Seneca, Moral Letters 58.10

Few have lasted through extreme old age to death without impairment, and many have lain inert, making no use of themselves. How much more cruel, then, do you suppose it really is to have lost a portion of your life, than to have lost your right to end that life?
 
Do not hear me with reluctance, as if my statement applied directly to you, but weigh what I have to say. It is this: that I shall not abandon old age, if old age preserves me intact for myself, and intact as regards the better part of myself; but if old age begins to shatter my mind, and to pull its various faculties to pieces, if it leaves me, not life, but only the breath of life, I shall rush out of a house that is crumbling and tottering.
 
I shall not avoid illness by seeking death, as long as the illness is curable and does not impede my soul. I shall not lay violent hands upon myself just because I am in pain; for death under such circumstances is defeat. 
 
But if I find out that the pain must always be endured, I shall depart, not because of the pain but because it will be a hindrance to me as regards all my reasons for living. 
 
He who dies just because he is in pain is a weakling, a coward; but he who lives merely to brave out this pain, is a fool. 
 
But I am running on too long; and, besides, there is matter here to fill a day. And how can a man end his life, if he cannot end a letter? So, farewell. This last word you will read with greater pleasure than all my deadly talk about death. Farewell. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 58 

 
Some people treat life so cheaply that they will casually buy and sell it for convenience or gratification. Other people are so obsessed with merely existing that they cannot ever permit anyone to die with dignity. Somewhere in between we might recover the sanity to judge a life not by the weight of the circumstances, or by the number of years, but by the measure of the virtues. 
 
As Marcus Aurelius said, if the pain remains tolerable, however intense or lasting, we retain our capacity to live well, for the suffering is still a chance to do good. If, however, the pain is now intolerable, having overwhelmed our reason, then we have already lost our power to act freely, and a man should first possess the right to depart on his own terms. If his conscience is sound, he will make the right choice for himself. 
 
And as Epictetus said, if the house is too full of smoke, then this is a sign that it is time to leave. When only the appearance of life remains, the presence of breath without the guidance of thought, it is both foolish and vain to linger. 
 
Lucilius was still young, and perhaps did not yet need to dwell upon the question, while Seneca was already old, and he knew why he had to prepare himself. Though we might not initially see it, the accumulation of years often demands the greater courage. 
 
I regularly hear people of a rather gruff disposition assume that anyone who freely chooses to die must be a coward; they are usually the same folks who refuse to walk in another man’s shoes, and so they will not offer mercy. What they do not understand is that, as Socrates said, it is wiser to fear the threat of one’s own vices than the approach of death. 
 
What began as a profound reflection on the various senses of “being” did indeed end up as an eminently practical lesson. Knowing how to think is a condition for knowing how to live. That sort of philosophy can’t steer us wrong. 

—Reflection written in 5/2013 

IMAGE: Peter Paul Rubens, The Dying Seneca (c. 1613)