Seneca · a new plain-English translation from the Latin
Seneca to his dear Lucilius: greetings. Some have accepted only that part of philosophy which gives each person rules suited to his particular role, and does not shape the whole human being but advises a husband how to conduct himself with his wife, a father how to raise his children, a master how to govern his slaves — leaving the rest to wander about as though useless to us, as if anyone could give advice about a part who had not first grasped the sum of a whole life. Ariston the Stoic takes the opposite view: he considers this part lightweight, one that never sinks all the way into the heart, a collection of old wives' precepts. What does the most good, he says, are the very doctrines of philosophy and the settling of the highest good: 'the man who has well understood and learned that prescribes for himself what is to be done in each situation.' Just as a man learning to throw the javelin fixes on his target and trains his hand to guide what he hurls — and once he has acquired this power through instruction and practice, he uses it wherever he wishes, for he has learned to hit not this mark or that but whatever mark he chooses — so the man who has equipped himself for life as a whole does not need to be advised piecemeal, since he has been taught for the whole: not how to live with a wife or with a son, but how to live well — and how to live with wife and children is contained in that. Cleanthes, for his part, judges this branch useful too, but feeble unless it flows from the whole — unless one has come to know the very doctrines and chief principles of philosophy.
The question, then, divides into two: whether this part of philosophy is useful or useless, and whether it can by itself make a good man — that is, whether it is superfluous or makes everything else superfluous. Those who want this part to appear superfluous argue as follows: if something held in front of the eyes blocks the sight, it must be removed; as long as the obstruction is there, you waste your labor telling a man 'walk this way; stretch your hand out over there.' In the same way, when something blinds the mind and hinders it from making out the order of its duties, one accomplishes nothing by prescribing 'live thus with your father, thus with your wife.' Precepts will do no good so long as error clouds the mind; if the error is dispelled, it will become plain what each duty requires. Otherwise you are teaching a sick man what a healthy man ought to do — you are not making him healthy. You show a pauper how to act the rich man: how can that be done while his poverty remains? You point out to a starving man what he might do on a full stomach: rather pull out the hunger lodged in his marrow. The same, I tell you, holds for all the vices: the vices themselves must be removed, not instructions given for what cannot be done while they remain. Unless you drive out the false opinions under which we labor, the greedy man will not hear how money should be used, nor the coward how to look down on dangers. You must bring him to know that money is neither a good nor an evil; you must show him rich men who are utterly wretched; you must bring him to know that whatever we publicly dread is not so fearsome as rumor makes it — that no one grieves long, and no one dies more than once; that in death, which it is our law to undergo, there is this great consolation, that it comes to no one twice; that in pain, stubbornness of spirit will serve as a remedy, since the soul makes anything lighter for itself by suffering it defiantly; that pain's nature is the best thing about it — what stretches on cannot be great, and what is great cannot stretch on; and that everything the world's necessity commands must be met bravely. When by these doctrines you have brought him to a clear view of his own condition, and he has learned that the happy life is not the one that follows pleasure but the one that follows nature; when he has fallen in love with virtue as man's only good and fled disgrace as the only evil, and knows that everything else — riches, offices, good health, strength, commands — is a middle territory, to be counted neither with the goods nor with the evils: then he will not need an adviser at his elbow for every single act, saying 'walk like this, dine like this; this befits a man, this a woman; this a husband, this a bachelor.' The people who give such advice most diligently cannot practice it themselves; these are the precepts a tutor gives a boy, a grandmother her grandson, and it is the most hot-tempered schoolmaster who argues that one must not lose one's temper. Walk into any elementary school and you will find that the maxims philosophers deliver with towering eyebrows are all there in the children's copybook.
Just as a man learning to throw a javelin aims at a fixed target and trains his hand to guide what he throws, and once he has gained this skill from training and practice he can use it against any target he chooses—for he has learned not to hit this or that particular mark, but whatever mark he wishes—so too the man who has trained himself for the whole of life has no need to be reminded piece by piece, since he has been taught in general terms, not how to live with a wife or a son, but how to live well: and living well includes how to live with a wife and children. Cleanthes, too, judges this part useful, but weak unless it flows from the whole—unless he has already learned the very doctrines and headings of philosophy.
