoxication, not so as to drown, but merely to dip ourselves in wine: for wine washes away troubles and dislodges them from the depths of the mind, and acts as a remedy to sorrow as it does to some diseases. The inventor of wine is called Liber, not from the licence which he gives to our tongues, but because he liberates the mind from the bondage of cares, and emancipates it, animates it, and renders it more daring in all that it attempts. Yet moderation is wholesome both in freedom and in wine. It is believed that Solon and Arcesilaus used to drink deep. Cato is reproached with drunkenness: but whoever casts this in his teeth will find it easier to turn his reproach into a commendation than to prove that Cato did anything wrong: however, we ought not to do it often, for fear the mind should contract evil habits, though it ought sometimes to be forced into frolic and frankness, and to cast off dull sobriety for a while. If we believe the Greek poet, “it is sometimes pleasant to be mad”; again, Plato always knocked in vain at the door of poetry when he was sober; or, if we trust Aristotle, no great genius has ever been without a touch of insanity. The mind cannot use lofty language, above that of the common herd, unless it be excited. When it has spurned aside the commonplace environments of custom, and rises sublime, instinct with sacred fire, then alone can it chant a song too grand for mortal lips: as long as it continues to dwell within itself it cannot rise to any pitch of splendour: it must break away from the beaten track, and lash itself to frenzy, till it gnaws the curb and rushes away bearing up its rider to heights whither it would fear to climb when alone.

XVII. Hiding your feelings also creates many troubles. You never let anyone see you as you are. Instead, like many people, you live an artificial life to deceive others. Constantly watching yourself becomes a torment. You fear being caught doing something that conflicts with your usual behavior. Indeed, we can never relax if we imagine everyone looking at us is judging our true worth. Many things happen that strip people of their disguises, however unwilling they are to lose them. Even if all these efforts succeed, life is neither happy nor secure when you must always wear a mask. But how much pleasure there is in honest openness, which needs no decoration and hides nothing of its character! Yet even a life that hides nothing from anyone risks being despised. Some people look down on anything they get close to. But virtue is in no danger of becoming contemptible when we see it up close. Better to be scorned for simplicity than to carry the burden of endless hypocrisy. Still, we must be moderate here. There is a great difference between living simply and living carelessly. We should also spend plenty of time alone with ourselves. The company of people unlike us disrupts everything we have put in order. It stirs passions that were quiet. It also irritates any weakness or wound in our minds that has not fully healed. Nevertheless, we should combine solitude and company, spending our lives alternately alone and among crowds. Solitude will make us long for human company, and company will make us long to be alone. Each will counteract the other. Solitude will cure our weariness with crowds, and crowds will cure our weariness with solitude. Nor should we always keep the mind under the same strain. Sometimes we should relax it with amusement. Socrates was not ashamed to play with little boys. Cato refreshed his mind with wine after tiring it with affairs of state. Scipio would dance to music, moving the limbs that had carried him through war and triumph. His steps were not weak and hesitant, as fashionable dancing is today. Nowadays, even our walk sways with a weakness greater than a woman's. Instead, he danced with vigorous, manly leaps, as men once did at games and festivals. He saw no harm in being watched even by his enemies. People's minds need relaxation. After rest, they recover and grow stronger. We must not force rich fields to keep producing crops. An uninterrupted series of heavy harvests will soon exhaust their fertility. In the same way, constant work will destroy the liveliness of our minds. But a short period of rest and relief will restore their strength. Continuous toil produces a kind of numbness and sluggishness. People would not seek play and amusement so eagerly unless these pleasures naturally attracted them. Yet constant indulgence robs the mind of all seriousness and strength. Sleep, too, is necessary to refresh us. Yet if you prolong sleep for days and nights together, it becomes death. There is a great difference between loosening your grip and letting go. The founders of our laws established festivals so that people would be publicly encouraged to enjoy themselves. They thought we needed to alternate work with amusement. As I said before, some great men regularly gave themselves a set number of holidays each month. Others divided every day into time for play and time for work. I remember that the great orator Asinius Pollio would do no business after the tenth hour. He would not even read letters then, for fear they might bring some new trouble. Instead, he spent those two hours¹⁰ shaking off the weariness of the whole day. Some people rest at midday and keep some light work for the afternoon. Our ancestors also forbade the introduction of any new motion in the Senate after the tenth hour. Soldiers take turns keeping watch. Those who have just returned from active service are allowed to sleep undisturbed all night. We must treat our minds gently and give them rest from time to time. Rest acts like food for the mind and restores its strength. Walking outdoors also does us good. The open air and fresh breeze can lift and refresh our spirits. Sometimes we gain strength from carriage rides, travel, a change of air, or meals with friends and more generous servings of wine. At times we should even drink to intoxication. We should not drown ourselves in wine, but merely dip ourselves in it. Wine washes away troubles and dislodges them from the depths of the mind. It treats sorrow as it treats certain diseases. The inventor of wine is called Liber, not because he gives our tongues free rein. He earns that name because he frees the mind from the slavery of care. He releases and enlivens the mind, making it bolder in everything it attempts. Yet moderation is healthy both in freedom and in wine. Solon and Arcesilaus are believed to have drunk heavily. Cato is criticized for drunkenness. But anyone who throws that accusation at him will find it easier to turn the criticism into praise. Proving that Cato did anything wrong will be harder. Still, we should not get drunk often, for fear the mind develops bad habits. Yet sometimes the mind should be pushed into merriment and openness, casting off dull sobriety for a while. If we believe the Greek poet, “it is sometimes pleasant to be mad”. Again, Plato always knocked in vain at poetry's door when he was sober. Or, if we trust Aristotle, no great genius has ever been without a touch of insanity. The mind cannot speak in lofty language, above that of the crowd, unless it is stirred. It must reject the ordinary limits of habit and rise to great heights, filled with sacred fire. Only then can it sing a song too grand for mortal lips. As long as the mind stays within itself, it cannot reach any height of splendor. It must leave the beaten path and whip itself into a frenzy. Then it gnaws its bit and rushes away, carrying its rider to heights it would fear to climb alone.

I have now, my beloved Serenus, given you an account of what things can preserve peace of mind, what things can restore it to us, what can arrest the vices which secretly undermine it: yet be assured, that none of these is strong enough to enable us to retain so fleeting a blessing, unless we watch over our vacillating mind with intense and unremitting care.

My dear Serenus, I have now explained what can preserve our peace of mind and what can restore it. I have also explained what can stop the vices that secretly undermine our peace of mind. But be sure of this: none of these measures is strong enough to help us keep such a fleeting blessing. We can keep our peace of mind only by watching over our wavering minds with intense, constant care.