Seneca to Lucilius: 77, on taking one’s own life

[image: life is like a play, blendspace]

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Warning: this essay is about suicide. If you are depressed or suffering from a mental condition that leads you to entertain suicidal thoughts, this article is not for you. Instead, call the suicide prevention hotline at 800–273–8255, or visit their web site.

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A Brave Man Once Requested Me
To Answer Questions That Are Key
‘Is It To Be Or Not To Be’
And I Replied ‘Oh Why Ask Me?’
’Cause Suicide Is Painless
It Brings On Many Changes
And I Can Take Or Leave It If I Please.
…And You Can Do The Same Thing If You Choose.

These are the closing words of the famous theme from M*A*S*H. Of course, suicide is not painless, at least emotionally for either the person making the decision or those who love such person. This may be why the Stoics paid particular attention to the topic of suicide, one on which their position was, for once, markedly different from that of their chief inspiration, Socrates.

In the Phaedo, one of four Platonic dialogues having to do with the last days of Socrates, the Athenian sage mounts an argument against the admissibility of suicide. The argument hinges on the highly dubious premise that we are the property of the gods, and that it is therefore only the gods who can decide when our life is over:

“If one of your own possessions, an ox or an ass, for example, took the liberty of putting himself out of the way when you had given no intimation of your wish that he should die, would you not be angry with him, and would you not punish him if you could?” (Translation by Benjamin Jowett, Dover, 1992, no section numbers given)

Mental note: according to Socrates we are God’s donkeys. Contrast this with the famous “open door” policy articulated by the Stoic Epictetus. While Epictetus professes high regard for Socrates, he nevertheless sharply disagrees with him on the matter of the acceptability of suicide:

“Don’t believe your situation is genuinely bad — no one can make you do that. Is there smoke in the house? If it’s not suffocating, I will stay indoors; if it proves too…

Seneca returns multiple times to this topic. We have seen before what he says in his 70th letter to Lucilius:

“Mere living is not a good, but living well. Accordingly, the wise person will live as long as they ought, not as long as they can.” (LXX.4)

He takes another look at the issue in the 77th letter, beginning by introducing the notion that a virtuous life is never incomplete, regardless of when it happens to end:

“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 honorable. At whatever point you leave off living, provided you leave off nobly, your life is a whole. (LXXVII.4)

Remember that the Stoics were determinists, believing that whatever happens is the inevitable result of the workings of the cosmic web of cause-effect. It follows that there is no such thing as a “premature” death: if someone dies young that is because the cosmic web is structured in such a way as to yield that particular outcome. Importantly, we don’t know when that moment will come, though we have a tendency to think that, somehow, it is always sometime into the distant future. The Stoics rightly think that, given our ignorance, we ought to constantly be ready for it, and the most important thing about getting ready for one’s death is to make sure one lives a life of virtue. That way, regardless of how long or short that life will turn out to be, it will not be incomplete.

Seneca then relates the story of one Tullius Marcellinus, who fell seriously ill and decided to go through with what we would nowadays call assisted suicide. An unnamed Stoic gave him some helpful council, including the following interesting bit:

“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, the remaining portion is divided among the attendants who stand about the table. (LXXVII.8)

I really like the analogy of life to a banquet, at the end of which the host gifts what is leftover to the parting guests, as a sign both of friendship and that he is sated himself and wishes no more than he has already had. Marcellinus, incidentally, died peacefully in a hot tub, “not without a feeling of pleasure,” after fasting for three days.

Seneca then turns to a related thought, addressing people who wish their life to be much longer than allotted by our biology. This, as you might know, is very much something we discuss today, with a number of techno-optimists and billionaires claiming that we should think of death not as natural phenomenon but as a disease to be conquered. Here is Seneca’s take:

“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.” (LXXVII.11)

This is a special version of the so-called symmetry argument, which Epicureans use to make the point that we should not be afraid of death. Their version goes something like this: you dread the notion of being dead for the rest of eternity. But you were not alive for an eternity before your birth, and that doesn’t seem to bother you. What gives? It’s a very good argument, I think, because it makes clear what the real problem is with death: not the reality of it, but the way we are disposed to think about it. Luckily, while we can’t change the reality, we can change how we regard it, yet another implication of arguably the most powerful and original Stoic idea: the dichotomy of control.

Near the end of the letter, Seneca returns to the notion that it is quality, not quantity, that matters, including in the case of life itself. This time he draws an analogy with a play. We don’t normally judge plays by their length, thinking that the longer they last the better they are. A play can be long and boring, or short and exquisitely written and acted. Likewise with our existence:

“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.” (LXXVII.20)