Lucretius · a new plain-English translation from the original language
Out of such great darkness to raise up so bright a light,
you who were first able, illuminating the good things of life,
I follow you, O glory of the Greek race, and now in your
footprints, already made, I set my own steps, pressed into your tracks,
not so eager to compete as for the love
I bear you, longing to imitate you; for what could a swallow contend
with swans, or what likeness could kids, on trembling legs,
make in a race with the strength of a powerful horse?
You, father, are the discoverer of things; you supply us
with fatherly precepts, and from your pages, glorious one,
as bees in flowering glades sip everything,
we likewise feed on all your golden words,
golden, always most worthy of everlasting life.
For as soon as your reasoning begins to proclaim aloud
the nature of things, arisen from a mind divine,
the terrors of the mind scatter, the ramparts of the world
part; I see things happening throughout the whole void.
The divine power of the gods appears, and their quiet abodes,
which winds do not shake, nor clouds spatter
with rainstorms, nor snow, hardened by harsh frost,
white, falling, ever violates; a cloudless sky
covers them always, and smiles with light poured out abundantly:
nature, moreover, supplies everything, and nothing
ever nibbles away the peace of that mind at any time.
But on the other hand, nowhere do the halls of Acheron appear,
nor does the earth stand in the way of all things being seen through,
whatever is carried on below, beneath our feet, throughout the void.
At these things a kind of divine pleasure
seizes me, and a shudder, because by your power nature thus
lies open so plainly, uncovered on every side.
And since I have taught what the seeds of all things
are like, and how, differing in varied shapes,
they fly of their own accord, driven by eternal motion,
and in what way each thing can be created from them,
following on these matters, the nature of the mind
and of the soul now seems to need clarifying in my verses,
and that fear of Acheron must be driven headlong out,
which throws human life into turmoil from its very depths,
suffusing everything with the blackness of death, and leaves
no pleasure clear and pure to remain.
For as to men often saying that diseases are more to be feared,
and a life of ill repute more than the Tartarus of death,
and claiming they know the nature of the mind is blood,
or even wind, if their fancy happens to lead that way,
and that they have no need at all of our reasoning,
from this you may notice that all this is bandied about
more for the sake of praise than because the matter itself is proven.
These same men, exiles from their homeland and driven far
from the sight of men, defiled by some shameful crime,
afflicted with every hardship, still go on living,
and wherever the wretches come, they still make offerings to the dead
and sacrifice black cattle and to the divine shades below
send funeral gifts, and in bitter circumstances all the more
turn their minds sharply toward religion.
All the more it is fitting to watch a man in doubtful dangers,
and to know who he is in circumstances of adversity;
for true words are then at last drawn out
from the depths of the heart, and the mask is torn away, the reality remains.
Then again, greed and the blind desire for honors,
which compel wretched men to overstep the bounds
of law, and sometimes, as accomplices and agents of crimes,
to strive night and day with outstanding toil
to rise up to the heights of wealth — these wounds of life
are nourished in no small part by the dread of death.
For shameful contempt, more or less, and bitter poverty
seem set apart from a life sweet and secure,
and, as it were, already lingering before the gates of death;
and so, while men, driven by this false terror,
wish to have escaped it and pushed it far, far away,
they amass wealth through the blood of citizens, and their riches
they double, greedy, piling slaughter upon slaughter,
cruel, they rejoice at a brother's grim funeral,
and hate and fear the tables of their own kin.
In similar fashion, often from that same fear,
envy wears them down, that so-and-so before their eyes is powerful,
that so-and-so is looked upon, who walks about in shining honor,
while they themselves, they complain, wallow in darkness and mud.
Some perish for the sake of statues and a name.
And often, to such a degree, from dread of death,
hatred of life and of seeing the light seizes men,
that with grieving heart they bring death upon themselves,
forgetting that this fear is the source of their cares:
that this is what tramples honor, this that breaks
the bonds of friendship, and urges men to overturn duty utterly:
for already, often, men have betrayed their homeland and their dear parents,
seeking to avoid the halls of Acheron.
For just as children tremble and fear everything in blind
darkness, so we in the light are afraid, sometimes,
of things no more to be feared than
what children shudder at in the dark and imagine will happen.
This terror of the mind, then, and these shadows
must be dispelled — not by the rays of the sun nor the bright shafts of day,
but by the outward view and reasoning of nature.
First I say that the mind, which we often call the intellect,
in which the judgment and guidance of life is placed,
is a part of man no less than hand and foot
and eyes are parts existing of the whole living creature.
* * *
that the sense of the mind is not located in any fixed part,
but that it is a certain vital condition of the body,
which the Greeks call harmony, because it makes us
live with sensation, though the mind is in no single part;
as good health is often said to belong
to the body, and yet this is no part of the healthy person,
so they do not place the sense of the mind in any fixed part;
in which they seem to me to go very far astray.
So often the body, which lies plainly visible, is sick,
while yet we rejoice from another, hidden part;
and the reverse often happens too, in turn,
when a person is wretched in mind while rejoicing in the whole body;
in no other way than if, when a sick man's foot hurts,
his head meanwhile happens to be in no pain at all.
Moreover, when limbs are given over to soft sleep
and the body, weighed down, lies sprawled without sensation,
there is nonetheless something else in us which, at that time,
is stirred in many ways and takes into itself
the motions of joy and the empty cares of the heart.
Now, so that you may also recognize that the soul, within the limbs,
is something apart, and that the body does not customarily feel by harmony,
first, it happens that when much of the body is taken away,
life still often lingers for us in the limbs.
And that same soul, again, when a few particles of heat
have fled away, and air is sent forth through the mouth,
abandons the veins at once and leaves the bones behind;
so that from this you may recognize that not all particles
hold life equally, nor equally sustain our health,
but rather these, which are the seeds of wind and of warm heat,
are the ones that see to it that life lingers in the limbs.
There is, then, a vital heat and wind within
the body itself, which abandons our limbs as we die.
Wherefore, since the nature of the mind has been found,
and of the soul, as it were a part of man, give back the name
"harmony," brought down from lofty Helicon to the musicians,
or which they themselves drew from elsewhere and transferred
onto that thing which then lacked a name of its own.
Whatever it is, let them have it: you take in the rest of what I say.
Now I say that mind and soul are held joined
to one another and make up a single nature from themselves,
but that the judgment, which we call mind and intellect,
is, as it were, the head, and rules over the whole body.
