论生命之短暂

保利努斯啊，大多数人都抱怨自然之吝啬，因为人生短暂，而这被赋予的短暂人生竟又是如此瞬间即逝，以至于除极少数人之外，其余的人都还没来得及开始生活便寿数已尽。并非只有平庸之辈和疏于思考的大众苍生才对这种人们所说的世间通病发出哀叹，那些声名显赫的人物也会因同样感觉而抱怨，因此也才有了最伟大的医学之父的至理名言：“人生苦短，艺术恒久。”连亚里士多德也会因此而大发牢骚，那是与其智者身份极不相宜的。他指责自然如此偏宠动物，竟然让它们活出五个、十个生命周期，却把人的生命限制在极其短暂的时间里，尽管他为那么众多、伟大的成就而生。生命并非短促，而是我们荒废太多。一生足够漫长，如能悉心投入，足以创造丰功伟绩。然而，在漫不经心、挥霍无度，汲汲于无聊琐事，最终到达万劫不复的终极之时，我们才会幡然醒悟。浑然不觉中，时光荏苒，生命已经逝去。因而，实际赋予我们的生命原非短暂，是我们自己使然；上天所赐不薄，是我们将其荒废虚掷。这正如败家之子将到手的万贯家财，一掷千金，顷刻散尽。若托付给经营有方者管理，即便这财富不多也可提升使用价值。所以，倘能妥善安排，我们的生命便可延长。

我们为何要埋怨自然母亲？她已经仁至义尽：生命，如能善用，便足可长寿。然而，有人贪得无厌，欲壑难填；有人碌碌无为，不务正业；有人醉生梦死，有人慵懒怠惰。有人因政治野心而总是仰人鼻息，结果心力交瘁；有人经商发财，惟利是图，得陇望蜀；有人热衷穷兵黩武，总是损害他人，或总惴惴不安，唯恐大祸临头，因而备受煎熬；有些人殚精竭虑，心甘情愿鞍前马后侍奉大人物而费力不讨好；很多人或觊觎他人的财富，或抱怨自己的贫穷，无暇他顾；不少人没有追求，随波逐流，反复无常，永不满足。有些人一生了无目标，而就在他们无精打采哈欠连天时，死神已神不知鬼不觉地降临——至此，我毫不怀疑那位最伟大诗人的经典名句所言极是：“我们真正活过的那段生命仅仅是一小部分。”的确如此，其余的部分不能算是生命，仅仅是时间而已。恶习裹挟着人们，从四面八方发起进攻，使人们不得再起身睁眼去识辨真相，只能俯首就擒，任欲火中烧而不能自拔，永远失去自我。即使侥幸得到一丝安宁，依然辗转反侧，终难摆脱邪念的缠磨回归平静，就像深海的水即使在风暴肆虐过后仍然翻腾不息。你觉得我说的都是公认的邪恶之徒？看看那些被众人追捧的幸运儿吧，祝福的甜言蜜语令其窒息。多少人为财富所累！多少人高谈阔论，终日为展示自己的天赋才华而呕心沥血！多少人沉溺于无度的享乐而憔悴枯槁！又有多少人囿于门客的包围之中而身不由己！总而言之，纵观这些人，从平民百姓到达官显贵——这位请求法律援助，那位提供帮助；这位接受审判，那位为其辩护，而另一位做出判决；无人为自己提出要求，每个人都在为他人耗散精力。问到那些知名人士你就会发现他们都有着这样的显著特征：甲想讨好乙，乙想讨好丙，没有人为自己操心。于是又有某些人无名火起——他们抱怨上司目中无人，因为当他们希望有人倾听时，上司却忙得无暇旁顾。不过如果一个人自己总是自顾不暇的时候，又怎敢抱怨他人傲气十足呢？然而，无论你是何许人，大人物有时还会将目光投向你，即便表情盛气凌人，他仍会洗耳恭听你的见解，准许你与他比肩而行。可是你却对自己从来都不屑一顾，不屑聆听自己的心声。由于你已经表明并非因为你指望别人的陪伴，而是不能容忍自己做自己的陪伴，所以，你没有理由认为别人就该关注你。

即便先哲都来对此话题予以考量，对于人类头脑的浑浑噩噩他们也会惊奇不已。人们不会让别人获取自己的地产，一点儿小小的地界纠纷，都会使他们即刻抄起石头拿起武器大动干戈；然而他们却能任由别人侵占他们的生命——咳，他们甚至自己请人来掌控他们的生命。你会发现没人会愿意别人分享自己的钱财，但是我们每个人瓜分了自己的生命！人们在捍卫个人财产时锱铢必较，而一旦挥霍起本该吝惜的时间，却是出手大方。所以我要拉住一位先辈对他说：“我看您老高寿，已近百岁之年，或超过百岁，来，给我们盘点一下您这一辈子吧。算算你用了多少时间与债主周旋，多少时间与情妇厮混，多少时间与贵族结交，多少时间与门客敷衍，多少时间和老婆吵架，多少时间惩治奴仆，多少时间在为履行社会义务在城里奔忙，还得算上生病后用去的时间，再加上无所事事流逝的时间，你会发现属于你的时间比你原来估计的要少多了。回想一下什么时候有过固定的目标，按自己计划过的日子才几天；什么时间随心所欲地干事，什么时候表情自然，什么时候心无旁骛，如此漫长的一生取得了哪些成就；不知不觉中多少人侵扰过你的生活；无缘由的悲痛、愚蠢的嬉笑、贪得无厌、外界的诱惑使你失去了多少人生的大好时光，自己却所剩无几，你会感到自己死得太早了。

为什么会这样呢？你活着就好像命中注定会长生不老；你从未感到自身的脆弱，你对时光流逝浑然不觉，因而挥霍虚掷，好像时光会满载而至，源源而来——而其实你为别人或别的事情付出的那一天很可能就是你的末日。恐惧时，你知道终会一死；贪求时，你似乎长生不老。你会听到很多人这样说：“等我五十岁时我就退休赋闲；等我六十岁时就推掉所有公干。”但，谁能保证你那么长寿呢？谁能确保你能按照自己设定的路线活下去呢？当你的生命只剩下残羹冷炙，当你的时间已无法用在其他事情上才开始思考，你不觉得惭愧吗？当生命即将结束才准备开始真正的生活就已经为时太晚了！忘了人终有一死，而把那些明智的计划拖延到五十、六十岁时才开始实施，想在很少有人能活到的那个岁数才开始生活，这是多么愚蠢！

你会发现很多达官显贵都曾声称他们渴望闲暇，赞赏闲暇，觉得悠闲的生活比自己的尊荣更可贵。有时他们渴望能从高位平安卸任，因为即便没有外界袭击和骚乱，好运自己也会顷刻间灰飞烟灭。

被奉若神明的奥古斯都大帝得到诸神的恩泽比谁都多，而他却不断地祈求歇息，希望能暂停公务，休息片刻。他句句不离的话题是——对赋闲的企盼。他曾用慰藉的话宽解自己的辛劳，虽然虚假却很中听。他说，有那么一天他会为愉悦自己而生活。他在致元老院的一封信中承诺他的隐退将不会缺少尊严，也不会与先前的荣耀不合，在这之后，我在信里看到：“但更要谨记的是，不能光承诺，而要付之实施。但那令人欣喜的现实依旧遥遥无期，所以我把对那美好时光的向往讲出来会高兴高兴，提前享受那种愉悦。”休闲对于他如此珍贵，在还不能真实享用时，竟然先搞起精神会餐。像他这种自视一人即可主宰万物，决定百姓、社稷福祉的人物，一旦想到有朝一日能将尊贵置于一旁都会欣喜万分。然而，从亲身经历中他知道，四方仰慕的尊荣令他付出了多少汗水，又隐藏着多少不为人知的焦虑。他不得不先向自己的同胞开战，再和同僚打仗，最后向亲人宣战，造就尸山血海。他征战于马其顿、西西里、埃及、叙利亚、亚洲以及几乎所有的国家——当他的军队厌倦了血洗罗马，他又向国外敌军开火。当他平定阿尔卑斯地区，制服在他和平帝国中部崛起的敌人时，当他把疆土扩展到莱茵河、幼发拉底河和多瑙河一带，在罗马本土，穆列纳、凯皮奥、雷必达、埃格纳提乌斯等却在秣马厉兵与之抗衡。当他还未逃脱这些人的阴谋时，他的女儿及其周围所有因与之通奸而像发过誓一样效忠于她的贵族青年，还有埃乌勒斯以及那个与安东尼联手的第二个可怕的女人，使他在风烛残年仍惊恐不安。他将这些“痈疽”和那些左膀右臂统统除掉，但马上又有新的取而代之，就像身体的血量过多总要从某个地方破口而出。所以他渴望闲暇，期盼并想象可以从烦劳中换得解脱。万民向他祈求，而他祈求的无非如此。

当马尔库斯·西塞罗受到喀提林、克劳狄乌斯、庞培、克劳苏等人的排斥时——他们有的是公开的敌人，有的是可疑的朋友——当国家形势动荡风雨飘摇时，他备受煎熬，试图力挽狂澜，救国家于穷途末路之时，但最终却被风暴席卷而去。在太平盛世时他不得安宁，在灾祸临头时他无法忍受，他多少次诅咒那执政官的职位，而此前他曾不停地称颂它，当然，那也是不无道理的。当老庞培被征服，儿子仍在西班牙力图收拾他的残部时，西塞罗给阿提库斯写了一封信，信中他用了多么凄婉的字句！“你想知道我在这里干什么吗？”他写道，“我像半个囚徒似地待在自己图斯库兰的别墅。”接着他哀叹过去，抱怨现在，绝望地叹息未来。西塞罗称自己为半个囚徒，但是智者绝不至使用如此悲怆的字眼。他永远不会成为“半个囚徒”，而是享受稳定、彻底的自由，随心所欲做自己的主宰，至高无上地生活。因为什么东西能凌驾于一位超越命运之神的人之上呢？

李维乌斯·杜路苏斯孔武有力，曾提出改革格拉古兄弟灾难性政策的法案，因而得到全意大利人的支持。但他的措施不会有成果，因为从一开始就无法贯彻，一旦实施又无法放弃。据说他曾诅咒自己一直过的动荡生活，还说他是唯一一个从未享受过假期的人，从小就没有。因为，当他尚未成年，身着青年装的他就斗胆在陪审团面前为一些被告说话，并且居然在法庭上产生了影响，结果正如大家所知，他迫使法庭做出了有利于他当事人的判决。小小年纪却有如此野心的人什么事干不出来？你就该知道如此年幼就这么胆大妄为会给公众和个人带来多大的麻烦。所以当他抱怨自己从未享受过假期时已为时太晚，因为他从小就在会议广场制造大麻烦。现在还不能确定他的死是不是自己一手造成的，他是因为腹股沟突然受伤后就倒下了。有些人怀疑他是自戕，但是没有人怀疑他死得很适时。

