Dear Cicero,

One drop of water is all you need to sound the depth of a well, and if the light you shine down the shaft is bright enough, you might even see the ripples. So it is with history. It only takes one story to drop into your mind for you to realise with sudden awe, the depth of history, and for most people, that one drop is enough. If that story stays with them, and they are moved by the veracity or the message of the tale, then that depth is added to their depth, and all of their present actions carry with them the depth of the history that is known through them.

For others, the well must not only be sounded, it must be explored and dug deeper. The stack of books on my bedside table now casts a long shadow across the bed as I excavate the mysteries of the past. All my dead friends are here with me to help with the work.

A woman approached me in the market yesterday, a familiar face from the crowd of parents who gather at the school in the afternoon to pick their children up from class. I sometimes play music as I sit and wait, and one day, some weeks ago, this woman sat beside me as I played. We didn't converse, we were both listening to the music I guess.

When she approached me yesterday, she told me that on that previous day when she had sat beside me, her father had but recently passed, and that the music reached into her heart and made her feel better. As she spoke, I could see her tears welling up as the tide swells beneath the moon, and she could say no more. I thanked her as best I could, glad that my music had reached her and given her something good.

Cicero, how deep is the well of history, and how deep is the well of our hearts? Is music a language that all can speak, and is the history of music a parallel mirror to the development of human feeling?

I have been trying to learn the First Delphic Hymn. This is as far down as I am able to hear the water droplets in the well of music history. It is as close as I can get to hearing the music you might have heard.

Original Delphic Hymn fragment

First Delphic Hymn (choir)

I have a little Glockenspiel, a delightful instrument, and despite my inexperience in learning music from written sources, and despite the knowledge that the way I am playing the melody is rather different from the other recordings, I am enjoying the experience immensely. The scale alone is fascinating, so haunting and dreamy, each resolution seems to offer deeper mysteries.

I had thought that I was going to write to you about some music quotes I've found from other writers. I wanted to discuss the social attitudes towards music and musicians, but I think I will bring that up with Plutarch. Now that I have finished reading The Fall of Athens, I can see that he had a much greater interest in music than you Cicero.

With you I would rather talk of friendship. A virtue you share in praising with the Epicurean philosophers and which you have at length written about. However, since your essay, 'On Friendship' has yet to arrive at the book store, I will instead talk of Giraffes. You see, I've been reading this other book about a Giraffe that was transported from Egypt to France in 1826 CE. It tells a fascinatingly detailed story of the journey, along the way talking about a lot of other related history, including the tale of the Giraffe that Caesar transported from Egypt to Rome in 46 BCE. He presented it to the people as part of his triumphal procession through city, paraded along with “...hundreds of caged lions, and leopards and black panthers and other strange and dangerous beasts, baboons and green monkeys, hunting salukis (the world's oldest breed of domesticated dog), Nile parrots and parakeets, flamingos and ostriches, slaves and ivory and emeralds and gold and a great number of elephants bearing torches...”, or so Michael Allin, author of Zarafa writes. So I decided to look for some eye witness reports, just to confirm.

                                                           Saluki Dogs

Suetonius remarks of Caesar, that "if anything rare and worth seeing was ever brought to the city, it was his habit to make a special exhibit of it in any convenient place on days when no shows were appointed.” Later emperors were not always so kind, and giraffes sometimes ended up being killed by lions or gladiators in the circus.

Cicero, did you see this Giraffe? The first of its kind to travel so far. You were in Rome at the time weren't you? You married Publilia that year. I wonder if it's mentioned in any of your letters, or if you make reference to it in some other essay or speech. It would have been a pretty big deal at the time, just as it was still a big deal in the 1820's when Muhammad Ali, Ottomon Viceroy of Egypt, sent a Giraffe to King Charles X in Paris, and a second to King George IV in London. Politically motivated of course, this was not done in the name of zoology. Ali wanted to curry favour with the European monarchs to gain their support for, or at least non-interference in the war he was about to launch on Greece.

The giraffe sent to England fell ill en route and died in London in 1829, but during her time in the city, she was cared for with great attention by King George. A portrait of her shows an amulet around her neck, containing verses of the Koran, a protection against the evil eye. The same amulet was worn by her sister, Zarafa, who was sent to Paris.

Zarafa's story is longer and more interesting...but...I haven't finished the book yet, so I can't finish her story for you. There is another tale I can relate however, of another giraffe making the journey from Egypt to Florence, in 1486. Sent by the Mameluke Sultan, Quait Bey to Lorenzo de' Medici as a gift to maintain good relations with the Christians (or so the history books say). Lorenzo the Magnificent returned the gift with a white bear.

