AUGUSTINE: CONFESSIONS
Newly translated and edited by
ALBERT C. OUTLER, Ph.D., D.D.
Professor of Theology
Perkins School of Theology
Southern Methodist University
Dallas, Texas
First published MCMLV
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 55-5021
This book is in the public domain.
Scanned by Harry Plantinga, [email protected], 1994.
Introduction
LIKE A COLOSSUS BESTRIDING TWO WORLDS, Augustine stands as the last patristic
and the first medieval father of Western Christianity. He gathered together and
conserved all the main motifs of Latin Christianity from Tertullian to Ambrose;
he appropriated the heritage of Nicene orthodoxy; he was a Chalcedonian before
Chalcedon--and he drew all this into an unsystematic synthesis which is still
our best mirror of the heart and mind of the Christian community in the Roman
Empire. More than this, he freely received and deliberately reconsecrated the
religious philosophy of the Greco-Roman world to a new apologetic use in
maintaining the intelligibility of the Christian proclamation. Yet, even in his
role as summator of tradition, he was no mere eclectic. The center of his
"system" is in the Holy Scriptures, as they ordered and moved his heart and
mind. It was in Scripture that, first and last, Augustine found the focus of
his religious authority.
At the same time, it was this essentially conservative genius who recast the
patristic tradition into the new pattern by which European Christianity would
be largely shaped and who, with relatively little interest in historical
detail, wrought out the first comprehensive "philosophy of history." Augustine
regarded himself as much less an innovator than a summator. He was less a
reformer of the Church than the defender of the Church's faith. His own
self-chosen project was to save Christianity from the disruption of heresy and
the calumnies of the pagans, and, above everything else, to renew and exalt the
faithful hearing of the gospel of man's utter need and God's abundant grace.
But the unforeseen result of this enterprise was to furnish the motifs of the
Church's piety and doctrine for the next thousand years and more. Wherever one
touches the Middle Ages, he finds the marks of Augustine's influence, powerful
and pervasive--even Aquinas is more of an Augustinian at heart than a "proper"
Aristotelian. In the Protestant Reformation, the evangelical elements in
Augustine's thought were appealed to in condemnation of the corruptions of
popular Catholicism--yet even those corruptions had a certain right of appeal
to some of the non-evangelical aspects of Augustine's thought and life. And,
still today, in the important theological revival of our own time, the
influence of Augustine is obviously one of the most potent and productive
impulses at work.
A succinct characterization of Augustine is impossible, not only because his
thought is so extraordinarily complex and his expository method so incurably
digressive, but also because throughout his entire career there were lively
tensions and massive prejudices in his heart and head. His doctrine of God
holds the Plotinian notions of divine unity and remotion in tension with the
Biblical emphasis upon the sovereign God's active involvement in creation and
redemption. For all his devotion to Jesus Christ, this theology was never
adequately Christocentric, and this reflects itself in many ways in his
practical conception of the Christian life. He did not invent the doctrines of
original sin and seminal transmission of guilt but he did set them as
cornerstones in his "system," matching them with a doctrine of infant baptism
which cancels, ex opere operato, birth sin and hereditary guilt. He
never wearied of celebrating God's abundant mercy and grace--but he was also
fully persuaded that the vast majority of mankind are condemned to a wholly
just and appalling damnation. He never denied the reality of human freedom and
never allowed the excuse of human irresponsibility before God--but against all
detractors of the primacy of God's grace, he vigorously insisted on both double
predestination and irresistible grace.
For all this the Catholic Church was fully justified in giving Augustine his
aptest title, Doctor Gratiae. The central theme in all Augustine's
writings is the sovereign God of grace and the sovereign grace of God. Grace,
for Augustine, is God's freedom to act without any external necessity
whatsoever--to act in love beyond human understanding or control; to act in
creation, judgment, and redemption; to give his Son freely as Mediator and
Redeemer; to endue the Church with the indwelling power and guidance of the
Holy Spirit; to shape the destinies of all creation and the ends of the two
human societies, the "city of earth" and the "city of God." Grace is God's
unmerited love and favor, prevenient and occurrent. It touches man's inmost
heart and will. It guides and impels the pilgrimage of those called to be
faithful. It draws and raises the soul to repentance, faith, and praise. It
transforms the human will so that it is capable of doing good. It relieves
man's religious anxiety by forgiveness and the gift of hope. It establishes the
ground of Christian humility by abolishing the ground of human pride. God's
grace became incarnate in Jesus Christ, and it remains immanent in the Holy
Spirit in the Church.
Augustine had no system--but he did have a stable and coherent Christian
outlook. Moreover, he had an unwearied, ardent concern: man's salvation from
his hopeless plight, through the gracious action of God's redeeming love. To
understand and interpret this was his one endeavor, and to this task he devoted
his entire genius.
He was, of course, by conscious intent and profession, a Christian theologian,
a pastor and teacher in the Christian community. And yet it has come about that
his contributions to the larger heritage of Western civilization are hardly
less important than his services to the Christian Church. He was far and away
the best--if not the very first--psychologist in the ancient world. His
observations and descriptions of human motives and emotions, his depth analyses
of will and thought in their interaction, and his exploration of the inner
nature of the human self--these have established one of the main traditions in
European conceptions of human nature, even down to our own time. Augustine is
an essential source for both contemporary depth psychology and existentialist
philosophy. His view of the shape and process of human history has been more
influential than any other single source in the development of the Western
tradition which regards political order as inextricably involved in moral
order. His conception of a societas as a community identified and held
together by its loyalties and love has become an integral part of the general
tradition of Christian social teaching and the Christian vision of
"Christendom." His metaphysical explorations of the problems of being, the
character of evil, the relation of faith and knowledge, of will and reason, of
time and eternity, of creation and cosmic order, have not ceased to animate and
enrich various philosophic reflections throughout the succeeding centuries. At
the same time the hallmark of the Augustinian philosophy is its insistent
demand that reflective thought issue in practical consequence; no contemplation
of the end of life suffices unless it discovers the means by which men are
brought to their proper goals. In sum, Augustine is one of the very few men who
simply cannot be ignored or depreciated in any estimate of Western civilization
without serious distortion and impoverishment of one's historical and religious
understanding.
In the space of some forty-four years, from his conversion in Milan (A.D. 386)
to his death in Hippo Regius (A.D. 430), Augustine wrote--mostly at
dictation--a vast sprawling library of books, sermons, and letters, the remains
of which (in the Benedictine edition of St. Maur) fill fourteen volumes as they
are reprinted in Migne, Patrologiae cursus completus, Series Latina
(Vols. 32-45). In his old age, Augustine reviewed his authorship (in the Retractations) and has left us a critical review of ninety-three of his
works he judged most important. Even a cursory glance at them shows how
enormous was his range of interest. Yet almost everything he wrote was in
response to a specific problem or an actual crisis in the immediate situation.
One may mark off significant developments in his thought over this twoscore
years, but one can hardly miss the fundamental consistency in his entire life's
work. He was never interested in writing a systematic summa theologica, and would have been incapable of producing a balanced digest of his
multifaceted teaching. Thus, if he is to be read wisely, he must be read
widely--and always in context, with due attention to the specific aim in view
in each particular treatise.
For the general reader who wishes to approach Augustine as directly as
possible, however, it is a useful and fortunate thing that at the very
beginning of his Christian ministry and then again at the very climax of it,
Augustine set himself to focus his experience and thought into what were, for
him, summings up. The result of the first effort is the Confessions, which is his most familiar and widely read work. The second is in the Enchiridion, written more than twenty years later. In the Confessions, he stands on the threshold of his career in the Church. In
the Enchiridion, he stands forth as triumphant champion of orthodox
Christianity. In these two works--the nearest equivalent to summation in the
whole of the Augustinian corpus--we can find all his essential themes and can
sample the characteristic flavor of his thought.
Augustine was baptized by Ambrose at Milan during Eastertide, A.D. 387.[0]A short time later his mother, Monica, died at Ostia on the
journey back to Africa. A year later, Augustine was back in Roman Africa living
in a monastery at Tagaste, his native town. In 391, he was ordained presbyter
in the church of Hippo Regius (a small coastal town nearby). Here in 395--with
grave misgivings on his own part (cf. Sermon CCCLV, 2) and in actual
violation of the eighth canon of Nicea (cf. Mansi, Sacrorum conciliorum, II, 671, and IV, 1167)--he was consecrated assistant bishop to the aged
Valerius, whom he succeeded the following year. Shortly after he entered into
his episcopal duties he began his Confessions, completing them probably
in 398 (cf. De Labriolle, I, vi (see Bibliography), and di Capua, Miscellanea Agostiniana, II, 678).
Augustine had a complex motive for undertaking such a self-analysis.[1 ]His pilgrimage of grace had led him to a most unexpected
outcome. Now he felt a compelling need to retrace the crucial turnings of the
way by which he had come. And since he was sure that it was God's grace that
had been his prime mover on that way, it was a spontaneous expression of his
heart that cast his self-recollection into the form of a sustained prayer to
God.
The Confessions are not Augustine's autobiography. They are, instead, a
deliberate effort, in the permissive atmosphere of God's felt presence, to
recall those crucial episodes and events in which he can now see and celebrate
the mysterious actions of God's prevenient and provident grace. Thus he follows
the windings of his memory as it re-presents the upheavals of his youth and the
stages of his disorderly quest for wisdom. He omits very much indeed. Yet he
builds his successive climaxes so skillfully that the denouement in Book VIII
is a vivid and believable convergence of influences, reconstructed and "placed"
with consummate dramatic skill. We see how Cicero's Hortensius first
awakened his thirst for wisdom, how the Manicheans deluded him with their
promise of true wisdom, and how the Academics upset his confidence in certain
knowledge--how they loosed him from the dogmatism of the Manicheans only to
confront him with the opposite threat that all knowledge is uncertain. He shows
us (Bk. V, Ch. X, 19) that almost the sole cause of his intellectual perplexity
in religion was his stubborn, materialistic prejudice that if God existed he
had to exist in a body, and thus had to have extension, shape, and finite
relation. He remembers how the "Platonists" rescued him from this "materialism"
and taught him how to think of spiritual and immaterial reality--and so to
become able to conceive of God in non-dualistic categories. We can follow him
in his extraordinarily candid and plain report of his Plotinian ecstasy, and
his momentary communion with the One (Book VII). The "Platonists" liberated him
from error, but they could not loose him from the fetters of incontinence.
Thus, with a divided will, he continues to seek a stable peace in the Christian
faith while he stubbornly clings to his pride and appetence.
In Book VIII, Augustine piles up a series of remembered incidents that inflamed
his desire to imitate those who already seemed to have gained what he had so
long been seeking. First of all, there had been Ambrose, who embodied for
Augustine the dignity of Christian learning and the majesty of the authority of
the Christian Scriptures. Then Simplicianus tells him the moving story of
Victorinus (a more famous scholar than Augustine ever hoped to be), who finally
came to the baptismal font in Milan as humbly as any other catechumen. Then,
from Ponticianus he hears the story of Antony and about the increasing
influence of the monastic calling. The story that stirs him most, perhaps,
relates the dramatic conversion of the two "special agents of the imperial
police" in the garden at Treves--two unlikely prospects snatched abruptly from
their worldly ways to the monastic life.
He makes it plain that these examples forced his own feelings to an intolerable
tension. His intellectual perplexities had become resolved; the virtue of
continence had been consciously preferred; there was a strong desire for the
storms of his breast to be calmed; he longed to imitate these men who had done
what he could not and who were enjoying the peace he longed for.
But the old habits were still strong and he could not muster a full act of the
whole will to strike them down. Then comes the scene in the Milanese garden
which is an interesting parallel to Ponticianus' story about the garden at
Treves. The long struggle is recapitulated in a brief moment; his will
struggles against and within itself. The trivial distraction of a child's
voice, chanting, "Tolle, lege," precipitates the resolution of the
conflict. There is a radical shift in mood and will, he turns eagerly to the
chance text in Rom. 13:13--and a new spirit rises in his heart.
After this radical change, there was only one more past event that had to be
relived before his personal history could be seen in its right perspective.
This was the death of his mother and the severance of his strongest earthly
tie. Book IX tells us this story. The climactic moment in it is, of course, the
vision at Ostia where mother and son are uplifted in an ecstasy that
parallels--but also differs significantly from--the Plotinian vision of Book
VII. After this, the mother dies and the son who had loved her almost too much
goes on alone, now upheld and led by a greater and a wiser love.
We can observe two separate stages in Augustine's "conversion." The first was
the dramatic striking off of the slavery of incontinence and pride which had so
long held him from decisive commitment to the Christian faith. The second was
the development of an adequate understanding of the Christian faith itself and
his baptismal confession of Jesus Christ as Lord and Saviour. The former was
achieved in the Milanese garden. The latter came more slowly and had no
"dramatic moment." The dialogues that Augustine wrote at Cassiciacum the year
following his conversion show few substantial signs of a theological
understanding, decisively or distinctively Christian. But by the time of his
ordination to the presbyterate we can see the basic lines of a comprehensive
and orthodox theology firmly laid out. Augustine neglects to tell us (in 398)
what had happened in his thought between 385 and 391. He had other questions,
more interesting to him, with which to wrestle.
One does not read far in the Confessions before he recognizes that the
term "confess" has a double range of meaning. On the one hand, it obviously
refers to the free acknowledgment, before God, of the truth one knows about
oneself--and this obviously meant, for Augustine, the "confession of sins."
But, at the same time, and more importantly, confiteri means to
acknowledge, to God, the truth one knows about God. To confess, then, is to
praise and glorify God; it is an exercise in self-knowledge and true humility
in the atmosphere of grace and reconciliation.
Thus the Confessions are by no means complete when the personal history
is concluded at the end of Book IX. There are two more closely related problems
to be explored: First, how does the finite self find the infinite God (or, how
is it found of him?)? And, secondly, how may we interpret God's action in
producing this created world in which such personal histories and revelations
do occur? Book X, therefore, is an exploration of man's way to God, a
way which begins in sense experience but swiftly passes beyond it, through and
beyond the awesome mystery of memory, to the ineffable encounter between God
and the soul in man's inmost subject-self. But such a journey is not complete
until the process is reversed and man has looked as deeply as may be into the
mystery of creation, on which all our history and experience depend. In Book
XI, therefore, we discover why time is such a problem and how "In the
beginning God created the heavens and the earth" is the basic formula of a
massive Christian metaphysical world view. In Books XII and XIII, Augustine
elaborates, in loving patience and with considerable allegorical license, the
mysteries of creation--exegeting the first chapter of Genesis, verse by verse,
until he is able to relate the whole round of creation to the point where we
can view the drama of God's enterprise in human history on the vast stage of
the cosmos itself. The Creator is the Redeemer! Man's end and the beginning
meet at a single point!
The Enchiridion is a briefer treatise on the grace of God and represents
Augustine's fully matured theological perspective--after the magnificent
achievements of the De Trinitate and the greater part of the De
civitate Dei, and after the tremendous turmoil of the Pelagian controversy
in which the doctrine of grace was the exact epicenter. Sometime in 421,
Augustine received a request from one Laurentius, a Christian layman who was
the brother of the tribune Dulcitius (for whom Augustine wrote the De octo
dulcitii quaestionibus in 423-425). This Laurentius wanted a handbook (enchiridion) that would sum up the essential Christian teaching in the
briefest possible form. Augustine dryly comments that the shortest complete
summary of the Christian faith is that God is to be served by man in faith,
hope, and love. Then, acknowledging that this answer might indeed be too brief, he proceeds to expand it in an essay in which he tries
unsuccessfully to subdue his natural digressive manner by imposing on it a
patently artificial schematism. Despite its awkward form, however, the Enchiridion is one of the most important of all of Augustine's writings,
for it is a conscious effort of the theological magistrate of the Western
Church to stand on final ground of testimony to the Christian truth.
For his framework, Augustine chooses the Apostles' Creed and the Lord's Prayer.
The treatise begins, naturally enough, with a discussion of God's work in
creation. Augustine makes a firm distinction between the comparatively
unimportant knowledge of nature and the supremely important acknowledgment of
the Creator of nature. But creation lies under the shadow of sin and evil and
Augustine reviews his famous (and borrowed!) doctrine of the privative
character of evil. From this he digresses into an extended comment on error and
lying as special instances of evil. He then returns to the hopeless case of
fallen man, to which God's wholly unmerited grace has responded in the
incarnation of the Mediator and Redeemer, Jesus Christ. The questions about the
appropriation of God's grace lead naturally to a discussion of baptism and
justification, and beyond these, to the Holy Spirit and the Church. Augustine
then sets forth the benefits of redeeming grace and weighs the balance between
faith and good works in the forgiven sinner. But redemption looks forward
toward resurrection, and Augustine feels he must devote a good deal of energy
and subtle speculation to the questions about the manner and mode of the life
everlasting. From this he moves on to the problem of the destiny of the wicked
and the mystery of predestination. Nor does he shrink from these grim topics;
indeed, he actually expands some of his most rigid ideas of God's
ruthless justice toward the damned. Having thus treated the Christian faith and
Christian hope, he turns in a too-brief concluding section to the virtue of
Christian love as the heart of the Christian life. This, then, is the
"handbook" on faith, hope, and love which he hopes Laurence will put to use and
not leave as "baggage on his bookshelf."
Taken together, the Confessions and the Enchiridion give us two
very important vantage points from which to view the Augustinian perspective as
a whole, since they represent both his early and his mature formulation. From
them, we can gain a competent--though by no means complete--introduction to the
heart and mind of this great Christian saint and sage. There are important
differences between the two works, and these ought to be noted by the careful
reader. But all the main themes of Augustinian Christianity appear in them, and
through them we can penetrate to its inner dynamic core.
There is no need to justify a new English translation of these books, even
though many good ones already exist. Every translation is, at best, only an
approximation--and an interpretation too. There is small hope for a translation
to end all translations. Augustine's Latin is, for the most part, comparatively
easy to read. One feels directly the force of his constant wordplay, the artful
balancing of his clauses, his laconic use of parataxis, and his deliberate
involutions of thought and word order. He was always a Latin rhetor; artifice
of style had come to be second nature with him--even though the Latin
scriptures were powerful modifiers of his classical literary patterns. But it
is a very tricky business to convey such a Latin style into anything like
modern English without considerable violence one way or the other. A literal
rendering of the text is simply not readable English. And this falsifies the
text in another way, for Augustine's Latin is eminently readable! On the other
side, when one resorts to the unavoidable paraphrase there is always the open
question as to the point beyond which the thought itself is being recast. It
has been my aim and hope that these translations will give the reader an
accurate medium of contact with Augustine's temper and mode of argumentation.
There has been no thought of trying to contrive an English equivalent for his
style. If Augustine's ideas come through this translation with positive force
and clarity, there can be no serious reproach if it is neither as eloquent nor
as elegant as Augustine in his own language. In any case, those who will
compare this translation with the others will get at least a faint notion of
how complex and truly brilliant the original is!
The sensitive reader soon recognizes that Augustine will not willingly be
inspected from a distance or by a neutral observer. In all his writings there
is a strong concern and moving power to involve his reader in his own process
of inquiry and perplexity. There is a manifest eagerness to have him share in
his own flashes of insight and his sudden glimpses of God's glory. Augustine's
style is deeply personal; it is therefore idiomatic, and often colloquial. Even
in his knottiest arguments, or in the labyrinthine mazes of his allegorizing
(e.g., Confessions, Bk. XIII, or Enchiridion, XVIII), he seeks to
maintain contact with his reader in genuine respect and openness. He is never
content to seek and find the truth in solitude. He must enlist his fellows in
seeing and applying the truth as given. He is never the blind fideist; even in
the face of mystery, there is a constant reliance on the limited but real
powers of human reason, and a constant striving for clarity and
intelligibility. In this sense, he was a consistent follower of his own
principle of "Christian Socratism," developed in the De Magistro and the De catechezandis rudibus.
Even the best of Augustine's writing bears the marks of his own time and there
is much in these old books that is of little interest to any but the
specialist. There are many stones of stumbling in them for the modern
secularist--and even for the modern Christian! Despite all this, it is
impossible to read him with any attention at all without recognizing how his
genius and his piety burst through the limitations of his times and his
language--and even his English translations! He grips our hearts and minds and
enlists us in the great enterprise to which his whole life was devoted: the
search for and the celebration of God's grace and glory by which his faithful
children are sustained and guided in their pilgrimage toward the true Light of
us all.
The most useful critical text of the Confessions is that of Pierre de
Labriolle (fifth edition, Paris, 1950). I have collated this with the other
major critical editions: Martin Skutella, S. Aureli Augustini Confessionum
Libri Tredecim (Leipzig, 1934)--itself a recension of the Corpus
Scriptorum ecclesiasticorum Latinorum XXXIII text of Pius Knöll
(Vienna, 1896)--and the second edition of John Gibb and William Montgomery
(Cambridge, 1927).
There are two good critical texts of the Enchiridion and I have collated
them: Otto Scheel, Augustins Enchiridion (zweite Auflage, Tübingen,
1930), and Jean Rivière, Enchiridion in the Bibliothèque
Augustinienne, Œuvres de S. Augustin, première série:
Opuscules, IX: Exposés généraux de la foi (Paris,
1947).
It remains for me to express my appreciation to the General Editors of this
Library for their constructive help; to Professor Hollis W. Huston, who read
the entire manuscript and made many valuable suggestions; and to Professor
William A. Irwin, who greatly aided with parts of the Enchiridion. These
men share the credit for preventing many flaws, but naturally no responsibility
for those remaining. Professors Raymond P. Morris, of the Yale Divinity School
Library; Robert Beach, of the Union Theological Seminary Library; and Decherd
Turner, of our Bridwell Library here at Southern Methodist University, were
especially generous in their bibliographical assistance. Last, but not least,
Mrs. Hollis W. Huston and my wife, between them, managed the difficult task of
putting the results of this project into fair copy. To them all I am most
grateful.
AUGUSTINE'S TESTIMONY CONCERNING THE CONFESSIONS
I. THE Retractations, II, 6 (A.D. 427)
1. My Confessions, in thirteen books, praise the righteous and good God
as they speak either of my evil or good, and they are meant to excite men's
minds and affections toward him. At least as far as I am concerned, this is
what they did for me when they were being written and they still do this when
read. What some people think of them is their own affair [ipse
viderint]; but I do know that they have given pleasure to many of my
brethren and still do so. The first through the tenth books were written about
myself; the other three about Holy Scripture, from what is written there, In
the beginning God created the heaven and the earth,[2]even as far as the reference to the Sabbath rest.[3]
2. In Book IV, when I confessed my soul's misery over the death of a friend and
said that our soul had somehow been made one out of two souls, "But it may have
been that I was afraid to die, lest he should then die wholly whom I had so
greatly loved" (Ch. VI, 11)--this now seems to be more a trivial declamation
than a serious confession, although this inept expression may be tempered
somewhat by the "may have been" [forte] which I added. And in
Book XIII what I said--"The firmament was made between the higher waters (and
superior) and the lower (and inferior) waters"--was said without sufficient
thought. In any case, the matter is very obscure.
This work begins thus: "Great art thou, O Lord."
II. De Dono Perseverantiae, XX, 53 (A.D. 428)
Which of my shorter works has been more widely known or given greater pleasure
than the [thirteen] books of my Confessions? And, although I
published them long before the Pelagian heresy had even begun to be, it is
plain that in them I said to my God, again and again, "Give what thou
commandest and command what thou wilt." When these words of mine were repeated
in Pelagius' presence at Rome by a certain brother of mine (an episcopal
colleague), he could not bear them and contradicted him so excitedly that they
nearly came to a quarrel. Now what, indeed, does God command, first and
foremost, except that we believe in him? This faith, therefore, he himself
gives; so that it is well said to him, "Give what thou commandest." Moreover,
in those same books, concerning my account of my conversion when God turned me
to that faith which I was laying waste with a very wretched and wild verbal
assault,[4 ]do you not remember how the narration shows that
I was given as a gift to the faithful and daily tears of my mother, who had
been promised that I should not perish? I certainly declared there that God by
his grace turns men's wills to the true faith when they are not only averse to
it, but actually adverse. As for the other ways in which I sought God's aid in
my growth in perseverance, you either know or can review them as you wish (PL, 45, c. 1025).
III. Letter to Darius (A.D. 429)
Thus, my son, take the books of my Confessions and use them as a good
man should--not superficially, but as a Christian in Christian charity. Here
see me as I am and do not praise me for more than I am. Here believe nothing
else about me than my own testimony. Here observe what I have been in myself
and through myself. And if something in me pleases you, here praise Him with
me--him whom I desire to be praised on my account and not myself. "For it is he
that hath made us and not we ourselves."[5] Indeed, we were
ourselves quite lost; but he who made us, remade us [sed qui fecit,
refecit]. As, then, you find me in these pages, pray for me that I shall
not fail but that I may go on to be perfected. Pray for me, my son, pray for
me! (Epist. CCXXXI, PL, 33, c. 1025).
The Confessions of Saint Augustine
BOOK ONE
In God's searching presence, Augustine undertakes to plumb the depths of his
memory to trace the mysterious pilgrimage of grace which his life has been--and
to praise God for his constant and omnipotent grace. In a mood of sustained
prayer, he recalls what he can of his infancy, his learning to speak, and his
childhood experiences in school. He concludes with a paean of grateful praise
to God.
CHAPTER I
1. "Great art thou, O Lord, and greatly to be praised; great is thy power, and
infinite is thy wisdom."[6] And man desires to praise thee,
for he is a part of thy creation; he bears his mortality about with him and
carries the evidence of his sin and the proof that thou dost resist the proud.
Still he desires to praise thee, this man who is only a small part of thy
creation. Thou hast prompted him, that he should delight to praise thee, for
thou hast made us for thyself and restless is our heart until it comes to rest
in thee. Grant me, O Lord, to know and understand whether first to invoke thee
or to praise thee; whether first to know thee or call upon thee. But who can
invoke thee, knowing thee not? For he who knows thee not may invoke thee as
another than thou art. It may be that we should invoke thee in order that we
may come to know thee. But "how shall they call on him in whom they have not
believed? Or how shall they believe without a preacher?"[7] Now, "they shall praise the Lord who seek him,"[8] for
"those who seek shall find him,"[9] and, finding him, shall
praise him. I will seek thee, O Lord, and call upon thee. I call upon thee, O
Lord, in my faith which thou hast given me, which thou hast inspired in me
through the humanity of thy Son, and through the ministry of thy preacher.[10] CHAPTER II
2. And how shall I call upon my God--my God and my Lord? For when I call on him
I ask him to come into me. And what place is there in me into which my God can
come? How could God, the God who made both heaven and earth, come into me? Is
there anything in me, O Lord my God, that can contain thee? Do even the heaven
and the earth, which thou hast made, and in which thou didst make me, contain
thee? Is it possible that, since without thee nothing would be which does
exist, thou didst make it so that whatever exists has some capacity to receive
thee? Why, then, do I ask thee to come into me, since I also am and could not
be if thou wert not in me? For I am not, after all, in hell--and yet thou art
there too, for "if I go down into hell, thou art there."[11] Therefore I would not exist--I would simply not be at
all--unless I exist in thee, from whom and by whom and in whom all things are.
Even so, Lord; even so. Where do I call thee to, when I am already in thee? Or
from whence wouldst thou come into me? Where, beyond heaven and earth, could I
go that there my God might come to me--he who hath said, "I fill heaven and
earth"?[12] CHAPTER III
3. Since, then, thou dost fill the heaven and earth, do they contain thee? Or,
dost thou fill and overflow them, because they cannot contain thee? And where
dost thou pour out what remains of thee after heaven and earth are full? Or,
indeed, is there no need that thou, who dost contain all things, shouldst be
contained by any, since those things which thou dost fill thou fillest by
containing them? For the vessels which thou dost fill do
not confine thee, since even if they were broken, thou wouldst not be poured
out. And, when thou art poured out on us, thou art not thereby brought down;
rather, we are uplifted. Thou art not scattered; rather, thou dost gather us
together. But when thou dost fill all things, dost thou fill them with thy
whole being? Or, since not even all things together could contain thee
altogether, does any one thing contain a single part, and do all things contain
that same part at the same time? Do singulars contain thee singly? Do greater
things contain more of thee, and smaller things less? Or, is it not rather that
thou art wholly present everywhere, yet in such a way that nothing contains
thee wholly?
CHAPTER IV
4. What, therefore, is my God? What, I ask, but the Lord God? "For who is Lord
but the Lord himself, or who is God besides our God?"[13] Most high, most excellent, most potent, most omnipotent; most merciful and most
just; most secret and most truly present; most beautiful and most strong;
stable, yet not supported; unchangeable, yet changing all things; never new,
never old; making all things new, yet bringing old age upon the proud, and they
know it not; always working, ever at rest; gathering, yet needing nothing;
sustaining, pervading, and protecting; creating, nourishing, and developing;
seeking, and yet possessing all things. Thou dost love, but without passion;
art jealous, yet free from care; dost repent without remorse; art angry, yet
remainest serene. Thou changest thy ways, leaving thy plans unchanged; thou
recoverest what thou hast never really lost. Thou art never in need but still
thou dost rejoice at thy gains; art never greedy, yet demandest dividends. Men
pay more than is required so that thou dost become a debtor; yet who can
possess anything at all which is not already thine? Thou owest men nothing, yet
payest out to them as if in debt to thy creature, and when thou dost cancel
debts thou losest nothing thereby. Yet, O my God, my life, my holy Joy, what is
this that I have said? What can any man say when he speaks of thee? But woe to
them that keep silence--since even those who say most are dumb.
CHAPTER V
5. Who shall bring me to rest in thee? Who will send thee into my heart so to
overwhelm it that my sins shall be blotted out and I may embrace thee, my only
good? What art thou to me? Have mercy that I may speak. What am I to thee that
thou shouldst command me to love thee, and if I do it not, art angry and
threatenest vast misery? Is it, then, a trifling sorrow not to love thee? It is
not so to me. Tell me, by thy mercy, O Lord, my God, what thou art to me. "Say
to my soul, I am your salvation."[14] So speak that I may
hear. Behold, the ears of my heart are before thee, O Lord; open them and "say
to my soul, I am your salvation." I will hasten after that voice, and I will
lay hold upon thee. Hide not thy face from me. Even if I die, let me see thy
face lest I die.
6. The house of my soul is too narrow for thee to come in to me; let it be
enlarged by thee. It is in ruins; do thou restore it. There is much about it
which must offend thy eyes; I confess and know it. But who will cleanse it? Or,
to whom shall I cry but to thee? "Cleanse thou me from my secret faults," O
Lord, "and keep back thy servant from strange sins."[15] "I
believe, and therefore do I speak."[16] But thou, O Lord,
thou knowest. Have I not confessed my transgressions unto thee, O my God; and
hast thou not put away the iniquity of my heart?[17] I do
not contend in judgment with thee,[18] who art truth
itself; and I would not deceive myself, lest my iniquity lie even to itself. I
do not, therefore, contend in judgment with thee, for "if thou, Lord, shouldst
mark iniquities, O Lord, who shall stand?"[19]
CHAPTER VI
7. Still, dust and ashes as I am, allow me to speak before thy mercy. Allow me
to speak, for, behold, it is to thy mercy that I speak and not to a man who
scorns me. Yet perhaps even thou mightest scorn me; but when thou dost turn and
attend to me, thou wilt have mercy upon me. For what do I wish to say, O Lord
my God, but that I know not whence I came hither into this life-in-death. Or
should I call it death-in-life? I do not know. And yet the consolations of thy
mercy have sustained me from the very beginning, as I have heard from my
fleshly parents, from whom and in whom thou didst form me in time--for I cannot
myself remember. Thus even though they sustained me by the consolation of
woman's milk, neither my mother nor my nurses filled their own breasts but
thou, through them, didst give me the food of infancy according to thy
ordinance and thy bounty which underlie all things. For it was thou who didst
cause me not to want more than thou gavest and it was thou who gavest to those
who nourished me the will to give me what thou didst give them. And they, by an
instinctive affection, were willing to give me what thou hadst supplied
abundantly. It was, indeed, good for them that my good should come through
them, though, in truth, it was not from them but by them. For it is from thee,
O God, that all good things come--and from my God is all my health. This is
what I have since learned, as thou hast made it abundantly clear by all that I
have seen thee give, both to me and to those around me. For even at the very
first I knew how to suck, to lie quiet when I was full, and to cry when in
pain--nothing more.
8. Afterward I began to laugh--at first in my sleep, then when waking. For this
I have been told about myself and I believe it--though I cannot remember
it--for I see the same things in other infants. Then, little by little, I
realized where I was and wished to tell my wishes to those who might satisfy
them, but I could not! For my wants were inside me, and they were outside, and
they could not by any power of theirs come into my soul. And so I would fling
my arms and legs about and cry, making the few and feeble gestures that I
could, though indeed the signs were not much like what I inwardly desired and
when I was not satisfied--either from not being understood or because what I
got was not good for me--I grew indignant that my elders were not subject to me
and that those on whom I actually had no claim did not wait on me as
slaves--and I avenged myself on them by crying. That infants are like this, I
have myself been able to learn by watching them; and they, though they knew me
not, have shown me better what I was like than my own nurses who knew me.
9. And, behold, my infancy died long ago, but I am still living. But thou, O
Lord, whose life is forever and in whom nothing dies--since before the world
was, indeed, before all that can be called "before," thou wast, and thou art
the God and Lord of all thy creatures; and with thee abide all the stable
causes of all unstable things, the unchanging sources of all changeable things,
and the eternal reasons of all non-rational and temporal things--tell me, thy
suppliant, O God, tell me, O merciful One, in pity tell a pitiful creature
whether my infancy followed yet an earlier age of my life that had already
passed away before it. Was it such another age which I spent in my mother's
womb? For something of that sort has been suggested to me, and I have myself
seen pregnant women. But what, O God, my Joy, preceded that period of
life? Was I, indeed, anywhere, or anybody? No one can explain these things to
me, neither father nor mother, nor the experience of others, nor my own memory.
Dost thou laugh at me for asking such things? Or dost thou command me to praise
and confess unto thee only what I know?
10. I give thanks to thee, O Lord of heaven and earth, giving praise to thee
for that first being and my infancy of which I have no memory. For thou hast
granted to man that he should come to self-knowledge through the knowledge of
others, and that he should believe many things about himself on the authority
of the womenfolk. Now, clearly, I had life and being; and, as my infancy
closed, I was already learning signs by which my feelings could be communicated
to others.
Whence could such a creature come but from thee, O Lord? Is any man skillful
enough to have fashioned himself? Or is there any other source from which being
and life could flow into us, save this, that thou, O Lord, hast made us--thou
with whom being and life are one, since thou thyself art supreme being and
supreme life both together. For thou art infinite and in thee there is no
change, nor an end to this present day--although there is a sense in which it
ends in thee since all things are in thee and there would be no such thing as
days passing away unless thou didst sustain them. And since "thy years shall
have no end,"[20] thy years are an ever-present day. And
how many of ours and our fathers' days have passed through this thy day and
have received from it what measure and fashion of being they had? And all the
days to come shall so receive and so pass away. "But thou art the same"![21] And all the things of tomorrow and the days yet to come,
and all of yesterday and the days that are past, thou wilt gather into this thy
day. What is it to me if someone does not understand this? Let him still
rejoice and continue to ask, "What is this?" Let him also rejoice and prefer to
seek thee, even if he fails to find an answer, rather than to seek an answer
and not find thee!
CHAPTER VII
11. "Hear me, O God! Woe to the sins of men!" When a man cries thus, thou
showest him mercy, for thou didst create the man but not the sin in him. Who
brings to remembrance the sins of my infancy? For in thy sight there is none
free from sin, not even the infant who has lived but a day upon this earth. Who
brings this to my remembrance? Does not each little one, in whom I now observe
what I no longer remember of myself? In what ways, in that time, did I sin? Was
it that I cried for the breast? If I should now so cry--not indeed for the
breast, but for food suitable to my condition--I should be most justly laughed
at and rebuked. What I did then deserved rebuke but, since I could not
understand those who rebuked me, neither custom nor common sense permitted me
to be rebuked. As we grow we root out and cast away from us such childish
habits. Yet I have not seen anyone who is wise who cast away the good when
trying to purge the bad. Nor was it good, even in that time, to strive to get
by crying what, if it had been given me, would have been hurtful; or to be
bitterly indignant at those who, because they were older--not slaves, either,
but free--and wiser than I, would not indulge my capricious desires. Was it a
good thing for me to try, by struggling as hard as I could, to harm them for
not obeying me, even when it would have done me harm to have been obeyed? Thus,
the infant's innocence lies in the weakness of his body and not in the infant
mind. I have myself observed a baby to be jealous, though it could not speak;
it was livid as it watched another infant at the breast.
Who is ignorant of this? Mothers and nurses tell us that they cure these things
by I know not what remedies. But is this innocence, when the fountain of milk
is flowing fresh and abundant, that another who needs it should not be allowed
to share it, even though he requires such nourishment to sustain his life? Yet
we look leniently on such things, not because they are not faults, or even
small faults, but because they will vanish as the years pass. For, although we
allow for such things in an infant, the same things could not be tolerated
patiently in an adult.
12. Therefore, O Lord my God, thou who gavest life to the infant, and a body
which, as we see, thou hast furnished with senses, shaped with limbs,
beautified with form, and endowed with all vital energies for its well-being
and health--thou dost command me to praise thee for these things, to give
thanks unto the Lord, and to sing praise unto his name, O Most High.[22] For thou art God, omnipotent and good, even if thou hadst
done no more than these things, which no other but thou canst do--thou alone
who madest all things fair and didst order everything according to thy law.
I am loath to dwell on this part of my life of which, O Lord, I have no
remembrance, about which I must trust the word of others and what I can surmise
from observing other infants, even if such guesses are trustworthy. For it lies
in the deep murk of my forgetfulness and thus is like the period which I passed
in my mother's womb. But if "I was conceived in iniquity, and in sin my mother
nourished me in her womb,"[23] where, I pray thee, O my
God, where, O Lord, or when was I, thy servant, ever innocent? But see now, I
pass over that period, for what have I to do with a time from which I can
recall no memories?
CHAPTER VIII
13. Did I not, then, as I grew out of infancy, come next to boyhood, or rather
did it not come to me and succeed my infancy? My infancy did not go away (for
where would it go?). It was simply no longer present; and I was no longer an
infant who could not speak, but now a chattering boy. I remember this, and I
have since observed how I learned to speak. My elders did not teach me words by
rote, as they taught me my letters afterward. But I myself, when I was unable
to communicate all I wished to say to whomever I wished by means of whimperings
and grunts and various gestures of my limbs (which I used to reinforce my
demands), I myself repeated the sounds already stored in my memory by the mind
which thou, O my God, hadst given me. When they called some thing by name and
pointed it out while they spoke, I saw it and realized that the thing they
wished to indicate was called by the name they then uttered. And what they
meant was made plain by the gestures of their bodies, by a kind of natural
language, common to all nations, which expresses itself through changes of
countenance, glances of the eye, gestures and intonations which indicate a
disposition and attitude--either to seek or to possess, to reject or to avoid.
So it was that by frequently hearing words, in different phrases, I gradually
identified the objects which the words stood for and, having formed my mouth to
repeat these signs, I was thereby able to express my will. Thus I exchanged
with those about me the verbal signs by which we express our wishes and
advanced deeper into the stormy fellowship of human life, depending all the
while upon the authority of my parents and the behest of my elders.
CHAPTER IX
14. O my God! What miseries and mockeries did I then experience when it was
impressed on me that obedience to my teachers was proper to my boyhood estate
if I was to flourish in this world and distinguish myself in those tricks of
speech which would gain honor for me among men, and deceitful riches! To this
end I was sent to school to get learning, the value of which I knew not--wretch
that I was. Yet if I was slow to learn, I was flogged. For this was deemed
praiseworthy by our forefathers and many had passed before us in the same
course, and thus had built up the precedent for the sorrowful road on which we
too were compelled to travel, multiplying labor and sorrow upon the sons of
Adam. About this time, O Lord, I observed men praying to thee, and I learned
from them to conceive thee--after my capacity for understanding as it was
then--to be some great Being, who, though not visible to our senses, was able
to hear and help us. Thus as a boy I began to pray to thee, my Help and my
Refuge, and, in calling on thee, broke the bands of my tongue. Small as I was,
I prayed with no slight earnestness that I might not be beaten at school. And
when thou didst not heed me--for that would have been giving me over to my
folly--my elders and even my parents too, who wished me no ill, treated my
stripes as a joke, though they were then a great and grievous ill to me.
15. Is there anyone, O Lord, with a spirit so great, who cleaves to thee with
such steadfast affection (or is there even a kind of obtuseness that has the
same effect)--is there any man who, by cleaving devoutly to thee, is endowed
with so great a courage that he can regard indifferently those racks and hooks
and other torture weapons from which men throughout the world pray so fervently
to be spared; and can they scorn those who so greatly fear these torments, just
as my parents were amused at the torments with which our teachers punished us
boys? For we were no less afraid of our pains, nor did we beseech thee less to
escape them. Yet, even so, we were sinning by writing or reading or studying
less than our assigned lessons.
For I did not, O Lord, lack memory or capacity, for, by thy will, I possessed
enough for my age. However, my mind was absorbed only in play, and I was
punished for this by those who were doing the same things themselves. But the
idling of our elders is called business; the idling of boys, though quite like
it, is punished by those same elders, and no one pities either the boys or the
men. For will any common sense observer agree that I was rightly punished as a
boy for playing ball--just because this hindered me from learning more quickly
those lessons by means of which, as a man, I could play at more shameful games?
And did he by whom I was beaten do anything different? When he was worsted in
some small controversy with a fellow teacher, he was more tormented by anger
and envy than I was when beaten by a playmate in the ball game.
CHAPTER X
16. And yet I sinned, O Lord my God, thou ruler and creator of all natural
things--but of sins only the ruler--I sinned, O Lord my God, in acting against
the precepts of my parents and of those teachers. For this learning which they
wished me to acquire--no matter what their motives were--I might have put to
good account afterward. I disobeyed them, not because I had chosen a better
way, but from a sheer love of play. I loved the vanity of victory, and I loved
to have my ears tickled with lying fables, which made them itch even more
ardently, and a similar curiosity glowed more and more in my eyes for the shows
and sports of my elders. Yet those who put on such shows are held in such high
repute that almost all desire the same for their children. They are therefore
willing to have them beaten, if their childhood games keep them from the
studies by which their parents desire them to grow up to be able to give such
shows. Look down on these things with mercy, O Lord, and deliver us who now
call upon thee; deliver those also who do not call upon thee, that they may
call upon thee, and thou mayest deliver them.
CHAPTER XI
17. Even as a boy I had heard of eternal life promised to us through the
humility of the Lord our God, who came down to visit us in our pride, and I was
signed with the sign of his cross, and was seasoned with his salt even from the
womb of my mother, who greatly trusted in thee. Thou didst see, O Lord, how,
once, while I was still a child, I was suddenly seized with stomach pains and
was at the point of death--thou didst see, O my God, for even then thou wast my
keeper, with what agitation and with what faith I solicited from the piety of
my mother and from thy Church (which is the mother of us all) the baptism of
thy Christ, my Lord and my God. The mother of my flesh was much perplexed, for,
with a heart pure in thy faith, she was always in deep travail for my eternal
salvation. If I had not quickly recovered, she would have provided forthwith
for my initiation and washing by thy life-giving sacraments, confessing thee, O
Lord Jesus, for the forgiveness of sins. So my cleansing was deferred, as if it
were inevitable that, if I should live, I would be further polluted; and,
further, because the guilt contracted by sin after baptism would be still
greater and more perilous.
Thus, at that time, I "believed" along with my mother and the whole household,
except my father. But he did not overcome the influence of my mother's piety in
me, nor did he prevent my believing in Christ, although he had not yet believed
in him. For it was her desire, O my God, that I should acknowledge thee as my
Father rather than him. In this thou didst aid her to overcome her husband, to
whom, though his superior, she yielded obedience. In this way she also yielded
obedience to thee, who dost so command.
18. I ask thee, O my God, for I would gladly know if it be thy will, to what
good end my baptism was deferred at that time? Was it indeed for my good that
the reins were slackened, as it were, to encourage me in sin? Or, were they not
slackened? If not, then why is it still dinned into our ears on all sides, "Let
him alone, let him do as he pleases, for he is not yet baptized"? In the matter
of bodily health, no one says, "Let him alone; let him be worse wounded; for he
is not yet cured"! How much better, then, would it have been for me to have
been cured at once--and if thereafter, through the diligent care of friends and
myself, my soul's restored health had been kept safe in thy keeping, who gave
it in the first place! This would have been far better, in truth. But how many
and great the waves of temptation which appeared to hang over me as I grew out
of childhood! These were foreseen by my mother, and she preferred that the
unformed clay should be risked to them rather than the clay molded after
Christ's image.[24]
CHAPTER XII
19. But in this time of childhood--which was far less dreaded for me than my
adolescence--I had no love of learning, and hated to be driven to it. Yet I was
driven to it just the same, and good was done for me, even though I did not do
it well, for I would not have learned if I had not been forced to it. For no
man does well against his will, even if what he does is a good thing. Neither
did they who forced me do well, but the good that was done me came from thee,
my God. For they did not care about the way in which I would use what they
forced me to learn, and took it for granted that it was to satisfy the
inordinate desires of a rich beggary and a shameful glory. But thou, Lord, by
whom the hairs of our head are numbered, didst use for my good the error of all
who pushed me on to study: but my error in not being willing to learn thou
didst use for my punishment. And I--though so small a boy yet so great a
sinner--was not punished without warrant. Thus by the instrumentality of those
who did not do well, thou didst well for me; and by my own sin thou didst
justly punish me. For it is even as thou hast ordained: that every inordinate
affection brings on its own punishment.
CHAPTER XIII
20. But what were the causes for my strong dislike of Greek literature, which I
studied from my boyhood? Even to this day I have not fully understood them. For
Latin I loved exceedingly--not just the rudiments, but what the grammarians
teach. For those beginner's lessons in reading, writing, and reckoning, I
considered no less a burden and pain than Greek. Yet whence came this, unless
from the sin and vanity of this life? For I was "but flesh, a wind that passeth
away and cometh not again."[25] Those first lessons were
better, assuredly, because they were more certain, and through them I acquired,
and still retain, the power of reading what I find written and of writing for
myself what I will. In the other subjects, however, I was compelled to learn
about the wanderings of a certain Aeneas, oblivious of my own wanderings, and
to weep for Dido dead, who slew herself for love. And all this while I bore
with dry eyes my own wretched self dying to thee, O God, my life, in the midst
of these things.
21. For what can be more wretched than the wretch who has no pity upon himself,
who sheds tears over Dido, dead for the love of Aeneas, but who sheds no tears
for his own death in not loving thee, O God, light of my heart, and bread of
the inner mouth of my soul, O power that links together my mind with my inmost
thoughts? I did not love thee, and thus committed fornication against thee.[26] Those around me, also sinning, thus cried out: "Well
done! Well done!" The friendship of this world is fornication against thee; and
"Well done! Well done!" is cried until one feels ashamed not to show himself a
man in this way. For my own condition I shed no tears, though I wept for Dido,
who "sought death at the sword's point,"[27] while I myself
was seeking the lowest rung of thy creation, having forsaken thee; earth
sinking back to earth again. And, if I had been forbidden to read these poems,
I would have grieved that I was not allowed to read what grieved me. This sort
of madness is considered more honorable and more fruitful learning than the
beginner's course in which I learned to read and write.
22. But now, O my God, cry unto my soul, and let thy truth say to me: "Not so,
not so! That first learning was far better." For, obviously, I would rather
forget the wanderings of Aeneas, and all such things, than forget how to write
and read. Still, over the entrance of the grammar school there hangs a veil.
This is not so much the sign of a covering for a mystery as a curtain for
error. Let them exclaim against me--those I no longer fear--while I confess to
thee, my God, what my soul desires, and let me find some rest, for in blaming
my own evil ways I may come to love thy holy ways. Neither let those cry out
against me who buy and sell the baubles of literature. For if I ask them if it
is true, as the poet says, that Aeneas once came to Carthage, the unlearned
will reply that they do not know and the learned will deny that it is true. But
if I ask with what letters the name Aeneas is written, all who have ever
learned this will answer correctly, in accordance with the conventional
understanding men have agreed upon as to these signs. Again, if I should ask
which would cause the greatest inconvenience in our life, if it were forgotten:
reading and writing, or these poetical fictions, who does not see what everyone
would answer who had not entirely lost his own memory? I erred, then, when as a
boy I preferred those vain studies to these more profitable ones, or rather
loved the one and hated the other. "One and one are two, two and two are four":
this was then a truly hateful song to me. But the wooden horse full of its
armed soldiers, and the holocaust of Troy, and the spectral image of Creusa
were all a most delightful--and vain--show![28]
23. But why, then, did I dislike Greek learning, which was full of such tales?
For Homer was skillful in inventing such poetic fictions and is most sweetly
wanton; yet when I was a boy, he was most disagreeable to me. I believe that
Virgil would have the same effect on Greek boys as Homer did on me if they were
forced to learn him. For the tedium of learning a foreign language mingled gall
into the sweetness of those Grecian myths. For I did not understand a word of
the language, and yet I was driven with threats and cruel punishments to learn
it. There was also a time when, as an infant, I knew no Latin; but this I
acquired without any fear or tormenting, but merely by being alert to the
blandishments of my nurses, the jests of those who smiled on me, and the
sportiveness of those who toyed with me. I learned all this, indeed, without
being urged by any pressure of punishment, for my own heart urged me to bring
forth its own fashioning, which I could not do except by learning words: not
from those who taught me but those who talked to me, into whose ears I could
pour forth whatever I could fashion. From this it is sufficiently clear that a
free curiosity is more effective in learning than a discipline based on fear.
Yet, by thy ordinance, O God, discipline is given to restrain the excesses of
freedom; this ranges from the ferule of the schoolmaster to the trials of the
martyr and has the effect of mingling for us a wholesome bitterness, which
calls us back to thee from the poisonous pleasures that first drew us from thee.
CHAPTER XV
24. Hear my prayer, O Lord; let not my soul faint under thy discipline, nor let
me faint in confessing unto thee thy mercies, whereby thou hast saved me from
all my most wicked ways till thou shouldst become sweet to me beyond all the
allurements that I used to follow. Let me come to love thee wholly, and grasp
thy hand with my whole heart that thou mayest deliver me from every temptation,
even unto the last. And thus, O Lord, my King and my God, may all things useful
that I learned as a boy now be offered in thy service--let it be that for thy
service I now speak and write and reckon. For when I was learning vain things,
thou didst impose thy discipline upon me: and thou hast forgiven me my sin of
delighting in those vanities. In those studies I learned many a useful word,
but these might have been learned in matters not so vain; and surely that is
the safe way for youths to walk in.
CHAPTER XVI
25. But woe unto you, O torrent of human custom! Who shall stay your course?
When will you ever run dry? How long will you carry down the sons of Eve into
that vast and hideous ocean, which even those who have the Tree (for an ark)[29] can scarcely pass over? Do I not read in you the stories
of Jove the thunderer--and the adulterer?[30] How could he
be both? But so it says, and the sham thunder served as a cloak for him to play
at real adultery. Yet which of our gowned masters will give a tempered hearing
to a man trained in their own schools who cries out and says: "These were
Homer's fictions; he transfers things human to the gods. I could have wished
that he would transfer divine things to us."[31] But it
would have been more true if he said, "These are, indeed, his fictions, but he
attributed divine attributes to sinful men, that crimes might not be accounted
crimes, and that whoever committed such crimes might appear to imitate the
celestial gods and not abandoned men."
26. And yet, O torrent of hell, the sons of men are still cast into you, and
they pay fees for learning all these things. And much is made of it when this
goes on in the forum under the auspices of laws which give a salary over and
above the fees. And you beat against your rocky shore and roar: "Here words may
be learned; here you can attain the eloquence which is so necessary to persuade
people to your way of thinking; so helpful in unfolding your opinions." Verily,
they seem to argue that we should never have understood these words, "golden
shower," "bosom," "intrigue," "highest heavens," and other such words, if
Terence had not introduced a good-for-nothing youth upon the stage, setting up
a picture of Jove as his example of lewdness and telling the tale
"Of Jove's descending in a golden shower
Into Danae's bosom...
With a woman to intrigue."
See how he excites himself to lust, as if by a heavenly authority, when he
says:
"Great Jove,
Who shakes the highest heavens with his thunder;
Shall I, poor mortal man, not do the same?
I've done it, and with all my heart, I'm glad."[32]
These words are not learned one whit more easily because of this vileness, but
through them the vileness is more boldly perpetrated. I do not blame the words,
for they are, as it were, choice and precious vessels, but I do deplore the
wine of error which was poured out to us by teachers already drunk. And, unless
we also drank we were beaten, without liberty of appeal to a sober judge. And
yet, O my God, in whose presence I can now with security recall this, I learned
these things willingly and with delight, and for it I was called a boy of good
promise.
CHAPTER XVII
27. Bear with me, O my God, while I speak a little of those talents, thy gifts,
and of the follies on which I wasted them. For a lesson was given me that
sufficiently disturbed my soul, for in it there was both hope of praise and
fear of shame or stripes. The assignment was that I should declaim the words of
Juno, as she raged and sorrowed that she could not
"Bar off Italy
From all the approaches of the Teucrian king."[33]
I had learned that Juno had never uttered these words. Yet we were compelled to
stray in the footsteps of these poetic fictions, and to turn into prose what
the poet had said in verse. In the declamation, the boy won most applause who
most strikingly reproduced the passions of anger and sorrow according to the
"character" of the persons presented and who clothed it all in the most
suitable language. What is it now to me, O my true Life, my God, that my
declaiming was applauded above that of many of my classmates and fellow
students? Actually, was not all that smoke and wind? Besides, was there nothing
else on which I could have exercised my wit and tongue? Thy praise, O Lord, thy
praises might have propped up the tendrils of my heart by thy Scriptures; and
it would not have been dragged away by these empty trifles, a shameful prey to
the spirits of the air. For there is more than one way in which men sacrifice
to the fallen angels.
CHAPTER XVIII
28. But it was no wonder that I was thus carried toward vanity and was
estranged from thee, O my God, when men were held up as models to me who, when
relating a deed of theirs--not in itself evil--were covered with confusion if
found guilty of a barbarism or a solecism; but who could tell of their own
licentiousness and be applauded for it, so long as they did it in a full and
ornate oration of well-chosen words. Thou seest all this, O Lord, and dost keep
silence--"long-suffering, and plenteous in mercy and truth"[34] as thou art. Wilt thou keep silence forever? Even now
thou drawest from that vast deep the soul that seeks thee and thirsts after thy
delight, whose "heart said unto thee, `I have sought thy face; thy face, Lord,
will I seek.'"[35] For I was far from thy face in the dark
shadows of passion. For it is not by our feet, nor by change of place, that we
either turn from thee or return to thee. That younger son did not charter
horses or chariots, or ships, or fly away on visible wings, or journey by
walking so that in the far country he might prodigally waste all that thou
didst give him when he set out.[36] A kind Father when thou
gavest; and kinder still when he returned destitute! To be wanton, that is to
say, to be darkened in heart--this is to be far from thy face.
29. Look down, O Lord God, and see patiently, as thou art wont to do, how
diligently the sons of men observe the conventional rules of letters and
syllables, taught them by those who learned their letters beforehand, while
they neglect the eternal rules of everlasting salvation taught by thee. They
carry it so far that if he who practices or teaches the established rules of
pronunciation should speak (contrary to grammatical usage) without aspirating
the first syllable of "hominem" ["ominem," and thus make it "a
`uman being"], he will offend men more than if he, a human being, were to hate another human being contrary to thy commandments. It is as if he
should feel that there is an enemy who could be more destructive to himself
than that hatred which excites him against his fellow man; or that he could
destroy him whom he hates more
completely than he destroys his own soul by this
same hatred. Now, obviously, there is no knowledge of letters more innate than
the writing of conscience--against doing unto another what one would not have
done to himself.
How mysterious thou art, who "dwellest on high"[37] in
silence. O thou, the only great God, who by an unwearied law hurlest down the
penalty of blindness to unlawful desire! When a man seeking the reputation of
eloquence stands before a human judge, while a thronging multitude surrounds
him, and inveighs against his enemy with the most fierce hatred, he takes most
vigilant heed that his tongue does not slip in a grammatical error, for
example, and say inter hominibus [instead of inter homines], but
he takes no heed lest, in the fury of his spirit, he cut off a man from his
fellow men [ex hominibus].
30. These were the customs in the midst of which I was cast, an unhappy boy.
This was the wrestling arena in which I was more fearful of perpetrating a
barbarism than, having done so, of envying those who had not. These things I
declare and confess to thee, my God. I was applauded by those whom I then
thought it my whole duty to please, for I did not perceive the gulf of infamy
wherein I was cast away from thy eyes.
For in thy eyes, what was more infamous than I was already, since I displeased
even my own kind and deceived, with endless lies, my tutor, my masters and
parents--all from a love of play, a craving for frivolous spectacles, a
stage-struck restlessness to imitate what I saw in these shows? I pilfered from
my parents' cellar and table, sometimes driven by gluttony, sometimes just to
have something to give to other boys in exchange for their baubles, which they
were prepared to sell even though they liked them as well as I. Moreover, in
this kind of play, I often sought dishonest victories, being myself conquered
by the vain desire for pre-eminence. And what was I so unwilling to endure, and
what was it that I censured so violently when I caught anyone, except the very
things I did to others? And, when I was myself detected and censured, I
preferred to quarrel rather than to yield. Is this the innocence of childhood?
It is not, O Lord, it is not. I entreat thy mercy, O my God, for these same
sins as we grow older are transferred from tutors and masters; they pass from
nuts and balls and sparrows, to magistrates and kings, to gold and lands and
slaves, just as the rod is succeeded by more severe chastisements. It was,
then, the fact of humility in childhood that thou, O our King, didst approve as
a symbol of humility when thou saidst, "Of such is the Kingdom of Heaven."[38]
CHAPTER XIX
31. However, O Lord, to thee most excellent and most good, thou Architect and
Governor of the universe, thanks would be due thee, O our God, even if thou
hadst not willed that I should survive my boyhood. For I existed even then; I
lived and felt and was solicitous about my own well-being--a trace of that most
mysterious unity from whence I had my being. [39] I kept
watch, by my inner sense, over the integrity of my outer senses, and even in
these trifles and also in my thoughts about trifles, I learned to take pleasure
in truth. I was averse to being deceived; I had a vigorous memory; I was gifted
with the power of speech, was softened by friendship, shunned sorrow, meanness,
ignorance. Is not such an animated creature as this wonderful and praiseworthy?
But all these are gifts of my God; I did not give them to myself. Moreover,
they are good, and they all together constitute myself. Good, then, is he that
made me, and he is my God; and before him will I rejoice exceedingly for every
good gift which, even as a boy, I had. But herein lay my sin, that it was not
in him, but in his creatures--myself and the rest--that I sought for pleasures,
honors, and truths. And I fell thereby into sorrows, troubles, and errors.
Thanks be to thee, my joy, my pride, my confidence, my God--thanks be to thee
for thy gifts; but do thou preserve them in me. For thus wilt thou preserve me;
and those things which thou hast given me shall be developed and perfected, and
I myself shall be with thee, for from thee is my being.
BOOK TWO
He concentrates here on his sixteenth year, a year of idleness,
lust, and adolescent mischief. The memory of stealing some pears prompts a deep
probing of the motives and aims of sinful acts. "I became to myself a
wasteland."
CHAPTER I
1. I wish now to review in memory my past wickedness and the carnal corruptions
of my soul--not because I still love them, but that I may love thee, O my God.
For love of thy love I do this, recalling in the bitterness of self-examination
my wicked ways, that thou mayest grow sweet to me, thou sweetness without
deception! Thou sweetness happy and assured! Thus thou mayest gather me up out
of those fragments in which I was torn to pieces, while I turned away from
thee, O Unity, and lost myself among "the many."[40] For as
I became a youth, I longed to be satisfied with worldly things, and I dared to
grow wild in a succession of various and shadowy loves. My form wasted away,
and I became corrupt in thy eyes, yet I was still pleasing to my own eyes--and
eager to please the eyes of men.
CHAPTER II
2. But what was it that delighted me save to love and to be loved? Still I did
not keep the moderate way of the love of mind to mind--the bright path of
friendship. Instead, the mists of passion steamed up out of the puddly
concupiscence of the flesh, and the hot imagination of puberty, and they so
obscured and overcast my heart that I was unable to distinguish pure affection
from unholy desire. Both boiled confusedly within me, and dragged my unstable
youth down over the cliffs of unchaste desires and plunged me into a gulf of
infamy. Thy anger had come upon me, and I knew it not. I had been deafened by
the clanking of the chains of my mortality, the punishment for my soul's pride,
and I wandered farther from thee, and thou didst permit me to do so. I was
tossed to and fro, and wasted, and poured out, and I boiled over in my
fornications--and yet thou didst hold thy peace, O my tardy Joy! Thou didst
still hold thy peace, and I wandered still farther from thee into more and yet
more barren fields of sorrow, in proud dejection and restless lassitude.
3. If only there had been someone to regulate my disorder and turn to my profit
the fleeting beauties of the things around me, and to fix a bound to their
sweetness, so that the tides of my youth might have spent themselves upon the
shore of marriage! Then they might have been tranquilized and satisfied with
having children, as thy law prescribes, O Lord--O thou who dost form the
offspring of our death and art able also with a tender hand to blunt the thorns
which were excluded from thy paradise![41] For thy
omnipotence is not far from us even when we are far from thee. Now, on the
other hand, I might have given more vigilant heed to the voice from the clouds:
"Nevertheless, such shall have trouble in the flesh, but I spare you,"[42] and, "It is good for a man not to touch a woman,"[43] and, "He that is unmarried cares for the things that
belong to the Lord, how he may please the Lord; but he that is married cares
for the things that are of the world, how he may please his wife."[44] I should have listened more attentively to these words,
and, thus having been "made a eunuch for the Kingdom of Heaven's sake,"[45] I would have with greater happiness expected thy
embraces.
4. But, fool that I was, I foamed in my wickedness as the sea and, forsaking
thee, followed the rushing of my own tide, and burst out of all thy bounds. But
I did not escape thy scourges. For what mortal can do so? Thou wast always by
me, mercifully angry and flavoring all my unlawful pleasures with bitter
discontent, in order that I might seek pleasures free from discontent. But
where could I find such pleasure save in thee, O Lord--save in thee, who dost
teach us by sorrow, who woundest us to heal us, and dost kill us that we may
not die apart from thee. Where was I, and how far was I exiled from the
delights of thy house, in that sixteenth year of the age of my flesh, when the
madness of lust held full sway in me--that madness which grants indulgence to
human shamelessness, even though it is forbidden by thy laws--and I gave myself
entirely to it? Meanwhile, my family took no care to save me from ruin by
marriage, for their sole care was that I should learn how to make a powerful
speech and become a persuasive orator.
CHAPTER III
5. Now, in that year my studies were interrupted. I had come back from Madaura,
a neighboring city[46] where I had gone to study grammar
and rhetoric; and the money for a further term at Carthage was being got
together for me. This project was more a matter of my father's ambition than of
his means, for he was only a poor citizen of Tagaste.
To whom am I narrating all this? Not to thee, O my God, but to my own kind in
thy presence--to that small part of the human race who may chance to come upon
these writings. And to what end? That I and all who read them may understand
what depths there are from which we are to cry unto thee.[47] For what is more surely heard in thy ear than a
confessing heart and a faithful life?
Who did not extol and praise my father, because he went quite beyond his means
to supply his son with the necessary expenses for a far journey in the interest
of his education? For many far richer citizens did not do so much for their
children. Still, this same father troubled himself not at all as to how I was
progressing toward thee nor how chaste I was, just so long as I was skillful in
speaking--no matter how barren I was to thy tillage, O God, who art the one
true and good Lord of my heart, which is thy field.[48]
6. During that sixteenth year of my age, I lived with my parents, having a
holiday from school for a time--this idleness imposed upon me by my parents'
straitened finances. The thornbushes of lust grew rank about my head, and there
was no hand to root them out. Indeed, when my father saw me one day at the
baths and perceived that I was becoming a man, and was showing the signs of
adolescence, he joyfully told my mother about it as if already looking forward
to grandchildren, rejoicing in that sort of inebriation in which the world so
often forgets thee, its Creator, and falls in love with thy creature instead of
thee--the inebriation of that invisible wine of a perverted will which turns
and bows down to infamy. But in my mother's breast thou hadst already begun to
build thy temple and the foundation of thy holy habitation--whereas my father
was only a catechumen, and that but recently. She was, therefore, startled with
a holy fear and trembling: for though I had not yet been baptized, she feared
those crooked ways in which they walk who turn their backs to thee and not
their faces.
7. Woe is me! Do I dare affirm that thou didst hold thy peace, O my God, while
I wandered farther away from thee? Didst thou really then hold thy peace? Then
whose words were they but thine which by my mother, thy faithful handmaid, thou
didst pour into my ears? None of them, however, sank into my heart to make me
do anything. She deplored and, as I remember, warned me privately with great
solicitude, "not to commit fornication; but above all things never to defile
another man's wife." These appeared to me but womanish counsels, which I would
have blushed to obey. Yet they were from thee, and I knew it not. I thought
that thou wast silent and that it was only she who spoke. Yet it was through
her that thou didst not keep silence toward me; and in rejecting her counsel I
was rejecting thee--I, her son, "the son of thy handmaid, thy servant."[49] But I did not realize this, and rushed on headlong with
such blindness that, among my friends, I was ashamed to be less shameless than
they, when I heard them boasting of their disgraceful exploits--yes, and
glorying all the more the worse their baseness was. What is worse, I took
pleasure in such exploits, not for the pleasure's sake only but mostly for
praise. What is worthy of vituperation except vice itself? Yet I made myself
out worse than I was, in order that I might not go lacking for praise. And when
in anything I had not sinned as the worst ones in the group, I would still say
that I had done what I had not done, in order not to appear contemptible
because I was more innocent than they; and not to drop in their esteem because
I was more chaste.
8. Behold with what companions I walked the streets of Babylon! I rolled in its
mire and lolled about on it, as if on a bed of spices and precious ointments.
And, drawing me more closely to the very center of that city, my invisible
enemy trod me down and seduced me, for I was easy to seduce. My mother had
already fled out of the midst of Babylon[50] and was
progressing, albeit slowly, toward its outskirts. For in counseling me to
chastity, she did not bear in mind what her husband had told her about me. And
although she knew that my passions were destructive even then and dangerous for
the future, she did not think they should be restrained by the bonds of
conjugal affection--if, indeed, they could not be cut away to the quick. She
took no heed of this, for she was afraid lest a wife should prove a hindrance
and a burden to my hopes. These were not her hopes of the world to come, which
my mother had in thee, but the hope of learning, which both my parents were too
anxious that I should acquire--my father, because he had little or no thought
of thee, and only vain thoughts for me; my mother, because she thought that the
usual course of study would not only be no hindrance but actually a furtherance
toward my eventual return to thee. This much I conjecture, recalling as well as
I can the temperaments of my parents. Meantime, the reins of discipline were
slackened on me, so that without the restraint of due severity, I might play at
whatsoever I fancied, even to the point of dissoluteness. And in all this there
was that mist which shut out from my sight the brightness of thy truth, O my
God; and my iniquity bulged out, as it were, with fatness![51]
CHAPTER IV
9. Theft is punished by thy law, O Lord, and by the law written in men's
hearts, which not even ingrained wickedness can erase. For what thief will
tolerate another thief stealing from him? Even a rich thief will not tolerate a
poor thief who is driven to theft by want. Yet I had a desire to commit
robbery, and did so, compelled to it by neither hunger nor poverty, but through
a contempt for well-doing and a strong impulse to iniquity. For I pilfered
something which I already had in sufficient measure, and of much better
quality. I did not desire to enjoy what I stole, but only the theft and the sin
itself.
There was a pear tree close to our own vineyard, heavily laden with fruit,
which was not tempting either for its color or for its flavor. Late one
night--having prolonged our games in the streets until then, as our bad habit
was--a group of young scoundrels, and I among them, went to shake and rob this
tree. We carried off a huge load of pears, not to eat ourselves, but to dump
out to the hogs, after barely tasting some of them ourselves. Doing this
pleased us all the more because it was forbidden. Such was my heart, O God,
such was my heart--which thou didst pity even in that bottomless pit. Behold,
now let my heart confess to thee what it was seeking there, when I was being
gratuitously wanton, having no inducement to evil but the evil itself. It was
foul, and I loved it. I loved my own undoing. I loved my error--not that for
which I erred but the error itself. A depraved soul, falling away from security
in thee to destruction in itself, seeking nothing from the shameful deed but
shame itself.
CHAPTER V
10. Now there is a comeliness in all beautiful bodies, and in gold and silver
and all things. The sense of touch has its own power to please and the other
senses find their proper objects in physical sensation. Worldly honor also has
its own glory, and so do the powers to command and to overcome: and from these
there springs up the desire for revenge. Yet, in seeking these pleasures, we
must not depart from thee, O Lord, nor deviate from thy law. The life which we
live here has its own peculiar attractiveness because it has a certain measure
of comeliness of its own and a harmony with all these inferior values. The bond
of human friendship has a sweetness of its own, binding many souls together as
one. Yet because of these values, sin is committed, because we have an
inordinate preference for these goods of a lower order and neglect the better
and the higher good--neglecting thee, O our Lord God, and thy truth and thy
law. For these inferior values have their delights, but not at all equal to my
God, who hath made them all. For in him do the righteous delight and he is the
sweetness of the upright in heart.
