Book Eight

This too makes for contempt of empty fame, that it is no longer in your power to have lived the whole of your life, or at least your life from youth, as a philosopher; but it has become plain, to many others and to yourself, that you are far from philosophy. You are tainted, then, so that to win the reputation of a philosopher is no longer easy for you; and the conditions of your life fight against it too. If, therefore, you have truly seen where the matter lies, let go of how you will appear, and be content if you live the rest of your life, however long, as your nature wills. Consider, then, what it wills, and let nothing else distract you; for you have learned by trial that, after wandering through how many things, you nowhere found the good life — not in syllogisms, not in wealth, not in fame, not in enjoyment, nowhere. Where then is it? In doing what man's nature seeks. How, then, will you do these things? If you hold principles from which your impulses and actions flow. What principles? Those concerning good and evil: that nothing is good for a man which does not make him just, self-controlled, brave, free; and nothing evil which does not make him the contrary of these.

On every act ask yourself: how is this to me? Shall I not repent of it? In a little while I am dead, and all is past and gone. What more do I seek, if the present work is that of an intelligent being, made for fellowship and under the same law as God?

Alexander, Gaius, and Pompey — what are they beside Diogenes, Heraclitus, and Socrates? For these men saw into things, and their causes, and their material, and their ruling faculties were the same; but as for those, how many things had they to provide for, of how many were they the slaves!

They will none the less do the same things, even if you burst with rage.

First, do not be troubled; for all things are according to the Nature of the Whole, and in a little while you will be no one and nowhere, as neither Hadrian is, nor Augustus. Then, fixing your gaze on the matter, see it as it is, and remembering that you must be a good man, and what the nature of man requires, do that without swerving, and speak as it seems to you most just — only kindly, and modestly, and without pretence.

The Nature of the Whole has this work: to transfer the things that are here to there, to change them, to take them up from one place and carry them to another. All is alteration — yet not such that you should fear any new thing: all is familiar, and the apportionments too are equal.

Every nature is content with itself when it goes well; and the rational nature goes well when, in its impressions, it assents to nothing false or obscure; when it directs its impulses only toward acts done for the common good; when it limits its desires and aversions to the things in our power; and when it welcomes all that is allotted by the common nature. For it is a part of that nature, as the nature of the leaf is part of the nature of the plant — except that there the nature of the leaf is part of a nature without sense or reason, and one that can be hindered, while the nature of man is part of a nature that cannot be hindered, that is intelligent and just, since it makes equal and proportionate the apportionments of time, substance, cause, activity, and circumstance to each. But look not whether you find one thing equal to one thing in every case, but whether, taken altogether, the sum of one man's lot is equal to the sum of another's.

You cannot read. But you can keep down insolence; you can rise above pleasures and pains; you can be above the love of fame; you can refrain from anger at the senseless and ungrateful, and even care for them.

Let no one any longer hear you finding fault with the life at court, nor hear yourself.

Repentance is a kind of self-reproach for having let slip something useful; and the useful must be something good, and the good and noble man must take care of it. But no good and noble man would ever repent of having let slip some pleasure; therefore pleasure is neither useful nor good.

What is this thing in itself, in its own constitution? What is its substance and material, what its cause, what does it do in the universe, and how long does it subsist?

When you rise unwillingly from sleep, remind yourself that it is according to your constitution and according to the nature of man to render acts that serve the fellowship, whereas sleeping is shared even with the irrational creatures. And what is according to nature for each is more proper to it, more akin, and indeed more pleasant.

Continually, and on every impression if it can be done, apply natural science, the science of the passions, and logic.

Whomever you meet, say to yourself at once: what principles has this man about good and evil? For if he has such-and-such principles about pleasure and pain and the causes of each, about fame and obscurity, death and life, it is no wonder, nor will it seem strange to me, if he does such-and-such things; and I shall remember that he is compelled to act so.

Remember that, just as it is shameful to be surprised that the fig-tree bears figs, so it is to be surprised that the universe bears the things of which it is the bearer. And it is shameful for a physician or a helmsman to be surprised if a man has a fever, or if a contrary wind has arisen.

Remember that to change your course, and to follow one who sets you right, is no less an act of freedom than to keep to your course; for it is your own activity, accomplished according to your own impulse and judgment, and indeed according to your own mind.

