Letter 57: On the trials of travel
When it was time for me to return to Naples from Baiae, I easily persuaded myself that a storm was raging, that I might avoid another trip by sea; and yet the road was so deep in mud, all the way, that I may be thought none the less to have made a voyage.
On that day I had to endure the full fate of an athlete; the anointing with which we began was followed by the sand-sprinkle in the Naples tunnel.
No place could be longer than that prison; nothing could be dimmer than those torches, which enabled us, not to see amid the darkness, but to see the darkness.
But, even supposing that there was light in the place, the dust, which is an oppressive and disagreeable thing even in the open air, would destroy the light; how much worse the dust is there, where it rolls back upon itself, and, being shut in without ventilation, blows back in the faces of those who set it going!
So we endured two inconveniences at the same time, and they were diametrically different: we struggled both with mud and with dust on the same road and on the same day.
When it was time for me to return to Naples from Baiae, I easily persuaded myself that a storm was raging, that I might avoid another trip by sea; and yet the road was so deep in mud, all the way, that I may be thought none the less to have made a voyage.
On that day I had to endure the full fate of an athlete; the anointing with which we began was followed by the sand-sprinkle in the Naples tunnel.
No place could be longer than that prison; nothing could be dimmer than those torches, which enabled us, not to see amid the darkness, but to see the darkness.
But, even supposing that there was light in the place, the dust, which is an oppressive and disagreeable thing even in the open air, would destroy the light; how much worse the dust is there, where it rolls back upon itself, and, being shut in without ventilation, blows back in the faces of those who set it going!
So we endured two inconveniences at the same time, and they were diametrically different: we struggled both with mud and with dust on the same road and on the same day.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 57
I suppose I should have known better, but until first reading this letter it had not really occurred to me that the Romans built extensive road tunnels. I do chuckle to myself when I see how many of the old Roman roads are still quite passable after two millennia, while the new highway outside my town is already collapsing after a decade.
The Crypta Neapolitana, which Seneca describes here, was half a mile long, connected Naples and the Phlegraean Fields by avoiding a swamp and some steep hills, and it continued to be used into the early twentieth century.
Recall that only a few letters ago, Seneca had a rather unpleasant experience on a sea voyage, and so it is understandable that he sought out a different route. The fact remains, however, that Fortune likes to play with us, and she prefers to keep us on our toes, so we are bound to find both the unexpected and the challenging on any sort of journey. There is little point in trying to avoid her lessons.
Like a wrestler being first anointed in oil, and then sprinkled with sand so that his opponent might still grip him, Seneca first gets plastered with mud on the road, and then covered with clouds of dust inside the tunnel. Joined together with the sort of darkness that seems impenetrable by any light, this must have been the kind of trip that leaves a deep and lasting mark on the mind.
I have many vivid memories from many different journeys, sometimes terrifying, sometimes exhilarating, and sometimes both. As I read about Seneca venturing into the Crypta Neapolitana, I immediately think of traveling either to or from Boston’s Logan Airport through the Callahan and Sumner Tunnels.
Both passages were narrow, cramped, and filthy. There was usually enough light to see, but the flickering neon tubes on the ceiling did not mix well with the garish yellow tiles that lined the walls. I don’t recall any mud, but even with air conditioning we would be instantly covered in sweat. Though there was no dust, the noxious exhaust fumes were just as painful to the eyes and the throat.
A memory like this one sticks with me for life, and it takes on a far greater significance by standing in for various reflections on the more profound aspects of life. Seneca’s journey by tunnel also provided him with the occasion to ponder the power of our impressions to inspire the fear of death. . . .
I suppose I should have known better, but until first reading this letter it had not really occurred to me that the Romans built extensive road tunnels. I do chuckle to myself when I see how many of the old Roman roads are still quite passable after two millennia, while the new highway outside my town is already collapsing after a decade.
The Crypta Neapolitana, which Seneca describes here, was half a mile long, connected Naples and the Phlegraean Fields by avoiding a swamp and some steep hills, and it continued to be used into the early twentieth century.
Recall that only a few letters ago, Seneca had a rather unpleasant experience on a sea voyage, and so it is understandable that he sought out a different route. The fact remains, however, that Fortune likes to play with us, and she prefers to keep us on our toes, so we are bound to find both the unexpected and the challenging on any sort of journey. There is little point in trying to avoid her lessons.
Like a wrestler being first anointed in oil, and then sprinkled with sand so that his opponent might still grip him, Seneca first gets plastered with mud on the road, and then covered with clouds of dust inside the tunnel. Joined together with the sort of darkness that seems impenetrable by any light, this must have been the kind of trip that leaves a deep and lasting mark on the mind.
I have many vivid memories from many different journeys, sometimes terrifying, sometimes exhilarating, and sometimes both. As I read about Seneca venturing into the Crypta Neapolitana, I immediately think of traveling either to or from Boston’s Logan Airport through the Callahan and Sumner Tunnels.
Both passages were narrow, cramped, and filthy. There was usually enough light to see, but the flickering neon tubes on the ceiling did not mix well with the garish yellow tiles that lined the walls. I don’t recall any mud, but even with air conditioning we would be instantly covered in sweat. Though there was no dust, the noxious exhaust fumes were just as painful to the eyes and the throat.
A memory like this one sticks with me for life, and it takes on a far greater significance by standing in for various reflections on the more profound aspects of life. Seneca’s journey by tunnel also provided him with the occasion to ponder the power of our impressions to inspire the fear of death. . . .
—Reflection written in 5/2013
IMAGE: Caspar van Wittel, The Crypta Neapolitana (c. 1700)
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