This topic, then, divides into two questions: whether it is useful or useless, and whether by itself it can produce a good man—that is, whether it is superfluous, or whether it alone makes everything else superfluous. Those who want this part to seem superfluous argue as follows: if something placed before the eyes hinders one's sight, it must be removed; but if it is left in place, whoever advises 'walk this way, reach out your hand there' wastes his effort. In the same way, when something blinds the mind and hinders it from discerning the order of duties, the man who advises 'live this way with your father, that way with your wife' accomplishes nothing. Rules will do no good so long as error is spread over the mind; once that is dispelled, what is owed to each duty will become clear. Otherwise you are teaching a man what a healthy person should do, without making him healthy. You show a poor man how to act like a rich one: how can he do this while poverty remains? You show a starving man how to act as if he were full: better instead to remove the hunger fixed deep in his marrow. I say the same of every vice: the vices themselves must be removed, not rules prescribed that cannot be followed while the vices remain. Unless you drive out the false opinions under which we labor, the greedy man will not listen to how money should be used, nor the fearful man to how dangerous things should be scorned. You must bring it about that he knows money is neither good nor bad; you must show him the most wretched of rich men; you must bring it about that he knows whatever we publicly dread is not as fearsome as rumor makes out, that no one grieves long nor dies often: that in death, which the law compels us to endure, there is great comfort in the fact that it returns to no one; that in grief, the remedy will be firmness of mind, which lightens for itself whatever it has borne with stubbornness; that grief has this excellent trait, that what is drawn out cannot be great, and what is great cannot be drawn out; that everything the necessity of the world imposes on us must be met bravely. Once you have brought a man face to face with his own condition through these doctrines, and he has learned that the happy life is not the one according to pleasure but the one according to nature, once he has come to love virtue as man's one good and to flee baseness as his one evil, and has learned that everything else—riches, honors, good health, strength, power—falls into the middle category, to be counted among neither goods nor evils, he will no longer need someone to advise him point by point, telling him 'walk this way, dine this way; this suits a man, that a woman, this a husband, that a bachelor.' Those who most carefully give such advice are themselves unable to follow it; a tutor gives such rules to a boy, a grandmother to her grandson, and the most bad-tempered teacher lectures on why one should not lose one's temper. Step into an elementary school and you will find that what philosophers proclaim with such lofty brows is written into a schoolboy's copybook.
Next: will you give rules about things that are obvious, or things that are doubtful? Obvious things need no one to advise them; doubtful ones will not be believed on the say-so of the one advising. So it is superfluous to give rules at all. Learn this well: if what you advise is obscure and ambiguous, it will need to be backed by proofs; and if you are going to prove it, then the proofs by which you prove it carry more weight, and are sufficient in themselves. 'Treat your friend this way, your fellow citizen that way, your partner this way.' 'Why?' 'Because it is just.' All of that is handed to me by the topic of justice: there I find that fairness is to be sought for its own sake, that we are not driven to it by fear nor hired to it by reward, and that a man is not just if anything about this virtue pleases him besides the virtue itself. Once I have persuaded myself of this and drunk it in, what good do those rules do that merely instruct someone who already knows? Giving rules to a man who knows is superfluous, to a man who does not know it is not enough; for he needs to hear not only what is prescribed for him but why. I ask, then: are such rules necessary for a man who already holds true opinions about good and evil, or for one who does not? The man who does not have them will get no help from you; his ears are already occupied by rumor, which contradicts your advice. The man who has a settled judgment about what to seek and what to avoid knows what he must do even while you say nothing. So this whole branch of philosophy can be dispensed with.
There are two reasons we go wrong: either the mind is already infected with wickedness contracted from perverse opinions, or, even if it is not gripped by falsehoods, it is prone to them and quickly corrupted, drawn where it should not go by some appearance. So we must either fully cure a sick mind and free it from its vices, or forestall a mind that is still free but inclined toward the worse. Doctrines of philosophy accomplish either task; therefore this kind of rule-giving does nothing. Besides, if we give rules to individuals one by one, the task becomes impossible to encompass; we would have to give different rules to the moneylender, the farmer, the merchant, the man courting the friendship of kings, the man dealing with equals, the man dealing with inferiors. In marriage you would have to prescribe how a man should live with a wife he married as a virgin, and differently with one who had known another man before marriage; how with a wealthy wife, how with a dowerless one. Don't you think there is some difference between a barren wife and a fertile one, between an older woman and a young girl, between a mother and a stepmother? We cannot embrace every particular case, and yet each particular case demands its own rule, while the laws of philosophy are brief and bind everything at once. Add to this that the precepts of wisdom must be finite and definite; whatever cannot be made finite lies outside wisdom, since wisdom knows the limits of things. So this rule-giving part must be dispensed with, because it cannot deliver to everyone what it promises to only a few, whereas wisdom holds everyone within its grasp. Between public madness and the kind that is handed over to doctors there is no difference except that the latter suffers from disease, the former from false opinions; one draws the causes of its frenzy from bodily illness, the other's madness is a sickness of the mind itself. If someone gave a madman rules about how he should speak, how he should walk, how he should conduct himself in public, how in private, he would be more insane than the very man he was advising: black bile needs to be cured, and the cause of the madness itself removed. The same must be done in this other madness of the mind: it must itself be dispelled; otherwise the words of those giving advice will come to nothing.