11. When, therefore, we inquire why a crime was committed, we do not accept the
explanation unless it appears that there was the desire to obtain some of those
values which we designate inferior, or else a fear of losing them. For truly
they are beautiful and comely, though in comparison with the superior and
celestial goods they are abject and contemptible. A man has murdered another
man--what was his motive? Either he desired his wife or his property or else he
would steal to support himself; or else he was afraid of losing something to
him; or else, having been injured, he was burning to be revenged. Would a man
commit murder without a motive, taking delight simply in the act of murder? Who
would believe such a thing? Even for that savage and brutal man [Catiline], of
whom it was said that he was gratuitously wicked and cruel, there is still a
motive assigned to his deeds. "Lest through idleness," he says, "hand or heart
should grow inactive."[52] And to what purpose? Why, even
this: that, having once got possession of the city through his practice of his
wicked ways, he might gain honors, empire, and wealth, and thus be exempt from
the fear of the laws and from financial difficulties in supplying the needs of
his family--and from the consciousness of his own wickedness. So it seems that
even Catiline himself loved not his own villainies, but something else, and it
was this that gave him the motive for his crimes.
CHAPTER VI
12. What was it in you, O theft of mine, that I, poor wretch, doted on--you
deed of darkness--in that sixteenth year of my age? Beautiful you were not, for
you were a theft. But are you anything at all, so that I could analyze the case
with you? Those pears that we stole were fair to the sight because they were
thy creation, O Beauty beyond compare, O Creator of all, O thou good God--God
the highest good and my true good.[53] Those pears were
truly pleasant to the sight, but it was not for them that my miserable soul
lusted, for I had an abundance of better pears. I stole those simply that I
might steal, for, having stolen them, I threw them away. My sole gratification
in them was my own sin, which I was pleased to enjoy; for, if any one of these
pears entered my mouth, the only good flavor it had was my sin in eating it.
And now, O Lord my God, I ask what it was in that theft of mine that caused me
such delight; for behold it had no beauty of its own--certainly not the sort of
beauty that exists in justice and wisdom, nor such as is in the mind, memory
senses, and the animal life of man; nor yet the kind that is the glory and
beauty of the stars in their courses; nor the beauty of the earth, or the
sea--teeming with spawning life, replacing in birth that which dies and decays.
Indeed, it did not have that false and shadowy beauty which attends the
deceptions of vice.
13. For thus we see pride wearing the mask of high-spiritedness, although only
thou, O God, art high above all. Ambition seeks honor and glory, whereas only
thou shouldst be honored above all, and glorified forever. The powerful man
seeks to be feared, because of his cruelty; but who ought really to be feared
but God only? What can be forced away or withdrawn out of his power--when or
where or whither or by whom? The enticements of the wanton claim the name of
love; and yet nothing is more enticing than thy love, nor is anything loved
more healthfully than thy truth, bright and beautiful above all. Curiosity
prompts a desire for knowledge, whereas it is only thou who knowest all things
supremely. Indeed, ignorance and foolishness themselves go masked under the
names of simplicity and innocence; yet there is no being that has true
simplicity like thine, and none is innocent as thou art. Thus it is that by a
sinner's own deeds he is himself harmed. Human sloth pretends to long for rest,
but what sure rest is there save in the Lord? Luxury would fain be called
plenty and abundance; but thou art the fullness and unfailing abundance of
unfading joy. Prodigality presents a show of liberality; but thou art the most
lavish giver of all good things. Covetousness desires to possess much; but thou
art already the possessor of all things. Envy contends that its aim is for
excellence; but what is so excellent as thou? Anger seeks revenge; but who
avenges more justly than thou? Fear recoils at the unfamiliar and the sudden
changes which threaten things beloved, and is wary for its own security; but
what can happen that is unfamiliar or sudden to thee? Or who can deprive thee
of what thou lovest? Where, really, is there unshaken security save with thee?
Grief languishes for things lost in which desire had taken delight, because it
wills to have nothing taken from it, just as nothing can be taken from thee.
14. Thus the soul commits fornication when she is turned from thee,[54] and seeks apart from thee what she cannot find pure and
untainted until she returns to thee. All things thus imitate thee--but
pervertedly--when they separate themselves far from thee and raise themselves
up against thee. But, even in this act of perverse imitation, they acknowledge
thee to be the Creator of all nature, and recognize that there is no place
whither they can altogether separate themselves from thee. What was it, then,
that I loved in that theft? And wherein was I imitating my Lord, even in a
corrupted and perverted way? Did I wish, if only by gesture, to rebel against
thy law, even though I had no power to do so actually--so that, even as a
captive, I might produce a sort of counterfeit liberty, by doing with impunity
deeds that were forbidden, in a deluded sense of omnipotence? Behold this
servant of thine, fleeing from his Lord and following a shadow! O rottenness! O
monstrousness of life and abyss of death! Could I find pleasure only in what
was unlawful, and only because it was unlawful?
CHAPTER VII
15. "What shall I render unto the Lord"[55] for the fact
that while my memory recalls these things my soul no longer fears them? I will
love thee, O Lord, and thank thee, and confess to thy name, because thou hast
put away from me such wicked and evil deeds. To thy grace I attribute it and to
thy mercy, that thou hast melted away my sin as if it were ice. To thy grace
also I attribute whatsoever of evil I did not commit--for what might I
not have done, loving sin as I did, just for the sake of sinning? Yea, all the
sins that I confess now to have been forgiven me, both those which I committed
willfully and those which, by thy providence, I did not commit. What man is
there who, when reflecting upon his own infirmity, dares to ascribe his
chastity and innocence to his own powers, so that he should love thee less--as
if he were in less need of thy mercy in which thou forgivest the transgressions
of those that return to thee? As for that man who, when called by thee, obeyed
thy voice and shunned those things which he here reads of me as I recall and
confess them of myself, let him not despise me--for I, who was sick, have been
healed by the same Physician by whose aid it was that he did not fall sick, or
rather was less sick than I. And for this let him love thee just as
much--indeed, all the more--since he sees me restored from such a great
weakness of sin by the selfsame Saviour by whom he sees himself preserved from
such a weakness.
CHAPTER VIII
16. What profit did I, a wretched one, receive from those things which, when I
remember them now, cause me shame--above all, from that theft, which I loved
only for the theft's sake? And, as the theft itself was nothing, I was all the
more wretched in that I loved it so. Yet by myself alone I would not have done
it--I still recall how I felt about this then--I could not have done it alone.
I loved it then because of the companionship of my accomplices with whom I did
it. I did not, therefore, love the theft alone--yet, indeed, it was only the
theft that I loved, for the companionship was nothing. What is this paradox?
Who is it that can explain it to me but God, who illumines my heart and
searches out the dark corners thereof? What is it that has prompted my mind to
inquire about it, to discuss and to reflect upon all this? For had I at that
time loved the pears that I stole and wished to enjoy them, I might have done
so alone, if I could have been satisfied with the mere act of theft by which my
pleasure was served. Nor did I need to have that itching of my own passions
inflamed by the encouragement of my accomplices. But since the pleasure I got
was not from the pears, it was in the crime itself, enhanced by the
companionship of my fellow sinners.
CHAPTER IX
17. By what passion, then, was I animated? It was undoubtedly depraved and a
great misfortune for me to feel it. But still, what was it? "Who can understand
his errors?"[56]
We laughed because our hearts were tickled at the thought of deceiving the
owners, who had no idea of what we were doing and would have strenuously
objected. Yet, again, why did I find such delight in doing this which I would
not have done alone? Is it that no one readily laughs alone? No one does so
readily; but still sometimes, when men are by themselves and no one else is
about, a fit of laughter will overcome them when something very droll presents
itself to their sense or mind. Yet alone I would not have done it--alone I
could not have done it at all.
Behold, my God, the lively review of my soul's career is laid bare before thee.
I would not have committed that theft alone. My pleasure in it was not what I
stole but, rather, the act of stealing. Nor would I have enjoyed doing it
alone--indeed I would not have done it! O friendship all unfriendly! You
strange seducer of the soul, who hungers for mischief from impulses of mirth
and wantonness, who craves another's loss without any desire for one's own
profit or revenge--so that, when they say, "Let's go, let's do it," we are
ashamed not to be shameless.
CHAPTER X
18. Who can unravel such a twisted and tangled knottiness? It is unclean. I
hate to reflect upon it. I hate to look on it. But I do long for thee, O
Righteousness and Innocence, so beautiful and comely to all virtuous eyes--I
long for thee with an insatiable satiety. With thee is perfect rest, and life
unchanging. He who enters into thee enters into the joy of his Lord,[57] and shall have no fear and shall achieve excellence in
the Excellent. I fell away from thee, O my God, and in my youth I wandered too
far from thee, my true support. And I became to myself a wasteland.
BOOK THREE
The story of his student days in Carthage, his discovery of
Cicero's Hortensius, the enkindling of his philosophical interest, his
infatuation with the Manichean heresy, and his mother's dream which foretold
his eventual return to the true faith and to God.
CHAPTER I
1. I came to Carthage, where a caldron of unholy loves was seething and
bubbling all around me. I was not in love as yet, but I was in love with love;
and, from a hidden hunger, I hated myself for not feeling more intensely a
sense of hunger. I was looking for something to love, for I was in love with
loving, and I hated security and a smooth way, free from snares. Within me I
had a dearth of that inner food which is thyself, my God--although that dearth
caused me no hunger. And I remained without any appetite for incorruptible
food--not because I was already filled with it, but because the emptier I
became the more I loathed it. Because of this my soul was unhealthy; and, full
of sores, it exuded itself forth, itching to be scratched by scraping on the
things of the senses.[58] Yet, had these things no soul,
they would certainly not inspire our love.
To love and to be loved was sweet to me, and all the more when I gained the
enjoyment of the body of the person I loved. Thus I polluted the spring of
friendship with the filth of concupiscence and I dimmed its luster with the
slime of lust. Yet, foul and unclean as I was, I still craved, in excessive
vanity, to be thought elegant and urbane. And I did fall precipitately into the
love I was longing for. My God, my mercy, with how much bitterness didst thou,
out of thy infinite goodness, flavor that sweetness for me! For I was not only
beloved but also I secretly reached the climax of enjoyment; and yet I was
joyfully bound with troublesome tics, so that I could be scourged with the
burning iron rods of jealousy, suspicion, fear, anger, and strife.
CHAPTER II
2. Stage plays also captivated me, with their sights full of the images of my
own miseries: fuel for my own fire. Now, why does a man like to be made sad by
viewing doleful and tragic scenes, which he himself could not by any means
endure? Yet, as a spectator, he wishes to experience from them a sense of
grief, and in this very sense of grief his pleasure consists. What is this but
wretched madness? For a man is more affected by these actions the more he is
spuriously involved in these affections. Now, if he should suffer them in his
own person, it is the custom to call this "misery." But when he suffers with
another, then it is called "compassion." But what kind of compassion is it that
arises from viewing fictitious and unreal sufferings? The spectator is not
expected to aid the sufferer but merely to grieve for him. And the more he
grieves the more he applauds the actor of these fictions. If the misfortunes of
the characters--whether historical or entirely imaginary--are represented so as
not to touch the feelings of the spectator, he goes away disgusted and
complaining. But if his feelings are deeply touched, he sits it out
attentively, and sheds tears of joy.
3. Tears and sorrow, then, are loved. Surely every man desires to be joyful.
And, though no one is willingly miserable, one may, nevertheless, be pleased to
be merciful so that we love their sorrows because without them we should have
nothing to pity. This also springs from that same vein of friendship. But
whither does it go? Whither does it flow? Why does it run into that torrent of
pitch which seethes forth those huge tides of loathsome lusts in which it is
changed and altered past recognition, being diverted and corrupted from its
celestial purity by its own will? Shall, then, compassion be repudiated? By no
means! Let us, however, love the sorrows of others. But let us beware of
uncleanness, O my soul, under the protection of my God, the God of our fathers,
who is to be praised and exalted--let us beware of uncleanness. I have not yet
ceased to have compassion. But in those days in the theaters I sympathized with
lovers when they sinfully enjoyed one another, although this was done
fictitiously in the play. And when they lost one another, I grieved with them,
as if pitying them, and yet had delight in both grief and pity. Nowadays I feel
much more pity for one who delights in his wickedness than for one who counts
himself unfortunate because he fails to obtain some harmful pleasure or suffers
the loss of some miserable felicity. This, surely, is the truer compassion, but
the sorrow I feel in it has no delight for me. For although he that grieves
with the unhappy should be commended for his work of love, yet he who has the
power of real compassion would still prefer that there be nothing for him to
grieve about. For if good will were to be ill will--which it cannot be--only
then could he who is truly and sincerely compassionate wish that there were
some unhappy people so that he might commiserate them. Some grief may then be
justified, but none of it loved. Thus it is that thou dost act, O Lord God, for
thou lovest souls far more purely than we do and art more incorruptibly
compassionate, although thou art never wounded by any sorrow. Now "who is
sufficient for these things?"[59]
4. But at that time, in my wretchedness, I loved to grieve; and I sought for
things to grieve about. In another man's misery, even though it was feigned and
impersonated on the stage, that performance of the actor pleased me best and
attracted me most powerfully which moved me to tears. What marvel then was it
that an unhappy sheep, straying from thy flock and impatient of thy care, I
became infected with a foul disease? This is the reason for my love of griefs:
that they would not probe into me too deeply (for I did not love to suffer in
myself such things as I loved to look at), and they were the sort of grief
which came from hearing those fictions, which affected only the surface of my
emotion. Still, just as if they had been poisoned fingernails, their scratching
was followed by inflammation, swelling, putrefaction, and corruption. Such was
my life! But was it life, O my God?
CHAPTER III
5. And still thy faithful mercy hovered over me from afar. In what unseemly
iniquities did I wear myself out, following a sacrilegious curiosity, which,
having deserted thee, then began to drag me down into the treacherous abyss,
into the beguiling obedience of devils, to whom I made offerings of my wicked
deeds. And still in all this thou didst not fail to scourge me. I dared, even
while thy solemn rites were being celebrated inside the walls of thy church, to
desire and to plan a project which merited death as its fruit. For this thou
didst chastise me with grievous punishments, but nothing in comparison with my
fault, O thou my greatest mercy, my God, my refuge from those terrible dangers
in which I wandered with stiff neck, receding farther from thee, loving my own
ways and not thine--loving a vagrant liberty!
6. Those studies I was then pursuing, generally accounted as respectable, were
aimed at distinction in the courts of law--to excel in which, the more crafty I
was, the more I should be praised. Such is the blindness of men that they even
glory in their blindness. And by this time I had become a master in the School
of Rhetoric, and I rejoiced proudly in this honor and became inflated with
arrogance. Still I was relatively sedate, O Lord, as thou knowest, and had no
share in the wreckings of "The Wreckers"[60] (for this
stupid and diabolical name was regarded as the very badge of gallantry) among
whom I lived with a sort of ashamed embarrassment that I was not even as they
were. But I lived with them, and at times I was delighted with their
friendship, even when I abhorred their acts (that is, their "wrecking") in
which they insolently attacked the modesty of strangers, tormenting them by
uncalled-for jeers, gratifying their mischievous mirth. Nothing could more
nearly resemble the actions of devils than these fellows. By what name,
therefore, could they be more aptly called than "wreckers"?--being themselves
wrecked first, and altogether turned upside down. They were secretly mocked at
and seduced by the deceiving spirits, in the very acts by which they amused
themselves in jeering and horseplay at the expense of others.
CHAPTER IV
7. Among such as these, in that unstable period of my life, I studied the books
of eloquence, for it was in eloquence that I was eager to be eminent, though
from a reprehensible and vainglorious motive, and a delight in human vanity. In
the ordinary course of study I came upon a certain book of Cicero's, whose
language almost all admire, though not his heart. This particular book of his
contains an exhortation to philosophy and was called Hortensius.[61] Now it was this book which quite definitely changed my
whole attitude and turned my prayers toward thee, O Lord, and gave me new hope
and new desires. Suddenly every vain hope became worthless to me, and with an
incredible warmth of heart I yearned for an immortality of wisdom and began now
to arise that I might return to thee. It was not to sharpen my tongue further
that I made use of that book. I was now nineteen; my father had been dead two
years,[62] and my mother was providing the money for my
study of rhetoric. What won me in it [i.e., the Hortensius] was not its
style but its substance.
8. How ardent was I then, my God, how ardent to fly from earthly things to
thee! Nor did I know how thou wast even then dealing with me. For with thee is
wisdom. In Greek the love of wisdom is called "philosophy," and it was with
this love that that book inflamed me. There are some who seduce through
philosophy, under a great, alluring, and honorable name, using it to color and
adorn their own errors. And almost all who did this, in Cicero's own time and
earlier, are censored and pointed out in his book. In it there is also manifest
that most salutary admonition of thy Spirit, spoken by thy good and pious
servant: "Beware lest any man spoil you through philosophy and vain deceit,
after the tradition of men, after the rudiments of the world, and not after
Christ: for in him all the fullness of the Godhead dwells bodily."[63] Since at that time, as thou knowest, O Light of my heart,
the words of the apostle were unknown to me, I was delighted with Cicero's
exhortation, at least enough so that I was stimulated by it, and enkindled and
inflamed to love, to seek, to obtain, to hold, and to embrace, not this or that
sect, but wisdom itself, wherever it might be. Only this checked my ardor: that
the name of Christ was not in it. For this name, by thy mercy, O Lord, this
name of my Saviour thy Son, my tender heart had piously drunk in, deeply
treasured even with my mother's milk. And whatsoever was lacking that name, no
matter how erudite, polished, and truthful, did not quite take complete hold of
me.
CHAPTER V
9. I resolved, therefore, to direct my mind to the Holy Scriptures, that I
might see what they were. And behold, I saw something not comprehended by the
proud, not disclosed to children, something lowly in the hearing, but sublime
in the doing, and veiled in mysteries. Yet I was not of the number of those who
could enter into it or bend my neck to follow its steps. For then it was quite
different from what I now feel. When I then turned toward the Scriptures, they
appeared to me to be quite unworthy to be compared with the dignity of Tully.[64] For my inflated pride was repelled by their style, nor
could the sharpness of my wit penetrate their inner meaning. Truly they were of
a sort to aid the growth of little ones, but I scorned to be a little one and,
swollen with pride, I looked upon myself as fully grown.
CHAPTER VI
10. Thus I fell among men, delirious in their pride, carnal and voluble, whose
mouths were the snares of the devil--a trap made out of a mixture of the
syllables of thy name and the names of our Lord Jesus Christ and of the
Paraclete.[65] These names were never out of their mouths,
but only as sound and the clatter of tongues, for their heart was empty of
truth. Still they cried, "Truth, Truth," and were forever speaking the word to
me. But the thing itself was not in them. Indeed, they spoke falsely not only
of thee--who truly art the Truth--but also about the basic elements of this
world, thy creation. And, indeed, I should have passed by the philosophers
themselves even when they were speaking truth concerning thy creatures, for the
sake of thy love, O Highest Good, and my Father, O Beauty of all things
beautiful.
O Truth, Truth, how inwardly even then did the marrow of my soul sigh for thee
when, frequently and in manifold ways, in numerous and vast books, [the
Manicheans] sounded out thy name though it was only a sound! And in these
dishes--while I starved for thee--they served up to me, in thy stead, the sun
and moon thy beauteous works--but still only thy works and not thyself; indeed,
not even thy first work. For thy spiritual works came before these material
creations, celestial and shining though they are. But I was hungering and
thirsting, not even after those first works of thine, but after thyself the
Truth, "with whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turning."[66] Yet they still served me glowing fantasies in those
dishes. And, truly, it would have been better to have loved this very
sun--which at least is true to our sight--than those illusions of theirs which
deceive the mind through the eye. And yet because I supposed the illusions to
be from thee I fed on them--not with avidity, for thou didst not taste in my
mouth as thou art, and thou wast not these empty fictions. Neither was I
nourished by them, but was instead exhausted. Food in dreams appears like our
food awake; yet the sleepers are not nourished by it, for they are asleep. But
the fantasies of the Manicheans were not in any way like thee as thou hast
spoken to me now. They were simply fantastic and false. In comparison to them
the actual bodies which we see with our fleshly sight, both celestial and
terrestrial, are far more certain. These true bodies even the beasts and birds
perceive as well as we do and they are more certain than the images we form
about them. And again, we do with more certainty form our conceptions about
them than, from them, we go on by means of them to imagine of other greater and
infinite bodies which have no existence. With such empty husks was I then fed,
and yet was not fed.
But thou, my Love, for whom I longed in order that I might be strong, neither
art those bodies that we see in heaven nor art thou those which we do not see
there, for thou hast created them all and yet thou reckonest them not among thy
greatest works. How far, then, art thou from those fantasies of mine, fantasies
of bodies which have no real being at all! The images of those bodies which
actually exist are far more certain than these fantasies. The bodies themselves
are more certain than the images, yet even these thou art not. Thou art not
even the soul, which is the life of bodies; and, clearly, the life of the body
is better than the body itself. But thou art the life of souls, life of lives,
having life in thyself, and never changing, O Life of my soul.[67]
11. Where, then, wast thou and how far from me? Far, indeed, was I wandering
away from thee, being barred even from the husks of those swine whom I fed with
husks.[68] For how much better were the fables of the
grammarians and poets than these snares [of the Manicheans]! For verses and
poems and "the flying Medea"[69] are still more profitable
truly than these men's "five elements," with their various colors, answering to
"the five caves of darkness"[70] (none of which exist and
yet in which they slay the one who believes in them). For verses and poems I
can turn into food for the mind, for though I sang about "the flying Medea" I
never believed it, but those other things [the fantasies of the Manicheans] I
did believe. Woe, woe, by what steps I was dragged down to "the depths of
hell"[71]--toiling and fuming because of my lack of the
truth, even when I was seeking after thee, my God! To thee I now confess it,
for thou didst have mercy on me when I had not yet confessed it. I sought after
thee, but not according to the understanding of the mind, by means of which
thou hast willed that I should excel the beasts, but only after the guidance of
my physical senses. Thou wast more inward to me than the most inward part of
me; and higher than my highest reach. I came upon that brazen woman, devoid of
prudence, who, in Solomon's obscure parable, sits at the door of the house on a
seat and says, "Stolen waters are sweet, and bread eaten in secret is
pleasant."[72] This woman seduced me, because she found my
soul outside its own door, dwelling on the sensations of my flesh and
ruminating on such food as I had swallowed through these physical senses.
CHAPTER VII
12. For I was ignorant of that other reality, true Being. And so it was that I
was subtly persuaded to agree with these foolish deceivers when they put their
questions to me: "Whence comes evil?" and, "Is God limited by a bodily shape,
and has he hairs and nails?" and, "Are those patriarchs to be esteemed
righteous who had many wives at one time, and who killed men and who sacrificed
living creatures?" In my ignorance I was much disturbed over these things and,
though I was retreating from the truth, I appeared to myself to be going toward
it, because I did not yet know that evil was nothing but a privation of good
(that, indeed, it has no being)[73]; and how should I have
seen this when the sight of my eyes went no farther than physical objects, and
the sight of my mind reached no farther than to fantasms? And I did not know
that God is a spirit who has no parts extended in length and breadth, whose
being has no mass--for every mass is less in a part than in a whole--and if it
be an infinite mass it must be less in such parts as are limited by a certain
space than in its infinity. It cannot therefore be wholly everywhere as Spirit
is, as God is. And I was entirely ignorant as to what is that principle within
us by which we are like God, and which is rightly said in Scripture to be made
"after God's image."
13. Nor did I know that true inner righteousness--which does not judge
according to custom but by the measure of the most perfect law of God
Almighty--by which the mores of various places and times were adapted to those
places and times (though the law itself is the same always and everywhere, not
one thing in one place and another in another). By this inner righteousness
Abraham and Isaac, and Jacob and Moses and David, and all those commended by
the mouth of God were righteous and were judged unrighteous only by foolish men
who were judging by human judgment and gauging their judgment of the mores of
the whole human race by the narrow norms of their own mores. It is as if a man
in an armory, not knowing what piece goes on what part of the body, should put
a greave on his head and a helmet on his shin and then complain because they
did not fit. Or as if, on some holiday when afternoon business was forbidden,
one were to grumble at not being allowed to go on selling as it had been lawful
for him to do in the forenoon. Or, again, as if, in a house, he sees a servant
handle something that the butler is not permitted to touch, or when something
is done behind a stable that would be prohibited in a dining room, and then a
person should be indignant that in one house and one family the same things are
not allowed to every member of the household. Such is the case with those who
cannot endure to hear that something was lawful for righteous men in former
times that is not so now; or that God, for certain temporal reasons, commanded
then one thing to them and another now to these: yet both would be serving the
same righteous will. These people should see that in one man, one day, and one
house, different things are fit for different members; and a thing that was
formerly lawful may become, after a time, unlawful--and something allowed or
commanded in one place that is justly prohibited and punished in another. Is
justice, then, variable and changeable? No, but the times over which she
presides are not all alike because they are different times. But men, whose
days upon the earth are few, cannot by their own perception harmonize the
causes of former ages and other nations, of which they had no experience, and
compare them with these of which they do have experience; although in one and
the same body, or day, or family, they can readily see that what is suitable
for each member, season, part, and person may differ. To the one they take
exception; to the other they submit.
14. These things I did not know then, nor had I observed their import. They met
my eyes on every side, and I did not see. I composed poems, in which I was not
free to place each foot just anywhere, but in one meter one way, and in another
meter another way, nor even in any one verse was the same foot allowed in all
places. Yet the art by which I composed did not have different principles for
each of these different cases, but the same law throughout. Still I did not see
how, by that righteousness to which good and holy men submitted, all those
things that God had commanded were gathered, in a far more excellent and
sublime way, into one moral order; and it did not vary in any essential
respect, though it did not in varying times prescribe all things at once but,
rather, distributed and prescribed what was proper for each. And, being blind,
I blamed those pious fathers, not only for making use of present things as God
had commanded and inspired them to do, but also for foreshadowing things to
come, as God revealed it to them.
CHAPTER VIII
15. Can it ever, at any time or place, be unrighteous for a man to love God
with all his heart, with all his soul, and with all his mind; and his neighbor
as himself?[74] Similarly, offenses against nature are
everywhere and at all times to be held in detestation and should be punished.
Such offenses, for example, were those of the Sodomites; and, even if all
nations should commit them, they would all be judged guilty of the same crime
by the divine law, which has not made men so that they should ever abuse one
another in that way. For the fellowship that should be between God and us is
violated whenever that nature of which he is the author is polluted by
perverted lust. But these offenses against customary morality are to be avoided
according to the variety of such customs. Thus, what is agreed upon by
convention, and confirmed by custom or the law of any city or nation, may not
be violated at the lawless pleasure of any, whether citizen or stranger. For
any part that is not consistent with its whole is unseemly. Nevertheless, when
God commands anything contrary to the customs or compacts of any nation, even
though it were never done by them before, it is to be done; and if it has been
interrupted, it is to be restored; and if it has never been established, it is
to be established. For it is lawful for a king, in the state over which he
reigns, to command that which neither he himself nor anyone before him had
commanded. And if it cannot be held to be inimical to the public interest to
obey him--and, in truth, it would be inimical if he were not obeyed, since
obedience to princes is a general compact of human society--how much more,
then, ought we unhesitatingly to obey God, the Governor of all his creatures!
For, just as among the authorities in human society, the greater authority is
obeyed before the lesser, so also must God be above all.
16. This applies as well to deeds of violence where there is a real desire to
harm another, either by humiliating treatment or by injury. Either of these may
be done for reasons of revenge, as one enemy against another, or in order to
obtain some advantage over another, as in the case of the highwayman and the
traveler; else they may be done in order to avoid some other evil, as in the
case of one who fears another; or through envy as, for example, an unfortunate
man harming a happy one just because he is happy; or they may be done by a
prosperous man against someone whom he fears will become equal to himself or
whose equality he resents. They may even be done for the mere pleasure in
another man's pain, as the spectators of gladiatorial shows or the people who
deride and mock at others. These are the major forms of iniquity that spring
out of the lust of the flesh, and of the eye, and of power.[75] Sometimes there is just one; sometimes two together;
sometimes all of them at once. Thus we live, offending against the Three and
the Seven, that harp of ten strings, thy Decalogue, O God most high and most
sweet.[76] But now how can offenses of vileness harm thee
who canst not be defiled; or how can deeds of violence harm thee who canst not
be harmed? Still thou dost punish these sins which men commit against
themselves because, even when they sin against thee, they are also committing
impiety against their own souls. Iniquity gives itself the lie, either by
corrupting or by perverting that nature which thou hast made and ordained. And
they do this by an immoderate use of lawful things; or by lustful desire for
things forbidden, as "against nature"; or when they are guilty of sin by raging
with heart and voice against thee, rebelling against thee, "kicking against the
pricks"[77]; or when they cast aside respect for human
society and take audacious delight in conspiracies and feuds according to their
private likes and dislikes.
This is what happens whenever thou art forsaken, O Fountain of Life, who art
the one and true Creator and Ruler of the universe. This is what happens when
through self-willed pride a part is loved under the false assumption that it is
the whole. Therefore, we must return to thee in humble piety and let thee purge
us from our evil ways, and be merciful to those who confess their sins to thee,
and hear the groanings of the prisoners and loosen us from those fetters which
we have forged for ourselves. This thou wilt do, provided we do not raise up
against thee the arrogance of a false freedom--for thus we lose all through
craving more, by loving our own good more than thee, the common good of all.
CHAPTER IX
17. But among all these vices and crimes and manifold iniquities, there are
also the sins that are committed by men who are, on the whole, making progress
toward the good. When these are judged rightly and after the rule of
perfection, the sins are censored but the men are to be commended because they
show the hope of bearing fruit, like the green shoot of the growing corn. And
there are some deeds that resemble vice and crime and yet are not sin because
they offend neither thee, our Lord God, nor social custom. For example, when
suitable reserves for hard times are provided, we cannot judge that this is
done merely from a hoarding impulse. Or, again, when acts are punished by
constituted authority for the sake of correction, we cannot judge that they are
done merely out of a desire to inflict pain. Thus, many a deed which is
disapproved in man's sight may be approved by thy testimony. And many a man who
is praised by men is condemned--as thou art witness--because frequently the
deed itself, the mind of the doer, and the hidden exigency of the situation all
vary among themselves. But when, contrary to human expectation, thou commandest
something unusual or unthought of--indeed, something thou mayest formerly have
forbidden, about which thou mayest conceal the reason for thy command at that
particular time; and even though it may be contrary to the ordinance of some
society of men[78]--who doubts but that it should be done
because only that society of men is righteous which obeys thee? But blessed are
they who know what thou dost command. For all things done by those who obey
thee either exhibit something necessary at that particular time or they
foreshow things to come.
CHAPTER X
18. But I was ignorant of all this, and so I mocked those holy servants and
prophets of thine. Yet what did I gain by mocking them save to be mocked in
turn by thee? Insensibly and little by little, I was led on to such follies as
to believe that a fig tree wept when it was plucked and that the sap of the
mother tree was tears. Notwithstanding this, if a fig was plucked, by not his
own but another man's wickedness, some Manichean saint might eat it, digest it
in his stomach, and breathe it out again in the form of angels. Indeed, in his
prayers he would assuredly groan and sigh forth particles of God, although
these particles of the most high and true God would have remained bound in that
fig unless they had been set free by the teeth and belly of some "elect
saint"[79]! And, wretch that I was, I believed that more
mercy was to be shown to the fruits of the earth than unto men, for whom these
fruits were created. For, if a hungry man--who was not a Manichean--should beg
for any food, the morsel that we gave to him would seem condemned, as it were,
to capital punishment.
CHAPTER XI
19. And now thou didst "stretch forth thy hand from above"[80] and didst draw up my soul out of that profound darkness
[of Manicheism] because my mother, thy faithful one, wept to thee on my behalf
more than mothers are accustomed to weep for the bodily deaths of their
children. For by the light of the faith and spirit which she received from
thee, she saw that I was dead. And thou didst hear her, O Lord, thou didst hear
her and despised not her tears when, pouring down, they watered the earth under
her eyes in every place where she prayed. Thou didst truly hear her.
For what other source was there for that dream by which thou didst console her,
so that she permitted me to live with her, to have my meals in the same house
at the table which she had begun to avoid, even while she hated and detested
the blasphemies of my error? In her dream she saw herself standing on a sort of
wooden rule, and saw a bright youth approaching her, joyous and smiling at her,
while she was grieving and bowed down with sorrow. But when he inquired of her
the cause of her sorrow and daily weeping (not to learn from her, but to teach
her, as is customary in visions), and when she answered that it was my soul's
doom she was lamenting, he bade her rest content and told her to look and see
that where she was there I was also. And when she looked she saw me standing
near her on the same rule.
Whence came this vision unless it was that thy ears were inclined toward her
heart? O thou Omnipotent Good, thou carest for every one of us as if thou didst
care for him only, and so for all as if they were but one!
20. And what was the reason for this also, that, when she told me of this
vision, and I tried to put this construction on it: "that she should not
despair of being someday what I was," she replied immediately, without
hesitation, "No; for it was not told me that `where he is, there you shall be'
but `where you are, there he will be'"? I confess my remembrance of this to
thee, O Lord, as far as I can recall it--and I have often mentioned it. Thy
answer, given through my watchful mother, in the fact that she was not
disturbed by the plausibility of my false interpretation but saw immediately
what should have been seen--and which I certainly had not seen until she
spoke--this answer moved me more deeply than the dream itself. Still, by that
dream, the joy that was to come to that pious woman so long after was predicted
long before, as a consolation for her present anguish.
Nearly nine years passed in which I wallowed in the mud of that deep pit and in
the darkness of falsehood, striving often to rise, but being all the more
heavily dashed down. But all that time this chaste, pious, and sober
widow--such as thou dost love--was now more buoyed up with hope, though no less
zealous in her weeping and mourning; and she did not cease to bewail my case
before thee, in all the hours of her supplication. Her prayers entered thy
presence, and yet thou didst allow me still to tumble and toss around in that
darkness.
CHAPTER XII
21. Meanwhile, thou gavest her yet another answer, as I remember--for I pass
over many things, hastening on to those things which more strongly impel me to
confess to thee--and many things I have simply forgotten. But thou gavest her
then another answer, by a priest of thine, a certain bishop reared in thy
Church and well versed in thy books. When that woman had begged him to agree to
have some discussion with me, to refute my errors, to help me to unlearn evil
and to learn the good[81]-
-
for it was his habit to do this when he found people ready to receive it--he
refused, very prudently, as I afterward realized. For he answered that I was
still unteachable, being inflated with the novelty of that heresy, and that I
had already perplexed divers inexperienced persons with vexatious questions, as
she herself had told him. "But let him alone for a time," he said, "only pray
God for him. He will of his own accord, by reading, come to discover what an
error it is and how great its impiety is." He went on to tell her at the same
time how he himself, as a boy, had been given over to the Manicheans by his
misguided mother and not only had read but had even copied out almost all their
books. Yet he had come to see, without external argument or proof from anyone
else, how much that sect was to be shunned--and had shunned it. When he had
said this she was not satisfied, but repeated more earnestly her entreaties,
and shed copious tears, still beseeching him to see and talk with me. Finally
the bishop, a little vexed at her importunity, exclaimed,
"Go your way; as you
live, it cannot be that the
son of these tears should perish." As she often
told me afterward, she accepted
this answer as though it were a voice from heaven.
BOOK FOUR
This is the story of his years among the Manicheans. It includes
the account of his teaching at Tagaste, his taking a mistress, the attractions
of astrology, the poignant loss of a friend which leads to a searching analysis
of grief and transience. He reports on his first book, De pulchro et
apto, and his introduction to Aristotle's Categories and other books
of philosophy and theology, which he mastered with great ease and little
profit.
CHAPTER I
1. During this period of nine years, from my nineteenth year to my
twenty-eighth, I went astray and led others astray. I was deceived and deceived
others, in varied lustful projects--sometimes publicly, by the teaching of what
men style "the liberal arts"; sometimes secretly, under the false guise of
religion. In the one, I was proud of myself; in the other, superstitious; in
all, vain! In my public life I was striving after the emptiness of popular
fame, going so far as to seek theatrical applause, entering poetic contests,
striving for the straw garlands and the vanity of theatricals and intemperate
desires. In my private life I was seeking to be purged from these corruptions
of ours by carrying food to those who were called "elect" and "holy," which, in
the laboratory of their stomachs, they should make into angels and gods for us,
and by them we might be set free. These projects I followed out and practiced
with my friends, who were both deceived with me and by me. Let the proud laugh
at me, and those who have not yet been savingly cast down and stricken by thee,
O my God. Nevertheless, I would confess to thee my shame to thy glory. Bear
with me, I beseech thee, and give me the grace to retrace in my present memory
the devious ways of my past errors and thus be able to "offer to thee the
sacrifice of thanksgiving."[82] For what am I to myself
without thee but a guide to my own downfall? Or what am I, even at the best,
but one suckled on thy milk and feeding on thee, O Food that never perishes?[83] What indeed is any man, seeing that he is but a man?
Therefore, let the strong and the mighty laugh at us, but let us who are "poor
and needy"[84] confess to thee.
CHAPTER II
2. During those years I taught the art of rhetoric. Conquered by the desire for
gain, I offered for sale speaking skills with which to conquer others. And yet,
O Lord, thou knowest that I really preferred to have honest scholars (or what
were esteemed as such) and, without tricks of speech, I taught these scholars
the tricks of speech--not to be used against the life of the innocent, but
sometimes to save the life of a guilty man. And thou, O God, didst see me from
afar, stumbling on that slippery path and sending out some flashes of fidelity
amid much smoke--guiding those who loved vanity and sought after lying,[85] being myself their companion.
In those years I had a mistress, to whom I was not joined in lawful marriage.
She was a woman I had discovered in my wayward passion, void as it was of
understanding, yet she was the only one; and I remained faithful to her and
with her I discovered, by my own experience, what a great difference there is
between the restraint of the marriage bond contracted with a view to having
children and the compact of a lustful love, where children are born against the
parents' will--although once they are born they compel our love.
3. I remember too that, when I decided to compete for a theatrical prize, some
magician--I do not remember him now--asked me what I would give him to be
certain to win. But I detested and abominated such filthy mysteries,[86] and answered "that, even if the garland was of
imperishable gold, I would still not permit a fly to be killed to win it for
me." For he would have slain certain living creatures in his sacrifices, and by
those honors would have invited the devils to help me. This evil thing I
refused, but not out of a pure love of thee, O God of my heart, for I knew not
how to love thee because I knew not how to conceive of anything beyond
corporeal splendors. And does not a soul, sighing after such idle fictions,
commit fornication against thee, trust in false things, and "feed on the
winds"[87]? But still I would not have sacrifices offered
to devils on my behalf, though I was myself still offering them sacrifices of a
sort by my own [Manichean] superstition. For what else is it "to feed on the
winds" but to feed on the devils, that is, in our wanderings to become their
sport and mockery?
CHAPTER III
4. And yet, without scruple, I consulted those other impostors, whom they call
"astrologers" [mathematicos], because they used no sacrifices and
invoked the aid of no spirit for their divinations. Still, true Christian piety
must necessarily reject and condemn their art.
It is good to confess to thee and to say, "Have mercy on me; heal my soul; for
I have sinned against thee"[88]--not to abuse thy goodness
as a license to sin, but to remember the words of the Lord, "Behold, you are
made whole: sin no more, lest a worse thing befall you."[89] All this wholesome advice [the astrologers] labor to
destroy when they say, "The cause of your sin is inevitably fixed in the
heavens," and, "This is the doing of Venus, or of Saturn, or of Mars"--all this
in order that a man, who is only flesh and blood and proud corruption, may
regard himself as blameless, while the Creator and Ordainer of heaven and the
stars must bear the blame of our ills and misfortunes. But who is this Creator
but thou, our God, the sweetness and wellspring of righteousness, who renderest
to every man according to his works and despisest not "a broken and a contrite
heart"[90]?
5. There was at that time a wise man, very skillful and quite famous in
medicine.[91] He was proconsul then, and with his own hand
he placed on my distempered head the crown I had won in a rhetorical contest.
He did not do this as a physician, however; and for this distemper "only thou
canst heal who resisteth the proud and giveth grace to the humble."[92] But didst thou fail me in that old man, or forbear from
healing my soul? Actually when I became better acquainted with him, I used to
listen, rapt and eager, to his words; for, though he spoke in simple language,
his conversation was replete with vivacity, life, and earnestness. He
recognized from my own talk that I was given to books of the horoscope-casters,
but he, in a kind and fatherly way, advised me to throw them away and not to
spend idly on these vanities care and labor that might otherwise go into useful
things. He said that he himself in his earlier years had studied the
astrologers' art with a view to gaining his living by it as a profession. Since
he had already understood Hippocrates, he was fully qualified to understand
this too. Yet, he had given it up and followed medicine for the simple reason
that he had discovered astrology to be utterly false and, as a man of honest
character, he was unwilling to gain his living by beguiling people. "But you,"
he said, "have the profession of rhetoric to support yourself by, so that you
are following this delusion in free will and not necessity. All the more,
therefore, you ought to believe me, since I worked at it to learn the art
perfectly because I wished to gain my living by it." When I asked him to
account for the fact that many true things are foretold by astrology, he
answered me, reasonably enough, that the force of chance, diffused through the
whole order of nature, brought these things about. For when a man, by accident,
opens the leaves of some poet (who sang and intended something far different) a
verse oftentimes turns out to be wondrously apposite to the reader's present
business. "It is not to be wondered at," he continued, "if out of the human
mind, by some higher instinct which does not know what goes on within itself,
an answer should be arrived at, by chance and not art, which would fit both the
business and the action of the inquirer."
6. And thus truly, either by him or through him, thou wast looking after me.
And thou didst fix all this in my memory so that afterward I might search it
out for myself.
But at that time, neither the proconsul nor my most dear Nebridius--a splendid
youth and most circumspect, who scoffed at the whole business of
divination--could persuade me to give it up, for the authority of the
astrological authors influenced me more than they did. And, thus far, I had
come upon no certain proof--such as I sought--by which it could be shown
without doubt that what had been truly foretold by those consulted came from
accident or chance, and not from the art of the stargazers.
CHAPTER IV
7. In those years, when I first began to teach rhetoric in my native town, I
had gained a very dear friend, about my own age, who was associated with me in
the same studies. Like myself, he was just rising up into the flower of youth.
He had grown up with me from childhood and we had been both school fellows and
playmates. But he was not then my friend, nor indeed ever became my friend, in
the true sense of the term; for there is no true friendship save between those
thou dost bind together and who cleave to thee by that love which is "shed
abroad in our hearts through the Holy Spirit who is given to us."[93] Still, it was a sweet friendship, being ripened by the
zeal of common studies. Moreover, I had turned him away from the true
faith--which he had not soundly and thoroughly mastered as a youth--and turned
him toward those superstitious and harmful fables which my mother mourned in
me. With me this man went wandering off in error and my soul could not exist
without him. But behold thou wast close behind thy fugitives--at once a God of
vengeance and a Fountain of mercies, who dost turn us to thyself by ways that
make us marvel. Thus, thou didst take that man out of this life when he had
scarcely completed one whole year of friendship with me, sweeter to me than all
the sweetness of my life thus far.
8. Who can show forth all thy praise[94] for that which he
has experienced in himself alone? What was it that thou didst do at that time,
O my God; how unsearchable are the depths of thy judgments! For when, sore sick
of a fever, he long lay unconscious in a death sweat and everyone despaired of
his recovery, he was baptized without his knowledge. And I myself cared little,
at the time, presuming that his soul would retain what it had taken from me
rather than what was done to his unconscious body. It turned out, however, far
differently, for he was revived and restored. Immediately, as soon as I could
talk to him--and I did this as soon as he was able, for I never left him and we
hung on each other overmuch--I tried to jest with him, supposing that he also
would jest in return about that baptism which he had received when his mind and
senses were inactive, but which he had since learned that he had received. But
he recoiled from me, as if I were his enemy, and, with a remarkable and
unexpected freedom, he admonished me that, if I desired to continue as his
friend, I must cease to say such things. Confounded and confused, I concealed
my feelings till he should get well and his health recover enough to allow me
to deal with him as I wished. But he was snatched away from my madness, that
with thee he might be preserved for my consolation. A few days after, during my
absence, the fever returned and he died.
9. My heart was utterly darkened by this sorrow and everywhere I looked I saw
death. My native place was a torture room to me and my father's house a strange
unhappiness. And all the things I had done with him--now that he was
gone--became a frightful torment. My eyes sought him everywhere, but they did
not see him; and I hated all places because he was not in them, because they
could not say to me, "Look, he is coming," as they did when he was alive and
absent. I became a hard riddle to myself, and I asked my soul why she was so
downcast and why this disquieted me so sorely.[95] But she
did not know how to answer me. And if I said, "Hope thou in God,"[96] she very properly disobeyed me, because that dearest
friend she had lost was as an actual man, both truer and better than the
imagined deity she was ordered to put her hope in. Nothing but tears were sweet
to me and they took my friend's place in my heart's desire.
CHAPTER V
10. But now, O Lord, these things are past and time has healed my wound. Let me
learn from thee, who art Truth, and put the ear of my heart to thy mouth, that
thou mayest tell me why weeping should be so sweet to the unhappy. Hast
thou--though omnipresent--dismissed our miseries from thy concern? Thou abidest
in thyself while we are disquieted with trial after trial. Yet unless we wept
in thy ears, there would be no hope for us remaining. How does it happen that
such sweet fruit is plucked from the bitterness of life, from groans, tears,
sighs, and lamentations? Is it the hope that thou wilt hear us that sweetens
it? This is true in the case of prayer, for in a prayer there is a desire to
approach thee. But is it also the case in grief for a lost love, and in the
kind of sorrow that had then overwhelmed me? For I had neither a hope of his
coming back to life, nor in all my tears did I seek this. I simply grieved and
wept, for I was miserable and had lost my joy. Or is weeping a bitter thing
that gives us pleasure because of our aversion to the things we once enjoyed
and this only as long as we loathe them?
CHAPTER VI
11. But why do I speak of these things? Now is not the time to ask such
questions, but rather to confess to thee. I was wretched; and every soul is
wretched that is fettered in the friendship of mortal things--it is torn to
pieces when it loses them, and then realizes the misery which it had even
before it lost them. Thus it was at that time with me. I wept most bitterly,
and found a rest in bitterness. I was wretched, and yet that wretched life I
still held dearer than my friend. For though I would willingly have changed it,
I was still more unwilling to lose it than to have lost him. Indeed, I doubt
whether I was willing to lose it, even for him--as they tell (unless it be
fiction) of the friendship of Orestes and Pylades[97]; they
would have gladly died for one another, or both together, because not to love
together was worse than death to them. But a strange kind of feeling had come
over me, quite different from this, for now it was wearisome to live and a
fearful thing to die. I suppose that the more I loved him the more I hated and
feared, as the most cruel enemy, that death which had robbed me of him. I even
imagined that it would suddenly annihilate all men, since it had had such a
power over him. This is the way I remember it was with me.
Look into my heart, O God! Behold and look deep within me, for I remember it
well, O my Hope who cleansest me from the uncleanness of such affections,
directing my eyes toward thee and plucking my feet out of the snare. And I
marveled that other mortals went on living since he whom I had loved as if he
would never die was now dead. And I marveled all the more that I, who had been
a second self to him, could go on living when he was dead. Someone spoke
rightly of his friend as being "his soul's other half"[98]--for I felt that my soul and his soul were but one soul
in two bodies. Consequently, my life was now a horror to me because I did not
want to live as a half self. But it may have been that I was afraid to die,
lest he should then die wholly whom I had so greatly loved.
CHAPTER VII
12. O madness that knows not how to love men as they should be loved! O foolish
man that I was then, enduring with so much rebellion the lot of every man! Thus
I fretted, sighed, wept, tormented myself, and took neither rest nor counsel,
for I was dragging around my torn and bloody soul. It was impatient of my
dragging it around, and yet I could not find a place to lay it down. Not in
pleasant groves, nor in sport or song, nor in fragrant bowers, nor in
magnificent banquetings, nor in the pleasures of the bed or the couch; not even
in books or poetry did it find rest. All things looked gloomy, even the very
light itself. Whatsoever was not what he was, was now repulsive and hateful,
except my groans and tears, for in those alone I found a little rest. But when
my soul left off weeping, a heavy burden of misery weighed me down. It should
have been raised up to thee, O Lord, for thee to lighten and to lift. This I
knew, but I was neither willing nor able to do; especially since, in my
thoughts of thee, thou wast not thyself but only an empty fantasm. Thus my
error was my god. If I tried to cast off my burden on this fantasm, that it
might find rest there, it sank through the vacuum and came rushing down again
upon me. Thus I remained to myself an unhappy lodging where I could neither
stay nor leave. For where could my heart fly from my heart? Where could I fly
from my own self? Where would I not follow myself? And yet I did flee from my
native place so that my eyes would look for him less in a place where they were
not accustomed to see him. Thus I left the town of Tagaste and returned to
Carthage.
CHAPTER VIII
13. Time never lapses, nor does it glide at leisure through our sense
perceptions. It does strange things in the mind. Lo, time came and went from
day to day, and by coming and going it brought to my mind other ideas and
remembrances, and little by little they patched me up again with earlier kinds
of pleasure and my sorrow yielded a bit to them. But yet there followed after
this sorrow, not other sorrows just like it, but the causes of other sorrows.
For why had that first sorrow so easily penetrated to the quick except that I
had poured out my soul onto the dust, by loving a man as if he would never die
who nevertheless had to die? What revived and refreshed me, more than anything
else, was the consolation of other friends, with whom I went on loving the
things I loved instead of thee. This was a monstrous fable and a tedious lie
which was corrupting my soul with its "itching ears"[99] by
its adulterous rubbing. And that fable would not die to me as often as one of
my friends died. And there were other things in our companionship that took
strong hold of my mind: to discourse and jest with him; to indulge in courteous
exchanges; to read pleasant books together; to trifle together; to be earnest
together; to differ at times without ill-humor, as a man might do with himself,
and even through these infrequent dissensions to find zest in our more frequent
agreements; sometimes teaching, sometimes being taught; longing for someone
absent with impatience and welcoming the homecomer with joy. These and similar
tokens of friendship, which spring spontaneously from the hearts of those who
love and are loved in return--in countenance, tongue, eyes, and a thousand
ingratiating gestures--were all so much fuel to melt our souls together, and
out of the many made us one.
CHAPTER IX
14. This is what we love in our friends, and we love it so much that a man's
conscience accuses itself if he does not love one who loves him, or respond in
love to love, seeking nothing from the other but the evidences of his love.
This is the source of our moaning when one dies--the gloom of sorrow, the
steeping of the heart in tears, all sweetness turned to bitterness--and the
feeling of death in the living, because of the loss of the life of the dying.
Blessed is he who loves thee, and who loves his friend in thee, and his enemy
also, for thy sake; for he alone loses none dear to him, if all are dear in Him
who cannot be lost. And who is this but our God: the God that created heaven
and earth, and filled them because he created them by filling them up? None
loses thee but he who leaves thee; and he who leaves thee, where does he go, or
where can he flee but from thee well-pleased to thee offended? For where does
he not find thy law fulfilled in his own punishment? "Thy law is the truth"[100] and thou art Truth.
CHAPTER X
15. "Turn us again, O Lord God of Hosts, cause thy face to shine; and we shall
be saved."[101] For wherever the soul of man turns itself,
unless toward thee, it is enmeshed in sorrows, even though it is surrounded by
beautiful things outside thee and outside itself. For lovely things would
simply not be unless they were from thee. They come to be and they pass away,
and by coming they begin to be, and they grow toward perfection. Then, when
perfect, they begin to wax old and perish, and, if all do not wax old, still
all perish. Therefore, when they rise and grow toward being, the more rapidly
they grow to maturity, so also the more rapidly they hasten back toward
nonbeing. This is the way of things. This is the lot thou hast given them,
because they are part of things which do not all exist at the same time, but by
passing away and succeeding each other they all make up the universe, of which
they are all parts. For example, our speech is accomplished by sounds which
signify meanings, but a meaning is not complete unless one word passes away,
when it has sounded its part, so that the next may follow after it. Let my soul
praise thee, in all these things, O God, the Creator of all; but let not my
soul be stuck to these things by the glue of love, through the senses of the
body. For they go where they were meant to go, that they may exist no longer.
And they rend the soul with pestilent desires because she longs to be and yet
loves to rest secure in the created things she loves. But in these things there
is no resting place to be found. They do not abide. They flee away; and who is
he who can follow them with his physical senses? Or who can grasp them, even
when they are present? For our physical sense is slow because it is a physical
sense and bears its own limitations in itself. The physical sense is quite
sufficient for what it was made to do; but it is not sufficient to stay things
from running their courses from the beginning appointed to the end appointed.
For in thy word, by which they were created, they hear their appointed bound:
"From there--to here!"
CHAPTER XI
16. Be not foolish, O my soul, and do not let the tumult of your vanity deafen
the ear of your heart. Be attentive. The Word itself calls you to return, and
with him is a place of unperturbed rest, where love is not forsaken unless it
first forsakes. Behold, these things pass away that others may come to be in
their place. Thus even this lowest level of unity[102] may
be made complete in all its parts. "But do I ever pass away?" asks the Word of
God. Fix your habitation in him. O my soul, commit whatsoever you have to him.
For at long last you are now becoming tired of deceit. Commit to truth whatever
you have received from the truth, and you will lose nothing. What is decayed
will flourish again; your diseases will be healed; your perishable parts shall
be reshaped and renovated, and made whole again in you. And these perishable
things will not carry you with them down to where they go when they perish, but
shall stand and abide, and you with them, before God, who abides and continues
forever.
17. Why then, my perverse soul, do you go on following your flesh? Instead, let
it be converted so as to follow you. Whatever you feel through it is but
partial. You do not know the whole, of which sensations are but parts; and yet
the parts delight you. But if my physical senses had been able to comprehend
the whole--and had not as a part of their punishment received only a portion of
the whole as their own province--you would then desire that whatever exists in
the present time should also pass away so that the whole might please you more.
For what we speak, you also hear through physical sensation, and yet you would
not wish that the syllables should remain. Instead, you wish them to fly past
so that others may follow them, and the whole be heard. Thus it is always that
when any single thing is composed of many parts which do not coexist
simultaneously, the whole gives more delight than the parts could ever do
perceived separately. But far better than all this is He who made it all. He is
our God and he does not pass away, for there is nothing to take his place.
CHAPTER XII
18. If physical objects please you, praise God for them, but turn back your
love to their Creator, lest, in those things which please you, you displease
him. If souls please you, let them be loved in God; for in themselves they are
mutable, but in him firmly established--without him they would simply cease to
exist. In him, then, let them be loved; and bring along to him with yourself as
many souls as you can, and say to them: "Let us love him, for he himself
created all these, and he is not far away from them. For he did not create
them, and then go away. They are of him and in him. Behold, there he is,
wherever truth is known. He is within the inmost heart, yet the heart has
wandered away from him. Return to your heart, O you transgressors, and hold
fast to him who made you. Stand with him and you shall stand fast. Rest in him
and you shall be at rest. Where do you go along these rugged paths? Where are
you going? The good that you love is from him, and insofar as it is also for
him, it is both good and pleasant. But it will rightly be turned to bitterness
if whatever comes from him is not rightly loved and if he is deserted for the
love of the creature. Why then will you wander farther and farther in these
difficult and toilsome ways? There is no rest where you seek it. Seek what you
seek; but remember that it is not where you seek it. You seek for a blessed
life in the land of death. It is not there. For how can there be a blessed life
where life itself is not?"
19. But our very Life came down to earth and bore our death, and slew it with
the very abundance of his own life. And, thundering, he called us to return to
him into that secret place from which he came forth to us--coming first into
the virginal womb, where the human creature, our mortal flesh, was joined to
him that it might not be forever mortal--and came "as a bridegroom coming out
his chamber, rejoicing as a strong man to run a race."[103] For he did not delay, but ran through the world, crying
out by words, deeds, death, life, descent, ascension--crying aloud to us to
return to him. And he departed from our sight that we might return to our
hearts and find him there. For he left us, and behold, he is here. He could not
be with us long, yet he did not leave us. He went back to the place that he had
never left, for "the world was made by him."[104] In this
world he was, and into this world he came, to save sinners. To him my soul
confesses, and he heals it, because it had sinned against him. O sons of men,
how long will you be so slow of heart? Even now after Life itself has come down
to you, will you not ascend and live? But where will you climb if you are
already on a pinnacle and have set your mouth against the heavens? First come
down that you may climb up, climb up to God. For you have fallen by trying to
climb against him. Tell this to the souls you love that they may weep in the
valley of tears, and so bring them along with you to God, because it is by his
spirit that you speak thus to them, if, as you speak, you burn with the fire of
love.
CHAPTER XIII
20. These things I did not understand at that time, and I loved those inferior
beauties, and I was sinking down to the very depths. And I said to my friends:
"Do we love anything but the beautiful? What then is the beautiful? And what is
beauty? What is it that allures and unites us to the things we love; for unless
there were a grace and beauty in them, they could not possibly attract us to
them?" And I reflected on this and saw that in the objects themselves there is
a kind of beauty which comes from their forming a whole and another kind of
beauty that comes from mutual fitness--as the harmony of one part of the body
with its whole, or a shoe with a foot, and so on. And this idea sprang up in my
mind out of my inmost heart, and I wrote some books--two or three, I
think--On the Beautiful and the Fitting.[105] Thou
knowest them, O Lord; they have escaped my memory. I no longer have them;
somehow they have been mislaid.
CHAPTER XIV
21. What was it, O Lord my God, that prompted me to dedicate these books to
Hierius, an orator of Rome, a man I did not know by sight but whom I loved for
his reputation of learning, in which he was famous--and also for some words of
his that I had heard which had pleased me? But he pleased me more because he
pleased others, who gave him high praise and expressed amazement that a Syrian,
who had first studied Greek eloquence, should thereafter become so wonderful a
Latin orator and also so well versed in philosophy. Thus a man we have never
seen is commended and loved. Does a love like this come into the heart of the
hearer from the mouth of him who sings the other's praise? Not so. Instead, one
catches the spark of love from one who loves. This is why we love one who is
praised when the eulogist is believed to give his praise from an unfeigned
heart; that is, when he who loves him praises him.
22. Thus it was that I loved men on the basis of other men's judgment, and not
thine, O my God, in whom no man is deceived. But why is it that the feeling I
had for such men was not like my feeling toward the renowned charioteer, or the
great gladiatorial hunter, famed far and wide and popular with the mob?
Actually, I admired the orator in a different and more serious fashion, as I
would myself desire to be admired. For I did not want them to praise and love
me as actors were praised and loved--although I myself praise and love them
too. I would prefer being unknown than known in that way, or even being hated
than loved that way. How are these various influences and divers sorts of loves
distributed within one soul? What is it that I am in love with in another
which, if I did not hate, I should neither detest nor repel from myself, seeing
that we are equally men? For it does not follow that because the good horse is
admired by a man who would not be that horse--even if he could--the same kind
of admiration should be given to an actor, who shares our nature. Do I then
love that in a man, which I also, a man, would hate to be? Man is himself a
great deep. Thou dost number his very hairs, O Lord, and they do not fall to
the ground without thee, and yet the hairs of his head are more readily
numbered than are his affections and the movements of his heart.
23. But that orator whom I admired so much was the kind of man I wished myself
to be. Thus I erred through a swelling pride and "was carried about with every
wind,"[106] but through it all I was being piloted by
thee, though most secretly. And how is it that I know--whence comes my
confident confession to thee--that I loved him more because of the love of
those who praised him than for the things they praised in him? Because if he
had gone unpraised, and these same people had criticized him and had spoken the
same things of him in a tone of scorn and disapproval, I should never have been
kindled and provoked to love him. And yet his qualities would not have been
different, nor would he have been different himself; only the appraisals of the
spectators. See where the helpless soul lies prostrate that is not yet
sustained by the stability of truth! Just as the breezes of speech blow from
the breast of the opinionated, so also the soul is tossed this way and that,
driven forward and backward, and the light is obscured to it and the truth not
seen. And yet, there it is in front of us. And to me it was a great matter that
both my literary work and my zest for learning should be known by that man. For
if he approved them, I would be even more fond of him; but if he disapproved,
this vain heart of mine, devoid of thy steadfastness, would have been offended.
And so I meditated on the problem "of the beautiful and the fitting" and
dedicated my essay on it to him. I regarded it admiringly, though no one else
joined me in doing so.
CHAPTER XV
24. But I had not seen how the main point in these great issues [concerning the
nature of beauty] lay really in thy craftsmanship, O Omnipotent One, "who alone
doest great wonders."[107] And so my mind ranged through
the corporeal forms, and I defined and distinguished as "beautiful" that which
is so in itself and as "fit" that which is beautiful in relation to some other
thing. This argument I supported by corporeal examples. And I turned my
attention to the nature of the mind, but the false opinions which I held
concerning spiritual things prevented me from seeing the truth. Still, the very
power of truth forced itself on my gaze, and I turned my throbbing soul away
from incorporeal substance to qualities of line and color and shape, and,
because I could not perceive these with my mind, I concluded that I could not
perceive my mind. And since I loved the peace which is in virtue, and hated the
discord which is in vice, I distinguished between the unity there is in virtue
and the discord there is in vice. I conceived that unity consisted of the
rational soul and the nature of truth and the highest good. But I imagined that
in the disunity there was some kind of substance of irrational life and some
kind of entity in the supreme evil. This evil I thought was not only a
substance but real life as well, and yet I believed that it did not come from
thee, O my God, from whom are all things. And the first I called a Monad, as if
it were a soul without sex. The other I called a Dyad, which showed itself in
anger in deeds of violence, in deeds of passion and lust--but I did not know
what I was talking about. For I had not understood nor had I been taught that
evil is not a substance at all and that our soul is not that supreme and
unchangeable good.
25. For just as in violent acts, if the emotion of the soul from whence the
violent impulse springs is depraved and asserts itself insolently and
mutinously--and just as in the acts of passion, if the affection of the soul
which gives rise to carnal desires is unrestrained--so also, in the same way,
errors and false opinions contaminate life if the rational soul itself is
depraved. Thus it was then with me, for I was ignorant that my soul had to be
enlightened by another light, if it was to be partaker of the truth, since it
is not itself the essence of truth. "For thou wilt light my lamp; the Lord my
God will lighten my darkness"[108]; and "of his fullness
have we all received,"[109] for "that was the true Light
that lighteth every man that cometh into the world"[110];
for "in thee there is no variableness, neither shadow of turning."[111]
26. But I pushed on toward thee, and was pressed back by thee that I might know
the taste of death, for "thou resistest the proud."[112] And what greater pride could there be for me than, with a marvelous madness, to
assert myself to be that nature which thou art? I was mutable--this much was
clear enough to me because my very longing to become wise arose out of a wish
to change from worse to better--yet I chose rather to think thee mutable than
to think that I was not as thou art. For this reason I was thrust back; thou
didst resist my fickle pride. Thus I went on imagining corporeal forms, and,
since I was flesh I accused the flesh, and, since I was "a wind that passes
away,"[113] I did not return to thee but went wandering
and wandering on toward those things that have no being--neither in thee nor in
me, nor in the body. These fancies were not created for me by thy truth but
conceived by my own vain conceit out of sensory notions. And I used to ask thy
faithful children--my own fellow citizens, from whom I stood unconsciously
exiled--I used flippantly and foolishly to ask them, "Why, then, does the soul,
which God created, err?" But I would not allow anyone to ask me, "Why, then,
does God err?" I preferred to contend that thy immutable substance was involved
in error through necessity rather than admit that my own mutable substance had
gone astray of its own free will and had fallen into error as its punishment.
27. I was about twenty-six or twenty-seven when I wrote those books, analyzing
and reflecting upon those sensory images which clamored in the ears of my
heart. I was straining those ears to hear thy inward melody, O sweet Truth,
pondering on "the beautiful and the fitting" and longing to stay and hear thee,
and to rejoice greatly at "the Bridegroom's voice."[114] Yet I could not, for by the clamor of my own errors I was hurried outside
myself, and by the weight of my own pride I was sinking ever lower. You did not
"make me to hear joy and gladness," nor did the bones rejoice which were not
yet humbled.[115]
28. And what did it profit me that, when I was scarcely twenty years old, a
book of Aristotle's entitled The Ten Categories[116] fell into my hands? On the very title of this I
hung as on something great and divine, since my rhetoric master at Carthage and
others who had reputations for learning were always referring to it with such
swelling pride. I read it by myself and understood it. And what did it mean
that when I discussed it with others they said that even with the assistance of
tutors--who not only explained it orally, but drew many diagrams in the
sand--they scarcely understood it and
could tell me no more about it than I had
acquired in the reading of it by myself alone? For the book appeared to me to
speak plainly enough about substances, such as a man; and of their qualities,
such as the shape of a man, his kind, his stature, how many feet high, and his
family relationship, his status, when born, whether he is sitting or standing,
is shod or armed, or is doing something or having something done to him--and
all the innumerable things that are classified under these nine categories (of
which I have given some examples) or under the chief category of substance.
29. What did all this profit me, since it actually hindered me when I imagined
that whatever existed was comprehended within those ten categories? I tried to
interpret them, O my God, so that even thy wonderful and unchangeable unity
could be understood as subjected to thy own magnitude or beauty, as if they
existed in thee as their Subject--as they do in corporeal bodies--whereas thou
art thyself thy own magnitude and beauty. A body is not great or fair because
it is a body, because, even if it were less great or less beautiful, it would
still be a body. But my conception of thee was falsity, not truth. It was a
figment of my own misery, not the stable ground of thy blessedness. For thou
hadst commanded, and it was carried out in me, that the earth should bring
forth briars and thorns for me, and that with heavy labor I should gain my
bread.[117]
30. And what did it profit me that I could read and understand for myself all
the books I could get in the so-called "liberal arts," when I was actually a
worthless slave of wicked lust? I took delight in them, not knowing the real
source of what it was in them that was true and certain. For I had my back
toward the light, and my face toward the things on which the light falls, so
that my face, which looked toward the illuminated things, was not itself
illuminated. Whatever was written in any of the fields of rhetoric or logic,
geometry, music, or arithmetic, I could understand without any great difficulty
and without the instruction of another man. All this thou knowest, O Lord my
God, because both quickness in understanding and acuteness in insight are thy
gifts. Yet for such gifts I made no thank offering to thee. Therefore, my
abilities served not my profit but rather my loss, since I went about trying to
bring so large a part of my substance into my own power. And I did not store up
my strength for thee, but went away from thee into the far country to
prostitute my gifts in disordered appetite.[118] And what
did these abilities profit me, if I did not put them to good use? I did not
realize that those arts were understood with great difficulty, even by the
studious and the intelligent, until I tried to explain them to others and
discovered that even the most proficient in them followed my explanations all
too slowly.
31. And yet what did this profit me, since I still supposed that thou, O Lord
God, the Truth, wert a bright and vast body and that I was a particle of that
body? O perversity gone too far! But so it was with me. And I do not blush, O
my God, to confess thy mercies to me in thy presence, or to call upon thee--any
more than I did not blush when I openly avowed my blasphemies before men, and
bayed, houndlike, against thee. What good was it for me that my nimble wit
could run through those studies and disentangle all those knotty volumes,
without help from a human teacher, since all the while I was erring so
hatefully and with such sacrilege as far as the right substance of pious faith
was concerned? And what kind of burden was it for thy little ones to have a far
slower wit, since they did not use it to depart from thee, and since they
remained in the nest of thy Church to become safely fledged and to nourish the
wings of love by the food of a sound faith.
O Lord our God, under the shadow of thy wings let us hope--defend us and
support us.[119] Thou wilt bear us up when we are little
and even down to our gray hairs thou wilt carry us. For our stability, when it
is in thee, is stability indeed; but when it is in ourselves, then it is all
unstable. Our good lives forever with thee, and when we turn from thee with
aversion, we fall into our own perversion. Let us now, O Lord, return that we
be not overturned, because with thee our good lives without blemish--for our
good is thee thyself. And we need not fear that we shall find no place to
return to because we fell away from it. For, in our absence, our home--which is
thy eternity--does not fall away.
BOOK FIVE
A year of decision. Faustus comes to Carthage and Augustine is
disenchanted in his hope for solid demonstration of the truth of Manichean
doctrine. He decides to flee from his known troubles at Carthage to troubles
yet unknown at Rome. His experiences at Rome prove disappointing and he applies
for a teaching post at Milan. Here he meets Ambrose, who confronts him as an
impressive witness for Catholic Christianity and opens out the possibilities of
the allegorical interpretation of Scripture. Augustine decides to become a
Christian catechumen.