If it lies with you, why do you do it? If with another, whom do you blame — the atoms, or the gods? Either is madness. No one is to be blamed. For if you can, set it right; but if you cannot, set the matter itself right; and if you cannot do even this, to what end does blaming bring you? For nothing should be done at random.

What dies does not fall outside the universe. If it remains here and changes here, it is also dissolved here into its own parts, which are elements of the universe and of you. And these too change, and do not grumble.

Everything has come into being for some purpose — a horse, a vine. Why do you wonder? Even the Sun will say, "I have come into being for some work," and so the other gods. For what, then, have you? To take pleasure? See whether the thought can bear it.

Nature has aimed at each thing in its ending no less than in its beginning and its course, as one who tosses a ball. What good is it, then, to the little ball to be thrown up, or what evil to come down, or even to fall? And what good to the bubble while it holds together, or what evil when it bursts? The like is true also of a lamp.

Turn it inside out and see what it is; what it becomes when it grows old, when it falls sick, when it is debauched. Short-lived are both praiser and praised, both he who remembers and he who is remembered. And all this in a corner of this region; and not even here are all in agreement, nor a man even with himself; and the whole earth is a point.

Attend to the matter before you, whether it be a principle, an action, or a meaning. You suffer this justly; for you choose to become good tomorrow rather than to be good today.

Am I doing something? I do it, referring it to the good of men. Does something befall me? I receive it, referring it to the gods and the source of all things, from which all that comes to pass is woven together.

As bathing appears to you — oil, sweat, filth, greasy water, all loathsome — such is every part of life, and everything that lies before us.

Lucilla buried Verus, then Lucilla was buried. Secunda buried Maximus, then Secunda. Epitynchanus buried Diotimus, then Epitynchanus. Antoninus buried Faustina, then Antoninus. Such is the way of all things. Celer buried Hadrian, then Celer. And those keen-witted men, the seers, the puffed-up — where are they? Keen-witted men like Charax, Demetrius the Platonist, Eudaemon, and any such. All of a day, dead long since; some not even remembered for a little while; some turned into legends; some already faded even from the legends. Remember, then, that this compound of yours must either be scattered, or its breath be quenched, or it must move elsewhere and be assigned to another place.

The joy of a man is to do what is proper to a man; and proper to a man is goodwill toward his kind, contempt of the motions of sense, the discernment of plausible impressions, and the contemplation of the Nature of the Whole and of the things that come to be according to it.

There are three relations: one to the vessel that encloses you; one to the divine cause, from which all things befall all; and one to those who live with you.

Pain is either an evil to the body — let the body then declare it — or to the soul; but the soul can keep its own clear sky and calm, and not suppose it to be an evil. For every judgment, impulse, desire, and aversion is within, and nothing of evil mounts up here.

Blot out your impressions, continually saying to yourself: it is now in my power that there be in this soul no wickedness, no desire, in short no disturbance at all, but that, seeing all things as they are, I use each according to its worth. Remember this power, which is according to nature.

Speak both in the Senate and to anyone whatever in seemly fashion, not over-precisely; use sound speech.

The court of Augustus — wife, daughter, grandchildren, ancestors, sister, Agrippa, kinsmen, household, friends, Areius, Maecenas, physicians, sacrificers — the death of a whole court. Then pass to the others . . . not the death of a single man, but of houses like that of the Pompeii. And that which is inscribed on the tombs, "the last of his line" — reflect how many before them strove to leave behind a successor, and then it was needful that someone should be the last; here again the death of a whole line.

You must compose your life action by action, and be content if each does its own work as well as may be; and that it should do its own work no one can prevent. "But something from without will stand in the way." Nothing will stand in the way of acting justly, temperately, and reasonably. "But perhaps some other activity will be hindered." Yet by contentment with the very hindrance, and by a good-tempered passing to what is granted, another action is at once set in its place, one that will fit into the composition of which we speak.

Receive without arrogance, let go without clinging.

