Return to your own ruling part

Everything you see will soon perish, and those who witnessed its passing will very soon perish too. And whoever dies at the furthest old age will be brought to the very same condition as one who died before his time.

What are these men's ruling principles, and what sort of things do they busy themselves with, and for what sort of reasons do they love and honor? Picture their poor souls laid bare. When they imagine they harm you by their blame, or benefit you by their praise—what an idea!

Loss is nothing other than change. But universal nature delights in change, and in obedience to her all things are now done well, and have been done in the same form from eternity, and will be so without end. What, then, are you saying—that everything has been and always will be bad, and that among so many gods no power has ever been found to set these things right, but the world has been condemned to be bound in never-ending evil?

The rottenness of the matter underlying everything: water, dust, bones, filth; or again, marble is just hardened earth, and gold and silver are sediments; clothing is just bits of hair, and purple dye is blood; and everything else is of the same kind. And whatever belongs to the nature of breath is another such thing, forever changing from this into that.

Enough of this wretched life, this grumbling, these apish tricks. Why are you troubled? What is new here? What is it that unsettles you? Is it the form of the thing? Look at it. Or is it the matter? Look at that. Beyond these there is nothing. Toward the gods, then, become at last simpler and better. It makes no difference whether one examines these things for a hundred years or for three.

If some man has done wrong, the harm is his own. But perhaps he has not done wrong.

Either all things proceed from one intelligent source and come together as into one body, and the part should not find fault with what is done for the benefit of the whole; or there are only atoms, and nothing but mixture and dispersion. Why, then, are you troubled? Say to your ruling faculty: Are you dead? Are you decayed? Are you playing the hypocrite? Have you turned into a beast, herding and feeding with the rest?

Either the gods have power or they don't. If they have no power, why pray to them at all? But if they do have power, why not pray instead for the ability not to fear any of the things you fear, or not to desire any of the things you desire, or not to be pained by anything—rather than praying that these things should or shouldn't happen? For surely if the gods can act together with men at all, they can act together for these ends too. But perhaps you'll say the gods have placed these things within your own power. Then isn't it better to use what's in your power like a free man than to crave, in a slavish and abject way, what isn't in your power? And who told you the gods don't help us even in what lies within our own power? Begin, then, to pray for such things, and you'll see. One man prays: How can I sleep with that woman? You pray: How can I stop wanting to sleep with her? Another prays: How can I be rid of this man? You pray: How can I stop wanting to be rid of him? Another prays: How can I not lose my little son? You pray: How can I not be afraid of losing him? In short, turn your prayers this way, and watch what happens.

Epicurus says: In my illness, my talk was not about my bodily sufferings, nor, he says, did I speak of such things to those who visited me; instead I went on discussing the nature of things just as before, keeping to this one point—how the mind, while sharing in the disturbances going on in this poor flesh, can remain free of disturbance and hold on to its proper good. Nor, he says, did I give the doctors a chance to put on solemn airs as though they were achieving something great, but my life went on well and happily. Do, then, as he did—both in illness, if you're sick, and in any other circumstance. For it's a principle held by every school of philosophy never to abandon philosophy whatever befalls us, and never to waste words either with an ignorant person or with someone unacquainted with nature, but to stay focused only on what you're doing right now and on the instrument by which you do it.

When you're offended by someone's shameless behavior, ask yourself at once: Is it possible, then, that there be no shameless men in the world? It isn't possible. So don't ask for the impossible. This man is simply one of those shameless people who must necessarily exist in the world. Keep the same thought ready for the case of the crook, the faithless man, and anyone who does wrong in any way at all. For the moment you remind yourself that it's impossible for such men not to exist, you will become more kindly disposed toward each one of them. It's also useful to see immediately, whenever the case arises, what virtue nature has given man to set against every wrongdoing. For she has given gentleness as an antidote to the foolish man, and some other power against some other kind. And in every case it's possible for you to correct the man who has gone astray by teaching him, for everyone who errs misses his true aim and has gone astray. Besides, in what way have you actually been harmed? You'll find that none of those you're angry at has done anything capable of making your mind worse; and whatever is evil and harmful to you has its foundation only in your own mind. And what harm is done, or what is strange about it, if an uninstructed man acts as an uninstructed man does? Consider whether you shouldn't blame yourself instead, for not expecting this man would err in just this way. For your reason gave you the means to suppose it likely he would make this mistake, yet you forgot, and now you're amazed that he erred. But most of all, when you blame a man as faithless or ungrateful, turn the blame back on yourself. For the fault is clearly your own—whether you trusted that a man of such a disposition would keep his word, or whether, in doing him a kindness, you didn't give it unconditionally, in such a way that you'd already gotten the whole benefit from the very act itself. For what more do you want, once you've done someone a good turn? Isn't it enough that you've done something in keeping with your own nature, and must you be paid for it too—as if the eye demanded payment for seeing, or the feet for walking? Just as these parts are formed for a particular function, and get what is properly theirs by acting according to their own constitution, so too man is formed by nature for acts of kindness; and whenever he has acted kindly, or otherwise served the common good, he has acted according to his constitution, and gets what is properly his own.