For this space of nine years (from my nineteenth year to my
eight-and-twentieth) we lived seduced and seducing, deceived and
deceiving, in divers lusts; openly, by sciences which they call liberal;
secretly, with a false-named religion; here proud, there superstitious,
every where vain. Here, hunting after the emptiness of popular praise,
down even to theatrical applauses, and poetic prizes, and strifes for
grassy garlands, and the follies of shows, and the intemperance of
desires. There, desiring to be cleansed from these defilements, by
carrying food to those who were called "elect" and "holy," out of which,
in the workhouse of their stomachs, they should forge for us Angels
and Gods, by whom we might be cleansed. These things did I follow, and
practise with my friends, deceived by me, and with me. Let the arrogant
mock me, and such as have not been, to their soul's health, stricken and
cast down by Thee, O my God; but I would still confess to Thee mine own
shame in Thy praise. Suffer me, I beseech Thee, and give me grace to go
over in my present remembrance the wanderings of my forepassed time,
and to offer unto Thee the sacrifice of thanksgiving. For what am I to
myself without Thee, but a guide to mine own downfall? or what am I even
at the best, but an infant sucking the milk Thou givest, and feeding
upon Thee, the food that perisheth not? But what sort of man is any man,
seeing he is but a man? Let now the strong and the mighty laugh at us,
but let us poor and needy confess unto Thee.
In those years I taught rhetoric, and, overcome by cupidity, made sale
of a loquacity to overcome by. Yet I preferred (Lord, Thou knowest)
honest scholars (as they are accounted), and these I, without artifice,
taught artifices, not to be practised against the life of the guiltless,
though sometimes for the life of the guilty. And Thou, O God, from afar
perceivedst me stumbling in that slippery course, and amid much smoke
sending out some sparks of faithfulness, which I showed in that my
guidance of such as loved vanity, and sought after leasing, myself their
companion. In those years I had one,--not in that which is called
lawful marriage, but whom I had found out in a wayward passion, void of
understanding; yet but one, remaining faithful even to her; in whom I
in my own case experienced what difference there is betwixt the
self-restraint of the marriage-covenant, for the sake of issue, and
the bargain of a lustful love, where children are born against their
parents' will, although, once born, they constrain love.
I remember also, that when I had settled to enter the lists for a
theatrical prize, some wizard asked me what I would give him to win; but
I, detesting and abhorring such foul mysteries, answered, "Though the
garland were of imperishable gold, I would not suffer a fly to be
killed to gain me it." For he was to kill some living creatures in his
sacrifices, and by those honours to invite the devils to favour me. But
this ill also I rejected, not out of a pure love for Thee, O God of my
heart; for I knew not how to love Thee, who knew not how to conceive
aught beyond a material brightness. And doth not a soul, sighing after
such fictions, commit fornication against Thee, trust in things unreal,
and feed the wind? Still I would not forsooth have sacrifices offered
to devils for me, to whom I was sacrificing myself by that superstition.
For what else is it to feed the wind, but to feed them, that is by going
astray to become their pleasure and derision?
Those impostors then, whom they style Mathematicians, I consulted
without scruple; because they seemed to use no sacrifice, nor to pray to
any spirit for their divinations: which art, however, Christian and
true piety consistently rejects and condemns. For, it is a good thing to
confess unto Thee, and to say, Have mercy upon me, heal my soul, for I
have sinned against Thee; and not to abuse Thy mercy for a licence to
sin, but to remember the Lord's words, Behold, thou art made whole, sin
no more, lest a worse thing come unto thee. All which wholesome advice
they labour to destroy, saying, "The cause of thy sin is inevitably
determined in heaven"; and "This did Venus, or Saturn, or Mars":
that man, forsooth, flesh and blood, and proud corruption, might be
blameless; while the Creator and Ordainer of heaven and the stars is
to bear the blame. And who is He but our God? the very sweetness and
well-spring of righteousness, who renderest to every man according to
his works: and a broken and contrite heart wilt Thou not despise.
