The Art of Being Alone — Letters from a Stoic

Solitude and wisdom aren't the same thing, and confusing them can be dangerous. Letter 10 opens with a warning: avoid not just crowds, not just small groups, but even single companions who might pull you in the wrong direction. Then comes the twist. Being alone with yourself carries its own risk. A foolish person left alone doesn't find clarity, he finds his worst impulses waiting for him, freed from the shame and fear that social life usually keeps in check.

Crates, the philosopher, saw a young man walking alone and asked what he was doing. 'Communing with myself,' the young man said. 'Be careful,' Crates replied. 'You're communing with a bad man.' But the letter doesn't stop at the risk. Seneca sees genuine potential in Lucilius, he remembers how his friend once spoke with a depth and conviction that could only come from somewhere real, not from performance.

That kind of person, left alone, improves. The letter's practical advice follows: change what you pray for. Stop asking the gods for things that belong to others, wealth, status, favour. Ask instead for a sound mind and good health, first of soul, then of body.

And pray boldly, because you're asking for nothing you don't have a right to. The closing line from Athenodorus is the sharpest test of character in all of Letter 10: you know you've mastered your desires when there's nothing you'd be ashamed to pray for out loud.