再提这种人就有点儿多余了，他们在别人眼里是最幸福的，但他们自己对此有着清醒的认识，他们表达了对自己一生中每个的行动的憎恶。然而，抱怨归抱怨，他们既改变不了自己也改变不了别人，说完激情之辞，心情又恢复原样。

可以肯定地说，你的生命即便能延续千年，也还会缩成最短的期限：那些恶习将吞噬所有空间。你真正拥有的时间——以为可以延伸，但其实稍纵即逝的时间——也必将很快从你身边溜走：因为你没有抓住它，或将它拉回来，或试图拖延它——这个速度最快的东西，而是让它溜掉了，似乎它是某种多余的或可以替代的东西。

不过，在所有最可恶的坏人中最令人不齿的就是那些沉溺于酒色的家伙，因为这是最不可救药的沉沦。其他人即便执著于一种虚幻的荣耀，也算得上是值得称道的虚妄。你可以列出那些沉醉于不当的仇恨和战争的或贪婪或暴躁的家伙，但他们即便有罪也不失男人气概，而那些耽于声色犬马之徒却是劣迹斑斑的无耻人渣。看看这些人是如何花费时间的——他们算账花了多少时间，算计别人或担心别人被算计用了多少时间，奉承谄媚别人，别人奉承自己，支付或收取保释金，赴宴（这在现在被算作公事了）各用去多少时间，你会看到他们的这些活动，无论是好还是坏，都让他们忙得喘不上气。

最后一点，人们普遍认为，一个人如果沉迷于某种事务，就会一事无成——修辞教育或通识教育都学不好——因为精力分散了，大脑对任何东西都不能深入吸收，而会排斥一切所谓硬塞进来的东西。对于那些沉迷于某一活动的人来说，生活是最不重要的事了，而没有比生活这门课程更难学的了。其他技艺的老师到处都能找到，实际上有些技艺连小孩子都非常精通，可以胜任教师一职。但是学会如何生活却要耗费一生的时间，而且可能会让你更惊诧的是，学会如何死也要用一生的时间。那么多精英人物都放下负担，放弃财产、放弃生意、放弃享乐，把学习如何生活作为自己余生的目标。但这些逝者生前大都坦言他们还是没有弄明白这个问题——其他人就更不明白了。相信我，伟人、圣人的标志就是从不浪费自己的时间，他的寿命之所以长久是因为他将自己所有的时间全部为己所用，没有闲置，没有荒废，没有置于别人的掌控之下。作为自己时间的监护人，他精打细算，从未发现有什么东西值得用自己的时间交换。所以他有足够的时间，而那些长时间被公事所扰的人必定自己所剩无多了。

你能想到这些人有时也会感到若有所失。确实，你会听到有些为巨大财富所累的人有时会在一群门客当中，在法院辩护时，或在做着其他体面而又痛苦的事时大喊“不能活了”。当然不能了，所有找你办事的人都让你远离了自我。被告人窃走了你多少天？那个候选人呢？那个为自己继承人送了葬之后疲惫不堪的老妪呢？还有那个装病来挑起遗产继承人贪欲的人呢？还有那个把你这样的人当朋友不是为了友谊，而是为了炫耀的颇有势力的朋友呢？我跟你说呀，把这一辈子的日子标示出来盘点一下，你会发现自己所剩极少——而且都是边角废料。某人得到了垂涎已久的职权却又想弃之不顾，反复说着：“这一年怎么还不到头呀？”另一位觉得能有机会来举办竞赛是了不起的成功，但是一旦举办，他又说：“什么时候我才能脱身呀？”这位演讲者受到广场四面八方听众的捧场，台下挤满了听众，远处的根本听不到他的讲演，而他却说：“什么时候才能休假呢？”每个人都在为生计奔忙，因渴望未来、厌倦现在而烦恼。但是将自己的时间为己所用的人，总是把每一天安排得像是最后一天的人，他们既不渴望又不惧怕明天的到来。现在每个时辰还会给他带来什么新的乐事呢？他一切都尝试过了，充分享受过了，再有其他的，命运尽可自行安排了。他现在无忧无虑，这样的一生什么都不会被拿走，而只能为其添加内容，就像一个吃饱了的人已不再需要任何食物，但是再加点儿也还能吃下。所以不要以为头发花白满脸皱纹的人就是活得长，他不是活得长，只是在世上待的时间长。如果一个人出海遇到狂风暴雨，被变幻肆虐的风吹得团团转，你可能会觉得他航行了很远，其实航行得并不远，只是浮沉动荡的时间长而已。

看到有的人想要占用别人的时间，而对方又欣然应允，我总是感到惊讶。双方都只是想到了占用时间的事由，都没有考虑到时间本身——似乎什么都没索取，什么都没付出。因为时间是无形的，无法明摆着被查看，因而被认为是很廉价的——几乎没有任何价值。这一点蒙蔽了人们，使他们忽视了这人生最宝贵的商品。人们接到养老金、抚恤金时会很高兴，为这些钱他们曾付出劳动、提供援助或者服务。但是没有人计算时间的价值——人们大肆挥霍，好像它毫无价值。但就是这些人，如果受到死亡的威胁，你就会看到他们向大夫乞求；如果他们惧怕死刑，为了保命他们会倾其所有。情绪完全不一样了呀。如果我们每个人能像计算过去岁月那样将未来的岁月当面推算出来，那些看到自己来日不多的人会是怎样震惊呀，他们将会怎样小心翼翼地利用这些时间呀！而且如果数目确定下来，无论多小的数目，也就容易安排了。对于那不知会在什么时候戛然而止的生命我们得更慎重地存留。

但是你不要认为这些人不知道时间有多么宝贵。他们一般会对特别喜欢的人说他们会将一些岁月付出，而且他们确实在无意识中付出了。不过这礼物使他们自己有所失却而并未使别人有所得。但他们其实并不知道自己是否有所失，这样他们就能承受自己在无知中受到的损失了。岁月不能倒流，人生无法复原，生命沿着它初始的路线前行，既不会倒退也不作更改。它不会发出响动提醒你它的迅驰，而是无声无息向前溜走。它不会因帝王的指令或平民的喜好而延长。它从第一天起步，一路前行，没有停顿，没有转向。那么结果呢？当生命匆匆前行的时候，你曾沉迷不悟，这期间死亡降临，而你对此别无选择，只能接受。

还有比自吹有远见卓识的人更白痴的吗？为了改善生活，他们煞费苦心，用生命安排生命。他们把目标设定于遥远的未来。但是拖延就是对生命最大的浪费：它夺走了到来的每一天，寄望未来，而放弃现在。生活的最大障碍就是期待，期待使人心系明天而失去今日。你安排的是命运掌控的东西，却放弃了自己手中的东西。你在看什么？在为什么目标而操劳？所有的未来都是不确定的：马上开始生活。倾听我们伟大诗人的呼唤吧，他仿佛受到神谕的启示，吟唱出极富教益的诗句：

对于这里不幸的人们来说，

生命中最美好的一天总是最先消失的一天。

他的意思是说，“你为什么闲逛？”，“你为什么无所事事？你不先抓住它，它就会溜走”。而即使你抓住它，它仍会跑掉。所以你利用时间时必须使自己适应时间那瞬间即逝的速度，你必须像从一条随时可能枯竭的激流中喝水一样快速敏捷。为谴责那种无休止的拖延，诗人很委婉地用了“最美好的一天”而不是“最美好的岁月”。你贪婪也罢，但为什么要如此漠然如此怠惰拖拉（而时间正在飞逝），把今后几个月几年的时间都一溜儿排开摆在眼前？诗人讲的是当下这一天——而且是正在溜走的这一天。所以对于不幸的人——就是那些沉迷于杂务中的人——来说，最美好的一天总是最先溜掉的一天，这难道还有疑问吗？当他们心理还很幼稚时，年纪却已变老，对此他们毫不准备毫不设防，因为他们没有准备，突然间不期而遇，根本没意识到它早已一天天逼近。就像旅行者以聊天、阅读或沉思冥想打发时间，不知不觉中发现已经到达目的地。所以在人生这一疾驰不停的旅途中，无论是醒着还是睡着都是同速前行，那些沉迷于杂务的人只有到旅行结束才会有所知觉。

如果我要把这个论题分为几个小标题并提供证据，我会找出很多论据来证明：凡是沉迷于杂务的人，都会觉得生命很短促。但是，法比亚诺斯——他绝非现在的学院派哲学家，而是那种真正的老派的哲学家——经常说我们必须对激情进行暴力攻击，而不能采取逻辑推理，必须对敌人的战线给以猛烈进攻，而不只是用针刺。恶习必须被击溃，不能只是戳戳而已。尽管如此，为了让这些人对自己的过失反省自责，必须对他们进行教育，而不能放任不管。

生命分为三个阶段：过去，现在和将来。这其中，现在是短暂的，将来是不确定的，过去是定型了的。对于过去，命运已无力掌控，任何人也无法重新掌控。而这也正是那些沉迷于杂务者失去的东西，因为他们没有时间回首往事，即便有，回忆那些抱愧终生的事也是不愉快的，所以他们不愿意再想那些荒废的时光，如果那些恶习还清晰可现他们也没有胆量再去回想——即使那些曾被一时欢乐的魔力掩饰了阴险手段的恶行。没人愿意回到过去，除非他的所有行为都通过了良心的自我审查，这是无法自欺欺人的。那些不敢回首往事的人都是贪得无厌、妄自尊大、急功近利、见利忘义、巧取豪夺、穷奢极欲之徒。然而过去是我们时间的一部分，是神圣的、独立的，超越人类面临的一切不幸，超出命运的掌控，不为欲望、恐惧、疾病所困扰，无人能妨碍它，褫夺它，那是一种无法干预的、持久的拥有。我们是一天一天、一分钟一分钟地过眼前的日子。但是过去的日子却可以全部出现在你的脑海里。你可以任意扣留它们，审视它们——而那些沉迷杂务的人是无暇这样做的。这是一种平静的、没有任何烦扰的心境，它可以徜徉于生命的每个阶段，而那些杂务缠身者的心呢，就像套上了马轭不能回头看。所以他们的生命消失于无底深渊，如同液体倒进无底的容器，徒劳无益。所以无论给我们多少时间，如果无处安放，它还是会从心里的缝隙或漏洞中溜走。眼前的时间极其短暂，因此很多人都没意识到它的存在。因为它永远向前，步履匆匆，稍纵即逝；它曾在到来前停息，从此再无耽搁，如同天空抑或星辰，斗转星移，从未原地止步。所以杂务缠身者只关注现在，而现在的时光是如此短促，根本无法抓住，甚至在他们沉溺于各种娱乐活动时就被窃取了。

