I. You have asked me, Lucilius, why, if the world be ruled by providence, so many evils befall good men? The answer to this would be more conveniently given in the course of this work, after we have proved that providence governs the universe, and that God is amongst us: but, since you wish me to deal with one point apart from the whole, and to answer one replication before the main action has been decided, I will do what is not difficult, and plead the cause of the gods. At the present time it is superfluous to point out that it is not without some guardian that so great a work maintains its position, that the assemblage and movements of the stars do not depend upon accidental impulses, or that objects whose motion is regulated by chance often fall into confusion and soon stumble, whereas this swift and safe movement goes on, governed by eternal law, bearing with it so many things both on sea and land, so many most brilliant lights shining in order in the skies; that this regularity does not belong to matter moving at random, and that particles brought together by chance could not arrange themselves with such art as to make the heaviest weight, that of the earth, remain unmoved, and behold the flight of the heavens as they hasten round it, to make the seas pour into the valleys and so temper the climate of the land, without any sensible increase from the rivers which flow into them, or to cause huge growths to proceed from minute seeds. Even those phenomena which appear to be confused and irregular, I mean showers of rain and clouds, the rush of lightning from the heavens, fire that pours from the riven peaks of mountains, quakings of the trembling earth, and everything else which is produced on earth by the unquiet element in the universe, do not come to pass without reason, though they do so suddenly: but they also have their causes, as also have those things which excite our wonder by the strangeness of their position, such as warm springs amidst the waves of the sea, and new islands that spring up in the wide ocean. Moreover, any one who has watched how the shore is laid bare by the retreat of the sea into itself, and how within a short time it is again covered, will believe that it is in obedience to some hidden law of change that the waves are at one time contracted and driven inwards, at another burst forth and regain their bed with a strong current, since all the while they wax in regular proportion, and come up at their appointed day and hour greater or less, according as the moon, at whose pleasure the ocean flows, draws them. Let these matters be set aside for discussion at their own proper season, but I, since you do not doubt the existence of providence but complain of it, will on that account more readily reconcile you to gods who are most excellent to excellent men: for indeed the nature of things does not ever permit good to be injured by good. Between good men and the gods there is a friendship which is brought about by virtue— friendship do I say? nay, rather relationship and likeness, since the good man differs from a god in time alone, being his pupil and rival and true offspring, whom his glorious parent trains more severely than other men, insisting sternly on virtuous conduct, just as strict fathers do. When therefore you see men who are good and acceptable to the gods toiling, sweating, painfully struggling upwards, while bad men run riot and are steeped in pleasures, reflect that modesty pleases us in our sons, and forwardness in our house-born slave-boys; that the former are held in check by a somewhat stern rule, whereas the boldness of the latter is encouraged. Be thou sure that God acts in like manner: He does not pet the good man: He tries him, hardens him, and fits him for Himself.
1. You have asked me, Lucilius, why so many evils befall good men if the world is ruled by providence. The answer would fit better later in this work, once we have proved that providence governs the universe and that God is among us. But you want me to take up one point apart from the whole, and to answer one objection before the main case has been decided. So I will do something that is not difficult: I will plead the cause of the gods. For now there is no need to point out the following. So great a work does not hold its place without some guardian. The gathering and movements of the stars do not depend on chance impulses. Things moved by chance often fall into confusion and soon stumble. But this swift and safe movement goes on, governed by eternal law, carrying so many things on sea and land, and so many brilliant lights shining in order in the skies. Such regularity does not belong to matter moving at random. Particles thrown together by chance could not arrange themselves with such skill. They could not make the heaviest weight, the earth, stay unmoved and watch the heavens rush around it. They could not make the seas pour into the valleys and so temper the climate of the land, with no noticeable rise from the rivers that flow into them. Nor could they make huge growths spring from tiny seeds. Even the things that seem confused and irregular do not happen without reason, though they happen suddenly. I mean showers of rain and clouds, lightning rushing from the heavens, fire pouring from the split peaks of mountains, quakes of the trembling earth, and everything else that the restless element in the universe produces on earth. These too have their causes. So do the things that make us wonder because of their strange location, such as warm springs amid the waves of the sea, and new islands rising in the wide ocean. Moreover, anyone who has watched the shore laid bare as the sea draws back into itself, and then covered again within a short time, will believe that a hidden law of change governs the waves. At one time they shrink and are driven inward. At another they burst forth and regain their bed with a strong current. All the while they swell in regular proportion, and they come in greater or smaller at their appointed day and hour, as the moon draws them. The ocean flows at her pleasure. Let these matters wait for their proper time. You do not doubt that providence exists. You complain about it. So I will all the more readily reconcile you to the gods, who are best to the best of men. Indeed, the nature of things never allows good to be injured by good. Between good men and the gods there is a friendship, brought about by virtue. Friendship, do I say? No, rather kinship and likeness. For the good man differs from a god in time alone. He is a god’s pupil, his rival, and his true offspring. His glorious parent trains him more severely than other men and sternly insists on virtuous conduct, as strict fathers do. So when you see men who are good and pleasing to the gods toiling, sweating, and painfully struggling upward, while bad men run riot and wallow in pleasures, reflect on this. Modesty pleases us in our sons, and boldness pleases us in our house-born slave boys. We hold the sons in check with a fairly stern rule, but we encourage the slave boys’ boldness. Be sure that God acts in the same way. He does not pamper the good man. He tests him, hardens him, and fits him for himself.