There was in those days a wise man, very skilful in physic, and renowned
therein, who had with his own proconsular hand put the Agonistic garland
upon my distempered head, but not as a physician: for this disease Thou
only curest, who resistest the proud, and givest grace to the humble.
But didst Thou fail me even by that old man, or forbear to heal my soul?
For having become more acquainted with him, and hanging assiduously and
fixedly on his speech (for though in simple terms, it was vivid, lively,
and earnest), when he had gathered by my discourse that I was given to
the books of nativity-casters, he kindly and fatherly advised me to cast
them away, and not fruitlessly bestow a care and diligence, necessary
for useful things, upon these vanities; saying, that he had in his
earliest years studied that art, so as to make it the profession whereby
he should live, and that, understanding Hippocrates, he could soon have
understood such a study as this; and yet he had given it over, and taken
to physic, for no other reason but that he found it utterly false;
and he, a grave man, would not get his living by deluding people. "But
thou," saith he, "hast rhetoric to maintain thyself by, so that thou
followest this of free choice, not of necessity: the more then oughtest
thou to give me credit herein, who laboured to acquire it so perfectly
as to get my living by it alone." Of whom when I had demanded, how then
could many true things be foretold by it, he answered me (as he could)
"that the force of chance, diffused throughout the whole order of
things, brought this about. For if when a man by haphazard opens the
pages of some poet, who sang and thought of something wholly different,
a verse oftentimes fell out, wondrously agreeable to the present
business: it were not to be wondered at, if out of the soul of man,
unconscious what takes place in it, by some higher instinct an answer
should be given, by hap, not by art, corresponding to the business and
actions of the demander."
And thus much, either from or through him, Thou conveyedst to me, and
tracedst in my memory, what I might hereafter examine for myself. But at
that time neither he, nor my dearest Nebridius, a youth singularly good
and of a holy fear, who derided the whole body of divination, could
persuade me to cast it aside, the authority of the authors swaying me
yet more, and as yet I had found no certain proof (such as I sought)
whereby it might without all doubt appear, that what had been truly
foretold by those consulted was the result of haphazard, not of the art
of the star-gazers.
In those years when I first began to teach rhetoric in my native town,
I had made one my friend, but too dear to me, from a community of
pursuits, of mine own age, and, as myself, in the first opening flower
of youth. He had grown up of a child with me, and we had been both
school-fellows and play-fellows. But he was not yet my friend as
afterwards, nor even then, as true friendship is; for true it cannot be,
unless in such as Thou cementest together, cleaving unto Thee, by that
love which is shed abroad in our hearts by the Holy Ghost, which is
given unto us. Yet was it but too sweet, ripened by the warmth of
kindred studies: for, from the true faith (which he as a youth had
not soundly and thoroughly imbibed), I had warped him also to those
superstitious and pernicious fables, for which my mother bewailed me.
With me he now erred in mind, nor could my soul be without him. But
behold Thou wert close on the steps of Thy fugitives, at once God of
vengeance, and Fountain of mercies, turning us to Thyself by wonderful
means; Thou tookest that man out of this life, when he had scarce filled
up one whole year of my friendship, sweet to me above all sweetness of
that my life.
Who can recount all Thy praises, which he hath felt in his one self?
What diddest Thou then, my God, and how unsearchable is the abyss of
Thy judgments? For long, sore sick of a fever, he lay senseless in
a death-sweat; and his recovery being despaired of, he was baptised,
unknowing; myself meanwhile little regarding, and presuming that his
soul would retain rather what it had received of me, not what was
wrought on his unconscious body. But it proved far otherwise: for he was
refreshed, and restored. Forthwith, as soon as I could speak with him
(and I could, so soon as he was able, for I never left him, and we hung
but too much upon each other), I essayed to jest with him, as though he
would jest with me at that baptism which he had received, when utterly
absent in mind and feeling, but had now understood that he had received.
