1A little fit of indignation, which I fell into at the reading of a certain friend, I cannot keep myself from pouring out to you in a letter, since I could not do so face to face. 1A most finished book was being read. 2Two or three people, eloquent in their own eyes and in the eyes of a few, were listening to it like deaf and dumb men. 2They did not open their lips, they did not move a hand, they did not even rise to their feet, if only from weariness of sitting. 3What is this great dignity? 3what this great wisdom? 3Or rather, what is this laziness, arrogance, perversity, or rather madness, to spend a whole day on giving offence, on leaving as an enemy the man you came to as a dearest friend?
3Are you more eloquent yourself? 4So much the more should you not be envious; 4for he who envies is the lesser man. 4In short, whether you achieve more or less or the same, praise him whether inferior or superior or equal: the superior, because unless he is to be praised you cannot be praised yourself; the inferior or equal, because it belongs to your glory that the man you surpass or equal should seem as great as possible. 5For my part I am accustomed to revere and even admire all who achieve anything in literature; 5for it is a difficult, arduous, exacting pursuit, and one that scorns in return those by whom it is scorned.
5Unless perhaps you judge otherwise. 5And yet who is more reverent towards this work than you alone, who a kinder judge of it? 6Led by this reasoning, I have revealed my indignation to you above all, since I could have you most fully as my partner in it. 6Farewell.