The Learning Curve/The Learning Curve (Weird Science, 1996).iso/religion/augustine/book10

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     BOOK X

     Let me know Thee, O Lord, who knowest me: let me know Thee, as I
   am known. Power of my soul, enter into it, and fit it for Thee, that
   Thou mayest have and hold it without spot or wrinkle. This is my hope,
   therefore do I speak; and in this hope do I rejoice, when I rejoice
   healthfully. Other things of this life are the less to be sorrowed
   for, the more they are sorrowed for; and the more to be sorrowed
   for, the less men sorrow for them. For behold, Thou lovest the
   truth, and he that doth it, cometh to the light. This would I do in my
   heart before Thee in confession: and in my writing, before many
   witnesses.
     And from Thee, O Lord, unto whose eyes the abyss of man's conscience
   is naked, what could be hidden in me though I would not confess it?
   For I should hide Thee from me, not me from Thee. But now, for that my
   groaning is witness, that I am displeased with myself, Thou shinest
   out, and art pleasing, and beloved, and longed for; that I may be
   ashamed of myself, and renounce myself, and choose Thee, and neither
   please Thee nor myself, but in Thee. To Thee therefore, O Lord, am I
   open, whatever I am; and with what fruit I confess unto Thee, I have
   said. Nor do I it with words and sounds of the flesh, but with the
   words of my soul, and the cry of the thought which Thy ear knoweth.
   For when I am evil, then to confess to Thee is nothing else than to be
   displeased with myself; but when holy, nothing else than not to
   ascribe it to myself: because Thou, O Lord, blessest the godly, but
   first Thou justifieth him when ungodly. My confession then, O my
   God, in Thy sight, is made silently, and not silently. For in sound,
   it is silent; in affection, it cries aloud. For neither do I utter any
   thing right unto men, which Thou hast not before heard from me; nor
   dost Thou hear any such thing from me, which Thou hast not first
   said unto me.
     What then have I to do with men, that they should hear my
   confessions- as if they could heal all my infirmities- a race, curious
   to know the lives of others, slothful to amend their own? Why seek
   they to hear from me what I am; who will not hear from Thee what
   themselves are? And how know they, when from myself they hear of
   myself, whether I say true; seeing no man knows what is in man, but
   the spirit of man which is in him? But if they hear from Thee of
   themselves, they cannot say, "The Lord lieth." For what is it to
   hear from Thee of themselves, but to know themselves? and who
   knoweth and saith, "It is false," unless himself lieth? But because
   charity believeth all things (that is, among those whom knitting
   unto itself it maketh one), I also, O Lord, will in such wise
   confess unto Thee, that men may hear, to whom I cannot demonstrate
   whether I confess truly; yet they believe me, whose ears charity
   openeth unto me.
     But do Thou, my inmost Physician, make plain unto me what fruit I
   may reap by doing it. For the confessions of my past sins, which
   Thou hast forgiven and covered, that Thou mightest bless me in Thee,
   changing my soul by Faith and Thy Sacrament, when read and heard, stir
   up the heart, that it sleep not in despair and say "I cannot," but
   awake in the love of Thy mercy and the sweetness of Thy grace, whereby
   whoso is weak, is strong, when by it he became conscious of his own
   weakness. And the good delight to hear of the past evils of such as
   are now freed from them, not because they are evils, but because
   they have been and are not. With what fruit then, O Lord my God, to
   Whom my conscience daily confesseth, trusting more in the hope of
   Thy mercy than in her own innocency, with what fruit, I pray, do I
   by this book confess to men also in Thy presence what I now am, not
   what I have been? For that other fruit I have seen and spoken of.
   But what I now am, at the very time of making these confessions,
   divers desire to know, who have or have not known me, who have heard
   from me or of me; but their ear is not at my heart where I am,
   whatever I am. They wish then to hear me confess what I am within;
   whither neither their eye, nor ear, nor understanding can reach;
   they wish it, as ready to believe- but will they know? For charity,
   whereby they are good, telleth them that in my confessions I lie
   not; and she in them, believeth me.
     But for what fruit would they hear this? Do they desire to joy
   with me, when they hear how near, by Thy gift, I approach unto Thee?
   and to pray for me, when they shall hear how much I am held back by my
   own weight? To such will I discover myself For it is no mean fruit,
   O Lord my God, that by many thanks should be given to Thee on our
   behalf, and Thou be by many entreated for us. Let the brotherly mind
   love in me what Thou teachest is to be loved, and lament in me what
   Thou teachest is to be lamented. Let a brotherly, not a stranger,
   mind, not that of the strange children, whose mouth talketh of vanity,
   and their right hand is a right hand of iniquity, but that brotherly
   mind which when it approveth, rejoiceth for me, and when it
   disapproveth me, is sorry for me; because whether it approveth or
   disapproveth, it loveth me. To such will I discover myself: they
   will breathe freely at my good deeds, sigh for my ill. My good deeds
   are Thine appointments, and Thy gifts; my evil ones are my offences,
   and Thy judgments. Let them breathe freely at the one, sigh at the
   other; and let hymns and weeping go up into Thy sight, out of the
   hearts of my brethren, Thy censers. And do Thou, O Lord, he pleased
   with the incense of Thy holy temple, have mercy upon me according to
   Thy great mercy for Thine own name's sake; and no ways forsaking
   what Thou hast begun, perfect my imperfections.
     This is the fruit of my confessions of what I am, not of what I have
   been, to confess this, not before Thee only, in a secret exultation
   with trembling, and a secret sorrow with hope; but in the ears also of
   the believing sons of men, sharers of my joy, and partners in my
   mortality, my fellow-citizens, and fellow-pilgrims, who are gone
   before, or are to follow on, companions of my way. These are Thy
   servants, my brethren, whom Thou willest to be Thy sons; my masters,
   whom Thou commandest me to serve, if I would live with Thee, of
   Thee. But this Thy Word were little did it only command by speaking,
   and not go before in performing. This then I do in deed and word, this
   I do under Thy wings; in over great peril, were not my soul subdued
   unto Thee under Thy wings, and my infirmity known unto Thee. I am a
   little one, but my Father ever liveth, and my Guardian is sufficient
   for me. For He is the same who begat me, and defends me: and Thou
   Thyself art all my good; Thou, Almighty, Who are with me, yea,
   before I am with Thee. To such then whom Thou commandest me to serve
   will I discover, not what I have been, but what I now am and what I
   yet am. But neither do I judge myself. Thus therefore I would be
   heard.
     For Thou, Lord, dost judge me: because, although no man knoweth
   the things of a man, but the spirit of a man which is in him, yet is
   there something of man, which neither the spirit of man that is in
   him, itself knoweth. But Thou, Lord, knowest all of him, Who hast made
   him. Yet I, though in Thy sight I despise myself, and account myself
   dust and ashes; yet know I something of Thee, which I know not of
   myself. And truly, now we see through a glass darkly, not face to face
   as yet. So long therefore as I be absent from Thee, I am more
   present with myself than with Thee; and yet know I Thee that Thou
   art in no ways passible; but I, what temptations I can resist, what
   I cannot, I know not. And there is hope, because Thou art faithful,
   Who wilt not suffer us to be tempted above that we are able; but
   wilt with the temptation also make a way to escape, that we may be
   able to bear it. I will confess then what I know of myself, I will
   confess also what I know not of myself. And that because what I do
   know of myself, I know by Thy shining upon me; and what I know not
   of myself, so long know I not it, until my darkness be made as the
   noon-day in Thy countenance.
     Not with doubting, but with assured consciousness, do I love Thee,
   Lord. Thou hast stricken my heart with Thy word, and I loved Thee. Yea
   also heaven, and earth, and all that therein is, behold, on every side
   they bid me love Thee; nor cease to say so unto all, that they may
   be without excuse. But more deeply wilt Thou have mercy on whom Thou
   wilt have mercy, and wilt have compassion on whom Thou hast had
   compassion: else in deaf ears do the heaven and the earth speak Thy
   praises. But what do I love, when I love Thee? not beauty of bodies,
   nor the fair harmony of time, nor the brightness of the light, so
   gladsome to our eyes, nor sweet melodies of varied songs, nor the
   fragrant smell of flowers, and ointments, and spices, not manna and
   honey, not limbs acceptable to embracements of flesh. None of these
   I love, when I love my God; and yet I love a kind of light, and
   melody, and fragrance, and meat, and embracement when I love my God,
   the light, melody, fragrance, meat, embracement of my inner man: where
   there shineth unto my soul what space cannot contain, and there
   soundeth what time beareth not away, and there smelleth what breathing
   disperseth not, and there tasteth what eating diminisheth not, and
   there clingeth what satiety divorceth not. This is it which I love
   when I love my God.