II. Why do many things turn out badly for good men? Why, no evil can befall a good man: contraries cannot combine. Just as so many rivers, so many showers of rain from the clouds, such a number of medicinal springs, do not alter the taste of the sea, indeed, do not so much as soften it, so the pressure of adversity does not affect the mind of a brave man; for the mind of a brave man maintains its balance and throws its own complexion over all that takes place, because it is more powerful than any external circumstances. I do not say that he does not feel them, but he conquers them, and on occasion calmly and tranquilly rises superior to their attacks, holding all misfortunes to be trials of his own firmness. Yet who is there who, provided he be a man and have honourable ambition, does not long for due employment, and is not eager to do his duty in spite of danger? Is there any hard-working man to whom idleness is not a punishment? We see athletes, who study only their bodily strength, engage in contests with the strongest of men, and insist that those who train them for the arena should put out their whole strength when practising with them: they endure blows and maltreatment, and, if they cannot find any single person who is their match, they engage with several at once: their strength and courage droop without an antagonist: they can only prove how great and how mighty it is by proving how much they can endure. You should know that good men ought to act in like manner, so as not to fear troubles and difficulties, nor to lament their hard fate, to take in good part whatever befalls them, and force it to become a blessing to them. It does not matter what you bear, but how you bear it. Do you not see how differently fathers and mothers indulge their children? how the former urge them to begin their tasks betimes, will not suffer them to be idle even on holidays, and exercise them till they perspire, and sometimes till they shed tears—while their mothers want to cuddle them in their laps, and keep them out of the sun, and never wish them to be vexed, or to cry, or to work. God bears a fatherly mind towards good men, and loves them in a manly spirit. “Let them,” says He, “be exercised by labours, sufferings, and losses, that so they may gather true strength.” Those who are surfeited with ease break down not only with labour, but with mere motion and by their own weight. Unbroken prosperity cannot bear a single blow; but he who has waged an unceasing strife with his misfortunes has gained a thicker skin by his sufferings, yields to no disaster, and even though he fall yet fights on his knee. Do you wonder that God, who so loves the good, who would have them attain the highest goodness and pre-eminence, should appoint fortune to be their adversary? I should not be surprised if the gods sometimes experience a wish to behold great men struggling with some misfortune. We sometimes are delighted when a youth of steady courage receives on his spear the wild beast that attacks him; or when he meets the charge of a lion without flinching; and the more eminent the man is who acts thus, the more attractive is the sight: yet these are not matters which can attract the attention of the gods, but are mere pastime and diversions of human frivolity. Behold a sight worthy to be viewed by a god interested in his own work, behold a pair worthy of a god, a brave man matched with evil fortune, especially if he himself has given the challenge. I say, I do not know what nobler spectacle Jupiter could find on earth, should he turn his eyes thither, than that of Cato, after his party had more than once been defeated, still standing upright amid the ruins of the commonwealth. Quoth he, “What though all be fallen into one man’s power, though the land be guarded by his legions, the sea by his fleets, though Caesar’s soldiers beset the city gate? Cato has a way out of it: with one hand he will open a wide path to freedom; his sword, which he has borne unstained by disgrace and innocent of crime even in a civil war, will still perform good and noble deeds; it will give to Cato that freedom which it could not give to his country. Begin, my soul, the work which thou so long hast contemplated, snatch thyself away from the world of man. Already Petreius and Juba have met and fallen, each slain by the other’s hand—a brave and noble compact with fate, yet not one befitting my greatness: it is as disgraceful for Cato to beg his death of any one as it would be for him to beg his life.”
2. Why do many things turn out badly for good men? The answer is that no evil can befall a good man. Opposites cannot combine. So many rivers, so many showers of rain from the clouds, so many medicinal springs do not change the taste of the sea. They do not even soften it. In the same way, the pressure of adversity does not affect the mind of a brave man. That mind keeps its balance and gives its own color to everything that happens, because it is more powerful than any outward circumstance. I do not say that he does not feel these things. But he conquers them, and at times rises calmly and serenely above their attacks. He holds all misfortunes to be trials of his own firmness. Yet who, if he is a man and has honorable ambition, does not long for proper work, and is not eager to do his duty in spite of danger? Is there any hard-working man for whom idleness is not a punishment? We see athletes, who care only for their bodily strength, take on the strongest men in contests. They insist that those who train them for the arena use their full strength in practice. They endure blows and rough treatment. If they cannot find any single person who is their match, they take on several at once. Without an opponent their strength and courage wilt. They can only prove how great and mighty it is by proving how much they can endure. You should know that good men ought to act the same way. They should not fear troubles and hardships, nor lament their hard fate. They should take whatever befalls them in good part and force it to become a blessing to them. What matters is not what you bear, but how you bear it. Do you not see how differently fathers and mothers indulge their children? Fathers make them start their tasks early. They will not let them be idle even on holidays, and they work them until they sweat, and sometimes until they cry. Mothers want to cuddle them in their laps and keep them out of the sun. They never want them to be upset, or to cry, or to work. God has a father’s mind toward good men, and loves them in a manly way. “Let them,” he says, “be exercised by labors, sufferings, and losses, so that they may gather true strength.” Those who are glutted with ease break down not only under labor, but from mere movement and their own weight. Unbroken prosperity cannot take a single blow. But a man who has waged an unending fight with his misfortunes has grown a thicker skin through his sufferings. He yields to no disaster, and even if he falls, he fights on from his knees. Do you wonder that God, who loves the good so much and wants them to reach the highest goodness and excellence, should appoint fortune as their opponent? I would not be surprised if the gods sometimes feel a wish to watch great men struggling with some misfortune. We are sometimes delighted when a young man of steady courage takes an attacking wild beast on his spear, or meets a lion’s charge without flinching. The more distinguished the man who does this, the more attractive the sight. Yet such things cannot draw the attention of the gods. They are mere pastimes and amusements of human frivolity. Here is a sight worthy of a god who takes interest in his own work. Here is a pair worthy of a god: a brave man matched against bad fortune, especially if he himself issued the challenge. I say I do not know what nobler sight Jupiter could find on earth, if he turned his eyes there, than Cato. After his party had been defeated more than once, he still stood upright amid the ruins of the commonwealth. He said: “What if everything has fallen into one man’s power? What if the land is guarded by his legions, the sea by his fleets, and Caesar’s soldiers besiege the city gate? Cato has a way out. With one hand he will open a wide path to freedom. His sword, which he has kept free from disgrace and innocent of crime even in a civil war, will still do good and noble deeds. It will give Cato the freedom it could not give his country. Begin, my soul, the work you have long planned. Snatch yourself away from the world of men. Petreius and Juba have already met and fallen, each killed by the other’s hand. That was a brave and noble pact with fate, but not one fitting my greatness. It is as disgraceful for Cato to beg anyone for his death as it would be to beg for his life.”
It is clear to me that the gods must have looked on with great joy, while that man, his own most ruthless avenger, took thought for the safety of others and arranged the escape of those who departed, while even on his last night he pursued his studies, while he drove the sword into his sacred breast, while he tore forth his vitals and laid his hand upon that most holy life which was unworthy to be defiled by steel. This, I am inclined to think, was the reason that his wound was not well-aimed and mortal: the gods were not satisfied with seeing Cato die once: his courage was kept in action and recalled to the stage, that it might display itself in a more difficult part: for it needs a greater mind to return a second time to death. How could they fail to view their pupil with interest when leaving his life by such a noble and memorable departure? Men are raised to the level of the gods by a death which is admired even by those who fear them.
It is clear to me that the gods must have watched with great joy as that man, his own most ruthless avenger, looked after the safety of others and arranged the escape of those who left. They watched as he kept up his studies even on his last night, as he drove the sword into his sacred breast, as he tore out his vitals and laid his hand on that most holy life, which did not deserve to be defiled by steel. This, I am inclined to think, was why his wound was not well aimed and fatal. The gods were not satisfied with seeing Cato die once. His courage was kept in action and called back to the stage, so that it might show itself in a harder role. For it takes a greater mind to go back to death a second time. How could they fail to watch their pupil with interest as he left life by so noble and memorable a departure? Men are raised to the level of the gods by a death that is admired even by those who fear death.
III. However, as my argument proceeds, I shall prove that what appear to be evils are not so; for the present I say this, that what you call hard measure, misfortunes, and things against which we ought to pray, are really to the advantage, firstly, of those to whom they happen, and secondly, of all mankind, for whom the gods care more than for individuals; and next, that these evils befall them with their own good will, and that men deserve to endure misfortunes, if they are unwilling to receive them. To this I shall add, that misfortunes proceed thus by destiny, and that they befall good men by the same law which makes them good. After this, I shall prevail upon you never to pity any good man; for though he may be called unhappy, he cannot be so.