But he so shrunk from me, as from an enemy; and with a wonderful and
sudden freedom bade me, as I would continue his friend, forbear such
language to him. I, all astonished and amazed, suppressed all my
emotions till he should grow well, and his health were strong enough for
me to deal with him as I would. But he was taken away from my frenzy,
that with Thee he might be preserved for my comfort; a few days after in
my absence, he was attacked again by the fever, and so departed.
At this grief my heart was utterly darkened; and whatever I beheld was
death. My native country was a torment to me, and my father's house a
strange unhappiness; and whatever I had shared with him, wanting him,
became a distracting torture. Mine eyes sought him every where, but he
was not granted them; and I hated all places, for that they had not him;
nor could they now tell me, "he is coming," as when he was alive and
absent. I became a great riddle to myself, and I asked my soul, why she
was so sad, and why she disquieted me sorely: but she knew not what to
answer me. And if I said, Trust in God, she very rightly obeyed me not;
because that most dear friend, whom she had lost, was, being man, both
truer and better than that phantasm she was bid to trust in. Only tears
were sweet to me, for they succeeded my friend, in the dearest of my
affections.
And now, Lord, these things are passed by, and time hath assuaged my
wound. May I learn from Thee, who art Truth, and approach the ear of my
heart unto Thy mouth, that Thou mayest tell me why weeping is sweet to
the miserable? Hast Thou, although present every where, cast away our
misery far from Thee? And Thou abidest in Thyself, but we are tossed
about in divers trials. And yet unless we mourned in Thine ears, we
should have no hope left. Whence then is sweet fruit gathered from the
bitterness of life, from groaning, tears, sighs, and complaints? Doth
this sweeten it, that we hope Thou hearest? This is true of prayer, for
therein is a longing to approach unto Thee. But is it also in grief for
a thing lost, and the sorrow wherewith I was then overwhelmed? For I
neither hoped he should return to life nor did I desire this with my
tears; but I wept only and grieved. For I was miserable, and had lost my
joy. Or is weeping indeed a bitter thing, and for very loathing of the
things which we before enjoyed, does it then, when we shrink from them,
please us?
But what speak I of these things? for now is no time to question, but to
confess unto Thee. Wretched I was; and wretched is every soul bound by
the friendship of perishable things; he is torn asunder when he loses
them, and then he feels the wretchedness which he had ere yet he lost
them. So was it then with me; I wept most bitterly, and found my repose
in bitterness. Thus was I wretched, and that wretched life I held dearer
than my friend. For though I would willingly have changed it, yet was I
more unwilling to part with it than with him; yea, I know not whether I
would have parted with it even for him, as is related (if not feigned)
of Pylades and Orestes, that they would gladly have died for each other
or together, not to live together being to them worse than death. But in
me there had arisen some unexplained feeling, too contrary to this, for
at once I loathed exceedingly to live and feared to die. I suppose, the
more I loved him, the more did I hate, and fear (as a most cruel enemy)
death, which had bereaved me of him: and I imagined it would speedily
make an end of all men, since it had power over him. Thus was it with
me, I remember. Behold my heart, O my God, behold and see into me; for
well I remember it, O my Hope, who cleansest me from the impurity of
such affections, directing mine eyes towards Thee, and plucking my feet
out of the snare. For I wondered that others, subject to death, did
live, since he whom I loved, as if he should never die, was dead; and I
wondered yet more that myself, who was to him a second self, could live,
he being dead. Well said one of his friend, "Thou half of my soul";
for I felt that my soul and his soul were "one soul in two bodies": and
therefore was my life a horror to me, because I would not live halved.
And therefore perchance I feared to die, lest he whom I had much loved
should die wholly.