And it is fixed, situated in the middle region of the chest.
For here fear and dread leap up; around this place
joys soothe: here, then, is the mind and the intellect.
The rest of the soul, scattered through the whole body,
obeys, and is moved at the nod and impulse of the mind.
And that mind, alone, by itself, has understanding for itself and rejoices for itself,
when nothing stirs the soul or body along with it.
And just as, when the head or eye, under an assailing pain,
is hurt in us, we are not tormented over our whole
body, so the mind itself is sometimes hurt
or else flourishes with joy, when the rest of the soul's substance,
through the limbs and joints, is stirred by nothing new;
but when the mind is more violently shaken by fear,
we see the whole soul feel it together through the limbs,
and sweats and pallor thus arise over the whole
body, and the tongue falter and the voice die away,
the eyes grow dim, the ears ring, the limbs give way,
and finally we see men collapse
from terror of mind — often; so that anyone can easily recognize from this
that the soul is joined with the mind, which, once struck
by the force of the mind, then drives forward and strikes the body.
This same reasoning teaches that the nature of the mind and of the soul
is bodily; for since it seems to drive the limbs forward,
to snatch the body up from sleep, and to change the expression,
and to guide and turn the whole man,
none of which we see can happen without touch,
nor touch, further, without body, must it not be admitted
that mind and soul consist of a bodily nature?
Moreover you see that the mind, together with the body and as one,
performs its function and feels along with it, within our body.
If the grim force of a weapon, driven within,
with bones and sinews split apart, harms life less,
still there follows a faintness, and a sweet sinking
toward the ground, and a turmoil of mind that is born on the ground,
and sometimes an uncertain will, as it were, to rise up.
Therefore the nature of the mind must be bodily,
since it suffers from bodily weapons and their blow.
Now I will go on to give an account in words of what kind of body
this mind of yours is made, and from what.
First, I say it is exceedingly fine, and made up
of extremely tiny particles. That this is so
you may notice from this, so that you can fully understand it.
Nothing seems to happen in so swift a manner
as when the mind proposes for it to happen and itself begins it;
the mind, then, sets itself in motion more swiftly than any thing
whose nature is plainly seen before our eyes.
But what is mobile to such a degree must consist of round
seeds, extremely round and extremely small,
so that, once struck, they can be moved by a small impulse.
For water is moved and flows at the slightest impulse,
seeing that it is made of small, rolling shapes.
But on the other hand, honey's nature is more stable,
and its fluid is more sluggish, and its movement more hesitant:
for the whole mass of its matter clings together more
among itself, no doubt because it does not consist of particles
so light, nor so fine and round.
For a light, hovering breeze can make a tall heap
of poppy-seed flow down from the top,
but on the other hand it cannot do the same to a pile of stones
or of grain-ears. Therefore, in proportion as bodies are
and the lightest, so much mobility they enjoy;
but on the other hand, whatever things are found
with greater weight and roughness, are the more stable for it.
Now therefore, since the nature of the mind has been found
to be exceptionally mobile, it must consist
of particles small and light and round.
This fact, once known to you, good friend, in many matters
will be found useful and will prove timely.
This fact also reveals its nature,
how fine a texture it consists of, and in how small a space
it could be contained, if it could be gathered into one mass —
namely, that as soon as the untroubled repose of death
has taken hold of a man, and the nature of mind and soul has withdrawn,
you can see nothing at all taken away from the whole body,
in appearance, nothing in weight: death leaves everything intact,
except the vital sense and the warm heat.
Therefore the whole soul must consist of extremely small
seeds, bound throughout the veins, organs, and sinews,
seeing that, when it has wholly departed from the whole body,
the outer contour of the limbs nonetheless
presents itself unharmed, and not a jot of weight is missing.
It is like this: when the bouquet of wine has vanished, or when
the sweet breath of perfume disperses into the air,
or when the savor has already gone from some substance;
yet the thing itself seems no smaller to the eyes
on that account, nor is anything taken from its weight,
no doubt because many tiny seeds make up
the savor and the scent throughout the whole body of things.
Wherefore again and again you may know that the nature of mind and soul
is created from extremely tiny
seeds, since in departing it carries off no weight at all.
Yet this nature must not be thought simple for us.
For a certain fine breath leaves the dying,
mixed with heat, and the heat in turn draws air along with it;
nor is there any heat with which air is not also mixed;
for since its nature is loose-textured, it is necessary
that many first-particles of air move about within it.
So the nature of the mind is now found to be threefold;
and yet all these together are not enough to produce sensation,
since the mind admits that none of these is able to create
the sense-bearing motions which it turns over at last in thought.
A fourth nature, then, must be added to these;
it is entirely without a name;
than which nothing exists more mobile or finer,
nor made more of small and light elements;
and it is this that first distributes sense-bearing motions through the limbs.
For it is stirred first, being made complete of tiny shapes,
and from it heat receives motion, and the blind power of wind,
and from it air; from it all things are set in motion:
the blood is shaken, then the inner organs feel it through and through,
all of them; last of all it is given to the bones and marrow,
whether it is pleasure or its opposite, a burning pain.
Nor can pain penetrate all the way here idly, nor can a sharp
harm pass through, without everything being thrown into disorder
to such a degree that there is no room left for life, and the parts of the soul
scatter away through all the channels of the body.
But usually a limit is set, as it were, on the surface of the body,
for these motions; for this reason we are able to keep hold of life.
Now, in what way these are mixed among themselves and by what
means composed they thrive, though eager to render the reasoning,
the poverty of my native speech drags me unwilling away;
but still, as best I can, I will touch on it briefly.
For the first-beginnings run about among themselves
in mutual motions, in such a way that no single power
can be separated out, nor made a power divided in space,
but they exist as, so to speak, the many powers of a single body.
It is like the way that in the flesh of any living creature there is,
generally, a smell and a certain color and a taste, and yet from these
all together there is one complete mass of body,
so heat and air and the blind power of wind,
mixed together, create a single nature, along with that mobile
force, which imparts to them the start of motion from itself,
from which the sense-bearing motion first arises through the organs.
For this nature lies utterly hidden deep within, and underlies,
and nothing in our body is further beneath than this,
and it is itself, further still, the very soul of the whole soul.
