Letter 77: On taking one’s own life
Suddenly there came into our view today the “Alexandrian” ships—I mean those which are usually sent ahead to announce the coming of the fleet; they are called “mail boats.” The Campanians are glad to see them; all the rabble of Puteoli stand on the docks, and can recognize the “Alexandrian” boats, no matter how great the crowd of vessels, by the very trim of their sails.
For they alone may keep spread their topsails, which all ships use when out at sea, because nothing sends a ship along so well as its upper canvas; that is where most of the speed is obtained. So when the breeze has stiffened and becomes stronger than is comfortable, they set their yards lower; for the wind has less force near the surface of the water.
Accordingly, when they have made Capreae and the headland whence
“Tall Pallas watches on the stormy peak,”
all other vessels are bidden to be content with the mainsail, and the topsail stands out conspicuously on the “Alexandrian” mail boats.
Suddenly there came into our view today the “Alexandrian” ships—I mean those which are usually sent ahead to announce the coming of the fleet; they are called “mail boats.” The Campanians are glad to see them; all the rabble of Puteoli stand on the docks, and can recognize the “Alexandrian” boats, no matter how great the crowd of vessels, by the very trim of their sails.
For they alone may keep spread their topsails, which all ships use when out at sea, because nothing sends a ship along so well as its upper canvas; that is where most of the speed is obtained. So when the breeze has stiffened and becomes stronger than is comfortable, they set their yards lower; for the wind has less force near the surface of the water.
Accordingly, when they have made Capreae and the headland whence
“Tall Pallas watches on the stormy peak,”
all other vessels are bidden to be content with the mainsail, and the topsail stands out conspicuously on the “Alexandrian” mail boats.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 77
Seneca here returns to an argument that flies in the face of modern sensibilities, even as an honest reflection on the proper goal of living could do us all a world of good. For myself, I am tempted to fear death more than I fear dishonor, clinging to a mere subsistence at the expense of a constant character.
The opening of this letter exemplifies the sort of writing I most enjoy, containing an insight on the universal human condition within the context of a particular human experience. The image of the Romans eagerly awaiting the arrival of the ships from Egypt, bearing news from abroad and heralding the next cargo of grain, is like countless other instances of our personal expectations, the anxious feeling that everything will surely be better, now that the prize is in sight.
I think of the many times I stood waiting at the international arrivals section of the airport, peeking through the crowd and past the sliding doors to catch a glimpse of my grandmother or one of my uncles. The priceless detail about spying the topsails in Seneca’s story reminds me of seeking out those three little squares of red tape that always graced my family’s luggage.
Our days are so full of anticipation, to the point where we can barely consider who we are right now without hoping for what is yet to come. But when will we cease to rely upon the future prospects, and finally be at peace in the present? We assume the journey is all about reaching a certain destination, while we overlook the complete dignity within each and every step taken.
It has less to do with where we might happen to end up, than with how we do our work as we go along. Would the people in Puteoli have been failures if the ships had never come over the horizon? Is my own life now incomplete because I will never again find the suitcases with the red stickers?
Some ships rush ahead, while others lag behind. A sailor wishes to find a safe harbor, but a man’s happiness is not bound by a time or a place.
Seneca here returns to an argument that flies in the face of modern sensibilities, even as an honest reflection on the proper goal of living could do us all a world of good. For myself, I am tempted to fear death more than I fear dishonor, clinging to a mere subsistence at the expense of a constant character.
The opening of this letter exemplifies the sort of writing I most enjoy, containing an insight on the universal human condition within the context of a particular human experience. The image of the Romans eagerly awaiting the arrival of the ships from Egypt, bearing news from abroad and heralding the next cargo of grain, is like countless other instances of our personal expectations, the anxious feeling that everything will surely be better, now that the prize is in sight.
I think of the many times I stood waiting at the international arrivals section of the airport, peeking through the crowd and past the sliding doors to catch a glimpse of my grandmother or one of my uncles. The priceless detail about spying the topsails in Seneca’s story reminds me of seeking out those three little squares of red tape that always graced my family’s luggage.
Our days are so full of anticipation, to the point where we can barely consider who we are right now without hoping for what is yet to come. But when will we cease to rely upon the future prospects, and finally be at peace in the present? We assume the journey is all about reaching a certain destination, while we overlook the complete dignity within each and every step taken.
It has less to do with where we might happen to end up, than with how we do our work as we go along. Would the people in Puteoli have been failures if the ships had never come over the horizon? Is my own life now incomplete because I will never again find the suitcases with the red stickers?
Some ships rush ahead, while others lag behind. A sailor wishes to find a safe harbor, but a man’s happiness is not bound by a time or a place.
—Reflection written in 11/2013
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