Book 3, Letter 18, part 2 of 3 To Tacitus, on Suicide

             The suicide of Seneca - by Manuel Dominguez Sanchez

Here in Australia, there isn't actually a law prohibiting the reporting of suicides, but there is an accepted convention of censorship in the main news outlets. By scratching the surface and looking at the available statistics, it seems that suicide deaths account for three times the number of deaths by murder. According to rumour, the highest rates of suicide are among returned soldiers, dentists, vets and farmers, with men committing suicide 3 to 1, when compared with women.

In my culture there is no pride to be found in stories of suicide, only silence and shame. There is so much shame and repression of suicidal thinking and discussion, that even dying is shrouded in a mysterious fog, and requesting assistance in choosing to die, even when one is old and suffering from the agonies of illness, is a criminal act. Euthanasia, from the Greek Eu meaning 'well', and Thanatos, meaning 'death', thus means choosing to die a good death.

However, on Tuesday 10 December 2019 the Western Australian Voluntary Assisted Dying Bill 2019 cleared its final parliamentary hurdle making Western Australia the second state after Victoria to legalise voluntary assisted dying for the terminally ill. To me this seems like progress, however in the other states of Australia, here is how things generally stand.

What is legal in Australia now?

Both suicide and attempted suicide.
Refusing unwanted, painful and futile medical treatment leading to death from the illness.
Refusing food and drink leading to death from starvation and dehydration.
Being administered large doses of pain-relieving drugs, even though this may hasten death.  This is not against the law if the primary intention of the doctor is to relieve pain.
Being put into a permanent state of unconsciousness leading to death – this is often called ‘continuous palliative sedation’.

What is illegal in Australia now?

Voluntary assisted dying.
Voluntary euthanasia.

I have heard numerous stories of nurses choosing to follow their first vow, to do no harm, and who administer lethal doses of morphine to patients whose lives have passed the threshold of tolerable pain. I have heard it said that nurses do this more often than they could ever admit, that they place their gentle hands upon their patients, and with a kind whisper, help them onto a better kind of rest. A kind of rest that is better than a drug induced coma, better than a prolonged state of agonised zombification. It makes me proud to know that nurses are willing to do what is right, rather than to follow the letter of the law. I have heard stories of the the families, standing in the room and granting their whispered permission to ease the pain of their dying kin. It seems a blurry line between continuous palliative sedation and Voluntary assisted dying.

In reading your book Tacitus, and finding myself shocked at the culture of suicide you describe, I wonder what the popular methods of my own country are. How do people choose to end their own lives, here in the 21^st Century in Australia? So, to follow your method of writing, I will start with the rumours, and end with the facts, as much as can be gleaned from government statistics.

I have heard that single occupancy, single car crashes are often considered suicides by the police, even though they are reported as accidents. Charles Bukowski, the 20^th Century American poet once wrote that smoking and drinking are the only forms of honourable suicide left to modern man. With open reporting on the subject quietly suppressed in the media, it is hard to know what the truth is. I have three friends who ended their own lives. One chose to end her own life because the pain in her body became greater than her will to live. Another, it is uncertain, as they left no note, died of a Nitrous Oxide overdose. They were going through the long and difficult process of gender reassignment. The third took his life by the method described by Bukowski.

We humans are peculiar, born with the defect in our natures that grants us the will to self destruction that seems absent in other animals.

Is it a defect? Or is it a proud strength, that when faced with impossible options we humans may summon the courage to end our own suffering? Cato, the legendary stoic who committed suicide rather than live under the rule of Julius Caesar, is to history a hero for his act of self deliverance. Anthony Trollope, in his biography of Cicero, (published in 1880) puts it rather well.

...Cato must be allowed the praise of acting up to his own principles. He would die rather than behold the face of a tyrant... Men, indeed, have refused to see that he fled from a danger which he felt to be too much for him, and that in doing so he lacked something of the courage of a man. Many other Romans of the time did the same thing, but to none has been given all the honour which has been allowed to Cato.

Alternatively, Plutarch describes the suicide of the Spartan lawgiver, Lycurgus, as one of happiness and noble self sacrifice in service to the commonwealth. Having set down his laws and ordered the society of Sparta in the way he saw best, Lycurgus travelled to the Oracle to ask if his laws were good. He ordered his people to not make any changes to his laws until he should return.