It is like the way that, in our limbs and in the whole body,
the mixed and hidden power of mind and soul lies concealed,
because it is created out of particles small and few,
so likewise this nameless power, made of tiny
particles, lies hidden, and is itself, as it were, further still,
the very soul of the whole soul, and rules over the whole body.
In similar fashion it must be that wind and air
and heat thrive mixed together through the limbs,
and one lie more beneath, another stand out more,
so that a single thing seems to arise from them all,
lest heat and wind, and the power of air, each taken apart
on its own, should destroy sensation and dissolve it once pulled apart.
There is also that heat which the mind takes on, in anger,
when it seethes, and a fiercer fire flashes from the eyes;
there is also much cold breath, the companion of dread,
which stirs a shudder in the limbs and sets the frame trembling;
there is also that settled state of calm air,
which comes about with a tranquil breast and a serene face.
But there is more of the hot element in those whose fierce hearts
and irascible mind readily boil over into anger,
a kind among which, first of all, is the violent force of lions,
who often, roaring, all but burst their chests with groaning,
and cannot contain the waves of anger in their breast.
But the cold mind of deer is more windy,
and it stirs icy currents more swiftly through its organs,
which make a trembling motion arise in the limbs.
But the nature of cattle lives more on calm air,
nor does the torch of anger, set beneath, ever too much stir it,
smoking, suffusing it with the shadow of blind gloom,
nor does it grow numb, pierced by the icy shafts of fear;
it stands between the two, between deer and savage lions.
So it is with the human race: although learning may polish
some men equally, it nonetheless leaves
the first traces of each one's natural temperament.
Nor must it be thought that faults can be torn out by the root,
so that this man will not more readily rush down into sharp angers,
that man be assailed a little more quickly by fear, and a third
take certain things more mildly than is fair.
And in many other respects the varied natures of men
and their consequent characters must differ;
the hidden causes of which I cannot now set forth,
nor find names for as many shapes as there are
first-particles, from which this variety of things arises.
But this much I can see how to establish in this matter:
so slight are the traces of these natural tendencies left
so slight, those which reason cannot drive out of us,
so that nothing prevents us from leading a life worthy of the gods.
This nature, then, is held by the whole body,
and is itself the guardian of the body and the cause of its well-being;
for they cling to one another by shared roots,
and cannot, it seems, be torn apart without ruin.
It is like tearing the scent out of lumps of frankincense —
it is not easy to do without its own nature also perishing,
so it is not easy to draw the nature of mind and soul out
of the whole body, without everything dissolving.
Their first-particles, thus intertwined from the very origin,
become endowed, between them, with a shared life,
and neither the power of body nor of mind seems able
to feel by itself, apart from the force of the other,
but sensation is kindled in us through our organs by motions
shared between the two on both sides.
Besides, the body by itself is never born,
nor does it grow, nor does it seem to endure after death.
For it is not as water often lets go of the heat
that was given it, and is not for that reason itself torn apart,
but remains unharmed — not, I say, thus can limbs left
behind endure the separation of the soul,
but they perish utterly, torn apart, and rot away.
So, from the very start of life, the mutual contacts of body and soul
learn the motions of life,
even while still lodged in the mother's limbs and womb,
so that their separation cannot happen without ruin and harm;
so that you may see that, since the cause of their well-being is joined,
their nature too consists as something joined.
Furthermore, if anyone denies that body feels,
and believes instead that it is the soul, mixed through the whole body,
that takes up this motion which we call sensation,
he fights against things plain and true.
For who will ever explain what it is for the body to feel,
if not the plain fact itself, which experience has given and taught us?
"But once the soul is dismissed, the body lacks sensation altogether."
Yes, for it loses what was never its own possession in life,
and it loses much else besides, when it is driven out of life.
Furthermore, to say that the eyes themselves can discern nothing,
but that the mind looks out through them as through open doors,
is hard to maintain, when the very sensation of the eyes pulls against it;
for sensation draws and drives the gaze right to the eyes themselves,
especially since we often cannot make out bright things,
because our eyes are hindered by the very light.
This does not happen with doors; for the opening through which we ourselves see
undergoes no such trouble when it is thrown open.
Besides, if our eyes stand in place of doors,
then it seems the mind ought rather, with the eyes removed,
to see things better, once the doorposts themselves are taken away.
In this matter you can by no means accept
what the revered opinion of that man Democritus lays down,
that the single first-particles of body and mind
are set alternately next to one another, varying and knitting together the limbs.
For since the elements of the soul are much smaller
than those from which our body and organs are made,
they are also fewer in number, and are scattered sparsely
through the limbs, to just such an extent that you can promise this much:
however small the first particles are that, thrown into us,
can stir sense-bearing motions in the body, the first-beginnings
of the soul hold gaps of just that size between them.
For we do not at times feel dust clinging
to our body, nor chalk-dust settling on our limbs,
nor mist by night, nor the fine threads of a spider's web
as we meet them, when we walk into them and are netted,
nor that its withered garment has fallen over our
head, nor the feathers of birds, nor the flying down
which, from their very lightness, usually fall only with difficulty,
nor do we feel the crawling passage of whatever creature
is crawling, nor each separate footprint
that gnats and other creatures set down on our body.
To such a degree must much be stirred up in us first,
before the first-particles of the soul, once shaken, feel it —
those seeds mixed in with our bodies throughout the limbs —
and before, in these gaps between them, they can go
rushing together, colliding, and springing apart in turn.
And the mind is more the bolt holding shut the gates of life,
and has more mastery over life than the power of the soul.
For without mind and intellect, no part of the soul can remain
through the limbs for even a brief span of time,
but it readily follows along as a companion, and departs into the air,
and leaves the limbs cold in the chill of death.
But he remains in life for whom mind and intellect have remained,
even though he is mangled all around, with his limbs cut away on every side;
a trunk, with the soul taken and the limbs removed from around it,
lives, and still draws in the life-giving breezes of the upper air;
if not utterly, still deprived of a great part
of his soul, he nonetheless lingers on in life and clings to it;
just as, if an eye is torn all around but the pupil remains
unharmed, the living power of seeing still stands,
provided only you do not destroy the whole orb of the eye
and cut all around the pupil, leaving it alone;
for even that will not happen without harm to them.
But if that tiny central part of the eye is eaten away,
the light of sight dies at once, and darkness follows,
however unharmed and bright the orb otherwise remains.
By this same compact, soul and mind are always bound.
