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Classic /Meaning & the Good Life

On the happy life

Lucius Annaeus Seneca

Lucius Annaeus Seneca, 64 CE

With a new introduction and commentary by Massimo Pigliucci

A woman walks alone to her community in the Peruvian Andes. All photos by Karla Gachet/Panos


For the person who lives a virtuous life, of steadfastness and good judgment, happiness is always within reach

Massimo Pigliucci

Lucius Annaeus Seneca is a towering and controversial figure of antiquity. He lived from 4 BCE to 65 CE, was a Roman senator and political adviser to the emperor Nero, and experienced exile but came back to Rome to become one of the wealthiest citizens of the Empire. He tried to steer Nero toward good governance, but in the process became his indirect accomplice in murderous deeds. In the end, he was ‘invited’ to commit suicide by the emperor, and did so with dignity, in the presence of his friends. 

Seneca wrote a number of tragedies that directly inspired William Shakespeare, but was also one of the main exponents of the Stoic school of philosophy, which has made a surprising comeback in recent years. Stoicism teaches us that the highest good in life is the pursuit of the four cardinal virtues of practical wisdom, temperance, justice and courage – because they are the only things that always do us good and can never be used for ill. It also tells us that the key to a serene life is the realisation that some things are under our control and others are not: under our control are our values, our judgments, and the actions we choose to perform. Everything else lies outside of our control, and we should focus our attention and efforts only on the first category.

Seneca wrote a series of philosophical letters to his friend Lucilius when he was nearing the end of his life. The letters were clearly meant for publication, and represent a sort of philosophical testament for posterity. I chose letter 92, ‘On the Happy Life’, because it encapsulates both the basic tenets of Stoic philosophy and some really good advice that is still valid today.

The first thing to understand about this letter is the title itself: ‘happy’ here does not have the vague modern connotation of feeling good, but is the equivalent of the Greek word eudaimonia, recently adopted also by positive psychologists, and which is best understood as a life worth living. For Seneca and the Stoics, the only life worth living is one of moral rectitude, the sort of existence we look back to at the end and can honestly say we are not ashamed of.

That said, and contrary to popular lore, the Stoics weren’t killjoys. Indeed, in his essay ‘On Tranquillity of Mind’, Seneca himself wrote: 

Socrates did not blush to play with little boys, Cato used to refresh his mind with wine after he had wearied it with application to affairs of state, and Scipio would move his triumphal and soldierly limbs to the sound of music … It does good also to take walks out of doors, that our spirits may be raised and refreshed by the open air and fresh breeze: sometimes we gain strength by driving in a carriage, by travel, by change of air, or by social meals and a more generous allowance of wine: at times we ought to drink even to intoxication, not so as to drown, but merely to dip ourselves in wine: for wine washes away troubles and dislodges them from the depths of the mind, and acts as a remedy to sorrow as it does to some diseases. 

Stoics are often contrasted with Epicureans, and ‘On the Happy Life’ includes passages where Seneca comments on that contrast. Epicureanism, however, should not be interpreted in the modern sense of laissez-faire hedonism (à la sex, drugs and rock’n’roll), as it actually was a philosophy of moderation aimed mostly at avoiding pain (both physical and mental) and at enjoying the simple pleasures of life (like healthy meals and good friendship).

Both the Stoics and the Epicureans valued the practice of virtue and the pleasures of life. The difference was one of priorities: the Epicureans, for instance, withdrew from political life because it was bound to cause pain (consider the recent US elections and you might sympathise). The Stoics, by contrast, would never trade moral rectitude for either the pursuit of pleasure or the avoidance of pain.

