🏛️ Sundays with Seneca
Sundays with Seneca is a weekly series exploring the writings (and Stoic philosophy) of Lucius Annaeus Seneca. Each meditation delivers a contemporary interpretation of one of Seneca’s letters, accompanied by a reflection exercise. *** This series is exclusive to members.
Read to Become Better, Not Smarter
Letter 64, On the Philosopher’s Task
You were with me yesterday. If I said only “yesterday,” it would sound too distant. So I’ll say instead: you were with us. For as far as I’m concerned, you are always with me.
Some friends had gathered, and we lit a slightly brighter fire—not the roaring blaze of the wealthy that alarms the street, but a steady, welcoming flame that signals company. As often happens, our conversation wandered. It moved from subject to subject, never settling long in one place.
At some point, we had a book read aloud—Quintus Sextius. A great man, if you trust my judgment, and a true Stoic, though he himself denied the title.
Dead Words vs. Living Ones
What strength there is in him. What spirit.
Not all philosophers are like this. Some carry famous names, but their writings are lifeless. They set down rules, they argue, they analyze—but they do not stir the soul, because they have no fire of their own.
But when you read Sextius, you feel something entirely different:
“He is alive. He is strong. He is free.”
And when you close the book, something in you has shifted.
I’ll tell you honestly what happens to me when I read him: I feel ready to face anything. I want to say to Fortune:
“Why wait? Step forward—I am ready.”
I take on the spirit of someone looking for a test—someone who wants difficulty, not ease. I want something to overcome, something that demands endurance.
This is Sextius’ gift: he shows you the greatness of the good life without making it feel out of reach. You see how high it is—but you also feel that it is possible, if you are willing to pursue it.
True virtue does the same. It makes you admire it without despairing of attaining it.
For me, even the contemplation of wisdom becomes an experience. I find myself gazing at it the way I sometimes look at the night sky—as if I were seeing it for the first time. It humbles me, but it also draws me in.
