Letter 58 begins as a word-nerd’s lament, with Seneca grumbling that Latin is too poor to translate Greek philosophy, and then becomes a guided tour of Plato’s six ways of saying that something “is.” But Seneca won’t let philosophy stay abstract. From Plato’s ideas he draws a practical lesson: the things that excite our appetites barely exist at all, everything about us is flowing like a river, and careful, moderate living is how we take care of the time we have.
A note for readers: the closing section of this letter reflects ancient Roman views about choosing the time of one’s death in very old age or illness. The heart of the letter is how to live wisely in a changing world and how to care for body and mind. If you or someone you love is struggling, please reach out — in the US, call or text 988 (Suicide and Crisis Lifeline); help is available in most countries.
From Seneca to Lucilius
How short of words our language is, no, how poverty-stricken, I never fully understood until today. We happened to be talking about Plato, and a thousand topics came up that needed names and had none. Others once had names but lost them because we were too fussy about using them. But who can afford to be fussy when he’s this poor?
Words That Have Gone Missing
There’s an insect the Greeks call oestrus, which drives cattle wild and scatters them all over their pastures. In our language it used to be called asilus, as you can believe on Vergil’s authority:
Near Silarus’s groves and green Alburnus,
thick with oaks, there flits an insect
the Romans call asilus; the Greeks
have named it oestrus. Harsh and shrill,
it buzzes, and through all the woods
it drives the panicked herds to frenzy.
From that I gather the word has fallen out of use. And not to keep you waiting too long, certain simple words used to be current, like cernere ferro inter se, as Vergil will again show:
Great heroes, born in far-off lands, had come
to settle things between them with the sword.
We now express this “settling” with decernere. The plain word has died out. The old writers also used to say iusso instead of iussero in conditional clauses. Don’t take my word for it; turn to Vergil again:
The other soldiers shall carry on the fight
with me, wherever I command.
I’m not lining up these examples to show you how much time I’ve wasted on studying language. I only want you to see how many words that were current in Ennius and Accius have gone moldy with age, while even in Vergil, whose works are combed through every day, some of his words have been stolen from us.
A Word for Being
You’ll say, I suppose, “What’s the point of this introduction?” I won’t keep you in the dark. I’d like, if I can, to say the word essentia to you and get a friendly hearing. If I can’t, I’ll risk it even if it annoys you. I have Cicero as my authority for this word, and I consider him a strong one. If you want a more recent witness, I’ll cite Fabianus: careful with words, cultured, and so polished in style that he’ll satisfy even our fussy taste. What else can we do, my dear Lucilius? How else can we find a word for what the Greeks call ousia, something indispensable, the natural foundation underneath everything? So I ask you to let me use this word essentia. Still, I’ll take care to use the privilege you’ve granted me as sparingly as possible; perhaps I’ll be content just to have the right.
But what good will your indulgence do me if, look, I can’t express in Latin at all the meaning of the word that started me complaining about our language’s poverty? And you’ll blame our narrow Roman limits even more when you learn there’s a word of one syllable I can’t translate. “What is it?” you ask. It’s the word on. You think I’m slow; you believe the word is right at hand and could be translated as quod est, “that which is.” But I see a big difference: you’re forcing me to render a noun with a verb. Still, if I must, I’ll render it as “that which is.”
Climbing to the Highest Category
According to a very learned friend of ours, who mentioned it today, there are six ways in which Plato expresses this idea. I’ll explain all of them to you, once I’ve first pointed out that there’s something called a genus and something called a species.
For now, though, we’re looking for the first and highest genus, on which all the other species depend, the source of all classification, the term that takes in every universal idea. We’ll reach it if we start counting backward from particular things, because that will lead us back to the first idea.
Now “human” is a species, as Aristotle says; so is “horse” or “dog.” So we have to find some common bond for all these terms, one that includes them and holds them beneath it. What is it? “Animal.” So there begins to be a genus “animal,” which includes all these: “human,” “horse,” and “dog.” But some things have life and yet aren’t animals. Everyone agrees that plants and trees have life, which is why we speak of them living and dying. So the term “living things” will rank still higher, since both animals and plants fall under it. Some things, though, have no life, such as rocks. So there will be another term ranking above “living things,” and that is “body.” I’ll classify bodies by saying that all bodies are either living or not living.
But there’s still something above “body,” since we say some things have a body and some don’t. What, then, is the term from which these come? It’s the one I gave an awkward name to a moment ago: “that which is.” Using this term, things divide into species, so we can say: whatever exists either has a body or lacks one.
