Book 1

I was well aware, Brutus, that when I committed to Latin what philosophers of the highest genius and the most exquisite learning had treated in the Greek tongue, this labour of mine would meet with various criticisms. For there are some — and not unlearned men at that — to whom the whole business of philosophizing is distasteful. Others do not so much object to it, provided it is pursued with restraint, but think that so much zeal and so much labour ought not to be expended upon it. There will also be men learned in Greek letters and contemptuous of Latin who will say that they prefer to spend their effort on reading Greek. And finally I suspect there will be some who summon me to other kinds of writing, declaring that this style, however elegant, is yet beneath my character and standing.

To all these I think a brief reply must be made. As for the disparagers of philosophy, answer enough has been given in that book in which philosophy was defended and praised by me when it had been accused and reviled by Hortensius. Since that book seemed to win the approval both of yourself and of those whom I judged capable of forming a judgment, I have undertaken more, fearing that I might seem to rouse men's enthusiasm but be unable to hold it. As for those who, even if they thoroughly approve of philosophy, would yet have it pursued more moderately, they demand a difficult sort of self-control in a matter which, once admitted, cannot be checked or held back — so that we might almost find more reasonable those who would call us away from philosophy altogether than those who set a limit to things that are boundless and, in a pursuit that is the better for being the greater, look for moderation.

For if wisdom can be attained, then we must not only acquire it but enjoy it; or if this is difficult, still there is no limit to the search for truth short of finding it, and to grow weary of seeking is shameful, since the object of the search is the fairest of all things. Indeed, if we take delight in writing, who is so grudging as to draw us from it? Or if we toil at it, who would set a limit to another man's industry? For just as Terence's Chremes is not inhumane when he is unwilling that his new neighbour should 'dig or plough or carry anything at all' — since it is not from industry but from servile drudgery that he deters him — so these meddlesome critics are offended by a labour that is to me by no means unwelcome.

It is therefore harder to satisfy those who say they despise writings in Latin. In them the first thing I wonder at is why their native tongue should not delight them in the gravest matters, when the same men read without reluctance Latin plays rendered word for word from the Greek. For who is so hostile, almost, to the very name of Rome as to scorn or reject the Medea of Ennius or the Antiopa of Pacuvius, on the ground that, though he delights in the same plays of Euripides, he hates Latin letters? 'Am I,' says he, 'to read the Synephebi of Caecilius or the Andria of Terence rather than both plays of Menander?' From such men I so far dissent that, although Sophocles wrote his Electra with the utmost excellence, I yet think the poor translation by Atilius worth my reading — Atilius of whom Lucilius says,

'a writer of iron' — yet a writer, in my opinion, and one worth reading. For to be utterly unread in our own poets is the mark either of the most slothful idleness or of the most fastidious daintiness. To me, at least, no men seem learned enough who are ignorant of our own literature. Do we not read the line 'Would that in the grove [...]' no less than this same passage in Greek? And shall it not, then, be permitted to set forth in Latin the discussions of Plato upon living well and happily?

And what if I do not perform the office of a translator, but defend the doctrines spoken by those whom I approve, and add to them my own judgment and my own order of exposition? What ground have they for preferring the Greek to what has been both splendidly expressed and not translated from the Greek? For if they say these matters have been treated by the Greeks, then there is no reason for them to read even so many of the Greeks themselves as ought to be read. What has Chrysippus left out among the Stoics? And yet we read Diogenes, Antipater, Mnesarchus, Panaetius, and many others, and above all our friend Posidonius. Again — does Theophrastus give us only middling pleasure when he treats topics treated before him by Aristotle? Again — do the Epicureans cease to write at their own discretion on the very subjects on which Epicurus and the ancients had already written? If, then, Greeks are read by Greeks on the same subjects arranged in another fashion, what reason is there why our own writers should not be read by our own people?

And yet, if I were to translate Plato or Aristotle plainly, in the way our poets translated the plays, I should, I believe, deserve ill of my fellow citizens by importing those divine geniuses into our knowledge. But this I have not done so far, nor do I think myself forbidden to do so. Certain passages I shall translate, if it seems good — chiefly from those I have just named, when occasion arises that it may be aptly done, as Ennius is wont to draw from Homer, and Afranius from Menander. Nor will I, like our Lucilius, decline to have all men read what I write. Would that the famous Persius were alive — and Scipio and Rutilius far more so — out of dread of whose judgment Lucilius said he wrote for the people of Tarentum, Consentia, and Sicily! Wittily said, as much else of his; but there were not in those days such learned men to whose judgment he might labour to conform, and his own writings are of a lighter cast, so that the wit is supreme but the learning ordinary.

But what reader need I fear, when I dare to write on philosophy addressed to you, who yield not even to the Greeks in it? And yet in this very thing I act at your own provocation, by reason of that most welcome book on virtue which you sent me. But from this, I believe, it comes about that some take an aversion to Latin works — because they have lighted upon certain crude and rough productions, things written worse in Latin than bad Greek. To these men I assent, provided they do not think that the same subjects need not be read in Greek either. But who would not read good matter expressed in choice words with weight and ornament? — unless it be one who wishes to be called outright a Greek, as Albucius was hailed by Scaevola when he was praetor at Athens.

This very theme Lucilius adorns with much charm and all his salt, where Scaevola speaks admirably: 'You preferred, Albucius, to be called a Greek rather than a Roman and a Sabine, a fellow townsman of Pontius and Tritanus, of centurions, of illustrious men and chiefs and standard-bearers. So, as praetor at Athens, since that is what you preferred, I greet you in Greek when you approach me: "Chaere, Titus!" I say; and the lictors, the whole squadron, and all the company, "Chaere, Titus!" Hence Albucius is my foe, hence my enemy.' But Mucius was in the right.