CHAPTER I
1. Accept this sacrifice of my confessions from the hand of my tongue. Thou
didst form it and hast prompted it to praise thy name. Heal all my bones and
let them say, "O Lord, who is like unto thee?"[120] It is
not that one who confesses to thee instructs thee as to what goes on within
him. For the closed heart does not bar thy sight into it, nor does the hardness
of our heart hold back thy hands, for thou canst soften it at will, either by
mercy or in vengeance, "and there is no one who can hide himself from thy
heat."[121] But let my soul praise thee, that it may love
thee, and let it confess thy mercies to thee, that it may praise thee. Thy
whole creation praises thee without ceasing: the spirit of man, by his own
lips, by his own voice, lifted up to thee; animals and lifeless matter by the
mouths of those who meditate upon them. Thus our souls may climb out of their
weariness toward thee and lean on those things which thou hast created and pass
through them to thee, who didst create them in a marvelous way. With thee,
there is refreshment and true strength.
CHAPTER II
2. Let the restless and the unrighteous depart, and flee away from thee. Even
so, thou seest them and thy eye pierces through the shadows in which they run.
For lo, they live in a world of beauty and yet are themselves most foul. And
how have they harmed thee? Or in what way have they discredited thy power,
which is just and perfect in its rule even to the last item in creation?
Indeed, where would they fly when they fled from thy presence? Wouldst thou be
unable to find them? But they fled that they might not see thee, who sawest
them; that they might be blinded and stumble into thee. But thou forsakest
nothing that thou hast made. The unrighteous stumble against thee that they may
be justly plagued, fleeing from thy gentleness and colliding with thy justice,
and falling on their own rough paths. For in truth they do not know that thou
art everywhere; that no place contains thee, and that only thou art near even
to those who go farthest from thee. Let them, therefore, turn back and seek
thee, because even if they have abandoned thee, their Creator, thou hast not
abandoned thy creatures. Let them turn back and seek thee--and lo, thou art
there in their hearts, there in the hearts of those who confess to thee. Let
them cast themselves upon thee, and weep on thy bosom, after all their weary
wanderings; and thou wilt gently wipe away their tears.[122] And they weep the more and rejoice in their weeping,
since thou, O Lord, art not a man of flesh and blood. Thou art the Lord, who
canst remake what thou didst make and canst comfort them. And where was I when
I was seeking thee? There thou wast, before me; but I had gone away, even from
myself, and I could not find myself, much less thee.
CHAPTER III
3. Let me now lay bare in the sight of God the twenty-ninth year of my age.
There had just come to Carthage a certain bishop of the Manicheans, Faustus by
name, a great snare of the devil; and many were entangled by him through the
charm of his eloquence. Now, even though I found this eloquence admirable, I
was beginning to distinguish the charm of words from the truth of things, which
I was eager to learn. Nor did I consider the dish as much as I did the kind of
meat that their famous Faustus served up to me in it. His fame had run before
him, as one very skilled in an honorable learning and pre-eminently skilled in
the liberal arts.
And as I had already read and stored up in memory many of the injunctions of
the philosophers, I began to compare some of their doctrines with the tedious
fables of the Manicheans; and it struck me that the probability was on the side
of the philosophers, whose power reached far enough to enable them to form a
fair judgment of the world, even though they had not discovered the sovereign
Lord of it all. For thou art great, O Lord, and thou hast respect unto the
lowly, but the proud thou knowest afar off.[123] Thou
drawest near to none but the contrite in heart, and canst not be found by the
proud, even if in their inquisitive skill they may number the stars and the
sands, and map out the constellations, and trace the courses of the planets.
4. For it is by the mind and the intelligence which thou gavest them that they
investigate these things. They have discovered much; and have foretold, many
years in advance, the day, the hour, and the extent of the eclipses of those
luminaries, the sun and the moon. Their calculations did not fail, and it came
to pass as they predicted. And they wrote down the rules they had discovered,
so that to this day they may be read and from them may be calculated in what
year and month and day and hour of the day, and at what quarter of its light,
either the moon or the sun will be eclipsed, and it will come to pass just as
predicted. And men who are ignorant in these matters marvel and are amazed; and
those who understand them exult and are exalted. Both, by an impious pride,
withdraw from thee and forsake thy light. They foretell an eclipse of the sun
before it happens, but they do not see their own eclipse which is even now
occurring. For they do not ask, as religious men should, what is the source of
the intelligence by which they investigate these matters. Moreover, when they
discover that thou didst make them, they do not give themselves up to thee that
thou mightest preserve what thou hast made. Nor do they offer, as sacrifice to
thee, what they have made of themselves. For they do not slaughter their own
pride--as they do the sacrificial fowls--nor their own curiosities by which,
like the fishes of the sea, they wander through the unknown paths of the deep.
Nor do they curb their own extravagances as they do those of "the beasts of the
field,"[124] so that thou, O Lord, "a consuming fire,"[125] mayest burn up their mortal cares and renew them unto
immortality.
5. They do not know the way which is thy word, by which thou didst create all
the things that are and also the men who measure them, and the senses by which
they perceive what they measure, and the intelligence whereby they discern the
patterns of measure. Thus they know not that thy wisdom is not a matter of
measure.[126] But the Only Begotten hath been "made unto
us wisdom, and righteousness, and sanctification"[127] and
hath been numbered among us and paid tribute to Caesar.[128] And they do not know this "Way" by which they could
descend from themselves to him in order to ascend through him to him. They did
not know this "Way," and so they fancied themselves exalted to the stars and
the shining heavens. And lo, they fell upon the earth, and "their foolish heart
was darkened."[129] They saw many true things about the
creature but they do not seek with true piety for the Truth, the Architect of
Creation, and hence they do not find him. Or, if they do find him, and know
that he is God, they do not glorify him as God; neither are they thankful but
become vain in their imagination, and say that they themselves are wise, and
attribute to themselves what is thine. At the same time, with the most perverse
blindness, they wish to attribute to thee their own quality--so that they load
their lies on thee who art the Truth, "changing the glory of the incorruptible
God for an image of corruptible man, and birds, and four-footed beasts, and
creeping things."[130] "They exchanged thy truth for a
lie, and worshiped and served the creature rather than the Creator."[131]
6. Yet I remembered many a true saying of the philosophers about the creation,
and I saw the confirmation of their calculations in the orderly sequence of
seasons and in the visible evidence of the stars. And I compared this with the
doctrines of Mani, who in his voluminous folly wrote many books on these
subjects. But I could not discover there any account, of either the solstices
or the equinoxes, or the eclipses of the sun and moon, or anything of the sort
that I had learned in the books of secular philosophy. But still I was ordered
to believe, even where the ideas did not correspond with--even when they
contradicted--the rational theories established by mathematics and my own eyes,
but were very different.
CHAPTER IV
7. Yet, O Lord God of Truth, is any man pleasing to thee because he knows these
things? No, for surely that man is unhappy who knows these things and does not
know thee. And that man is happy who knows thee, even though he does not know
these things. He who knows both thee and these things is not the more blessed
for his learning, for thou only art his blessing, if knowing thee as God he
glorifies thee and gives thanks and does not become vain in his thoughts.
For just as that man who knows how to possess a tree, and give thanks to thee
for the use of it--although he may not know how many feet high it is or how
wide it spreads--is better than the man who can measure it and count all its
branches, but neither owns it nor knows or loves its Creator: just so is a
faithful man who possesses the world's wealth as though he had nothing, and
possesses all things through his union through thee, whom all things serve,
even though he does not know the circlings of the Great Bear. Just so it is
foolish to doubt that this faithful man may truly be better than the one who
can measure the heavens and number the stars and weigh the elements, but who is
forgetful of thee "who hast set in order all things in number, weight, and
measure."[132]
CHAPTER V
8. And who ordered this Mani to write about these things, knowledge of which is
not necessary to piety? For thou hast said to man, "Behold, godliness is
wisdom"[133]--and of this he might have been ignorant,
however perfectly he may have known these other things. Yet, since he did not
know even these other things, and most impudently dared to teach them, it is
clear that he had no knowledge of piety. For, even when we have a knowledge of
this worldly lore, it is folly to make a profession of it, when piety
comes from confession to thee. From piety, therefore, Mani had gone
astray, and all his show of learning only enabled the truly learned to
perceive, from his ignorance of what they knew, how little he was to be trusted
to make plain these more really difficult matters. For he did not aim to be
lightly esteemed, but went around trying to persuade men that the Holy Spirit,
the Comforter and Enricher of thy faithful ones, was personally resident in him
with full authority. And, therefore, when he was detected in manifest errors
about the sky, the stars, the movements of the sun and moon, even though these
things do not relate to religious doctrine, the impious presumption of the man
became clearly evident; for he not only taught things about which he was
ignorant but also perverted them, and this with pride so foolish and mad that
he sought to claim that his own utterances were as if they had been those of a
divine person.
9. When I hear of a Christian brother, ignorant of these things, or in error
concerning them, I can tolerate his uninformed opinion; and I do not see that
any lack of knowledge as to the form or nature of this material creation can do
him much harm, as long as he does not hold a belief in anything which is
unworthy of thee, O Lord, the Creator of all. But if he thinks that his secular
knowledge pertains to the essence of the doctrine of piety, or ventures to
assert dogmatic opinions in matters in which he is ignorant--there lies the
injury. And yet even a weakness such as this, in the infancy of our faith, is
tolerated by our Mother Charity until the new man can grow up "unto a perfect
man," and not be "carried away with every wind of doctrine."[134]
But Mani had presumed to be at once the teacher, author, guide, and leader of
all whom he could persuade to believe this, so that all who followed him
believed that they were following not an ordinary man but thy Holy Spirit. And
who would not judge that such great madness, when it once stood convicted of
false teaching, should then be abhorred and utterly rejected? But I had not yet
clearly decided whether the alternation of day and night, and of longer and
shorter days and nights, and the eclipses of sun and moon, and whatever else I
read about in other books could be explained consistently with his theories. If
they could have been so explained, there would still have remained a doubt in
my mind whether the theories were right or wrong. Yet I was prepared, on the
strength of his reputed godliness, to rest my faith on his authority.
CHAPTER VI
10. For almost the whole of the nine years that I listened with unsettled mind
to the Manichean teaching I had been looking forward with unbounded eagerness
to the arrival of this Faustus. For all the other members of the sect that I
happened to meet, when they were unable to answer the questions I raised,
always referred me to his coming. They promised that, in discussion with him,
these and even greater difficulties, if I had them, would be quite easily and
amply cleared away. When at last he did come, I found him to be a man of
pleasant speech, who spoke of the very same things they themselves did,
although more fluently and in a more agreeable style. But what profit was there
to me in the elegance of my cupbearer, since he could not offer me the more
precious draught for which I thirsted? My ears had already had their fill of
such stuff, and now it did not seem any better because it was better expressed
nor more true because it was dressed up in rhetoric; nor could I think the
man's soul necessarily wise because his face was comely and his language
eloquent. But they who extolled him to me were not competent judges. They
thought him able and wise because his eloquence delighted them. At the same
time I realized that there is another kind of man who is suspicious even of
truth itself, if it is expressed in smooth and flowing language. But thou, O my
God, hadst already taught me in wonderful and marvelous ways, and therefore I
believed--because it is true--that thou didst teach me and that beside thee
there is no other teacher of truth, wherever truth shines forth. Already I had
learned from thee that because a thing is eloquently expressed it should not be
taken to be as necessarily true; nor because it is uttered with stammering lips
should it be supposed false. Nor, again, is it necessarily true because rudely
uttered, nor untrue because the language is brilliant. Wisdom and folly both
are like meats that are wholesome and unwholesome, and courtly or simple words
are like town-made or rustic vessels--both kinds of food may be served in
either kind of dish.
11. That eagerness, therefore, with which I had so long awaited this man, was
in truth delighted with his action and feeling in a disputation, and with the
fluent and apt words with which he clothed his ideas. I was delighted,
therefore, and I joined with others--and even exceeded them--in exalting and
praising him. Yet it was a source of annoyance to me that, in his lecture room,
I was not allowed to introduce and raise any of those questions that troubled
me, in a familiar exchange of discussion with him. As soon as I found an
opportunity for this, and gained his ear at a time when it was not inconvenient
for him to enter into a discussion with me and my friends, I laid before him
some of my doubts. I discovered at once that he knew nothing of the liberal
arts except grammar, and that only in an ordinary way. He had, however, read
some of Tully's orations, a very few books of Seneca, and some of the poets,
and such few books of his own sect as were written in good Latin. With this
meager learning and his daily practice in speaking, he had acquired a sort of
eloquence which proved the more delightful and enticing because it was under
the direction of a ready wit and a sort of native grace. Was this not even as I
now recall it, O Lord my God, Judge of my conscience? My heart and my memory
are laid open before thee, who wast even then guiding me by the secret impulse
of thy providence and wast setting my shameful errors before my face so that I
might see and hate them.
CHAPTER VII
12. For as soon as it became plain to me that Faustus was ignorant in those
arts in which I had believed him eminent, I began to despair of his being able
to clarify and explain all these perplexities that troubled me--though I
realized that such ignorance need not have affected the authenticity of his
piety, if he had not been a Manichean. For their books are full of long fables
about the sky and the stars, the sun and the moon; and I had ceased to believe
him able to show me in any satisfactory fashion what I so ardently desired:
whether the explanations contained in the Manichean books were better or at
least as good as the mathematical explanations I had read elsewhere. But when I
proposed that these subjects should be considered and discussed, he quite
modestly did not dare to undertake the task, for he was aware that he had no
knowledge of these things and was not ashamed to confess it. For he was not one
of those talkative people--from whom I had endured so much--who undertook to
teach me what I wanted to know, and then said nothing. Faustus had a heart
which, if not right toward thee, was at least not altogether false toward
himself; for he was not ignorant of his own ignorance, and he did not choose to
be entangled in a controversy from which he could not draw back or retire
gracefully. For this I liked him all the more. For the modesty of an ingenious
mind is a finer thing than the acquisition of that knowledge I desired; and
this I found to be his attitude toward all abstruse and difficult questions.
13. Thus the zeal with which I had plunged into the Manichean system was
checked, and I despaired even more of their other teachers, because Faustus who
was so famous among them had turned out so poorly in the various matters that
puzzled me. And so I began to occupy myself with him in the study of his own
favorite pursuit, that of literature, in which I was already teaching a class
as a professor of rhetoric among the young Carthaginian students. With Faustus
then I read whatever he himself wished to read, or what I judged suitable to
his bent of mind. But all my endeavors to make further progress in Manicheism
came completely to an end through my acquaintance with that man. I did not
wholly separate myself from them, but as one who had not yet found anything
better I decided to content myself, for the time being, with what I had
stumbled upon one way or another, until by chance something more desirable
should present itself. Thus that Faustus who had entrapped so many to their
death--though neither willing nor witting it--now began to loosen the snare in
which I had been caught. For thy hands, O my God, in the hidden design of thy
providence did not desert my soul; and out of the blood of my mother's heart,
through the tears that she poured out by day and by night, there was a
sacrifice offered to thee for me, and by marvelous ways thou didst deal with
me. For it was thou, O my God, who didst it: for "the steps of a man are
ordered by the Lord, and he shall choose his way."[135] How shall we attain salvation without thy hand remaking what it had already
made?
CHAPTER VIII
14. Thou didst so deal with me, therefore, that I was persuaded to go to Rome
and teach there what I had been teaching at Carthage. And how I was persuaded
to do this I will not omit to confess to thee, for in this also the profoundest
workings of thy wisdom and thy constant mercy toward us must be pondered and
acknowledged. I did not wish to go to Rome because of the richer fees and the
higher dignity which my friends promised me there--though these considerations
did affect my decision. My principal and almost sole motive was that I had been
informed that the students there studied more quietly and were better kept
under the control of stern discipline, so that they did not capriciously and
impudently rush into the classroom of a teacher not their own--indeed, they
were not admitted at all without the permission of the teacher. At Carthage, on
the contrary, there was a shameful and intemperate license among the students.
They burst in rudely and, with furious gestures, would disrupt the discipline
which the teacher had established for the good of his pupils. Many outrages
they perpetrated with astounding effrontery, things that would be punishable by
law if they were not sustained by custom. Thus custom makes plain that such
behavior is all the more worthless because it allows men to do what thy eternal
law never will allow. They think that they act thus with impunity, though the
very blindness with which they act is their punishment, and they suffer far
greater harm than they inflict.
The manners that I would not adopt as a student I was compelled as a teacher to
endure in others. And so I was glad to go where all who knew the situation
assured me that such conduct was not allowed. But thou, "O my refuge and my
portion in the land of the living,"[136] didst goad me
thus at Carthage so that I might thereby be pulled away from it and change my
worldly habitation for the preservation of my soul. At the same time, thou
didst offer me at Rome an enticement, through the agency of men enchanted with
this death-in-life--by their insane conduct in the one place and their empty
promises in the other. To correct my wandering footsteps, thou didst secretly
employ their perversity and my own. For those who disturbed my tranquillity
were blinded by shameful madness and also those who allured me elsewhere had
nothing better than the earth's cunning. And I who hated actual misery in the
one place sought fictitious happiness in the other.
15. Thou knewest the cause of my going from one country to the other, O God,
but thou didst not disclose it either to me or to my mother, who grieved deeply
over my departure and followed me down to the sea. She clasped me tight in her
embrace, willing either to keep me back or to go with me, but I deceived her,
pretending that I had a friend whom I could not leave until he had a favorable
wind to set sail. Thus I lied to my mother--and such a mother!--and escaped.
For this too thou didst mercifully pardon me--fool that I was--and didst
preserve me from the waters of the sea for the water of thy grace; so that,
when I was purified by that, the fountain of my mother's eyes, from which she
had daily watered the ground for me as she prayed to thee, should be dried.
And, since she refused to return without me, I persuaded her, with some
difficulty, to remain that night in a place quite close to our ship, where
there was a shrine in memory of the blessed Cyprian. That night I slipped away
secretly, and she remained to pray and weep. And what was it, O Lord, that she
was asking of thee in such a flood of tears but that thou wouldst not allow me
to sail? But thou, taking thy own secret counsel and noting the real point to
her desire, didst not grant what she was then asking in order to grant to her
the thing that she had always been asking.
The wind blew and filled our sails, and the shore dropped out of sight. Wild
with grief, she was there the next morning and filled thy ears with complaints
and groans which thou didst disregard, although, at the very same time, thou
wast using my longings as a means and wast hastening me on to the fulfillment
of all longing. Thus the earthly part of her love to me was justly purged by
the scourge of sorrow. Still, like all mothers--though even more than
others--she loved to have me with her, and did not know what joy thou wast
preparing for her through my going away. Not knowing this secret end, she wept
and mourned and saw in her agony the inheritance of Eve--seeking in sorrow what
she had brought forth in sorrow. And yet, after accusing me of perfidy and
cruelty, she still continued her intercessions for me to thee. She returned to
her own home, and I went on to Rome.
CHAPTER IX
16. And lo, I was received in Rome by the scourge of bodily sickness; and I was
very near to falling into hell, burdened with all the many and grievous sins I
had committed against thee, myself, and others--all over and above that fetter
of original sin whereby we all die in Adam. For thou hadst forgiven me none of
these things in Christ, neither had he abolished by his cross the enmity[137] that I had incurred from thee through my sins. For how
could he do so by the crucifixion of a phantom, which was all I supposed him to
be? The death of my soul was as real then as the death of his flesh appeared to
me unreal. And the life of my soul was as false, because it was as unreal as
the death of his flesh was real, though I believed it not.
My fever increased, and I was on the verge of passing away and perishing; for,
if I had passed away then, where should I have gone but into the fiery torment
which my misdeeds deserved, measured by the truth of thy rule? My mother knew
nothing of this; yet, far away, she went on praying for me. And thou, present
everywhere, didst hear her where she was and had pity on me where I was, so
that I regained my bodily health, although I was still disordered in my
sacrilegious heart. For that peril of death did not make me wish to be
baptized. I was even better when, as a lad, I entreated baptism of my mother's
devotion, as I have already related and confessed.[138] But now I had since increased in dishonor, and I madly scoffed at all the
purposes of thy medicine which would not have allowed me, though a sinner such
as I was, to die a double death. Had my mother's heart been pierced with this
wound, it never could have been cured, for I cannot adequately tell of the love
she had for me, or how she still travailed for me in the spirit with a far
keener anguish than when she bore me in the flesh.
17. I cannot conceive, therefore, how she could have been healed if my death
(still in my sins) had pierced her inmost love. Where, then, would have been
all her earnest, frequent, and ceaseless prayers to thee? Nowhere but with
thee. But couldst thou, O most merciful God, despise the "contrite and humble
heart"[139] of that pure and prudent widow, who was so
constant in her alms, so gracious and attentive to thy saints, never missing a
visit to church twice a day, morning and evening--and this not for vain
gossiping, nor old wives' fables, but in order that she might listen to thee in
thy sermons, and thou to her in her prayers? Couldst thou, by whose gifts she
was so inspired, despise and disregard the tears of such a one without coming
to her aid--those tears by which she entreated thee, not for gold or silver,
and not for any changing or fleeting good, but for the salvation of the soul of
her son? By no means, O Lord. It is certain that thou wast near and wast
hearing and wast carrying out the plan by which thou hadst predetermined it
should be done. Far be it from thee that thou shouldst have deluded her in
those visions and the answers she had received from thee--some of which I have
mentioned, and others not--which she kept in her faithful heart, and, forever
beseeching, urged them on thee as if they had thy own signature. For thou,
"because thy mercy endureth forever,"[140] hast so
condescended to those whose debts thou hast pardoned that thou likewise dost
become a debtor by thy promises.
CHAPTER X
18. Thou didst restore me then from that illness, and didst heal the son of thy
handmaid in his body, that he might live for thee and that thou mightest endow
him with a better and more certain health. After this, at Rome, I again joined
those deluding and deluded "saints"; and not their "hearers" only, such as the
man was in whose house I had fallen sick, but also with those whom they called
"the elect." For it still seemed to me "that it is not we who sin, but some
other nature sinned in us." And it gratified my pride to be beyond blame, and
when I did anything wrong not to have to confess that I had done
wrong--"that thou mightest heal my soul because it had sinned against thee"[141]--and I loved to excuse my soul and to accuse something
else inside me (I knew not what) but which was not I. But, assuredly, it was I,
and it was my impiety that had divided me against myself. That sin then was all
the more incurable because I did not deem myself a sinner. It was an execrable
iniquity, O God Omnipotent, that I would have preferred to have thee defeated
in me, to my destruction, than to be defeated by thee to my salvation. Not yet,
therefore, hadst thou set a watch upon my mouth and a door around my lips that
my heart might not incline to evil speech, to make excuse for sin with men that
work iniquity.[142] And, therefore, I continued still in
the company of their "elect."
19. But now, hopeless of gaining any profit from that false doctrine, I began
to hold more loosely and negligently even to those points which I had decided
to rest content with, if I could find nothing better. I was now half inclined
to believe that those philosophers whom they call "The Academics"[143] were wiser than the rest in holding that we ought to
doubt everything, and in maintaining that man does not have the power of
comprehending any certain truth, for, although I had not yet understood their
meaning, I was fully persuaded that they thought just as they are commonly
reputed to do. And I did not fail openly to dissuade my host from his
confidence which I observed that he had in those fictions of which the works of
Mani are full. For all this, I was still on terms of more intimate friendship
with these people than with others who were not of their heresy. I did not
indeed defend it with my former ardor; but my familiarity with that group--and
there were many of them concealed in Rome at that time[144]--made me slower to seek any other way. This was
particularly easy since I had no hope of finding in thy Church the truth from
which they had turned me aside, O Lord of heaven and earth, Creator of all
things visible and invisible. And it still seemed to me most unseemly to
believe that thou couldst have the form of human flesh and be bounded by the
bodily shape of our limbs. And when I desired to meditate on my God, I did not
know what to think of but a huge extended body--for what did not have bodily
extension did not seem to me to exist--and this was the greatest and almost the
sole cause of my unavoidable errors.
20. And thus I also believed that evil was a similar kind of substance, and
that it had its own hideous and deformed extended body--either in a dense form
which they called the earth or in a thin and subtle form as, for example, the
substance of the air, which they imagined as some malignant spirit penetrating
that earth. And because my piety--such as it was--still compelled me to believe
that the good God never created any evil substance, I formed the idea of two
masses, one opposed to the other, both infinite but with the evil more
contracted and the good more expansive. And from this diseased beginning, the
other sacrileges followed after.
For when my mind tried to turn back to the Catholic faith, I was cast down,
since the Catholic faith was not what I judged it to be. And it seemed to me a
greater piety to regard thee, my God--to whom I make confession of thy
mercies--as infinite in all respects save that one: where the extended mass of
evil stood opposed to thee, where I was compelled to confess that thou art
finite--than if I should think that thou couldst be confined by the form of a
human body on every side. And it seemed better to me to believe that no evil
had been created by thee--for in my ignorance evil appeared not only to be some
kind of substance but a corporeal one at that. This was because I had, thus
far, no conception of mind, except as a subtle body diffused throughout local
spaces. This seemed better than to believe that anything could emanate from
thee which had the character that I considered evil to be in its nature. And I
believed that our Saviour himself also--thy Only Begotten--had been brought
forth, as it were, for our salvation out of the mass of thy bright shining
substance. So that I could believe nothing about him except what I was able to
harmonize with these vain imaginations. I thought, therefore, that such a
nature could not be born of the Virgin Mary without being mingled with the
flesh, and I could not see how the divine substance, as I had conceived it,
could be mingled thus without being contaminated. I was afraid, therefore, to
believe that he had been born in the flesh, lest I should also be compelled to
believe that he had been contaminated by the flesh. Now will thy spiritual ones
smile blandly and lovingly at me if they read these confessions. Yet such was I.
CHAPTER XI
21. Furthermore, the things they censured in thy Scriptures I thought
impossible to be defended. And yet, occasionally, I desired to confer on
various matters with someone well learned in those books, to test what he
thought of them. For already the words of one Elpidius, who spoke and disputed
face to face against these same Manicheans, had begun to impress me, even when
I was at Carthage; because he brought forth things out of the Scriptures that
were not easily withstood, to which their answers appeared to me feeble. One of
their answers they did not give forth publicly, but only to us in private--when
they said that the writings of the New Testament had been tampered with by
unknown persons who desired to ingraft the Jewish law into the Christian faith.
But they themselves never brought forward any uncorrupted copies. Still
thinking in corporeal categories and very much ensnared and to some extent
stifled, I was borne down by those conceptions of bodily substance. I panted
under this load for the air of thy truth, but I was not able to breathe it pure
and undefiled.
CHAPTER XII
22. I set about diligently to practice what I came to Rome to do--the teaching
of rhetoric. The first task was to bring together in my home a few people to
whom and through whom I had begun to be known. And lo, I then began to learn
that other offenses were committed in Rome which I had not had to bear in
Africa. Just as I had been told, those riotous disruptions by young blackguards
were not practiced here. Yet, now, my friends told me, many of the Roman
students--breakers of faith, who, for the love of money, set a small value on
justice--would conspire together and suddenly transfer to another teacher, to
evade paying their master's fees. My heart hated such people, though not with a
"perfect hatred"[145]; for doubtless I hated them more
because I was to suffer from them than on account of their own illicit acts.
Still, such people are base indeed; they fornicate against thee, for they love
the transitory mockeries of temporal things and the filthy gain which begrimes
the hand that grabs it; they embrace the fleeting world and scorn thee, who
abidest and invitest us to return to thee and who pardonest the prostituted
human soul when it does return to thee. Now I hate such crooked and perverse
men, although I love them if they will be corrected and come to prefer the
learning they obtain to money and, above all, to prefer thee to such learning,
O God, the truth and fullness of our positive good, and our most pure peace.
But then the wish was stronger in me for my own sake not to suffer evil from
them than was my desire that they should become good for thy sake.
CHAPTER XIII
23. When, therefore, the officials of Milan sent to Rome, to the prefect of the
city, to ask that he provide them with a teacher of rhetoric for their city and
to send him at the public expense, I applied for the job through those same
persons, drunk with the Manichean vanities, to be freed from whom I was going
away--though neither they nor I were aware of it at the time. They recommended
that Symmachus, who was then prefect, after he had proved me by audition,
should appoint me.
And to Milan I came, to Ambrose the bishop, famed through the whole world as
one of the best of men, thy devoted servant. His eloquent discourse in those
times abundantly provided thy people with the flour of thy wheat, the gladness
of thy oil, and the sober intoxication of thy wine.[146] To him I was led by thee without my knowledge, that by him I might be led to
thee in full knowledge. That man of God received me as a father would, and
welcomed my coming as a good bishop should. And I began to love him, of course,
not at the first as a teacher of the truth, for I had entirely despaired of
finding that in thy Church--but as a friendly man. And I studiously listened to
him--though not with the right motive--as he preached to the people. I was
trying to discover whether his eloquence came up to his reputation, and whether
it flowed fuller or thinner than others said it did. And thus I hung on his
words intently, but, as to his subject matter, I was only a careless and
contemptuous listener. I was delighted with the charm of his speech, which was
more erudite, though less cheerful and soothing, than Faustus' style. As for
subject matter, however, there could be no comparison, for the latter was
wandering around in Manichean deceptions, while the former was teaching
salvation most soundly. But "salvation is far from the wicked,"[147] such as I was then when I stood before him. Yet I was
drawing nearer, gradually and unconsciously.
CHAPTER XIV
24. For, although I took no trouble to learn what he said, but only to hear how
he said it--for this empty concern remained foremost with me as long as I
despaired of finding a clear path from man to thee--yet, along with the
eloquence I prized, there also came into my mind the ideas which I ignored; for
I could not separate them. And, while I opened my heart to acknowledge how
skillfully he spoke, there also came an awareness of how truly he
spoke--but only gradually. First of all, his ideas had already begun to appear
to me defensible; and the Catholic faith, for which I supposed that nothing
could be said against the onslaught of the Manicheans, I now realized could be
maintained without presumption. This was especially clear after I had heard one
or two parts of the Old Testament explained allegorically--whereas before this,
when I had interpreted them literally, they had "killed" me spiritually.[148] However, when many of these passages in those books
were expounded to me thus, I came to blame my own despair for having believed
that no reply could be given to those who hated and scoffed at the Law and the
Prophets. Yet I did not see that this was reason enough to follow the Catholic
way, just because it had learned advocates who could answer objections
adequately and without absurdity. Nor could I see that what I had held to
heretofore should now be condemned, because both sides were equally defensible.
For that way did not appear to me yet vanquished; but neither did it seem yet
victorious.
25. But now I earnestly bent my mind to require if there was possible any way
to prove the Manicheans guilty of falsehood. If I could have conceived of a
spiritual substance, all their strongholds would have collapsed and been cast
out of my mind. But I could not. Still, concerning the body of this world,
nature as a whole--now that I was able to consider and compare such things more
and more--I now decided that the majority of the philosophers held the more
probable views. So, in what I thought was the method of the Academics--doubting
everything and fluctuating between all the options--I came to the conclusion
that the Manicheans were to be abandoned. For I judged, even in that period of
doubt, that I could not remain in a sect to which I preferred some of the
philosophers. But I refused to commit the cure of my fainting soul to the
philosophers, because they were without the saving name of Christ. I resolved,
therefore, to become a catechumen in the Catholic Church--which my parents had
so much urged upon me--until something certain shone forth by which I might
guide my course.
BOOK SIX
Turmoil in the twenties. Monica follows Augustine to Milan and
finds him a catechumen in the Catholic Church. Both admire Ambrose but
Augustine gets no help from him on his personal problems. Ambition spurs and
Alypius and Nebridius join him in a confused quest for the happy life.
Augustine becomes engaged, dismisses his first mistress, takes another, and
continues his fruitless search for truth.
CHAPTER I
1. O Hope from my youth,[149] where wast thou to me and
where hadst thou gone away?[150] For hadst thou not
created me and differentiated me from the beasts of the field and the birds of
the air, making me wiser than they? And yet I was wandering about in a dark and
slippery way, seeking thee outside myself and thus not finding the God of my
heart. I had gone down into the depths of the sea and had lost faith, and had
despaired of ever finding the truth.
By this time my mother had come to me, having mustered the courage of piety,
following over sea and land, secure in thee through all the perils of the
journey. For in the dangers of the voyage she comforted the sailors--to whom
the inexperienced voyagers, when alarmed, were accustomed to go for
comfort--and assured them of a safe arrival because she had been so assured by
thee in a vision.
She found me in deadly peril through my despair of ever finding the truth. But
when I told her that I was now no longer a Manichean, though not yet a Catholic
Christian, she did not leap for joy as if this were unexpected; for she had
already been reassured about that part of my misery for which she had mourned
me as one dead, but also as one who would be raised to thee. She had carried me
out on the bier of her thoughts, that thou mightest say to the widow's son,
"Young man, I say unto you, arise!"[151] and then he would
revive and begin to speak, and thou wouldst deliver him to his mother.
Therefore, her heart was not agitated with any violent exultation when she
heard that so great a part of what she daily entreated thee to do had actually
already been done--that, though I had not yet grasped the truth, I was rescued
from falsehood. Instead, she was fully confident that thou who hadst promised
the whole would give her the rest, and thus most calmly, and with a fully
confident heart, she replied to me that she believed, in Christ, that before
she died she would see me a faithful Catholic. And she said no more than this
to me. But to thee, O Fountain of mercy, she poured out still more frequent
prayers and tears that thou wouldst hasten thy aid and enlighten my darkness,
and she hurried all the more zealously to the church and hung upon the words of
Ambrose, praying for the fountain of water that springs up into everlasting
life.[152] For she loved that man as an angel of God,
since she knew that it was by him that I had been brought thus far to that
wavering state of agitation I was now in, through which she was fully persuaded
I should pass from sickness to health, even though it would be after a still
sharper convulsion which physicians call "the crisis."
CHAPTER II
2. So also my mother brought to certain oratories, erected in the memory of the
saints, offerings of porridge, bread, and wine--as had been her custom in
Africa--and she was forbidden to do so by the doorkeeper [ostiarius].
And as soon as she learned that it was the bishop who had forbidden it, she
acquiesced so devoutly and obediently that I myself marveled how readily she
could bring herself to turn critic of her own customs, rather than question his
prohibition. For winebibbing had not taken possession of her spirit, nor did
the love of wine stimulate her to hate the truth, as it does too many, both
male and female, who turn as sick at a hymn to sobriety as drunkards do at a
draught of water. When she had brought her basket with the festive gifts, which
she would taste first herself and give the rest away, she would never allow
herself more than one little cup of wine, diluted according to her own
temperate palate, which she would taste out of courtesy. And, if there were
many oratories of departed saints that ought to be honored in the same way, she
still carried around with her the same little cup, to be used everywhere. This
became not only very much watered but also quite tepid with carrying it about.
She would distribute it by small sips to those around, for she sought to
stimulate their devotion, not pleasure.
But as soon as she found that this custom was forbidden by that famous preacher
and most pious prelate, even to those who would use it in moderation, lest
thereby it might be an occasion of gluttony for those who were already drunken
(and also because these funereal memorials were very much like some of the
superstitious practices of the pagans), she most willingly abstained from it.
And, in place of a basket filled with fruits of the earth, she had learned to
bring to the oratories of the martyrs a heart full of purer petitions, and to
give all that she could to the poor--so that the Communion of the Lord's body
might be rightly celebrated in those places where, after the example of his
Passion, the martyrs had been sacrificed and crowned. But yet it seems to me, O
Lord my God--and my heart thinks of it this way in thy sight--that my mother
would probably not have given way so easily to the rejection of this custom if
it had been forbidden by another, whom she did not love as she did Ambrose.
For, out of her concern for my salvation, she loved him most dearly; and he
loved her truly, on account of her faithful religious life, in which she
frequented the church with good works, "fervent in spirit."[153] Thus he would, when he saw me, often burst forth into
praise of her, congratulating me that I had such a mother--little knowing what
a son she had in me, who was still a skeptic in all these matters and who could
not conceive that the way of life could be found out.
CHAPTER III
3. Nor had I come yet to groan in my prayers that thou wouldst help me. My mind
was wholly intent on knowledge and eager for disputation. Ambrose himself I
esteemed a happy man, as the world counted happiness, because great personages
held him in honor. Only his celibacy appeared to me a painful burden. But what
hope he cherished, what struggles he had against the temptations that beset his
high station, what solace in adversity, and what savory joys thy bread
possessed for the hidden mouth of his heart when feeding on it, I could neither
conjecture nor experience.
Nor did he know my own frustrations, nor the pit of my danger. For I could not
request of him what I wanted as I wanted it, because I was debarred from
hearing and speaking to him by crowds of busy people to whose infirmities he
devoted himself. And when he was not engaged with them--which was never for
long at a time--he was either refreshing his body with necessary food or his
mind with reading.
Now, as he read, his eyes glanced over the pages and his heart searched out the
sense, but his voice and tongue were silent. Often when we came to his
room--for no one was forbidden to enter, nor was it his custom that the arrival
of visitors should be announced to him--we would see him thus reading to
himself. After we had sat for a long time in silence--for who would dare
interrupt one so intent?--we would then depart, realizing that he was unwilling
to be distracted in the little time he could gain for the recruiting of his
mind, free from the clamor of other men's business. Perhaps he was fearful
lest, if the author he was studying should express himself vaguely, some
doubtful and attentive hearer would ask him to expound it or discuss some of
the more abstruse questions, so that he could not get over as much material as
he wished, if his time was occupied with others. And even a truer reason for
his reading to himself might have been the care for preserving his voice, which
was very easily weakened. Whatever his motive was in so doing, it was
doubtless, in such a man, a good one.
4. But actually I could find no opportunity of putting the questions I desired
to that holy oracle of thine in his heart, unless it was a matter which could
be dealt with briefly. However, those surgings in me required that he should
give me his full leisure so that I might pour them out to him; but I never
found him so. I heard him, indeed, every Lord's Day, "rightly dividing the word
of truth"[154] among the people. And I became all the more
convinced that all those knots of crafty calumnies which those deceivers of
ours had knit together against the divine books could be unraveled.
I soon understood that the statement that man was made after the image of Him
that created him[155] was not understood by thy spiritual
sons--whom thou hadst regenerated through the Catholic Mother[156] through grace--as if they believed and imagined that
thou wert bounded by a human form, although what was the nature of a spiritual
substance I had not the faintest or vaguest notion. Still rejoicing, I blushed
that for so many years I had bayed, not against the Catholic faith, but against
the fables of fleshly imagination. For I had been both impious and rash in
this, that I had condemned by pronouncement what I ought to have learned by
inquiry. For thou, O Most High, and most near, most secret, yet most present,
who dost not have limbs, some of which are larger and some smaller, but who art
wholly everywhere and nowhere in space, and art not shaped by some corporeal
form: thou didst create man after thy own image and, see, he dwells in space,
both head and feet.
CHAPTER IV
5. Since I could not then understand how this image of thine could subsist, I
should have knocked on the door and propounded the doubt as to how it was to be
believed, and not have insultingly opposed it as if it were actually believed.
Therefore, my anxiety as to what I could retain as certain gnawed all the more
sharply into my soul, and I felt quite ashamed because during the long time I
had been deluded and deceived by the [Manichean] promises of certainties, I
had, with childish petulance, prated of so many uncertainties as if they were
certain. That they were falsehoods became apparent to me only afterward.
However, I was certain that they were uncertain and since I had held them as
certainly uncertain I had accused thy Catholic Church with a blind
contentiousness. I had not yet discovered that it taught the truth, but I now
knew that it did not teach what I had so vehemently accused it of. In this
respect, at least, I was confounded and converted; and I rejoiced, O my God,
that the one Church, the body of thy only Son--in which the name of Christ had
been sealed upon me as an infant--did not relish these childish trifles and did
not maintain in its sound doctrine any tenet that would involve pressing thee,
the Creator of all, into space, which, however extended and immense, would
still be bounded on all sides--like the shape of a human body.
6. I was also glad that the old Scriptures of the Law and the Prophets were
laid before me to be read, not now with an eye to what had seemed absurd in
them when formerly I censured thy holy ones for thinking thus, when they
actually did not think in that way. And I listened with delight to Ambrose, in
his sermons to the people, often recommending this text most diligently as a
rule: "The letter kills, but the spirit gives life,"[157] while at the same time he drew aside the mystic veil and opened to view the
spiritual meaning of what seemed to teach perverse doctrine if it were taken
according to the letter. I found nothing in his teachings that offended me,
though I could not yet know for certain whether what he taught was true. For
all this time I restrained my heart from assenting to anything, fearing to fall
headlong into error. Instead, by this hanging in suspense, I was being
strangled.[158] For my desire was to be as certain of
invisible things as I was that seven and three are ten. I was not so deranged
as to believe that this could not be comprehended, but my desire was to
have other things as clear as this, whether they were physical objects, which
were not present to my senses, or spiritual objects, which I did not know how
to conceive of except in physical terms.
If I could have believed, I might have been cured, and, with the sight of my
soul cleared up, it might in some way have been directed toward thy truth,
which always abides and fails in nothing. But, just as it happens that a man
who has tried a bad physician fears to trust himself with a good one, so it was
with the health of my soul, which could not be healed except by believing. But
lest it should believe falsehoods, it refused to be cured, resisting thy hand,
who hast prepared for us the medicines of faith and applied them to the
maladies of the whole world, and endowed them with such great efficacy.
CHAPTER V
7. Still, from this time forward, I began to prefer the Catholic doctrine. I
felt that it was with moderation and honesty that it commanded things to be
believed that were not demonstrated--whether they could be demonstrated, but
not to everyone, or whether they could not be demonstrated at all. This was far
better than the method of the Manicheans, in which our credulity was mocked by
an audacious promise of knowledge and then many fabulous and absurd things were
forced upon believers because they were incapable of demonstration.
After that, O Lord, little by little, with a gentle and most merciful hand,
drawing and calming my heart, thou didst persuade me that, if I took into
account the multitude of things I had never seen, nor been present when they
were enacted--such as many of the events of secular history; and the numerous
reports of places and cities which I had not seen; or such as my relations with
many friends, or physicians, or with these men and those--that unless we should
believe, we should do nothing at all in this life.[159] Finally, I was impressed with what an unalterable assurance I believed which
two people were my parents, though this was impossible for me to know otherwise
than by hearsay. By bringing all this into my consideration, thou didst
persuade me that it was not the ones who believed thy books--which with so
great authority thou hast established among nearly all nations--but those who
did not believe them who were to be blamed. Moreover, those men were not to be
listened to who would say to me, "How do you know that those Scriptures were
imparted to mankind by the Spirit of the one and most true God?" For this was
the point that was most of all to be believed, since no wranglings of
blasphemous questions such as I had read in the books of the self-contradicting
philosophers could once snatch from me the belief that thou dost
exist--although what thou art I did not know--and that to thee belongs
the governance of human affairs.
8. This much I believed, some times more strongly than other times. But I
always believed both that thou art and that thou hast a care for us,[160] although I was ignorant both as to what should be
thought about thy substance and as to which way led, or led back, to thee.
Thus, since we are too weak by unaided reason to find out truth, and since,
because of this, we need the authority of the Holy Writings, I had now begun to
believe that thou wouldst not, under any circumstances, have given such eminent
authority to those Scriptures throughout all lands if it had not been that
through them thy will may be believed in and that thou mightest be sought. For,
as to those passages in the Scripture which had heretofore appeared incongruous
and offensive to me, now that I had heard several of them expounded reasonably,
I could see that they were to be resolved by the mysteries of spiritual
interpretation. The authority of Scripture seemed to me all the more revered
and worthy of devout belief because, although it was visible for all to read,
it reserved the full majesty of its secret wisdom within its spiritual
profundity. While it stooped to all in the great plainness of its language and
simplicity of style, it yet required the closest attention of the most
serious-minded--so that it might receive all into its common bosom, and direct
some few through its narrow passages toward thee, yet many more than would have
been the case had there not been in it such a lofty authority, which
nevertheless allured multitudes to its bosom by its holy humility. I continued
to reflect upon these things, and thou wast with me. I sighed, and thou didst
hear me. I vacillated, and thou guidedst me. I roamed the broad way of the
world, and thou didst not desert me.
CHAPTER VI
9. I was still eagerly aspiring to honors, money, and matrimony; and thou didst
mock me. In pursuit of these ambitions I endured the most bitter hardships, in
which thou wast being the more gracious the less thou wouldst allow anything
that was not thee to grow sweet to me. Look into my heart, O Lord, whose
prompting it is that I should recall all this, and confess it to thee. Now let
my soul cleave to thee, now that thou hast freed her from that fast-sticking
glue of death.
How wretched she was! And thou didst irritate her sore wound so that she might
forsake all else and turn to thee--who art above all and without whom all
things would be nothing at all--so that she should be converted and healed. How
wretched I was at that time, and how thou didst deal with me so as to make me
aware of my wretchedness, I recall from the incident of the day on which I was
preparing to recite a panegyric on the emperor. In it I was to deliver many a
lie, and the lying was to be applauded by those who knew I was lying. My heart
was agitated with this sense of guilt and it seethed with the fever of my
uneasiness. For, while walking along one of the streets of Milan, I saw a poor
beggar--with what I believe was a full belly--joking and hilarious. And I
sighed and spoke to the friends around me of the many sorrows that flowed from
our madness, because in spite of all our exertions--such as those I was then
laboring in, dragging the burden of my unhappiness under the spur of ambition,
and, by dragging it, increasing it at the same time--still and all we aimed
only to attain that very happiness which this beggar had reached before us; and
there was a grim chance that we should never attain it! For what he had
obtained through a few coins, got by his begging, I was still scheming for by
many a wretched and tortuous turning--namely, the joy of a passing felicity. He
had not, indeed, gained true joy, but, at the same time, with all my ambitions,
I was seeking one still more untrue. Anyhow, he was now joyous and I was
anxious. He was free from care, and I was full of alarms. Now, if anyone should
inquire of me whether I should prefer to be merry or anxious, I would reply,
"Merry." Again, if I had been asked whether I should prefer to be as he was or
as I myself then was, I would have chosen to be myself; though I was beset with
cares and alarms. But would not this have been a false choice? Was the contrast
valid? Actually, I ought not to prefer myself to him because I happened to be
more learned than he was; for I got no great pleasure from my learning, but
sought, rather, to please men by its exhibition--and this not to instruct, but
only to please. Thus thou didst break my bones with the rod of thy
correction.
10. Let my soul take its leave of those who say: "It makes a difference as to
the object from which a man derives his joy. The beggar rejoiced in
drunkenness; you longed to rejoice in glory." What glory, O Lord? The kind that
is not in thee, for, just as his was no true joy, so was mine no true glory;
but it turned my head all the more. He would get over his drunkenness that same
night, but I had slept with mine many a night and risen again with it, and was
to sleep again and rise again with it, I know not how many times. It does
indeed make a difference as to the object from which a man's joy is gained. I
know this is so, and I know that the joy of a faithful hope is incomparably
beyond such vanity. Yet, at the same time, this beggar was beyond me, for he
truly was the happier man--not only because he was thoroughly steeped in his
mirth while I was torn to pieces with my cares, but because he had gotten his
wine by giving good wishes to the passers-by while I was following after the
ambition of my pride by lying. Much to this effect I said to my good
companions, and I saw how readily they reacted pretty much as I did. Thus I
found that it went ill with me; and I fretted, and doubled that very ill. And
if any prosperity smiled upon me, I loathed to seize it, for almost before I
could grasp it, it would fly away.
CHAPTER VII
11. Those of us who were living like friends together used to bemoan our lot in
our common talk; but I discussed it with Alypius and Nebridius more especially
and in very familiar terms. Alypius had been born in the same town as I; his
parents were of the highest rank there, but he was a bit younger than I. He had
studied under me when I first taught in our town, and then afterward at
Carthage. He esteemed me highly because I appeared to him good and learned, and
I esteemed him for his inborn love of virtue, which was uncommonly marked in a
man so young. But in the whirlpool of Carthaginian fashion--where frivolous
spectacles are hotly followed--he had been inveigled into the madness of the
gladiatorial games. While he was miserably tossed about in this fad, I was
teaching rhetoric there in a public school. At that time he was not attending
my classes because of some ill feeling that had arisen between me and his
father. I then came to discover how fatally he doted upon the circus, and I was
deeply grieved, for he seemed likely to cast away his very great promise--if,
indeed, he had not already done so. Yet I had no means of advising him, or any
way of reclaiming him through restraint, either by the kindness of a friend or
by the authority of a teacher. For I imagined that his feelings toward me were
the same as his father's. But this turned out not to be the case. Indeed,
disregarding his father's will in the matter, he began to be friendly and to
visit my lecture room, to listen for a while and then depart.
12. But it slipped my memory to try to deal with his problem, to prevent him
from ruining his excellent mind in his blind and headstrong passion for
frivolous sport. But thou, O Lord, who holdest the helm of all that thou hast
created,[161] thou hadst not forgotten him who was one day
to be numbered among thy sons, a chief minister of thy sacrament.[162] And in order that his amendment might plainly be
attributed to thee, thou broughtest it about through me while I knew nothing of
it.
One day, when I was sitting in my accustomed place with my scholars before me,
he came in, greeted me, sat himself down, and fixed his attention on the
subject I was then discussing. It so happened that I had a passage in hand and,
while I was interpreting it, a simile occurred to me, taken from the
gladiatorial games. It struck me as relevant to make more pleasant and plain
the point I wanted to convey by adding a biting gibe at those whom that madness
had enthralled. Thou knowest, O our God, that I had no thought at that time of
curing Alypius of that plague. But he took it to himself and thought that I
would not have said it but for his sake. And what any other man would have
taken as an occasion of offense against me, this worthy young man took as a
reason for being offended at himself, and for loving me the more fervently.
Thou hast said it long ago and written in thy Book, "Rebuke a wise man, and he
will love you."[163] Now I had not rebuked him; but thou
who canst make use of everything, both witting and unwitting, and in the order
which thou thyself knowest to be best--and that order is right--thou madest my
heart and tongue into burning coals with which thou mightest cauterize and cure
the hopeful mind thus languishing. Let him be silent in thy praise who does not
meditate on thy mercy, which rises up in my inmost parts to confess to thee.
For after that speech Alypius rushed up out of that deep pit into which he had
willfully plunged and in which he had been blinded by its miserable pleasures.
And he roused his mind with a resolve to moderation. When he had done this, all
the filth of the gladiatorial pleasures dropped away from him, and he went to
them no more. Then he also prevailed upon his reluctant father to let him be my
pupil. And, at the son's urging, the father at last consented. Thus Alypius
began again to hear my lectures and became involved with me in the same
superstition, loving in the Manicheans that outward display of ascetic
discipline which he believed was true and unfeigned. It was, however, a
senseless and seducing continence, which ensnared precious souls who were not
able as yet to reach the height of true virtue, and who were easily beguiled
with the veneer of what was only a shadowy and feigned virtue.
CHAPTER VIII
13. He had gone on to Rome before me to study law--which was the worldly way
which his parents were forever urging him to pursue--and there he was carried
away again with an incredible passion for the gladiatorial shows. For, although
he had been utterly opposed to such spectacles and detested them, one day he
met by chance a company of his acquaintances and fellow students returning from
dinner; and, with a friendly violence, they drew him, resisting and objecting
vehemently, into the amphitheater, on a day of those cruel and murderous shows.
He protested to them: "Though you drag my body to that place and set me down
there, you cannot force me to give my mind or lend my eyes to these shows. Thus
I will be absent while present, and so overcome both you and them." When they
heard this, they dragged him on in, probably interested to see whether he could
do as he said. When they got to the arena, and had taken what seats they could
get, the whole place became a tumult of inhuman frenzy. But Alypius kept his
eyes closed and forbade his mind to roam abroad after such wickedness. Would
that he had shut his ears also! For when one of the combatants fell in the
fight, a mighty cry from the whole audience stirred him so strongly that,
overcome by curiosity and still prepared (as he thought) to despise and rise
superior to it no matter what it was, he opened his eyes and was struck with a
deeper wound in his soul than the victim whom he desired to see had been in his
body. Thus he fell more miserably than the one whose fall had raised that
mighty clamor which had entered through his ears and unlocked his eyes to make
way for the wounding and beating down of his soul, which was more audacious
than truly valiant--also it was weaker because it presumed on its own strength
when it ought to have depended on Thee. For, as soon as he saw the blood, he
drank in with it a savage temper, and he did not turn away, but fixed his eyes
on the bloody pastime, unwittingly drinking in the madness--delighted with the
wicked contest and drunk with blood lust. He was now no longer the same man who
came in, but was one of the mob he came into, a true companion of those who had
brought him thither. Why need I say more? He looked, he shouted, he was
excited, and he took away with him the madness that would stimulate him to come
again: not only with those who first enticed him, but even without them;
indeed, dragging in others besides. And yet from all this, with a most powerful
and most merciful hand, thou didst pluck him and taught him not to rest his
confidence in himself but in thee--but not till long after.
CHAPTER IX
14. But this was all being stored up in his memory as medicine for the future.
So also was that other incident when he was still studying under me at Carthage
and was meditating at noonday in the market place on what he had to recite--as
scholars usually have to do for practice--and thou didst allow him to be
arrested by the police officers in the market place as a thief. I believe, O my
God, that thou didst allow this for no other reason than that this man who was
in the future to prove so great should now begin to learn that, in making just
decisions, a man should not readily be condemned by other men with reckless
credulity.
For as he was walking up and down alone before the judgment seat with his
tablets and pen, lo, a young man--another one of the scholars, who was the real
thief--secretly brought a hatchet and, without Alypius seeing him, got in as
far as the leaden bars which protected the silversmith shop and began to hack
away at the lead gratings. But when the noise of the hatchet was heard the
silversmiths below began to call to each other in whispers and sent men to
arrest whomsoever they should find. The thief heard their voices and ran away,
leaving his hatchet because he was afraid to be caught with it. Now Alypius,
who had not seen him come in, got a glimpse of him as he went out and noticed
that he went off in great haste. Being curious to know the reasons, he went up
to the place, where he found the hatchet, and stood wondering and pondering
when, behold, those that were sent caught him alone, holding the hatchet which
had made the noise which had startled them and brought them there. They seized
him and dragged him away, gathering the tenants of the market place about them
and boasting that they had caught a notorious thief. Thereupon he was led away
to appear before the judge.
15. But this is as far as his lesson was to go. For immediately, O Lord, thou
didst come to the rescue of his innocence, of which thou wast the sole witness.
As he was being led off to prison or punishment, they were met by the master
builder who had charge of the public buildings. The captors were especially
glad to meet him because he had more than once suspected them of stealing the
goods that had been lost out of the market place. Now, at last, they thought
they could convince him who it was that had committed the thefts. But the
custodian had often met Alypius at the house of a certain senator, whose
receptions he used to attend. He recognized him at once and, taking his hand,
led him apart from the throng, inquired the cause of all the trouble, and
learned what had occurred. He then commanded all the rabble still around--and
very uproarious and full of threatenings they were--to come along with him, and
they came to the house of the young man who had committed the deed. There,
before the door, was a slave boy so young that he was not restrained from
telling the whole story by fear of harming his master. And he had followed his
master to the market place. Alypius recognized him, and whispered to the
architect, who showed the boy the hatchet and asked whose it was. "Ours," he
answered directly. And, being further questioned, he disclosed the whole
affair. Thus the guilt was shifted to that household and the rabble, who had
begun to triumph over Alypius, were shamed. And so he went away home, this man
who was to be the future steward of thy Word and judge of so many causes in thy
Church--a wiser and more experienced man.
CHAPTER X
16. I found him at Rome, and he was bound to me with the strongest possible
ties, and he went with me to Milan, in order that he might not be separated
from me, and also that he might obtain some law practice, for which he had
qualified with a view to pleasing his parents more than himself. He had already
sat three times as assessor, showing an integrity that seemed strange to many
others, though he thought them strange who could prefer gold to integrity. His
character had also been tested, not only by the bait of covetousness, but by
the spur of fear. At Rome he was assessor to the secretary of the Italian
Treasury. There was at that time a very powerful senator to whose favors many
were indebted, and of whom many stood in fear. In his usual highhanded way he
demanded to have a favor granted him that was forbidden by the laws. This
Alypius resisted. A bribe was promised, but he scorned it with all his heart.
Threats were employed, but he trampled them underfoot--so that all men marveled
at so rare a spirit, which neither coveted the friendship nor feared the enmity
of a man at once so powerful and so widely known for his great resources of
helping his friends and doing harm to his enemies. Even the official whose
counselor Alypius was--although he was unwilling that the favor should be
granted--would not openly refuse the request, but passed the responsibility on
to Alypius, alleging that he would not permit him to give his assent. And the
truth was that even if the judge had agreed, Alypius would have simply left the
court.
There was one matter, however, which appealed to his love of learning, in which
he was very nearly led astray. He found out that he might have books copied for
himself at praetorian rates [i.e., at public expense]. But his sense of justice
prevailed, and he changed his mind for the better, thinking that the rule that
forbade him was still more profitable than the privilege that his office would
have allowed him. These are little things, but "he that is faithful in a little
matter is faithful also in a great one."[164] Nor can that
possibly be void which was uttered by the mouth of Thy truth: "If, therefore,
you have not been faithful in the unrighteous mammon, who will commit to your
trust the true riches? And if you have not been faithful in that which is
another man's, who shall give you that which is your own?"[165] Such a man was Alypius, who clung to me at that time
and who wavered in his purpose, just as I did, as to what course of life to
follow.
17. Nebridius also had come to Milan for no other reason than that he might
live with me in a most ardent search after truth and wisdom. He had left his
native place near Carthage--and Carthage itself, where he usually
lived--leaving behind his fine family estate, his house, and his mother, who
would not follow him. Like me, he sighed; like me, he wavered; an ardent seeker
after the true life and a most acute analyst of the most abstruse questions. So
there were three begging mouths, sighing out their wants one to the other, and
waiting upon thee, that thou mightest give them their meat in due season.[166] And in all the vexations with which thy mercy followed
our worldly pursuits, we sought for the reason why we suffered so--and all was
darkness! We turned away groaning and exclaiming, "How long shall these things
be?" And this we often asked, yet for all our asking we did not relinquish
them; for as yet we had not discovered anything certain which, when we gave
those others up, we might grasp in their stead.
CHAPTER XI
18. And I especially puzzled and wondered when I remembered how long a time had
passed since my nineteenth year, in which I had first fallen in love with
wisdom and had determined as soon as I could find her to abandon the empty
hopes and mad delusions of vain desires. Behold, I was now getting close to
thirty, still stuck fast in the same mire, still greedy of enjoying present
goods which fly away and distract me; and I was still saying, "Tomorrow I shall
discover it; behold, it will become plain, and I shall see it; behold, Faustus
will come and explain everything." Or I would say[167]:"O
you mighty Academics, is there no certainty that man can grasp for the guidance
of his life? No, let us search the more diligently, and let us not despair.
See, the things in the Church's books that appeared so absurd to us before do
not appear so now, and may be otherwise and honestly interpreted. I will set my
feet upon that step where, as a child, my parents placed me, until the clear
truth is discovered. But where and when shall it be sought? Ambrose has no
leisure--we have no leisure to read. Where are we to find the books? How or
where could I get hold of them? From whom could I borrow them? Let me set a
schedule for my days and set apart certain hours for the health of the soul. A
great hope has risen up in us, because the Catholic faith does not teach what
we thought it did, and vainly accused it of. Its teachers hold it as an
abomination to believe that God is limited by the form of a human body. And do
I doubt that I should `knock' in order for the rest also to be `opened' unto
me? My pupils take up the morning hours; what am I doing with the rest of the
day? Why not do this? But, then, when am I to visit my influential friends,
whose favors I need? When am I to prepare the orations that I sell to the
class? When would I get some recreation and relax my mind from the strain of
work?
19. "Perish everything and let us dismiss these idle triflings. Let me devote
myself solely to the search for truth. This life is unhappy, death uncertain.
If it comes upon me suddenly, in what state shall I go hence and where shall I
learn what here I have neglected? Should I not indeed suffer the punishment of
my negligence here? But suppose death cuts off and finishes all care and
feeling. This too is a question that calls for inquiry. God forbid that it
should be so. It is not without reason, it is not in vain, that the stately
authority of the Christian faith has spread over the entire world, and God
would never have done such great things for us if the life of the soul perished
with the death of the body. Why, therefore, do I delay in abandoning my hopes
of this world and giving myself wholly to seek after God and the blessed
life?
"But wait a moment. This life also is pleasant, and it has a sweetness of its
own, not at all negligible. We must not abandon it lightly, for it would be
shameful to lapse back into it again. See now, it is important to gain some
post of honor. And what more should I desire? I have crowds of influential
friends, if nothing else; and, if I push my claims, a governorship may be
offered me, and a wife with some money, so that she would not be an added
expense. This would be the height of my desire. Many men, who are great and
worthy of imitation, have combined the pursuit of wisdom with a marriage
life."
20. While I talked about these things, and the winds of opinions veered about
and tossed my heart hither and thither, time was slipping away. I delayed my
conversion to the Lord; I postponed from day to day the life in thee, but I
could not postpone the daily death in myself. I was enamored of a happy life,
but I still feared to seek it in its own abode, and so I fled from it while I
sought it. I thought I should be miserable if I were deprived of the embraces
of a woman, and I never gave a thought to the medicine that thy mercy has
provided for the healing of that infirmity, for I had never tried it. As for
continence, I imagined that it depended on one's own strength, though I found
no such strength in myself, for in my folly I knew not what is written, "None
can be continent unless thou dost grant it."[168] Certainly thou wouldst have given it, if I had beseeched thy ears with
heartfelt groaning, and if I had cast my care upon thee with firm faith.
CHAPTER XII
21. Actually, it was Alypius who prevented me from marrying, urging that if I
did so it would not be possible for us to live together and to have as much
undistracted leisure in the love of wisdom as we had long desired. For he
himself was so chaste that it was wonderful, all the more because in his early
youth he had entered upon the path of promiscuity, but had not continued in it.
Instead, feeling sorrow and disgust at it, he had lived from that time down to
the present most continently. I quoted against him the examples of men who had
been married and still lovers of wisdom, who had pleased God and had been loyal
and affectionate to their friends. I fell far short of them in greatness of
soul, and, enthralled with the disease of my carnality and its deadly
sweetness, I dragged my chain along, fearing to be loosed of it. Thus I
rejected the words of him who counseled me wisely, as if the hand that would
have loosed the chain only hurt my wound. Moreover, the serpent spoke to
Alypius himself by me, weaving and lying in his path, by my tongue to catch him
with pleasant snares in which his honorable and free feet might be entangled.
22. For he wondered that I, for whom he had such a great esteem, should be
stuck so fast in the gluepot of pleasure as to maintain, whenever we discussed
the subject, that I could not possibly live a celibate life. And when I urged
in my defense against his accusing questions that the hasty and stolen delight,
which he had tasted and now hardly remembered, and therefore too easily
disparaged, was not to be compared with a settled acquaintance with it; and
that, if to this stable acquaintance were added the honorable name of marriage,
he would not then be astonished at my inability to give it up--when I spoke
thus, then he also began to wish to be married, not because he was overcome by
the lust for such pleasures, but out of curiosity. For, he said, he longed to
know what that could be without which my life, which he thought was so happy,
seemed to me to be no life at all, but a punishment. For he who wore no chain
was amazed at my slavery, and his amazement awoke the desire for experience,
and from that he would have gone on to the experiment itself, and then perhaps
he would have fallen into the very slavery that amazed him in me, since he was
ready to enter into "a covenant with death,"[169] for "he
that loves danger shall fall into it."[170]
Now, the question of conjugal honor in the ordering of a good married life and
the bringing up of children interested us but slightly. What afflicted me most
and what had made me already a slave to it was the habit of satisfying an
insatiable lust; but Alypius was about to be enslaved by a merely curious
wonder. This is the state we were in until thou, O Most High, who never
forsakest our lowliness, didst take pity on our misery and didst come to our
rescue in wonderful and secret ways.
CHAPTER XIII
23. Active efforts were made to get me a wife. I wooed; I was engaged; and my
mother took the greatest pains in the matter. For her hope was that, when I was
once married, I might be washed clean in health-giving baptism for which I was
being daily prepared, as she joyfully saw, taking note that her desires and
promises were being fulfilled in my faith. Yet, when, at my request and her own
impulse, she called upon thee daily with strong, heartfelt cries, that thou
wouldst, by a vision, disclose unto her a leading about my future marriage,
thou wouldst not. She did, indeed, see certain vain and fantastic things, such
as are conjured up by the strong preoccupation of the human spirit, and these
she supposed had some reference to me. And she told me about them, but not with
the confidence she usually had when thou hadst shown her anything. For she
always said that she could distinguish, by a certain feeling impossible to
describe, between thy revelations and the dreams of her own soul. Yet the
matter was pressed forward, and proposals were made for a girl who was as yet
some two years too young to marry.[171] And because she
pleased me, I agreed to wait for her.
CHAPTER XIV
24. Many in my band of friends, consulting about and abhorring the turbulent
vexations of human life, had often considered and were now almost determined to
undertake a peaceful life, away from the turmoil of men. This we thought could
be obtained by bringing together what we severally owned and thus making of it
a common household, so that in the sincerity of our friendship nothing should
belong more to one than to the other; but all were to have one purse and the
whole was to belong to each and to all. We thought that this group might
consist of ten persons, some of whom were very rich--especially Romanianus, my
fellow townsman, an intimate friend from childhood days. He had been brought up
to the court on grave business matters and he was the most earnest of us all
about the project and his voice was of great weight in commending it because
his estate was far more ample than that of the others. We had resolved, also,
that each year two of us should be managers and provide all that was needful,
while the rest were left undisturbed. But when we began to reflect whether this
would be permitted by our wives, which some of us had already and others hoped
to have, the whole plan, so excellently framed, collapsed in our hands and was
utterly wrecked and cast aside. From this we fell again into sighs and groans,
and our steps followed the broad and beaten ways of the world; for many
thoughts were in our hearts, but "Thy counsel standeth fast forever."[172] In thy counsel thou didst mock ours, and didst prepare
thy own plan, for it was thy purpose "to give us meat in due season, to open
thy hand, and to fill our souls with blessing."[173]
CHAPTER XV
25. Meanwhile my sins were being multiplied. My mistress was torn from my side
as an impediment to my marriage, and my heart which clung to her was torn and
wounded till it bled. And she went back to Africa, vowing to thee never to know
any other man and leaving with me my natural son by her. But I, unhappy as I
was, and weaker than a woman, could not bear the delay of the two years that
should elapse before I could obtain the bride I sought. And so, since I was not
a lover of wedlock so much as a slave of lust, I procured another mistress--not
a wife, of course. Thus in bondage to a lasting habit, the disease of my soul
might be nursed up and kept in its vigor or even increased until it reached the
realm of matrimony. Nor indeed was the wound healed that had been caused by
cutting away my former mistress; only it ceased to burn and throb, and began to
fester, and was more dangerous because it was less painful.
CHAPTER XVI
26. Thine be the praise; unto thee be the glory, O Fountain of mercies. I
became more wretched and thou didst come nearer. Thy right hand was ever ready
to pluck me out of the mire and to cleanse me, but I did not know it. Nor did
anything call me back from a still deeper plunge into carnal pleasure except
the fear of death and of thy future judgment, which, amid all the waverings of
my opinions, never faded from my breast. And I discussed with my friends,
Alypius and Nebridius, the nature of good and evil, maintaining that, in my
judgment, Epicurus would have carried off the palm if I had not believed what
Epicurus would not believe: that after death there remains a life for the soul,
and places of recompense. And I demanded of them: "Suppose we are immortal and
live in the enjoyment of perpetual bodily pleasure, and that without any fear
of losing it--why, then, should we not be happy, or why should we search for
anything else?" I did not know that this was in fact the root of my misery:
that I was so fallen and blinded that I could not discern the light of virtue
and of beauty which must be embraced for its own sake, which the eye of flesh
cannot see, and only the inner vision can see. Nor did I, alas, consider the
reason why I found delight in discussing these very perplexities, shameful as
they were, with my friends. For I could not be happy without friends, even
according to the notions of happiness I had then, and no matter how rich the
store of my carnal pleasures might be. Yet of a truth I loved my friends for
their own sakes, and felt that they in turn loved me for my own sake.
O crooked ways! Woe to the audacious soul which hoped that by forsaking thee it
would find some better thing! It tossed and turned, upon back and side and
belly--but the bed is hard, and thou alone givest it rest.[174] And lo, thou art near, and thou deliverest us from our
wretched wanderings and establishest us in thy way, and thou comfortest us and
sayest, "Run, I will carry you; yea, I will lead you home and then I will set
you free."[175]
BOOK SEVEN
The conversion to Neoplatonism. Augustine traces his growing
disenchantment with the Manichean conceptions of God and evil and the dawning
understanding of God's incorruptibility. But his thought is still bound by his
materialistic notions of reality. He rejects astrology and turns to the study of
Neoplatonism. There follows an analysis of the differences between Platonism
and Christianity and a remarkable account of his appropriation of Plotinian
wisdom and his experience of a Plotinian ecstasy. From this, he comes finally
to the diligent study of the Bible, especially the writings of the apostle
Paul. His pilgrimage is drawing toward its goal, as he begins to know Jesus
Christ and to be drawn to him in hesitant faith.