Saint Hiliare recounts that the giraffe sent to Florence “...was associated, sentimentally at least, with the second storeys of the noble houses of the city...she went every day to take food from the hands of the ladies of Florence, of whom she became the adopted daughter; these repasts consisted of several kinds of fruit, principally apples.”

I don't know where I'm going with all this...historical wells, music, giraffes...it hardly matters. I could talk to you about anything. I'll write more later...

* * *

A strange day at work, a bluster, a pre-storm heat blown ahead of a crumbling reef of clouds.

Then sunset, like the shining face of God peering through the roof of the world, beams of brilliant golden-orange-purple-and-white light. My son and I stare in silent wonder.

Then evening, band practice at the tavern on Port Road. Food and drink and dance and laughter and children playing and all the world outside that room turning and we play on unawares.

Through the glittering night, the homeward return

Through deepening darkness to a moonlit valley

Beneath the shadows of trees, a glimmer of light

Home.

Home.

Did you see the giraffe Cicero? Was your daughter Tullia there? I imagine the two of you standing in the crowd watching Caesar's Triumph, smiling and happy as the wild beasts from foreign lands were paraded through the streets, as proud soldiers and chained slaves and plundered treasures and dancers and musicians filled the city roads for hours. This might have been a happy memory for you and Tullia together, in the last year of her life.

Before everything fell apart.

I will write again soon, dear friend.

With compassion.

Morgan.

TheTriumph of Dionysus

June 15^th, 2018 CE

Dear Cicero,

Did you see it? The invisible giant that waltzed across the grasslands and rocky hills?

The great sodden belly of the cloud shaped beast scraped the earth and for the first time this year in my home-town, it finally rained. I stood watching as the trees, whipped by the invisible hands of elementals, made crazy shapes against the steel grey, end-of-the-world clouds. The streets were nearly deserted and in the eerie pre-storm light, I stood with my father and watched the sky come undone.

I visited Kerri the book seller today and ordered more of your books. An hour flew by in pleasant conversation on writing, book printing, and the exquisite library at the Flinders University. The world is awash with your name, novels, movies, biographies, all your essays and speeches, and treasure among treasures, there are your letters. The value of your ideas have not diminished, but seems increased greatly.

Today I would like to talk to you about exile.

Firstly, I found a collection of all the letters you wrote during your exile. It seems I am not the only one interested in this as a phase of your life and the development of your writing. Today I read a letter you wrote to your brother Quintus, and line after line I felt myself drawn into the intense weight of your feelings. When I reached the end of the letter I saw the date. Today's date. June 15^th 58 BCE.

Two thousand and seventy six years ago.

I look up from my book and stare mutely at the future.

* * *

A few days have passed, the rains have reached me here in the borderlands. Icy winds and lashing rain restore to the earth the life lain dormant all summer. Cattle roam the fields surrounding the eastern lake and there is no small pleasure in watching the young calves frolic and chase each other, while the heifers, sleepy overworked parents plod methodically from clump to clump, chewing down to the soil the fresh green blades of grass.

I have mentioned before that exile is no longer a punishment in my era, however I have discovered that its equivalent is still present in the fascinating case of Julian Assange. Like you, he is an influential public figure, like you he is a champion of liberty and justice, like you he is violently hated by his enemies. Assange, born in Australia, currently lives in the Ecuadorian Embassy in London, and has an Ecuadorian citizenship. He is unable to leave the embassy because he will be arrested and extradited to America to face charges. He has been labelled a terrorist and a cyber criminal, there have been public calls for his assassination. His family have had to change their names and now live in hiding.

Dante described the pain of exile in The Divine Comedy:

“… You will leave everything you love most:

this is the arrow that the bow of exile

shoots first. You will know how salty

another's bread tastes and how hard it

is to ascend and descend

another's stairs …"

Paradiso XVII: 55-60

I was asked recently to perform at a local storytelling event, on the theme of Belonging. I immediately thought of you, Cicero. Your sense of loyalty to Rome is something I have commented on previously. You have a national pride and passion for Rome that I do not feel for my own country. Certainly I appreciate my country, all its benefits could not be listed in a single letter, yet I do not feel the fire of patriotism that you felt for Rome. A fire which burned you terribly when you were forced to leave.