This is what Ariston says; I will answer him point by point. First, against his claim that if something obstructs the eye and blocks vision it must be removed—I grant that in this case there is no need of rules for seeing, but of a remedy that clears the sight and lets it escape whatever obstruction is in its way; for we see by nature, and nature restores the use of sight to whoever removes the obstacles. But nature does not teach what is owed to each particular duty. Furthermore, once a man's cataract has been treated, he cannot immediately, upon regaining his sight, restore it to others as well; but a man freed from wickedness can free others too. There is no need of exhortation, nor even of advice, for the eye to recognize the properties of colors; it will distinguish white from black even with no one instructing it. But the mind needs many rules, by contrast, in order to see what must be done in life. And yet even in cases of the eyes, a doctor does not merely treat the sick but also advises them: 'There is no reason,' he says, 'to expose weak sight at once to harsh light; go first from darkness to shadowy places, then dare a little more, and gradually accustom your eyes to bear the full light. There is no reason to study right after eating, no reason to strain eyes that are full and swollen; avoid a draft and the force of cold air blowing in your face'—and other such things, which help no less than medicines do. Medicine adds counsel to its remedies.
'Error,' he says, 'is the cause of wrongdoing: rules do not remove this from us, nor do they conquer false opinions about good and evil.' I grant that rules by themselves are not effective at overturning a mind's perverse conviction; but that does not mean that, added to other things, they do no good. First, they refresh the memory; next, things that seemed rather confused when viewed as a whole are examined more carefully once divided into their parts. By this same reasoning you might say that consolations and exhortations are superfluous too—and yet they are not superfluous; therefore neither are admonitions. 'It is foolish,' he says, 'to prescribe to a sick man what a healthy man ought to do, when health itself must first be restored, without which the rules are useless.' But what of the fact that the sick and the healthy have certain things in common about which they need to be reminded—for instance, not to crave food greedily, to avoid exhaustion? Rich and poor alike have certain rules in common. 'Cure the greed,' he says, 'and you will have nothing to advise either the poor man or the rich man, once the craving of each has settled down.' But what of the fact that not craving money is one thing, and knowing how to use money is another? The greedy man does not know the limit of it, but even the non-greedy man may not know its proper use. 'Remove the errors,' he says, 'and the rules become superfluous.' That is false. Suppose greed has been loosened its grip, suppose extravagance has been reined in, rashness bridled, cowardice given a spur: even once the vices are removed, we still must learn what and how we ought to act. 'Admonitions,' he says, 'accomplish nothing against serious vices.' Not even medicine conquers incurable diseases, and yet it is applied—as a cure in some cases, as relief in others. Not even the whole force of philosophy, though it summon its entire strength to the task, will root out a plague grown hard and old in the mind; but it does not follow that it heals nothing just because it does not heal everything.
'What good does it do,' he says, 'to point out what is obvious?' A great deal; for sometimes we know something and simply are not paying attention. Admonition does not teach, but it turns our attention, rouses us, holds the memory in place and does not let it slip away. We pass by many things set right before our eyes; to remind someone is a form of exhortation. Often the mind conceals even what is obvious to it; the knowledge of the most familiar things must be forced back upon it. Here we should recall Calvus's line against Vatinius: 'You know that bribery took place, and everyone knows that you know it.' You know that friendships must be cultivated as sacred, but you do not do it. You know it is shameless for a man to demand chastity from his wife while himself corrupting other men's wives; you know that just as she should have nothing to do with an adulterer, you should have nothing to do with a mistress—and you do not act on it. So you need constantly to be led back to remembrance; such things ought not to be tucked away, but kept ready at hand. Whatever is beneficial must be turned over and handled often, so that it is not merely known to us but also ready for use. Add to this that even obvious things tend to become still more obvious when repeated.
