Lời tựa:   
               
Như đã giới thiệu trong series, Seneca thực sự là nguồn cảm hứng Stoicism của mình. Đọc Seneca không chỉ là về triết học mà còn là một trải nghiệm nghệ thuật, khi những bài học, triết lý quan trọng được phản ánh qua những hình ảnh quen thuộc, bình dị và đời thường, thể hiện cái tinh tế trong quan sát của một thiên tài với sự từng trải của cuộc đời. 
                                     
Với hy vọng giới thiệu Stoicism đến với các bạn trẻ Việt Nam, xin gửi tới các bạn bản dịch những bức thư quan trọng nhất trong cuốn "Moral Letters to Lucilius", tác phẩm đã làm nên tên tuổi của Seneca và là một trong bộ ba cuốn sách nền tảng của Stoicism.     
                                                   
Do không phải anh dịch thuật, nên bản dịch này hoàn toàn tập trung vào việc truyền tải thông điệp và hy vọng có thể giúp bạn cảm thấy dễ dàng hơn trong việc tiếp cận với bản tiếng Anh, để có thể thấy cái hay cái đẹp trong việc sử dụng ngôn từ của Seneca (dù thực ra bản tiếng Anh cũng chỉ là một bản dịch). Một anh bạn người Ý của mình đã chia sẻ Seneca được đưa vào chương trình giảng dạy tại Ý như một bậc thầy về việc sử dụng ngôn từ. Vì vậy, xin cam đoan tất cả những gì khiến bạn cảm thấy trúc trắc từ bản dịch là bởi khả năng hạn chế của mình, và rất mong nhận được đóng góp của các cao nhân để bản dịch được hoàn thiện hơn. 

Lưu ý: vì một số lý do như nội dung không còn quá sát và cần thiết với thời hiện tại, mình sẽ không dịch 4 bức số 58, 85, 92, và 95 nhé. Nếu bạn nào muốn tìm hiểu thêm thì bản tiếng Anh có sẵn trên Wiki, hay có thể nhắn cho mình mình sẽ gửi bản pdf sách.

Bức thư số 102

Như thế là quá đủ với những kẻ thích uốn nắn câu chữ. Chúng ta không bao giờ nên bàn về những thứ quá nhỏ nhặt và kéo triết từ sự cao đẹp của nó xuống những vấn đề vụn vặt. Sẽ hài lòng và thỏa mãn hơn thế nào nếu có thể "bon bon trên một con đường rộng rãi thẳng tắp" thay vì tự làm khó mình trong việc phải rẽ hết khúc ngoặt này đến khúc ngoặt khác, để rồi phải tìm lại con đường đúng với vô vàn khó khăn! Những sự tranh biện như thế sẽ chỉ khiến ta đi chệch hướng, bởi những kẻ quỷ quyệt thích tranh biện mà thôi.

Sự dũng cảm và vinh quang của cuộc đời ông ta

Vẫn thường trở lại trong tâm trí ta (trích thơ Virgil)

From Seneca to Lucilius
Greetings
1 It’s annoying to be aroused from a pleasant dream—for the pleasure
one loses, even though it’s imaginary, has a genuine eff ect—and
your letter has done me a similarly bad turn: it interrupted me when
I was absorbed in the kind of musing that I fi nd congenial and
would have prolonged if given the chance. 2 I was taking delight
in an inquiry into the soul’s immortality; more than that, I was
ready to believe in it. I was sympathizing with the opinions of those
great men* who endorse this most pleasing state of aff airs, though
they hardly manage to prove it. I was surrendering myself to this
mighty hope. Already I was beginning to hate my present existence;
already I was fed up with the remnants of my feeble life. I had the
prospect of passing over into that boundless time and possession
of eternity—when suddenly I was awakened by the arrival of your
letter, and lost this lovely dream. But if I can get rid of you, I shall
look for it and get it back.