Now come, so that you may know that minds and light souls
are born together with living creatures and are mortal,
verses long sought after and found by sweet labor,
worthy of your life, I will go on to set out.
See to it that you join both of these under one name of theirs,
and when, for the sake of argument, I go on to speak of the soul,
teaching that it is mortal, believe I am saying the same of the mind too,
in as much as they are one thing between them and a united thing.
First, since I have taught that it consists of a fine substance
made of tiny particles, and is composed of first-beginnings
much smaller than those of which the flowing water
or mist or smoke is made — for it far surpasses these in mobility
and is set in motion more easily by a slight cause,
since indeed it is moved by mere images of smoke and mist;
as, for instance, in sleep, when drowsy, we see on high
the altars breathe out vapor and give off smoke;
for these images, without doubt, are carried to us from far off —
now therefore, since when vessels are shattered on every side
you see the liquid flow away and the fluid depart,
and since mist and smoke depart into the air,
believe that the soul too is dispersed, and perishes much
more swiftly and quickly dissolves into its first-bodies,
once it has been taken away and has withdrawn from a man's limbs;
seeing that indeed the body, which stood as it were its vessel,
when it cannot hold it together, once shattered by some cause
and rarefied, with the blood drawn out from the veins,
how could you believe that this soul could be held together by any air,
which is more loose-textured and less able to hold together than our body?
Besides, we perceive that the mind is born together with the body, and equally
grows with it, and equally grows old with it.
For just as children totter about with a weak and tender
body, so a slight power of judgment in the mind follows suit.
Then, when age has grown up with sturdy strength,
the judgment too is greater, and the mind's power is more developed.
Afterward, when the body is already shaken by the strong forces
of age, and the limbs have sunk with blunted strength,
the intellect limps, the tongue rambles, the mind falters,
everything fails and is wanting at one and the same time.
Therefore it follows that the whole nature of the soul
must dissolve too, like smoke, into the high breezes of the air;
since indeed we see it equally born, and equally
grow, and, as I have taught, together with age grow weary and fall apart.
To this add that we may observe: just as the body itself
takes on monstrous diseases and harsh pain,
so the mind takes on bitter cares, grief, and fear;
wherefore it follows that it too shares in death.
Indeed, in the diseases of the body, the mind often
strays off course; for it goes out of its senses and speaks deliriously,
and sometimes it is carried down into a heavy lethargy,
into deep and unending sleep, with drooping eyes and nodding head;
from which it neither hears voices nor can recognize the faces
of those who, calling it back to life,
stand around it, drenching their faces and cheeks with tears.
Wherefore you must admit that the mind too dissolves,
since the infections of disease penetrate into it;
for both pain and disease are craftsmen of death,
a thing we have already learned well from the death of many.
[and since the mind is healed, as a sick body is,
and equally the mind is healed... the body by an emptiness]
Finally, when the force of wine has penetrated a man,
and its sharp fire has spread and passed into the veins,
a heaviness of limbs follows, the legs are hampered
as he staggers, the tongue grows slow, the mind is sodden,
the eyes swim, shouting, hiccups, and quarrels swell up,
and now whatever other things of this kind follow,
why do these happen, except because the vehement violence of wine
is accustomed to throw the soul into confusion within the body itself?
But whatever things can be thrown into confusion and hindered
show, if a slightly harsher cause should work its way in,
that they will perish, deprived of any future life.
Indeed, someone, often overcome suddenly by the force of disease,
before our very eyes, as if by the stroke of lightning,
collapses, and foams at the mouth, and groans, and his limbs tremble,
he loses his senses, strains his sinews, is convulsed, gasps
unevenly, and wears out his limbs in thrashing about,
no doubt because the force of the disease, torn apart through the limbs,
drives on and throws the soul into turmoil, just as, foaming, on the salt sea,
the waves seethe under the strong force of the winds.
A groan, moreover, is forced out, because the limbs are afflicted
with pain, and above all because the seeds of the voice
are drawn out and, gathered together, are carried out through the mouth
along the path where they are, as it were, accustomed and provided.
Loss of the senses occurs because the power of mind and soul
is thrown into confusion and, as I have taught, torn apart and
scattered by that same poison, is disjointed.
Then, when the cause of the disease has at last turned back, and
the bitter fluid of the corrupted body retreats into hiding,
then, as if staggering, the man first rises up, and gradually
returns bit by bit to his senses and recovers his soul.
These things, then, since they are tossed about by such great diseases
within the body itself, and, torn apart, suffer in wretched ways,
why do you believe that these same things, without a body, in the open air,
can pass their existence amid strong winds?
And since we see the mind be healed, as a sick body is,
and we see it can be turned by medicine,
this too foretells that the mind's life is mortal.
For it is fitting to add parts, or shift their order,
or take away some small bit from the total,
for anyone who undertakes and sets out to change the mind,
or seeks to alter any other nature whatsoever.
But whatever is immortal wants neither to have parts transferred to it
nor granted to it, nor to lose the smallest part;
for whatever, once changed, passes beyond its own bounds,
this at once is the death of what it was before.
Therefore, whether the mind sickens, it gives mortal
signs, as I have taught, or whether it is turned by medicine.
To such a degree does a true fact appear to run counter
to a false theory, and to shut off the escape of one fleeing,
and to convict the falsehood by a two-pronged refutation.
Finally, we often see a man depart gradually,
and lose his living sensation limb by limb;
first, in the feet, the toes and nails turn livid,
then the feet and shins die, and after that through the limbs
the footsteps of cold death go creeping on to the rest.
And since this nature of the soul is split apart, and does not exist
whole at one single moment, it must be reckoned mortal.
But if perhaps you think that the soul itself can, through the limbs,
draw itself inward and gather its parts into one,
and so withdraw sensation from all the limbs,
then that place, all the same, to which so great a quantity of soul
is driven together, ought to appear as having greater sensation;
since this place is nowhere to be found, no doubt, as we have said before,
the soul is torn apart and scattered abroad, and so it perishes.
Indeed, even if we should now be willing to grant something false,
and allow that the soul can be gathered together in the body of those
who, dying, leave the light bit by bit,
you must still admit that the soul is mortal,
nor does it matter whether it perishes scattered through the air,
or, drawn together from its own parts, grows senseless,
since sensation, everywhere, fails the whole man
more and more, and less and less of life remains everywhere.
