We flee ourselves, whom we can never flee
If, when men sense a weight upon their minds
A trouble deep within that wearies them,
They could but recognize the source, and know
Why such huge misery masses in the heart,
They’d never lead their lives as we see now—
As men who never know what they want, who move
From place to place to lay their burden down.
Out of his mansion he’s got to go, that fool,
Home bores him to death, and yet he turns right back,
Finding that things are just as dull outside.
Swift, to the villa he spurs his galloping ponies,
Bringing relief—you’d think—to a house afire.
But soon as he touches the villa door, he yawns,
Tries to forget, falls heavily asleep,
Or hurries out to see the town again.
We flee ourselves, whom we can never flee.
Against our will the self we hate clings tight
For we are sick and do not grasp the cause.
[Lucretius, De Rerum Natura, 3.1050-1067 (trans. Anthony Esolen)]