The oracle answered that the laws were excellent, and that the people, while it observed them, should live in the height of renown. Lycurgus took the oracle in writing, and sent it over to Sparta; and, having sacrificed the second time to Apollo, and taken leave of his friends and his son, he resolved that the Spartans should not be released from the oath they had taken, and that he would, of his own act, close his life where he was. He was now about that age in which life was still tolerable, and yet might be quitted without regret. Every thing, moreover, about him was in a sufficiently prosperous condition. He, therefore, made an end of himself by a total abstinence from food; thinking it a statesman’s duty to make his very death, if possible, an act of service to the state, and even in the end of his life to give some example of virtue and effect some useful purpose. He would, on the one hand, crown and consummate his own happiness by a death suitable to so honorable a life, and, on the other, would secure to his countrymen the enjoyment of the advantages he had spent his life in obtaining for them, since they had solemnly sworn the maintenance of his institutions until his return.

Is a chosen death, a happy death?

Book 3, Letter 18, part 1 of 3 To Tacitus, on Suicide

(Dear readers: this three part letter contains some vivid descriptions of suicides, as well as detailed modern statistics on Australian suicide rates. If this is not to your taste, you might prefer to come back to my blog in a month to read my letter to Henry David Thoreau, author of Walden. It is a much more beautiful letter, on walking in the wilderness.)

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Dear Tacitus,

It's been a long time since I wrote to you. Your Annals are such a mammoth collection of stories and opinions and facts and myths and all the other ingredients that go into written history, that it has taken me the better part of a year to carefully sift through it all and, taking notes as I go, to begin preparations for a new letter to you.

I should open by saying that the modern opinion of your accuracy as a historian is rather critical; you are accused of unfair bias, and of straight up lies regarding Nero, and while I am not a historian, and thus not qualified to pass a judgement separate from that of the scholars, I am a storyteller, and it is in this regard that I assess, and enjoy your work. There is still a lot of verifiable truth in your writing, but I must confess that it is your personal reflections on the subject matter that I find myself most interested in, rather than the hard facts of history. I love the way you tell the story, the way you sequence events in order to illustrate the point you are trying to make about the terrible corruption, the loss of dignity of the senators and the steady decline in trust between everyone connected to Nero as accusations fly around and everyone commits suicide rather than face punishment from the Emperor, for crimes they did, or did not commit.

You, Tacitus, describe a high society culture of suicide that is as shocking to read now as it seems it was for you to have to write.

Bk XVI, section 16

Even had I been narrating campaigns abroad and lives laid down for the commonwealth, and narrating them with the same uniformity of incident, I should myself have lost appetite for the task, and I should expect the tedium of others, repelled by the tale of Roman deaths, honourable perhaps, but tragic and continuous. As it is, this slave-like patience and the profusion of blood wasted at home weary the mind and oppress it with melancholy. The one concession I would ask from those who shall study these records is that they would permit me not to hate the men who died with so little spirit. It was the anger of Heaven against the Roman realm — an anger which you cannot, as in the case of beaten armies or captured towns, mention once and for all and proceed upon your way. Let us make this concession to the memory of the nobly born: that, as in the last rites they are distinguished from the vulgar dead, so, when history records their end, each shall receive and keep his special mention.

Page after page you describe the many men and women, who, in order to avoid the tortures and execution squads sent by Nero, simply killed themselves, and sometimes their whole families.

Book XV Sect. 69 & 70

On that day he (Vestinius) had performed all his duties as consul, and was entertaining some guests, fearless of danger, or perhaps by way of hiding his fears, when the soldiers entered and announced to him the tribune's summons. He rose without a moment's delay, and every preparation was at once made. He shut himself into his chamber; a physician was at his side; his veins were opened; with life still strong in him, he was carried into a bath, and plunged into warm water, without uttering a word of pity for himself. Meanwhile the guards surrounded those who had sat at his table, and it was only at a late hour of the night that they were dismissed, when Nero, having pictured to himself and laughed over their terror at the expectation of a fatal end to their banquet, said that they had suffered enough punishment for the consul's entertainment.

Next he ordered the destruction of Marcus Annaeus Lucanus. As the blood flowed freely from him, and he felt a chill creeping through his feet and hands, and the life gradually ebbing from his extremities, though the heart was still warm and he retained his mental power, Lucanus recalled some poetry he had composed in which he had told the story of a wounded soldier dying a similar kind of death, and he recited the very lines. These were his last words. After him, Senecio, Quintianus, and Scaevinus perished, not in the manner expected from the past effeminacy of their life, and then the remaining conspirators, without deed or word deserving record.

Book XV Sect 62 & 63 Seneca's death.

