Moral Letters to Lucilius

​You will dispute, I see, when I have explained to you today’s little question, in which we have lingered long enough. For again you will cry out: “What does this have to do with character?” But cry out, provided that I first set up others against you, with whom you may dispute, Posidonius and Archidemus; these will accept the judgment. Then I shall say: not everything that is moral makes good character.

​One thing pertains to nourishing man, another to exercising him, another to clothing him, another to teaching him, another to delighting him. All things, however, pertain to man, even if not all things make him better. Different things touch upon character in different ways: some things correct and order it, some things investigate its nature and origin.

​When I ask why nature produced man, why she preferred him to other animals, do you judge that I have left character far behind? It is false. For how will you know what kind of character is to be maintained, unless you find what is best for man, unless you inspect his nature? Then at last you will understand what must be done by you, what must be avoided, when you have learned what you owe to your nature.

”I,” you say, “wish to learn how I may desire less, fear less. Shake off superstition from me. Teach me that this which is called good fortune is light and empty, and that a single syllable is very easily added to it.” I will satisfy your desire, and I will encourage virtues and lash vices. Even though someone may judge me too extreme and immoderate in this part, I shall not cease to pursue wickedness and to restrain the most savage passions and to curb pleasures that are about to turn into pain and to cry out against prayers. Why not? Since we have wished for the greatest of evils, and whatever we address has been born from congratulation.

​Meanwhile, permit me to examine those things which seem a little more remote. We were asking whether there is in all animals a sense of their own constitution? But that there is appears most of all from this, that they move their limbs fitly and readily, not otherwise than if trained for this. Every single one has nimbleness of its parts. An artisan handles his tools with ease, the pilot of a ship skillfully turns the rudder, the painter very quickly distinguishes the colors, many and various, which he has placed before him to render a likeness, and moves between the wax and his work with easy look and hand; thus an animal is agile for every use of itself.

​We are accustomed to wonder at those skilled in dancing, because their hand is ready for every representation of things and passions, and their gesture keeps pace with the swiftness of words. What art provides to those, nature provides to these. No one moves his limbs with difficulty, no one hesitates in the use of himself. They do this straightway upon being brought forth. They come forth with this knowledge; they are born trained.

”Therefore,” he says, “animals move their parts fitly, because if they move them otherwise, they will feel pain. Thus, as you say, they are compelled, and fear, not will, moves them in the right direction.” Which is false. For those things which are driven by necessity are slow, agility belongs to those that are moved of their own accord. Moreover, so little does the fear of pain force them to this, that they strive toward natural movement even when pain prevents it.

​Thus an infant, who practices standing and accustoms himself to support himself, as soon as he begins to try his strength, falls, and rises again so many times with weeping, until through pain he has trained himself for that which nature demands. Certain animals of harder back, when turned upside down, twist themselves and thrust out and bend their feet so long, until they are restored to their position. A tortoise turned on its back feels no pain, yet it is restless with longing for its natural state, nor does it cease to shake itself before it has stood on its feet.