     And what is this? I asked the earth, and it answered me, "I am not
   He"; and whatsoever are in it confessed the same. I asked the sea
   and the deeps, and the living creeping things, and they answered,
   "We are not thy God, seek above us." I asked the moving air; and the
   whole air with his inhabitants answered, "Anaximenes was deceived, I
   am not God. " I asked the heavens, sun, moon, stars, "Nor (say they)
   are we the God whom thou seekest." And I replied unto all the things
   which encompass the door of my flesh: "Ye have told me of my God, that
   ye are not He; tell me something of Him." And they cried out with a
   loud voice, "He made us. " My questioning them, was my thoughts on
   them: and their form of beauty gave the answer. And I turned myself
   unto myself, and said to myself, "Who art thou?" And I answered, "A
   man." And behold, in me there present themselves to me soul, and body,
   one without, the other within. By which of these ought I to seek my
   God? I had sought Him in the body from earth to heaven, so far as I
   could send messengers, the beams of mine eyes. But the better is the
   inner, for to it as presiding and judging, all the bodily messengers
   reported the answers of heaven and earth, and all things therein,
   who said, "We are not God, but He made us." These things did my
   inner man know by the ministry of the outer: I the inner knew them; I,
   the mind, through the senses of my body. I asked the whole frame of
   the world about my God; and it answered me, "I am not He, but He
   made me.
     Is not this corporeal figure apparent to all whose senses are
   perfect? why then speaks it not the same to all? Animals small and
   great see it, but they cannot ask it: because no reason is set over
   their senses to judge on what they report. But men can ask, so that
   the invisible things of God are clearly seen, being understood by
   the things that are made; but by love of them, they are made subject
   unto them: and subjects cannot judge. Nor yet do the creatures
   answer such as ask, unless they can judge; nor yet do they change
   their voice (i.e., their appearance), if one man only sees, another
   seeing asks, so as to appear one way to this man, another way to that,
   but appearing the same way to both, it is dumb to this, speaks to
   that; yea rather it speaks to all; but they only understand, who
   compare its voice received from without, with the truth within. For
   truth saith unto me, "Neither heaven, nor earth, nor any other body is
   thy God." This, their very nature saith to him that seeth them:
   "They are a mass; a mass is less in a part thereof than in the whole."
   Now to thee I speak, O my soul, thou art my better part: for thou
   quickenest the mass of my body, giving it life, which no body can give
   to a body: but thy God is even unto thee the Life of thy life.
     What then do I love, when I love my God? who is He above the head of
   my soul? By my very soul will I ascend to Him. I will pass beyond that
   power whereby I am united to my body, and fill its whole frame with
   life. Nor can I by that power find my God; for so horse and mule
   that have no understanding might find Him; seeing it is the same
   power, whereby even their bodies live. But another power there is, not
   that only whereby I animate, but that too whereby I imbue with sense
   my flesh, which the Lord hath framed for me: commanding the eye not to
   hear, and the ear not to see; but the eye, that through it I should
   see, and the ear, that through it I should hear; and to the other
   senses severally, what is to each their own peculiar seats and
   offices; which, being divers, I the one mind, do through them enact. I
   will pass beyond this power of mine also; for this also have the
   horse, and mule, for they also perceive through the body.
     I will pass then beyond this power of my nature also, rising by
   degrees unto Him Who made me. And I come to the fields and spacious
   palaces of my memory, where are the treasures of innumerable images,
   brought into it from things of all sorts perceived by the senses.
   There is stored up, whatsoever besides we think, either by enlarging
   or diminishing, or any other way varying those things which the
   sense hath come to; and whatever else hath been committed and laid up,
   which forgetfulness hath not yet swallowed up and buried. When I enter
   there, I require what I will to be brought forth, and something
   instantly comes; others must be longer sought after, which are
   fetched, as it were, out of some inner receptacle; others rush out
   in troops, and while one thing is desired and required, they start
   forth, as who should say, "Is it perchance I?" These I drive away with
   the hand of my heart, from the face of my remembrance; until what I
   wish for be unveiled, and appear in sight, out of its secret place.
   Other things come up readily, in unbroken order, as they are called
   for; those in front making way for the following; and as they make
   way, they are hidden from sight, ready to come when I will. All
   which takes place when I repeat a thing by heart.
     There are all things preserved distinctly and under general heads,
   each having entered by its own avenue: as light, and all colours and
   forms of bodies by the eyes; by the ears all sorts of sounds; all
   smells by the avenue of the nostrils; all tastes by the mouth; and
   by the sensation of the whole body, what is hard or soft; hot or cold;
   or rugged; heavy or light; either outwardly or inwardly to the body.
   All these doth that great harbour of the memory receive in her
   numberless secret and inexpressible windings, to be forthcoming, and
   brought out at need; each entering in by his own gate, and there
   laid up. Nor yet do the things themselves enter in; only the images of
   the things perceived are there in readiness, for thought to recall.
   Which images, how they are formed, who can tell, though it doth
   plainly appear by which sense each hath been brought in and stored up?
   For even while I dwell in darkness and silence, in my memory I can
   produce colours, if I will, and discern betwixt black and white, and
   what others I will: nor yet do sounds break in and disturb the image
   drawn in by my eyes, which I am reviewing, though they also are there,
   lying dormant, and laid up, as it were, apart. For these too I call
   for, and forthwith they appear. And though my tongue be still, and
   my throat mute, so can I sing as much as I will; nor do those images
   of colours, which notwithstanding be there, intrude themselves and
   interrupt, when another store is called for, which flowed in by the
   ears. So the other things, piled in and up by the other senses, I
   recall at my pleasure. Yea, I discern the breath of lilies from
   violets, though smelling nothing; and I prefer honey to sweet wine,
   smooth before rugged, at the time neither tasting nor handling, but
   remembering only.
     These things do I within, in that vast court of my memory. For there
   are present with me, heaven, earth, sea, and whatever I could think on
   therein, besides what I have forgotten. There also meet I with myself,
   and recall myself, and when, where, and what I have done, and under
   what feelings. There be all which I remember, either on my own
   experience, or other's credit. Out of the same store do I myself
   with the past continually combine fresh and fresh likenesses of things
   which I have experienced, or, from what I have experienced, have
   believed: and thence again infer future actions, events and hopes, and
   all these again I reflect on, as present. "I will do this or that,"
   say I to myself, in that great receptacle of my mind, stored with
   the images of things so many and so great, "and this or that will
   follow." "O that this or that might be!" "God avert this or that!"
   So speak I to myself: and when I speak, the images of all I speak of
   are present, out of the same treasury of memory; nor would I speak
   of any thereof, were the images wanting.
     Great is this force of memory, excessive great, O my God; a large
   and boundless chamber! who ever sounded the bottom thereof? yet is
   this a power of mine, and belongs unto my nature; nor do I myself
   comprehend all that I am. Therefore is the mind too strait to
   contain itself. And where should that be, which it containeth not of
   itself? Is it without it, and not within? how then doth it not
   comprehend itself? A wonderful admiration surprises me, amazement
   seizes me upon this. And men go abroad to admire the heights of
   mountains, the mighty billows of the sea, the broad tides of rivers,
   the compass of the ocean, and the circuits of the stars, and pass
   themselves by; nor wonder that when I spake of all these things, I did
   not see them with mine eyes, yet could not have spoken of them, unless
   I then actually saw the mountains, billows, rivers, stars which I
   had seen, and that ocean which I believe to be, inwardly in my memory,
   and that, with the same vast spaces between, as if I saw them
   abroad. Yet did not I by seeing draw them into myself, when with
   mine eyes I beheld them; nor are they themselves with me, but their
   images only. And I know by what sense of the body each was impressed
   upon me.
     Yet not these alone does the unmeasurable capacity of my memory
   retain. Here also is all, learnt of the liberal sciences and as yet
   unforgotten; removed as it were to some inner place, which is yet no
   place: nor are they the images thereof, but the things themselves.
   For, what is literature, what the art of disputing, how many kinds
   of questions there be, whatsoever of these I know, in such manner
   exists in my memory, as that I have not taken in the image, and left
   out the thing, or that it should have sounded and passed away like a
   voice fixed on the ear by that impress, whereby it might be
   recalled, as if it sounded, when it no longer sounded; or as a smell
   while it passes and evaporates into air affects the sense of smell,
   whence it conveys into the memory an image of itself, which
   remembering, we renew, or as meat, which verily in the belly hath
   now no taste, and yet in the memory still in a manner tasteth; or as
   any thing which the body by touch perceiveth, and which when removed
   from us, the memory still conceives. For those things are not
   transmitted into the memory, but their images only are with an
   admirable swiftness caught up, and stored as it were in wondrous
   cabinets, and thence wonderfully by the act of remembering, brought
   forth.
     But now when I hear that there be three kinds of questions, "Whether
   the thing be? what it is? of what kind it is? I do indeed hold the
   images of the sounds of which those words be composed, and that
   those sounds, with a noise passed through the air, and now are not.
