Book Three

We must reckon not only that life is being spent day by day, and an ever smaller part of it left; but this too must be reckoned, that even if a man should live longer, it is uncertain whether the understanding will hold out as before, equal to the grasp of affairs and to that contemplation which strives after experience of things divine and human. For if a man begins to fail in mind, breathing and nourishment, the play of impressions and the working of impulse, and all such things, will not give out; but the power to use oneself, to mark with precision the measure of one's duty, to set in order what is presented to the mind, to consider whether the time has come to take oneself off — all that calls for a thoroughly trained reason — is quenched before the rest. We must press on, then, not only because we draw nearer to death at every moment, but also because the comprehension of things and the close attention to them flag and fail before the end.

We must also note that even the by-products of things produced by nature have a certain grace and charm. When a loaf is baked, some parts split open; and these cracks, which thus gape and in a way run counter to the baker's intent, have a certain fitness of their own, and stir the appetite for food in a peculiar way. Figs, again, gape widest when at their ripest; and in olives ripened on the tree, the very nearness of decay lends a peculiar beauty to the fruit. The ears of corn bending earthward, the lion's lowering brow, the foam streaming from the wild boar's jaws, and many other things — if one were to look at them by themselves, far from comely — yet, because they follow upon the works of nature, lend a further grace and please the soul. So that if a man has feeling and a deeper insight into the things that come to pass in the whole, there is scarcely one of them, even among the things that happen by way of consequence, that will not seem to him in some way pleasingly disposed. Such a man will look on the real gaping jaws of wild beasts with no less pleasure than on those that painters and sculptors set before us in imitation; and in the old woman and the old man he will be able to see a certain ripeness and bloom, and the loveliness of children, with his own chaste eyes. And many such things will come home, not to everyone, but only to him who has grown genuinely intimate with Nature and her works.

Hippocrates, after curing many diseases, himself fell sick and died. The Chaldeans foretold the deaths of many men, and then their own appointed fate overtook them too. Alexander, Pompey, and Gaius Caesar, after so often razing whole cities to the ground and cutting down in pitched battle myriads of horse and foot, themselves at last departed from life. Heraclitus, after all his speculations on the conflagration of the universe, was filled within with water, plastered over with cow-dung, and so died. Vermin destroyed Democritus, and other vermin Socrates. What of it? You embarked, you sailed, you have come to port: step ashore. If it is to another life, there is no place empty of gods, not even there; and if to insensibility, you will cease to endure pains and pleasures and to be a slave to a vessel as much meaner than that which serves it — for the one is mind and guardian spirit, the other earth and gore.

Do not waste the part of life that is left in imaginings about other men, except when you direct them to some common good; for so you rob yourself of other work. That is, by picturing what so-and-so is doing, and why, and what he says, and what he is plotting, and all such things, you are made to wander from the watch over your own ruling faculty. We must, then, banish from the train of our impressions all that is aimless and idle, and most of all the meddlesome and malicious; and we must train ourselves to imagine only those things about which, if a man were suddenly to ask, "What are you thinking of now?", we could at once answer with frankness, "This and that" — so that from the answer it would be plain at once that all is simple and kindly, the thought of a being made for fellowship, one who cares nothing for the imaginings of pleasure or of indulgence generally, or for rivalry, or envy, or suspicion, or anything else that one would blush to own one had in mind. For such a man, no longer putting off the day, is even now among the best; he is a kind of priest and minister of the gods, employing also that which is seated within him, which keeps a man unstained by pleasures, unwounded by any pain, untouched by any outrage, insensible to all wickedness — an athlete in the greatest of contests, that of being thrown by no passion; dyed deep in justice; welcoming with his whole soul all that befalls and is allotted to him; not often, and never without some great and common need, imagining what another may be saying or doing or thinking. For he has only his own concerns to work upon, and he reflects continually on what is spun for him out of the whole; and the former he keeps fair, while of the latter he is persuaded that they are good. For the lot assigned to each is carried along with the whole, and carries the whole along with it. And he remembers, too, that all rational beings are kin, and that to care for all men is according to the nature of man; that one must hold fast, not to the opinion of all men, but only of those who live in agreement with nature. As for those who do not so live, he keeps ever in mind what manner of men they are, at home and abroad, by night and by day, and with what manner of company they herd. He sets no store, therefore, by the praise of such men, who do not even please themselves.

Act neither unwillingly, nor selfishly, nor without examination, nor against your own better judgment. Let no studied elegance dress up your thought. Be neither a great talker nor a busybody. Further, let the god within you be the guardian of a being that is male, mature, devoted to the commonwealth, a Roman and a ruler, who has taken his post like one awaiting the recall from life, ready to march off, needing neither oath nor any man for witness. And let there be in you cheerfulness, and no need of help from outside, nor of the peace that others give. You must stand upright, then, not be held upright by others.