CHAPTER I
1. Dead now was that evil and shameful youth of mine, and I was passing into
full manhood.[176] As I increased in years, the worse was
my vanity. For I could not conceive of any substance but the sort I could see
with my own eyes. I no longer thought of thee, O God, by the analogy of a human
body. Ever since I inclined my ear to philosophy I had avoided this error--and
the truth on this point I rejoiced to find in the faith of our spiritual
mother, thy Catholic Church. Yet I could not see how else to conceive thee. And
I, a man--and such a man!-sought to conceive thee, the sovereign and only true
God. In my inmost heart, I believed that thou art incorruptible and inviolable
and unchangeable, because--though I knew not how or why--I could still see
plainly and without doubt that the corruptible is inferior to the
incorruptible, the inviolable obviously superior to its opposite, and the
unchangeable better than the changeable.
My heart cried out violently against all fantasms,[177] and with this one clear certainty I endeavored to brush away the swarm of
unclean flies that swarmed around the eyes of my mind. But behold they were
scarcely scattered before they gathered again, buzzed against my face, and
beclouded my vision. I no longer thought of God in the analogy of a human body,
yet I was constrained to conceive thee to be some kind of body in space, either
infused into the world, or infinitely diffused beyond the world--and this was
the incorruptible, inviolable, unchangeable substance, which I thought was
better than the corruptible, the violable, and the changeable.[178] For whatever I conceived to be deprived of the
dimensions of space appeared to me to be nothing, absolutely nothing; not even
a void, for if a body is taken out of space, or if space is emptied of all its
contents (of earth, water, air, or heaven), yet it remains an empty space--a
spacious nothing, as it were.
2. Being thus gross-hearted and not clear even to myself, I then held that
whatever had neither length nor breadth nor density nor solidity, and did not
or could not receive such dimensions, was absolutely nothing. For at that time
my mind dwelt only with ideas, which resembled the forms with which my eyes are
still familiar, nor could I see that the act of thought, by which I formed
those ideas, was itself immaterial, and yet it could not have formed them if it
were not itself a measurable entity.
So also I thought about thee, O Life of my life, as stretched out through
infinite space, interpenetrating the whole mass of the world, reaching out
beyond in all directions, to immensity without end; so that the earth should
have thee, the heaven have thee, all things have thee, and all of them be
limited in thee, while thou art placed nowhere at all. As the body of the air
above the earth does not bar the passage of the light of the sun, so that the
light penetrates it, not by bursting nor dividing, but filling it entirely, so
I imagined that the body of heaven and air and sea, and even of the earth, was
all open to thee and, in all its greatest parts as well as the smallest, was
ready to receive thy presence by a secret inspiration which, from within or
without all, orders all things thou hast created. This was my conjecture,
because I was unable to think of anything else; yet it was untrue. For in this
way a greater part of the earth would contain a greater part of thee; a smaller
part, a smaller fraction of thee. All things would be full of thee in such a
sense that there would be more of thee in an elephant than in a sparrow,
because one is larger than the other and fills a larger space. And this would
make the portions of thyself present in the several portions of the world in
fragments, great to the great, small to the small. But thou art not such a one.
But as yet thou hadst not enlightened my darkness.
CHAPTER II
3. But it was not sufficient for me, O Lord, to be able to oppose those
deceived deceivers and those dumb orators--dumb because thy Word did not sound
forth from them--to oppose them with the answer which, in the old Carthaginian
days, Nebridius used to propound, shaking all of us who heard it: "What could
this imaginary people of darkness, which the Manicheans usually set up as an
army opposed to thee, have done to thee if thou hadst declined the combat?" If
they replied that it could have hurt thee, they would then have made thee
violable and corruptible. If, on the other hand, the dark could have done thee
no harm, then there was no cause for any battle at all; there was less cause
for a battle in which a part of thee, one of thy members, a child of thy own
substance, should be mixed up with opposing powers, not of thy creation; and
should be corrupted and deteriorated and changed by them from happiness into
misery, so that it could not be delivered and cleansed without thy help. This
offspring of thy substance was supposed to be the human soul to which thy
Word--free, pure, and entire--could bring help when it was being enslaved,
contaminated, and corrupted. But on their hypothesis that Word was itself
corruptible because it is one and the same substance as the soul.
And therefore if they admitted that thy nature--whatsoever thou art--is
incorruptible, then all these assertions of theirs are false and should be
rejected with horror. But if thy substance is corruptible, then this is
self-evidently false and should be abhorred at first utterance. This line of
argument, then, was enough against those deceivers who ought to be cast forth
from a surfeited stomach--for out of this dilemma they could find no way of
escape without dreadful sacrilege of mind and tongue, when they think and speak
such things about thee.
CHAPTER III
4. But as yet, although I said and was firmly persuaded that thou our Lord, the
true God, who madest not only our souls but our bodies as well--and not only
our souls and bodies but all creatures and all things--wast free from stain and
alteration and in no way mutable, yet I could not readily and clearly
understand what was the cause of evil. Whatever it was, I realized that the
question must be so analyzed as not to constrain me by any answer to believe
that the immutable God was mutable, lest I should myself become the thing that
I was seeking out. And so I pursued the search with a quiet mind, now in a
confident feeling that what had been said by the Manicheans--and I shrank from
them with my whole heart--could not be true. I now realized that when they
asked what was the origin of evil their answer was dictated by a wicked pride,
which would rather affirm that thy nature is capable of suffering evil than
that their own nature is capable of doing it.
5. And I directed my attention to understand what I now was told, that free
will is the cause of our doing evil and that thy just judgment is the cause of
our having to suffer from its consequences. But I could not see this clearly.
So then, trying to draw the eye of my mind up out of that pit, I was plunged
back into it again, and trying often was just as often plunged back down. But
one thing lifted me up toward thy light: it was that I had come to know that I
had a will as certainly as I knew that I had life. When, therefore, I willed or
was unwilling to do something, I was utterly certain that it was none but
myself who willed or was unwilling--and immediately I realized that there was
the cause of my sin. I could see that what I did against my will I suffered
rather than did; and I did not regard such actions as faults, but rather as
punishments in which I might quickly confess that I was not unjustly punished,
since I believed thee to be most just. Who was it that put this in me, and
implanted in me the root of bitterness, in spite of the fact that I was
altogether the handiwork of my most sweet God? If the devil is to blame, who
made the devil himself? And if he was a good angel who by his own wicked will
became the devil, how did there happen to be in him that wicked will by which
he became a devil, since a good Creator made him wholly a good angel? By these
reflections was I again cast down and stultified. Yet I was not plunged into
that hell of error--where no man confesses to thee--where I thought that thou
didst suffer evil, rather than that men do it.
CHAPTER IV
6. For in my struggle to solve the rest of my difficulties, I now assumed
henceforth as settled truth that the incorruptible must be superior to the
corruptible, and I did acknowledge that thou, whatever thou art, art
incorruptible. For there never yet was, nor will be, a soul able to conceive of
anything better than thee, who art the highest and best good.[179] And since most truly and certainly the incorruptible is
to be placed above the corruptible--as I now admit it--it followed that I could
rise in my thoughts to something better than my God, if thou wert not
incorruptible. When, therefore, I saw that the incorruptible was to be
preferred to the corruptible, I saw then where I ought to seek thee, and where
I should look for the source of evil: that is, the corruption by which thy
substance can in no way be profaned. For it is obvious that corruption in no
way injures our God, by no inclination, by no necessity, by no unforeseen
chance--because he is our God, and what he wills is good, and he himself is
that good. But to be corrupted is not good. Nor art thou compelled to do
anything against thy will, since thy will is not greater than thy power. But it
would have to be greater if thou thyself wert greater than thyself--for the
will and power of God are God himself. And what can take thee by surprise,
since thou knowest all, and there is no sort of nature but thou knowest it? And
what more should we say about why that substance which God is cannot be
corrupted; because if this were so it could not be God?
CHAPTER V
7. And I kept seeking for an answer to the question, Whence is evil? And I
sought it in an evil way, and I did not see the evil in my very search. I
marshaled before the sight of my spirit all creation: all that we see of earth
and sea and air and stars and trees and animals; and all that we do not see,
the firmament of the sky above and all the angels and all spiritual things, for
my imagination arranged these also, as if they were bodies, in this place or
that. And I pictured to myself thy creation as one vast mass, composed of
various kinds of bodies--some of which were actually bodies, some of those
which I imagined spirits were like. I pictured this mass as vast--of course not
in its full dimensions, for these I could not know--but as large as I could
possibly think, still only finite on every side. But thou, O Lord, I imagined
as environing the mass on every side and penetrating it, still infinite in
every direction--as if there were a sea everywhere, and everywhere through
measureless space nothing but an infinite sea; and it contained within itself
some sort of sponge, huge but still finite, so that the sponge would in all its
parts be filled from the immeasurable sea.[180]
Thus I conceived thy creation itself to be finite, and filled by thee, the
infinite. And I said, "Behold God, and behold what God hath created!" God is
good, yea, most mightily and incomparably better than all his works. But yet he
who is good has created them good; behold how he encircles and fills them.
Where, then, is evil, and whence does it come and how has it crept in? What is
its root and what its seed? Has it no being at all? Why, then, do we fear and
shun what has no being? Or if we fear it needlessly, then surely that fear is
evil by which the heart is unnecessarily stabbed and tortured--and indeed a
greater evil since we have nothing real to fear, and yet do fear. Therefore,
either that is evil which we fear, or the act of fearing is in itself evil.
But, then, whence does it come, since God who is good has made all these things
good? Indeed, he is the greatest and chiefest Good, and hath created these
lesser goods; but both Creator and created are all good. Whence, then, is evil?
Or, again, was there some evil matter out of which he made and formed and
ordered it, but left something in his creation that he did not convert into
good? But why should this be? Was he powerless to change the whole lump so that
no evil would remain in it, if he is the Omnipotent? Finally, why would he make
anything at all out of such stuff? Why did he not, rather, annihilate it by his
same almighty power? Could evil exist contrary to his will? And if it were from
eternity, why did he permit it to be nonexistent for unmeasured intervals of
time in the past, and why, then, was he pleased to make something out of it
after so long a time? Or, if he wished now all of a sudden to create something,
would not an almighty being have chosen to annihilate this evil matter and live
by himself--the perfect, true, sovereign, and infinite Good? Or, if it were not
good that he who was good should not also be the framer and creator of what was
good, then why was that evil matter not removed and brought to nothing, so that
he might form good matter, out of which he might then create all things? For he
would not be omnipotent if he were not able to create something good without
being assisted by that matter which had not been created by himself.
Such perplexities I revolved in my wretched breast, overwhelmed with gnawing
cares lest I die before I discovered the truth. And still the faith of thy
Christ, our Lord and Saviour, as it was taught me by the Catholic Church, stuck
fast in my heart. As yet it was unformed on many points and diverged from the
rule of right doctrine, but my mind did not utterly lose it, and every day
drank in more and more of it.
CHAPTER VI
8. By now I had also repudiated the lying divinations and impious absurdities
of the astrologers. Let thy mercies, out of the depth of my soul, confess this
to thee also, O my God. For thou, thou only (for who else is it who calls us
back from the death of all errors except the Life which does not know how to
die and the Wisdom which gives light to minds that need it, although it itself
has no need of light--by which the whole universe is governed, even to the
fluttering leaves of the trees?)--thou alone providedst also for my obstinacy
with which I struggled against Vindicianus, a sagacious old man, and Nebridius,
that remarkably talented young man. The former declared vehemently and the
latter frequently--though with some reservation--that no art existed by which
we foresee future things. But men's surmises have oftentimes the help of
chance, and out of many things which they foretold some came to pass unawares
to the predictors, who lighted on the truth by making so many guesses.
And thou also providedst a friend for me, who was not a negligent consulter of
the astrologers even though he was not thoroughly skilled in the art either--as
I said, one who consulted them out of curiosity. He knew a good, deal about it,
which, he said, he had heard from his father, and he never realized how far his
ideas would help to overthrow my estimation of that art. His name was Firminus
and he had received a liberal education and was a cultivated rhetorician. It so
happened that he consulted me, as one very dear to him, as to what I thought
about some affairs of his in which his worldly hopes had risen, viewed in the
light of his so-called horoscope. Although I had now begun to learn in this
matter toward Nebridius' opinion, I did not quite decline to speculate about
the matter or to tell him what thoughts still came into my irresolute mind,
although I did add that I was almost persuaded now that these were but empty
and ridiculous follies. He then told me that his father had been very much
interested in such books, and that he had a friend who was as much interested
in them as he was himself. They, in combined study and consultation, fanned the
flame of their affection for this folly, going so far as to observe the moment
when the dumb animals which belonged to their household gave birth to young,
and then observed the position of the heavens with regard to them, so as to
gather fresh evidence for this so-called art. Moreover, he reported that his
father had told him that, at the same time his mother was about to give birth
to him [Firminus], a female slave of a friend of his father's was also
pregnant. This could not be hidden from her master, who kept records with the
most diligent exactness of the birth dates even of his dogs. And so it happened
to pass that--under the most careful observations, one for his wife and the
other for his servant, with exact calculations of the days, hours, and
minutes--both women were delivered at the same moment, so that both were
compelled to cast the selfsame horoscope, down to the minute: the one for his
son, the other for his young slave. For as soon as the women began to be in
labor, they each sent word to the other as to what was happening in their
respective houses and had messengers ready to dispatch to one another as soon
as they had information of the actual birth--and each, of course, knew
instantly the exact time. It turned out, Firminus said, that the messengers
from the respective houses met one another at a point equidistant from either
house, so that neither of them could discern any difference either in the
position of the stars or any other of the most minute points. And yet Firminus,
born in a high estate in his parents' house, ran his course through the
prosperous paths of this world, was increased in wealth, and elevated to
honors. At the same time, the slave, the yoke of his condition being still
unrelaxed, continued to serve his masters as Firminus, who knew him, was able
to report.
9. Upon hearing and believing these things related by so reliable a person all
my resistance melted away. First, I endeavored to reclaim Firminus himself from
his superstition by telling him that after inspecting his horoscope, I ought,
if I could foretell truly, to have seen in it parents eminent among their
neighbors, a noble family in its own city, a good birth, a proper education,
and liberal learning. But if that servant had consulted me with the same
horoscope, since he had the same one, I ought again to tell him likewise truly
that I saw in it the lowliness of his origin, the abjectness of his condition,
and everything else different and contrary to the former prediction. If, then,
by casting up the same horoscopes I should, in order to speak the truth, make
contrary analyses, or else speak falsely if I made identical readings, then
surely it followed that whatever was truly foretold by the analysis of the
horoscopes was not by art, but by chance. And whatever was said falsely was not
from incompetence in the art, but from the error of chance.
10. An opening being thus made in my darkness, I began to consider other
implications involved here. Suppose that one of the fools--who followed such an
occupation and whom I longed to assail, and to reduce to confusion--should urge
against me that Firminus had given me false information, or that his father had
informed him falsely. I then turned my thoughts to those that are born twins,
who generally come out of the womb so near the one to the other that the short
interval between them--whatever importance they may ascribe to it in the nature
of things--cannot be noted by human observation or expressed in those tables
which the astrologer uses to examine when he undertakes to pronounce the truth.
But such pronouncements cannot be true. For looking into the same horoscopes,
he must have foretold the same future for Esau and Jacob,[181] whereas the same future did not turn out for them. He
must therefore speak falsely. If he is to speak truly, then he must read
contrary predictions into the same horoscopes. But this would mean that it was
not by art, but by chance, that he would speak truly.
For thou, O Lord, most righteous ruler of the universe, dost work by a secret
impulse--whether those who inquire or those inquired of know it or not--so that
the inquirer may hear what, according to the secret merit of his soul, he ought
to hear from the deeps of thy righteous judgment. Therefore let no man say to
thee, "What is this?" or, "Why is that?" Let him not speak thus, for he is only
a man.
CHAPTER VII
11. By now, O my Helper, thou hadst freed me from those fetters. But still I
inquired, "Whence is evil?"--and found no answer. But thou didst not allow me
to be carried away from the faith by these fluctuations of thought. I still
believed both that thou dost exist and that thy substance is immutable, and
that thou dost care for and wilt judge all men, and that in Christ, thy Son our
Lord, and the Holy Scriptures, which the authority of thy Catholic Church
pressed on me, thou hast planned the way of man's salvation to that life which
is to come after this death.
With these convictions safe and immovably settled in my mind, I eagerly
inquired, "Whence is evil?" What torments did my travailing heart then endure!
What sighs, O my God! Yet even then thy ears were open and I knew it not, and
when in stillness I sought earnestly, those silent contritions of my soul were
loud cries to thy mercy. No man knew, but thou knewest what I endured. How
little of it could I express in words to the ears of my dearest friends! How
could the whole tumult of my soul, for which neither time nor speech was
sufficient, come to them? Yet the whole of it went into thy ears, all of which
I bellowed out in the anguish of my heart. My desire was before thee, and the
light of my eyes was not with me; for it was within and I was without. Nor was
that light in any place; but I still kept thinking only of things that are
contained in a place, and could find among them no place to rest in. They did
not receive me in such a way that I could say, "It is sufficient; it is well."
Nor did they allow me to turn back to where it might be well enough with me.
For I was higher than they, though lower than thou. Thou art my true joy if I
depend upon thee, and thou hadst subjected to me what thou didst create lower
than I. And this was the true mean and middle way of salvation for me, to
continue in thy image and by serving thee have dominion over the body. But when
I lifted myself proudly against thee, and "ran against the Lord, even against
his neck, with the thick bosses of my buckler,"[182] even
the lower things were placed above me and pressed down on me, so that there was
no respite or breathing space. They thrust on my sight on every side, in crowds
and masses, and when I tried to think, the images of bodies obtruded themselves
into my way back to thee, as if they would say to me, "Where are you going,
unworthy and unclean one?" And all these had sprung out of my wound, for thou
hadst humbled the haughty as one that is wounded. By my swelling pride I was
separated from thee, and my bloated cheeks blinded my eyes.
CHAPTER VIII
12. But thou, O Lord, art forever the same, yet thou art not forever angry with
us, for thou hast compassion on our dust and ashes.[183] It was pleasing in thy sight to reform my deformity, and by inward stings thou
didst disturb me so that I was impatient until thou wert made clear to my
inward sight. By the secret hand of thy healing my swelling was lessened, the
disordered and darkened eyesight of my mind was from day to day made whole by
the stinging salve of wholesome grief.
CHAPTER IX
13. And first of all, willing to show me how thou dost "resist the proud, but
give grace to the humble,"[184] and how mercifully thou
hast made known to men the way of humility in that thy Word "was made flesh and
dwelt among men,"[185] thou didst procure for me, through
one inflated with the most monstrous pride, certain books of the Platonists,
translated from Greek into Latin.[186] And therein I
found, not indeed in the same words, but to the selfsame effect, enforced by
many and various reasons that "in the beginning was the Word, and the Word was
with God, and the Word was God. The same was in the beginning with God. All
things were made by him; and without him was not anything made that was made."
That which was made by him is "life, and the life was the light of men. And the
light shined in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not." Furthermore, I
read that the soul of man, though it "bears witness to the light," yet itself
"is not the light; but the Word of God, being God, is that true light that
lights every man who comes into the world." And further, that "he was in the
world, and the world was made by him, and the world knew him not."[187] But that "he came unto his own, and his own received
him not. And as many as received him, to them gave he power to become the sons
of God, even to them that believed on his name"[188]--this
I did not find there.
14. Similarly, I read there that God the Word was born "not of flesh nor of
blood, nor of the will of man, nor the will of the flesh, but of God."[189] But, that "the Word was made flesh, and dwelt among
us"[190]--I found this nowhere there. And I discovered in
those books, expressed in many and various ways, that "the Son was in the form
of God and thought it not robbery to be equal in God,"[191] for he was naturally of the same substance. But, that
"he emptied himself and took upon himself the form of a servant, and was made
in the likeness of men: and being found in fashion as a man, he humbled
himself, and became obedient unto death, even the death of the cross. Wherefore
God also hath highly exalted him" from the dead, "and given him a name above
every name; that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow, of things in
heaven, and things in earth, and things under the earth; and that every tongue
should confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father"[192]--this those books have not. I read further in them that
before all times and beyond all times, thy only Son remaineth unchangeably
coeternal with thee, and that of his fullness all souls receive that they may
be blessed, and that by participation in that wisdom which abides in them, they
are renewed that they may be wise. But, that "in due time, Christ died for the
ungodly" and that thou "sparedst not thy only Son, but deliveredst him up for
us all"[193]--this is not there. "For thou hast hid these
things from the wise and prudent, and hast revealed them unto babes"[194]; that they "that labor and are heavy laden" might "come
unto him and he might refresh them" because he is "meek and lowly in heart."[195] "The meek will he guide in judgment; and the meek will
he teach his way; beholding our lowliness and our trouble and forgiving all our
sins."[196] But those who strut in the high boots of what
they deem to be superior knowledge will not hear Him who says, "Learn of me,
for I am meek and lowly in heart, and you shall find rest for your souls."[197] Thus, though they know God, yet they do not glorify him
as God, nor are they thankful. Therefore, they "become vain in their
imaginations; their foolish heart is darkened, and professing themselves to be
wise they become fools."[198]
15. And, moreover, I also read there how "they changed the glory of thy
incorruptible nature into idols and various images--into an image made like
corruptible man and to birds and four-footed beasts, and creeping things"[199]: namely, into that Egyptian food[200] for which Esau lost his birthright; so that thy
first-born people worshiped the head of a four-footed beast instead of thee,
turning back in their hearts toward Egypt and prostrating thy image (their own
soul) before the image of an ox that eats grass. These things I found there,
but I fed not on them. For it pleased thee, O Lord, to take away the reproach
of his minority from Jacob, that the elder should serve the younger and thou
mightest call the Gentiles, and I had sought strenuously after that gold which
thou didst allow thy people to take from Egypt, since wherever it was it was
thine.[201] And thou saidst unto the Athenians by the
mouth of thy apostle that in thee "we live and move and have our being," as one
of their own poets had said.[202] And truly these books
came from there. But I did not set my mind on the idols of Egypt which they
fashioned of gold, "changing the truth of God into a lie and worshiping and
serving the creature more than the Creator."[203]
CHAPTER X
16. And being admonished by these books to return into myself, I entered into
my inward soul, guided by thee. This I could do because thou wast my helper.
And I entered, and with the eye of my soul--such as it was--saw above the same
eye of my soul and above my mind the Immutable Light. It was not the common
light, which all flesh can see; nor was it simply a greater one of the same
sort, as if the light of day were to grow brighter and brighter, and flood all
space. It was not like that light, but different, yea, very different from all
earthly light whatever. Nor was it above my mind in the same way as oil is
above water, or heaven above earth, but it was higher, because it made me, and
I was below it, because I was made by it. He who knows the Truth knows that
Light, and he who knows it knows eternity. Love knows it, O Eternal Truth and
True Love and Beloved Eternity! Thou art my God, to whom I sigh both night and
day. When I first knew thee, thou didst lift me up, that I might see that there
was something to be seen, though I was not yet fit to see it. And thou didst
beat back the weakness of my sight, shining forth upon me thy dazzling beams of
light, and I trembled with love and fear. I realized that I was far away from
thee in the land of unlikeness, as if I heard thy voice from on high: "I am the
food of strong men; grow and you shall feed on me; nor shall you change me,
like the food of your flesh into yourself, but you shall be changed into my
likeness." And I understood that thou chastenest man for his iniquity, and
makest my soul to be eaten away as though by a spider.[204] And I said, "Is Truth, therefore, nothing, because it
is not diffused through space--neither finite nor infinite?" And thou didst cry
to me from afar, "I am that I am."[205] And I heard this,
as things are heard in the heart, and there was no room for doubt. I should
have more readily doubted that I am alive than that the Truth exists--the Truth
which is "clearly seen, being understood by the things that are made."[206]
CHAPTER XI
17. And I viewed all the other things that are beneath thee, and I realized
that they are neither wholly real nor wholly unreal. They are real in so far as
they come from thee; but they are unreal in so far as they are not what thou
art. For that is truly real which remains immutable. It is good, then, for me
to hold fast to God, for if I do not remain in him, neither shall I abide in
myself; but he, remaining in himself, renews all things. And thou art the Lord
my God, since thou standest in no need of my goodness.
CHAPTER XII
18. And it was made clear to me that all things are good even if they are
corrupted. They could not be corrupted if they were supremely good; but unless
they were good they could not be corrupted. If they were supremely good, they
would be incorruptible; if they were not good at all, there would be nothing in
them to be corrupted. For corruption harms; but unless it could diminish
goodness, it could not harm. Either, then, corruption does not harm--which
cannot be--or, as is certain, all that is corrupted is thereby deprived of
good. But if they are deprived of all good, they will cease to be. For if they
are at all and cannot be at all corrupted, they will become better, because
they will remain incorruptible. Now what can be more monstrous than to maintain
that by losing all good they have become better? If, then, they are deprived of
all good, they will cease to exist. So long as they are, therefore, they are
good. Therefore, whatsoever is, is good. Evil, then, the origin of which I had
been seeking, has no substance at all; for if it were a substance, it would be
good. For either it would be an incorruptible substance and so a supreme good,
or a corruptible substance, which could not be corrupted unless it were good. I
understood, therefore, and it was made clear to me that thou madest all things
good, nor is there any substance at all not made by thee. And because all that
thou madest is not equal, each by itself is good, and the sum of all of them is
very good, for our God made all things very good.[207]
CHAPTER XIII
19. To thee there is no such thing as evil, and even in thy whole creation
taken as a whole, there is not; because there is nothing from beyond it that
can burst in and destroy the order which thou hast appointed for it. But in the
parts of creation, some things, because they do not harmonize with others, are
considered evil. Yet those same things harmonize with others and are good, and
in themselves are good. And all these things which do not harmonize with each
other still harmonize with the inferior part of creation which we call the
earth, having its own cloudy and windy sky of like nature with itself. Far be
it from me, then, to say, "These things should not be." For if I could see
nothing but these, I should indeed desire something better--but still I ought
to praise thee, if only for these created things. For that thou art to be
praised is shown from the fact that "earth, dragons, and all deeps; fire, and
hail, snow and vapors, stormy winds fulfilling thy word; mountains, and all
hills, fruitful trees, and all cedars; beasts and all cattle; creeping things,
and flying fowl; things of the earth, and all people; princes, and all judges
of the earth; both young men and maidens, old men and children,"[208] praise thy name! But seeing also that in heaven all thy
angels praise thee, O God, praise thee in the heights, "and all thy hosts, sun
and moon, all stars and light, the heavens of heavens, and the waters that are
above the heavens,"[209] praise thy name--seeing this, I
say, I no longer desire a better world, because my thought ranged over all, and
with a sounder judgment I reflected that the things above were better than
those below, yet that all creation together was better than the higher things
alone.
CHAPTER XIV
20. There is no health in those who find fault with any part of thy creation;
as there was no health in me when I found fault with so many of thy works. And,
because my soul dared not be displeased with my God, it would not allow that
the things which displeased me were from thee. Hence it had wandered into the
notion of two substances, and could find no rest, but talked foolishly, And
turning from that error, it had then made for itself a god extended through
infinite space; and it thought this was thou and set it up in its heart, and it
became once more the temple of its own idol, an abomination to thee. But thou
didst soothe my brain, though I was unaware of it, and closed my eyes lest they
should behold vanity; and thus I ceased from preoccupation with self by a
little and my madness was lulled to sleep; and I awoke in thee, and beheld thee
as the Infinite, but not in the way I had thought--and this vision was not
derived from the flesh.
CHAPTER XV
21. And I looked around at other things, and I saw that it was to thee that all
of them owed their being, and that they were all finite in thee; yet they are
in thee not as in a space, but because thou holdest all things in the hand of
thy truth, and because all things are true in so far as they are; and because
falsehood is nothing except the existence in thought of what does not exist in
fact. And I saw that all things harmonize, not only in their places but also in
their seasons. And I saw that thou, who alone art eternal, didst not begin to work after unnumbered periods of time--because all ages, both
those which are past and those which shall pass, neither go nor come except
through thy working and abiding.
CHAPTER XVI
22. And I saw and found it no marvel that bread which is distasteful to an
unhealthy palate is pleasant to a healthy one; or that the light, which is
painful to sore eyes, is a delight to sound ones. Thy righteousness displeases
the wicked, and they find even more fault with the viper and the little worm,
which thou hast created good, fitting in as they do with the inferior parts of
creation. The wicked themselves also fit in here, and proportionately more so
as they become unlike thee--but they harmonize with the higher creation
proportionately as they become like thee. And I asked what wickedness was, and
I found that it was no substance, but a perversion of the will bent aside from
thee, O God, the supreme substance, toward these lower things, casting away its
inmost treasure and becoming bloated with external good.[210]
CHAPTER XVII
23. And I marveled that I now loved thee, and no fantasm in thy stead, and yet
I was not stable enough to enjoy my God steadily. Instead I was transported to
thee by thy beauty, and then presently torn away from thee by my own weight,
sinking with grief into these lower things. This weight was carnal habit. But
thy memory dwelt with me, and I never doubted in the least that there was One
for me to cleave to; but I was not yet ready to cleave to thee firmly. For the
body which is corrupted presses down the soul, and the earthly dwelling weighs
down the mind, which muses upon many things.[211] My
greatest certainty was that "the invisible things of thine from the creation of
the world are clearly seen, being understood by the things that are made, even
thy eternal power and Godhead."[212] For when I inquired
how it was that I could appreciate the beauty of bodies, both celestial and
terrestrial; and what it was that supported me in making correct judgments
about things mutable; and when I concluded, "This ought to be thus; this ought
not"--then when I inquired how it was that I could make such judgments
(since I did, in fact, make them), I realized that I had found the unchangeable
and true eternity of truth above my changeable mind.
And thus by degrees I was led upward from bodies to the soul which perceives
them by means of the bodily senses, and from there on to the soul's inward
faculty, to which the bodily senses report outward things--and this belongs
even to the capacities of the beasts--and thence on up to the reasoning power,
to whose judgment is referred the experience received from the bodily sense.
And when this power of reason within me also found that it was changeable, it
raised itself up to its own intellectual principle,[213] and withdrew its thoughts from experience, abstracting itself from the
contradictory throng of fantasms in order to seek for that light in which it
was bathed. Then, without any doubting, it cried out that the unchangeable was
better than the changeable. From this it follows that the mind somehow knew the
unchangeable, for, unless it had known it in some fashion, it could have had no
sure ground for preferring it to the changeable. And thus with the flash of a
trembling glance, it arrived at that which is.[214] And I saw thy invisibility [invisibilia tua] understood by means of the
things that are made. But I was not able to sustain my gaze. My weakness was
dashed back, and I lapsed again into my accustomed ways, carrying along with me
nothing but a loving memory of my vision, and an appetite for what I had, as it
were, smelled the odor of, but was not yet able to eat.
CHAPTER XVIII
24. I sought, therefore, some way to acquire the strength sufficient to enjoy
thee; but I did not find it until I embraced that "Mediator between God and
man, the man Christ Jesus,"[215] "who is over all, God
blessed forever,"[216] who came calling and saying, "I am
the way, the truth, and the life,"[217] and mingling with
our fleshly humanity the heavenly food I was unable to receive. For "the Word
was made flesh" in order that thy wisdom, by which thou didst create all
things, might become milk for our infancy. And, as yet, I was not humble enough
to hold the humble Jesus; nor did I understand what lesson his weakness was
meant to teach us. For thy Word, the eternal Truth, far exalted above even the
higher parts of thy creation, lifts his subjects up toward himself. But in this
lower world, he built for himself a humble habitation of our own clay, so that
he might pull down from themselves and win over to himself those whom he is to
bring subject to him; lowering their pride and heightening their love, to the
end that they might go on no farther in self-confidence--but rather should
become weak, seeing at their feet the Deity made weak by sharing our coats of
skin--so that they might cast themselves, exhausted, upon him and be uplifted
by his rising.
CHAPTER XIX
25. But I thought otherwise. I saw in our Lord Christ only a man of eminent
wisdom to whom no other man could be compared--especially because he was
miraculously born of a virgin--sent to set us an example of despising worldly
things for the attainment of immortality, and thus exhibiting his divine care
for us. Because of this, I held that he had merited his great authority as
leader. But concerning the mystery contained in "the Word was made flesh," I
could not even form a notion. From what I learned from what has been handed
down to us in the books about him--that he ate, drank, slept, walked, rejoiced
in spirit, was sad, and discoursed with his fellows--I realized that his flesh
alone was not bound unto thy Word, but also that there was a bond with the
human soul and body. Everyone knows this who knows the unchangeableness of thy
Word, and this I knew by now, as far as I was able, and I had no doubts at all
about it. For at one time to move the limbs by an act of will, at another time
not; at one time to feel some emotion, at another time not; at one time to
speak intelligibly through verbal signs, at another, not--these are all
properties of a soul and mind subject to change. And if these things were
falsely written about him, all the rest would risk the imputation of falsehood,
and there would remain in those books no saving faith for the human race.
Therefore, because they were written truthfully, I acknowledged a perfect man
to be in Christ--not the body of a man only, nor, in the body, an animal soul
without a rational one as well, but a true man. And this man I held to be
superior to all others, not only because he was a form of the Truth, but also
because of the great excellence and perfection of his human nature, due to his
participation in wisdom.
Alypius, on the other hand, supposed the Catholics to believe that God was so
clothed with flesh that besides God and the flesh there was no soul in Christ,
and he did not think that a human mind was ascribed to him.[218] And because he was fully persuaded that the actions
recorded of him could not have been performed except by a living rational
creature, he moved the more slowly toward Christian faith.[219] But when he later learned that this was the error of
the Apollinarian heretics, he rejoiced in the Catholic faith and accepted it.
For myself, I must confess that it was even later that I learned how in the
sentence, "The Word was made flesh," the Catholic truth can be distinguished
from the falsehood of Photinus. For the refutation of heretics[220] makes the tenets of thy Church and sound doctrine to
stand out boldly. "For there must also be heresies [factions] that those who
are approved may be made manifest among the weak."[221]
CHAPTER XX
26. By having thus read the books of the Platonists, and having been taught by
them to search for the incorporeal Truth, I saw how thy invisible things are
understood through the things that are made. And, even when I was thrown back,
I still sensed what it was that the dullness of my soul would not allow me to
contemplate. I was assured that thou wast, and wast infinite, though not
diffused in finite space or infinity; that thou truly art, who art ever the
same, varying neither in part nor motion; and that all things are from thee, as
is proved by this sure cause alone: that they exist.
Of all this I was convinced, yet I was too weak to enjoy thee. I chattered away
as if I were an expert; but if I had not sought thy Way in Christ our Saviour,
my knowledge would have turned out to be not instruction but destruction.[222] For now full of what was in fact my punishment, I had
begun to desire to seem wise. I did not mourn my ignorance, but rather was
puffed up with knowledge. For where was that love which builds upon the
foundation of humility, which is Jesus Christ?[223] Or,
when would these books teach me this? I now believe that it was thy pleasure
that I should fall upon these books before I studied thy Scriptures, that it
might be impressed on my memory how I was affected by them; and then afterward,
when I was subdued by thy Scriptures and when my wounds were touched by thy
healing fingers, I might discern and distinguish what a difference there is
between presumption and confession--between those who saw where they were to go
even if they did not see the way, and the Way which leads, not only to the
observing, but also the inhabiting of the blessed country. For had I first been
molded in thy Holy Scriptures, and if thou hadst grown sweet to me through my
familiar use of them, and if then I had afterward fallen on those volumes, they
might have pushed me off the solid ground of godliness--or if I had stood firm
in that wholesome disposition which I had there acquired, I might have thought
that wisdom could be attained by the study of those [Platonist] books alone.
CHAPTER XXI
27. With great eagerness, then, I fastened upon the venerable writings of thy
Spirit and principally upon the apostle Paul. I had thought that he sometimes
contradicted himself and that the text of his teaching did not agree with the
testimonies of the Law and the Prophets; but now all these doubts vanished
away. And I saw that those pure words had but one face, and I learned to
rejoice with trembling. So I began, and I found that whatever truth I had read
[in the Platonists] was here combined with the exaltation of thy grace. Thus,
he who sees must not glory as if he had not received, not only the things that
he sees, but the very power of sight--for what does he have that he has not
received as a gift? By this he is not only exhorted to see, but also to be
cleansed, that he may grasp thee, who art ever the same; and thus he who cannot
see thee afar off may yet enter upon the road that leads to reaching, seeing,
and possessing thee. For although a man may "delight in the law of God after
the inward man," what shall he do with that other "law in his members which
wars against the law of his mind, and brings him into captivity under the law
of sin, which is in his members"?[224] Thou art righteous,
O Lord; but we have sinned and committed iniquities, and have done wickedly.
Thy hand has grown heavy upon us, and we are justly delivered over to that
ancient sinner, the lord of death. For he persuaded our wills to become like
his will, by which he remained not in thy truth. What shall "wretched man" do?
"Who shall deliver him from the body of this death,"[225] except thy grace through Jesus Christ our Lord; whom thou hast begotten,
coeternal with thyself, and didst create in the beginning of thy ways[226]--in whom the prince of this world found nothing worthy
of death, yet he killed him--and so the handwriting which was all against us
was blotted out?
The books of the Platonists tell nothing of this. Their pages do not contain
the expression of this kind of godliness--the tears of confession, thy
sacrifice, a troubled spirit, a broken and a contrite heart, the salvation of
thy people, the espoused City, the earnest of the Holy Spirit, the cup of our
redemption. In them, no man sings: "Shall not my soul be subject unto God, for
from him comes my salvation? He is my God and my salvation, my defender; I
shall no more be moved."[227] In them, no one hears him
calling, "Come unto me all you who labor." They scorn to learn of him because
he is "meek and lowly of heart"; for "thou hast hidden those things from the
wise and prudent, and hast revealed them unto babes." For it is one thing to
see the land of peace from a wooded mountaintop: and fail to find the way
thither--to attempt impassable ways in vain, opposed and waylaid by fugitives
and deserters under their captain, the "lion" and "dragon"[228]; but it is quite another thing to keep to the highway
that leads thither, guarded by the hosts of the heavenly Emperor, on which
there are no deserters from the heavenly army to rob the passers-by, for they
shun it as a torment.[229] These thoughts sank wondrously
into my heart, when I read that "least of thy apostles"[230] and when I had considered all thy works and trembled.
BOOK EIGHT
Conversion to Christ. Augustine is deeply impressed by
Simplicianus' story of the conversion to Christ of the famous orator and
philosopher, Marius Victorinus. He is stirred to emulate him, but finds himself
still enchained by his incontinence and preoccupation with worldly affairs. He
is then visited by a court official, Ponticianus, who tells him and Alypius the
stories of the conversion of Anthony and also of two imperial "secret service
agents." These stories throw him into a violent turmoil, in which his divided
will struggles against himself. He almost succeeds in making the decision for
continence, but is still held back. Finally, a child's song, overheard by
chance, sends him to the Bible; a text from Paul resolves the crisis; the
conversion is a fact. Alypius also makes his decision, and the two inform the
rejoicing Monica.
CHAPTER I
1. O my God, let me remember with gratitude and confess to thee thy mercies
toward me. Let my bones be bathed in thy love, and let them say: "Lord, who is
like unto thee?[231] Thou hast broken my bonds in sunder,
I will offer unto thee the sacrifice of thanksgiving."[232] And how thou didst break them I will declare, and all
who worship thee shall say, when they hear these things: "Blessed be the Lord
in heaven and earth, great and wonderful is his name."[233]
Thy words had stuck fast in my breast, and I was hedged round about by thee on
every side. Of thy eternal life I was now certain, although I had seen it
"through a glass darkly."[234] And I had been relieved of
all doubt that there is an incorruptible substance and that it is the source of
every other substance. Nor did I any longer crave greater certainty about thee,
but rather greater steadfastness in thee.
But as for my temporal life, everything was uncertain, and my heart had to be
purged of the old leaven. "The Way"--the Saviour himself--pleased me well, but
as yet I was reluctant to pass through the strait gate.
And thou didst put it into my mind, and it seemed good in my own sight, to go
to Simplicianus, who appeared to me a faithful servant of thine, and thy grace
shone forth in him. I had also been told that from his youth up he had lived in
entire devotion to thee. He was already an old man, and because of his great
age, which he had passed in such a zealous discipleship in thy way, he appeared
to me likely to have gained much wisdom--and, indeed, he had. From all his
experience, I desired him to tell me--setting before him all my
agitations--which would be the most fitting way for one who felt as I did to
walk in thy way.
2. For I saw the Church full; and one man was going this way and another that.
Still, I could not be satisfied with the life I was living in the world. Now,
indeed, my passions had ceased to excite me as of old with hopes of honor and
wealth, and it was a grievous burden to go on in such servitude. For, compared
with thy sweetness and the beauty of thy house--which I loved--those things
delighted me no longer. But I was still tightly bound by the love of women; nor
did the apostle forbid me to marry, although he exhorted me to something
better, wishing earnestly that all men were as he himself was.
But I was weak and chose the easier way, and for this single reason my whole
life was one of inner turbulence and listless indecision, because from so many
influences I was compelled--even though unwilling--to agree to a married life
which bound me hand and foot. I had heard from the mouth of Truth that "there
are eunuchs who have made themselves eunuchs for the Kingdom of Heaven's
sake"[235] but, said he, "He that is able to receive it,
let him receive it." Of a certainty, all men are vain who do not have the
knowledge of God, or have not been able, from the good things that are seen, to
find him who is good. But I was no longer fettered in that vanity. I had
surmounted it, and from the united testimony of thy whole creation had found
thee, our Creator, and thy Word--God with thee, and together with thee and the
Holy Spirit, one God--by whom thou hast created all things. There is still
another sort of wicked men, who "when they knew God, they glorified him not as
God, neither were thankful."[236] Into this also I had
fallen, but thy right hand held me up and bore me away, and thou didst place me
where I might recover. For thou hast said to men, "Behold the fear of the Lord,
this is wisdom,"[237] and, "Be not wise in your own
eyes,"[238] because "they that profess themselves to be
wise become fools."[239] But I had now found the goodly
pearl; and I ought to have sold all that I had and bought it--yet I hesitated.
CHAPTER II
3. I went, therefore, to Simplicianus, the spiritual father of Ambrose (then a
bishop), whom Ambrose truly loved as a father. I recounted to him all the mazes
of my wanderings, but when I mentioned to him that I had read certain books of
the Platonists which Victorinus--formerly professor of rhetoric at Rome, who
died a Christian, as I had been told--had translated into Latin, Simplicianus
congratulated me that I had not fallen upon the writings of other philosophers,
which were full of fallacies and deceit, "after the beggarly elements of this
world,"[240] whereas in the Platonists, at every turn, the
pathway led to belief in God and his Word.
Then, to encourage me to copy the humility of Christ, which is hidden from the
wise and revealed to babes, he told me about Victorinus himself, whom he had
known intimately at Rome. And I cannot refrain from repeating what he told me
about him. For it contains a glorious proof of thy grace, which ought to be
confessed to thee: how that old man, most learned, most skilled in all the
liberal arts; who had read, criticized, and explained so many of the writings
of the philosophers; the teacher of so many noble senators; one who, as a mark
of his distinguished service in office had both merited and obtained a statue
in the Roman Forum--which men of this world esteem a great honor--this man who,
up to an advanced age, had been a worshiper of idols, a communicant in the
sacrilegious rites to which almost all the nobility of Rome were wedded; and
who had inspired the people with the love of Osiris and
"The dog Anubis, and a medley crew
Of monster gods who `gainst Neptune stand in arms
`Gainst Venus and Minerva, steel-clad Mars,"[241]
whom Rome once conquered, and now worshiped; all of which old Victorinus had
with thundering eloquence defended for so many years--despite all this, he did
not blush to become a child of thy Christ, a babe at thy font, bowing his neck
to the yoke of humility and submitting his forehead to the ignominy of the
cross.
4. O Lord, Lord, "who didst bow the heavens and didst descend, who didst touch
the mountains and they smoked,"[242] by what means didst
thou find thy way into that breast? He used to read the Holy Scriptures, as
Simplicianus said, and thought out and studied all the Christian writings most
studiously. He said to Simplicianus--not openly but secretly as a friend--"You
must know that I am a Christian." To which Simplicianus replied, "I shall not
believe it, nor shall I count you among the Christians, until I see you in the
Church of Christ." Victorinus then asked, with mild mockery, "Is it then the
walls that make Christians?" Thus he often would affirm that he was already a
Christian, and as often Simplicianus made the same answer; and just as often
his jest about the walls was repeated. He was fearful of offending his friends,
proud demon worshipers, from the height of whose Babylonian dignity, as from
the tops of the cedars of Lebanon which the Lord had not yet broken down, he
feared that a storm of enmity would descend upon him.
But he steadily gained strength from reading and inquiry, and came to fear lest
he should be denied by Christ before the holy angels if he now was afraid to
confess him before men. Thus he came to appear to himself guilty of a great
fault, in being ashamed of the sacraments of the humility of thy Word, when he
was not ashamed of the sacrilegious rites of those proud demons, whose pride he
had imitated and whose rites he had shared. From this he became bold-faced
against vanity and shamefaced toward the truth. Thus, suddenly and
unexpectedly, he said to Simplicianus--as he himself told me--"Let us go to the
church; I wish to become a Christian." Simplicianus went with him, scarcely
able to contain himself for joy. He was admitted to the first sacraments of
instruction, and not long afterward gave in his name that he might receive the
baptism of regeneration. At this Rome marveled and the Church rejoiced. The
proud saw and were enraged; they gnashed their teeth and melted away! But the
Lord God was thy servant's hope and he paid no attention to their vanity and
lying madness.
5. Finally, when the hour arrived for him to make a public profession of his
faith--which at Rome those who are about to enter into thy grace make from a
platform in the full sight of the faithful people, in a set form of words
learned by heart--the presbyters offered Victorinus the chance to make his
profession more privately, for this was the custom for some who were likely to
be afraid through bashfulness. But Victorinus chose rather to profess his
salvation in the presence of the holy congregation. For there was no salvation
in the rhetoric which he taught: yet he had professed that openly. Why, then,
should he shrink from naming thy Word before the sheep of thy flock, when he
had not shrunk from uttering his own words before the mad multitude?
So, then, when he ascended the platform to make his profession, everyone, as
they recognized him, whispered his name one to the other, in tones of
jubilation. Who was there among them that did not know him? And a low murmur
ran through the mouths of all the rejoicing multitude: "Victorinus!
Victorinus!" There was a sudden burst of exaltation at the sight of him, and
suddenly they were hushed that they might hear him. He pronounced the true
faith with an excellent boldness, and all desired to take him to their very
heart--indeed, by their love and joy they did take him to their heart. And they
received him with loving and joyful hands.
CHAPTER III
6. O good God, what happens in a man to make him rejoice more at the salvation
of a soul that has been despaired of and then delivered from greater danger
than over one who has never lost hope, or never been in such imminent danger?
For thou also, O most merciful Father, "dost rejoice more over one that repents
than over ninety and nine just persons that need no repentance."[243] And we listen with much delight whenever we hear how
the lost sheep is brought home again on the shepherd's shoulders while the
angels rejoice; or when the piece of money is restored to its place in the
treasury and the neighbors rejoice with the woman who found it.[244] And the joy of the solemn festival of thy house
constrains us to tears when it is read in thy house: about the younger son who
"was dead and is alive again, was lost and is found." For it is thou who
rejoicest both in us and in thy angels, who are holy through holy love. For
thou art ever the same because thou knowest unchangeably all things which
remain neither the same nor forever.
7. What, then, happens in the soul when it takes more delight at finding or
having restored to it the things it loves than if it had always possessed them?
Indeed, many other things bear witness that this is so--all things are full of
witnesses, crying out, "So it is." The commander triumphs in victory; yet he
could not have conquered if he had not fought; and the greater the peril of the
battle, the more the joy of the triumph. The storm tosses the voyagers,
threatens shipwreck, and everyone turns pale in the presence of death. Then the
sky and sea grow calm, and they rejoice as much as they had feared. A loved one
is sick and his pulse indicates danger; all who desire his safety are
themselves sick at heart; he recovers, though not able as yet to walk with his
former strength; and there is more joy now than there was before when he walked
sound and strong. Indeed, the very pleasures of human life--not only those
which rush upon us unexpectedly and involuntarily, but also those which are
voluntary and planned--men obtain by difficulties. There is no pleasure in
caring and drinking unless the pains of hunger and thirst have preceded.
Drunkards even eat certain salt meats in order to create a painful thirst--and
when the drink allays this, it causes pleasure. It is also the custom that the
affianced bride should not be immediately given in marriage so that the husband
may not esteem her any less, whom as his betrothed he longed for.
8. This can be seen in the case of base and dishonorable pleasure. But it is
also apparent in pleasures that are permitted and lawful: in the sincerity of
honest friendship; and in him who was dead and lived again, who had been lost
and was found. The greater joy is everywhere preceded by the greater pain. What
does this mean, O Lord my God, when thou art an everlasting joy to thyself, and
some creatures about thee are ever rejoicing in thee? What does it mean that
this portion of creation thus ebbs and flows, alternately in want and satiety?
Is this their mode of being and is this all thou hast allotted to them: that,
from the highest heaven to the lowest earth, from the beginning of the world to
the end, from the angels to the worm, from the first movement to the last, thou
wast assigning to all their proper places and their proper seasons--to all the
kinds of good things and to all thy just works? Alas, how high thou art in the
highest and how deep in the deepest! Thou never departest from us, and yet only
with difficulty do we return to thee.
CHAPTER IV
9. Go on, O Lord, and act: stir us up and call us back; inflame us and draw us
to thee; stir us up and grow sweet to us; let us now love thee, let us run to
thee. Are there not many men who, out of a deeper pit of darkness than that of
Victorinus, return to thee--who draw near to thee and are illuminated by that
light which gives those who receive it power from thee to become thy sons? But
if they are less well-known, even those who know them rejoice less for them.
For when many rejoice together the joy of each one is fuller, in that they warm
one another, catch fire from each other; moreover, those who are well-known
influence many toward salvation and take the lead with many to follow them.
Therefore, even those who took the way before them rejoice over them greatly,
because they do not rejoice over them alone. But it ought never to be that in
thy tabernacle the persons of the rich should be welcome before the poor, or
the nobly born before the rest--since "thou hast rather chosen the weak things
of the world to confound the strong; and hast chosen the base things of the
world and things that are despised, and the things that are not, in order to
bring to nought the things that are."[245] It was even
"the least of the apostles" by whose tongue thou didst sound forth these words.
And when Paulus the proconsul had his pride overcome by the onslaught of the
apostle and he was made to pass under the easy yoke of thy Christ and became an
officer of the great King, he also desired to be called Paul instead of Saul,
his former name, in testimony to such a great victory.[246] For the enemy is more overcome in one on whom he has a
greater hold, and whom he has hold of more completely. But the proud he
controls more readily through their concern about their rank and, through them,
he controls more by means of their influence. The more, therefore, the world
prized the heart of Victorinus (which the devil had held in an impregnable
stronghold) and the tongue of Victorinus (that sharp, strong weapon with which
the devil had slain so many), all the more exultingly should Thy sons rejoice
because our King hath bound the strong man, and they saw his vessels taken from
him and cleansed, and made fit for thy honor and "profitable to the Lord for
every good work."[247]
CHAPTER V
10. Now when this man of thine, Simplicianus, told me the story of Victorinus,
I was eager to imitate him. Indeed, this was Simplicianus' purpose in telling
it to me. But when he went on to tell how, in the reign of the Emperor Julian,
there was a law passed by which Christians were forbidden to teach literature
and rhetoric; and how Victorinus, in ready obedience to the law, chose to
abandon his "school of words" rather than thy Word, by which thou makest
eloquent the tongues of the dumb--he appeared to me not so much brave as happy,
because he had found a reason for giving his time wholly to thee. For this was
what I was longing to do; but as yet I was bound by the iron chain of my own
will. The enemy held fast my will, and had made of it a chain, and had bound me
tight with it. For out of the perverse will came lust, and the service of lust
ended in habit, and habit, not resisted, became necessity. By these links, as
it were, forged together--which is why I called it "a chain"--a hard bondage
held me in slavery. But that new will which had begun to spring up in me freely
to worship thee and to enjoy thee, O my God, the only certain Joy, was not able
as yet to overcome my former willfulness, made strong by long indulgence. Thus
my two wills--the old and the new, the carnal and the spiritual--were in
conflict within me; and by their discord they tore my soul apart.
11. Thus I came to understand from my own experience what I had read, how "the
flesh lusts against the Spirit, and the Spirit against the flesh."[248] I truly lusted both ways, yet more in that which I
approved in myself than in that which I disapproved in myself. For in the
latter it was not now really I that was involved, because here I was rather an
unwilling sufferer than a willing actor. And yet it was through me that habit
had become an armed enemy against me, because I had willingly come to be what I
unwillingly found myself to be.
Who, then, can with any justice speak against it, when just punishment follows
the sinner? I had now no longer my accustomed excuse that, as yet, I hesitated
to forsake the world and serve thee because my perception of the truth was
uncertain. For now it was certain. But, still bound to the earth, I refused to
be thy soldier; and was as much afraid of being freed from all entanglements as
we ought to fear to be entangled.
12. Thus with the baggage of the world I was sweetly burdened, as one in
slumber, and my musings on thee were like the efforts of those who desire to
awake, but who are still overpowered with drowsiness and fall back into deep
slumber. And as no one wishes to sleep forever (for all men rightly count
waking better)--yet a man will usually defer shaking off his drowsiness when
there is a heavy lethargy in his limbs; and he is glad to sleep on even when
his reason disapproves, and the hour for rising has struck--so was I assured
that it was much better for me to give myself up to thy love than to go on
yielding myself to my own lust. Thy love satisfied and vanquished me; my lust
pleased and fettered me.[249] I had no answer to thy
calling to me, "Awake, you who sleep, and arise from the dead, and Christ shall
give you light."[250] On all sides, thou didst show me
that thy words are true, and I, convicted by the truth, had nothing at all to
reply but the drawling and drowsy words: "Presently; see, presently. Leave me
alone a little while." But "presently, presently," had no present; and my
"leave me alone a little while" went on for a long while. In vain did I
"delight in thy law in the inner man" while "another law in my members warred
against the law of my mind and brought me into captivity to the law of sin
which is in my members." For the law of sin is the tyranny of habit, by which
the mind is drawn and held, even against its will. Yet it deserves to be so
held because it so willingly falls into the habit. "O wretched man that I am!
Who shall deliver me from the body of this death" but thy grace alone, through
Jesus Christ our Lord?[251]
CHAPTER VI
13. And now I will tell and confess unto thy name, O Lord, my helper and my
redeemer, how thou didst deliver me from the chain of sexual desire by which I
was so tightly held, and from the slavery of worldly business.[252] With increasing anxiety I was going about my usual
affairs, and daily sighing to thee. I attended thy church as frequently as my
business, under the burden of which I groaned, left me free to do so. Alypius
was with me, disengaged at last from his legal post, after a third term as
assessor, and now waiting for private clients to whom he might sell his legal
advice as I sold the power of speaking (as if it could be supplied by
teaching). But Nebridius had consented, for the sake of our friendship, to
teach under Verecundus--a citizen of Milan and professor of grammar, and a very
intimate friend of us all--who ardently desired, and by right of friendship
demanded from us, the faithful aid he greatly needed. Nebridius was not drawn
to this by any desire of gain--for he could have made much more out of his
learning had he been so inclined--but as he was a most sweet and kindly friend,
he was unwilling, out of respect for the duties of friendship, to slight our
request. But in this he acted very discreetly, taking care not to become known
to those persons who had great reputations in the world. Thus he avoided all
distractions of mind, and reserved as many hours as possible to pursue or read
or listen to discussions about wisdom.
14. On a certain day, then, when Nebridius was away--for some reason I cannot
remember--there came to visit Alypius and me at our house one Ponticianus, a
fellow countryman of ours from Africa, who held high office in the emperor's
court. What he wanted with us I do not know; but we sat down to talk together,
and it chanced that he noticed a book on a game table before us. He took it up,
opened it, and, contrary to his expectation, found it to be the apostle Paul,
for he imagined that it was one of my wearisome rhetoric textbooks. At this, he
looked up at me with a smile and expressed his delight and wonder that he had
so unexpectedly found this book and only this one, lying before my eyes; for he
was indeed a Christian and a faithful one at that, and often he prostrated
himself before thee, our God, in the church in constant daily prayer. When I
had told him that I had given much attention to these writings, a conversation
followed in which he spoke of Anthony, the Egyptian monk, whose name was in
high repute among thy servants, although up to that time not familiar to me.
When he learned this, he lingered on the topic, giving us an account of this
eminent man, and marveling at our ignorance. We in turn were amazed to hear of
thy wonderful works so fully manifested in recent times--almost in our
own--occurring in the true faith and the Catholic Church. We all wondered--we,
that these things were so great, and he, that we had never heard of them.
15. From this, his conversation turned to the multitudes in the monasteries and
their manners so fragrant to thee, and to the teeming solitudes of the
wilderness, of which we knew nothing at all. There was even a monastery at
Milan, outside the city's walls, full of good brothers under the fostering care
of Ambrose--and we were ignorant of it. He went on with his story, and we
listened intently and in silence. He then told us how, on a certain afternoon,
at Trier,[253] when the emperor was occupied watching the
gladiatorial games, he and three comrades went out for a walk in the gardens
close to the city walls. There, as they chanced to walk two by two, one
strolled away with him, while the other two went on by themselves. As they
rambled, these first two came upon a certain cottage where lived some of thy
servants, some of the "poor in spirit" ("of such is the Kingdom of Heaven"),
where they found the book in which was written the life of Anthony! One of them
began to read it, to marvel and to be inflamed by it. While reading, he
meditated on embracing just such a life, giving up his worldly employment to
seek thee alone. These two belonged to the group of officials called "secret
service agents."[254] Then, suddenly being overwhelmed
with a holy love and a sober shame and as if in anger with himself, he fixed
his eyes on his friend, exclaiming: "Tell me, I beg you, what goal are we
seeking in all these toils of ours? What is it that we desire? What is our
motive in public service? Can our hopes in the court rise higher than to be
`friends of the emperor'[255]? But how frail, how beset
with peril, is that pride! Through what dangers must we climb to a greater
danger? And when shall we succeed? But if I chose to become a friend of God,
see, I can become one now." Thus he spoke, and in the pangs of the travail of
the new life he turned his eyes again onto the page and continued reading; he
was inwardly changed, as thou didst see, and the world dropped away from his
mind, as soon became plain to others. For as he read with a heart like a stormy
sea, more than once he groaned. Finally he saw the better course, and resolved
on it. Then, having become thy servant, he said to his friend: "Now I have
broken loose from those hopes we had, and I am determined to serve God; and I
enter into that service from this hour in this place. If you are reluctant to
imitate me, do not oppose me." The other replied that he would continue bound
in his friendship, to share in so great a service for so great a prize. So both
became thine, and began to "build a tower", counting the cost--namely, of
forsaking all that they had and following thee.[256] Shortly after, Ponticianus and his companion, who had walked with him in the
other part of the garden, came in search of them to the same place, and having
found them reminded them to return, as the day was declining. But the first
two, making known to Ponticianus their resolution and purpose, and how a
resolve had sprung up and become confirmed in them, entreated them not to take
it ill if they refused to join themselves with them. But Ponticianus and his
friend, although not changed from their former course, did nevertheless (as he
told us) bewail themselves and congratulated their friends on their godliness,
recommending themselves to their prayers. And with hearts inclining again
toward earthly things, they returned to the palace. But the other two, setting
their affections on heavenly things, remained in the cottage. Both of them had
affianced brides who, when they heard of this, likewise dedicated their
virginity to thee.
CHAPTER VII
16. Such was the story Ponticianus told. But while he was speaking, thou, O
Lord, turned me toward myself, taking me from behind my back, where I had put
myself while unwilling to exercise self-scrutiny. And now thou didst set me
face to face with myself, that I might see how ugly I was, and how crooked and
sordid, bespotted and ulcerous. And I looked and I loathed myself; but whither
to fly from myself I could not discover. And if I sought to turn my gaze away
from myself, he would continue his narrative, and thou wouldst oppose me to
myself and thrust me before my own eyes that I might discover my iniquity and
hate it. I had known it, but acted as though I knew it not--I winked at it and
forgot it.
17. But now, the more ardently I loved those whose wholesome affections I heard
reported--that they had given themselves up wholly to thee to be cured--the
more did I abhor myself when compared with them. For many of my years--perhaps
twelve--had passed away since my nineteenth, when, upon the reading of Cicero's
Hortensius, I was roused to a desire for wisdom. And here I was, still
postponing the abandonment of this world's happiness to devote myself to the
search. For not just the finding alone, but also the bare search for it, ought
to have been preferred above the treasures and kingdoms of this world; better
than all bodily pleasures, though they were to be had for the taking. But,
wretched youth that I was--supremely wretched even in the very outset of my
youth--I had entreated chastity of thee and had prayed, "Grant me chastity and
continence, but not yet." For I was afraid lest thou shouldst hear me too soon,
and too soon cure me of my disease of lust which I desired to have satisfied
rather than extinguished. And I had wandered through perverse ways of godless
superstition--not really sure of it, either, but preferring it to the other,
which I did not seek in piety, but opposed in malice.
18. And I had thought that I delayed from day to day in rejecting those worldly
hopes and following thee alone because there did not appear anything certain by
which I could direct my course. And now the day had arrived in which I was laid
bare to myself and my conscience was to chide me: "Where are you, O my tongue?
You said indeed that you were not willing to cast off the baggage of vanity for
uncertain truth. But behold now it is certain, and still that burden oppresses
you. At the same time those who have not worn themselves out with searching for
it as you have, nor spent ten years and more in thinking about it, have had
their shoulders unburdened and have received wings to fly away." Thus was I
inwardly confused, and mightily confounded with a horrible shame, while
Ponticianus went ahead speaking such things. And when he had finished his story
and the business he came for, he went his way. And then what did I not say to
myself, within myself? With what scourges of rebuke did I not lash my soul to
make it follow me, as I was struggling to go after thee? Yet it drew back. It
refused. It would not make an effort. All its arguments were exhausted and
confuted. Yet it resisted in sullen disquiet, fearing the cutting off of that
habit by which it was being wasted to death, as if that were death itself.
CHAPTER VIII
19. Then, as this vehement quarrel, which I waged with my soul in the chamber
of my heart, was raging inside my inner dwelling, agitated both in mind and
countenance, I seized upon Alypius and exclaimed: "What is the matter with us?
What is this? What did you hear? The uninstructed start up and take heaven, and
we--with all our learning but so little heart--see where we wallow in flesh and
blood! Because others have gone before us, are we ashamed to follow, and not
rather ashamed at our not following?" I scarcely knew what I said, and in my
excitement I flung away from him, while he gazed at me in silent astonishment.
For I did not sound like myself: my face, eyes, color, tone expressed my
meaning more clearly than my words.
There was a little garden belonging to our lodging, of which we had the use--as
of the whole house--for the master, our landlord, did not live there. The
tempest in my breast hurried me out into this garden, where no one might
interrupt the fiery struggle in which I was engaged with myself, until it came
to the outcome that thou knewest though I did not. But I was mad for health,
and dying for life; knowing what evil thing I was, but not knowing what good
thing I was so shortly to become.
I fled into the garden, with Alypius following step by step; for I had no
secret in which he did not share, and how could he leave me in such distress?
We sat down, as far from the house as possible. I was greatly disturbed in
spirit, angry at myself with a turbulent indignation because I had not entered
thy will and covenant, O my God, while all my bones cried out to me to enter,
extolling it to the skies. The way therein is not by ships or chariots or
feet--indeed it was not as far as I had come from the house to the place where
we were seated. For to go along that road and indeed to reach the goal is
nothing else but the will to go. But it must be a strong and single will, not
staggering and swaying about this way and that--a changeable, twisting,
fluctuating will, wrestling with itself while one part falls as another
rises.
20. Finally, in the very fever of my indecision, I made many motions with my
body; like men do when they will to act but cannot, either because they do not
have the limbs or because their limbs are bound or weakened by disease, or
incapacitated in some other way. Thus if I tore my hair, struck my forehead,
or, entwining my fingers, clasped my knee, these I did because I willed it. But
I might have willed it and still not have done it, if the nerves had not obeyed
my will. Many things then I did, in which the will and power to do were not the
same. Yet I did not do that one thing which seemed to me infinitely more
desirable, which before long I should have power to will because shortly when I
willed, I would will with a single will. For in this, the power of willing is
the power of doing; and as yet I could not do it. Thus my body more readily
obeyed the slightest wish of the soul in moving its limbs at the order of my
mind than my soul obeyed itself to accomplish in the will alone its great
resolve.
CHAPTER IX
21. How can there be such a strange anomaly? And why is it? Let thy mercy shine
on me, that I may inquire and find an answer, amid the dark labyrinth of human
punishment and in the darkest contritions of the sons of Adam. Whence such an
anomaly? And why should it be? The mind commands the body, and the body obeys.
The mind commands itself and is resisted. The mind commands the hand to be
moved and there is such readiness that the command is scarcely distinguished
from the obedience in act. Yet the mind is mind, and the hand is body. The mind
commands the mind to will, and yet though it be itself it does not obey itself.
Whence this strange anomaly and why should it be? I repeat: The will commands
itself to will, and could not give the command unless it wills; yet what is
commanded is not done. But actually the will does not will entirely; therefore
it does not command entirely. For as far as it wills, it commands. And as far
as it does not will, the thing commanded is not done. For the will commands
that there be an act of will--not another, but itself. But it does not command
entirely. Therefore, what is commanded does not happen; for if the will were
whole and entire, it would not even command it to be, because it would already
be. It is, therefore, no strange anomaly partly to will and partly to be
unwilling. This is actually an infirmity of mind, which cannot wholly rise,
while pressed down by habit, even though it is supported by the truth. And so
there are two wills, because one of them is not whole, and what is present in
this one is lacking in the other.
CHAPTER X
22. Let them perish from thy presence, O God, as vain talkers, and deceivers of
the soul perish, who, when they observe that there are two wills in the act of
deliberation, go on to affirm that there are two kinds of minds in us: one
good, the other evil. They are indeed themselves evil when they hold these evil
opinions--and they shall become good only when they come to hold the truth and
consent to the truth that thy apostle may say to them: "You were formerly in
darkness, but now are you in the light in the Lord."[257] But they desired to be light, not "in the Lord," but in themselves. They
conceived the nature of the soul to be the same as what God is, and thus have
become a thicker darkness than they were; for in their dread arrogance they
have gone farther away from thee, from thee "the true Light, that lights every
man that comes into the world." Mark what you say and blush for shame; draw
near to him and be enlightened, and your faces shall not be ashamed.[258]
While I was deliberating whether I would serve the Lord my God now, as I had
long purposed to do, it was I who willed and it was also I who was unwilling.
In either case, it was I. I neither willed with my whole will nor was I wholly
unwilling. And so I was at war with myself and torn apart by myself. And this
strife was against my will; yet it did not show the presence of another mind,
but the punishment of my own. Thus it was no more I who did it, but the sin
that dwelt in me--the punishment of a sin freely committed by Adam, and I was a
son of Adam.
23. For if there are as many opposing natures as there are opposing wills,
there will not be two but many more. If any man is trying to decide whether he
should go to their conventicle or to the theater, the Manicheans at once cry
out, "See, here are two natures--one good, drawing this way, another bad,
drawing back that way; for how else can you explain this indecision between
conflicting wills?" But I reply that both impulses are bad--that which draws to
them and that which draws back to the theater. But they do not believe that the
will which draws to them can be anything but good. Suppose, then, that one of
us should try to decide, and through the conflict of his two wills should waver
whether he should go to the theater or to our Church. Would not those also
waver about the answer here? For either they must confess, which they are
unwilling to do, that the will that leads to our church is as good as that
which carries their own adherents and those captivated by their mysteries; or
else they must imagine that there are two evil natures and two evil minds in
one man, both at war with each other, and then it will not be true what they
say, that there is one good and another bad. Else they must be converted to the
truth, and no longer deny that when anyone deliberates there is one soul
fluctuating between conflicting wills.
24. Let them no longer maintain that when they perceive two wills to be
contending with each other in the same man the contest is between two opposing
minds, of two opposing substances, from two opposing principles, the one good
and the other bad. Thus, O true God, thou dost reprove and confute and convict
them. For both wills may be bad: as when a man tries to decide whether he
should kill a man by poison or by the sword; whether he should take possession
of this field or that one belonging to someone else, when he cannot get both;
whether he should squander his money to buy pleasure or hold onto his money
through the motive of covetousness; whether he should go to the circus or to
the theater, if both are open on the same day; or, whether he should take a
third course, open at the same time, and rob another man's house; or, a fourth
option, whether he should commit adultery, if he has the opportunity--all these
things concurring in the same space of time and all being equally longed for,
although impossible to do at one time. For the mind is pulled four ways by four
antagonistic wills--or even more, in view of the vast range of human
desires--but even the Manicheans do not affirm that there are these many
different substances. The same principle applies as in the action of good
wills. For I ask them, "Is it a good thing to have delight in reading the
apostle, or is it a good thing to delight in a sober psalm, or is it a good
thing to discourse on the gospel?" To each of these, they will answer, "It is
good." But what, then, if all delight us equally and all at the same time? Do
not different wills distract the mind when a man is trying to decide what he
should choose? Yet they are all good, and are at variance with each other until
one is chosen. When this is done the whole united will may go forward on a
single track instead of remaining as it was before, divided in many ways. So
also, when eternity attracts us from above, and the pleasure of earthly delight
pulls us down from below, the soul does not will either the one or the other
with all its force, but still it is the same soul that does not will this or
that with a united will, and is therefore pulled apart with grievous
perplexities, because for truth's sake it prefers this, but for custom's sake
it does not lay that aside.
