Moral Letters to Lucilius

​Now we complain of the head, now of the belly, now of the chest and throat. At one time our nerves, at another our feet vex us, now diarrhea, now catarrh; sometimes blood is in excess, sometimes it is lacking; from this side and that we are assailed and driven out; this is accustomed to happen to those who dwell in another’s house.

​But we, having been allotted a body so perishable, nevertheless propose eternal things and, as far as human life can be extended, so far do we occupy it with hope, content with no money, with no power. What can be more shameless, what more foolish than this thing? Nothing is enough for those who are about to die, nay rather, who are dying; for daily we stand closer to the end, and every hour drives us toward that place from which we must fall. See in how great blindness our mind is!

​This which I say is to come, even as it is happening, and a great part of it is already done; for that which we have lived [belongs to death]. But we err who fear the last day, since each of us daily contributes just as much to death. Not that step on which we collapse makes the fatigue, but it declares it. The last day arrives at death, every day approaches it. Death plucks us away, it does not seize us all at once. Therefore, a great soul conscious of its own superior nature indeed makes an effort to conduct itself honorably and industriously in this post where it has been placed, but judges none of these things which are around it to be its own, but uses them as things lent, as a foreigner and one in haste.

​When we saw someone of this constancy, why should there not come upon us the appearance of an uncommon character? Especially if, as I said, consistency showed this greatness to be true. Indeed, consistency remains in true things, false things do not last. Some are by turns Vatiniuses, by turns Catos; and now Curius is not strict enough for them, Fabricius not poor enough, Tubero not frugal enough and content with cheap things; now they challenge Licinus in wealth, Apicius in dinners, Maecenas in delicacies.

​The greatest proof of a bad mind is fluctuation, and the constant tossing between the simulation of virtues and the love of vices. Someone “often had two hundred, often ten slaves; now speaking of kings and tetrarchs, all things grand, now saying: ‘let me have a three-legged table and a shell of pure salt, and a toga which, however coarse, can keep out the cold’; if you had given ten hundred thousand to this frugal man, content with few things; in five days there was nothing.”

​Those men of yours are such as Horatius Flaccus describes this one, never the same, not even like himself; so far does he wander into opposite directions. Did I say many? It is close to being all of them. There is no one who does not change both his plan and his wish daily. Now he wants to have a wife, now a mistress; now he wants to rule, now he acts so that no slave may be more dutiful; now he expands himself even to envy, now he sinks down and contracts himself below the humility of those who are truly prostrate; now he scatters money, now he snatches it.

​In this way especially is the unwise mind convicted; now one person comes forward, now another, and—than which I judge nothing to be more shameful—he is unequal to himself. Deem it a great thing to act as one single man. But except for the wise man, no one acts as one; the rest of us are multiform. Now we shall seem to you frugal and serious, now wasteful and empty. We continually change our mask and assume one opposite to that which we have stripped off. Demand this therefore of yourself, that, such as you have resolved to present yourself, such you preserve yourself even to the end. Bring it about that you can be praised; if less than that, at least that you can be recognized. Of someone whom you saw yesterday, it can be said with merit: “Who is this man?” So great is the change. Farewell.