If ever you have seen a hand cut off, or a foot, or a head severed and lying somewhere apart from the rest of the body, such does a man make himself, so far as in him lies, who is unwilling to accept what befalls and cuts himself off, or who does anything against the fellowship. You have somehow flung yourself out of the natural unity, for you were born a part; but now you have cut yourself off. Yet here is the gracious thing: it is in your power to unite yourself again. To no other part has God granted, once severed and cut off, to come together again; but consider the kindness with which he has honoured man. For he has put it in his power not to be broken off from the whole at all; and, if he is broken off, to return again and to grow together and to take back his place as a part.

As the other powers in each rational being come from the nature of rational beings, so does this one too. For as that nature converts and ranges in the order of destiny every obstacle and resistance, and makes it a part of itself, so the rational being too can make every hindrance material for itself, and use it for whatever it set out to do.

Do not let the picture of your whole life confound you; do not dwell on all the troublesome things, of what kind and how many, that may probably befall; but on each present occasion ask yourself: what is there in this task unbearable and past endurance? For you will be ashamed to confess it. Then remind yourself that neither the future nor the past weighs upon you, but always the present; and this is made small, if you mark it off by itself, and rebuke your mind if it cannot hold out against this bare present.

Does Pantheia or Pergamus now sit beside the bier of Verus? Or Chabrias or Diotimus beside that of Hadrian? Absurd. And if they did sit there, would the dead perceive it? And if they perceived it, would they be pleased? And if they were pleased, would those mourners thereby become immortal? Was it not fated that these too should first become old men and old women, and then die? And what, after these were dead, were the others to do? All this is a stench and corruption in a bag.

If you can see sharply, look — and judge, he says, with the wisest of judgments.

In the constitution of the rational being I see no virtue set against justice; but against pleasure I see self-control.

If you take away your own opinion about that which seems to grieve you, you yourself stand in the safest place. "Who is 'yourself'?" Reason. "But I am not reason." Be it so. Then let reason at least not grieve itself; and if some other part of you is in a bad state, let it form its own opinion about itself.

The hindering of perception is an evil to the sentient nature. The hindering of impulse is likewise an evil to the sentient nature. And there is something else likewise that hinders and is an evil to the constitution of plants. So, then, the hindering of mind is an evil to the intelligent nature. Apply all this to yourself. Does pain, does pleasure, lay hold of you? The senses will see to it. Has a hindrance met your impulse? If you set out without reservation, then it is at once an evil to you as a rational being; but if you take the common course, you are not yet harmed nor hindered. As for the things proper to the mind, no one else is wont to hinder them; for neither fire, nor steel, nor a tyrant, nor slander, nor anything whatever lays hold of it, once it has become "a rounded sphere at rest in its roundness."

I am not worthy to grieve myself; for I never willingly grieved another.

One thing gladdens one man, another another; but I am gladdened if I keep my ruling faculty sound, turning away from no man and from nothing that befalls men, but looking on all things with kindly eyes, receiving them, and using each according to its worth.

See, make this present time a gift to yourself. Those who rather pursue fame hereafter do not reckon that the men who shall come after will be such as those they now find burdensome; and those men too are mortal. And what, in any case, is it to you if they ring out such voices about you, or hold such an opinion of you?

Take me up and cast me where you will; for there too I shall keep my guardian spirit serene — that is, content, if it can be and act in keeping with its own constitution. Is this thing worth so much that, for its sake, my soul should be in evil case and worse than itself, abased, craving, fawning, scared? And what will you find worth so much?

To no man can anything befall that is not a circumstance proper to man, nor to an ox what is not proper to an ox, nor to a vine what is not proper to a vine, nor to a stone what is not proper to a stone. If, then, there befalls each what is wont and natural to it, why should you be discontented? For the common nature has brought you nothing unbearable.

If you are grieved by something external, it is not that thing that troubles you, but your own judgment about it; and this it is in your power to blot out forthwith. But if you are grieved by something in your own disposition, who prevents you from setting your principle right? And likewise, if you are grieved because you are not doing some particular thing that seems sound to you, why not do it rather than grieve? "But something stronger stands in the way." Then do not grieve; for the cause of its not being done does not lie with you. "But life is not worth living if this is not done." Then take your leave of life kindly, even as one who accomplishes his work dies, and at peace with the things that stood in your way.

