On Taking One's Own Life
By Lucius Annaeus Seneca
"it matters not how long the action is spun out, but how good the acting is. It makes no difference at what point you stop. Stop whenever you choose; only see to it that the closing period is well turned. "
While everybody was bustling about and hurrying to the
water-front, I felt great pleasure in my laziness, because, although I was soon
to receive letters from my friends, I was in no hurry to know how my affairs
were progressing abroad, or what news the letters were bringing; for some time
now I have had no losses, nor gains either. Even if I were not an old man, I
could not have helped feeling pleasure at this; but as it is, my pleasure was
far greater. For, however small my possessions might be, I should still have
left over more travelling-money than journey to travel, especially since this
journey upon which we have set out is one which need not be followed to the
end. An expedition will be incomplete if one stops half-way, or anywhere on
this side of one's destination; but life is not incomplete if it is honourable.
At whatever point you leave off living, provided you leave off nobly, your life
is a whole. Often, however, one must leave off bravely, and our reasons
therefore need not be momentous; for neither are the reasons momentous which
hold us here.
Tullius Marcellinus, a man whom you knew very well, who in
youth was a quiet soul and became old prematurely, fell ill of a disease which
was by no means hopeless; but it was protracted and troublesome, and it
demanded much attention; hence he began to think about dying. He called many of
his friends together. Each one of them gave Marcellinus advice, – the timid
friend urging him to do what he had made up his mind to do; the flattering and
wheedling friend giving counsel which he supposed would be more pleasing to
Marcellinus when he came to think the matter over; but our Stoic friend, a rare
man, and, to praise him in language which he deserves, a man of courage and
vigour admonished him best of all, as it seems to me. For he began as follows:
"Do not torment yourself, my dear Marcellinus, as if the question which
you are weighing were a matter of importance. It is not an important matter to
live; all your slaves live, and so do all animals; but it is important to die
honourably, sensibly, bravely. Reflect how long you have been doing the same
thing: food, sleep, lust, – this is one's daily round. The desire to die may be
felt, not only by the sensible man or the brave or unhappy man, but even by the
man who is merely surfeited."
Marcellinus did not need someone to urge him, but rather
someone to help him; his slaves refused to do his bidding. The Stoic therefore
removed their fears, showing them that there was no risk involved for the
household except when it was uncertain whether the master's death was
self-sought or not; besides, it was as bad a practice to kill one's master as
it was to prevent him forcibly from killing himself. Then he suggested to
Marcellinus himself that it would be a kindly act to distribute gifts to those
who had attended him throughout his whole life, when that life was finished,
just as, when a banquet is finished, the remaining portion is divided among the
attendants who stand about the table. Marcellinus was of a compliant and
generous disposition, even when it was a question of his own property; so he
distributed little sums among his sorrowing slaves, and comforted them besides.
No need had he of sword or of bloodshed; for three days he fasted and had a
tent put up in his very bedroom. Then a tub was brought in; he lay in it for a
long time, and, as the hot water was continually poured over him, he gradually
passed away, not without a feeling of pleasure, as he himself remarked, – such
a feeling as a slow dissolution is wont to give. Those of us who have ever
fainted know from experience what this feeling is.
This little anecdote into which I have digressed will not be
displeasing to you. For you will see that your friend departed neither with
difficulty nor with suffering. Though he committed suicide, yet he withdrew
most gently, gliding out of life. The anecdote may also be of some use; for
often a crisis demands just such examples. There are times when we ought to die
and are unwilling; sometimes we die and are unwilling. No one is so ignorant as not to know that we
must at some time die; nevertheless, when one draws near death, one turns to
flight, trembles, and laments. Would you not think him an utter fool who wept
because he was not alive a thousand years ago? And is he not just as much of a
fool who weeps because he will not be alive a thousand years from now? It is
all the same; you will not be, and you were not. Neither of these periods of
time belongs to you. You have been cast upon this point of time; if you would
make it longer, how much longer shall you make it? Why weep? Why pray? You are
taking pains to no purpose.