O madness, which knowest not how to love men, like men! O foolish man
that I then was, enduring impatiently the lot of man! I fretted then,
sighed, wept, was distracted; had neither rest nor counsel. For I bore
about a shattered and bleeding soul, impatient of being borne by me, yet
where to repose it, I found not. Not in calm groves, not in games and
music, nor in fragrant spots, nor in curious banquetings, nor in the
pleasures of the bed and the couch; nor (finally) in books or poesy,
found it repose. All things looked ghastly, yea, the very light;
whatsoever was not what he was, was revolting and hateful, except
groaning and tears. For in those alone found I a little refreshment. But
when my soul was withdrawn from them a huge load of misery weighed
me down. To Thee, O Lord, it ought to have been raised, for Thee to
lighten; I knew it; but neither could nor would; the more, since, when I
thought of Thee, Thou wert not to me any solid or substantial thing. For
Thou wert not Thyself, but a mere phantom, and my error was my God. If
I offered to discharge my load thereon, that it might rest, it glided
through the void, and came rushing down again on me; and I had remained
to myself a hapless spot, where I could neither be, nor be from thence.
For whither should my heart flee from my heart? Whither should I
flee from myself? Whither not follow myself? And yet I fled out of my
country; for so should mine eyes less look for him, where they were not
wont to see him. And thus from Thagaste, I came to Carthage.
Times lose no time; nor do they roll idly by; through our senses they
work strange operations on the mind. Behold, they went and came day by
day, and by coming and going, introduced into my mind other imaginations
and other remembrances; and little by little patched me up again with my
old kind of delights, unto which that my sorrow gave way. And yet there
succeeded, not indeed other griefs, yet the causes of other griefs. For
whence had that former grief so easily reached my very inmost soul, but
that I had poured out my soul upon the dust, in loving one that must
die, as if he would never die? For what restored and refreshed me
chiefly was the solaces of other friends, with whom I did love, what
instead of Thee I loved; and this was a great fable, and protracted lie,
by whose adulterous stimulus, our soul, which lay itching in our ears,
was being defiled. But that fable would not die to me, so oft as any of
my friends died. There were other things which in them did more take my
mind; to talk and jest together, to do kind offices by turns; to read
together honied books; to play the fool or be earnest together; to
dissent at times without discontent, as a man might with his own self;
and even with the seldomness of these dissentings, to season our more
frequent consentings; sometimes to teach, and sometimes learn; long for
the absent with impatience; and welcome the coming with joy. These and
the like expressions, proceeding out of the hearts of those that loved
and were loved again, by the countenance, the tongue, the eyes, and
a thousand pleasing gestures, were so much fuel to melt our souls
together, and out of many make but one.
This is it that is loved in friends; and so loved, that a man's
conscience condemns itself, if he love not him that loves him again, or
love not again him that loves him, looking for nothing from his person
but indications of his love. Hence that mourning, if one die, and
darkenings of sorrows, that steeping of the heart in tears, all
sweetness turned to bitterness; and upon the loss of life of the dying,
the death of the living. Blessed whoso loveth Thee, and his friend in
Thee, and his enemy for Thee. For he alone loses none dear to him, to
whom all are dear in Him who cannot be lost. And who is this but our
God, the God that made heaven and earth, and filleth them, because by
filling them He created them? Thee none loseth, but who leaveth. And
who leaveth Thee, whither goeth or whither fleeth he, but from Thee
well-pleased, to Thee displeased? For where doth he not find Thy law in
his own punishment? And Thy law is truth, and truth Thou.
Turn us, O God of Hosts, show us Thy countenance, and we shall be whole.
For whithersoever the soul of man turns itself, unless toward Thee, it
is riveted upon sorrows, yea though it is riveted on things beautiful.
And yet they, out of Thee, and out of the soul, were not, unless they
were from Thee. They rise, and set; and by rising, they begin as it were
to be; they grow, that they may be perfected; and perfected, they wax
old and wither; and all grow not old, but all wither. So then when they
rise and tend to be, the more quickly they grow that they may be, so
much the more they haste not to be. This is the law of them. Thus much
has Thou allotted them, because they are portions of things, which
exist not all at once, but by passing away and succeeding, they together
complete that universe, whereof they are portions. And even thus is our
speech completed by signs giving forth a sound: but this again is not
perfected unless one word pass away when it hath sounded its part, that
another may succeed. Out of all these things let my soul praise Thee,
O God, Creator of all; yet let not my soul be riveted unto these things
with the glue of love, through the senses of the body. For they go
whither they were to go, that they might not be; and they rend her with
pestilent longings, because she longs to be, yet loves to repose in what
she loves. But in these things is no place of repose; they abide not,
they flee; and who can follow them with the senses of the flesh? yea,
who can grasp them, when they are hard by? For the sense of the flesh is
slow, because it is the sense of the flesh; and thereby is it bounded.