For my part, I cannot wonder enough at the source of this strange disdain for things of our own household. This is not at all the place to teach the point; but I both feel and have often argued that the Latin language is not only not poor — as is commonly supposed — but actually richer than the Greek. For when has any ornament of speech, whether copious or elegant, been lacking to us — or rather to our good orators and poets — once there was a model for them to imitate? Indeed, since by my labours, toils, and perils in public life I think I have not deserted the post in which the Roman people stationed me, I surely owe it, so far as I am able, to labour at this too: that my fellow citizens may be made more learned by my work, my zeal, my toil; and not to contend so fiercely with those who prefer to read Greek, provided they actually read it and do not merely pretend, but rather to serve those who wish to use both literatures, or who, having their own, do not greatly miss the other.

And those who would have me write on other subjects ought to be fair, for many works of mine have been written — more than by anyone among us — and perhaps more will be written, if life holds out. And still, whoever has accustomed himself to read attentively what I commit to writing concerning philosophy will judge that there is nothing better worth reading than these. For what is so worth pursuing in life as philosophy in general, and in particular this question pursued in these books: what is the End, the uttermost, the ultimate, to which all our plans of living well and acting rightly are to be referred; what Nature pursues as the highest of things to be sought, and what she shuns as the last of evils? Since on this matter there is the deepest disagreement among the most learned men, who would think it foreign to that dignity, whatever it be, which each man grants me, to inquire what in every duty of life is best and truest?

Shall the question whether the offspring of a slave-girl is to be reckoned among the produce be debated among the leading men of the state — Publius Scaevola and Manius Manilius, from whom Marcus Brutus dissents (a keen kind of inquiry, and not without use for the affairs of citizens, and I both read such writings, and the rest of that sort, gladly, and shall read them) — and shall these questions, which embrace the whole of life, be neglected? For though those subjects are more saleable, these are surely the richer. Yet that judgment may be left to those who read. As for me, I think this whole inquiry concerning the ends of goods and evils has been pretty fully set forth by me in these volumes, in which, so far as I could, I have followed out not only what I myself approve, but also what is said by each of the schools of philosophy.

But, to begin with the easiest, let the theory of Epicurus come first into the open, since to most men it is the most familiar. You will find it set forth by me in such a way as is not usually expounded more accurately even by those who approve that doctrine; for I wish to find the truth, not to confute some adversary. Now once upon a time the opinion of Epicurus concerning pleasure was carefully defended by Lucius Torquatus, a man versed in every branch of learning, and I made answer to him, while Gaius Triarius, a young man of the gravest character and most learned, was present at that discussion.

For when both had come to me at my house near Cumae to pay their respects, after a few words at first about literature, in which the zeal of each was supreme, Torquatus said: 'Since we have at last found you at leisure, I shall certainly hear why it is that you do not exactly hate our Epicurus — as those generally do who dissent from him — but at any rate do not approve of him, the one man who in my judgment saw the truth, freed men's minds from the greatest errors, and handed down all that pertains to living well and happily. But I suppose that you, like our Triarius, take less pleasure in him because he neglected those ornaments of style proper to Plato, Aristotle, and Theophrastus. For as to the other charge, I can scarcely be brought to believe that what he held seems untrue to you.'

'See, Torquatus,' said I, 'how greatly you are mistaken. The style of that philosopher does not offend me; for he both grasps in words what he means and says plainly what I can understand. And yet I would not reject eloquence in a philosopher if he offered it, nor would I greatly demand it if he had it none. It is in substance that he does not equally satisfy me — and that in several places. But there are as many opinions as there are men; so I may be mistaken.' 'Why, then, does he not satisfy you?' he said. 'For I count you a fair judge, provided you know well what he says.'

'Unless you suppose,' said I, 'that Phaedrus or Zeno lied to me — and I heard them both, though they recommended to me nothing at all beyond their diligence — all the opinions of Epicurus are sufficiently known to me. And those whom I have named I heard frequently along with our Atticus, who admired them both, but loved Phaedrus besides; and daily we compared between ourselves what we had heard, nor was there ever any dispute about what I understood, but only about what I approved.'

'What, then, is it?' said he; 'for I long to hear what you do not approve.' 'First,' said I, 'in physics, on which he prides himself most, he is wholly unoriginal. He repeats the doctrines of Democritus, changing very little, but in such a way that what he means to correct he seems to me rather to spoil. Those bodies which he calls atoms — that is, particles indivisible by reason of their solidity — he holds to be carried through the infinite void, in which there is nothing highest nor lowest, nothing middle, last, or outermost, in such a way that by their collisions they cling together, and from this are produced all the things that exist and are perceived; and this motion of the atoms, he thinks, must be understood as having no beginning, but as existing from eternity.

Now Epicurus does not greatly err in the points where he follows Democritus. Yet, while there is much in both of them that I do not approve, this above all: that whereas in the nature of things two questions must be asked — one, what is the matter out of which each thing is made; the other, what is the force which makes each thing — they discoursed about matter, but left aside the force and cause of making. But this is a fault common to both; the following ruins are peculiar to Epicurus. For he holds that those same indivisible and solid bodies are carried downward by their own weight in a straight line, and that this is the natural motion of all bodies.

