1. I cannot find my socks. / I couldn’t find my socks.

2. I cannot find a counter-example to the theory. / I couldn’t find a counter-example to the theory.

The word “cannot” is usually taken to express impossibility and be somewhat equivalent in meaning with the word “impossible”, thought they cannot be used in the same way because they are different word types.

However, if we rewrite the above sentences to use the other word, then the meaning changes. Consider:

1a. It is impossible to find my socks. / It was impossible for me to find my socks.

2a. It is impossible to find a counter-example to the theory. / It was impossible to find a counter-example to the theory.

Why does (1) and (1a) not mean the same? It is because, I think, that we use “cannot” to express a different kind of lack of possibility than we use with “impossible”. This possibility I call willful possibility. It is defined like this: It is willfully possible for agent S to A iff that S wills to bring about A materially implies that A would happen.

This is applicable to the above examples like this:

1b. S wanted to find his socks but did not. Thus, it was not willfully possible to for S to find his socks.

2b. S wanted to find a counter-example to the theory but did not. Thus, it was not willfully possible to for S to find a counter-example.

The meanings of (1) and (2) are also expressible in another way:

1c. I tried to find my socks but I failed.

2c. I tried to find a counter-example to the theory but I failed.

Though there are also some relevant considerations about time. Willful possibilities change from time to time. Suppose for instance that at some later time were S to look for his socks, then he would find them. Similarly with counter-examples to the theory. I did not find a way to easily incorporate this into the definition above.

One should not confuse willful possibility with logical, physical or some other kind of possibility. It would be odd to interpret (1) and (2) as logical etc. possibility, but it would not be odd to interpret (1a) and (2a) that way. Also the sentences in (1a) are odd and would probably not be used very often. However (2a) are not particularly odd since that if some theory is true, then there are no counter-examples to that theory. And since one cannot (willfully) find a counter-example that does not exist, then it is (willfully) impossible to find a counter-example to such a theory.

When interpreting sentences like (1) and (2) we should not be misled to interpret them as something along the lines of (1a) and (2a) but should (probably) interpret them as something like (1c) and (2c).

Consider the phrase in the title in this paragraph:

“each has a thumb, followed in order by four fingers: the index (or forefinger), the middle, the third, and the so-called little finger.” (Swartz, Beyond Experience, pp. 204-205)

What are the conditions for its correct use? (Correct use is how it is commonly used by fluent speakers of english.) It is funny that I, as a fluent speaker of english, asks this question since I can and do use the phrase correctly. It is often the case that we can use a word correctly without being consciously aware of the conditions of its use. Some people call this usage intuitive. One could speculate that the pattern mechanisms in the brain that makes it possible to use such phrases correctly do not share their information with the consciousness.

As for the above phrase, I propose a theory for its use: A necessary and sufficient condition for its use is that the speaker/writer considers the name mentioned after the phrase questionable in a broad sense. In relation to the example above, presumably Swartz thought when writing that paragraph that that name of the little finger is somehow questionable. Perhaps little finger is a slang name or was at the time that book was written and Swartz preferred the non-slang name. I have not found a counter-example to this theory yet.

From Beyond Experience, p. 157:

“The term “ things ” here is meant in a very broad, inclusive sense. On this interpretation,  “ things ” will include, of course, the most familiar things of all, namely physical objects, but will include as well all sorts of nonphysical things, e.g. minds (if indeed they are nonphysical), supernatural beings, numbers, classes, colors, pains, mathematical theorems, places, and events. In short, “ things ” is being used here as a general name for any sort of thing (!) whatsoever that can be named or described.”

This is strikingly similar to what I have earlier written about the onniword “thing”.

“Participants in a recent psychological study will probably never a look at mannequins – or their own bodies – in quite the same way again. Before the study, they knew their ar ms belonged to them and synthetic ones didn ’t, simply because seeing is believing. Now they ’re not so sure. Researchers at Car negie Mellon University in Pittsburgh asked subjects to keep their eyes on a rubber ar m that was sitting on a table in front of them, With the subject ’s left arm hidden from view by a screen, the researchers simultaneously stroked both the rubber hand and the subject ’s hand with a paintbrush. Even though they knew their own hand was being stroked behind the screen, nearly all the subjects experienced the same bizarre sensation: they felt the fake hand was actually their own.

