Seneca · a new plain-English translation from the Latin
You write that you're anxious about the outcome of a lawsuit, which your enemy's rage has threatened you with, and you suppose I'll advise you to picture something better for yourself and settle into a comforting hope. But what need is there to go looking for trouble, to anticipate sufferings that will come soon enough on their own, and to ruin the present by fearing the future? It is foolish, without question, to be miserable now simply because you may be miserable someday. But I will lead you to peace of mind by a different road: if you want to strip off every anxiety, then assume that whatever you fear may happen is certainly going to happen; measure that evil, whatever it is, in your own mind, and put a price on your fear. You will surely find that what you dread is either not great or not lasting. Nor do you need to spend long gathering examples to steady yourself: every age has produced them. Send your memory into any quarter of affairs, domestic or foreign, and you will meet minds distinguished either by their progress or by their daring. If you are condemned, can anything harsher befall you than to be sent into exile, or led off to prison? Is there anything beyond these that anyone need dread, except burning, except death? Take these things one by one and summon the men who have despised them — men one does not have to hunt for, only choose among. Rutilius bore his condemnation as though nothing about it troubled him except that the verdict was wrong. Metellus bore exile bravely, Rutilius even gladly; the one granted his return as a gift to the state, the other refused his return to Sulla — to whom, in those days, nothing was refused. In prison Socrates held his discussions, and though there were men who promised him escape, he refused to leave; he stayed, to rid mankind of its fear of the two heaviest things, death and prison. Mucius laid his hand on the flames. It is bitter to be burned: how much more bitter when you inflict it on yourself! Here you see a man with no education, drilled by no precepts against death or pain, equipped only with a soldier's toughness, exacting from himself the penalty for a failed attempt: he stood as a spectator of his own right hand dripping in the enemy's brazier, and did not withdraw the hand, melting to the bare bones, until the enemy pulled the fire away. He could have done something luckier in that camp — nothing braver. See how much fiercer virtue is in seizing dangers than cruelty in inflicting them: Porsenna found it easier to pardon Mucius for having meant to kill him than Mucius to pardon himself for having failed.
But I'll lead you to peace of mind by another road. If you want to strip away all anxiety, assume that whatever you're afraid might happen will happen for certain, and whatever that evil turns out to be, measure it for yourself and put a price on your fear. You'll realize soon enough that what you're afraid of is either not so great, or not so lasting. Nor do you need to hunt far for examples to steady yourself; every age has supplied them. Send your memory into any corner of history, public or foreign, and great characters, great achievements, great courage, will come to meet you. Can anything worse happen to you, if you're condemned, than being sent into exile, being led off to prison? Is there anything anyone need fear beyond being burned, beyond dying? Set each of these terrors up one at a time, and summon the men who scorned them—there's no need to search for them, only to choose among them. Rutilius bore his own condemnation as if nothing troubled him except that the verdict had been unjust. Metellus endured exile bravely; Rutilius endured it gladly. The one gave the state the gift of his return; the other refused to return even when Sulla, to whom nothing was then refused, offered it. Socrates debated philosophy in prison, and when there were those ready to promise him escape, he refused to leave and stayed, so as to lift from mankind the fear of two of its heaviest burdens, death and imprisonment. Mucius thrust his hand into the flames. It's a bitter thing to be burned—how much more bitter to endure it by your own hand! You see a man untrained in letters, armed against death or pain by no philosophical precept, equipped only with a soldier's toughness, exacting from himself the penalty for a failed attempt; he stood and watched his own right hand dripping over the enemy's brazier, and did not pull his hand away, bones bare and flesh melting, until the fire was taken from him by the very enemy he'd meant to kill. He could have done something luckier in that camp, but nothing braver. See how much keener courage is at seeking out danger than cruelty is at inflicting it: Porsenna forgave Mucius more easily for wanting to kill him than Mucius forgave himself for failing to.