总之，你想知道他们为什么不能长寿吗？看看他们是如何渴望长生不老吧。羸弱的老翁乞求再多活几年；他们假装更年轻，并以此自慰，极力欺骗自己的同时也欺骗命运。但是疾病会提醒他们寿数已尽，面对死亡他们是如此恐惧，似乎不是度过生命，而是被拖拽而去。他们大喊大叫说自己是傻瓜，因为他们还没有真正活过呢，倘若病痛痊愈，他们会悠闲安度余生。接着他们回想起他们巧取豪夺却无缘享受是多么的徒劳，他们的辛苦是多么的徒劳。不过对于那些远离一切杂务的人来说，生命一定是足够长了，没有挥霍，没有虚掷，没有任命运摆布，没有漫不经心地丢失，没有无度施舍而浪费，没有多余，可以说全部生命都用在了有效的投资。所以无论生命如何短暂，都是充实的，因此无论末日何时到来，理智的人都会以坚实的步伐义无反顾地迎接死神的降临。

也许你想知道我把什么人叫做“杂务缠身者”吧。你不会认为我指的是那些得靠看门犬才能逐出法院的人吧，或那些你常见的要么被自己的支持者体面地、要么被别人的支持者轻蔑地击垮的人，或是那些为履行社会职责从自家蹿出去敲别人家大门的人，或者那些在执政官拍卖矛下忙于钻营而终有一天使自己臭名昭著的人。有人即使赋闲也会也让自己杂务缠身：在自家的乡村房舍中，在长椅上，在独处时，甚至在一个人的时候，他们都不能好好陪陪自己。你不能说那些人的生活是悠闲的，那不过是无所事事的心不在焉。你能说那个神情焦虑却一丝不苟地摆弄科林斯铜器的人悠闲吗？几个收藏家的狂热使这些青铜价格虚涨，他们每天大部分时间都花在这些金属的斑斑锈迹上。那个坐在格斗场（我们的耻辱呀！我们还要忍受着那些不是来自罗马的恶行）急切地看着斗士们角逐的人悠闲？那个为自己成群的驮畜按年龄和颜色配对的人悠闲？为竞技新秀提供生活费的人悠闲？还有，有些人在理发店花好几个小时就是为了剪掉一夜之间长出的那点儿头发，为那几根分散的较真儿，把乱了的理顺，将日渐稀疏的头发从两鬓梳过来盖在前额，理发员稍有不慎他们就会大为光火——就好像他们剪掉的是个真人！如果剪错了，或梳得不对，或没有全部束入发圈，他们就会勃然大怒，你能说他们悠闲？这些人有几个不是任由国家骚乱却不想让自己的头发凌乱，有几个不是对脑袋的潇洒比对它的安全更操心，有几个不是重整洁而轻荣誉？那些把时间都花在梳子和镜子之间的人，你能说他们悠闲？还有一些人，整天忙于作曲、听音乐、学唱歌，他们变着声发出极不自然的音调，而自然设计的最优美最纯朴的音调应该是直接发出来的；有的人总是打着响指，就好像为心里想着的曲调打着节拍子；甚至在一些严肃的，甚至是悲痛的场合你都能听见他们哼着小调。这些人的生活不是悠闲，只能说是闲散地干着事。还有，老天呀，那些宴会，我可不认为那是悠闲的时光。看他们如何紧张地摆放银器，如何认真地让侍者穿上制服，如何焦虑不安地看着厨师处理猪肉，一脸恭敬的奴仆们如何快步流星地忙来忙去，如何熟练地把家禽切成合适的块儿，那些卑微的小奴仆如何小心翼翼地为酒鬼们擦去口水。这一套玩意儿使他们慢慢获得高雅、有品味的名声，这些做法甚至延伸到私生活的所有方面，以至于现在没有这些铺张虚华，他们既不能吃也不能喝了。

还有些人我也不认为他们是悠闲的。这些人坐在轿子上被抬来抬去，总是那么准时，好像不坐就会有人不答应；另有些人，总得有人告诉他们什么时候沐浴，什么时候游泳，什么时候进餐——过度放纵麻木的头脑使他们变得萎靡不振，以至于自己都不能确定饥饱。我听说有这么一个放纵的人——如果“放纵”可以用来形容那些摈弃了人类生活中一般习惯的人——当被人从浴室抬到轿子上时，他问，“我现在是在坐着吗？”你觉得这个连自己是不是坐着都不知道的人是否知道自己还活着，还能看，很悠闲呢？很难说，是在他真不知道的情况下我该可怜他，还是他假装不知道时我该可怜他。他们确实遗忘了很多东西，但也佯装遗忘了很多东西。他们以某些恶行为乐，以此证明自己的好运；好像知道自己在做什么，就是非常卑微低下的人。这之后看看你是否还会指责那些笑剧演员，他们创作了很多情节抨击骄奢淫逸的作风，其实他们忽略的远比已经创作的多。这么多难以置信的恶行出现在这一代，表明这个方面真是人才辈出，所以我们现在真的要责备那些忽略了它们的笑剧演员了。想一想有人如此沉溺于奢华的生活以至于得让别人来告诉他是否在坐着！所以这个人不是悠闲自在，必须得用另外的词语来描述他——有病，或者干脆说他是死人。真正悠哉游哉的人会知道自己是不是悠闲的，而这个人半死不活，需要别人告诉他自己身体的姿势——这样的人怎么能控制自己的时间呢？

一一谈论那些把所有时间用在下棋或打球，或精心进行阳光浴的人是很无聊的。那些要郑重其事地从事某种活动来获得乐趣的人不是悠闲之人。譬如，毋庸置疑，那些把时间用在没有价值的文学研究的人是徒劳无益的——甚至在罗马人中也有很多人在从事这项工作。要搞清尤利西斯有多少桨手，是先有《伊里亚特》还是先有《奥德赛》，以及，它们是否是同一个作者。还有诸如此类的其他问题原本只是希腊人干的傻事。这些内容自己留用，不能增加个人的知识；用于发表，只能令人生厌而无人把你当成学者。而罗马人现在也对这些无用的知识充满了无端的热忱。最近我听到有人报道诸如哪个罗马将军率先做的这个或者那个的传闻：杜伊流斯是赢得海战第一人，库里乌斯·丹塔图斯率先让大象引领了凯旋队列。至于这些事，即便它们还算不上建立了功勋，但至少与对国家作出卓越贡献相关。这些知识毫无用处，之所以让人们感兴趣就是因为这些毫无意义的事实的吸引力。我们还可以原谅那些调查谁是第一个说服罗马人登船的人。是克劳迪乌斯，他因此又被称为科德克斯（Caudex），因为几块木板连在一起的东西在古代被称为Caudex 。又因此，法典叫科德克斯（Codices），而至今那些在台伯河上运送给养的船仍沿袭使用过去的名字科德克利阿（Codicariae）。无疑，了解瓦勒里乌斯·科尔维鲁斯是第一位征服了麦萨拿的人也是颇为重要的，而且他是瓦勒里家族第一个用所征服的城市麦萨拿的名字做姓氏的人——这个姓在口口相传中被错拼成麦萨拉（Messalla）。也许你也可以容许有些人把卢西乌斯·苏拉第一个放狮子出现在竞技场的事当真吧，通常这些狮子是带着链条展示的，国王博库斯派标枪手杀死了它们。了解庞培干的那件事可能也是可以谅解的——但是有意义吗？——他是让18头大象在竞技场展示了与无辜之人搏斗场面的第一人。一个国家的首领，一个据称在老一辈的领导人中尤其慈善的人，竟认为这是令人难忘的以新颖方式屠戮人类的奇观。“让他们战死？不够刺激；把他们撕成碎片？不够刺激；得让硕大无比的动物把他们蹍碎。”这类事最好还是永远忘掉，免得将来被某些大权在握的人知道了，还不想让人在干这种惨无人道的事情上超越他们。啊，那繁华盛世给我们心里投下了怎样的阴霾啊。当他让这不同种类的生灵相互搏斗的时候，当他在罗马人面前制造血流成河的场面，而这些罗马人随即又将被迫流血的时候，他认为自己是超越自然法则的，他可以将那么多可怜的人投向外来的野兽。可是后来他自己呢，亚历山大人背叛了他，他最终被最卑微的奴隶刺死，直到那时他才明白，自己的姓氏（Great）不过是虚妄的自吹。

不过，还是言归正传吧，接着谈一些人如何徒劳无益地研究同一些话题。我所提到的那个人汇报说梅特卢斯在西西里征服了迦太基人以后用120头大象在他的二轮战车前开道，这在所有的罗马人中独一无二，而苏拉则是最后一个延长城界的罗马人。一旦占领意大利（从来都不是行省）的领土，就延长城界，这是一种古老的做法。了解这些比知道另一件事更好吗？他曾断言阿芬丁山之所以在城界之外，或是因为平民都撤到那儿，或是因为瑞摩斯神曾在那里占卜说飞禽是不吉的——后来还有无数理论都是错误的或者几乎无异于谎言。即便你承认他们这样说是出于虔诚，即便他们保证所说的是真实的，谁的错少一些呢？谁的热情会受到限制呢，会让谁更自由，更公正，更宽宏大量？法边诺斯曾说，有时他很想知道，干脆什么研究都不搞是不是比总纠缠这些问题更好。

在所有人中，只有那些把时间用于研究哲学的人是真正悠游自在的，只有他们算是活着的。因为他们不仅仔细关注自己的人生，而且将所有年代收为己有，把过去所有的岁月都加到他们自己的岁月里。除非我们不领情，否则应该承认所有那些书写了神圣教义的伟大先哲都是为我们而生，为我们指出一条人生之路。他人的艰辛工作引导我们，使我们面对的事物从暗昧走向显明。没有任何年代将我们拒之门外，我们可以接近所有时代；如果我们具备了崇高思想，能够跨越人类弱点的狭窄界限，就可以在久远的时间大道上徜徉。我们可以与苏格拉底辩论，向卡尼阿德斯质疑，与伊壁鸠鲁共度退隐的生活，和斯多葛学派的哲学家一起克服人性弱点，与犬儒派学者共同超越人性的局限。既然自然允许我们与每一时代结交，为什么不舍弃这短暂的现时，全身心地研究过去。那是无尽的、永恒的，可与睿智的先哲共享的时光。