'If what you prescribe is doubtful,' he says, 'you will need to add proofs; so it is the proofs, not the rules, that do the good.' But what of the fact that even without proofs, the very authority of the one advising is useful—just as the opinions of legal experts carry weight even when no reasoning is given for them? Besides, the very content of what is prescribed carries much weight on its own, especially when it is woven into verse or compressed into a pointed prose maxim, like that Catonian saying: 'Buy not what you need, but what is necessary; what you don't need is expensive even at a penny'—or sayings like those given as oracles, or similar to them: 'Use time sparingly,' 'Know thyself.' Would you demand a reason from anyone who quoted you these lines: 'Forgetfulness is the remedy for wrongs.' 'Fortune favors the bold; the sluggish man is his own obstacle.' Such things need no advocate: they touch the feelings themselves directly and succeed by nature's own force acting through them. The seeds of all honorable things lie in the mind, and admonition rouses them, just as a spark, helped by a light breath, unfolds its own fire; virtue rises up once it has been touched and given a push. Besides, some things are indeed already in the mind, but not readily at hand, which become available for use the moment they are spoken; other things lie scattered in different places, which an untrained mind cannot gather together on its own. So they must be collected into one and joined together, so that they carry more weight and lift the mind more effectively. Or else, if rules do no good at all, then all instruction should be abolished, and we should be content with nature alone. Those who say this fail to see that one man has a nimble, alert mind, another a slow and dull one, and that one man is simply more gifted than another. The power of talent is nourished and grows by instruction, adding new convictions to those already innate, and correcting what has gone astray.
'If someone,' he says, 'does not have correct doctrines, how will admonitions help him, bound as he is by his vices?' In this way: that they help free him from those very vices; for his natural disposition has not been extinguished in him, only obscured and suppressed. Even so it struggles to rise up again and strains against what is perverse, and once it has found support and been helped by rules, it grows strong—provided that a long-standing plague has not infected and killed it off; for in that case not even the discipline of philosophy, striving with its full force, will restore it. What difference is there, after all, between the doctrines of philosophy and its rules, except that the former are general precepts and the latter specific ones? Both alike prescribe, but one does so as a whole, the other piece by piece.
'If someone,' he says, 'already holds correct and honorable doctrines, then he is being advised for no reason.' Not at all; for even such a man, though taught what he ought to do, does not always see it clearly enough. We are hindered from doing what we should approve not only by our passions, but also by inexperience in finding out what each situation requires. Sometimes we have a well-ordered mind, but one that is sluggish and untrained in discovering the path of duty—a path that admonition points out.
'Expel,' he says, 'false opinions about good and evil, and put true ones in their place, and admonition will have nothing left to do.' Without doubt the mind is put in order by that method, but not by that alone; for even though it has been gathered by argument what things are good and evil, rules still have their own part to play. Both prudence and justice consist in duties; and duties are arranged by rules. Besides, our very judgment about good and evil is confirmed by the actual performance of duties, to which rules lead us. The two are mutually consistent: the doctrines cannot come first without the duties following, and the duties follow their own order—from which it is clear that the doctrines come first.
'Drive out false opinions about goods and evils,' he says, 'put true ones in their place, and admonition will have nothing left to do.' The mind is certainly set in order by that method — but not by that method alone. For even when argument has established which things are good and which evil, precepts still have their own role to play. Both prudence and justice consist of duties, and duties are arranged by precepts. Moreover, our very judgment about goods and evils is confirmed by carrying out our duties — and it is precepts that lead us to carry them out. The two agree with each other: doctrines cannot go in front without precepts following, and precepts follow in their own proper order — from which it is plain that the doctrines go first.
'No one,' he says, 'cures madness with rules; so neither can wickedness be cured that way.' The cases are not alike; for if you remove madness, health is restored outright; but if we exclude false opinions, a clear view of what is to be done does not follow at once—yet even when it does follow, admonition will still strengthen the correct judgment about good and evil. It is also false that rules do no good at all among the insane; for just as they do no good alone, so they help the treatment; both warning and reproof have restrained madmen—I am speaking now of those whose minds are disturbed, not wholly taken away.
'Laws,' he says, 'do not bring it about that we do what we ought, and what are they but rules mixed with threats?' First of all, laws fail to persuade for this very reason—that they threaten, whereas rules do not compel but entreat; besides, laws deter from crime, while rules exhort toward duty. Add to this that laws too contribute to good character, especially when they do not merely command but also teach. Here I disagree with Posidonius, who says he disapproves of the preambles added to Plato's laws. A law, he says, ought to be brief, so that it may be more easily grasped by the unlearned; it should be like a voice sent down from heaven: it should command, not argue. Nothing seems to me colder or more inept than a law with a preface. 'Warn me,' he says, 'tell me what you want me to have done: I am not here to learn, but to obey.' But laws do help; and you will see that peoples of bad character have been the very ones using bad laws. 'But laws do not succeed with everyone.' Neither does philosophy—yet that does not make it useless or ineffective at shaping minds. And after all, is not philosophy itself the law of life? But let us suppose laws do no good; it still does not follow that admonitions do no good either. Otherwise you might as well deny that consolations do any good, or persuasions, exhortations, reproofs, and praises. All of these are kinds of admonition; through them we arrive at a perfect state of mind. Nothing clothes the mind in honor more, and calls back to the right path minds that waver and lean toward the wrong, than the company of good men; for it sinks little by little into the heart, and the mere fact of being often seen and often heard has the force of a rule. And, by Hercules, the mere encounter with wise men itself helps, and there is something to be gained from a great man even when he says nothing.
