Series | History of Ancient Western Philosophy, Pt. 19
Lucretius and the Inconceivable Nature of Nature
A Way for the Universe to Know Itself in De Rerum Natura
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“Just when the gods had ceased to be, and Christ had not yet come, there was a unique moment in history…when man stood alone.” — Gustave Flaubert
Hello and welcome to Part 19 in the Series!
In this installment, we’re focusing on another Roman figure who lived during the last days of the Republic — the Epicurean poet Titus Lucretius Carus — who’s now known simply as Lucretius.
But, if you’d like to review earlier entries, you can check them out here:
As the Flaubert epigram above suggests, Lucretius is an important figure in the history of humanism —a philosophical attitude giving primacy to human beings.
Although we know Lucretius was born about a decade after Cicero (c. 96 BCE) and died about a decade earlier (c. 55 BCE), the circumstances surrounding his death are uncertain.
The 4th century biographer Donatus noted in his Life of Virgil that Lucretius died of natural causes. But, Saint Jerome — who claimed to have studied with Donatus — stated Lucretius went mad after drinking a love potion, wrote several works in his demented state, and eventually succumbed to his madness!
As you might expect, Jerome’s Catholicism may have colored his account of a pagan hedonist like Lucretius.
The six books containing the 7400 lines of poetry he authored— collectively known as De Rerum Natura, or “On the Nature of Things” — received similar disparagement… and nearly vanished from history in the centuries following Jerome.
As I mentioned in Part 17, the preservation of texts like this one rested almost entirely in the hands of Catholic monks, laboring in the scriptoriums of the tiny monasteries which dotted the European countryside. For reasons you can probably surmise, pagan texts like Lucretius’s work weren’t a high priority among pious scribes and copyists
By 1417, only a handful of copies survived.
But, in that year, one such copy was “rediscovered” by Poggio Bracciolini among the dusty tomes of a Benedictine abbey at Fulda… and it helped reacquaint the world with Epicurean thought.
With the introduction of the printing press in 1436, it wouldn’t take long for copies of Lucretius’s poem to spread throughout Europe and ultimately inspire generations of intellectuals to come… both for the beauty of its poetic expression and the profundity of its naturalistic philosophy.
Shakespeare meticulously annotated his own copy— probably around the time he was writing The Tempest. Both Machiavelli’s and Michel de Montaigne’s HEAVILY annotated copies have likewise been recovered.
By the height of the Enlightenment, owning a copy of Lucretius’s work was a symbol of sophisticated free-thinking.
Voltaire, Hume, and Diderot all owned copies. Thomas Jefferson had at least EIGHT… including five in Latin and one each in English, Italian, and French.
Science in Verse
The irony of Lucretius presenting Epicurus’s material atomism in poetic form shouldn’t be glossed over… after all, Epicurus himself warned against the confounding dangers of poetry.
But, as Lucretius explains repeatedly, his application of poetic expression to this philosophical therapy is like a physician adding honey to the the rim of a goblet filled with some bitter tonic — without it the patient may never receive what’s needed for recovery.
Lucretius chose to write his poem in the dactylic hexameter of the heroic epics. And, at the heart of his epic was a hero he thought could rival any Achilles or Odysseus — i.e. Epicurus.
Below is an example of what dactylic hexameter sounds like in English. The poem recited is by an anonymous author, but I think you’ll find the theme very much in the spirit of Lucretian therapy. Enjoy!
Rendering Lucretius’s Latin into English has proven to be a difficult task.
That may explain why the first complete English translation didn’t appear until the mid-17th century. It was penned by Lucy Hutchinson, whose rhymed heroic couplets (in iambic pentameter) at least preserved the musicality of the original and likely inspired later translators.
Sadly, the only copies of Hutchinson’s work I’ve been able to track down are prohibitively expensive. So instead, here’s a passage from John Dryden’s partial translation — likely inspired by Hutchinson’s work:
“For life is all in wandering errors led;
And just as Children are surprised with dread,
And tremble in the dark, so riper years
Ev’n in broad daylight are possessed with fears;
And shake at shadows fanciful and vain,
As those which in the breasts of Children reign.