CHAPTER XI
25. Thus I was sick and tormented, reproaching myself more bitterly than ever,
rolling and writhing in my chain till it should be utterly broken. By now I was
held but slightly, but still was held. And thou, O Lord, didst press upon me in
my inmost heart with a severe mercy, redoubling the lashes of fear and shame;
lest I should again give way and that same slender remaining tie not be broken
off, but recover strength and enchain me yet more securely.
I kept saying to myself, "See, let it be done now; let it be done now." And as
I said this I all but came to a firm decision. I all but did it--yet I did not
quite. Still I did not fall back to my old condition, but stood aside for a
moment and drew breath. And I tried again, and lacked only a very little of
reaching the resolve--and then somewhat less, and then all but touched and
grasped it. Yet I still did not quite reach or touch or grasp the goal, because
I hesitated to die to death and to live to life. And the worse way, to which I
was habituated, was stronger in me than the better, which I had not tried. And
up to the very moment in which I was to become another man, the nearer the
moment approached, the greater horror did it strike in me. But it did not
strike me back, nor turn me aside, but held me in suspense.
26. It was, in fact, my old mistresses, trifles of trifles and vanities of
vanities, who still enthralled me. They tugged at my fleshly garments and
softly whispered: "Are you going to part with us? And from that moment will we
never be with you any more? And from that moment will not this and that be
forbidden you forever?" What were they suggesting to me in those words "this or
that"? What is it they suggested, O my God? Let thy mercy guard the soul of thy
servant from the vileness and the shame they did suggest! And now I scarcely
heard them, for they were not openly showing themselves and opposing me face to
face; but muttering, as it were, behind my back; and furtively plucking at me
as I was leaving, trying to make me look back at them. Still they delayed me,
so that I hesitated to break loose and shake myself free of them and leap over
to the place to which I was being called--for unruly habit kept saying to me,
"Do you think you can live without them?"
27. But now it said this very faintly; for in the direction I had set my face,
and yet toward which I still trembled to go, the chaste dignity of continence
appeared to me--cheerful but not wanton, modestly alluring me to come and doubt
nothing, extending her holy hands, full of a multitude of good examples--to
receive and embrace me. There were there so many young men and maidens, a
multitude of youth and every age, grave widows and ancient virgins; and
continence herself in their midst: not barren, but a fruitful mother of
children--her joys--by thee, O Lord, her husband. And she smiled on me with a
challenging smile as if to say: "Can you not do what these young men and
maidens can? Or can any of them do it of themselves, and not rather in the Lord
their God? The Lord their God gave me to them. Why do you stand in your own
strength, and so stand not? Cast yourself on him; fear not. He will not flinch
and you will not fall. Cast yourself on him without fear, for he will receive
and heal you." And I blushed violently, for I still heard the muttering of
those "trifles" and hung suspended. Again she seemed to speak: "Stop your ears
against those unclean members of yours, that they may be mortified. They tell
you of delights, but not according to the law of the Lord thy God." This
struggle raging in my heart was nothing but the contest of self against self.
And Alypius kept close beside me, and awaited in silence the outcome of my
extraordinary agitation.
CHAPTER XII
28. Now when deep reflection had drawn up out of the secret depths of my soul
all my misery and had heaped it up before the sight of my heart, there arose a
mighty storm, accompanied by a mighty rain of tears. That I might give way
fully to my tears and lamentations, I stole away from Alypius, for it seemed to
me that solitude was more appropriate for the business of weeping. I went far
enough away that I could feel that even his presence was no restraint upon me.
This was the way I felt at the time, and he realized it. I suppose I had said
something before I started up and he noticed that the sound of my voice was
choked with weeping. And so he stayed alone, where we had been sitting
together, greatly astonished. I flung myself down under a fig tree--how I know
not--and gave free course to my tears. The streams of my eyes gushed out an
acceptable sacrifice to thee. And, not indeed in these words, but to this
effect, I cried to thee: "And thou, O Lord, how long? How long, O Lord? Wilt
thou be angry forever? Oh, remember not against us our former iniquities."[259] For I felt that I was still enthralled by them. I sent
up these sorrowful cries: "How long, how long? Tomorrow and tomorrow? Why not
now? Why not this very hour make an end to my uncleanness?"
29. I was saying these things and weeping in the most bitter contrition of my
heart, when suddenly I heard the voice of a boy or a girl I know not
which--coming from the neighboring house, chanting over and over again, "Pick
it up, read it; pick it up, read it."[260] Immediately I
ceased weeping and began most earnestly to think whether it was usual for
children in some kind of game to sing such a song, but I could not remember
ever having heard the like. So, damming the torrent of my tears, I got to my
feet, for I could not but think that this was a divine command to open the
Bible and read the first passage I should light upon. For I had heard[261] how Anthony, accidentally coming into church while the
gospel was being read, received the admonition as if what was read had been
addressed to him: "Go and sell what you have and give it to the poor, and you
shall have treasure in heaven; and come and follow me."[262] By such an oracle he was forthwith converted to thee.
So I quickly returned to the bench where Alypius was sitting, for there I had
put down the apostle's book when I had left there. I snatched it up, opened it,
and in silence read the paragraph on which my eyes first fell: "Not in rioting
and drunkenness, not in chambering and wantonness, not in strife and envying,
but put on the Lord Jesus Christ, and make no provision for the flesh to
fulfill the lusts thereof."[263] I wanted to read no
further, nor did I need to. For instantly, as the sentence ended, there was
infused in my heart something like the light of full certainty and all the
gloom of doubt vanished away.[264]
30. Closing the book, then, and putting my finger or something else for a mark
I began--now with a tranquil countenance--to tell it all to Alypius. And he in
turn disclosed to me what had been going on in himself, of which I knew
nothing. He asked to see what I had read. I showed him, and he looked on even
further than I had read. I had not known what followed. But indeed it was this,
"Him that is weak in the faith, receive."[265] This he
applied to himself, and told me so. By these words of warning he was
strengthened, and by exercising his good resolution and purpose--all very much
in keeping with his character, in which, in these respects, he was always far
different from and better than I--he joined me in full commitment without any
restless hesitation.
Then we went in to my mother, and told her what happened, to her great joy. We
explained to her how it had occurred--and she leaped for joy triumphant; and
she blessed thee, who art "able to do exceedingly abundantly above all that we
ask or think."[266] For she saw that thou hadst granted
her far more than she had ever asked for in all her pitiful and doleful
lamentations. For thou didst so convert me to thee that I sought neither a wife
nor any other of this world's hopes, but set my feet on that rule of faith
which so many years before thou hadst showed her in her dream about me. And so
thou didst turn her grief into gladness more plentiful than she had ventured to
desire, and dearer and purer than the desire she used to cherish of having
grandchildren of my flesh.
BOOK NINE
The end of the autobiography. Augustine tells of his resigning
from his professorship and of the days at Cassiciacum in preparation for
baptism. He is baptized together with Adeodatus and Alypius. Shortly
thereafter, they start back for Africa. Augustine recalls the ecstasy he and
his mother shared in Ostia and then reports her death and burial and his grief.
The book closes with a moving prayer for the souls of Monica, Patricius, and
all his fellow citizens of the heavenly Jerusalem.
CHAPTER I
1. "O Lord, I am thy servant; I am thy servant and the son of thy handmaid.
Thou hast loosed my bonds. I will offer to thee the sacrifice of
thanksgiving."[267] Let my heart and my tongue praise
thee, and let all my bones say, "Lord, who is like unto thee?" Let them say so,
and answer thou me and say unto my soul, "I am your salvation."
Who am I, and what is my nature? What evil is there not in me and my deeds; or
if not in my deeds, my words; or if not in my words, my will? But thou, O Lord,
art good and merciful, and thy right hand didst reach into the depth of my
death and didst empty out the abyss of corruption from the bottom of my heart.
And this was the result: now I did not will to do what I willed, and began to
will to do what thou didst will.
But where was my free will during all those years and from what deep and secret
retreat was it called forth in a single moment, whereby I gave my neck to thy
"easy yoke" and my shoulders to thy "light burden," O Christ Jesus, "my
Strength and my Redeemer"? How sweet did it suddenly become to me to be without
the sweetness of trifles! And it was now a joy to put away what I formerly
feared to lose. For thou didst cast them away from me, O true and highest
Sweetness. Thou didst cast them away, and in their place thou didst enter in
thyself--sweeter than all pleasure, though not to flesh and blood; brighter
than all light, but more veiled than all mystery; more exalted than all honor,
though not to them that are exalted in their own eyes. Now was my soul free
from the gnawing cares of seeking and getting, of wallowing in the mire and
scratching the itch of lust. And I prattled like a child to thee, O Lord my
God--my light, my riches, and my salvation.
CHAPTER II
2. And it seemed right to me, in thy sight, not to snatch my tongue's service
abruptly out of the speech market, but to withdraw quietly, so that the young
men who were not concerned about thy law or thy peace, but with mendacious
follies and forensic strifes, might no longer purchase from my mouth weapons
for their frenzy. Fortunately, there were only a few days before the "vintage
vacation"[268]; and I determined to endure them, so that I
might resign in due form and, now bought by thee, return for sale no more.
My plan was known to thee, but, save for my own friends, it was not known to
other men. For we had agreed that it should not be made public; although, in
our ascent from the "valley of tears" and our singing of "the song of degrees,"
thou hadst given us sharp arrows and hot burning coals to stop that deceitful
tongue which opposes under the guise of good counsel, and devours what it loves
as though it were food.
3. Thou hadst pierced our heart with thy love, and we carried thy words, as it
were, thrust through our vitals. The examples of thy servants whom thou hadst
changed from black to shining white, and from death to life, crowded into the
bosom of our thoughts and burned and consumed our sluggish temper, that we
might not topple back into the abyss. And they fired us exceedingly, so that
every breath of the deceitful tongue of our detractors might fan the flame and
not blow it out.
Though this vow and purpose of ours should find those who would loudly praise
it--for the sake of thy name, which thou hast sanctified throughout the
earth--it nevertheless looked like a self-vaunting not to wait until the
vacation time now so near. For if I had left such a public office ahead of
time, and had made the break in the eye of the general public, all who took
notice of this act of mine and observed how near was the vintage time that I
wished to anticipate would have talked about me a great deal, as if I were
trying to appear a great person. And what purpose would it serve that people
should consider and dispute about my conversion so that my good should be evil
spoken of?
4. Furthermore, this same summer my lungs had begun to be weak from too much
literary labor. Breathing was difficult; the pains in my chest showed that the
lungs were affected and were soon fatigued by too loud or prolonged speaking.
This had at first been a trial to me, for it would have compelled me almost of
necessity to lay down that burden of teaching; or, if I was to be cured and
become strong again, at least to take a leave for a while. But as soon as the
full desire to be still that I might know that thou art the Lord[269] arose and was confirmed in me, thou knowest, my God,
that I began to rejoice that I had this excuse ready--and not a feigned one,
either--which might somewhat temper the displeasure of those who for their
sons' freedom wished me never to have any freedom of my own.
Full of joy, then, I bore it until my time ran out--it was perhaps some twenty
days--yet it was some strain to go through with it, for the greediness which
helped to support the drudgery had gone, and I would have been overwhelmed had
not its place been taken by patience. Some of thy servants, my brethren, may
say that I sinned in this, since having once fully and from my heart enlisted
in thy service, I permitted myself to sit a single hour in the chair of
falsehood. I will not dispute it. But hast thou not, O most merciful Lord,
pardoned and forgiven this sin in the holy water[270] also, along with all the others, horrible and deadly as they were?
CHAPTER III
5. Verecundus was severely disturbed by this new happiness of mine, since he
was still firmly held by his bonds and saw that he would lose my companionship.
For he was not yet a Christian, though his wife was; and, indeed, he was more
firmly enchained by her than by anything else, and held back from that journey
on which we had set out. Furthermore, he declared he did not wish to be a
Christian on any terms except those that were impossible. However, he invited
us most courteously to make use of his country house so long as we would stay
there. O Lord, thou wilt recompense him for this "in the resurrection of the
just,"[271] seeing that thou hast already given him "the
lot of the righteous."[272] For while we were absent at
Rome, he was overtaken with bodily sickness, and during it he was made a
Christian and departed this life as one of the faithful. Thus thou hadst mercy
on him, and not on him only, but on us as well; lest, remembering the exceeding
kindness of our friend to us and not able to count him in thy flock, we should
be tortured with intolerable grief. Thanks be unto thee, our God; we are thine.
Thy exhortations, consolations, and faithful promises assure us that thou wilt
repay Verecundus for that country house at Cassiciacum--where we found rest in
thee from the fever of the world--with the perpetual freshness of thy paradise
in which thou hast forgiven him his earthly sins, in that mountain flowing with
milk, that fruitful mountain--thy own.
6. Thus Verecundus was full of grief; but Nebridius was joyous. For he was not
yet a Christian, and had fallen into the pit of deadly error, believing that
the flesh of thy Son, the Truth, was a phantom.[273] Yet
he had come up out of that pit and now held the same belief that we did. And
though he was not as yet initiated in any of the sacraments of thy Church, he
was a most earnest inquirer after truth. Not long after our conversion and
regeneration by thy baptism, he also became a faithful member of the Catholic
Church, serving thee in perfect chastity and continence among his own people in
Africa, and bringing his whole household with him to Christianity. Then thou
didst release him from the flesh, and now he lives in Abraham's bosom. Whatever
is signified by that term "bosom," there lives my Nebridius, my sweet friend,
thy son by adoption, O Lord, and not a freedman any longer. There he lives; for
what other place could there be for such a soul? There he lives in that abode
about which he used to ask me so many questions--poor ignorant one that I was.
Now he does not put his ear up to my mouth, but his spiritual mouth to thy
fountain, and drinks wisdom as he desires and as he is able--happy without end.
But I do not believe that he is so inebriated by that draught as to forget me;
since thou, O Lord, who art the draught, art mindful of us.
Thus, then, we were comforting the unhappy Verecundus--our friendship
untouched--reconciling him to our conversion and exhorting him to a faith fit
for his condition (that is, to his being married). We tarried for Nebridius to
follow us, since he was so close, and this he was just about to do when at last
the interim ended. The days had seemed long and many because of my eagerness
for leisure and liberty in which I might sing to thee from my inmost part, "My
heart has said to thee, I have sought thy face; thy face, O Lord, will I
seek."[274]
CHAPTER IV
7. Finally the day came on which I was actually to be relieved from the
professorship of rhetoric, from which I had already been released in intention.
And it was done. And thou didst deliver my tongue as thou hadst already
delivered my heart; and I blessed thee for it with great joy, and retired with
my friends to the villa.[275] My books testify to what I
got done there in writing, which was now hopefully devoted to thy service;
though in this pause it was still as if I were panting from my exertions in the
school of pride.[276] These were the books in which I
engaged in dialogue with my friends, and also those in soliloquy before thee
alone.[277] And there are my letters to Nebridius, who was
still absent.[278]
When would there be enough time to recount all thy great blessings which thou
didst bestow on us in that time, especially as I am hastening on to still
greater mercies? For my memory recalls them to me and it is pleasant to confess
them to thee, O Lord: the inward goads by which thou didst subdue me and how
thou broughtest me low, leveling the mountains and hills of my thoughts,
straightening my crookedness, and smoothing my rough ways. And I remember by
what means thou also didst subdue Alypius, my heart's brother, to the name of
thy only Son, our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ--which he at first refused to
have inserted in our writings. For at first he preferred that they should smell
of the cedars of the schools[279] which the Lord hath now
broken down, rather than of the wholesome herbs of the Church, hostile to
serpents.[280]
8. O my God, how did I cry to thee when I read the psalms of David, those hymns
of faith, those paeans of devotion which leave no room for swelling pride! I
was still a novice in thy true love, a catechumen keeping holiday at the villa,
with Alypius, a catechumen like myself. My mother was also with us--in woman's
garb, but with a man's faith, with the peacefulness of age and the fullness of
motherly love and Christian piety. What cries I used to send up to thee in
those songs, and how I was enkindled toward thee by them! I burned to sing them
if possible, throughout the whole world, against the pride of the human race.
And yet, indeed, they are sung throughout the whole world, and none can hide
himself from thy heat. With what strong and bitter regret was I indignant at
the Manicheans! Yet I also pitied them; for they were ignorant of those
sacraments, those medicines[281]--and raved insanely
against the cure that might have made them sane! I wished they could have been
somewhere close by, and--without my knowledge--could have seen my face and
heard my words when, in that time of leisure, I pored over the Fourth Psalm.
And I wish they could have seen how that psalm affected me.[282] "When I called upon thee, O God of my righteousness,
thou didst hear me; thou didst enlarge me when I was in distress. Have mercy
upon me and hear my prayer." I wish they might have heard what I said in
comment on those words--without my knowing that they heard, lest they should
think that I was speaking it just on their account. For, indeed, I should not
have said quite the same things, nor quite in the same way, if I had known that
I was heard and seen by them. And if I had so spoken, they would not have meant
the same things to them as they did to me when I spoke by and for myself before
thee, out of the private affections of my soul.
9. By turns I trembled with fear and warmed with hope and rejoiced in thy
mercy, O Father. And all these feelings showed forth in my eyes and voice when
thy good Spirit turned to us and said, "O sons of men, how long will you be
slow of heart, how long will you love vanity, and seek after falsehood?" For I
had loved vanity and sought after falsehood. And thou, O Lord, had already
magnified thy Holy One, raising him from the dead and setting him at thy right
hand, that thence he should send forth from on high his promised "Paraclete,
the Spirit of Truth." Already he had sent him, and I knew it not. He had sent
him because he was now magnified, rising from the dead and ascending into
heaven. For till then "the Holy Spirit was not yet given, because Jesus was not
yet glorified."[283] And the prophet cried out: "How long
will you be slow of heart? How long will you love vanity, and seek after
falsehood? Know this, that the Lord hath magnified his Holy One." He cries,
"How long?" He cries, "Know this," and I--so long "loving vanity, and seeking
after falsehood"--heard and trembled, because these words were spoken to such a
one as I remembered that I myself had been. For in those phantoms which I once
held for truth there was vanity and falsehood. And I spoke many things loudly
and earnestly--in the contrition of my memory--which I wish they had heard, who
still "love vanity and seek after falsehood." Perhaps they would have been
troubled, and have vomited up their error, and thou wouldst have heard them
when they cried to thee; for by a real death in the flesh He died for us who
now maketh intercession for us with thee.
10. I read on further, "Be angry, and sin not." And how deeply was I touched, O
my God; for I had now learned to be angry with myself for the things past, so
that in the future I might not sin. Yes, to be angry with good cause, for it
was not another nature out of the race of darkness that had sinned for me--as
they affirm who are not angry with themselves, and who store up for themselves
dire wrath against the day of wrath and the revelation of thy righteous
judgment. Nor were the good things I saw now outside me, nor were they to be
seen with the eyes of flesh in the light of the earthly sun. For they that have
their joys from without sink easily into emptiness and are spilled out on those
things that are visible and temporal, and in their starving thoughts they lick
their very shadows. If only they would grow weary with their hunger and would
say, "Who will show us any good?" And we would answer, and they would hear, "O
Lord, the light of thy countenance shines bright upon us." For we are not that
Light that enlightens every man, but we are enlightened by thee, so that we who
were formerly in darkness may now be alight in thee. If only they could behold
the inner Light Eternal which, now that I had tasted it, I gnashed my teeth
because I could not show it to them unless they brought me their heart in their
eyes--their roving eyes--and said, "Who will show us any good?" But even there,
in the inner chamber of my soul--where I was angry with myself; where I was
inwardly pricked, where I had offered my sacrifice, slaying my old man, and
hoping in thee with the new resolve of a new life with my trust laid in
thee--even there thou hadst begun to grow sweet to me and to "put gladness in
my heart." And thus as I read all this, I cried aloud and felt its inward
meaning. Nor did I wish to be increased in worldly goods which are wasted by
time, for now I possessed, in thy eternal simplicity, other corn and wine and
oil.
11. And with a loud cry from my heart, I read the following verse: "Oh, in
peace! Oh, in the Selfsame!"[284] See how he says it: "I
will lay me down and take my rest."[285] For who shall
withstand us when the truth of this saying that is written is made manifest:
"Death is swallowed up in victory"[286]? For surely thou,
who dost not change, art the Selfsame, and in thee is rest and oblivion to all
distress. There is none other beside thee, nor are we to toil for those many
things which are not thee, for only thou, O Lord, makest me to dwell in
hope."
These things I read and was enkindled--but still I could not discover what to
do with those deaf and dead Manicheans to whom I myself had belonged; for I had
been a bitter and blind reviler against these writings, honeyed with the honey
of heaven and luminous with thy light. And I was sorely grieved at these
enemies of this Scripture.
12. When shall I call to mind all that happened during those holidays? I have
not forgotten them; nor will I be silent about the severity of thy scourge, and
the amazing quickness of thy mercy. During that time thou didst torture me with
a toothache; and when it had become so acute that I was not able to speak, it
came into my heart to urge all my friends who were present to pray for me to
thee, the God of all health. And I wrote it down on the tablet and gave it to
them to read. Presently, as we bowed our knees in supplication, the pain was
gone. But what pain? How did it go? I confess that I was terrified, O Lord my
God, because from my earliest years I had never experienced such pain. And thy
purposes were profoundly impressed upon me; and rejoicing in faith, I praised
thy name. But that faith allowed me no rest in respect of my past sins, which
were not yet forgiven me through thy baptism.
CHAPTER V
13. Now that the vintage vacation was ended, I gave notice to the citizens of
Milan that they might provide their scholars with another word-merchant. I gave
as my reasons my determination to serve thee and also my insufficiency for the
task, because of the difficulty in breathing and the pain in my chest.
And by letters I notified thy bishop, the holy man Ambrose, of my former errors
and my present resolution. And I asked his advice as to which of thy books it
was best for me to read so that I might be the more ready and fit for the
reception of so great a grace. He recommended Isaiah the prophet; and I believe
it was because Isaiah foreshows more clearly than others the gospel, and the
calling of the Gentiles. But because I could not understand the first part and
because I imagined the rest to be like it, I laid it aside with the intention
of taking it up again later, when better practiced in our Lord's words.
CHAPTER VI
14. When the time arrived for me to give in my name, we left the country and
returned to Milan. Alypius also resolved to be born again in thee at the same
time. He was already clothed with the humility that befits thy sacraments, and
was so brave a tamer of his body that he would walk the frozen Italian soil
with his naked feet, which called for unusual fortitude. We took with us the
boy Adeodatus, my son after the flesh, the offspring of my sin. Thou hadst made
of him a noble lad. He was barely fifteen years old, but his intelligence
excelled that of many grave and learned men. I confess to thee thy gifts, O
Lord my God, creator of all, who hast power to reform our deformities--for
there was nothing of me in that boy but the sin. For it was thou who didst
inspire us to foster him in thy discipline, and none other--thy gifts I confess
to thee. There is a book of mine, entitled De Magistro.[287] It is a dialogue between Adeodatus and me, and thou
knowest that all things there put into the mouth of my interlocutor are his,
though he was then only in his sixteenth year. Many other gifts even more
wonderful I found in him. His talent was a source of awe to me. And who but
thou couldst be the worker of such marvels? And thou didst quickly remove his
life from the earth, and even now I recall him to mind with a sense of
security, because I fear nothing for his childhood or youth, nor for his whole
career. We took him for our companion, as if he were the same age in grace with
ourselves, to be trained with ourselves in thy discipline. And so we were
baptized and the anxiety about our past life left us.
Nor did I ever have enough in those days of the wondrous sweetness of
meditating on the depth of thy counsels concerning the salvation of the human
race. How freely did I weep in thy hymns and canticles; how deeply was I moved
by the voices of thy sweet-speaking Church! The voices flowed into my ears; and
the truth was poured forth into my heart, where the tide of my devotion
overflowed, and my tears ran down, and I was happy in all these things.
CHAPTER VII
15. The church of Milan had only recently begun to employ this mode of
consolation and exaltation with all the brethren singing together with great
earnestness of voice and heart. For it was only about a year--not much
more--since Justina, the mother of the boy-emperor Valentinian, had persecuted
thy servant Ambrose on behalf of her heresy, in which she had been seduced by
the Arians. The devoted people kept guard in the church, prepared to die with
their bishop, thy servant. Among them my mother, thy handmaid, taking a leading
part in those anxieties and vigils, lived there in prayer. And even though we
were still not wholly melted by the heat of thy Spirit, we were nevertheless
excited by the alarmed and disturbed city.
This was the time that the custom began, after the manner of the Eastern
Church, that hymns and psalms should be sung, so that the people would not be
worn out with the tedium of lamentation. This custom, retained from then till
now, has been imitated by many, indeed, by almost all thy congregations
throughout the rest of the world.[288]
16. Then by a vision thou madest known to thy renowned bishop the spot where
lay the bodies of Gervasius and Protasius, the martyrs, whom thou hadst
preserved uncorrupted for so many years in thy secret storehouse, so that thou
mightest produce them at a fit time to check a woman's fury--a woman indeed,
but also a queen! When they were discovered and dug up and brought with due
honor to the basilica of Ambrose, as they were borne along the road many who
were troubled by unclean spirits--the devils confessing themselves--were
healed. And there was also a certain man, a well-known citizen of the city,
blind many years, who, when he had asked and learned the reason for the
people's tumultuous joy, rushed out and begged his guide to lead him to the
place. When he arrived there, he begged to be permitted to touch with his
handkerchief the bier of thy saints, whose death is precious in thy sight. When
he had done this, and put it to his eyes, they were immediately opened. The
fame of all this spread abroad; from this thy glory shone more brightly. And
also from this the mind of that angry woman, though not enlarged to the sanity
of a full faith, was nevertheless restrained from the fury of persecution.
Thanks to thee, O my God. Whence and whither hast thou led my memory, that I
should confess such things as these to thee--for great as they were, I had
forgetfully passed them over? And yet at that time, when the sweet savor of thy
ointment was so fragrant, I did not run after thee.[289] Therefore, I wept more bitterly as I listened to thy hymns, having so long
panted after thee. And now at length I could breathe as much as the space
allows in this our straw house.[290]
CHAPTER VIII
17. Thou, O Lord, who makest men of one mind to dwell in a single house, also
broughtest Evodius to join our company. He was a young man of our city, who,
while serving as a secret service agent, was converted to thee and baptized
before us. He had relinquished his secular service, and prepared himself for
thine. We were together, and we were resolved to live together in our devout
purpose.
We cast about for some place where we might be most useful in our service to
thee, and had planned on going back together to Africa. And when we had got as
far as Ostia on the Tiber, my mother died.
I am passing over many things, for I must hasten. Receive, O my God, my
confessions and thanksgiving for the unnumbered things about which I am silent.
But I will not omit anything my mind has brought back concerning thy handmaid
who brought me forth--in her flesh, that I might be born into this world's
light, and in her heart, that I might be born to life eternal. I will not speak
of her gifts, but of thy gift in her; for she neither made herself nor trained
herself. Thou didst create her, and neither her father nor her mother knew what
kind of being was to come forth from them. And it was the rod of thy Christ,
the discipline of thy only Son, that trained her in thy fear, in the house of
one of thy faithful ones who was a sound member of thy Church. Yet my mother
did not attribute this good training of hers as much to the diligence of her
own mother as to that of a certain elderly maidservant who had nursed her
father, carrying him around on her back, as big girls carried babies. Because
of her long-time service and also because of her extreme age and excellent
character, she was much respected by the heads of that Christian household. The
care of her master's daughters was also committed to her, and she performed her
task with diligence. She was quite earnest in restraining them with a holy
severity when necessary and instructing them with a sober sagacity. Thus,
except at mealtimes at their parents' table--when they were fed very
temperately--she would not allow them to drink even water, however parched they
were with thirst. In this way she took precautions against an evil custom and
added the wholesome advice: "You drink water now only because you don't control
the wine; but when you are married and mistresses of pantry and cellar, you may
not care for water, but the habit of drinking will be fixed." By such a method
of instruction, and her authority, she restrained the longing of their tender
age, and regulated even the thirst of the girls to such a decorous control that
they no longer wanted what they ought not to have.
18. And yet, as thy handmaid related to me, her son, there had stolen upon her
a love of wine. For, in the ordinary course of things, when her parents sent
her as a sober maiden to draw wine from the cask, she would hold a cup under
the tap; and then, before she poured the wine into the bottle, she would wet
the tips of her lips with a little of it, for more than this her taste refused.
She did not do this out of any craving for drink, but out of the overflowing
buoyancy of her time of life, which bubbles up with sportiveness and youthful
spirits, but is usually borne down by the gravity of the old folks. And so,
adding daily a little to that little--for "he that contemns small things shall
fall by a little here and a little there"[291]--she
slipped into such a habit as to drink off eagerly her little cup nearly full of
wine.
Where now was that wise old woman and her strict prohibition? Could anything
prevail against our secret disease if thy medicine, O Lord, did not watch over
us? Though father and mother and nurturers are absent, thou art present, who
dost create, who callest, and who also workest some good for our salvation,
through those who are set over us. What didst thou do at that time, O my God?
How didst thou heal her? How didst thou make her whole? Didst thou not bring
forth from another woman's soul a hard and bitter insult, like a surgeon's
knife from thy secret store, and with one thrust drain off all that
putrefaction? For the slave girl who used to accompany her to the cellar fell
to quarreling with her little mistress, as it sometimes happened when she was
alone with her, and cast in her teeth this vice of hers, along with a very
bitter insult: calling her "a drunkard." Stung by this taunt, my mother saw her
own vileness and immediately condemned and renounced it.
As the flattery of friends corrupts, so often do the taunts of enemies
instruct. Yet thou repayest them, not for the good thou workest through their
means, but for the malice they intended. That angry slave girl wanted to
infuriate her young mistress, not to cure her; and that is why she spoke up
when they were alone. Or perhaps it was because their quarrel just happened to
break out at that time and place; or perhaps she was afraid of punishment for
having told of it so late.
But thou, O Lord, ruler of heaven and earth, who changest to thy purposes the
deepest floods and controls the turbulent tide of the ages, thou healest one
soul by the unsoundness of another; so that no man, when he hears of such a
happening, should attribute it to his own power if another person whom he
wishes to reform is reformed through a word of his.
CHAPTER IX
19. Thus modestly and soberly brought up, she was made subject to her parents
by thee, rather more than by her parents to thee. She arrived at a marriageable
age, and she was given to a husband whom she served as her lord. And she busied
herself to gain him to thee, preaching thee to him by her behavior, in which
thou madest her fair and reverently amiable, and admirable to her husband. For
she endured with patience his infidelity and never had any dissension with her
husband on this account. For she waited for thy mercy upon him until, by
believing in thee, he might become chaste.
Moreover, even though he was earnest in friendship, he was also violent in
anger; but she had learned that an angry husband should not be resisted, either
in deed or in word. But as soon as he had grown calm and was tranquil, and she
saw a fitting moment, she would give him a reason for her conduct, if he had
been excited unreasonably. As a result, while many matrons whose husbands were
more gentle than hers bore the marks of blows on their disfigured faces, and
would in private talk blame the behavior of their husbands, she would blame
their tongues, admonishing them seriously--though in a jesting manner--that
from the hour they heard what are called the matrimonial tablets read to them,
they should think of them as instruments by which they were made servants. So,
always being mindful of their condition, they ought not to set themselves up in
opposition to their lords. And, knowing what a furious, bad-tempered husband
she endured, they marveled that it had never been rumored, nor was there any
mark to show, that Patricius had ever beaten his wife, or that there had been
any domestic strife between them, even for a day. And when they asked her
confidentially the reason for this, she taught them the rule I have mentioned.
Those who observed it confirmed the wisdom of it and rejoiced; those who did
not observe it were bullied and vexed.
20. Even her mother-in-law, who was at first prejudiced against her by the
whisperings of malicious servants, she conquered by submission, persevering in
it with patience and meekness; with the result that the mother-in-law told her
son of the tales of the meddling servants which had disturbed the domestic
peace between herself and her daughter-in-law and begged him to punish them for
it. In conformity with his mother's wish, and in the interest of family
discipline to insure the future harmony of its members, he had those servants
beaten who were pointed out by her who had discovered them; and she promised a
similar reward to anyone else who, thinking to please her, should say anything
evil of her daughter-in-law. After this no one dared to do so, and they lived
together with a wonderful sweetness of mutual good will.
21. This other great gift thou also didst bestow, O my God, my Mercy, upon that
good handmaid of thine, in whose womb thou didst create me. It was that
whenever she could she acted as a peacemaker between any differing and
discordant spirits, and when she heard very bitter things on either side of a
controversy--the kind of bloated and undigested discord which often belches
forth bitter words, when crude malice is breathed out by sharp tongues to a
present friend against an absent enemy--she would disclose nothing about the
one to the other except what might serve toward their reconciliation. This
might seem a small good to me if I did not know to my sorrow countless persons
who, through the horrid and far-spreading infection of sin, not only repeat to
enemies mutually enraged things said in passion against each other, but also
add some things that were never said at all. It ought not to be enough in a
truly humane man merely not to incite or increase the enmities of men by
evil-speaking; he ought likewise to endeavor by kind words to extinguish them.
Such a one was she--and thou, her most intimate instructor, didst teach her in
the school of her heart.
22. Finally, her own husband, now toward the end of his earthly existence, she
won over to thee. Henceforth, she had no cause to complain of unfaithfulness in
him, which she had endured before he became one of the faithful. She was also
the servant of thy servants. All those who knew her greatly praised, honored,
and loved thee in her because, through the witness of the fruits of a holy
life, they recognized thee present in her heart. For she had "been the wife of
one man,"[292] had honored her parents, had guided her
house in piety, was highly reputed for good works, and brought up her children,
travailing in labor with them as often as she saw them swerving from thee.
Lastly, to all of us, O Lord--since of thy favor thou allowest thy servants to
speak--to all of us who lived together in that association before her death in
thee she devoted such care as she might have if she had been mother of us all;
she served us as if she had been the daughter of us all.
CHAPTER X
23. As the day now approached on which she was to depart this life--a day which
thou knewest, but which we did not--it happened (though I believe it was by thy
secret ways arranged) that she and I stood alone, leaning in a certain window
from which the garden of the house we occupied at Ostia could be seen. Here in
this place, removed from the crowd, we were resting ourselves for the voyage
after the fatigues of a long journey.
We were conversing alone very pleasantly and "forgetting those things which are
past, and reaching forward toward those things which are future."[293] We were in the present--and in the presence of Truth
(which thou art)--discussing together what is the nature of the eternal life of
the saints: which eye has not seen, nor ear heard, neither has entered into the
heart of man.[294] We opened wide the mouth of our heart,
thirsting for those supernal streams of thy fountain, "the fountain of life"
which is with thee,[295] that we might be sprinkled with
its waters according to our capacity and might in some measure weigh the truth
of so profound a mystery.
24. And when our conversation had brought us to the point where the very
highest of physical sense and the most intense illumination of physical light
seemed, in comparison with the sweetness of that life to come, not worthy of
comparison, nor even of mention, we lifted ourselves with a more ardent love
toward the Selfsame,[296] and we gradually passed through
all the levels of bodily objects, and even through the heaven itself, where the
sun and moon and stars shine on the earth. Indeed, we soared higher yet by an
inner musing, speaking and marveling at thy works.
And we came at last to our own minds and went beyond them, that we might climb
as high as that region of unfailing plenty where thou feedest Israel forever
with the food of truth, where life is that Wisdom by whom all things are made,
both which have been and which are to be. Wisdom is not made, but is as she has
been and forever shall be; for "to have been" and "to be hereafter" do not
apply to her, but only "to be," because she is eternal and "to have been" and
"to be hereafter" are not eternal.
And while we were thus speaking and straining after her, we just barely touched
her with the whole effort of our hearts. Then with a sigh, leaving the first
fruits of the Spirit bound to that ecstasy, we returned to the sounds of our
own tongue, where the spoken word had both beginning and end.[297] But what is like to thy Word, our Lord, who remaineth
in himself without becoming old, and "makes all things new"[298]?
25. What we said went something like this: "If to any man the tumult of the
flesh were silenced; and the phantoms of earth and waters and air were
silenced; and the poles were silent as well; indeed, if the very soul grew
silent to herself, and went beyond herself by not thinking of herself; if
fancies and imaginary revelations were silenced; if every tongue and every sign
and every transient thing--for actually if any man could hear them, all these
would say, `We did not create ourselves, but were created by Him who abides
forever'--and if, having uttered this, they too should be silent, having
stirred our ears to hear him who created them; and if then he alone spoke, not
through them but by himself, that we might hear his word, not in fleshly tongue
or angelic voice, nor sound of thunder, nor the obscurity of a parable, but
might hear him--him for whose sake we love these things--if we could hear him
without these, as we two now strained ourselves to do, we then with rapid
thought might touch on that Eternal Wisdom which abides over all. And if this
could be sustained, and other visions of a far different kind be taken away,
and this one should so ravish and absorb and envelop its beholder in these
inward joys that his life might be eternally like that one moment of knowledge
which we now sighed after--would not this be the reality of the saying,
`Enter into the joy of thy Lord'[299]? But when shall such
a thing be? Shall it not be `when we all shall rise again,' and shall it not be
that `all things will be changed'[300]?"
26. Such a thought I was expressing, and if not in this manner and in these
words, still, O Lord, thou knowest that on that day we were talking thus and
that this world, with all its joys, seemed cheap to us even as we spoke. Then
my mother said: "Son, for myself I have no longer any pleasure in anything in
this life. Now that my hopes in this world are satisfied, I do not know what
more I want here or why I am here. There was indeed one thing for which I
wished to tarry a little in this life, and that was that I might see you a
Catholic Christian before I died. My God hath answered this more than
abundantly, so that I see you now made his servant and spurning all earthly
happiness. What more am I to do here?"
CHAPTER XI
27. I do not well remember what reply I made to her about this. However, it was
scarcely five days later--certainly not much more--that she was prostrated by
fever. While she was sick, she fainted one day and was for a short time quite
unconscious. We hurried to her, and when she soon regained her senses, she
looked at me and my brother[301] as we stood by her, and
said, in inquiry, "Where was I?" Then looking intently at us, dumb in our
grief, she said, "Here in this place shall you bury your mother." I was silent
and held back my tears; but my brother said something, wishing her the happier
lot of dying in her own country and not abroad. When she heard this, she fixed
him with her eye and an anxious countenance, because he savored of such earthly
concerns, and then gazing at me she said, "See how he speaks." Soon after, she
said to us both: "Lay this body anywhere, and do not let the care of it be a
trouble to you at all. Only this I ask: that you will remember me at the Lord's
altar, wherever you are." And when she had expressed her wish in such words as
she could, she fell silent, in heavy pain with her increasing sickness.
28. But as I thought about thy gifts, O invisible God, which thou plantest in
the heart of thy faithful ones, from which such marvelous fruits spring up, I
rejoiced and gave thanks to thee, remembering what I had known of how she had
always been much concerned about her burial place, which she had provided and
prepared for herself by the body of her husband. For as they had lived very
peacefully together, her desire had always been--so little is the human mind
capable of grasping things divine--that this last should be added to all that
happiness, and commented on by others: that, after her pilgrimage beyond the
sea, it would be granted her that the two of them, so united on earth, should
lie in the same grave.
When this vanity, through the bounty of thy goodness, had begun to be no longer
in her heart, I do not know; but I joyfully marveled at what she had thus
disclosed to me--though indeed in our conversation in the window, when she
said, "What is there here for me to do any more?" she appeared not to desire to
die in her own country. I heard later on that, during our stay in Ostia, she
had been talking in maternal confidence to some of my friends about her
contempt of this life and the blessing of death. When they were amazed at the
courage which was given her, a woman, and had asked her whether she did not
dread having her body buried so far from her own city, she replied: "Nothing is
far from God. I do not fear that, at the end of time, he should not know the
place whence he is to resurrect me." And so on the ninth day of her sickness,
in the fifty-sixth year of her life and the thirty-third of mine,[302] that religious and devout soul was set loose from the
body.
CHAPTER XII
29. I closed her eyes; and there flowed in a great sadness on my heart and it
was passing into tears, when at the strong behest of my mind my eyes sucked
back the fountain dry, and sorrow was in me like a convulsion. As soon as she
breathed her last, the boy Adeodatus burst out wailing; but he was checked by
us all, and became quiet. Likewise, my own childish feeling which was, through
the youthful voice of my heart, seeking escape in tears, was held back and
silenced. For we did not consider it fitting to celebrate that death with
tearful wails and groanings. This is the way those who die unhappy or are
altogether dead are usually mourned. But she neither died unhappy nor did she
altogether die.[303] For of this we were assured by the
witness of her good life, her "faith unfeigned,"[304] and
other manifest evidence.
30. What was it, then, that hurt me so grievously in my heart except the newly
made wound, caused from having the sweet and dear habit of living together with
her suddenly broken? I was full of joy because of her testimony in her last
illness, when she praised my dutiful attention and called me kind, and recalled
with great affection of love that she had never heard any harsh or reproachful
sound from my mouth against her. But yet, O my God who made us, how can that
honor I paid her be compared with her service to me? I was then left destitute
of a great comfort in her, and my soul was stricken; and that life was torn
apart, as it were, which had been made but one out of hers and mine together.[305]
31. When the boy was restrained from weeping, Evodius took up the Psalter and
began to sing, with the whole household responding, the psalm, "I will sing of
mercy and judgment unto thee, O Lord."[306] And when they
heard what we were doing, many of the brethren and religious women came
together. And while those whose office it was to prepare for the funeral went
about their task according to custom, I discoursed in another part of the
house, with those who thought I should not be left alone, on what was
appropriate to the occasion. By this balm of truth, I softened the anguish
known to thee. They were unconscious of it and listened intently and thought me
free of any sense of sorrow. But in thy ears, where none of them heard, I
reproached myself for the mildness of my feelings, and restrained the flow of
my grief which bowed a little to my will. The paroxysm returned again, and I
knew what I repressed in my heart, even though it did not make me burst forth
into tears or even change my countenance; and I was greatly annoyed that these
human things had such power over me, which in the due order and destiny of our
natural condition must of necessity happen. And so with a new sorrow I sorrowed
for my sorrow and was wasted with a twofold sadness.
32. So, when the body was carried forth, we both went and returned without
tears. For neither in those prayers which we poured forth to thee, when the
sacrifice of our redemption was offered up to thee for her--with the body
placed by the side of the grave as the custom is there, before it is lowered
down into it--neither in those prayers did I weep. But I was most grievously
sad in secret all the day, and with a troubled mind entreated thee, as I could,
to heal my sorrow; but thou didst not. I now believe that thou wast fixing in
my memory, by this one lesson, the power of the bonds of all habit, even on a
mind which now no longer feeds upon deception. It then occurred to me that it
would be a good thing to go and bathe, for I had heard that the word for bath
[balneum] took its name from the Greek balaneion [[[beta]][[alpha]][[lambda]][[alpha]][[nu]][[epsilon]][[iota]][[omicron]][[nu]]]
because it washes anxiety from the mind. Now see, this also I confess to thy
mercy, "O Father of the fatherless"[307]: I bathed and
felt the same as I had done before. For the bitterness of my grief was not
sweated from my heart.
Then I slept, and when I awoke I found my grief not a little assuaged. And as I
lay there on my bed, those true verses of Ambrose came to my mind, for thou art
truly,
"Deus, creator omnium,
Polique rector, vestiens
Diem decoro lumine,
Noctem sopora gratia;
Artus solutos ut quies
Reddat laboris usui
Mentesque fessas allevet,
Luctusque solvat anxios."
"O God, Creator of us all,
Guiding the orbs celestial,
Clothing the day with lovely light,
Appointing gracious sleep by night:
Thy grace our wearied limbs restore
To strengthened labor, as before,
And ease the grief of tired minds
From that deep torment which it finds."[308]
33. And then, little by little, there came back to me my former memories of thy
handmaid: her devout life toward thee, her holy tenderness and attentiveness
toward us, which had suddenly been taken away from me--and it was a solace for
me to weep in thy sight, for her and for myself, about her and about myself.
Thus I set free the tears which before I repressed, that they might flow at
will, spreading them out as a pillow beneath my heart. And it rested on them,
for thy ears were near me--not those of a man, who would have made a scornful
comment about my weeping. But now in writing I confess it to thee, O Lord! Read
it who will, and comment how he will, and if he finds me to have sinned in
weeping for my mother for part of an hour--that mother who was for a while dead
to my eyes, who had for many years wept for me that I might live in thy
eyes--let him not laugh at me; but if he be a man of generous love, let him
weep for my sins against thee, the Father of all the brethren of thy Christ.
CHAPTER XIII
34. Now that my heart is healed of that wound--so far as it can be charged
against me as a carnal affection--I pour out to thee, O our God, on behalf of
thy handmaid, tears of a very different sort: those which flow from a spirit
broken by the thoughts of the dangers of every soul that dies in Adam. And
while she had been "made alive" in Christ[309] even before
she was freed from the flesh, and had so lived as to praise thy name both by
her faith and by her life, yet I would not dare say that from the time thou
didst regenerate her by baptism no word came out of her mouth against thy
precepts. But it has been declared by thy Son, the Truth, that "whosoever shall
say to his brother, You fool, shall be in danger of hell-fire."[310] And there would be doom even for the life of a
praiseworthy man if thou judgedst it with thy mercy set aside. But since thou
dost not so stringently inquire after our sins, we hope with confidence to find
some place in thy presence. But whoever recounts his actual and true merits to
thee, what is he doing but recounting to thee thy own gifts? Oh, if only men
would know themselves as men, then "he that glories" would "glory in the
Lord"[311]!
35. Thus now, O my Praise and my Life, O God of my heart, forgetting for a
little her good deeds for which I give joyful thanks to thee, I now beseech
thee for the sins of my mother. Hearken unto me, through that Medicine of our
wounds, who didst hang upon the tree and who sittest at thy right hand "making
intercession for us."[312] I know that she acted in mercy,
and from the heart forgave her debtors their debts.[313] I
beseech thee also to forgive her debts, whatever she contracted during so many
years since the water of salvation. Forgive her, O Lord, forgive her, I beseech
thee; "enter not into judgment" with her.[314] Let thy
mercy be exalted above thy justice, for thy words are true and thou hast
promised mercy to the merciful, that the merciful shall obtain mercy.[315] This is thy gift, who hast mercy on whom thou wilt and
who wilt have compassion on whom thou dost have compassion on.[316]
36. Indeed, I believe thou hast already done what I ask of thee, but "accept
the freewill offerings of my mouth, O Lord."[317] For when
the day of her dissolution was so close, she took no thought to have her body
sumptuously wrapped or embalmed with spices. Nor did she covet a handsome
monument, or even care to be buried in her own country. About these things she
gave no commands at all, but only desired to have her name remembered at thy
altar, where she had served without the omission of a single day, and where she
knew that the holy sacrifice was dispensed by which that handwriting that was
against us is blotted out; and that enemy vanquished who, when he summed up our
offenses and searched for something to bring against us, could find nothing in
Him, in whom we conquer.
Who will restore to him the innocent blood? Who will repay him the price with
which he bought us, so as to take us from him? Thus to the sacrament of our
redemption did thy hand maid bind her soul by the bond of faith. Let none
separate her from thy protection. Let not the "lion" and "dragon" bar her way
by force or fraud. For she will not reply that she owes nothing, lest she be
convicted and duped by that cunning deceiver. Rather, she will answer that her
sins are forgiven by Him to whom no one is able to repay the price which he,
who owed us nothing, laid down for us all.
37. Therefore, let her rest in peace with her husband, before and after whom
she was married to no other man; whom she obeyed with patience, bringing fruit
to thee that she might also win him for thee. And inspire, O my Lord my God,
inspire thy servants, my brothers; thy sons, my masters, who with voice and
heart and writings I serve, that as many of them as shall read these
confessions may also at thy altar remember Monica, thy handmaid, together with
Patricius, once her husband; by whose flesh thou didst bring me into this life,
in a manner I know not. May they with pious affection remember my parents in
this transitory life, and remember my brothers under thee our Father in our
Catholic mother; and remember my fellow citizens in the eternal Jerusalem, for
which thy people sigh in their pilgrimage from birth until their return. So be
fulfilled what my mother desired of me--more richly in the prayers of so many
gained for her through these confessions of mine than by my prayers alone.
BOOK TEN
From autobiography to self-analysis. Augustine turns from his
memories of the past to the inner mysteries of memory itself. In doing so, he
reviews his motives for these written "confessions," and seeks to chart the
path by which men come to God. But this brings him into the intricate analysis
of memory and its relation to the self and its powers. This done, he explores
the meaning and mode of true prayer. In conclusion, he undertakes a detailed
analysis of appetite and the temptations to which the flesh and the soul are
heirs, and comes finally to see how necessary and right it was for the Mediator
between God and man to have been the God-Man.
CHAPTER I
1. Let me know thee, O my Knower; let me know thee even as I am known.[318] O Strength of my soul, enter it and prepare it for
thyself that thou mayest have and hold it, without "spot or blemish."[319] This is my hope, therefore have I spoken; and in this
hope I rejoice whenever I rejoice aright. But as for the other things of this
life, they deserve our lamentations less, the more we lament them; and some
should be lamented all the more, the less men care for them. For see, "Thou
desirest truth"[320] and "he who does the truth comes to
the light."[321] This is what I wish to do through
confession in my heart before thee, and in my writings before many witnesses.
CHAPTER II
2. And what is there in me that could be hidden from thee, Lord, to whose eyes
the abysses of man's conscience are naked, even if I were unwilling to confess
it to thee? In doing so I would only hide thee from myself, not myself from
thee. But now that my groaning is witness to the fact that I am dissatisfied
with myself, thou shinest forth and satisfiest. Thou art beloved and desired;
so that I blush for myself, and renounce myself and choose thee, for I can
neither please thee nor myself except in thee. To thee, then, O Lord, I am laid
bare, whatever I am, and I have already said with what profit I may confess to
thee. I do not do it with words and sounds of the flesh but with the words of
the soul, and with the sound of my thoughts, which thy ear knows. For when I am
wicked, to confess to thee means nothing less than to be dissatisfied with
myself; but when I am truly devout, it means nothing less than not to attribute
my virtue to myself; because thou, O Lord, blessest the righteous, but first
thou justifiest him while he is yet ungodly. My confession therefore, O my God,
is made unto thee silently in thy sight--and yet not silently. As far as sound
is concerned, it is silent. But in strong affection it cries aloud. For neither
do I give voice to something that sounds right to men, which thou hast not
heard from me before, nor dost thou hear anything of the kind from me which
thou didst not first say to me.
CHAPTER III
3. What is it to me that men should hear my confessions as if it were they who
were going to cure all my infirmities? People are curious to know the lives of
others, but slow to correct their own. Why are they anxious to hear from me
what I am, when they are unwilling to hear from thee what they are? And how can
they tell when they hear what I say about myself whether I speak the truth,
since no man knows what is in a man "save the spirit of man which is in him"[322]? But if they were to hear from thee something
concerning themselves, they would not be able to say, "The Lord is lying." For
what does it mean to hear from thee about themselves but to know themselves?
And who is he that knows himself and says, "This is false," unless he himself
is lying? But, because "love believes all things"[323]--at
least among those who are bound together in love by its bonds--I confess to
thee, O Lord, so that men may also hear; for if I cannot prove to them that I
confess the truth, yet those whose ears love opens to me will believe me.
4. But wilt thou, O my inner Physician, make clear to me what profit I am to
gain in doing this? For the confessions of my past sins (which thou hast
"forgiven and covered"[324] that thou mightest make me
blessed in thee, transforming my soul by faith and thy sacrament), when they are read and heard, may stir up the heart so that it will stop
dozing along in despair, saying, "I cannot"; but will instead awake in the love
of thy mercy and the sweetness of thy grace, by which he that is weak is
strong, provided he is made conscious of his own weakness. And it will please
those who are good to hear about the past errors of those who are now freed
from them. And they will take delight, not because they are errors, but because
they were and are so no longer. What profit, then, O Lord my God--to whom my
conscience makes her daily confession, far more confident in the hope of thy
mercy than in her own innocence--what profit is there, I ask thee, in
confessing to men in thy presence, through this book, both what I am now as
well as what I have been? For I have seen and spoken of my harvest of things
past. But what am I now, at this very moment of making my confessions?
Many different people desire to know, both those who know me and those who do
not know me. Some have heard about me or from me, but their ear is not close to
my heart, where I am whatever it is that I am. They have the desire to hear me
confess what I am within, where they can neither extend eye nor ear nor mind.
They desire as those willing to believe--but will they understand? For the love
by which they are good tells them that I am not lying in my confessions, and
the love in them believes me.
CHAPTER IV
5. But for what profit do they desire this? Will they wish me happiness when
they learn how near I have approached thee, by thy gifts? And will they pray
for me when they learn how much I am still kept back by my own weight? To such
as these I will declare myself. For it is no small profit, O Lord my God, that
many people should give thanks to thee on my account and that many should
entreat thee for my sake. Let the brotherly soul love in me what thou teachest
him should be loved, and let him lament in me what thou teachest him should be
lamented. Let it be the soul of a brother that does this, and not a
stranger--not one of those "strange children, whose mouth speaks vanity, and
whose right hand is the right hand of falsehood."[325] But
let my brother do it who, when he approves of me, rejoices for me, but when he
disapproves of me is sorry for me; because whether he approves or disapproves,
he loves me. To such I will declare myself. Let them be refreshed by my good
deeds and sigh over my evil ones. My good deeds are thy acts and thy gifts; my
evil ones are my own faults and thy judgment. Let them breathe expansively at
the one and sigh over the other. And let hymns and tears ascend in thy sight
out of their brotherly hearts--which are thy censers.[326] And, O Lord, who takest delight in the incense of thy holy temple, have mercy
upon me according to thy great mercy, for thy name's sake. And do not, on any
account whatever, abandon what thou hast begun in me. Go on, rather, to
complete what is yet imperfect in me.
6. This, then, is the fruit of my confessions (not of what I was, but of what I
am), that I may not confess this before thee alone, in a secret exultation with
trembling and a secret sorrow with hope, but also in the ears of the believing
sons of men--who are the companions of my joy and sharers of my mortality, my
fellow citizens and fellow pilgrims--those who have gone before and those who
are to follow after, as well as the comrades of my present way. These are thy
servants, my brothers, whom thou desirest to be thy sons. They are my masters,
whom thou hast commanded me to serve if I desire to live with and in thee. But
this thy Word would mean little to me if it commanded in words alone, without
thy prevenient action. I do this, then, both in act and word. I do this under
thy wings, in a danger too great to risk if it were not that under thy wings my
soul is subject to thee, and my weakness known to thee. I am insufficient, but
my Father liveth forever, and my Defender is sufficient for me. For he is the
Selfsame who didst beget me and who watcheth over me; thou art the Selfsame who
art all my good. Thou art the Omnipotent, who art with me, even before I am
with thee. To those, therefore, whom thou commandest me to serve, I will
declare, not what I was, but what I now am and what I will continue to be. But
I do not judge myself. Thus, therefore, let me be heard.
CHAPTER V
7. For it is thou, O Lord, who judgest me. For although no man "knows the
things of a man, save the spirit of the man which is in him,"[327] yet there is something of man which "the spirit of the
man which is in him" does not know itself. But thou, O Lord, who madest him,
knowest him completely. And even I--though in thy sight I despise myself and
count myself but dust and ashes--even I know something about thee which I do
not know about myself. And it is certain that "now we see through a glass
darkly," not yet "face to face."[328] Therefore, as long
as I journey away from thee, I am more present with myself than with thee. I
know that thou canst not suffer violence, but I myself do not know what
temptations I can resist, and what I cannot. But there is hope, because thou
art faithful and thou wilt not allow us to be tempted beyond our ability to
resist, but wilt with the temptation also make a way of escape that we may be
able to bear it. I would therefore confess what I know about myself; I will
also confess what I do not know about myself. What I do know of myself, I know
from thy enlightening of me; and what I do not know of myself, I will continue
not to know until the time when my "darkness is as the noonday"[329] in thy sight.
CHAPTER VI
8. It is not with a doubtful consciousness, but one fully certain that I love
thee, O Lord. Thou hast smitten my heart with thy Word, and I have loved thee.
And see also the heaven, and earth, and all that is in them--on every side they
tell me to love thee, and they do not cease to tell this to all men, "so that
they are without excuse."[330] Wherefore, still more
deeply wilt thou have mercy on whom thou wilt have mercy, and compassion on
whom thou wilt have compassion.[331] For otherwise, both
heaven and earth would tell abroad thy praises to deaf ears.
But what is it that I love in loving thee? Not physical beauty, nor the
splendor of time, nor the radiance of the light--so pleasant to our eyes--nor
the sweet melodies of the various kinds of songs, nor the fragrant smell of
flowers and ointments and spices; not manna and honey, not the limbs embraced
in physical love--it is not these I love when I love my God. Yet it is true
that I love a certain kind of light and sound and fragrance and food and
embrace in loving my God, who is the light and sound and fragrance and food and
embracement of my inner man--where that light shines into my soul which no
place can contain, where time does not snatch away the lovely sound, where no
breeze disperses the sweet fragrance, where no eating diminishes the food there
provided, and where there is an embrace that no satiety comes to sunder. This
is what I love when I love my God.
9. And what is this God? I asked the earth, and it answered, "I am not he"; and
everything in the earth made the same confession. I asked the sea and the deeps
and the creeping things, and they replied, "We are not your God; seek above
us." I asked the fleeting winds, and the whole air with its inhabitants
answered, "Anaximenes[332] was deceived; I am not God." I
asked the heavens, the sun, moon, and stars; and they answered, "Neither are we
the God whom you seek." And I replied to all these things which stand around
the door of my flesh: "You have told me about my God, that you are not he. Tell
me something about him." And with a loud voice they all cried out, "He made
us." My question had come from my observation of them, and their reply came
from their beauty of order. And I turned my thoughts into myself and said, "Who
are you?" And I answered, "A man." For see, there is in me both a body and a
soul; the one without, the other within. In which of these should I have sought
my God, whom I had already sought with my body from earth to heaven, as far as
I was able to send those messengers--the beams of my eyes? But the inner part
is the better part; for to it, as both ruler and judge, all these messengers of
the senses report the answers of heaven and earth and all the things therein,
who said, "We are not God, but he made us." My inner man knew these things
through the ministry of the outer man, and I, the inner man, knew all this--I,
the soul, through the senses of my body.[333] I asked the
whole frame of earth about my God, and it answered, "I am not he, but he made
me."
10. Is not this beauty of form visible to all whose senses are unimpaired? Why,
then, does it not say the same things to all? Animals, both small and great,
see it but they are unable to interrogate its meaning, because their senses are
not endowed with the reason that would enable them to judge the evidence which
the senses report. But man can interrogate it, so that "the invisible things of
him . . . are clearly seen, being understood by the things that are made."[334] But men love these created things too much; they are
brought into subjection to them--and, as subjects, are not able to judge. None
of these created things reply to their questioners unless they can make
rational judgments. The creatures will not alter their voice--that is, their
beauty of form--if one man simply sees what another both sees and questions, so
that the world appears one way to this man and another to that. It appears the
same way to both; but it is mute to this one and it speaks to that one. Indeed,
it actually speaks to all, but only they understand it who compare the voice
received from without with the truth within. For the truth says to me, "Neither
heaven nor earth nor anybody is your God." Their very nature tells this to the
one who beholds[335] them. "They are a mass, less in part
than the whole." Now, O my soul, you are my better part, and to you I speak;
since you animate the whole mass of your body, giving it life, whereas no body
furnishes life to a body. But your God is the life of your life.
CHAPTER VII
11. What is it, then, that I love when I love my God? Who is he that is beyond
the topmost point of my soul? Yet by this very soul will I mount up to him. I
will soar beyond that power of mine by which I am united to the body, and by
which the whole structure of it is filled with life. Yet it is not by that
vital power that I find my God. For then "the horse and the mule, that have no
understanding,"[336] also might find him, since they have
the same vital power, by which their bodies also live. But there is, besides
the power by which I animate my body, another by which I endow my flesh with
sense--a power that the Lord hath provided for me; commanding that the eye is
not to hear and the ear is not to see, but that I am to see by the eye and to
hear by the ear; and giving to each of the other senses its own proper place
and function, through the diversity of which I, the single mind, act. I will
soar also beyond this power of mine, for the horse and mule have this too, for
they also perceive through their bodily senses.
CHAPTER VIII
12. I will soar, then, beyond this power of my nature also, still rising by
degrees toward him who made me. And I enter the fields and spacious halls of
memory, where are stored as treasures the countless images that have been
brought into them from all manner of things by the senses. There, in the
memory, is likewise stored what we cogitate, either by enlarging or reducing
our perceptions, or by altering one way or another those things which the
senses have made contact with; and everything else that has been entrusted to
it and stored up in it, which oblivion has not yet swallowed up and buried.
When I go into this storehouse, I ask that what I want should be brought forth.
Some things appear immediately, but others require to be searched for longer,
and then dragged out, as it were, from some hidden recess. Other things hurry
forth in crowds, on the other hand, and while something else is sought and
inquired for, they leap into view as if to say, "Is it not we, perhaps?" These
I brush away with the hand of my heart from the face of my memory, until
finally the thing I want makes its appearance out of its secret cell. Some
things suggest themselves without effort, and in continuous order, just as they
are called for--the things that come first give place to those that follow, and
in so doing are treasured up again to be forthcoming when I want them. All of
this happens when I repeat a thing from memory.
13. All these things, each one of which came into memory in its own particular
way, are stored up separately and under the general categories of
understanding. For example, light and all colors and forms of bodies came in
through the eyes; sounds of all kinds by the ears; all smells by the passages
of the nostrils; all flavors by the gate of the mouth; by the sensation of the
whole body, there is brought in what is hard or soft, hot or cold, smooth or
rough, heavy or light, whether external or internal to the body. The vast cave
of memory, with its numerous and mysterious recesses, receives all these things
and stores them up, to be recalled and brought forth when required. Each
experience enters by its own door, and is stored up in the memory. And yet the
things themselves do not enter it, but only the images of the things perceived
are there for thought to remember. And who can tell how these images are
formed, even if it is evident which of the senses brought which perception in
and stored it up? For even when I am in darkness and silence I can bring out
colors in my memory if I wish, and discern between black and white and the
other shades as I wish; and at the same time, sounds do not break in and
disturb what is drawn in by my eyes, and which I am considering, because the
sounds which are also there are stored up, as it were, apart. And these too I
can summon if I please and they are immediately present in memory. And though
my tongue is at rest and my throat silent, yet I can sing as I will; and those
images of color, which are as truly present as before, do not interpose
themselves or interrupt while another treasure which had flowed in through the
ears is being thought about. Similarly all the other things that were brought
in and heaped up by all the other senses, I can recall at my pleasure. And I
distinguish the scent of lilies from that of violets while actually smelling
nothing; and I prefer honey to mead, a smooth thing to a rough, even though I
am neither tasting nor handling them, but only remembering them.
14. All this I do within myself, in that huge hall of my memory. For in it,
heaven, earth, and sea are present to me, and whatever I can cogitate about
them--except what I have forgotten. There also I meet myself and recall
myself[337]--what, when, or where I did a thing, and how I
felt when I did it. There are all the things that I remember, either having
experienced them myself or been told about them by others. Out of the same
storehouse, with these past impressions, I can construct now this, now that,
image of things that I either have experienced or have believed on the basis of
experience--and from these I can further construct future actions, events, and
hopes; and I can meditate on all these things as if they were present. "I will
do this or that"--I say to myself in that vast recess of my mind, with its full
store of so many and such great images--"and this or that will follow upon it."
"O that this or that could happen!" "God prevent this or that." I speak to
myself in this way; and when I speak, the images of what I am speaking about
are present out of the same store of memory; and if the images were absent I
could say nothing at all about them.
15. Great is this power of memory, exceedingly great, O my God--a large and
boundless inner hall! Who has plumbed the depths of it? Yet it is a power of my
mind, and it belongs to my nature. But I do not myself grasp all that I am.
Thus the mind is far too narrow to contain itself. But where can that part of
it be which it does not contain? Is it outside and not in itself? How can it
be, then, that the mind cannot grasp itself? A great marvel rises in me;
astonishment seizes me. Men go forth to marvel at the heights of mountains and
the huge waves of the sea, the broad flow of the rivers, the vastness of the
ocean, the orbits of the stars, and yet they neglect to marvel at themselves.
Nor do they wonder how it is that, when I spoke of all these things, I was not
looking at them with my eyes--and yet I could not have spoken about them had it
not been that I was actually seeing within, in my memory, those mountains and
waves and rivers and stars which I have seen, and that ocean which I believe
in--and with the same vast spaces between them as when I saw them outside me.
But when I saw them outside me, I did not take them into me by seeing them; and
the things themselves are not inside me, but only their images. And yet I knew
through which physical sense each experience had made an impression on me.
CHAPTER IX
16. And yet this is not all that the unlimited capacity of my memory stores up.
In memory, there are also all that one has learned of the liberal sciences, and
has not forgotten--removed still further, so to say, into an inner place which
is not a place. Of these things it is not the images that are retained, but the
things themselves. For what literature and logic are, and what I know about how
many different kinds of questions there are--all these are stored in my memory
as they are, so that I have not taken in the image and left the thing outside.
It is not as though a sound had sounded and passed away like a voice heard by
the ear which leaves a trace by which it can be called into memory again, as if
it were still sounding in mind while it did so no longer outside. Nor is it the
same as an odor which, even after it has passed and vanished into the wind,
affects the sense of smell--which then conveys into the memory the image of the smell which is what we recall and re-create; or like food which, once in
the belly, surely now has no taste and yet does have a kind of taste in the
memory; or like anything that is felt by the body through the sense of touch,
which still remains as an image in the memory after the external object is
removed. For these things themselves are not put into the memory. Only the
images of them are gathered with a marvelous quickness and stored, as it were,
in the most wonderful filing system, and are thence produced in a marvelous way
by the act of remembering.
CHAPTER X
17. But now when I hear that there are three kinds of questions--"Whether a
thing is? What it is? Of what kind it is?"--I do indeed retain the images of
the sounds of which these words are composed and I know that those sounds pass
through the air with a noise and now no longer exist. But the things themselves
which were signified by those sounds I never could reach by any sense of the
body nor see them at all except by my mind. And what I have stored in my memory
was not their signs, but the things signified.
How they got into me, let them tell who can. For I examine all the gates of my
flesh, but I cannot find the door by which any of them entered. For the eyes
say, "If they were colored, we reported that." The ears say, "If they gave any
sound, we gave notice of that." The nostrils say, "If they smell, they passed
in by us." The sense of taste says, "If they have no flavor, don't ask me about
them." The sense of touch says, "If it had no bodily mass, I did not touch it,
and if I never touched it, I gave no report about it."
Whence and how did these things enter into my memory? I do not know. For when I
first learned them, it was not that I believed them on the credit of another
man's mind, but I recognized them in my own; and I saw them as true, took them
into my mind and laid them up, so to say, where I could get at them again
whenever I willed. There they were, then, even before I learned them, but they
were not in my memory. Where were they, then? How does it come about that when
they were spoken of, I could acknowledge them and say, "So it is, it is true,"
unless they were already in the memory, though far back and hidden, as it were,
in the more secret caves, so that unless they had been drawn out by the
teaching of another person, I should perhaps never have been able to think of
them at all?
CHAPTER XI
18. Thus we find that learning those things whose images we do not take in by
our senses, but which we intuit within ourselves without images and as they
actually are, is nothing else except the gathering together of those same
things which the memory already contains--but in an indiscriminate and confused
manner--and putting them together by careful observation as they are at hand in
the memory; so that whereas they formerly lay hidden, scattered, or neglected,
they now come easily to present themselves to the mind which is now familiar
with them. And how many things of this sort my memory has stored up, which have
already been discovered and, as I said, laid up for ready reference. These are
the things we may be said to have learned and to know. Yet, if I cease to
recall them even for short intervals of time, they are again so submerged--and
slide back, as it were, into the further reaches of the memory--that they must
be drawn out again as if new from the same place (for there is nowhere else for
them to have gone) and must be collected [cogenda] so that they can
become known. In other words, they must be gathered up [colligenda] from
their dispersion. This is where we get the word cogitate [cogitare]. For cogo [collect] and cogito [to go on
collecting] have the same relation to each other as ago [do] and agito [do frequently], and facio [make] and factito [make
frequently]. But the mind has properly laid claim to this word [cogitate] so
that not everything that is gathered together anywhere, but only what is
collected and gathered together in the mind, is properly said to be "cogitated."
