I have been thinking about one of the letters I wrote you a few months ago, in which I discussed gladiatorial games and the cheering crowds (Epistula 7). Standing there in such a crowd makes us part of the horrible violence and all its attached vices. The greatest danger is to our minds. The inhumanity of the crowd that delights in brutality endangers our humanity. It cheapens the meaning of life itself.

I mean that and everything I wrote there. If we are to live as Stoics, we cannot let crowds influence us. If we are in a mad crowd in public, we will bring that madness back into our homes and our private lives. But despite my high-minded Stoicism, I do understand, on some base level, the astonishingly powerful emotion of being one with the many, feeling the strength of losing your one into that many. How can we keep our quiet calm when we have been tainted with the noise of the mob? How can we strive to be virtuous if we have been tainted by the vicious?

A person can avoid crowds. But there are times in our lives, as there have been times throughout history, when the mob rules. These are the most dangerous times, for our personal selves and for our country. The mob is like a beast, that can be turned this way or that by one who knows how to control it.

You might say: But is there not such a thing as a righteous crowd? Perhaps, for a short time, the crowd will push forward with positive values. Still, I even fear that crowd, because in short order, I believe it will lose its way and become an uncontrollable force for evil.

We all want to feel a part of something bigger than our individual selves: a family, a clan, a city, a country. But no matter how loving the family, or prestigious the clan, or glorious the city, or powerful the country, each of us must avoid being pulled along into something that is not true to the life of virtue which is our very purpose. 

I have written how one’s mind is affected by going to the games of the gladiators. These games turn individuals into a raving and roaring mob.

But if we take the gladiators themselves as metaphors for how we should face life, we may take a different view. They charge into the arena, without fear. To be without fear in the most dangerous possible arena is to live without fear of death. If we look at gladiators in this way, they are to be admired and emulated.

I have written and thought a great deal about death, and in sum, the more we think about death, the more we should appreciate every day of our lives. If death is nothingness, then we were dead before we were born, and after we leave this life, we will be dead for all eternity. Which brings me to think about how I can live a gladiator’s life, not in the sense of the violence they do, of course, but in the sense that we should charge into every day of our lives.

We need the gladiator’s attitude, for if we are afraid of, say, entering the political fray for fear of failure or defeat, we will never give ourselves the chance to help our fellow human beings or improve our society. I have known great influence and power, and I have known terrible disappointment when I realized that I had helped the wrong people and when I saw terrible results. I have been a master of Rome, and I have watched Rome burn. I do not hide from my mistakes. I was a gladiator, and I slashed and cut, and I had moments of glory when the whole arena seemed to be with me. And then I saw the arena jeer at my name.

Do I regret? In a way. But I lived this short time of life. And I have taken my time and converted these few moments into what I hope is wisdom, so that some who come after me will have the courage to charge into the arena, come what may.

I hope that reading will never become a lost skill. I fear that it will, for there are so few now who truly know why to read, what to read and how to read.

Why do we read? Two noble goals are moral reform and intellectual speculation. I come back to two metaphors I have used about these reasons for reading: good company and good medicine.

There are so many bad characters all around us, bullies and cheats, and it is dangerous to be in their company. If I read the right book, however, I will put myself in the company of morally superior people, and they will inspire me to emulate their goodness. I was at a dinner party and heard a reading of Quintus Sextius the Elder, and it was as if his spirit and his strength came into me. I often read philosophers who quibble and argue and set rules, but I do not feel any spirit. But I could feel Sextius living and breathing. I might think of him as a Stoic, but he did not like such confining definitions. Caesar wanted him to become a Senator, but he declined. At the end of every day, he examined his conduct for that day. When I read his words, I am in the company of someone who is honest and straightforward and who makes me want to be my own person and to have the confidence to be this. I can feel his pulse, and I can feel my own.

By good medicine I think of reading as a prescription drug to heal the sores of my soul that have been infected by bitter humors, by vapors of moral decay. I am ever aware that the state of the body is intertwined with the state of the soul. Not in one swallow, but gradually, by taking the medicine over and over, which is reading the right books, I will fight against the moral disease within me. And then when I write these things down, to share with and pass down to others, I feel the decay receding to a place inside me where it continues to shrink. And I feel my health returning me to full strength.

So good books are good company and good medicine. We should read them every day.

