Book 1, Chapter 46

110 “But if the crowd’s judgment of good people is ever <good>, that judgment deserves praise more than they deserve to be called happy on its account. Yet, however this may be taken, I cannot say that Lycurgus and Solon lack the glory of their laws and civic discipline, or Themistocles and Epaminondas that of their courage in war. Neptune will overwhelm Salamis itself before he overwhelms the memory of its victory trophy; Leuctra will be erased from Boeotia before the glory of the battle of Leuctra. Far more slowly still will fame abandon Curius, Fabricius, Calatinus, the two Scipios, the two Africani, Maximus, Marcellus, Paulus, Cato, Laelius, and countless others. Whoever has attained some likeness to them, measuring it not by popular fame but by the true praise of the good, will advance confidently toward death if circumstances require it. In death, as we have learned, there is either the highest good or no evil. Indeed, he will wish to die while his fortunes are favorable, for the height of prosperity cannot be as pleasant as its decline is painful. This seems to be the meaning of that Spartan’s remark. When Diagoras of Rhodes, a renowned Olympic victor, had seen two of his sons victorious at Olympia on a single day, the Spartan approached the old man, congratulated him,

111 “and said, ‘Die, Diagoras, for you are not going to ascend to heaven.’ The Greeks think these things great—perhaps too great—or rather thought so then. The man who said this to Diagoras considered it an immense thing for three Olympic victors to come from one household, and thought it would do him no good to linger longer in life exposed to fortune.

“For my part, I thought I had answered you sufficiently in a few words, since you had admitted that the dead experience no evil. But I pressed on to say more because this is the greatest consolation in bereavement and mourning. We should bear our own pain, incurred on our own account, with moderation, lest we seem to love only ourselves. What torments us with unbearable grief is the suspicion that those we have lost are still conscious amid the evils commonly imagined. I wished to tear that belief out of myself by the roots, and perhaps that made me speak at greater length.”

110 “When the crowd happens to judge good men rightly, we should commend the judgment rather than call the men happy on its account. Whatever anyone makes of that, I cannot describe Lycurgus or Solon as lacking honor for their legislation and civic discipline. Nor can I deny Themistocles or Epaminondas their fame for excellence in war. Neptune would drown the island of Salamis sooner than erase the memory of the trophy there; Leuctra would vanish from Boeotia before its battle lost its renown. Renown will take far longer still to leave Curius, Fabricius, Calatinus, the two Scipios and the two men named Africanus, Maximus, Marcellus, Paulus, Cato, Laelius, and numberless others. Take a man who has achieved some likeness to them. If he judges it by honest praise from good people, not the crowd’s acclaim, he’ll go to his death without fear when the time requires. We have established that death means either the highest blessing or no evil at all. Indeed, amid success he’ll actually wish to die. Adding more blessings cannot delight us as much as losing them can hurt. A Spartan seems to have meant this in his remark to Diagoras. Diagoras of Rhodes was a celebrated Olympic victor; in a single day he watched two sons win at Olympia. The Spartan came up to the old man with congratulations:

111 “‘Die, Diagoras. You aren’t going to climb up to heaven.’ The Greeks consider these achievements great—perhaps too great—or at least they did then. The man who said this to Diagoras thought it an enormous thing for one household to produce three Olympic champions. So he thought there was no advantage to Diagoras himself in lingering any longer in life, exposed to fortune.

“As for you, I’d thought I’d given you a sufficient answer in a few words. You’d agreed that the dead were in no bad condition at all. But I made an effort to say more because this offers the greatest comfort when we’re grieving and missing someone. We should bear our own pain, felt for our own sake, with moderation, so we don’t seem to be in love with ourselves. But there’s a suspicion that tortures us with unbearable pain: we think the people we’ve lost are aware of being in the bad conditions people commonly imagine. I wanted to tear that belief out of myself by the roots. That’s perhaps why I’ve gone on too long.”