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| Lucius Annaeus Seneca On the Shortness of Life IntraText CT - Text |
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| VIII. I am often filled
with wonder when I see some men demanding the time of others and those from
whom they ask it most indulgent. Both of them fix their eyes on the object of
the request for time, neither of them on the time itself; just as if what is
asked were nothing, what is given, nothing. Men trifle with the most precious
thing in the world; but they are blind to it because it is an incorporeal
thing, because it does not come beneath the sight of the eyes, and for this
reason it is counted a very cheap thing—nay, of almost no value at all. Men set
very great store by pensions and doles, and for these they hire out their labour
or service or effort. But no one sets a value on time; all use it lavishly as
if it cost nothing. But see how these same people clasp the knees of physicians
if they fall ill and the danger of death draws nearer, see how ready they are,
if threatened with capital punishment, to spend all their possessions in order
to live! So great is the inconsistency of their feelings. But if each one could
have the number of his future years set before him as is possible in the case
of the years that have passed, how alarmed those would be who saw only a few
remaining, how sparing of them would they be! And yet it is easy to dispense an
amount that is assured, no matter how small it may be; but that must be guarded
more carefully which will fail you know not when. Yet there is no reason for you to suppose that these people do not know how precious a thing time is; for to those whom they love most devotedly they have a habit of saying that they are ready to give them a part of their own years. And they do give it, without realizing it; but the result of their giving is that they themselves suffer loss without adding to the years of their dear ones. But the very thing they do not know is whether they are suffering loss; therefore, the removal of something that is lost without being noticed they find is bearable. Yet no one will bring back the years, no one will bestow you once more on yourself. Life will follow the path it started upon, and will neither reverse nor check its course; it will make no noise, it will not remind you of its swiftness. Silent it will glide on; it will not prolong itself at the command of a king, or at the applause of the populace. Just as it was started on its first day, so it will run; nowhere will it turn aside, nowhere will it delay. And what will be the result? You have been engrossed, life hastens by; meanwhile death will be at hand, for which, willy nilly, you must find leisure. |
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