ARKCODEX
Confessions
Chapter 1. In God Alone is the Hope and Joy of Man.
I will know you, my knower. I will know you just as I am known. You are the strength of my soul. Enter into my soul and shape it for yourself. Then you may have it and possess it without spot or wrinkle. This is my hope. This is why I speak. I rejoice in this hope when my joy is healthy. The other concerns of this life deserve tears all the less when they are wept over more. They deserve tears all the more when they are wept over less. You have loved truth. The one who does truth comes to the light. I want to do truth in my heart before you through confession. I want to do it through my writing before many witnesses.
Chapter 2. That All Things are Manifest to God. That Confession Unto Him is Not Made by the Words of the Flesh, But of the Soul, and the Cry of Reflection.
To you indeed, Lord, whose eyes see naked the abyss of human conscience, what could be hidden in me even if I refused to confess to you? I would be hiding you from myself, not myself from you. Now my groaning testifies that I displease myself. You shine forth and give pleasure and are loved and longed for. I am ashamed of myself. I cast myself away and choose you. I please neither you nor myself except through you. Therefore to you, Lord, I am revealed for whoever I am. I have explained what fruit comes to you from my confession. I do not accomplish this with words of flesh and spoken voices. I use words of the soul and the cry of thought which your ear knows. When I am wicked, confessing to you means nothing other than displeasing myself. When I am devout, confessing to you means nothing other than not attributing this to myself. You, Lord, bless the righteous person. But first you make righteous the ungodly person. My confession therefore, my God, happens silently to you in your sight and yet not silently. It is silent in noise. It cries out in feeling. I say nothing right to other people that you have not first heard from me. You hear nothing of this kind from me that you have not first spoken to me.
Chapter 3. He Who Confesses Rightly Unto God Best Knows Himself.
What business is it of mine with people that they should hear my confessions, as if they could heal all my sicknesses? They are a curious breed, eager to learn about another's life but lazy about correcting their own. What do they seek to hear from me about who I am, when they refuse to hear from you who they are? And how can they know whether I speak the truth when they hear me talk about myself? After all, no one knows what goes on inside a person except the spirit of that person within him. But if they would listen to you about themselves, they could not say"The Lord is lying."What does it mean to hear about yourself from you, except to know yourself? Who truly knows himself and then says"That's false"unless he himself is lying? But since love believes all things, especially among those whom it joins together and makes one, I too confess to you in this way, Lord, so that people may hear. I cannot prove to them that my confession is true. But those believe me whose ears love has opened to me.
Yet you, my most intimate physician, make clear to me what benefit I gain from doing these things. When my confessions of past sins are read and heard—sins that you have forgiven and covered so that you might bless me in yourself by changing my soul through faith and your sacrament—they stir the heart so it will not sleep in despair and say"I cannot."Instead the heart awakens in love of your mercy and sweetness of your grace. Through this grace every weak person becomes strong when he becomes conscious of his own weakness through grace itself. Good people delight to hear about the past sins of those who are now free from them. They do not delight because the sins are evil. They delight because the sins once existed but exist no more. So what benefit do I gain, Lord my God, when my conscience confesses to you daily and trusts more in your mercy than in its own innocence? What benefit do I gain when through these writings I confess before people in your presence who I am now, not who I once was? I have seen and described that former benefit. But who I am now—behold, at this very time of my confessions many people want to know this. Some know me and some do not know me. Some have heard something from me or about me. But their ear cannot reach my heart where I am whoever I am. So they want to hear me confessing what I am inside where they cannot direct eye or ear or mind. Yet they want to believe. Will they truly know me? Love tells them that I am good and do not lie when I confess about myself. That same love in them believes me.
Chapter 4. That in His Confessions He May Do Good, He Considers Others.
But what benefit do they want from this? Do they hope to congratulate me when they hear how much I gain from your gift? Do they hope to pray for me when they hear how much I am held back by my own burden? I will reveal myself to such people. The benefit is not small, Lord my God, that many people give thanks to you because of us. The benefit is not small that many people pray to you for us. Let the brotherly heart love in me what you teach should be loved. Let it grieve in me what you teach should be grieved. Let that brotherly heart do this. Not the foreign heart. Not the heart of alien children whose mouth speaks vanity and whose right hand is a right hand of wickedness. But let that brotherly heart do this—the one that rejoices for me when it approves of me. When it disapproves of me, it grieves for me. Whether it approves or disapproves of me, it loves me. I will reveal myself to such people. Let them breathe freely at my good deeds. Let them sigh at my evil deeds. My good deeds are your teachings and your gifts. My evil deeds are my sins and your judgments. Let them breathe freely at the good. Let them sigh at the evil. Let hymns and weeping rise up before you from brotherly hearts—your incense vessels. But you, Lord, are delighted by the fragrance of your holy temple. Have mercy on me according to your great mercy. Do this for your name's sake. Do not abandon what you have begun. Complete what is imperfect in me.
This is the fruit of my confessions. I confess not who I was but who I am now. I make this confession not only before you in secret joy mixed with trembling and hidden sorrow mixed with hope. I also confess before the ears of believing children of men. They share my joy and share my mortality. They are my fellow citizens and fellow pilgrims with me. Some have gone before me. Others follow after me. Still others walk alongside me on my journey. These are your servants and my brothers. You wanted them to be your children. They are my masters whom you commanded me to serve if I want to live with you and for you. Your Word to me would have been too little if it had only spoken commands without also leading by example through action. I carry this out through both deeds and words. I do this under your wings. The danger would be far too great otherwise. But under your wings my soul is subject to you. My weakness is known to you. I am a little child. But my Father lives forever. My guardian is perfectly suited for me. He is the very same one who gave me birth and who protects me. You yourself are all my good things. You are the Almighty who is with me even before I am with you. Therefore I will reveal to such people as you command me to serve not who I was but who I am now and who I continue to be. Yet I do not judge myself. So let me be heard in this way.
Chapter 5. That Man Knows Not Himself Wholly.
You judge me truly, Lord. No one knows the thoughts of a person except that person's own spirit within them. Yet there is something in every person that even their own spirit does not know. But you, Lord, know everything about the one you created. I despise myself before you. I consider myself nothing but dust and ashes. Still, I know something about you that I do not know about myself. We see only reflections in a mirror now. We do not yet see face to face. As long as I am far from you, I am more present to myself than to you. Yet I know that nothing can harm you. I do not know which temptations I can resist and which will overcome me. But there is hope. You are faithful. You will not let us be tempted beyond what we can bear. With every temptation you provide a way out so we can endure it. Let me confess what I know about myself. Let me confess what I do not know about myself. What I do know comes only because you give me light. What I do not know will remain hidden until my darkness becomes bright as noon in your presence.
Chapter 6. The Love of God, in His Nature Superior to All Creatures, is Acquired by the Knowledge of the Senses and the Exercise of Reason.
I love you, Lord, with a conscience that is certain, not doubtful. You struck my heart with your word, and I loved you. But see, heaven and earth and everything in them tell me from every direction that I should love you. They never stop telling everyone so that they might be without excuse. Yet you will show mercy to whom you have shown mercy, and you will give compassion to whom you have been compassionate. Otherwise heaven and earth speak your praises to deaf ears. But what do I love when I love you? Not bodily beauty. Not temporal splendor. Not the brightness of light that befriends these eyes. Not sweet melodies of songs of every kind. Not the fragrant smell of flowers and ointments and spices. Not manna and honey. Not limbs pleasant to the flesh's embraces. I do not love these things when I love my God. And yet I do love a certain light and a certain voice and a certain fragrance and a certain food and a certain embrace when I love my God. These belong to the light, voice, fragrance, food, and embrace of my inner self. There shines for my soul what no place can contain. There sounds what time cannot steal away. There breathes fragrance that no wind can scatter. There tastes what gluttony cannot diminish. There clings what satiety cannot tear apart. This is what I love when I love my God.
What is this? I questioned the earth. It said"I am not God."Everything within it confessed the same. I questioned the sea and the depths and the living creatures that crawl there. They answered"We are not your God. Look beyond us."I questioned the flowing winds. The entire atmosphere with all its inhabitants replied"Anaximenes was wrong. I am not God."I questioned the sky, the sun, the moon, the stars."We are not the God you seek,"they said. I spoke to all these things that surround the doorways of my flesh."You have told me about my God that you are not him. Tell me something about him."They cried out with a great voice:"He made us."My questioning was my attention. Their answer was their beauty. I turned to myself. I said to myself"Who are you?"I answered"A human being."Look—both body and soul are present within me. One is external. The other is internal. Which of these should I use to seek my God? I had already searched through the body from earth to heaven. I sent out messengers as far as I could—the rays of my eyes. But the inner way is better. All the bodily messengers reported back to the one who presides and judges within. They told of the responses of heaven and earth and all things in them saying"We are not God"and"He made us."The inner person learned these things through the service of the outer person. I, the inner one, learned these things. I—I, the mind—learned through the senses of my body. I questioned the vast mass of the world about my God. It answered me"I am not he, but he made me."
