Cicero, Ad Archias

Translated by Keith Sheffield

I love literature. The time that others spend looking after their fortunes, or celebrating festivals, or going to the games, or enduring endless dinner parties, or playing ball, or simply resting their minds and bodies, I spend reading good books.

From a young age I came to believe, from the reading of much literature, that I should pursue above all integrity and glory. In the pursuit of these things, every bodily pain and every risk death and exile seemed insignificant. One meets real examples of this kind everywhere in books, in the sayings of the wise, in our long and distinguished history. All of these things would lie in darkness if not for the illumination provided by literature. How many portraits of brave men have Greek writers left us, not just to contemplate, but also to imitate? While governing Rome I have always set these before myself and trained my heart and mind through the process of thinking about excellent men. 

Someone might ask, “Come now, Cicero. Those heroes whose virtues have passed down through literature, did they read books in the way you extol?” I admit that many people have developed excellent mental qualities and courage without the study of literature. They have become self-controlled and dignified on their own, from a near-divine disposition of their inner nature. But at the same time I maintain this: When one adds systematic and dis-ciplined literary study to an excellent and distinguished natural talent, as in the case of Alexander the Great, then something truly special arises.

But leave this great practical benefit to one side. Sup-pose that these studies aim at pleasure alone. Even so, I believe, you should judge this kind of mental relaxation highly civilized and most worthy of a free man. No other types of recreation seem appropriate to all times, to all stages of life, to all places. Literary pursuits alone sharpen youth yet delight old age. They ornament success yet pro-vide refuge and solace in adversity. They enchant us in private yet do not hinder us in public. They stay with us at night, when we travel, and when we spend time in the country.

Other fields of endeavor rely on theory and rules and acquired skill. Literature derives its power from nature herself. Pure mental power impels and fills the author with a kind of divine breath. A great author like Homer seems loaned to us by a kind of gift of the gods.

Most who claim a lack of interest in literature do not mean it. For who among us would prevent the glorifica-tion of his own life and labors in prose or verse? 

Literature provides a great incentive to those who risk their lives in dangerous and grueling work. They say that Alexander kept with him countless writers to chronicle his own deeds. Yet, when he stood at the tomb of Achilles he said, “Oh, luckiest of heroes, to have found Homer as the herald of your valor.” How true! If Homer had not com-posed the Iliad, the same dirt that covered Achilles’ coffin would also have buried his name.

We ought not to disguise a fact that we cannot hide. Rather we ought to acknowledge it openly: the desire for praise draws all of us, but the best men most of all. Those philosophers who write books about despising fame never seem to forget to affix their own names to them. In the pose of despising self-advertisement and notability they advertise themselves and betray their desire for fame. 

Merit requires no prize for its efforts beyond glory and fame. But if we remove this this incentive, why should we wear ourselves out in so many labors during our brief span lives? If the mind thought nothing of the future, and limited all of its thoughts and aspirations to the circumscribed space of this life, it would never exhaust itself in so many labors. The mind would never allow itself to remain afflicted by so many anxieties or sacrifice so much sleep. Nor would the soul fight against all odds to sustain its life. In fact, a kind of inner voice of excellence lies within all the best men and spurs their minds with the incentive of immortality. It tells them that the end of life must mean the end of one’s name. Instead, one’s name should last as long as people live to remember it.

Many great men have yearned to leave behind statues and portraits, images not of their minds but of their bodies. Should we not far prefer to leave behind concepts of our ideas and our virtues, elegantly expressed by our greatest minds?