Then, in the same place, the acute fellow, when this difficulty met him — that if all things were borne straight down, and, as I said, in a straight line, no atom could ever touch another — brought in a fiction of his own devising: he said that the atom swerves a very little, by the least amount conceivable; and that thus are produced the entanglements and couplings and cohesions of atoms among themselves, from which arise the world and all the parts of the world and whatever is in it. Now this whole notion is a childish invention, and besides it does not even achieve what he intends. For the swerve itself is imagined arbitrarily — he says the atom swerves without a cause, than which nothing is more disgraceful in a natural philosopher than to say that anything comes to be without a cause — and that natural motion of all weights toward the lower region in a straight line, which he himself had laid down, he took away from the atoms without cause, and yet did not attain the end for which he had invented all this.

For if all the atoms swerve, none will ever cling together; while if some swerve and others are borne straight by their own inclination, this will be, first, to assign as it were provinces to the atoms — which shall move straight and which obliquely; and second, that same turbulent collision of atoms (in which Democritus too is stuck) will not be able to produce this ordered beauty of the world. Nor is it the part of a natural philosopher to believe that there is any smallest thing — which assuredly he would never have supposed, had he chosen to learn geometry from his friend Polyaenus rather than to unteach the man himself. The sun seems large to Democritus, as to one learned and accomplished in geometry; to Epicurus perhaps a foot wide. For he thinks it just so big as it appears, or a little larger or smaller.

Thus what he alters he spoils, and what he keeps is wholly Democritus's: the atoms, the void, the images which they call eidola, by whose impact we not only see but also think; and that very infinity which they call apeiria comes entirely from him, as do the countless worlds that come to be and perish daily. These doctrines, though by no means approved by me, yet I should not wish Democritus, praised by all others, to be reviled by this man who alone followed him.

Now in the other part of philosophy, that of inquiry and discussion, which is called logic, this master of yours is, as it seems to me at least, plainly unarmed and naked. He does away with definitions; he teaches nothing about dividing and partitioning; he hands down no method by which a chain of reasoning is constructed and concluded; he shows no way by which captious arguments are solved and ambiguities distinguished; he places the judgment of things in the senses, holding that if once anything false is approved as true, all judgment of true and false is overthrown.

But he confirms above all the doctrine that Nature herself, as he says, decrees and approves — that is, pleasure and pain. To these he refers everything that we should pursue or shun. Though this is the teaching of Aristippus, and is better and more frankly defended by the Cyrenaics, yet I judge it to be of such a kind that nothing seems more unworthy of man. For to greater things, in my opinion at least, Nature begot and shaped us. And I may be mistaken; but I am wholly of this mind — that the Torquatus who first won this surname did not strip that torque from his enemy in order to derive from his body some bodily pleasure, nor fight against the Latins at the Veseris in his third consulship for the sake of pleasure; and as for his striking off his son's head with the axe, he seems even to have deprived himself of many pleasures, since he set the right of sovereignty and command above Nature herself and above a father's love.

Again — when Titus Torquatus, who was consul with Gnaeus Octavius, used that severity toward the son whom he had given in adoption to Decimus Silanus, ordering him, when the envoys of the Macedonians accused him of having taken money as praetor in the province, to plead his cause before himself, and, after hearing both sides, pronounced that he did not seem to have shown himself in his command such as his ancestors had been, and forbade him to come into his sight — does he seem to you to have given any thought to his own pleasures? But to pass over the dangers, the toils, the pain too which every best man takes upon himself for his country and for his kindred — so that he not only seizes no pleasure but even passes by all pleasures, and would rather endure any pains whatever than abandon a single part of his duty — let us come to those things which declare this no less, but seem of lighter weight. What pleasure, Torquatus, do letters bring to you, or to Triarius here? Or history and the knowledge of affairs? Or the unrolling of the poets, or the holding in memory of so many verses?

And do not tell me this: 'Why, these very things are a pleasure to me, and so were those deeds to the Torquati.' Never did Epicurus so defend his doctrine, nor Metrodorus, nor any of them who had either any wisdom or had learned these things. And as for the question often raised, why there are so many Epicureans — there are other causes too, but what most attracts the multitude is this: that they think Epicurus says that right and honourable deeds produce of themselves gladness, that is, pleasure. These excellent men do not understand that the whole theory is overthrown if the matter so stands. For if it were granted that those things are pleasant of their own accord and in themselves, even though nothing be referred to the body, then virtue too and the knowledge of things would be desirable in and for themselves — which is the very last thing he wishes.

'These doctrines of Epicurus, then,' said I, 'I do not approve. For the rest, I could indeed wish either that he himself had been better equipped with learning — for he is, as you must needs admit, not sufficiently polished in those arts whose masters are called cultured — or that he had not deterred others from such studies. Though I see that you at least have by no means been deterred.' When I had said this, more to provoke him than to speak myself, Triarius, smiling gently, said: 'Why, you have nearly removed Epicurus altogether from the chorus of philosophers. What have you left him, except that, however he expressed himself, you understand what he meant? In physics he said what was borrowed, and not even those things which you would approve; whatever he tried to correct in them, he made worse. Of the art of reasoning he had none. In calling pleasure the highest good, he first saw too little in that very point, and then this too was borrowed; for Aristippus said it before, and said it better. At the end you added that he was unlearned as well.'

'It can in no way be, Triarius,' said I, 'that one should not state what he disapproves in the man from whom he dissents. For what would prevent me from being an Epicurean, if I approved what he said? — especially since to master those doctrines thoroughly would be mere play. Therefore the criticisms of those who differ among themselves are not to be blamed; but abusive speech, insults, then fits of anger, and obstinate wranglings and contentions in debate seem to me unworthy of philosophy.'