   But the things themselves which are signified by those sounds, I never
   reached with any sense of my body, nor ever discerned them otherwise
   than in my mind; yet in my memory have I laid up not their images, but
   themselves. Which how they entered into me, let them say if they
   can; for I have gone over all the avenues of my flesh, but cannot find
   by which they entered. For the eyes say, "If those images were
   coloured, we reported of them." The ears say, "If they sound, we
   gave knowledge of them." The nostrils say, "If they smell, they passed
   by us." The taste says, "Unless they have a savour, ask me not." The
   touch says, "If it have not size, I handled it not; if I handled it
   not, I gave no notice of it." Whence and how entered these things into
   my memory? I know not how. For when I learned them, I gave not
   credit to another man's mind, but recognised them in mine; and
   approving them for true, I commended them to it, laying them up as
   it were, whence I might bring them forth when I willed. In my heart
   then they were, even before I learned them, but in my memory they were
   not. Where then? or wherefore, when they were spoken, did I
   acknowledge them, and said, "So is it, it is true," unless that they
   were already in the memory, but so thrown back and buried as it were
   in deeper recesses, that had not the suggestion of another drawn
   them forth I had perchance been unable to conceive of them?
     Wherefore we find, that to learn these things whereof we imbibe
   nor the images by our senses, but perceive within by themselves,
   without images, as they are, is nothing else, but by conception, to
   receive, and by marking to take heed that those things which the
   memory did before contain at random and unarranged, be laid up at hand
   as it were in that same memory where before they lay unknown,
   scattered and neglected, and so readily occur to the mind familiarised
   to them. And how many things of this kind does my memory bear which
   have been already found out, and as I said, placed as it were at hand,
   which we are said to have learned and come to know which were I for
   some short space of time to cease to call to mind, they are again so
   buried, and glide back, as it were, into the deeper recesses, that
   they must again, as if new, he thought out thence, for other abode
   they have none: but they must be drawn together again, that they may
   be known; that is to say, they must as it were be collected together
   from their dispersion: whence the word "cogitation" is derived. For
   cogo (collect) and cogito (re-collect) have the same relation to
   each other as ago and agito, facio and factito. But the mind hath
   appropriated to itself this word (cogitation), so that, not what is
   "collected" any how, but what is "recollected," i.e., brought
   together, in the mind, is properly said to be cogitated, or thought
   upon.
     The memory containeth also reasons and laws innumerable of numbers
   and dimensions, none of which hath any bodily sense impressed;
   seeing they have neither colour, nor sound, nor taste, nor smell,
   nor touch. I have heard the sound of the words whereby when
   discussed they are denoted: but the sounds are other than the
   things. For the sounds are other in Greek than in Latin; but the
   things are neither Greek, nor Latin, nor any other language. I have
   seen the lines of architects, the very finest, like a spider's thread;
   but those are still different, they are not the images of those
   lines which the eye of flesh showed me: he knoweth them, whosoever
   without any conception whatsoever of a body, recognises them within
   himself. I have perceived also the numbers of the things with which we
   number all the senses of my body; but those numbers wherewith we
   number are different, nor are they the images of these, and
   therefore they indeed are. Let him who seeth them not, deride me for
   saying these things, and I will pity him, while he derides me.
     All these things I remember, and how I learnt them I remember.
   Many things also most falsely objected against them have I heard,
   and remember; which though they be false, yet is it not false that I
   remember them; and I remember also that I have discerned betwixt those
   truths and these falsehoods objected to them. And I perceive that
   the present discerning of these things is different from remembering
   that I oftentimes discerned them, when I often thought upon them. I
   both remember then to have often understood these things; and what I
   now discern and understand, I lay up in my memory, that hereafter I
   may remember that I understand it now. So then I remember also to have
   remembered; as if hereafter I shall call to remembrance, that I have
   now been able to remember these things, by the force of memory shall I
   call it to remembrance.
     The same memory contains also the affections of my mind, not in
   the same manner that my mind itself contains them, when it feels them;
   but far otherwise, according to a power of its own. For without
   rejoicing I remember myself to have joyed; and without sorrow do I
   recollect my past sorrow. And that I once feared, I review without
   fear; and without desire call to mind a past desire. Sometimes, on the
   contrary, with joy do I remember my fore-past sorrow, and with sorrow,
   joy. Which is not wonderful, as to the body; for mind is one thing,
   body another. If I therefore with joy remember some past pain of body,
   it is not so wonderful. But now seeing this very memory itself is mind
   (for when we give a thing in charge, to be kept in memory, we say,
   "See that you keep it in mind"; and when we forget, we say, "It did
   not come to my mind," and, "It slipped out of my mind," calling the
   memory itself the mind); this being so, how is it that when with joy I
   remember my past sorrow, the mind hath joy, the memory hath sorrow;
   the mind upon the joyfulness which is in it, is joyful, yet the memory
   upon the sadness which is in it, is not sad? Does the memory perchance
   not belong to the mind? Who will say so? The memory then is, as it
   were, the belly of the mind, and joy and sadness, like sweet and
   bitter food; which, when committed to the memory, are as it were
   passed into the belly, where they may be stowed, but cannot taste.
   Ridiculous it is to imagine these to be alike; and yet are they not
   utterly unlike.
     But, behold, out of my memory I bring it, when I say there be four
   perturbations of the mind, desire, joy, fear, sorrow; and whatsoever I
   can dispute thereon, by dividing each into its subordinate species,
   and by defining it, in my memory find I what to say, and thence do I
   bring it: yet am I not disturbed by any of these perturbations, when
   by calling them to mind, I remember them; yea, and before I recalled
   and brought them back, they were there; and therefore could they, by
   recollection, thence be brought. Perchance, then, as meat is by
   chewing the cud brought up out of the belly, so by recollection
   these out of the memory. Why then does not the disputer, thus
   recollecting, taste in the mouth of his musing the sweetness of joy,
   or the bitterness of sorrow? Is the comparison unlike in this, because
   not in all respects like? For who would willingly speak thereof, if so
   oft as we name grief or fear, we should be compelled to be sad or
   fearful? And yet could we not speak of them, did we not find in our
   memory, not only the sounds of the names according to the images
   impressed by the senses of the body, but notions of the very things
   themselves which we never received by any avenue of the body, but
   which the mind itself perceiving by the experience of its own
   passions, committed to the memory, or the memory of itself retained,
   without being committed unto it.
     But whether by images or no, who can readily say? Thus, I name a
   stone, I name the sun, the things themselves not being present to my
   senses, but their images to my memory. I name a bodily pain, yet it is
   not present with me, when nothing aches: yet unless its image were
   present to my memory, I should not know what to say thereof, nor in
   discoursing discern pain from pleasure. I name bodily health; being
   sound in body, the thing itself is present with me; yet, unless its
   image also were present in my memory, I could by no means recall
   what the sound of this name should signify. Nor would the sick, when
   health were named, recognise what were spoken, unless the same image
   were by the force of memory retained, although the thing itself were
   absent from the body. I name numbers whereby we number; and not
   their images, but themselves are present in my memory. I name the
   image of the sun, and that image is present in my memory. For I recall
   not the image of its image, but the image itself is present to me,
   calling it to mind. I name memory, and I recognise what I name. And
   where do I recognise it, but in the memory itself? Is it also
   present to itself by its image, and not by itself?
     What, when I name forgetfulness, and withal recognise what I name?
   whence should I recognise it, did I not remember it? I speak not of
   the sound of the name, but of the thing which it signifies: which if I
   had forgotten, I could not recognise what that sound signifies. When
   then I remember memory, memory itself is, through itself, present with
   itself: but when I remember forgetfulness, there are present both
   memory and forgetfulness; memory whereby I remember, forgetfulness
   which I remember. But what is forgetfulness, but the privation of
   memory? How then is it present that I remember it, since when
   present I cannot remember? But if what we remember we hold it in
   memory, yet, unless we did remember forgetfulness, we could never at
   the hearing of the name recognise the thing thereby signified, then
   forgetfulness is retained by memory. Present then it is, that we
   forget not, and being so, we forget. It is to be understood from
   this that forgetfulness when we remember it, is not present to the
   memory by itself but by its image: because if it were present by
   itself, it would not cause us to remember, but to forget. Who now
   shall search out this? who shall comprehend how it is?
     Lord, I, truly, toil therein, yea and toil in myself; I am become
   a heavy soil requiring over much sweat of the brow. For we are not now
   searching out the regions of heaven, or measuring the distances of the
   stars, or enquiring the balancings of the earth. It is I myself who
   remember, I the mind. It is not so wonderful, if what I myself am not,
   be far from me. But what is nearer to me than myself? And to, the
   force of mine own memory is not understood by me; though I cannot so
   much as name myself without it. For what shall I say, when it is clear
   to me that I remember forgetfulness? Shall I say that that is not in
   my memory, which I remember? or shall I say that forgetfulness is
   for this purpose in my memory, that I might not forget? Both were most
   absurd. What third way is there? How can I say that the image of
   forgetfulness is retained by my memory, not forgetfulness itself, when
   I remember it? How could I say this either, seeing that when the image
   of any thing is impressed on the memory, the thing itself must needs
   be first present, whence that image may be impressed? For thus do I
   remember Carthage, thus all places where I have been, thus men's faces
   whom I have seen, and things reported by the other senses; thus the
   health or sickness of the body. For when these things were present, my
   memory received from them images, which being present with me, I might
   look on and bring back in my mind, when I remembered them in their
   absence. If then this forgetfulness is retained in the memory
   through its image, not through itself, then plainly itself was once
   present, that its image might be taken. But when it was present, how
   did it write its image in the memory, seeing that forgetfulness by its
   presence effaces even what it finds already noted? And yet, in
   whatever way, although that way be past conceiving and explaining, yet
   certain am I that I remember forgetfulness itself also, whereby what
   we remember is effaced.
