Book Ten

Will you ever, my soul, be good and simple and one and naked, more manifest than the body that surrounds you? Will you ever taste of a loving and affectionate disposition? Will you ever be full and in want of nothing, longing for nothing, desiring nothing, neither living thing nor lifeless, for the enjoyment of pleasures? Nor any time in which to enjoy them the longer; nor any place or region or fair climate; nor any harmony of men? But will you be content with your present state, and take pleasure in all that is present, and persuade yourself that all things are present to you from the gods, and that all is well for you and will be well — all that they love, and all that they intend to give for the preservation of that perfect being, the good and just and beautiful, which begets all things and holds them together and embraces them and gathers them in as they are dissolved for the begetting of other like things? Will you ever be such as to dwell together with gods and men in such a way as neither to find any fault with them nor to be condemned by them?

Observe what your nature requires, in so far as you are governed by mere nature; then do it and accept it, if your nature as a living being is not going to be made worse by it. Next, you must observe what your nature as a living being requires, and accept all this, if your nature as a rational living being is not going to be made worse by it. And the rational is at once the social. Using these rules, then, busy yourself with nothing further.

Everything that befalls befalls either in such a way that you are by nature fitted to bear it, or in such a way that you are not. If, then, what befalls you is such as you are fitted to bear, do not be discontented, but bear it as you are fitted to. But if it is such as you are not fitted to bear, do not be discontented; for it will destroy you and so be itself destroyed. Yet remember that you are by nature fitted to bear everything which it lies in your own opinion to make bearable and endurable, by an impression of its being your advantage, or your duty, to do this.

If he goes wrong, instruct him kindly, and show him what he has overlooked. But if you cannot, blame yourself — or not even yourself.

Whatever befalls you was prepared for you from everlasting, and the interweaving of causes wove together both your own existence from all eternity and the coming-to-pass of this thing.

Whether atoms or nature, let this be laid down first: that I am a part of the Whole, governed by nature; next, that I stand in a certain kinship with the parts of the same kind as myself. For remembering these things, in so far as I am a part, I shall be discontented with nothing that is allotted by the Whole; for nothing that is of benefit to the Whole is harmful to the part. For the Whole has nothing that is not of benefit to itself; all natures have this in common, but the nature of the universe has this further property, that it cannot be compelled by any cause from without to beget anything harmful to itself. So, then, by remembering that I am a part of such a Whole, I shall be content with all that comes to pass; and in so far as I stand in a certain kinship with the parts of the same kind, I shall do nothing against the fellowship, but rather aim at the good of my kind, and direct every impulse of mine toward the common benefit, and turn it away from the contrary. And these things being so accomplished, life must needs flow smoothly — as you might conceive the life of a citizen to flow smoothly, who goes forward through acts of benefit to his fellow citizens, and welcomes whatever the city allots to him.

The parts of the Whole — all that are by nature contained in the universe — must of necessity perish; and let this be understood to signify being altered. But if this is by nature both an evil and a necessity to them, the Whole could not be well conducted, with its parts going on to alteration and being constituted in divers ways for perishing. For did nature herself set about doing harm to her own parts, and making them liable to fall into evil, and of necessity falling into it? Or did such things come to pass without her knowledge? Both are incredible. But if a man should leave nature out of account and explain these things as merely natural, even so it is absurd at once to say that the parts of the Whole are by nature subject to change, and at the same time to wonder at, or be vexed by, something happening as though contrary to nature — especially when the dissolution is into the very things of which each thing is composed. For it is either a scattering of the elements out of which it was compounded, or a turning of the solid into the earthy and of the airy into air, so that even these are taken up into the reason of the Whole, whether that be consumed by fire in cycles or renewed by everlasting exchanges. And do not picture the solid and the airy as that which was there from the first birth; for all this took on its inflow only yesterday or the day before, from the foods and the air drawn in; it is, then, this which it took on that changes, not what your mother bore. And suppose that this binds you closely to that thing of such-and-such a peculiar quality; that, I think, is nothing to the present argument.

