But my mother cries when she doesn't see me. Why hasn't she learned these principles? I'm not saying we shouldn't try to prevent her from crying. I'm saying we shouldn't desperately want things that aren't ours to control. Someone else's pain belongs to them. My pain belongs to me. I'll stop my own suffering by any means I can — because that's within my power. I'll try to help with another person's suffering as much as I'm able. But I won't try to control it completely. If I do that, I'll be fighting against God. I'll be opposing Zeus and setting myself against how he runs the universe. The punishment for fighting God and disobeying this order won't just fall on my children's children. I'll pay for it myself, both day and night — startled by dreams, disturbed, shaking at every bit of news, with my peace of mind hanging on other people's letters.
But my mother laments when she does not see me. Why has she not learned these principles? and I do not say this, that we should not take care that she may not lament, but I say that we ought not to desire in every way what is not our own. And the sorrow of another is another's sorrow; but my sorrow is my own. I then will stop my own sorrow by every means, for it is in my power; and the sorrow of another I will endeavor to stop as far as I can; but I will not attempt to do it by every means; for if I do, I shall be fighting against God, I shall be opposing Zeus and shall be placing myself against him in the administration of the universe; and the reward (the punishment) of this fighting against God and of this disobedience not only will the children of my children pay, but I also shall myself, both by day and by night, startled by dreams, perturbed, trembling at every piece of news, and having my tranquillity depending on the letters of others.