According to Matthew Botvinick, the Ph.D. psychology student who coauthored the study with advisor Jonathan Cohen, awareness of self seems to depend on intricate conversations between the brain and a range of sensory inputs that it constantly receives. If those conversations become garbled by contradictory messages, the brain is even willing to stretch the bounds of where the body ends and the outside world begins in order to draw a coherent picture. “ It ’s like ventriloquism, ” says Botvinick, who was so spooked by the illusion when  he tested it on himself that he let out a yelp and threw the fake hand across the room. “ In the experiment, when something touches the fake hand, you feel it, so the rubber hand  appears to be an object with which you sense. And when there is an object of that kind, it ’s usually part of you. That seems to be one basis of self-identification. ”

To confirm that the subjects were experiencing a true shift in their perception of themselves, researchers asked them to run their right index finger along the underside of the table until it was directly under neath their left one. Those who had experienced the rubber-hand illusion invariably missed their real finger altogether and pointed more closely to the fake hand. “ When you look at your hand, it doesn ’t feel as if your brain might be going through all kinds of complicated computations to arrive at the conclusion that this thing is yours, ” says Botvinick. “ You just know it ’s your hand. ” —Jennifer V n Ezra, in the column “Nexus” in Equinox, no. 99 (July 1998), p. 14.”

Quoted from Norman Swartz, Beyond Experience, 2nd edition, p. 144, freely available  here.

It seems to me that the formulas:

1. ◊P

2. (∃x)(Fx)


3. □P

4. (∀x)(Fx)

are quite similar, if we translate the modal propositional ones into PWS. Here is the result:

1*. (∃w)(Pw)

3*. (∀w)(Pw)

Translated into a formal-ish english language, they should be read as:

1*. There exists a possible world, w, such that P is the case in w.

2. There exists an x such that Fx.

3*. For all possible worlds, w, P is the case in w.

4. For all x, Fx.

The similarity becomes stronger when an interpretation is added to the predicate logic formula though I leave that up to the reader to do.

Joyce does a rather strange interpretation in The Myth of Morality p. 121. He writes:

However, I doubt we even need concede that much. These “conditional reasons” are very shady customers. Take what seems to be a straightforward one mentioned above: one’s reason to save a drowning child if one exists. There are two readings:

(i) If there exists a drowning child, then S has a reason to save him/her.

(ii) S has a reason to save a drowning child if one exists.”

The absence of a comma after “child” in (ii) makes the difference. (ii) is saying that S has a reason all along: when there are no drowning children, when S is asleep, while S is witching TV, etc.”

Normally conditional sentences can be written in two ways in english (and other languages that I am familiar with), forwards and backwards. Forwards being what is similar to their logical structure and backwards what is not similar. Take the conditional sentence “If I don’t have a job, then I will not get money”. It is forwards for it is similar to its logical structure P→Q (with the obvious interpretation keys). The sentence “I will not get money if I don’t have a job” seems to express exactly the same conditional (i.e. proposition), but Joyce apparently thinks that it does not (if he accepted an analogy with his own example).

When I read the passage above I spent some time thinking about how to properly formalize his two interpretations. I came up with this:

I. (∃x)(Dx)→(∃y)(Ryx)

That there exists an x such that x is a drowning child materially implies that there exists an y such that y is a reason for S to save x.

II. (∃y)∧(∀x)(Dx)→(Ryx)

There exists an y and for all all x, that x is a drowning child materially implies that y is a reason for S to save x.

It seems to capture what he meant.

How Joyce made up these interpretations I don’t know. I note that (I) does not imply that (if there is no drowning child, then S does not have a reason to save one) [¬(∃x)(Dx)→¬(∃y)(Ryx)].

Joyce goes on to make distinction in a strange way:

This observation is entirely generalizable, to the conclusion that there are not really any “conditional reasons.” Anything true of the form “S has a reason to Ø if C obtains” should be read as “If C obtains, then S has a reason to Ø,” not “S has a reason to Ø-if-C-obtains.”