Now that I live the life of a sage, and I am no longer involved in politics, I think a great deal about the relationship between philosophy and politics. Philosophers do not scorn kings. For one thing, kings often respect philosophers and enable them to fulfill themselves. Kings, for their part, often cherish the advice of the philosophers as they do not see them as competitors for power. A king, despite outranking everyone, is still consumed with ambition, because the man at the top of the hill stands on guard against anyone who wants to climb. If the king has hurt anyone, he does not care. Ambition never looks back. It only looks down.

The philosopher thanks his benefactor who often allows him to put his theories about government and law into actual practice, to move from the realm of theory to real life. In one of my letters, I talk about being on a ship at sea. Many gain from a long stretch of good weather, of pleasant winds and calm waters. If I am a merchant with my life savings invested in the cargo as opposed to a merchant carrying cheap wares, I appreciate the safe passage more. A philosopher is like that first merchant when it comes to life itself. His life is bound up with the meaning of life itself, as opposed to a man who wastes his life in vice and drinking. And so, if the king’s rule is informed by the philosopher’s ideas, the sage is not just gratified on a personal level but because he truly believed that this moves the society forward.

The problem comes when the king does things for his own good, rather than the good of his subjects. A philosopher understands that the sun and the moon do not rise for him alone. But kings often forget this simple fact. A king owns; a philosopher shares. He shares his wisdom in partnership with everyone.

A king possesses; a philosopher distributes.

The king may restrict the rights of others; the philosopher wants to expand those rights.

The philosopher may owe the king for the life he has provided but is not content unless he has used this gift to give to others.

I have written about gladiators in a literal way, that when one goes to the games, one can be caught up in the bloodthirsty mob and lose one’s very self.

This is the problem with democracy: the tyrants, the demagogue, the rabble-rousers, gain popularity through passionate speech that whips up the crowds by arousing the common people against the elites or the rightful rulers. The demagogues pretend to feel the pain and frustration of the common people, act as if they are the weapon to seek justice for all of the injustices and inequalities the people have lived through. The mob does not rule; it is manipulated by the demagogue into thinking it is gaining control, while it is merely giving control to a new master.

But I am thinking today about what the gladiators actually do: what is it that whips the crowd into a frenzy? The blood and the violence, surely. But I am thinking about a simpler word: They love the fight.

I have a theory that the fight itself is what thrills the human being more than anything else, whether the schoolboys who beat each other with their little fists or the mighty armies that battle in great war and deploy the latest weapons and tactics. I have advised the government and appreciate what it can do for the people when it keeps them in mind. I am moved by the stability of just laws.

But people are not interested in how government works or how law is the foundation of society.

They are interested in politics, not government, because politics is all about ambition and competition, which is fighting. They are interested in who is up and who is down, who is in and who is out, who is winning the fight and who is losing the fight.

I am a philosopher, so I can transcend this level of life that lives for and by the fight.

But I am thinking of two possible rulers, one who lives by the fight, and one who lives to do good. Given a choice, who would the people select? I fear the answer.

When one plays the philosopher’s role, unengaged in the ugly and messy and complicated affairs of the current time, it is easy to say and think high-minded ideals. My teacher Attalus gave me the very rational road to a virtuous life if I could remain free of passion or grief or excess. Self-mastery, austerity; these concepts sound so noble. But what if one wants to make a true difference in the world as it is, by trying to affect the conduct of someone with ultimate power, coddling and pushing and entreating an unstable and volatile personality? One uses whatever tool one can find, just trying to survive and live another day when one might do some good. Stoicism says: Wealth and poverty, power and powerlessness, joy and sadness, are all merely distractions. But power is intoxicating, and once you have it, it is a strong drink that you crave. 

I actually thought that my Stoicism would enable me to be a different kind of player in the real levels of power, as I would not be so ambitious or care for the trappings. If one is not worried about one’s fortune, one should not be afraid to walk right into the jaws of Fortune. I thought that since everything is temporary, I would not care if I had power or I lost it, because everything is so short-lived. I wrote such words in “Of Peace of Mind,” and I believed them then.

Why, after all, did the greatest teacher Aristotle teach the young Alexander? And what teacher could reject the possibility of being the new Aristotle? When Agrippina set out to promote Nero ahead of Britannicus, who was the better man and the better choice to succeed Claudius, she got rid of anyone who supported Britannicus. She brought me back and I had visions of Aristotle and Alexander. The young Nero would be my great protege. I was blind to the fact that Nero was, from the start, a lost cause.

