Seneca · a new plain-English translation from the Latin
[1] The book you promised me has arrived. I opened it meaning to read at my leisure, intending only a taste; then the thing itself coaxed me on and on. How eloquent it is you may judge from this: it felt light in my hands, though its bulk was not like mine or yours - at first glance it might have passed for Livy or Epicurus. But it held me, pulled me along with such sweetness that I read it straight through without stopping. The sun was inviting me out, hunger was nagging, clouds were threatening rain; still I drained it to the last drop. [2] I was not merely entertained; I rejoiced. What talent the book showed, what spirit! I would have said 'what bursts of force!' if it had rested now and then, if it had risen up at intervals; as it was, there were no bursts - it was one sustained pull. The style is manly and clean, and yet that sweetness, that gentleness in the right place, kept appearing through it. You are large; you stand tall: hold onto that, keep walking that way. The subject matter did some of the work too - which is why one should choose a subject that is fertile, that gives talent room and spurs it on.
[3] I will write more about the book when I have gone over it again; for now my judgment is not settled - it is as if I had heard it rather than read it. Let me examine it too. You have nothing to fear: you will hear the truth. What a lucky man you are, to own nothing that would make anyone lie to you from this far away! - except that by now we lie even when the reason for lying is gone, purely out of habit. Farewell.