That is why I regard the words of the well-known Rhodian as most unmanly. This person was thrown into a cage by his tyrant, and fed there like some wild animal. And when a certain man advised him to end his life by fasting, he replied: "A man may hope for anything while he has life."
This may be true; but life is not to be purchased at any price. No matter how great or how well-assured certain rewards may be, I shall not strive to attain them at the price of a shameful confession of weakness. Shall I reflect that Fortune has all power over one who lives, rather than reflect that she has no power over one who knows how to die?
There are times, nevertheless, when a man, even though certain death impends and he knows that torture is in store for him, will refrain from lending a hand to his own punishment, to himself, however, he would lend a hand. It is folly to die through fear of dying. The executioner is upon you; wait for him. Why anticipate him? Why assume the management of a cruel task that belongs to another? Do you grudge your executioner his privilege, or do you merely relieve him of his task?
Socrates might have ended his life by fasting; he might have died by starvation rather than by poison. But instead of this he spent thirty days in prison awaiting death, not with the idea "everything may happen," or "so long an interval has room for many a hope" but in order that he might show himself submissive to the laws and make the last moments of Socrates an edification to his friends. What would have been more foolish than to scorn death, and yet fear poison?
This may be true; but life is not to be purchased at any price. No matter how great or how well-assured certain rewards may be, I shall not strive to attain them at the price of a shameful confession of weakness. Shall I reflect that Fortune has all power over one who lives, rather than reflect that she has no power over one who knows how to die?
There are times, nevertheless, when a man, even though certain death impends and he knows that torture is in store for him, will refrain from lending a hand to his own punishment, to himself, however, he would lend a hand. It is folly to die through fear of dying. The executioner is upon you; wait for him. Why anticipate him? Why assume the management of a cruel task that belongs to another? Do you grudge your executioner his privilege, or do you merely relieve him of his task?
Socrates might have ended his life by fasting; he might have died by starvation rather than by poison. But instead of this he spent thirty days in prison awaiting death, not with the idea "everything may happen," or "so long an interval has room for many a hope" but in order that he might show himself submissive to the laws and make the last moments of Socrates an edification to his friends. What would have been more foolish than to scorn death, and yet fear poison?
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 70
I suppose every time and place has its own version of the classic saying, “Where there’s life, there’s hope!” There is truth to it, of course, in the sense that there may always be a chance for the state of affairs to become more pleasant, and yet what will I need to surrender of myself in order to play such odds?
If I am asked to take on the role of the liar, or the coward, or the traitor for the sake of my continued comfort, it might be better to gracefully fold my hand.
I find myself frustrated when people insist that “things” will surely get better, because sometimes the circumstances, for so many countless souls, will surely grow markedly worse. I still remember, however, why my inner attitude can always embrace the good, even as I do not expect Fortune to magically obey my preferences. Nature triumphs when I do the right thing, whatever the weight of the outer consequences.
Seneca is not going to provide a color-by-numbers or one-size-fits-all set of instructions for living and dying: each conscience, hopefully well-informed, must follow its own judgments. This letter provides vivid examples both of those who stayed and of those who departed, and in each case they did so by applying principles to practice in their own particular dilemmas.
It is not my place to condemn any of them, just as it is not their place to condemn me; only God knows whether our hearts are truly pure.
The general rule, once again, must be to ask if living any longer will violate my power of living with virtue. We will soon see stories of those who chose to cut their lives short, but I think it interesting how Seneca first proceeds with a consideration of Socrates, who thought it best to patiently await his execution rather than attempt an escape or steal the jailer’s thunder.
While I would refer you directly to Plato’s Crito and Phaedo for a more thorough account, I find myself drawn to the common themes of service and obedience. Socrates decided to respect his friends by sharing his wisdom and fellowship with them in those final days, to respect his children by providing them with an example of courage, and to respect the laws of Athens, for even if his sentence was unjust, he would not merely respond to one injustice by committing another.
Finally, Socrates wished to serve Providence, which always knows the right time or place, and as long as he could still do what is good, without being asked to perform any evil, he had not yet been called home to the Divine. The Master asks us to hold fast at our posts, until that point when to remain would itself be a betrayal of his commands.
If Socrates ever feared the effects of the poison, he certainly feared the prospect of vice all the more.
I suppose every time and place has its own version of the classic saying, “Where there’s life, there’s hope!” There is truth to it, of course, in the sense that there may always be a chance for the state of affairs to become more pleasant, and yet what will I need to surrender of myself in order to play such odds?
If I am asked to take on the role of the liar, or the coward, or the traitor for the sake of my continued comfort, it might be better to gracefully fold my hand.
I find myself frustrated when people insist that “things” will surely get better, because sometimes the circumstances, for so many countless souls, will surely grow markedly worse. I still remember, however, why my inner attitude can always embrace the good, even as I do not expect Fortune to magically obey my preferences. Nature triumphs when I do the right thing, whatever the weight of the outer consequences.
Seneca is not going to provide a color-by-numbers or one-size-fits-all set of instructions for living and dying: each conscience, hopefully well-informed, must follow its own judgments. This letter provides vivid examples both of those who stayed and of those who departed, and in each case they did so by applying principles to practice in their own particular dilemmas.
It is not my place to condemn any of them, just as it is not their place to condemn me; only God knows whether our hearts are truly pure.
The general rule, once again, must be to ask if living any longer will violate my power of living with virtue. We will soon see stories of those who chose to cut their lives short, but I think it interesting how Seneca first proceeds with a consideration of Socrates, who thought it best to patiently await his execution rather than attempt an escape or steal the jailer’s thunder.
While I would refer you directly to Plato’s Crito and Phaedo for a more thorough account, I find myself drawn to the common themes of service and obedience. Socrates decided to respect his friends by sharing his wisdom and fellowship with them in those final days, to respect his children by providing them with an example of courage, and to respect the laws of Athens, for even if his sentence was unjust, he would not merely respond to one injustice by committing another.
Finally, Socrates wished to serve Providence, which always knows the right time or place, and as long as he could still do what is good, without being asked to perform any evil, he had not yet been called home to the Divine. The Master asks us to hold fast at our posts, until that point when to remain would itself be a betrayal of his commands.
If Socrates ever feared the effects of the poison, he certainly feared the prospect of vice all the more.
—Reflection written in 8/2013
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