那些为社会职责到处奔波的人不仅扰乱自己而且侵扰他人的生活。他们要按时完成狂热的巡回，每日穿行于各家各户，不漏掉一家开启的大门，带着自私的问候走遍相隔甚远的家家户户。在如此大的城市，面对各种欲求，他们能拜见到的究竟能有几个人？有多少人因为昏昏欲睡，或正忙于自己的事，或冷漠无理而将他们拒之门外？有多少人让他们煎熬等待多时后，佯装急事在身，从他们身边匆匆而过？有多少人不走挤满门客的大厅而从隐秘的旁门逃走——好像欺骗并不比拒绝更失礼似的？有多少人头天酗了酒此时半睡半醒，慵懒迷糊，不雅地打着哈欠，还得要别人低声地、上千遍地提醒，才能连嘴唇几乎都不动地与那个为了等别人睡醒而不得不中断自己睡眠的可怜虫打招呼，叫出他的名字？

你应该这样认为：那些希望每天成为芝诺、毕达哥拉斯、德谟克利特以及其他所有人文学科的宗师们，还有亚里斯多德和色奥弗拉斯多的最亲近朋友的人，才是在履行真正有价值的职责。这些人不会因为太忙而不接见你，他们都会让到访者高兴地离去，并且变得更加专注于自身，而绝不会空手而归。他们日夜在家恭候所有人的到访。

他们没有人会强迫你去死，而是教你如何去死。这些人不会耗费你的时间，他们每个人都会将自己的岁月奉献与你。与这些人的谈话不会有任何危险，他的友谊不会危及你的生命，拜访他不需你付出高昂代价。从他们那里你想拿什么就拿什么，如果没有拿够，那不是他们的错。成为这些人的门客，是多么幸福，老年生活将会多么惬意！你将会有很多朋友，事无巨细都可以向他们讨教，你可以每天就自己的事向他们咨询，这些朋友会告诉你真话但不会刺伤你，表扬你但不会奉承你，他们会为你提供一种仿效模式。

我们总习惯说自己无力选择父母，他们是命运偶然间配送给我们的。但是我们可以做我们愿意做的任何人的孩子。有很多高尚的才智超群的家庭，选择你希望被收养的那一家，你将不仅继承其姓氏而且还能继承其财产。这些财产不需要吝啬小气地看管，分享的人越多，它就越巨大。这些将为你提供一条永生之路，将你提升到一个任何人都不会沮丧的地方。这是延续生命——甚至永生不朽的唯一方法。荣誉、纪念碑，无论雄心勃勃的家伙们通过法令颁布什么，或在公共建筑物上竖起什么，顷刻之间都会损毁，没有任何东西是时间的流逝不能将其损毁和移除的。但是它无法损毁那些被哲学界视为神圣的作品，岁月无法消灭、减损它们。下一个、每一个随后的年代，只能使它们备受敬重，因为人们只嫉妒眼前的事物，而对遥不可及的东西却毫不掩饰赞赏之情。所以哲学家的生命可以绵延广阔，他不受他人所受的限制，只有他不受人类法则的限制，在所有的年代都被视为神明。一些过去的时光，他抓住，藏入记忆；眼下的时光，他利用；未来的时光，他预见：所有这些组合成他绵长的人生。

但是对于忘记过去、忽略现在、恐惧未来的人来说，生命是短暂的、焦灼不安的。在末日到来时，这些可怜的家伙才意识到他们一生无所事事，但为时已晚。有时他们乞求死神的到来，但是这并不能证明他们长寿。愚昧无知使他们焦躁不安而备受折磨，害怕的事情偏偏发生：他们之所以渴望死，是因为他们害怕死。他们感到度日如年，或者在预定吃饭的钟点到来前抱怨每个小时都过得那么慢，也都不能证明他们活得长了。因为一旦他们没有杂务缠身，他们就会因无事可做、不知如何利用空闲或打发光阴而坐立不安，他们会急于找点儿其他的事情来做，而在这期间他们会厌倦烦躁。确实如此，正如宣布了一场角斗开始时，或人们期待某个展览或娱乐活动时的心情一样——他们急于想跳过这中间的一段时间。任何期盼已久的事情的拖延对他们来说都是漫长而乏味的，真正享受的时间是短暂而快速的，而且会由于他们的过失而使这享受更短促，因为他们急匆匆地追求一种又一种享受，不能固守一种欲望。他们过的每天不是长久的而是令人懊恼的；而另一方面，在他们酗酒嫖娼的过程中，夜晚似乎也变得短暂了，因而就有癫狂的诗人们编撰故事描绘朱庇特沉溺于做爱的欢愉，把夜晚也加长了一倍，以此来助长人性的弱点。他们援引神来支持这些人，让神也变得荒淫无度，还为他们开脱，当成我们过错的先例，这除了加剧恶行还能有什么意义？他们付出高昂代价得到的夜晚对这些人来说难道不是太短暂了吗？他们等待夜幕而失去白昼，惧怕天明而丧失夜晚。

即便在极尽淫乐之时他们也会因种种恐惧而不安、焦虑。就在纵情享乐达到高潮时，烦躁忧虑的情绪悄然而至，“还能持续多长时间？”这种情绪曾使国王们对手中的权力发出哀叹，想到末日无可避免终究会来，他们感到惶惶不可终日，远远胜过好运带给他们的快乐。当波斯国最骄横不可一世的国王派遣军队跨过广袤的平原时，数不胜数的军队只能估量其规模，想到百年之后这庞大的队伍将无人幸免一死，他不禁潸然泪下。而就是他这个泪流满面的人给他们带来厄运，使他们丧生于海洋、陆地、战场、溃逃路上，用不了多久就会全军覆没，而他还在担心他们的百年大限。

是什么使他们即使在高兴时也会忐忑不安？因为他们的快乐理由不足。快乐是被煸动起来的，没有根基。身居高位的快乐都并不牢靠，那些快乐他们自己都承认是可悲的，又何足挂齿？所有的好运都会产生忧患，受到命运垂青时，总是我们最不信命的时候。为了保住已有的成就我们需要其他的成就；为了证明已经实现的祈祷我们需要再次祈祷。任何意外所获都是不稳定的，地位越高越容易跌倒。注定要倒台的东西，不能为任何人带来快乐。所以对于那些经过千辛万苦获得的成就要用更大的辛苦保住的人来说，生活必定不仅短暂而且痛苦。他们辛辛苦苦获得想要的一切，又要忧心忡忡保有所得的一切，而这当中他们从没有考虑过时间成本，而时光流逝，韶华无返。新的嗜好代替了旧的，希望激起更多的希望，野心衍生更大的野心。他们没有设法结束苦难，只是不断为它变换理由。我们发现自己在公众中享有的荣耀是一种痛苦，但是却为他人的荣耀花费更多的时间。我们不再费力争当候选人，却又开始为其他人拉票。我们已经摆脱了当起诉人的烦恼，却又承担起当法官的麻烦。有人不再当法官却当起法院院长，在挣钱管理别人财产的工作中年事日高，于是又将所有时间用于照看自己的财产。马略结束戎马生涯却又开始忙于执政官的工作；昆提乌斯很快完成独裁者之职，但又在犁地时被召回；西庇奥在还没有足够的指挥经验时就去与迦太基人打仗，打败了汉尼拔，战胜了安提奥库斯，成了杰出的执政官，确保了他弟弟的职位。如果不是他自己禁止，他的塑像就会立在朱庇特的旁边了。但是国家的动荡困扰着拯救国家的人，他年轻时就蔑视那些只应赋予神的荣耀，最终老了，他执意过着流放的生活，并乐在其中。总有焦虑的原因，或因为富足，或因为窘迫。生活滚滚向前，一个牵绊接着一个牵绊。我们总是渴望悠闲自得的生活，但却从未享受过。

所以，亲爱的保利努斯，从人群中脱身吧。你已经经历了超出自己年龄的太多的狂风暴雨，现在至少应该退隐到一个平静的港湾，想一想经历了多少风浪，多少暴雨——有些是在私人生活中经受的，有些则是在公共活动中。你是积极、勤勉的典范，你的美德长期以来有目共睹，尝试一下，在休闲的生活中如何继续保持。你生命的大部分，当然也是最美的一部分，已经献给了国家，现在也给自己一些时间吧。我不是让你无所事事慵懒怠惰，也不是让你在蒙头大睡和那些大众喜好的娱乐中消磨你自身的能量。这不是休息。当你退隐并享受平和的心境，你会发现有很多比你迄今为止一直积极从事的要重要得多的活动值得你为之忙碌。没错，你是在管理世界的账目，像管理他人的一样严谨，像管理自己的一样仔细，像管理国家的一样认真。在这种难免遭人怨恨的工作中你却赢得了人们的爱戴，但是相信我，读懂自己人生的资产负债单要比看懂玉米生意的负债单更有意义。你要从这光荣、但很难说适于幸福的生活的工作中摆脱出来，恢复你旺盛的精力和承担伟大责任的卓越才能。你要想想年轻时人文学术方面的训练，其目的并非是将成千上万次将玉米称重的工作放心地托付于你。你曾向自己承诺要做更有价值更伟大的事情。他们不缺少称职的、努力工作的人。呆头呆脑的驮畜比纯种马更适合驮重，谁会让马负重而减缓其疾弛的速度？再想想当你勉为其难承担如此繁重的责任时心情是多么焦虑。你解决的是人们吃饱肚子的问题，饥饿的人们既不听你讲理，又不会因受到公平待遇而心平气和，也不会因恳求而让步。最近，就是盖乌斯·凯撒死后的几天里——他死时还在感到心烦意乱呢（如果逝者也有感情就好了），因为他看到罗马人民还有够七天、或最多八天的食物维持生计，而他还在建桥造船，滥用国家的资源——我们面临着粮食匮乏的最艰难的时刻，比受围困的人的境况更糟。他仿效别国那个威风扫地的疯子国王，几乎毁掉这个城市，造成饥荒，以及饥荒之后全面的崩溃。那么那些负责谷物供应的人们面对石头、武器、火——还有盖乌斯的威胁时怎么想呢？他们以弥天大谎极力掩饰潜藏于国家要害部门的滔天大罪——他们这样做肯定也是情有可原的。某些疾病的治疗是不能让病人了解病情的，要是知道了，会使很多人不治而死。

你应该退休从事这些更安静、更安全、更重要的工作。你认为监督那些狡猾而且不负责任的货主将谷物毫发未损地运进谷仓、照看它们不要在热天受潮霉烂、并确保其重量与数量相吻合的工作与从事神圣高尚的研究是同样的工作吗？通过这些研究你可以了解神的实质，他的意志，他的生活方式，他的形态，知道什么样的命运在等待你的灵魂，当我们从身体解脱出来时自然会将我们安放何处，是什么力量在中心支撑着这个世界所有最重的元素，什么力量使最轻的元素悬浮于上，什么将火送往最高的地方，又是什么使星宿运行变幻有致——你可以不断学到很多无比神奇的其他知识，你真的应该离开那里，全身心投入到研究领域。趁现在血还是热的，就应该将精力投入到更有价值的事情上。这样的生活会使你发现很多值得研究的东西：对美德的热爱与实践、对激情的忘却、生与死的知识，以及心平气和的生活。