This, then, is the genus in its truest sense: the first, the original, and (to play on the word) the most “general.” There are other genera, of course, but they’re “special” genera. “Human,” for example, is a genus, because it contains species: by nation, such as Greek, Roman, Parthian; by color, such as white, black, yellow. It also contains individuals: Cato, Cicero, Lucretius. So “human” counts as a genus insofar as it includes many kinds, but insofar as it falls under another term, it counts as a species. But the genus “that which is” is universal and has nothing above it. It’s the first term in the classification of things, and everything falls under it.
The Stoic “Something”
The Stoics would put another genus ahead of this one, even more basic, and I’ll speak about it right away, once I’ve shown that the genus we’ve discussed is rightly placed first, since it can include everything. So I divide “that which is” into two species: things with a body and things without one. There’s no third kind. And how do I divide “body”? I say it’s either living or not living. How do I divide “living”? I say, “Some things have a mind, while others have only life.” Or it can be put this way: “Some things can move, travel, and change their place, while others are rooted in the ground and are fed and grow only through their roots.” And into what species do I divide “animals”? They’re either mortal or immortal.
Some of the Stoics consider the first genus to be “something.” I’ll add the reasons they give. They say, “In the order of nature, some things exist and some don’t. And even the things that don’t exist are still part of nature’s order. What they are will easily come to mind: centaurs, giants, and all the other inventions of unsound thinking, which have taken on a definite shape even though they have no body.”
Plato’s Six Kinds of Being
But now I’ll go back to what I promised to discuss for you: how Plato divides all existing things in six ways.
The first kind of “that which is” can’t be grasped by sight or touch or any of the senses, but it can be grasped by thought. Any general idea, such as the general idea “human,” doesn’t come within range of the eyes; but a particular human does, such as Cicero or Cato. “Animal” isn’t seen; it’s grasped by thought alone. A particular animal, though, is seen: a horse, a dog.
The second kind of “things that are,” according to Plato, is what stands out above everything else; this, he says, exists in a superior way. The word “poet” is used for anyone, since it’s applied to all who write verse, but among the Greeks it has become the mark of one person. You know Homer is meant when you hear people say “the poet.” What, then, is this supreme Being? God, surely, who is greater and more powerful than anything else.
The third kind consists of the things that exist in the truest sense. They’re countless, but they lie beyond our sight. “What are they?” you ask. They’re Plato’s own special furniture, so to speak. He calls them “ideas.” From them all visible things are made, and on their pattern everything is shaped. They’re immortal, unchangeable, and untouchable.
The Pattern and the Portrait
Here’s what an “idea” is, or rather Plato’s notion of it: “The idea is the eternal pattern of the things nature creates.” I’ll explain this definition to make the subject clearer. Suppose I want to paint your portrait. I have the pattern for the painting in you yourself, and from you my mind takes a certain outline that it will build into its own work. That appearance, which teaches and guides me, the pattern for me to copy, is the “idea.” Nature has countless such patterns, of people, fish, trees, and by their model everything nature has to create is worked out.
Fourth we’ll put “form.” If you want to know what “form” means, you’ll have to pay close attention, and blame Plato, not me, for the difficulty of the subject. But we can’t make fine distinctions without running into difficulties. A moment ago I used a painter as an example. When the painter wanted to portray Vergil in color, he’d look at Vergil himself. The “idea” was Vergil’s appearance, the pattern of the planned work. What the painter draws from this idea and builds into his own work is the “form.”
Do you ask where the difference lies? The first is the pattern; the second is the shape taken from the pattern and built into the work. The artist copies the one, but he creates the other. A statue has a certain appearance; that appearance is the “form.” The model itself also has a certain appearance, and by gazing at it the sculptor shaped his statue; that’s the “idea.” If you want another distinction: the form is in the artist’s work; the idea is outside it, and not only outside it, but before it.
The fifth kind consists of things that exist in the ordinary sense. These are the first that concern us directly: people, cattle, objects. In the sixth kind goes everything that has only an imagined existence, like empty space or time.
The Same River, a Different River
Whatever we can see or touch, Plato doesn’t count among the things he believes truly exist. These are the first that concern us: people, cattle, objects. For they’re always in flux, constantly shrinking or growing. None of us is the same person in old age that he was in youth, or the same today as yesterday. Our bodies are swept along like running water. Everything we see travels with time in its flight; of all we see, nothing stays fixed. Even I, as I talk about this change, have changed.
This is exactly what Heraclitus says: “We step into the same river twice, and yet it’s a different river.” The stream keeps the same name, but the water has already flowed past. Of course, this is much more obvious in rivers than in people. Still, we mortals are swept by just as fast. And this makes me marvel at our madness in clinging with such love to something as fleeting as the body, and in fearing that someday we’ll die, when every moment is the death of the condition we were in before. Won’t you stop fearing that something will happen once, when it really happens every day?