And since the mind is one single part of a man, and remains fixed
in a definite place, just as the ears and eyes are,
and the other senses, whichever govern life,
and just as a hand, or an eye, or nostrils, apart
and separated from us, cannot feel nor even exist,
but nonetheless are left in such a state for only a short time,
so the mind cannot exist by itself without the body and without
the man himself, which seems to be, as it were, its vessel,
or whatever else, more closely joined to it, you prefer
to imagine, since the body clings to it by connection.
Finally, the living power of body and mind
is strong only when joined together, and only so do they enjoy life;
for neither can the nature of the mind, by itself, alone,
produce the motions of life without the body, nor, on the other hand,
can the body, deprived of soul, endure and make use of its senses.
Just as an eye, torn away from its roots, cannot
by itself perceive anything at all, apart from the whole body,
so soul and mind, by themselves, seem able to do nothing.
No doubt because, mixed through the veins and organs,
through sinews and bones, they are held by the whole body,
and their first-particles cannot spring apart freely
across large gaps; therefore, enclosed, they perform
sense-bearing motions, which, once cast out beyond the body into the
breezes of the air, cannot after death be moved,
because they are no longer held together in the same way;
for the air itself would become a body and a living creature, if the soul
could hold itself together and enclose itself within those same motions,
which before it carried out in the sinews and within the body itself.
Wherefore, again and again, once the whole covering of the body
is dissolved, and the vital breezes are cast out beyond it,
you must admit that the sensation of mind and soul dissolves,
and that the soul itself does too, since the cause is joined for both.
Finally, since the body cannot bear the separation
of the soul without wasting away in foul stench,
why do you doubt that the power of the soul, risen up from deep within
and spread abroad, has flowed out like smoke,
and that on this account the body, changed, has collapsed
into a rotten ruin so great, because its foundations have been
deeply shaken from their place, and the parts of the soul flow out through the limbs
and through all the twists of the pathways that are in the body,
and through its openings? So that you may recognize in many ways
that the nature of the soul, distributed, went out through the limbs,
and was already torn apart within the body itself,
before it slipped out and swam forth into the breezes of the air.
Indeed, even while the boundary of life still turns within,
often, nonetheless, from some cause, the soul seems to be shaken loose
and to depart, and be wholly released from the whole body,
and the face seems to grow faint as at the last hour,
and all the limbs fall limp from the bloodless body.
This is what happens when a person is said to have suffered a fainting fit of mind,
or to have lost consciousness; then there is panic, and everyone
is eager to catch hold of the last thread of life;
For then the mind and the power of the spirit are utterly shaken,
all of it. And these collapse together with the body itself,
so that a slightly heavier cause can dissolve them.
Why do you doubt, then, that once driven out beyond the body,
weak, out in the open, its covering stripped away,
it could not endure not merely for all time,
but could not hold together for even the smallest moment?
For no one, dying, seems to feel
that the soul goes out whole from the whole body,
nor that it first rises to the throat and the upper jaws,
but rather that it fails, placed in a definite region;
just as it knows each of the other senses fails
in its own part. But if our mind were immortal,
it would not, in dying, complain so much of being dissolved,
but rather of going forth and leaving its garment behind, like a snake.
Again, why does the mind's intelligence and counsel never
arise in the head or the feet or the hands, but clings to one
seat and to definite regions in all of us,
if fixed places have not been assigned to each thing to be born in,
and where each created thing can endure,
and so exist with its limbs divided in many ways,
so that the order of the limbs is never reversed?
So constantly does one thing follow another, and flame is never
accustomed to be created from rivers, nor cold born in fire.
Besides, if the nature of the soul is immortal
and can feel when separated from our body,
we must, I think, endow it with five senses.
Nor by any other reasoning can we picture to ourselves
souls below wandering in Acheron.
And so painters and the generations of writers before us
have thus portrayed souls endowed with senses.
But eyes, nor nostrils, nor the hand itself, apart
from the body can belong to the soul, nor tongue apart, nor ears;
so by themselves they cannot feel, nor exist.
And since we feel that vital sensation is present
in the whole body, and we see the whole is alive,
if some force should suddenly cut through the middle with a swift blow,
so as to sever each part apart,
without doubt the force of the soul too, divided,
will be scattered, torn apart along with the body.
But whatever is split and falls apart into separate parts
surely denies that its nature is eternal.
They tell how scythe-bearing chariots cut off limbs
so suddenly, often, amid the confused slaughter, still warm,
that what has fallen, cut away from the limbs, can be seen
trembling on the ground, while the mind, and the man's vital power,
because of the swiftness of the harm, cannot feel the pain;
and because his mind is given over at once to the ardor of battle,
with the rest of his body he presses on for the fight and the slaughter,
nor does he notice, often, that his left arm with its shield has been lost,
dragged off among the horses by the wheels and the grasping scythes,
nor does another notice his right hand has fallen, as he climbs on and presses forward.
Then another tries to rise with his leg torn away,
while the dying foot beside it still moves its toes on the ground.
And a head, cut off, while the trunk is still warm and alive,
keeps on the ground a living expression and open eyes,
until it has given up all the remnants of its soul.
What is more, if it should please you — the threatening serpent, its tongue flickering —
its tail, its long body, both,
to cut apart into many pieces with a blade,
you will see all the severed pieces writhing apart
from the fresh wound, and spattering the ground with gore,
the forepart itself turning back to seek with its mouth the part behind,
so that, struck, it may press the burning pain of the wound with its bite.
Shall we say, then, that whole souls exist in all
those separate pieces? But by that reasoning it will follow
that one living creature had many souls in its body.
Therefore that which was one has been divided, together with
the body; and so both must be thought mortal,
since it is likewise split into many parts.
Besides, if the nature of the soul is established as immortal
and steals into the body of those being born,
why can we not remember our past life before,
[that it perished, and what now exists was now created,]
nor do we retain any traces of what was done?
For if the power of the mind is so greatly changed
that all memory of past deeds has slipped away,
that, I think, does not wander far from death;
wherefore you must admit that what existed before
has perished, and what now exists was now created.
Besides, if the living power of the mind is accustomed to be brought in
to us once the body is already complete,
at the time we are born and enter upon the threshold of life,
it would not fit that it should seem to grow together with the body and along with
the limbs, in the very blood itself,
but rather it would suit for it to live alone by itself, as in a cage,
so that the whole body should nonetheless be flooded with sensation from it.