A centurion came to Seneca's home to announce the death sentence pronounced upon him as punishment for his alleged involvement in a conspiracy to murder Nero:

Seneca, quite unmoved, asked for tablets on which to inscribe his will, and, on the centurion's refusal, turned to his friends, protesting that as he was forbidden to requite them, he bequeathed to them the only, but still the noblest possession yet remaining to him, the pattern of his life, which, if they remembered, they would win a name for moral worth and steadfast friendship. At the same time he called them back from their tears to manly resolution, now with friendly talk, and now with the sterner language of rebuke. "Where," he asked again and again, "are your maxims of philosophy, or the preparation of so many years' study against evils to come? Who knew not Nero's cruelty? After a mother's and a brother's murder, nothing remains but to add the destruction of a guardian and a tutor."

Having spoken these and like words, meant, so to say, for all, he embraced his wife; then softening awhile from the stern resolution of the hour, he begged and implored her to spare herself the burden of perpetual sorrow, and, in the contemplation of a life virtuously spent, to endure a husband's loss with honourable consolations. She declared, in answer, that she too had decided to die, and claimed for herself the blow of the executioner. There upon Seneca, not to thwart her noble ambition, from an affection too which would not leave behind him for insult one whom he dearly loved, replied: "I have shown you ways of smoothing life; you prefer the glory of dying. I will not grudge you such a noble example. Let the fortitude of so courageous an end be alike in both of us, but let there be more in your decease to win fame." Then by one and the same stroke they sundered with a dagger the arteries of their arms. Seneca, as his aged frame, attenuated by frugal diet, allowed the blood to escape but slowly, severed also the veins of his legs and knees. Worn out by cruel anguish, afraid too that his sufferings might break his wife's spirit, and that, as he looked on her tortures, he might himself sink into irresolution, he persuaded her to retire into another chamber. Even at the last moment his eloquence failed him not; he summoned his secretaries, and dictated much to them which, as it has been published for all readers in his own words, I forbear to paraphrase.

Book XVI Sect. 17

Mela meanwhile, adopting the easiest mode of death then in fashion, opened his veins, after adding a codicil to his will bequeathing an immense amount to Tigellinus and his son-in-law, Cossutianus Capito, in order to save the remainder. In this codicil he is also said to have written, by way of remonstrance against the injustice of his death, that he died without any cause for punishment, while Rufius Crispinus and Anicius Cerialis still enjoyed life, though bitter foes to the prince.

So, with all these horror stories, which are terrible to relate, and with the strange sense of nobility and pride expressed in the act of suicide itself (as an alternative to being tortured and murdered), I turn my mind to my own society, and to the peculiar attitudes we have towards suicide and death.

Book 3, Letter 17, part 2 of 2 To Seneca, on wisdom, and desire

Having only recently acquired the three books of your epistles, I am just now discovering the large collection of your other books that still exists in my day. I find in your Naturales Quaestiones a reference to your exile, and of life under Caligula.

17. At the court of Gaius (Caligula) I used to see torture, I used to see fire. I knew that under him human existence had already deteriorated to the point where those who were killed were held up as examples of mercy.

I will have to read more of this book, for there is much to discuss. I bring it up here only by way of introducing an idea for discussion. I find your philosophy to be so peaceful, so beautiful and forgiving, yet you lived in a world of terror and madness in the Imperial court. Epictetus too, whose life was anything but easy, seems to float above it all with magnanimous nobility of spirit. You see, it is not just your writing that inspires, it is the nature of the life in which it was written that seems to give it greater weight. I find the same thing among some of Yamamoto Tsunetomo's writing, and of course, of Marcus Aurelius.

I found this in the introduction to Naturales Quaestiones, I need to share this section with you, from the Harry M Hine translation of 2010:

Seneca’s practice exemplifies his conviction that progress can best be made by critical dialogue with the thinkers of the past. He has a clear vision of meteorology as a collaborative effort by numerous investigators over many centuries, a process that will continue far into the future. Progress depends on the patient collection of information about the phenomena in question and on critical probing of the theories of one’s predecessors. He warns against dismissing the theories of the earliest thinkers as crude or silly, because they took the essential first steps, and later thinkers were building on their efforts (6.5.2–3). And just as their ideas seemed antiquated by Seneca’s day, so Seneca is sure that his ideas will seem just as antiquated to people far in the future (7.25.4–7; 7.30.5).12 Here is an implicit signal to us later readers to be as critical of his ideas as he is of the ideas of his predecessors.

I have been reading Plato, and have discovered a deep affection for the Socratic method. Starting from a position of assumed ignorance, and through questioning everything one might come to know something like the truth. It has been a major motivation behind my entire letter writing project to engage with the minds of the ancients and through a process of discussion and questioning, come to find the truth in my own life. It is not within the scope of my present life to attend university lectures and to surround myself with philosophers with whom I might have these discussions. I do what I can within the circle of friends and family that I have, and I find that I do not feel alone in my quest for wisdom.

Which brings me back around to the original topic of this letter.