Then Torquatus said: 'I entirely agree; for one cannot argue without criticism, nor argue rightly with anger or obstinacy. But to all this, if it is not troublesome, I have something I should like to say.' 'And do you think,' said I, 'that I should have said these things unless I wished to hear you?' 'Do you prefer, then, that we run through Epicurus's whole system, or inquire only into the one question of pleasure, on which the whole contest turns?' 'That is for you to decide,' said I. 'I shall do so, then,' said he. 'I shall expound one matter, and that the greatest; physics another time — when I shall prove to you both that swerve of the atoms and the size of the sun, and the very many errors of Democritus criticized and corrected by Epicurus. Now I shall speak of pleasure — nothing new, of course, yet things which I am confident you yourself will approve.'

'Certainly,' said I, 'I shall not be obstinate, and shall gladly assent to you if you prove what you say.' 'I shall prove it,' said he, 'provided you keep the fairness you display. But I prefer to use continuous discourse rather than to question or be questioned.' 'As you please,' said I. Then he began to speak. 'First, then,' said he, 'I shall proceed as the author of this system himself prefers: I shall determine what the thing we are inquiring into is, and of what kind — not that I suppose you ignorant of it, but that my discourse may go forward by method and in due order. We are inquiring, then, what is the last and uttermost of goods, which in the opinion of all philosophers must be such that everything ought to be referred to it, but it itself to nothing else. This Epicurus places in pleasure, which he holds to be the highest good, and pain the highest evil; and he sets about to prove it thus:

that every living creature, the moment it is born, seeks pleasure and rejoices in it as the highest good, but spurns pain as the highest evil and repels it from itself so far as it can; and that it does this while still unspoiled, Nature herself judging without corruption and entire. Therefore he denies that there is need of reasoning or argument to show why pleasure is to be sought and pain shunned. These things, he thinks, are perceived, just as that fire is hot, snow white, honey sweet — none of which need be confirmed by elaborate arguments; it is enough merely to point them out. For there is a difference between the proof and conclusion of an argument and a mere noticing and pointing out. The one reveals certain hidden and, as it were, wrapped-up matters; the other judges things ready and open to view. For since, when the senses are taken away from a man, nothing is left, it must be Nature herself who judges what is according to or contrary to Nature. And what does she perceive, or what does she judge, whereby she seeks or shuns anything, beyond pleasure and pain?

There are, however, some of our school who would hand these matters down more subtly, and who deny that it is enough to judge by sense what is good or evil, but hold that this can also be grasped by the mind and by reason — that pleasure itself is to be sought for its own sake and pain itself to be shunned for its own sake. And so they say that there is implanted in our minds a kind of natural and innate notion, whereby we feel that the one is to be sought and the other to be spurned. Others, however — and with these I agree — hold that, since many arguments are advanced by various philosophers as to why neither pleasure should be counted among goods nor pain among evils, we ought not to trust our case too much, but think it must be argued, discussed with care, and debated with reasonings sought out, concerning pleasure and pain.

But that you may see whence this whole error arose, of those who accuse pleasure and praise pain, I shall lay the whole matter open, and set forth those very things which were said by that discoverer of truth and, as it were, that master-builder of the happy life. For no one rejects, hates, or shuns pleasure itself because it is pleasure, but because great pains befall those who do not know how to pursue pleasure by reason; nor again is there anyone who loves, pursues, or wishes to attain pain itself because it is pain, but because there sometimes come occasions of such a kind that through toil and pain a man seeks some great pleasure. To take the smallest example: which of us undertakes any laborious bodily exercise except to obtain some advantage from it? And who could justly blame either the man who wishes to be in that pleasure which no annoyance follows, or him who shuns that pain which gives birth to no pleasure?

But indeed we both accuse, and deem most deserving of righteous hatred, those who, softened and corrupted by the blandishments of present pleasures, do not, in their blindness of desire, foresee what pains and troubles await them; and equally to blame are they who desert their duties through weakness of mind — that is, through the avoidance of toils and pains. And the distinction of these matters is easy and ready. For in a free hour, when our choice is unhampered and nothing prevents us from doing what pleases us most, every pleasure is to be taken up and every pain repelled. But at certain times, through duties owed or through the necessities of circumstance, it will often happen that pleasures must be refused and troubles not declined. And so the wise man holds to this rule of selection: that by rejecting some pleasures he may gain greater ones, or by enduring some pains he may avert harsher ones. Holding this view, what reason have I to fear that I cannot fit our Torquati to it?

— those whom you just now assembled with so good a memory, and with such friendly and kindly feeling toward us; yet you have not corrupted me by praising my ancestors, nor made me slower to answer. Their deeds — how, I ask, do you interpret them? Do you think they either charged an armed enemy or were so cruel toward their own children and their own blood with no thought at all of their advantages, no thought of their own interests? Why, not even wild beasts do this — to rush and fall on so blindly that we cannot understand to what end their movements and onsets tend; and do you think that such excellent men did such great deeds without a cause?

What the cause was I shall see presently; meanwhile I shall hold to this: if for some cause they did those deeds which are beyond doubt glorious, virtue was not their cause in and of itself. — 'He stripped the torque from his enemy.' — Yes, and shielded himself, that he might not perish. — 'But he ran a great risk.' — Yes, before the eyes of the army. — 'What did he gain by it?' — Praise and affection, which are the firmest defences of a life lived without fear. — 'He punished his son with death.' — If without cause, I should not wish to be sprung from one so heartless and so cruel; but if it was to sanction by the son's suffering the discipline of military command, and to hold the army in check by the fear of punishment in a most grievous war, then he provided for the safety of his fellow citizens, in which he knew his own was bound up.