A teacher believes that he can teach his students and that they will learn. I suppose that one would not become a teacher if one did not believe this. And if your student may become the most powerful man in the world, you see an opportunity to change the world. And I grabbed this opportunity with everything I had, with all of my skill, but also all of my ability to confuse and obfuscate and, yes, lie, and yes, be party to murder.

When Nero decided to murder his mother and make it seem like an accident, only to fail through incompetence and confusion, he had to send his men to stab her.

And so Nero turned to me. And here I was, celebrated rhetorician, a satirist, the author of several books of natural history, a playwright and a writer on ethics and moral philosophy. I wrote a letter to the Senate explaining what had happened, all in the voice of the emperor. I explained that Agrippina was hungry for power and had been planning to overthrow Nero. The plot was revealed and she had taken her own life. I had him say: “That I am safe, neither, as yet, do I believe, nor do I rejoice.”

And everyone at least seemed to believe these complete falsehoods. There were games, and offerings at shrines, and Agrippina’s birthday was classed among the inauspicious days.

When Britannicus was murdered, I wrote “On Mercy,” addressed to Nero, saying that I am merely a “mirror” of his own virtues; beneficence, kindheartedness, a young ruler who had “spilt not a drop of human blood in the whole world.” I was willing to praise this violent and dangerous ruler even to the extent of absolutely denying the reality of his behavior.

And even worse, I grew rich from Nero’s crimes. Britannicus’ wealth was divided up and I got my share. I owned property not just in Rome but also in Egypt, Spain, and southern Italy.

Can I reconcile my contradictions? I may be a hypocrite almost without equal in world. But I was sometimes a force of moral restraint. Perhaps there is still time to change the world.

For all of my writings, I really never explained how I think about God. I realize now that I should have written an essay focused on this subject. I should have written about the attributes or nature of the Divine Being. I was very good on the practical ethical questions, but I only touched incidentally here and there on my conception of God and of the relation of God to humans. I obviously refer to God in many places, and imply what I believe, but at least I can do this now, in a more explicit way, even if it is just for you. This may take me two letters, one to go over what has been said before, and one to try to explain what I believe.

Here I go back to my predecessors. Greek philosophy gradually attempted to replace religion, placing itself on the throne like Zeus defeating his father. It presented an Ultimate or Original Essence that might not have had a name like a god but occupied the place of the gods and fulfilled their functions. The Original Essence was, is, and will be eternal. Thales asserted its unity. Anaximander added the attribute of infinity. Heraclitus emphasized constant change in things. His famous maxim was “All is in flux.” He regarded activity as the essential attribute of the ultimate entity, which he compared to fiery breath (which sounds quite mythological to me). Parmenides emphasized the opposite attribute, the “unchangeableness” of the ultimate, and postulated a single changeless substance as Essence. Philosophers understood that the principles Heraclitus and Parmenides were right, though seemingly opposites: Activity produces the variety and change we sense all around us; our reason demands that we recognize the unity and permanence in the world.

I will jump over Empedocles and Anaxagoras who attempted to harmonize these opposites. I also jump over the Atomists, who assumed a single material substance, homogeneous atoms, and the Pythagoreans, who traced the origin of things to a single immaterial principle: the idea of number.

Plato’s doctrine of ideas leads to his theory of the Ultimate. The ideas find their unity in the supreme Idea of the Good, which he calls God. Plato’s Idea of the Good is not identical with the physical universe because the world is imperfect and changeable, and I know this sounds strange, but he sees the real world as relatively unreal compared to the contrast with the absolute reality and changeless perfection of the world of ideas. The divine Idea alone possesses real being and this is distinct from the imperfect and unreal universe. The divine Idea exists not only in the imperfect universe, but also apart from it.

One of the questions I ask of all these philosophers is whether the power of the Universe is a Being. Did Plato’s supreme Idea have a personality (for lack of a better word)? Like Socrates, Plato often speaks of God, who is identical with the highest Idea, is morally perfect, and exercises providential care over men. I think God is just a convenient way to say these things, a way that is left over from the anthropomorphic gods.

Aristotle modifies Plato’s theory of ideas in his doctrine of “form.” The Perfect Form is distinct from the imperfect world. While I do not think Plato conceives his Supreme Idea as a Being, Aristotle does sometimes describe his Pure Form as a Being that thinks.

I know that my idea of God is different from all these. God is identical with the universe. God is an intelligent, free, self-conscious being. I believe in a divine universe which is a personal being. The universe in and of itself is divine.

How this relates to our lives, and how the Stoics have thought these things together I shall explain to you next week.