Having given yourself these names — good, modest, truthful, sensible, of one mind with all, of a mind above all — take heed never to be renamed; and if you lose these names, return to them quickly. And remember that "sensible" was meant to signify for you the discerning attention to each thing and the freedom from carelessness; "of one mind with all," the willing acceptance of what is allotted by the common nature; and "of a mind above all," the lifting of the thinking part above the smooth or rough motion of the flesh, above the little fame, above death, and all such things. If, then, you keep yourself in these names, not craving to be called by them by others, you will be another man and will enter upon another life. For to be still such as you have been until now, and to be torn and defiled in such a life, is the mark of one utterly senseless, in love with life, and like those half-devoured beast-fighters who, covered with wounds and gore, yet beg to be kept till the morrow, to be thrown, such as they are, to the same claws and fangs. Embark, then, upon these few names; and if you can abide in them, abide, as one removed to some Isles of the Blessed. But if you perceive that you are falling away and losing your hold, withdraw with good courage into some corner where you will keep it, or even depart altogether from life — not in anger, but simply, freely, and modestly, having at least done this one thing well in life, that you have so departed. And toward the remembering of these names it will greatly help you to remember the gods, and that they do not wish to be flattered, but that all rational beings should be made like to themselves, and that the fig-tree should do the work of a fig-tree, the dog of a dog, the bee of a bee, and the man of a man.

Mime, war, panic, torpor, slavery: day by day these will blot out those holy principles of yours, which you imagine and dismiss without natural reflection. But one must so look at and do everything that at the same time the practical task is accomplished and the contemplative activity is exercised, and the self-confidence that comes from the knowledge of each thing is preserved, unobtrusive but not hidden. For when will you enjoy simplicity? When dignity? When the recognition of each thing — what it is in its essence, what place it holds in the universe, how long it is by nature fitted to subsist, of what it is composed, to whom it can belong, and who can give it and take it away?

The spider is proud when it has caught a fly; one man when he has snared a hare, another a sprat in his net, another little boars, another bears, another Sarmatians. Are these not robbers, if you examine their principles?

Acquire a method of contemplating how all things change into one another, and attend to it continually, and exercise yourself in this part; for nothing is so apt to produce greatness of mind. Such a man has stripped off the body, and, reflecting that very soon he must leave all these things behind and depart from among men, has given himself up wholly to justice in what he himself does, and to the Nature of the Whole in all else that befalls. What anyone will say or think of him, or do against him, he does not even take into his mind, being content with these two things: that he himself acts justly in what is now being done, and loves what is now allotted to him. And he has let go all distractions and ambitions, and wishes nothing else than to run a straight course through the law, and, running it, to follow God.

What need is there of suspicion, when it is in your power to consider what ought to be done? And if you see it clearly, to go that way kindly and without swerving; but if you do not see it clearly, to hold back and take counsel with the best advisers; and if some other things stand against these, to go forward with deliberation according to the means at hand, holding fast to what appears just? For it is best to hit upon this; since to fail is to fail in just this. Composed and at the same time quick to move, cheerful and at the same time steady, is he who in all things follows reason.

Ask yourself, the moment you are roused from sleep: will it make any difference to you if what is just and good is blamed by another? It will not. Have you forgotten that these men who give themselves airs in their praise and blame of others are such as they are upon their bed, such at their table; what they do, what they shun, what they pursue, what they steal, what they snatch — not with hands and feet, but with that most precious part of themselves, by which, when it wills, are produced good faith, modesty, truth, law, a good guardian spirit?

To the nature that gives all and takes all back, the man who is instructed and modest says: "Give what you will, take back what you will." And he says this not in defiance, but only in obedience and goodwill toward her.

Little is this that is left to you. Live as upon a mountain; for it makes no difference whether one lives there or here, if one lives everywhere as in a city, the universe. Let men see, let them mark, a true man living according to nature. If they cannot bear him, let them kill him; for that is better than to live as they do.

No longer talk at all about what manner of man the good man should be, but be such.

Continually picture to yourself the whole of time and the whole of substance, and that all particular things are, as to substance, a grain of millet, and as to time, the turning of a gimlet.