'Laws,' he says, 'do not bring it about that we do what we ought — and what are they but precepts mixed with threats?' First of all, laws fail to persuade precisely because they threaten, whereas precepts do not compel but entreat; next, laws deter from crime, while precepts urge on toward duty. Add to this that laws too contribute to good morals — at least if they do not merely command but teach. On this point I part company with Posidonius, who says: 'I disapprove of the preambles attached to Plato's laws. A law ought to be brief, so the unlearned can grasp it the more easily. Let it be like a voice sent down from heaven: let it command, not argue. Nothing strikes me as flatter, nothing as sillier, than a law with a prologue. Warn me, tell me what you want done: I am not learning, I am obeying.' But laws do in fact do good; and so you will find that states with bad morals have used bad laws. 'But they do not do good with everyone.' Neither does philosophy — and it is not on that account useless or powerless to shape minds. And besides, what is philosophy but the law of life? But suppose we grant that laws do no good: it does not follow that admonitions do no good either. On that reasoning you would have to deny that consolations do good, and dissuasions, and exhortations, and rebukes, and words of praise. All these are forms of admonition; through them one arrives at the perfected state of the soul. Nothing clothes minds in honor, and calls back to the straight path those who waver and lean toward crookedness, more than the company of good men; seen often and heard often, they sink gradually into the heart and take on the force of precepts. The mere encounter with the wise, I swear, does one good; there is something you can gain from a great man even when he is silent. I could not easily tell you exactly how it helps, though I do understand that it has helped. 'Certain tiny creatures,' as Phaedo says, 'are not felt when they bite, so subtle and deceptive is the force with which they cause harm; a swelling reveals the bite, and yet in the swelling itself no wound is visible.' The same thing will happen to you in the company of wise men: you will not catch the moment or the manner in which it does you good, but you will discover that it has done you good.
You ask, 'What is the point of all this?' Good rules, if often kept close to you, will do you as much good as good examples. Pythagoras says a person becomes a different man on entering a temple and seeing the images of the gods close at hand, and waiting to hear the voice of some oracle. And who would deny that even the most untrained people are struck effectively by certain rules—brief sayings like these, yet carrying great weight: 'A greedy mind is satisfied by no amount of profit.' 'Expect from another whatever you have done to someone else.' We hear such things with a kind of jolt, and no one is permitted to doubt them or ask 'why?'—so brightly does the truth itself shine even without reasoning attached. If reverence curbs minds and restrains vices, why should admonition not be able to do the same? If reproof instills shame, why should admonition not do so too, even if it uses bare rules alone? In fact, admonition is more effective and penetrates more deeply when it backs up what it prescribes with reason, when it adds why each thing must be done and what reward awaits the man who obeys the rule and follows it. If command achieves results, so does admonition; but command does achieve results; therefore so does admonition.
Virtue divides into two parts: contemplation of truth and action. Instruction hands down contemplation, admonition hands down action. Right action both exercises and displays virtue. But if whoever advises a man about to act helps him, then whoever admonishes him will help him too. So if right action is necessary for virtue, and admonition points out right actions, then admonition too is necessary. Two things give the mind the most strength: confidence in the truth, and self-assurance; admonition produces both. For it is trusted, and once trusted, the mind takes on great courage and is filled with confidence; so admonition is not superfluous. Marcus Agrippa, a man of immense spirit—the only one among those whom the civil wars made famous and powerful who remained fortunate in his public standing to the end—used to say he owed a great deal to this saying: 'By harmony, small things grow; by discord, even the greatest things fall apart.' He used to say that this saying had made him both a good brother and the best of friends. If sayings of this kind, taken familiarly into the mind, can shape a man, why should this branch of philosophy, which consists of just such sayings, not be able to do the same? Part of virtue consists in teaching, part in practice; you must both learn, and confirm by action what you have learned. If this is so, then not only the doctrines of wisdom are of use, but its rules as well, which restrain and banish our passions as if by an edict.