So I have been thinking about belonging, and a person's sense of home and what the experience of exile really means. In my mind, I always imagined exile as being a wonderful reprieve from the alternative of execution, but your letters reveal a very different story. With your houses burned or put up for sale and your wife and children forced to find shelter among friends, your exile marked the point at which your greatest skill no longer had the power to save or protect anyone, least of all yourself, and Rome, that glorious republic which you admired and championed all your days, was brought low and made a slave by the hands of tyrants. You were forced to flee, pursued across the sea by bounty hunters and forced to live in seclusion, separated from your brother, your wife and your son and daughter.

The grief you express in your letters to Quintus and Atticus is overwhelming, you were suicidal, half starved and driven wild by your precarious situation. I am surprised that you made as many clear decisions as you did and managed to avoid capture and murder long enough to return to have yourself exonerated and some of your property returned to you. How thrilling to have experienced the loss of all you love, only to have it returned again. I wonder what it was like for you when you saw your wife again, or your children? As if your neck had been pulled from the hangman's noose, you must have felt...well...I am sure it is in your letters...I must read on...

I will paraphrase segments from three of your letters so that I may make reference to them afterwards. The first to your wife and children, the second to your brother Quintus, and the third to you lifelong best friend, Atticus.

LXI (F XIV, 4)

TO HIS WIFE TERENTIA, AND HIS CHILDREN TULLIOLA, AND YOUNG CICERO

(AT ROME) BRUNDISIUM, 29 APRIL

“Yes, I do write to you less often than I might, because, though I am always wretched, yet when I write to you or read a letter from you, I am in such floods of tears that I cannot endure it. Oh, that I had clung less to life! I should at least never have known real sorrow, or not much of it, in my life. Yet if fortune has reserved for me any hope of recovering at any time any position again, I was not utterly wrong to do so: if these miseries are to be permanent, I only wish, my dear, to see you as soon as possible and to die in your arms, since neither gods, whom you have worshipped with such pure devotion, nor men, whom I have ever served, have made us any return.

Should I refrain from asking you? Am I to be without you, then? I think the best course is this : if there is any hope of my restoration, stay to promote it and push the thing on: but if, as I fear, it proves hopeless, pray come to me by any means in your power. Be sure of this, that if I have you I shall not think myself wholly lost. But what is to become of my darling Tullia? You must see to that now: I can think of nothing. But certainly, however things turn out, we must do everything to promote that poor little girl's married happiness and reputation. Again, what is my boy Cicero to do? Let him, at any rate, be ever in my bosom and in my arms. I can't write more. A fit of weeping hinders me. I don't know how you have got on; whether you are left in possession of anything, or have been, as I fear, entirely plundered.

Our life is over: we have had our day: it is not any fault of ours that has ruined us, but our virtue. I have made no false step, except in not losing my life when I lost my honours. But since our children preferred my living, let us bear every-thing else, however intolerable. And yet I, who encourage you, cannot encourage myself.”

LXV (Q FR I, 3)

TO HIS BROTHER QUINTUS (ON HIS WAY TO ROME)THESSALONICA, 15 JUNE

“...(How could you think that I did...)...Not wish to see you? The truth is rather that I was unwilling to be seen by you. For you would not have seen your brother - not the brother you had left, not the brother you knew, not him to whom you had with mutual tears bidden farewell as he followed you on your departure for your province: not a trace even or faint image of him, but rather what I may call the likeness of a living corpse.”

...How many tears do you suppose these very words have Cost me? As many as I know they will cost you to read them! Can I ever refrain from thinking of you or ever think of you without tears? For when I miss you, is it only a brother that I miss? Rather it is a brother of almost my own age in the charm of his companionship, a son in his consideration for my wishes, a father in the wisdom of his advice! What pleasure did I ever have without you, or you without me? And what must my case be when at the same time I miss a daughter: How affectionate! how modest! how clever! The express image of my face, of my speech, of my very soul! Or again a son, the prettiest boy, the very joy of my heart? Cruel inhuman monster that I am, I dismissed him from my arms better schooled in the world than I could have wished: for the poor child began to understand what was going on. So, too, your own son, your own image, whom my little Cicero loved as a brother, and was now beginning to respect as an elder brother! Need I mention also how I refused to allow my unhappy wife—the truest of helpmates—to accompany me, that there might be some one to protect the wrecks of the calamity which had fallen on us both, and guard our common children?

