And shadows never scare me, thanks to hell.
But what is it at length in death, that is so grievous and troublesome?
For I know not how it comes to pass that, when it is so familiar and
as it were related to us, it should seem so terrible. How can it be
rational to wonder, if that cleaves asunder which is divisible, if that
melts whose nature is liquefaction, if that burns which is combustible,
and so, by a parity of reason, if that perisheth which by nature is
perishable? For when is it that death is not in us? For, as Heraclitus
saith, it is the same thing to be dead and alive, asleep and awake,
a young man and decrepit; for these alternately are changed one into
another. For as a potter can form the shape of an animal out of his
clay and then as easily deface it, and can repeat this backwards
and forwards as often as he pleaseth, so Nature too out of the same
materials fashioned first our grandfathers, next our fathers, then
us, and in process of time will engender others, and again others
upon these. For as the flood of our generation glides on without any
intermission and will never stop, so in the other direction the stream
of our corruption flows eternally on, whether it be called Acheron or
Cocytus by the poets. So that the same cause which first showed us the
light of the sun carries us down to infernal darkness. And in my mind,
the air which encompasseth us seems to be a lively image of the thing;
for it brings on the vicissitudes of night and day, life and death,
sleeping and waking. For this cause it is that life is called a fatal
debt, which our fathers contracted and we are bound to pay; which is to
be done calmly and without any complaint, when the creditor demands it;
and by this means we shall show ourselves men of sedate passions.
11. And I believe Nature, knowing the confusion and shortness of our
life, hath industriously concealed the end of it from us, this making
for our advantage. For if we were sensible of it beforehand, some would
pine away with untimely sorrow, and would die before their death came.
For she saw the woes of this life, and with what a torrent of cares it
is overflowed,—which if thou didst undertake to number, thou wouldst
grow angry with it, and confirm that opinion which hath a vogue amongst
some, that death is more desirable than life. Simonides hath glossed
upon it after this manner:—
Our time is of a short and tender length,
Cares we have many, and but little strength;
Labors in crowds push one another on,
And cruel destiny we cannot shun.
The casting of these lots is very just,
For good and bad lie in one common dust.