Letter 2

From what you write to me, and from what I hear, I conceive good hope of you: you do not run about, nor unsettle yourself by changes of place. Such tossing to and fro is the mark of a sick mind. The first proof of a well-ordered mind, I think, is to be able to halt and to abide with oneself.

But take care that this reading of many authors and of books of every kind does not carry with it something wandering and unsteady. You must dwell upon and feed yourself upon certain master minds, if you would draw out anything that will lodge faithfully in the mind. He who is everywhere is nowhere. To those who spend their life in travel it happens that they have many lodgings but no friendships. The same thing must befall those who attach themselves intimately to no one's genius, but pass over everything in haste and at a run.

Food does no good, nor is taken into the body, if it is thrown up as soon as it is swallowed; nothing so hinders health as the frequent changing of remedies; a wound does not come to a scar in which dressings are being tried out; a plant does not grow strong that is often transplanted. Nothing is so useful as to be useful only in passing. A multitude of books distracts. And so, since you cannot read all that you have, it is enough to have only as much as you can read.

"But," you say, "now I want to unroll this book, now that one." It is the mark of a fastidious stomach to taste many things; and when they are varied and diverse, they defile rather than nourish. Therefore always read the approved authors, and if at any time it pleases you to turn aside to others, return to the former. Every day procure some help against poverty, some against death, and no less against the other plagues; and when you have run through many things, pick out one that you may digest that day.

This I do myself: out of the many things I have read, I lay hold of some one thing. Today's is this, which I came upon in Epicurus—for I am accustomed to cross even into the enemy's camp, not as a deserter, but as a scout.

"It is an honourable thing," he says, "to be cheerfully poor." But that is no poverty at all, if it is cheerful. It is not the man who has little, but the man who craves more, that is poor. For what does it matter how much lies in his strongbox, how much in his granaries, how many flocks he pastures or sums he lends out, if he covets another's, if he reckons not what he has acquired but what he has still to acquire? You ask what is the proper measure of wealth? First, to have what is necessary; next, to have what is enough. Farewell.