I am not piling up examples now to exercise my wit, but to hearten you against what seems most terrifying of all; and I will hearten you the more easily by showing that not only brave men have despised this moment when the breath goes out, but that certain men, cowards in everything else, have in this one matter matched the spirit of the bravest — like that Scipio, father-in-law of Gnaeus Pompey, who, driven back to Africa by a contrary wind and seeing his ship in the enemy's hands, ran himself through with his sword; and when men asked where the commander was, he said, 'The commander is well.' That one utterance made him the equal of his ancestors and refused to let the glory that destiny had assigned the Scipios in Africa be broken off. It was a great thing to conquer Carthage; a greater thing to conquer death. 'The commander is well': should a commander have died any other way — and Cato's commander at that? I am not calling you back to the history books, nor collecting from every century the despisers of death, who are legion. Look at these times of ours, whose softness and daintiness we complain of: they will supply men of every rank, every fortune, every age, who cut their troubles short by death. Believe me, Lucilius, death is so far from being fearful that by its favor nothing is fearful. So listen to your enemy's threats with an untroubled mind; and although your own conscience gives you confidence, still — since many things outside the merits of the case carry weight — hope for what is most just, and prepare yourself for what is most unjust. But remember this above everything: strip the uproar from things and see what each thing actually is: you will find that there is nothing terrible in them except the fear itself. What you see happen to children happens to us too, children of a somewhat larger growth: the people they love, are used to, play with — if they see them in masks, they are terrified. It is not only from people but from things that the mask must be pulled off and the true face restored. Why do you show me swords and fires and a mob of executioners roaring around you? Take away that pageantry behind which you hide and frighten fools: you are death, whom lately my slave, my serving-girl, despised. Why do you again unfold, with great fanfare, your whips and racks? Why the separate contraptions fitted to wrench each separate joint, and the thousand other instruments for butchering a man piece by piece? Lay aside these things that stun us; silence the groans and the shrieks and the bitter cries forced out between the tearings: you are, after all, pain — which that gout-ridden man despises, which that dyspeptic endures in the midst of his delicacies, which a girl bears through in childbirth. You are light if I can bear you; you are brief if I cannot.
Turn these things over in your mind — things you have often heard, often said; but prove by the result whether you truly heard them, whether you truly said them. For this is the most shameful charge usually thrown at us: that we handle the words of philosophy, not its works. Well? Is this the first moment you have known that death hangs over you, or exile, or pain? You were born to these things; let us think of whatever can happen as something that will. What I am urging you to do, I know for certain you have done: now I warn you not to drown your mind in this anxiety, or it will grow dull and have too little vigor left when the moment comes to rise. Draw it away from your private case to the case of mankind. Tell yourself that this little body of yours is mortal and fragile, and that pain will be served on it not only by injustice or by superior force: its very pleasures turn into torments — feasts bring indigestion, drinking bouts bring numbness and trembling of the sinews, lusts bring deformities of the feet, the hands, every joint. I shall become poor: I shall be one of the many. I shall become an exile: I shall consider myself born in the place they send me. I shall be put in chains: what of it? Am I unfettered now? Nature has bound me fast to this heavy weight of my body. I shall die: what you are saying is this — I shall cease to be able to fall sick, cease to be able to be chained, cease to be able to die.
I'm not piling up these examples now to show off my learning, but to urge you against the thing that seems most terrible of all. And I'll urge you more effectively if I show that it was not only brave men who scorned this moment of breathing out the soul, but that some, cowards in every other respect, matched in this one thing the courage of the very bravest—like that Scipio, Pompey's father-in-law, who, driven back to Africa by a contrary wind, and seeing his ship seized by the enemy, ran himself through with his sword, and when they asked where the general was, said: 'The general is doing just fine.' That saying put him on a level with his ancestors and did not let the glory fated to the Scipios in Africa be interrupted. It was a great thing to conquer Carthage, but a greater thing to conquer death. 'The general is doing just fine': and should a general—Cato's general, no less—have died any other way? I'm not sending you back to history books, and I'm not gathering up, from every century, the countless men who scorned death. Look instead to our own times, whose lethargy and self-indulgence we complain about: men of every rank will offer themselves up, of every fortune, of every age, men who cut short their troubles by dying. Believe me, Lucilius, death is so far from being something to fear that, thanks to it, nothing is left to fear. So listen calmly to your enemy's threats. And even though your own clear conscience gives you confidence, still, because many things outside the merits of the case carry weight, hope for the fairest outcome, but brace yourself for the most unfair. Above all, remember this: strip things of their commotion and see what's actually in each one; you'll find there's nothing terrible in any of it except the fear itself. What you see happen to children happens to us too, grown-up children that we are: those they love, those they're used to, those they play with, if they see them wearing a mask, they're terrified. It's not only people but things from which the mask must be removed, and their true face given back. Why show me swords and fires and a crowd of executioners snarling around you? Take away that pageantry behind which you hide and with which you frighten fools: you are death, the very thing my slave and my slave-girl recently scorned. Why do you unpack, with such elaborate show, whips and racks for me again? Why the devices fitted to each separate joint to wrench it apart, and the thousand other instruments for tearing a man to pieces bit by bit? Put away the things that stun us; command the groans and cries and the shrill sounds crushed out amid the torture to fall silent: you are, after all, only pain, the very thing that man with gout scorns, that the man with a stomach ailment endures in the midst of his indulgences, that a girl bears through in childbirth. You are light, if I can bear you; you are brief, if I cannot.
