Letter 5.15

All your love displayed itself from every quarter in the letter I most recently received from you -- love not unknown to me, but still welcome and desired. I would say "delightful," if I had not lost that word for all time, and not only for the one reason you suspect, for which you accuse me severely while using the gentlest and most affectionate words, but because the remedies that should have existed for that great wound do not exist. For what? Shall I take refuge with friends? How many are there? For we had almost all of them in common, and some have perished, while others have somehow hardened. I could indeed live with you and would very much wish to: long acquaintance, affection, custom, shared pursuits -- what bond, I ask, is lacking in our connection? Can we then be together? By Hercules, I do not understand what prevents it; but certainly up to now we have not been together, even when we were neighbors in Tusculum and in Puteoli. For why should I mention the city, where, though the forum is shared, proximity is not required? But by some chance our age has fallen upon times in which, when we ought most to flourish, we are even ashamed to live. For what refuge could there be for me, stripped of both domestic and public distinctions and consolations? Literature, I suppose, which I use constantly -- for what else can I do? But somehow those very studies seem to shut me out from the harbor and refuge, and almost to reproach me for remaining in a life in which there is nothing but the prolongation of the most wretched time. Can you wonder that I am absent from a city in which my house can give no pleasure, where there is supreme hatred of the times, of men, of the forum, of the senate house? And so I use literature, in which I spend all my time, not to seek a permanent cure, but to seek a brief forgetfulness of pain. If you and I had done what did not even occur to us because of our daily fears -- if we had spent all our time together -- neither would your ill health trouble me nor would my sorrow trouble you. Let us achieve this as far as possible; for what is more suitable for each of us? I shall see you very soon, then.

DLXXXVI (Fam. V, 15) TO L. LUCCEIUS (AT ROME) ASTURA (MAY) YOUR perfect affection manifests itself in every sentence of the last letter which I received from you: not that it was anything new to me, but all the same it was grateful to my feelings and all that I could desire. I should have called it “delightful,” had not that word been lost to me for ever: and not for that one reason which you imagine, and in regard to which you chide me severely, though in the gentlest and most affectionate terms, but because what ought to have been the remedies for that sorrow are all gone. Well then! Am I to seek comfort with my friends? How many of them are there? You know — for they were common to us both. Some of them have fallen, others I know not how have grown callous. With you indeed I might have gone on living, and there is nothing I should have liked better. Long-standing affection, habit, community of tastes — what tie, I ask, is there lacking to our union? Is it possible then for us to be together? Well, by Hercules , I know not what prevents it: but, at any rate, we have not been so hitherto, though we were neighbours at Tusculum and Puteoli , to say nothing of Rome ; where, as the forum is a common meeting-place, nearness of residence does not matter. But by some misfortune our age has fallen upon circumstances, which, just when we ought to be at the very height of prosperity, make us ashamed even of being alive. For what had I to fly to when deprived of everything that could afford me distinction or console my feelings at home or in public life? Literature, I suppose. Well, I devote myself to that without ceasing. But in some indefinable way literature itself seems to shut me out from harbour and refuge, and as it were to reproach me for continuing a life in which there is nothing but extension of utter wretchedness. In these circumstances, do you wonder at my keeping away from the city, in which my own house has no pleasure to offer me, while the state of affairs, the men, the forum, and the senate-house are all utterly repulsive to me? Accordingly, what I seek from literature, on which I spend my whole time, is not a lasting cure but a brief oblivion of pain. But if you and I had done what on account of our daily fears it never occurred to us to do, we should have been always together, and neither would your weak health have annoyed me, nor my sorrow you. Let us aim at securing this as far as it may be possible: for what could suit both of us better? I will see you therefore at an early day.

XV. Scr. in Antiati mense Iunio a.u.c. 709. M. CICERO S. D. L. LUCCEIO Q. F. Omnis amor tuus ex omnibus partibus se ostendit in iis litteris, quas a te proxime accepi, non ille quidem mihi ignotus, sed tamen gratus et optatus; dicerem "iucundus," nisi id verbum in omne tempus perdidissem, neque ob eam unam causam, quam tu suspicaris et in qua me lenissimis et amantissimis verbis utens re graviter accusas, sed quod, illius tanti vulneris quae remedia esse debebant, ea nulla sunt. Quid enim? ad amicosne confugiam? quam multi sunt? habuimus enim fere communes, quorum alii occiderunt, alii nescio quo pacto obduruerunt. Tecum vivere possem equidem et maxime vellem: vetustas, amor, consuetudo, studia paria; quod vinclum, quaeso, deest nostrae coniunctionis? Possumusne igitur esse una? nec mehercule intelligo, quid impediat; sed certe adhuc non fuimus, cum essemus vicini in Tusculano, in Puteolano; nam quid dicam in urbe? in qua, cum forum commune sit, vicinitas non requiritur. Sed casu nescio quo in ea tempora nostra aetas incidit, ut, cum maxime florere nos oporteret, tum vivere etiam puderet; quod enim esse poterat mihi perfugium spoliato et domesticis et forensibus ornamentis atque solatiis? litterae, credo, quibus utor assidue, quid enim aliud facere possum? sed nescio quo modo ipsae illae excludere me a portu et perfugio videntur et quasi exprobrare, quod in ea vita maneam, in qua nihil insit nisi propagatio miserrimi temporis. Hic tu me ab ea abesse urbe miraris, in qua domus nihil delectare possit, summum sit odium temporum hominum, fori curiae? Itaque sic litteris utor, in quibus consumo omne tempus, non ut ab iis medicinam perpetuam, sed ut exiguam oblivionem doloris petam. Quod si id egissemus ego atque tu, quod ne in mentem quidem nobis veniebat propter quotidianos metus, si omne tempus una fuissemus, neque me valetudo tua offenderet neque te maeror meus. Quod, quantum fieri poterit, consequamur; quid enim est utrique nostrum aptius? propediem te igitur videbo.