...In any case I shall continue to live as long as you shall need me, in view of any danger you may have to undergo: longer than that I cannot go on in this kind of life. For there is neither wisdom nor philosophy with sufficient strength to sustain such a weight of grief. I know that there has been a time for dying, more honourable and more advantageous; and this is not the only one of my many omissions, which, if I should choose to bewail, I should merely be increasing your sorrow and emphasising my own stupidity. But one thing I am not bound to do, and it is in fact impossible - remain in a life so wretched and so dishonoured any longer than your necessities, or some well-grounded hope, shall demand. For I, who was lately supremely blessed in brother, children, wife, wealth, and in the very nature of that wealth, while in position, influence, reputation, and popularity, I was inferior to none, however distinguished—I cannot, I repeat, go on longer lamenting over myself and those dear to me in a life of such humiliation as this, and in a state of such utter ruin.

...As to my daughter and yours and my young Cicero, why should I recommend them to you, my dear brother? Rather I grieve that their orphan state will cause you no less sorrow than it does me. Yet as long as you are uncondemned they will not be fatherless. The rest, by my hopes of restoration and the privilege of dying in my fatherland, my tears will not allow me to write! Terentia also I would ask you to protect, and to write me word on every subject. Be as brave as the nature of the case admits.”

LXXII (A III, 15)

TO HIS BEST FRIEND ATTICUS (AT ROME)THESSALONICA, 17 AUGUST

“...Moreover, lapse of time not only does not soften this grief, it even enhances it. For other sorrows are softened by age, this one cannot but be daily increased both by my sense of present misery and the recollection of my past life. For it is not only property or friends that I miss, but myself. For what am I? But I will not allow myself either to wring your soul with my complaints, or to place my hands too often on my wounds.”

* * *

“What you own, ends up owning you.”

Charles Palahniuk

What of that which belongs to us without ownership? Our families, our homes, our nations? Do we not end up belonging to them, and is it not the rending of this bond that is the cause of all our grief and torment? Would that we could numb ourselves to this bond of love that is the air in our lungs in times of peace and happiness, but which turns to ash and ice and breathless desperation when we are exiled from it.

I have often said that the price of love is pain, and it is a fair price.

What do you think Cicero? When you met your end, did the balance of your heart weigh no more than a feather? Did the love you knew in life match the weight of the suffering you felt when it was torn from you? Did that emptiness inside you refill with the loving glow of your family when you were returned, or did you suffer poisoning in exile, and return a bitter, wounded, fearful man. As one who has been stabbed in the back, did you ever after keep glancing over your shoulder?

When one lives in fear of having all one's love's taken away from him, it cannot be said that he loves at all, nor enjoys any benefit from the possession of those good things. How long after your return from exile did you continue to wake in the night sweating, still fearful of the assassins knife? How long until you forgave yourself for fleeing, abandoning your family and running in fear to save your own life, and in doing so, make others suffer terribly? How long until you could really feel the love and warmth and comfort of Belonging?

Some historians see in your letters evidence of cowardice, or vacillation or weakness of spirit, and a lack of the kind of determination you displayed in public life. They accuse you of unmanliness, of weeping overmuch in your self pitying sorrow. I would accuse them of an insensitivity born of self ignorance. Had they who accuse you of cowardice, to face the pains you felt, they would likely be undone by them, as you were. Or as Antony Trollope puts it in his biography of your life, written in 1881:

“Let those who rebuke the unmanliness of Cicero's wailings remember what were his sufferings......Everything was to be taken from him: all that he had—his houses, his books, his pleasant gardens, his busts and pictures, his wide retinue of slaves, and possessions lordly as are those of our dukes and earls. He was driven out from Italy and so driven that no place of delight could be open to him. Sicily, where he had friends, Athens, where he might have lived, were closed against him. He had to look where to live, and did live for a while on money borrowed from his friends. All the cherished occupations of his life were over for him—the law courts, the Forum, the Senate, and the crowded meetings of Roman citizens hanging on his words. The circumstances of his exile separated him from his wife and children, so that he was alone. All this was assured to him for life, as far as Roman law could assure it.”

Two years did you dwell in exile. Two years caught on the crashing tides of fortune, broken again and again upon the cruel rocks of hope. How long did it take you to restore your heart to gladness? Well, it is with a gladness of my own that I read from Trollope again, the following reassurance as to your happiness:

“His conduct and his words after his return from exile betray exultation rather than despondency.”

Exaltation.

That is the feeling of fresh air in our lungs when we are buoyed and bound by the love of that to which we belong. That is what I will speak about at the gathering of storytellers. You Cicero, were a man infused with the exaltation of pride and joy and loyalty and all the bonds of love that strengthen us. The pain you express in your letters is equal to the love which was taken from you. Your words do not infer cowardice, they point directly to the overwhelming power of the love you were courageous enough to feel.