So much for the human being, a substance that flows away and falls, open to every influence. But the universe, too, immortal and lasting as it is, changes and never stays the same. Though it holds everything it ever held, it holds it differently than before; it keeps rearranging itself.
Rest Your Eyes, but Learn Something
“All right,” you say, “what good will I get out of all this fine reasoning?” None, if you want my honest answer. Still, just as an engraver rests his eyes when they’ve been strained and tired, calls them away from the work and “feasts” them, as the saying goes, so we should sometimes loosen our minds and refresh them with some kind of entertainment. But let even your entertainment be work; and even from these amusements, if you’ve been watchful, you’ll pick out something healthy.
That’s my habit, Lucilius: I try to pull something useful out of every field of thought, however far it is from philosophy. Now, what could be less likely to improve character than the subjects we’ve been discussing? How can Plato’s “ideas” make me a better man? What can I take from them that will rein in my appetites? Perhaps this very thought: that all the things that serve our senses, that rouse and excite us, are denied by Plato a place among the things that truly exist.
Such things are imaginary, then. Though for the moment they show a certain outward appearance, they’re never lasting or solid. Even so, we crave them as if they’d always exist, or as if we’d always have them.
Looking Up to What Lasts
We are weak, watery creatures standing in the middle of things that aren’t real; so let’s turn our minds to what is eternal. Let’s look up to the ideal patterns of all things that move on high, and to the God who moves among them and plans how he can protect from death what he couldn’t make imperishable, because its material wouldn’t allow it, and so by reason overcome the body’s flaws.
For all things last, not because they’re eternal, but because they’re protected by the care of the one who governs everything; what was imperishable would need no guardian. The Master Builder keeps them safe, overcoming the weakness of their material by his own power. Let’s look down on everything that has so little value that it makes us wonder whether it exists at all.
How Plato Reached Old Age
At the same time, since Providence rescues from its dangers the world itself, which is no less mortal than we are, let’s reflect that to some extent our small bodies can be made to stay longer on earth by our own foresight, if only we learn to control and check the pleasures by which most people are destroyed.
Plato himself reached old age by taking care of himself. True, he was lucky enough to have a strong, sound body (his very name came from his broad chest), but his strength was badly worn down by sea voyages and dangerous adventures. Even so, by simple living, by setting limits on everything that stirs the appetites, and by careful attention to himself, he reached that great age despite many obstacles.
You know, I’m sure, that thanks to his careful living Plato had the good fortune to die on his birthday, having completed exactly his eighty-first year. For this reason some wise men from the East, who happened to be in Athens then, offered sacrifice to him after his death, believing his length of days was too full for a mortal, since he had rounded out the perfect number of nine times nine. I don’t doubt he’d gladly have given up a few days from that total, along with the sacrifice.
When Old Age Is a Gift
Simple living can bring a person to old age; and in my view old age should be neither refused nor craved. There’s a pleasure in keeping your own company as long as possible, once you’ve made yourself worth enjoying.
The question we have to give our judgment on, then, is whether one should shrink from extreme old age and bring the end early, rather than wait for it to come. A person who waits listlessly for his fate is close to a coward, just as someone who drinks too much drains the jar and sucks up even the dregs. But we’ll ask this too: is the last part of life the dregs, or is it the clearest and purest part of all, provided the mind is unimpaired, the senses are still sound and support the spirit, and the body isn’t worn out and dead before its time? It makes a great difference whether a person is lengthening his life or his death.
But if the body is no longer able to serve, why not free the struggling soul? Perhaps one should do it a little before the debt is due, in case one is no longer able to when it falls due. And since the danger of living in misery is greater than the danger of dying soon, it’s foolish to refuse to stake a little time against a great gain. Few have lasted through extreme old age to death without impairment, and many have lain helpless, unable to make any use of themselves. How much crueler, then, do you think it really is to lose a portion of your life than to lose your right to decide its end?
Seneca’s Own Limits
Don’t hear me unwillingly, as if I were aiming my words at you; just weigh what I’m saying. It’s this: I won’t abandon old age if old age keeps me whole for myself, whole in the better part of myself. But if old age begins to shatter my mind and pull its faculties apart, if it leaves me not life but only breath, then I would leave a house that is crumbling and falling down.
I won’t seek death to escape illness, as long as the illness can be cured and doesn’t hinder my soul. I won’t lay violent hands on myself just because I’m in pain; to die that way is defeat. But if I learn that the pain must be endured forever, I will leave, not because of the pain, but because it will stand in the way of everything I live for. Whoever dies just because he’s in pain is weak and cowardly; but whoever lives only to brave out that pain is a fool.
