Letter 3013: I thoroughly approve, rejoice, and admire that out of love for purity you shun the company of dissolute men —...

Sidonius ApollinarisApollinaris|c. 467 AD|Sidonius Apollinaris
barbarian invasionhumor

To Apollinaris [Sidonius's son].

I thoroughly approve, rejoice, and admire that out of love for purity you shun the company of dissolute men — especially those who think nothing of propriety or holiness in pursuing and talking about shameful things, and who fancy themselves supremely witty for violating public decency with their foul language. Understand that the standard-bearer of this sort of degradation in our homeland is the man I call Gnatho [a parasite's name from Roman comedy; Sidonius avoids naming the real person].

He is a cesspool of fabricated stories, a manufacturer of slander, a multiplier of ill-rumor — talkative but never clever, ridiculous but never genuinely funny, arrogant but never consistent, nosy but never perceptive, and clumsy in his affected humor, which makes him more boorish, not less. He praises the present, criticizes the past, and scorns the future. When he wants a favor, he pesters you to get it; if refused, he disparages you for refusing; if granted, he resents you for giving; if delayed, he whines about the delay; if returned, he brags about the return. But when he is the one asked, he pretends to be ready, hides when sought, sells what he gives, publishes what should stay private, misrepresents what is settled, and denies what he owes.

A hater of fasts and a devotee of banquets, his admiration is reserved not for those who live well but for those who feed him well. Yet for all that, he is himself the most miserly of men — sustained not so much by good bread as by other people's bread, eating at home only what he has snatched from the platters amid a hail of slaps. His frugality is not exactly praiseworthy either: he fasts only when he is not invited. Yet with parasitic nimbleness, he makes excuses if invited, spies if passed over, protests if shut out, exults if admitted, and patiently waits if beaten.

When he sits down to eat, if the food comes slowly, he launches into theft; if he is full too soon, into tears; if thirsty, into complaints; if drunk, into vomiting; if bored, into insults; if provoked, into frenzy — exactly like a sewer, which grows more foul the more it is stirred.

"But," you say, "his face redeems his soul — he is a handsome, elegant man whose appearance makes up for his character." On the contrary: he is more repulsive and deformed than a half-cremated corpse that has rolled off a collapsing pyre, one that even the disgusted undertaker refuses to put back on the flames. His eyes are lightless, rolling tears through darkness like the pools of the Styx. His ears are enormous, their double openings ringed with ulcerous skin and warty nodes. His nose is wide at the nostrils and narrow at the bridge — as open to horror as it is closed to smell. His mouth is leaden-lipped, beastly in its gape, purulent in its gums, and boxwood-yellow in its teeth, fouled by the pestilential breath rising from its rotting molars.

He carries a forehead that wrinkles its skin and stretches its eyebrows in the most revolting manner. He maintains a beard that, though whitening with age, has turned black with disease. His entire face is so pale, as though perpetually shadowed by ghostly apparitions. I say nothing of the rest of his bulk — bound by gout, dissolved by fat. I say nothing of his gouty hands wrapped in oily poultice-rags like boxing gloves. I say nothing of the goat-stink of his armpits, whose acrid fumes poison the nostrils of all who sit near him.

I say nothing of his hanging breasts — disgusting even on a man's chest merely to protrude, but in his case drooping like a nursing mother's. I say nothing of the pendulous folds of his sagging belly, which provide an even more shameful covering for his already shameful parts.

But what is worse than his body is his tongue. Though he itches with obscene gossip, he is especially dangerous to the secrets of his patrons — praising them in good times and betraying them in bad. When opportunity calls for the exposure of private matters, this Spartacus of ours breaks open every lock and unseals every seal. What he cannot assault with the siege-engines of open hostility, he attacks through the tunnels of secret betrayal.

Therefore, you will do as I wish if you never associate with such people — especially those whose prostituted, theatrical speech is restrained by no shame. For those whose uncontrolled tongues are polluted by the dregs of obscene wit inevitably have the most sordid consciences to match. It is easier to find a man who speaks seriously yet lives obscenely than to find one who is simultaneously vile in speech and virtuous in conduct. Farewell.

Modern English rendering for readability. See the 19th-century translation or original Latin/Greek for scholarly use.

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