Final Judgment. Seneca, Epistles 3.26.4-7

Seneca imagines how he will feel as he expels his last breath, at the end of his life.

Incommodum summum est inquis minui et deperire et, ut proprie dicam, liquescere. Non enim subito impulsi ac prostrati sumus: carpimur, singuli dies aliquid subtrahunt viribus. Et quis exitus est melior quam in finem suum natura solvente dilabi? non quia aliquid mali ictus est et e vita repentinus excessus, sed quia lenis haec est via, subduci.

Ego certe, velut appropinquet experimentum et ille laturus sententiam de omnibus annis meis dies venerit, ita me observo et alloquor: nihil est inquam adhuc quod aut rebus aut verbis exhibuimus; levia sunt ista et fallacia pignora animi multisque involuta lenociniis: quid profecerim morti crediturus sum. Non timide itaque componor ad illum diem quo remotis strophis ac fucis de me iudicaturus sum, utrum loquar fortia an sentiam, numquid simulatio fuerit et mimus quidquid contra fortunam iactavi verborum contumacium. Remove existimationem hominum: dubia semper est et in partem utramque dividitur. Remove studia tota vita tractata: mors de te pronuntiatura est. Ita dico: disputationes et litterata colloquia et ex praeceptis sapientium verba collecta et eruditus sermo non ostendunt verum robur animi; est enim oratio etiam timidissimis audax. Quid egeris tunc apparebit cum animam ages. Accipio condicionem, non reformido iudicium. Haec mecum loquor, sed tecum quoque me locutum puta. Iuvenior es: quid refert? non dinumerantur anni. Incertum est quo loco te mors exspectet; itaque tu illam omni loco exspecta.

“It's the worst thing!” you say. “Shrinking and wasting away, turning to mush, if you'll permit the expression. We don't get to depart suddenly, stricken down once and for all: instead each new day plucks a little more strength from us, stripping our flesh till nothing remains but pulp and rinds.” And what death is better, pray tell, than to melt in nature's mouth, dissolving gradually into her bowels? Not that there is anything evil per se in departing life rapidly, by a sudden stroke, but being slowly digested is really quite a smooth, easy way to go.

As my own demise draws near, and that day whose judgment shall encompass all the years of my life, I watch myself and speak decisively. “I've proven nothing yet,” I say, “whether in deed or with words. All my achievements are merely light and false pledges of the mind, wrapped in complacent thoughts that aim to seduce me. I'm trusting death to show what my real progress has been. Thus do I compose myself boldly for that day when I shall stand in judgment over myself, with every trick and ruse cast aside, to determine if I really feel the brave words I utter, or if the tough talk I've flung in fortune's teeth is just pretense, a farce. Cast away the judgment of other people: it is always doubtful, and divided. Cast away the studies you've pursued all your life: death shall pass sentence upon you, not them. Mark my words: real strength of mind is not revealed in debates or learned conversations; you won't find it in sayings gathered from the precepts of the wise, or in polished discourse. The greatest cowards in the world carry a bold speech wherever they go. When you expel your last breath, then you'll know what you've been wanting to know all this time. I accept these terms. I do not shrink from their judgment.” So do I address myself, but please imagine that I have also spoken these words for you. You are younger. So what? There is no fixed tally of years for us. It is uncertain where death awaits you, so do your part and expect her everywhere.