Turn these things over in your mind—things you've often heard, often said yourself. But whether you've truly heard them, truly said them, prove by the outcome; for this is the most shameful charge leveled at us, that we deal in the words of philosophy and not its works. What—have you only just now learned that death hangs over you, or exile, or pain? You were born to these. Whatever can happen, let's think of it as something that will happen. I know for certain you've already been doing what I'm urging you to do; now I'm only reminding you not to let your mind sink into this anxiety, for it will grow dull and have less vigor when the moment comes to rise up. Draw it away from your private case to the universal one: tell yourself your body is a mortal, fragile little thing, one from which pain can be threatened not only by injury or by more powerful hands—even pleasures themselves turn into torments, feasts bring on indigestion, drunkenness brings the trembling numbness of the nerves, lust brings the ruin of feet, hands, and every joint.
I'll become poor: I'll be in the company of the many. I'll be exiled: I'll consider myself born wherever I'm sent. I'll be put in chains: well, what of it—am I unbound now? Nature has tied me down already to this heavy burden of my own body. I'll die: that only means I'll stop being able to fall sick, I'll stop being able to be chained, I'll stop being able to die.
I'm not so foolish as to go chasing after the Epicurean tune at this point and tell you that fears of the underworld are empty, that Ixion isn't spun on his wheel, that Sisyphus doesn't push his boulder uphill, that no one's entrails grow back daily only to be torn out again; no one is so childish as to be afraid of Cerberus, and darkness, and ghostly shapes clinging to bare bones. Death either destroys us or strips us bare. For those set free, better things remain once the burden is dropped; for those destroyed, nothing remains at all—good and bad are equally swept away. Allow me here to quote a line of your own, after first reminding you to consider that you wrote it not only for others but for yourself as well. It's shameful to say one thing and think another; how much more shameful to write one thing and think another! I remember you once treated that theme, that we don't fall into death all at once, but move toward it little by little. We die every day; every day some part of life is taken from us, and even while we're growing, life is shrinking. We lost infancy, then boyhood, then adolescence. All the time that has passed, right up to yesterday, is gone; even this very day we're living we share with death. Just as a water-clock is emptied not by the last drop but by everything that has flowed out before, so the final hour, in which we cease to exist, does not by itself cause death, but only completes it; we arrive at death then, but we have been a long time on the way. When you had described all this in your own style—always great, but never sharper than when you lend your words to the truth—you said, 'death does not come just once; the death that carries us off is only the last of many.' I'd rather you read your own words than my letter; for it will be clear to you that the death we fear is the final one, not the only one. I can see what you're waiting for: you want to know what I've tucked into this letter, some spirited saying, some useful maxim. I'll send you something drawn from the very material we've just been handling. Epicurus rebukes, no less, those who crave death than those who fear it, and says: 'It is ridiculous to run toward death out of weariness with life, when it is your own way of living that has made running toward death necessary.' Elsewhere he says something similar: 'What is so ridiculous as seeking death, when it's the fear of death that has made your life restless?' To these you may add another saying of the same stamp: that men's thoughtlessness—madness, really—runs so deep that some are driven to death by the very fear of death. Whichever of these you turn over in your mind, you will strengthen your spirit either for enduring death or for enduring life; for we need to be advised and steadied for both directions, so that we neither love life too much nor hate it too much. Even when reason persuades us to end our own life, the impulse must not be seized rashly or with a headlong rush. A brave and wise man ought not to flee life, but to walk out of it; and above all, that other feeling should be avoided too, the one that has taken hold of so many—the craving to die. For there is, my dear Lucilius, just as in other matters, an ill-considered inclination of the mind toward dying as well, one that often seizes men of noble and keenest character, and often the cowardly and listless too: the former scorn life, the latter find it a burden. Some are overtaken by a weariness of doing and seeing the same things, and by a distaste for life—not hatred, but disgust—into which we slide thanks to philosophy itself pushing us along, as we say: 'How much longer the same things? I'll wake up, sleep, eat, go hungry, freeze, sweat. Nothing has an end; everything is linked in a circle, fleeing and pursuing in turn; night presses on day, day on night; summer ends in autumn, autumn is pressed by winter, which is checked by spring; everything passes only to come back around. I do nothing new, I see nothing new: eventually one grows sick of this too.' There are many who judge that living is not bitter, but simply pointless. Farewell.