3. However, as my argument goes on, I will prove that what seem to be evils are not evils. For now I say this. What you call harsh treatment, misfortunes, and things we ought to pray against are really to the advantage, first, of those they happen to. Second, they benefit all mankind, whom the gods care for more than for individuals. Next, these evils come to good men with their own good will, and they accept them willingly. And men deserve to suffer misfortunes if they are unwilling to receive them. To this I will add that misfortunes come about in this way by destiny. They come to good men by the same law that makes them good. After this, I will persuade you never to pity any good man. For though he may be called unhappy, he cannot be so.
Of all these propositions that which I have stated first appears the most difficult to prove. I mean, that the things which we dread and shudder at are to the advantage of those to whom they happen. “Is it,” say you, “to their advantage to be driven into exile, to be brought to want, to carry out to burial their children and wife, to be publicly disgraced, to lose their health?” Yes! if you are surprised at these being to any man’s advantage, you will also be surprised at any man being benefited by the knife and cautery, or by hunger and thirst as well. Yet if you consider that some men, in order to be cured, have their bones scraped, and pieces of them extracted, that their veins are pulled out and that some have limbs cut off, which could not remain in their place without ruin to the whole body, you will allow me to prove to you this also, that some misfortunes are for the good of those to whom they happen, just as much, by Hercules, as some things which are praised and sought after are harmful to those who enjoy them like indigestions and drunkenness and other matters which kill us through pleasure. Among many grand sayings of our Demetrius is this, which I have but just heard, and which still rings and thrills in my ears: “No one,” said he, “seems to me more unhappy than the man whom no misfortune has ever befallen.” He never has had an opportunity of testing himself; though everything has happened to him according to his wish, nay, even before he has formed a wish, yet the gods have judged him unfavourably; he has never been deemed worthy to conquer ill fortune, which avoids the greatest cowards, as though it said, “Why should I take that man for my antagonist? He will straightway lay down his arms: I shall not need all my strength against him: he will be put to flight by a mere menace: he dares not even face me; let me look around for some other with whom I may fight hand to hand: I blush to join battle with one who is prepared to be beaten.” A gladiator deems it a disgrace to be matched with an inferior, and knows that to win without danger is to win without glory. Just so Fortune; she seeks out the bravest to match herself with, passes over some with disdain, and makes for the most unyielding and upright of men, to exert her strength against them. She tried Mucius fire, Fabricius by poverty, Rutilius by exile, Regulus by torture, Socrates by poison, Cato by death: it is ill fortune alone that discovers these glorious examples. Was Mucius unhappy, because he grasped the enemy’s fire with his right hand, and of his own accord paid the penalty of his mistake? because he overcame the King with his hand when it was burned, though he could not when it held a sword? Would he have been happier, if he had warmed his hand in his mistress’s bosom? Was Fabricius unhappy, because when the state could spare him, he dug his own land? because he waged war against riches as keenly as against Pyrrhus? because he supped beside his hearth off the very roots and herbs which he himself, though an old man, and one who had enjoyed a triumph, had grubbed up while clearing his field of weeds? What then? would he have been happier if he had gorged himself with fishes from distant shores, and birds caught in foreign lands? if he had roused the torpor of his queasy stomach with shellfish from the upper and the lower sea? if he had piled a great heap of fruits round game of the first head, which many huntsmen had been killed in capturing? Was Rutilius unhappy, because those who condemned him will have to plead their cause for all ages? because he endured the loss of his country more composedly than that of his banishment? because he was the only man who refused anything to Sulla the dictator, and when recalled from exile all but went further away and banished himself still more. “Let those,” said he, “whom thy fortunate reign catches at Rome, see to the Forum drenched with blood, and the heads of Senators above the Pool of Servilius—the place where the victims of Sulla’s proscriptions were stripped—the bands of assassins roaming at large through the city, and many thousands of Roman citizens slaughtered in one place, after, nay, by means of a promise of quarter. Let those who are unable to go into exile behold these things.” Well! is Lucius Sulla happy, because when he comes down into the Forum room is made for him with sword-strokes, because he allows the heads of consulars to be shown to him, and counts out the price of blood through the quaestor and the state exchequer? And this, this was the man who passed the Lex Cornelia! Let us now come to Regulus: what injury did fortune do him when she made him an example of good faith, an example of endurance? They pierce his skin with nails: wherever he leans his weary body, it rests on a wound; his eyes are fixed for ever open; the greater his sufferings, the greater is his glory. Would you know how far he is from regretting that he valued his honour at such a price? heal his wounds and send him again into the senate-house; he will give the same advice. So, then, you think Maecenas a happier man, who when troubled by love, and weeping at the daily repulses of his ill-natured wife, sought for sleep by listening to distant strains of music? Though he drug himself with wine, divert himself with the sound of falling waters, and distract his troubled thoughts with a thousand pleasures, yet Maecenas will no more sleep on his down cushions than Regulus on the rack. Yet it consoles the latter that he suffers for the sake of honour, and he looks away from his torments to their cause: whilst the other, jaded with pleasures and sick with over-enjoyment, is more hurt by the cause of his sufferings than by the sufferings themselves. Vice has not so utterly taken possession of the human race that, if men were allowed to choose their destiny, there can be any doubt but that more would choose to be Reguluses than to be Maecenases: or if there were any one who dared to say that he would prefer to be born Maecenas than Regulus that man, whether he says so or not, would rather have been Terentia (than Cicero).