Fixing your attention on each of the things before you, picture it as even now being dissolved and in change, as it were rotting and scattering, or as each thing is by nature, dying, so to speak.

What manner of men they are when they eat, sleep, couple, ease themselves, and the rest; and then what manner of men when they lord it and give themselves airs, or are harsh and rebuke from on high — though a little while ago they were slaves, and to how many, and for what; and a little while hence they will be in such states again.

That is of benefit to each which the Nature of the Whole brings to each; and it is of benefit at the time when she brings it.

"The earth loves the rain, and the august heaven loves to give it," and the universe loves to make whatever is to come to be. To the universe, then, I say: I love along with you. And is it not said in this way too, that "this is wont to come to pass"?

Either you live here and have grown used to it; or you are going away, and that was your own wish; or you die, and have finished your service. Beyond these there is nothing. Be of good cheer, then.

Let it always be clear to you that this place is such a thing as a country field, and how all things here are the same as on the mountain-top, or on the seashore, or wherever you will. For you will find the saying of Plato hold good before your eyes: "fencing himself a fold upon a mountain," he says, "and milking the bleating flocks."

What is my ruling faculty to me, and what manner of thing am I now making it, and to what use am I now putting it? Is it empty of mind? Is it loosed and torn away from fellowship? Is it so melted into and mingled with the poor flesh as to be turned about with it?

He who flees his master is a runaway; and the master is the law, and so he who breaks the law is a runaway. And likewise he who is grieved, or angry, or afraid, does not wish that something should have come to be, or be coming to be, or be about to be, of the things ordained by him who governs all, who is law, apportioning to each what falls to his lot. He, then, who is afraid, or grieved, or angry, is a runaway.

A man lets go the seed into a womb and departs, and thereafter another cause takes it up and works upon it and brings to completion a babe — out of what a thing, what a thing! Again, he lets food down through the throat, and thereafter another cause takes it up and produces perception and impulse, and, in a word, life and strength, and other things — how many and what kind! Contemplate, then, these things that come to pass in such a hidden way, and see the power, as we see the power that bears things down and that bears them up — not with the eyes, yet no less clearly.

Reflect continually how all things, such as now come to pass, came to pass before, and reflect that they will come to pass again; and set before your eyes whole dramas and scenes of the same kind, all that you have known from your own experience or from the older histories — as the whole court of Hadrian, the whole court of Antoninus, the whole court of Philip, of Alexander, of Croesus; for all those were of the same kind, only with other actors.

Picture to yourself every man who is grieved or discontented at anything whatever as like a pig being sacrificed, kicking and squealing. Like him too is the man who upon his bed bewails his lot alone, in silence. And reflect that only to the rational being is it given to follow willingly the things that come to pass; but to follow simply is laid upon all of necessity.

On each of the things you do, stop and ask yourself whether death is dreadful because it robs you of this.

When you take offence at someone's fault, turn at once and reflect what like fault you yourself commit — judging money, for instance, to be good, or pleasure, or a little fame, and so forth. For dwelling on this you will quickly forget your anger, when it also occurs to you that he is under compulsion; for what else can he do? Or, if you can, take away that which compels him.

When you see Satyrion, picture to yourself a follower of Socrates, or Eutyches or Hymen; and when you see Euphrates, picture Eutychion or Silvanus; and when you see Alciphron, picture Tropaeophorus; and when you see Severus, picture Crito or Xenophon; and when you look at yourself, picture one of the Caesars, and in each case the like. Then let this thought come home to you: where, then, are those men? Nowhere, or who knows where. For thus you will continually behold human things as smoke and nothing, especially if you remember that what has once changed will be no more through endless time. Why, then, do you strain? Why is it not enough for you to pass through this brief span in seemly fashion? What material and what occasion you are fleeing! For what are all these things but exercises for a reason that has looked closely and in the manner of natural philosophy at the things in life? Abide, then, until you have made even these your own, as a strong stomach makes all things its own, as a bright fire makes flame and light out of whatever you throw in.