3 Th e beginning of your letter insists° that I did not complete
the investigation in which I was trying to prove the Stoic doctrine
that posthumous renown is something good.* I failed, so you say,
to resolve our opponents’ objection: “No good can consist of things
that are separated from each other; but this does consist of things
that are separated.”* 4 Your diffi culty, dear Lucilius, pertains to another
topic within the same investigation, so I held back not only
from responding to it but also from discussing other relevant issues
as well; for as you know, ethics involves some matters of logic. For
this reason, I have up to now addressed the subject matter most
directly relevant to ethics: whether it is foolish and unnecessary to
extend one’s concern beyond one’s last day; or whether our goods
die with us and there is nothing that belongs to one who is no more,
or whether any profi t can be felt or sought beforehand from that
which, when it occurs, we shall not exist to perceive. 5 All these
questions have a bearing on ethics, and so I have put them in their
own proper place. Th e objections of logicians to this Stoic doctrine
had to be kept apart, and so I put them aside. But now, because you
are demanding the whole lot, I shall run through all the objections
and then rebut them one by one.
6 To make my rebuttals intelligible, I need to make some prefatory
remarks. What do I mean? Some bodies are continuous, such
as a human being. Others are composite, like a ship or a house or
everything that is unifi ed by the joining of diff erent parts. And yet
others are composed of separated parts, each of which remains a
discrete member, such as an army, a population, a senate. Th e elements
of which these latter bodies are composed are cohesive by law
or by function, but by nature they are separate individuals. 7 What
further prefatory remarks should I make? Our Stoic doctrine is that
no good can consist of things that are separated. Th is is because a
single good thing must be controlled and governed by a single spirit,
which is to say that the directive faculty of a single good thing must
itself be single.* Th is is intrinsically demonstrable, should you ever
want proof. Meanwhile, I have had to assume it as a premise, since
our own weapons are being fi red against us.
8 Th us the opponent says, “You claim that no thing that is good
is composed of things that are separated. But the renown you are talking about is the favorable opinion of good men. Reputation is
not one person’s statement, nor is notoriety one person’s negative
assessment; and renown, likewise, is not a case of pleasing just one
good person. In order for renown to exist, a number of distinguished
and notable men must agree. Renown results from the judgments
of a plurality, that is, from persons who are separated. Th erefore it is
not a good thing.”
9 Further: “Renown is praise awarded to a good man by good
men. Praise is speech, that is, a meaningful utterance. But utterance,
even if it is from good men, is not itself a good thing. Even though
everything about the good man is admirable and praiseworthy, it is
not the case that everything done by a good man is a good. He applauds
and he hisses, but no one calls the applause or the hissing a
good thing, any more than they call his sneeze or his cough a good
thing. Th erefore renown is not a good thing.
10 “Finally, tell us whether the good belongs to the one praising or
the one praised. If you say that it is the good of the one praised, you
are acting as absurdly as if you declared another person’s good health
to be mine. But praising those who merit praise is an honorable act.
Hence the good belongs to the one praising, whose action it is, and
not to us who are being praised. Th is was the question at issue.”
11 I will now run through these points one by one. To begin, there
is the question of whether any good can consist of things that are
separated. Th is is an issue that is still being investigated, and each side
has its supporters. Next, does renown require a plurality of votes? No,
it can even be satisfi ed with the judgment of a single good man: it is
the good man who decides that we are good.
12 “How so?” says our opponent. “Will reputation be the esteem
of a single person and notoriety the slander of one individual? Glory
too I take to be more widely extended and requiring many people’s
agreement.” But the case of reputation and notoriety is diff erent from
that of glory. Why? Because if a good man has a good opinion of me,
I am in the same position as if all good men had the same view. In
fact, they would all have the same view if they knew me. Th eir judgment
is one and the same, equally marked by the truth. Th ey cannot
disagree with one another, and so it is as if they all had the same view,
since it is not possible for them to take a diff erent view. 13 When it
comes to glory—that is, to reputation—one person’s opinion does not suffi ce.* In the one case, a single judgment can stand for all;
because if all good men were asked, their judgment would be unanimous.
In the other case, diff erent people make diff erent judgments.
Agreements will be diffi cult to fi nd, and the entire situation will
be rife with doubt, uncertainty, and suspicion. Do you suppose that
everyone can be of one mind? Th at does not even hold for the single
individual. What decides in the case of the good man is what is true;
truth has a single force and a single face. With these others, what
they accept are falsehoods, which are never consistent but always
subject to change and disagreement.
14 “But praise is merely an utterance, and an utterance is not
something good.” When those Stoics say that renown is praise
awarded to the good by the good, they are referring not to an utterance
but to a belief. In fact, a good man may say nothing; but if he
judges someone to be praiseworthy, that person has been praised.
15 Besides, praise is not the same as eulogy, which requires utterance.
Hence no one speaks of a “funeral praise” but says “eulogy,” for the
service performed by a eulogy consists in speaking it aloud. When we
say that someone is praiseworthy, we are not promising him people’s
kindly words but their favorable judgments. Th erefore there is praise
even when someone thinks well of a good man without speaking, and
praises him just to himself.
16 Further, as I have said, praise refers to an attitude of mind,
not to the words that express and bring into public notice the praise
one has conceived of. To praise is to judge that someone should be
praised. When our tragedian says that it is splendid “to be praised by
one who has been praised,” he means “by one who is praiseworthy.”*
And when an equally ancient poet says “praise nourishes the arts,”
he is not speaking of eulogy, which ruins the arts. Nothing, in fact,
has done as much as popular approval to corrupt rhetoric and every
other practice intended for the ear. 17 A reputation certainly needs
to be voiced, but renown can occur without being uttered; all that it
needs is a judgment. Renown is complete not only in the company of