Of all these claims, the one I stated first seems the hardest to prove. I mean that the things we dread and shudder at are to the advantage of those they happen to. “Is it to their advantage,” you say, “to be driven into exile, to be reduced to poverty, to carry their children and wife out to burial, to be publicly disgraced, to lose their health?” Yes! If you are surprised that these can benefit anyone, you will also be surprised that anyone is helped by the knife and the cautery, or by hunger and thirst as well. Yet consider that some men, to be cured, have their bones scraped and pieces of them removed. Their veins are pulled out, and some have limbs cut off that could not stay in place without ruining the whole body. Then you will let me prove this too: some misfortunes are for the good of those they happen to. By Hercules, this is just as true as that some things which are praised and sought after harm those who enjoy them, like indigestion, drunkenness, and the other things that kill us through pleasure. Among the many grand sayings of our Demetrius is one I have only just heard, and it still rings and thrills in my ears. “No one,” he said, “seems to me more unhappy than the man who has never met with misfortune.” He has never had a chance to test himself. Everything has happened as he wished, even before he wished it. Yet the gods have judged him unfavorably. He has never been thought worthy to conquer ill fortune. For ill fortune avoids the greatest cowards, as though it said: “Why should I take that man as my opponent? He will lay down his arms at once. I will not need all my strength against him. A mere threat will put him to flight. He does not even dare to face me. Let me look around for someone else I can fight hand to hand. I am ashamed to join battle with a man who is ready to be beaten.” A gladiator thinks it a disgrace to be matched with an inferior, and knows that to win without danger is to win without glory. Fortune does the same. She seeks out the bravest to match herself against. She passes over some with disdain, and makes for the most unyielding and upright men, to exert her strength against them. She tried Mucius by fire, Fabricius by poverty, Rutilius by exile, Regulus by torture, Socrates by poison, Cato by death. Ill fortune alone brings these glorious examples to light. Was Mucius unhappy because he grasped the enemy’s fire with his right hand, and of his own accord paid the penalty for his mistake? Because he defeated the King with his hand once it was burned, though he could not when it held a sword? Would he have been happier if he had warmed his hand in his mistress’s bosom? Was Fabricius unhappy because he dug his own land whenever the state could spare him? Because he waged war on riches as keenly as on Pyrrhus? Because he dined by his hearth on the very roots and herbs that he himself had grubbed up while weeding his field, though he was an old man and had celebrated a triumph? Well then, would he have been happier if he had gorged himself on fish from distant shores and birds caught in foreign lands? If he had roused his sluggish, queasy stomach with shellfish from the upper and the lower sea? If he had piled a great heap of fruit around prime game, which had cost many huntsmen their lives to catch? Was Rutilius unhappy because those who condemned him will have to plead their case before all the ages? Because he bore the loss of his country more calmly than the loss of his exile? Because he was the only man who refused anything to Sulla the dictator, and when recalled from exile all but went farther away and banished himself still more? “Let those,” he said, “whom your fortunate reign catches at Rome see the Forum drenched with blood, and the heads of senators above the Pool of Servilius, the place where the victims of Sulla’s proscriptions were stripped. Let them see the bands of assassins roaming freely through the city, and many thousands of Roman citizens slaughtered in one place after a promise of quarter, indeed by means of that very promise. Let those who cannot go into exile look at these things.” Well! Is Lucius Sulla happy because, when he comes down into the Forum, room is made for him with sword strokes? Because he lets the heads of former consuls be shown to him, and counts out the price of blood through the quaestor and the state treasury? And this, this was the man who passed the Lex Cornelia! Now let us come to Regulus. What injury did fortune do him when she made him an example of good faith and an example of endurance? They pierce his skin with nails. Wherever he leans his weary body, it rests on a wound. His eyes are fixed forever open. The greater his sufferings, the greater his glory. Do you want to know how far he is from regretting that he valued his honor at such a price? Heal his wounds and send him back into the senate house. He will give the same advice. So do you think Maecenas a happier man? Troubled by love, and weeping at the daily rejections of his ill-natured wife, he sought sleep by listening to music played in the distance. He may drug himself with wine, divert himself with the sound of falling water, and distract his troubled thoughts with a thousand pleasures. Yet Maecenas will no more sleep on his down cushions than Regulus on the rack. But Regulus is consoled that he suffers for the sake of honor, and he looks past his torments to their cause. Maecenas, worn out by pleasures and sick with overindulgence, is hurt more by the cause of his sufferings than by the sufferings themselves. Vice has not taken such complete hold of the human race that there can be any doubt about this: if men were allowed to choose their destiny, more would choose to be Reguluses than Maecenases. And if anyone dared to say he would rather be born Maecenas than Regulus, that man, whether he says so or not, would rather have been Terentia (than Cicero).
Do you consider Socrates to have been badly used, because he took that draught which the state assigned to him as though it were a charm to make him immortal, and argued about death until death itself? Was he ill treated, because his blood froze and the current of his veins gradually stopped as the chill of death crept over them? How much more is this man to be envied than he who is served on precious stones, whose drink a creature trained to every vice, a eunuch or much the same, cools with snow in a golden cup? Such men as these bring up again all that they drink, in misery and disgust at the taste of their own bile, while Socrates cheerfully and willingly drains his poison. As for Cato, enough has been said, and all men must agree that the highest happiness was reached by one who was chosen by Nature herself as worthy to contend with all her terrors: “The enmity,” says she, “of the powerful is grievous, therefore let him be opposed at once by Pompeius, Caesar, and Crassus: it is grievous, when a candidate for public offices, to be defeated by one’s inferiors; therefore let him be defeated by Vatinius: it is grievous to take part in civil wars, therefore let him fight in every part of the world for the good cause with equal obstinacy and ill-luck: it is grievous to lay hands upon one’s self, therefore let him do so. What shall I gain by this? That all men may know that these things, which I have deemed Cato worthy to undergo, are not real evils.”
Do you think Socrates was badly treated because he took the drink the state assigned him as if it were a charm to make him immortal, and argued about death until death itself came? Was he ill used because his blood froze, and the flow in his veins slowly stopped as the chill of death crept over them? How much more is this man to be envied than one who is served on precious stones, whose drink is cooled with snow in a golden cup by a creature trained in every vice, a eunuch or something close to it! Such men vomit up all they drink, miserable and disgusted at the taste of their own bile, while Socrates cheerfully and willingly drains his poison. As for Cato, enough has been said. All men must agree that the highest happiness was reached by the man whom Nature herself chose as worthy to contend with all her terrors. “The hostility of the powerful is hard to bear,” she says, “so let him be opposed at once by Pompeius, Caesar, and Crassus. It is hard, when standing for public office, to be beaten by one’s inferiors, so let him be beaten by Vatinius. It is hard to take part in civil wars, so let him fight for the good cause in every part of the world, with equal stubbornness and bad luck. It is hard to lay hands on oneself, so let him do it. What will I gain by this? That all men may know that these things, which I have judged Cato worthy to undergo, are not real evils.”
