Martial really did have a bee in his toga about living in the moment, and it buzzed loudly. He bangs on and on about it like a man possessed. He was nothing if not consistent.
The badgering, urgent tone of this poem (Book 5, poem 58) always takes my breath away. Postumus and he must have had this conversation many times before, and Martial was getting exasperated.
The great thing about Latin poetry is that it often surprises you with its contemporary feel. The concerns and emotions of this little poem have not changed much over two thousand years.
Sorry about yet more Latin. As usual the translation is my own, so there's no one else to blame but me. Sorry, Martial.
Cras te victurum, cras dicis, Postume, semper.
dic mihi, cras istud, Postume, quando venit?
quam longe cras istud, ubi est? aut unde petendum?
numquid apud Parthos Armeniosque latet?
iam cras istud habet Priami vel Nestoris annos.
cras istud quanti, dic mihi, possit emi?
cras vives? hodie iam vivere, Postume, serum est:
ille sapit, quisquis, Postume, vixit heri.
You say you’ll live tomorrow, Postumus. It's always tomorrow.
Tell me, when is it coming, Postumus, this tomorrow of yours ?
How far away is your tomorrow ? Where is it ?
Where will you go to get it ? Maybe it's hiding in Parthia or Armenia ?
This tomorrow of yours: it’s already as old as Priam or Nestor.
How much, tell me, would this tomorrow of yours cost to buy ?
You’re going to live tomorrow ?
It’s already too late, Postumus, to live today.
It’s
a wise man, Postumus, who started living yesterday.
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