Doesn't this beauty appear to everyone who has sound judgment? Why doesn't it speak the same way to all? Small and large animals see it. But they cannot ask questions. Reason does not preside over their reporting senses as judge. But humans can ask questions. Through created things they can perceive God's invisible qualities with understanding. Yet love enslaves them to these things. The enslaved cannot judge properly. These things only answer those who question with judgment. They don't answer those who merely question. They don't change their voice or appearance. One person might only see while another person sees and questions. But the appearance stays the same for both. To one it stays silent. To the other it speaks. In fact it speaks to everyone. But only those understand who compare what they receive from outside with the truth inside. Truth tells me this. Your God is not the sky and earth. Your God is not any physical body. Nature tells anyone who looks at it this. It is bulk. Any part has less bulk than the whole. But you are better than this. I speak to you as soul. You give life to your body's bulk. You provide it with life. No body gives this to another body. But your God is the life of your life.
Chapter 7. That God is to Be Found Neither from the Powers of the Body Nor of the Soul.
What then do I love when I love my God? Who is he above the head of my soul? I will ascend to him through my very soul. I will pass beyond my power by which I cling to the body and fill its frame with life. I cannot find my God by that power. If I could, then the horse and mule would find him too, since they have no understanding. The same power gives life to their bodies as well. There is another power by which I not only give life but also give sensation to my flesh, which the Lord fashioned for me. He commands the eye not to hear and the ear not to see. Instead he gives the eye the power to see and the ear the power to hear. He assigns to each of the other senses their proper places and functions. Through these different senses I, one mind, perform various acts. I will pass beyond this power of mine as well. The horse and mule have this power too. They also feel through the body.
Chapter 8. — Of the Nature and the Amazing Power of Memory.
I will therefore cross beyond even this force of my nature. I will climb step by step toward the one who made me. I come into the fields and spacious halls of memory. Here lie the treasures of countless images brought in from all kinds of things the senses have touched. Here is stored whatever we think about. We enlarge things or reduce them. We change in any way what the senses have grasped. Here also lies whatever else has been entrusted and stored away. Forgetfulness has not yet swallowed and buried these things. When I am there, I call for whatever I want to be brought forward. Some things emerge at once. Others require a longer search. They are dug out as if from hidden storage places. Some things rush out in crowds. While I am seeking and asking for something else, they leap into the middle. They seem to say"Perhaps we are what you want?"I brush them away with the hand of my heart from the face of my memory. I do this until what I want comes clear and steps forward from its hiding place. Other things suggest themselves easily in unbroken sequence just as they are requested. The things that come first give way to those that follow. As they give way, they are stored again. They will come forward again when I want them. All of this happens when I tell something from memory.
Everything is stored there distinctly and by category. Each thing is preserved according to the entrance through which it came in. Light and all colors and shapes of bodies come through the eyes. All kinds of sounds come through the ears. All odors come through the passageway of the nostrils. All tastes come through the entrance of the mouth. From the sense of the whole body comes what is hard or soft, hot or cold, smooth or rough, heavy or light, whether outside the body or inside it. The vast recesses of memory receive all these things for recollection when needed and for examination. I do not know what secret and unspeakable chambers it has. All these things enter memory through their own doorways and are stored in it. Yet they themselves do not enter. Instead, the images of sensed things wait there for thought to recall them. Who can say how these images are made? It is clear which senses seized them and stored them inside. Even when I dwell in darkness and silence, I can bring forth colors in my memory if I wish. I distinguish between white and black and between whatever other colors I want. Sounds do not rush in and disturb what I examine that was drawn in through my eyes. The sounds are there too but lie hidden as if stored separately. I can summon the sounds if I please. They appear immediately. With my tongue at rest and my throat silent, I sing as much as I want. Those images of colors that are still there do not interfere or interrupt when another treasury is being examined that flowed in through the ears. In the same way I recall at will all other things that were brought in and gathered through the other senses. I distinguish the scent of lilies from violets while smelling nothing. I prefer honey to grape syrup, smooth to rough, while tasting nothing and touching nothing at the time, but only by remembering.
I do this work inside myself, in the vast hall of my memory. There heaven and earth and sea are ready for me, along with everything I was able to sense in them, except what I have forgotten. There I encounter myself as well. I remember myself. I recall what I did, when I did it, and where I did it. I recall what emotions I felt while doing it. There are all the things I remember, whether I experienced them myself or believed them from others. From this same storehouse I weave together different likenesses of things I have experienced or believed based on my experiences. I connect them with past events. From these I also contemplate future actions and outcomes and hopes as if they were present."I will do this or that,"I say to myself in the great depths of my mind, which is full of images of so many great things."And this or that will follow.""Oh, if only this or that would happen!""May God prevent this or that!"I say these things to myself. When I speak, the images of everything I mention are ready from the same treasury of memory. I could not speak any of these things at all if the images were missing.
Memory possesses tremendous power. It is far too tremendous, my God. It is a vast and infinite inner sanctuary. Who has ever reached its depths? This power belongs to my mind and forms part of my nature. Yet I cannot grasp the totality of what I am. Therefore the mind is too limited to contain itself fully. But where does that part exist which it cannot contain? Does it lie outside the mind rather than within it? How then can the mind not contain it? Great wonder arises in me over this. Amazement seizes me. People go out to marvel at high mountains. They marvel at massive ocean waves. They marvel at the broad courses of rivers. They marvel at the circuit of the ocean. They marvel at the wheeling of the stars. Yet they abandon themselves. They do not marvel that when I spoke of all these things, I was not seeing them with my eyes. Nevertheless I could not have spoken of them unless I were seeing mountains and waves and rivers and stars that I have seen, and the ocean that I have trusted exists, inside my memory in spaces as vast as if I were seeing them outside. Yet when I saw them with my eyes, I did not absorb them by seeing. The things themselves are not present with me. Only their images remain. I know which bodily sense impressed each image upon me.
Chapter 9. Not Only Things, But Also Literature and Images, are Taken from the Memory, and are Brought Forth by the Act of Remembering.
But my memory's vast capacity does not hold only these things. Here also are all those things I have learned from the liberal arts that have not yet slipped away. They are stored in some inner place that is not really a place. I do not carry mere images of these things but the realities themselves. What literature is, what skill in debate means, how many kinds of questions exist—whatever I know of such matters exists in my memory in this way. I have not retained only an image while leaving the reality outside. These things did not sound and then pass away like a voice that strikes the ears and leaves a trace for remembering. They do not act like sound that seems to ring out even when it no longer rings. They are not like a scent that passes and vanishes into the wind yet affects the sense of smell. Such scents pass a likeness of themselves into memory that we can recall by remembering. They are not like food that certainly has no taste once it reaches the stomach yet somehow still has taste in memory. They are not like something felt by touching with the body that memory can imagine even when separated from us. These material things are not actually brought into memory. Only their images are captured with amazing speed. They are stored away in wondrous compartments. They are brought forth wondrously through remembering.
Chapter 10. Literature is Not Introduced to the Memory Through the Senses, But is Brought Forth from Its More Secret Places.
When I hear that there are three types of questions—whether something exists, what it is, and what it is like—I retain images of the sounds that form these words. I know these sounds passed through the air with noise and no longer exist. But the actual things that these sounds represent I have never touched with any bodily sense. I have never seen them anywhere except in my mind. I have stored in my memory not images of them, but the things themselves. Let those who can tell me how these things entered into me. I examine all the doorways of my flesh, but I cannot find through which one they entered. My eyes say:"If they had color, we would have reported them."My ears say:"If they made sound, we would have indicated them."My nostrils say:"If they had smell, they would have passed through us."My sense of taste also says:"If there is no flavor, do not ask me anything."Touch says:"If it has no body, I did not handle it. If I did not handle it, I did not report it."From where and how did these things enter my memory? I do not know how. When I learned them I did not trust another's heart. Instead I recognized them in my own heart. I approved them as true. I committed them to memory as if storing them away to bring forth when I wished. They were there even before I learned them, but they were not in my memory. Where then were they? Why did I recognize them when they were spoken and say:"Yes, that is true"? This happened only because they were already in my memory, but pushed back and buried as if in hidden caves. Without someone to remind me and draw them out, perhaps I could never have thought of them.
Chapter 11. What It is to Learn and to Think.
Therefore we find that learning these things is nothing other than this. We do not absorb their images through our senses. Instead we perceive them inwardly through themselves without images just as they are. We simply gather together through thinking what our memory held scattered and unorganized. Through careful attention we arrange these things so they lie ready at hand in memory itself. Previously they lay hidden there scattered and neglected. Now they readily appear to our familiar focus. My memory carries so many things of this kind that have already been discovered. As I said, they lie ready at hand. These are the things we say we have learned and know. But if I stop recalling them for modest intervals of time, they sink down again. They slip away into more remote inner chambers. Then they must be thought out again from that same place as if they were new. There is no other region for them. They must be gathered again so they can be known. They must be collected from a kind of scattering. This is why we say"cogitare"meaning to think."Cogo"means I gather and"cogito"means I think. This follows the same pattern as"ago"and"agito,""facio"and"factito."But the mind has claimed this word"cogitare"as its own property. What is gathered or forced together in the mind rather than elsewhere is now properly called thinking.