Wherefore, again and again, souls must not be thought
to be without a birth, nor released from the law of death;
for it must not be thought that they could have been joined so closely
to our bodies, if they had stolen in from outside,
whereas the plain fact teaches that quite the opposite happens —
for it is so bound together through veins, organs, sinews,
and bones, that even the teeth share in sensation;
as a toothache shows, and the sharp bite of icy water,
and a rough pebble bitten unexpectedly among the grain,
nor, since they are so intricately woven together, do they seem able to go out
unharmed, and to free themselves whole
from all the sinews and bones and joints,
but if perhaps you think that the soul, having stolen in from outside,
is accustomed to seep through our limbs,
all the more, then, mingled with the body, will it perish;
for what seeps through is dissolved, and therefore perishes;
for it is scattered through all the passages of the body.
Just as food, when it is distributed through all the limbs and joints,
perishes, and supplies from itself another nature,
so soul and mind, however whole and fresh they enter
the body, are nonetheless dissolved as they seep through it,
while, distributed as if through channels into all the limbs,
the particles from which this nature of the mind is formed
— which now holds sway in our body, born
from that soul which then perished, divided among the limbs.
Wherefore the nature of the soul seems to be deprived neither of a birth-day
nor to be without a death.
Besides, are seeds of the soul left behind, or not,
in the lifeless body? But if they are left and remain within,
it will not follow that it can rightly be held immortal,
since it has withdrawn diminished, having lost some parts.
But if it has been taken away and fled with the limbs left whole,
so as to have left no part of itself behind in the body,
where do the worms that emerge from corpses, once the flesh has rotted, come from,
and where does such a huge number of living things come from
surge through the boneless and bloodless swollen limbs?
But if perhaps you believe that souls steal in from outside
into the worms' bodies, each its own,
and do not consider why so many thousands of souls
should gather where a single one has departed — this, however, is a matter
that seems to need investigating and bringing to a decision:
whether, after all, the souls each go hunting for the seeds
of the little worms, and build for themselves a place to be in,
or steal in as though into bodies already complete.
But there is no way to say why they should do this themselves, or why
they should take the trouble. For indeed, when they are without a body,
they do not flit about troubled by diseases and cold and hunger;
for it is the body that suffers, being more subject to these ills,
and the mind endures many evils by contagion from it.
But even granting that it may be useful for them to make a body for themselves,
when they enter it — still, by what way they could, no way appears.
Souls, then, do not make bodies and limbs for themselves.
Nor again is there any way that they steal into bodies already
complete; for they could not be so finely
joined, nor would sympathetic contact between them come about.
Again, why does the fierce violence of savage lions follow
their breed, cunning the foxes', and flight the deer's?
It is given from their fathers, and inherited fear stirs their limbs,
and why, in general, do all other traits of this kind arise in their limbs
from the very outset of life, and in their character too,
if not because a fixed power of mind grows, together with the body,
from its own particular seed and stock?
But if it were immortal and were accustomed to change
bodies, living creatures would have mixed-up characters:
often a dog of Hyrcanian stock would flee
the charge of the horned deer, and the hawk would tremble through the breezes
of the air, fleeing before the oncoming dove,
men would lack sense, and the wild races of beasts would have it.
For that claim rests on false reasoning, which says
that an immortal soul is altered by a change of body;
for what is changed, is dissolved, and therefore perishes;
for its parts are transposed and shift their order;
wherefore they must also be able to be dissolved throughout the limbs,
so that in the end all perish together with the body.
But if they say that human souls always go
into human bodies, I will still ask why, from a wise one,
a foolish one can come to be, and why no child is prudent,
[if not because a fixed power of mind grows from its own seed and stock,]
nor a mare's foal so skilled as the mighty horse's strength.
Surely they will take refuge in saying that the mind grows tender
in a tender body. But if this is indeed so, you must admit
that the soul is mortal, since, so changed throughout the limbs,
it loses so completely its former life and sense.
Or in what way will the power of the mind, made strong,
be able to reach, together with the body, the longed-for flower of youth,
unless it is its partner from its very first origin?
Or why does it want to go forth out of its aging limbs?
Does it fear to remain shut up in a decaying body,
lest its house, worn out by the long span of age,
crush it? But there are no dangers at all for something immortal.
Again, that souls should stand ready for the couplings of Venus
and the births of beasts seems to be simply ridiculous —
immortal souls waiting for mortal limbs
in countless number, and competing in headlong haste
among themselves as to which shall be first and foremost to steal in;
unless perhaps such are the compacts agreed among souls,
that whichever comes flying first steals in first,
and they do not contend at all among themselves by force.
Again, no tree can exist in the upper air, nor clouds
in the deep sea, nor fish live in the fields,
nor blood be in wood, nor sap in stones.
It is fixed and settled where each thing may grow and be found.
So the nature of the mind cannot arise alone, without the body,
nor exist apart, far from the sinews and blood.
For if it could, the power of the mind itself would sooner
be in the head, or the shoulders, or the very heels,
and it would be accustomed to be born in any part whatever,
provided only that it remained in the same man and in the same vessel.
But since it is fixed, even in our own body, and settled
where soul and mind can be and grow,
apart, all the more must it be denied
that they could endure and be born entirely outside the body.
Wherefore, when the body has perished, you must admit
that the soul, scattered throughout the whole body, has perished.
For indeed to yoke the mortal with the eternal, and to suppose
that they can agree together and perform mutual functions,
is folly; for what can be thought more different,
or more disjoined and at odds with itself,
than a mortal thing joined in partnership with something immortal
and everlasting, enduring savage storms together?
Besides, whatever things endure must necessarily
either, because they are of solid body, repel blows
and not allow anything to penetrate that could loosen
their close-packed parts within — as are the bodies of matter,
whose nature we have shown before,
or else be able to last through all time
because they are free of blows, as is the void,
which remains untouched and is not affected at all by a blow,
or else because there is no supply of space around them
into which, as it were, things could depart and be dissolved,
as the sum of sums is eternal, and there is no place
outside it into which things might scatter, nor are there bodies
that could strike it and dissolve it with a strong blow.
But if perhaps it is to be thought immortal for this reason,
because it is kept guarded by the things that support life,
either because things hostile to its safety do not come at all,
or because those that do come withdraw by some means,
driven off before we can feel whatever harm they might do —
* * *
For besides falling sick along with the diseases of the body,
there comes upon it that which often, from things yet to come,
wears it down, and afflicts it in fear, and wearies it with cares,
and, over past wrongs committed, sins gnaw at it again.