Joyce would have benefited from using logic here for clarification instead of this. It’s not the case that Joyce wanted to completely avoid using logical symbols in his book anyway, for just two pages earlier we find some simplistic predicate logic formalizations of sentences. (Assuming that he would not have them there if he did not want logical symbols in the book.)

Because of their shortity I will replicate them here.

Letter 70:

1. After a long space of time I have seen your beloved Pompeii.[1] I was thus brought again face to face with the days of my youth. And it seemed to me that I could still do, nay, had only done a short time ago, all the things which I did there when a young man. 2. We have sailed past life, Lucilius, as if we were on a voyage, and just as when at sea, to quote from our poet Vergil,

Lands and towns are left astern,[2]

even so, on this journey where time flies with the greatest speed, we put below the horizon first our boyhood and then our youth, and then the space which lies between young manhood and middle age and borders on both, and next, the best years of old age itself. Last of all, we begin to sight the general bourne of the race of man. 3. Fools that we are, we believe this bourne to be a dangerous reef; but it is the harbour, where we must some day put in, which we may never refuse to enter; and if a man has reached this harbour in his early years, he has no more right to complain than a sailor who has made a quick voyage. For some sailors, as you know, are tricked and held back by sluggish winds, and grow weary and sick of the slow-moving calm; while others are carried quickly home by steady gales.

4. You may consider that the same thing happens to us: life has carried some men with the greatest rapidity to the harbour, the harbour they were bound to reach even if they tarried on the way, while others it has fretted and harassed. To such a life, as you are aware, one should not always cling. For mere living is not a good, but living well. Accordingly, the wise man will live as long as he ought, not as long as he can.[3] 5. He will mark in what place, with whom, and how he is to conduct his existence, and what he is about to do. He always reflects concerning the quality, and not the quantity, of his life. As soon as there are many events in his life that give him trouble and disturb his peace of mind, he sets himself free. And this privilege is his, not only when the crisis is upon him, but as soon as Fortune seems to be playing him false; then he looks about carefully and sees whether he ought, or ought not, to end his life on that account. He holds that it makes no difference to him whether his taking-off be natural or self-inflicted, whether it comes later or earlier. He does not regard it with fear, as if it were a great loss; for no man can lose very much when but a driblet remains. 6. It is not a question of dying earlier or later, but of dying well or ill. And dying well means escape from the danger of living ill.

That is why I regard the words of the well-known Rhodian[4] as most unmanly. This person was thrown into a cage by his tyrant, and fed there like some wild animal. And when a certain man advised him to end his life by fasting, he replied: “A man may hope for anything while he has life.” 7. This may be true; but life is not to be purchased at any price. No matter how great or how well-assured certain rewards may be I shall not strive to attain them at the price of a shameful confession of weakness. Shall I reflect that Fortune has all power over one who lives, rather than reflect that she has no power over one who knows how to die? 8. There are times, nevertheless, when a man, even though certain death impends and he knows that torture is in store for him, will refrain from lending a hand to his own punishment, to himself, however, he would lend a hand.[5] It is folly to die through fear of dying. The executioner is upon you; wait for him. Why anticipate him? Why assume the management of a cruel task that belongs to another? Do you grudge your executioner his privilege, or do you merely relieve him of his task? 9. Socrates might have ended his life by fasting; he might have died by starvation rather than by poison. But instead of this he spent thirty days in prison awaiting death, not with the idea “everything may happen,” or “so long an interval has room for many a hope” but in order that he might show himself submissive to the laws[6] and make the last moments of Socrates an edification to his friends. What would have been more foolish than to scorn death, and yet fear poison?[7]

10. Scribonia, a woman of the stern old type, was an aunt of Drusus Libo.[8] This young man was as stupid as he was well born, with higher ambitions than anyone could have been expected to entertain in that epoch, or a man like himself in any epoch at all. When Libo had been carried away ill from the senate-house in his litter, though certainly with a very scanty train of followers, – for all his kinsfolk undutifully deserted him, when he was no longer a criminal but a corpse, – he began to consider whether he should commit suicide, or await death. Scribonia said to him: “What pleasure do you find in doing another man’s work?” But he did not follow her advice; he laid violent hands upon himself. And he was right, after all; for when a man is doomed to die in two or three days at his enemy’s pleasure, he is really “doing another man’s work” if he continues to live.