是的，那些杂务缠身者的状况确实可怜，但是最不幸的是那些人，他们甚至不是为自己的杂务缠身而辛苦，而是要根据别人的睡觉时间来调整自己的睡眠，根据别人的步法来行走，在爱与恨这些最自主的事情上也要唯他人之命是从。如果这种人想知道他们的生命多么短促，先让他们想想生命中属于自己的那部分是多么少吧。

所以，当你见到有人屡次官袍加身，或在广场名声大振，不要羡慕他们：这些都是以生命为代价获取的。为了某一年代能以他们的名字命名，他们耗尽自己所有的年代。有些人从事业开始就奋斗，一路拼搏，还没有到达自己雄心壮志的巅峰就结束了生命。有些人忍辱负重爬到至尊无上的地位，却又不禁黯然神伤，因为他们所有的艰辛都不过是为了一块墓志铭。有人年事已高便试图做些调整，产生新的希望，以期显得年轻，却发现羸弱的身体已不堪折腾。一位老者上气不接下气地在法庭上为完全陌生的当事人辩护，企图赢得那些根本不知情的旁观者的掌声，这是很丢人的场面。看到一个人在履行职责时累垮也是很不体面的，他并非因劳累过度而精疲力竭，而是因为自己的生活方式。同样丢人的是一个人在查看账目时咽了气，而那个等待已久的继承人笑着舒了一口气。有件事想起来了，不得不说说。塞克斯图斯·图拉纽斯是公认的办事审慎、认真的老者。当他九十高龄时，在他的请求下盖乌斯·凯撒恩准他退休，于是他让人将他放在床上，全家人聚齐哀悼他，好像他已经归天。整座房子都为老主人的歇息而悲哀，直到他又起来恢复工作。以身殉职真的就那么令人愉快吗？很多人都是这样，自己无力工作时仍想工作。他们挑战身体的虚弱，视暮年为痛苦，无端地认为人一老了就被弃置不用了。法律规定五十以后不当兵，六十以后不进元老院，法律赋予人们赋闲的权力，而人们自己却难以接受。掠夺别人又被人掠夺，互相干扰，彼此不得安宁，你使我痛苦，我使你痛苦。在这过程中，生命流逝，过得差强人意，缺少欢乐，精神状态也未得到改善。没人把死亡放在心上，没人对好高骛远的理想加以限制。确实，还有些人把身后的事都安顿停当了——规模宏大的墓穴，公共殿堂里的供奉，葬礼时的炫耀，下葬时的铺张。其实，这些人的葬礼只需举着火把和小蜡烛，他们的生命似乎才是最为短暂的。

On the Shortness of Life

Most human beings, Paulinus, complain about the meanness of nature, because we are born for a brief span of life, and because this spell of time that has been given to us rushes by so swiftly and rapidly that with very few exceptions life ceases for the rest of us just when we are getting ready for it. Nor is it just the man in the street and the unthinking mass of people who groan over this — as they see it — universal evil: the same feeling lies behind complaints from even distinguished men. Hence the dictum of the greatest of doctors: 'Life is short, art is long.' Hence too the grievance, most improper to a wise man, which Aristotle expressed when he was taking nature to task for indulging animals with such long existences that they can live through five or ten human lifetimes, while a far shorter limit is set for men who are born to a great and extensive destiny. It is not that we have a short time to live, but that we waste a lot of it. Life is long enough, and a sufficiently generous amount has been given to us for the highest achievements if it were all well invested. But when it is wasted in heedless luxury and spent on no good activity, we are forced at last by death's final constraint to realize that it has passed away before we knew it was passing. So it is: we are not given a short life but we make it short, and we are not ill-supplied but wasteful of it. Just as when ample and princely wealth falls to a bad owner it is squandered in a moment, but wealth however modest, if entrusted to a good custodian, increases with use, so our lifetime extends amply if you manage it properly.

Why do we complain about nature? She has acted kindly: life is long if you know how to use it. But one man is gripped by insatiable greed, another by a laborious dedication to useless tasks. One man is soaked in wine, another sluggish with idleness. One man is worn out by political ambition, which is always at the mercy of the judgement of others. Another through hope of profit is driven headlong over all lands and seas by the greed of trading. Some are tormented by a passion for army life, always intent on inflicting dangers on others or anxious about danger to themselves. Some are worn out by the self-imposed servitude of thankless attendance on the great. Many are occupied by either pursuing other people's money or complaining about their own. Many pursue no fixed goal, but are tossed about in ever-changing designs by a fickleness which is shifting, inconstant and never satisfied with itself. Some have no aims at all for their life's course, but death takes them unawares as they yawn languidly — so much so that I cannot doubt the truth of that oracular remark of the greatest of poets: 'It is a small part of life we really live.' Indeed, all the rest is not life but merely time. Vices surround and assail men from every side, and do not allow them to rise again and lift their eyes to discern the truth, but keep them overwhelmed and rooted in their desires. Never can they recover their true selves. If by chance they achieve some tranquillity, just as a swell remains on the deep sea even after the wind has dropped, so they go on tossing about and never find rest from their desires. Do you think I am speaking only of those whose wickedness is acknowledged? Look at those whose good fortune people gather to see: they are choked by their own blessings. How many find their riches a burden! How many burst a blood vessel by their eloquence and their daily striving to show off their talents! How many are pale from constant pleasures! How many are left no freedom by the crowd of clients surrounding them! In a word, run through them all, from lowest to highest: one calls for legal assistance, another comes to help; one is on trial, another defends him, another gives a judgment; no one makes his claim to himself, but each is exploited for another's sake. Ask about those whose names are learned by heart, and you will see that they have these distinguishing marks: X cultivates Y and Y cultivates Z — no one bothers about himself. Again, certain people reveal the most stupid indignation: they complain about the pride of their superiors because they did not have time to give them an audience when they wanted one. But can anyone dare to complain about another's pride when he himself never has time for himself? Yet whoever you are, the great man has sometimes gazed upon you, even if his look was patronizing, he has bent his ears to your words, he has let you walk beside him. But you never deign to look at yourself or listen to yourself. So you have no reason to claim credit from anyone for those attentions, since you showed them not because you wanted someone else's company but because you could not bearyour own.

Even if all the bright intellects who ever lived were to agree to ponder this one theme, they would never sufficiently express their surprise at this fog in the human mind. Men do not let anyone seize their estates, and if there is the slightest dispute about their boundaries they rush to stones and arms; but they allow others to encroach on their lives — why, they themselves even invite in those who will take over their lives. You will find no one willing to share out his money; but to how many does each of us divide up his life! People are frugal in guarding their personal property; but as soon as it comes to squandering time they are most wasteful of the one thing in which it is right to be stingy. So, I would like to fasten on someone from the older generation and say to him: 'I see that you have come to the last stage of human life; you are close upon your hundredth year, or even beyond: come now, hold an audit of your life. Reckon how much of your time has been taken up by a money-lender, how much by a mistress, a patron, a client, quarrelling with your wife, punishing your slaves, dashing about the city on your social obligations. Consider also the diseases which we have brought on ourselves, and the time too which has been unused. You will find that you have fewer years than you reckon. Call to mind when you ever had a fixed purpose; how few days have passed as you had planned; when you were ever at your own disposal; when your face wore its natural expression; when your mind was undisturbed; what work you have achieved in such a long life; how many have plundered your life when you were unaware of your losses; how much you have lost through groundless sorrow, foolish joy, greedy desire, the seductions of society; how little of your own was left to you. You will realize that you are dying prematurely.'

So what is the reason for this? You are living as if destined to live for ever; your own frailty never occurs to you; you don't notice how much time has already passed, but squander it as though you had a full and overflowing supply — though all the while that very day which you are devoting to somebody or something may be your last. You act like mortals in all that you fear, and like immortals in all that you desire. You will hear many people saying: 'When I am fifty I shall retire into leisure; when I am sixty I shall give up public duties.' And what guarantee do you have of a longer life? Who will allow your course to proceed as you arrange it? Aren't you ashamed to keep for yourself just the remnants of your life, and to devote to wisdom only that time which cannot be spent on any business? How late it is to begin really to live just when life must end! How stupid to forget our mortality, and put off sensible plans to our fiftieth and sixtieth years, aiming to begin life from a point at which few have arrived!

You will notice that the most powerful and highly stationed men let drop remarks in which they pray for leisure, praise it, and rate it higher than all their blessings. At times they long to descend from their pinnacles if they can in safety; for even if nothing external assails or agitates it, high fortune of itself comes crashing down.

The deified Augustus, to whom the gods granted more than to anyone else, never ceased to pray for rest and to seek a respite from public affairs. Everything he said always reverted to this theme — his hope for leisure. He used to beguile his labours with this consolation, sweet though false, that one day he would live to please himself. In a letter he wrote to the senate, after he promised that his rest would not be lacking in dignity nor inconsistent with his former glory, I find these words: 'But it is more impressive to carry out these things than to promise them. Nevertheless, since the delightful reality is still a long way off, my longing for that much desired time has led me to anticipate some of its delight by the pleasure arising from words.' So valuable did leisure seem to him that because he could not enjoy it in actuality, he did so mentally in advance. He who saw that everything depended on himself alone, who decided the fortune of individuals and nations, was happiest when thinking of that day on which he would lay aside his own greatness. He knew from experience how much sweat those blessings gleaming through every land cost him, how many secret anxieties they concealed. He was forced to fight first with his fellow-countrymen, then with his colleagues, and finally with his relations, shedding blood on land and sea. Driven to fight in Macedonia, Sicily, Egypt, Syria, Asia — almost every country — he turned his armies against foreign enemies when they were tired of shedding Roman blood. While he was establishing peace in the Alps and subduing enemies established in the middle of his peaceful empire; while he was extending his boundaries beyond the Rhine, the Euphrates and the Danube, at Rome itself Murena, Caepio, Lepidus, Egnatius and others were sharpening their swords against him. Nor had he yet escaped their plots when his daughter and all the noble youths bound to her by adultery as though by an oath kept alarming his feeble old age, as did Iullus and a second formidable woman linked to an Antony. He cut away these ulcers, limbs and all, but others took their place: just like a body with a surfeit of blood which is always subject to a haemorrhage somewhere. So he longed for leisure, and as his hopes and thoughts dwelt on that he found relief for his labours: this was the prayer of the man who could grant the prayers of mankind.