'Philosophy,' he says, 'divides into knowledge and a settled disposition of mind; for a man who has learned and grasped what is to be done and avoided is not yet wise unless his mind has been transformed with respect to what he has learned. That third part, the giving of rules, is drawn from both—from doctrines and from disposition; so it is superfluous for the completion of virtue, for which those two suffice.' By that same reasoning, consolation too would be superfluous (for it likewise draws from both), and so would exhortation and persuasion, and even argumentation itself; for these too proceed from a mind already composed and strong. But although these things come from the best disposition of mind, the best disposition of mind is also made up of them; it produces them, and it is itself formed out of them.
Next, what you describe already belongs to the perfected man, one who has attained the height of human happiness. But that is arrived at slowly; meanwhile, even the man who is still imperfect but making progress needs to have the path shown to him in matters of action. Perhaps wisdom itself will eventually give this to him without admonition, once it has brought his mind to the point where it cannot be moved except toward what is right. But for weaker minds it is indeed necessary that someone go ahead of them, saying: 'You will avoid this, you will do that.' Besides, if a man waits for the time when he will know by himself what is best to do, meanwhile he will go astray, and by going astray he will be hindered from reaching the point where he can be content with himself; so he must be guided while he is only beginning to be able to guide himself. Children learn by tracing letters; their fingers are held and guided by another hand through the outlines of the letters, then they are told to imitate what has been set before them and shape their own handwriting to match it: in the same way, our mind, while it is being trained by a set model, is helped along.
These are the arguments by which it is proven that this part of philosophy is not superfluous. The next question is whether it alone suffices to produce a wise man. We will give that question its own proper day; meanwhile, setting arguments aside, is it not obvious that we need some advocate to give us counsel against the counsel of the crowd? No voice reaches our ears without doing us harm: those who bless us do harm, and those who curse us do harm. For the curses of the latter implant false fears in us, and the affection of the former misleads us with good wishes badly aimed; it sends us off after distant, uncertain, wandering goods, when we could draw happiness from our own house. It is not permitted, I say, to walk the straight path; our parents drag us toward what is crooked, our slaves drag us there too. No one goes wrong only for himself; he scatters his madness onto those nearest him, and receives it back from them in turn. And so the vices of whole peoples exist in individuals, because the people gave them those vices. As each person makes another worse, he is himself made worse; he has learned worse things, then taught them, and that vast wickedness has been produced by heaping together in one place whatever is known to be worst in each. Let there be, then, some guardian to tug at our ear from time to time and drive off rumors, and to protest against a crowd that heaps on praise. For you are wrong if you think vices are born with us: they have come upon us from outside, been heaped onto us. So let the opinions that ring around us on every side be driven back by frequent admonitions. Nature reconciles us to no vice; she brought us into being whole and free. She placed nothing in plain view to provoke our greed: she laid gold and silver beneath our feet, to be trodden and trampled, along with whatever else it is on whose account we ourselves are trodden and trampled. She raised our faces upward toward the sky and wanted whatever splendid and wondrous thing she had made to be seen by those who looked up: sunrises and sunsets, the wheeling course of the hurrying heavens, laying open earthly things by day and heavenly things by night; the slow movement of the stars if you compare it to the whole sky, yet the swiftest imaginable if you consider how vast a distance they circle without ever pausing in their speed; the eclipses of sun and moon as they block each other in turn; and other things equally worthy of wonder in succession, whether they rise in due order or spring forth suddenly from unexpected causes, like nighttime streaks of fire, and flashes of open sky with no crash or sound, and columns and beams of light and the varied shapes of flames. These things nature set high above us; gold and silver, and iron, which because of them never rests at peace, she hid away, as if they would be entrusted to us at our peril. We ourselves have dragged into the light the very things we would fight over; we ourselves have dug out, by scattering the weight of the earth, both the causes of our dangers and the instruments of them; we have handed our own evils over to fortune, and we do not blush to consider the highest things among us those that had once been the lowest depths of the earth. Do you want to know how false is the gleam that has deceived your eyes? There is nothing filthier than these things while they lie buried and wrapped in their own muck, nothing more obscure—how could there not be, dragged as they are through the darkness of the longest tunnels? There is nothing more shapeless than they are while they are being extracted and separated from their dross. Just look, finally, at the workmen themselves, through whose hands this barren and infernal stuff of the earth is refined: you will see how thickly they are smeared with soot. And yet such things stain minds more than they stain bodies, and there is more filth in the man who possesses them than in the man who works them. So it is necessary to be reminded, to have some advocate for a sound mind, and, amid so great a din and uproar of false things, to hear, in the end, one single voice. And what will that voice be? Obviously the one that, when your ears have been deafened by the great shouting of ambition, whispers healthy words to you, saying: there is no reason to envy those whom the crowd calls great and fortunate; there is no reason for applause to shake loose your settled, healthy state of mind; there is no reason for that man decked out in purple beneath his official rods to make you disgusted with your own tranquility; there is no reason to judge happier the man before whom the crowd is cleared than yourself, whom the lictor's rod merely pushes off the footpath. If you want to exercise power that is useful to you and burdensome to no one, remove your vices.