There is a flexible contradiction to be found in your books which I enjoy. It is plain from your writing that you have devoted your life to reading many authors, studying everything you can and immersing yourself in a diverse range of contrasting philosophical schools. Yet here in letter II, in your epistles I find this:

The primary indication, to my thinking, of a well ordered mind is a man's ability to remain in one place and linger in his own company. Be careful, however, lest this reading of many authors and books of every sort may tend to make you discursive and unsteady. You must linger among a limited number of master thinkers, and digest their works if you would derive ideas which shall win firm hold in your mind. Everywhere means nowhere. When a person spends all his time in foreign travel, he ends by having many acquaintances, but no friends.

It is good advice, yet it seems that neither you nor I follow it truly. The stack of books on my bedside table at the present moment come from eleven different authors, across many eras. The bookshelf next to my bed contains all the books from Cicero that I own, plus Plutarch and Herodotus. They all seem like good friends to keep close, and regardless of which book sits atop the pile, having them near gives me the comfort of their wisdom.

Yet, Epictetus reminds me that there is another source of wisdom:

(Bk 1, Ch. 14, George Long translation, 1952)

When, then, you have shut the doors and made darkness within, remember never to say that you are alone, for you are not; but God is within, and your Demon is within, and what need have they of light to see what you are doing? To this God you ought to swear an oath just as the soldiers do to Caesar.

This nameless God, this nameless Demon that lives within us, and is the source of our wisdom and our torment, is perhaps the most important of all the master thinkers. Inside me is a circle of voices who vie for attention and who speak at times loudly, and at others in whispers like the wind. They have many names, and many faces. Perhaps you might enjoy reading my exploration of this room of mirrors...

http://indivisiblefrommagic.blogspot.com/2017/09/indivisble-from-magic-2017.html

A discussion for another day, my dear friend Seneca.

With Gratitude and Respect

Morgan.

Book 3, Letter 17, part 1 of 2 To Seneca, on wisdom and desire

Dear Seneca,

I've been going back over the first hundred or so pages of your Epistles, looking for a quote that I've had stuck in my head for week....yet, I can't find it...I wonder now if I didn't read it somewhere else. No matter, I'll share it with you and maybe later I can confirm the author...yet, you have said that the words of great poets and philosophers belong to us all....

When you loose something, do not say, it has been taken from me, rather, say that you have given it back. Has your sight been taken from you? Nay, I have given it back to the source. Has your child died? Nay, I have given her back. For all that we have is a gift, and all of it must one day be given back.

So, I'm quoting from memory, but that's the gist of it.

Seneca, you're having such an impact on me. I carry your book with me everywhere, I sit in cafe's reading, I sit in taverns making notes, I sit in bed holding up my heavy eyes to read just a little more.

My hunger for wisdom grows with every meal.

And so it was that I came upon this....you are quoting as you so often do, from Epicurus. (I love that you quote from Epicurus so much. It is a reminder that if an idea is good, it is good, regardless of it's philosophical source.)

If you wish to make Pythoclese rich, do not add to his store of money, but subtract from his desires.

I ask myself, am I being greedy for wisdom? Am I over-reaching? Every day I read the ancient authors, searching for the secrets that will bring me happiness, or help me solve the problems of my daily life. I read history, poetry, drama, tragedy and comedy and as much as I am fed by them and feel their continuous influence upon my life....I can say guiltily, that it is never enough.

I am greedy for wisdom. I want the answers to my problems, I want the solutions, I want to be a better writer, a better thinker, a better husband, father, friend, musician, artist...I am greedy for dignitas. There is no limit to the extent of my desires it seems.

I think, Seneca, that you understand.

Epistle VIII : On the philosopher's seclusion

I never spend a day in idleness; I appropriate even a part of the night for study. I do not allow time for sleep, but yield to it when I must, and when my eyes are wearied with waking and ready to fall shut, I keep them at their task. I have withdrawn not only from men, but from affairs, especially from my own affairs; I am working for later generations, writing down some ideas that may be of assistance to them. There are certain wholesome counsels, which may be compared to prescriptions of useful drugs; these I am putting into writing; for I have found them helpful in ministering to my own sores, which if not wholly cured, have at any rate ceased to spread.

In reading this epistle to your friend Lucilius, I find that I might quote all of it as you warn against being lured into danger by the gifts of fortune, and as you praise the middle path of simple living and simple desires.

Eat merely to relieve your hunger, drink merely to quench your thirst; dress merely to keep out the cold; house yourself merely as a protection against personal discomfort.

Despise everything that useless toil creates as an ornament and an object of beauty. And reflect that nothing except the soul is worthy of wonder; for to the soul, if it be great, naught is great.