Last week, I surveyed for you the many different concepts of God that I found among the great Greek teachers of the past, before making a first confession of mine, as grounded in Stoic philosophy: “The universe in and of itself is divine.”

Paradoxically, the Stoics’ theory of a universal world deity does not leave room for the gods, but they do not deny their existence. The Stoics also reject the theory of a transcendent deity, such as Plato’s Idea or Aristotle’s Pure Form. God and the universe are one.

This all gets closer to what I believe. Notice my attitude toward the gods of Greece and Rome. I do not believe in the gods, as they seem so primitive, so irrational, and all too human. The gods are special manifestations of that one deity. So, I speak of God as the rector orbis terrarum caelique et deorum omnium deus, a quo ista numina, quae singula adoramus et colimus, suspensa sunt (cf. Fragment 26) “The ruler of earth and heaven, the God of all Gods, on whom depend those individual divinities which we adore and worship.” Sometimes I use the plural “Gods” as the equivalent of the singular “God” or “nature” or “the universe.” God is the universe: Quid est deus? quod vides totum et quod non vides totum" (see Naturales Quaestiones I, Preface § 13): “What is God? The universe, visible and invisible.”

If you wonder what my theology has to do with my ethical teachings, you are asking exactly the right question. My ethics are closely connected to my thoughts about God. God is unchangeable; the universe acts according to uniform law. When we talk about “fate” or “destiny,” we usually see the fixed order of events as something that oppresses and controls us. I see fate as the beneficent will of a wise and good power. I wrote: “His will must be ever the same because he can never do anything except that which is best.” I wrote: “He decreed the laws once for all, he continually obeys them.”

If we follow the Stoic ideal that our actions and conduct should be acted in harmony with nature, and you follow my concept of nature as God, then moral behavior is obedience to God. I have said things like: “Follow God without murmuring.” “Obey God willingly.” “Change yourself, don’t try to change the gods.”

So, my philosophy is clear. My beliefs are clear. My code of conduct is clear. Whether I have lived up to all this is also clear: I have not. My contradictions are so stark, so blatant. I knew what was decreed and I did not obey.

This either makes me a fascinating person, or a horrendous hypocrite.

I picture a man following another man. Since he is following closely, he does not look at the road ahead, or the road behind, or anything on either side of the road.

I wrote once: A man who follows someone else does not find anything, because he is not even looking.

Now think about old roads and new roads. It is fine to follow the old road, but if I can find a better road, a shorter or easier one, I should walk down that new one. There were men who once opened what is now the old road. We may now be the ones who can open up a new road.

I wrote this very important idea: The men who pioneered the old routes are leaders, not our masters.

What did I mean? The man you are following on that old road is a leader or a teacher. Let us assume that this man is a moral man who has done good or even great things. Still, I do not think we should follow anyone blindly. If we are only staring at their backs, we do not see anything. How can we learn anything about the road this way? How can we learn and grow as individuals? We are like dogs following our masters.

And this is the distinction I want to press on you, the difference between masters and leaders.

We begin any effort by learning from teachers and parents. We admire them and model ourselves after them. We yearn to become them. We accept their views and theories and methods. We are right to see all their knowledge and intelligence.

They are our leaders. But we are not dogs. We cannot and should not turn our leaders into our masters. We may admire them, but we should always look forwards and backwards and to both sides. It is difficult, but we must not be reluctant to question them. If we make our leaders into our masters, we will never build on their achievements.  

I mean all kinds of leaders, including political and religious leaders. No generation has all the truth. New generations must find new truths.

There are times when we are forced to follow leaders who are tyrants. They strike terror in our hearts, and we must protect ourselves. I’m not talking about people who are compelled to follow tyrants. But many of us choose to submit our minds to another. When we blindly follow a leader, we may defend their indefensible actions.

We are no longer free when we make our leaders into masters.

When one has read something as a youth, and then reads it later in life after experiencing so much, the words can find meaning and relevance in a way they never could have at that earlier point.

There was a word from Aristotle that I found was haunting me: Megalopsychia. So I went back and looked in the Nicomachean Ethics and then a passage in the Posterior Analytics. I had thought of the word as meaning ‘a great-souled man’, and I had connected it to the virtue of magnanimity. A megalopsychos is magnanimous and just, a gentleman statesman. 