people who are silent but even among those who shout it down. Let
me tell you the diff erence between renown and glory: glory comes
from the judgment of the masses, whereas the basis of renown is the
judgment of people who are good.
18 “Whose good is renown, meaning the praise awarded by the good to someone good? Is it the good of the one praised or of the one
who praises?” It is both. It is mine, when I am praised, because I am
by nature loving toward all people,* and because I am happy to have
acted well and pleased to have encountered grateful communicators
of my virtues. Th eir gratitude makes this a good pertaining to many;
but it is also mine because my disposition is such that I regard the
good of others as mine, at least in the case of those to whom I myself
have been the cause of good. 19 Th e very same good also belongs to
those who award the praise, since it is conducted virtuously, and every
virtuous act is something good. Th is could not have accrued to them
if I myself had not been virtuous. Th us merited praise is a good for
both parties, just as good judgment is a good both for the one judging
and the one who has the benefi t of the judgment. Surely you agree
that justice is a good both for the one who has it and for the one who
is paid what is due. To praise a deserving person is justice. Th erefore
the good belongs to both parties.
20 Let this be enough of a response to these quibblers. It should
not be our project to discuss minutiae and drag philosophy down
from its majesty into these petty matters. How much more satisfying
it is to travel the straight and open road than to design detours for
yourself, which you have to retrace with great trouble! Arguments
of this type are nothing more than the diversions of clever debaters.
21 Tell me, rather, how natural it is to extend one’s mind into the
infi nite. Th e human mind is a great and noble thing. It allows no limits
to be set to itself except those that it also shares with the divine.
In the fi rst place, it refuses any lowly homeland, such as Ephesus or
Alexandria or even some more populous and well-built city. Its true
homeland is one that encompasses the heights and the entirety of
the world—the vault of heaven itself; within which lie both seas and
lands; within which the lower air separates the human from the divine,
yet also unites them; and in which so many divine powers have
their fi xed position and vigilantly attend to their specifi c functions.*
22 Secondly, the mind refuses a restricted lifetime for itself. “All the
years,” it says, “are mine. No epoch is closed to great intellects, no
time is unavailable for refl ection. When the day arrives that is to
separate this mixture of divine and human, I shall leave this body
here where I found it and surrender myself to the gods. Even now I
am not apart from them, but I am held back by the weight of earth.” 23 All our mortal life is but a time of waiting, a prelude for
that better and longer life. Our mothers’ womb contains us for ten
months, preparing us not for itself but for that place into which we
emerge into view once we are able to draw breath and survive in the
open; in the same way, during the interval that extends from infancy
to old age, we are developing toward a diff erent birth. A diff erent
beginning awaits us, a diff erent state of aff airs. 24 As yet we cannot
endure the heavens except from a distance. Th erefore look forward
fearlessly to that critical hour. It is not the fi nal moment of the mind,
but only of the body. Regard everything that lies around you like the
luggage in a hotel room. You must move on. You came in at nature’s
behest, and you are going back the same way. 25 You are not allowed
to take out more than you brought in, or rather, the main part of what
you brought with you into life must be laid aside. You will be stripped
of this covering of skin, your closest garment; stripped of your fl esh
and of the blood that is diff used throughout your body; stripped of
the bones and sinews that support your soft and fl uid parts.
26 Th e day that you dread as your last is the birthday of your
eternity. Set down your burden. Why do you delay? Did you not
once before abandon a body in which you were hiding and come
out? You linger; you resist. But at that time too you were pushed out,
by your mother’s mighty eff orts. You weep and wail. Th is very thing,
weeping, is what one does at birth, but then one had to forgive you;
you had arrived completely untrained and inexperienced. When you
were sent forth from the warm and soft poultice of your mother’s
womb, a freer air breathed upon you, and then you encountered a
hard hand’s touch. Being still delicate and completely ignorant, you
were bewildered by this unfamiliar environment. 27 But now it is no
novelty for you to be separated from what you were previously a part
of. Calmly dismiss your now unneeded limbs, and lay aside this body
that you have so long inhabited. It will be torn apart, crushed, and
destroyed. Why are you sad? Th is is the way things are. Th e afterbirth
always perishes. Why do you love it as though it were your own? It
was just your covering. Th e day will come that will tear you forth and
take you away from association with this foul and evil-smelling belly.
28 As much as you can, withdraw from it now and from all pleasure
except that which is linked to the necessities° of embodied life.*
Estrange yourself even now from the body, and contemplate something higher and more sublime. In due course, nature’s secrets will be
revealed to you, the present fog will disappear, and a clear light will fall
upon you from every side. Picture to yourself the magnitude of that
brilliance when so many stars combine their light. No shadow will
disturb this serenity. Every side of the sky will be equally luminous.
Th e interchange of day and night belongs to the lower atmosphere.
After you have gazed with your entire being on the fullness of light,
you will admit that you have lived in the dark. Now you see it dimly
through those narrow openings that are your eyes, but already you
wonder at it from afar. How will the divine light look to you when
you see it in its own region? 29 Th ese thoughts allow nothing paltry,
trivial, or degrading to settle in the mind. Th ey declare that the gods
are witnesses of everything. Th ey tell us to win their approval, to prepare
ourselves for them in the time to come, and to set our sights on
immortality. No one who has this idea will fear any armies, or shrink
at the trumpet’s sound, or be scared by any threats. 30 Why shouldn’t
he be unafraid, given that he actually looks forward to death?
But even he° who judges that the mind lasts only as long as it is
held by the body’s chain, and that once released it is immediately dissipated,
still strives to make himself useful after death.* Even though
he is snatched from our eyes, still,
His valor and the glory of his race
come often to our minds.*
Th ink of how much we benefi t from good examples. You will then
realize that the memory of great men is no less useful than their
presence.

Farewell.

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