Letter 7014: Recently, among some distinguished men — the gathering was a large one — your name came up.

Sidonius ApollinarisPhilagrius, sophist|c. 467 AD|Sidonius Apollinaris
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To Philagrius.

Recently, among some distinguished men — the gathering was a large one — your name came up. Everyone spoke well of you, though each singled out a different virtue. When certain people began boasting of their personal acquaintance with you, as if seeing you in the flesh gave them some superior claim, I grew indignant. I could not calmly accept that a man of such universal learning should be better known to the unlettered rustics living near him than to the educated people who live further away.

The argument escalated. Some stubbornly insisted on the superiority of physical presence — the way of fools, who are as easily refuted as they are hard to silence. I maintained firmly that if cultivated friends never achieve a deeper knowledge of someone, it is harsh but at least bearable, because their talents can reach out through writing to those in distant provinces who long to know them. Through letters, absent but educated people often develop a greater affection than even constant physical company produces. So let those who judge friends only by their faces stop slandering the shared necessity of our absence.

If human beings are to be measured by their bodies rather than their minds, then frankly I do not know what we should admire about the physical form. Nature gave the ox a hide, the boar bristles, the bird feathers — and on top of that, horns, teeth, and claws for weapons. Human bodies, by contrast, seem to have been cast naked into the world, almost as if by a stepmother rather than a mother.

No — what elevates us above the animals is the reasoning soul, the capacity for truth and falsehood. Let those who judge friends by their eyes rather than their minds tell me what is so impressive about the human form. Height? That belongs more properly to trees. Strength? The lion's neck has more of it. Beauty of features? Clay statues and wax portraits often do it better. Speed? Give that to the dogs. Vigilance? The owl competes. Voice? The donkey surpasses us in volume. Industry? Even the ant is not afraid to match us.

Perhaps they will argue for the superiority of sight — but the eagle sees better. Hearing — but the bristly pig hears more keenly. Smell — but the vulture outstrips us. Taste — but the monkey outdoes us there. And as for touch, the fifth sense, the philosopher and the worm share it equally.

Look at what miserable advantages these people celebrate — these men who smugly taunt me because you are known to them only by sight. I, on the other hand, see the real Philagrius always. If I saw your face in silence, I would not see Philagrius at all. It is like the well-known remark: "The Roman people did not recognize the son of Marcus Cicero when he spoke" — because the son had none of his father's eloquence.

The verdict is universal: what we honor in a person is their knowledge, their dignity, their virtue, their merit — things climbed to by degrees. Even a fully formed animal body surpasses shapeless matter in dignity; an animated body surpasses a formed one; the human mind surpasses the animal soul, because life is above flesh, and reason is above life.

Keeping this hierarchy in mind, I always look at you, Philagrius, with the eye of the heart. My soul knows you through the kinship of our characters. Though you please all good men, no one has seen deeper into you than the man who strives to imitate you from afar. And I will tell you in the rest of this letter just how I set about following your example.

You love quiet; I love it so much I could tolerate idleness. You avoid barbarians because they are thought wicked; I avoid them even if they are good. You are diligent in your reading; I too refuse to let laziness do me much harm on that front. You fulfill the role of a devout man; I manage at least the appearance. You do not covet what belongs to others; I count it profit if I simply do not lose what is mine. You delight in the company of the educated; I call any crowd, however large, that lacks literary cultivation the greatest solitude.

You are said to be cheerful; I too hold that all tears are wasted except those shed in prayer to God. You are said to be the most hospitable of men; no guest has ever fled my modest table as from the cave of Polyphemus [the man-eating Cyclops in Homer's Odyssey]. You are said to treat your servants with great clemency; I am not tormented if mine are not tormented every time they make a mistake.

You think we should fast on alternate days? I am happy to follow. You think we should feast? I am not ashamed to lead the way.

If Christ grants me the gift of seeing you in person, I shall rejoice — but as one from whom nothing less about you has been taken away. I already know well enough what is greatest in you. And so if I ever do look upon your face, it may add fresh delight but not a fresh judgment. Farewell.

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

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