Letter 51: On Baiae and morals
Every man does the best he can, my dear Lucilius! You over there have Etna, that lofty and most celebrated mountain of Sicily (although I cannot make out why Messala—or was it Valgius? for I have been reading in both—has called it "unique," inasmuch as many regions belch forth fire, not merely the lofty ones where the phenomenon is more frequent—presumably because fire rises to the greatest possible height—but low-lying places also.)
As for myself, I do the best I can; I have had to be satisfied with Baiae; and I left it the day after I reached it; for Baiae is a place to be avoided, because, though it has certain natural advantages, luxury has claimed it for her own exclusive resort.
"What then," you say, "should any place be singled out as an object of aversion?"
As for myself, I do the best I can; I have had to be satisfied with Baiae; and I left it the day after I reached it; for Baiae is a place to be avoided, because, though it has certain natural advantages, luxury has claimed it for her own exclusive resort.
"What then," you say, "should any place be singled out as an object of aversion?"
Not at all. But just as, to the wise and upright man, one style of clothing is more suitable than another, without his having an aversion for any particular color, but because he thinks that some colors do not befit one who has adopted the simple life; so there are places also, which the wise man, or he who is on the way toward wisdom, will avoid as foreign to good morals.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 51
I have wasted far too much of my time trying to change the world instead of learning to change myself, yet that doesn’t mean I need to take everything lying down. To work from where I am includes the option of finding new digs when the opportunity arises.
Though the place does not make the man, the man can be sorely tempted by the place. I mean, of course, not merely the location, but rather the sort of company that gathers at that location, and the way the example of others, for better or for worse, has a way of rubbing off on my own thinking.
Indeed, I will make the best of whatever I have been given; nevertheless, if I am granted a choice, I will be happy to stay clear of the sketchy neighborhoods. I worry less about what others might do to me and more about the trouble I might bring upon myself.
Seneca didn’t feel at ease around luxury, perhaps because he knew how such conditions would distract him from maintaining his character. I can’t speak to that, for while I have known some rich people, none of them have ever deigned to share their riches with me, and so I should probably be grateful that I have been spared such a burden.
No, I have my own danger zone, which is pretty much anywhere that so-called “intellectuals” tend to congregate. I thrive around people who are wise and virtuous, but wither around those who wish to appear as wise and virtuous, for they encourage me to believe I can be happy by just putting on a show. I can gladly let them do their own thing, as long as I am well out of earshot.
Some face their demons when strolling down a fancy shopping street, whereas mine creep out of the shadows at the artsy cafés. I must neither hate the place nor choose to condemn the man who inhabits the place—I must tune my preferences so that they best serve my principles.
I have wasted far too much of my time trying to change the world instead of learning to change myself, yet that doesn’t mean I need to take everything lying down. To work from where I am includes the option of finding new digs when the opportunity arises.
Though the place does not make the man, the man can be sorely tempted by the place. I mean, of course, not merely the location, but rather the sort of company that gathers at that location, and the way the example of others, for better or for worse, has a way of rubbing off on my own thinking.
Indeed, I will make the best of whatever I have been given; nevertheless, if I am granted a choice, I will be happy to stay clear of the sketchy neighborhoods. I worry less about what others might do to me and more about the trouble I might bring upon myself.
Seneca didn’t feel at ease around luxury, perhaps because he knew how such conditions would distract him from maintaining his character. I can’t speak to that, for while I have known some rich people, none of them have ever deigned to share their riches with me, and so I should probably be grateful that I have been spared such a burden.
No, I have my own danger zone, which is pretty much anywhere that so-called “intellectuals” tend to congregate. I thrive around people who are wise and virtuous, but wither around those who wish to appear as wise and virtuous, for they encourage me to believe I can be happy by just putting on a show. I can gladly let them do their own thing, as long as I am well out of earshot.
Some face their demons when strolling down a fancy shopping street, whereas mine creep out of the shadows at the artsy cafés. I must neither hate the place nor choose to condemn the man who inhabits the place—I must tune my preferences so that they best serve my principles.
—Reflection written in 4/2013
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