Letters deserve a letter in reply, and therefore…
Dear Seneca: I wanted to thank you for your letters. They were published by a Londinium-based publisher called Penguin Books, under the title of Letters from a Stoic. I read your letters with interest and admiration, and wanted to drop a line by way of reply.
My time and place are very far from yours, but I know that you were one of the pre-eminent philosophers of imperial Rome. You were born in the province of Hispania, to a wealthy family. Your father, an important rhetorician, was also named Seneca, and it is for that reason that students of Roman history often refer to you as Seneca the Younger. Your life often was involved with the imperial politics of your time; the emperor Claudius exiled you to the island of Corsica, but then his successor Nero recalled you to Rome, where you served as Nero’s tutor. It must have been a truly Tartarean or hellish thing, trying to serve as tutor to a man as amoral as Nero – like trying to teach the principles of a noble life to Narcissus, while Narcissus stares endlessly at his reflection in the pool.
I say this in particular because you are so strongly identified with the school of philosophy known as Stoicism – a philosophical tradition that calls upon its practitioners to rise above the vicissitudes of fortune by living with dignity and restraint, no matter what happens. Many years after your time, a writer of Britannia, one William Shakespeare, included in his play Hamlet a description of one of his characters, a good man named Horatio, as “one in suffering all, who suffers nothing,/A man who Fortune’s buffets and rewards/Has ta’en with equal thanks.” I think Shakespeare must have read your work during his education; elsewhere in the same play, he has the leader of a company of actors describe the actors’ talent and versatility by saying that “Seneca cannot be too heavy, nor [the comedian] Plautus too light.” After all, you wrote tragic drama as well as philosophy.
But your philosophy is what is of interest to me today, for purposes of our correspondence. Your letters are addressed to one Lucilius the Younger, a governor of Sicily – and a man about whom we know virtually nothing, except that he was a friend and correspondent of yours. I hope you will not mind, therefore, that thousands of readers, from your time to mine, have read what were originally called the Epistulae Morales (Moral Epistles) as if you were writing to them personally.
As you write to Lucilius, I get the sense that you are trying to offer helpful ethical guidance to a younger man who is a person of real promise, and who simply needs a bit of moral tutelage. Perhaps, if Lucilius was boasting about being well-travelled, that might have prompted you to write that “To be everywhere is to be nowhere. People who spend their whole lives travelling abroad end up having plenty of places where they can find hospitality, but no real friendships” (p. 26).
It occurs to me, in that connection, that you might have enjoyed reading the work of Lao Tzu, a philosopher of faraway Serica (a land that we call China). In his Tao Te Ching, Lao Tzu writes that “Without stirring abroad, one can know the whole world;/Without looking out of the window, one can see the way of heaven. The further one goes, the less one knows.” Like you, Lao Tzu lived in a time of political discord, and wrote about cultivating a philosophy of patience and endurance. I think that you and he would have had a lot to talk about.
It might help if I were to tell you a bit about my own country. In your language, my country would be called Civitates Foederatae Americae. My country, which is located beyond the Pillars of Hercules, is a federal republic, set up partly along the Roman model. The Latin term rei publicae (“public affairs”) inspired the constitution and laws of my country’s government, and public architecture like that of my country’s Supreme Court building might have, for you, quite a Roman look.
In my country, as in yours, wealth is sought-after and envied; I know that you faced hostility from many who envied your wealth, even though wealth was not the thing that was most important to you. It spoke to me, therefore, when you wrote to Lucilius that
It is not the man who has too little who is poor, but the one who hankers after more. What difference does it make how much there is laid away in a man’s safe or in his barns, how many head of stock he grazes or how much capital he puts out at interest, if he is always after what is another’s and only counts what he has yet to get, never what he has already? You ask, what is the proper limit to a person’s wealth? First, having what is essential, and second, having what is enough. (p. 33)
In a similar vein, you also wrote that “There is no enjoying the possession of anything valuable unless one has someone to share it with” (p. 39). While your wealth enabled you to live well, you seem to have realized that living well is not synonymous with having a lot of money. I wish more people in my country realized that.
I also liked your focus on the practical. You reminded me of one of my country’s most famous philosophers, Benjamin Franklin, when you wrote that “Inwardly, everything should be different, but our outward face should conform with the crowd” (p. 36). People in my country sometimes tend to exhibit a very overt, in-your-face form of individualism; your experience of imperial Roman life, and death, may have taught you that an inwardly focused form of individualism is the safest thing. Franklin believed that, too. And you showed a Franklinian fondness for the pithy, memorably phrased tidbit of advice when you recommended that Lucilius “Associate with people who are likely to improve you. Welcome those whom you are capable of improving. The process is a mutual one: men learn as they teach” (p. 42).
Your letters, in accordance with your Stoic philosophy, emphasize control over the emotions, as when you state that “Fear keeps pace with hope. Nor does their so moving together surprise me; both belong to a mind in suspense, to a mind in a state of anxiety through looking into the future. Both are mainly due to projecting our thoughts far ahead of us instead of adapting ourselves to the present” (p. 38).