These bugbears of the mind, this inward Hell,
No rays of outward sunshine can dispel;
But nature and right reason must display
Their beams abroad, and bring the dark soul to day.” (from Bk. II)
On full display in these lines is the selfsame intellectual courage found in later humanist manifestos, like Immanuel Kant’s “What is Enlightenment?”
To wit:
“Dare to know! (Sapere aude.) ‘Have the courage to use your own understanding,’ is therefore the motto of the enlightenment.”
But, perhaps the BEST modern comparison of Lucretius’s poetic presentation of Epicurean atomism might be with the work of popular scientists like Carl Sagan, Richard Feynman, Bill Nye, and Neil deGrasse Tyson.
In fact, I’d argue the video below mimics the work of Lucretius both in content and in style, insofar as it presents scientific ideas both poetically and accessibly. Hopefully you can look past its gratuitous overuse of Autotune…
Lucretius saw the awe-inspiring beauty in nature the Epicurean system could deliver… once fully embraced. So, he endeavored to make it as palatable as he could, until the deeper pleasures it offered could be fully appreciated. In Richard Feynman’s words:
“You gotta stop and think about it — about the complexity — to really get the pleasure. And it’s all really there. The inconceivable nature of nature!”
Ataraxia in Wisdom
As we saw in Part 17, the main goal of Epicurean thought was the attainment of tranquility — or ataraxia — through the pursuit of modest, simple pleasures like friendship, self-reliance, and living a contemplative existence.
The followers of Epicurus presented this philosophy in a collection of four easy-to-remember mantras, which they called “the four-part cure” — or, tetrapharmakos:
1. Do not fear the gods.
2. Do not fear death.
3. That which is good is easy to obtain.
4. That which is bad is easy to endure.
This was intended as a complete treatment for the dread felt by those overwhelmed by anxiety — and each statement supports the Epicurean commitment to material atomism in its own way…
Feeling anxious about suffering the wrath of the gods? — Consider that if nature is made of atoms and void — as Epicurus taught — then the gods are subject to the same physical laws as the rest of us. The fact that you are still alive and haven’t yet suffered any wrath suggests either they do not know about your transgression, do not care, or can’t do anything about it.
Feeling anxious about your own death? — Consider that death is nothing but the cessation of existence. You didn’t exist before your birth. It was just nothingness. Death is also nothing. You’re alive, so death isn’t here and doesn’t pertain to a living being such as yourself. Either way, “death is nothing to us.”
Concerned about making enough money? — Remember the highest pleasures in life — such as friends, self-reliance, and contemplation — are absolutely free.
Worried about other bad things like illness or pain? — Keep in mind that illness and pain only come in two varieties — temporary and acute, or chronic and negligible. So, if what you’re enduring is intense, remember it won’t last long (even if it ends in your demise, just see #2 above). On the other hand, if what you’re experiencing seems chronic, remember it probably won’t grow in intensity.
This wasn’t just empty talk from Epicurus, either… he also walked the walk. Diogenes Laertius recounts how he faced death calmly — although in agonizing pain from renal failure brought on by kidney stones. In a final letter to a friend he wrote:
On the happiest, and the last, day of my life. I am suffering from diseases of the bladder and intestines, which are of the utmost possible severity… Yet, all my sufferings are counterbalanced by the contentment of soul which I derive from remembering our reasonings and discoveries.
Lucretius deftly weaves the Epicurean tetrapharmakos into his verse, too… as the AABA rhyme scheme of Mallock’s translation shows below:
WHEN storms blow loud, ’tis sweet to watch at ease
From shore, the sailor labouring with the seas:
Because the sense, not that such pains are his,
But that they are not ours, must always please
Sweet for the cragsman, from some high retreat
Watching the plains below where legions meet,
To await the moment when the walls of war
Thunder and clash together. But more sweet,
Sweeter by far on Wisdom’s rampired height
To pace serene the porches of the light,
And thence look down — down on the purblind herd
Seeking and never finding in the night
Oh sightless eyes! Oh hands that toil in vain!