CHAPTER XII
19. The memory also contains the principles and the unnumbered laws of numbers
and dimensions. None of these has been impressed on the memory by a physical
sense, because they have neither color nor sound, nor taste, nor sense of
touch. I have heard the sound of the words by which these things are signified
when they are discussed: but the sounds are one thing, the things another. For
the sounds are one thing in Greek, another in Latin; but the things themselves
are neither Greek nor Latin nor any other language. I have seen the lines of
the craftsmen, the finest of which are like a spider's web, but mathematical
lines are different. They are not the images of such things as the eye of my
body has showed me. The man who knows them does so without any cogitation of
physical objects whatever, but intuits them within himself. I have perceived
with all the senses of my body the numbers we use in counting; but the numbers
by which we count are far different from these. They are not the images of
these; they simply are. Let the man who does not see these things mock me for
saying them; and I will pity him while he laughs at me.
CHAPTER XIII
20. All these things I hold in my memory, and I remember how I learned them. I
also remember many things that I have heard quite falsely urged against them,
which, even if they are false, yet it is not false that I have remembered them.
And I also remember that I have distinguished between the truths and the false
objections, and now I see that it is one thing to distinguish these things and
another to remember that I did distinguish them when I have cogitated on them.
I remember, then, both that I have often understood these things and also that
I am now storing away in my memory what I distinguish and comprehend of them so
that later on I may remember just as I understand them now. Therefore, I
remember that I remembered, so that if afterward I call to mind that I once was
able to remember these things it will be through the power of memory that I
recall it.
CHAPTER XIV
21. This same memory also contains the feelings of my mind; not in the manner
in which the mind itself experienced them, but very differently according to a
power peculiar to memory. For without being joyous now, I can remember that I
once was joyous, and without being sad, I can recall my past sadness. I can
remember past fears without fear, and former desires without desire. Again, the
contrary happens. Sometimes when I am joyous I remember my past sadness, and
when sad, remember past joy.
This is not to be marveled at as far as the body is concerned; for the mind is
one thing and the body another.[338] If, therefore, when I
am happy, I recall some past bodily pain, it is not so strange. But even as
this memory is experienced, it is identical with the mind--as when we tell
someone to remember something we say, "See that you bear this in mind"; and
when we forget a thing, we say, "It did not enter my mind" or "It slipped my
mind." Thus we call memory itself mind.
Since this is so, how does it happen that when I am joyful I can still remember
past sorrow? Thus the mind has joy, and the memory has sorrow; and the mind is
joyful from the joy that is in it, yet the memory is not sad from the sadness
that is in it. Is it possible that the memory does not belong to the mind? Who
will say so? The memory doubtless is, so to say, the belly of the mind: and joy
and sadness are like sweet and bitter food, which when they are committed to
the memory are, so to say, passed into the belly where they can be stored but
no longer tasted. It is ridiculous to consider this an analogy; yet they are
not utterly unlike.
22. But look, it is from my memory that I produce it when I say that there are
four basic emotions of the mind: desire, joy, fear, sadness. Whatever kind of
analysis I may be able to make of these, by dividing each into its particular
species, and by defining it, I still find what to say in my memory and it is
from my memory that I draw it out. Yet I am not moved by any of these emotions
when I call them to mind by remembering them. Moreover, before I recalled them
and thought about them, they were there in the memory; and this is how they
could be brought forth in remembrance. Perhaps, therefore, just as food is
brought up out of the belly by rumination, so also these things are drawn up
out of the memory by recall. But why, then, does not the man who is thinking
about the emotions, and is thus recalling them, feel in the mouth of his
reflection the sweetness of joy or the bitterness of sadness? Is the comparison
unlike in this because it is not complete at every point? For who would
willingly speak on these subjects, if as often as we used the term sadness or
fear, we should thereby be compelled to be sad or fearful? And yet we could
never speak of them if we did not find them in our memories, not merely as the
sounds of the names, as their images are impressed on it by the physical
senses, but also the notions of the things themselves--which we did not receive
by any gate of the flesh, but which the mind itself recognizes by the
experience of its own passions, and has entrusted to the memory; or else which
the memory itself has retained without their being entrusted to it.
CHAPTER XV
23. Now whether all this is by means of images or not, who can rightly affirm?
For I name a stone, I name the sun, and those things themselves are not present
to my senses, but their images are present in my memory. I name some pain of
the body, yet it is not present when there is no pain; yet if there were not
some such image of it in my memory, I could not even speak of it, nor should I
be able to distinguish it from pleasure. I name bodily health when I am sound
in body, and the thing itself is indeed present in me. At the same time, unless
there were some image of it in my memory, I could not possibly call to mind
what the sound of this name signified. Nor would sick people know what was
meant when health was named, unless the same image were preserved by the power
of memory, even though the thing itself is absent from the body. I can name the
numbers we use in counting, and it is not their images but themselves that are
in my memory. I name the image of the sun, and this too is in my memory. For I
do not recall the image of that image, but that image itself, for the image
itself is present when I remember it. I name memory and I know what I name. But
where do I know it, except in the memory itself? Is it also present to itself
by its image, and not by itself?
CHAPTER XVI
24. When I name forgetfulness, and understand what I mean by the name, how
could I understand it if I did not remember it? And if I refer not to the sound
of the name, but to the thing which the term signifies, how could I know what
that sound signified if I had forgotten what the name means? When, therefore, I
remember memory, then memory is present to itself by itself, but when I
remember forgetfulness then both memory and forgetfulness are present
together--the memory by which I remember the forgetfulness which I remember.
But what is forgetfulness except the privation of memory? How, then, is that
present to my memory which, when it controls my mind, I cannot remember? But if
what we remember we store up in our memory; and if, unless we remembered
forgetfulness, we could never know the thing signified by the term when we
heard it--then, forgetfulness is contained in the memory. It is present so that
we do not forget it, but since it is present, we do forget.
From this it is to be inferred that when we remember forgetfulness, it is not
present to the memory through itself, but through its image; because if
forgetfulness were present through itself, it would not lead us to remember,
but only to forget. Now who will someday work this out? Who can understand how
it is?
25. Truly, O Lord, I toil with this and labor in myself. I have become a
troublesome field that requires hard labor and heavy sweat. For we are not now
searching out the tracts of heaven, or measuring the distances of the stars or
inquiring about the weight of the earth. It is I myself--I, the mind--who
remember. This is not much to marvel at, if what I myself am is not far from
me. And what is nearer to me than myself? For see, I am not able to comprehend
the force of my own memory, though I could not even call my own name without
it. But what shall I say, when it is clear to me that I remember forgetfulness?
Should I affirm that what I remember is not in my memory? Or should I say that
forgetfulness is in my memory to the end that I should not forget? Both of
these views are most absurd. But what third view is there? How can I say that
the image of forgetfulness is retained by my memory, and not forgetfulness
itself, when I remember it? How can I say this, since for the image of anything
to be imprinted on the memory the thing itself must necessarily have been
present first by which the image could have been imprinted? Thus I remember
Carthage; thus, also, I remember all the other places where I have been. And I
remember the faces of men whom I have seen and things reported by the other
senses. I remember the health or sickness of the body. And when these objects
were present, my memory received images from them so that they remain present
in order for me to see them and reflect upon them in my mind, if I choose to
remember them in their absence. If, therefore, forgetfulness is retained in the
memory through its image and not through itself, then this means that it itself
was once present, so that its image might have been imprinted. But when it was
present, how did it write its image on the memory, since forgetfulness, by its
presence, blots out even what it finds already written there? And yet in some
way or other, even though it is incomprehensible and inexplicable, I am still
quite certain that I also remember forgetfulness, by which we remember that
something is blotted out.
CHAPTER XVII
26. Great is the power of memory. It is a true marvel, O my God, a profound and
infinite multiplicity! And this is the mind, and this I myself am. What, then,
am I, O my God? Of what nature am I? A life various, and manifold, and
exceedingly vast. Behold in the numberless halls and caves, in the innumerable
fields and dens and caverns of my memory, full without measure of numberless
kinds of things--present there either through images as all bodies are; or
present in the things themselves as are our thoughts; or by some notion or
observation as our emotions are, which the memory retains even though the mind
feels them no longer, as long as whatever is in the memory is also in the
mind--through all these I run and fly to and fro. I penetrate into them on this
side and that as far as I can and yet there is nowhere any end.
So great is the power of memory, so great the power of life in man whose life
is mortal! What, then, shall I do, O thou my true life, my God? I will pass
even beyond this power of mine that is called memory--I will pass beyond it,
that I may come to thee, O lovely Light. And what art thou saying to me? See, I
soar by my mind toward thee, who remainest above me. I will also pass beyond
this power of mine that is called memory, desiring to reach thee where thou
canst be reached, and wishing to cleave to thee where it is possible to cleave
to thee. For even beasts and birds possess memory, or else they could never
find their lairs and nests again, nor display many other things they know and
do by habit. Indeed, they could not even form their habits except by their
memories. I will therefore pass even beyond memory that I may reach Him who has
differentiated me from the four-footed beasts and the fowls of the air by
making me a wiser creature. Thus I will pass beyond memory; but where shall I
find thee, who art the true Good and the steadfast Sweetness? But where shall I
find thee? If I find thee without memory, then I shall have no memory of thee;
and how could I find thee at all, if I do not remember thee?
CHAPTER XVIII
27. For the woman who lost her small coin[339] and
searched for it with a light would never have found it unless she had
remembered it. For when it was found, how could she have known whether it was
the same coin, if she had not remembered it? I remember having lost and found
many things, and I have learned this from that experience: that when I was
searching for any of them and was asked: "Is this it? Is that it?" I answered,
"No," until finally what I was seeking was shown to me. But if I had not
remembered it--whatever it was--even though it was shown to me, I still would
not have found it because I could not have recognized it. And this is the way
it always is when we search for and find anything that is lost. Still, if
anything is accidentally lost from sight--not from memory, as a visible body
might be--its image is retained within, and the thing is searched for until it
is restored to sight. And when the thing is found, it is recognized by the
image of it which is within. And we do not say that we have found what we have
lost unless we can recognize it, and we cannot recognize it unless we remember
it. But all the while the thing lost to the sight was retained in the memory.
CHAPTER XIX
28. But what happens when the memory itself loses something, as when we forget
anything and try to recall it? Where, finally, do we search, but in the memory
itself? And there, if by chance one thing is offered for another, we refuse it
until we meet with what we are looking for; and when we do, we recognize that
this is it. But we could not do this unless we recognized it, nor could we have
recognized it unless we remembered it. Yet we had indeed forgotten it.
Perhaps the whole of it had not slipped out of our memory; but a part was
retained by which the other lost part was sought for, because the memory
realized that it was not operating as smoothly as usual and was being held up
by the crippling of its habitual working; hence, it demanded the restoration of
what was lacking.
For example, if we see or think of some man we know, and, having forgotten his
name, try to recall it--if some other thing presents itself, we cannot tie it
into the effort to remember, because it was not habitually thought of in
association with him. It is consequently rejected, until something comes into
the mind on which our knowledge can rightly rest as the familiar and sought-for
object. And where does this name come back from, save from the memory itself?
For even when we recognize it by another's reminding us of it, still it is from
the memory that this comes, for we do not believe it as something new; but when
we recall it, we admit that what was said was correct. But if the name had been
entirely blotted out of the mind, we should not be able to recollect it even
when reminded of it. For we have not entirely forgotten anything if we can
remember that we have forgotten it. For a lost notion, one that we have
entirely forgotten, we cannot even search for.
CHAPTER XX
29. How, then, do I seek thee, O Lord? For when I seek thee, my God, I seek a
happy life. I will seek thee that my soul may live.[340] For my body lives by my soul, and my soul lives by thee. How, then, do I seek a
happy life, since happiness is not mine till I can rightly say: "It is enough.
This is it." How do I seek it? Is it by remembering, as though I had forgotten
it and still knew that I had forgotten it? Do I seek it in longing to learn of
it as though it were something unknown, which either I had never known or had
so completely forgotten as not even to remember that I had forgotten it? Is not
the happy life the thing that all desire, and is there anyone who does not
desire it at all?[341] But where would they have gotten
the knowledge of it, that they should so desire it? Where have they seen it
that they should so love it? It is somehow true that we have it, but how I do
not know.
There is, indeed, a sense in which when anyone has his desire he is happy. And
then there are some who are happy in hope. These are happy in an inferior
degree to those that are actually happy; yet they are better off than those who
are happy neither in actuality nor in hope. But even these, if they had not
known happiness in some degree, would not then desire to be happy. And yet it
is most certain that they do so desire. How they come to know happiness, I
cannot tell, but they have it by some kind of knowledge unknown to me, for I am
very much in doubt as to whether it is in the memory. For if it is in there,
then we have been happy once on a time--either each of us individually or all
of us in that man who first sinned and in whom also we all died and from whom
we are all born in misery. How this is, I do not now ask; but I do ask whether
the happy life is in the memory. For if we did not know it, we should not love
it. We hear the name of it, and we all acknowledge that we desire the thing,
for we are not delighted with the name only. For when a Greek hears it spoken
in Latin, he does not feel delighted, for he does not know what has been
spoken. But we are as delighted as he would be in turn if he heard it in Greek,
because the thing itself is neither Greek nor Latin, this happiness which
Greeks and Latins and men of all the other tongues long so earnestly to obtain.
It is, then, known to all; and if all could with one voice be asked whether
they wished to be happy, there is no doubt they would all answer that they
would. And this would not be possible unless the thing itself, which we name
"happiness," were held in the memory.
CHAPTER XXI
30. But is it the same kind of memory as one who having seen Carthage remembers
it? No, for the happy life is not visible to the eye, since it is not a
physical object. Is it the sort of memory we have for numbers? No, for the man
who has these in his understanding does not keep striving to attain more. Now
we know something about the happy life and therefore we love it, but still we
wish to go on striving for it that we may be happy. Is the memory of happiness,
then, something like the memory of eloquence? No, for although some, when they
hear the term eloquence, call the thing to mind, even if they are not
themselves eloquent--and further, there are many people who would like to be
eloquent, from which it follows that they must know something about
it--nevertheless, these people have noticed through their senses that others
are eloquent and have been delighted to observe this and long to be this way
themselves. But they would not be delighted if it were not some interior
knowledge; and they would not desire to be delighted unless they had been
delighted. But as for a happy life, there is no physical perception by which we
experience it in others.
Do we remember happiness, then, as we remember joy? It may be so, for I
remember my joy even when I am sad, just as I remember a happy life when I am
miserable. And I have never, through physical perception, either seen, heard,
smelled, tasted, or touched my joy. But I have experienced it in my mind when I
rejoiced; and the knowledge of it clung to my memory so that I can call it to
mind, sometimes with disdain and at other times with longing, depending on the
different kinds of things I now remember that I rejoiced in. For I have been
bathed with a certain joy even by unclean things, which I now detest and
execrate as I call them to mind. At other times, I call to mind with longing
good and honest things, which are not any longer near at hand, and I am
therefore saddened when I recall my former joy.
31. Where and when did I ever experience my happy life that I can call it to
mind and love it and long for it? It is not I alone or even a few others who
wish to be happy, but absolutely everybody. Unless we knew happiness by a
knowledge that is certain, we should not wish for it with a will which is so
certain. Take this example: If two men were asked whether they wished to serve
as soldiers, one of them might reply that he would, and the other that he would
not; but if they were asked whether they wished to be happy, both of them would
unhesitatingly say that they would. But the first one would wish to serve as a
soldier and the other would not wish to serve, both from no other motive than
to be happy. Is it, perhaps, that one finds his joy in this and another in
that? Thus they agree in their wish for happiness just as they would also
agree, if asked, in wishing for joy. Is this joy what they call a happy life?
Although one could choose his joy in this way and another in that, all have one
goal which they strive to attain, namely, to have joy. This joy, then, being
something that no one can say he has not experienced, is therefore found in the
memory and it is recognized whenever the phrase "a happy life" is heard.
CHAPTER XXII
32. Forbid it, O Lord, put it far from the heart of thy servant, who confesses
to thee--far be it from me to think I am happy because of any and all the joy I
have. For there is a joy not granted to the wicked but only to those who
worship thee thankfully--and this joy thou thyself art. The happy life is
this--to rejoice to thee, in thee, and for thee. This it is and there is no
other. But those who think there is another follow after other joys, and not
the true one. But their will is still not moved except by some image or shadow
of joy.
CHAPTER XXIII
33. Is it, then, uncertain that all men wish to be happy, since those who do
not wish to find their joy in thee--which is alone the happy life--do not
actually desire the happy life? Or, is it rather that all desire this, but
because "the flesh lusts against the spirit and the spirit against the flesh,"
so that they "prevent you from doing what you would,"[342] you fall to doing what you are able to do and are content with that. For you do
not want to do what you cannot do urgently enough to make you able to do it.
Now I ask all men whether they would rather rejoice in truth or in falsehood.
They will no more hesitate to answer, "In truth," than to say that they wish to
be happy. For a happy life is joy in the truth. Yet this is joy in thee, who
art the Truth, O God my Light, "the health of my countenance and my God."[343] All wish for this happy life; all wish for this life
which is the only happy one: joy in the truth is what all men wish.
I have had experience with many who wished to deceive, but not one who wished
to be deceived.[344] Where, then, did they ever know about
this happy life, except where they knew also what the truth is? For they love
it, too, since they are not willing to be deceived. And when they love the
happy life, which is nothing else but joy in the truth, then certainly they
also love the truth. And yet they would not love it if there were not some
knowledge of it in the memory.
Why, then, do they not rejoice in it? Why are they not happy? Because they are
so fully preoccupied with other things which do more to make them miserable
than those which would make them happy, which they remember so little about.
Yet there is a little light in men. Let them walk--let them walk in it, lest
the darkness overtake them.
34. Why, then, does truth generate hatred, and why does thy servant who
preaches the truth come to be an enemy to them who also love the happy life,
which is nothing else than joy in the truth--unless it be that truth is loved
in such a way that those who love something else besides her wish that to be
the truth which they do love. Since they are unwilling to be deceived, they are
unwilling to be convinced that they have been deceived. Therefore, they hate
the truth for the sake of whatever it is that they love in place of the truth.
They love truth when she shines on them; and hate her when she rebukes them.
And since they are not willing to be deceived, but do wish to deceive, they
love truth when she reveals herself and hate her when she reveals them. On this
account, she will so repay them that those who are unwilling to be exposed by
her she will indeed expose against their will, and yet will not disclose
herself to them.
Thus, thus, truly thus: the human mind so blind and sick, so base and
ill-mannered, desires to lie hidden, but does not wish that anything should be
hidden from it. And yet the opposite is what happens--the mind itself is not
hidden from the truth, but the truth is hidden from it. Yet even so, for all
its wretchedness, it still prefers to rejoice in truth rather than in known
falsehoods. It will, then, be happy only when without other distractions it
comes to rejoice in that single Truth through which all things else are true.
CHAPTER XXIV
35. Behold how great a territory I have explored in my memory seeking thee, O
Lord! And in it all I have still not found thee. Nor have I found anything
about thee, except what I had already retained in my memory from the time I
learned of thee. For where I found Truth, there found I my God, who is the
Truth. From the time I learned this I have not forgotten. And thus since the
time I learned of thee, thou hast dwelt in my memory, and it is there that I
find thee whenever I call thee to remembrance, and delight in thee. These are
my holy delights, which thou hast bestowed on me in thy mercy, mindful of my
poverty.
CHAPTER XXV
36. But where in my memory dost thou abide, O Lord? Where dost thou dwell
there? What sort of lodging hast thou made for thyself there? What kind of
sanctuary hast thou built for thyself? Thou hast done this honor to my memory
to take up thy abode in it, but I must consider further in what part of it thou
dost abide. For in calling thee to mind, I soared beyond those parts of memory
which the beasts also possess, because I did not find thee there among the
images of corporeal things. From there I went on to those parts where I had
stored the remembered affections of my mind, and I did not find thee there. And
I entered into the inmost seat of my mind, which is in my memory, since the
mind remembers itself also--and thou wast not there. For just as thou art not a
bodily image, nor the emotion of a living creature (such as we feel when we
rejoice or are grief-stricken, when we desire, or fear, or remember, or forget,
or anything of that kind), so neither art thou the mind itself. For thou art
the Lord God of the mind and of all these things that are mutable; but thou
abidest immutable over all. Yet thou hast elected to dwell in my memory from
the time I learned of thee. But why do I now inquire about the part of my
memory thou dost dwell in, as if indeed there were separate parts in it?
Assuredly, thou dwellest in it, since I have remembered thee from the time I
learned of thee, and I find thee in my memory when I call thee to mind.
CHAPTER XXVI
37. Where, then, did I find thee so as to be able to learn of thee? For thou
wast not in my memory before I learned of thee. Where, then, did I find thee so
as to be able to learn of thee--save in thyself beyond me.[345] Place there is none. We go "backward" and "forward" and
there is no place. Everywhere and at once, O Truth, thou guidest all who
consult thee, and simultaneously answerest all even though they consult thee on
quite different things. Thou answerest clearly, though all do not hear in
clarity. All take counsel of thee on whatever point they wish, though they do
not always hear what they wish. He is thy best servant who does not look to
hear from thee what he himself wills, but who wills rather to will what he
hears from thee.
CHAPTER XXVII
38. Belatedly I loved thee, O Beauty so ancient and so new, belatedly I loved
thee. For see, thou wast within and I was without, and I sought thee out there.
Unlovely, I rushed heedlessly among the lovely things thou hast made. Thou wast
with me, but I was not with thee. These things kept me far from thee; even
though they were not at all unless they were in thee. Thou didst call and cry
aloud, and didst force open my deafness. Thou didst gleam and shine, and didst
chase away my blindness. Thou didst breathe fragrant odors and I drew in my
breath; and now I pant for thee. I tasted, and now I hunger and thirst. Thou
didst touch me, and I burned for thy peace.
CHAPTER XXVIII
39. When I come to be united to thee with all my being, then there will be no
more pain and toil for me, and my life shall be a real life, being wholly
filled by thee. But since he whom thou fillest is the one thou liftest up, I am
still a burden to myself because I am not yet filled by thee. Joys of sorrow
contend with sorrows of joy, and on which side the victory lies I do not
know.
Woe is me! Lord, have pity on me; my evil sorrows contend with my good joys,
and on which side the victory lies I do not know. Woe is me! Lord, have pity on
me. Woe is me! Behold, I do not hide my wounds. Thou art the Physician, I am
the sick man; thou art merciful, I need mercy. Is not the life of man on earth
an ordeal? Who is he that wishes for vexations and difficulties? Thou
commandest them to be endured, not to be loved. For no man loves what he
endures, though he may love to endure. Yet even if he rejoices to endure, he
would prefer that there were nothing for him to endure. In adversity, I desire
prosperity; in prosperity, I fear adversity. What middle place is there, then,
between these two, where human life is not an ordeal? There is woe in the
prosperity of this world; there is woe in the fear of misfortune; there is woe
in the distortion of joy. There is woe in the adversities of this world--a
second woe, and a third, from the desire of prosperity--because adversity
itself is a hard thing to bear and makes shipwreck of endurance. Is not the
life of man upon the earth an ordeal, and that without surcease?
CHAPTER XXIX
40. My whole hope is in thy exceeding great mercy and that alone. Give what
thou commandest and command what thou wilt. Thou commandest continence from us,
and when I knew, as it is said, that no one could be continent unless God gave
it to him, even this was a point of wisdom to know whose gift it was.[346] For by continence we are bound up and brought back
together in the One, whereas before we were scattered abroad among the many.[347] For he loves thee too little who loves along with thee
anything else that he does not love for thy sake, O Love, who dost burn forever
and art never quenched. O Love, O my God, enkindle me! Thou commandest
continence; give what thou commandest, and command what thou wilt.
CHAPTER XXX
41. Obviously thou commandest that I should be continent from "the lust of the
flesh, and the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life."[348] Thou commandest me to abstain from fornication, and as
for marriage itself, thou hast counseled something better than what thou dost
allow. And since thou gavest it, it was done--even before I became a minister
of thy sacrament. But there still exist in my memory--of which I have spoken so
much--the images of such things as my habits had fixed there. These things rush
into my thoughts with no power when I am awake; but in sleep they rush in not
only so as to give pleasure, but even to obtain consent and what very closely
resembles the deed itself. Indeed, the illusion of the image prevails to such
an extent, in both my soul and my flesh, that the illusion persuades me when
sleeping to what the reality cannot do when I am awake. Am I not myself at such
a time, O Lord my God? And is there so much of a difference between myself
awake and myself in the moment when I pass from waking to sleeping, or return
from sleeping to waking?
Where, then, is the power of reason which resists such suggestions when I am
awake--for even if the things themselves be forced upon it I remain unmoved?
Does reason cease when the eyes close? Is it put to sleep with the bodily
senses? But in that case how does it come to pass that even in slumber we often
resist, and with our conscious purposes in mind, continue most chastely in
them, and yield no assent to such allurements? Yet there is at least this much
difference: that when it happens otherwise in dreams, when we wake up, we
return to peace of conscience. And it is by this difference between sleeping
and waking that we discover that it was not we who did it, while we still feel
sorry that in some way it was done in us.
42. Is not thy hand, O Almighty God, able to heal all the diseases of my soul
and, by thy more and more abundant grace, to quench even the lascivious motions
of my sleep? Thou wilt increase thy gifts in me more and more, O Lord, that my
soul may follow me to thee, wrenched free from the sticky glue of lust so that
it is no longer in rebellion against itself, even in dreams; that it neither
commits nor consents to these debasing corruptions which come through sensual
images and which result in the pollution of the flesh. For it is no great thing
for the Almighty, who is "able to do . . . more than we can ask or think,"[349] to bring it about that no such influence--not even one
so slight that a nod might restrain it--should afford gratification to the
feelings of a chaste person even when sleeping. This could come to pass not
only in this life but even at my present age. But what I am still in this way
of wickedness I have confessed unto my good Lord, rejoicing with trembling in
what thou hast given me and grieving in myself for that in which I am still
imperfect. I am trusting that thou wilt perfect thy mercies in me, to the
fullness of that peace which both my inner and outward being shall have with
thee when death is swallowed up in victory.[350]
CHAPTER XXXI
43. There is yet another "evil of the day"[351] to which I
wish I were sufficient. By eating and drinking we restore the daily losses of
the body until that day when thou destroyest both food and stomach, when thou
wilt destroy this emptiness with an amazing fullness and wilt clothe this
corruptible with an eternal incorruption. But now the necessity of habit is
sweet to me, and against this sweetness must I fight, lest I be enthralled by
it. Thus I carry on a daily war by fasting, constantly "bringing my body into
subjection,"[352] after which my pains are banished by
pleasure. For hunger and thirst are actual pain. They consume and destroy like
fever does, unless the medicine of food is at hand to relieve us. And since
this medicine at hand comes from the comfort we receive in thy gifts (by means
of which land and water and air serve our infirmity), even our calamity is
called pleasure.
44. This much thou hast taught me: that I should learn to take food as
medicine. But during that time when I pass from the pinch of emptiness to the
contentment of fullness, it is in that very moment that the snare of appetite
lies baited for me. For the passage itself is pleasant; there is no other way
of passing thither, and necessity compels us to pass. And while health is the
reason for our eating and drinking, yet a perilous delight joins itself to them
as a handmaid; and indeed, she tries to take precedence in order that I may
want to do for her sake what I say I want to do for health's sake. They do not
both have the same limit either. What is sufficient for health is not enough
for pleasure. And it is often a matter of doubt whether it is the needful care
of the body that still calls for food or whether it is the sensual snare of
desire still wanting to be served. In this uncertainty my unhappy soul
rejoices, and uses it to prepare an excuse as a defense. It is glad that it is
not clear as to what is sufficient for the moderation of health, so that under
the pretense of health it may conceal its projects for pleasure. These
temptations I daily endeavor to resist and I summon thy right hand to my help
and cast my perplexities onto thee, for I have not yet reached a firm
conclusion in this matter.
45. I hear the voice of my God commanding: "Let not your heart be overcharged
with surfeiting and drunkenness."[353] Drunkenness is far
from me. Thou wilt have mercy that it does not come near me. But "surfeiting"
sometimes creeps upon thy servant. Thou wilt have mercy that it may be put far
from me. For no man can be continent unless thou give it.[354] Many things that we pray for thou givest us, and
whatever good we receive before we prayed for it, we receive it from thee, so
that we might afterward know that we did receive it from thee. I never was a
drunkard, but I have known drunkards made into sober men by thee. It was also
thy doing that those who never were drunkards have not been--and likewise, it
was from thee that those who have been might not remain so always. And it was
likewise from thee that both might know from whom all this came.
I heard another voice of thine: "Do not follow your lusts and refrain yourself
from your pleasures."[355] And by thy favor I have also
heard this saying in which I have taken much delight: "Neither if we eat are we
the better; nor if we eat not are we the worse."[356] This
is to say that neither shall the one make me to abound, nor the other to be
wretched. I heard still another voice: "For I have learned, in whatsoever state
I am, therewith to be content. I know how to be abased and I know how to
abound. . . . I can do all things through Christ who strengtheneth me."[357] See here a soldier of the heavenly army; not the sort
of dust we are. But remember, O Lord, "that we are dust"[358] and that thou didst create man out of the dust,[359] and that he "was lost, and is found."[360] Of course, he [the apostle Paul] could not do all this
by his own power. He was of the same dust--he whom I loved so much and who
spoke of these things through the afflatus of thy inspiration: "I can," he
said, "do all things through him who strengtheneth me." Strengthen me, that I
too may be able. Give what thou commandest, and command what thou wilt. This
man [Paul] confesses that he received the gift of grace and that, when he
glories, he glories in the Lord. I have heard yet another voice praying that he
might receive. "Take from me," he said, "the greediness of the belly."[361] And from this it appears, O my holy God, that thou dost
give it, when what thou commandest to be done is done.
46. Thou hast taught me, good Father, that "to the pure all things are pure"[362]; but "it is evil for that man who gives offense in
eating"[363]; and that "every creature of thine is good,
and nothing is to be refused if it is received with thanksgiving"[364]; and that "meat does not commend us to God"[365]; and that "no man should judge us in meat or in
drink."[366] "Let not him who eats despise him who eats
not, and let him that does not eat judge not him who does eat."[367] These things I have learned, thanks and praise be to
thee, O my God and Master, who knockest at my ears and enlightenest my heart.
Deliver me from all temptation!
It is not the uncleanness of meat that I fear, but the uncleanness of an
incontinent appetite. I know that permission was granted Noah to eat every kind
of flesh that was good for food; that Elijah was fed with flesh; that John,
blessed with a wonderful abstinence, was not polluted by the living creatures
(that is, the locusts) on which he fed. And I also know that Esau was deceived
by his hungering after lentils and that David blamed himself for desiring
water, and that our King was tempted not by flesh but by bread. And, thus, the
people in the wilderness truly deserved their reproof, not because they desired
meat, but because in their desire for food they murmured against the Lord.
47. Set down, then, in the midst of these temptations, I strive daily against
my appetite for food and drink. For it is not the kind of appetite I am able to
deal with by cutting it off once for all, and thereafter not touching it, as I
was able to do with fornication. The bridle of the throat, therefore, must be
held in the mean between slackness and tightness. And who, O Lord, is he who is
not in some degree carried away beyond the bounds of necessity? Whoever he is,
he is great; let him magnify thy name. But I am not such a one, "for I am a
sinful man."[368] Yet I too magnify thy name, for he who
hath "overcome the world"[369] intercedeth with thee for
my sins, numbering me among the weak members of his body; for thy eyes did see
what was imperfect in him, and in thy book all shall be written down.[370]
CHAPTER XXXII
48. I am not much troubled by the allurement of odors. When they are absent, I
do not seek them; when they are present, I do not refuse them; and I am always
prepared to go without them. At any rate, I appear thus to myself; it is quite
possible that I am deceived. For there is a lamentable darkness in which my
capabilities are concealed, so that when my mind inquires into itself
concerning its own powers, it does not readily venture to believe itself,
because what already is in it is largely concealed unless experience brings it
to light. Thus no man ought to feel secure in this life, the whole of which is
called an ordeal, ordered so that the man who could be made better from having
been worse may not also from having been better become worse. Our sole hope,
our sole confidence, our only assured promise, is thy mercy.
CHAPTER XXXIII
49. The delights of the ear drew and held me much more powerfully, but thou
didst unbind and liberate me. In those melodies which thy words inspire when
sung with a sweet and trained voice, I still find repose; yet not so as to
cling to them, but always so as to be able to free myself as I wish. But it is
because of the words which are their life that they gain entry into me and
strive for a place of proper honor in my heart; and I can hardly assign them a
fitting one. Sometimes, I seem to myself to give them more respect than is
fitting, when I see that our minds are more devoutly and earnestly inflamed in
piety by the holy words when they are sung than when they are not. And I
recognize that all the diverse affections of our spirits have their appropriate
measures in the voice and song, to which they are stimulated by I know not what
secret correlation. But the pleasures of my flesh--to which the mind ought
never to be surrendered nor by them enervated--often beguile me while physical
sense does not attend on reason, to follow her patiently, but having once
gained entry to help the reason, it strives to run on before her and be her
leader. Thus in these things I sin unknowingly, but I come to know it
afterward.
50. On the other hand, when I avoid very earnestly this kind of deception, I
err out of too great austerity. Sometimes I go to the point of wishing that all
the melodies of the pleasant songs to which David's Psalter is adapted should
be banished both from my ears and from those of the Church itself. In this
mood, the safer way seemed to me the one I remember was once related to me
concerning Athanasius, bishop of Alexandria, who required the readers of the
psalm to use so slight an inflection of the voice that it was more like
speaking than singing.
However, when I call to mind the tears I shed at the songs of thy Church at the
outset of my recovered faith, and how even now I am moved, not by the singing
but by what is sung (when they are sung with a clear and skillfully modulated
voice), I then come to acknowledge the great utility of this custom. Thus I
vacillate between dangerous pleasure and healthful exercise. I am
inclined--though I pronounce no irrevocable opinion on the subject--to approve
of the use of singing in the church, so that by the delights of the ear the
weaker minds may be stimulated to a devotional mood.[371] Yet when it happens that I am more moved by the singing than by what is sung, I
confess myself to have sinned wickedly, and then I would rather not have heard
the singing. See now what a condition I am in! Weep with me, and weep for me,
those of you who can so control your inward feelings that good results always
come forth. As for you who do not act this way at all, such things do not
concern you. But do thou, O Lord, my God, give ear; look and see, and have
mercy upon me; and heal me--thou, in whose sight I am become an enigma to
myself; this itself is my weakness.
CHAPTER XXXIV
51. There remain the delights of these eyes of my flesh, about which I must
make my confession in the hearing of the ears of thy temple, brotherly and
pious ears. Thus I will finish the list of the temptations of carnal appetite
which still assail me--groaning and desiring as I am to be clothed upon with my
house from heaven.[372]
The eyes delight in fair and varied forms, and bright and pleasing colors. Let
these not take possession of my soul! Rather let God possess it, he who didst
make all these things very good indeed. He is still my good, and not these. The
pleasures of sight affect me all the time I am awake. There is no rest from
them given me, as there is from the voices of melody, which I can occasionally
find in silence. For daylight, that queen of the colors, floods all that we
look upon everywhere I go during the day. It flits about me in manifold forms
and soothes me even when I am busy about other things, not noticing it. And it
presents itself so forcibly that if it is suddenly withdrawn it is looked for
with longing, and if it is long absent the mind is saddened.
52. O Light, which Tobit saw even with his eyes closed in blindness, when he
taught his son the way of life--and went before him himself in the steps of
love and never went astray[373]; or that Light which Isaac
saw when his fleshly "eyes were dim, so that he could not see"[374] because of old age, and it was permitted him
unknowingly to bless his sons, but in the blessing of them to know them; or
that Light which Jacob saw, when he too, blind in old age yet with an
enlightened heart, threw light on the nation of men yet to come--presignified
in the persons of his own sons--and laid his hands mystically crossed upon his
grandchildren by Joseph (not as their father, who saw them from without, but as
though he were within them), and distinguished them aright[375]: this is the true Light; it is one, and all are one who
see and love it.
But that corporeal light, of which I was speaking, seasons the life of the
world for her blind lovers with a tempting and fatal sweetness. Those who know
how to praise thee for it, "O God, Creator of Us All," take it up in thy
hymn,[376] and are not taken over by it in their sleep.
Such a man I desire to be. I resist the seductions of my eyes, lest my feet be
entangled as I go forward in thy way; and I raise my invisible eyes to thee,
that thou wouldst be pleased to "pluck my feet out of the net."[377] Thou dost continually pluck them out, for they are
easily ensnared. Thou ceasest not to pluck them out, but I constantly remain
fast in the snares set all around me. However, thou who "keepest Israel shall
neither slumber nor sleep."[378]
53. What numberless things there are: products of the various arts and
manufactures in our clothes, shoes, vessels, and all such things; besides such
things as pictures and statuary--and all these far beyond the necessary and
moderate use of them or their significance for the life of piety--which men
have added for the delight of the eye, copying the outward forms of the things
they make; but inwardly forsaking Him by whom they were made and destroying
what they themselves have been made to be!
And I, O my God and my Joy, I also raise a hymn to thee for all these things,
and offer a sacrifice of praise to my Sanctifier, because those beautiful forms
which pass through the medium of the human soul into the artist's hands come
from that beauty which is above our minds, which my soul sighs for day and
night. But the craftsmen and devotees of these outward beauties discover the
norm by which they judge them from that higher beauty, but not the measure of
their use. Still, even if they do not see it, it is there nevertheless, to
guard them from wandering astray, and to keep their strength for thee, and not
dissipate it in delights that pass into boredom. And for myself, though I can
see and understand this, I am still entangled in my own course with such
beauty, but thou wilt rescue me, O Lord, thou wilt rescue me, "for thy
loving-kindness is before my eyes."[379] For I am
captivated in my weakness but thou in thy mercy dost rescue me: sometimes
without my knowing it, because I had only lightly fallen; at other times, the
rescue is painful because I was stuck fast.
CHAPTER XXXV
54. Besides this there is yet another form of temptation still more complex in
its peril. For in addition to the fleshly appetite which strives for the
gratification of all senses and pleasures--in which its slaves perish because
they separate themselves from thee--there is also a certain vain and curious
longing in the soul, rooted in the same bodily senses, which is cloaked under
the name of knowledge and learning; not having pleasure in the flesh, but
striving for new experiences through the flesh. This longing--since its origin
is our appetite for learning, and since the sight is the chief of our senses in
the acquisition of knowledge--is called in the divine language "the lust of the
eyes."[380] For seeing is a function of the eyes; yet we
also use this word for the other senses as well, when we exercise them in the
search for knowledge. We do not say, "Listen how it glows," "Smell how it
glistens," "Taste how it shines," or "Feel how it flashes," since all of these
are said to be seen. And we do not simply say, "See how it shines,"
which only the eyes can perceive; but we also say, "See how it sounds, see how
it smells, see how it tastes, see how hard it is." Thus, as we said before, the
whole round of sensory experience is called "the lust of the eyes" because the
function of seeing, in which the eyes have the principal role, is applied by
analogy to the other senses when they are seeking after any kind of
knowledge.
55. From this, then, one can the more clearly distinguish whether it is
pleasure or curiosity that is being pursued by the senses. For pleasure pursues
objects that are beautiful, melodious, fragrant, savory, soft. But curiosity,
seeking new experiences, will even seek out the contrary of these, not with the
purpose of experiencing the discomfort that often accompanies them, but out of
a passion for experimenting and knowledge.
For what pleasure is there in the sight of a lacerated corpse, which makes you
shudder? And yet if there is one lying close by we flock to it, as if to be
made sad and pale. People fear lest they should see such a thing even in sleep,
just as they would if, when awake, someone compelled them to go and see it or
if some rumor of its beauty had attracted them.
This is also the case with the other senses; it would be tedious to pursue a
complete analysis of it. This malady of curiosity is the reason for all those
strange sights exhibited in the theater. It is also the reason why we proceed
to search out the secret powers of nature--those which have nothing to do with
our destiny--which do not profit us to know about, and concerning which men
desire to know only for the sake of knowing. And it is with this same motive of
perverted curiosity for knowledge that we consult the magical arts. Even in
religion itself, this prompting drives us to make trial of God when signs and
wonders are eagerly asked of him--not desired for any saving end, but only to
make trial of him.
56. In such a wilderness so vast, crammed with snares and dangers, behold how
many of them I have lopped off and cast from my heart, as thou, O God of my
salvation, hast enabled me to do. And yet, when would I dare to say, since so
many things of this sort still buzz around our daily lives--when would I dare
to say that no such motive prompts my seeing or creates a vain curiosity in me?
It is true that now the theaters never attract me, nor do I now care to inquire
about the courses of the stars, and my soul has never sought answers from the
departed spirits. All sacrilegious oaths I abhor. And yet, O Lord my God, to
whom I owe all humble and singlehearted service, with what subtle suggestion
the enemy still influences me to require some sign from thee! But by our King,
and by Jerusalem, our pure and chaste homeland, I beseech thee that where any
consenting to such thoughts is now far from me, so may it always be farther and
farther. And when I entreat thee for the salvation of any man, the end I aim at
is something more than the entreating: let it be that as thou dost what thou
wilt, thou dost also give me the grace willingly to follow thy lead.
57. Now, really, in how many of the most minute and trivial things my curiosity
is still daily tempted, and who can keep the tally on how often I succumb? How
often, when people are telling idle tales, we begin by tolerating them lest we
should give offense to the sensitive; and then gradually we come to listen
willingly! I do not nowadays go to the circus to see a dog chase a rabbit, but
if by chance I pass such a race in the fields, it quite easily distracts me
even from some serious thought and draws me after it--not that I turn aside
with my horse, but with the inclination of my mind. And unless, by showing me
my weakness, thou dost speedily warn me to rise above such a sight to thee by a
deliberate act of thought--or else to despise the whole thing and pass it
by--then I become absorbed in the sight, vain creature that I am.
How is it that when I am sitting at home a lizard catching flies, or a spider
entangling them as they fly into her webs, oftentimes arrests me? Is the
feeling of curiosity not the same just because these are such tiny creatures?
From them I proceed to praise thee, the wonderful Creator and Disposer of all
things; but it is not this that first attracts my attention. It is one thing to
get up quickly and another thing not to fall--and of both such things my life
is full and my only hope is in thy exceeding great mercy. For when this heart
of ours is made the depot of such things and is overrun by the throng of these
abounding vanities, then our prayers are often interrupted and disturbed by
them. Even while we are in thy presence and direct the voice of our hearts to
thy ears, such a great business as this is broken off by the inroads of I know
not what idle thoughts.
CHAPTER XXXVI
58. Shall we, then, also reckon this vain curiosity among the things that are
to be but lightly esteemed? Shall anything restore us to hope except thy
complete mercy since thou hast begun to change us? Thou knowest to what extent
thou hast already changed me, for first of all thou didst heal me of the lust
for vindicating myself, so that thou mightest then forgive all my remaining
iniquities and heal all my diseases, and "redeem my life from corruption and
crown me with loving-kindness and tender mercies, and satisfy my desires with
good things."[381] It was thou who didst restrain my pride
with thy fear, and bowed my neck to thy "yoke."[382] And
now I bear the yoke and it is "light" to me, because thou didst promise it to
be so, and hast made it to be so. And so in truth it was, though I knew it not
when I feared to take it up.
59. But, O Lord--thou who alone reignest without pride, because thou alone art
the true Lord, who hast no Lord--has this third kind of temptation left me, or
can it leave me during this life: the desire to be feared and loved of men,
with no other view than that I may find in it a joy that is no joy? It is,
rather, a wretched life and an unseemly ostentation. It is a special reason why
we do not love thee, nor devotedly fear thee. Therefore "thou resistest the
proud but givest grace to the humble."[383] Thou
thunderest down on the ambitious designs of the world, and "the foundations of
the hills" tremble.[384]
And yet certain offices in human society require the officeholder to be loved
and feared of men, and through this the adversary of our true blessedness
presses hard upon us, scattering everywhere his snares of "well done, well
done"; so that while we are eagerly picking them up, we may be caught unawares
and split off our joy from thy truth and fix it on the deceits of men. In this
way we come to take pleasure in being loved and feared, not for thy sake but in
thy stead. By such means as this, the adversary makes men like himself, that he
may have them as his own, not in the harmony of love, but in the fellowship of
punishment--the one who aspired to exalt his throne in the north,[385] that in the darkness and the cold men might have to
serve him, mimicking thee in perverse and distorted ways.
But see, O Lord, we are thy little flock. Possess us, stretch thy wings above
us, and let us take refuge under them. Be thou our glory; let us be loved for
thy sake, and let thy word be feared in us. Those who desire to be commended by
the men whom thou condemnest will not be defended by men when thou judgest, nor
will they be delivered when thou dost condemn them. But when--not as a sinner
is praised in the wicked desires of his soul nor when the unrighteous man is
blessed in his unrighteousness--a man is praised for some gift that thou hast
given him, and he is more gratified at the praise for himself than because he
possesses the gift for which he is praised, such a one is praised while thou
dost condemn him. In such a case the one who praised is truly better than the
one who was praised. For the gift of God in man was pleasing to the one, while
the other was better pleased with the gift of man than with the gift of God.
CHAPTER XXXVII
60. By these temptations we are daily tried, O Lord; we are tried unceasingly.
Our daily "furnace" is the human tongue.[386] And also in
this respect thou commandest us to be continent. Give what thou commandest and
command what thou wilt. In this matter, thou knowest the groans of my heart and
the rivers of my eyes, for I am not able to know for certain how far I am clean
of this plague; and I stand in great fear of my "secret faults,"[387] which thy eyes perceive, though mine do not. For in
respect of the pleasures of my flesh and of idle curiosity, I see how far I
have been able to hold my mind in check when I abstain from them either by
voluntary act of the will or because they simply are not at hand; for then I
can inquire of myself how much more or less frustrating it is to me not to have
them. This is also true about riches, which are sought for in order that they
may minister to one of these three "lusts," or two, or the whole complex of
them. The mind is able to see clearly if, when it has them, it despises them so
that they may be cast aside and it may prove itself.
But if we desire to test our power of doing without praise, must we then live
wickedly or lead a life so atrocious and abandoned that everyone who knows us
will detest us? What greater madness than this can be either said or conceived?
And yet if praise, both by custom and right, is the companion of a good life
and of good works, we should as little forgo its companionship as the good life
itself. But unless a thing is absent I do not know whether I should be
contented or troubled at having to do without it.
61. What is it, then, that I am confessing to thee, O Lord, concerning this
sort of temptation? What else, than that I am delighted with praise, but more
with the truth itself than with praise. For if I were to have any choice
whether, if I were mad or utterly in the wrong, I would prefer to be praised by
all men or, if I were steadily and fully confident in the truth, would prefer
to be blamed by all, I see which I should choose. Yet I wish I were unwilling
that the approval of others should add anything to my joy for any good I have.
Yet I admit that it does increase it; and, more than that, dispraise diminishes
it. Then, when I am disturbed over this wretchedness of mine, an excuse
presents itself to me, the value of which thou knowest, O God, for it renders
me uncertain. For since it is not only continence that thou hast enjoined on
us--that is, what things to hold back our love from--but righteousness as
well--that is, what to bestow our love upon--and hast wished us to love not
only thee, but also our neighbor, it often turns out that when I am gratified
by intelligent praise I seem to myself to be gratified by the competence or
insight of my neighbor; or, on the other hand, I am sorry for the defect in him
when I hear him dispraise either what he does not understand or what is good.
For I am sometimes grieved at the praise I get, either when those things that
displease me in myself are praised in me, or when lesser and trifling goods are
valued more highly than they should be. But, again, how do I know whether I
feel this way because I am unwilling that he who praises me should differ from
me concerning myself not because I am moved with any consideration for him, but
because the good things that please me in myself are more pleasing to me when
they also please another? For in a way, I am not praised when my judgment of
myself is not praised, since either those things which are displeasing to me
are praised, or those things which are less pleasing to me are more praised. Am
I not, then, quite uncertain of myself in this respect?
62. Behold, O Truth, it is in thee that I see that I ought not to be moved at
my own praises for my own sake, but for the sake of my neighbor's good. And
whether this is actually my way, I truly do not know. On this score I know less
of myself than thou dost. I beseech thee now, O my God, to reveal myself to me
also, that I may confess to my brethren, who are to pray for me in those
matters where I find myself weak.
Let me once again examine myself the more diligently. If, in my own praise, I
am moved with concern for my neighbor, why am I less moved if some other man is
unjustly dispraised than when it happens to me? Why am I more irritated at that
reproach which is cast on me than at one which is, with equal injustice, cast
upon another in my presence? Am I ignorant of this also? Or is it still true
that I am deceiving myself, and do not keep the truth before thee in my heart
and tongue? Put such madness far from me, O Lord, lest my mouth be to me "the
oil of sinners, to anoint my head."[388]
CHAPTER XXXVIII
63. "I am needy and poor."[389] Still, I am better when in
secret groanings I displease myself and seek thy mercy until what is lacking in
me is renewed and made complete for that peace which the eye of the proud does
not know. The reports that come from the mouth and from actions known to men
have in them a most perilous temptation to the love of praise. This love builds
up a certain complacency in one's own excellency, and then goes around
collecting solicited compliments. It tempts me, even when I inwardly reprove
myself for it, and this precisely because it is reproved. For a man may often
glory vainly in the very scorn of vainglory--and in this case it is not any
longer the scorn of vainglory in which he glories, for he does not truly
despise it when he inwardly glories in it.
CHAPTER XXXIX
64. Within us there is yet another evil arising from the same sort of
temptation. By it they become empty who please themselves in themselves,
although they do not please or displease or aim at pleasing others. But in
pleasing themselves they displease thee very much, not merely taking pleasure
in things that are not good as if they were good, but taking pleasure in thy
good things as if they were their own; or even as if they were thine but still
as if they had received them through their own merit; or even as if they had
them through thy grace, still without this grace with their friends, but as if
they envied that grace to others. In all these and similar perils and labors,
thou perceivest the agitation of my heart, and I would rather feel my wounds
being cured by thee than not inflicted by me on myself.
CHAPTER XL
65. Where hast thou not accompanied me, O Truth, teaching me both what to avoid
and what to desire, when I have submitted to thee what I could understand about
matters here below, and have sought thy counsel about them?
With my external senses I have viewed the world as I was able and have noticed
the life which my body derives from me and from these senses of mine. From that
stage I advanced inwardly into the recesses of my memory--the manifold chambers
of my mind, marvelously full of unmeasured wealth. And I reflected on this and
was afraid, and could understand none of these things without thee and found
thee to be none of them. Nor did I myself discover these things--I who went
over them all and labored to distinguish and to value everything according to
its dignity, accepting some things upon the report of my senses and questioning
about others which I thought to be related to my inner self, distinguishing and
numbering the reporters themselves; and in that vast storehouse of my memory,
investigating some things, depositing other things, taking out still others.
Neither was I myself when I did this--that is, that ability of mine by which I
did it--nor was it thou, for thou art that never-failing light from which I
took counsel about them all; whether they were what they were, and what was
their real value. In all this I heard thee teaching and commanding me. And this
I often do--and this is a delight to me--and as far as I can get relief from my
necessary duties, I resort to this kind of pleasure. But in all these things
which I review when I consult thee, I still do not find a secure place for my
soul save in thee, in whom my scattered members may be gathered together and
nothing of me escape from thee. And sometimes thou introducest me to a most
rare and inward feeling, an inexplicable sweetness. If this were to come to
perfection in me I do not know to what point life might not then arrive. But
still, by these wretched weights of mine, I relapse into these common things,
and am sucked in by my old customs and am held. I sorrow much, yet I am still
closely held. To this extent, then, the burden of habit presses us down. I can
exist in this fashion but I do not wish to do so. In that other way I wish I
were, but cannot be--in both ways I am wretched.
CHAPTER XLI
66. And now I have thus considered the infirmities of my sins, under the
headings of the three major "lusts," and I have called thy right hand to my
aid. For with a wounded heart I have seen thy brightness, and having been
beaten back I cried: "Who can attain to it? I am cut off from before thy
eyes."[390] Thou art the Truth, who presidest over all
things, but I, because of my greed, did not wish to lose thee. But still, along
with thee, I wished also to possess a lie--just as no one wishes to lie in such
a way as to be ignorant of what is true. By this I lost thee, for thou wilt not
condescend to be enjoyed along with a lie.
CHAPTER XLII
67. Whom could I find to reconcile me to thee? Should I have approached the
angels? What kind of prayer? What kind of rites? Many who were striving to
return to thee and were not able of themselves have, I am told, tried this and
have fallen into a longing for curious visions and deserved to be deceived.
Being exalted, they sought thee in their pride of learning, and they thrust
themselves forward rather than beating their breasts.[391] And so by a likeness of heart, they drew to themselves the princes of the
air,[392] their conspirators and companions in pride, by
whom they were deceived by the power of magic. Thus they sought a mediator by
whom they might be cleansed, but there was none. For the mediator they sought
was the devil, disguising himself as an angel of light.[393] And he allured their proud flesh the more because he
had no fleshly body.
They were mortal and sinful, but thou, O Lord, to whom they arrogantly sought
to be reconciled, art immortal and sinless. But a mediator between God and man
ought to have something in him like God and something in him like man, lest in
being like man he should be far from God, or if only like God he should be far
from man, and so should not be a mediator. That deceitful mediator, then, by
whom, by thy secret judgment, human pride deserves to be deceived, had one
thing in common with man, that is, his sin. In another respect, he would seem
to have something in common with God, for not being clothed with the mortality
of the flesh, he could boast that he was immortal. But since "the wages of sin
is death,"[394] what he really has in common with men is
that, together with them, he is condemned to death.
CHAPTER XLIII
68. But the true Mediator, whom thou in thy secret mercy hast revealed to the
humble, and hast sent to them so that through his example they also might learn
the same humility--that "Mediator between God and man, the man Christ Jesus,"[395] appeared between mortal sinners and the immortal Just
One. He was mortal as men are mortal; he was righteous as God is righteous; and
because the reward of righteousness is life and peace, he could, through his
righteousness united with God, cancel the death of justified sinners, which he
was willing to have in common with them. Hence he was manifested to holy men of
old, to the end that they might be saved through faith in his Passion to come,
even as we through faith in his Passion which is past. As man he was Mediator,
but as the Word he was not something in between the two; because he was equal
to God, and God with God, and, with the Holy Spirit, one God.
69. How hast thou loved us, O good Father, who didst not spare thy only Son,
but didst deliver him up for us wicked ones![396] How hast
thou loved us, for whom he who did not count it robbery to be equal with thee
"became obedient unto death, even the death of the cross"[397]! He alone was "free among the dead."[398] He alone had power to lay down his life and power to
take it up again, and for us he became to thee both Victor and Victim; and
Victor because he was the Victim. For us, he was to thee both Priest and
Sacrifice, and Priest because he was the Sacrifice. Out of slaves, he maketh us
thy sons, because he was born of thee and did serve us. Rightly, then, is my
hope fixed strongly on him, that thou wilt "heal all my diseases"[399] through him, who sitteth at thy right hand and maketh
intercession for us.[400] Otherwise I should utterly
despair. For my infirmities are many and great; indeed, they are very many and
very great. But thy medicine is still greater. Otherwise, we might think that
thy word was removed from union with man, and despair of ourselves, if it had
not been that he was "made flesh and dwelt among us."[401]
70. Terrified by my sins and the load of my misery, I had resolved in my heart
and considered flight into the wilderness. But thou didst forbid me, and thou
didst strengthen me, saying that "since Christ died for all, they who live
should not henceforth live unto themselves, but unto him who died for them."[402] Behold, O Lord, I cast all my care on thee, that I may
live and "behold wondrous things out of thy law."[403] Thou knowest my incompetence and my infirmities; teach me and heal me. Thy only
Son--he "in whom are hid all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge"[404]--hath redeemed me with his blood. Let not the proud
speak evil of me, because I keep my ransom before my mind, and eat and drink
and share my food and drink. For, being poor, I desire to be satisfied from
him, together with those who eat and are satisfied: "and they shall praise the
Lord that seek Him."[405]
BOOK ELEVEN
The eternal Creator and the Creation in time. Augustine ties
together his memory of his past life, his present experience, and his ardent
desire to comprehend the mystery of creation. This leads him to the questions
of the mode and time of creation. He ponders the mode of creation and shows
that it was de nihilo and involved no alteration in the being of God. He
then considers the question of the beginning of the world and time and shows
that time and creation are cotemporal. But what is time? To this Augustine
devotes a brilliant analysis of the subjectivity of time and the relation of
all temporal process to the abiding eternity of God. From this, he prepares to
turn to a detailed interpretation of Gen. 1:1, 2.
CHAPTER I
1. Is it possible, O Lord, that, since thou art in eternity, thou art ignorant
of what I am saying to thee? Or, dost thou see in time an event at the time it
occurs? If not, then why am I recounting such a tale of things to thee?
Certainly not in order to acquaint thee with them through me; but, instead,
that through them I may stir up my own love and the love of my readers toward
thee, so that all may say, "Great is the Lord and greatly to be praised." I
have said this before[406] and will say it again: "For
love of thy love I do it." So also we pray--and yet Truth tells us, "Your
Father knoweth what things you need before you ask him."[407] Consequently, we lay bare our feelings before thee,
that, through our confessing to thee our plight and thy mercies toward us, thou
mayest go on to free us altogether, as thou hast already begun; and that we may
cease to be wretched in ourselves and blessed in thee--since thou hast called
us to be poor in spirit, meek, mourners, hungering and athirst for
righteousness, merciful and pure in heart.[408] Thus I
have told thee many things, as I could find ability and will to do so, since it
was thy will in the first place that I should confess to thee, O Lord my
God--for "Thou art good and thy mercy endureth forever."[409]
CHAPTER II
2. But how long would it take for the voice of my pen to tell enough of thy
exhortations and of all thy terrors and comforts and leadings by which thou
didst bring me to preach thy Word and to administer thy sacraments to thy
people? And even if I could do this sufficiently, the drops of time[410] are very precious to me and I have for a long time been
burning with the desire to meditate on thy law, and to confess in thy presence
my knowledge and ignorance of it--from the first streaks of thy light in my
mind and the remaining darkness, until my weakness shall be swallowed up in thy
strength. And I do not wish to see those hours drained into anything else which
I can find free from the necessary care of the body, the exercise of the mind,
and the service we owe to our fellow men--and what we give even if we do not
owe it.
3. O Lord my God, hear my prayer and let thy mercy attend my longing. It does
not burn for itself alone but longs as well to serve the cause of fraternal
love. Thou seest in my heart that this is so. Let me offer the service of my
mind and my tongue--and give me what I may in turn offer back to thee. For "I
am needy and poor"; thou art rich to all who call upon thee--thou who, in thy
freedom from care, carest for us. Trim away from my lips, inwardly and
outwardly, all rashness and lying. Let thy Scriptures be my chaste delight. Let
me not be deceived in them, nor deceive others from them. O Lord, hear and
pity! O Lord my God, light of the blind, strength of the weak--and also the
light of those who see and the strength of the strong--hearken to my soul and
hear it crying from the depths.[411] Unless thy ears
attend us even in the depths, where should we go? To whom should we cry?
"Thine is the day and the night is thine as well."[412] At
thy bidding the moments fly by. Grant me in them, then, an interval for my
meditations on the hidden things of thy law, nor close the door of thy law
against us who knock. Thou hast not willed that the deep secrets of all those
pages should have been written in vain. Those forests are not without their
stags which keep retired within them, ranging and walking and feeding, lying
down and ruminating.[413] Perfect me, O Lord, and reveal
their secrets to me. Behold, thy voice is my joy; thy voice surpasses in
abundance of delights. Give me what I love, for I do love it. And this too is
thy gift. Abandon not thy gifts and despise not thy "grass" which thirsts for
thee.[414] Let me confess to thee everything that I shall
have found in thy books and "let me hear the voice of thy praise."[415] Let me drink from thee and "consider the wondrous
things out of thy law"[416]--from the very beginning, when
thou madest heaven and earth, and thenceforward to the everlasting reign of thy
Holy City with thee.
4. O Lord, have mercy on me and hear my petition. For my prayer is not for
earthly things, neither gold nor silver and precious stones, nor gorgeous
apparel, nor honors and power, nor fleshly pleasures, nor of bodily necessities
in this life of our pilgrimage: all of these things are "added" to those who
seek thy Kingdom and thy righteousness.[417]
Observe, O God, from whence comes my desire. The unrighteous have told me of
delights but not such as those in thy law, O Lord. Behold, this is the spring
of my desire. See, O Father, look and see--and approve! Let it be pleasing in
thy mercy's sight that I should find favor with thee--that the secret things of
thy Word may be opened to me when I knock. I beg this of thee by our Lord Jesus
Christ, thy Son, the Man of thy right hand, the Son of Man; whom thou madest
strong for thy purpose as Mediator between thee and us; through whom thou didst
seek us when we were not seeking thee, but didst seek us so that we might seek
thee; thy Word, through whom thou madest all things, and me among them; thy
only Son, through whom thou hast called thy faithful people to adoption, and me
among them. I beseech it of thee through him who sitteth at thy right hand and
maketh intercession for us, "in whom are hid all treasures of wisdom and
knowledge."[418] It is he I seek in thy books. Moses wrote
of him. He tells us so himself; the Truth tells us so.
CHAPTER III
5. Let me hear and understand how in the beginning thou madest heaven and
earth.[419] Moses wrote of this; he wrote and passed
on--moving from thee to thee--and he is now no longer before me. If he were, I
would lay hold on him and ask him and entreat him solemnly that in thy name he
would open out these things to me, and I would lend my bodily ears to the
sounds that came forth out of his mouth. If, however, he spoke in the Hebrew
language, the sounds would beat on my senses in vain, and nothing would touch
my mind; but if he spoke in Latin, I would understand what he said. But how
should I then know whether what he said was true? If I knew even this much,
would it be that I knew it from him? Indeed, within me, deep inside the
chambers of my thought, Truth itself--neither Hebrew, nor Greek, nor Latin, nor
barbarian, without any organs of voice and tongue, without the sound of
syllables--would say, "He speaks the truth," and I should be assured by this.
Then I would confidently say to that man of thine, "You speak the truth."[420] However, since I cannot inquire of Moses, I beseech
thee, O Truth, from whose fullness he spoke truth; I beseech thee, my God,
forgive my sins, and as thou gavest thy servant the gift to speak these things,
grant me also the gift to understand them.
CHAPTER IV
6. Look around; there are the heaven and the earth. They cry aloud that they
were made, for they change and vary. Whatever there is that has not been made,
and yet has being, has nothing in it that was not there before. This having
something not already existent is what it means to be changed and varied.
Heaven and earth thus speak plainly that they did not make themselves: "We are,
because we have been made; we did not exist before we came to be so that we
could have made ourselves!" And the voice with which they speak is simply their
visible presence. It was thou, O Lord, who madest these things. Thou art
beautiful; thus they are beautiful. Thou art good, thus they are good. Thou
art; thus they are. But they are not as beautiful, nor as good, nor as truly
real as thou their Creator art. Compared with thee, they are neither beautiful
nor good, nor do they even exist. These things we know, thanks be to thee. Yet
our knowledge is ignorance when it is compared with thy knowledge.
CHAPTER V
7. But how didst thou make the heaven and the earth, and what was the
tool of such a mighty work as thine? For it was not like a human worker
fashioning body from body, according to the fancy of his mind, able somehow or
other to impose on it a form which the mind perceived in itself by its inner
eye (yet how should even he be able to do this, if thou hadst not made that
mind?). He imposes the form on something already existing and having some sort
of being, such as clay, or stone or wood or gold or such like (and where would
these things come from if thou hadst not furnished them?). For thou madest his
body for the artisan, and thou madest the mind which directs the limbs; thou
madest the matter from which he makes anything; thou didst create the capacity
by which he understands his art and sees within his mind what he may do with
the things before him; thou gavest him his bodily sense by which, as if he had
an interpreter, he may communicate from mind to matter what he proposes to do
and report back to his mind what has been done, that the mind may consult with
the Truth which presideth over it as to whether what is done is well done.
All these things praise thee, the Creator of them all. But how didst thou make
them? How, O God, didst thou make the heaven and earth? For truly, neither in
heaven nor on earth didst thou make heaven and earth--nor in the air nor in the
waters, since all of these also belong to the heaven and the earth. Nowhere in
the whole world didst thou make the whole world, because there was no place
where it could be made before it was made. And thou didst not hold anything in
thy hand from which to fashion the heaven and the earth,[421] for where couldst thou have gotten what thou hadst not
made in order to make something with it? Is there, indeed, anything at all
except because thou art? Thus thou didst speak and they were made,[422] and by thy Word thou didst make them all.
CHAPTER VI
8. But how didst thou speak? Was it in the same manner in which the voice came
from the cloud saying, "This is my beloved Son"[423]? For
that voice sounded forth and died away; it began and ended. The syllables
sounded and passed away, the second after the first, the third after the
second, and thence in order, till the very last after all the rest; and silence
after the last. From this it is clear and plain that it was the action of a
creature, itself in time, which sounded that voice, obeying thy eternal will.
And what these words were which were formed at that time the outer ear conveyed
to the conscious mind, whose inner ear lay attentively open to thy eternal
Word. But it compared those words which sounded in time with thy eternal word
sounding in silence and said: "This is different; quite different! These words
are far below me; they are not even real, for they fly away and pass, but the
Word of my God remains above me forever." If, then, in words that sound and
fade away thou didst say that heaven and earth should be made, and thus madest heaven and earth, then there was already some kind of corporeal
creature before heaven and earth by whose motions in time that voice
might have had its occurrence in time. But there was nothing corporeal before
the heaven and the earth; or if there was, then it is certain that already,
without a time-bound voice, thou hadst created whatever it was out of which
thou didst make the time-bound voice by which thou didst say, "Let the heaven
and the earth be made!" For whatever it was out of which such a voice was made
simply did not exist at all until it was made by thee. Was it decreed by thy
Word that a body might be made from which such words might come?
CHAPTER VII
9. Thou dost call us, then, to understand the Word--the God who is God with
thee--which is spoken eternally and by which all things are spoken eternally.
For what was first spoken was not finished, and then something else spoken
until the whole series was spoken; but all things, at the same time and
forever. For, otherwise, we should have time and change and not a true
eternity, nor a true immortality.
This I know, O my God, and I give thanks. I know, I confess to thee, O Lord,
and whoever is not ungrateful for certain truths knows and blesses thee along
with me. We know, O Lord, this much we know: that in the same proportion as
anything is not what it was, and is what it was not, in that very same
proportion it passes away or comes to be. But there is nothing in thy Word that
passes away or returns to its place; for it is truly immortal and eternal. And,
therefore, unto the Word coeternal with thee, at the same time and always thou
sayest all that thou sayest. And whatever thou sayest shall be made is made,
and thou makest nothing otherwise than by speaking. Still, not all the things
that thou dost make by speaking are made at the same time and always.
CHAPTER VIII
10. Why is this, I ask of thee, O Lord my God? I see it after a fashion, but I
do not know how to express it, unless I say that everything that begins to be
and then ceases to be begins and ceases when it is known in thy eternal Reason
that it ought to begin or cease--in thy eternal Reason where nothing begins or
ceases. And this is thy Word, which is also "the Beginning," because it also
speaks to us.[424] Thus, in the gospel, he spoke through
the flesh; and this sounded in the outward ears of men so that it might be
believed and sought for within, and so that it might be found in the eternal
Truth, in which the good and only Master teacheth all his disciples.[425] There, O Lord, I hear thy voice, the voice of one
speaking to me, since he who teacheth us speaketh to us. But he that doth not
teach us doth not really speak to us even when he speaketh. Yet who is it that
teacheth us unless it be the Truth immutable? For even when we are instructed
by means of the mutable creation, we are thereby led to the Truth immutable.
There we learn truly as we stand and hear him, and we rejoice greatly "because
of the bridegroom's voice,"[426] restoring us to the
source whence our being comes. And therefore, unless the Beginning remained
immutable, there would then not be a place to which we might return when we had
wandered away. But when we return from error, it is through our gaining
knowledge that we return. In order for us to gain knowledge he teacheth us,
since he is the Beginning, and speaketh to us.
CHAPTER IX
11. In this Beginning, O God, thou hast made heaven and earth--through thy
Word, thy Son, thy Power, thy Wisdom, thy Truth: all wondrously speaking and
wondrously creating. Who shall comprehend such things and who shall tell of it?
What is it that shineth through me and striketh my heart without injury, so
that I both shudder and burn? I shudder because I am unlike it; I burn because
I am like it. It is Wisdom itself that shineth through me, clearing away my
fog, which so readily overwhelms me so that I faint in it, in the darkness and
burden of my punishment. For my strength is brought down in neediness, so that
I cannot endure even my blessings until thou, O Lord, who hast been gracious to
all my iniquities, also healest all my infirmities--for it is thou who "shalt
redeem my life from corruption, and crown me with loving-kindness and tender
mercy, and shalt satisfy my desire with good things so that my youth shall be
renewed like the eagle's."[427] For by this hope we are
saved, and through patience we await thy promises. Let him that is able hear
thee speaking to his inner mind. I will cry out with confidence because of thy
own oracle, "How wonderful are thy works, O Lord; in wisdom thou hast made them
all."[428] And this Wisdom is the Beginning, and in that
Beginning thou hast made heaven and earth.
