Hasten, therefore, in order that, while thus perfecting yourself for my benefit, you may not have learned perfection for the benefit of another.
To be sure, I am already deriving some profit by imagining that we two shall be of one mind, and that whatever portion of my strength has yielded to age will return to me from your strength, although there is not so very much difference in our ages.
But yet I wish to rejoice in the accomplished fact. We feel a joy over those whom we love, even when separated from them, but such a joy is light and fleeting; the sight of a man, and his presence, and communion with him, afford something of living pleasure; this is true, at any rate, if one not only sees the man one desires, but the sort of man one desires.
Give yourself to me, therefore, as a gift of great price, and, that you may strive the more, reflect that you yourself are mortal, and that I am old.
To be sure, I am already deriving some profit by imagining that we two shall be of one mind, and that whatever portion of my strength has yielded to age will return to me from your strength, although there is not so very much difference in our ages.
But yet I wish to rejoice in the accomplished fact. We feel a joy over those whom we love, even when separated from them, but such a joy is light and fleeting; the sight of a man, and his presence, and communion with him, afford something of living pleasure; this is true, at any rate, if one not only sees the man one desires, but the sort of man one desires.
Give yourself to me, therefore, as a gift of great price, and, that you may strive the more, reflect that you yourself are mortal, and that I am old.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 35
Today’s misanthrope may well be confused by the passion with which Seneca speaks about growing into a friendship. Such a caviler is quite familiar with an enthusiasm for sex, or luxury, or fame, but the joy in a union of souls escapes him, and it does not occur to him how his priorities are inverted, because he not yet chosen to look for comfort by giving from the depths of his own nature.
I know all too well well how easy it is become cynical and jaded when people don’t live up to my expectations, yet instead of lashing out at them, I am called to work at improving myself.
Do I wish to have friends? Then let me be the sort of person who is worthy of being a friend. Are people still not knocking at my door? Then why do I remain worried about impressing them instead of serving them?
Beyond the fulfillment of routine social obligations, we tend to put off the cultivation of genuine friendship in favor of building up our careers and properties, or we treat other people merely as steppingstones to a greater prominence. Sanity can only be restored when all the other circumstances of our lives are rightly treated as means to the end of acting with human love.
The Stoic recognizes a certain urgency to this life, not one of frenzied panic but one of steady determination, for what little time we are granted will pass away far more quickly than we imagine. So we cannot dawdle in the pursuit of friendship, when the formation of character requires habit, and tomorrow is never assured.
When Seneca wrote these letters, he was an old man, very close to his own passing, though it should ultimately make no difference if I am seven or seventy: that which is greatest in my estimation must come first on my to-do list. Who I am will become quite clear to anyone who observes the focus of my time and effort: am I constantly seeking further profit, or am I dedicated to spending myself?
In sharing without demand, in loving without condition, a friend is a helper to another’s happiness, and so he cannot help but be happier himself.
Today’s misanthrope may well be confused by the passion with which Seneca speaks about growing into a friendship. Such a caviler is quite familiar with an enthusiasm for sex, or luxury, or fame, but the joy in a union of souls escapes him, and it does not occur to him how his priorities are inverted, because he not yet chosen to look for comfort by giving from the depths of his own nature.
I know all too well well how easy it is become cynical and jaded when people don’t live up to my expectations, yet instead of lashing out at them, I am called to work at improving myself.
Do I wish to have friends? Then let me be the sort of person who is worthy of being a friend. Are people still not knocking at my door? Then why do I remain worried about impressing them instead of serving them?
Beyond the fulfillment of routine social obligations, we tend to put off the cultivation of genuine friendship in favor of building up our careers and properties, or we treat other people merely as steppingstones to a greater prominence. Sanity can only be restored when all the other circumstances of our lives are rightly treated as means to the end of acting with human love.
The Stoic recognizes a certain urgency to this life, not one of frenzied panic but one of steady determination, for what little time we are granted will pass away far more quickly than we imagine. So we cannot dawdle in the pursuit of friendship, when the formation of character requires habit, and tomorrow is never assured.
When Seneca wrote these letters, he was an old man, very close to his own passing, though it should ultimately make no difference if I am seven or seventy: that which is greatest in my estimation must come first on my to-do list. Who I am will become quite clear to anyone who observes the focus of my time and effort: am I constantly seeking further profit, or am I dedicated to spending myself?
In sharing without demand, in loving without condition, a friend is a helper to another’s happiness, and so he cannot help but be happier himself.
—Reflection written in 12/2012
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