...actually Seneca, I disagree with that last bit. I think that if the soul be great, then all is great. The greatness of a soul is in the measure with which it may contain all the world in acceptance, compassion, wisdom and wonder. I don't side with the Stoic precept, Nil Admirandum. I say instead, find wonder in everything.

But it is in the space between these contradictions that life exists. Between desire and contentment, between striving and humility. They aren't polarities to be reached, but weights to keep in balance. There are no definitions or borders separating each part, like the left hand and right hand are both part of the same body.

The day is still young, and this morning the birds cluster in their floating orchestras along the creek, singing their morning hymns in the canopy of green and shimmering leaves. Rain is on its way. Yesterday the hot wind blew red dust from the north, apocalyptic and wearying, but today there is a still before the storm. The air is warm and wet, the flowers open themselves to the sunlight and the grass grows greenest in the valleys. (I wrote this letter during Spring, now in Summer the whole country is on fire, it is quite stressful, waiting for the evacuation warning.)

If you would enjoy real freedom, you must be the slave of philosophy.

Then, Seneca, call me slave, call me a lover, call me a devotee, a mad priest, a wandering mendicant with my begging bowl held out, walking the middle path, my crooked middle path.

Or, as the Buddha says. Everything in moderation, including moderation.

Book 3, Letter 16, part 2 of 2 To Plutarch, on Origin Stories.

So, Plutarch, from here I'd like to diverge in my letter to bring up something from the beginning of Herodotus' Histories. The legend, as he claims, concerning the very origin of the conflict between east and west, or perhaps more specifically, between Hellas and Persia. I bring this up because it also concerns the kidnapping of women, and the curious attitudes towards this practice. (From the MaCaulay translation of Herodotus, Book 1)

The Phenicians arrived then at this land of Argos, and began to dispose of their ship’s cargo: and on the fifth or sixth day after they had arrived, when their goods had been almost all sold, there came down to the sea a great company of women, and among them the daughter of the king; and her name, as the Hellenes also agree, was Io the daughter of Inachos. These standing near to the stern of the ship were buying of the wares such as pleased them most, when of a sudden the Phenicians, passing the word from one to another, made a rush upon them; and the greater part of the women escaped by flight, but Io and certain others were carried off. So they put them on board their ship, and forthwith departed, sailing away to Egypt.

After this however the Hellenes, they say, were the authors of the second wrong; for they sailed in to Aia of Colchis and to the river Phasis with a ship of war, and from thence, after they had done the other business for which they came, they carried off the king’s daughter Medea: and the king of Colchis sent a herald to the land of Hellas and demanded satisfaction for the rape and to have his daughter back; but they answered that, as the Barbarians had given them no satisfaction for the rape of Io the Argive, so neither would they give satisfaction to the Barbarians for this.

From here I'd like to change over to the DeSelincourt translation...

Thus far there had been nothing worse than woman-stealing on both sides; but for what happened next the Greeks, they say, were seriously to blame; for it was the Greeks who were, in a military sense, the aggressors. Abducting young women, in their opinion, is not, indeed, a lawful act; but it is stupid after the event to make a fuss about it. The only sensible thing it to take no notice, for it is obvious that no young woman allows herself to be abducted if she does not wish to be. The Asiatics, according to the Persians, took the seizure of the women lightly enough, but not so the Greeks: the Greeks, merely on account of a a girl from Sparta, raised a big army, invaded Asia and destroyed the empire of Priam. From that root sprang their belief in the perpetual enmity of the Grecian world towards them.

Now, I know it's pointless to judge the morality of people from the ancient world by the standards of my own time, but there is something in that last passage that I can't get out of my head.

Abducting young women, in their opinion, is not, indeed, a lawful act; but it is stupid after the event to make a fuss about it. The only sensible thing it to take no notice, for it is obvious that no young woman allows herself to be abducted if she does not wish to be.

I can't decide if this is intended as a compliment to the strength of women, who it is assumed would never let themselves be abducted without putting up a fight (and by extension, defeating their kidnappers), or if it is proof that kidnapping of women was so common that people just didn't really care. The use of kidnapping as a pretext for war seems plausible, since this sort of thing has gone on all throughout history, and the famous story of the Trojan war certainly highlights the blurry line separating elopement and kidnapping, and the lies generals are willing to tell their kings in order to start a fight. I cannot, however, accept the notion that 'no young woman allows herself to be abducted if she does not wish to be.'

So, Plutarch, that's about all I wanted to bring up, just this weird, barbaric, grimy little slice of history, and the myths regarding the origin of what is still considered to be one of the greatest empires in all human history. Also, considering the never ending war between east and west, it is a matter of no small curiosity to read about the ancient origin story of the conflict, that, to this day, defines global politics, trade and even the lives of ordinary people all over the world.