Now that I have gone back and read, I see ambiguity. While the term means that the megalopsychos both clams and deserves much, Aristotle does not really give a detailed description of the virtue. But it is that very vagueness that interests me because any leader who is ambitiously disposed towards honor and fortune will only accomplish those goals by being immersed in the messiness of people and life. It is the passage in Posterior Analytics that confuses and intrigues me, because Aristotle seems to say that Alcibiades, Achilles, and Ajax are megalopsychoi because they will not abide dishonor, but that Lysander and Socrates are megalopsychoi because they do not care about fortune. These are very different exemplars of megalopsychia. This tells me that the dispositions towards honor and fortune are multi-tracked.

One can become great by being disposed to claim honor because one deserves honor. One can seek the esteem of his fellow citizens and achieve this esteem by being worthy of it. Or reverse this: If you are honorable and just, and are not only concerned for glory and honor, if you do virtuous deeds that are beneficial to all, and then receive honor, and even fortune, you deserve it, and everyone benefits.

So why was this word haunting me? What if you live every day, as I have, not in pursuit of the esteem of your fellow human beings, but in pursuit of the favor of one terrible human being?

And what if we have a system, here in Rome, the greatest state in the world, where everything revolves around one man, a man who is not only not greater than others but worse than the commoner who at least has basic virtues? What if all the power emanates not from a great-souled man but not even from a good-souled man?

A monarchy is a game of chance. If the king should be a megalopsychos, then one might have a golden age. Then, for all the problems of the world, that leader would at least be trying to nourish the esteem of his people by doing the best he could for them. He might succeed or fail in accomplishing his goals, but the goals would be worthy ones that all good people could understand. And they would be sympathetic even when he fails.

But if hereditary succession should yield a monster who is not concerned with the esteem of others because he already has power and fortune, and everyone around him bows to his every wish, no matter how evil or destructive, then we might as well set the mighty city of Rome on fire, for it will not survive.

I am thinking about what I believe was my first letter, where I urged you to continue your efforts in devoting time to philosophical study. Too much time is wasted on worldly pursuits. Time flies, and while we delay what matters, life runs past. Vergil said: “tempus fugit” and Horace said “carpe diem.” But I think now that I did not offer any new philosophical insight. To let one’s time slip away is to let oneself be occupied with things that are not really important. I confess that I have wasted time, but now at least I recognize when I am doing so. I count this as progress. I try not to associate with people who waste time. With every passing year, I hoard my time like some pauper hoards his money and animals hoard their food. Time has become truly precious to me. Any second not spent with people or doing things I care about feels like time that has been stolen from me with no chance of return.

Many think that money is the most valuable resource because it enables one to survive. But most of us can make more money. Time, on the other hand, cannot be replaced. More time cannot be bought. Time does not discriminate whether you are rich or poor. We simply cannot get more time.

When I was young, I thought I was immortal and invulnerable. I wasted my time with people who had no real value to me and engaged in activities that did nothing for my life. But I can do better now.

I know that one cannot live every moment fully; every second can’t be savored; that’s just not realistic and would probably be exhausting. We waste time in daily activities. And, yes, we sometimes endure people and activities that don’t interest us because it is the political or polite or compassionate thing to do.

Cherish and protect your time as it was the last food on Earth.
Know your values and priorities.
Make deliberate choices how you spend and use your time.
Discriminate against people and activities who waste your time.

In the end, I want to look back on my life and have few regrets about how I spent my time. And, so far, it has been time well spent.

When I look back at one of my greatest works, De Clementia, I do not see it as praising the king and his absolute power. On the contrary, I say that the king’s power may be absolute, but it is conditional. I do this by presenting two different models of rulership, the king and the tyrant.

A king is distinguished from a tyrant by whether he practices clementia or not (De Clementia, 1.12.1–3): it is “his behaviour, not his title,” that is important. I grant that while both kings and tyrants use violence against their citizens, tyrants use it for their pleasure, but good kings only use it when necessary (1.11.4).

A king who is good will find that his citizens will protect his life at the expense of their own, but a tyrant should be wary of revolts and plots by his subjects. I encouraged the king to imitate the model of a king in the following passage:  “… people are utterly prepared to hurl themselves onto the swords of would-be assassins and to lay down their lives if his path to safety must be paved with their corpses: keeping watch at night they protect his sleep, surrounding him as a shield they guard his flanks, and when dangers come rushing on they put themselves in their path” (1.3.3). On the other hand, I warned the king that “whole nations and peoples have undertaken to destroy their tyrannical rulers, both when they’ve suffered and when suffering has been threatened” (1.26.1). Both the king and the tyrant possess absolute power, but only the king can expect to hold onto it.