11. No general statement can be made, therefore, with regard to the question whether, when a power beyond our control threatens us with death, we should anticipate death, or await it. For there are many arguments to pull us in either direction. If one death is accompanied by torture, and the other is simple and easy, why not snatch the latter? Just as I shall select my ship when I am about to go on a voyage or my house when I propose to take a residence, so I shall choose my death when I am about to depart from life. 12. Moreover, just as a long-drawn out life does not necessarily mean a better one, so a long-drawn-out death necessarily means a worse one. There is no occasion when the soul should be humoured more than at the moment of death. Let the soul depart as it feels itself impelled to go;[9] whether it seeks the sword, or the halter, or some drought that attacks the veins, let it proceed and burst the bonds of its slavery. Every man ought to make his life acceptable to others besides himself, but his death to himself alone. The best form of death is the one we like. 13. Men are foolish who reflect thus: “One person will say that my conduct was not brave enough; another, that I was too headstrong; a third, that a particular kind of death would have betokened more spirit.” What you should really reflect is: “I have under consideration a purpose with which the talk of men has no concern!” Your sole aim should be to escape from Fortune as speedily as possible; otherwise, there will be no lack of persons who will think ill of what you have done.

14. You can find men who have gone so far as to profess wisdom and yet maintain that one should not offer violence to one’s own life, and hold it accursed for a man to be the means of his own destruction; we should wait, say they, for the end decreed by nature. But one who says this does not see that he is shutting off the path to freedom. The best thing which eternal law ever ordained was that it allowed to us one entrance into life, but many exits. 15. Must I await the cruelty either of disease or of man, when I can depart through the midst of torture, and shake off my troubles? This is the one reason why we cannot complain of life; it keeps no one against his will. Humanity is well situated, because no man is unhappy except by his own fault. Live, if you so desire; if not, you may return to the place whence you came. 16. You have often been cupped in order to relieve headaches.[10] You have had veins cut for the purpose of reducing your weight. If you would pierce your heart, a gaping wound is not necessary – a lancet will open the way to that great freedom, and tranquillity can be purchased at the cost of a pin-prick.

What, then, is it which makes us lazy and sluggish? None of us reflects that some day he must depart from this house of life; just so old tenants are kept from moving by fondness for a particular place and by custom, even in spite of ill-treatment. 17. Would you be free from the restraint of your body? Live in it as if you were about to leave it. Keep thinking of the fact that some day you will be deprived of this tenure; then you will be more brave against the necessity of departing. But how will a man take thought of his own end, if he craves all things without end? 18. And yet there is nothing so essential for us to consider. For our training in other things is perhaps superfluous. Our souls have been made ready to meet poverty; but our riches have held out. We have armed ourselves to scorn pain; but we have had the good fortune to possess sound and healthy bodies, and so have never been forced to put this virtue to the test. We have taught ourselves to endure bravely the loss of those we love; but Fortune has preserved to us all whom we loved. 19. It is in this one matter only that the day will come which will require us to test our training.

You need not think that none but great men have had the strength to burst the bonds of human servitude; you need not believe that this cannot be done except by a Cato, – Cato, who with his hand dragged forth the spirit which he had not succeeded in freeing by the sword. Nay, men of the meanest lot in life have by a mighty impulse escaped to safety, and when they were not allowed to die at their own convenience, or to suit themselves in their choice of the instruments of death, they have snatched up whatever was lying ready to hand, and by sheer strength have turned objects which were by nature harmless into weapons of their own. 20. For example, there was lately in a training-school for wild-beast gladiators a German, who was making ready for the morning exhibition; he withdrew in order to relieve himself, – the only thing which he was allowed to do in secret and without the presence of a guard. While so engaged, he seized the stick of wood, tipped with a sponge, which was devoted to the vilest uses, and stuffed it, just as it was, down his throat; thus he blocked up his windpipe, and choked the breath from his body. That was truly to insult death! 21. Yes, indeed; it was not a very elegant or becoming way to die; but what is more foolish than to be over-nice about dying? What a brave fellow! He surely deserved to be allowed to choose his fate! How bravely he would have wielded a sword! With what courage he would have hurled himself into the depths of the sea, or down a precipice! Cut off from resources on every hand, he yet found a way to furnish himself with death, and with a weapon for death. Hence you can understand that nothing but the will need postpone death. Let each man judge the deed of this most zealous fellow as he likes, provided we agree on this point, – that the foulest death is preferable to the fairest slavery.

