Living Is Not A Great Matter

Tullius Marcellinus, whom you knew very well, a quiet young man who soon became and old man, was taken ill with a disease that, though not without remedy, was long lasting and discomforting and made many demands on him; so, he began to weigh the possibility of death.

He gathered together a large group of friends. Each of them, out of timidity, either urged on him the same thing he would urge upon himself, or else played the flatterer and yes-man, and gave the advice he guessed would be more pleasant to the one weighing his options. But our Stoic friend—and outstanding fellow, and a brave and vigorous man, to praise him in the words with which he deserved to be praised—advised him the best, as it seems to me;

“Marcellinus, don’t torment yourself as though you were pondering a great matter. Living is not a great matter; all your slaves do it, and all the animals. To die honorably, prudently, bravely—now that is great. Consider how long it is now that you have been doing the same things; food, sleep, the act of love—this is the cycle we move through. So it’s not just a prudent or brave or wretched man, but even one who’s merely fussy, who might want to die.”

I’ve digressed, but the story is one you will not find unpleasing, for you will learn that the death of a man who was your friend was neither difficult nor painful. Although he made a conscious decision to die, he nonetheless left the world in the gentlest way, and merely slipped out of life. But the story will not be without its applications, for necessity often drive such instances. Often, we ought to die but don’t wish to, or are dying but don’t wish to. No one is so naive as not to recognize that he must die at some point, yet when he approaches that point he turns back, trembles, pleads.

But wouldn’t a man to you seem the greatest of all fools, if he wept because for a thousand years previously, he had not been alive? He’s just as great a fool if he weeps because he won’t live for a thousand years to come. It’s just the same: you won’t exist, just as you didn’t exist; neither past not future is yours. You were thrust into this brief moment; how long will you prolong it? Why weep? What are you looking for? Your efforts are wasted.

Stop hoping to bend the fates of the gods by prayer

Those fates are determined and fixed, guided by a great and eternal necessity. You’ll go to the same place that all go. What’s so strange about this? You were born under this law; it happened to your father, your mother, your ancestors, everyone before you, everyone after you. An unbreakable sequence, which no effort can alter, binds and tows all things.

How great a throng of those yet to die will follow in your footsteps! How great a crowd will accompany you! You would bear it more bravely, I imagine, if many thousands of things were dying along with you. In fact, many thousands—both men and animals—are giving up the ghost in all kinds of ways, at the very moment when you are hesitating to die. Don’t you think you are going to arrive someday where you were always headed?  No journey is without an endpoint.

“How to die: An ancient guide to the end of life” from Seneca, translated by James S. Romm.