And this principle has a wide range. For the very theme on which your discourse is most wont to vaunt itself — yours above all, who eagerly pursue antiquity — namely, the commemorating of famous and brave men and the praising of their deeds not for any profit, but for the very beauty of honour itself, is wholly overthrown once that selection of things which I have just described is established: that pleasures be foregone for the sake of attaining greater pleasures, or pains undertaken for the sake of escaping greater pains.

But of the illustrious and glorious deeds of famous men let this much be said in this place. For there will soon be a fitter place to discuss the bearing of all the virtues upon pleasure. Now, however, I shall explain what pleasure itself is and of what kind, so that all the error of the ignorant may be removed, and it may be understood how grave, how self-controlled, how austere is that doctrine which is reckoned voluptuous, soft, and effeminate. For we do not pursue only that pleasure which moves our nature itself with a certain sweetness and is perceived by the senses with a kind of delight; but we count as the greatest pleasure that which is perceived when all pain has been removed. For since, when we are freed from pain, we rejoice in the very release and emptiness of all annoyance, and since everything in which we rejoice is a pleasure, just as everything by which we are hurt is a pain, the removal of all pain has rightly been called pleasure. For just as, when hunger and thirst are driven off by food and drink, the very removal of the discomfort brings with it the attainment of pleasure, so in everything the taking away of pain produces the succession of pleasure.

And so Epicurus did not allow that there is any state midway between pain and pleasure; for that very thing which to some seems midway — being free from all pain — is not only a pleasure but the highest pleasure. For whoever feels how he is affected must of necessity be either in pleasure or in pain. But Epicurus thinks that the highest pleasure is bounded by the absence of all pain, so that afterwards pleasure may be varied and diversified, but cannot be increased or enlarged.

But at Athens — as I used to hear from my father, who jested at the Stoics with wit and elegance — there is in the Ceramicus a statue of Chrysippus seated with hand outstretched, and the hand signifies that he took delight in this little question: 'Does your hand, affected as it now is, lack anything?' — 'Nothing at all.' — 'But if pleasure were a good, it would lack it.' — 'So I suppose.' — 'Pleasure, therefore, is not a good.' But this, my father said, not even the statue would have said, if it could speak. For the argument is concluded acutely enough against the Cyrenaics, but is nothing against Epicurus. For if that were the only pleasure which, so to speak, tickles the senses and flows in upon them with sweetness, then neither could a hand be content, nor any part, with freedom from pain unaccompanied by a pleasurable motion of pleasure. But if the highest pleasure is, as Epicurus holds, to feel no pain, then, first, the point was rightly granted you, Chrysippus, that the hand lacked nothing while it was so affected; but the second was not rightly granted — that, if pleasure were a good, it would have lacked it. For it would lack it for this very reason: that what is free from pain is in a state of pleasure.

That pleasure is the uttermost of goods can most easily be perceived from this. Let us suppose someone enjoying great, many, and unbroken pleasures both of mind and of body, with no pain either hindering him or threatening; what state could we call more excellent or more to be desired than this? For there must needs be in one so affected a firmness of mind that fears neither death nor pain — since death is void of sensation, and pain, when long, is usually slight, and when severe, short, so that its greatness is consoled by its brevity, and its duration by its lightness.

And when there is added to this that he dreads no divine power, and does not suffer past pleasures to slip away but delights in the constant remembrance of them — what is there that could be added to this which would be better? Set up, on the contrary, someone broken by such great pains of mind and body as can fall upon a man at their greatest, with no hope held out that they will ever be lighter, and with no pleasure besides, neither present nor expected: what more wretched can be said or imagined than he? But if a life filled with pains is most of all to be shunned, then surely the highest evil is to live with pain; and to this view it is consonant that the uttermost of goods is to live with pleasure. For our mind has nothing on which it may rest as on an extreme; and all fears and distresses are referred to pain, nor is there besides any thing which can of its own nature either disturb or vex us.

Moreover, the beginnings of seeking and of avoiding, and indeed of all action, proceed either from pleasure or from pain. Since this is so, it is plain that all right and praiseworthy things are referred to this end — that life be lived with pleasure. And since this is either the highest or the last or the uttermost of goods — what the Greeks call telos — which itself is referred to nothing else, but to which all things are referred, it must be confessed that the highest good is to live pleasantly. Those who set this in virtue alone, and, captivated by the splendour of a name, do not understand what Nature demands, will be freed from a most serious error, if they are willing to hear Epicurus. For those eminent and beautiful virtues of yours — unless they produced pleasure, who would think them either praiseworthy or to be desired? For just as we approve the physician's science not for the art's own sake but for the sake of good health, and the pilot's art is praised for its usefulness, not for the art itself, because it possesses the method of sailing well, so wisdom, which must be reckoned the art of living, would not be sought if it produced nothing; but as it is, it is sought, because it is, as it were, the craftsman that searches out and

procures pleasure — and what I call pleasure you now see, lest my discourse be undermined by the odium of the word. For since human life is most of all vexed by ignorance of things good and evil, and through that error men are often robbed of the greatest pleasures and tormented by the harshest pains of the mind, wisdom must be called in, which, by removing terrors and desires and by stripping away the rashness of all false opinions, may offer itself to us as the surest guide to pleasure. For wisdom alone it is that drives sorrow from our minds and does not suffer us to shudder with fear; with her as our teacher we may live in tranquillity, the fire of all our desires quenched. For desires are insatiable, and they overthrow not only individual men but whole households, and often shake the entire commonwealth.

From desires spring hatreds, quarrels, discords, seditions, and wars; nor do they only flaunt themselves abroad, nor only rush upon others with blind onset, but, shut up within the mind, they are at variance and at strife among themselves, from which the bitterest life must needs result; so that the wise man alone, having lopped and cut away all emptiness and error, content within the bounds of Nature, can live without distress and without fear.

