The narrator, the Roman Emperor Hadrian, begins a letter addressed to “Mark” and describes himself as a man of 60 years about to die of a dropsical heart. He undergoes an examination by his physician, Hermogenes, and reflects on his body as a sly beast that will end by devouring its master. He does not begrudge his body the care it needs, though he also does not put faith in cures: He is mature enough to accept that there is an end to life, so he has not given over to despair or fear. Every man’s days are numbered; he knows how he will die, and sees it approaching; it is only a question of when.

Hadrian reflects on his physical limitations, as his illness has dismantled his life like the rooms of a palace. He once loved to hunt, enjoying the danger of the sport and claiming he had a good relationship with Diana of the forests. The hunt is a test of courage and battle with wild beasts seems clean compared to the snares set by men for men. But the companion of his last hunts died young, and now Hadrian has lost his taste for it, even if he still enjoys the memories.

He misses riding even more; his horse was a friend and Hadrian would have been a centaur if he could. His horse obeyed him as men never have, and, to his horse, he was only a man, not a collection of titles. He wonders if the sharing of human experience is a way to achieve immortality, and reflects that he now lives in a world of dream and metamorphosis.

Hadrian has always prided himself on moderation but is not an ascetic; he enjoys eating and thinking about how a living thing becomes sustenance. But he was bored by the interminable banquets held in Rome, as exotic items for the table are merely a reflection of the empire’s recent riches. The profusion of dishes at banquets is vulgar. Food tastes better in Greece, because it is simpler; meat from a hunt has that same sacramental quality. Still, Hadrian took care to host elaborate banquets for guests out of political necessity: “A prince lacks the latitude afforded to the philosopher […] he cannot allow himself to be different on too many points at a time, and the gods know that my points of difference were already too numerous” (11). Hadrian has at times experimented with various forms of abstinence and admired its effect on the mind, but he has never been one to adhere too closely to any system.

Hadrian considers love indispensable, but thinks of it as more than physical affection in its ability to unsettle the soul. Love requires abandonment to the other via humility, somewhat like death. The words for pleasure have never adequately described Hadrian’s own experience: Sex is like one of the Mysteries, as unique wisdom might be attained in the midst of an experience but forgotten later when the encounter is over. He wonders whether there could be a philosophy predicated on eroticism, and then adds that bodily contact is a way to know another being, from a petitioner to a family member to a fellow soldier. Hadrian characterizes love as a kind of invasion of the flesh by the spirit, especially the kind of love that makes another indispensable to one’s own life. Still, he has not been a seducer, and is little suited for romantic stratagems and traps. He may be a lover of beauty more than a lover of pleasure, especially given the risks of adulation for one in a position of almost absolute power. He despises those who would try to be sexual procurers for him.

Of the joys of life, he also misses sleep. He compares the plunge into sleep to an expedition to another country, and he marvels that as vivid as our dreams may be, we wake the same. He thinks of sleep as a momentary cessation of existence. Sometimes in boyhood or on a hunt, he would sleep so deeply that on waking it would feel for a moment like he had left himself and had to return to his body.

He also thinks of sleep as healing. A year ago, after a long day of meetings, he became dizzy. But after an hour of sleep, he felt restored. Sleep unites all types of men, but it is also an oblivion, which disturbs Hadrian enough that he cannot watch someone else sleep. He sometimes makes his own bed upon rising, wanting to hide “those almost obscene evidences of our encounters with nothingness” (20).

Hadrian pauses to reflect that while he began his letter as an account of his illness, it has become the meditation of a sick man holding audience with his memories. His secretary, Phlegon, has already composed the official summary of his life, but Hadrian wants to share the truth with Mark, even though he does not expect that at 17, Mark will understand any of it. Hadrian has chosen the best tutors for the young man, and this letter is another form of instruction: a recitation of his personal experience, and also a way to examine, define, and judge himself before he dies. There are really only three ways of evaluating human existence: self-reflection, observation of peers, and books. Books can lie, as poets manipulate tone and language, and neither historians nor philosophers can capture reality. Observation is not always informative; for example, Hadrian’s enslaved servant, Euphorion, has attended Hadrian’s bath for 20 years, but Hadrian knows nothing of the man’s inner life. Hadrian likes reading about men’s foibles, but that still doesn’t tell him about their true selves.

Even after 60 years, Hadrian self-knowledge is unformed and obscure. His life is a shapeless mass, made up of random mountains; there is no clean or heroic arc to his story. He can find no real plan for his life, just incidents that look like fate, or chance. He can define himself by what he is not, and believes he can be defined by his actions, but still finds it difficult to explain himself to himself. He is not sure it is important that he was emperor, and sees the eras of his life and the places he has visited as nebulous and overlapping. Sometimes, Hadrian sees his life as commonplace, and other times he thinks he is unique. In short, he concludes that he can be reduced to no one thing. He wonders what could really explain a life or the reasons for existence.