     Great is the power of memory, a fearful thing, O my God, a deep
   and boundless manifoldness; and this thing is the mind, and this am
   I myself. What am I then, O my God? What nature am I? A life various
   and manifold, and exceeding immense. Behold in the plains, and
   caves, and caverns of my memory, innumerable and innumerably full of
   innumerable kinds of things, either through images, as all bodies;
   or by actual presence, as the arts; or by certain notions or
   impressions, as the affections of the mind, which, even when the
   mind doth not feel, the memory retaineth, while yet whatsoever is in
   the memory is also in the mind- over all these do I run, I fly; I dive
   on this side and on that, as far as I can, and there is no end. So
   great is the force of memory, so great the force of life, even in
   the mortal life of man. What shall I do then, O Thou my true life,
   my God? I will pass even beyond this power of mine which is called
   memory: yea, I will pass beyond it, that I may approach unto Thee, O
   sweet Light. What sayest Thou to me? See, I am mounting up through
   my mind towards Thee who abidest above me. Yea, I now will pass beyond
   this power of mine which is called memory, desirous to arrive at Thee,
   whence Thou mayest be arrived at; and to cleave unto Thee, whence
   one may cleave unto Thee. For even beasts and birds have memory;
   else could they not return to their dens and nests, nor many other
   things they are used unto: nor indeed could they be used to any thing,
   but by memory. I will pass then beyond memory also, that I may
   arrive at Him who hath separated me from the four-footed beasts and
   made me wiser than the fowls of the air, I will pass beyond memory
   also, and where shall I find Thee, Thou truly good and certain
   sweetness? And where shall I find Thee? If I find Thee without my
   memory, then do I not retain Thee in my memory. And how shall I find
   Thee, if I remember Thee not?
     For the woman that had lost her groat, and sought it with a light;
   unless she had remembered it, she had never found it. For when it
   was found, whence should she know whether it were the same, unless she
   remembered it? I remember to have sought and found many a thing; and
   this I thereby know, that when I was seeking any of them, and was
   asked, "Is this it?" "Is that it?" so long said I "No," until that
   were offered me which I sought. Which had I not remembered (whatever
   it were) though it were offered me, yet should I not find it,
   because I could not recognise it. And so it ever is, when we seek
   and find any lost thing. Notwithstanding, when any thing is by
   chance lost from the sight, not from the memory (as any visible body),
   yet its image is still retained within, and it is sought until it be
   restored to sight; and when it is found, it is recognised by the image
   which is within: nor do we say that we have found what was lost,
   unless we recognise it; nor can we recognise it, unless we remember
   it. But this was lost to the eyes, but retained in the memory.
     But what when the memory itself loses any thing, as falls out when
   we forget and seek that we may recollect? Where in the end do we
   search, but in the memory itself? and there, if one thing be perchance
   offered instead of another, we reject it, until what we seek meets us;
   and when it doth, we say, "This is it"; which we should not unless
   we recognised it, nor recognise it unless we remembered it.
   Certainly then we had forgotten it. Or, had not the whole escaped
   us, but by the part whereof we had hold, was the lost part sought for;
   in that the memory felt that it did not carry on together all which it
   was wont, and maimed, as it were, by the curtailment of its ancient
   habit, demanded the restoration of what it missed? For instance, if we
   see or think of some one known to us, and having forgotten his name,
   try to recover it; whatever else occurs, connects itself not
   therewith; because it was not wont to be thought upon together with
   him, and therefore is rejected, until that present itself, whereon the
   knowledge reposes equably as its wonted object. And whence does that
   present itself, but out of the memory itself? for even when we
   recognise it, on being reminded by another, it is thence it comes. For
   we do not believe it as something new, but, upon recollection, allow
   what was named to be right. But were it utterly blotted out of the
   mind, we should not remember it, even when reminded. For we have not
   as yet utterly forgotten that, which we remember ourselves to have
   forgotten. What then we have utterly forgotten, though lost, we cannot
   even seek after.
     How then do I seek Thee, O Lord? For when I seek Thee, my God, I
   seek a happy life. I will seek Thee, that my soul may live. For my
   body liveth by my soul; and my soul by Thee. How then do I seek a
   happy life, seeing I have it not, until I can say, where I ought to
   say it, "It is enough"? How seek I it? By remembrance, as though I had
   forgotten it, remembering that I had forgotten it? Or, desiring to
   learn it as a thing unknown, either never having known, or so
   forgotten it, as not even to remember that I had forgotten it? is
   not a happy life what all will, and no one altogether wills it not?
   where have they known it, that they so will it? where seen it, that
   they so love it? Truly we have it, how, I know not. Yea, there is
   another way, wherein when one hath it, then is he happy; and there
   are, who are blessed, in hope. These have it in a lower kind, than
   they who have it in very deed; yet are they better off than such as
   are happy neither in deed nor in hope. Yet even these, had they it not
   in some sort, would not so will to be happy, which that they do
   will, is most certain. They have known it then, I know not how, and so
   have it by some sort of knowledge, what, I know not, and am
   perplexed whether it be in the memory, which if it be, then we have
   been happy once; whether all severally, or in that man who first
   sinned, in whom also we all died, and from whom we are all born with
   misery, I now enquire not; but only, whether the happy life be in
   the memory? For neither should we love it, did we not know it. We hear
   the name, and we all confess that we desire the thing; for we are
   not delighted with the mere sound. For when a Greek hears it in Latin,
   he is not delighted, not knowing what is spoken; but we Latins are
   delighted, as would he too, if he heard it in Greek; because the thing
   itself is neither Greek nor Latin, which Greeks and Latins, and men of
   all other tongues, long for so earnestly. Known therefore it is to
   all, for they with one voice be asked, "would they be happy?" they
   would answer without doubt, "they would." And this could not be,
   unless the thing itself whereof it is the name were retained in
   their memory.
     But is it so, as one remembers Carthage who hath seen it? No. For
   a happy life is not seen with the eye, because it is not a body. As we
   remember numbers then? No. For these, he that hath in his knowledge,
   seeks not further to attain unto; but a happy life we have in our
   knowledge, and therefore love it, and yet still desire to attain it,
   that we may be happy. As we remember eloquence then? No. For
   although upon hearing this name also, some call to mind the thing, who
   still are not yet eloquent, and many who desire to be so, whence it
   appears that it is in their knowledge; yet these have by their
   bodily senses observed others to be eloquent, and been delighted,
   and desire to be the like (though indeed they would not be delighted
   but for some inward knowledge thereof, nor wish to be the like, unless
   they were thus delighted); whereas a happy life, we do by no bodily
   sense experience in others. As then we remember joy? Perchance; for my
   joy I remember, even when sad, as a happy life, when unhappy; nor
   did I ever with bodily sense see, hear, smell, taste, or touch my joy;
   but I experienced it in my mind, when I rejoiced; and the knowledge of
   it clave to my memory, so that I can recall it with disgust sometimes,
   at others with longing, according to the nature of the things, wherein
   I remember myself to have joyed. For even from foul things have I been
   immersed in a sort of joy; which now recalling, I detest and execrate;
   otherwhiles in good and honest things, which I recall with longing,
   although perchance no longer present; and therefore with sadness I
   recall former joy.
     Where then and when did I experience my happy life, that I should
   remember, and love, and long for it? Nor is it I alone, or some few
   besides, but we all would fain be happy; which, unless by some certain
   knowledge we knew, we should not with so certain a will desire. But
   how is this, that if two men be asked whether they would go to the
   wars, one, perchance, would answer that he would, the other, that he
   would not; but if they were asked whether they would be happy, both
   would instantly without any doubting say they would; and for no
   other reason would the one go to the wars, and the other not, but to
   be happy. Is it perchance that as one looks for his joy in this thing,
   another in that, all agree in their desire of being happy, as they
   would (if they were asked) that they wished to have joy, and this
   joy they call a happy life? Although then one obtains this joy by
   one means, another by another, all have one end, which they strive
   to attain, namely, joy. Which being a thing which all must say they
   have experienced, it is therefore found in the memory, and
   recognised whenever the name of a happy life is mentioned.