IV. Prosperity comes to the mob, and to low-minded men as well as to great ones; but it is the privilege of great men alone to send under the yoke the disasters and terrors of mortal life: whereas to be always prosperous, and to pass through life without a twinge of mental distress, is to remain ignorant of one half of nature. You are a great man; but how am I to know it, if fortune gives you no opportunity of showing your virtue? You have entered the arena of the Olympic games, but no one else has done so: you have the crown, but not the victory: I do not congratulate you as I would a brave man, but as one who has obtained a consulship or praetorship. You have gained dignity. I may say the same of a good man, if troublesome circumstances have never given him a single opportunity of displaying the strength of his mind. I think you unhappy because you never have been unhappy: you have passed through your life without meeting an antagonist: no one will know your powers, not even you yourself. For a man cannot know himself without a trial: no one ever learnt what he could do without putting himself to the test; for which reason many have of their own free will exposed themselves to misfortunes which no longer came in their way, and have sought for an opportunity of making their virtue, which otherwise would have been lost in darkness, shine before the world. Great men, I say, often rejoice at crosses of fortune just as brave soldiers do at wars. I remember to have heard Triumphus, who was a gladiator in the reign of Tiberius Caesar, complaining about the scarcity of prizes; “What a glorious time,” said he, “is past.” Valour is greedy of danger, and thinks only of whither it strives to go, not of what it will suffer, since even what it will suffer is part of its glory. Soldiers pride themselves on their wounds, they joyously display their blood flowing over their breastplate. Though those who return unwounded from battle may have done as bravely, yet he who returns wounded is more admired. God, I say, favours those whom He wishes to enjoy the greatest honours, whenever He affords them the means of performing some exploit with spirit and courage, something which is not easily to be accomplished: you can judge of a pilot in a storm, of a soldier in a battle. How can I know with how great a spirit you could endure poverty, if you overflow with riches? How can I tell with how great firmness you could bear up against disgrace, dishonour, and public hatred, if you grow old to the sound of applause, if popular favour cannot be alienated from you, and seems to flow to you by the natural bent of men’s minds? How can I know how calmly you would endure to be childless, if you see all your children around you? I have heard what you said when you were consoling others: then I should have seen whether you could have consoled yourself, whether you could have forbidden yourself to grieve. Do not, I beg you, dread those things which the immortal gods apply to our minds like spurs: misfortune is virtue’s opportunity. Those men may justly be called unhappy who are stupified with excess of enjoyment, whom sluggish contentment keeps as it were becalmed in a quiet sea: whatever befalls them will come strange to them. Misfortunes press hardest on those who are unacquainted with them: the yoke feels heavy to the tender neck. The recruit turns pale at the thought of a wound: the veteran, who knows that he has often won the victory after losing blood, looks boldly at his own flowing gore. In like manner God hardens, reviews, and exercises those whom He tests and loves: those whom He seems to indulge and spare, He is keeping out of condition to meet their coming misfortunes: for you are mistaken if you suppose that any one is exempt from misfortune: he who has long prospered will have his share some day; those who seem to have been spared them have only had them put off. Why does God afflict the best of men with ill-health, or sorrow, or other troubles? Because in the army the most hazardous services are assigned to the bravest soldiers: a general sends his choicest troops to attack the enemy in a midnight ambuscade, to reconnoitre his line of march, or to drive the hostile garrisons from their strong places. No one of these men says as he begins his march, “The general has dealt hardly with me,” but “He has judged well of me.” Let those who are bidden to suffer what makes the weak and cowardly weep, say likewise, “God has thought us worthy subjects on whom to try how much suffering human nature can endure.” Avoid luxury, avoid effeminate enjoyment, by which men’s minds are softened, and in which, unless something occurs to remind them of the common lot of humanity, they lie unconscious, as though plunged in continual drunkenness. He whom glazed windows have always guarded from the wind, whose feet are warmed by constantly renewed fomentations, whose dining-room is heated by hot air beneath the floor and spread through the walls, cannot meet the gentlest breeze without danger. While all excesses are hurtful, excess of comfort is the most hurtful of all; it affects the brain; it leads men’s minds into vain imaginings; it spreads a thick cloud over the boundaries of truth and falsehood. Is it not better, with virtue by one’s side, to endure continual misfortune, than to burst with an endless surfeit of good things? It is the overloaded stomach that is rent asunder: death treats starvation more gently. The gods deal with good men according to the same rule as schoolmasters with their pupils, who exact most labour from those of whom they have the surest hopes. Do you imagine that the Lacedaemonians, who test the mettle of their children by public flogging, do not love them? Their own fathers call upon them to endure the strokes of the rod bravely, and when they are torn and half dead, ask them to offer their wounded skin to receive fresh wounds. Why then should we wonder if God tries noble spirits severely? There can be no easy proof of virtue. Fortune lashes and mangles us: well, let us endure it: it is not cruelty, it is a struggle, in which the oftener we engage the braver we shall become. The strongest part of the body is that which is exercised by the most frequent use: we must entrust ourselves to fortune to be hardened by her against herself: by degrees she will make us a match for herself. Familiarity with danger leads us to despise it. Thus the bodies of sailors are hardened by endurance of the sea, and the hands of farmers by work; the arms of soldiers are powerful to hurl darts, the legs of runners are active: that part of each man which he exercises is the strongest: so by endurance the mind becomes able to despise the power of misfortunes. You may see what endurance might effect in us if you observe what labour does among tribes that are naked and rendered stronger by want. Look at all the nations that dwell beyond the Roman Empire: I mean the Germans and all the nomad tribes that war against us along the Danube. They suffer from eternal winter, and a dismal climate, the barren soil grudges them sustenance, they keep off the rain with leaves or thatch, they bound across frozen marshes, and hunt wild beasts for food. Do you think them unhappy? There is no unhappiness in what use has made part of one’s nature: by degrees men find pleasure in doing what they were first driven to do by necessity. They have no homes and no resting-places save those which weariness appoints them for the day; their food, though coarse, yet must be sought with their own hands; the harshness of the climate is terrible, and their bodies are unclothed. This, which you think a hardship, is the mode of life of all these races: how then can you wonder at good men being shaken, in order that they may be strengthened? No tree which the wind does not often blow against is firm and strong; for it is stiffened by the very act of being shaken, and plants its roots more securely: those which grow in a sheltered valley are brittle: and so it is to the advantage of good men, and causes them to be undismayed, that they should live much amidst alarms, and learn to bear with patience what is not evil save to him who endures it ill.