It sufficeth for that it was made for; but it sufficeth not to stay
things running their course from their appointed starting-place to the
end appointed. For in Thy Word, by which they are created, they hear
their decree, "hence and hitherto."
Be not foolish, O my soul, nor become deaf in the ear of thine heart
with the tumult of thy folly. Hearken thou too. The Word itself calleth
thee to return: and there is the place of rest imperturbable, where
love is not forsaken, if itself forsaketh not. Behold, these things
pass away, that others may replace them, and so this lower universe be
completed by all his parts. But do I depart any whither? saith the Word
of God. There fix thy dwelling, trust there whatsoever thou hast
thence, O my soul, at least now thou art tired out with vanities.
Entrust Truth, whatsoever thou hast from the Truth, and thou shalt lose
nothing; and thy decay shall bloom again, and all thy diseases be
healed, and thy mortal parts be reformed and renewed, and bound around
thee: nor shall they lay thee whither themselves descend; but they
shall stand fast with thee, and abide for ever before God, Who abideth
and standeth fast for ever.
Why then be perverted and follow thy flesh? Be it converted and follow
thee. Whatever by her thou hast sense of, is in part; and the whole,
whereof these are parts, thou knowest not; and yet they delight thee.
But had the sense of thy flesh a capacity for comprehending the whole,
and not itself also, for thy punishment, been justly restricted to
a part of the whole, thou wouldest, that whatsoever existeth at this
present, should pass away, that so the whole might better please thee.
For what we speak also, by the same sense of the flesh thou hearest; yet
wouldest not thou have the syllables stay, but fly away, that others may
come, and thou hear the whole. And so ever, when any one thing is made
up of many, all of which do not exist together, all collectively would
please more than they do severally, could all be perceived collectively.
But far better than these is He who made all; and He is our God, nor
doth He pass away, for neither doth aught succeed Him.
If bodies please thee, praise God on occasion of them, and turn back
thy love upon their Maker; lest in these things which please thee, thou
displease. If souls please thee, be they loved in God: for they too are
mutable, but in Him are they firmly stablished; else would they pass,
and pass away. In Him then be they beloved; and carry unto Him along
with thee what souls thou canst, and say to them, "Him let us love, Him
let us love: He made these, nor is He far off. For He did not make them,
and so depart, but they are of Him, and in Him. See there He is, where
truth is loved. He is within the very heart, yet hath the heart strayed
from Him. Go back into your heart, ye transgressors, and cleave fast to
Him that made you. Stand with Him, and ye shall stand fast. Rest in Him,
and ye shall be at rest. Whither go ye in rough ways? Whither go ye?
The good that you love is from Him; but it is good and pleasant through
reference to Him, and justly shall it be embittered, because unjustly is
any thing loved which is from Him, if He be forsaken for it. To what end
then would ye still and still walk these difficult and toilsome ways?
There is no rest, where ye seek it. Seek what ye seek; but it is not
there where ye seek. Ye seek a blessed life in the land of death; it is
not there. For how should there be a blessed life where life itself is
not?