So, thank you Cicero, again, and again, and again.

Morgan.

*

PS.  I will leave you with this poem from Jalāl ad-Dīn Muhammad Rūmī, a 13th-century Persian Sunni Muslim, poet, jurist, Islamic scholar, theologian, and Sufi mystic. These days most people just call him Rumi the poet.

Sit with your friends; don’t go back to sleep
Don’t sink like a fish to the bottom of the sea.
Life’s water flows from darkness.
Search the darkness don’t run from it.
Night travellers are full of light,
and you are, too.

*

PPS...(A few days later)...I performed at the storytelling event, and I read out the section of your August 17^th letter to Atticus. Standing on the auditorium floor, looking up into the faces of the audience spread before me, with my cloak wrapped around my shoulders and draped over my left arm, I thought of you as I spoke, lifting my voice and hearing it ring throughout the theatre. I thought of the rhythm of your speech in the Philipics, I felt your confidence in me and my oration on Exile and Belonging was perhaps the best I have ever delivered. My voice was strong and steady and deep. You were there with me Cicero, I could feel you standing two thousand years behind me and only a few feet away.

Thank you.

* * *

July 13^th, 2018

Dear Eurydice,

I want to apologise. I was really upset last week, (I'm still upset, but I'm trying to breathe through it). I don't really want to incite vigilante violence. I don't really want to fan the flames of mistrust between the genders. I'm just desperate and ashamed and frightened and I really, sincerely just want to get to the bottom of this problem that sets men and women against each other. Is the problem really about the violence of men against women? If that were the case then why are men killing other men even more than they kill women? Why are men committing suicide far more often than women? The Australian Bureau of Statistics paints a pretty grim picture and those numbers confuse me and frighten me, and every day new information is shared online that confuses and frightens me even more. Men killing their children and then themselves...god I don't want to think about it, I don't even really want to be writing about it but the words build up inside me and I have to let them out.

Thank you for listening.

A friend who read my last letter to you suggested that continuing to write about revenge was a downward spiral, and that I should instead write about how I am doing my best to raise my own sons to be kind and mindful and compassionate and considerate. But I ask, when have the good deeds and kind words of polite gentlemen ever done a single thing to prevent violence against women? When has reason and dialogue ever won out over aggression? Does anyone really expect that if the good men of the world tell the bad men of the world to stop being violent, that anything will come of it? I'm oversimplifying the issue terribly, it's just that...well, you know, what power do words have?

Is the pen really mightier than the sword?

I'm trying Eurydice, I really am, to find peace in this world beset by confusion and terror. I remind myself that there is also beauty and that my efforts to create it, and protect it and enshrine it are of value. I tell myself that I will raise my sons to be stronger than their ancestors, to be stronger than their weak brethren who resort to violence to maintain their harmful power over others. Right now as I write to you, my youngest son plays with one of his Lego creations, a dimensional lava spider-scorpion as he calls it. My son is gentle and kind and has always displayed a remarkable sensitivity regarding the feelings of others. He has always been able to put himself in another's shoes and to feel what they might feel, to experience compassion and empathy with his whole body. It is this trait, I hope, that signals a future for mankind. A future for us all.

Thank you Eurydice.

Morgan.

Dear Eurydice Dixon,

You don't know me, but I've heard a lot about you. You've not been dead long but your legend has already grown large. All day I have been thinking of you.

Cicero said that the only true immortality a person can achieve is through writing. I don't know how much you wrote during your life, but since your passing a great deal has been written about you and with each published article, with each re-posted link, you grow taller and more noble. You are becoming the martyr for a cause, the hero for a society sorely in need of one. You death has not gone unnoticed, we will not let it be so. We give your death meaning, we scatter the ashes of your suffering and everywhere they fall, the cause of justice must follow.

It is stormy today and as I lay beneath a gum tree, staring up through the tumbling leaves to the blue and white streaky sky above I remembered an old phrase.

The willow knows what the storm does not: that the power to endure suffering is greater than the power to inflict it.

I think perhaps that it is time for the willow to make knives of its leaves, and to learn how to use them.

Those who would rape are not men at all, but beasts of a low and primitive evolution, not worthy of the name of man. Men are noble creatures, we are artful and intelligent and proud of our strength and the just use of it in the defence of those less able to defend themselves. Men are the builders of harmony and the enemies of tyranny, men are the writers of laws and the writers of songs and we are the fearless shield wall standing in defence of moral rights and freedoms.