Let it be in no one's power to say truly of you that you are not simple, or that you are not good; but let him lie who shall suppose any such thing of you. And all this is in your power; for who is hindering you from being good and simple? Only resolve to live no longer if you are not to be such; for not even reason requires that one be alive who is not such.

What is it that, in this matter before you, can be done or said in the soundest way? For whatever that may be, it is in your power to do or say it; and do not make excuses as though you were hindered. You will not cease groaning until you feel this: that to do what is proper to the constitution of man, upon the material laid before you and presenting itself, is to you what luxury is to the lover of pleasure. For you must reckon as an enjoyment everything that it is in your power to do according to your own nature; and it is in your power everywhere. Now to the cylinder it is not granted everywhere to be borne by its own motion, nor to water, nor to fire, nor to the other things governed by nature or by an irrational soul; for the things that bar and stand in the way are many. But mind and reason can pass through everything that opposes them just as their nature and their will require. Setting before your eyes this facility, by which reason will be borne through all things, as fire upward, as a stone downward, as a cylinder down a slope, seek nothing further; for the other obstacles either belong to the body, the corpse, or, apart from opinion and the yielding of reason itself, do not crush us, nor do any evil at all. Otherwise, indeed, the man who suffered would straightway become bad; for in the case of all other contrivances, whatever evil befalls any of them makes the thing itself that suffers worse; but here, if one may say so, a man becomes even better and more praiseworthy by using rightly the things that befall. And in sum, remember that nothing harms the natural citizen which does not harm the city, nor anything the city which does not harm the law; and of these so-called misfortunes none harms the law. What, then, does not harm the law harms neither city nor citizen.

To one who is steeped in the true principles, even the briefest and most familiar saying suffices for a reminder against grief and fear, such as: "The leaves the wind scatters to the ground; so is the race of men." Little leaves are your children too; little leaves are these who cry out as though worthy of trust and sound your praises, or, on the contrary, curse you, or in secret blame and mock; and little leaves likewise are those who shall hand on your fame hereafter. For all these "come into being in the season of spring." Then the wind has cast them down; and afterward the wood puts forth others in their place. And short duration is common to all; yet you flee and pursue all things as though they were to be everlasting. In a little while you will close your eyes, and another will be lamenting him who carried you out.

The healthy eye must look at all things visible, and not say, "I want green things"; for that is the mark of the diseased eye. And the healthy hearing and smell must be ready for all that can be heard and smelled; and the healthy stomach disposed alike toward all nourishment, as a mill toward all that it was made to grind. And so the healthy mind must be ready for all that befalls; but that which says, "Let my children be safe," and, "Let all praise whatever I do," is an eye seeking green things, or teeth seeking the tender.

There is no one so fortunate that, when he is dying, some will not stand by who welcome the evil that has befallen him. Was he earnest and wise? At the very last there will be someone to say within himself, "We shall breathe again at last, freed from this schoolmaster; he was harsh to none of us, but I felt that he silently condemned us." This, then, is said of the earnest man; but in our own case, how many other reasons there are for which many wish to be rid of us! Reflect on this, then, as you die, and you will depart the more easily, reasoning thus: I am going away from such a life, in which even the partners for whom I strove so much, prayed, and took thought — those very men wish me gone, hoping perhaps for some relief from it. Why, then, should anyone cling to a longer stay here? Yet do not on this account depart less kindly toward them, but keep your own character, friendly, well-disposed, gracious; and again, not as one torn away, but as in a good death the poor soul slips easily out of the body, such should your departure from these men be. For nature bound you to them and blended you with them, but now she dissolves the bond. I am dissolved, as from kinsmen, yet not held back, but without constraint; for this too is one of the things according to nature.

Accustom yourself, on everything that anyone does, so far as may be, to ask within yourself: to what does this man refer this? But begin with yourself, and examine yourself first.

Remember that it is that hidden thing within which pulls the strings: that is the power of speech, that is life, that, if one may say so, is the man. Never picture along with it the surrounding vessel and these organs moulded round it; for they are like an adze, differing only in that they grow upon us. For these parts are of no more use without the cause that moves and checks them than the shuttle is to the weaver, or the pen to the writer, or the whip to the charioteer.