Seneca wrote a much longer essay on the same topic of what makes for a happy life, one that includes a set of seven ‘commandments to himself’ (from book XX ‘Of a Happy Life’). They provide a way to philosophically structure our own lives:

I) I will look upon death or upon a comedy with the same expression of countenance.
II) I will despise riches when I have them as much as when I have them not.
III) I will view all lands as though they belong to me, and my own as though they belonged to all mankind.
IV) Whatever I may possess, I will neither hoard it greedily nor squander it recklessly.
V) I will do nothing because of public opinion, but everything because of conscience.
VI) I will be agreeable with my friends, gentle and mild to my foes: I will grant pardon before I am asked for it, and will meet the wishes of honourable men half-way.
VII) Whenever either Nature demands my breath again, or reason bids me dismiss it, I will quit this life, calling all to witness that I have loved a good conscience, and good pursuits.

Massimo Pigliucci is the K D Irani Professor of Philosophy at the City College of New York. He blogs at platofootnote.org and howtobeastoic.org. His latest book is How to Be a Stoic: Using Ancient Philosophy to Live a Modern Life (2017).


Classic Text

Lucius Annaeus Seneca

On the happy life

From Moral letters to Lucilius, translated by Richard Mott Gummere

With a new commentary by Massimo Pigliucci

You and I will agree, I think, that outward things are sought for the satisfaction of the body, that the body is cherished out of regard for the soul, and that in the soul there are certain parts which minister to us, enabling us to move and to sustain life, bestowed upon us just for the sake of the primary part of us. In this primary part there is something irrational, and something rational. The former obeys the latter, while the latter is the only thing that is not referred back to another, but rather refers all things to itself. For the divine reason also is set in supreme command over all things, and is itself subject to none; and even this reason which we possess is the same, because it is derived from the divine reason.

Seneca here is using ‘soul’ in the Aristotelian tradition, as the seat of human reason. The Stoics were materialists, so the word ‘soul’ had none of the modern connotations derived from the Christian tradition.

Now if we are agreed on this point, it is natural that we shall be agreed on the following also – namely, that the happy life depends upon this and this alone: our attainment of perfect reason. For it is naught but this that keeps the soul from being bowed down, that stands its ground against Fortune; whatever the condition of their affairs may be, it keeps men untroubled. And that alone is a good which is never subject to impairment. That man, I declare, is happy whom nothing makes less strong than he is; he keeps to the heights, leaning upon none but himself; for one who sustains himself by any prop may fall. If the case is otherwise, then things which do not pertain to us will begin to have great influence over us. But who desires Fortune to have the upper hand, or what sensible man prides himself upon that which is not his own?

‘Perfect’ here means something like the highest degree achievable by a human being, it is not a reference to a universal, abstract, ideal of perfection.


The Stoic goal was to make oneself immune to the ups and downs of fortune, which was achieved by realising that whatever fortune can give or take away is not truly important, ultimately.

A woman walks through the town of Ollantaytambo. Photo by Karla Gachet/Panos.
In the town of Ollantaytambo in the Peruvian Andes.

What is the happy life? It is peace of mind, and lasting tranquillity. This will be yours if you possess greatness of soul; it will be yours if you possess the steadfastness that resolutely clings to a good judgment just reached. How does a man reach this condition? By gaining a complete view of truth, by maintaining, in all that he does, order, measure, fitness, and a will that is inoffensive and kindly, that is intent upon reason and never departs therefrom, that commands at the same time love and admiration. In short, to give you the principle in brief compass, the wise man’s soul ought to be such as would be proper for a god.

This is, in essence, the Stoic recipe for the good life: nothing can keep us from exercising good judgment, which leads to a good conscience, and therefore to inner tranquillity.

What more can one desire who possesses all honourable things? For if dishonourable things can contribute to the best estate, then there will be the possibility of a happy life under conditions which do not include an honourable life. And what is more base or foolish than to connect the good of a rational soul with things irrational?

Yet there are certain philosophers who hold that the Supreme Good admits of increase because it is hardly complete when the gifts of fortune are adverse. Even Antipater, one of the great leaders of this school, admits that he ascribes some influence to externals, though only a very slight influence. You see, however, what absurdity lies in not being content with the daylight unless it is increased by a tiny fire. What importance can a spark have in the midst of this clear sunlight?