4. Prosperity comes to the mob and to low-minded men as well as to great ones. But it is the privilege of great men alone to send the disasters and terrors of mortal life under the yoke. To be always prosperous, and to pass through life without a twinge of mental distress, is to remain ignorant of one half of nature. You are a great man. But how am I to know it, if fortune gives you no chance to show your virtue? You have entered the Olympic games, but no one else has. You have the crown, but not the victory. I do not congratulate you as I would a brave man, but as one who has obtained a consulship or praetorship. You have gained rank. I may say the same of a good man, if hard circumstances have never given him a single chance to display the strength of his mind. I think you unhappy because you have never been unhappy. You have passed through life without meeting an opponent. No one will know what you are capable of, not even you yourself. For a man cannot know himself without a trial. No one ever learned what he could do without putting himself to the test. That is why many have willingly exposed themselves to misfortunes that no longer came their way. They have sought a chance to make their virtue shine before the world, when otherwise it would have been lost in darkness. Great men, I say, often rejoice at the blows of fortune, just as brave soldiers rejoice at wars. I remember hearing Triumphus, a gladiator in the reign of Tiberius Caesar, complain about how scarce prizes were. “What a glorious time has passed,” he said. Valor is greedy for danger. It thinks only of where it is striving to go, not of what it will suffer, since even what it will suffer is part of its glory. Soldiers take pride in their wounds and joyfully show their blood flowing over their breastplates. Those who come back from battle unwounded may have fought just as bravely, yet the one who comes back wounded is more admired. God, I say, shows favor to those he wants to enjoy the greatest honors whenever he gives them the means to do some deed with spirit and courage, something not easily done. You judge a pilot in a storm and a soldier in a battle. How can I know how great a spirit you would show in poverty, if you overflow with riches? How can I tell how firmly you would stand up to disgrace, dishonor, and public hatred, if you grow old to the sound of applause, if popular favor cannot be turned away from you and seems to flow to you by the natural bent of men’s minds? How can I know how calmly you would bear being childless, if you see all your children around you? I have heard what you said when you were consoling others. Then I should have seen whether you could console yourself, whether you could forbid yourself to grieve. Do not, I beg you, dread the things the immortal gods apply to our minds like spurs. Misfortune is virtue’s opportunity. Those men may rightly be called unhappy who are dulled by too much enjoyment, whom sluggish contentment keeps becalmed, as it were, on a quiet sea. Whatever befalls them will come as something strange. Misfortunes press hardest on those who do not know them. The yoke feels heavy on a tender neck. The recruit turns pale at the thought of a wound. The veteran, who knows he has often won the victory after losing blood, looks boldly at his own flowing blood. In the same way God hardens, inspects, and exercises those he tests and loves. Those he seems to indulge and spare, he is keeping unfit to meet the misfortunes to come. For you are mistaken if you think anyone is exempt from misfortune. The man who has long prospered will have his share some day. Those who seem to have been spared have only had their misfortunes put off. Why does God afflict the best of men with ill health, or sorrow, or other troubles? Because in the army the most dangerous duties are given to the bravest soldiers. A general sends his choicest troops to attack the enemy in a midnight ambush, to scout his line of march, or to drive enemy garrisons from their strongholds. None of these men says as he sets out, “The general has treated me harshly,” but “He has judged well of me.” Let those who are told to suffer what makes the weak and cowardly weep say the same: “God has thought us worthy subjects on whom to test how much suffering human nature can endure.” Avoid luxury. Avoid soft enjoyment, which weakens men’s minds. In it, unless something reminds them of the common lot of humanity, they lie senseless, as if sunk in endless drunkenness. A man whom glass windows have always shielded from the wind, whose feet are warmed by constantly renewed hot compresses, whose dining room is heated by hot air under the floor and through the walls, cannot meet the gentlest breeze without danger. All excesses are harmful, but excess of comfort is the most harmful of all. It affects the brain. It leads men’s minds into empty fancies. It spreads a thick cloud over the boundary between truth and falsehood. Is it not better, with virtue at one’s side, to endure constant misfortune than to burst from an endless glut of good things? It is the overloaded stomach that bursts. Death treats starvation more gently. The gods treat good men by the same rule as schoolmasters treat their pupils: they demand the most work from those of whom they have the surest hopes. Do you imagine that the Lacedaemonians, who test the mettle of their children by public flogging, do not love them? Their own fathers urge them to bear the strokes of the rod bravely. When the boys are torn and half dead, the fathers ask them to offer their wounded skin for fresh wounds. Why then should we wonder if God tests noble spirits severely? There can be no easy proof of virtue. Fortune lashes and mangles us. Well, let us endure it. It is not cruelty. It is a contest, and the more often we engage in it, the braver we will become. The strongest part of the body is the one exercised by the most frequent use. We must entrust ourselves to fortune, to be hardened by her against herself. Little by little she will make us a match for her. Familiarity with danger leads us to despise it. So sailors’ bodies are hardened by enduring the sea, and farmers’ hands by work. Soldiers’ arms are strong for hurling spears, and runners’ legs are quick. The part of each man that he exercises is the strongest. In the same way, by endurance the mind becomes able to despise the power of misfortunes. You can see what endurance might do in us if you notice what labor does among tribes that go naked and are made stronger by want. Look at all the nations that live beyond the Roman Empire. I mean the Germans and all the nomad tribes that war against us along the Danube. They suffer endless winter and a gloomy climate. The barren soil grudges them food. They keep off the rain with leaves or thatch, they bound across frozen marshes, and they hunt wild beasts for food. Do you think them unhappy? There is no unhappiness in what habit has made part of one’s nature. Little by little men find pleasure in doing what necessity first drove them to do. They have no homes and no resting places except those that weariness assigns them for the day. Their food is coarse, yet they must seek it with their own hands. The harshness of the climate is terrible, and their bodies are unclothed. What you think a hardship is the way of life of all these peoples. How then can you wonder that good men are shaken so that they may be strengthened? No tree is firm and strong unless the wind often blows against it. It is stiffened by the very act of being shaken, and it plants its roots more securely. Trees that grow in a sheltered valley are brittle. So it is to the advantage of good men, and it keeps them undismayed, to live much amid alarms. They learn to bear patiently what is not evil, except to the man who bears it badly.
V. Add to this that it is to the advantage of every one that the best men should, so to speak, be on active service and perform labours: God has the same purpose as the wise man, that is, to prove that the things which the herd covets and dreads are neither good nor bad in themselves. If, however, He only bestows them upon good men, it will be evident that they are good things, and bad, if He only inflicts them upon bad men. Blindness would be execrable if no one lost his eyes except those who deserve to have them pulled out; therefore let Appius and Metellus be doomed to darkness. Riches are not a good thing: therefore let Elius the pander possess them, that men who have consecrated money in the temple, may see the same in the brothel: for by no means can God discredit objects of desire so effectually as by bestowing them upon the worst of men, and removing them from the best. “But,” you say, “it is unjust that a good man should be enfeebled, or transfixed, or chained, while bad men swagger at large with a whole skin.” What! is it not unjust that brave men should bear arms, pass the night in camps, and stand on guard along the rampart with their wounds still bandaged, while within the city eunuchs and professional profligates live at their ease? what? is it not unjust that maidens of the highest birth should be roused at night to perform Divine service, while fallen women enjoy the soundest sleep? Labour calls for the best man: the senate often passes the whole day in debate, while at the same time every scoundrel either amuses his leisure in the Campus Martius, or lurks in a tavern, or passes his time in some pleasant society. The same thing happens in this great commonwealth (of the world): good men labour, spend and are spent, and that too of their own free will; they are not dragged along by fortune, but follow her and take equal steps with her; if they knew how, they would outstrip her. I remember, also, to have heard this spirited saying of that stoutest-hearted of men, Demetrius. “Ye immortal Gods,” said he, “the only complaint which I have to make of you is that you did not make your will known to me earlier; for then I would sooner have gone into that state of life to which I now have been called. Do you wish to take my children? it was for you that I brought them up. Do you wish to take some part of my body? take it: it is no great thing that I am offering you, I shall soon have done with the whole of it. Do you wish for my life? why should I hesitate to return to you what you gave me? whatever you ask you shall receive with my good will: nay, I would rather give it than be forced to hand it over to you: what need had you to take away what you did? you might have received it from me: yet even as it is you cannot take anything from me, because you cannot rob a man unless he resists.”
