Latest / Marcus Aurelius: Rome's Philosopher King — Fexingo History / Marcus Aurelius and the Stoic View of Death
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- Lucas: So we've talked a lot about Marcus Aurelius as a wartime emperor, as a reformer, as a father. But there's one theme that runs through everything he wrote, and it's the one thing he could never escape — death. And I don't mean just his own mortality, but the deaths of everyone around him. Luna: You mean because of the Antonine Plague and the wars? Lucas: Exactly. Marcus lost his co-emperor Lucius Verus in 169, probably to a stroke, but rumor had it his wife Faustina poisoned him. Then Faustina herself died in 175 in a carriage accident — or maybe suicide? The sources are murky. And of course his children: he had at least thirteen, maybe fourteen, but only Commodus and a few others survived to adulthood. The Meditations are full of him working through all this grief. Luna: It's incredible that he could write such clear-eyed philosophy while surrounded by so much loss. Luna: So it's not that he doesn't feel grief, but he filters it through reason. Lucas: Exactly. He acknowledges the pain, but then he contextualizes it. In Meditations 4.34, he says: 'How many have died after all their ambitions and projects? How many after all their fame? How many after all their labors? So then, consider that the whole earth is but a point, and what a small corner of it this is where you dwell.' He's constantly zooming out to cosmic perspective. And it's not just abstract — when he heard of Avidius Cassius' rebellion, he reportedly said, 'I am not afraid of death, but I am afraid of doing anything unworthy of a philosopher.' Luna: Did he ever fear death himself? Lucas: He wrestles with it. In Meditations 2.14, he writes: 'Though you should be going to live three thousand years, and as many times ten thousand years, still remember that no man loses any other life than this which he now lives, and that he lives no other life than this which he now loses.' That's the Stoic idea of 'carpe diem' but with a cosmic twist. He also borrows from Epictetus, who said that death is like an actor leaving the stage — you've played your part, now exit gracefully. But Marcus adds a personal note: 'Do not act as if you had ten thousand years to live. Death hangs over you. While you live, while it is in your power, be good.' Luna: That's beautiful, but also a little terrifying — to live with that constant awareness. Lucas: It's the cornerstone of Stoic practice. The idea of 'memento mori' — remember you must die. But Marcus doesn't just dwell on the grimness; he finds liberation in it. He says: 'You can leave life right now. Let that determine what you do and say and think.' That's from Meditations 2.11. So every action should be performed as if it were your last — not in a frantic way, but with full attention and virtue. Luna: Did he ever say anything about what happens after death? Did he believe in an afterlife? Lucas: This is where it gets tricky. Stoics generally believed in a cyclical universe — the 'ekpyrosis', where everything is consumed by fire and then reborn. The individual soul, which is a fragment of the divine 'logos', survives until the next conflagration. But Marcus seems less dogmatic. In Meditations 4.21, he says: 'Either there is a dispersion into atoms, or else a union of like parts. But consider: either a certain Providence dispenses all things, or else atoms — the random dance of atoms.' He's open to both possibilities. What matters to him is how you live now. Luna: So he's almost agnostic about it. Lucas: In a way, yes. He says: 'If there are gods, you have nothing to fear; if there are not, or if they do not care, then you have nothing to fear either, because you will cease to exist.' That's from Meditations 2.11. So he eliminates the fear of punishment. But he also has moments of hope. In 6.10, he writes: 'All things are interwoven with one another; a sacred bond unites them; there is scarcely one thing that is isolated from another. Everything is coordinated, everything works together in the ordering of the cosmos.' That suggests a purposeful universe. Luna: But how did he reconcile that with all the suffering he saw? Lucas: That's the hardest part. The plague, the constant warfare, the loss of children — how can a providential cosmos allow that? Marcus falls back on the Stoic concept of 'oikeiosis' — the idea that we are all parts of a larger whole. Suffering is part of the natural order, like a storm or a drought. He says in 5.8: 'Does the cucumber taste bitter? Put it down. Are there briars in the path? Go around them. That is enough, without adding: 'Why did such things come into the world at all?' You will be laughed at by the student of nature.' In other words, accept reality as it is. Luna: But that sounds a bit cold, doesn't it? Just 'put it down'? Lucas: It can sound that way, but remember, Marcus is writing to himself, not to a grieving friend. He's using blunt language to shock himself out of self-pity. And he does show compassion elsewhere. In 1.9, he thanks his adoptive father Antoninus Pius for teaching him 'to be sober and not to be led by the fancies of the tyrant' — but also 'to be tolerant of those who had openly wronged him, and to be reconciled when they wished to change.' Marcus was known for his clemency. He grieved deeply; he just didn't let grief paralyze him. Luna: I've read that he even wrote a letter to the Senate asking them not to deify Faustina right away, because he wanted to mourn her privately first. Lucas: That's a great example. The Historia Augusta mentions that he mourned her for years, even though as emperor he was expected to move on quickly. He built the Temple of Faustina in the Roman Forum, but he also wrote some of his most moving passages about her in the Meditations. In 8.25, he says: 'Let your love be like the love of a soul for the body — a willing, unforced, unaffected union.' He's talking about the ideal relationship, and many scholars think he's reflecting on his marriage. Luna: So his Stoicism didn't make him a robot. He felt things deeply. Lucas: Absolutely. Stoicism isn't about suppressing emotions; it's about not letting them control you. Marcus writes in 11.18: 'The soul does violence to itself when it turns away from any man, or even moves against him with the intention of harming him.' He's talking about anger, but the same applies to grief. You feel it, you accept it, you let it pass. And he had plenty of practice. By the time he died in 180, he had outlived most of his friends, his wife, and all but one of his children. Yet he faced his own death with the same composure. Cassius Dio says his last words were, 'Go to the rising sun, for I am already setting.' Luna: That's a beautiful image. And it shows he was at peace. Lucas: That's the goal of his entire philosophy: to live and die with serenity. In Meditations 2.5, he writes: 'Every hour, set your mind firmly to do the task at hand with unaffected dignity, and with love of mankind, and freedom, and justice. And put away from yourself all other thoughts.' It's a tall order, but he spent his whole life trying to live up to it. And his writings have helped countless others face their own mortality with courage. Luna: I think that's why the Meditations is still so popular — it's not just ancient advice, it's a real person struggling with the same things we do. Lucas: Exactly. And that's what makes Marcus Aurelius so compelling. He was an emperor with absolute power, but he wrote like a vulnerable human being. In the end, his legacy isn't the wars he won or the laws he passed — it's this intimate glimpse into a soul wrestling with the biggest questions, and coming out with grace.