If in human life you can find anything better than justice, truth, self-control, courage — than your understanding, in a word, content with itself in the things wherein it makes you act according to right reason, and content with its lot in what is allotted to you apart from your choice — if, I say, you can see anything better than this, then turn to it with your whole soul and enjoy this best thing that you have found. But if nothing shows itself better than the very divinity seated within you, which has brought your own impulses under its sway, which scrutinizes your impressions, which has withdrawn itself, as Socrates said, from the persuasions of the senses, and has made itself subject to the gods and careful of men — if you find all else smaller and cheaper than this, then give place to nothing else; for once you have inclined and turned aside toward any other thing, you will no longer be able, without distraction, to give the first honour to that good which is your own and proper to you. For it is not lawful that anything of a different kind should be set up as a rival to the good of reason and fellowship — neither the praise of the many, nor offices, nor wealth, nor the enjoyment of pleasures. All these things, even if they seem to fit for a little while, suddenly master a man and carry him off. But do you, I say, simply and freely choose the better and hold fast to it. "And the better is what profits." If it profits you as a rational being, keep to it; but if only as an animal, say so plainly, and guard your judgment without conceit; only see that you make the inquiry surely.

Never value as profitable to yourself anything that will compel you one day to break your faith, to abandon your sense of honour, to hate someone, to suspect, to curse, to play the hypocrite, to long for anything that needs walls and curtains to hide it. For the man who has set above all else his own mind and guardian spirit and the rites of its virtue makes no tragedy of life, utters no groans, and will need neither solitude nor a crowd. Above all, he will live neither pursuing nor fleeing; and whether for a longer span of time or a shorter he is to use his soul enclosed in the body matters to him not at all. For even if he must depart this moment, he will go as readily as he would do any other thing that can be done with decency and order, taking care throughout his whole life of this one thing only: that his understanding be never turned to anything unbecoming a rational and social being.

In the mind of the man who has been chastened and purified you would find nothing festering, nothing soiled, nothing rankling beneath the surface; nor does his appointed fate overtake his life unfinished, as one might say of an actor leaving the stage before he has played out his part and completed the drama. Moreover, you would find in him nothing servile, nothing showy, nothing too tightly bound or too sharply cut off, nothing to answer for, nothing skulking in a corner.

Reverence the power of forming opinions. On this everything depends, that no opinion may arise in your ruling faculty out of keeping with nature and with the constitution of a rational being. And this constitution promises freedom from rashness, kinship with men, and obedience to the gods.

Cast away all else, then, and hold fast to these few things alone. Remember besides that each man lives only this present, the fleeting instant; the rest has either been lived already or lies in uncertainty. Little, then, is the span each man lives; little the corner of the earth where he lives; and little, too, the longest fame thereafter — and even that handed on through a succession of poor mortals very soon to die, who do not know even themselves, far less one long dead.

To the principles already named let one more be added: always to make a definition or sketch of the object presented to the imagination, so as to see it as it is in its essence, naked, whole, and divided into its parts, and to name to oneself both its own name and the names of those things out of which it is compounded and into which it will be dissolved. For nothing is so apt to produce greatness of mind as the power to examine, by method and in truth, each of the things that meet us in life, and always so to look at them as to consider at the same time what sort of universe this is, what use the thing serves in it, what worth it has in relation to the whole and what in relation to man, who is a citizen of the highest city, of which all other cities are as households. What is this that now produces an impression in me? Of what is it composed? How long is it of its nature to last? And what virtue does it call for in dealing with it — gentleness, courage, good faith, simplicity, self-sufficiency, and the rest? Therefore in each case one must say: this comes from God; this comes by the allotment, the woven web of destiny, and such concurrence and chance; and this comes from my fellow, my kinsman and partner, who is ignorant, however, of what is according to his nature. But I am not ignorant; and therefore I treat him, according to the natural law of fellowship, with good will and justice, while at the same time, in matters indifferent, I aim at his deserts.

If you do the present task following right reason, earnestly, vigorously, kindly, allowing no by-end to creep in, but keeping the guardian spirit within you pure, as though even now you had to give it back; if you join this to the present, expecting nothing and shunning nothing, content with present action according to nature and with the heroic truth of all you say and utter — then you will live well. And there is no one who can prevent this.

As physicians always keep their instruments and knives ready to hand for sudden cases, so do you keep your principles ready for the knowledge of things divine and human, and do even the smallest thing as one mindful of the bond that binds the two together. For you will do nothing well in human affairs without referring it also to the divine, nor anything divine without referring it to the human.

No longer wander from your course; for you are not going to read your own notes, nor the deeds of the ancient Romans and Greeks, nor those extracts from books that you laid up for your old age. Press on, then, to the end, and, casting away empty hopes, come to your own aid, while it is still in your power, if you have any care for yourself.

They do not know how many things are meant by "to steal," "to sow," "to buy," "to keep quiet," "to see what must be done" — which last is the work, not of the eyes, but of another kind of sight.

Body, soul, mind: to the body belong the senses, to the soul the impulses, to the mind the principles. To receive impressions through the imagination belongs even to cattle; to be jerked by impulses like a puppet belongs even to wild beasts, to the unmanly, to a Phalaris and a Nero. To have the mind as guide toward what appears to be one's duty belongs even to those who do not believe in the gods, who betray their country, and who do anything once they have shut their doors. If, then, all else is shared with the men just named, what remains as proper to the good man is this: to love and welcome what befalls and is woven into the web of his fate, and not to defile or trouble with a throng of impressions the guardian spirit seated within his breast, but to keep it serene, following the god in good order, speaking nothing contrary to truth, doing nothing contrary to justice. And if all men disbelieve that he lives simply, modestly, and cheerfully, he is angry with none of them, nor does he turn aside from the road that leads to the end of life, to which he must come pure, at peace, ready to depart, fitted without constraint to his own lot.