It all began with a kidnapping...or a secret love affair, or both...

This is just the beginning. To really answer my question I will have to read about the Etruscans and King Tarquinius, (which will give me an opportunity to re-read the poem Horatius, by Macaulay). I will need to read about the first war against the Gauls led by Chief Brennus. I will need to learn of Titus Manlius and the Latin League. I expect I will have recourse to quote from you a great deal in this quest for understanding.

Thank you Plutarch, as always, you are a pleasure to read.

With admiration and respect,

Morgan.

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PS.  A note to my readers.

I would just like to let you all know that my solo album was released a couple months ago.  It is a mixture of world influences, mostly Middle Eastern, but i don't want to go defining my sound for you, better that you hear it for yourself.

You can check it out at:

www.zebulonstoryteller.bandcamp.com

Also, you can follow the links at the top of the page to see my many youtube videos.

Thank you all for reading, and a special shout out to my new readers from Ukraine and Poland.  It is wonderful to know that you are enjoying my journey of discovery.  Please leave a comment on the page, or you can find me through Facebook if you would like to chat.

Thank you.

Morgan Taubert.  (aka Zebulon)

Book 3, Letter 16, part 1 of 2 To Plutarch, on Origin Stories

Dear Plutarch,

Today is a catastrophic fire alert day. I am ready for the possibility that I may have to flee with my family to safety. After packing a few clothes and some bottled water, I turned to my bookshelves. I packed Herodotus, I packed Seneca's Epistles, and I packed all your books Plutarch. I am proud to call you my friend and to value your writing as much as I do. With one bag full, I then I found an old leather doctor's bag and packed all of Cicero's books, and the Seven Pillars of Wisdom by TE Lawrence, then I packed Plato and Marcus Aurelius, Epictetus, a few books of poetry. I have my ukulele, my setar and my frame drum. My own collected writing is all stored on my computer, and backed up on external hard-drives. It is fascinating to make a list of this nature, and to identify so clearly the most important items in my possession.

The fires keep getting closer. Nearby towns are already being evacuated and a fire on the road leading to the nearby farm where I work is now being attended to. The rainless storm winds are reaching 90km per hour. Now, as the sun sets, the temperature is at last dropping from 45C. It should be 22C by nightfall. Fire fighters will work through the night. Heroic champions all of them. If any of these fires are found to have been deliberately lit, is is easy to imagine a return to public lynchings. However, I did not write to you today to talk about fires, books or mob justice.

Tangled as I have been in the Civil Wars of Rome, in Cicero's letters and Caesar's war stories, I have found myself asking the question, where did it begin? So, I turn to you, Plutarch. You who knew the old stories so well.

The story of Romulus and Remus is confusing, confounding, absurd, mythical, mundane and layered with so many possible variations, that discerning the historical truth of the events is impossible. Or, as you put it...(in the introduction to your life of Theseus – from the Dryden translation of 1906)

As geographers crowd into the edges of their maps parts of the world which they do not know about, adding notes in the margin to the effect, that beyond this lies nothing but sandy deserts full of wild beasts, unapproachable bogs, Scythian ice, or a frozen sea, so, in this work of mine, in which I have compared the lives of the greatest men with one another, after passing through those periods which probable reasoning can reach to and real history find a footing in, I might very well say of those that are farther off, Beyond this there is nothing but prodigies and fictions, the only inhabitants are the poets and inventors of fables; there is no credit, or certainty any farther.

Let us hope that Fable may, in what shall follow, so submit to the purifying processes of Reason as to take the character of exact history. In any case, however, where it shall be found contumaciously slighting credibility, and refusing to be reduced to any thing like probable fact, we shall beg that we may meet with candid readers, and such as will receive with indulgence the stories of antiquity.

I asked the question (where did it all begin..?) because I wanted to understand something about the pride that Cicero felt for his nation. He wrote, in a letter to Aulus Manlius Torquatus, in January 45BCE, '...you are living in a city which gave birth to, and fostered a systematic rule of life...' In order to understand that statement, I recently began reading An introduction to Roman Law, by Barry Nicholas, 1962, which has been far more exciting to read that I ever expected. I can see why Cicero would be proud of his city's legal history.

However, I'm getting ahead of myself, I wanted to understand the underlying myths that the Roman people told themselves about their origins. So, in your account of the legend of Romulus and Remus, I found a few things I would like to discuss. I'll try to summarise...