When Marcus Cicero was cast among men like Catiline and Clodius and Pompey and Crassus — some of them undisguised enemies and some doubtful friends — when he was tossed about in the storm that struck the state, he tried to hold it steady as it went to its doom; but at last he was swept away. He had neither peace in prosperity nor patience in adversity, and how often does he curse that very consulship, which he had praised without ceasing though not without good reason! What woeful words he uses in a letter to Atticus when the elder Pompey had been conquered, and his son was still trying to revive his defeated forces in Spain! 'Do you want to know,' he said, 'what I am doing here? I am staying a semi-prisoner in my Tusculan villa.' He then goes on to bewail his former life, to complain of the present, and to despair of the future. Cicero called himself a semi-prisoner, but really and truly the wise man will never go so far as to use such an abject term. He will never be a semi-prisoner, but will always enjoy freedom which is solid and complete, at liberty to be his own master and higher than all others. For what can be above the man who is above fortune?

Livius Drusus, a bold and vigorous man, had proposed laws which renewed the evil policy of the Gracchi, and he was supported by a huge crowd from all over Italy. But he could see no successful outcome for his measures, which he could neither carry through nor abandon once embarked upon; and he is said to have cursed the turbulent life he had always lived, saying that he alone had never had a holiday even as a child. For while still a ward and dressed as a youth he ventured to speak to a jury in favour of some accused men, and to acquire influence in the law courts, with so much effect that, as we all know, he forced certain verdicts favourable to his clients. To what lengths would so precocious an ambition not go? You might have known that such premature boldness would result in terrible trouble, both public and private. So he was too late in complaining that he had never had a holiday, since from his boyhood he had been a serious trouble-maker in the Forum. It is uncertain whether he died by his own hand, for he collapsed after receiving a sudden wound in the groin, some people doubting whether his death was self-inflicted, but no one doubting that it was timely.

It would be superfluous to mention any more who, though seeming to others the happiest of mortals, themselves bore true witness against themselves by their expressed hatred of every action of their lives. Yet they did not change themselves or anyone else by these complaints, for after their explosion of words their feelings reverted to normal.

Assuredly your lives, even if they last more than a thousand years, will shrink into the tiniest span: those vices will swallow up any space of time. The actual time you have — which reason can prolong though it naturally passes quickly — inevitably escapes you rapidly: for you do not grasp it or hold it back or try to delay that swiftest of all things, but you let it slip away as though it were something superfluous and replaceable.

But among the worst offenders I count those who spend all their time in drinking and lust, for these are the worst preoccupations of all. Other people, even if they are possessed by an illusory semblance of glory, suffer from a respectable delusion. You can give me a list of miserly men, or hot-tempered men who indulge in unjust hatreds or wars: but they are all sinning in a more manly way. It is those who are on a headlong course of gluttony and lust who are stained with dishonour. Examine how all these people spend their time — how long they devote to their accounts, to laying traps for others or fearing those laid for themselves, to paying court to others or being courted themselves, to giving or receiving bail, to banquets (which now count as official business): you will see how their activities, good or bad, do not give them even time to breathe.

Finally, it is generally agreed that no activity can be successfully pursued by an individual who is preoccupied — not rhetoric or liberal studies — since the mind when distracted absorbs nothing deeply, but rejects everything which is, so to speak, crammed into it. Living is the least important activity of the preoccupied man; yet there is nothing which is harder to learn. There are many instructors in the other arts to be found everywhere: indeed, some of these arts mere boys have grasped so thoroughly that they can even teach them. But learning how to live takes a whole life, and, which may surprise you more, it takes a whole life to learn how to die. So many of the finest men have put aside all their encumbrances, renouncing riches and business and pleasure, and made it their one aim up to the end of their lives to know how to live. Yet most of these have died confessing that they did not yet know — still less can those others know. Believe me, it is the sign of a great man, and one who is above human error, not to allow his time to be frittered away: he has the longest possible life simply because whatever time was available he devoted entirely to himself. None of it lay fallow and neglected, none of it under another's control; for being an extremely thrifty guardian of his time he never found anything for which it was worth exchanging. So he had enough time; but those into whose lives the public have made great inroads inevitably have too little.

Nor must you think that such people do not sometimes recognize their loss. Indeed, you will hear many of those to whom great prosperity is a burden sometimes crying out amidst their hordes of clients or their pleadings in law courts or their other honourable miseries. 'It's impossible to live.' Of course it's impossible. All those who call you to themselves draw you away from yourself. How many days has that defendant stolen from you? Or that candidate? Or that old lady worn out with burying her heirs? Or that man shamming an illness to excite the greed of legacy-hunters? Or that influential friend who keeps people like you not for friendship but for display? Mark off, I tell you, and review the days of your life: you will see that very few — the useless remnants — have been left to you. One man who has achieved the badge of office he coveted longs to lay it aside, and keeps repeating, 'Will this year never end?' Another man thought it a great coup to win the chance of giving games, but, having given them, he says, 'When shall I be rid of them?' That advocate is grabbed on every side throughout the Forum, and fills the whole place with a huge crowd extending further than he can be heard: but he says, 'When will vacation come?' Everyone hustles his life along, and is troubled by a longing for the future and weariness of the present. But the man who spends all his time on his own needs, who organizes every day as though it were his last, neither longs for nor fears the next day. For what new pleasures can any hour now bring him? He has tried everything, and enjoyed everything to repletion. For the rest, Fortune can dispose as she likes: his life is now secure. Nothing can be taken from this life, and you can only add to it as if giving to a man who is already full and satisfied food which he does not want but can hold. So you must not think a man has lived long because he has white hair and wrinkles: he has not lived long, just existed long. For suppose you should think that a man had had a long voyage who had been caught in a raging storm as he left harbour, and carried hither and thither and driven round and round in a circle by the rage of opposing winds? He did not have a long voyage, just a long tossing about.

I am always surprised to see some people demanding the time of others and meeting a most obliging response. Both sides have in view the reason for which the time is asked and neither regards the time itself — as if nothing there is being asked for and nothing given. They are trifling with life's most precious commodity, being deceived because it is an intangible thing, not open to inspection and therefore reckoned very cheap — in fact, almost without any value. People are delighted to accept pensions and gratuities, for which they hire out their labour or their support or their services. But nobody works out the value of time: men use it lavishly as if it cost nothing. But if death threatens these same people, you will see them praying to their doctors; if they are in fear of capital punishment, you will see them prepared to spend their all to stay alive. So inconsistent are they in their feelings. But if each of us could have the tally of his future years set before him, as we can of our past years, how alarmed would be those who saw only a few years ahead, and how carefully would they use them! And yet it is easy to organize an amount, however small, which is assured; we have to be more careful in preserving what will cease at an unknown point.

But you are not to think that these people do not know how precious time is. They commonly say to those they are particularly fond of that they are ready to give them some of their years. And they do give them without being aware of it; but the gift is such that they themselves lose without adding anything to the others. But what they actually do not know is whether they are losing; thus they can bear the loss of what they do not know has gone. No one will bring back the years; no one will restore you to yourself. Life will follow the path it began to take, and will neither reverse nor check its course. It will cause no commotion to remind you of its swiftness, but glide on quietly. It will not lengthen itself for a king's command or a people's favour. As it started out on its first day, so it will run on, nowhere pausing or turning aside. What will be the outcome? You have been preoccupied while life hastens on. Meanwhile death will arrive, and you have no choice in making yourself available for that.

Can anything be more idiotic than certain people who boast of their foresight? They keep themselves officiously preoccupied in order to improve their lives; they spend their lives in organizing their lives. They direct their purposes with an eye to a distant future. But putting things off is the biggest waste of life: it snatches away each day as it comes, and denies us the present by promising the future. The greatest obstacle to living is expectancy, which hangs upon tomorrow and loses today. You are arranging what lies in Fortune's control, and abandoning what lies in yours. What are you looking at? To what goal are you straining? The whole future lies in uncertainty: live immediately. Listen to the cry of our greatest poet, who as though inspired with divine utterance sings salutary verses:

Life's finest day for wretched mortals here

Is always first to flee.

'Why do you linger?' he means. 'Why are you idle? If you don't grasp it first, it flees.' And even if you do grasp it, it will still flee. So you must match time's swiftness with your speed in using it, and you must drink quickly as though from a rapid stream that will not always flow. In chastising endless delay, too, the poet very elegantly speaks not of the 'finest age' but 'finest day'. However greedy you are, why are you so unconcerned and so sluggish (while time flies so fast), extending months and years in a long sequence ahead of you? The poet is telling you about the day — and about this very day that is escaping. So can it be doubted that for wretched mortals — that is, the preoccupied — the finest day is always the first to flee? Old age overtakes them while they are still mentally childish, and they face it unprepared and unarmed. For they have made no provision for it, stumbling upon it suddenly and unawares, and without realizing that it was approaching day by day. Just as travellers are beguiled by conversation or reading or some profound meditation, and find they have arrived at their destination before they knew they were approaching it; so it is with this unceasing and extremely fast-moving journey of life, which waking or sleeping we make at the same pace — the preoccupied become aware of it only when it is over.

If I wanted to divide my theme into different headings and offer proofs, I would find many arguments to prove that the preoccupied find life very short. But Fabianus, who was not one of today's academic philosophers but the true old-fashioned sort, used to say that we must attack the passions by brute force and not by logic; that the enemy's line must be turned by a strong attack and not by pinpricks; for vices have to be crushed rather than picked at. Still, in order that the people concerned may be censured for their own individual faults, they must be taught and not just given up for lost.

Life is divided into three periods, past, present and future. Of these, the present is short, the future is doubtful, the past is certain. For this last is the one over which Fortune has lost her power, which cannot be brought back to anyone's control. But this is what preoccupied people lose: for they have no time to look back at their past, and even if they did, it is not pleasant to recall activities they are ashamed of. So they are unwilling to cast their minds back to times ill spent, which they dare not relive if their vices in recollection become obvious — even those vices whose insidious approach was disguised by the charm of some momentary pleasure. No one willingly reverts to the past unless all his actions have passed his own censorship, which is never deceived. The man who must fear his own memory is the one who has been ambitious in his greed, arrogant in his contempt, uncontrolled in his victories, treacherous in his deceptions, rapacious in his plundering, and wasteful in his squandering. And yet this is the period of our time which is sacred and dedicated, which has passed beyond all human risks and is removed from Fortune's sway, which cannot be harassed by want or fear or attacks of illness. It cannot be disturbed or snatched from us: it is an untroubled, everlasting possession. In the present we have only one day at a time, each offering a minute at a time. But all the days of the past will come to your call: you can detain and inspect them at your will — something which the preoccupied have no time to do. It is the mind which is tranquil and free from care which can roam through all the stages of its life: the minds of the preoccupied, as if harnessed in a yoke, cannot turn round and look behind them. So their lives vanish into an abyss; and just as it is no use pouring any amount of liquid into a container without a bottom to catch and hold it, so it does not matter how much time we are given if there is nowhere for it to settle; it escapes through the cracks and holes of the mind. The present time is extremely short, so much so that some people are unaware of it. For it is always on the move, flowing on in a rush; it ceases before it has come, and does not suffer delay any more than the firmament or the stars, whose unceasing movement never pauses in the same place. And so the preoccupied are concerned only with the present, and it is so short that it cannot be grasped, and even this is stolen from them while they are involved in their many distractions.