Remember that the ruling faculty becomes invincible when, gathered into itself, it is content with itself, doing nothing it does not will, even if its resistance be unreasonable. What then, when it judges of a thing with reason and after careful consideration? Therefore the mind free from passions is a citadel; for a man has nothing stronger to which he may flee for refuge and be thereafter unassailable. He, then, who has not seen this is unlearned; but he who has seen it and does not flee thither is unfortunate.

Say to yourself no more than the first impressions report. It has been reported to you that so-and-so speaks ill of you. This has been reported; but that you have been harmed has not been reported. I see that the child is sick. I see it; but that he is in danger I do not see. So, then, always abide by the first impressions, and add nothing to them from within, and nothing befalls you — or rather, add something, as one who knows each of the things that come to pass in the universe.

A bitter cucumber? Throw it away. Brambles in the path? Turn aside. That is enough; do not add, "Why were these things made in the universe?" For you will be laughed at by a man versed in nature, just as you would be laughed at by a carpenter or a cobbler if you found fault with them for the shavings and parings of their work that you see in the shop. And yet those men have somewhere to throw such things, while the Nature of the Whole has nothing outside herself; but the wonder of this art is that, having marked off her own bounds, she changes back into herself everything within that seems to be decaying, growing old, and useless, and again makes other new things out of these very things, so that she neither needs substance from without nor has need of anywhere to cast out what is rotted. She is content, then, with her own space, her own material, and her own art.

Neither be slovenly in your actions, nor confused in your talk, nor wandering in your impressions; nor, in your soul, let it be wholly drawn together or flung apart; nor in your life be so taken up with business that there is no leisure. "They kill, they hack to pieces, they pursue with curses." What is that to keeping the mind pure, sane, sober, just? It is as though a man, standing beside a clear and sweet spring, should curse it, while it never ceases to well up with water fit to drink; and though he throw in mud, or dung, it will very quickly disperse and wash them away, and will in no way be stained. How, then, will you possess an ever-flowing spring and not a mere cistern? If you guard yourself, every hour, in freedom, together with kindness, simplicity, and modesty.

He who does not know what the universe is does not know where he is. And he who does not know for what he was born does not know who he is, nor what the universe is. And he who has failed in any one of these could not even say for what he himself was born. What manner of man, then, does he seem to you, who flees from or pursues the praise of those who applaud — men who know neither where they are nor who they are?

Do you wish to be praised by a man who curses himself three times an hour? Do you wish to please a man who does not please himself? And does he please himself who repents of nearly everything he does?

No longer merely breathe in common with the air that surrounds you, but now think also in common with the intelligence that surrounds all things. For the intelligent power is poured out and spread abroad on every side, no less, for him who can draw it in, than the airy power for him who can breathe.

Vice, taken generally, does no harm to the universe; and vice in particular does no harm to anyone else, but is harmful only to him to whom it has been granted to be rid of it, the moment he so wills.

To my faculty of choice the faculty of choice of my neighbour is as indifferent as his breath and his flesh. For even though we are made above all for one another's sake, still each of our ruling faculties has its own sovereignty; otherwise the vice of my neighbour would be an evil to me, which God did not see fit to allow, lest it should lie in another's power to make me unhappy.

The sun seems to be poured down, and on every side indeed it is poured out, yet not poured away. For this pouring is a stretching forth; whence its beams are called rays, from their being stretched out. And what manner of thing a ray is you may see, if you observe the sun's light coming in through a narrow chink into a darkened room; for it is stretched out in a straight line and rests, as it were, against any solid that meets it and bars the air beyond; and there it stays, and does not slip down or fall. Such, then, should be the pouring and spreading of the mind: in no way a pouring away, but a stretching forth; and toward the hindrances it meets it should make no violent or impetuous thrust, nor fall down, but stand and shed light on what receives it. For what does not transmit the ray will of itself rob itself of the light.

He who fears death fears either to lose all sensation or to gain a sensation of another kind. But if you will have no sensation, neither will you feel any evil; and if you gain a different kind of sensation, you will be a different kind of being, and will not cease to live.

Men have come into being for one another's sake. Either instruct them, then, or bear with them.

In one way an arrow is borne, in another the mind. Yet the mind, even when it takes care and turns about in its inquiry, is borne none the less straight forward toward its object.

To enter into the ruling faculty of every man, and to grant to every other man also to enter into your own.