Chapter 12. On the Recollection of Things Mathematical.
Memory also contains the principles and countless laws of numbers and measurements. No bodily sense has impressed these upon us. They have no color. They make no sound. They have no smell. They cannot be tasted or touched. I have heard the sounds of words that signify these things when we discuss them. But those sounds are one thing and these principles are another. The sounds differ between Greek and Latin. But the principles themselves are neither Greek nor Latin nor any other language. I have seen the lines drawn by craftsmen. I have even seen lines as thin as spider's thread. But those are different things. They are not images of what the eye of flesh has shown me. Anyone who recognizes these principles inwardly recognizes them without any thought of physical bodies. I have also perceived through all my bodily senses the numbers we count. But the numbers by which we count are different things. They are not images of physical numbers. Therefore they truly exist. Let anyone who cannot see these things laugh at me for saying this. I will grieve for the one who laughs at me.
Chapter 13. Memory Retains All Things.
I hold all these things in memory. I also hold in memory how I learned them. I have heard many completely false arguments against these truths. I hold these false arguments in memory too. Though the arguments are false, my remembering them is not false. I remember that I distinguished between the true ideas and these false contradictions. I remember this act of distinguishing. I see one way that I make distinctions now. But I remember a different way that I often made distinctions when I frequently thought about these matters. Therefore I remember that I have often understood these things. What I now distinguish and understand, I store away in memory. This way I will later remember that I understood it now. Therefore I remember that I remember. Later, if I recall that I was able to reminisce about these things now, I will certainly recall it through the power of memory.
Chapter 14. Concerning the Manner in Which Joy and Sadness May Be Brought Back to the Mind and Memory.
Memory holds my emotions in the same way. But it does not hold them as my mind experiences them when I actually feel them. It holds them in a completely different way. This is how the power of memory works. I remember being joyful when I am not joyful now. I recall past sadness when I am not sad now. I remember sometimes being afraid without feeling any fear. I recall former desires without having any desire. Sometimes the opposite happens. I remember past sadness with joy. I remember past joy with sadness. This would not be surprising if we were talking about the body. The mind is one thing. The body is another thing. So if I joyfully remember past physical pain, that is not so strange. But here we are dealing with the mind itself, and memory is part of the mind. When we want to remember something, we say"Keep that in mind."When we forget, we say"It was not in my mind"or"It slipped my mind."We call memory itself"mind."Since this is true, what is happening here? When I joyfully remember my past sadness, my mind contains joy and my memory contains sadness. My mind is joyful because it contains joy. But my memory contains sadness, yet it is not sad. Does memory perhaps not belong to the mind? Who would say such a thing? Memory must be like the stomach of the mind. Joy and sadness are like sweet and bitter food. When they are given over to memory, they pass into the stomach where they can be stored. But they cannot be tasted there. It seems ridiculous to think these things are similar. Yet they are not completely different either.
But look—I draw from memory when I say there are four disturbances of the soul. I name desire, joy, fear, and sadness. Whatever I can discuss about these emotions comes from dividing each into its particular types and defining them. There I find what to say. From there I bring it forth. Yet I am not disturbed by any of these disturbances when I recall and mention them. Before I collected and examined them again, they were already there in memory. This is why they could be drawn out through recollection. Perhaps these memories emerge like food brought up from the stomach through rumination. So why doesn't the one arguing—that is, the one remembering—taste the sweetness of joy or the bitterness of sadness in the mouth of thought? Is this because the comparison is not perfectly alike in every way? Who would willingly speak of such things if we were forced to grieve or fear every time we named sadness or fear? Yet we could not speak of these emotions at all unless we found in our memory not only the sounds of names impressed by bodily senses. We must also find the concepts of the things themselves. These concepts came to us through no gateway of flesh. Instead the mind itself, experiencing its own passions, entrusted them to memory. Or perhaps memory retained these things even without the mind deliberately commending them to it.
Chapter 15. In Memory There are Also Images of Things Which are Absent.
But whether memory works through images or not—who can easily say? I name a stone. I name the sun. Yet these things are not present to my senses. Their images are indeed ready in my memory. I name bodily pain when no pain is present to me while nothing hurts. Yet unless its image were present in my memory, I would not know what I was saying. I could not distinguish it from pleasure in argument. I name bodily health when I am healthy in body. The thing itself is present to me. Yet unless its image were also present in my memory, I could never remember what the sound of this name meant. Sick people would not recognize what was meant when health was named. This would happen unless the same image were held by the power of memory, even though the thing itself were absent from the body. I name the numbers we use for counting. Look—they are present in my memory. Not their images, but the numbers themselves. I name the image of the sun. This image is present in my memory. I do not recall an image of its image, but the image itself. The image itself is ready for me when I remember. I name memory itself. I recognize what I name. Where do I recognize it except in memory itself? Does memory present itself to itself through its own image, or through itself directly?
Chapter 16. The Privation of Memory is Forgetfulness.
What happens when I name forgetfulness and recognize what I'm naming? How could I recognize it unless I remembered it? I'm not talking about the mere sound of the word. I mean the thing the word represents. If I had forgotten that thing, I could never recognize what that sound means. So when I remember memory, memory itself is present to itself through itself. But when I remember forgetfulness, both memory and forgetfulness are present. Memory is there so I can remember. Forgetfulness is there as the thing I remember. But what is forgetfulness except the absence of memory? How can it be present for me to remember when its very presence means I cannot remember? Yet we retain in memory whatever we remember. If we didn't remember forgetfulness, we could never hear its name and recognize the thing it signifies. Therefore forgetfulness is retained by memory. It is present so we won't forget. Yet when it's present, we do forget. Should we understand from this that forgetfulness doesn't exist in memory through itself when we remember it, but through its image? If forgetfulness were present through itself, it would make us forget rather than remember. Who will ever investigate this mystery? Who will grasp how this works?
I am working here, Lord, and I am working within myself. I have become to myself a land of difficulty and excessive toil. We are not examining the regions of heaven now. We are not measuring the distances between stars. We are not seeking the balance points of the earth. I am the one who remembers. I am mind itself. It is not so strange if everything I am not lies far from me. But what is closer to me than myself? Yet behold, the power of my memory is not grasped by me. I cannot speak of myself apart from memory. What shall I say when I am certain that I remember forgetting? Shall I say that what I remember is not in my memory? Shall I say that forgetfulness exists in my memory so that I do not forget? Both options are completely absurd. What about the third possibility? How can I say that my memory holds an image of forgetfulness and not forgetfulness itself when I remember it? How can I say even this? When any object's image is impressed in memory, the object itself must first be present so that its image can be impressed. This is how I remember Carthage. This is how I remember all places where I have been. This is how I remember the faces of people I have seen and the reports of my other senses. This is how I remember my body's health and pain. When these things were present, memory captured images from them. I look upon these images when they are present. I turn them over in my mind when I recall those absent things. If forgetfulness is held in memory through its image and not through itself, then forgetfulness itself was surely present so that its image could be captured. But when it was present, how did it write its image in memory? Forgetfulness erases even what it finds already recorded by its very presence. Yet somehow, though this manner is incomprehensible and inexplicable, I am certain that I remember forgetfulness itself. This is what buries the things we have remembered.
Chapter 17. God Cannot Be Attained Unto by the Power of Memory, Which Beasts and Birds Possess.
Memory has tremendous power. It is something terrifying, my God. It is a deep and infinite complexity. This is what the mind is. This is what I myself am. What then am I, my God? What is my nature? I am a varied life. I am a life of many forms. I am immensely powerful. Look at the fields of my memory. Look at its caves and caverns without number. They are filled beyond counting with countless kinds of things. Some things are stored as images of all physical objects. Some are stored as direct presence, like skills and knowledge. Some are stored as mysterious impressions or marks, like the emotions of the soul. Memory holds these emotions even when the soul is not experiencing them. Whatever exists in memory exists in the mind. Through all these stored things I run and fly about. I penetrate here and there as much as I can. There is no end anywhere. Such is the power of memory. Such is the power of life in a living mortal person. What then shall I do, you who are my true life, my God? I will pass beyond this power of mine which is called memory. I will pass beyond it so that I may reach you, sweet light. What do you say to me? Here I am, ascending through my mind to you who remain above me. I will pass beyond this power of mine which is called memory. I want to touch you where you can be touched. I want to cling to you where it is possible to cling to you. Even cattle and birds have memory. Otherwise they would not return to their stalls and nests. Otherwise they would not do the many other things they grow accustomed to. They could not grow accustomed to anything at all without memory. Therefore I will pass beyond memory itself. I want to reach the one who separated me from the four-footed beasts. He made me wiser than the birds of heaven. I will pass beyond memory. Where will I find you, truly good and secure sweetness? Where will I find you? If I find you beyond my memory, then I am forgetting you. How can I find you if I do not remember you?