Not such your needs. Your nature’s needs are twain,
And only twain: and these are to be free —
Your minds from terror, and your bones from pain. (from Bk. II)
The Prescient Poet
“The cosmos is within us. We are made of star-stuff. We are a way for the universe to know itself.” -Carl Sagan
Lucretius presents the Epicurean atomic theory in its most beautiful light, reminding his readers that nothing lasts forever in this swirling cosmos of atoms and the void.
Here’s an example…
I went to the same high school my father graduated from, 24 years before me. In the courtyard there was a replica Roman column made of concrete and between periods students would walk by running their hands across it for luck.
As you might imagine, after decades of classes with thousands of hands brushing past, that column had been worn completely smooth. One day, as I was looking through my father’s old yearbook and saw of picture of it and I was SHOCKED to see just how much of its surface had been obliterated by the procession of students’ fingers.
Living in Rome, Lucretius saw similar wear in the stone roads and steps that had been built centuries before him. It inspired passages like this:
No single thing abides; but all things flow.
Fragment to fragment clings–the things thus grow
Until we know and name them. By degrees
They melt, and are no more the things we know.
Globed from the atoms falling slow or swift
I see the suns, I see the systems lift
Their forms; and even the systems and the suns
Shall go back slowly to the eternal drift.
Observe this dew-drenched rose of Tyrian grain–
A rose today. But you will ask in vain
Tomorrow what it is; and yesterday
It was the dust, the sunshine and the rain.
This bowl of milk, the pitch on yonder jar,
Are strange and far-bound travelers come from far
This is a snow-flake that was once a flame–
The flame was once the fragment of a star. (from Bk. III, Mallock tr.)
It’s remarkable how much of the speculative metaphysics in De Rerum Natura has stood up to empirical and theoretical scrutiny. As William Harris has noted,
“In the lines of Lucretius we find:
1) A developed atomic theory… with serious intimations of what is to come.
2) Clearly spelled out laws of the conservation of matter and energy, essential to any understanding of modern chemistry.
3) A doctrine involving molecular “hooks” or attachments, which is remarkably similar, although the words may be different, to our understanding of molecular attraction and combination.
Greeting Death like an Old Friend
Among many of his translators, the most valuable aspects of Lucretius’s thought lay in the Epicurean reminder to not fear death.
Mallock’s partial translation was published under the title, “Lucretius on Life and Death.”
This passage from John Dryden’s partial translation captures the thrust of the Lucretian stance:
Then death to us, and deaths anxiety,
Is less than nothing, if a less could be.
For then our Atoms, which in order lay,
Are scatter’d about, and puff’d away,
And never can return to place,
Once the pause of Life has left its space.
And last, suppose Nature’s Voice shou’d call
To thee, or me, or any at all,
What dost thou mean, ungrateful Wretch so vain,
A mortal thing, thus idly to complain,
And sigh and sob, that thou shalt be no more?
For if thy Life were pleasant heretofore,
If all the bounteous Blessings, I cou’d give,
Thou hast enjoy’d, if thou hast learned to live,
And Pleasure not leak’d through thee like a Seive,
Why dost thou not give thanks, as if at a feast,
Cram’d to the throat with life, rise and take thy leave?
But if my blessings thou hast thrown away,
If undigested joys pass’d thro’, and wou’d not stay,
Why dost thou wish for more to squander still?
If Life be a burden, a real ill,
And death wou’d all thy cares and labours end,
Lay down thy cargo fool, and know thy friend. (from Bk. III)
The echoes of Socrates’s cheerfulness at his own death are apparent, and Lucretius’s verse underscores the Socratic point that “to philosophize is to learn to die” and, therefore, to become a master of death.
Free Will and the Swerve
Even in a cosmos that consisted wholly of material atoms falling through a void, the Epicureans seemed more invested in carving out a space for free will than their Stoic counterparts. They posited a principle of motion called the clinamen, or swerve, for just such a purpose.