Subjects are very emotional about their relationship to their king, and so I compared a king to either a good father or a cruel father or master of slaves. I mentioned the famous slave master Vedius Pollio, who fed disobedient slaves alive to his moray eels. Augustus had to step in and prohibit Pollio from carrying out this horrible punishment (1.18.2). Augustus was a good emperor who disdained cruelty so much that he prohibited others from practicing it. I also told the tale of the cruel father Tricho, who flogged his son to death; even though he was an aristocrat, he was attacked and nearly murdered by a mob (1.15.1). The emperor who treats his subjects with cruelty will suffer a similar fate. Just like a father, the king should be a benevolent paterfamilias to his children or citizenry respectively.

I gave the example of the good father Lucius Tarius who, after learning that his own son had conspired against his life, only punished him with a comfortable exile in the city of Massilia. It was Augustus again, acting as a member of the council of advisors that judged the trial of Tarius’s son. Augustus “decreed neither the sack nor snakes nor a prison cell [for Tarius’s son] but made plain that a father should be content with the mildest punishment” (1.18.7). I set out these examples to advise the man in power that his position depends on his willingness to be the good father rather than the cruel master.

In another work, De Beneficiis, I say something similar, that “power is itself dependent on the consent and support of lesser men.” One will not keep this support if one mistreats his people (5.4.3). I even stated, and I hold to this now, that I would assassinate a tyrant if there “is no hope whatsoever for sanity, then with the same stroke I will return the favour and confer a benefit on everyone. For such corrupt characters, death is a cure; if he is never going to come back to himself then it is best for him to make his exit” (7.20.3).

Years ago, I warned Nero that his power was based on his ability to be a good king and a good father who has obligations to his subjects. To wield supreme power without a sense of those obligations is to tempt fate in the most dangerous way.

“There was not a man in the army truer to you, as long as you deserved to be loved. I began to hate you when you turned into the murderer of your mother and wife—a chariot-driver, an actor.” I am haunted by this sentence. I was not there, but people have repeated these words as those of a Praetorian guard named Subrius Flavus. Nero asked him why he had joined the Pisonian conspiracy against him, and this was his answer.

The conspiracy was comprised of various aristocratic and Praetorian collaborators. Flavus was saying that Nero had failed to uphold his obligations and that this delegitimized his authority as emperor. I also heard that when Nero asked the Praetorian guard Sulpicius Asper why he had joined the plot, Sulpicius responded that “it was the only service that could be rendered to your many infamies.”

Here, the words of Flavus and Asper articulate my warnings to Nero that an emperor who behaves as a tyrant is likely to face opposition in the form of conspiracies and plots. The Pisonian conspiracy contained individuals from both the Praetorian guard and Roman aristocracy who, among other reasons, plotted against Nero on account of his failure to set a moral example after he had his mother and wife murdered and performed on stage. These events validate my advice.

The obligations of a subject to his king end when the king does not fulfill his obligations to his subjects. I think about the sincere emotion in the courageous statement of Flavus. He loved his king. His life was dedicated to his king. He wanted desperately to continue to love and protect his emperor. But even he, the truest of subjects, could no longer go on subjecting himself to the cruel and murderous king.

Even absolute power is tenuous, because even the most powerful tyrant is one stab of the knife, one cup of poison, away from the end.

Flavus is not me; he does not have my skill or my philosophy. But he sums up much of what I want to say. He is telling all kings: Be good, and you will be loved. Be merciful, and your power will only increase.

People want to love their ruler. They do not ask for much. They do not ask for perfection. They do ask for civility, and decency.

Is this too much to ask?

In my Thyestes, I use the palace of the Tantalids as a symbol of tyranny.  I picture the royal house as an aggressive structure that sprawls, threatening to swallow everything, to dominate and absorb the natural world. In the same way, Atreus, the tyrant who resides there, wants to capture the hearts, and control the bodies of his subjects. The palace, and Atreus, oppress their subjects.

I have Thyestes meditate on kingship and reject royal pomp and luxury (455-465):

"The lowly state does not tremble at [my] overhanging house, fixed upon the peak of a lofty mountain, nor does grandiose ivory shine from my high ceilings; no bodyguard keeps my sleep safe. I do not fish with armadas and drive the sea back by imposing breakwaters, nor do I feed my insatiable stomach with the tribute of nations; there is no plantation laid out for me beyond the Getae and Parthians; I am not revered with incense, nor are altars adorned for me to the exclusion of Jupiter; no forest sways, planted upon my roofs."

