Solon was a wise man. A wise man who knew the lots of those lucky and those blessed. Perhaps he was even able to foresee the fate of old Croesus, who, like the Egyptian Ozymandias, a king of kings before him, faded into the sands of the desert. With one slain son and the other deaf and dumb, after his precious Lydia was conquered by the Persians and Cyrus’ flames were at his feet, he would remember wise Solon’s words about living and dying happily after some twenty-six thousand two hundred and fifty days. So to be blessed, truly blessed, said sage Solon, one must live well and die well too.

Solon’s wisdom leads me to think of the rest of us: the unlucky, the unblessed. What of Sydney Carton, who lived poorly but by doing a far, far greater thing than he had ever done was able to go to a far, far better rest than he had ever known? What of unfortunate Adrastus, the ungolden son of Midas who accidentally killed his brother and poor Atys? He was purified after the first homicide and forgiven after the second, only to slay himself in wretched solitude on the untimely tomb of Croesus’ speared son. What of those at the river’s bottom with their pockets full of stones? And those who live most of their twenty-six thousand two hundred and fifty days waiting or praying for the end? These are the souls who, like Sydney Carton and Adrastus, truly understand Solon’s words and can see that the god shows thoroughly how much better it is for a man to be dead than to be alive.