PREPARE YOURSELF

Seneca's greatest prose work, the Moral Epistles, is a collection of letters addressed to a close friend, Lucilius, who like Seneca was in his 60s at the time the Epistles were composed (AD 63–65). Death and dying are a prominent theme in these letters and several deal almost entirely with that theme, including letters 30, 70, 77, 93, and 101, all represented in this volume either in whole (as signaled by the inclusion of their salutations and sign-offs) or in large part.

The letters usually take as their point of departure an event in Seneca's daily life, such as a visit to an ill friend, or (as in the case of the excerpt below) an idea Seneca had encountered in his reading. Though they take the form of an intimate correspondence, the Epistles were primarily written for publication, and the "you" addressed in them is sometimes Lucilius but at other times the Roman public, or even humanity generally.

Epicurus says, "Rehearse for death," or, if this conveys the meaning better to us, "it's a great thing to learn how to die." Perhaps you think it useless to learn something that must only be used once; but this is the very reason why we ought to rehearse. We must study always the thing we cannot tell from experience whether we know. "Rehearse for death"; the man who tells us this bids us rehearse for freedom. Those who have learned how to die have unlearned how to be slaves. It is a power above, and beyond, all other powers. What matter to them the prison-house, the guards, the locks? They have a doorway of freedom. There's only one chain that holds us in bondage, the love of life. If it can't be cast off, let it be thus diminished that, if at some point circumstance demands it, nothing will stop or deter us from making ourselves ready to do at once what needs to be done. (Epistle 26.8–10)

In the letter excerpted below, Seneca coaches Lucilius as to how he should advise an unnamed friend who has withdrawn from public life into quieter pursuits.

If [your friend] had been born in Parthia, he would be holding a bow in his hands right from infancy; if in Germany, he would brandish a spear as soon as he reached boyhood; if he had lived in the time of our ancestors, he would have learned to ride in the cavalry and to strike down his foe in hand-to-hand combat. Each nation has its own training to coax and command its members. Which one, then, must your friend practice? The one that has good effect against all weapons and against every kind of enemy: contempt of death.

No one doubts that death has something terrible about it, such that our minds, which Nature endowed with a love of itself, are disturbed by it. Otherwise there would be no need to make ourselves ready and hone ourselves for that which we might enter by a certain voluntary impulse, just as we all are motivated by self-preservation. No one learns to lie down contentedly in a bed of roses, if the need arises, but rather we steel ourselves for this: to not betray a confidence under torture, or to stand on guard, though wounded, through the night, if the need arises, without even leaning on an upright spear, since sleep has a way of sneaking up on those who lean against some support....

But what if a great yearning for longer life holds you in its grip? You must believe that none of the things that depart from your sight, and that are subsumed into the universe from which they sprang (and will soon spring again), is used up; these things pause, but do not die, just as death, which we fear and shun, interrupts but does not strip away our life. The day will come again which will return us into the light. Many would reject that day, were it not that it returns us without our memories.

But I will instruct you carefully in the way that all things that seem to die are in fact only transformed; thus the one who will return to the world should leave it with equanimity. Just look at how the circuit of the universe returns upon itself. You will see that nothing in this cosmos is extinguished, but everything falls and rises by turns. The summer departs, but the year will bring another; winter falls away, but its own months will restore it. Night blocks the sun, but in an instant daylight will drive that night away. Whatever movement of the constellations has passed, repeats; one part of the sky is always rising, another part sinking below the horizon.

Let me at last come to an end, but I will add this one thought: neither infants, nor children, nor those whose minds are afflicted, are afraid of death; it would be repellent, if our reason did not offer us the same contentment to which they are led by their folly. Farewell. (Epistle 36.7–12)

Seneca suffered his whole life from respiratory illness, probably including tuberculosis, and from asthma. His discomfort was such that, in young adulthood, he contemplated suicide, according to his own report. He must have experienced attacks like the one described below throughout his life, but they took on added significance as he grew older, especially given that the name doctors gave to them (according to Seneca) was meditatio mortis, "rehearsal for death."

Dear Lucilius,

Ill health had granted me a long reprieve; then it came on me suddenly. "What sort of illness?" you ask. It's an apt question, since there's none that I haven't experienced. But one alone is, you might say, my allotment. I don't know what its Greek name is, but it could be fittingly called suspirium. It comes on with sudden and brief force, like a tornado; it's nearly over within an hour (for who could die for a long time?). Every physical discomfort and danger passes through me; there's nothing I find more aggravating. And how could I not? This is not illness — that's something else entirely — but loss of life and soul. Therefore the doctors call it "rehearsal for death," and sometimes the spirit accomplishes what it often has attempted.

Do you suppose I'm cheerful as I write these things, because I've escaped? I think it would be ridiculous to delight in this outcome as though it were a form of good health — just as ridiculous as to proclaim victory when one's court case has been postponed. Yet, even in the midst of suffocation, I did not cease taking comfort from brave and happy thoughts. "What's this?" I say to myself. "Does death make trial of me so frequently? Let it: I've done likewise to death, for a long time." When was that, you ask? Before I was born: for death is nonexistence. I know what that's like. It will be the same after me as it was before me. If death holds any torment, then that torment must also have existed before we came forth into the light, but, back then, we felt nothing troubling. I ask you, wouldn't you call it a very foolish thing if someone judges that a lamp is worse off after it's snuffed out than before it has been lighted? We too are snuffed out and lighted. In the time in between, we have sense and experience; before and after is true peace. We go...