For what division is more useful, or better fitted for living well, than that which Epicurus employed? He laid down one class of desires that are both natural and necessary; a second, that are natural but not necessary; a third, that are neither natural nor necessary. Of these the principle is this: that the necessary ones are satisfied with little labour and little expense; the natural ones, too, do not demand much, since Nature herself has the riches with which she is content both easy to procure and limited; but for empty desires no measure or end can be found.

But if we see that the whole of life is thrown into confusion by error and ignorance, and that wisdom alone it is which can deliver us from the assault of lusts and the terror of fears, and teach us to bear with moderation the very injuries of fortune, and show us all the paths that lead to rest and tranquillity — why should we hesitate to say that wisdom is to be sought for the sake of pleasures, and folly to be shunned for the sake of its troubles?

And by the same reasoning we shall say that not even temperance is to be sought for its own sake, but because it brings peace to our minds and soothes and calms them, as it were, with a certain harmony. For temperance it is that warns us to follow reason in things to be sought or shunned. For it is not enough to judge what should be done or not done, but one must also stand fast in what has been judged. But most men, because they cannot hold to and keep what they themselves have resolved, overcome and weakened when the appearance of pleasure is set before them, surrender themselves to be bound by their lusts, and do not foresee what will come of it; and for that reason, for the sake of a pleasure both small and unnecessary, which might be procured otherwise and which they could even do without painlessly, they fall sometimes into grave diseases, sometimes into losses, sometimes into disgrace, and often even become liable to the penalties of laws and courts.

But those who wish so to enjoy pleasures that no pains follow from them, and who keep their own judgment, lest, overcome by pleasure, they do what they feel ought not to be done — these gain the greatest pleasure by foregoing pleasure. The same men also often endure pain, lest, by not doing so, they fall into a greater. From which it is understood that intemperance is not to be shunned for its own sake, nor temperance sought for its own sake, but because the latter procures greater pleasures.

The same reasoning will be found to hold of fortitude. For neither the discharge of toils nor the endurance of pains allures of itself, nor patience, nor perseverance, nor wakeful vigils, nor even that very industry which is praised, nor fortitude itself; but we pursue these in order to live without anxiety and fear, and to free mind and body, so far as we can, from annoyance. For as by the fear of death the whole state of a quiet life is disturbed, and as it is wretched to succumb to pains and to bear them with a lowly and feeble spirit — and through that weakness of mind many have utterly ruined their parents, many their friends, some their country, but most of all themselves — so a strong and lofty mind is free from all care and anguish, since it both despises death (for those who are touched by death are in the same case as before they were born), and is so prepared for pains that it remembers that the greatest are ended by death, the small have many intervals of rest, and of the middling sort we are masters — so that, if they are bearable, we bear them, and if not, we may depart from life, when it does not please us, with an even mind, as from a theatre. By all this it is understood that timidity and cowardice are not blamed, nor fortitude and patience praised, on their own account, but that the former are rejected because they breed pain, and the latter chosen because they breed pleasure.

Justice remains, that the account of every virtue may be complete; but much the same may be said of it. For as I have shown wisdom, temperance, and fortitude to be bound up with pleasure, so that they can in no way be torn or separated from it, so must we judge of justice — which not only never harms anyone, but on the contrary always brings, by its own force and nature, this benefit, that it calms our minds, and besides gives the hope that none of those things will be lacking which a nature not corrupted desires. And just as rashness and lust and cowardice always torment the mind and always vex it and are full of turbulence, so wickedness, if it has settled in anyone's mind, is turbulent by this very fact, that it is present; and if it has contrived anything, however secretly it has done it, yet it will never be confident that it will remain forever hidden. For the most part suspicion first follows upon the deeds of the wicked, then talk and rumour, then the accuser, then the judge; many, indeed — as in your consulship — have even informed against themselves.

But if some seem to themselves sufficiently fenced and fortified against the knowledge of men, yet they dread the gods, and believe that those very anxieties by which their minds are gnawed night and day are sent upon them by the immortal gods for the sake of punishment. But what so great an addition toward lessening the troubles of life can come from wicked deeds, as toward increasing them — both from the consciousness of those deeds, and from the penalty of the laws and the hatred of fellow citizens? And yet in some men there is no measure of money, nor of office, nor of power, nor of lusts, nor of feasting, nor of the rest of their desires, which no booty ever wickedly won diminishes, but rather inflames — so that such men seem rather to need restraining than unteaching.

True reason, therefore, calls the sound of mind to justice, fairness, and good faith; nor do unjust deeds profit a man who is helpless or powerless, who can neither easily accomplish what he attempts, nor keep it if he has accomplished it. And resources, whether of fortune or of talent, are better suited to generosity, by the use of which men win for themselves goodwill and — what is most apt for living in peace — affection, especially since there is no cause at all for wrongdoing.

For the desires that proceed from Nature are easily satisfied without any wrongdoing; but to those that are empty we ought not to submit. For they crave nothing worth desiring, and there is more of loss in the wrongdoing itself than of gain in the things that are gotten by wrongdoing. And so one would not rightly call even justice desirable for its own sake, but because it brings the greatest measure of pleasantness. For to be loved and to be held dear is pleasant, because it makes life safer and pleasure fuller. And so it is not only on account of those disadvantages which befall the wicked that we think wickedness should be shunned, but much more because, in whosever mind it dwells, it never lets him draw breath, never lets him rest.