Those who would rape are guilty of a vast spiritual ignorance, a bottomless lack of awareness, a lack of compassion, a lack of empathy. In fact those who would rape are guilty of lacking every good quality that those who do call ourselves men may rightly lay claim to.

Eurydice, your name burns bright. Your death will mean something. We will stand up with your name on our lips and we shall together cry NO MORE. For though women bear the greatest share of suffering at the hands of these sub-human savages who would violate a woman's most fundamental rights, we men suffer at their hands through the shame and powerlessness we too feel. We suffer through our seeming inability to protect that which is most prized to us, the beauty and wonder of womanhood. We suffer in shame at the injustices our brethren inflict upon the soft enclosing warmth of woman's love.

Saint Eurydice, we pray to you in your eternal rest that your death shall be the spark that lit a fire in us. You will live on through the immortality we grant you by our words and deeds. Your mother may weep forever more at your loss, but I will not weep. I will stand up and with my brothers and sisters, we shall carry our willow leaves to the throats of all who would do to others, what was done to you. I shall dip my willow quill in the ink of your tragedy and with my poetry I shall raise you up.

May great deeds be done in your name.

From Morgan.

*     *     *

Dear Francesco Petrarchus,

It's funny the way that the dead can speak, and how your voice Francesco, reaching back to speak to Cicero, also speaks to me here in your future. I will quote from your letter to Lapo da Castiglionchio, in 1352, written from your retreat in Vaucluse.

Cicero therefore seems to rejoice and to be eager to remain in my company. We have now passed ten quiet and restful days together here. Here only, and in no other place outside of Italy, do I breathe freely. In truth, study has this great virtue, that it appeases our desires for a life of solitude, mitigates our aversion for the vulgar herd, tenders us sought-for repose even in the midst of the thickest crowds, instills in us many noble thoughts, and provides us with the fellowship of most illustrious men even in the most solitary forests.

You found all his letters, and you hid yourself away to be with Cicero in the forest, rejoicing and eager to remain in his company. I find it marvellous that we feel the same about our erstwhile friend, yet I must admit that I find my friendship with Plutarch growing stronger than my kinship with Cicero, for an unsettling doubt has converged upon me concerning him. How the crooked hand of Cataline searches me out and worries away at my confidence in Cicero's honesty. It is not honourable to speak ill of the dead, but there is always that savage temptation to condemn him as a mouthpiece of tyranny, even while he pretended to a belief in liberty.

I have been reading the letters written during his exile, and some essays written during this time. I have some difficult questions to ask him, but I am not ready to ask them yet. I've been thinking about the world Cicero lived in and the things he lived through: Spartacus and the Slave wars, the Civil wars, the hit squads of Sulla, the Gaulic and Celtic wars and the Pirate war, just to skim the surface of the catastrophic civil and military unrest of his era. Yet despite the blood soaked hands of the Senate and Consular officials, Cicero still supported them against Cataline, who was fighting for debt cancellation and land reform on behalf of the poor.

I have been reading your letters too, Petrarch.

It feels like two mirrors standing face to face, reflections iterated generation after generation.

I don't have time for more today, but I shall write again soon.

Morgan.

...actually. I just found this in amongst your letters...

As regards Cicero, I have known him as the best of consuls, vigilantly providing for the welfare of the State, and as a citizen who always evinced the highest love of country. But what more? I cannot bestow praise upon the instability of his friendships, nor upon the serious disagreements arising from slight causes and bringing destruction upon him and benefit to none, nor upon a judgment which, when brought to bear upon questions of private and public affairs, did not well accord with his remarkable acumen in other directions. Above all, I cannot praise, in a philosopher weighed down with years, an inclination for wrangling which is proper to youths and utterly of no avail. Of all this, however, remember that neither you nor anyone else can be in a fit position to judge, until you will have read, and carefully, all the letters of Cicero; for it is these which gave rise to the whole discussion.

So perhaps before I jump in and accuse Cicero of anything, I should take your advice and read a lot more than three or four books, and only a dozen or so of his letters. I am very lucky to live near a second hand book store, they are a rarity now. The proprietrix of this establishment is a sort of scholar-of-everything, and there is no topic on which she will not have something interesting to say, or to ask. I will visit her soon and discuss my reading list.

Thank you Petrarch, for setting me straight.

From the land of the living, on the west bank of the Meechi river, in in southern Australia, in the eighteenth year of the new century.

Morgan.

The Book Keeper (Strathalbyn Book Store)

Adelaide University Free E-Books - Cicero