5. Add to this that it benefits everyone for the best men to be, so to speak, on active service and doing hard labor. God has the same purpose as the wise man. That purpose is to prove that the things the crowd desires and dreads are neither good nor bad in themselves. If, however, he gives them only to good men, it will be clear that they are good things. If he inflicts them only on bad men, it will be clear that they are bad. Blindness would be hateful if no one lost his eyes except those who deserve to have them torn out. Therefore let Appius and Metellus be condemned to darkness. Riches are not a good thing. Therefore let Elius the pimp possess them, so that men who have dedicated money in the temple may see the same thing in the brothel. For God can in no way discredit the objects of desire so effectively as by giving them to the worst of men and taking them away from the best. “But,” you say, “it is unjust that a good man should be weakened, or run through, or put in chains, while bad men swagger about freely with whole skins.” What? Is it not unjust that brave men should bear arms, spend the night in camps, and stand guard on the rampart with their wounds still bandaged, while inside the city eunuchs and professional debauchees live at their ease? What? Is it not unjust that young women of the highest birth should be woken at night to perform divine service, while fallen women enjoy the soundest sleep? Labor calls for the best man. The senate often spends the whole day in debate. Meanwhile every scoundrel either amuses his leisure in the Campus Martius, or hides in a tavern, or passes his time in some pleasant company. The same thing happens in this great commonwealth of the world. Good men labor, spend and are spent, and they do so of their own free will. They are not dragged along by fortune. They follow her and take equal steps with her. If they knew how, they would outstrip her. I also remember hearing this spirited saying of Demetrius, that most stout-hearted of men. “You immortal gods,” he said, “the only complaint I have to make of you is that you did not make your will known to me sooner. For then I would have gone sooner into the state of life to which I have now been called. Do you wish to take my children? It was for you that I raised them. Do you wish to take some part of my body? Take it. It is no great thing I am offering you. I shall soon be done with the whole of it. Do you wish for my life? Why should I hesitate to return to you what you gave me? Whatever you ask, you shall receive with my good will. Indeed, I would rather give it than be forced to hand it over to you. What need did you have to take away what you did? You might have received it from me. Yet even as it is, you cannot take anything from me, because you cannot rob a man unless he resists.”
I am constrained to nothing, I suffer nothing against my will, nor am I God’s slave, but his willing follower, and so much the more because I know that everything is ordained and proceeds according to a law that endures for ever. The fates guide us, and the length of every man’s days is decided at the first hour of his birth: every cause depends upon some earlier cause: one long chain of destiny decides all things, public or private. Wherefore, everything must be patiently endured, because events do not fall in our way, as we imagine, but come by a regular law. It has long ago been settled at what you should rejoice and at what you should weep, and although the lives of individual men appear to differ from one another in a great variety of particulars, yet the sum total comes to one and the same thing: we soon perish, and the gifts which we receive soon perish. Why, then, should we be angry? why should we lament? we are prepared for our fate: let nature deal as she will with her own bodies; let us be cheerful whatever befalls, and stoutly reflect that it is not anything of our own that perishes. What is the duty of a good man? to submit himself to fate: it is a great consolation to be swept away together with the entire universe: whatever law is laid upon us that thus we must live and thus we must die, is laid upon the gods also: one unchangeable stream bears along men and gods alike: the creator and ruler of the universe himself, though he has given laws to the fates, yet is guided by them: he always obeys, he only once commanded. “But why was God so unjust in His distribution of fate, as to assign poverty, wounds, and untimely deaths to good men?” The workman cannot alter his materials: this is their nature. Some qualities cannot be separated from some others: they cling together; are indivisible. Dull minds, tending to sleep or to a waking state exactly like sleep, are composed of sluggish elements: it requires stronger stuff to form a man meriting careful description. His course will not be straightforward; he must go upwards and downwards, be tossed about, and guide his vessel through troubled waters: he must make his way in spite of fortune: he will meet with much that is hard which he must soften, much that is rough that he must make smooth. Fire tries gold, misfortune tries brave men. See how high virtue has to climb: you may be sure that it has no safe path to tread.
I am free, suffering nothing against my will. I am not God's slave but his willing follower—even more so because I understand that everything follows eternal laws. Fate guides us, and our lifespan is determined at birth. Every effect has its cause, and one long chain of destiny governs all things, both public and private. Therefore, we must accept everything patiently, since events don't happen randomly but follow natural law. It was decided long ago what should bring us joy or sorrow. Though individual lives seem vastly different, they share the same basic truth: we are mortal, and our possessions are temporary. Why then should we feel anger or grief? We are prepared for our destiny. Let nature handle what belongs to her. Let's face whatever comes with courage, remembering that nothing truly ours is lost. What should a good person do? Accept fate. There is comfort in knowing we share this destiny with the entire universe. The same laws that govern how we live and die also apply to the gods. One unchanging current carries both humans and gods. Even the universe's creator, though establishing fate's laws, follows them—commanding once, but obeying forever. "But why did God unfairly distribute fate, giving good people poverty, injuries, and early deaths?" Like a craftsman limited by his materials, some qualities are inseparable—they come as a package. Dull minds, prone to sleep or sleep-like consciousness, are made of inactive elements. Creating someone worthy of notice requires stronger material. Their path won't be easy—they must navigate ups and downs, steering through rough waters, pushing against fortune. They'll face hardships to soften and challenges to overcome. Fire tests gold; adversity tests brave people. See how high virtue must climb—there is no safe path to the top.
“Steep is the path at first: the steeds, though strong, Fresh from their rest, can hardly crawl along; The middle part lies through the topmost sky, Whence oft, as I the earth and sea descry, I shudder, terrors through my bosom thrill. The ending of the path is sheer down hill, And needs the careful guidance of the rein, For ever when I sink beneath the main, Old Tethys trembles in her depths below Lest headlong down upon her I should go.”
"The path begins steeply—even my powerful horses, though well-rested, can barely inch forward. The middle stretch soars through the highest skies, where glimpses of earth and sea far below fill me with trembling fear. The final descent is dangerously steep, requiring a steady hand on the reins. Each time I descend toward the ocean, Tethys herself quakes in the deep, fearing I might come crashing down upon her."
When the spirited youth heard this, he said, “I have no fault to find with the road: I will mount it, it is worth while to go through these places, even though one fall.” His father did not cease from trying to scare his brave spirit with terrors:—
When the bold young man heard this, he replied, "I have no problem with the path. I will take it—exploring these places is worth the risk, even if I fail." His father kept trying to frighten his courageous spirit with warnings.
“Then, too, that thou may’st hold thy course aright, And neither turn aside to left nor right. Straight through the Bull’s fell horns thy path must go. Through the fierce Lion, and the Archer’s bow.”
"To stay on track, you must move straight ahead Without straying left or right. Your path leads Through the Bull's deadly horns, past the fierce Lion, And through the Archer's bow."
After this Phaethon says:—
Then Phaethon spoke:—
“Harness the chariot which you yield to me,
“Harness the horses to the chariot you are handing over to me,
I am encouraged by these things with which you think to scare me: I long to stand where the Sun himself trembles to stand.” It is the part of grovellers and cowards to follow the safe track; courage loves a lofty path.
These threats that you think will frighten me actually inspire me. I want to go where even the Sun fears to tread. Only cowards stick to the safe path—true courage seeks the heights.