The two boys, founders of Rome, Romulus and Remus, were possibly the twins of a prostitute, or a vestal virgin, possibly kidnapped, or abandoned in the wild, possibly suckled by a great she-wolf...there are more variations, each of them equally plausible in my mind.

Their city site was chosen based upon a bogus oracular reading...actually, that's a good place to pause for a second. The Roman origin story, the founding myth, contains an open accusation that oracular readings could be falsified. The way you tell it seems to make plain that the whole system of bird auguries was far from reliable, in fact it reads to me like it was well understood that this religious belief was frequently manipulated by people in power to suit their own purposes.

So right off the bat, this founding myth sounds more like a cynical history than an ancient fairy tale. Certainly, Plutarch, by the time you were writing about it, the world had become very sophisticated, deeply cynical, and, enriched by hundreds of years of written history, Rome had developed a high level of self awareness and critical thinking. Reading Tacitus shows me just how jaded a 'modern' Roman might become, when exposed to the books, plays and luxury of high society, not to mention politics, court intrigues and war.

But, back to the story...

So they build the city, there's a bit of fighting with the neighbours, Romulus kills his own brother over a dispute about walls and city boundaries, and then comes the rape of the Sabines. Rome, at a critical stage in its early development, has buildings, roads, industry....but hardly any women. There were some attempts at making marriage deals with the neighbours, but when that fell through, treachery, kidnapping, rape and war was the next obvious step.

In the fourth month, after the city was built, as Fabius writes, the adventure of stealing the women was attempted; and some say Romulus himself, being naturally a martial man, and predisposed too, perhaps, by certain oracles, to believe the fates had ordained the future growth and greatness of Rome should depend upon the benefit of war, upon these accounts first offered violence to the Sabines, since he took away only thirty virgins, more to give an occasion of war than out of any want of women. But this is not very probable; it would seem rather that, observing his city to be filled by a confluence of foreigners, few of whom had wives, and that the multitude in general, consisting of a mixture of mean and obscure men, fell under contempt, and seemed to be of no long continuance together, and hoping farther, after the women were appeased, to make this injury in some measure an occasion of confederacy and mutual commerce with the Sabines, he took in hand this exploit after this manner

Setting up a big festival, the Romans invited their neighbours to celebrate, and right in the middle of the party, the Romans kidnap all the young women. Some say it was only a few pretty girls, others say it was hundreds of girls and a few married women. Some say it was a violent act, complete with rape, others claim that no such crimes were committed...the women were hostages, in the old fashioned method, taken to ensure peace with the neighbours, but this time with the added bonus of also granting wives to the unmarried men of Rome.

I've got to say Plutarch, as far as origin stories go, these Romans don't seem to be ashamed of airing their dirty laundry. I wonder, did you consider yourself better off having been born Greek? The Romans thought themselves superior to all other people, but I have this funny feeling that the Greeks were sometimes quietly laughing at the silly, sometimes pompous pride the Romans had for themselves.

Anyway, so there's a long gap between the kidnapping, and when the Sabines came back to rescue their women. It's a really long gap. Years. Children have been born in the intervening time, born of the 'arranged' marriages to the Roman men. When the Sabines come back to fight the Romans, the war is terrible, and many young men die. The wives take matters into their own hands and stop the fighting in the following manner.

For the daughters of the Sabines, who had been carried off, came running, in great confusion, some on this side, some on that, with miserable cries and lamentations, like creatures possessed, in the midst of the army, and among the dead bodies, to come at their husbands and their fathers, some with their young babes in their arms, others their hair loose about their ears, but all calling, now upon the Sabines, now upon the Romans, in the most tender and endearing words. Hereupon both melted into compassion, and fell back, to make room for them betwixt the armies. The sight of the women carried sorrow and commiseration upon both sides into the hearts of all, but still more their words, which began with expostulation and upbraiding, and ended with entreaty and supplication.

“Wherein,” say they, “have we injured or offended you, as to deserve such sufferings, past and present? We were ravished away unjustly and violently by those whose now we are; that being done, we were so long neglected by our fathers, our brothers, and countrymen, that time, having now by the strictest bonds united us to those we once mortally hated, has made it impossible for us not to tremble at the danger and weep at the death of the very men who once used violence to us. You did not come to vindicate our honor, while we were virgins, against our assailants; but do come now to force away wives from their husbands and mothers from their children, a succor more grievous to its wretched objects than the former betrayal and neglect of them. Which shall we call the worst, their love-making or your compassion? If you were making war upon any other occasion, for our sakes you ought to withhold your hands from those to whom we have made you fathers-in-law and grandsires. If it be for our own cause, then take us, and with us your sons-in-law and grandchildren. Restore to us our parents and kindred, but do not rob us of our children and husbands. Make us not, we entreat you, twice captives.”