Namely, philosophers belonging to the Aristotelian and Academic (Platonic) schools.

‘This school’ refers to Stoicism.

If you are not contented with only that which is honourable, it must follow that you desire in addition either the kind of quiet which the Greeks call ‘undisturbedness’, or else pleasure. But the former may be attained in any case. For the mind is free from disturbance when it is fully free to contemplate the universe, and nothing distracts it from the contemplation of nature. The second, pleasure, is simply the good of cattle. We are but adding the irrational to the rational, the dishonourable to the honourable. A pleasant physical sensation affects this life of ours;

In Greek: ataraxia, or the kind of tranquillity that comes from equanimity with respect to outside events. 

This is a dig to the rival Epicurean school, though Seneca several times makes a point of positively citing Epicurus, because truth, he thinks, is not the province of any single philosopher or philosophical tradition.

Why, therefore, do you hesitate to say that all is well with a man just because all is well with his appetite? And do you rate, I will not say among heroes, but among men, the person whose Supreme Good is a matter of flavours and colours and sounds? Nay, let him withdraw from the ranks of this, the noblest class of living beings, second only to the gods; let him herd with the dumb brutes – an animal whose delight is in fodder!

Here and elsewhere talk of ‘gods’ is not to be taken literally. In other places Seneca writes about ‘god’ in the singular, and we know that the Stoics equated god with nature, or the universe itself. They were materialists about this as well, so ‘god’ was physical, and literally inside every one of us.

The irrational part of the soul is twofold: the one part is spirited, ambitious, uncontrolled; its seat is in the passions; the other is lowly, sluggish, and devoted to pleasure. Philosophers have neglected the former, which, though unbridled, is yet better, and is certainly more courageous and more worthy of a man, and have regarded the latter, which is nerveless and ignoble, as indispensable to the happy life.

This follows Plato's tri-partite subdivision of the soul: appetitive, spirited, and rational.

In the Peruvian Andes. Photo by Karla Gachet/Panos.

They have ordered reason to serve this latter; they have made the Supreme Good of the noblest living being an abject and mean affair, and a monstrous hybrid, too, composed of various members which harmonise but ill. For as our Vergil, describing Scylla, says: ‘Above, a human face and maiden’s breast, / A beauteous breast, – below, a monster huge / Of bulk and shapeless, with a dolphin’s tail / Joined to a wolf-like belly.’ And yet to this Scylla are tacked on the forms of wild animals, dreadful and swift; but from what monstrous shapes have these wiseacres compounded wisdom!

One of a pair of mythological monsters (the other one being Charybdis) guarding the strait between mainland Italy and Sicily. Odysseus managed to successfully navigate between them during his voyage home after the Trojan war. 

Virgil, Aeneid, iii. 426 ff.

Man’s primary art is virtue itself; there is joined to this the useless and fleeting flesh, fitted only for the reception of food, as Posidonius remarks. This divine virtue ends in foulness, and to the higher parts, which are worshipful and heavenly, there is fastened a sluggish and flabby animal. As for the second desideratum – quiet – although it would indeed not of itself be of any benefit to the soul, yet it would relieve the soul of hindrances; pleasure, on the contrary, actually destroys the soul and softens all its vigour. What elements so inharmonious as these can be found united? To that which is most vigorous is joined that which is most sluggish; to that which is austere, that which is far from serious; to that which is most holy, that which is unrestrained even to the point of impurity.

The Stoics thought that the practice of virtue was the goal of human life, and that meant applying reason to social living, as Seneca himself says in ‘On Tranquillity of Mind’. However, many Stoics were not as dismissive of ‘the flesh’ as Seneca is here. Rather, they considered the nurturing of the body as a necessary and natural function, if subordinate to the nurturing of the ‘soul’, ie, our character and ability to reason.

An influential Stoic teacher, 135-51 BCE.

