If mixing care and firmness is impossible, then happiness is impossible. But we should act like we do when taking a voyage. What can I do? I can choose the ship's captain, the sailors, the day, and when to sail. Then a storm hits. What more should I worry about? I've done my part. The rest belongs to someone else — the captain. But the ship is sinking. What should I do then? I do the only thing I can: not drown full of fear, screaming, or blaming God. I know that what comes into being must also pass away. I'm not immortal. I'm just a person, part of the whole, like an hour is part of a day. I must be present like the hour, and pass away like the hour. What difference does it make how I die — whether I suffocate or get a fever? I have to die somehow.
and if it is, happiness is impossible. But we should act as we do in the case of a voyage. What can I do? I can choose the master of the ship, the sailors, the day, the opportunity. Then comes a storm. What more have I to care for? for my part is done. The business belongs to another, the master. But the ship is sinking—what then have I to do? I do the only thing that I can, not to be drowned full of fear, nor screaming nor blaming God, but knowing that what has been produced must also perish: for I am not an immortal being, but a man, a part of the whole, as an hour is a part of the day: I must be present like the hour, and past like the hour. What difference then does it make to me how I pass away, whether by being suffocated or by a fever, for I must pass through some such means.