A part of the whole

Revere what is best in the universe—that which makes use of all things and directs all things. And in the same way, revere what is best in yourself, for it is of the same kind. In you too, that which makes use of everything else is this, and your life is directed by it.

What does no harm to the state does no harm to the citizen. Apply this rule to every appearance of harm: if the state isn't harmed by this, neither am I harmed. But if the state is harmed, don't be angry at the one who harms it—show him where his error lies.

Often think of how quickly things pass by and vanish, both things that exist and things that are produced. Substance is like a river in constant flow, and the activities of things are in constant change, and the causes work in endless variety; there's hardly anything that stands still. And consider this: close beside you lies the boundless abyss of past and future, in which all things disappear. How is he not a fool, then, who is puffed up over such things, or tormented by them and made miserable, when they can vex him only for a time, and a short one at that?

Think of universal substance, of which you have only a very small portion; and of universal time, of which a short, indivisible span has been allotted to you; and of what is fixed by destiny, and how small a part of it you are.

Does someone else wrong me? Let him see to that. He has his own disposition, his own activity. I now have what the universal nature wills me to have, and I do what my own nature now wills me to do.

Let the part of your soul that leads and governs remain undisturbed by the movements of the flesh, whether of pleasure or pain, and don't let it merge with them; instead let it draw its own boundary and confine those feelings to their own province. But when they rise up into the mind by that other sympathy natural to a body that is all one, then you must not try to resist the sensation, since it's natural—but don't let the ruling part add to it the judgment that it's either good or bad.

Live with the gods. And a man lives with the gods who constantly shows them that his own soul is satisfied with what has been assigned to him, and that it does everything the guiding spirit wishes—the portion of himself that Zeus has given to every man as guardian and guide. And this is each man's understanding and reason.

Are you angry with the man whose armpits stink? Are you angry with the man whose breath is foul? What good will your anger do you? He has such a mouth, he has such armpits; it's inevitable that such an emanation should come from such things. But, it will be said, the man has reason, and if he takes the trouble, he can find out where he's offending—well, I wish you luck with that discovery. But look: you too have reason. Use your rational faculty to stir up his; show him his error, admonish him. If he listens, you'll cure him, and there's no need for anger.

As you intend to live once you've gone out of life... so it's in your power to live here. But if people won't allow it, then get out of life altogether—yet do it as one suffering no harm. The house is smoky, and I leave it. Why do you think this is any great matter? But as long as nothing of that kind drives me out, I remain, I am free, and no one will stop me from doing what I choose—and I choose to do what accords with the nature of the rational, social animal.

The intelligence of the universe is social. Accordingly it has made the lower things for the sake of the higher, and it has fitted the higher things to one another. You see how it has subordinated, coordinated, and given to each thing its proper share, and brought the best things into harmony with one another.

Consider how you have behaved until now toward the gods, your parents, siblings, children, teachers, childhood caregivers, friends, relatives, and slaves. Ask whether you have treated them all so that this could be said of you: 'Never has he wronged a person in deed or word.' Call to mind how much you've been through and how much you've been able to endure. The story of your life is now complete, and your service is at an end. How many beautiful things you've seen. How many pleasures and pains you've set aside. How many so-called honors you've turned down. And how many ill-natured people you've treated kindly.

Why do untrained, ignorant souls trouble the one who has skill and knowledge? What soul, then, has skill and knowledge? The one that knows beginning and end, and knows the reason that runs through all substance and, through all time, by fixed cycles, governs the universe.

Soon, very soon, you'll be ashes, or a skeleton, and either a name or not even a name—and a name is just sound and echo. And the things so highly valued in life are empty, rotten, and trivial—like little dogs snapping at each other, or little children quarreling, laughing, and then bursting into tears the next moment. But faithfulness and modesty and justice and truth have 'fled up to Olympus from the wide-spread earth' (Hesiod, Works and Days, v. 197). What is there, then, still holding you here, if the objects of sense change so easily and never stand still, and the organs of perception are dull and easily take false impressions, and the poor soul itself is only a vapor rising off blood? To have a good name amid a world like this is an empty thing. Why, then, don't you wait calmly for your end, whether it means extinction or a passage into another state? And until that time comes, what is enough? Why, nothing but this: to honor and bless the gods, to do good to men, to practice tolerance and self-restraint—and as for everything beyond the bounds of this poor flesh and breath, to remember that it is neither yours nor within your power.

You can spend your life in a smooth flow of happiness if you can go by the right way, and think and act rightly. These two things are shared by the soul of God, the soul of man, and the soul of every rational being alike: not to be hindered by another, and to hold the good to consist in the disposition toward justice and its practice, and to let your desire come to rest there.

If this is neither my own badness nor an effect of my own badness, and the common good isn't harmed, why am I troubled about it? What harm is there to the common good?

Don't be swept along thoughtlessly by how things appear, but give help, to all, as far as your ability and their situation allow; and if they've suffered loss in matters that are indifferent, don't imagine this to be real damage—that's a bad habit. Instead, do as the old man did, who, on leaving, asked for his foster child's top back, remembering it was only a top. Do the same here. When you're shouting your speech from the Rostra, have you forgotten, man, what these things really are?—Yes, but they matter enormously to these people—will you, then, let yourself be made a fool over them too? I was once a fortunate man, but I lost it somehow, I don't know how.—But being fortunate means having assigned yourself a good fortune; and a good fortune is a good disposition of the soul, good impulses, good actions.