Holding a 337-year-old copy of Seneca’s Morals by Way of Abstract, Of Benefits, Part I (1688) in my hands feels like touching a thread that connects me directly to the past.

It’s almost unbelievable when you stop to think about it: 337 years ago, there were no airplanes, no internet, no electricity, no phones, no antibiotics, no cars or trains. There was no Canada or United States of America, no unified Germany or Italy, no Mexico as a nation, no modern India, and no Russian Empire—almost nothing that defines our world today. And yet here I am, in 2026, running my fingers over these delicate pages—printed long before all of that, and long before Darwin, Einstein, Freud, or Tesla were even born—feeling as though I’ve opened a portal to the past, one that whispers its secrets through faded ink and fragile parchment, reminding me just how fleeting the present really is.

Since buying it just a few months ago, this book has become more than an artifact—it’s a vessel. The moment I touch it, I’m no longer in the present. I feel the air of 1688 on my skin, the dust of centuries in its fibers. Each page feels saturated with the spirit of its time.

As I turn each page, I find myself transported to London in 1688—a city alive with revolution and discovery. The Glorious Revolution (1688) shook the throne, while scientific minds were transforming our understanding of the universe. Just a year earlier, Isaac Newton had published his Principia Mathematica (1687), changing how we understand the universe. Around the same time, Edmond Halley, who had observed a comet in 1682, used Newton’s laws to predict its return in 1758—a prediction that would cement his legacy and engrave his name in history.

But what moves me even more than these events is the timeless wisdom in the book itself. I don’t just feel Seneca’s Stoic thoughts—I feel the world of those who first read them. I picture scholars and statesmen like George Washington, who found strength and guidance in Stoic philosophy during times of hardship. Washington is known to have owned and read works by both Seneca and Marcus Aurelius, relying on their lessons to shape his own character and leadership.

This book connects me not only to Seneca, but also to the minds of 1688, their hopes, struggles, and insights.

And as I read, something quietly shifts within me. I begin to see that success and failure aren't opposites—they're part of the same journey. They are twin forces—inseparable and cyclical. Too much of either breeds imbalance. But when held in balance, they offer something deeper: wisdom.

Seneca warns of the dangers of unchecked fortune. He teaches that success can be intoxicating. Confidence, he reminds us, can easily slip into overconfidence, which breeds pride, then arrogance—a blindness that ultimately leads to inevitable downfall.

Success → Confidence → Pride → Arrogance → Downfall
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​History is full of men who never tasted failure until it destroyed them. The Roman emperors Seneca advised fell to decadence; the wealthy and powerful of 1688 lost everything amid political chaos. 

When we never fail, we forget how to learn.

We mistake luck for genius, and privilege for talent.

But holding this book, I sense the humility that comes with time. The men who once read these pages have long turned to dust. Their victories are mostly unknown, and if they were remembered at all, they have largely been forgotten. 

Those who prize success above all else ultimately vanish, leaving no trace behind. 

​A life built only on success is like a tree without roots—it may grow tall, but the first strong storm will break it.

Success alone does not endure. Legacy is built through purpose, not ambition.