Chapter 18. A Thing When Lost Could Not Be Found Unless It Were Retained in the Memory.
A woman had lost her coin. She searched for it with a lamp. If she had not remembered it, she would never have found it. When it was found, how would she know it was the right one if she had no memory of it? I remember searching for many lost things and finding them. I know this because when I was looking for something and people said to me"Is this it perhaps? Is that it perhaps?"I kept saying"No, that's not it"until they offered me what I was actually seeking. If I had no memory of it, whatever it was, I would not find it even if it were offered to me. I would not recognize it. This always happens when we search for something lost and find it. But when something disappears from our eyes yet not from memory—like any visible object—its image is held within. We search until it returns to our sight. When we find it, we recognize it from the image that exists inside us. We do not say we have found what was lost unless we recognize it. We cannot recognize it unless we remember it. But this thing was lost only to the eyes. Memory held it fast.
Chapter 19. What It is to Remember.
What happens when memory itself loses something? This occurs when we forget and then search to remember. Where do we search except in memory itself? When memory offers us the wrong thing we reject it. We keep rejecting until the right thing appears. When it appears we say"This is it."We would not say this unless we recognized it. We could not recognize it unless we remembered it. We had certainly forgotten it. Perhaps the whole thing had not disappeared. Perhaps memory held onto one part while searching for another part. Memory sensed it was not processing everything it used to process at once. Like something cut off from its usual habit it limped along. It demanded back what was missing. Imagine we see or think of someone we know well. We forget their name and try to find it. Whatever else comes to mind does not connect. These other names were not used to being thought of with this person. So we reject them until the right name appears. Then our familiar knowledge settles equally on both. Where does the right name come from except memory itself? Even when others remind us and we recognize the name it comes from there. We do not believe it as something new. Instead we remember and confirm that this is what was said. But if something is completely erased from the mind we do not remember even when reminded. We have not completely forgotten what we can still remember forgetting. We cannot search for what we have totally forgotten.
Chapter 20. We Should Not Seek for God and the Happy Life Unless We Had Known It.
How then do I seek you, Lord? When I seek you as my God, I seek the blessed life. I will seek you so that my soul may live. My body lives because of my soul. My soul lives because of you. How then do I seek the blessed life? I do not possess it until I can say"It is enough"at the place where I ought to say it. How do I seek it? Do I seek it through memory, as if I had forgotten it but still retain the knowledge that I have forgotten? Or do I seek it through the desire to learn something unknown? Perhaps I never knew it at all. Perhaps I forgot it so completely that I do not even remember having forgotten it. Is not the blessed life itself what everyone wants? There is absolutely no one who does not want it. Where did they come to know it, that they want it so much? Where did they see it, that they came to love it? Somehow we possess it, though I do not know how. There is another way in which each person possesses it. When someone has it in this way, then he is blessed. Some people are blessed in hope. These people possess it in a lesser way than those who are already blessed in reality. Yet they are better off than those who are blessed neither in reality nor in hope. Even these people must possess it in some way. Otherwise they would not want so much to be blessed. That they do want this is absolutely certain. I do not know how they know it. Therefore they possess it in some kind of knowledge. I wonder whether this knowledge exists in memory. If it does exist there, then we were blessed at some time in the past. I do not ask now whether we were blessed individually or in that man who first sinned. In him we all died. From him we were all born in misery. I ask only whether the blessed life exists in memory. We would not love it unless we knew it. We hear this word and we all confess that we desire the thing itself. We are not delighted merely by the sound. When a Greek hears this word in Latin, he is not delighted because he does not know what was said. But we are delighted. He would be delighted too if he heard it in Greek. The thing itself is neither Greek nor Latin. Greeks and Latins and people of other languages all yearn to obtain it. Therefore it is known to everyone. If they could all be asked in one voice whether they want to be blessed, they would answer without any hesitation that they do want it. This would not happen unless the thing itself whose name this is were held in their memory.
Chapter 21. How a Happy Life May Be Retained in the Memory.
Is it like remembering Carthage when someone has seen it? No. The happy life is not seen with the eyes because it is not a physical thing. Is it like remembering numbers? No. When someone possesses numbers in their knowledge, they no longer seek to acquire them. But we have the happy life in our knowledge and therefore love it. Yet we still want to attain it so that we may be happy. Is it like remembering eloquence? No. When people hear this word, they recall the thing itself even if they are not yet eloquent. Many desire to be eloquent. This shows that eloquence exists in their knowledge. However, they noticed other eloquent people through their bodily senses. They were delighted by them and desire to have this quality. Unless they had inner knowledge, they would not be delighted. Unless they were delighted, they would not want this quality. But we experience the happy life in no bodily sense when we observe it in others. Is it like remembering joy? Perhaps so. Even when I am sad, I remember my joy. This is just like how a miserable person remembers the happy life. I never saw my joy with bodily sense. I never heard it or smelled it or tasted it or touched it. But I experienced it in my mind when I rejoiced. Its knowledge stuck to my memory. I can recall it sometimes with disgust and sometimes with longing. This depends on the different things about which I remember being joyful. I was filled with a certain joy over shameful things. Now when I recall this, I detest it and curse it. Sometimes I recall joy over good and honorable things with longing. Perhaps these things are not present now. Therefore I sadly recall my former joy.
Where and when did I experience this happy life that I can remember it and love it and long for it? It's not just me or a few people. We all want to be happy without exception. We could not want this with such certainty unless we knew it with certain knowledge. But consider this. If two people are asked whether they want to be soldiers, one might say yes and the other no. But if they are both asked whether they want to be happy, both will immediately say they want this without any doubt. The one wants to be a soldier for no other reason than to be happy. The other refuses for no other reason than to be happy. Perhaps people find joy in different things. Yet they all agree in wanting to be happy. They would agree just as much if asked whether they want to experience joy. They call this very joy the happy life. Even though one person finds it in one place and another finds it somewhere else, there is still one goal that everyone strives to reach. They want to experience joy. No one can say they have never experienced this thing. Therefore it is found and recognized in memory when the name of the happy life is heard.
Chapter 22. A Happy Life is to Rejoice in God, and for God.
God forbid, Lord, God forbid that your servant who confesses to you should have such thoughts in his heart. God forbid that I should think myself blessed because of any joy I might feel. There is a joy that is not given to the wicked. It is given only to those who worship you freely. For them, you yourself are their joy. This is the blessed life: to find joy in you, from you, because of you. This is it. There is no other. Those who think there is another kind seek a different joy. It is not the true joy. Yet their will does not turn away from some shadow of joy.
Chapter 23. All Wish to Rejoice in the Truth.
It is not certain that everyone wants to be happy. Those who do not want to rejoice in you are not truly seeking the happy life. You alone are true happiness. But do all people want this? The flesh wars against the spirit. The spirit wars against the flesh. They cannot do what they truly want. They settle for what they can manage. They become content with this. They do not want strongly enough the thing they cannot achieve. They do not want it enough to gain the power to achieve it. I ask everyone whether they would rather rejoice in truth than in falsehood. They answer without hesitation that they prefer truth. They answer as quickly as they say they want to be happy. The happy life is joy in truth. This joy comes from you. You are truth itself. You are my God. You are my light and my salvation. You are the health of my countenance. Everyone wants this happy life. Everyone wants this life which alone brings happiness. Everyone wants joy in truth. I have known many who wanted to deceive others. I have never known anyone who wanted to be deceived. Where did they learn about this happy life except where they also learned about truth? They love truth because they do not want to be deceived. When they love the happy life they love joy in truth. Therefore they also love truth itself. They could not love it unless some knowledge of it remained in their memory. Why then do they not rejoice in truth? Why are they not happy? Other things occupy them more powerfully. These things make them miserable rather than happy. They remember happiness only faintly. There is still a little light among people. Let them walk in it. Let them walk before darkness overtakes them.
Why does"truth breed hatred"? Why does your man who proclaims the truth become their enemy? People love the happy life. That life is nothing but joy in truth. Yet they hate truth. This happens because they love truth in a twisted way. Whatever else they love, they want that thing to be the truth. They refuse to be deceived. So they refuse to be convinced that they are wrong. They hate the very truth they claim to love as truth. They love truth when it shines its light. They hate truth when it exposes their faults. They don't want to be deceived, but they do want to deceive others. So they love truth when it reveals itself. They hate truth when it reveals them. Truth will pay them back accordingly. They don't want truth to expose them. So truth will expose them against their will. And truth itself will remain hidden from them. The human mind works exactly the same way. It is blind and sick and ugly and shameful. It wants to stay hidden. But it doesn't want anything to stay hidden from itself. The opposite happens instead. The mind cannot hide from truth. But truth hides from the mind. Even so, while the mind remains wretched, it prefers to rejoice in true things rather than false ones. So it will be blessed when no trouble interferes. Then it will rejoice in truth alone. That truth is the source through which all things are true.