These are the arguments by which it is proved that this part of philosophy is not superfluous. The next question is whether it alone is enough to make a wise man. We will give that question its own day; meanwhile, setting arguments aside, is it not obvious that we need some advocate to give us precepts against the precepts of the crowd? No word reaches our ears without doing damage: those who wish us well harm us, and those who curse us harm us. The curses of the latter plant false fears in us, and the love of the former teaches us badly by wishing us well; for it sends us off after goods that are distant, uncertain, and wavering, when we could draw happiness out of our own house. We are not allowed, I say, to walk the straight road; our parents drag us into crookedness, our slaves drag us. No one goes wrong for himself alone: he scatters his madness among his neighbors and catches theirs in return. That is why the vices of whole peoples are found in individuals — because it is the people who supplied them. Each man, while making another worse, is made worse himself; he learns what is more depraved, then teaches it, and the result is that enormous wickedness which comes of heaping into one place the worst that each man knows. Let there be, then, some guardian to tug repeatedly at our ear, to drive off the rumors and cry out against the applauding crowds. For you are mistaken if you think our vices are born with us: they came upon us later; they were dumped on us. So let the opinions that din around us be beaten back by frequent admonitions. Nature binds us to no vice; she brought us forth whole and free. She set nothing in the open that might goad our greed: she put gold and silver beneath our feet, and gave us, to trample and tread down, everything for whose sake we are trampled and trodden down. She lifted our faces toward heaven, and willed that whatever she had made magnificent and marvelous be seen by upturned eyes: risings and settings, and the wheeling course of the hurrying firmament, revealing earthly things by day and heavenly things by night; the movements of the stars, slow if you compare them with the whole, yet swiftest if you consider what spaces they circle at a speed that never slackens; the eclipses of sun and moon as they block each other in turn; and then the other things worthy of wonder, whether they come up in order or leap out driven by sudden causes — trails of fire in the night, flashes of the sky splitting open without blow or sound, columns and beams and the various apparitions of flame. All these things nature set above us; but gold and silver, and the iron that on their account never keeps the peace, she hid away, as though it were dangerous to trust them to us. It was we who hauled up into the light the things we would fight over; we who dug out both the causes of our dangers and the tools for them, tearing apart the earth's weight; we who handed our own evils over to Fortune; and we do not blush that the things which lay lowest in the earth are held highest among us. Do you want to know how false the glitter is that has deceived your eyes? There is nothing fouler than these metals so long as they lie sunk and wrapped in their own mud, nothing dingier — how could there not be, when they are dragged out through the darkness of the longest mineshafts? There is nothing more shapeless than they are while they are being worked and separated from their dross. Finally, look at the workmen themselves, through whose hands that barren, underworld breed of earth is scoured clean: you will see how thick the soot is that coats them. And yet these things stain souls more than bodies, and there is more filth on their owner than on their workman. It is necessary, then, to be admonished — to have some advocate of a sound mind, and amid so much roaring and tumult of falsehoods to hear, at last, one single voice. What will that voice be? The one, surely, that whispers wholesome words to you, deafened as you are by the huge clamor of ambition; the one that says: you have no reason to envy those the crowd calls great and fortunate; no reason to let applause shake loose your composure and health of mind; no reason to let that man in purple behind his rods of office make your own tranquility disgust you; no reason to judge the man for whom the crowd is cleared happier than yourself, whom the lictor shoves off the path. If you want to exercise a command that is useful to you and burdensome to no one, banish your vices. Many men can be found who set fire to cities, who topple things that have stood safe for centuries and through several ages, who raise siege-ramparts level with citadels and shake walls built to astonishing heights with battering rams and siege engines. Many are those who drive armies before them and press hard on the backs of their enemies, and arrive, drenched in the slaughter of nations, at the great sea beyond — but these men too, in conquering their enemy, were themselves conquered by their own desire. No one resisted them as they advanced, but they themselves had not resisted their own ambition and cruelty; even as they seemed to be driving others, they themselves were being driven. Madness drove the unhappy Alexander to lay waste to foreign lands and sent him off to unknown places. Do you think a man sane who begins by devastating Greece, the very land in which he was educated? Who snatches away from each people whatever is best for it, orders Sparta to be enslaved, Athens to fall silent? Not satisfied with