Letter 10027: My correspondence pile is, as always, a reproach to my sense of order and an index of my affections; the people I...
My correspondence pile is, as always, a reproach to my sense of order and an index of my affections; the people I have been neglecting most are, predictably, those I am most attached to.
I write briefly because the day has been long and my powers of composition have been exercised to their limits by obligations that do not carry my name. What remains is still genuine, even if it is not fresh.
The season passes; the city makes its demands; the literary projects that I meant to complete this year remain the projects I mean to complete next year. This is the condition of every serious person who also has serious responsibilities, and I accept it with the grace that long experience has made available.
Write to me when you can.
As always,
Symmachus
Modern English rendering for readability. See the 19th-century translation or original Latin/Greek for scholarly use.
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