...

Book 3, Letter 15: To Rafael Roccisano

Hey Raf,

I saw you on the street yesterday, and I thought I should pass this on to you. Another of your friends posted this on Facebook.

*

From Audry LeMay

There's a thousand stories to be told of our brother

Raf's generosity, passion, creativity, profound sense

of honour and belief in justice for all. It hurt me not to

hear a single one told during the service.

From the day Raf moved into my house, there was not

a week he didn't actively offer food shelter, love and

fire to those around us who needed it. I will always

cherish the memories I have of him sticking his neck

out for others. Those who would steal his last dance

and make his funeral a place to put their own anger

and pain do him a grave dishonour. Everybody hurts

but love is the greatest painkiller known to mankind.

Love is the law.

Our brother deserves better than to have his death

dance reduced to an angry public health

advertisement. I was particularly heartbroken that he

died kissing the bottle for sure. But it was my

experience THAT WHEN RAF WAS KISSING BOTTLES

HE WAS ALSO KISSING YOU!

RIP Rif Raf. This Bottle's for you old friend.

*

I saw you on the street at the Semaphore Street Fair yesterday. I was there, as I am every year, with drummers and belly dancers, when I saw you walk by. Only you didn't walk....you danced. You heard the Arabic music playing for the dancers on the stage and you grooved on by, giving me a wink as you did so. You looked young, maybe twenty. You looked happy, strong. I had to catch my breath after you passed by.

Then last night, I dreamed that I was speaking with you, telling you that I had seen you on the street. So now in the morning I am writing to tell you that I love you, that we all love you and miss you.

I hope wherever you are, and whatever you are doing, that you have friends around you, and that maybe in the morning, you will rise having dreamt of us. I hope that whatever street you walk down, that you are dancing. Thank you Rafael. In death you continue to help us, to offer up the lessons of your heart for us to learn from.

The after-party of Rafael Antonio Roccisano.

The stories of our lives don't have beginnings or endings. Everything in history is connected. We gather, dressed in black on the pier, a sunset storm describes the permeable boundary between two worlds. The land of the living and the land of the dead.

Rafael was such an important person in all our lives. His story continues to have a massive impact on all of us. We still cry, we still dream of him, we hear his voice in our heads, we expect to see him among familiar faces. He is gone, but his story is far from over.

The dead are not dead.  Rafael lives in us. It is a cliché, but I feel that it is true nonetheless.

After the flowers are scattered in the swelling ocean, after the ashes are poured out, along with our tears and our words and the last of the daylight, we part and make our way, separate, but forever connected by him who brought us together. His story is connected to ours. We played with him, we drank with him, we grew up, we fought, made up, told stories, took drugs, we laughed and cried and then he died.

But the dead do not die, so long as we live to speak their name. So long as their story is connected to ours, the dead do not die. We don't have beginnings or endings. Everything in us is connected.

*

The after-party kicks on within the hour. (There's a part of me that knows that Raf would be stoked to know that there was an after-party), We crowd around the fire, the darkness expelled from our hearts, the cold repelled from our skin, we drink. We drink.

We gather in the home of the Beersmith (a.k.a. the Alchemist, the Trickster). There is talk, and warm faces turn to meet, and our hugs are long and full of meaning. The click-duh-clack of pool balls is a gentle music against which we meet to say hello, to ask of each other, to listen and tell. There is laughter, a young boy plays wild games of adventure with adventurous adults. He whoops and hollers as only a child can, tilting and falling on an adult-sized see-saw with his father.

The Beersmith dances around a steamy pot wherein a new alchemy is being birthed. The air feels intoxicating, wet with humid aromas of yeast, grain, sugar. Reading from a recipe more chemistry than culinary, he counts his friends on both hands and both feet, and there are plenty more hands offered to help with the count. Tonight he is the host of something truly special, a scattered, spin-wheel of interwoven stories. He is surrounded by storytellers. Everywhere people talk of games, of journeys, of escapades, but also of maths and movies and books and every turn of phrase is another sort of good natured joke. We laugh at our youth, at our age, at our simple striving and quarrels.

The rain is gentle.

Beyond the reach of the sheltered back porch 

a-flood with light and colour,

beyond the shelter of our hands holding hands,

out there the night is very quiet.

The rain is gentle.

Out there, in here, Rafael.

*

PS: Your brother Gabe sent me this, after the party.

Beyond the reach of the sheltered back

porch. In the rain. His brother weeps.

Gnashing of teeth. Whole heart. Feet in

the dirt.

His brother weeps and is held. And he

holds another as she weeps. And they

both let go. And hold on. Their tears

mingling in the mud.