‘What, then,’ comes the retort, ‘if good health, rest, and freedom from pain are not likely to hinder virtue, shall you not seek all these?’ Of course I shall seek them, but not because they are goods – I shall seek them because they are according to nature and because they will be acquired through the exercise of good judgment on my part. What, then, will be good in them? This alone – that it is a good thing to choose them. For when I don suitable attire, or walk as I should, or dine as I ought to dine, it is not my dinner, or my walk, or my dress that are goods, but the deliberate choice which I show in regard to them, as I observe, in each thing I do, a mean that conforms with reason.

Here Seneca softens his earlier dismissal of the body's needs, effectively restating the main Stoic view that good health is a ‘preferred indifferent’, preferred because it is naturally positive for us, but indifferent in the sense that it is not a true good, the latter being found only in virtue.

For the Stoics, good or bad is not found in things themselves, but only in the use that we make of those things.

Let me also add that the choice of neat clothing is a fitting object of a man’s efforts; for man is by nature a neat and well-groomed animal. Hence the choice of neat attire, and not neat attire, in itself is a good; since the good is not in the thing selected, but in the quality of the selection. Our actions are honourable, but not the actual things which we do.

And you may assume that what I have said about dress applies also to the body. For nature has surrounded our soul with the body as with a sort of garment; the body is its cloak. But who has ever reckoned the value of clothes by the wardrobe which contained them? The scabbard does not make the sword good or bad. Therefore, with regard to the body, I shall return the same answer to you – that, if I have the choice, I shall choose health and strength, but that the good involved will be my judgment regarding these things, and not the things themselves.

Note the frequent use of metaphors and similes, standard tropes of Stoic discourse.

Another retort is: ‘Granted that the wise man is happy; nevertheless, he does not attain the Supreme Good which we have defined, unless the means also which nature provides for its attainment are at his call. So, while one who possesses virtue cannot be unhappy, yet one cannot be perfectly happy if one lacks such natural gifts as health, or soundness of limb.’

But in saying this, you grant the alternative which seems the more difficult to believe, – that the man who is in the midst of unremitting and extreme pain is not wretched, nay, is even happy; and you deny that which is much less serious – that he is completely happy. And yet, if virtue can keep a man from being wretched, it will be an easier task for it to render him completely happy. For the difference between happiness and complete happiness is less than that between wretchedness and happiness. Can it be possible that a thing which is so powerful as to snatch a man from disaster, and place him among the happy, cannot also accomplish what remains, and render him supremely happy? Does its strength fail at the very top of the climb?

‘Happy’ here does not have the modern, somewhat vague, connotation of feeling good. It means that one is living a eudaimonic life, that is a life worth living. For the Stoics, moral integrity (which comes from the practice of virtue) is all that is needed in order to live a worthwhile life.

There are in life things which are advantageous and disadvantageous – both beyond our control. If a good man, in spite of being weighed down by all kinds of disadvantages, is not wretched, how is he not supremely happy, no matter if he does lack certain advantages? For as he is not weighted down to wretchedness by his burden of disadvantages, so he is not withdrawn from supreme happiness through lack of any advantages; nay, he is just as supremely happy without the advantages as he is free from wretchedness though under the load of his disadvantages. Otherwise, if his good can be impaired, it can be snatched from him altogether.

This is a crucial Stoic concept: some things are under our control, other things are not under our control. The first category includes our values and judgments, the second one pretty much all external things and events. Happiness consists in realising this and focusing on the things that are under our control, which not even Fortuna can snatch away from us.

A short space above, I remarked that a tiny fire does not add to the sun’s light. For by reason of the sun’s brightness any light that shines apart from the sunlight is blotted out. ‘But,’ one may say, ‘there are certain objects that stand in the way even of the sunlight.’ The sun, however, is unimpaired even in the midst of obstacles, and, though an object may intervene and cut off our view thereof, the sun sticks to his work and goes on his course. Whenever he shines forth from amid the clouds, he is no smaller, nor less punctual either, than when he is free from clouds; since it makes a great deal of difference whether there is merely something in the way of his light or something which interferes with his shining.