But if not even the praise of the virtues themselves — on which the discourse of the other philosophers most exults — can find any issue unless it be directed toward pleasure, while pleasure alone is that which calls us to itself and allures us by its own nature, there can be no doubt that this is the highest and uttermost of all goods, and that to live happily is nothing else than to live with pleasure.

What is bound up with this fixed and stable opinion I shall briefly explain. There is no error in the ends of goods and evils themselves — that is, in pleasure or in pain; but men err in this matter when they are ignorant of the sources from which these arise. Now we admit that pleasures and pains of the mind arise from the pleasures and pains of the body — and so I grant, as you were just saying, that the case goes against any of our school who think otherwise, of whom indeed I see there are many, but unlearned. Yet although pleasure of the mind brings us gladness and pain of the mind brings us trouble, I say that each of these both takes its origin from the body and is referred to the body; and yet not for that reason are the pleasures and pains of the mind not far greater than those of the body. For with the body we can feel only what is present and at hand, but with the mind both the past and the future. For though we feel pain equally in the mind when we feel pain in the body, yet a very great increase can occur, if we suppose some eternal and boundless evil hangs over us. The same may be transferred to pleasure, so that it is the greater if we fear no such thing.

Now this at least is clear: that the greatest pleasure or trouble of the mind brings more weight toward a happy or a wretched life than either of them, if it last an equal time in the body. We do not hold, however, that when pleasure is taken away distress straightway follows, unless by chance pain has succeeded into the place of pleasure; but on the contrary, that we rejoice at the laying aside of pains, even though no pleasure that moves the sense has succeeded — and from this it can be understood how great a pleasure it is not to be in pain.

But as we are uplifted by the goods we expect, so we are gladdened by those we remember. Fools, however, are tormented by the memory of evils; the wise are delighted by past goods renewed in grateful recollection. And it lies within us both to bury our adversities, as it were, in perpetual oblivion, and to remember our prosperities pleasantly and sweetly. But when we gaze on the past with keen and attentive mind, then it comes about that distress follows if those things were evil, and gladness if they were good. O glorious, open, simple, and direct path to living happily! For since assuredly nothing can be better for a man than to be free of all pain and trouble and to enjoy to the full the greatest pleasures of mind and body, do you see how nothing is left out that may help our life, so that we may the more easily attain the proposed end, the highest good? Epicurus — the very man whom you say is too much given over to pleasures — cries aloud that one cannot live pleasantly unless one lives wisely, honourably, and justly, nor wisely, honourably, and justly unless one lives pleasantly.

For neither can a state in sedition be happy, nor a house amid the discord of its masters; much less, then, can a mind at variance with itself and quarrelling within itself taste any part of pure and unhindered pleasure. And indeed, a man who is forever swayed by warring and conflicting purposes and counsels can see nothing of quiet, nothing of tranquillity.

But if the pleasantness of life is hindered by the graver diseases of the body, how much more must it be hindered by the diseases of the mind! And the diseases of the mind are the boundless and empty desires for riches, glory, dominion, and even for lustful pleasures. There are added distresses, troubles, griefs, which gnaw at and waste away the minds of men with cares — men who do not understand that the mind ought to feel no pain that is severed from present or future pain of the body. Nor indeed is there any fool who does not labour under some one of these diseases; therefore there is no one who is not wretched.

There is added also death, which, like the rock over Tantalus, forever hangs above; and then superstition, with which whoever is imbued can never be at peace. Besides, they do not remember past goods, they do not enjoy present ones, they only await future ones; and because these cannot be certain, they are worn down by anguish and fear, and are tortured most of all when, too late, they perceive that they have striven in vain after money, or commands, or power, or glory. For they win no pleasures, in hope of gaining which, inflamed, they had undertaken many and great toils.

But behold others — petty and cramped, either despairing always of everything, or malicious, envious, peevish, shunners of the light, slanderous, monstrous; others, again, given over to amorous follies; others wanton; others bold, shameless, and the same intemperate and cowardly, never abiding in one resolve — for which reasons there is in their life no respite from trouble. Therefore no fool is happy, and no wise man is not happy. And in this we are much better and truer than the Stoics. For they deny that there is any good except a kind of shadow which they call the honourable — a name more splendid than solid — and they hold that virtue, resting upon this honourable, requires no pleasure and is content with itself for living happily.

But these things can in a certain sense be said with our not only not opposing but even approving. For thus is the wise man by Epicurus brought in as always happy: he has his desires limited; he disregards death; concerning the immortal gods he holds the truth without any fear; he does not hesitate, if it be better so, to depart from life. Equipped with these things, he is always in pleasure. For there is no time at which he does not have more pleasures than pains. For he both remembers the past with gratitude, and so possesses the present as to mark how great and how delightful those things are; nor does he hang upon the future, but awaits it while he enjoys the present, and is utterly removed from those vices which I gathered up a little while ago; and when he compares the life of fools with his own, he is filled with great pleasure. And if any pains befall him, they never have so great a force that the wise man does not have more in which to rejoice than in which to be vexed.

Excellently, too, did Epicurus say that fortune crosses the wise man but little, and that the greatest and gravest affairs are administered by his own counsel and reason; and that no greater pleasure can be perceived from an infinite span of years than is perceived from this, which we see to be finite. In your dialectic he thought there was no path either toward living better or toward arguing more conveniently. On physics he laid the greatest weight. By that science the force of words, the nature of language, and the relation of things consequent or contradictory can be discerned. And when the nature of all things is known, we are relieved of superstition, freed from the fear of death, not troubled by ignorance of things — out of which itself dreadful terrors often arise. Finally, we shall be better in character too, when we have learned what Nature requires. Then truly, if we hold fast a stable knowledge of things, and keep that rule which has, as it were, fallen from heaven for the knowledge of all things, by which all judgments of things shall be directed, we shall never, overcome by any man's discourse, abandon our conviction.