the ruin of so many cities that Philip had either conquered or bought, he flings still more down in one place after another and carries war around the whole world; and his cruelty never rests anywhere, exhausted, like that of monstrous wild beasts that bite more than their hunger demands. By now he has crammed many kingdoms into one, by now Greeks and Persians alike fear the same man, by now even the nations that were free under Darius accept the yoke; yet still he presses on beyond the ocean and the sun, and resents having to turn his victory back from the footsteps of Hercules and Bacchus — he is preparing to do violence to nature itself. He does not so much want to go on as he is simply unable to stop, no differently from a weight cast down a slope, for which the only end of its going is to come to rest at the bottom. Not even in Gnaeus Pompey did true virtue or reason urge on his foreign and civil wars, but an insane love of a false greatness. At one moment he was marching into Spain and against Sertorius's forces, at another to round up the pirates and pacify the seas: these were the pretexts put forward to keep extending his power. What dragged him into Africa, into the north, against Mithridates and into Armenia and every corner of Asia? Simply an endless craving to keep growing, since he seemed too small even to himself alone. What drove Gaius Caesar to hurl both his own fate and the state's together into ruin? Glory, and ambition, and no limit on rising above everyone else. He could not bear to have even one man ranked ahead of him, though the republic once bore two men above itself. And what about you — do you think Gaius Marius, consul only once by right (for he received one consulship; the rest he seized), sought out so many dangers, cutting down the Teutons and the Cimbri, chasing Jugurtha through the deserts of Africa, out of the promptings of virtue? An army was driving Marius; ambition was driving Marius. All these men, while they were shaking everything around them, were themselves being shaken, like whirlwinds, which sweep up whatever they seize but are themselves whirled about first, and for that very reason strike with greater force, because they have no control over themselves; and so, even while they have been a disaster to many, they themselves feel that destructive force with which they harmed so many others. You have no reason to believe that anyone becomes happy through someone else's misfortune.
All those examples that are constantly forced upon our eyes and ears must be unlearned, and a heart full of harmful talk must be emptied out; virtue must be brought in to occupy the vacated space, to root out the lies and whatever pleases us in defiance of the truth, to separate us from the crowd we trust too readily, and restore us to honest opinions. For this is wisdom: to be turned back toward nature and restored to the place from which the common error of mankind has driven us out. A great part of health lies in abandoning the cheerleaders of madness and withdrawing far from that mutually harmful gathering. To know this is true, notice how differently each person lives when alone from how he lives before the crowd. Solitude is not by itself a teacher of innocence, nor does the countryside teach frugality; but where the witness and the spectator have withdrawn, vices settle down, since their whole point is to be displayed and seen. Who puts on purple that he will show to no one? Who sets out a secret feast on golden plate? Who, stretched out alone in the shade of some rustic tree, unfolds the whole pageant of his own luxury by himself? No one is elegant for his own eyes alone, not even for those of a few intimates; he lays out the full display of his own vices in proportion to the size of the crowd watching. So it is: what excites all the things we go mad over is an admirer and a witness. You will make sure we do not desire things if you make sure we do not display them. Ambition, extravagance, and lack of self-control all need a stage: you will cure them if you hide them. And so, if we are placed in the midst of the uproar of cities, let a monitor stand at our side, and, against those who praise enormous fortunes, let him praise instead the man who is rich on little and measures his wealth by its use. Against those who extol favor and power, let him himself look up instead to leisure devoted to letters, and a mind turned back from external things to its own concerns. Let him show that those the crowd counts happy, at that envied pinnacle of theirs, are actually trembling and terrified, and hold a very different opinion of themselves than others hold of them; for what seems lofty to others is, to the men themselves, a sheer precipice. And so they are shaken and terrified whenever they look down over that precipice of their own greatness; for they think of the various accidents that can happen, which are most treacherous of all at the greatest heights. Then they dread the very things they once sought, and the good fortune that makes them burdensome to others weighs down all the more heavily on themselves. Then they praise a mild independence and freedom from obligation; the glare of their position becomes hateful, and they seek escape from things that are still standing firm. Only then would you see, born of fear and a sick fortune, philosophizing that is actually sound advice. For as if good fortune and a good mind were opposites, we are actually wiser amid troubles: prosperity strips away sound judgment. Farewell.