"But our true Life came down hither, and bore our death, and slew him,
out of the abundance of His own life: and He thundered, calling aloud to
us to return hence to Him into that secret place, whence He came forth
to us, first into the Virgin's womb, wherein He espoused the human
creation, our mortal flesh, that it might not be for ever mortal, and
thence like a bridegroom coming out of his chamber, rejoicing as a giant
to run his course. For He lingered not, but ran, calling aloud by words,
deeds, death, life, descent, ascension; crying aloud to us to return
unto Him. And He departed from our eyes, that we might return into our
heart, and there find Him. For He departed, and lo, He is here. He would
not be long with us, yet left us not; for He departed thither, whence
He never parted, because the world was made by Him. And in this world
He was, and into this world He came to save sinners, unto whom my soul
confesseth, and He healeth it, for it hath sinned against Him. O ye sons
of men, how long so slow of heart? Even now, after the descent of Life
to you, will ye not ascend and live? But whither ascend ye, when ye are
on high, and set your mouth against the heavens? Descend, that ye may
ascend, and ascend to God. For ye have fallen, by ascending against
Him." Tell them this, that they may weep in the valley of tears, and
so carry them up with thee unto God; because out of His spirit thou
speakest thus unto them, if thou speakest, burning with the fire of
charity.
These things I then knew not, and I loved these lower beauties, and I
was sinking to the very depths, and to my friends I said, "Do we love
any thing but the beautiful? What then is the beautiful? and what is
beauty? What is it that attracts and wins us to the things we love? for
unless there were in them a grace and beauty, they could by no
means draw us unto them." And I marked and perceived that in bodies
themselves, there was a beauty, from their forming a sort of whole, and
again, another from apt and mutual correspondence, as of a part of
the body with its whole, or a shoe with a foot, and the like. And this
consideration sprang up in my mind, out of my inmost heart, and I wrote
"on the fair and fit," I think, two or three books. Thou knowest, O
Lord, for it is gone from me; for I have them not, but they are strayed
from me, I know not how.
But what moved me, O Lord my God, to dedicate these books unto Hierius,
an orator of Rome, whom I knew not by face, but loved for the fame
of his learning which was eminent in him, and some words of his I had
heard, which pleased me? But more did he please me, for that he pleased
others, who highly extolled him, amazed that out of a Syrian, first
instructed in Greek eloquence, should afterwards be formed a wonderful
Latin orator, and one most learned in things pertaining unto philosophy.
One is commended, and, unseen, he is loved: doth this love enter the
heart of the hearer from the mouth of the commender? Not so. But by one
who loveth is another kindled. For hence he is loved who is commended,
when the commender is believed to extol him with an unfeigned heart;
that is, when one that loves him, praises him.
For so did I then love men, upon the judgment of men, not Thine, O my
God, in Whom no man is deceived. But yet why not for qualities, like
those of a famous charioteer, or fighter with beasts in the theatre,
known far and wide by a vulgar popularity, but far otherwise, and
earnestly, and so as I would be myself commended? For I would not be
commended or loved, as actors are (though I myself did commend and love
them), but had rather be unknown, than so known; and even hated, than
so loved. Where now are the impulses to such various and divers kinds of
loves laid up in one soul? Why, since we are equally men, do I love
in another what, if I did not hate, I should not spurn and cast from
myself? For it holds not, that as a good horse is loved by him, who
would not, though he might, be that horse, therefore the same may be
said of an actor, who shares our nature. Do I then love in a man, what I
hate to be, who am a man? Man himself is a great deep, whose very hairs
Thou numberest, O Lord, and they fall not to the ground without Thee.
And yet are the hairs of his head easier to be numbered than his
feelings, and the beatings of his heart.
But that orator was of that sort whom I loved, as wishing to be myself
such; and I erred through a swelling pride, and was tossed about with
every wind, but yet was steered by Thee, though very secretly. And
whence do I know, and whence do I confidently confess unto Thee, that
I had loved him more for the love of his commenders, than for the very
things for which he was commended? Because, had he been unpraised, and
these self-same men had dispraised him, and with dispraise and contempt
told the very same things of him, I had never been so kindled and
excited to love him. And yet the things had not been other, nor he
himself other; but only the feelings of the relators. See where the
impotent soul lies along, that is not yet stayed up by the solidity
of truth! Just as the gales of tongues blow from the breast of the
opinionative, so is it carried this way and that, driven forward and
backward, and the light is overclouded to it, and the truth unseen. And
lo, it is before us. And it was to me a great matter, that my discourse
and labours should be known to that man: which should he approve, I were
the more kindled; but if he disapproved, my empty heart, void of Thy
solidity, had been wounded. And yet the "fair and fit," whereon I wrote
to him, I dwelt on with pleasure, and surveyed it, and admired it,
though none joined therein.