But unless the nature of things has been clearly perceived, we shall in no way be able to defend the judgments of the senses. Moreover, whatever we discern with the mind, all of it arises from the senses; and if these are all true, as Epicurus's theory teaches, then at last something can be known and grasped. Those who do away with the senses and say that nothing can be grasped cannot, when the senses are removed, even make out the very thing they are arguing. Besides, with knowledge and science taken away, all method both of conducting life and of carrying on affairs is taken away. Thus from physics is drawn fortitude against the fear of death, and steadfastness against the dread of religion, and calm of mind, when ignorance of all hidden things is removed, and moderation, when the kinds of desires have been set forth; and, as I just taught, the rule of knowledge and the judgment established by it hand down the distinction of true from false.

There remains a topic most necessary of all to this discussion, concerning friendship — which, if pleasure be the highest good, you assert can have no existence at all. Of this Epicurus indeed speaks thus: that of all the things which wisdom has provided for living happily, nothing is greater than friendship, nothing more fruitful, nothing more delightful. And this he proved not by his words only, but far more by his life, his deeds, and his character. How great a thing this is the feigned fables of the ancients declare, in which, though they are so many and so various and fetched from the remotest antiquity, scarcely three pairs of friends are found, so that, setting out from Theseus, you come at last to Orestes. But Epicurus, in one house — and that a narrow one — what great companies of friends, and joined by what great concord of love, he held! And this is done even now by the Epicureans. But let us return to our subject; there is no need to speak of individuals.

In three ways, then, I see that friendship has been discussed by our school. Some, while they denied that the pleasures which pertain to our friends are in themselves as much to be sought as we seek our own — a point at which the stability of friendship seems to some to totter — yet maintain that position and extricate themselves easily, as it seems to me. For they say that friendship, like the virtues of which we spoke before, cannot be separated from pleasure. For since solitude and a life without friends are full of treachery and fear, reason itself counsels us to procure friendships, by the winning of which the mind is strengthened and cannot be parted from the hope of gaining pleasures.

And just as hatreds, envies, and contempts are opposed to pleasures, so friendships are not only the most faithful supporters but also the producers of pleasures, both to our friends and to ourselves; and in these we not only enjoy the present, but are also uplifted by the hope of the time to come and after. And because we can in no way hold fast a firm and lasting pleasantness of life without friendship, nor indeed maintain friendship itself unless we love our friends equally with ourselves, for that reason this very thing is brought about in friendship, and friendship is linked with pleasure. For we both rejoice in the joy of our friends as much as in our own, and grieve equally at their distresses.

Wherefore the wise man will be disposed toward his friend in the same way as toward himself, and whatever toils he would undertake for the sake of his own pleasure, the same he will undertake for the sake of his friend's pleasure. And whatever was said of the virtues — how they always cleave to pleasures — the same must be said of friendship. For Epicurus said admirably, in these very words almost: 'The same knowledge,' he says, 'that has strengthened the mind not to fear any eternal or lasting evil, has discerned that within this very span of life the surest defence is the protection of friendship.'

But there are some Epicureans, a little more timid in the face of your reproaches, yet acute enough, who fear that, if we hold friendship to be sought for the sake of our own pleasure, the whole of friendship may seem, as it were, to limp. And so they say that the first meetings and couplings and the wishes to establish intimacies arise for the sake of pleasure; but when advancing intercourse has produced familiarity, then affection blooms forth so greatly that, even if there be no advantage from the friendship, yet the friends are loved for their own sakes. For if we are wont, by the habit of frequenting them, to grow fond of places, of shrines, of cities, of gymnasiums, of the Field of Mars, of dogs, of horses, of the sports of exercise or of hunting, how much more easily and more justly can this come about in our intercourse with men?

There are others, however, who say that there is a kind of compact among the wise, that they should love their friends not less than themselves. This both we understand can come about, and we often see it, and it is plain that nothing can be found more fitted for living pleasantly than such a union. From all which it can be judged that the principle of friendship is not only not hindered if the highest good be placed in pleasure, but that without this the establishment of friendship cannot be found at all.

Wherefore, if the things I have said are clearer and brighter than the sun itself; if I have said everything drawn from the fountain of Nature; if our whole discourse confirms all its credit by the senses — that is, by witnesses uncorrupted and entire; if speechless infants, and even the dumb beasts, all but proclaim, with Nature for their teacher and guide, that nothing is welcome but pleasure, nothing harsh but pain, and judge of these neither perversely nor corruptly — ought we not to feel the deepest gratitude to him who, having heard this, as it were, voice of Nature, so firmly and gravely grasped it that he led all the sound of mind into the path of a calm, tranquil, quiet, and happy life? As for your thinking him too little learned, the cause is this: that he reckoned no learning to be such except what helped the discipline of the happy life.

Was he to spend his time in unrolling the poets, as I and Triarius do at your urging — in whom there is no solid usefulness, and all the delight is childish — or to wear himself out, like Plato, on music, geometry, numbers, and the stars, which, set out from false beginnings, cannot be true, and which, even were they true, would bring nothing whereby we might live more pleasantly — that is, better? Was he, I say, to pursue those arts and abandon the art of living, so great, so laborious, and likewise so fruitful? Not Epicurus, then, is unlearned, but those are unlettered who think that things which it is disgraceful for boys not to have learned ought to be learned even into old age. When he had said this, 'I have set forth my opinion,' he said, 'and with this purpose, that I might learn your judgment, since the opportunity of doing so at my own pleasure has, before this time, never been given me.'