II

Seneca to his Lucilius, greeting. From what you write to me and from what I hear, I am forming good hopes for you: you are not rushing about nor unsettling yourself with changes of place. That kind of tossing about belongs to a sick mind; I consider the first proof of a well-composed mind to be the ability to stand still and remain with itself.

But take care that this reading of many authors and books of every kind does not have something wandering and unstable about it. One must linger over certain minds and be nourished by them, if one wishes to draw out anything that will settle faithfully in the soul. He who is everywhere is nowhere. This happens to those who spend their life in travel: they have many lodgings, but no friendships; the same must necessarily happen to those who attach themselves intimately to no one’s genius, but pass everything by hastily and in a rush.

Food does no good and gives no strength to the body if, once taken, it is immediately thrown off; nothing hinders health as much as the frequent changing of remedies; a wound on which medicines are being tried does not come to a scar; a plant that is often moved does not grow strong; nothing is so useful that it can help merely in passing. A multitude of books distracts; therefore, since you cannot read as much as you may possess, it is enough to possess as much as you can read.

“But now,” you say, “I want to unroll this book, now that one.” It is the mark of a queasy stomach to taste many things; when they are varied and different, they foul rather than nourish. Therefore always read approved authors, and if at some time you feel inclined to turn aside to others, return to the former ones. Each day acquire some aid against poverty, some aid against death, and no less against the other plagues; and when you have run through many things, select one to digest that day.

This too I do myself: from the many things I have read, I seize on something. Today’s thought is this, which I found in Epicurus—for I am accustomed to cross even into another camp, not as a deserter, but as a scout—: “Cheerful poverty,” he says, “is an honorable thing.”

Yet that is not poverty at all, if it is cheerful; the poor man is not the one who has too little, but the one who desires more. For what does it matter how much lies in his strongbox, how much in his granaries, how much he feeds at pasture or lends at interest, if he is always threatening what belongs to another, if he reckons not what he has acquired, but what he still must acquire? You ask what the measure of wealth is? The first is to have what is necessary; the next, what is enough. Farewell.