CHAPTER X
12. Now, are not those still full of their old carnal nature[429] who ask us: "What was God doing before he made
heaven and earth? For if he was idle," they say, "and doing nothing, then why
did he not continue in that state forever--doing nothing, as he had always
done? If any new motion has arisen in God, and a new will to form a creature,
which he had never before formed, how can that be a true eternity in which an
act of will occurs that was not there before? For the will of God is not a
created thing, but comes before the creation--and this is true because nothing
could be created unless the will of the Creator came before it. The will of
God, therefore, pertains to his very Essence. Yet if anything has arisen in the
Essence of God that was not there before, then that Essence cannot truly be
called eternal. But if it was the eternal will of God that the creation should
come to be, why, then, is not the creation itself also from eternity?"[430]
CHAPTER XI
13. Those who say these things do not yet understand thee, O Wisdom of God, O
Light of souls. They do not yet understand how the things are made that are
made by and in thee. They endeavor to comprehend eternal things, but their
heart still flies about in the past and future motions of created things, and
is still unstable. Who shall hold it and fix it so that it may come to rest for
a little; and then, by degrees, glimpse the glory of that eternity which abides
forever; and then, comparing eternity with the temporal process in which
nothing abides, they may see that they are incommensurable? They would see that
a long time does not become long, except from the many separate events that
occur in its passage, which cannot be simultaneous. In the Eternal, on the
other hand, nothing passes away, but the whole is simultaneously present. But
no temporal process is wholly simultaneous. Therefore, let it[431] see that all time past is forced to move on by the
incoming future; that all the future follows from the past; and that all, past
and future, is created and issues out of that which is forever present. Who
will hold the heart of man that it may stand still and see how the eternity
which always stands still is itself neither future nor past but expresses
itself in the times that are future and past? Can my hand do this, or can the
hand of my mouth bring about so difficult a thing even by persuasion?
CHAPTER XII
14. How, then, shall I respond to him who asks, "What was God doing before he made heaven and earth?" I do not answer, as a certain one is
reported to have done facetiously (shrugging off the force of the question).
"He was preparing hell," he said, "for those who pry too deep." It is one thing
to see the answer; it is another to laugh at the questioner--and for myself I
do not answer these things thus. More willingly would I have answered, "I do
not know what I do not know," than cause one who asked a deep question to be
ridiculed--and by such tactics gain praise for a worthless answer.
Rather, I say that thou, our God, art the Creator of every creature. And if in
the term "heaven and earth" every creature is included, I make bold to say
further: "Before God made heaven and earth, he did not make anything at all.
For if he did, what did he make unless it were a creature?" I do indeed wish
that I knew all that I desire to know to my profit as surely as I know that no
creature was made before any creature was made.
CHAPTER XIII
15. But if the roving thought of someone should wander over the images of past
time, and wonder that thou, the Almighty God, the All-creating and
All-sustaining, the Architect of heaven and earth, didst for ages unnumbered
abstain from so great a work before thou didst actually do it, let him awake
and consider that he wonders at illusions. For in what temporal medium could
the unnumbered ages that thou didst not make pass by, since thou art the Author
and Creator of all the ages? Or what periods of time would those be that were
not made by thee? Or how could they have already passed away if they had not
already been? Since, therefore, thou art the Creator of all times, if there was
any time before thou madest heaven and earth, why is it said that thou
wast abstaining from working? For thou madest that very time itself, and
periods could not pass by before thou madest the whole temporal
procession. But if there was no time before heaven and earth, how, then,
can it be asked, "What wast thou doing then?" For there was no "then" when
there was no time.
16. Nor dost thou precede any given period of time by another period of time.
Else thou wouldst not precede all periods of time. In the eminence of thy
ever-present eternity, thou precedest all times past, and extendest beyond all
future times, for they are still to come--and when they have come, they will be
past. But "Thou art always the Selfsame and thy years shall have no end."[432] Thy years neither go nor come; but ours both go and
come in order that all separate moments may come to pass. All thy years stand
together as one, since they are abiding. Nor do thy years past exclude the
years to come because thy years do not pass away. All these years of ours shall
be with thee, when all of them shall have ceased to be. Thy years are but a
day, and thy day is not recurrent, but always today. Thy "today" yields not to
tomorrow and does not follow yesterday. Thy "today" is eternity. Therefore,
thou didst generate the Coeternal, to whom thou didst say, "This day I have
begotten thee."[433] Thou madest all time and before all
times thou art, and there was never a time when there was no time.
CHAPTER XIV
17. There was no time, therefore, when thou hadst not made anything, because
thou hadst made time itself. And there are no times that are coeternal with
thee, because thou dost abide forever; but if times should abide, they would
not be times.
For what is time? Who can easily and briefly explain it? Who can even
comprehend it in thought or put the answer into words? Yet is it not true that
in conversation we refer to nothing more familiarly or knowingly than time? And
surely we understand it when we speak of it; we understand it also when we hear
another speak of it.
What, then, is time? If no one asks me, I know what it is. If I wish to explain
it to him who asks me, I do not know. Yet I say with confidence that I know
that if nothing passed away, there would be no past time; and if nothing were
still coming, there would be no future time; and if there were nothing at all,
there would be no present time.
But, then, how is it that there are the two times, past and future, when even
the past is now no longer and the future is now not yet? But if the present
were always present, and did not pass into past time, it obviously would not be
time but eternity. If, then, time present--if it be time--comes into existence
only because it passes into time past, how can we say that even this is, since
the cause of its being is that it will cease to be? Thus, can we not truly say
that time is only as it tends toward nonbeing?
CHAPTER XV
18. And yet we speak of a long time and a short time; but never speak this way
except of time past and future. We call a hundred years ago, for example, a
long time past. In like manner, we should call a hundred years hence a long
time to come. But we call ten days ago a short time past; and ten days hence a
short time to come. But in what sense is something long or short that is
nonexistent? For the past is not now, and the future is not yet. Therefore, let
us not say, "It is long"; instead, let us say of the past, "It was long," and of the future, "It will be long." And yet, O Lord,
my Light, shall not thy truth make mockery of man even here? For that long time
past: was it long when it was already past, or when it was still present? For
it might have been long when there was a period that could be long, but when it
was past, it no longer was. In that case, that which was not at all could not
be long. Let us not, therefore, say, "Time past was long," for we shall not
discover what it was that was long because, since it is past, it no longer
exists. Rather, let us say that "time present was long, because when it
was present it was long." For then it had not yet passed on so as not to
be, and therefore it still was in a state that could be called long. But after
it passed, it ceased to be long simply because it ceased to be.
19. Let us, therefore, O human soul, see whether present time can be long, for
it has been given you to feel and measure the periods of time. How, then, will
you answer me?
Is a hundred years when present a long time? But, first, see whether a hundred
years can be present at once. For if the first year in the century is current,
then it is present time, and the other ninety and nine are still future.
Therefore, they are not yet. But, then, if the second year is current, one year
is already past, the second present, and all the rest are future. And thus, if
we fix on any middle year of this century as present, those before it are past,
those after it are future. Therefore, a hundred years cannot be present all at
once.
Let us see, then, whether the year that is now current can be present. For if
its first month is current, then the rest are future; if the second, the first
is already past, and the remainder are not yet. Therefore, the current year is
not present all at once. And if it is not present as a whole, then the year is
not present. For it takes twelve months to make the year, from which each
individual month which is current is itself present one at a time, but the rest
are either past or future.
20. Thus it comes out that time present, which we found was the only time that
could be called "long," has been cut down to the space of scarcely a single
day. But let us examine even that, for one day is never present as a whole. For
it is made up of twenty-four hours, divided between night and day. The first of
these hours has the rest of them as future, and the last of them has the rest
as past; but any of those between has those that preceded it as past and those
that succeed it as future. And that one hour itself passes away in fleeting
fractions. The part of it that has fled is past; what remains is still future.
If any fraction of time be conceived that cannot now be divided even into the
most minute momentary point, this alone is what we may call time present. But
this flies so rapidly from future to past that it cannot be extended by any
delay. For if it is extended, it is then divided into past and future. But the
present has no extension[434] whatever.
Where, therefore, is that time which we may call "long"? Is it future? Actually
we do not say of the future, "It is long," for it has not yet come to be, so as
to be long. Instead, we say, "It will be long." When will it be? For
since it is future, it will not be long, for what may be long is not yet. It
will be long only when it passes from the future which is not as yet, and will
have begun to be present, so that there can be something that may be long. But
in that case, time present cries aloud, in the words we have already heard,
that it cannot be "long."
CHAPTER XVI
21. And yet, O Lord, we do perceive intervals of time, and we compare them with
each other, and we say that some are longer and others are shorter. We even
measure how much longer or shorter this time may be than that time. And we say
that this time is twice as long, or three times as long, while this other time
is only just as long as that other. But we measure the passage of time when we
measure the intervals of perception. But who can measure times past which now
are no longer, or times future which are not yet--unless perhaps someone will
dare to say that what does not exist can be measured? Therefore, while time is
passing, it can be perceived and measured; but when it is past, it cannot,
since it is not.
CHAPTER XVII
22. I am seeking the truth, O Father; I am not affirming it. O my God, direct
and rule me.
Who is there who will tell me that there are not three times--as we learned
when boys and as we have also taught boys--time past, time present, and time
future? Who can say that there is only time present because the other two do
not exist? Or do they also exist; but when, from the future, time becomes
present, it proceeds from some secret place; and when, from times present, it
becomes past, it recedes into some secret place? For where have those men who
have foretold the future seen the things foretold, if then they were not yet
existing? For what does not exist cannot be seen. And those who tell of things
past could not speak of them as if they were true, if they did not see them in
their minds. These things could in no way be discerned if they did not exist.
There are therefore times present and times past.
CHAPTER XVIII
23. Give me leave, O Lord, to seek still further. O my Hope, let not my purpose
be confounded. For if there are times past and future, I wish to know where
they are. But if I have not yet succeeded in this, I still know that wherever
they are, they are not there as future or past, but as present. For if they are
there as future, they are there as "not yet"; if they are there as past, they
are there as "no longer." Wherever they are and whatever they are they exist
therefore only as present. Although we tell of past things as true, they are
drawn out of the memory--not the things themselves, which have already passed,
but words constructed from the images of the perceptions which were formed in
the mind, like footprints in their passage through the senses. My childhood,
for instance, which is no longer, still exists in time past, which does not now
exist. But when I call to mind its image and speak of it, I see it in the
present because it is still in my memory. Whether there is a similar
explanation for the foretelling of future events--that is, of the images of
things which are not yet seen as if they were already existing--I confess, O my
God, I do not know. But this I certainly do know: that we generally think ahead
about our future actions, and this premeditation is in time present; but that
the action which we premeditate is not yet, because it is still future. When we
shall have started the action and have begun to do what we were premeditating,
then that action will be in time present, because then it is no longer in time
future.
24. Whatever may be the manner of this secret foreseeing of future things,
nothing can be seen except what exists. But what exists now is not future, but
present. When, therefore, they say that future events are seen, it is not the
events themselves, for they do not exist as yet (that is, they are still in
time future), but perhaps, instead, their causes and their signs are seen,
which already do exist. Therefore, to those already beholding these causes and
signs, they are not future, but present, and from them future things are
predicted because they are conceived in the mind. These conceptions, however,
exist now, and those who predict those things see these conceptions
before them in time present.
Let me take an example from the vast multitude and variety of such things. I
see the dawn; I predict that the sun is about to rise. What I see is in time
present, what I predict is in time future--not that the sun is future, for it
already exists; but its rising is future, because it is not yet. Yet I could
not predict even its rising, unless I had an image of it in my mind; as,
indeed, I do even now as I speak. But that dawn which I see in the sky is not
the rising of the sun (though it does precede it), nor is it a conception in my
mind. These two[435] are seen in time present, in order
that the event which is in time future may be predicted.
Future events, therefore, are not yet. And if they are not yet, they do not
exist. And if they do not exist, they cannot be seen at all, but they can be
predicted from things present, which now are and are seen.
CHAPTER XIX
25. Now, therefore, O Ruler of thy creatures, what is the mode by which thou
teachest souls those things which are still future? For thou hast taught thy
prophets. How dost thou, to whom nothing is future, teach future things--or
rather teach things present from the signs of things future? For what does not
exist certainly cannot be taught. This way of thine is too far from my sight;
it is too great for me, I cannot attain to it.[436] But I
shall be enabled by thee, when thou wilt grant it, O sweet Light of my secret
eyes.
CHAPTER XX
26. But even now it is manifest and clear that there are neither times future
nor times past. Thus it is not properly said that there are three times, past,
present, and future. Perhaps it might be said rightly that there are three
times: a time present of things past; a time present of things present; and a
time present of things future. For these three do coexist somehow in the soul,
for otherwise I could not see them. The time present of things past is memory;
the time present of things present is direct experience; the time present of
things future is expectation.[437] If we are allowed to
speak of these things so, I see three times, and I grant that there are three.
Let it still be said, then, as our misapplied custom has it: "There are three
times, past, present, and future." I shall not be troubled by it, nor argue,
nor object--always provided that what is said is understood, so that neither
the future nor the past is said to exist now. There are but few things about
which we speak properly--and many more about which we speak improperly--though
we understand one another's meaning.
CHAPTER XXI
27. I have said, then, that we measure periods of time as they pass so that we
can say that this time is twice as long as that one or that this is just as
long as that, and so on for the other fractions of time which we can count by
measuring.
So, then, as I was saying, we measure periods of time as they pass. And if
anyone asks me, "How do you know this?", I can answer: "I know because we
measure. We could not measure things that do not exist, and things past and
future do not exist." But how do we measure present time since it has no
extension? It is measured while it passes, but when it has passed it is not
measured; for then there is nothing that could be measured. But whence, and
how, and whither does it pass while it is being measured? Whence, but from the
future? Which way, save through the present? Whither, but into the past?
Therefore, from what is not yet, through what has no length, it passes into
what is now no longer. But what do we measure, unless it is a time of some
length? For we cannot speak of single, and double, and triple, and equal, and
all the other ways in which we speak of time, except in terms of the length of
the periods of time. But in what "length," then, do we measure passing time? Is
it in the future, from which it passes over? But what does not yet exist cannot
be measured. Or, is it in the present, through which it passes? But what has no
length we cannot measure. Or is it in the past into which it passes? But what
is no longer we cannot measure.
CHAPTER XXII
28. My soul burns ardently to understand this most intricate enigma. O Lord my
God, O good Father, I beseech thee through Christ, do not close off these
things, both the familiar and the obscure, from my desire. Do not bar it from
entering into them; but let their light dawn by thy enlightening mercy, O Lord.
Of whom shall I inquire about these things? And to whom shall I confess my
ignorance of them with greater profit than to thee, to whom these studies of
mine (ardently longing to understand thy Scriptures) are not a bore? Give me
what I love, for I do love it; and this thou hast given me. O Father, who truly
knowest how to give good gifts to thy children, give this to me. Grant it,
since I have undertaken to understand it, and hard labor is my lot until thou
openest it. I beseech thee, through Christ and in his name, the Holy of Holies,
let no man interrupt me. "For I have believed, and therefore do I speak."[438] This is my hope; for this I live: that I may
contemplate the joys of my Lord.[439] Behold, thou hast
made my days grow old, and they pass away--and how I do not know.
We speak of this time and that time, and these times and those times: "How long
ago since he said this?" "How long ago since he did this?" "How long ago since
I saw that?" "This syllable is twice as long as that single short syllable."
These words we say and hear, and we are understood and we understand. They are
quite commonplace and ordinary, and still the meaning of these very same things
lies deeply hid and its discovery is still to come.
CHAPTER XXIII
29. I once heard a learned man say that the motions of the sun, moon, and stars
constituted time; and I did not agree. For why should not the motions of all
bodies constitute time? What if the lights of heaven should cease, and a
potter's wheel still turn round: would there be no time by which we might
measure those rotations and say either that it turned at equal intervals, or,
if it moved now more slowly and now more quickly, that some rotations were
longer and others shorter? And while we were saying this, would we not also be
speaking in time? Or would there not be in our words some syllables that were
long and others short, because the first took a longer time to sound, and the
others a shorter time? O God, grant men to see in a small thing the notions
that are common[440] to all things, both great and small.
Both the stars and the lights of heaven are "for signs and seasons, and for
days and years."[441] This is doubtless the case, but just
as I should not say that the circuit of that wooden wheel was a day, neither
would that learned man say that there was, therefore, no time.
30. I thirst to know the power and the nature of time, by which we measure the
motions of bodies, and say, for example, that this motion is twice as long as
that. For I ask, since the word "day" refers not only to the length of time
that the sun is above the earth (which separates day from night), but also
refers to the sun's entire circuit from east all the way around to east--on
account of which we can say, "So many days have passed" (the nights being
included when we say, "So many days," and their lengths not counted
separately)--since, then, the day is ended by the motion of the sun and by his
passage from east to east, I ask whether the motion itself is the day, or
whether the day is the period in which that motion is completed; or both? For
if the sun's passage is the day, then there would be a day even if the sun
should finish his course in as short a period as an hour. If the motion itself
is the day, then it would not be a day if from one sunrise to another there
were a period no longer than an hour. But the sun would have to go round
twenty-four times to make just one day. If it is both, then that could not be
called a day if the sun ran his entire course in the period of an hour; nor
would it be a day if, while the sun stood still, as much time passed as the sun
usually covered during his whole course, from morning to morning. I shall,
therefore, not ask any more what it is that is called a day, but rather what
time is, for it is by time that we measure the circuit of the sun, and would be
able to say that it was finished in half the period of time that it customarily
takes if it were completed in a period of only twelve hours. If, then, we
compare these periods, we could call one of them a single and the other a
double period, as if the sun might run his course from east to east sometimes
in a single period and sometimes in a double period.
Let no man tell me, therefore, that the motions of the heavenly bodies
constitute time. For when the sun stood still at the prayer of a certain man in
order that he might gain his victory in battle, the sun stood still but time
went on. For in as long a span of time as was sufficient the battle was fought
and ended.[442]
I see, then, that time is a certain kind of extension. But do I see it, or do I
only seem to? Thou, O Light and Truth, wilt show me.
CHAPTER XXIV
31. Dost thou command that I should agree if anyone says that time is "the
motion of a body"? Thou dost not so command. For I hear that no body is moved
but in time; this thou tellest me. But that the motion of a body itself is time
I do not hear; thou dost not say so. For when a body is moved, I measure by
time how long it was moving from the time when it began to be moved until it
stopped. And if I did not see when it began to be moved, and if it continued to
move so that I could not see when it stopped, I could not measure the movement,
except from the time when I began to see it until I stopped. But if I look at
it for a long time, I can affirm only that the time is long but not how long it
may be. This is because when we say, "How long?", we are speaking comparatively
as: "This is as long as that," or, "This is twice as long as that"; or other
such similar ratios. But if we were able to observe the point in space where
and from which the body, which is moved, comes and the point to which it is
moved; or if we can observe its parts moving as in a wheel, we can say how long
the movement of the body took or the movement of its parts from this place to
that. Since, therefore, the motion of a body is one thing, and the norm by
which we measure how long it takes is another thing, we cannot see which of
these two is to be called time. For, although a body is sometimes moved and
sometimes stands still, we measure not only its motion but also its rest as
well; and both by time! Thus we say, "It stood still as long as it moved," or,
"It stood still twice or three times as long as it moved"--or any other ratio
which our measuring has either determined or imagined, either roughly or
precisely, according to our custom. Therefore, time is not the motion of a body.
CHAPTER XXV
32. And I confess to thee, O Lord, that I am still ignorant as to what time is.
And again I confess to thee, O Lord, that I know that I am speaking all these
things in time, and that I have already spoken of time a long time, and that
"very long" is not long except when measured by the duration of time. How,
then, do I know this, when I do not know what time is? Or, is it possible that
I do not know how I can express what I do know? Alas for me! I do not even know
the extent of my own ignorance. Behold, O my God, in thy presence I do not lie.
As my heart is, so I speak. Thou shalt light my candle; thou, O Lord my God,
wilt enlighten my darkness.[443]
CHAPTER XXVI
33. Does not my soul most truly confess to thee that I do measure intervals of
time? But what is it that I thus measure, O my God, and how is it that I do not
know what I measure? I measure the motion of a body by time, but the time
itself I do not measure. But, truly, could I measure the motion of a body--how
long it takes, how long it is in motion from this place to that--unless I could
measure the time in which it is moving?
How, then, do I measure this time itself? Do we measure a longer time by a
shorter time, as we measure the length of a crossbeam in terms of cubits?[444] Thus, we can say that the length of a long syllable is
measured by the length of a short syllable and thus say that the long syllable
is double. So also we measure the length of poems by the length of the lines,
and the length of the line by the length of the feet, and the length of the
feet by the length of the syllable, and the length of the long syllables by the
length of the short ones. We do not measure by pages--for in that way we would
measure space rather than time--but when we speak the words as they pass by we
say: "It is a long stanza, because it is made up of so many verses; they are
long verses because they consist of so many feet; they are long feet because
they extend over so many syllables; this is a long syllable because it is twice
the length of a short one."
But no certain measure of time is obtained this way; since it is possible that
if a shorter verse is pronounced slowly, it may take up more time than a longer
one if it is pronounced hurriedly. The same would hold for a stanza, or a foot,
or a syllable. From this it appears to me that time is nothing other than
extendedness;[445] but extendedness of what I do not know.
This is a marvel to me. The extendedness may be of the mind itself. For what is
it I measure, I ask thee, O my God, when I say either, roughly, "This time is
longer than that," or, more precisely, "This is twice as long as that."
I know that I am measuring time. But I am not measuring the future, for it is
not yet; and I am not measuring the present because it is extended by no
length; and I am not measuring the past because it no longer is. What is it,
therefore, that I am measuring? Is it time in its passage, but not time past
[praetereuntia tempora, non praeterita]? This is what I have been saying.
CHAPTER XXVII
34. Press on, O my mind, and attend with all your power. God is our Helper: "it
is he that hath made us and not we ourselves."[446] Give
heed where the truth begins to dawn.[447] Suppose now that
a bodily voice begins to sound, and continues to sound--on and on--and then
ceases. Now there is silence. The voice is past, and there is no longer a
sound. It was future before it sounded, and could not be measured because it
was not yet; and now it cannot be measured because it is no longer. Therefore,
while it was sounding, it might have been measured because then there was
something that could be measured. But even then it did not stand still, for it
was in motion and was passing away. Could it, on that account, be any more
readily measured? For while it was passing away, it was being extended into
some interval of time in which it might be measured, since the present has no
length. Supposing, though, that it might have been measured--then also suppose
that another voice had begun to sound and is still sounding without any
interruption to break its continued flow. We can measure it only while it is
sounding, for when it has ceased to sound it will be already past and there
will not be anything there that can be measured. Let us measure it exactly; and
let us say how much it is. But while it is sounding, it cannot be measured
except from the instant when it began to sound, down to the final moment when
it left off. For we measure the time interval itself from some beginning point
to some end. This is why a voice that has not yet ended cannot be measured, so
that one could say how long or how briefly it will continue. Nor can it be said
to be equal to another voice or single or double in comparison to it or
anything like this. But when it is ended, it is no longer. How, therefore, may
it be measured? And yet we measure times; not those which are not yet, nor
those which no longer are, nor those which are stretched out by some delay, nor
those which have no limit. Therefore, we measure neither times future nor times
past, nor times present, nor times passing by; and yet we do measure times.
35. Deus Creator omnium[448]: this verse of eight
syllables alternates between short and long syllables. The four short
ones--that is, the first, third, fifth, and seventh--are single in relation to
the four long ones--that is, the second, fourth, sixth, and eighth. Each of the
long ones is double the length of each of the short ones. I affirm this and
report it, and common sense perceives that this indeed is the case. By common
sense, then, I measure a long syllable by a short one, and I find that it is
twice as long. But when one sounds after another, if the first be short and the
latter long, how can I hold the short one and how can I apply it to the long
one as a measure, so that I can discover that the long one is twice as long,
when, in fact, the long one does not begin to sound until the short one leaves
off sounding? That same long syllable I do not measure as present, since I
cannot measure it until it is ended; but its ending is its passing away.
What is it, then, that I can measure? Where is the short syllable by which I
measure? Where is the long one that I am measuring? Both have sounded, have
flown away, have passed on, and are no longer. And still I measure, and I
confidently answer--as far as a trained ear can be trusted--that this syllable
is single and that syllable double. And I could not do this unless they both
had passed and were ended. Therefore I do not measure them, for they do not
exist any more. But I measure something in my memory which remains fixed.
36. It is in you, O mind of mine, that I measure the periods of time. Do not
shout me down that it exists [objectively]; do not overwhelm yourself with the
turbulent flood of your impressions. In you, as I have said, I measure the
periods of time. I measure as time present the impression that things make on
you as they pass by and what remains after they have passed by--I do not
measure the things themselves which have passed by and left their impression on
you. This is what I measure when I measure periods of time. Either, then, these
are the periods of time or else I do not measure time at all.
What are we doing when we measure silence, and say that this silence has lasted
as long as that voice lasts? Do we not project our thought to the measure of a
sound, as if it were then sounding, so that we can say something concerning the
intervals of silence in a given span of time? For, even when both the voice and
the tongue are still, we review--in thought--poems and verses, and discourse of
various kinds or various measures of motions, and we specify their time
spans--how long this is in relation to that--just as if we were speaking them
aloud. If anyone wishes to utter a prolonged sound, and if, in forethought, he
has decided how long it should be, that man has already in silence gone through
a span of time, and committed his sound to memory. Thus he begins to speak and
his voice sounds until it reaches the predetermined end. It has truly sounded
and will go on sounding. But what is already finished has already sounded and
what remains will still sound. Thus it passes on, until the present intention
carries the future over into the past. The past increases by the diminution of
the future until by the consumption of all the future all is past.[449]
CHAPTER XXVIII
37. But how is the future diminished or consumed when it does not yet exist? Or
how does the past, which exists no longer, increase, unless it is that in the
mind in which all this happens there are three functions? For the mind expects,
it attends, and it remembers; so that what it expects passes into what it
remembers by way of what it attends to. Who denies that future things do not
exist as yet? But still there is already in the mind the expectation of things
still future. And who denies that past things now exist no longer? Still there
is in the mind the memory of things past. Who denies that time present has no
length, since it passes away in a moment? Yet, our attention has a continuity
and it is through this that what is present may proceed to become absent.
Therefore, future time, which is nonexistent, is not long; but "a long future"
is "a long expectation of the future." Nor is time past, which is now no
longer, long; a "long past" is "a long memory of the past."
38. I am about to repeat a psalm that I know. Before I begin, my attention
encompasses the whole, but once I have begun, as much of it as becomes past
while I speak is still stretched out in my memory. The span of my action is
divided between my memory, which contains what I have repeated, and my
expectation, which contains what I am about to repeat. Yet my attention is
continually present with me, and through it what was future is carried over so
that it becomes past. The more this is done and repeated, the more the memory
is enlarged--and expectation is shortened--until the whole expectation is
exhausted. Then the whole action is ended and passed into memory. And what
takes place in the entire psalm takes place also in each individual part of it
and in each individual syllable. This also holds in the even longer action of
which that psalm is only a portion. The same holds in the whole life of man, of
which all the actions of men are parts. The same holds in the whole age of the
sons of men, of which all the lives of men are parts.
CHAPTER XXIX
39. But "since thy loving-kindness is better than life itself,"[450] observe how my life is but a stretching out, and how
thy right hand has upheld me in my Lord, the Son of Man, the Mediator between
thee, the One, and us, the many--in so many ways and by so many means. Thus
through him I may lay hold upon him in whom I am also laid hold upon; and I may
be gathered up from my old way of life to follow that One and to forget that
which is behind, no longer stretched out but now pulled together
again--stretching forth not to what shall be and shall pass away but to those
things that are before me. Not distractedly now, but intently, I follow
on for the prize of my heavenly calling,[451] where I may
hear the sound of thy praise and contemplate thy delights, which neither come
to be nor pass away.
But now my years are spent in mourning.[452] And thou, O
Lord, art my comfort, my eternal Father. But I have been torn between the
times, the order of which I do not know, and my thoughts, even the inmost and
deepest places of my soul, are mangled by various commotions until I shall flow
together into thee, purged and molten in the fire of thy love.
CHAPTER XXX
40. And I will be immovable and fixed in thee, and thy truth will be my mold.
And I shall not have to endure the questions of those men who, as if in a
morbid disease, thirst for more than they can hold and say, "What did God make
before he made heaven and earth?" or, "How did it come into his mind to make
something when he had never before made anything?" Grant them, O Lord, to
consider well what they are saying; and grant them to see that where there is
no time they cannot say "never." When, therefore, he is said "never to have
made" something--what is this but to say that it was made in no time at all?
Let them therefore see that there could be no time without a created world, and
let them cease to speak vanity of this kind. Let them also be stretched out to
those things which are before them, and understand that thou, the eternal
Creator of all times, art before all times and that no times are coeternal with
thee; nor is any creature, even if there is a creature "above time."
CHAPTER XXXI
41. O Lord my God, what a chasm there is in thy deep secret! How far short of
it have the consequences of my sins cast me? Heal my eyes, that I may enjoy thy
light. Surely, if there is a mind that so greatly abounds in knowledge and
foreknowledge, to which all things past and future are as well known as one
psalm is well known to me, that mind would be an exceeding marvel and
altogether astonishing. For whatever is past and whatever is yet to come would
be no more concealed from him than the past and future of that psalm were
hidden from me when I was chanting it: how much of it had been sung from the
beginning and what and how much still remained till the end. But far be it from
thee, O Creator of the universe, and Creator of our souls and bodies--far be it
from thee that thou shouldst merely know all things past and future. Far, far
more wonderfully, and far more mysteriously thou knowest them. For it is not as
the feelings of one singing familiar songs, or hearing a familiar song in
which, because of his expectation of words still to come and his remembrance of
those that are past, his feelings are varied and his senses are divided. This
is not the way that anything happens to thee, who art unchangeably eternal,
that is, the truly eternal Creator of minds. As in the beginning thou knewest
both the heaven and the earth without any change in thy knowledge, so thou
didst make heaven and earth in their beginnings without any division in thy
action.[453] Let him who understands this confess to thee;
and let him who does not understand also confess to thee! Oh, exalted as thou
art, still the humble in heart are thy dwelling place! For thou liftest them
who are cast down and they fall not for whom thou art the Most High.[454]
BOOK TWELVE
The mode of creation and the truth of Scripture. Augustine
explores the relation of the visible and formed matter of heaven and earth to
the prior matrix from which it was formed. This leads to an intricate analysis
of "unformed matter" and the primal "possibility" from which God created,
itself created de nihilo. He finds a reference to this in the
misconstrued Scriptural phrase "the heaven of heavens." Realizing that his
interpretation of Gen. 1:1, 2, is not self-evidently the only possibility,
Augustine turns to an elaborate discussion of the multiplicity of perspectives
in hermeneutics and, in the course of this, reviews the various possibilities
of true interpretation of his Scripture text. He emphasizes the importance of
tolerance where there are plural options, and confidence where basic Christian
faith is concerned.
CHAPTER I
1. My heart is deeply stirred, O Lord, when in this poor life of mine the words
of thy Holy Scripture strike upon it. This is why the poverty of the human
intellect expresses itself in an abundance of language. Inquiry is more
loquacious than discovery. Demanding takes longer than obtaining; and the hand
that knocks is more active than the hand that receives. But we have the
promise, and who shall break it? "If God be for us, who can be against us?"[455] "Ask, and you shall receive; seek, and you shall find;
knock, and it shall be opened unto you; for everyone that asks receives, and he
who seeks finds, and to him that knocks, it shall be opened."[456] These are thy own promises, and who need fear to be
deceived when truth promises?
CHAPTER II
2. In lowliness my tongue confesses to thy exaltation, for thou madest heaven
and earth. This heaven which I see, and this earth on which I walk--from which
came this "earth" that I carry about me--thou didst make.
But where is that heaven of heavens, O Lord, of which we hear in the words of
the psalm, "The heaven of heavens is the Lord's, but the earth he hath given to
the children of men"?[457] Where is the heaven that we
cannot see, in relation to which all that we can see is earth? For this whole
corporeal creation has been beautifully formed--though not everywhere in its
entirety--and our earth is the lowest of these levels. Still, compared with
that heaven of heavens, even the heaven of our own earth is only earth. Indeed,
it is not absurd to call each of those two great bodies[458] "earth" in comparison with that ineffable heaven which
is the Lord's, and not for the sons of men.
CHAPTER III
3. And truly this earth was invisible and unformed,[459] and there was an inexpressibly profound abyss[460] above
which there was no light since it had no form. Thou didst command it written
that "darkness was on the face of the deep."[461] What
else is darkness except the absence of light? For if there had been light,
where would it have been except by being over all, showing itself rising aloft
and giving light? Therefore, where there was no light as yet, why was it that
darkness was present, unless it was that light was absent? Darkness, then, was
heavy upon it, because the light from above was absent; just as there is
silence where there is no sound. And what is it to have silence anywhere but
simply not to have sound? Hast thou not, O Lord, taught this soul which
confesses to thee? Hast thou not thus taught me, O Lord, that before thou didst
form and separate this formless matter there was nothing: neither color,
nor figure, nor body, nor spirit? Yet it was not absolutely nothing; it was a
certain formlessness without any shape.
CHAPTER IV
4. What, then, should that formlessness be called so that somehow it might be
indicated to those of sluggish mind, unless we use some word in common speech?
But what can be found anywhere in the world nearer to a total formlessness than
the earth and the abyss? Because of their being on the lowest level, they are
less beautiful than are the other and higher parts, all translucent and
shining. Therefore, why may I not consider the formlessness of matter--which
thou didst create without shapely form, from which to make this shapely
world--as fittingly indicated to men by the phrase, "The earth invisible and
unformed"?
CHAPTER V
5. When our thought seeks something for our sense to fasten to [in this concept
of unformed matter], and when it says to itself, "It is not an intelligible
form, such as life or justice, since it is the material for bodies; and it is
not a former perception, for there is nothing in the invisible and unformed
which can be seen and felt"--while human thought says such things to itself, it
may be attempting either to know by being ignorant or by knowing how not to
know.
CHAPTER VI
6. But if, O Lord, I am to confess to thee, by my mouth and my pen, the whole
of what thou hast taught me concerning this unformed matter, I must say first
of all that when I first heard of such matter and did not understand it--and
those who told me of it could not understand it either--I conceived of it as
having countless and varied forms. Thus, I did not think about it rightly. My
mind in its agitation used to turn up all sorts of foul and horrible "forms";
but still they were "forms." And still I called it formless, not because it was
unformed, but because it had what seemed to me a kind of form that my mind
turned away from, as bizarre and incongruous, before which my human weakness
was confused. And even what I did conceive of as unformed was so, not because
it was deprived of all form, but only as it compared with more beautiful forms.
Right reason, then, persuaded me that I ought to remove altogether all vestiges
of form whatever if I wished to conceive matter that was wholly unformed; and
this I could not do. For I could more readily imagine that what was deprived of
all form simply did not exist than I could conceive of anything between form
and nothing--something which was neither formed nor nothing, something that was
unformed and nearly nothing.
Thus my mind ceased to question my spirit--filled as it was with the images of
formed bodies, changing and varying them according to its will. And so I
applied myself to the bodies themselves and looked more deeply into their
mutability, by which they cease to be what they had been and begin to be what
they were not. This transition from form to form I had regarded as involving
something like a formless condition, though not actual nothingness.[462]
But I desired to know, not to guess. And, if my voice and my pen were to
confess to thee all the various knots thou hast untied for me about this
question, who among my readers could endure to grasp the whole of the account?
Still, despite this, my heart will not cease to give honor to thee or to sing
thy praises concerning those things which it is not able to express.[463]
For the mutability of mutable things carries with it the possibility of all
those forms into which mutable things can be changed. But this mutability--what
is it? Is it soul? Is it body? Is it the external appearance of soul or body?
Could it be said, "Nothing was something," and "That which is, is not"? If this
were possible, I would say that this was it, and in some such manner it must
have been in order to receive these visible and composite forms.[464]
CHAPTER VII
7. Whence and how was this, unless it came from thee, from whom all things are,
in so far as they are? But the farther something is from thee, the more unlike
thee it is--and this is not a matter of distance or place.
Thus it was that thou, O Lord, who art not one thing in one place and another
thing in another place but the Selfsame, and the Selfsame, and the
Selfsame--"Holy, Holy, Holy, Lord God Almighty"[465]--thus
it was that in the beginning, and through thy Wisdom which is from thee and
born of thy substance, thou didst create something and that out of nothing.[466] For thou didst create the heaven and the earth--not out
of thyself, for then they would be equal to thy only Son and thereby to thee.
And there is no sense in which it would be right that anything should be equal
to thee that was not of thee. But what else besides thee was there out of which
thou mightest create these things, O God, one Trinity, and trine Unity?[467] And, therefore, it was out of nothing at all that thou
didst create the heaven and earth--something great and something small--for
thou art Almighty and Good, and able to make all things good: even the great
heaven and the small earth. Thou wast, and there was nothing else from which
thou didst create heaven and earth: these two things, one near thee, the other
near to nothing; the one to which only thou art superior, the other to which
nothing else is inferior.
CHAPTER VIII
8. That heaven of heavens was thine, O Lord, but the earth which thou didst
give to the sons of men to be seen and touched was not then in the same form as
that in which we now see it and touch it. For then it was invisible and
unformed and there was an abyss over which there was no light. The darkness was
truly over the abyss, that is, more than just in the abyss. For
this abyss of waters which now is visible has even in its depths a certain
light appropriate to its nature, perceptible in some fashion to fishes and the
things that creep about on the bottom of it. But then the entire abyss was
almost nothing, since it was still altogether unformed. Yet even there, there
was something that had the possibility of being formed. For thou, O Lord, hadst
made the world out of unformed matter, and this thou didst make out of nothing
and didst make it into almost nothing. From it thou hast then made these great
things which we, the sons of men, marvel at. For this corporeal heaven is truly
marvelous, this firmament between the water and the waters which thou didst
make on the second day after the creation of light, saying, "Let it be done,"
and it was done.[468] This firmament thou didst call
heaven, that is, the heaven of this earth and sea which thou madest on the
third day, giving a visible shape to the unformed matter which thou hadst made
before all the days. For even before any day thou hadst already made a heaven,
but that was the heaven of this heaven: for in the beginning thou hadst made
heaven and earth.
But this earth itself which thou hadst made was unformed matter; it was
invisible and unformed, and darkness was over the abyss. Out of this invisible
and unformed earth, out of this formlessness which is almost nothing, thou
didst then make all these things of which the changeable world consists--and
yet does not fully consist in itself[469]--for its very
changeableness appears in this, that its times and seasons can be observed and
numbered. The periods of time are measured by the changes of things, while the
forms, whose matter is the invisible earth of which we have spoken, are varied
and altered.
CHAPTER IX
9. And therefore the Spirit, the Teacher of thy servant,[470] when he mentions that "in the beginning thou madest
heaven and earth," says nothing about times and is silent as to the days. For,
clearly, that heaven of heavens which thou didst create in the beginning is in
some way an intellectual creature, although in no way coeternal with thee, O
Trinity. Yet it is nonetheless a partaker in thy eternity. Because of the
sweetness of its most happy contemplation of thee, it is greatly restrained in
its own mutability and cleaves to thee without any lapse from the time in which
it was created, surpassing all the rolling change of time. But this
shapelessness--this earth invisible and unformed--was not numbered among the
days itself. For where there is no shape or order there is nothing that either
comes or goes, and where this does not occur there certainly are no days, nor
any vicissitude of duration.
CHAPTER X
10. O Truth, O Light of my heart, let not my own darkness speak to me! I had
fallen into that darkness and was darkened thereby. But in it, even in its
depths, I came to love thee. I went astray and still I remembered thee. I heard
thy voice behind me, bidding me return, though I could scarcely hear it for the
tumults of my boisterous passions. And now, behold, I am returning, burning and
thirsting after thy fountain. Let no one hinder me; here will I drink and so
have life. Let me not be my own life; for of myself I have lived badly. I was
death to myself; in thee I have revived. Speak to me; converse with me. I have
believed thy books, and their words are very deep.
CHAPTER XI
11. Thou hast told me already, O Lord, with a strong voice in my inner ear,
that thou art eternal and alone hast immortality. Thou art not changed by any
shape or motion, and thy will is not altered by temporal process, because no
will that changes is immortal. This is clear to me, in thy sight; let it become
clearer and clearer, I beseech thee. In that light let me abide soberly under
thy wings.
Thou hast also told me, O Lord, with a strong voice in my inner ear, that thou
hast created all natures and all substances, which are not what thou art
thyself; and yet they do exist. Only that which is nothing at all is not from
thee, and that motion of the will away from thee, who art, toward something
that exists only in a lesser degree--such a motion is an offense and a sin. No
one's sin either hurts thee or disturbs the order of thy rule, either first or
last. All this, in thy sight, is clear to me. Let it become clearer and
clearer, I beseech thee, and in that light let me abide soberly under thy
wings.
12. Likewise, thou hast told me, with a strong voice in my inner ear, that this
creation--whose delight thou alone art--is not coeternal with thee. With a most
persevering purity it draws its support from thee and nowhere and never betrays
its own mutability, for thou art ever present with it; and it cleaves to thee
with its entire affection, having no future to expect and no past that it
remembers; it is varied by no change and is extended by no time.
O blessed one--if such there be--clinging to thy blessedness! It is blest in
thee, its everlasting Inhabitant and its Light. I cannot find a term that I
would judge more fitting for "the heaven of the heavens of the Lord" than "Thy
house"--which contemplates thy delights without any declination toward anything
else and which, with a pure mind in most harmonious stability, joins all
together in the peace of those saintly spirits who are citizens of thy city in
those heavens that are above this visible heaven.
13. From this let the soul that has wandered far away from thee understand--if
now it thirsts for thee; if now its tears have become its bread, while daily
they say to it, "Where is your God?"[471]; if now it
requests of thee just one thing and seeks after this: that it may dwell in thy
house all the days of its life (and what is its life but thee? And what are thy
days but thy eternity, like thy years which do not fail, since thou art the
Selfsame?)--from this, I say, let the soul understand (as far as it can) how
far above all times thou art in thy eternity; and how thy house has never
wandered away from thee; and, although it is not coeternal with thee, it
continually and unfailingly clings to thee and suffers no vicissitudes of time.
This, in thy sight, is clear to me; may it become clearer and clearer to me, I
beseech thee, and in this light may I abide soberly under thy wings.
14. Now I do not know what kind of formlessness there is in these mutations of
these last and lowest creatures. Yet who will tell me, unless it is someone
who, in the emptiness of his own heart, wanders about and begins to be dizzy in
his own fancies? Who except such a one would tell me whether, if all form were
diminished and consumed, formlessness alone would remain, through which a thing
was changed and turned from one species into another, so that sheer
formlessness would then be characterized by temporal change? And surely this
could not be, because without motion there is no time, and where there is no
form there is no change.
CHAPTER XII
15. These things I have considered as thou hast given me ability, O my God, as
thou hast excited me to knock, and as thou hast opened to me when I knock. Two
things I find which thou hast made, not within intervals of time, although
neither is coeternal with thee. One of them is so formed that, without any
wavering in its contemplation, without any interval of change--mutable but not
changed--it may fully enjoy thy eternity and immutability. The other is so
formless that it could not change from one form to another (either of motion or
of rest), and so time has no hold upon it. But thou didst not leave this
formless, for, before any "day" in the beginning, thou didst create heaven and
earth--these are the two things of which I spoke.
But "the earth was invisible and unformed, and darkness was over the abyss." By
these words its formlessness is indicated to us--so that by degrees they may be
led forward who cannot wholly conceive of the privation of all form without
arriving at nothing. From this formlessness a second heaven might be created
and a second earth--visible and well formed, with the ordered beauty of the
waters, and whatever else is recorded as created (though not without days) in
the formation of this world. And all this because such things are so ordered
that in them the changes of time may take place through the ordered processes
of motion and form.
CHAPTER XIII
16. Meanwhile this is what I understand, O my God, when I hear thy Scripture
saying, "In the beginning God made the heaven and the earth, but the earth was
invisible and unformed, and darkness was over the abyss." It does not say on
what day thou didst create these things. Thus, for the time being I understand
that "heaven of heavens" to mean the intelligible heaven, where to understand
is to know all at once--not "in part," not "darkly," not "through a glass"--but
as a simultaneous whole, in full sight, "face to face."[472] It is not this thing now and then another thing, but
(as we said) knowledge all at once without any temporal change. And by the
invisible and unformed earth, I understand that which suffers no temporal
vicissitude. Temporal change customarily means having one thing now and another
later; but where there is no form there can be no distinction between this or
that. It is, then, by means of these two--one thing well formed in the
beginning and another thing wholly unformed, the one heaven (that is, the
heaven of heavens) and the other one earth (but the earth invisible and
unformed)--it is by means of these two notions that I am able to understand why
thy Scripture said, without mention of days, "In the beginning God created the
heaven and the earth." For it immediately indicated which earth it was speaking
about. When, on the second day, the firmament is recorded as having been
created and called heaven, this suggests to us which heaven it was that he was
speaking about earlier, without specifying a day.
CHAPTER XIV
17. Marvelous is the depth of thy oracles. Their surface is before us, inviting
the little ones; and yet wonderful is their depth, O my God, marvelous is their
depth! It is a fearful thing to look into them: an awe of honor and a tremor of
love. Their enemies I hate vehemently. Oh, if thou wouldst slay them with thy
two-edged sword, so that they should not be enemies! For I would prefer that
they should be slain to themselves, that they might live to thee. But see,
there are others who are not critics but praisers of the book of Genesis; they
say: "The Spirit of God who wrote these things by his servant Moses did not
wish these words to be understood like this. He did not wish to have it
understood as you say, but as we say." To them, O God of us all, thyself being
the judge, I give answer.
CHAPTER XV
18. "Will you say that these things are false which Truth tells me, with a loud
voice in my inner ear, about the very eternity of the Creator: that his essence
is changed in no respect by time and that his will is not distinct from his
essence? Thus, he doth not will one thing now and another thing later, but he
willeth once and for all everything that he willeth--not again and again; and
not now this and now that. Nor does he will afterward what he did not will
before, nor does he cease to will what he had willed before. Such a will would
be mutable and no mutable thing is eternal. But our God is eternal.
"Again, he tells me in my inner ear that the expectation of future things is
turned to sight when they have come to pass. And this same sight is turned into
memory when they have passed. Moreover, all thought that varies thus is
mutable, and nothing mutable is eternal. But our God is eternal." These things
I sum up and put together, and I conclude that my God, the eternal God, hath
not made any creature by any new will, and his knowledge does not admit
anything transitory.
19. "What, then, will you say to this, you objectors? Are these things false?"
"No," they say. "What then? Is it false that every entity already formed and
all matter capable of receiving form is from him alone who is supremely good,
because he is supreme?" "We do not deny this, either," they say. "What then? Do
you deny this: that there is a certain sublime created order which cleaves with
such a chaste love to the true and truly eternal God that, although it is not
coeternal with him, yet it does not separate itself from him, and does not flow
away into any mutation of change or process but abides in true contemplation of
him alone?" If thou, O God, dost show thyself to him who loves thee as thou
hast commanded--and art sufficient for him--then, such a one will neither turn
himself away from thee nor turn away toward himself. This is "the house of
God." It is not an earthly house and it is not made from any celestial matter;
but it is a spiritual house, and it partakes in thy eternity because it is
without blemish forever. For thou hast made it steadfast forever and ever; thou
hast given it a law which will not be removed. Still, it is not coeternal with
thee, O God, since it is not without beginning--it was created.
20. For, although we can find no time before it (for wisdom was created before
all things),[473] this is certainly not that Wisdom which
is absolutely coeternal and equal with thee, our God, its Father, the Wisdom
through whom all things were created and in whom, in the beginning, thou didst
create the heaven and earth. This is truly the created Wisdom, namely, the
intelligible nature which, in its contemplation of light, is light. For this is
also called wisdom, even if it is a created wisdom. But the difference between
the Light that lightens and that which is enlightened is as great as is the
difference between the Wisdom that creates and that which is created. So also
is the difference between the Righteousness that justifies and the
righteousness that is made by justification. For we also are called thy
righteousness, for a certain servant of thine says, "That we might be made the
righteousness of God in him."[474] Therefore, there is a
certain created wisdom that was created before all things: the rational and
intelligible mind of that chaste city of thine. It is our mother which is above
and is free[475] and "eternal in the heavens"[476]--but in what heavens except those which praise thee,
the "heaven of heavens"? This also is the "heaven of heavens" which is the
Lord's--although we find no time before it, since what has been created before
all things also precedes the creation of time. Still, the eternity of the
Creator himself is before it, from whom it took its beginning as created,
though not in time (since time as yet was not), even though time belongs to its
created nature.
21. Thus it is that the intelligible heaven came to be from thee, our God, but
in such a way that it is quite another being than thou art; it is not the
Selfsame. Yet we find that time is not only not before it, but not even in it, thus making it able to behold thy face forever and not ever be
turned aside. Thus, it is varied by no change at all. But there is still in it
that mutability in virtue of which it could become dark and cold, if it did
not, by cleaving to thee with a supernal love, shine and glow from thee like a
perpetual noon. O house full of light and splendor! "I have loved your beauty
and the place of the habitation of the glory of my Lord,"[477] your builder and possessor. In my wandering let me sigh
for you; this I ask of him who made you, that he should also possess me in you,
seeing that he hath also made me. "I have gone astray like a lost sheep[478]; yet upon the shoulders of my Shepherd, who is your
builder, I have hoped that I may be brought back to you."[479]
22. "What will you say to me now, you objectors to whom I spoke, who still
believe that Moses was the holy servant of God, and that his books were the
oracles of the Holy Spirit? Is it not in this `house of God'--not coeternal
with God, yet in its own mode `eternal in the heavens'--that you vainly seek
for temporal change? You will not find it there. It rises above all extension
and every revolving temporal period, and it rises to what is forever good and
cleaves fast to God."
"It is so," they reply. "What, then, about those things which my heart cried
out to my God, when it heard, within, the voice of his praise? What, then, do
you contend is false in them? Is it because matter was unformed, and since
there was no form there was no order? But where there was no order there could
have been no temporal change. Yet even this `almost nothing,' since it was not
altogether nothing, was truly from him from whom everything that exists is in
whatever state it is." "This also," they say, "we do not deny."
CHAPTER XVI
23. Now, I would like to discuss a little further, in thy presence, O my God,
with those who admit that all these things are true that thy Truth has
indicated to my mind. Let those who deny these things bark and drown their own
voices with as much clamor as they please. I will endeavor to persuade them to
be quiet and to permit thy word to reach them. But if they are unwilling, and
if they repel me, I ask of thee, O my God, that thou shouldst not be silent to
me.[480] Speak truly in my heart; if only thou wouldst
speak thus, I would send them away, blowing up the dust and raising it in their
own eyes. As for myself I will enter into my closet[481] and there sing to thee the songs of love, groaning with groanings that are
unutterable now in my pilgrimage,[482] and remembering
Jerusalem with my heart uplifted to Jerusalem my country, Jerusalem my mother[483]; and to thee thyself, the Ruler of the source of Light,
its Father, Guardian, Husband; its chaste and strong delight, its solid joy and
all its goods ineffable--and all of this at the same time, since thou art the
one supreme and true Good! And I will not be turned away until thou hast
brought back together all that I am from this dispersion and deformity to the
peace of that dearest mother, where the first fruits of my spirit are to be
found and from which all these things are promised me which thou dost conform
and confirm forever, O my God, my Mercy. But as for those who do not say that
all these things which are true are false, who still honor thy Scripture set
before us by the holy Moses, who join us in placing it on the summit of
authority for us to follow, and yet who oppose us in some particulars, I say
this: "Be thou, O God, the judge between my confessions and their gainsaying."
CHAPTER XVII
24. For they say: "Even if these things are true, still Moses did not refer to
these two things when he said, by divine revelation, `In the beginning God
created the heaven and the earth.' By the term `heaven' he did not mean that
spiritual or intelligible created order which always beholds the face of God.
And by the term `earth' he was not referring to unformed matter."
"What then do these terms mean?"
They reply, "That man [Moses] meant what we mean; this is what he was saying in
those terms." "What is that?"
"By the terms of heaven and earth," they say, "he wished first to indicate
universally and briefly this whole visible world; then after this, by an
enumeration of the days, he could point out, one by one, all the things that it
has pleased the Holy Spirit to reveal in this way. For the people to whom he
spoke were rude and carnal, so that he judged it prudent that only those works
of God which were visible should be mentioned to them."
But they do agree that the phrases, "The earth was invisible and unformed," and
"The darkened abyss," may not inappropriately be understood to refer to this
unformed matter--and that out of this, as it is subsequently related, all the
visible things which are known to all were made and set in order during those
specified "days."
25. But now, what if another one should say, "This same formlessness and chaos
of matter was first mentioned by the name of heaven and earth because, out of
it, this visible world--with all its entities which clearly appear in it and
which we are accustomed to be called by the name of heaven and earth--was
created and perfected"? And what if still another should say: "The invisible
and visible nature is quite fittingly called heaven and earth. Thus, the whole
creation which God has made in his wisdom--that is, in the beginning--was
included under these two terms. Yet, since all things have been made, not from
the essence of God, but from nothing; and because they are not the same reality
that God is; and because there is in them all a certain mutability, whether
they abide as the eternal house of God abides or whether they are changed as
the soul and body of man are changed--then the common matter of all things
invisible and visible (still formless but capable of receiving form) from which
heaven and earth were to be created (that is, the creature already fashioned,
invisible as well as visible)--all this was spoken of in the same terms by
which the invisible and unformed earth and the darkness over the abyss would be
called. There was this difference, however: that the invisible and unformed
earth is to be understood as having corporeal matter before it had any manner
of form; but the darkness over the abyss was spiritual matter, before
its unlimited fluidity was harnessed, and before it was enlightened by
Wisdom."
26. And if anyone wished, he might also say, "The entities already perfected
and formed, invisible and visible, are not signified by the terms `heaven and
earth,' when it reads, `In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth';
instead, the unformed beginning of things, the matter capable of receiving form
and being made was called by these terms--because the chaos was contained in it
and was not yet distinguished by qualities and forms, which have now been
arranged in their own orders and are called heaven and earth: the former a
spiritual creation, the latter a physical creation."
CHAPTER XVIII
27. When all these things have been said and considered, I am unwilling to
contend about words, for such contention is profitable for nothing but the
subverting of the hearer.[484] But the law is profitable
for edification if a man use it lawfully: for the end of the law "is love out
of a pure heart, and a good conscience, and faith unfeigned."[485] And our Master knew it well, for it was on these two
commandments that he hung all the Law and the Prophets. And how would it harm
me, O my God, thou Light of my eyes in secret, if while I am ardently
confessing these things--since many different things may be understood from
these words, all of which may be true--what harm would be done if I should
interpret the meaning of the sacred writer differently from the way some other
man interprets? Indeed, all of us who read are trying to trace out and
understand what our author wished to convey; and since we believe that he
speaks truly we dare not suppose that he has spoken anything that we either
know or suppose to be false. Therefore, since every person tries to understand
in the Holy Scripture what the writer understood, what harm is done if a man
understands what thou, the Light of all truth-speaking minds, showest him to be
true, although the author he reads did not understand this aspect of the truth
even though he did understand the truth in a different meaning?[486]
CHAPTER XIX[487]
28. For it is certainly true, O Lord, that thou didst create the heaven and the
earth. It is also true that "the beginning" is thy wisdom in which thou didst
create all things. It is likewise true that this visible world has its own
great division (the heaven and the earth) and these two terms include all
entities that have been made and created. It is further true that everything
mutable confronts our minds with a certain lack of form, whereby it receives
form, or whereby it is capable of taking form. It is true, yet again, that what
cleaves to the changeless form so closely that even though it is mutable it is
not changed is not subject to temporal process. It is true that the
formlessness which is almost nothing cannot have temporal change in it. It is
true that that from which something is made can, in a manner of speaking, be
called by the same name as the thing that is made from it. Thus that
formlessness of which heaven and earth were made might be called "heaven and
earth." It is true that of all things having form nothing is nearer to the
unformed than the earth and the abyss. It is true that not only every created
and formed thing but also everything capable of creation and of form were
created by Thee, from whom all things are.[488] It is
true, finally, that everything that is formed from what is formless was
formless before it was formed.
CHAPTER XX
29. From all these truths, which are not doubted by those to whom thou hast
granted insight in such things in their inner eye and who believe unshakably
that thy servant Moses spoke in the spirit of truth--from all these truths,
then, one man takes the sense of "In the beginning God created the heaven and
the earth" to mean, "In his Word, coeternal with himself, God made both the
intelligible and the tangible, the spiritual and the corporeal creation."
Another takes it in a different sense, that "In the beginning God created the
heaven and the earth" means, "In his Word, coeternal with himself, God made the
universal mass of this corporeal world, with all the observable and known
entities that it contains." Still another finds a different meaning, that "In
the beginning God created the heaven and the earth" means, "In his Word,
coeternal with himself, God made the unformed matter of the spiritual and
corporeal creation." Another can take the sense that "In the beginning God
created the heaven and the earth" means, "In his Word, coeternal with himself,
God made the unformed matter of the physical creation, in which heaven and
earth were as yet indistinguished; but now that they have come to be separated
and formed, we can now perceive them both in the mighty mass of this world."[489] Another takes still a further meaning, that "In the
beginning God created heaven and earth" means, "In the very beginning of
creating and working, God made that unformed matter which contained,
undifferentiated, heaven and earth, from which both of them were formed, and
both now stand out and are observable with all the things that are in them."
CHAPTER XXI
30. Again, regarding the interpretation of the following words, one man selects
for himself, from all the various truths, the interpretation that "the earth
was invisible and unformed and darkness was over the abyss" means, "That
corporeal entity which God made was as yet the formless matter of physical
things without order and without light." Another takes it in a different sense,
that "But the earth was invisible and unformed, and darkness was over the
abyss" means, "This totality called heaven and earth was as yet unformed and
lightless matter, out of which the corporeal heaven and the corporeal earth
were to be made, with all the things in them that are known to our physical
senses." Another takes it still differently and says that "But the earth was
invisible and unformed, and darkness was over the abyss" means, "This totality
called heaven and earth was as yet an unformed and lightless matter, from which
were to be made that intelligible heaven (which is also called `the heaven of
heavens') and the earth (which refers to the whole physical entity, under which
term may be included this corporeal heaven)--that is, He made the intelligible
heaven from which every invisible and visible creature would be created." He
takes it in yet another sense who says that "But the earth was invisible and
unformed, and darkness was over the abyss" means, "The Scripture does not refer
to that formlessness by the term `heaven and earth'; that formlessness itself
already existed. This it called the invisible `earth' and the unformed and
lightless `abyss,' from which--as it had said before--God made the heaven and
the earth (namely, the spiritual and the corporeal creation)." Still another
says that "But the earth was invisible and formless, and darkness was over the
abyss" means, "There was already an unformed matter from which, as the
Scripture had already said, God made heaven and earth, namely, the entire
corporeal mass of the world, divided into two very great parts, one superior,
the other inferior, with all those familiar and known creatures that are in
them."
CHAPTER XXII
31. Now suppose that someone tried to argue against these last two opinions as
follows: "If you will not admit that this formlessness of matter appears to be
called by the term `heaven and earth,' then there was something that God had
not made out of which he did make heaven and earth. And Scripture has not told
us that God made this matter, unless we understand that it is implied in
the term `heaven and earth' (or the term `earth' alone) when it is said, `In
the beginning God created the heaven and earth.' Thus, in what follows--'the
earth was invisible and unformed'--even though it pleased Moses thus to refer
to unformed matter, yet we can only understand by it that which God himself
hath made, as it stands written in the previous verse, `God made heaven and
earth.'" Those who maintain either one or the other of these two opinions which
we have set out above will answer to such objections: "We do not deny at all
that this unformed matter was created by God, from whom all things are, and are
very good--because we hold that what is created and endowed with form is a
higher good; and we also hold that what is made capable of being created and
endowed with form, though it is a lesser good, is still a good. But the
Scripture has not said specifically that God made this formlessness--any more
than it has said it specifically of many other things, such as the orders of
`cherubim' and `seraphim' and those others of which the apostle distinctly
speaks: `thrones,' `dominions,' `principalities,' `powers'[490]--yet it is clear that God made all of these. If in the
phrase `He made heaven and earth' all things are included, what are we to say
about the waters upon which the Spirit of God moved? For if they are understood
as included in the term `earth,' then how can unformed matter be meant by the
term `earth' when we see the waters so beautifully formed? Or, if it be taken
thus, why, then, is it written that out of the same formlessness the firmament
was made and called heaven, and yet is it not specifically written that the
waters were made? For these waters, which we perceive flowing in so beautiful a
fashion, are not formless and invisible. But if they received that beauty at
the time God said of them, `Let the waters which are under the firmament be
gathered together,'[491] thus indicating that their
gathering together was the same thing as their reception of form, what, then,
is to be said about the waters that are above the firmament? Because if
they are unformed, they do not deserve to have a seat so honorable, and yet it
is not written by what specific word they were formed. If, then, Genesis is
silent about anything that God hath made, which neither sound faith nor
unerring understanding doubts that God hath made, let not any sober teaching
dare to say that these waters were coeternal with God because we find them
mentioned in the book of Genesis and do not find it mentioned when they were
created. If Truth instructs us, why may we not interpret that unformed matter
which the Scripture calls the earth--invisible and unformed--and the lightless
abyss as having been made by God from nothing; and thus understand that they
are not coeternal with him, although the narrative fails to tell us precisely
when they were made?"
CHAPTER XXIII
32. I have heard and considered these theories as well as my weak apprehension
allows, and I confess my weakness to Thee, O Lord, though already thou knowest
it. Thus I see that two sorts of disagreements may arise when anything is
related by signs, even by trustworthy reporters. There is one disagreement
about the truth of the things involved; the other concerns the meaning of the
one who reports them. It is one thing to inquire as to what is true about the
formation of the Creation. It is another thing, however, to ask what that
excellent servant of thy faith, Moses, would have wished for the reader and
hearer to understand from these words. As for the first question, let all those
depart from me who imagine that Moses spoke things that are false. But let me
be united with them in thee, O Lord, and delight myself in thee with those who
feed on thy truth in the bond of love. Let us approach together the words of
thy book and make diligent inquiry in them for thy meaning through the meaning
of thy servant by whose pen thou hast given them to us.
CHAPTER XXIV
33. But in the midst of so many truths which occur to the interpreters of these
words (understood as they can be in different ways), which one of us can
discover that single interpretation which warrants our saying confidently that
Moses thought thus and that in this narrative he wishes this to
be understood, as confidently as he would say that this is true, whether
Moses thought the one or the other. For see, O my God, I am thy servant, and I
have vowed in this book an offering of confession to thee,[492] and I beseech thee that by thy mercy I may pay my vow
to thee. Now, see, could I assert that Moses meant nothing else than this [i.e., my interpretation] when he wrote, "In the beginning God
created the heaven and the earth," as confidently as I can assert that thou in
thy immutable Word hast created all things, invisible and visible? No, I cannot
do this because it is not as clear to me that this was in his mind when
he wrote these things, as I see it to be certain in thy truth. For his thoughts
might be set upon the very beginning of the creation when he said, "In the
beginning"; and he might have wished it understood that, in this passage,
"heaven and earth" refers to no formed and perfect entity, whether spiritual or
corporeal, but each of them only newly begun and still formless. Whichever of
these possibilities has been mentioned I can see that it might have been said
truly. But which of them he did actually intend to express in these words I do
not clearly see. However, whether it was one of these or some other meaning
which I have not mentioned that this great man saw in his mind when he used
these words I have no doubt whatever that he saw it truly and expressed it
suitably.
CHAPTER XXV
34. Let no man fret me now by saying, "Moses did not mean what you say,
but what I say." Now if he asks me, "How do you know that Moses meant
what you deduce from his words?", I ought to respond calmly and reply as I have
already done, or even more fully if he happens to be untrained. But when he
says, "Moses did not mean what you say, but what I say," and then
does not deny what either of us says but allows that both are
true--then, O my God, life of the poor, in whose breast there is no
contradiction, pour thy soothing balm into my heart that I may patiently bear
with people who talk like this! It is not because they are godly men and have
seen in the heart of thy servant what they say, but rather they are proud men
and have not considered Moses' meaning, but only love their own--not because it
is true but because it is their own. Otherwise they could equally love another
true opinion, as I love what they say when what they speak is true--not because
it is theirs but because it is true, and therefore not theirs but true. And if
they love an opinion because it is true, it becomes both theirs and mine, since
it is the common property of all lovers of the truth.[493] But I neither accept nor approve of it when they contend that Moses did not
mean what I say but what they say--and this because, even if it were so, such
rashness is born not of knowledge, but of impudence. It comes not from vision
but from vanity.
And therefore, O Lord, thy judgments should be held in awe, because thy truth
is neither mine nor his nor anyone else's; but it belongs to all of us whom
thou hast openly called to have it in common; and thou hast warned us not to
hold on to it as our own special property, for if we do we lose it. For if
anyone arrogates to himself what thou hast bestowed on all to enjoy, and if he
desires something for his own that belongs to all, he is forced away from what
is common to all to what is, indeed, his very own--that is, from truth to
falsehood. For he who tells a lie speaks of his own thought.[494]
35. Hear, O God, best judge of all! O Truth itself, hear what I say to this
disputant. Hear it, because I say it in thy presence and before my brethren who
use the law rightly to the end of love. Hear and give heed to what I shall say
to him, if it pleases thee.
For I would return this brotherly and peaceful word to him: "If we both see
that what you say is true, and if we both say that what I say is true, where is
it, I ask you, that we see this? Certainly, I do not see it in you, and you do
not see it in me, but both of us see it in the unchangeable truth itself, which
is above our minds."[495] If, then, we do not disagree
about the true light of the Lord our God, why do we disagree about the thoughts
of our neighbor, which we cannot see as clearly as the immutable Truth is seen?
If Moses himself had appeared to us and said, "This is what I meant," it would
not be in order that we should see it but that we should believe him. Let us
not, then, "go beyond what is written and be puffed up for the one against the
other."[496] Let us, instead, "love the Lord our God with
all our heart, with all our soul, and with all our mind, and our neighbor as
ourself."[497] Unless we believe that whatever Moses meant
in these books he meant to be ordered by these two precepts of love, we shall
make God a liar, if we judge of the soul of his servant in any other way than
as he has taught us. See now, how foolish it is, in the face of so great an
abundance of true opinions which can be elicited from these words, rashly to
affirm that Moses especially intended only one of these interpretations; and
then, with destructive contention, to violate love itself, on behalf of which
he had said all the things we are endeavoring to explain!
CHAPTER XXVI
36. And yet, O my God, thou exaltation of my humility and rest of my toil, who
hearest my confessions and forgivest my sins, since thou commandest me to love
my neighbor as myself, I cannot believe that thou gavest thy most faithful
servant Moses a lesser gift than I should wish and desire for myself from thee,
if I had been born in his time, and if thou hadst placed me in the position
where, by the use of my heart and my tongue, those books might be produced
which so long after were to profit all nations throughout the whole world--from
such a great pinnacle of authority--and were to surmount the words of all false
and proud teachings. If I had been Moses--and we all come from the same mass,[498] and what is man that thou art mindful of him?[499]--if I had been Moses at the time that he was, and if I
had been ordered by thee to write the book of Genesis, I would surely have
wished for such a power of expression and such an art of arrangement to be
given me, that those who cannot as yet understand how God createth would
still not reject my words as surpassing their powers of understanding. And I
would have wished that those who are already able to do this would find fully
contained in the laconic speech of thy servant whatever truths they had arrived
at in their own thought; and if, in the light of the Truth, some other man saw
some further meaning, that too would be found congruent to my words.
CHAPTER XXVII
37. For just as a spring dammed up is more plentiful and affords a larger
supply of water for more streams over wider fields than any single stream led
off from the same spring over a long course--so also is the narration of thy
minister: it is intended to benefit many who are likely to discourse about it
and, with an economy of language, it overflows into various streams of clear
truth, from which each one may draw out for himself that particular truth which
he can about these topics--this one that truth, that one another truth, by the
broader survey of various interpretations. For some people, when they read or
hear these words,[500] think that God, like some sort of
man or like some sort of huge body, by some new and sudden decision, produced
outside himself and at a certain distance two great bodies: one above, the
other below, within which all created things were to be contained. And when
they hear, "God said, `Let such and such be done,' and it was done," they think
of words begun and ended, sounding in time and then passing away, followed by
the coming into being of what was commanded. They think of other things of the
same sort which their familiarity with the world suggests to them.
In these people, who are still little children and whose weakness is borne up
by this humble language as if on a mother's breast, their faith is built up
healthfully and they come to possess and to hold as certain the conviction that
God made all entities that their senses perceive all around them in such
marvelous variety. And if one despises these words as if they were trivial, and
with proud weakness stretches himself beyond his fostering cradle, he will,
alas, fall away wretchedly. Have pity, O Lord God, lest those who pass by
trample on the unfledged bird,[501] and send thy angel who
may restore it to its nest, that it may live until it can fly.
