Oration 20

What, then, ever is the meaning of retirement, and whom must we set down as men who retire? Should we call those men retired who withdraw from the works and actions that befit them? For instance, if a man being an Athenian, when he ought to take the field for his country, the Lacedaemonians having invaded Attica, or Philip coming on, or other enemies, should withdraw to Megara or Aegina in order not to serve and not to face danger—would this man be said to have retired?

Or if a man possessing a large estate, in order to escape the public services, should go away from the city? Or if a man able to heal the sick, when his friends and intimates are ill, that he may not have trouble and labour in tending them, should desert them and travel away to another place? Or if any other man, when he too ought to be assessed in the city, to hold office and serve in offices and keep certain watches, lying awake, should be unwilling, but, that he may be rid of all these things and that no one may call him to account nor hinder him from drinking and sleeping and taking his ease, should withdraw somewhere else—are we to say that these men retire? No, plainly these men flee and run away, and there would be no excuse for them nor pardon for such leisure and desertion.

We must not, then, say that those who go away from useless affairs and from occupations that do not befit them, and procure for themselves some leisure from things that vainly trouble them, are retiring. But in that sense the man who has removed from one city to another, or from one place to another, would not be said to retire; for wherever he comes, there would be many things to get in his way and prevent him from doing what is fitting. For both consorting at length with someone, and persisting in drinking or dicing or doing some other of the harmful and disadvantageous things, are everywhere such; and so is spending one's time always with whomever one meets, chattering and hearing discourses of no use, or busying oneself with the king's affairs or so-and-so's, as someone said.

For the senseless man is not master of his own soul, but is whirled about and led easily by any chance pretext and company. So that the mass of men, just as the prodigal cannot give an account of his money, to what he has spent each part of it, though for all that a great deal of money plainly has been spent—neither could these give an account of their time and life, to what they spent each day or month or year; yet their life plainly goes by and their time is spent, worth not a little to men, nor less, it seems to me, than money.

Yet, for all that, when a single drachma is lost, one must perceive it and be stung in some degree; and if a man throw away more, there are not many who are calm about such a thing—I mean, men grieved and stung not because of their carelessness and inattention (the things for which they ought to be stung), but at the loss of the drachmas. But when a day has gone by and is lost, and two and three, there is no one who has given it a thought.

But in the one case they can reckon thus, that, if they do not pay heed nor take thought of such things, their whole substance would, before they knew it, trickle away and be lost; whereas in the other case they cannot make this same reckoning—that, if they do not take forethought each day and guard against going on at random, their whole life would, before they knew it, trickle away and be lost.

But that it is not place that affords the not doing of base things, nor going abroad, nor having retired to Corinth or Thebes, but that it is for the man who wishes to be with himself—for both in Thebes and in Megara, and well-nigh everywhere a man may go in Greece and Italy, there is the possibility of idling and taking one's ease, and he will be at no loss for a pretext, wherever he may chance to be, on account of which, slacking and busying himself in trifles, he will spend even a very long time, should it so chance.

May not, then, the retirement into oneself, and attending to one's own affairs, be the best and most profitable of all—whether one chance to be in Babylon or at Athens, or in a camp or on a little island and alone? For such retirements and journeys abroad have but a small influence toward keeping leisure and doing what one ought; just as, for the sick, to be laid now on one couch and now on another sometimes brings a little rest, but not enough, nor such as to free them from disease—

and one may see that not even by very great uproar and a crowd is each man hindered from doing his own work, but the flute-player or the teacher of the flute does this often on the very road, having his school there, and neither the crowd nor the din of the passers-by puts him out; and the dancer likewise, or the dancing-master, attends to this, careless of those who are quarrelling and buying and selling and doing other things; and so the citharist, and the painter. But the strongest instance of all is this: the teachers of letters sit with their boys in the streets, and nothing is in their way, in so great a crowd, of teaching and learning.

And once before now I myself saw, walking through the hippodrome, many men in the same place, each doing something different—one playing the flute, one dancing, one performing some juggling trick, one reading aloud a poem, one singing, one relating some history or tale; and not one of these hindered any other from attending to himself and doing the task before him.

And yet none of these is the kind of work that gathers the soul together and settles it and makes it despise all other things. But culture, it seems, and philosophy, which most of all accomplish this, are found to need much solitude and retirement. And just as, for the sick, unless there be silence and quiet on every side, it is not possible to get a share of sleep, so likewise, it seems, for lovers of learning, unless all keep silence for them, and there be no sight to see nor any sound to hear, then the soul will not be able to attend to its own affairs and to be occupied with them.

But I, for my part, see even those who live near the sea suffering nothing, but able both to think what they wish to think, and to speak and to listen and to sleep, whenever it is the time for them—because they think the noise no concern of theirs and take no thought of it. But if they should wish to attend whenever the sound grew greater or less, or to count the waves as they break, or to watch the gulls and the other birds, how they fly down upon the waves and swim easily upon them, they would have no leisure to do anything else.

So too, then, whoever is able to reflect about the mass of men and the din that attends them and their affairs, that these things differ in no way from what happens at sea, would not be troubled by them. But this, it seems, is a thing worth much—the lesson and the teaching, namely, to accustom the soul to follow reason and not to turn to other things than what lies before it and seems to be right;

and the soul thus accustomed to reason will be able to accomplish all that befits it; whereas the soul that is whirled about and distracted and turned now to one thing, now to another, whenever something appears having some pleasure or ease in it—like water in a sloping place, turning wherever it chances—would gain no benefit even from all the quiet and solitude.