     Far be it, Lord, far be it from the heart of Thy servant who here
   confesseth unto Thee, far be it, that, be the joy what it may, I
   should therefore think myself happy. For there is a joy which is not
   given to the ungodly, but to those who love Thee for Thine own sake,
   whose joy Thou Thyself art. And this is the happy life, to rejoice
   to Thee, of Thee, for Thee; this is it, and there is no other. For
   they who think there is another, pursue some other and not the true
   joy. Yet is not their will turned away from some semblance of joy.
     It is not certain then that all wish to be happy, inasmuch as they
   who wish not to joy in Thee, which is the only happy life, do not
   truly desire the happy life. Or do all men desire this, but because
   the flesh lusteth against the Spirit, and the Spirit against the
   flesh, that they cannot do what they would, they fall upon that
   which they can, and are content therewith; because, what they are
   not able to do, they do not will so strongly as would suffice to
   make them able? For I ask any one, had he rather joy in truth, or in
   falsehood? They will as little hesitate to say "in the truth," as to
   say "that they desire to be happy," for a happy life is joy in the
   truth: for this is a joying in Thee, Who art the Truth, O God my
   light, health of my countenance, my God. This is the happy life
   which all desire; this life which alone is happy, all desire; to joy
   in the truth all desire. I have met with many that would deceive;
   who would be deceived, no one. Where then did they know this happy
   life, save where they know the truth also? For they love it also,
   since they would not be deceived. And when they love a happy life,
   which is no other than joying in the truth, then also do they love the
   truth; which yet they would not love, were there not some notice of it
   in their memory. Why then joy they not in it? why are they not
   happy? because they are more strongly taken up with other things which
   have more power to make them miserable, than that which they so
   faintly remember to make them happy. For there is yet a little light
   in men; let them walk, let them walk, that the darkness overtake
   them not.
     But why doth "truth generate hatred," and the man of Thine,
   preaching the truth, become an enemy to them? whereas a happy life
   is loved, which is nothing else but joying in the truth; unless that
   truth is in that kind loved, that they who love anything else would
   gladly have that which they love to be the truth: and because they
   would not be deceived, would not be convinced that they are so?
   Therefore do they hate the truth for that thing's sake which they
   loved instead of the truth. They love truth when she enlightens,
   they hate her when she reproves. For since they would not be deceived,
   and would deceive, they love her when she discovers herself unto them,
   and hate her when she discovers them. Whence she shall so repay
   them, that they who would not be made manifest by her, she both
   against their will makes manifest, and herself becometh not manifest
   unto them. Thus, thus, yea thus doth the mind of man, thus blind and
   sick, foul and ill-favoured, wish to be hidden, but that aught
   should be hidden from it, it wills not. But the contrary is requited
   it, that itself should not be hidden from the Truth; but the Truth
   is hid from it. Yet even thus miserable, it had rather joy in truths
   than in falsehoods. Happy then will it be, when, no distraction
   interposing, it shall joy in that only Truth, by Whom all things are
   true.
     See what a space I have gone over in my memory seeking Thee, O Lord;
   and I have not found Thee, without it. Nor have I found any thing
   concerning Thee, but what I have kept in memory, ever since I learnt
   Thee. For since I learnt Thee, I have not forgotten Thee. For where
   I found Truth, there found I my God, the Truth itself; which since I
   learnt, I have not forgotten. Since then I learnt Thee, Thou
   residest in my memory; and there do I find Thee, when I call Thee to
   remembrance, and delight in Thee. These be my holy delights, which
   Thou hast given me in Thy mercy, having regard to my poverty.
     But where in my memory residest Thou, O Lord, where residest Thou
   there? what manner of lodging hast Thou framed for Thee? what manner
   of sanctuary hast Thou builded for Thee? Thou hast given this honour
   to my memory, to reside in it; but in what quarter of it Thou
   residest, that am I considering. For in thinking on Thee, I passed
   beyond such parts of it as the beasts also have, for I found Thee
   not there among the images of corporeal things: and I came to those
   parts to which I committed the affections of my mind, nor found Thee
   there. And I entered into the very seat of my mind (which it hath in
   my memory, inasmuch as the mind remembers itself also), neither wert
   Thou there: for as Thou art not a corporeal image, nor the affection
   of a living being (as when we rejoice, condole, desire, fear,
   remember, forget, or the like); so neither art Thou the mind itself;
   because Thou art the Lord God of the mind; and all these are
   changed, but Thou remainest unchangeable over all, and yet hast
   vouchsafed to dwell in my memory, since I learnt Thee. And why seek
   I now in what place thereof Thou dwellest, as if there were places
   therein? Sure I am, that in it Thou dwellest, since I have
   remembered Thee ever since I learnt Thee, and there I find Thee,
   when I call Thee to remembrance.
     Where then did I find Thee, that I might learn Thee? For in my
   memory Thou wert not, before I learned Thee. Where then did I find
   Thee, that I might learn Thee, but in Thee above me? Place there is
   none; we go backward and forward, and there is no place. Every
   where, O Truth, dost Thou give audience to all who ask counsel of
   Thee, and at once answerest all, though on manifold matters they ask
   Thy counsel. Clearly dost Thou answer, though all do not clearly hear.
   All consult Thee on what they will, though they hear not always what
   they will. He is Thy best servant who looks not so much to hear that
   from Thee which himself willeth, as rather to will that, which from
   Thee he heareth.
     Too late loved I Thee, O Thou Beauty of ancient days, yet ever
   new! too late I loved Thee! And behold, Thou wert within, and I
   abroad, and there I searched for Thee; deformed I, plunging amid those
   fair forms which Thou hadst made. Thou wert with me, but I was not
   with Thee. Things held me far from Thee, which, unless they were in
   Thee, were not at all. Thou calledst, and shoutedst, and burstest my
   deafness. Thou flashedst, shonest, and scatteredst my blindness.
   Thou breathedst odours, and I drew in breath and panted for Thee. I
   tasted, and hunger and thirst. Thou touchedst me, and I burned for Thy
   peace.
     When I shall with my whole self cleave to Thee, I shall no where
   have sorrow or labour; and my life shall wholly live, as wholly full
   of Thee. But now since whom Thou fillest, Thou liftest up, because I
   am not full of Thee I am a burden to myself. Lamentable joys strive
   with joyous sorrows: and on which side is the victory, I know not. Woe
   is me! Lord, have pity on me. My evil sorrows strive with my good
   joys; and on which side is the victory, I know not. Woe is me! Lord,
   have pity on me. Woe is me! lo! I hide not my wounds; Thou art the
   Physician, I the sick; Thou merciful, I miserable. Is not the life
   of man upon earth all trial? Who wishes for troubles and difficulties?
   Thou commandest them to be endured, not to be loved. No man loves what
   he endures, though he love to endure. For though he rejoices that he
   endures, he had rather there were nothing for him to endure. In
   adversity I long for prosperity, in prosperity I fear adversity.
   What middle place is there betwixt these two, where the life of man is
   not all trial? Woe to the prosperities of the world, once and again,
   through fear of adversity, and corruption of joy! Woe to the
   adversities of the world, once and again, and the third time, from the
   longing for prosperity, and because adversity itself is a hard
   thing, and lest it shatter endurance. Is not the life of man upon
   earth all trial: without any interval?
     And all my hope is no where but in Thy exceeding great mercy. Give
   what Thou enjoinest, and enjoin what Thou wilt. Thou enjoinest us
   continency; and when I knew, saith one, that no man can be
   continent, unless God give it, this also was a part of wisdom to
   know whose gift she is. By continency verily are we bound up and
   brought back into One, whence we were dissipated into many. For too
   little doth he love Thee, who loves any thing with Thee, which he
   loveth not for Thee. O love, who ever burnest and never consumest! O
   charity, my God, kindle me. Thou enjoinest continency: give me what
   Thou enjoinest, and enjoin what Thou wilt.
     Verily Thou enjoinest me continency from the lust of the flesh,
   the lust of the eyes, and the ambition of the world. Thou enjoinest
   continency from concubinage; and for wedlock itself, Thou hast
   counselled something better than what Thou hast permitted. And since
   Thou gavest it, it was done, even before I became a dispenser of Thy
   Sacrament. But there yet live in my memory (whereof I have much
   spoken) the images of such things as my ill custom there fixed;
   which haunt me, strengthless when I am awake: but in sleep, not only
   so as to give pleasure, but even to obtain assent, and what is very
   like reality. Yea, so far prevails the illusion of the image, in my
   soul and in my flesh, that, when asleep, false visions persuade to
   that which when waking, the true cannot. Am I not then myself, O
   Lord my God? And yet there is so much difference betwixt myself and
   myself, within that moment wherein I pass from waking to sleeping,
   or return from sleeping to waking! Where is reason then, which, awake,
   resisteth such suggestions? And should the things themselves be
   urged on it, it remaineth unshaken. Is it clasped up with the eyes? is
   it lulled asleep with the senses of the body? And whence is it that
   often even in sleep we resist, and mindful of our purpose, and abiding
   most chastely in it, yield no assent to such enticements? And yet so
   much difference there is, that when it happeneth otherwise, upon
   waking we return to peace of conscience: and by this very difference
   discover that we did not, what yet we be sorry that in some way it was
   done in us.
