Letter 51
I was overjoyed to hear that your health has been restored — your well-being is always my highest wish. Now, if the gods are willing and your recovered strength has revived your mental vigor, I insist that your letters start running to multiple pages. I hate verbal stinginess when the words are good. Brevity in writing is closer to contempt than to courtesy.
I don't want letters that drip from the tip of your tongue. I want the kind that never run dry — drawn from the deepest well of your heart.
I remember when Spartan brevity was once considered a virtue. But I'm dealing with you under Roman rules — or Athenian ones, if you prefer — and the Athenians owed so much of their greatness to eloquence that I suspect the Spartans adopted their terse style out of fear of the comparison.
I'd say more, but you need to be dosed with your own medicine. Besides, I have to be careful that a long letter from me doesn't offend you. So I'll stop here, obeying your standard while violating my own.
And from that you should understand the bind you've put yourself in: you can't expect me to write briefly unless you write at length. Farewell.
Modern English rendering for readability. See the 19th-century translation or original Latin/Greek for scholarly use.
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