VI. “Yet, why does God permit evil to happen to good men?” He does not permit it: he takes away from them all evils, such as crimes and scandalous wickedness, daring thoughts, grasping schemes, blind lusts, and avarice coveting its neighbour’s goods. He protects and saves them. Does any one besides this demand that God should look after the baggage of good men also? Why, they themselves leave the care of this to God: they scorn external accessories. Democritus forswore riches, holding them to be a burden to a virtuous mind: what wonder then, if God permits that to happen to a good man, which a good man sometimes chooses should happen to himself? Good men, you say, lose their children: why should they not, since sometimes they even put them to death? They are banished: why should they not be, since sometimes they leave their country of their own free will, never to return? They are slain: why not, since sometimes they choose to lay violent hands on themselves? Why do they suffer certain miseries? it is that they may teach others how to do so. They are born as patterns. Conceive, therefore, that God says:—“You, who have chosen righteousness, what complaint can you make of me? I have encompassed other men with unreal good things, and have deceived their inane minds as it were by a long and misleading dream: I have bedecked them with gold, silver, and ivory, but within them there is no good thing. Those men whom you regard as fortunate, if you could see, not their outward show, but their hidden life, are really unhappy, mean, and base, ornamented on the outside like the walls of their houses: that good fortune of theirs is not sound and genuine: it is only a veneer, and that a thin one. As long, therefore, as they can stand upright and display themselves as they choose, they shine and impose upon one; when something occurs to shake and unmask them, we see how deep and real a rottenness was hidden by that factitious magnificence. To you I have given sure and lasting good things, which become greater and better the more one turns them over and views them on every side: I have granted to you to scorn danger, to disdain passion. You do not shine outwardly, all your good qualities are turned inwards; even so does the world neglect what lies without it, and rejoices in the contemplation of itself. I have placed every good thing within your own breasts: it is your good fortune not to need any good fortune. ‘Yet many things befall you which are sad, dreadful, hard to be borne.’ Well, as I have not been able to remove these from your path, I have given your minds strength to combat all: bear them bravely. In this you can surpass God himself; He is beyond suffering evil: you are above it. Despise poverty; no man lives as poor as he was born: despise pain; either it will cease or you will cease: despise death; it either ends you or takes you elsewhere: despise fortune; I have given her no weapon that can reach the mind. Above all, I have taken care that no one should hold you captive against your will: the way of escape lies open before you: if you do not choose to fight, you may fly. For this reason, of all those matters which I have deemed essential for you, I have made nothing easier for you than to die. I have set man’s life as it were on a mountain side: it soon slips down. Do but watch, and you will see how short and how ready a path leads to freedom. I have not imposed such long delays upon those who quit the world as upon those who enter it: were it not so, fortune would hold a wide dominion over you, if a man died as slowly as he is born. Let all time, let every place teach you, how simple it is to renounce nature, and to fling back her gifts to her: before the altar itself and during the solemn rites of sacrifice, while life is being prayed for, learn how to die. Fat oxen fall dead with a tiny wound; a blow from a man’s hand fells animals of great strength: the sutures of the neck are severed by a thin blade, and when the joint which connects the head and neck is cut, all that great mass falls. The breath of life is not deep seated, nor only to be let forth by steel—the vitals need not be searched throughout by plunging a sword among them to the hilt: death lies near the surface, I have not appointed any particular spot for these blows—the body may be pierced wherever you please. That very act which is called dying, by which the breath of life leaves the body, is too short for you to be able to estimate its quickness: whether a knot crushes the windpipe, or water stops your breathing: whether you fall headlong from a height and perish upon the hard ground below, or a mouthful of fire checks the drawing of your breath—whatever it is, it acts swiftly. Do you not blush to spend so long a time in dreading what takes so short a time to do?”
6. “Yet why does God allow evil to happen to good men?” He does not allow it. He takes all evils away from them: crimes and shameful wickedness, reckless thoughts, greedy schemes, blind lusts, and avarice that covets its neighbor’s goods. He protects and saves them. Does anyone demand, besides this, that God should also look after the baggage of good men? Why, they themselves leave the care of it to God. They scorn external extras. Democritus renounced riches, holding them to be a burden to a virtuous mind. What wonder, then, if God allows to happen to a good man what a good man sometimes chooses to happen to himself? Good men, you say, lose their children. Why should they not, since they sometimes even put them to death? They are banished. Why should they not be, since they sometimes leave their country of their own free will, never to return? They are killed. Why not, since they sometimes choose to lay violent hands on themselves? Why do they suffer certain miseries? So that they may teach others how to suffer them. They are born to be patterns. Imagine, then, that God says: “You who have chosen righteousness, what complaint can you make against me? I have surrounded other men with false goods, and deceived their empty minds as if with a long, misleading dream. I have decked them with gold, silver, and ivory, but within them there is nothing good. Those men you regard as fortunate are really unhappy, mean, and base, if you could see not their outward show but their hidden life. They are decorated on the outside, like the walls of their houses. Their good fortune is not sound and genuine. It is only a veneer, and a thin one. So as long as they can stand upright and display themselves as they choose, they shine and deceive. When something happens to shake and unmask them, we see how deep and real a rottenness that fake magnificence was hiding. To you I have given sure and lasting goods, which grow greater and better the more one turns them over and views them from every side. I have granted you to scorn danger and to disdain passion. You do not shine outwardly. All your good qualities are turned inward. In the same way the universe disregards what lies outside it, and rejoices in contemplating itself. I have placed every good thing within your own breasts. It is your good fortune not to need good fortune. ‘Yet many things befall you that are sad, dreadful, and hard to bear.’ Well, since I could not remove these from your path, I have given your minds strength to fight them all. Bear them bravely. In this you can surpass God himself. He is beyond suffering evil. You are above it. Despise poverty. No one lives as poor as he was born. Despise pain. Either it will end or you will. Despise death. It either ends you or takes you elsewhere. Despise fortune. I have given her no weapon that can reach the mind. Above all, I have made sure that no one can hold you captive against your will. The way of escape lies open before you. If you do not choose to fight, you may flee. That is why, of all the things I have judged necessary for you, I have made nothing easier than dying. I have set man’s life on a slope, as it were. It soon slides down. Only watch, and you will see how short and how ready a path leads to freedom. I have not imposed such long delays on those who leave the world as on those who enter it. Otherwise, if a man died as slowly as he is born, fortune would hold wide power over you. Let every time and every place teach you how simple it is to renounce nature and fling her gifts back at her. At the very altar, during the solemn rites of sacrifice, while life is being prayed for, learn how to die. Fat oxen fall dead from a tiny wound. A blow from a man’s hand fells animals of great strength. A thin blade severs the seams of the neck, and when the joint that links head and neck is cut, that whole great mass falls. The breath of life is not seated deep, nor can it be let out only by steel. There is no need to search the vitals by plunging a sword in up to the hilt. Death lies near the surface. I have not appointed any particular spot for these blows. The body may be pierced wherever you please. The very act called dying, by which the breath of life leaves the body, is too short for you to measure its speed. A noose may crush the windpipe, or water may stop your breath. You may fall headlong from a height and perish on the hard ground below, or a mouthful of fire may cut off your breathing. Whatever it is, it acts swiftly. Do you not blush to spend so long dreading what takes so short a time to do?”