22. Inasmuch as I began with an illustration taken from humble life I shall keep on with that sort. For men will make greater demands upon themselves, if they see that death can be despised even by the most despised class of men. The Catos, the Scipios, and the others whose names we are wont to hear with admiration, we regard as beyond the sphere of imitation; but I shall now prove to you that the virtue of which I speak is found as frequently in the gladiators’ training-school as among the leaders in a civil war. 23. Lately a gladiator, who had been sent forth to the morning exhibition, was being conveyed in a cart along with the other prisoners;[11] nodding as if he were heavy with sleep, he let his head fall over so far that it was caught in the spokes; then he kept his body in position long enough to break his neck by the revolution of the wheel. So he made his escape by means of the very wagon which was carrying him to his punishment.

24. When a man desires to burst forth and take his departure, nothing stands in his way. It is an open space in which Nature guards us. When our plight is such as to permit it, we may look about us for an easy exit. If you have many opportunities ready to hand, by means of which you may liberate yourself, you may make a selection and think over the best way of gaining freedom; but if a chance is hard to find, instead of the best, snatch the next best, even though it be something unheard of, something new. If you do not lack the courage, you will not lack the cleverness, to die. 25. See how even the lowest class of slave, when suffering goads him on, is aroused and discovers a way to deceive even the most watchful guards! He is truly great who not only has given himself the order to die, but has also found the means.

I have promised you, however, some more illustrations drawn from the same games. 26. During the second event in a sham sea-fight one of the barbarians sank deep into his own throat a spear which had been given him for use against his foe. “Why, oh why,” he said, “have I not long ago escaped from all this torture and all this mockery? Why should I be armed and yet wait for death to come?” This exhibition was all the more striking because of the lesson men learn from it that dying is more honourable than killing.

27. What then? If such a spirit is possessed by abandoned and dangerous men, shall it not be possessed also by those who have trained themselves to meet such contingencies by long meditation, and by reason, the mistress of all things? It is reason which teaches us that fate has various ways of approach, but the same end, and that it makes no difference at what point the inevitable event begins. 28. Reason, too, advises us to die, if we may, according to our taste; if this cannot be, she advises us to die according to our ability, and to seize upon whatever means shall offer itself for doing violence to ourselves. It is criminal to “live by robbery”;[12] but, on the other hand, it is most noble to “die by robbery.” Farewell.


  1. Probably the birthplace of Lucilius.
  2. Aeneid, iii. 72.
  3. Although Socrates says (Phaedo, 61 f.) that the philosopher must, according to Philolaus, not take his own life against the will of God, the Stoics interpreted the problem in different ways. Some held that a noble purpose justified suicide; others, that any reason was good enough. Cf. Ep. lxxvii. 5 ff.
  4. Telesphorus of Rhodes, threatened by the tyrant Lysimachus. On the proverb see Cicero, Ad Att. ix. 10. 3, and Terence, Heauton. 981 modo liceat vivere, est spes.
  5. i.e., if he must choose between helping along his punishment by suicide, or helping himself stay alive under torture and practising the virtues thus brought into play, he will choose the latter, – sibi commodare.
  6. See the imaginary dialogue in Plato’s Crito (50 ff.) between Socrates and the Laws – a passage which develops this thought.
  7. And to commit suicide in order to escape poisoning.
  8. For a more complete account of this tragedy see Tacitus, Annals, ii. 27 ff. Libo was duped by Firmius Catus (16 A.D.) into seeking imperial power, was detected, and finally forced by Tiberius to commit suicide.
  9. When the “natural advantages” (τὰ κατὰ φύσιν) of living are outweighed by the corresponding disadvantages, the honourable man may, according to the general Stoic view, take his departure. Socrates and Cato were right in so doing, according to Seneca; but he condemns (Ep. xxiv. 25) those contemporaries who had recourse to suicide as a mere whim of fashion.
  10. By means of the cucurbita, or cupping-glass. Cf. Juvenal, xiv. 58 caput ventosa cucurbita quaerat. It was often used as a remedy for insanity or delirium.
  11. Custodia in the sense of “prisoner” (abstract for concrete) is a post-Augustan usage. See. Ep. v. 7, and Summers’ note.
  12. i.e., by robbing oneself of life; but the antithesis to Vergil’s phrase (Aen. ix. 613) is artificial.”