Chapter 24. He Who Finds Truth, Finds God.
Look how far I have journeyed through my memory searching for you, Lord. I have not found you outside of it. I have never discovered anything about you that I had not remembered from when I first learned of you. From the moment I learned of you, I have never forgotten you. Where I found truth, there I found my God who is truth itself. Since I learned this truth, I have never forgotten it. So from the time I learned of you, you remain in my memory. There I find you when I remember you and delight in you. These are my holy joys. You gave them to me through your mercy when you looked upon my poverty.
Chapter 25. He is Glad that God Dwells in His Memory.
But where do You dwell in my memory, Lord? Where do You dwell there? What kind of chamber have You made for Yourself? What kind of sanctuary have You built for Yourself? You have given this honor to my memory that You dwell in it. But I wonder in what part of it You dwell. I have passed beyond those parts that beasts also possess when I was remembering You. I did not find You there among the images of bodily things. I came to those parts where I had stored the emotions of my soul. I did not find You there either. I entered into the very seat of my mind, which belongs to my memory, since the mind also remembers itself. You were not there either. You are not a bodily image. You are not the emotion of a living being, like when we rejoice, grieve, desire, fear, remember, or forget. You are not any such thing. You are not the mind itself. You are the Lord God of the mind. All these things change. But You remain unchangeable above all things. You have been pleased to dwell in my memory from the time I learned of You. Why do I ask in what place of it You dwell, as if there were actual places there? You certainly dwell in it, since I remember You from the time I learned of You. I find You in it when I think of You.
Chapter 26. God Everywhere Answers Those Who Take Counsel of Him.
Where then did I find you so that I could learn of you? You were not already in my memory before I learned of you. Where then did I find you so that I could learn of you, except in you above me? There is no place anywhere. We withdraw and we approach. There is no place anywhere. Truth, you are everywhere. You preside over all who seek your counsel. At the same time you answer all who consult you, even those seeking different things. You answer clearly. But not all hear clearly. All consult you about whatever they wish. But they do not always hear what they wish. Your best servant is one who does not focus more on hearing from you what he himself has wanted. Rather he focuses on wanting what he has heard from you.
Chapter 27. He Grieves that He Was So Long Without God.
Too late I loved you, Beauty so ancient and so new! Too late I loved you! And look—you were within me, and I was outside, and there I searched for you. I rushed deformed into those beautiful things which you had made. You were with me, and I was not with you. Those things held me far from you. If they had not existed in you, they would not have existed at all. You called out. You cried aloud. You broke through my deafness. You flashed with light. You shone brilliantly. You drove away my blindness. You breathed fragrance. I drew breath and now I pant for you. I tasted. Now I hunger and thirst. You touched me. I burned into flame for your peace.
Chapter 28. On the Misery of Human Life.
When I cling to you with my whole being, there will be no pain or struggle for me. My life will be truly alive, completely filled with you. But now, since you lift up those whom you fill, and since I am not filled with you, I am a burden to myself. My joys that should be wept over battle against my sorrows that should bring joy. I do not know which side will win. Alas! Lord, have mercy on me. My evil sorrows fight against my good joys. I do not know which side will win. Alas! Lord, have mercy on me. Alas! Look, I do not hide my wounds. You are the physician. I am sick. You are merciful. I am wretched. Is not human life on earth nothing but trial? Who would choose troubles and hardships? You command us to endure them, not to love them. No one loves what he endures, even if he loves the act of enduring. Even when someone rejoices that he can endure, he would still prefer that there be nothing to endure. In hard times I long for good times. In good times I fear hard times. Where is the middle ground between these extremes where human life is not trial? Woe to the world's good fortune, once and again! It brings fear of adversity and corruption of joy. Woe to the world's misfortunes, once and again and a third time! They bring longing for prosperity. Adversity itself is harsh and threatens to break our endurance. Is not human life on earth trial without any break?
Chapter 29. All Hope is in the Mercy of God.
My entire hope rests in your boundless mercy alone. Give what you command, and command what you will. You order us to practice self-restraint."When I realized,"someone said,"that no one can be continent unless God grants it, this very knowledge showed wisdom—knowing whose gift this was."Through self-restraint we are gathered together and restored to unity from the scattered fragments we became. Anyone who loves something alongside you—something not loved for your sake—loves you less. O love that burns forever and never dies! Charity, my God, set me on fire. You command self-restraint. Give what you command, and command what you will.
Chapter 30. Of the Perverse Images of Dreams, Which He Wishes to Have Taken Away.
You command me to restrain myself from the lust of the flesh. You command me to restrain myself from the lust of the eyes. You command me to restrain myself from worldly ambition. You have forbidden sexual union. Concerning marriage itself, you advised something better than you permitted. Since you gave me the grace, it was accomplished. This happened even before I became a minister of your sacrament. But images of such things still live in my memory. I have spoken much about this memory. My habit fixed these images there. They rush upon me when I am awake, lacking power. In dreams they come not only to the point of pleasure, but even to consent and something very like the act itself. The deception of these images has such power in my soul and flesh. False visions persuade my sleeping self of what they cannot persuade my waking self. Am I not myself then, Lord my God? Yet there is such a difference between myself and myself. This happens within the moment when I pass from here to sleep or return from there to waking. Where then is reason, which resists such suggestions when awake? When actual things press upon the waking mind, reason remains unshaken. Is reason shut up with the eyes? Does it sleep with the bodily senses? Yet often even in dreams we resist. We remember our purpose. We remain most chastely in that purpose. We give no consent to such enticements. Still there is such a difference. When it happens otherwise, we wake and return to peace of conscience. By that very distance we discover we did not do what we nevertheless grieve was somehow done in us.
Are you not able, almighty God, to heal every sickness of my soul and to extinguish the lustful stirrings of my sleep through your more abundant grace? You will increase your gifts in me more and more, Lord. My soul will follow me to you, freed from the snare of desire. It will not rebel against itself. Even in dreams it will not commit those shameful corruptions through bodily images that lead to physical release. It will not even consent to them. To feel no desire for such things, not even the smallest amount that could be restrained by a nod of the will, even in the chaste feelings of one who sleeps—this is no great thing for the Almighty. This applies not only in this life but even at this age. You are able to do far more than we ask or understand. But I have told my good Lord what I still am in this kind of evil. I rejoice with trembling in what you have given me. I mourn in what remains unfinished in me. I hope that you will perfect your mercies in me until that full peace comes. Then my inner and outer being will have that peace with you, when death is swallowed up in victory.
Chapter 31. About to Speak of the Temptations of the Lust of the Flesh, He First Complains of the Lust of Eating and Drinking.
Each day has its own evil, and let that evil be enough for the day. We repair the daily damage to our bodies by eating and drinking. This continues until you destroy both food and stomach. This happens when you end my need with wonderful satisfaction. This happens when you clothe this corruptible body with eternal incorruption. But now necessity tastes sweet to me. I fight against this sweetness so it won't capture me. I wage daily war through fasting. I often bring my body back into slavery. My pains are driven away by pleasure. Hunger and thirst are certain kinds of pain. They burn. Like fever, they kill unless the medicine of food comes to help. This medicine is readily available. It comes from the comfort of your gifts. In these gifts, earth and water and sky serve our weakness. So disaster gets called delight.
You taught me to approach food as I would approach medicine. But as I pass from the discomfort of hunger to the peace of satisfaction, a trap of desire lies waiting for me in that very passage. The passage itself is pleasure. There is no other way to cross over when necessity demands the crossing. Health is the reason for eating and drinking. But dangerous delight attaches itself like a servant. Most of the time it tries to lead the way. It wants to become the reason for what I say I do or want to do for health's sake. The two don't have the same measure. What is enough for health is too little for pleasure. It often becomes unclear whether my body's necessary care is still seeking support or whether the deceitful craving for pleasure is offering its service. My wretched soul rejoices at this uncertainty. In it my soul prepares the defense of an excuse. It is glad that what is enough for healthy moderation doesn't show clearly. This way it can hide the business of pleasure under the pretense of health. I try to resist these temptations every day. I call upon your right hand. I bring my struggles to you. My judgment about this matter is not yet settled.
I hear the voice of my commanding God:"Do not let your hearts be weighed down with excess and drunkenness."Drunkenness is far from me. Have mercy that it never comes near me. But excess sometimes creeps up on your servant. Have mercy that it stays far from me."No one can have self-control unless you give it."You grant us many things when we pray. Whatever good we received before we prayed, we received from you. We received it beforehand so that we might know this later. I was never a drunkard. But I have known drunkards whom you made sober. So it was by you that those who never were such things were not such things. It was by you that those who were such things were not always such things. It was also by you that both groups knew by whom this was done. I heard another voice of yours:"Do not go after your desires and turn away from your will."I heard this too from your gift, which I loved greatly:"If we eat, we will not have more. If we do not eat, we will not lack."This means that neither will that thing make me wealthy nor will that thing make me miserable. I heard yet another:"I have learned to be content in whatever circumstances I am. I know how to have abundance and I know how to suffer want. I can do all things through him who strengthens me."Behold a soldier of the heavenly camp, not dust as we are. But remember, Lord, that we are dust. From dust you made man. He was lost and has been found. Nor could he do this by himself, because he was the same dust. I loved him who spoke such things by the breath of your inspiration:"I can do all things,"he says,"through him who strengthens me."Strengthen me so that I may be able. Give what you command and command what you will. He confesses that he received this."What he boasts of, he boasts of in the Lord."I heard another asking to receive:"Take away from me,"he says,"the desires of the stomach."From this it is clear, my holy God, that you give when what you command to be done is done.