Add the mind's own madness, and forgetfulness of things,
add that it is plunged into the black waves of lethargy.
Death, therefore, is nothing to us, and does not concern us at all,
since the nature of the mind is held to be mortal.
And just as in time gone by we felt nothing troubling,
when the Carthaginians came from every side to give battle,
when all things, shaken by the fearful turmoil of war,
trembled in dread beneath the high breezes of the sky,
and it was in doubt into whose dominion
all mankind, on land and sea, would fall —
so, when we shall no longer exist, once the parting of body and soul
— from which we are formed, joined together as one —
has taken place, then to us, who will no longer exist,
nothing at all will be able to happen or stir any feeling,
not even if earth were mixed with sea, and sea with sky.
And even if, after the nature and power of the mind
and soul has been torn apart from our body, it does still feel,
still that is nothing to us, who exist only through the union and marriage
of body and soul, joined together as one.
Nor, if time should gather our matter back together
after our death, and restore it again as it is now arranged,
and the light of life were once more given to us,
would even that event, once done, concern us at all,
once our recollection of ourselves has once been broken.
And now nothing that concerns those selves we were before
touches us now, nor does any anguish over them afflict us.
For when you look back over the whole span
of immeasurable time gone by, and consider how manifold
the motions of matter are, you could easily believe this too:
that these same seeds, often placed in the same order as they now are,
the very ones of which we now consist, have existed before.
Yet we cannot recall this with a remembering mind;
for a pause of life has been interposed, and all the motions
have strayed everywhere astray from our senses.
For if things are to go badly and painfully for someone,
he himself must also exist at that very time, to whom harm
can happen. Since death removes this, and forbids the existence
of him to whom troubles could be brought together,
we may know that there is nothing to be feared in death for us,
and that one who does not exist cannot become wretched, and it makes no difference at all
whether he had never been born at any time at all,
once immortal death has taken away mortal life.
So, when you see a man complaining bitterly about himself,
that after death his body, once laid down, will rot,
or perish in flames, or in the jaws of beasts,
you may know that his words do not ring true, and that some hidden
blind sting lurks in his heart, however much he himself denies
believing that any sensation will remain for him in death;
for he does not, I think, actually grant what he promises, nor the ground
from which it follows, nor does he root himself out and cast himself entirely from life,
but unknowingly makes something of himself survive.
For when a man, while alive, pictures to himself what is to come —
that in death birds and beasts will tear his body —
he pities himself; for he does not truly separate himself from it,
nor withdraw himself far enough from the body cast out,
but imagines himself as that body, and, standing by, taints it with his own feeling.
Hence he resents that he was created mortal,
and does not see that in true death there will be no other self of his,
able, while alive, to mourn for himself as slain,
and, standing there, to grieve that he lies torn apart or burned.
For if it is an evil in death to be mangled by the jaws
and teeth of beasts, I do not see why it should not also be bitter
to be laid on fires and scorched by hot flames,
or set in honey and suffocate, or stiffen
with cold, lying on the flat top of a chilly stone,
or be pressed down, crushed from above by the weight of the earth.
'No longer will your happy home welcome you, nor your excellent
wife, nor will your sweet children run to meet you for a kiss
and touch your heart with a silent sweetness.
You will not be able to be a protection to your flourishing affairs
and to your own. 'Wretched man, wretchedly,' they say, 'one hostile day
has taken from you all these rewards of life.'
But this they do not add to their words: 'nor does any longing
for these things settle upon you any longer.'
If they saw this clearly, and followed it through in what they say,
they would free their minds of great anguish and fear.
'You indeed, as you are now put to sleep by death, so will you be for all
the time remaining, freed from every grievous pain;
but we, beside the dreadful pyre where you were turned to ash,
have wept for you insatiably, and no day
will ever take that eternal grief from our hearts.'
This, then, must be asked of such a man: what bitterness is there in it,
so very great, if the matter comes down to sleep and rest,
that anyone should waste away in eternal mourning.
Men do this too, when they have reclined at table and hold
their cups, often, and shade their faces with garlands —
they say, from the heart: 'brief is this enjoyment for us poor mortals;
soon it will be gone, and afterward it will never be possible to call it back.'
as if this were, among the evils of death, foremost of all for them —
that thirst should burn the poor wretches and parching heat scorch them,
or a longing for some other thing settle upon them.
For no one then misses himself or his life,
when mind and body alike lie still, put to sleep;
for as far as we are concerned this sleep could go on forever,
and no longing for ourselves affects us at all,
and yet at that time those first-beginnings, through our limbs,
do not stray at all far from the motions that carry sense,
when a man, roused, gathers himself up out of sleep.
Death, then, must be thought far less to us,
if less than nothing can be, than what we see to be nothing;
for a greater scattering of the mass of matter
follows upon death, and no one wakes and rises,
once the cold pause of life has overtaken him.
Again, if the nature of things should suddenly find a voice
and herself rebuke one of us in these terms:
'What is so gravely wrong with you, mortal, that you give yourself over
to such sick mourning? Why do you groan and weep over death?
For if the life you have lived up to now has been pleasing to you,
and all its blessings have not drained away and been lost as though poured
into some leaking vessel, and perished ungathered,
why do you not withdraw like a satisfied guest from the feast of life,
and take, fool, an untroubled rest with equal mind?
But if all that you have enjoyed has been squandered and has perished,
and life is a burden to you, why do you seek to add still more,
which will again be wasted badly, and pass away entirely without enjoyment,
rather than putting an end to life and its labor?
For as for anything else I might contrive and find for you
to please you, there is nothing; everything is always the same.
Even if your body has not yet withered with years, and your limbs
grown weary do not yet fail, still everything remains the same,
even if you should go on outliving generation after generation,
or rather still more so, if you were never to die at all' —
what can we answer, except that nature is bringing a just complaint
and setting forth in her words a true case?
But if here some older man, further along in years, should complain
and lament his death, poor wretch, more than is fitting,
would she not rightly cry out at him still more, and rebuke him with a sharp voice:
'Away with your tears from here, glutton, and check your complaints.