As Lucretius explained it (in a translation from Jenkyns & Stallings):
when bodies fall through empty space
Straight down, under their own weight, at a random time and place,
They swerve a little. Just enough of a swerve for you to call
It a change of course. Unless inclined to swerve, all things would fall
Right through the deep abyss like drops of rain. There would be no
Collisions, and no atom would meet atom with a blow,
And Nature thus could not have fashioned anything, full stop.
But if anyone should chance to think that heavier bodies drop
Straight down through the void with greater speed, so as they go
They catch up with, and strike, the lighter particles below…(from Bk II)
On such a view, atomic swerve could cascade into cosmic contingency, chance, and happenstance just as it could foster human volition.
In the words of Peter Adamson: “Just as atoms can move by themselves, when they swerve, so we can move by ourselves, when we make choices.” — p. 49
This was the concept that Stephen Greenblatt adopted as the title of his 2012 book — The Swerve — about the 15th-century rediscovery of De Rerum Natura. And, as he shows there, the reappearance of Lucretius’s book caused history itself to swerve. As he put it in a piece for The New Yorker:
“By chance, copies of ‘On the Nature of Things’ somehow made it into a few monastery libraries, places that had buried, seemingly forever, the principled pursuit of pleasure. By chance, a monk laboring in a scriptorium somewhere or other in the ninth century copied the poem before it moldered away. And, by chance, this copy escaped fire and flood and the teeth of time for some five hundred years until, one day in 1417, it came into the hands of a man who proudly called himself Poggius Florentinus, Poggio the Florentine.”
Recovering the Forgotten Text
Even today there are ongoing efforts to recover the original text of De Rerum Natura, along with many other Greek & Roman philosophical works.
In the 18th century, a cache of carbonized scrolls was discovered under the volcanic ash of Mt. Vesuvius in the ancient ruins of Herculaneum. For centuries scholars have dreamed of delving into the treasures they contained, but the fossils are too fragile to open.
In the last few years, however, imaging technology using subatomic physics has advanced to the point where individual letters can be discerned within the scrolls without having to expose them to air.
Initial efforts have revealed that some of the scrolls contain works of Epicurean philosophy.
Perhaps one day soon, we will be able to read a copy of Lucretius’s poem from his own time!
The Influence of Lucretian Humanism
The influence of De Rerum Natura’s atomism and humanism on renaissance consciousness really can’t be overstated.
Consider the following passages…
“Your worm is your only emperor for diet. We fat all creatures else to fat us, and we fat ourselves for maggots. Your fat king and your lean beggar is but variable service — two dishes, but to one table. That’s the end. A man may fish with the worm that hath eat of a king, and eat of the fish that hath fed of that worm.” — Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act 4 scene 3
or…
“Have not the small Particles of Bodies certain Powers, Virtues, or Forces, by which they act at a distance, not only upon the Rays of Light for reflecting, refracting and inflecting them, but also upon one another for producing a great Part of the Phenomena of Nature?” — Isaac Newton, Opticks, Bk. 3 part 1
or…
“The same applies to animals: in their birth and death they are only transformed — unfolded and refolded, stripped bare, re-covered. A soul never leaves behind its whole body, passing to an entirely new one. So there is no metempsychosis, but there is metamorphosis. Animals do change, but only by gaining and losing parts. In the process of nutrition this happens continually — little by little, by tiny, imperceptible steps. It happens all at once and very perceptibly in conception or in death, which makes the animal gain or lose a great deal all at once.” — G.W. Leibniz, The Principles of Nature & Grace
And, finally, consider that Thomas Jefferson — in a letter to a friend who’d asked him about his philosophy of life — simply wrote, “I am an Epicurean.”
Well, folks. That’s it for now. Suffice it to say, I believe De Rerum Natura is most definitely a worthwhile read, especially in one of its more poetic translations. I hope you’ve been inspired to look into it further!
In Part 20, we’ll finish up our foray into Hellenistic Roman thought with the views of three Stoic philosophers — Seneca, Epictetus, and Marcus Aurelius.
See you there!