You have taught me, good Father, that all things are clean to the clean. But it is evil for the man who eats with offense. Every creature you made is good. Nothing should be rejected when it is received with thanksgiving. Food does not commend us to God. Let no one judge us in food or drink. Let the one who eats not despise the one who does not eat. Let the one who does not eat not judge the one who eats. I have learned these things. Thanks to you. Praise to you, my God, my teacher, you who strike my ears, you who illuminate my heart. Deliver me from every temptation. I do not fear the uncleanness of food. I fear the uncleanness of desire. I know that Noah was permitted to eat every kind of flesh that was useful for food. Elijah was refreshed by meat. John was gifted with wonderful abstinence. He was not polluted by eating animals—that is, locusts. I know that Esau was deceived by his craving for lentils. David reproached himself for his desire for water. Our King was tempted not by meat but by bread. Therefore the people in the wilderness deserved to be condemned. Not because they desired meat. But because they murmured against the Lord in their desire for food.
I find myself placed in these temptations. I struggle daily against the desire for eating and drinking. This is not something I can cut off once and decide never to touch again, as I was able to do with sexual intercourse. The reins of the throat must be held with measured loosening and tightening. Who is there, Lord, who is not carried somewhat beyond the boundaries of necessity? Whoever that person is, he is great. Let him magnify your name. But I am not such a person, because I am a sinful man. Yet I too magnify your name. He who conquered the world intercedes with you for my sins. He counts me among the weak members of his body, because your eyes saw his unformed substance, and in your book all will be written.
Chapter 32. Of the Charms of Perfumes Which are More Easily Overcome.
I do not worry too much about the allure of scents. When they are absent I do not miss them. When they are present I do not reject them. I am prepared to do without them forever. This is how I see myself. Perhaps I am deceived. These too are shadows to be mourned. In them my own capacity hides from me. My soul questions itself about its own strength. It cannot easily trust itself. What lies within is usually hidden unless experience reveals it. No one should feel secure in this life. This entire life is called temptation. The one who could become better from being worse might also become worse from being better. One hope. One confidence. One firm promise. Your mercy.
Chapter 33. He Overcame the Pleasures of the Ear, Although in the Church He Frequently Delighted in the Song, Not in the Thing Sung.
The pleasures of the ear had entangled and enslaved me more tenaciously than others. But you have released and freed me. Now when the sounds that carry your words are sung with sweet and skillful voice, I confess I find some small rest. Yet I do not cling to them. I can rise up whenever I wish. But these very words that give the sounds their life seek a place of honor in my heart when they come to me. I can barely give them the fitting place they deserve. Sometimes I seem to pay them more honor than is proper. I feel our souls stirred more religiously and ardently into the flame of devotion when the holy words are sung this way rather than when they are not sung this way. All the feelings of our spirit have their own proper modes in voice and song according to their sweet variety. These feelings are awakened by some hidden kinship I cannot explain. But the delight of my flesh often deceives me. The mind must not be given over to this delight to be weakened. My reason does not accompany my senses in such a way that reason patiently takes second place. Instead, because reason deserved to be admitted only on account of the senses, reason tries to run ahead and take the lead. In these matters I sin without realizing it. Afterward I realize it.
Sometimes I avoid this very deception too severely and err through excessive strictness. I strongly wish at times that all the melody of sweet songs that accompany David's Psalter would be removed from my ears and from the Church itself. What I often remember being told about Athanasius, the bishop of Alexandria, seems safer to me. He made the psalm reader sound with such a slight inflection of voice that he was closer to speaking than to singing. Yet I remember my tears. I shed them at the songs of your Church in the early days of my recovered faith. Even now I am moved not by the singing but by the things that are sung when they are sung with a clear voice and most fitting melody. I recognize again the great usefulness of this practice. I waver between the danger of pleasure and the experience of benefit. I am more inclined to approve the custom of singing in the Church, though I do not pronounce an unchangeable judgment. Through the delights of the ears, the weaker soul may rise to an attitude of devotion. However, when it happens that the singing moves me more than the thing being sung, I confess that I sin deserving punishment. Then I would prefer not to hear the singer. This is where I am. Weep with me and weep for me, you who act within yourselves in some good way from which deeds proceed. Those of you who do not act are not moved by these things. But you, Lord my God, hear me. Look and see and have mercy and heal me. In your eyes I have become a question to myself, and this itself is my sickness.
Chapter 34. Of the Very Dangerous Allurements of the Eyes; On Account of Beauty of Form, God, the Creator, is to Be Praised.
There remains the pleasure of these eyes of my flesh. I speak of this in confessions for the ears of your temple to hear. These are brotherly and devout ears. Let us conclude the temptations of fleshly desire that still assault me as I groan and long to be clothed with my dwelling from heaven. Eyes love beautiful and varied forms. They love bright and pleasing colors. These things must not hold my soul captive. Let God hold it captive instead. He made these things. They are indeed very good. But he himself is my good, not these things. They touch me while I am awake throughout entire days. No rest from them is given to me. This is unlike melodious voices, which sometimes give rest from all of them in silence. Light itself is the queen of colors. It floods over everything we see. Wherever I am during the day, it charms me with its many-fold approach while I do other things and pay no attention to it. Light forces itself upon me so powerfully that if it is suddenly taken away, it is sought with longing. If it stays away for long, it saddens the soul.
O light that Tobias saw when he taught his son the way of life with these eyes closed. He walked ahead with the foot of charity and never went astray. Or the light that Isaac saw when his flesh eyes were weighed down and covered with old age. He could not recognize his sons by looking but deserved to recognize them by blessing. Or the light that Jacob saw when he too was blind from great age. He blazed forth in his heart the luminous signs of future peoples in his sons. He laid his hands mystically crossed upon his grandsons through Joseph. He did not correct them as their father would have done outwardly. He placed them as he himself discerned inwardly. This is the light. It is one. All who see and love it are one. But this bodily light I was speaking of seasons the life of this world with alluring and dangerous sweetness for blind lovers. Those who know how to praise you even through this light say"God creator of all things."They take it up in your hymn. They are not consumed by it in their sleep. I want to be like this. I resist the seductions of the eyes so my feet are not entangled as I walk your way. I lift up invisible eyes to you so that you may pluck my feet from the snare. You continually pluck them out because they get ensnared. You never stop plucking them out. But I frequently stick fast in traps scattered everywhere. For he who guards Israel does not sleep or slumber.
How countless are the things that people have added to attract the eyes through various arts and crafts. They make clothing and shoes and vessels and all kinds of manufactured goods. They create paintings and different sculptures. These things go far beyond what is necessary and moderate and what has holy meaning. People follow outwardly what they make. They abandon inwardly the One who made them. They destroy what they were made to be. But you are my God and my glory. Even from this I sing a hymn to you. I offer praise as a sacrifice to the One who receives my sacrifice. Beautiful things pass through souls into the hands of skilled craftsmen. These beautiful things come from that Beauty which is above souls. My soul sighs for that Beauty day and night. But the makers and followers of outward beauties draw from that source their standard for approval. They do not draw from there their standard for proper use. That Beauty is there. They do not see it. They do not see it so that they will not go further. They should keep their strength for you. They should not scatter it in pleasurable exhaustions. I speak these things and make these distinctions. Yet I still entangle my steps with these beautiful things. But you pull me free, Lord. You pull me free because your mercy is before my eyes. I am caught pitifully. You pull me free mercifully. Sometimes I do not feel it because I had fallen in while distracted. Sometimes it comes with pain because I had already become stuck fast.
Chapter 35. Another Kind of Temptation is Curiosity, Which is Stimulated by the Lust of the Eyes.
Another form of temptation comes alongside this one. This form is dangerous in many ways. Beyond the lust of the flesh that dwells in the pleasure of all the senses and desires, there is something else. Those who serve these pleasures perish. They make themselves distant from you. Through these same bodily senses, the soul contains a certain vain and curious craving. This craving does not seek to delight itself in the flesh. Instead it seeks to experiment through the flesh. It disguises itself under the name of knowledge and learning. This craving exists in the appetite for knowing. The eyes hold the chief place among the senses for knowing. Therefore divine speech has called this"the lust of the eyes."Seeing belongs properly to the eyes. But we use this word for the other senses too when we direct them toward knowing. We do not say"Listen to what glows."We do not say"Smell how it shines"or"Taste how it gleams"or"Touch how it flashes."All these things are said to be seen. We say not only"See what gives light"—which only the eyes can perceive. We also say"See what sounds."We say"See what smells"and"See what tastes"and"See how hard it is."Therefore the general experience of all the senses is called the lust of the eyes, as I have said. The eyes hold first place in the function of seeing. The other senses claim this same function for themselves by similarity when they explore some kind of knowledge.