You wither having enjoyed all the rewards of life to the full;
but because you always crave what is absent, you scorn what is present,
and so life has slipped from you unfinished and unenjoyed,
and death has stood at your head before you expected it,
before you could depart sated and full of things.
Now, all the same, let go of everything unsuited to your age,
and with equal mind, come now, yield to necessity's demands?'
Justly, I think, would she act so, justly rebuke and reproach;
for the old, ever, gives way, driven out by the new order of things,
always, and one thing must always be made good from another.
And no one is thrown down into the pit or black Tartarus;
matter is needed, so that future generations may grow;
yet all of them, their own lives spent, will follow you;
and no less than you, they too have fallen before this, and will fall.
So one thing will never cease to arise from another,
and life is given to no one as a possession, to all only for use.
Consider likewise how the ages of eternal time gone by,
before we are born, are nothing at all to us.
This, then, is the mirror nature holds up to us
of the time to come, after our death at last.
Does anything dreadful appear there? Does anything seem sad,
anything that does not stand more untroubled than any sleep?
And indeed, whatever things are said to happen
in the deep of Acheron, all of them exist for us in this life.
No wretched Tantalus, as the story goes, fears the huge rock hanging
over him in the air, frozen with empty terror;
but rather in this life an empty fear of the gods weighs on
mortals, and they fear whatever chance may bring each one.
Nor do birds attack Tityos as he lies in Acheron,
nor indeed can they find anything, deep in his vast breast,
to search out and prey on for all eternity.
However huge the sprawl of his body may be,
even if his limbs, spread out, do not cover nine acres alone
but the whole circle of the earth,
still he will not be able to endure eternal pain
nor forever supply food from his own body.
But Tityos is here for us — the man lying in love,
whom birds tear, and whom anxious anguish devours,
or whom cares rend with any other craving.
Sisyphus, too, is before our eyes in this life,
the man who longs to seek from the people the rods of office and cruel axes,
and always withdraws defeated and downcast.
For to seek power, which is empty and never granted,
and in that pursuit always to endure harsh toil,
this is like pushing a stone by straining up a steep mountainside,
which nevertheless, once from the very top,
rolls back down and rushes swiftly for the level plain below.
Then to feed forever the mind's ungrateful nature
and fill it with good things and never satisfy it,
as the seasons of the year do for us, circling
round as they return, bringing crops and varied delights,
and yet we are never sated with life's fruits —
this, I think, is like what they tell of maidens in the flower of youth
pouring liquid into a leaking vessel,
which nevertheless can by no means be filled.
Cerberus, too, and the Furies, and the want of light,
and Tartarus belching forth dreadful heat from its jaws!
These do not exist anywhere, nor indeed can they exist;
but in this life there is a fear of punishment for evil deeds,
outstanding for outstanding crimes, and atonement for wrongdoing,
prison, and the dreadful hurling down from the rock,
floggings, executioners, the block, pitch, the branding-plate, the torch;
and even though these are absent, still the mind, conscious of its deeds,
fearing beforehand, applies its own goads and scourges itself with whips,
nor meanwhile does it see what limit there can be to its ills
or what, in the end, the boundary of its punishments may be,
and fears rather that these same torments may grow heavier in death.
Here, in the end, the life of fools becomes a very Acheron.
This too you might sometimes say to yourself:
'Even good Ancus closed his eyes and left the light,
a man better than you, wicked one, in many ways.
After him many other kings and men mighty over affairs
have died, men who ruled over great nations.
That man too, who once laid a road across the great sea
and gave his legions a path to march over the deep,
and taught them to walk on foot over the salt lagoons
and, prancing on horses, scorned the roaring of the sea,
had the light taken from him, and poured out his soul from a dying body.
Scipio, thunderbolt of war, terror of Carthage,
gave his bones to the earth just as if he had been the lowest slave.
Add the discoverers of learning and of the graceful arts,
add the companions of the Muses of Helicon; of whom Homer, one,
who held the scepter alone above the rest, now sleeps the same sleep as others.
Then Democritus too, once ripe old age
warned him that the remembering motions of his mind were growing feeble,
of his own accord offered his head to meet death.
Epicurus himself died, the light of his life having run its course,
he who surpassed the human race in genius, and put out
all the stars, as the risen sun of heaven does.
And will you hesitate and resent dying,
you, whose life is already almost dead while you still live and see,
you who waste the greater part of your time in sleep,
and snore while awake, and never cease seeing dreams,
and carry about a mind troubled by empty terror,
and often cannot find out what is wrong with you, when,
drunk, you are beset, poor wretch, by many cares on every side,
and drift and wander with an unsteady mind astray.'
If men, just as they seem to feel
that a weight lies on their mind, wearying it with its heaviness,
could likewise know from what causes this comes about, and where it comes from —
so great a mass of trouble settles in their breast,
they would not lead their lives as we now generally see them do,
each not knowing what he wants, and always seeking,
changing his place, as if he could set down his burden.
Often a man goes out from his great house,
weary of being at home, and suddenly returns,
since he feels no better at all outside.
He drives his ponies headlong to his country house,
rushing as if to bring help to a burning building;
he yawns at once, the moment he reaches the threshold of the villa,
or falls into heavy sleep and seeks forgetfulness,
or, hurrying again, heads back to the city and revisits it.
In this way each man flees from himself, but that self, of course, as happens,
he cannot escape: it clings to him against his will, and he hates it,
because, being sick, he does not grasp the cause of his sickness;
if he saw this clearly, each man, abandoning everything else,
would first strive to learn the nature of things,
since what is at stake is the condition of eternal time,
not of a single hour, in which all the age that remains for mortals
awaits them after death, however long it lasts.
Again, what evil desire for life drives us
to tremble so greatly amid uncertain dangers?
Surely a fixed end of life stands before mortals,
and death cannot be avoided; we must meet it.
Besides, we keep turning in the same round, and remain always within it,
and no new pleasure is forged by living on;
but while what we crave is absent, it seems to outweigh
everything else; then, once we have gotten it, we crave something else,
and the same thirst grips us, forever gaping open for life.
And it is uncertain what fortune the age to come will bring us,
or what chance may carry, or what end may be at hand.
And by prolonging our life we take away nothing at all
from the time of death, nor can we shave off any of it,
so as to be dead any less long, once we are gone.
So you may live through as many generations as you like,
yet that eternal death will still await you all the same,
and the man who made an end of his life this very day
will be no less long non-existent than he
who died many months and years before.