You could say that this passage does not describe the house of the Tantalids at all, and you would be right. I have Thyestes conjuring up typical images of imperial pomp.

I describe the palace again in the speech of the Messenger who brings the news of Atreus' crime (641-649):

"There is a place, in the highest citadel of Pelops' house, turned to the south, whose furthest flank rises to the height of a mountain, and presses upon the city and holds the people, contemptuous of their rulers, beneath its stroke. The monstrous roof gleams, containing multitudes, and glorious columns, variously speckled, bear its gilded beams. Behind this landmark for the masses, which nations tend, the rich house sprawls in every direction."

In both passages, I present the palace as a hostile, threatening presence. In Thyestes's speech, the image is like the sword of Damocles: the palace hangs over the city, a dangerous threat to fall and crush them at any moment. Thyestes emphasizes the city's abject state before the looming palace by describing it as humilis — not merely 'low' in the sense of direction but also humble.

In the messenger's speech, the danger has come much closer, and is much more active. The phrase habet sub ictu--"holds beneath its stroke" makes the building an active entity: the power of the ruler in the palace moves into the building itself as if it were alive. The palace does not just hang over the people; it "presses upon them," it directly threatens them. Any rebellion is held in check; the people may hate the ruler but are held down by the palace; the palace threatens to crush them, but, for the moment, withholds the final blow.

With my close proximity to an absolute ruler, I was thinking about the Domus Aurea--"Golden House"--built by Nero in the heart of Rome.  In Thyestes, I give a vivid picture of what can spring from the place of diseased nature at the tyranny's heart.

I wonder, in the centuries to come, if tyranny will always be represented by magnificent buildings and monuments. Architects will always be eager to work for such leaders, because the rulers’ megalomania hungers for those who will enable them to work on a massive scale. The absolute power of the rulers gives the builders a blank slate on which to build, with no concern for public reaction.

The tyrants install themselves forever into their cities' image. Tyrannies want to create a permanent presence in the hearts of their subjects. They do this by making their physical centres of power dominate the landscape.

And much of the time, we are powerless, afraid of the moment when the palace will crash down on our lives.

Today I thought about my work in my life in three parts: my role in politics, my Stoic philosophy, and my tragedies. I am not sure at all that my plays are understood, and I think I know why. As highly as I regard myself, I think I have reached for something in my revenge tragedies that I have not quite developed as I hoped.

Someday, perhaps, a greater playwright will write a revenge play, drawing on my themes, but will reveal the complexities in a way I have not. The main character, the avenger, will have to be a philosopher himself, certain in his justified outrage but quite aware of the destruction his passion will cause, quite cognizant that his passion for vengeance is tearing his world apart. The actor would have to be very skilled to draw the audience into the rightness of his cause. He would have lived a Stoic existence before this, refusing to allow anyone or anything to gain control over him. But now, because of the violent deed that has ripped the fabric of his life, he can no longer maintain that philosophical mode. As he moves back and forth between his Stoicism and his new passion that he can only sometimes control, we would feel his struggle.

I see all this as a metaphor for the way a State conducts itself. A government should seek to maintain order and justice and to protect its citizens from dangers both external and internal. But then something happens, some moral outrage or violent act, and the blood of the polity boils, and turns into a passionate mob, screaming for revenge. They are not wrong to seek redress. And yet that revenge, often channeled into an unnecessary war, may not solve anything at all, and may very well be the undoing of all.

I could not bring the three parts of my life together and put them successfully on the stage, but I hope that I have made some advances towards what will no doubt be the greatest tragedy of all time.

Many Romans like the idea of a strong and powerful king. One man rule.

Their dream is that a strong tyrant will be their tyrant. This is what I thought: He may be a tyrant, but he is my tyrant. But it does not work this way.

In the days of the Republic, there were leaders who listened to the people. Consuls would come and go. Popularity ebbed and flowed. But a king, at least once he is in power, need not listen to anyone. He owes nothing to no one. He can abuse the people and they suffer without rebellion. They take such abuse as a matter of course. They get used to it and are happy when they are not personally abused.

Another false dream is that the tyrant will unite the country. But a tyrant will always claim that some are full citizens and others are not. He will portray groups as the enemy. If you are in a group he likes, this might feel good. If you are in the “Us,” and not the “Them’, you feel that you are not in danger. The truth is that everyone is in danger. Under a tyrant, fear is the essence of life.