     Art Thou not mighty, God Almighty, so as to heal all the diseases of
   my soul, and by Thy more abundant grace to quench even the impure
   motions of my sleep! Thou wilt increase, Lord, Thy gifts more and more
   in me, that my soul may follow me to Thee, disentangled from the
   birdlime of concupiscence; that it rebel not against itself, and
   even in dreams not only not, through images of sense, commit those
   debasing corruptions, even to pollution of the flesh, but not even
   to consent unto them. For that nothing of this sort should have,
   over the pure affections even of a sleeper, the very least
   influence, not even such as a thought would restrain, -to work this,
   not only during life, but even at my present age, is not hard for
   the Almighty, Who art able to do above all that we ask or think. But
   what I yet am in this kind of my evil, have I confessed unto my good
   Lord; rejoicing with trembling, in that which Thou hast given me,
   and bemoaning that wherein I am still imperfect; hoping that Thou wilt
   perfect Thy mercies in me, even to perfect peace, which my outward and
   inward man shall have with Thee, when death shall be swallowed up in
   victory.
     There is another evil of the day, which I would were sufficient
   for it. For by eating and drinking we repair the daily decays of our
   body, until Thou destroy both belly and meat, when Thou shalt slay
   my emptiness with a wonderful fulness, and clothe this incorruptible
   with an eternal incorruption. But now the necessity is sweet unto
   me, against which sweetness I fight, that I be not taken captive;
   and carry on a daily war by fastings; often bringing my body into
   subjection; and my pains are removed by pleasure. For hunger and
   thirst are in a manner pains; they burn and kill like a fever,
   unless the medicine of nourishments come to our aid. Which since it is
   at hand through the consolations of Thy gifts, with which land, and
   water, and air serve our weakness, our calamity is termed
   gratification.
     This hast Thou taught me, that I should set myself to take food as
   physic. But while I am passing from the discomfort of emptiness to the
   content of replenishing, in the very passage the snare of
   concupiscence besets me. For that passing, is pleasure, nor is there
   any other way to pass thither, whither we needs must pass. And
   health being the cause of eating and drinking, there joineth itself as
   an attendant a dangerous pleasure, which mostly endeavours to go
   before it, so that I may for her sake do what I say I do, or wish to
   do, for health's sake. Nor have each the same measure; for what is
   enough for health, is too little for pleasure. And oft it is
   uncertain, whether it be the necessary care of the body which is yet
   asking for sustenance, or whether a voluptuous deceivableness of
   greediness is proffering its services. In this uncertainty the unhappy
   soul rejoiceth, and therein prepares an excuse to shield itself,
   glad that it appeareth not what sufficeth for the moderation of
   health, that under the cloak of health, it may disguise the matter
   of gratification. These temptations I daily endeavour to resist, and I
   call on Thy right hand, and to Thee do I refer my perplexities;
   because I have as yet no settled counsel herein.
     I hear the voice of my God commanding, Let not your hearts be
   overcharged with surfeiting and drunkenness. Drunkenness is far from
   me; Thou wilt have mercy, that it come not near me. But full feeding
   sometimes creepeth upon Thy servant; Thou wilt have mercy, that it may
   be far from me. For no one can be continent unless Thou give it.
   Many things Thou givest us, praying for them; and what good soever
   we have received before we prayed, from Thee we received it; yea to
   the end we might afterwards know this, did we before receive it.
   Drunkard was I never, but drunkards have I known made sober by Thee.
   From Thee then it was, that they who never were such, should not so
   be, as from Thee it was, that they who have been, should not ever so
   be; and from Thee it was, that both might know from Whom it was. I
   heard another voice of Thine, Go not after thy lusts, and from thy
   pleasure turn away. Yea by Thy favour have I heard that which I have
   much loved; neither if we eat, shall we abound; neither if we eat not,
   shall we lack; which is to say, neither shall the one make me
   plenteous, nor the other miserable. I heard also another, for I have
   learned in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content; I know
   how to abound, and how to suffer need. I can do all things through
   Christ that strengtheneth me. Behold a soldier of the heavenly camp,
   not the dust which we are. But remember, Lord, that we are dust, and
   that of dust Thou hast made man; and he was lost and is found. Nor
   could he of himself do this, because he whom I so loved, saying this
   through the in-breathing of Thy inspiration, was of the same dust. I
   can do all things (saith he) through Him that strengtheneth me.
   Strengthen me, that I can. Give what Thou enjoinest, and enjoin what
   Thou wilt. He confesses to have received, and when he glorieth, in the
   Lord he glorieth. Another have I heard begging that he might
   receive. Take from me (saith he) the desires of the belly; whence it
   appeareth, O my holy God, that Thou givest, when that is done which
   Thou commandest to be done.
     Thou hast taught me, good Father, that to the pure, all things are
   pure; but that it is evil unto the man that eateth with offence;
   and, that every creature of Thine is good, and nothing to be
   refused, which is received with thanksgiving; and that meat commendeth
   us not to God; and, that no man should judge us in meat or drink; and,
   that he which eateth, let him not despise him that eateth not; and let
   not him that eateth not, judge him that eateth. These things have I
   learned, thanks be to Thee, praise to Thee, my God, my Master,
   knocking at my ears, enlightening my heart; deliver me out of all
   temptation. I fear not uncleanness of meat, but the uncleanness of
   lusting. I know; that Noah was permitted to eat all kind of flesh that
   was good for food; that Elijah was fed with flesh; that endued with an
   admirable abstinence, was not polluted by feeding on living creatures,
   locusts. I know also that Esau was deceived by lusting for lentiles;
   and that David blamed himself for desiring a draught of water; and
   that our King was tempted, not concerning flesh, but bread. And
   therefore the people in the wilderness also deserved to be reproved,
   not for desiring flesh, but because, in the desire of food, they
   murmured against the Lord.
     Placed then amid these temptations, I strive daily against
   concupiscence in eating and drinking. For it is not of such nature
   that I can settle on cutting it off once for all, and never touching
   it afterward, as I could of concubinage. The bridle of the throat then
   is to be held attempered between slackness and stiffness. And who is
   he, O Lord, who is not some whit transported beyond the limits of
   necessity? whoever he is, he is a great one; let him make Thy Name
   great. But I am not such, for I am a sinful man. Yet do I too
   magnify Thy name; and He maketh intercession to Thee for my sins who
   hath overcome the world; numbering me among the weak members of His
   body; because Thine eyes have seen that of Him which is imperfect, and
   in Thy book shall all be written.
     With the allurements of smells, I am not much concerned. When
   absent, I do not miss them; when present, I do not refuse them; yet
   ever ready to be without them. So I seem to myself; perchance I am
   deceived. For that also is a mournful darkness whereby my abilities
   within me are hidden from me; so that my mind making enquiry into
   herself of her own powers, ventures not readily to believe herself;
   because even what is in it is mostly hidden, unless experience
   reveal it. And no one ought to be secure in that life, the whole
   whereof is called a trial, that he who hath been capable of worse to
   be made better, may not likewise of better be made worse. Our only
   hope, only confidence, only assured promise is Thy mercy.
     The delights of the ear had more firmly entangled and subdued me;
   but Thou didst loosen and free me. Now, in those melodies which Thy
   words breathe soul into, when sung with a sweet and attuned voice, I
   do a little repose; yet not so as to be held thereby, but that I can
   disengage myself when I will. But with the words which are their
   life and whereby they find admission into me, themselves seek in my
   affections a place of some estimation, and I can scarcely assign
   them one suitable. For at one time I seem to myself to give them
   more honour than is seemly, feeling our minds to be more holily and
   fervently raised unto a flame of devotion, by the holy words
   themselves when thus sung, than when not; and that the several
   affections of our spirit, by a sweet variety, have their own proper
   measures in the voice and singing, by some hidden correspondence
   wherewith they are stirred up. But this contentment of the flesh, to
   which the soul must not be given over to be enervated, doth oft
   beguile me, the sense not so waiting upon reason as patiently to
   follow her; but having been admitted merely for her sake, it strives
   even to run before her, and lead her. Thus in these things I
   unawares sin, but afterwards am aware of it.
     At other times, shunning over-anxiously this very deception, I err
   in too great strictness; and sometimes to that degree, as to wish
   the whole melody of sweet music which is used to David's Psalter,
   banished from my ears, and the Church's too; and that mode seems to me
   safer, which I remember to have been often told me of Athanasius,
   Bishop of Alexandria, who made the reader of the psalm utter it with
   so slight inflection of voice, that it was nearer speaking than
   singing. Yet again, when I remember the tears I shed at the Psalmody
   of Thy Church, in the beginning of my recovered faith; and how at this
   time I am moved, not with the singing, but with the things sung,
   when they are sung with a clear voice and modulation most suitable,
   I acknowledge the great use of this institution. Thus I fluctuate
   between peril of pleasure and approved wholesomeness; inclined the
   rather (though not as pronouncing an irrevocable opinion) to approve
   of the usage of singing in the church; that so by the delight of the
   ears the weaker minds may rise to the feeling of devotion. Yet when it
   befalls me to be more moved with the voice than the words sung, I
   confess to have sinned penally, and then had rather not hear music.