From this we can more clearly distinguish what pleasure seeks through the senses versus what curiosity seeks. Pleasure pursues what is beautiful, melodious, sweet, tasty, and smooth. Curiosity, however, seeks even the opposite of these things for the sake of testing them. It does this not to suffer discomfort, but from a lust to experience and know. What pleasure is there in seeing a mangled corpse that makes you shudder? Yet whenever one lies somewhere, people rush to see it so they may be saddened and turn pale. They even fear seeing such things in their dreams. It's as if someone forced them to look while awake, or as if some report of beauty persuaded them to do so. The same principle applies to the other senses, though it would take too long to pursue each one. From this disease of craving comes the display of every marvel in public spectacles. From this comes the drive to investigate nature's hidden secrets that lie beyond us. Learning these secrets brings no benefit. Men desire nothing else but to know them. From this same source comes the pursuit of knowledge through magic arts for the same perverse purpose. From this same source, even in religion itself, God is put to the test. Signs and wonders are demanded not for any salvation, but desired solely for the experience.
In this vast forest full of traps and dangers, I have cut away many things and driven them from my heart, just as you gave me the power to do, God of my salvation. Yet when do I dare to say this? Our daily life is surrounded by so many things of this kind clamoring around us. When do I dare to claim that nothing like this captures my attention or ensnares me with empty concern? It is true that theaters no longer captivate me. I do not care to know the movements of the stars. My soul has never sought answers from the shadows. I detest all unholy rituals. But you, Lord my God, to whom I owe humble and simple service—with what cunning schemes of suggestion does the enemy work on me to make me seek some sign! I beg you by our King and by Jerusalem, our simple and pure homeland, that just as such consent is far from me, so may it always be far away and farther still. But when I pray to you for someone's salvation, the purpose of my intention is entirely different. You give me the power to follow willingly as you do what you will, and you will continue to give it.
Yet how many tiny and worthless things test our curiosity every day. How often we stumble because of them. Who can count these failures? How many times do we first tolerate people telling us empty stories so we won't offend the weak. Then gradually we start listening with pleasure. I no longer watch a dog chasing a hare when it happens in the circus. But if I'm crossing a field and happen to see this hunt, it might distract me from some important thought. It turns my attention to itself. It doesn't force my body to change direction on my mount. But it bends my heart toward it. Unless you quickly warn me by showing me my weakness, I become foolishly dull. I might rise up to you through some reflection on what I've seen. Or I might despise the whole thing and pass by. But without your help I grow empty and dull. What about when I'm sitting at home? A gecko catching flies often captures my attention. So does a spider entangling prey that rush into its webs. Just because these are small creatures, does that make this a different matter? From there I go on to praise you as the wonderful creator and organizer of all things. But that's not how my focused attention begins. Rising quickly is one thing. Not falling is another. My life is full of such things. My one hope is your great mercy. When our heart becomes a storehouse for these kinds of things, it carries crowds of abundant vanity. This is why our prayers are often interrupted and disturbed. We stand before you trying to direct our heart's voice to your ears. Then meaningless thoughts rush in from nowhere and cut short this great work. Should we consider this too among things to be despised? What will bring us back to hope except your complete mercy? You have already begun to change us.
Chapter 36. A Third Kind is Pride Which is Pleasing to Man, Not to God.
You know how greatly you have changed me. First you healed me from my desire for revenge against myself. Now you are gracious toward all my other sins. You heal all my sicknesses. You redeem my life from corruption. You crown me with compassion and mercy. You satisfy my longing with good things. You have crushed my pride with reverence for you. You have made my stubborn neck gentle under your yoke. Now I bear that yoke. It is easy for me. You promised this would happen and you made it so. This was truly the way things were. I did not know it when I was afraid to submit.
But Lord, you alone rule without pride because you alone are the true Lord who has no master above you. Has this third type of temptation ceased from me? Can it cease in this entire life? I speak of wanting to be feared and loved by people not for any other reason but so that joy might come from it. But this is not true joy. This life is wretched. This boasting is foul. From this comes the greatest failure to love you and to fear you with pure hearts. Therefore you resist the proud. But you give grace to the humble. You thunder over the ambitions of this world. The foundations of the mountains tremble. So the enemy of our true happiness presses against us. He knows that certain duties of human society make it necessary for us to be loved and feared by people. He scatters snares everywhere. He cries"Well done! Well done!"His goal is this: while we eagerly gather these praises we are caught off guard. We set aside our joy in your truth. We place it instead in the deception of men. We take pleasure in being loved and feared not for your sake but in your place. In this way he makes us like himself. He has us join him not in the harmony of love but in sharing his punishment. He decided to place his throne in the north. He wants those who imitate you by a twisted and perverted path to serve him in darkness and cold. But we are your little flock, Lord. Take possession of us. Spread your wings. Let us flee under them. Be our glory. Let us be loved for your sake. Let your word be feared in us. The one who wants to be praised by people while you condemn him will not be defended by people when you judge him. He will not be rescued when you damn him. Sometimes a person is not praised as a sinner is praised for his soul's desires. He is not blessed as one who does wicked things is blessed. Instead a person is praised for some gift you have given him. But he rejoices more in being praised than in having the gift for which he is praised. Even this person is praised while you condemn him. The one who gave the praise is now better than the one who received it. The first person was pleased with God's gift in that man. The second person was more pleased with man's gift than with God's.
Chapter 37. He is Forcibly Goaded on by the Love of Praise.
We face these temptations every day, Lord. We are tempted without end. Our daily furnace is the human tongue. You command us to practice restraint in this area too. Give what you command, and command what you will. You know the groaning of my heart about this matter. You know the rivers of my tears. I cannot easily tell how much cleaner I am from this plague. I greatly fear my hidden sins. Your eyes know them, but mine do not. In other kinds of temptations, I have some ability to examine myself. In this one, I have almost none. I can see how much progress I have made in restraining my mind from bodily pleasures and from pointless curiosity about knowledge. This happens when I lack these things, either by choice or when they are absent. Then I ask myself how much more or less it bothers me not to have them. As for riches, they are sought to serve one or two or all three of these desires. If the soul cannot tell whether it despises them when it has them, then riches can be given away as a test. But can we do without praise and test ourselves in this way? Would we have to live badly? Would we have to live so wickedly and monstrously that everyone who knows us detests us? What greater madness could be spoken or imagined? Good living and good works should be accompanied by praise. They usually are, and they ought to be. We should not abandon praise any more than we should abandon the good life itself. But I do not know whether I can be without praise calmly or with difficulty. I only know when it is absent.
What shall I confess to you about this kind of temptation, Lord? What else but that I take pleasure in praise? Yet I value truth itself more than praise. If I were given a choice between being mad and wrong about everything while praised by everyone, or being steady and completely certain of truth while criticized by everyone, I can see what I would choose. But I still wish that another person's approval would not increase my joy in any good thing I possess. Yet it does increase it, I admit. Not only that, but criticism diminishes it. When this misery of mine troubles me, an excuse creeps into my mind. You know what kind of excuse it is, God. It makes me uncertain about myself. You have commanded us not only continence—that is, restraining our love from certain things—but also justice—that is, directing our love to the right place. You have willed that we love not only you but also our neighbor. Often I seem to take pleasure in my neighbor's progress or hope when I delight in praise from someone who understands well. And again I am saddened by his harm when I hear him criticized for something he either doesn't understand or something that is actually good. I am also sometimes saddened by my own praise. This happens when things are praised in me that I myself dislike about myself. It also happens when good but lesser and trivial things are valued more highly than they should be valued. But again, how do I know whether I feel this way because I don't want my praiser to disagree with my own judgment? Perhaps I am not moved by concern for his benefit. Perhaps the same good things that please me about myself simply become more delightful to me when they also please someone else. In a way I am not really being praised when my own opinion about myself is not being praised. This is true since either things are praised that displease me, or things are praised more highly that please me less. Am I therefore uncertain about myself in this matter?
Look! In you, Truth, I see that I should be moved by praise not for my own sake but for my neighbor's benefit. Whether I truly am this way, I do not know. I know myself less in this matter than you do. I beg you, my God, reveal myself to me. Let me confess to my brothers who pray for me whatever wound I discover in myself. Let me question myself again more carefully. If I am moved by praise for my neighbor's benefit, why am I less moved when someone else is unjustly criticized than when I am? Why does insult sting me more when it is hurled at me than when it is thrown at another with the same wickedness before my eyes? Do I not know this either? Does it remain that I deceive myself and do not act truthfully before you in my heart and tongue? Keep this madness far from me, Lord. Let not my mouth be the oil of the sinner to fatten my head. I am needy and poor. I am better in hidden groaning, displeasing to myself and seeking your mercy. Grant this until my deficiency is restored and completed in that peace which the eye of the proud does not know.