But I’m running on too long, and besides, there’s enough here to fill a whole day. And how can a man end his life if he can’t end a letter? So, farewell. You’ll read this last word with more pleasure than all my gloomy talk of death.
Farewell.
Breaking It Down: A Modern Take on Letter 58
Letter 58 is one of Seneca’s most technical letters: a lesson in translation, a family tree of categories, and Plato’s theory of ideas, all in one sitting. Then he does what he always does and asks what any of it is good for. His answer, that the things we crave are fleeting while character and careful living last, is the real gift of the letter. The final section reflects Roman views about ending life in extreme old age or incurable illness. Those are ancient views, and they’re worth reading with care; notice that even here Seneca insists that pain alone is no reason to die and that a life with a sound mind is worth living to its last day.
1. Every language has gaps
Seneca complains that Latin can’t keep up with Greek. “Who can afford to be fussy when he’s this poor?” Anyone who has tried to explain a feeling, or translate an idea across cultures, knows the struggle. Sometimes we need to borrow a word and move on.
2. Words grow moldy
Even Vergil’s words had started slipping out of use. Language keeps changing, which is one reason fresh translations of old books matter: they let the ideas speak in words we still use.
3. Climb from the particular to the general
Seneca builds a ladder: human, animal, living thing, body, and finally “that which is.” “Whatever exists either has a body or lacks one.” It’s an old exercise in clear thinking: sort things carefully before you argue about them.
4. The pattern and the portrait
“The form is in the artist’s work; the idea is outside it, and not only outside it, but before it.” Plato’s picture of ideal patterns is a lovely way to think about our own lives: there’s the person we’re aiming to be, and the imperfect copy we make each day.
5. You are a river
“None of us is the same person in old age that he was in youth, or the same today as yesterday.” This can be freeing. Old mistakes don’t define us forever, and today is another chance to change.
6. Dying a little every day
“Won’t you stop fearing that something will happen once, when it really happens every day?” Every moment ends the version of us that came before. Seen this way, change is ordinary, and death is less of a monster under the bed.
7. Let even your rest be useful
“But let even your entertainment be work.” Seneca isn’t against breaks. He suggests choosing rest that feeds the mind instead of just numbing it.
8. Find the lesson in everything
“I try to pull something useful out of every field of thought.” Even abstract metaphysics, for Seneca, has to answer the question: how does this make me a better person?
9. What we crave barely exists
The things that excite our appetites “are denied by Plato a place among the things that truly exist.” The latest gadget, the next purchase, the passing thrill: they look solid, but they slip away. That’s a good reason not to build a life around them.
10. Turn toward what lasts
“We are weak, watery creatures standing in the middle of things that aren’t real; so let’s turn our minds to what is eternal.” Whatever your beliefs, kindness, integrity, and love outlast our possessions.
11. Moderation is self-care
Plato reached eighty-one “by simple living, by setting limits on everything that stirs the appetites, and by careful attention to himself.” As any clinician will tell you, the dull habits of eating well, sleeping, and moderation still do more for long life than almost anything else.
12. Become good company
“There’s a pleasure in keeping your own company as long as possible, once you’ve made yourself worth enjoying.” Old age can be the clearest, purest part of life when we’ve spent the years before becoming someone we like to be with.
13. An ancient debate, read with care
Seneca’s last pages reflect Roman views on ending life in extreme old age. Even here he draws firm lines: “I won’t abandon old age if old age keeps me whole for myself,” and pain alone is never a reason to die. Today we know that pain, illness, and despair can be treated far better than Seneca could have imagined, and that reaching out for help is a sign of strength. If any of this touches something painful for you, please talk to someone you trust or call or text 988 in the US.
Key Takeaways from Letter 58
- Language has limits. Borrow the word you need and keep going.
- Think in clear categories. Sorting ideas sharpens arguments.
- Aim at a pattern. Each day is a new copy of the person you want to be.
- You are a river. Change is constant, and that’s hopeful.
- We die a little every day. So death needn’t be a monster.
- Rest that feeds the mind. Let even entertainment teach you.
- Find the useful lesson. Ask how any idea makes you better.
- What we crave is fleeting. Don’t build a life on it.
- Turn toward what lasts. Character outlives possessions.
- Moderation is self-care. Simple living lengthens life.
- Become good company. Then old age is a pleasure.
- Pain is no reason to give up. Even Seneca said so; reach out for help.
“There’s a pleasure in keeping your own company as long as possible, once you’ve made yourself worth enjoying.”
— Seneca, Letter 58
Next up: Letter 59 — On Pleasure and Joy