Again, the Stoics used a number of metaphors to convey subtle points of their philosophy, and this is an excellent example.

Cooking for  Yawar Fiesta celebration in the Peruvian Andes. Photo by  Karla Gachet/Panos
Cooking for the community during Yawar Fiesta celebrations.

Similarly, obstacles take nothing away from virtue; it is no smaller, but merely shines with less brilliancy. In our eyes, it may perhaps be less visible and less luminous than before; but as regards itself it is the same and, like the sun when he is eclipsed, is still, though in secret, putting forth its strength. Disasters, therefore, and losses, and wrongs, have only the same power over virtue that a cloud has over the sun.

We meet with one person who maintains that a wise man who has met with bodily misfortune is neither wretched nor happy. But he also is in error, for he is putting the results of chance upon a parity with the virtues, and is attributing only the same influence to things that are honourable as to things that are devoid of honour. But what is more detestable and more unworthy than to put contemptible things in the same class with things worthy of reverence! For reverence is due to justice, duty, loyalty, bravery and prudence; on the contrary, those attributes are worthless with which the most worthless men are often blessed in fuller measure – such as a sturdy leg, strong shoulders, good teeth, and healthy and solid muscles.

Once more, this should not be taken to indicate that the Stoics, including Seneca in fact, did not care for bodily health. But this was absolutely not on a par with the practice of virtue.

Again, if the wise man whose body is a trial to him shall be regarded as neither wretched nor happy, but shall be left in a sort of half-way position, his life also will be neither desirable nor undesirable. But what is so foolish as to say that the wise man’s life is not desirable? And what is so far beyond the bounds of credence as the opinion that any life is neither desirable nor undesirable? Again, if bodily ills do not make a man wretched, they consequently allow him to be happy. For things which have no power to change his condition for the worse have not the power, either, to disturb that condition when it is at its best.

‘But,’ someone will say, ‘we know what is cold and what is hot; a lukewarm temperature lies between. Similarly, A is happy, and B is wretched, and C is neither happy nor wretched.’ I wish to examine this figure, which is brought into play against us. If I add to your lukewarm water a larger quantity of cold water, the result will be cold water. But if I pour in a larger quantity of hot water, the water will finally become hot. In the case, however, of your man who is neither wretched nor happy, no matter how much I add to his troubles, he will not be unhappy, according to your argument; hence your figure offers no analogy.

Not all analogies are useful or accurate. Here Seneca is rejecting an analogy used by some critics of Stoicism.

Again, suppose that I set before you a man who is neither miserable nor happy. I add blindness to his misfortunes; he is not rendered unhappy. I cripple him; he is not rendered unhappy. I add afflictions which are unceasing and severe; he is not rendered unhappy. Therefore, one whose life is not changed to misery by all these ills is not dragged by them, either, from his life of happiness.

Then if, as you say, the wise man cannot fall from happiness to wretchedness, he cannot fall into non-happiness. For how, if one has begun to slip, can one stop at any particular place? That which prevents him from rolling to the bottom keeps him at the summit. Why, you urge, may not a happy life possibly be destroyed? It cannot even be disjointed; and for that reason, virtue is itself of itself sufficient for the happy life.

The idea here is the classic Stoic one that the virtuous person is ‘happy’ no matter what her material conditions. That's because happiness is understood as living a life of moral rectitude, one that we can look back on and think: ‘That was a life worth living.’

‘But,’ it is said, ‘is not the wise man happier if he has lived longer and has been distracted by no pain, than one who has always been compelled to grapple with evil fortune?’ Answer me now – is he any better or more honourable? If he is not, then he is not happier either. In order to live more happily, he must live more rightly; if he cannot do that, then he cannot live more happily either. Virtue cannot be strained tighter, and therefore neither can the happy life, which depends on virtue. For virtue is so great a good that it is not affected by such insignificant assaults upon it as shortness of life, pain and the various bodily vexations. For pleasure does not deserve that virtue should even glance at it.