Letter 77:

1. Suddenly there came into our view to-day the “Alexandrian” ships, – I mean those which are usually sent ahead to announce the coming of the fleet; they are called “mail-boats.” The Campanians are glad to see them; all the rabble of Puteoli[1] stand on the docks, and can recognize the “Alexandrian” boats, no matter how great the crowd of vessels, by the very trim of their sails. For they alone may keep spread their topsails, which all ships use when out at sea, 2. because nothing sends a ship along so well as its upper canvas; that is where most of the speed is obtained. So when the breeze has stiffened and becomes stronger than is comfortable, they set their yards lower; for the wind has less force near the surface of the water. Accordingly, when they have made Capreae and the headland whence

Tall Pallas watches on the stormy peak,[2]

all other vessels are bidden to be content with the mainsail, and the topsail stands out conspicuously on the “Alexandrian” mail-boats.

3. While everybody was bustling about and hurrying to the water-front, I felt great pleasure in my laziness, because, although I was soon to receive letters from my friends, I was in no hurry to know how my affairs were progressing abroad, or what news the letters were bringing; for some time now I have had no losses, nor gains either. Even if I were not an old man, I could not have helped feeling pleasure at this; but as it is, my pleasure was far greater. For, however small my possessions might be, I should still have left over more travelling-money than journey to travel, especially since this journey upon which we have set out is one which need not be followed to the end. 4. An expedition will be incomplete if one stops half-way, or anywhere on this side of one’s destination; but life is not incomplete if it is honourable. At whatever point you leave off living, provided you leave off nobly, your life is a whole.[3] Often, however, one must leave off bravely, and our reasons therefore need not be momentous; for neither are the reasons momentous which hold us here.

5. Tullius Marcellinus,[4] a man whom you knew very well, who in youth was a quiet soul and became old prematurely, fell ill of a disease which was by no means hopeless; but it was protracted and troublesome, and it demanded much attention; hence he began to think about dying. He called many of his friends together. Each one of them gave Marcellinus advice, – the timid friend urging him to do what he had made up his mind to do; the flattering and wheedling friend giving counsel which he supposed would be more pleasing to Marcellinus when he came to think the matter over; 6. but our Stoic friend, a rare man, and, to praise him in language which he deserves, a man of courage and vigour[5] admonished him best of all, as it seems to me. For he began as follows: “Do not torment yourself, my dear Marcellinus, as if the question which you are weighing were a matter of importance. It is not an important matter to live; all your slaves live, and so do all animals; but it is important to die honourably, sensibly, bravely. Reflect how long you have been doing the same thing: food, sleep, lust, – this is one’s daily round. The desire to die may be felt, not only by the sensible man or the brave or unhappy man, but even by the man who is merely surfeited.”

7. Marcellinus did not need someone to urge him, but rather someone to help him; his slaves refused to do his bidding. The Stoic therefore removed their fears, showing them that there was no risk involved for the household except when it was uncertain whether the master’s death was self-sought or not; besides, it was as bad a practice to kill one’s master as it was to prevent him forcibly from killing himself. 8. Then he suggested to Marcellinus himself that it would be a kindly act to distribute gifts to those who had attended him throughout his whole life, when that life was finished, just as, when a banquet is finished,[6] the remaining portion is divided among the attendants who stand about the table. Marcellinus was of a compliant and generous disposition, even when it was a question of his own property; so he distributed little sums among his sorrowing slaves, and comforted them besides. 9. No need had he of sword or of bloodshed; for three days he fasted and had a tent put up in his very bedroom.[7] Then a tub was brought in; he lay in it for a long time, and, as the hot water was continually poured over him, he gradually passed away, not without a feeling of pleasure, as he himself remarked, – such a feeling as a slow dissolution is wont to give. Those of us who have ever fainted know from experience what this feeling is.