I also appreciated the ethos of fair-mindedness that you established throughout the Epistulae Morales. It was no surprise when you quoted fellow Stoics like Hecato: “Limiting one’s desires actually helps to cure one of fear. ‘Cease to hope,’ [Hecato] says, ‘and you will cease to fear’” (p. 38). But knowing, as I do, that the Stoics were rivals to the Epicurians, I was impressed at how often you cited Epicurus. This edition of your letters offers commentary by Robin Campbell, a native of Caledonia who teaches at a university in Britannia. Campbell says of Epicurus that “his letters, and will, reveal a warm, attractive personality” (p. 247), and perhaps you felt the same way about your supposed rival, whom you cited with approval at several points in the Letters.
At one point, you quoted Epicurus, speaking after the manner of Stilbo: “‘Any man,’ [Epicurus] says, ‘who does not think that what he has is more than ample, is an unhappy man, even if he is the master of the whole world’” (p. 53). At another point, you quoted Epicurus in a comparably laudatory spirit, rival or no rival: “Here is another saying of Epicurus: ‘If you shape your life according to nature, you will never be poor; if according to people’s opinions, you will never be rich’” (p. 64). You seemed more interested in pursuing the truth than in proving that your school of philosophy was somehow smarter or better than someone else’s. I appreciated that.
Like all of us, you tried to use life experience as something educative, and sought to take quotidian events and examine their possible larger significance. It was interesting, for instance, that seasickness on an ocean voyage got you thinking about the distinction between physical and spiritual affliction; physical weaknesses, you wrote, “are continually bringing themselves to our notice”, while “With afflictions of the spirit…the opposite is the case: the worse a person is, the less he feels it” (p. 101).
I live in a civitas called Virginia, and teach at a university named for George Mason, one of my country’s founding leaders. Because I teach courses in literature and rhetoric, I was struck by how, in Letter LXXXVIII, you responded to Lucilius’ questions about the value of liberal studies by saying that “there is only one liberal study that deserves the name – because it makes a person free – and that is the pursuit of wisdom. Its high ideals, its steadfastness and spirit, make all other studies puerile and puny in comparison” (p. 151). What a full-throated defense and vindication of philosophy that is!
By contrast, you don’t seem to think much of other branches of liberal studies, asking with some asperity, “Do you really think there is anything to be said for the others, when you find among the people who profess to teach them quite the most reprehensible and worthless characters you could have as teachers? Alright to have studied that sort of thing once, but not to be studying them now” (p. 151).
Now, Seneca -- Vero? Vero? (Really? Really?) Surely other branches of the liberal arts can also help people to be better people and live better lives. I wish you could have lived to read Plutarch’s Lives of the Noble Greeks and Romans, for example. Plutarch believed firmly that biography – the history of how an important person’s life choices had important consequences, whether good or bad, for that person and for their society – could teach the reader to try to make better choices in their own life. If you could have read Plutarch, perhaps you would feel the same way.
While I disagreed with you from time to time – and really, what would philosophy be if reasoning people could not disagree now and then? – I found the arguments of the Epistulae Morales consistently interesting and compelling. I liked how you suggested to Lucilius that the pursuit of wisdom must itself be approached in a spirit of moderation:
This enthusiasm for learning, with which I can see you’re on fire, is to be brought under control if it isn’t going to stand in its own way. What is wanted is neither haphazard dipping nor a greedy onslaught on knowledge in the mass. The whole will be reached through its parts, and the burden must be adjusted to our strength. We mustn’t take on more than we can manage. You shouldn’t attempt to absorb all you want to – just what you’ve room for; simply adopt the right approach and you will end up with room for all you want. The more the mind takes in, the more it expands. (p. 200).
You dedicated your life to such principles, and died in accordance with them. Translator and commentator Campbell thoughtfully includes an appendix in which a later Roman writer, a historian named Tacitus, describes what happened when Nero ordered you to commit suicide. Tacitus emphasizes your courage and self-possession in the face of Nero’s cruelty and injustice:
As he talked…he checked their tears and sought to revive their courage. Where had their philosophy gone, he asked, and that resolution against impending misfortunes which they had devised over so many years? ‘Surely nobody was unaware that Nero was cruel!’ he added. ‘After murdering his mother and brother, it only remained for him to kill his teacher and tutor.’ (p. 243)
I read your letters while travelling in your Spanish homeland, and was deeply impressed by what I read. I liked the intellectual rigour of your work. I also liked your emphasis on the idea that philosophy should not be simply a matter of intellectual gymnastics, but rather should have the goal of helping its student to become a better person. Indeed, I would have to say that you are now my favorite Roman writer.
And therefore, great Seneca of Rome, it is on that note that Paul of Bethesda thanks you, bids you farewell, and wishes you all the happiness that the Elysian Fields may offer.
With best regards,
Paul Haspel