In a word, would you like to know how they do not live long? See how keen they are to live long. Feeble old men pray for a few more years; they pretend they are younger than they are; they comfort themselves by this deception and fool themselves as eagerly as if they fooled Fate at the same time. But when at last some illness has reminded them of their mortality, how terrified do they die, as if they were not just passing out of life but being dragged out of it. They exclaim that they were fools because they have not really lived, and that if only they can recover from this illness they will live in leisure. Then they reflect how pointlessly they acquired things they never would enjoy, and how all their toil has been in vain. But for those whose life is far removed from all business it must be amply long. None of it is frittered away, none of it scattered here and there, none of it committed to fortune, none of it lost through carelessness, none ofit wasted on largesse, none of it superfluous: the whole of it, so to speak, is well invested. So, however short, it is fully sufficient, and therefore whenever his last day comes, the wise man will not hesitate to meet death with a firm step.

Perhaps you want to know whom I would call the preoccupied? You must not imagine I mean just those who are driven from the law court only by the arrival of the watchdogs; or those whom you see crushed either honourably in their own crowd of supporters or contemptuously in someone else's; or those whose social duties bring them forth from their own homes to dash them against someone else's doors; or those whom the praetor's auction spear occupies in acquiring disreputable gain which will one day turn rank upon them. Some men are preoccupied even in their leisure: in their country house, on their couch, in the midst of solitude, even when quite alone, they are their own worst company. You could not call theirs a life of leisure, but an idle preoccupation. Do you call that man leisured who arranges with anxious precision his Corinthian bronzes, the cost of which is inflated by the mania of a few collectors, and spends most of the day on rusty bits of metal? Who sits at a wrestling ring (for shame on us! We suffer from vices which are not even Roman), keenly following the bouts between boys? Who classifies his herds of pack-animals into pairs according to age and colour? Who pays for the maintenance of the latest athletes? Again, do you call those men leisured who spend many hours at the barber's simply to cut whatever grew overnight, to have a serious debate about every separate hair, to tidy up disarranged locks or to train thinning ones from the sides to lie over the forehead? How angry they get if the barber has been a bit careless — as if he were trimming a real man! How they flare up if any of their mane is wrongly cut off, if any of it is badly arranged, or if it doesn't all fall into the right ringlets! Which of them would not rather have his country ruffled than his hair? Which would not be more anxious about the elegance of his head than its safety? Which would not rather be trim than honourable? Do you call those men leisured who divide their time between the comb and the mirror? And what about those who busy themselves in composing, listening to, or learning songs, while they distort their voice, whose best and simplest tone nature intended to be the straight one, into the most unnatural modulations; who are always drumming with their fingers as they beat time to an imagined tune; whom you can hear humming to themselves even when they are summoned on a serious, often even sorrowful, affair? Theirs is not leisure but indolent occupation. And, good heavens, as for their banquets, I would not reckon on them as leisure times when I see how anxiously they arrange their silver, how carefully they gird up the tunics of their page-boys, how on tenterhooks they are to see how the cook has dealt with the boar, with what speed smooth-faced slaves rush around on their duties, with what skill birds are carved into appropriate portions, how carefully wretched little slaves wipe up the spittle of drunkards. By these means they cultivate a reputation for elegance and good taste, and to such an extent do their failings follow them into all areas of their private lives that they cannot eat or drink without ostentation.

I would also not count as leisured those who are carried around in a sedan chair and a litter, and turn up punctually for their drives as if it was forbidden to give them up; who have to be told when to bathe or to swim or to dine: they are so enervated by the excessive torpor of a self-indulgent mind that they cannot trust themselves to know if they are hungry. I am told that one of these self-indulgent people — if self-indulgence is the right word for unlearning the ordinary habits of human life — when he had been carried out from the bath and put in his sedan chair, asked, 'Am I now sitting down?' Do you think that this man, who doesn't know if he is sitting down, knows whether he is alive, whether he sees, whether he is at leisure? It is difficult to say whether I pity him more if he really did not know this or if he pretended not to know. They really experience forgetfulness of many things, but they also pretend to forget many things. They take delight in certain vices as proofs of their good fortune: it seems to be the lowly and contemptible man who knows what he is doing. After that see if you can accuse the mimes of inventing many details in order to attack luxury! In truth, they pass over more than they make up, and such a wealth of incredible vices have appeared in this generation, which shows talent in this one area, that we could now actually accuse the mimes of ignoring them. To think that there is anyone so lost in luxuries that he has to trust another to tell him if he is sitting down! So this one is not at leisure, and you must give him another description — he is ill, or even, he is dead: the man who is really at leisure is also aware of it. But this one who is only half alive, and needs to be told the positions of his own body — how can he have control over any of his time?

It would be tedious to mention individually those who have spent all their lives playing draughts or ball, or carefully cooking themselves in the sun. They are not at leisure whose pleasures involve a serious commitment. For example, nobody will dispute that those people are busy about nothing who spend their time on useless literary studies: even among the Romans there is now a large company of these. It used to be a Greek failing to want to know how many oarsmen Ulysses had, whether the Iliad or the Odyssey was written first, and whether too they were by the same author, and other questions of this kind, which if you keep them to yourself in no way enhance your private knowledge, and if you publish them make you appear more a bore than a scholar. But now the Romans too have been afflicted by the pointless enthusiasm for useless knowledge. Recently I heard somebody reporting which Roman general first did this or that: Duilius first won a naval battle; Curius Dentatus first included elephants in a triumph. So far these facts, even if they do not contribute to real glory, at least are concerned with exemplary services to the state: such knowledge will not do us any good, but it interests us because of the appeal of these pointless facts. We can also excuse those who investigate who first persuaded the Romans to embark on a ship. That was Claudius, who for this reason was called Caudex because a structure linking several wooden planks was called in antiquity a caudex. Hence too the Law Tables are called codices, and even today the boats which carry provisions up the Tiber are called by the old-fashioned name codicariae. Doubtless too it is of some importance to know that Valerius Corvinus first conquered Messana, and was the first of the family of the Valerii to be surnamed Messana from the name of the captured city — the spelling of which was gradually corrupted in everyday speech to Messalla. Perhaps you will also allow someone to take seriously the fact that Lucius Sulla first exhibited lions loose in the Circus, though at other times they were shown in fetters, and that javelin-throwers were sent by King Bocchus to kill them. This too may be excused — but does it serve any good purpose? — to know that Pompey first exhibited in the Circus a fight involving eighteen elephants, pitting innocent men against them in a staged battle. A leader of the state and, as we are told, a man of notable kindliness among the leaders of old, he thought it would be a memorable spectacle to kill human beings in a novel way. 'Are they to fight to the death? Not good enough. Are they to be torn to pieces? Not good enough. Let them be crushed by animals of enormous bulk.' It would be better for such things to be forgotten, lest in the future someone in power might learn about them and not wish to be outdone in such a piece of inhumanity. Oh, what darkness does great prosperity cast over our minds! He thought himself beyond nature's laws at the time that he was throwing so many crowds of wretched men to wild creatures from abroad, when he was setting such disparate creatures against each other, when he was shedding so much blood in front of the Roman people, who themselves were soon to be forced by him to shed their own blood. But later he himself, betrayed by Alexandrian treachery, offered himself to be stabbed by the lowest slave, only then realizing that his surname ('Great') was an empty boast.

But to return to the point from which I digressed, and to illustrate how some people spend useless efforts on these same topics, the man I referred to reported that Metellus in his triumph, after conquering the Carthaginians in Sicily, alone among all the Romans had 120 elephants led before his chariot, and that Sulla was the last of the Romans to have extended the pomerium, which it was the ancient practice to extend after acquiring Italian, but never provincial, territory. Is it better to know this than to know that the Aventine Hill, as he asserted, is outside the pomerium for one of two reasons, either because the plebs withdrew to it or because when Remus took the auspices there the birds had not been favourable — and countless further theories that are either false or very close to lies? For even if you admit that they say all this in good faith, even if they guarantee the truth of their statements, whose mistakes will thereby be lessened? Whose passions restrained? Who will be made more free, more just, more magnanimous? Our Fabianus used to say that sometimes he wondered whether it was better not to be involved in any researches than to get entangled in these.

Of all people only those are at leisure who make time for philosophy, only those are really alive. For they not only keep a good watch over their own lifetimes, but they annex every age to theirs. All the years that have passed before them are added to their own. Unless we are very ungrateful, all those distinguished founders of holy creeds were born for us and prepared for us a way of life. By the toil of others we are led into the presence of things which have been brought from darkness into light. We are excluded from no age, but we have access to them all; and if we are prepared in loftiness of mind to pass beyond the narrow confines of human weakness, there is a long period of time through which we can roam. We can argue with Socrates, express doubt with Carneades, cultivate retirement with Epicurus, overcome human nature with the Stoics, and exceed its limits with the Cynics. Since nature allows us to enter into a partnership with every age, why not turn from this brief and transient spell of time and give ourselves whole-heartedly to the past, which is limitless and eternal and can be shared with better men than we?

Those who rush about on social duties, disturbing both themselves and others, when they have duly finished their crazy round and have daily crossed everyone's threshold and passed by no open door, when they have carried around their self-interested greetings to houses that are miles apart, how few will they be able to see in a city so enormous and so distracted by varied desires? How many will there be who through sleepiness or self-indulgence or ungraciousness will exclude them? How many, after keeping them in an agony of waiting, will pretend to be in a hurry and rush past them? How many will avoid going out through a hall crowded with dependants, and escape through a secret door — as if it were not even more discourteous to deceive callers than to exclude them? How many, half asleep and sluggish after yesterday's drinking, will yawn insolently and have to be prompted a thousand times in a whisper before, scarcely moving their lips, they can greet by name the poor wretches who have broken their own slumbers in order to wait on another's?

You should rather suppose that those are involved in worthwhile duties who wish to have daily as their closest friends Zeno, Pythagoras, Democritus and all the other high priests of liberal studies, and Aristotle and Theophrastus. None of these will be too busy to see you, none of these will not send his visitor away happier and more devoted to himself, none of these will allow anyone to depart empty-handed. They are at home to all mortals by night and by day.