Chapter 38. Vain-Glory is the Highest Danger.
Words that come from our mouth and deeds that become known to others carry the most dangerous temptation from the love of praise. This love gathers borrowed approval for some kind of private excellence. This temptation persists even when I accuse myself of it within my own heart. It persists by the very fact that I am making the accusation. Often a person boasts more emptily about despising vain glory than about vain glory itself. Therefore he is no longer boasting about despising glory. He does not actually despise glory when he boasts about it.
Chapter 39. Of the Vice of Those Who, While Pleasing Themselves, Displease God.
Deep within lies another evil of this same kind of temptation. People become puffed up with pride when they please themselves. They may not please others or may even displease them. They may not even try to please others. But those who are pleased with themselves greatly displease you. They are not only pleased with bad things as if they were good. They are also pleased with your good gifts as if these gifts were their own. Or they act as if your gifts belong to you but came to them through their own merit. Or even if they acknowledge your gifts come from your grace, they do not rejoice together with others. Instead they envy others who have received the same grace. In all these dangers and struggles of this kind, you see how my heart trembles. But I feel that you heal my wounds again and again more than you spare me from receiving them.
Chapter 40. The Only Safe Resting-Place for the Soul is to Be Found in God.
Where have you not walked with me, Truth, teaching me what to avoid and what to seek? I brought my lower visions to you as I was able. I consulted you. I surveyed the outer world through whatever senses I could. I observed the life of my body and my senses themselves. Then I entered the hidden chambers of my memory. I found vast spaces filled in wondrous ways with countless treasures. I considered this and trembled. I could distinguish none of these things without you. Yet I found that none of them were you. Nor was I myself the discoverer who explored all these things. I tried to separate each thing and weigh it according to its worth. I received some reports through my senses. I questioned others that I felt mixed within me. I recognized and counted the messengers themselves. In memory's vast treasures I handled some things. I stored away others. I drew out still others. When I did these things, neither I myself was you, nor was the power by which I acted. You are the abiding light whom I consulted about all things. I asked whether they existed, what they were, how much they should be valued. I heard you teaching and commanding. I do this often. It delights me. Whenever I can find relief from necessary duties, I flee to this pleasure. Yet in all these things that I explore while consulting you, I find no safe place for my soul except in you. Only there can my scattered parts be gathered together. Nothing of me departs from you. Sometimes you lead me into a deeply unusual feeling within. It moves toward some sweetness I cannot name. If this were perfected in me, I do not know what it would be. But it would not be this present life. Yet I fall back into these troubles under grievous weights. I am swallowed up again by familiar things. I am held fast. I weep much, but I am held fast nonetheless. The burden of habit weighs me down so heavily! Here I am able to be, but I do not wish it. There I wish to be, but I cannot. I am wretched in both places.
Chapter 41. Having Conquered His Triple Desire, He Arrives at Salvation.
I examined the sickness of my sins in their threefold desire. I called upon your right hand to save me. I saw your splendor with a wounded heart. I was struck back and said:"Who can reach that place? I am cast away from the sight of your eyes."You are Truth ruling over all things. But in my greed I did not want to lose you. Instead I wanted to possess falsehood alongside you. No one wants to speak so falsely that he himself does not know what is true. Therefore I lost you. You refuse to be possessed together with lies.
Chapter 42. In What Manner Many Sought the Mediator.
How could I find someone to reconcile me with you? Should I have sought help from angels? What prayer would work? What sacred rituals? Many people have tried to return to you but lacked the strength to do it themselves. From what I hear, they attempted these methods and fell into a craving for strange visions. They were deemed worthy of deceptions. In their arrogance, they sought you through prideful learning. They puffed out their chests rather than beating them in humility. Through their heart's likeness, they drew to themselves conspirators and allies of their pride. These were the powers of this air. Through magical forces, these powers deceived them as they searched for a mediator to purify them. But there was none. The devil was transforming himself into an angel of light. He greatly enticed their proud flesh because he himself had no fleshly body. Those seekers were mortal and sinful. But you, Lord, with whom they proudly sought reconciliation, are immortal and without sin. The mediator between God and humans needed to have something like God and something like humans. If he were like humans in both ways, he would be far from God. If he were like God in both ways, he would be far from humans. Then he would not be a mediator at all. That deceptive mediator deserved to be mocked through your secret judgments because of his pride. He has one thing in common with humans: sin. He wants to appear to have something in common with God. Since he is not covered by mortal flesh, he presents himself as immortal. But since the wages of sin is death, he shares this fate with humans. Therefore he will be condemned to death along with them.
Chapter 43. That Jesus Christ, at the Same Time God and Man, is the True and Most Efficacious Mediator.
But the true mediator whom your secret mercy revealed to the humble and sent so that they might learn humility from his example—that mediator between God and men, the man Christ Jesus—appeared among mortal sinners and the immortal just one. He was mortal with men. He was just with God. Since the wages of righteousness are life and peace, he would through righteousness joined to God destroy the death of the justified ungodly. This death he chose to share with them. For this reason he was revealed to the ancient saints. They were saved through faith in his future suffering, just as we are saved through faith in his past suffering. As man, he is mediator to that degree. But as the Word, he is not between, because he is equal to God and is God with God. Together they are one God.
How you have loved us, good Father, who did not spare your only Son but handed him over for us sinners! How you have loved us, for whom he did not consider equality with you something to be grasped. Instead he became obedient to the point of death on a cross. He alone among the dead was free. He had power to lay down his life. He had power to take it up again. For us he was both victor and victim before you. He was victor because he was victim. For us he was both priest and sacrifice before you. He was priest because he was sacrifice. By being born from you and by serving us, he made us your children instead of slaves. My hope in him is well-founded. He will heal all my sicknesses. He sits at your right hand and intercedes for us. Without this I would despair. My sicknesses are many and great. They are many and great indeed. But your medicine is greater still. We might have thought your Word was too distant from human nature. We might have despaired of ourselves. But the Word became flesh and dwelt among us.
Terror seized me because of my sins and the crushing weight of my wretchedness. My heart was troubled and I had planned to flee into solitude. But you prevented me and strengthened me. You said to me:"For this reason Christ died for all, so that those who live should no longer live for themselves but for him who died for them."Look, Lord, I cast my care upon you so that I may live. I will"consider the wonders of your law."You know my ignorance and my weakness. Teach me and heal me. Your Only Son"in whom are hidden all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge"has redeemed me with his blood. Let not the proud slander me. I think about my price. I eat and drink and give freely. Though poor, I desire to be filled by him among those who"eat and are satisfied"and"praise God who seek him."Here, where Augustine breaks off his narrative of his past life, it will be useful to add what he answered to heretics who tried to undermine his authority in defending the faith because of what he had done before becoming a believer. These were mainly the Donatists. He gave them this excellent response before the people:"So let them speak against us whatever they want. We will love them even when they refuse our love. We know their tongues, brothers. We know them well. We are not angry with them because of these tongues. Bear with us patiently. They see that they have nothing in their cause. They turn their tongues against us. They begin to say evil things about us. Many things they know. Many things they do not know. What they know are our past deeds. We were once, as the Apostle says, 'foolish and unbelieving and worthless for every good work.' We were foolish and mad in perverse error. We do not deny this. The more we do not deny our past, the more we praise God who has forgiven us. Why then, heretic, do you abandon your cause and attack the man? What am I? What am I? Am I the Catholic Church? Am I the inheritance of Christ spread among the nations? It is enough for me to be in it. You criticize my past evils. What great thing are you doing? I am more severe toward my evils than you are. What you have criticized, I have condemned. I wish you would want to imitate this so that your error too might become past. These are the past evils that they know, especially in this city. Here we lived badly, which I confess. As much as I rejoice in God's grace, what should I say about my past deeds? Should I say I grieve? I would grieve if I were still in them. But what should I say? Should I say I rejoice? I cannot say this either. I wish I had never been that way. Whatever I was, it is past in Christ's name. But what they now criticize, they do not know. There are things in me they could still criticize. But it would be much for them to know these things. I do many things in my thoughts, fighting against my evil suggestions. I have a long and almost continuous struggle with the temptations of the enemy who wants to overthrow me. I groan to God in my weakness. He knows what my heart brings forth, he who knows my labor. 'But to me it is a very small thing that I should be judged by you or by any human court,' says the Apostle. 'I do not even judge myself.' I know myself better than they do, but God knows me better than I do. Therefore let them not boast against us. Let Christ not allow it. They say: 'Who are they and where are they from? We knew these evil men here. Where were they baptized?' If they know us well, they know that we once sailed. They know that we traveled as pilgrims. They know that we went out as some people and returned as others. We were not baptized here. But where we were baptized, the Church is known to the whole world. Many of our brothers know that we were baptized and were baptized with us. It is easy to know this if any of the brothers is concerned about it."