10. This little anecdote into which I have digressed will not be displeasing to you. For you will see that your friend departed neither with difficulty nor with suffering. Though he committed suicide, yet he withdrew most gently, gliding out of life. The anecdote may also be of some use; for often a crisis demands just such examples. There are times when we ought to die and are unwilling; sometimes we die and are unwilling. 11. No one is so ignorant as not to know that we must at some time die; nevertheless, when one draws near death, one turns to flight, trembles, and laments. Would you not think him an utter fool who wept because he was not alive a thousand years ago? And is he not just as much of a fool who weeps because he will not be alive a thousand years from now? It is all the same; you will not be, and you were not. Neither of these periods of time belongs to you. 12. You have been cast upon this point of time;[8] if you would make it longer, how much longer shall you make it? Why weep? Why pray? You are taking pains to no purpose.

Give over thinking that your prayers can bend
Divine decrees from their predestined end.[9]

These decrees are unalterable and fixed; they are governed by a mighty and everlasting compulsion. Your goal will be the goal of all things. What is there strange in this to you? You were born to be subject to this law; this fate befell your father, your mother, your ancestors, all who came before you; and it will befall all who shall come after you. A sequence which cannot be broken or altered by any power binds all things together and draws all things in its course. 13. Think of the multitudes of men doomed to death who will come after you, of the multitudes who will go with you! You would die more bravely, I suppose, in the company of many thousands; and yet there are many thousands, both of men and of animals, who at this very moment, while you are irresolute about death, are breathing their last, in their several ways. But you, – did you believe that you would not some day reach the goal towards which you have always been travelling? No journey but has its end.

14. You think, I suppose, that it is now in order for me to cite some examples of great men. No, I shall cite rather the case of a boy. The story of the Spartan lad has been preserved: taken captive while still a stripling, he kept crying in his Doric dialect, “I will not be a slave!” and he made good his word; for the very first time he was ordered to perform a menial and degrading service, – and the command was to fetch a chamber-pot, – he dashed out his brains against the wall.[10] 15. So near at hand is freedom, and is anyone still a slave? Would you not rather have your own son die thus than reach old age by weakly yielding? Why therefore are you distressed, when even a boy can die so bravely? Suppose that you refuse to follow him; you will be led. Take into your own control that which is now under the control of another. Will you not borrow that boy’s courage, and say: “I am no slave!”? Unhappy fellow, you are a slave to men, you are a slave to your business, you are a slave to life. For life, if courage to die be lacking, is slavery.

16. Have you anything worth waiting for? Your very pleasures, which cause you to tarry and hold you back, have already been exhausted by you. None of them is a novelty to you, and there is none that has not already become hateful because you are cloyed with it. You know the taste of wine and cordials. It makes no difference whether a hundred or a thousand measures[11] pass through your bladder; you are nothing but a wine-strainer.[12] You are a connoisseur in the flavour of the oyster and of the mullet;[13] your luxury has not left you anything untasted for the years that are to come; and yet these are the things from which you are torn away unwillingly. 17. What else is there which you would regret to have taken from you? Friends? But who can be a friend to you? Country? What? Do you think enough of your country to be late to dinner? The light of the sun? You would extinguish it, if you could; for what have you ever done that was fit to be seen in the light? Confess the truth; it is not because you long for the senate chamber or the forum, or even for the world of nature, that you would fain put off dying; it is because you are loth to leave the fish-market, though you have exhausted its stores.[14]

