Seneca, Moral Letters 40.2

You write me that you heard a lecture by the philosopher Serapio, when he landed at your present place of residence. 
 
"He is wont," you say, "to wrench up his words with a mighty rush, and he does not let them flow forth one by one, but makes them crowd and dash upon each other. For the words come in such quantity that a single voice is inadequate to utter them." 
 
I do not approve of this in a philosopher; his speech, like his life, should be composed; and nothing that rushes headlong and is hurried is well ordered. 
 
That is why, in Homer, the rapid style, which sweeps down without a break like a snowsquall, is assigned to the younger speaker; from the old man eloquence flows gently, sweeter than honey. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 40 
 
I can’t find a single reference to this Serapio, and none of the editions of Seneca’s Letters on my shelf offer any suggestions. That’s quite alright, because philosophy shouldn’t be about becoming famous, for the good philosopher finds his joy in living well, simply for its own sake. 
 
But was Serapio actually a good philosopher? While I should never make that fatal mistake of confusing style with substance, to what extent does the way a man chooses to express himself reflect upon his inner character? The outer appearance is hardly the cause of the inner disposition, though the former can reveal much as an effect proceeding from the latter. 
 
It would seem that Serapio spoke profusely, hurriedly, and sloppily, which is hardly uncommon among those who seek out an audience. While the underlying motives, habits, and circumstances will vary, the presence of lazy language should be a warning to look out for lazy thinking, and if a man has difficulty in ordering his words and actions, there is a good chance he needs to work on ordering his reason. 
 
I obviously can’t speak for Serapio, and so I examine myself. When I was younger, in those hectic teenage years, I had a problem with blurting out the first thing that came into my head. It was only the rigorous exercise of self-reflection that permitted me to slowly adjust this harmful reaction, as I realized that there must be clear apprehension, true judgment, and sound demonstration before there can be any meaningful expression. 
 
If this requires some time, then so be it; those unwilling to wait are probably not ready to listen. I find it odd that people now joke about my moments of silence instead of my passionate interruptions. 
 
Even as I grew older, and it became apparent I was being asked to become a teacher, I noticed how I had a frustrating tendency to speak far too quickly. Now I may have thought an idea over carefully, but there was still a torrent of words once I decided to have my say. It was impossible for anyone to take notes or consider what I was suggesting with all the nervous gushing. 
 
And there was the key, the awareness that my anxiety about being in front of people made me rush through the task of being put on the spot. For all the tricks of rhetoric, what ultimately helped me was learning to manage my fear of a crowd, to accept that my worth did not rise or fall with their smiles or frowns. Speak with patience and charity, but speak the truth. It’s the old Stoic advice: modify the attitude, and you modify the outcome. 
 
Before reading this passage from Seneca, it had never occurred to me how Homer wrote his characters to communicate with such different styles. I now see the pattern more easily, not just in literature but also in daily life, where unbridled passion is frantic and hard-earned wisdom is serene. 
 
A calm and balanced mind will have a calm and balanced voice. 

—Reflection written in 1/2013