   See now my state; weep with me, and weep for me, ye, whoso regulate
   your feelings within, as that good action ensues. For you who do not
   act, these things touch not you. But Thou, O Lord my God, hearken;
   behold, and see, and have mercy and heal me, Thou, in whose presence I
   have become a problem to myself; and that is my infirmity.
     There remains the pleasure of these eyes of my flesh, on which to
   make my confessions in the hearing of the ears of Thy temple, those
   brotherly and devout ears; and so to conclude the temptations of the
   lust of the flesh, which yet assail me, groaning earnestly, and
   desiring to be clothed upon with my house from heaven. The eyes love
   fair and varied forms, and bright and soft colours. Let not these
   occupy my soul; let God rather occupy it, who made these things,
   very good indeed, yet is He my good, not they. And these affect me,
   waking, the whole day, nor is any rest given me from them, as there is
   from musical, sometimes in silence, from all voices. For this queen of
   colours, the light, bathing all which we behold, wherever I am through
   the day, gliding by me in varied forms, soothes me when engaged on
   other things, and not observing it. And so strongly doth it entwine
   itself, that if it be suddenly withdrawn, it is with longing sought
   for, and if absent long, saddeneth the mind.
     O Thou Light, which Tobias saw, when, these eyes closed, he taught
   his son the way of life; and himself went before with the feet of
   charity, never swerving. Or which Isaac saw, when his fleshly eyes
   being heavy and closed by old age, it was vouchsafed him, not
   knowingly, to bless his sons, but by blessing to know them. Or which
   Jacob saw, when he also, blind through great age, with illumined
   heart, in the persons of his sons shed light on the different races of
   the future people, in them foresignified; and laid his hands,
   mystically crossed, upon his grandchildren by Joseph, not as their
   father by his outward eye corrected them, but as himself inwardly
   discerned. This is the light, it is one, and all are one, who see
   and love it. But that corporeal light whereof I spake, it seasoneth
   the life of this world for her blind lovers, with an enticing and
   dangerous sweetness. But they who know how to praise Thee for it, "O
   all-creating Lord," take it up in Thy hymns, and are not taken up with
   it in their sleep. Such would I be. These seductions of the eyes I
   resist, lest my feet wherewith I walk upon Thy way be ensnared; and
   I lift up mine invisible eyes to Thee, that Thou wouldest pluck my
   feet out of the snare. Thou dost ever and anon pluck them out, for
   they are ensnared. Thou ceasest not to pluck them out, while I often
   entangle myself in the snares on all sides laid; because Thou that
   keepest Israel shalt neither slumber nor sleep.
     What innumerable toys, made by divers arts and manufactures, in
   our apparel, shoes, utensils and all sorts of works, in pictures
   also and divers images, and these far exceeding all necessary and
   moderate use and all pious meaning, have men added to tempt their
   own eyes withal; outwardly following what themselves make, inwardly
   forsaking Him by whom themselves were made, and destroying that
   which themselves have been made! But I, my God and my Glory, do
   hence also sing a hymn to Thee, and do consecrate praise to Him who
   consecrateth me, because those beautiful patterns which through
   men's souls are conveyed into their cunning hands, come from that
   Beauty, which is above our souls, which my soul day and night
   sigheth after. But the framers and followers of the outward beauties
   derive thence the rule of judging of them, but not of using them.
   And He is there, though they perceive Him not, that so they might
   not wander, but keep their strength for Thee, and not scatter it
   abroad upon pleasurable weariness. And I, though I speak and see this,
   entangle my steps with these outward beauties; but Thou pluckest me
   out, O Lord, Thou pluckest me out; because Thy loving-kindness is
   before my eyes. For I am taken miserably, and Thou pluckest me out
   mercifully; sometimes not perceiving it, when I had but lightly
   lighted upon them; otherwhiles with pain, because I had stuck fast
   in them.
     To this is added another form of temptation more manifoldly
   dangerous. For besides that concupiscence of the flesh which
   consisteth in the delight of all senses and pleasures, wherein its
   slaves, who go far from Thee, waste and perish, the soul hath, through
   the same senses of the body, a certain vain and curious desire, veiled
   under the title of knowledge and learning, not of delighting in the
   flesh, but of making experiments through the flesh. The seat whereof
   being in the appetite of knowledge, and sight being the sense
   chiefly used for attaining knowledge, it is in Divine language
   called The lust of the eyes. For, to see, belongeth properly to the
   eyes; yet we use this word of the other senses also, when we employ
   them in seeking knowledge. For we do not say, hark how it flashes,
   or smell how it glows, or taste how it shines, or feel how it
   gleams; for all these are said to be seen. And yet we say not only,
   see how it shineth, which the eyes alone can perceive; but also, see
   how it soundeth, see how it smelleth, see how it tasteth, see how hard
   it is. And so the general experience of the senses, as was said, is
   called The lust of the eyes, because the office of seeing, wherein the
   eyes hold the prerogative, the other senses by way of similitude
   take to themselves, when they make search after any knowledge.
     But by this may more evidently be discerned, wherein pleasure and
   wherein curiosity is the object of the senses; for pleasure seeketh
   objects beautiful, melodious, fragrant, savoury, soft; but
   curiosity, for trial's sake, the contrary as well, not for the sake of
   suffering annoyance, but out of the lust of making trial and knowing
   them. For what pleasure hath it, to see in a mangled carcase what will
   make you shudder? and yet if it be lying near, they flock thither,
   to be made sad, and to turn pale. Even in sleep they are afraid to see
   it. As if when awake, any one forced them to see it, or any report
   of its beauty drew them thither! Thus also in the other senses,
   which it were long to go through. From this disease of curiosity are
   all those strange sights exhibited in the theatre. Hence men go on
   to search out the hidden powers of nature (which is besides our
   end), which to know profits not, and wherein men desire nothing but to
   know. Hence also, if with that same end of perverted knowledge magical
   arts be enquired by. Hence also in religion itself, is God tempted,
   when signs and wonders are demanded of Him, not desired for any good
   end, but merely to make trial of.
     In this so vast wilderness, full of snares and dangers, behold
   many of them I have cut off, and thrust out of my heart, as Thou
   hast given me, O God of my salvation. And yet when dare I say, since
   so many things of this kind buzz on all sides about our daily life-
   when dare I say that nothing of this sort engages my attention, or
   causes in me an idle interest? True, the theatres do not now carry
   me away, nor care I to know the courses of the stars, nor did my
   soul ever consult ghosts departed; all sacrilegious mysteries I
   detest. From Thee, O Lord my God, to whom I owe humble and
   single-hearted service, by what artifices and suggestions doth the
   enemy deal with me to desire some sign! But I beseech Thee by our
   King, and by our pure and holy country, Jerusalem, that as any
   consenting thereto is far from me, so may it ever be further and
   further. But when I pray Thee for the salvation of any, my end and
   intention is far different. Thou givest and wilt give me to follow
   Thee willingly, doing what Thou wilt.
     Notwithstanding, in how many most petty and contemptible things is
   our curiosity daily tempted, and how often we give way, who can
   recount? How often do we begin as if we were tolerating people telling
   vain stories, lest we offend the weak; then by degrees we take
   interest therein! I go not now to the circus to see a dog coursing a
   hare; but in the field, if passing, that coursing peradventure will
   distract me even from some weighty thought, and draw me after it:
   not that I turn aside the body of my beast, yet still incline my
   mind thither. And unless Thou, having made me see my infirmity didst
   speedily admonish me either through the sight itself by some
   contemplation to rise towards Thee, or altogether to despise and
   pass it by, I dully stand fixed therein. What, when sitting at home, a
   lizard catching flies, or a spider entangling them rushing into her
   nets, oft-times takes my attention? Is the thing different, because
   they are but small creatures? I go on from them to praise Thee the
   wonderful Creator and Orderer of all, but this does not first draw
   my attention. It is one thing to rise quickly, another not to fall.
   And of such things is my life full; and my one hope is Thy wonderful
   great mercy. For when our heart becomes the receptacle of such things,
   and is overcharged with throngs of this abundant vanity, then are
   our prayers also thereby often interrupted and distracted, and
   whilst in Thy presence we direct the voice of our heart to Thine ears,
   this so great concern is broken off by the rushing in of I know not
   what idle thoughts. Shall we then account this also among things of
   slight concernment, or shall aught bring us back to hope, save Thy
   complete mercy, since Thou hast begun to change us?