Give
over thinking that your prayers can bend
Divine
decrees from their predestined end.
These decrees are unalterable and fixed; they are governed
by a mighty and everlasting compulsion. Your goal will be the goal of all
things. What is there strange in this to you? You were born to be subject to
this law; this fate befell your father, your mother, your ancestors, all who
came before you; and it will befall all who shall come after you. A sequence
which cannot be broken or altered by any power binds all things together and
draws all things in its course. Think of
the multitudes of men doomed to death who will come after you, of the
multitudes who will go with you! You would die more bravely, I suppose, in the
company of many thousands; and yet there are many thousands, both of men and of
animals, who at this very moment, while you are irresolute about death, are
breathing their last, in their several ways. But you, – did you believe that
you would not some day reach the goal towards which you have always been
travelling? No journey but has its end.
You think, I suppose, that it is now in order for me to cite
some examples of great men. No, I shall cite rather the case of a boy. The
story of the Spartan lad has been preserved: taken captive while still a
stripling, he kept crying in his Doric dialect, "I will not be a
slave!" and he made good his word; for the very first time he was ordered
to perform a menial and degrading service, – and the command was to fetch a
chamber-pot, – he dashed out his brains against the wall. So near at hand is
freedom, and is anyone still a slave? Would you not rather have your own son
die thus than reach old age by weakly yielding? Why therefore are you
distressed, when even a boy can die so bravely? Suppose that you refuse to
follow him; you will be led. Take into your own control that which is now under
the control of another. Will you not borrow that boy's courage, and say:
"I am no slave!"? Unhappy fellow, you are a slave to men, you are a
slave to your business, you are a slave to life. For life, if courage to die be
lacking, is slavery.
Have you anything worth waiting for? Your very pleasures,
which cause you to tarry and hold you back, have already been exhausted by you.
None of them is a novelty to you, and there is none that has not already become
hateful because you are cloyed with it. You know the taste of wine and
cordials. It makes no difference whether a hundred or a thousand measures pass
through your bladder; you are nothing but a wine-strainer. You are a connoisseur in the flavour of the
oyster and of the mullet; your luxury has not left you anything untasted for
the years that are to come; and yet these are the things from which you are
torn away unwillingly. What else is there which you would regret to have taken
from you? Friends? But who can be a friend to you? Country? What? Do you think
enough of your country to be late to dinner? The light of the sun? You would
extinguish it, if you could; for what have you ever done that was fit to be
seen in the light? Confess the truth; it is not because you long for the senate
chamber or the forum, or even for the world of nature, that you would fain put
off dying; it is because you are loth to leave the fish-market, though you have
exhausted its stores.
You are afraid of
death; but how can you scorn it in the midst of a mushroom supper? You wish to
live; well, do you know how to live? You are afraid to die. But come now: is
this life of yours anything but death? Gaius Caesar was passing along the Via
Latina, when a man stepped out from the ranks of the prisoners, his grey beard
hanging down even to his breast, and begged to be put to death.
"What!" said Caesar, "are you alive now?" That is the
answer which should be given to men to whom death would come as a relief.
"You are afraid to die; what! are you alive now?" "But,"
says one, "I wish to live, for I am engaged in many honourable pursuits. I
am loth to leave life's duties, which I am fulfilling with loyalty and
zeal." Surely you are aware that dying is also one of life's duties? You
are deserting no duty; for there is no definite number established which you
are bound to complete. There is no life that is not short. Compared with the
world of nature, even Nestor's life was a short one, or Sattia's, the woman who
bade carve on her tombstone that she had lived ninety and nine years. Some
persons, you see, boast of their long lives; but who could have endured the old
lady if she had had the luck to complete her hundredth year? It is with life as
it is with a play, – it matters not how long the action is spun out, but how
good the acting is. It makes no difference at what point you stop. Stop
whenever you choose; only see to it that the closing period is well turned.
Farewell.
