That letter to Canino Rufo makes me happy, with its freshness of emotion, its ease, its carefreeness. And that gay beginning! Quid agit Comum, tuae meaequae deliciae?
What are you doing at Como, lovely village we both like so well? Right away with the words a bright butterfly wing brushes me. And yet that letter gives me a kind of grief, too, something resembling homesickness for something I never could have seen (as in his day), and always wanted to.
And there is the letter to Tacitus, in which he explains to him how good are hunting, physical exercise—the outdoor world—for the mind. Listen to the beginning:
Ridebis et licet rideas—Laugh all you want to! I give you lief!
Then he proceeds to tell Tacitus, how, when he goes hunting, he takes his writing material along. This letter has peculiar freedom from blemishes, which almost nothing under the sun can escape. It has richly that something which keeps me reading Latin masters throughout the years. It gratifies and helps keep alive a submerging passion for perfection.
How near in time he seems to us—Pliny! Here is a letter which might have been written from New York today. It is to Fundanus. Mirum est quamvis singulis diebus.... It is amazing how swiftly time passes here in our Rome. And how we waste our days over trifles.... Here in the country I amuse myself only with my books. O delightful existence that injures no one! Run away from the city, Fundanus! Break all the foolish, frivolous chains which bind you! It is infinitely better to be idle, than to work so hard at doing nothing.
Pliny speaks reverently of the vast genius of Plato. Platonicam illam sublimitatem et latitudinem. This old Latin mind originated the art of the critic.
And there is a brief note of a few words to a friend, which keeps airy grace, while yet preserving precision and fact. You say you have nothing to write to me? Very well, then write me that! At least you can jot down what our ancestors placed at opening of their letters. Si vales, bene est; ego valeo.
This year—Pliny goes on to explain—we have a surfeit of poets. There has not been a day of the month of April, without its new poem, new poet. But he feels forced to complain that people no longer like to hear the poets recite.
Pliny believes it is better to love honest laziness than distinguished place and embarrassment. The Roman had his appreciation of virtues. And the cultivated Roman could appreciate all the exquisiteness of words. He tells us how he loves Catullus.