But I saw not yet, whereon this weighty matter turned in Thy wisdom,
O Thou Omnipotent, who only doest wonders; and my mind ranged through
corporeal forms; and "fair," I defined and distinguished what is so
in itself, and "fit," whose beauty is in correspondence to some other
thing: and this I supported by corporeal examples. And I turned to
the nature of the mind, but the false notion which I had of spiritual
things, let me not see the truth. Yet the force of truth did of itself
flash into mine eyes, and I turned away my panting soul from incorporeal
substance to lineaments, and colours, and bulky magnitudes. And not
being able to see these in the mind, I thought I could not see my mind.
And whereas in virtue I loved peace, and in viciousness I abhorred
discord; in the first I observed a unity, but in the other, a sort
of division. And in that unity I conceived the rational soul, and the
nature of truth and of the chief good to consist; but in this division
I miserably imagined there to be some unknown substance of irrational
life, and the nature of the chief evil, which should not only be a
substance, but real life also, and yet not derived from Thee, O my God,
of whom are all things. And yet that first I called a Monad, as it had
been a soul without sex; but the latter a Duad;--anger, in deeds of
violence, and in flagitiousness, lust; not knowing whereof I spake. For
I had not known or learned that neither was evil a substance, nor our
soul that chief and unchangeable good.
For as deeds of violence arise, if that emotion of the soul be
corrupted, whence vehement action springs, stirring itself insolently
and unrulily; and lusts, when that affection of the soul is ungoverned,
whereby carnal pleasures are drunk in, so do errors and false opinions
defile the conversation, if the reasonable soul itself be corrupted; as
it was then in me, who knew not that it must be enlightened by another
light, that it may be partaker of truth, seeing itself is not that
nature of truth. For Thou shalt light my candle, O Lord my God, Thou
shalt enlighten my darkness: and of Thy fulness have we all received,
for Thou art the true light that lighteth every man that cometh into the
world; for in Thee there is no variableness, neither shadow of change.
But I pressed towards Thee, and was thrust from Thee, that I might taste
of death: for thou resistest the proud. But what prouder, than for me
with a strange madness to maintain myself to be that by nature which
Thou art? For whereas I was subject to change (so much being manifest
to me, my very desire to become wise, being the wish, of worse to become
better), yet chose I rather to imagine Thee subject to change, and
myself not to be that which Thou art. Therefore I was repelled by Thee,
and Thou resistedst my vain stiffneckedness, and I imagined corporeal
forms, and, myself flesh, I accused flesh; and, a wind that passeth
away, I returned not to Thee, but I passed on and on to things which
have no being, neither in Thee, nor in me, nor in the body. Neither were
they created for me by Thy truth, but by my vanity devised out of
things corporeal. And I was wont to ask Thy faithful little ones, my
fellow-citizens (from whom, unknown to myself, I stood exiled), I was
wont, prating and foolishly, to ask them, "Why then doth the soul err
which God created?" But I would not be asked, "Why then doth God
err?" And I maintained that Thy unchangeable substance did err upon
constraint, rather than confess that my changeable substance had gone
astray voluntarily, and now, in punishment, lay in error.
I was then some six or seven and twenty years old when I wrote those
volumes; revolving within me corporeal fictions, buzzing in the ears
of my heart, which I turned, O sweet truth, to thy inward melody,
meditating on the "fair and fit," and longing to stand and hearken to
Thee, and to rejoice greatly at the Bridegroom's voice, but could not;
for by the voices of mine own errors, I was hurried abroad, and through
the weight of my own pride, I was sinking into the lowest pit. For Thou
didst not make me to hear joy and gladness, nor did the bones exult
which were not yet humbled.