None of these will force you to die, but all will teach you how to die. None of them will exhaust your years, but each will contribute his years to yours. With none of these will conversation be dangerous, or his friendship fatal, or attendance on him expensive. From them you can take whatever you wish: it will not be their fault if you do not take your fill from them. What happiness, what a fine old age awaits the man who has made himself a client of these! He will have friends whose advice he can ask on the most important or the most trivial matters, whom he can consult daily about himself, who will tell him the truth without insulting him and praise him without flattery, who will offer him a pattern on which to model himself.

We are in the habit of saying that it was not in our power to choose the parents who were allotted to us, that they were given to us by chance. But we can choose whose children we would like to be. There are households of the noblest intellects: choose the one into which you wish to be adopted, and you will inherit not only their name but their property too. Nor will this property need to be guarded meanly or grudgingly: the more it is shared out, the greater it will become. These will offer you a path to immortality and raise you to a point from which no one is cast down. This is the only way to prolong mortality — even to convert it to immortality. Honours, monuments, whatever the ambitious have ordered by decrees or raised in public buildings are soon destroyed: there is nothing that the passage of time does not demolish and remove. But it cannot damage the works which philosophy has consecrated: no age will wipe them out, no age diminish them. The next and every following age will only increase the veneration for them, since envy operates on what is at hand, but we can more openly admire things from a distance. So the life of the philosopher extends widely: he is not confined by the same boundary as are others. He alone is free from the laws that limit the human race, and all ages serve him as though he were a god. Some time has passed: he grasps it in his recollection. Time is present: he uses it. Time is to come: he anticipates it. This combination of all times into one gives him a long life.

But life is very short and anxious for those who forget the past, neglect the present, and fear the future. When they come to the end of it, the poor wretches realize too late that for all this time they have been preoccupied in doing nothing. And the fact that they sometimes invoke death is no proof that their lives seem long. Their own folly afflicts them with restless emotions which hurl themselves upon the very things they fear: they often long for death because they fear it. Nor is this a proof that they are living for a long time that the day often seems long to them, or that they complain that the hours pass slowly until the time fixed for dinner arrives. For as soon as their preoccupations fail them, they are restless with nothing to do, not knowing how to dispose of their leisure or make the time pass. And so they are anxious for something else to do, and all the intervening time is wearisome: really, it is just as when a gladiatorial show has been announced, or they are looking forward to the appointed time of some other exhibition or amusement — they want to leap over the days in between. Any deferment of the longed-for event is tedious to them. Yet the time of the actual enjoyment is short and swift, and made much shorter through their own fault. For they dash from one pleasure to another and cannot stay steady in one desire. Their days are not long but odious: on the other hand, how short do the nights seem which they spend drinking or sleeping with harlots! Hence the lunacy of the poets, who encourage human frailty by their stories in which Jupiter, seduced by the pleasures of love-making, is seen to double the length of the night. What else is it but to inflame our vices when they quote the gods to endorse them, and as a precedent for our failings they offer — and excuse — the wantonness of the gods? Can the nights, which they purchase so dearly, not seem much too short to these people? They lose the day in waiting for the night, and the night in fearing the dawn.

Even their pleasures are uneasy and made anxious by various fears, and at the very height of their rejoicing the worrying thought steals over them: 'How long will this last?' This feeling has caused kings to bewail their power, and they were not so much delighted by the greatness of their fortune as terrified by the thought of its inevitable end. When that most arrogant king of Persia was deploying his army over vast plains, and could not number it but had to measure it, he wept because in a hundred years out of that huge army not a soul would be alive. But he who was weeping was the very man who would bring their fate upon them, and would destroy some on the sea, some on land, some in battle, some in flight, and in a very short time would wipe out all those for whose hundredth year he was afraid.

And what of the fact that even their joys are uneasy? The reason is that they are not based on firm causes, but they are agitated as groundlessly as they arise. But what kind of times can those be, do you think, which they themselves admit are wretched, since even the joys by which they are exalted and raised above humanity are pretty corrupt? All the greatest blessings create anxiety, and Fortune is never less to be trusted than when it is fairest. To preserve prosperity we need other prosperity, and to support the prayers which have turned out well we have to make other prayers. Whatever comes our way by chance is unsteady, and the higher it rises the more liable it is to fall. Furthermore, what is doomed to fall delights no one. So it is inevitable that life will be not just very short but very miserable for those who acquire by great toil what they must keep by greater toil. They achieve what they want laboriously; they possess what they have achieved anxiously; and meanwhile they take no account of time that will never more return. New preoccupations take the place of the old, hope excites more hope and ambition more ambition. They do not look for an end to their misery, but simply change the reason for it. We have found our own public honours a torment, and we spend more time on someone else's. We have stopped labouring as candidates, and we start canvassing for others. We have given up the troubles of a prosecutor, and taken on those of a judge. A man stops being a judge and becomes president of a court. He has grown old in the job of managing the property of others for a salary, and then spends all his time looking after his own. Marius was released from army life to become busy in the consulship. Quintius hastens to get through his dictatorship, but he will be summoned back to it from the plough. Scipio will go against the Carthaginians before he is experienced enough for such an undertaking. Victorious over Hannibal, victorious over Antiochus, distinguished in his own consulship and a surety for his brother's, if he had not himself forbidden it he would have been set up beside Jupiter. But discord in the state will harass its saviour, and after as a young man he has scorned honours fit for the gods, at length when old he will take delight in an ostentatiously stubborn exile. There will always be causes for anxiety, whether due to prosperity or to wretchedness. Life will be driven on through a succession of preoccupations: we shall always long for leisure, but never enjoy it.

And so, my dear Paulinus, extract yourself from the crowd, and as you have been storm-tossed more than your age deserves, you must at last retire into a peaceful harbour. Consider how many waves you have encountered, how many storms — some of which you have sustained in private life and some you have brought upon yourself in public life. Your virtue has for long enough been shown, when you were a model of active industry: try how it will manage in leisure. The greater part of your life, certainly the better part, has been devoted to the state: take some of your own time for yourself too. I am not inviting you to idle or purposeless sloth, or to drown all your natural energy in sleep and the pleasures that are dear to the masses. That is not to have repose. When you are retired and enjoying peace of mind, you will find to keep you busy more important activities than all those you have performed so energetically up to now. Indeed, you are managing the accounts of the world as scrupulously as you would another person's, as carefully as your own, as conscientiously as the state's. You are winning affection in a job in which it is hard to avoid ill-will; but believe me it is better to understand the balance-sheet of one's own life than of the corn trade. You must recall that vigorous mind of yours, supremely capable of dealing with the greatest responsibilities, from a task which is certainly honourable but scarcely suited to the happy life; and you must consider that all your youthful training in the liberal studies was not directed to this end, that many thousands of measures of corn might safely be entrusted to you. You had promised higher and greater things of yourself. There will not be wanting men who are completely worthy and hard-working. Stolid pack-animals are much more fit for carrying loads than thoroughbred horses: who ever subdued their noble speed with a heavy burden? Consider too how much anxiety you have in submitting yourself to such a weight of responsibility: you are dealing with the human belly. A hungry people neither listens to reason nor is mollified by fair treatment or swayed by any appeals. Quite recently, within a few days after Gaius Caesar died — still feeling very upset (if the dead have feelings) because he saw that the Roman people were still surviving, with a supply of food for seven or at most eight days, while he was building bridges with boats and playing with the resources of the empire — we faced the worst of all afflictions, even to those under siege, a shortage of provisions. His imitation of a mad foreign king doomed in his pride, nearly cost the city destruction and famine and the universal collapse that follows famine. What then must those have felt who had charge of the corn supply, when they were threatened with stones, weapons, fire — and Gaius? With a huge pretence they managed to conceal the great evil lurking in the vitals of the state — and assuredly they had good reason. For certain ailments must be treated while the patient is unaware of them: knowing about their disease has caused the death of many.

You must retire to these pursuits which are quieter, safer and more important. Do you think it is the same thing whether you are overseeing the transfer of corn into granaries, unspoilt by the dishonesty and carelessness of the shippers, and taking care that it does not get damp and then ruined through heat, and that it tallies in measure and weight; or whether you take up these sacred and lofty studies, from which you will learn the substance of god, and his will, his mode of life, his shape; what fate awaits your soul; where nature lays us to rest when released from our bodies; what is the force which supports all the heaviest elements of this world at the centre, suspends the light elements above, carries fire to the highest part, and sets the stars in motion with their proper changes — and learn other things in succession which are full of tremendous marvels? You really should leave the ground and turn your thoughts to these studies. Now while the blood is hot you should make your way with vigour to better things. In this kind of life you will find much that is worth your study: the love and practice of the virtues, forgetfulness of the passions, the knowledge of how to live and die, and a life of deep tranquillity.

Indeed the state of all who are preoccupied is wretched, but the most wretched are those who are toiling not even at their own preoccupations, but must regulate their sleep by another's, and their walk by another's pace, and obey orders in those freest of all things, loving and hating. If such people want to know how short their lives are, let them reflect how small a portion is their own.

So, when you see a man repeatedly wearing the robe of office, or one whose name is often spoken in the Forum, do not envy him: these things are won at the cost of life. In order that one year may be dated from their names they will waste all their own years. Life has left some men struggling at the start of their careers before they could force their way to the height of their ambition. Some men, after they have crawled through a thousand indignities to the supreme dignity, have been assailed by the gloomy thought that all their labours were but for the sake of an epitaph. Some try to adjust their extreme old age to new hopes as though it were youth, but find its weakness fails them in the midst of efforts that overtax it. It is a shameful sight when an elderly man runs out of breath while he is pleading in court for litigants who are total strangers to him, and trying to win the applause of the ignorant bystanders. It is disgraceful to see a man collapsing in the middle of his duties, worn out more by his life-style than by his labours. Disgraceful too is it when a man dies in the midst of going through his accounts, and his heir, long kept waiting, smiles in relief. I cannot resist telling you of an instance that occurs to me. Sextus Turannius was an old man known to be scrupulous and diligent, who, when he was ninety, at his own request was given retirement from his office by Gaius Caesar. He then ordered himself to be laid out on his bed and lamented by the assembled household as though he were dead. The house bewailed its old master's leisure, and did not cease its mourning until his former job was restored to him. Is it really so pleasant to die in harness? That is the feeling of many people: their desire for their work outlasts their ability to do it. They fight against their own bodily weakness, and they regard old age as a hardship on no other grounds than that it puts them on the shelf. The law does not make a man a soldier after fifty or a senator after sixty: men find it more difficult to gain leisure from themselves than from the law. Meanwhile, as they rob and are robbed, as they disturb each other's peace, as they make each other miserable, their lives pass without satisfaction, without pleasure, without mental improvement. No one keeps death in view, no one refrains from hopes that look far ahead; indeed, some people even arrange things that are beyond life — massive tombs, dedications of public buildings, shows for their funerals, and ostentatious burials. But in truth, such people's funerals should be conducted with torches and wax tapers, as though they had lived the shortest of lives.