A very clear statement of the Stoic equivalence between ‘happiness’ (the actual, and more accurate, Greek word is eudaimonia) and moral rectitude.

Now what is the chief thing in virtue? It is the quality of not needing a single day beyond the present, and of not reckoning up the days that are ours; in the slightest possible moment of time, virtue completes an eternity of good. These goods seem to us incredible and transcending man’s nature; for we measure its grandeur by the standard of our own weakness, and we call our vices by the name of virtue. Furthermore, does it not seem just as incredible that any man in the midst of extreme suffering should say: ‘I am happy’? And yet this utterance was heard in the very factory of pleasure, when Epicurus said: ‘Today and one other day have been the happiest of all!’ although in the one case he was tortured by strangury, and in the other by the incurable pain of an ulcerated stomach.

The duration of our lives doesn't matter, and it isn't under our control anyway. It is what we do with the days we have that counts.

In a nice rhetorical move, Seneca uses the words of one of the chief rivals of the Stoic school, Epicurus, against him. The Epicureans held that avoidance of pain and increase in pleasure (but mostly the former) were the chief goals of life, and yet Epicurus here seems to contradict what his own school stood for.

Why, then, should those goods which virtue bestows be incredible in the sight of us, who cultivate virtue, when they are found even in those who acknowledge pleasure as their mistress? These also, ignoble and base-minded as they are, declare that even in the midst of excessive pain and misfortune the wise man will be neither wretched nor happy. And yet this also is incredible, – nay, still more incredible, than the other case. For I do not understand how, if virtue falls from her heights, she can help being hurled all the way to the bottom. She either must preserve one in happiness, or, if driven from this position, she will not prevent us from becoming unhappy. If virtue only stands her ground, she cannot be driven from the field; she must either conquer or be conquered.

The Stoics held to the rather strict doctrine that virtue is all or nothing, reflected in this passage by Seneca. However, one could still make progress, morally speaking, as embodied in the very name given to Stoic students: prokoptontas, those who make progress.

But some say: ‘Only to the immortal gods is given virtue and the happy life; we can attain but the shadow, as it were, and semblance of such goods as theirs. We approach them, but we never reach them.’ Reason, however, is a common attribute of both gods and men; in the gods it is already perfected, in us it is capable of being perfected.

As mentioned before, this talk of gods should be interpreted metaphorically, as the Stoics subscribed to a pantheistic notion of god = nature, similar to the position adopted much later by the 17th-century philosopher Baruch Spinoza.

Photo by Karla Gachet/Panos.
Above the town of Ollantaytambo.

But it is our vices that bring us to despair; for the second class of rational being, man, is of an inferior order – a guardian, as it were, who is too unstable to hold fast to what is best, his judgment still wavering and uncertain. He may require the faculties of sight and hearing, good health, a bodily exterior that is not loathsome, and, besides, greater length of days conjoined with an unimpaired constitution.

Though by means of reason he can lead a life which will not bring regrets, yet there resides in this imperfect creature, man, a certain power that makes for badness, because he possesses a mind which is easily moved to perversity. Suppose, however, the badness which is in full view, and has previously been stirred to activity, to be removed; the man is still not a good man, but he is being moulded to goodness. One, however, in whom there is lacking any quality that makes for goodness, is bad.

But ‘He in whose body virtue dwells, and spirit / E’er present’ is equal to the gods; mindful of his origin, he strives to return thither. No man does wrong in attempting to regain the heights from which he once came down. And why should you not believe that something of divinity exists in one who is a part of God? All this universe which encompasses us is one, and it is God; we are associates of God; we are his members. Our soul has capabilities, and is carried thither, if vices do not hold it down. Just as it is the nature of our bodies to stand erect and look upward to the sky, so the soul, which may reach out as far as it will, was framed by nature to this end, that it should desire equality with the gods. And if it makes use of its powers and stretches upward into its proper region it is by no alien path that it struggles toward the heights.