And what did it profit me, that scarce twenty years old, a book of
Aristotle, which they call the ten Predicaments, falling into my hands
(on whose very name I hung, as on something great and divine, so often
as my rhetoric master of Carthage, and others, accounted learned,
mouthed it with cheeks bursting with pride), I read and understood it
unaided? And on my conferring with others, who said that they scarcely
understood it with very able tutors, not only orally explaining it, but
drawing many things in sand, they could tell me no more of it than I had
learned, reading it by myself. And the book appeared to me to speak very
clearly of substances, such as "man," and of their qualities, as the
figure of a man, of what sort it is; and stature, how many feet high;
and his relationship, whose brother he is; or where placed; or when
born; or whether he stands or sits; or be shod or armed; or does, or
suffers anything; and all the innumerable things which might be ranged
under these nine Predicaments, of which I have given some specimens, or
under that chief Predicament of Substance.
What did all this further me, seeing it even hindered me? when,
imagining whatever was, was comprehended under those ten Predicaments,
I essayed in such wise to understand, O my God, Thy wonderful and
unchangeable Unity also, as if Thou also hadst been subjected to Thine
own greatness or beauty; so that (as in bodies) they should exist in
Thee, as their subject: whereas Thou Thyself art Thy greatness and
beauty; but a body is not great or fair in that it is a body, seeing
that, though it were less great or fair, it should notwithstanding be
a body. But it was falsehood which of Thee I conceived, not truth,
fictions of my misery, not the realities of Thy blessedness. For Thou
hadst commanded, and it was done in me, that the earth should bring
forth briars and thorns to me, and that in the sweat of my brows I
should eat my bread.
And what did it profit me, that all the books I could procure of the
so-called liberal arts, I, the vile slave of vile affections, read by
myself, and understood? And I delighted in them, but knew not whence
came all, that therein was true or certain. For I had my back to the
light, and my face to the things enlightened; whence my face, with which
I discerned the things enlightened, itself was not enlightened.
Whatever was written, either on rhetoric, or logic, geometry, music,
and arithmetic, by myself without much difficulty or any instructor,
I understood, Thou knowest, O Lord my God; because both quickness of
understanding, and acuteness in discerning, is Thy gift: yet did I not
thence sacrifice to Thee. So then it served not to my use, but rather
to my perdition, since I went about to get so good a portion of my
substance into my own keeping; and I kept not my strength for Thee, but
wandered from Thee into a far country, to spend it upon harlotries. For
what profited me good abilities, not employed to good uses? For I felt
not that those arts were attained with great difficulty, even by the
studious and talented, until I attempted to explain them to such; when
he most excelled in them who followed me not altogether slowly.
But what did this further me, imagining that Thou, O Lord God, the
Truth, wert a vast and bright body, and I a fragment of that body?
Perverseness too great! But such was I. Nor do I blush, O my God, to
confess to Thee Thy mercies towards me, and to call upon Thee, who
blushed not then to profess to men my blasphemies, and to bark against
Thee. What profited me then my nimble wit in those sciences and all
those most knotty volumes, unravelled by me, without aid from human
instruction; seeing I erred so foully, and with such sacrilegious
shamefulness, in the doctrine of piety? Or what hindrance was a far
slower wit to Thy little ones, since they departed not far from Thee,
that in the nest of Thy Church they might securely be fledged, and
nourish the wings of charity, by the food of a sound faith. O Lord our
God, under the shadow of Thy wings let us hope; protect us, and carry
us. Thou wilt carry us both when little, and even to hoar hairs wilt
Thou carry us; for our firmness, when it is Thou, then is it firmness;
but when our own, it is infirmity. Our good ever lives with Thee;
from which when we turn away, we are turned aside. Let us now, O Lord,
return, that we may not be overturned, because with Thee our good lives
without any decay, which good art Thou; nor need we fear, lest there
be no place whither to return, because we fell from it: for through our
absence, our mansion fell not--Thy eternity.