Marcus Aurelius · a new plain-English translation from the original language
People look for retreats for themselves — country places, seashores, mountains — and you yourself are particularly used to longing for such things. But this is altogether the mark of an ordinary man, when it is possible for you, at whatever hour you wish, to withdraw into yourself. For nowhere does a man withdraw into more peace or freedom from trouble than into his own soul, especially if he has within himself the sort of thoughts that, by looking into them, at once bring him into complete ease. And by that ease I mean nothing beyond a well-ordered mind. Constantly, then, give yourself this retreat and renew yourself. Let the doctrines be brief and elementary, such as will suffice, as soon as you meet them, to wash away all your distress and send you back without resentment toward the things to which you return. For what will you resent? The wickedness of men? Reckoning up the judgment that rational creatures have come into being for one another's sake, that bearing with one another is part of justice, that men do wrong without meaning to, and how many already, having been enemies, suspicious, hateful, at each other's throats, now lie stretched out, turned to ashes — stop resenting, at some point. But will you resent the things allotted to you out of the whole? Renew for yourself that either-or: either providence or atoms, and all the arguments by which it has been shown that the universe is like a city. But will bodily things still lay hold of you?
Consider that the mind, once it has taken hold of itself and recognized its own power, does not mix itself in with the breath moving smoothly or roughly, and remember all you have heard and agreed to about pain and pleasure. But will petty reputation distract you? Look at how quickly all things are forgotten, at the chaos of the boundless age on either side of us, at the emptiness of applause, at the fickleness and lack of judgment in those who seem to praise, and at the narrowness of the place within which it is confined. For the whole earth is a mere point, and this dwelling of ours is what small corner of it? And here, how many are there, and of what sort, who will praise you? What remains, then, is to remember to withdraw into this little plot of ground that is yourself, and above all not to strain or stretch yourself out of shape, but to be free, and to view matters the way a man should, the way a human being should, the way a citizen should, the way a mortal creature should. Among the things most ready to hand for you to look into, let these two be present: one, that things do not touch the soul, but stand outside it, unmoving, and disturbances come only from the judgment within; the other, that all these things you see will change almost at once and will no longer exist — and keep constantly in mind how many changes you yourself have already witnessed. The universe is change; life is opinion.