CHAPTER XXVIII
38. But others, to whom these words are no longer a nest but, rather, a shady
thicket, spy the fruits concealed in them and fly around rejoicing and search
among them and pluck them with cheerful chirpings: For when they read or hear
these words, O God, they see that all times past and times future are
transcended by thy eternal and stable permanence, and they see also that there
is no temporal creature that is not of thy making. By thy will, since it is the
same as thy being, thou hast created all things, not by any mutation of will
and not by any will that previously was nonexistent--and not out of thyself,
but in thy own likeness, thou didst make from nothing the form of all things.
This was an unlikeness which was capable of being formed by thy likeness
through its relation to thee, the One, as each thing has been given form
appropriate to its kind according to its preordained capacity. Thus, all things
were made very good, whether they remain around thee or whether, removed in
time and place by various degrees, they cause or undergo the beautiful changes
of natural process.
They see these things and they rejoice in the light of thy truth to whatever
degree they can.
39. Again, one of these men[502] directs his attention to
the verse, "In the beginning God made the heaven and the earth," and he beholds
Wisdom as the true "beginning," because it also speaks to us. Another man
directs his attention to the same words, and by "beginning" he understands
simply the commencement of creation, and interprets it thus: "In the beginning
he made," as if it were the same thing as to say, "At the first moment, God
made . . ." And among those who interpret "In the beginning" to mean that in
thy wisdom thou hast created the heaven and earth, one believes that the matter
out of which heaven and earth were to be created is what is referred to by the
phrase "heaven and earth." But another believes that these entities were
already formed and distinct. Still another will understand it to refer to one
formed entity--a spiritual one, designated by the term "heaven"--and to another
unformed entity of corporeal matter, designated by the term "earth." But those
who understand the phrase "heaven and earth" to mean the yet unformed matter
from which the heaven and the earth were to be formed do not take it in a
simple sense: one man regards it as that from which the intelligible and
tangible creations are both produced; and another only as that from which the
tangible, corporeal world is produced, containing in its vast bosom these
visible and observable entities. Nor are they in simple accord who believe that
"heaven and earth" refers to the created things already set in order and
arranged. One believes that it refers to the invisible and visible world;
another, only to the visible world, in which we admire the luminous heavens and
the darkened earth and all the things that they contain.
CHAPTER XXIX
40. But he who understands "In the beginning he made" as if it meant, "At first
he made," can truly interpret the phrase "heaven and earth" as referring only
to the "matter" of heaven and earth, namely, of the prior universal, which is
the intelligible and corporeal creation. For if he would try to interpret the
phrase as applying to the universe already formed, it then might rightly be
asked of him, "If God first made this, what then did he do afterward?" And,
after the universe, he will find nothing. But then he must, however
unwillingly, face the question, How is this the first if there is nothing
afterward? But when he said that God made matter first formless and then
formed, he is not being absurd if he is able to discern what precedes by
eternity, and what proceeds in time; what comes from choice, and what comes
from origin. In eternity, God is before all things; in the temporal process,
the flower is before the fruit; in the act of choice, the fruit is before the
flower; in the case of origin, sound is before the tune. Of these four
relations, the first and last that I have referred to are understood with much
difficulty. The second and third are very easily understood. For it is an
uncommon and lofty vision, O Lord, to behold thy eternity immutably making
mutable things, and thereby standing always before them. Whose mind is acute
enough to be able, without great labor, to discover how the sound comes before
the tune? For a tune is a formed sound; and an unformed thing may exist, but a
thing that does not exist cannot be formed. In the same way, matter is prior to
what is made from it. It is not prior because it makes its product, for it is
itself made; and its priority is not that of a time interval. For in time we do
not first utter formless sounds without singing and then adapt or fashion them
into the form of a song, as wood or silver from which a chest or vessel is
made. Such materials precede in time the forms of the things which are made
from them. But in singing this is not so. For when a song is sung, its sound is
heard at the same time. There is not first a formless sound, which afterward is
formed into a song; but just as soon as it has sounded it passes away, and you
cannot find anything of it which you could gather up and shape. Therefore, the
song is absorbed in its own sound and the "sound" of the song is its "matter."
But the sound is formed in order that it may be a tune. This is why, as I was
saying, the matter of the sound is prior to the form of the tune. It is not
"before" in the sense that it has any power of making a sound or tune. Nor is
the sound itself the composer of the tune; rather, the sound is sent forth from
the body and is ordered by the soul of the singer, so that from it he may form
a tune. Nor is the sound first in time, for it is given forth together with the
tune. Nor is it first in choice, because a sound is no better than a tune,
since a tune is not merely a sound but a beautiful sound. But it is first in
origin, because the tune is not formed in order that it may become a sound, but
the sound is formed in order that it may become a tune.
From this example, let him who is able to understand see that the matter of
things was first made and was called "heaven and earth" because out of it the
heaven and earth were made. This primal formlessness was not made first in
time, because the form of things gives rise to time; but now, in time, it is
intuited together with its form. And yet nothing can be related of this
unformed matter unless it is regarded as if it were the first in the time
series though the last in value--because things formed are certainly superior
to things unformed--and it is preceded by the eternity of the Creator, so that
from nothing there might be made that from which something might be made.
CHAPTER XXX
41. In this discord of true opinions let Truth itself bring concord, and may
our God have mercy on us all, that we may use the law rightly to the end of the
commandment which is pure love. Thus, if anyone asks me which of these opinions
was the meaning of thy servant Moses, these would not be my confessions did I
not confess to thee that I do not know. Yet I do know that those opinions are
true--with the exception of the carnal ones--about which I have said what I
thought was proper. Yet those little ones of good hope are not frightened by
these words of thy Book, for they speak of high things in a lowly way and of a
few basic things in many varied ways. But let all of us, whom I acknowledge to
see and speak the truth in these words, love one another and also love thee,
our God, O Fountain of Truth--as we will if we thirst not after vanity but for
the Fountain of Truth. Indeed, let us so honor this servant of thine, the
dispenser of this Scripture, full of thy Spirit, so that we will believe that
when thou didst reveal thyself to him, and he wrote these things down, he
intended through them what will chiefly minister both for the light of truth
and to the increase of our fruitfulness.
CHAPTER XXXI
42. Thus, when one man says, "Moses meant what I mean," and another says, "No,
he meant what I do," I think that I speak more faithfully when I say, "Why
could he not have meant both if both opinions are true?" And if there should be
still a third truth or a fourth one, and if anyone should seek a truth quite
different in those words, why would it not be right to believe that Moses saw
all these different truths, since through him the one God has tempered the Holy
Scriptures to the understanding of many different people, who should see truths
in it even if they are different? Certainly--and I say this fearlessly and from
my heart--if I were to write anything on such a supreme authority, I would
prefer to write it so that, whatever of truth anyone might apprehend from the
matter under discussion, my words should re-echo in the several minds rather
than that they should set down one true opinion so clearly on one point that I
should exclude the rest, even though they contained no falsehood that offended
me. Therefore, I am unwilling, O my God, to be so headstrong as not to believe
that this man [Moses] has received at least this much from thee. Surely when he
was writing these words, he saw fully and understood all the truth we have been
able to find in them, and also much besides that we have not been able to
discern, or are not yet able to find out, though it is there in them still to
be found.
CHAPTER XXXII
43. Finally, O Lord--who art God and not flesh and blood--if any man sees
anything less, can anything lie hid from "thy good Spirit" who shall "lead me
into the land of uprightness,"[503] which thou thyself,
through those words, wast revealing to future readers, even though he through
whom they were spoken fixed on only one among the many interpretations that
might have been found? And if this is so, let it be agreed that the meaning he
saw is more exalted than the others. But to us, O Lord, either point out the
same meaning or any other true one, as it pleases thee. Thus, whether thou
makest known to us what thou madest known to that man of thine, or some other
meaning by the agency of the same words, still do thou feed us and let error
not deceive us. Behold, O Lord, my God, how much we have written concerning
these few words--how much, indeed! What strength of mind, what length of time,
would suffice for all thy books to be interpreted in this fashion?[504] Allow me, therefore, in these concluding words to
confess more briefly to thee and select some one, true, certain, and good sense
that thou shalt inspire, although many meanings offer themselves and many
indeed are possible.[505] This is the faith of my
confession, that if I could say what thy servant meant, that is truest and
best, and for that I must strive. Yet if I do not succeed, may it be that I
shall say at least what thy Truth wished to say to me through its words, just
as it said what it wished to Moses.
BOOK THIRTEEN
The mysteries and allegories of the days of creation. Augustine
undertakes to interpret Gen. 1:2-31 in a mystical and allegorical
fashion so as to exhibit the profundities of God's power and wisdom and love.
He is also interested in developing his theories of hermeneutics on his
favorite topic: creation. He finds the Trinity in the account of creation and
he ponders the work of the Spirit moving over the waters. In the firmament he
finds the allegory of Holy Scripture and in the dry land and bitter sea he
finds the division between the people of God and the conspiracy of the
unfaithful. He develops the theme of man's being made in the image and likeness
of God. He brings his survey to a climax and his confessions to an end with a
meditation on the goodness of all creation and the promised rest and
blessedness of the eternal Sabbath, on which God, who is eternal rest,
"rested."
CHAPTER I
1. I call on thee, my God, my Mercy, who madest me and didst not forget me,
though I was forgetful of thee. I call thee into my soul, which thou didst
prepare for thy reception by the desire which thou inspirest in it. Do not
forsake me when I call on thee, who didst anticipate me before I called and who
didst repeatedly urge with manifold calling that I should hear thee afar off
and be turned and call upon thee, who callest me. For thou, O Lord, hast
blotted out all my evil deserts, not punishing me for what my hands have done;
and thou hast anticipated all my good deserts so as to recompense me for what
thy hands have done--the hands which made me. Before I was, thou wast, and I
was not anything at all that thou shouldst grant me being. Yet, see how I exist
by reason of thy goodness, which made provision for all that thou madest me to
be and all that thou madest me from. For thou didst not stand in need of me,
nor am I the kind of good entity which could be a help to thee, my Lord and my
God. It is not that I may serve thee as if thou wert fatigued in working, or as
if thy power would be the less if it lacked my assistance. Nor is the service I
pay thee like the cultivation of a field, so that thou wouldst go untended if I
did not tend thee.[506] Instead, it is that I may serve
and worship thee to the end that I may have my well-being from thee, from whom
comes my capacity for well-being.
CHAPTER II
2. Indeed, it is from the fullness of thy goodness that thy creation exists at
all: to the end that the created good might not fail to be, even though it can
profit thee nothing, and is nothing of thee nor equal to thee--since its
created existence comes from thee.
For what did the heaven and earth, which thou didst make in the beginning, ever
deserve from thee? Let them declare--these spiritual and corporeal entities,
which thou madest in thy wisdom--let them declare what they merited at thy
hands, so that the inchoate and the formless, whether spiritual or corporeal,
would deserve to be held in being in spite of the fact that they tend toward
disorder and extreme unlikeness to thee? An unformed spiritual entity is more
excellent than a formed corporeal entity; and the corporeal, even when
unformed, is more excellent than if it were simply nothing at all. Still, these
formless entities are held in their state of being by thee, until they are
recalled to thy unity and receive form and being from thee, the one sovereign
Good. What have they deserved of thee, since they would not even be unformed
entities except from thee?
3. What has corporeal matter deserved of thee--even in its invisible and
unformed state--since it would not exist even in this state if thou hadst not
made it? And, if it did not exist, it could not merit its existence from
thee.
Or, what has that formless spiritual creation deserved of thee--that it should
flow lightlessly like the abyss--since it is so unlike thee and would not exist
at all if it had not been turned by the Word which made it that same Word, and,
illumined by that Word, had been "made light"[507] although not as thy equal but only as an image of that Form [of Light] which is
equal to thee? For, in the case of a body, its being is not the same thing as
its being beautiful; else it could not then be a deformed body. Likewise, in
the case of a created spirit, living is not the same state as living wisely;
else it could then be immutably wise. But the true good of every created thing
is always to cleave fast to thee, lest, in turning away from thee, it lose the
light it had received in being turned by thee, and so relapse into a life like
that of the dark abyss.
As for ourselves, who are a spiritual creation by virtue of our souls, when we
turned away from thee, O Light, we were in that former life of darkness; and we
toil amid the shadows of our darkness until--through thy only Son--we become
thy righteousness,[508] like the mountains of God. For we,
like the great abyss,[509] have been the objects of thy
judgments.
CHAPTER III
4. Now what thou saidst in the beginning of the creation--"Let there be light:
and there was light"--I interpret, not unfitly, as referring to the spiritual
creation, because it already had a kind of life which thou couldst illuminate.
But, since it had not merited from thee that it should be a life capable of
enlightenment, so neither, when it already began to exist, did it merit from
thee that it should be enlightened. For neither could its formlessness please
thee until it became light--and it became light, not from the bare fact of
existing, but by the act of turning its face to the light which enlightened it,
and by cleaving to it. Thus it owed the fact that it lived, and lived happily,
to nothing whatsoever but thy grace, since it had been turned, by a change for
the better, toward that which cannot be changed for either better or worse.
Thou alone art, because thou alone art without complication. For thee it is not
one thing to live and another thing to live in blessedness; for thou art
thyself thy own blessedness.
CHAPTER IV
5. What, therefore, would there have been lacking in thy good, which thou
thyself art, even if these things had never been made or had remained unformed?
Thou didst not create them out of any lack but out of the plenitude of thy
goodness, ordering them and turning them toward form,[510] but not because thy joy had to be perfected by them. For thou art perfect, and
their imperfection is displeasing. Therefore were they perfected by thee and
became pleasing to thee--but not as if thou wert before that imperfect and had
to be perfected in their perfection. For thy good Spirit which moved over the
face of the waters[511] was not borne up by them as if he
rested on them. For those in whom thy good Spirit is said to rest he actually
causes to rest in himself. But thy incorruptible and immutable will--in itself
all-sufficient for itself--moved over that life which thou hadst made: in which
living is not at all the same thing as living happily, since that life still
lives even as it flows in its own darkness. But it remains to be turned to him
by whom it was made and to live more and more like "the fountain of life," and
in his light "to see light,"[512] and to be perfected, and
enlightened, and made blessed.
CHAPTER V
6. See now,[513] how the Trinity appears to me in an
enigma. And thou art the Trinity, O my God, since thou, O Father--in the
beginning of our wisdom, that is, in thy wisdom born of thee, equal and
coeternal with thee, that is, thy Son--created the heaven and the earth. Many
things we have said about the heaven of heavens, and about the earth invisible
and unformed, and about the shadowy abyss--speaking of the aimless flux of its
being spiritually deformed unless it is turned to him from whom it has its life
(such as it is) and by his Light comes to be a life suffused with beauty. Thus
it would be a [lower] heaven of that [higher] heaven, which afterward was made
between water and water.[514]
And now I came to recognize, in the name of God, the Father who made all these
things, and in the term "the Beginning" to recognize the Son, through whom he
made all these things; and since I did believe that my God was the Trinity, I
sought still further in his holy Word, and, behold, "Thy Spirit moved over the
waters." Thus, see the Trinity, O my God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, the
Creator of all creation!
CHAPTER VI
7. But why, O truth-speaking Light? To thee I lift up my heart--let it not
teach me vain notions. Disperse its shadows and tell me, I beseech thee, by
that Love which is our mother; tell me, I beseech thee, the reason why--after
the reference to heaven and to the invisible and unformed earth, and darkness
over the abyss--thy Scripture should then at long last refer to thy Spirit? Was
it because it was appropriate that he should first be shown to us as "moving
over"; and this could not have been said unless something had already been
mentioned over which thy Spirit could be understood as "moving"? For he did not
"move over" the Father and the Son, and he could not properly be said to be
"moving over" if he were "moving over" nothing. Thus, what it was he was
"moving over" had to be mentioned first and he whom it was not proper to
mention otherwise than as "moving over" could then be mentioned. But why was it
not fitting that he should have been introduced in some other way than in this
context of "moving over''?
CHAPTER VII
8. Now let him who is able follow thy apostle with his understanding when he
says, "Thy love is shed abroad in our hearts by the Holy Spirit, who is given
to us"[515] and who teacheth us about spiritual gifts[516] and showeth us a more excellent way of love; and who
bows his knee unto thee for us, that we may come to the surpassing knowledge of
the love of Christ.[517] Thus, from the beginning, he who
is above all was "moving over" the waters.
To whom shall I tell this? How can I speak of the weight of concupiscence which
drags us downward into the deep abyss, and of the love which lifts us up by thy
Spirit who moved over the waters? To whom shall I tell this? How shall I tell
it? For concupiscence and love are not certain "places" into which we are
plunged and out of which we are lifted again. What could be more like, and yet
what more unlike? They are both feelings; they are both loves. The uncleanness
of our own spirit flows downward with the love of worldly care; and the
sanctity of thy Spirit raises us upward by the love of release from
anxiety--that we may lift our hearts to thee where thy Spirit is "moving over
the waters." Thus, we shall have come to that supreme rest where our souls
shall have passed through the waters which give no standing ground.[518]
CHAPTER VIII
9. The angels fell, and the soul of man fell; thus they indicate to us the deep
darkness of the abyss, which would have still contained the whole spiritual
creation if thou hadst not said, in the beginning, "Let there be light: and
there was light"--and if every obedient mind in thy heavenly city had not
adhered to thee and had not reposed in thy Spirit, which moved immutable over
all things mutable. Otherwise, even the heaven of heavens itself would have
been a dark shadow, instead of being, as it is now, light in the Lord.[519] For even in the restless misery of the fallen spirits,
who exhibit their own darkness when they are stripped of the garments of thy
light, thou showest clearly how noble thou didst make the rational creation,
for whose rest and beatitude nothing suffices save thee thyself. And certainly
it is not itself sufficient for its beatitude. For it is thou, O our God, who
wilt enlighten our darkness; from thee shall come our garments of light; and
then our darkness shall be as the noonday. Give thyself to me, O my God,
restore thyself to me! See, I love thee; and if it be too little, let me love
thee still more strongly. I cannot measure my love so that I may come to know
how much there is still lacking in me before my life can run to thy embrace and
not be turned away until it is hidden in "the covert of thy presence."[520] Only this I know, that my existence is my woe except in
thee--not only in my outward life, but also within my inmost self--and all
abundance I have which is not my God is poverty.
CHAPTER IX
10. But was neither the Father nor the Son "moving over the waters"? If we
understand this as a motion in space, as a body moves, then not even the Holy
Spirit "moved." But if we understand the changeless supereminence of the divine
Being above every changeable thing, then Father, Son, and Holy Spirit "moved
over the waters."
Why, then, is this said of thy Spirit alone? Why is it said of him only--as if
he had been in a "place" that is not a place--about whom alone it is written,
"He is thy gift"? It is in thy gift that we rest. It is there that we enjoy
thee. Our rest is our "place." Love lifts us up toward that place, and thy good
Spirit lifts our lowliness from the gates of death.[521] Our peace rests in the goodness of will. The body tends toward its own place by
its own gravity. A weight does not tend downward only, but moves to its own
place. Fire tends upward; a stone tends downward. They are propelled by their
own mass; they seek their own places. Oil poured under the water rises above
the water; water poured on oil sinks under the oil. They are moved by their own
mass; they seek their own places. If they are out of order, they are restless;
when their order is restored, they are at rest. My weight is my love. By it I
am carried wherever I am carried. By thy gift,[522] we are
enkindled and are carried upward. We burn inwardly and move forward. We ascend
thy ladder which is in our heart, and we sing a canticle of degrees[523]; we glow inwardly with thy fire--with thy good fire[524]--and we go forward because we go up to the peace of
Jerusalem[525]; for I was glad when they said to me, "Let
us go into the house of the Lord."[526] There thy good
pleasure will settle us so that we will desire nothing more than to dwell there
forever.[527]
CHAPTER X
11. Happy would be that creature who, though it was in itself other than thou,
still had known no other state than this from the time it was made, so that it
was never without thy gift which moves over everything mutable--who had been
borne up by the call in which thou saidst, "Let there be light: and there was
light."[528] For in us there is a distinction between the
time when we were darkness and the time when we were made light. But we are not
told what would have been the case with that creature if the light had not been
made. It is spoken of as though there had been something of flux and darkness
in it beforehand so that the cause by which it was made to be otherwise might
be evident. This is to say, by being turned to the unfailing Light it might
become light. Let him who is able understand this; and let him who is not ask
of thee. Why trouble me, as if I could "enlighten every man that comes into the
world"[529]?
CHAPTER XI
12. Who can understand the omnipotent Trinity? And yet who does not speak about
it, if indeed it is of it that he speaks? Rare is the soul who, when he speaks
of it, also knows of what he speaks. And men contend and strive, but no man
sees the vision of it without peace.
I could wish that men would consider three things which are within themselves.
These three things are quite different from the Trinity, but I mention them in
order that men may exercise their minds and test themselves and come to realize
how different from it they are.[530]
The three things I speak of are: to be, to know, and to will. For I am, and I
know, and I will. I am a knowing and a willing being; I know that I am and that
I will; and I will to be and to know. In these three functions, therefore, let
him who can see how integral a life is; for there is one life, one mind, one
essence. Finally, the distinction does not separate the things, and yet it is a
distinction. Surely a man has this distinction before his mind; let him look
into himself and see, and tell me. But when he discovers and can say anything
about any one of these, let him not think that he has thereby discovered what
is immutable above them all, which is immutably and knows immutably and wills immutably. But whether there is a Trinity there
because these three functions exist in the one God, or whether all three are in
each Person so that they are each threefold, or whether both these notions are
true and, in some mysterious manner, the Infinite is in itself its own Selfsame
object--at once one and many, so that by itself it is and knows itself and
suffices to itself without change, so that the Selfsame is the abundant
magnitude of its Unity--who can readily conceive? Who can in any fashion
express it plainly? Who can in any way rashly make a pronouncement about it?
CHAPTER XII
13. Go forward in your confession, O my faith; say to the Lord your God, "Holy,
holy, holy, O Lord my God, in thy name we have been baptized, in the name of
the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit." In thy name we baptize, in the name of the
Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. For among us also God in his Christ made
"heaven and earth," namely, the spiritual and carnal members of his Church. And
true it is that before it received "the form of doctrine," our "earth"[531] was "invisible and unformed," and we were covered with
the darkness of our ignorance; for thou dost correct man for his iniquity,[532] and "thy judgments are a great abyss."[533] But because thy Spirit was moving over these waters,
thy mercy did not forsake our wretchedness, and thou saidst, "Let there be
light; repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand."[534] Repent, and let there be light. Because our soul was troubled within us, we
remembered thee, O Lord, from the land of Jordan, and from the mountain[535]--and as we became displeased with our darkness we
turned to thee, "and there was light." And behold, we were heretofore in
darkness, but now we are light in the Lord.[536]
CHAPTER XIII
14. But even so, we still live by faith and not by sight, for we are saved by
hope; but hope that is seen is not hope. Thus far deep calls unto deep, but now
in "the noise of thy waterfalls."[537] And thus far he who
said, "I could not speak to you as if you were spiritual ones, but only as if
you were carnal"[538]--thus far even he does not count
himself to have apprehended, but forgetting the things that are behind and
reaching forth to the things that are before, he presses on to those things
that are ahead,[539] and he groans under his burden and
his soul thirsts after the living God as the stag pants for the water brooks,[540] and says, "When shall I come?"[541]--"desiring to be further clothed by his house which is
from heaven."[542] And he called to this lower deep,
saying, "Be not conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of
your mind."[543] And "be not children in understanding,
although in malice be children," in order that "in understanding you may become
perfect."[544] "O foolish Galatians, who has bewitched
you?"[545] But this is not now only in his own voice but
in thy voice, who sent thy Spirit from above through Him who both "ascended up
on high"[546] and opened up the floodgates of his gifts,
that the force of his streams might make glad the city of God.[547]
For that city and for him sighs the Bridegroom's friend,[548] who has now the first fruits of the Spirit laid up with
him, but who is still groaning within himself and waiting for adoption, that
is, the redemption of his body.[549] To Him he sighs, for
he is a member of the Bride[550]; for him he is jealous,
not for himself, but because not in his own voice but in the voice of thy
waterfalls he calls on that other deep, of which he is jealous and in fear; for
he fears lest, as the serpent seduced Eve by his subtlety, his mind should be
corrupted from the purity which is in our Bridegroom, thy only Son. What a
light of beauty that will be when "we shall see him as he is"[551]!--and when these tears shall pass away which "have been
my meat day and night, while they continually say unto me, `Where is your
God?'"[552]
CHAPTER XIV
15. And I myself say: "O my God, where art thou? See now, where art thou?" In
thee I take my breath for a little while, when I pour out my soul beyond myself
in the voice of joy and praise, in the voice of him that keeps holyday.[553] And still it is cast down because it relapses and
becomes an abyss, or rather it feels that it still is an abyss. My faith speaks
to my soul--the faith that thou dost kindle to light my path in the night: "Why
are you cast down, O my soul, and why are you disquieted in me? Hope in God."[554] For his word is a lamp to your feet.[555] Hope and persevere until the night passes--that mother
of the wicked; until the Lord's wrath subsides--that wrath whose children once
we were, of whom we were beforehand in darkness, whose residue we still bear
about us in our bodies, dead because of sin.[556] Hope and
endure until the day breaks and the shadows flee away.[557] Hope in the Lord: in the morning I shall stand in his
presence and keep watch[558]; I shall forever give praise
to him. In the morning I shall stand and shall see my God, who is the health of
my countenance,[559] who also will quicken our mortal
bodies by the Spirit that dwells in us,[560] because in
mercy he was moving over our lightless and restless inner deep. From this we
have received an earnest, even now in this pilgrimage, that we are now in the
light, since already we are saved by hope and are children of the light and
children of the day--not children of the night, nor of the darkness,[561] which we have been hitherto. Between those children of
the night and ourselves, in this still uncertain state of human knowledge, only
thou canst rightly distinguish--thou who dost test the heart and who dost call
the light day, and the darkness night.[562] For who can
see us clearly but thee? What do we have that we have not received from thee,
who madest from the same lump some vessels to noble, and others to ignoble,
use[563]?
CHAPTER XV
16. Now who but thee, our God, didst make for us that firmament of the
authority of thy divine Scripture to be over us? For "the heaven shall be
folded up like a scroll"[564]; but now it is stretched
over us like a skin. Thy divine Scripture is of more sublime authority now that
those mortal men through whom thou didst dispense it to us have departed this
life. And thou knowest, O Lord, thou knowest how thou didst clothe men with
skins when they became mortal because of sin.[565] In
something of the same way, thou hast stretched out the firmament of thy Book as
a skin--that is to say, thou hast spread thy harmonious words over us through
the ministry of mortal men. For by their very death that solid firmament of
authority in thy sayings, spoken forth by them, stretches high over all that
now drift under it; whereas while they lived on earth their authority was not
so widely extended. Then thou hadst not yet spread out the heaven like a skin;
thou hadst not yet spread abroad everywhere the fame of their death.
17. Let us see, O Lord, "the heavens, the work of thy fingers,"[566] and clear away from our eyes the fog with which thou
hast covered them. In them[567] is that testimony of thine
which gives wisdom even to the little ones. O my God, out of the mouth of babes
and sucklings, perfect thy praise.[568] For we know no
other books that so destroy man's pride, that so break down the adversary and
the self-defender who resists thy reconciliation by an effort to justify his
own sins. I do not know, O Lord, I do not know any other such pure words that
so persuade me to confession and make my neck submissive to thy yoke, and
invite me to serve thee for nothing else than thy own sake. Let me understand
these things, O good Father. Grant this to me, since I am placed under them;
for thou hast established these things for those placed under them.
18. There are other waters that are above this firmament, and I believe that
they are immortal and removed from earthly corruption. Let them praise thy
name--this super-celestial society, thy angels, who have no need to look up at
this firmament or to gain a knowledge of thy Word by reading it--let them
praise thee. For they always behold thy face and read therein, without any
syllables in time, what thy eternal will intends. They read, they choose, they
love.[569] They are always reading, and what they read
never passes away. For by choosing and by loving they read the very
immutability of thy counsel. Their book is never closed, nor is the scroll
folded up, because thou thyself art this to them, and art this to them
eternally; because thou didst range them above this firmament which thou madest
firm over the infirmities of the people below the heavens, where they might
look up and learn thy mercy, which proclaims in time thee who madest all times.
"For thy mercy, O Lord, is in the heavens, and thy faithfulness reaches to the
clouds."[570] The clouds pass away, but the heavens
remain. The preachers of thy Word pass away from this life into another; but
thy Scripture is spread abroad over the people, even to the end of the world.
Indeed, both heaven and earth shall pass away, but thy words shall never pass
away.[571] The scroll shall be rolled together, and the
"grass" over which it was spread shall, with all its goodliness, pass away; but
thy Word remains forever[572]--thy Word which now appears
to us in the dark image of the clouds and through the glass of heaven, and not
as it really is. And even if we are the well-beloved of thy Son, it has not yet
appeared what we shall be.[573] He hath seen us through
the entanglement[574] of our flesh, and he is
fair-speaking, and he hath enkindled us, and we run after his fragrance.[575] But "when he shall appear, then we shall be like him,
for we shall see him as he is.''[576] As he is, O Lord, we
shall see him--although that time is not yet.
CHAPTER XVI
19. For just as thou art the utterly Real, thou alone dost fully know, since
thou art immutably, and thou knowest immutably, and thou willest immutably. And
thy Essence knows and wills immutably. Thy Knowledge is and wills immutably.
Thy Will is and knows immutably. And it does not seem right to thee that the
immutable Light should be known by the enlightened but mutable creature in the
same way as it knows itself. Therefore, to thee my soul is as a land where no
water is[577]; for, just as it cannot enlighten itself by
itself, so it cannot satisfy itself by itself. Thus the fountain of life is
with thee, and "in thy light shall we see light."[578]
CHAPTER XVII
20. Who has gathered the "embittered ones"[579] into a
single society? For they all have the same end, which is temporal and earthly
happiness. This is their motive for doing everything, although they may
fluctuate within an innumerable diversity of concerns. Who but thee, O Lord,
gathered them together, thou who saidst, "Let the waters be gathered together
into one place and let the dry land appear"--athirst for thee? For the sea also
is thine, and thou madest it, and thy hands formed the dry land.[580] For it is not the bitterness of men's wills but the
gathering together of the waters which is called "the sea"; yet thou dost curb
the wicked lusts of men's souls and fix their bounds: how far they are allowed
to advance, and where their waves will be broken against each other--and thus
thou makest it "a sea," by the providence of thy governance of all things.
21. But as for the souls that thirst after thee and who appear before
thee--separated from "the society of the [bitter] sea" by reason of their
different ends--thou waterest them by a secret and sweet spring, so that "the
earth" may bring forth her fruit and--thou, O Lord, commanding it--our souls
may bud forth in works of mercy after their kind.[581] Thus we shall love our neighbor in ministering to his bodily needs, for in this
way the soul has seed in itself after its kind when in our own infirmity our
compassion reaches out to the relief of the needy, helping them even as we
would desire to be helped ourselves if we were in similar need. Thus we help,
not only in easy problems (as is signified by "the herb yielding its seed") but
also in the offering of our best strength in affording them the aid of
protection (such as "the tree bearing its fruit"). This is to say, we seek to
rescue him who is suffering injury from the hands of the powerful--furnishing
him with the sheltering protection which comes from the strong arm of a
righteous judgment.[582]
CHAPTER XVIII
22. Thus, O Lord, thus I beseech thee: let it happen as thou hast prepared it,
as thou givest joy and the capacity for joy. Let truth spring up out of the
earth, and let righteousness look down from heaven,[583] and let there be lights in the firmament.[584]
Let us break our bread with the hungry, let us bring the shelterless poor to
our house; let us clothe the naked, and never despise those of our own flesh.[585] See from the fruits which spring forth from the earth
how good it is. Thus let our temporal light break forth, and let us from even
this lower level of fruitful action come to the joy of contemplation and hold
on high the Word of Life. And let us at length appear like "lights in the
world,"[586] cleaving to the firmament of thy Scripture.
For in it thou makest it plain to us how we may distinguish between things
intelligible and things tangible, as if between the day and the night--and to
distinguish between souls who give themselves to things of the mind and others
absorbed in things of sense. Thus it is that now thou art not alone in the
secret of thy judgment as thou wast before the firmament was made, and before
thou didst divide between the light and the darkness. But now also thy
spiritual children, placed and ranked in this same firmament--thy grace being
thus manifest throughout the world--may shed light upon the earth, and may
divide between the day and night, and may be for the signs of the times[587]; because old things have passed away, and, lo, all
things are become new[588]; and because our salvation is
nearer than when we believed; and because "the night is far spent and the day
is at hand"[589]; and because "thou crownest the year with
blessing,"[590] sending the laborers into thy harvest, in
which others have labored in the sowing and sending laborers also to make new
sowings whose harvest shall not be until the end of time. Thus thou dost grant
the prayers of him who seeks, and thou dost bless the years of the righteous
man. But thou art always the Selfsame, and in thy years which fail not thou
preparest a granary for our transient years. For by an eternal design thou
spreadest the heavenly blessings on the earth in their proper seasons.
23. For "to one there is given by thy Spirit the word of wisdom"[591] (which resembles the greater light--which is for those
whose delight is in the clear light of truth--as the light which is given for
the ruling of the day[592]). But to another the word of
knowledge is given by the same Spirit (as it were, the "lesser light"); to
another, faith; to another, the gift of healing; to another, the power of
working miracles; to another, the gift of prophecy; to another, the discerning
of spirits; to another, other kinds of tongues--and all these gifts may be
compared to "the stars." For in them all the one and selfsame Spirit is at
work, dividing to every man his own portion, as He wills, and making stars to
appear in their bright splendor for the profit of souls. But the word of
knowledge, scientia, in which is contained all the mysteries[593] which change in their seasons like the moon; and all
the other promises of gifts, which when counted are like the stars--all of
these fall short of that splendor of Wisdom in which the day rejoices and are
only for the ruling of the night. Yet they are necessary for those to whom thy
most prudent servant could not speak as to the spiritually mature, but only as
if to carnal men--even though he could speak wisdom among the perfect.[594] Still the natural man--as a babe in Christ, and a
drinker of milk, until he is strong enough for solid meat, and his eye is able
to look into the sun--do not leave him in a lightless night. Instead, let him
be satisfied with the light of the moon and the stars. In thy book thou dost
discuss these things with us wisely, our God--in thy book, which is thy
"firmament"--in order that we may be able to view all things in admiring
contemplation, although thus far we must do so through signs and seasons and in
days and years.
CHAPTER XIX
24. But, first, "wash yourselves and make you clean; put away iniquity from
your souls and from before my eyes"[595]--so that "the dry
land" may appear. "Learn to do well, judge the fatherless, plead for the
widow,"[596] that the earth may bring forth the green herb
for food and fruit-bearing trees. "And come, let us reason together, saith the
Lord"[597]--that there may be lights in the firmament of
heaven and that they may shine upon the earth.
There was that rich man who asked of the good Teacher what he should do to
attain eternal life. Let the good Teacher (whom the rich man thought a man and
nothing more) give him an answer--he is good for he is God. Let him answer him
that, if he would enter into life, he must keep the commandments: let him put
away from himself the bitterness of malice and wickedness; let him not kill,
nor commit adultery, nor steal, nor bear false witness[598]--that "the dry land" may appear and bring forth the
honoring of fathers and mothers and the love of neighbor. "All these," he
replied, "I have kept." Where do so many thorns come from, if the earth is
really fruitful? uproot the brier patch of avarice; "sell what you have, and be
filled with fruit by giving to the poor, and you shall have treasure in heaven;
and follow" the Lord if you would be perfect and joined with those in whose
midst he speaketh wisdom--who know how to give rightly to the day and to the
night--and you will also understand, so that for you also there may be lights
in the firmament of heaven--which will not be there, however, unless your heart
is there also. And your heart will not be there unless your treasure is
there,[599] as you have heard from the good Teacher. But
"the barren earth"[600] was grieved, and the briers choked
the word.[601]
25. But you, O elect people, set in the firmament of the world,[602] who have forsaken all that you may follow the Lord:
follow him now, and confound the mighty! Follow him, O beautiful feet,[603] and shine in the firmament, that the heavens may
declare his glory, dividing the light of the perfect ones[604]--though not yet so perfect as the angels--from the
darkness of the little ones--who are nevertheless not utterly despised. Shine
over all the earth, and let the day be lighted by the sun, utter the Word of
wisdom to the day ("day unto day utters speech"[605]) and
let the night, lighted by the moon, display the Word of knowledge to the night.
The moon and the stars give light for the night; the night does not put them
out, and they illumine in its proper mode. For lo, it is as if God were saying,
"Let there be lights in the firmament of the heaven": and suddenly there came a
sound from heaven, as if it were a rushing mighty wind, and there appeared
cloven tongues of fire, and they sat on each of them.[606] And then they were made to be lights in the firmament of heaven, having the
Word of life. Run to and fro everywhere, you holy fires, you lovely fires, for
you are the light of the world and you are not to be hid under a peck
measure.[607] He to whom you cleave is raised on high, and
he hath raised you on high. Run to and fro; make yourselves known among all the
nations!
CHAPTER XX
26. Also let the sea conceive and bring forth your works, and let the waters
bear the moving creatures that have life.[608] For by
separating the precious from the vile you are made the mouth of God[609] by whom he said, "Let the waters bring forth." This
does not refer to the living creatures which the earth brings forth, but to the
creeping creatures that have life and the fowls that fly over the earth. For,
by the ministry of thy holy ones, thy mysteries have made their way amid the
buffeting billows of the world, to instruct the nations in thy name, in thy
Baptism. And among these things many great and marvelous works have been
wrought, which are analogous to the huge whales. The words of thy messengers
have gone flying over the earth, high in the firmament of thy Book which is
spread over them as the authority beneath which they are to fly wheresoever
they go. For "there is no speech nor language where their voice is not heard,"
because "their sound has gone out through all the earth, and their words to the
end of the world"[610]--and this because thou, O Lord,
hast multiplied these things by thy blessing.
27. Am I speaking falsely? Am I mingling and confounding and not rightly
distinguishing between the knowledge of these things in the firmament of heaven
and those corporeal works in the swelling sea and beneath the firmament of
heaven? For there are those things, the knowledge of which is solid and
defined. It does not increase from generation to generation and thus they
stand, as it were, as lights of wisdom and knowledge. But there are many and
varied physical processes that manifest these selfsame principles. And thus one
thing growing from another is multiplied by thy blessing, O God, who dost so
refresh our easily wearied mortal senses that in our mental cognition a single
thing may be figured and signified in many different ways by different bodily
motions.
"The waters" have brought forth these mysteries, but only at thy word. The
needs of the people who were alien to the eternity of thy truth have called
them forth, but only in thy gospel, since it was these "waters" which cast them
up--the waters whose stagnant bitterness was the reason why they came forth
through thy Word.
28. Now all the things that thou hast made are fair, and yet, lo, thou who
didst make all things art inexpressibly fairer. And if Adam had not fallen away
from thee, that brackish sea--the human race--so deeply prying, so boisterously
swelling, so restlessly moving, would never have flowed forth from his belly.
Thus, there would have been no need for thy ministers to use corporeal and
tangible signs in the midst of many "waters" in order to show forth their
mystical deeds and words. For this is the way I interpret the phrases "creeping
creatures" and "flying fowl." Still, men who have been instructed and initiated
and made dependent on thy corporeal mysteries would not be able to profit from
them if it were not that their soul has a higher life and unless, after the
word of its admission, it did not look beyond toward its perfection.
CHAPTER XXI
29. And thus, in thy Word, it was not the depth of the sea but "the earth,"[611] separated from the brackishness of the water, that
brought forth, not "the creeping and the flying creature that has life," but
"the living soul" itself![612]
And now this soul no longer has need of baptism, as the heathen had, or as it
did when it was covered with the waters--and there can be no other entrance
into the Kingdom of Heaven, since thou hast appointed that baptism should be
the entrance. Nor does it seek great, miraculous works by which to buttress
faith. For such a soul does not refuse to believe unless it sees signs and
marvels, now that "the faithful earth" is separated from "the waters" of the
sea, which have been made bitter by infidelity. Thus, for them, "tongues are
for a sign, not to those who believe but to those who do not believe."[613]
And the earth which thou hast founded above the waters does not stand in need
of those flying creatures which the waters brought forth at thy word. Send
forth thy word into it by the agency of thy messengers. For we only tell of
their works, but it is thou who dost the works in them, so that they may bring
forth "a living soul" in the earth.
The earth brings forth "the living soul" because "the earth" is the cause of
such things being done by thy messengers, just as the sea was the cause of the
production of the creeping creatures having life and the flying fowl under the
firmament of heaven. "The earth" no longer needs them, although it feeds on the
Fish which was taken out of the deep,[614] set out on that
table which thou preparest in the presence of those who believe. To this end he
was raised from the deep: that he might feed "the dry land." And "the fowl,"
even though they were bred in the sea, will yet be multiplied on the earth. The
preaching of the first evangelists was called forth by reason of man's
infidelity, but the faithful also are exhorted and blessed by them in manifold
ways, day by day. "The living soul" has its origin from "the earth," because
only to the faithful is there any profit in restraining themselves from the
love of this world, so that their soul may live to thee. This soul was dead
while it was living in pleasures--in pleasures that bear death in them--whereas
thou, O Lord, art the living delight of the pure heart.
30. Now, therefore, let thy ministers do their work on "the earth"--not as they
did formerly in "the waters" of infidelity, when they had to preach and speak
by miracles and mysteries and mystical expressions, in which ignorance--the
mother of wonder--gives them an attentive ear because of its fear of occult and
strange things. For this is the entry into faith for the sons of Adam who are
forgetful of thee, who hide themselves from thy face, and who have become a
darkened abyss. Instead, let thy ministers work even as on "the dry land," safe
from the whirlpools of the abyss. Let them be an example unto the faithful by
living before them and stirring them up to imitation.
For in such a setting, men will heed, not with the mere intent to hear, but
also to act. Seek the Lord and your soul shall live[615] and "the earth" may bring forth "the living soul." Be not conformed to this
world;[616] separate yourselves from it. The soul lives by
avoiding those things which bring death if they are loved. Restrain yourselves
from the unbridled wildness of pride, from the indolent passions of luxury, and
from what is falsely called knowledge.[617] Thus may the
wild beast be tamed, the cattle subdued, and the serpent made harmless. For, in
allegory, these figures are the motions of our mind: that is to say, the
haughtiness of pride, the delight of lust, and the poison of curiosity are
motions of the dead soul--not so dead that it has lost all motion, but dead
because it has deserted the fountain of life, and so has been taken up by this
transitory world and conformed to it.
31. But thy Word, O God, is a fountain of life eternal, and it does not pass
away. Therefore, this desertion is restrained by thy Word when it says to us,
"Be not conformed to this world," to the end that "the earth" may bring forth a
"living soul" in the fountain of life--a soul disciplined by thy Word, by thy
evangelists, by the following of the followers of thy Christ. For this is the
meaning of "after his kind." A man tends to follow the example of his friend.
Thus, he [Paul] says, "Become as I am, because I have become as you are."[618]
Thus, in this "living soul" there shall be good beasts, acting meekly. For thou
hast commanded this, saying: "Do your work in meekness and you shall be loved
by all men."[619] And the cattle will be good, for if they
eat much they shall not suffer from satiety; and if they do not eat at all they
will suffer no lack. And the serpents will be good, not poisonous to do harm,
but only cunning in their watchfulness--exploring only as much of this temporal
nature as is necessary in order that the eternal nature may "be clearly seen,
understood through the things that have been made."[620] For all these animals will obey reason when, having been restrained from their
death-dealing ways, they live and become good.
CHAPTER XXII
32. Thus, O Lord, our God, our Creator, when our affections have been turned
from the love of the world, in which we died by living ill; and when we began
to be "a living soul" by living well; and when the word, "Be not conformed to
this world," which thou didst speak through thy apostle, has been fulfilled in
us, then will follow what thou didst immediately add when thou saidst, "But be
transformed by the renewing of your mind."[621] This will
not now be "after their kind," as if we were following the neighbor who went
before us, or as if we were living after the example of a better man--for thou
didst not say, "Let man be made after his kind," but rather, "Let us make man
in our own image and our own likeness,"[622] so that then
we may be able to prove what thy will is.
This is why thy minister--begetting children by the gospel so that he might not
always have them babes whom he would have to feed with milk and nurse as
children--this is why he said, "Be transformed by the renewing of your minds,
that you may prove what is the good and acceptable and perfect will of God."[623] Therefore thou didst not say, "Let man be made," but
rather, "Let us make man." And thou didst not say, "After his kind," but after
"our image" and "likeness." Indeed, it is only when man has been renewed in his
mind, and comes to behold and apprehend thy truth, that he does not need
another man as his director, to show him how to imitate human examples.
Instead, by thy guidance, he proves what is thy good and acceptable and perfect
will. And thou dost teach him, now that he is able to understand, to see the
trinity of the Unity and the unity of the Trinity.
This is why the statement in the plural, "Let us make man," is also connected
with the statement in the singular, "And God made man." Thus it is said in the
plural, "After our likeness," and then in the singular, "After the image of
God." Man is thus transformed in the knowledge of God, according to the image
of Him who created him. And now, having been made spiritual, he judges all
things--that is, all things that are appropriate to be judged--and he himself
is judged of no man.[624]
CHAPTER XXIII
33. Now this phrase, "he judges all things," means that man has dominion over
the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over all cattle and wild
beasts, and over all the earth, and over every creeping thing that creeps on
the earth. And he does this by the power of reason in his mind by which he
perceives "the things of the Spirit of God."[625] But,
when man was put in this high office, he did not understand what was involved
and thus was reduced to the level of the brute beasts, and made like them.[626]
Therefore in thy Church, O our God, by the grace thou hast given us--since we
are thy workmanship, created in good works (not only those who are in spiritual
authority but also those who are spiritually subject to them)--thou madest man
male and female. Here all are equal in thy spiritual grace where, as far as sex
is concerned, there is neither male nor female, just as there is neither Jew
nor Greek, nor bond nor free. Spiritual men, therefore, whether those who are
in authority or those who are subject to authority, judge spiritually. They do
not judge by the light of that spiritual knowledge which shines in the
firmament, for it is inappropriate for them to judge by so sublime an
authority. Nor does it behoove them to judge concerning thy Book itself,
although there are some things in it which are not clear. Instead, we submit
our understanding to it and believe with certainty that what is hidden from our
sight is still rightly and truly spoken. In this way, even though a man is now
spiritual and renewed by the knowledge of God according to the image of him who
created him, he must be a doer of the law rather than its judge.[627] Neither does the spiritual man judge concerning that
division between spiritual and carnal men which is known to thy eyes, O God,
and which may not, as yet, be made manifest to us by their external works, so
that we may know them by their fruits; yet thou, O God, knowest them already
and thou hast divided and called them secretly, before the firmament was made.
Nor does a man, even though he is spiritual, judge the disordered state of
society in this world. For what business of his is it to judge those who are
without, since he cannot know which of them may later on come into the
sweetness of thy grace, and which of them may continue in the perpetual
bitterness of their impiety?
34. Man, then, even if he was made after thy own image, did not receive the
power of dominion over the lights of heaven, nor over the secret heaven, nor
over the day and the night which thou calledst forth before the creation of the
heaven, nor over the gathering together of the waters which is the sea.
Instead, he received dominion over the fish of the sea, and the fowls of the
air; and over all cattle, and all the earth; and over all creeping things which
creep on the earth.
Indeed, he judges and approves what he finds right and disapproves what he
finds amiss, whether in the celebration of those mysteries by which are
initiated those whom thy mercy hast sought out in the midst of many waters; or
in that sacrament in which is exhibited the Fish itself[628] which, being raised from the depths, the pious
"earth"[629] feeds upon; or, in the signs and symbols of
words, which are subject to the authority of thy Book--such signs as burst
forth and sound from the mouth, as if it were "flying" under the firmament,
interpreting, expounding, discoursing, disputing, blessing, invoking thee, so
that the people may answer, "Amen."[630] The reason that
all these words have to be pronounced vocally is because of the abyss of this
world and the blindness of our flesh in which thoughts cannot be seen
directly,[631] but have to be spoken aloud in our ears.
Thus, although the flying fowl are multiplied on the earth, they still take
their origins from the waters.
The spiritual man also judges by approving what is right and reproving what he
finds amiss in the works and morals of the faithful, such as in their
almsgiving, which is signified by the phrase, "The earth bringing forth its
fruit." And he judges of the "living soul," which is then made to live by the
disciplining of her affections in chastity, in fasting, and in holy meditation.
And he also judges concerning all those things which are perceived by the
bodily senses. For it can be said that he should judge in all matters about
which he also has the power of correction.
CHAPTER XXIV
35. But what is this; what kind of mystery is this? Behold, O Lord, thou dost
bless men in order that they may be "fruitful and multiply, and replenish the
earth." In this art thou not making a sign to us that we may understand
something [allegorically]? Why didst thou not also bless the light, which thou
calledst "the day," nor the firmament of heaven, nor the lights, nor the stars,
nor the earth, nor the sea? I might reply, O our God, that thou in creating us
after thy own image--I might reply that thou didst will to bestow this gift of
blessing upon man alone, if thou hadst not similarly blessed the fishes and the
whales, so that they too should be fruitful and multiply and replenish the
waters of the sea; and also the fowls, so that they should be multiplied on the
earth. In like fashion, I might say that this blessing properly belonged only
to such creatures as are propagated from their own kind, if I could find it
given also as a blessing to trees, and plants, and the beasts of the earth. But
this "increase and multiply" was not said to plants or trees or beasts or
serpents--although all of these, along with fishes and birds and men, do
actually increase by propagation and so preserve their species.
36. What, then, shall I say, O Truth, O my Life: that it was idly and vainly
said? Surely not this, O Father of piety; far be it from a servant of thy Word
to say anything like this! But if I do not understand what thou meanest by that
phrase, let those who are better than I--that is, those more intelligent than
I--interpret it better, in the degree that thou hast given each of us the
ability to understand.
But let also my confession be pleasing in thy eyes, for I confess to thee that
I believe, O Lord, that thou hast not spoken thus in vain. Nor will I be silent
as to what my reading has suggested to me. For it is valid, and I do not see
anything to prevent me from thus interpreting the figurative sayings in thy
books. For I know that a thing that is understood in only one way in the mind
may be expressed in many different ways by the body; and I know that a thing
that has only one manner of expression through the body may be understood in
the mind in many different ways. For consider this single example--the love of
God and of our neighbor--by how many different mysteries and countless
languages, and, in each language, by how many different ways of speaking, this
is signified corporeally! In similar fashion, the "young fish" in "the waters"
increase and multiply. On the other hand, whoever you are who reads this,
observe and behold what Scripture declares, and how the voice pronounces it in only one way, "In the beginning God created heaven and earth."[632] Is this not understood in many different ways by
different kinds of true interpretations which do not involve the deceit of
error? Thus the offspring of men are fruitful and do multiply.[633]
37. If, then, we consider the nature of things, in their strictly literal
sense, and not allegorically, the phrase, "Be fruitful and multiply," applies
to all things that are begotten by seed. But if we treat these words
figuratively, as I judge that the Scripture intended them to be--since it
cannot be for nothing that this blessing is attributed only to the offspring of
marine life and man--then we discover that the characteristic of fecundity
belongs also to the spiritual and physical creations (which are signified by
"heaven and earth"), and also in righteous and unrighteous souls (which are
signified by "light and darkness") and in the sacred writers through whom the
law is uttered (who are signified by "the firmament established between the
waters and the waters"); and in the earthly commonwealth still steeped in their
bitterness (which is signified by "the sea"); and in the zeal of holy souls
(signified by "the dry land"); and the works of mercy done in this present life
(signified by "the seed-bearing herbs and fruit-bearing trees"); and in
spiritual gifts which shine out for our edification (signified by "the lights
of heaven"); and to human affections ruled by temperance (signified by "the
living soul"). In all these instances we meet with multiplicity and fertility
and increase; but the particular way in which "Be fruitful and multiply" can be
exemplified differs widely. Thus a single category may include many things, and
we cannot discover them except through their signs displayed corporeally and by
the things being excogitated by the mind.
We thus interpret the phrase, "The generation of the waters," as referring to
the corporeally expressed signs [of fecundity], since they are made necessary
by the degree of our involvement in the flesh. But the power of human
generation refers to the process of mental conception; this we see in the
fruitfulness of reason. Therefore, we believe that to both of these two kinds
it has been said by thee, O Lord, "Be fruitful and multiply." In this blessing,
I recognize that thou hast granted us the faculty and power not only to express
what we understand by a single idea in many different ways but also to
understand in many ways what we find expressed obscurely in a single statement.
Thus the waters of the sea are replenished, and their waves are symbols of
diverse meanings. And thus also the earth is also replenished with human
offspring. Its dryness is the symbol of its thirst for truth, and of the fact
that reason rules over it.
CHAPTER XXV
38. I also desire to say, O my Lord God, what the following Scripture suggests
to me. Indeed, I will speak without fear, for I will speak the truth, as thou
inspirest me to know what thou dost will that I should say concerning these
words. For I do not believe I can speak the truth by any other inspiration than
thine, since thou art the Truth, and every man a liar.[634] Hence, he that speaks a lie, speaks out of himself.
Therefore, if I am to speak the truth, I must speak of thy truth.
Behold, thou hast given us for our food every seed-bearing herb on the face of
the earth, and all trees that bear in themselves seed of their own kind; and
not to us only, but to all the fowls of the air and the beasts of the field and
all creeping things.[635] Still, thou hast not given these
things to the fishes and great whales. We have said that by these fruits of the
earth the works of mercy were signified and figured forth in an allegory: thus,
from the fruitful earth, things are provided for the necessities of life. Such
an "earth" was the godly Onesiphorus, to whose house thou gavest mercy because
he often refreshed Paul and was not ashamed of his bonds.[636] This was also the way of the brethren from Macedonia,
who bore such fruit and supplied to him what he lacked. But notice how he
grieves for certain "trees," which did not give him the fruit that was due,
when he said, "At my first answer no man stood with me, but all men forsook me:
I pray God, that it be not laid up to their charge."[637] For we owe "fruits" to those who minister spiritual doctrine to us through
their understanding of the divine mysteries. We owe these to them as men. We
owe these fruits, also, to "the living souls" since they offer themselves as
examples for us in their own continence. And, finally, we owe them likewise to
"the flying creatures" because of their blessings which are multiplied on the
earth, for "their sound has gone forth into all the earth."[638]
CHAPTER XXVI
39. Those who find their joy in it are fed by these "fruits"; but those whose
god is their belly find no joy in them. For in those who offer these fruits, it
is not the fruit itself that matters, but the spirit in which they give them.
Therefore, he who serves God and not his own belly may rejoice in them, and I
plainly see why. I see it, and I rejoice with him greatly. For he [Paul] had
received from the Philippians the things they had sent by Epaphroditus; yet I
see why he rejoiced. He was fed by what he found his joy in; for, speaking
truly, he says, "I rejoice in the Lord greatly, that now at the last your care
of me has flourished again, in which you were once so careful, but it had
become a weariness to you.[639] These Philippians, in
their extended period of weariness in well-doing, had become weak and were, so
to say, dried up; they were no longer bringing forth the fruits of good works.
And now Paul rejoices in them--and not just for himself alone--because they
were flourishing again in ministering to his needs. Therefore he adds: "I do
not speak in respect of my want, for I have learned in whatsoever state I am
therewith to be content. I know both how to be abased and how to abound;
everywhere and in all things I am instructed both to be full and to be hungry,
both to abound and to suffer need. I can do all things through Christ who
strengtheneth me."[640]
40. Where do you find joy in all things, O great Paul? What is the cause of
your joy? On what do you feed, O man, renewed now in the knowledge of God after
the image of him who created you, O living soul of such great continence--O
tongue like a winged bird, speaking mysteries? What food is owed such
creatures; what is it that feeds you? It is joy! For hear what follows:
"Nevertheless, you have done well in that you have shared with me in my
affliction."[641] This is what he finds his joy in; this
is what he feeds on. They have done well, not merely because his need had been
relieved--for he says to them, "You have opened my heart when I was in
distress"--but because he knew both how to abound and how to suffer need, in
thee who didst strengthen him. And so he said, "You [Philippians] know also
that in the beginning of the gospel, when I departed from Macedonia, no church
shared with me in regard to giving and receiving, except you only. For even in
Thessalonica you sent time and time again, according to my need."[642] He now finds his joy in the fact that they have
returned once again to these good works, and he is made glad that they are
flourishing again, as a fruitful field when it recovers its fertility.
41. Was it on account of his own needs alone that he said, "You have sent me
gifts according to my needs?" Does he find joy in that? Certainly not for that
alone. But how do we know this? We know it because he himself adds, "Not
because I desire a gift, but because I desire fruit."[643]
Now I have learned from thee, O my God, how to distinguish between the terms
"gift" and "fruit." A "gift" is the thing itself, given by one who bestows
life's necessities on another--such as money, food, drink, clothing, shelter,
and aid. But "the fruit" is the good and right will of the giver. For the good
Teacher not only said, "He that receives a prophet," but he added, "In the name
of a prophet." And he did not say only, "He who receives a righteous man," but
added, "In the name of a righteous man."[644] Thus,
surely, the former shall receive the reward of a prophet; the latter, that of a
righteous man. Nor did he say only, "Whoever shall give a cup of cold water to
one of these little ones to drink," but added, "In the name of a disciple"; and
concluded, "Truly I tell you he shall not lose his reward." The "gift" involves
receiving a prophet, receiving a righteous man, handing a cup of cold water to
a disciple: but the "fruit" is to do all this in the name of a prophet, in the
name of a righteous man, in the name of a disciple. Elijah was fed by the widow
with "fruit," for she knew that she was feeding a man of God and this is why
she fed him. But he was fed by the raven with a "gift." The inner man of Elijah
was not fed by this "gift," but only the outer man, which otherwise might have
perished from the lack of such food.
CHAPTER XXVII
42. Therefore I will speak before thee, O Lord, what is true, in order that the
uninstructed[645] and the infidels, who require the
mysteries of initiation and great works of miracles--which we believe are
signified by the phrase, "Fishes and great whales"--may be helped in being
gained [for the Church] when they endeavor to provide that thy servants are
refreshed in body, or otherwise aided in this present life. For they do not
really know why this should be done, and to what end. Thus the former do not
feed the latter, and the latter do not feed the former; for neither do the
former offer their "gifts" through a holy and right intent, nor do the others
rejoice in the gifts of those who do not as yet see the "fruit." For it is on
the "fruit" that the mind is fed, and by which it is gladdened. And, therefore,
fishes and whales are not fed on such food as the earth alone brings forth when
they have been separated and divided from the bitterness of "the waters" of the
sea.
CHAPTER XXVIII
43. And thou, O God, didst see everything that thou hadst made and, behold, it
was very good.[646] We also see the whole creation and,
behold, it is all very good. In each separate kind of thy work, when thou didst
say, "Let them be made," and they were made, thou didst see that it was good. I
have counted seven times where it is written that thou didst see what thou
hadst made was "good." And there is the eighth time when thou didst see all things that thou hadst made and, behold, they were not only good but
also very good; for they were now seen as a totality. Individually they
were only good; but taken as a totality they were both good and very good.
Beautiful bodies express this truth; for a body which consists of several
parts, each of which is beautiful, is itself far more beautiful than any of its
individual parts separately, by whose well-ordered union the whole is completed
even though these parts are separately beautiful.
CHAPTER XXIX
44. And I looked attentively to find whether it was seven or eight times that
thou didst see thy works were good, when they were pleasing to thee, but I
found that there was no "time" in thy seeing which would help me to understand
in what sense thou hadst looked so many "times" at what thou hadst made. And I
said: "O Lord, is not this thy Scripture true, since thou art true, and thy
truth doth set it forth? Why, then, dost thou say to me that in thy seeing
there are no times, while this Scripture tells me that what thou madest each
day thou didst see to be good; and when I counted them I found how many
`times'?" To these things, thou didst reply to me, for thou art my God, and
thou dost speak to thy servant with a strong voice in his inner ear, my
deafness, and crying: "O man, what my Scripture says, I say. But it speaks in
terms of time, whereas time does not affect my Word--my Word which exists
coeternally with myself. Thus the things you see through my Spirit, I see; just
as what you say through my Spirit, I say. But while you see those things in
time, I do not see them in time; and when you speak those things in time, I do
not speak them in time."
CHAPTER XXX
45. And I heard this, O Lord my God, and drank up a drop of sweetness from thy
truth, and understood that there are some men to whom thy works are
displeasing, who say that many of them thou didst make under the compulsion of
necessity--such as the pattern of the heavens and the courses of the stars--and
that thou didst not make them out of what was thine, but that they were already
created elsewhere and from other sources. It was thus [they say] that thou
didst collect and fashion and weave them together, as if from thy conquered
enemies thou didst raise up the walls of the universe; so that, built into the
ramparts of the building, they might not be able a second time to rebel against
thee. And, even of other things, they say that thou didst neither make them nor
arrange them--for example, all flesh and all the very small living creatures,
and all things fastened to the earth by their roots. But [they say] a hostile
mind and an alien nature--not created by thee and in every way contrary to
thee--begot and framed all these things in the nether parts of the world.[647] They who speak thus are mad [insani], since they
do not see thy works through thy Spirit, nor recognize thee in them.
CHAPTER XXXI
46. But for those who see these things through thy Spirit, it is thou who seest
them in them. When, therefore, they see that these things are good, it is thou
who seest that they are good; and whatsoever things are pleasing because of
thee, it is thou who dost give us pleasure in those things. Those things which
please us through thy Spirit are pleasing to thee in us. "For what man knows
the things of a man except the spirit of a man which is in him? Even so, no man
knows the things of God, but the Spirit of God. Now we have not received the
spirit of the world, but the Spirit of God, that we might know the things that
are freely given to us from God."[648] And I am admonished
to say: "Yes, truly. No man knows the things of God, but the Spirit of God: but
how, then, do we also know what things are given us by God?" The answer is
given me: "Because we know these things by his Spirit; for no one knows but the
Spirit of God." But just as it is truly said to those who were to speak through
the Spirit of God, "It is not you who speak," so it is also truly said to them
who know through the Spirit of God, "It is not you yourselves who know," and
just as rightly it may be said to those who perceive through the Spirit of God
that a thing is good; it is not they who see, but God who seeth that it is
good.
It is, therefore, one thing to think like the men who judge something to be bad
when it is good, as do those whom we have already mentioned. It is quite
another thing that a man should see as good what is good--as is the case with
many whom thy creation pleases because it is good, yet what pleases them in it
is not thee, and so they would prefer to find their joy in thy creatures rather
than to find their joy in thee. It is still another thing that when a man sees
a thing to be good, God should see in him that it is good--that truly he may be
loved in what he hath made, he who cannot be loved except through the Holy
Spirit which he hath given us: "Because the love of God is shed abroad in our
hearts by the Holy Spirit who is given to us."[649] It is
by him that we see whatever we see to be good in any degree, since it is from
him, who doth not exist in any particular degree but who simply is what he
is.[650]
CHAPTER XXXII
47. Thanks be to thee, O Lord! We see the heaven and the earth, either the
corporeal part--higher and lower--or the spiritual and physical creation. And
we see the light made and divided from the darkness for the adornment of these
parts, from which the universal mass of the world or the universal creation is
constituted. We see the firmament of heaven, either the original "body" of the
world between the spiritual (higher) waters and the corporeal (lower) waters[651] or the expanse of air--which is also called
"heaven"--through which the fowls of heaven wander, between the waters which
move in clouds above them and which drop down in dew on clear nights, and those
waters which are heavy and flow along the earth. We see the waters gathered
together in the vast plains of the sea; and the dry land, first bare and then
formed, so as to be visible and well-ordered; and the soil of herbs and trees.
We see the light shining from above--the sun to serve the day, the moon and the
stars to give cheer in the night; and we see by all these that the intervals of
time are marked and noted. We see on every side the watery elements, fruitful
with fishes, beasts, and birds--and we notice that the density of the
atmosphere which supports the flights of birds is increased by the evaporation
of the waters. We see the face of the earth, replete with earthly creatures;
and man, created in thy image and likeness, in the very image and likeness of
thee--that is, having the power of reason and understanding--by virtue of which
he has been set over all irrational creatures. And just as there is in his soul
one element which controls by its power of reflection and another which has
been made subject so that it should obey, so also, physically, the woman was
made for the man; for, although she had a like nature of rational intelligence
in the mind, still in the sex of her body she should be similarly subject to
the sex of her husband, as the appetite of action is subjected to the
deliberation of the mind in order to conceive the rules of right action. These
things we see, and each of them is good; and the whole is very good!
CHAPTER XXXIII
48. Let thy works praise thee, that we may love thee; and let us love thee that
thy works may praise thee--those works which have a beginning and an end in
time--a rising and a setting, a growth and a decay, a form and a privation.
Thus, they have their successions of morning and evening, partly hidden, partly
plain. For they were made from nothing by thee, and not from thyself, and not
from any matter that is not thine, or that was created beforehand. They were
created from concreated matter--that is, matter that was created by thee at the
same time that thou didst form its formlessness, without any interval of time.
Yet, since the matter of heaven and earth is one thing and the form of heaven
and earth is another thing, thou didst create matter out of absolutely nothing
(de omnino nihilo), but the form of the world thou didst form from
formless matter (de informi materia). But both were done at the same
time, so that form followed matter with no delaying interval.
CHAPTER XXXIV
49. We have also explored the question of what thou didst desire to figure
forth, both in the creation and in the description of things in this particular
order. And we have seen that things taken separately are good, and all things
taken together are very good, both in heaven and earth. And we have seen that
this was wrought through thy Word, thy only Son, the head and the body of the
Church, and it signifies thy predestination before all times, without morning
and evening. But when, in time, thou didst begin to unfold the things destined
before time, so that thou mightest make hidden things manifest and mightest
reorder our disorders--since our sins were over us and we had sunk into
profound darkness away from thee, and thy good Spirit was moving over us to
help us in due season--thou didst justify the ungodly and also didst divide
them from the wicked; and thou madest the authority of thy Book a firmament
between those above who would be amenable to thee and those beneath who would
be subject to them. And thou didst gather the society of unbelievers[652] into a conspiracy, in order that the zeal of the
faithful might become manifest and that they might bring forth works of mercy
unto thee, giving their earthly riches to the poor to obtain heavenly riches.
Then thou didst kindle the lights in the firmament, which are thy holy ones,
who have the Word of Life and who shine with an exalted authority, warranted to
them by their spiritual gifts. And then, for the instruction of the unbelieving
nations, thou didst out of physical matter produce the mysteries and the
visible miracles and the sounds of words in harmony with the firmament of thy
Book, through which the faithful should be blessed. After this thou didst form
"the living soul" of the faithful, through the ordering of their passions by
the strength of continence. And then thou didst renew, after thy image and
likeness, the mind which is faithful to thee alone, which needs to imitate no
human authority. Thus, thou didst subordinate rational action to the higher
excellence of intelligence, as the woman is subordinate to the man. Finally, in
all thy ministries which were needed to perfect the faithful in this life, thou
didst will that these same faithful ones should themselves bring forth good
things, profitable for their temporal use and fruitful for the life to come. We
see all these things, and they are very good, because thou seest them thus in
us--thou who hast given us thy Spirit, by which we may see them so and love
thee in them.
CHAPTER XXXV
50. O Lord God, grant us thy peace--for thou hast given us all things. Grant us
the peace of quietness, the peace of the Sabbath, the peace without an evening.
All this most beautiful array of things, all so very good, will pass away when
all their courses are finished--for in them there is both morning and
evening.
51. But the seventh day is without an evening, and it has no setting, for thou
hast sanctified it with an everlasting duration. After all thy works of
creation, which were very good, thou didst rest on the seventh day, although
thou hadst created them all in unbroken rest--and this so that the voice of thy
Book might speak to us with the prior assurance that after our works--and they
also are very good because thou hast given them to us--we may find our rest in
thee in the Sabbath of life eternal.[653]
CHAPTER XXXVII
52. For then also thou shalt so rest in us as now thou workest in us; and,
thus, that will be thy rest through us, as these are thy works through us. But
thou, O Lord, workest evermore and art always at rest. Thou seest not in time,
thou movest not in time, thou restest not in time. And yet thou makest all
those things which are seen in time--indeed, the very times themselves--and
everything that proceeds in and from time.
CHAPTER XXXVIII
53. We can see all those things which thou hast made because they are--but they
are because thou seest them.[654] And we see with our eyes
that they are, and we see with our minds that they are good. But thou sawest
them as made when thou sawest that they would be made.
And now, in this present time, we have been moved to do well, now that our
heart has been quickened by thy Spirit; but in the former time, having forsaken
thee, we were moved to do evil.[655] But thou, O the one
good God, hast never ceased to do good! And we have accomplished certain good
works by thy good gifts, and even though they are not eternal, still we hope,
after these things here, to find our rest in thy great sanctification. But thou
art the Good, and needest no rest, and art always at rest, because thou thyself
art thy own rest.
What man will teach men to understand this? And what angel will teach the
angels? Or what angels will teach men? We must ask it of thee; we must seek it
in thee; we must knock for it at thy door. Only thus shall we receive; only
thus shall we find; only thus shall thy door be opened.[656]
[1]He had no models before him, for such earlier writings as
the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius and the autobiographical sections in
Hilary of Poitiers and Cyprian of Carthage have only to be compared with the Confessions to see how different they are.
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