Seneca, Moral Letters 71.6

Therefore, the wise man will say just what a Marcus Cato would say, after reviewing his past life: 
 
"The whole race of man, both that which is and that which is to be, is condemned to die. 
 
“Of all the cities that at any time have held sway over the world, and of all that have been the splendid ornaments of empires not their own, men shall someday ask where they were, and they shall be swept away by destructions of various kinds; some shall be ruined by wars, others shall be wasted away by inactivity and by the kind of peace which ends in sloth, or by that vice which is fraught with destruction even for mighty dynasties—luxury. 
 
“All these fertile plains shall be buried out of sight by a sudden overflowing of the sea, or a slipping of the soil, as it settles to lower levels, shall draw them suddenly into a yawning chasm. Why then should I be angry or feel sorrow, if I precede the general destruction by a tiny interval of time?" 
 
Let great souls comply with God's wishes, and suffer unhesitatingly whatever fate the law of the Universe ordains; for the soul at death is either sent forth into a better life, destined to dwell with Deity amid greater radiance and calm, or else, at least, without suffering any harm to itself, it will be mingled with Nature again, and will return to the Universe. 
 
Therefore, Cato's honorable death was no less a good than his honorable life, since virtue admits of no stretching. Socrates used to say that verity and virtue were the same. Just as truth does not grow, so neither does virtue grow; for it has its due proportions and is complete. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 71 

 
What a Cato or a Seneca have to say will certainly sound quite odd to those of us who were raised to define ourselves by our worldly success. To make our mark, we were told, it is necessary to accumulate wealth, to acquire a reputation, to gain influence, and thereby “to see and to be seen”. 
 
How disturbing, then, when we are reminded how shallow and fleeting such diversions truly are, and why they can never offer us any peace of mind. 
 
I am sorely mistaken if I believe I can cling to my circumstances or build some sort of enduring legacy; even the most cursory glance at history will show that none of it is lasting, and that death is the great equalizer. Just ask Ozymandias. 
 
Having focused on increasing the quantity of my supposed possessions, I will have neglected the quality of my character, the only thing that was within my power to begin with; more years, or more trinkets, or more admirers will do nothing to improve the inner state of my soul. 
 
They tell me that thinking like this is outdated, as if truth were a function of fashion, and that nobody speaks like Cato or Seneca anymore. 
 
Now while such lofty rhetoric is certainly rare, I will still insist that there are many in this world who continue to revere virtue above all else, and you simply don’t take any notice of them, because they feel no need to put on an elaborate show. A man of conscience is timeless, the salt of the earth, with little interest in impressing anyone or ruling anything beyond himself. 
 
He knows this by reflecting upon his own nature, instead of blindly following the herd. He understands how he will soon be forgotten, and yet this does not trouble him in the least, for he has discovered his worth on the inside, regardless of the trappings on the outside. 
 
The passage of time, however much or little is given to him, will only confirm that the lay of the land is meant to be in constant flux, leaving but the dignity of conviction, however humble its conditions or brief its expression. 
 
Virtue does not need to grow bigger in quantity, since it is already complete in quality, the total actualization of what it means to be human—the rest is accidental, such that any and every situation is an opportunity for excellence.
 
Will God give us the reward of eternal bliss after we have run the course? Will something of us remain after we are dead? Perhaps, but even if my consciousness ceases to be distinct, and the pieces of me merge back into the Whole, to be transformed into something new, I need ask for nothing more than my short moment of honor. 

—Reflection written in 9/2013 

IMAGE: Guercino, The Suicide of Cato (c. 1650)