Letter 2: (Written about the same time, in reply to another letter now lost.) I do not like being joked about Tiberina and its mud and its winters, O my friend, who are so free from mud, and who walk on tiptoe, and trample on the plains. You who have wings and are borne aloft, and fly like the arrows of Abaris, in order that, Cappadocian though you are, y...
Gregory to Basil.
You make fun of me about Tiberina and its mud and its winters -- you, my friend, who are so far above the mud yourself, walking on tiptoe and trampling the plains beneath you! You who have wings and soar aloft, flying like the arrows of Abaris, all so that -- Cappadocian though you are -- you may escape from Cappadocia. Have we done you some injury? While you are pale and breathless and measuring the sun, we are sleek and well-fed and not lacking for room. And yet that is your situation: you live in luxury and wealth, and you go to market. I cannot approve of this. So either stop mocking us for our mud -- since you did not build your city, and we did not create our winter -- or for our mud we will match you with your petty merchants and all the other nuisances that infest cities.
Human translation — New Advent (NPNF / ANF series)
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