Every tyrant wants to be the strongest power and may actually confer with other tyrants. They will exchange ideas and learn from each other. They will grasp new ways to oppress and to exploit their peoples. A tyrant will measure himself by the wealth and power of other tyrants, past and present.

Another false dream is that the strong tyrant will get things done. But tyranny is not about achieving anything positive. It is about preventing anyone else from achieving anything. The tyrant is not really a strong man; he is really a weak man. Yet he makes everyone else weaker. 

As he gets richer through corruption, everybody except the tyrant and his family and friends gets poorer. If there is inequality in wealth, that inequality will get wider.  

Under a tyrant, you cannot trust your friends or even your family. Fear destroys all relationships. Fear consumes your every thought. You cannot say what you believe. You forget what you really believe. You are no longer yourself.

Beware the false dreams that create a tyrant. You will live to regret those dreams. If you live at all.

I am thinking about power and powerlessness. I have written that a great source of freedom is found if one does not seek power. There is great freedom in living a life of contentment and simplicity. If one rids oneself of the desire to rule, one can gain the understanding that worldly power is meaningless.

And yet, the savage irony is that freedom is an illusion if the powerless allow those with power to sadistically abuse them in the most heinous ways. My Thyestes means to explore this theme, especially at the end, where the powerless Thyestes suffers the most horrible of fates; it would be better to be tortured to death rather than to find that one has eaten his own children. Too many of us, like Thyestes, allow themselves to be deceived by the unscrupulous and the ruthless.

We should know enough about the real world, not the ideal world of philosophers but the world as it is, that Thyestes unwittingly participates in the most heinous of scenes. This represents our willingness, even though we do not think that we are willing, to accept the evil of some of those who wield power. This is a world filled with cruel tyrants.

The Chorus in my play becomes alarmed when it observes the going down of the Sun and fears that the whole fabric of the universe will dissolve into fragments and lapse into eternal chaos. As I have reflected on the political atmosphere I have experienced, I have had moments of this kind of utter pessimism.

The philosopher in me wants to believe that some can stay away from power and live their quiet lives. The truth is that we cannot afford contentment. We cannot go away. The man who has experienced so much, and, yes, has enjoyed power, knows that those who are thoughtful human beings, who believe in morality and goodness, must act in the public arena.

Perhaps it is those who do not want to seek power who should be given power, and those who seek power should be kept away from it. For they will abuse us and enjoy every minute of our suffering. We cannot cede power to evil human beings thinking that we will find quiet contentment. This simply does not work. We must not seek power for its own sake, or for our personal gain, but to stop the tyrants who will prepare a banquet for us that will be the ruin of our lives.

I feel like a character in one of my own plays. I am filled with uncontrollable fear and guilt.

I know that the assassination of Nero has failed, and my life is forfeit. I struggle, in these last moments, with whether to forgive myself. The moral anguish for one who strove to be the paragon of virtue is a heavy burden to bear.

I have, in my own way, tried to reveal my complicity in evil in my plays. There I have exposed the violence in our world. I try to put it on stage so that we might all recoil from it. Sophocles and Euripides were great dramatizers of myths, and so am I. But while they spared the audience terribly violent acts by placing them offstage, I make the audience watch. I make them witness Jocasta’s suicide, Medea’s murder of her children, and Atreus’ triumphant presentation of the heads of Thyestes’ sons. And since I know the truth about things that really happened, in my version of “Oedipus,” Jocasta stabs herself in the womb, which is where Agrippina asked to be stabbed by Nero’s assassins. This was my way of bringing the truth out that I had obscured so successfully. I know that it is too little, too subtle, and too late.

Many call my tragedies too violent and bloody to perform, and still others ask how I, a Stoic, can portray these characters who are so wildly out of control in their passions. “Even if I destroy two sons, still the number is too limited for my anguish,” Medea tells Jason before killing their second child. My mythic characters live in a world where there is no forgiveness or relief or comfort. As Medea flies off on her serpent-drawn chariot, I have Jason call up, “Bear witness that wherever you go, there are no gods.” Where I will go soon, there are no gods. My guilt over my collaboration flies to the skies like that chariot.

I was such a coward that I did not voice these things directly. I placed all my disgust at Nero’s excesses, my own ambivalence about my own ambitions, I took all of it and projected it onto the House of Atreus.

It almost does not matter if I am innocent or not. The truth, at a time like this, is not the point. I have been ordered to commit suicide. I cut my wrists, and it is not working, so I have cut the veins behind my knees. I am dictating this letter to my secretary, and …