18. You are afraid of death; but how can you scorn it in the midst of a mushroom supper?[15] You wish to live; well, do you know how lo live? You are afraid to die. But come now: is this life of yours anything but death? Gaius Caesar was passing along the Via Latina, when a man stepped out from the ranks of the prisoners, his grey beard hanging down even to his breast, and begged to be put to death. “What!” said Caesar, “are you alive now?” That is the answer which should be given to men to whom death would come as a relief. “You are afraid to die; what! are you alive now?” 19. “But,” says one, “I wish to live, for I am engaged in many honourable pursuits. I am loth to leave life’s duties, which I am fulfilling with loyalty and zeal.” Surely you are aware that dying is also one of life’s duties? You are deserting no duty; for there is no definite number established which you are bound to complete. 20. There is no life that is not short. Compared with the world of nature, even Nestor’s life was a short one, or Sattia’s,[16] the woman who bade carve on her tombstone that she had lived ninety and nine years. Some persons, you see, boast of their long lives; but who could have endured the old lady if she had had the luck to complete her hundredth year? It is with life as it is with a play, – it matters not how long the action is spun out, but how good the acting is. It makes no difference at what point you stop. Stop whenever you choose; only see to it that the closing period is well turned.[17] Farewell.


  1. Puteoli, in the bay of Naples, was the head-quarters in Italy of the important grain-trade with Egypt, on which the Roman magistrates relied to feed the populace.
  2. Author unknown.
  3. This thought, found in Ep. xii. 6 and often elsewhere, is a favourite with Seneca.
  4. It is not likely that this Marcellinus is the same person as the Marcellinus Ep. xxix., because of their different views on philosophy (Summers). But there is no definite evidence for or against.
  5. A Roman compliment; the Greeks would have used καλὸς κἀγαθός; cf. Horace, Ep. i. 7. 46

    Strenuus et fortis causisque Philippus agendis

  6. For this frequent “banquet of life” simile see Ep. xcviii. 15 ipse vitae plenus est, etc.
  7. So that the steam might not escape. One thinks of Seneca’s last hours: Tac. Ann. xv. 64 stagnum calidae aquae introiit . . . exin balneo inlatus et vapore eius exanimatus.
  8. For the same thought cf. Ep. xlix. 3 punctum est quod vivimus et adhuc puncto minus.
  9. Vergil, Aeneid, vi. 376.
  10. See Plutarch, Mor. 234 b, for a similar act of the Spartan boy captured by King Antigonus. Hense (Rhein. Mus. xlvii. pp. 220 f.) thinks that this story may be taken from Bion, the third-century satirist and moral philosopher.
  11. About 5¾ gallons.
  12. Cf. Pliny, xiv. 22 quin immo ut plus capiamus, sacco frangimus vires. Strained wine could be drunk in greater quantities without intoxication.
  13. Cf. Dio Cassius, xl. 54, for the exiled Milo’s enjoyment of the mullets of Marseilles.
  14. Probably the strong tone of disapproval used in this paragraph is directed against the Roman in general rather than against the industrious Lucilius. It is characteristic of the diatribe.
  15. Seneca may be recalling the death of the Emperor Claudius.
  16. A traditional example of old age, mentioned by Martial and the elder Pliny.
  17. Compare the last words of the Emperor Augustus: amicos percontatus ecquid iis videretur mimum vitae commode transegisse (Suet. Aug. 99).”
See also Seneca on Wikipedia. And one of Hume’s writings on suicide is also worth reading.

I once thought of a bridge scenario. It went like this: There is a bridge. Someone, a man, wants to find out whether it will break down in the future. So he keeps driving his car over it. It doesn’t break. So he rents a larger car which weighs more, but still the bridge does not break down. He continues this with larger and larger vehicles until the bridge finally breaks down.

An interesting part is that the closer we get to the break down of the bridge, the more justified is the man’s belief that it will not break. Another interesting thing is that we would not conclude like the man did in real life, for we know of bridges that have broken down in the past. That got me thinking but nothing concrete came out of it.

In a discussion of Hume Pyrrho wrote:

“Basically, a “higher level” induction is simply an induction about a broader or “higher” category of items. Thus, for example, one can think about cases in which one has touched flames, or one can think about cases in which one has touched something. The second of those is a broader category, and hence is a “higher level”. Normally, a higher level induction is considered to be better, as, for example, if you buy a new car, and on day 1, it does not break down, and on day 2, it does not break down, etc., such that one might be tempted to draw the conclusion that the car will never break down. However, if one applies a higher level induction regarding mechanical devices, one may then decide that there is a high likelihood of the car breaking down at some point, as mechanical devices have often been observed to do so.”

That seems to explain the scenario nicely.