For I know that of dogs too, those well-trained and industrious, when they are loosed, at once seek out the trail, and not even if all should call them back would they ever leave it; not even if many cries should be borne from all sides, and many scents from fruits and flowers should be interwoven, and a great multitude of men and other animals should appear, and tracks, some of horses, some of oxen, some of sheep—none of these does it see nor perceive any of them, but, overlooking that, it picks out the trail from all directions and follows it, until it both finds and starts up the hare, and thereafter holds on in pursuit, through whatever places it may go, and neither plain nor mountain nor the very rough ground nor ravine nor stream stops it, though the hare runs many a course and tries to deceive it;

but the ignorant and untrained dogs are slow to perceive and quick to give up, and if from anywhere else a noise should fall upon them, whether the baying of dogs or the voices of travellers or herdsmen, they at once look up from the trail and are carried thither. Of all these things, as I said, habit is the cause. And likewise one ought to accustom the soul never to turn away nor to retreat from the work that seems fitting. Otherwise it is not easy to prevail nor to accomplish anything adequately.

Or is it not in solitudes and quiet, is it not there most of all, that senseless men have devised, so as not to think any of the things they ought, many other strange thoughts, in consorting with which they delight—fashioning for themselves tyrannies and riches and other marvels? Some fashioning treasures and acquiring all at once a vast and impossible amount of gold and silver, others declaring themselves kings and monarchs of cities and nations, and then forthwith doing all the rest that belongs to tyranny—putting some men to death, driving out others, consorting with maidens and youths and women as they please, partaking of the most lavish banquets and feasts;

and some lending out silver, or fashioning for themselves other occupations, as though waking and seeing varied and manifold dreams. Sometimes, indeed, even out of these dreams there comes to pass for them, in waking reality, the basest and strangest things. For tyrannies, indeed, do not very much come from such men; for tyranny does not consent to be hunted by an easygoing mind that is in a manner always asleep, but, on the contrary, by a keen and sleepless thought; but extravagances and lusts and such pastimes have already often befallen many.

So, indeed, I think Alexander, when he chanced to be at leisure on Ida about the cattle, such a thought and desire came upon him—that it is a happy and blessed thing to have the fairest of all women, and that neither kingship is worth this prize, nor wealth, nor to prevail in war over all men—and after this he began to consider who and among whom such a woman was, and whence such a marriage might be his;

and so, being a prince, he held in scorn the brides and maidens in Ilium and thought them not worthy to win, and likewise he looked down upon the women of the Lydians and Phrygians and those in Lesbos and those in Mysia. But learning that in Sparta there was a certain woman, called the daughter of Zeus, living with Menelaus, a man who was a king and a king's brother of all Greece, whom the first and foremost of the Greeks had wooed and been eager to win, giving many bride-gifts and presents; and indeed she was said to be of good brothers, Polydeuces and Castor, sons of Zeus—he desired that this woman should be his.

Otherwise, then, he did not think it very possible, but, if some god should promise and grant it, perhaps such a thing might come to pass. And what other goddess is it likely should bestow such favours than the one who rules and governs the affairs of marriage and love? If she gave it, then, he did not think the marriage impossible. How, then, might he persuade her to grant it, save if in some way he should himself become dear to the goddess by having given her some gift and favour? But neither did she happen to need money, being golden and possessing simply all wealth; nor sacrifices, for all men everywhere sacrifice to her; nor would she easily hearken to any other intercourse and entreaty; but if a man should add to her the thing she most desires and has held most precious of all, and should bear witness that she is the fairest, perhaps she might be pleased.

And to be victorious and preferred in this, over whom would he think it worth while, save the first and greatest of the goddesses, Athena and Hera? And still more, if those goddesses should appear offering great and marvellous gifts for the sake of the victory. Thus, having gone through and worked out his own fancy and conceit—as a soul in sleep following images and fancies weaves a long and connected dream—he is made by Zeus the judge of the goddesses, and held both them and their gifts in scorn, but preferred her for a wage and gift, namely to receive the marriage of that woman about whom he had mused and prayed.

If, then, he had chanced to be just this—a herdsman and a private man—no trouble would have come from such a dream. But as it was, since he was a prince and a potentate, strong in wealth and in the rule of the then greatest city and in the goodwill of his parents toward him, he then worked out the rest in deed, as though these things had truly happened—building ships and gathering companions; and having sailed to Greece and Sparta, and come to the house of Menelaus and Helen, and met with hospitality, and persuaded her to leave her husband and Greece, he came bringing her to Troy, the beginning of many grievous troubles and calamities.

Thus the thoughts and desires of a private and powerless soul are windy and feeble, and nothing grievous comes from them, but, just as dreams in very truth vanish at once when men rise, and none of them, as they say, endures the sun nor the day, in like manner too such desires and hopes are. But those of monarchs or the wealthy or men having some other power often come to a grievous and fearful end.

And such a thing is like, as it seems to me, to wind-eggs. For they say that eggs are produced thus, without congress and the mating of a male, which they call wind-eggs, as being produced by a wind falling upon the birds. Whence indeed Homer too, it seems to me, thinking it not impossible nor incredible to men that there should be a wind-born race of horses, said that Boreas, having fallen in love with certain Trojan mares, filled them with seed and that a race of horses was born from them. Often from some false and impossible fancy a true event comes to pass.

And all these things have been said by me from that beginning and digression—that the soul must be accustomed to do what it ought and to think rightly everywhere and in all uproar and in all quiet. Otherwise, the matter of solitude and quiet is in nothing greater or safer for senseless men, as regards not thinking many strange thoughts and going astray.