Virgil, Aeneid, 363.

Here is a much more clearly Stoic and pantheistic view of god/nature.

It would be a great task to journey heavenwards; the soul but returns thither. When once it has found the road, it boldly marches on, scornful of all things. It casts no backward glance at wealth; gold and silver – things which are fully worthy of the gloom in which they once lay – it values not by the sheen which smites the eyes of the ignorant, but by the mire of ancient days, whence our greed first detached and dug them out. The soul, I affirm, knows that riches are stored elsewhere than in men’s heaped-up treasure-houses; that it is the soul, and not the strong-box, which should be filled.

As earlier, ‘soul’ here should not be interpreted in anything like the Christian meaning. Stoics were materialists, and for them the soul was simply the material part of us that makes it possible to think, very much akin to what today we call ‘mind’.

Nice contrast between spiritual and material values.

It is the soul that men may set in dominion over all things, and may install as owner of the universe, so that it may limit its riches only by the boundaries of East and West, and, like the gods, may possess all things; and that it may, with its own vast resources, look down from on high upon the wealthy, no one of whom rejoices as much in his own wealth as he resents the wealth of another.

When the soul has transported itself to this lofty height, it regards the body also, since it is a burden which must be borne, not as a thing to love, but as a thing to oversee; nor is it subservient to that over which it is set in mastery. For no man is free who is a slave to his body. Indeed, omitting all the other masters which are brought into being by excessive care for the body, the sway which the body itself exercises is captious and fastidious.

As discussed, a healthy body, for a Stoic, is a ‘preferred indifferent’, ie, something that is good to have so long as it doesn't interfere with, and in fact aids, the practice of virtue.

Forth from this body the soul issues, now with unruffled spirit, now with exultation, and, when once it has gone forth, asks not what shall be the end of the deserted day. No; just as we do not take thought for the clippings of the hair and the beard, even so that divine soul, when it is about to issue forth from the mortal man, regards the destination of its earthly vessel – whether it be consumed by fire, or shut in by a stone, or buried in the earth, or torn by wild beasts – as being of no more concern to itself than is the afterbirth to a child just born. And whether this body shall be cast out and plucked to pieces by birds, or devoured when ‘thrown to the sea-dogs as prey’, how does that concern him who is nothing?

Seneca here seems to hint at a notion of survival of the soul after death. This was controversial among the Stoics, some of whom clearly stated that the soul does not, in fact, survive bodily death. However, even for Seneca, the ‘soul’ is simply a part of the rational, material, principle pervading the universe, so its survival should not be interpreted as the survival of some sort of incorporeal individuality. 

Virgil, Aeneid, 363.

Nay even when it is among the living, the soul fears nothing that may happen to the body after death; for though such things may have been threats, they were not enough to terrify the soul previous to the moment of death. It says: ‘I am not frightened by the executioner’s hook, nor by the revolting mutilation of the corpse which is exposed to the scorn of those who would witness the spectacle. I ask no man to perform the last rites for me; I entrust my remains to none. Nature has made provision that none shall go unburied. Time will lay away one whom cruelty has cast forth.’ Those were eloquent words which Maecenas uttered: ‘I want no tomb; for Nature doth provide / For outcast bodies burial.’ You would imagine that this was the saying of a man of strict principles. He was indeed a man of noble and robust native gifts, but in prosperity he impaired these gifts by laxness. Farewell.

Fragments, 6 Lunderstedt.

Lucius Annaeus Seneca (‘Seneca the Younger’) was a Roman statesman, dramatist and philosopher. Moral Letters to Lucilius (64 CE), consisting of 124 essays written during the last years of his life, remains one of his best-known works, and a widely-read Stoic text.

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