How philosophers should speak. Seneca, Epistles 4.40.2-3

Lucilius wrote to Seneca about an experience he had listening to a philosopher named Serapio, whom I do not recognize from other ancient lore. Seneca disapproves of Serapio's rhetorical delivery, as his friend describes it, and uses this occasion to talk about proper philosophical rhetoric, which he thinks should be uttered naturally, with a pace that is neither as fast and forceful as Serapio's, nor again as sluggish as that of someone with the exact opposite approach. If we are to learn from someone who speaks, then the speech should be measured—quick enough to get and keep interest, but not so quick as to overwhelm our ability to make sense of it. A speech too slow will fail to show us what the speaker actually thinks, as our minds will use the last word uttered to anticipate something that becomes our own rendition of whatever we think is being said. When we look back on this speech, we remember our efforts to make sense of it rather than the speech itself, which flies over us, unnoticed.

Audisse te scribis Serapionem philosophum, cum istuc applicuisset: solet magno cursu verba convellere, quae non effundit una sed premit et urguet; plura enim veniunt quam quibus vox una sufficiat. Hoc non probo in philosopho, cuius pronuntiatio quoque, sicut vita, debet esse composita; nihil autem ordinatum est quod praecipitatur et properat. Itaque oratio illa apud Homerum concitata et sine intermissione in morem nivis superveniens oratori data est, lenis et melle dulcior seni profluit. Sic itaque habe: ut istam vim dicendi rapidam atque abundantem aptiorem esse circulanti quam agenti rem magnam ac seriam docentique. Aeque stillare illum nolo quam currere; nec extendat aures nec obruat. Nam illa quoque inopia et exilitas minus intentum auditorem habet taedio interruptae tarditatis; facilius tamen insidit quod exspectatur quam quod praetervolat. Denique tradere homines discipulis praecepta dicuntur: non traditur quod fugit.

You write that you once heard the philosopher Serapio speak‪—that when this philosopher got going, “he would hurl his words in a great stream, pressing and overwhelming his audience in a tide that he refused to produce in just one go. For more words came to him than any single breath would suffice to utter.” I do not approve of this in a philosopher, whose pronunciation—like his life—ought to be put together in orderly fashion. Nothing properly ordered is going to rush about, charging heedless in a great hurry. Homer gives urgent speech like this—the kind that overflows without letting up, piling high in the manner of driven snow—to his orators, leaving to old men the gentle words, sweeter even than honey. Take this to heart, as delivering words in rapid abundance is more suited to a circus-heckler than to anyone engaging or demonstrating something serious. I am just as unwilling that our philosopher should drag the flow of his language as that he should overrun it: let him avoid taxing our ears with too much anticipation just as he refrains from burying them in a blathering tide. A spare and meager discourse holds its listener too little engaged, distracted by the boredom that arises from its fitful sluggishness: it more easily inculcates whatever the listener anticipates than what it actually ends up saying, vaguely and in passing. The way of men, we are told, is to hand down to their disciples that which they have already taken: it is impossible to hand down something that escapes notice.