     And Thou knowest how far Thou hast already changed me, who first
   healedst me of the lust of vindicating myself, that so Thou mightest
   forgive all the rest of my iniquities, and heal all my infirmities,
   and redeem life from corruption, and crown me with mercy and pity, and
   satisfy my desire with good things: who didst curb my pride with Thy
   fear, and tame my neck to Thy yoke. And now I bear it and it is
   light unto me, because so hast Thou promised, and hast made it; and
   verily so it was, and I knew it not, when I feared to take it.
     But, O Lord, Thou alone Lord without pride, because Thou art the
   only true Lord, who hast no lord; hath this third kind of temptation
   also ceased from me, or can it cease through this whole life? To wish,
   namely, to be feared and loved of men, for no other end, but that we
   may have a joy therein which is no joy? A miserable life this and a
   foul boastfulness! Hence especially it comes that men do neither
   purely love nor fear Thee. And therefore dost Thou resist the proud,
   and givest grace to the humble: yea, Thou thunderest down upon the
   ambitions of the world, and the foundations of the mountains
   tremble. Because now certain offices of human society make it
   necessary to be loved and feared of men, the adversary of our true
   blessedness layeth hard at us, every where spreading his snares of
   "well-done, well-done"; that greedily catching at them, we may be
   taken unawares, and sever our joy from Thy truth, and set it in the
   deceivingness of men; and be pleased at being loved and feared, not
   for Thy sake, but in Thy stead: and thus having been made like him, he
   may have them for his own, not in the bands of charity, but in the
   bonds of punishment: who purposed to set his throne in the north, that
   dark and chilled they might serve him, pervertedly and crookedly
   imitating Thee. But we, O Lord, behold we are Thy little flock;
   possess us as Thine, stretch Thy wings over us, and let us fly under
   them. Be Thou our glory; let us be loved for Thee, and Thy word feared
   in us. Who would be praised of men when Thou blamest, will not be
   defended of men when Thou judgest; nor delivered when Thou condemnest.
   But when- not the sinner is praised in the desires of his soul, nor he
   blessed who doth ungodlily, but- a man is praised for some gift
   which Thou hast given him, and he rejoices more at the praise for
   himself than that he hath the gift for which he is praised, he also is
   praised, while Thou dispraisest; better is he who praised than he
   who is praised. For the one took pleasure in the gift of God in man;
   the other was better pleased with the gift of man, than of God.
     By these temptations we are assailed daily, O Lord; without
   ceasing are we assailed. Our daily furnace is the tongue of men. And
   in this way also Thou commandest us continence. Give what Thou
   enjoinest, and enjoin what Thou wilt. Thou knowest on this matter
   the groans of my heart, and the floods of mine eyes. For I cannot
   learn how far I am more cleansed from this plague, and I much fear
   my secret sins, which Thine eyes know, mine do not. For in other kinds
   of temptations I have some sort of means of examining myself; in this,
   scarce any. For, in refraining my mind from the pleasures of the flesh
   and idle curiosity, I see how much I have attained to, when I do
   without them; foregoing, or not having them. For then I ask myself how
   much more or less troublesome it is to me not to have them? Then,
   riches, which are desired, that they may serve to some one or two or
   all of the three concupiscences, if the soul cannot discern whether,
   when it hath them, it despiseth them, they may be cast aside, that
   so it may prove itself. But to be without praise, and therein essay
   our powers, must we live ill, yea so abandonedly and atrociously, that
   no one should know without detesting us? What greater madness can be
   said or thought of? But if praise useth and ought to accompany a
   good life and good works, we ought as little to forego its company, as
   good life itself. Yet I know not whether I can well or ill be
   without anything, unless it be absent.
     What then do I confess unto Thee in this kind of temptation, O Lord?
   What, but that I am delighted with praise, but with truth itself, more
   than with praise? For were it proposed to me, whether I would, being
   frenzied in error on all things, be praised by all men, or being
   consistent and most settled in the truth be blamed by all, I see which
   I should choose. Yet fain would I that the approbation of another
   should not even increase my joy for any good in me. Yet I own, it doth
   increase it, and not so only, but dispraise doth diminish it. And when
   I am troubled at this my misery, an excuse occurs to me, which of what
   value it is, Thou God knowest, for it leaves me uncertain. For since
   Thou hast commanded us not continency alone, that is, from what things
   to refrain our love, but righteousness also, that is, whereon to
   bestow it, and hast willed us to love not Thee only, but our neighbour
   also; often, when pleased with intelligent praise, I seem to myself to
   be pleased with the proficiency or towardliness of my neighbour, or to
   be grieved for evil in him, when I hear him dispraise either what he
   understands not, or is good. For sometimes I am grieved at my own
   praise, either when those things be praised in me, in which I
   mislike myself, or even lesser and slight goods are more esteemed than
   they ought. But again how know I whether I am therefore thus affected,
   because I would not have him who praiseth me differ from me about
   myself; not as being influenced by concern for him, but because
   those same good things which please me in myself, please me more
   when they please another also? For some how I am not praised when my
   judgment of myself is not praised; forasmuch as either those things
   are praised, which displease me; or those more, which please me
   less. Am I then doubtful of myself in this matter?
     Behold, in Thee, O Truth, I see that I ought not to be moved at my
   own praises, for my own sake, but for the good of my neighbour. And
   whether it be so with me, I know not. For herein I know less of myself
   than of Thee. I beseech now, O my God, discover to me myself also,
   that I may confess unto my brethren, who are to pray for me, wherein I
   find myself maimed. Let me examine myself again more diligently. If in
   my praise I am moved with the good of my neighbour, why am I less
   moved if another be unjustly dispraised than if it be myself? Why am I
   more stung by reproach cast upon myself, than at that cast upon
   another, with the same injustice, before me? Know I not this also?
   or is it at last that I deceive myself, and do not the truth before
   Thee in my heart and tongue? This madness put far from me, O Lord,
   lest mine own mouth be to me the sinner's oil to make fat my head. I
   am poor and needy; yet best, while in hidden groanings I displease
   myself, and seek Thy mercy, until what is lacking in my defective
   state be renewed and perfected, on to that peace which the eye of
   the proud knoweth not.
     Yet the word which cometh out of the mouth, and deeds known to
   men, bring with them a most dangerous temptation through the love of
   praise: which, to establish a certain excellency of our own,
   solicits and collects men's suffrages. It tempts, even when it is
   reproved by myself in myself, on the very ground that it is
   reproved; and often glories more vainly of the very contempt of
   vain-glory; and so it is no longer contempt of vain-glory, whereof
   it glories; for it doth not contemn when it glorieth.
     Within also, within is another evil, arising out of a like
   temptation; whereby men become vain, pleasing themselves in
   themselves, though they please not, or displease or care not to please
   others. But pleasing themselves, they much displease Thee, not only
   taking pleasure in things not good, as if good, but in Thy good
   things, as though their own; or even if as Thine, yet as though for
   their own merits; or even if as though from Thy grace, yet not with
   brotherly rejoicing, but envying that grace to others. In all these
   and the like perils and travails, Thou seest the trembling of my
   heart; and I rather feel my wounds to be cured by Thee, than not
   inflicted by me.
     Where hast Thou not walked with me, O Truth, teaching me what to
   beware, and what to desire; when I referred to Thee what I could
   discover here below, and consulted Thee? With my outward senses, as
   I might, I surveyed the world, and observed the life, which my body
   hath from me, and these my senses. Thence entered I the recesses of my
   memory, those manifold and spacious chambers, wonderfully furnished
   with innumerable stores; and I considered, and stood aghast; being
   able to discern nothing of these things without Thee, and finding none
   of them to be Thee. Nor was I myself, who found out these things,
   who went over them all, and laboured to distinguish and to value every
   thing according to its dignity, taking some things upon the report
   of my senses, questioning about others which I felt to be mingled with
   myself, numbering and distinguishing the reporters themselves, and
   in the large treasure-house of my memory revolving some things,
   storing up others, drawing out others. Nor yet was I myself when I did
   this, i.e., that my power whereby I did it, neither was it Thou, for
   Thou art the abiding light, which I consulted concerning all these,
   whether they were, what they were, and how to be valued; and I heard
   Thee directing and commanding me; and this I often do, this delights
   me, and as far as I may be freed from necessary duties, unto this
   pleasure have I recourse. Nor in all these which I run over consulting
   Thee can I find any safe place for my soul, but in Thee; whither my
   scattered members may be gathered, and nothing of me depart from Thee.
   And sometimes Thou admittest me to an affection, very unusual, in my
   inmost soul; rising to a strange sweetness, which if it were perfected
   in me, I know not what in it would not belong to the life to come. But
   through my miserable encumbrances I sink down again into these lower
   things, and am swept back by former custom, and am held, and greatly
   weep, but am greatly held. So much doth the burden of a bad custom
   weigh us down. Here I can stay, but would not; there I would, but
   cannot; both ways, miserable.
     Thus then have I considered the sicknesses of my sins in that
   threefold concupiscence, and have called Thy right hand to my help.
   For with a wounded heart have I beheld Thy brightness, and stricken
   back I said, "Who can attain thither? I am cast away from the sight of
   Thine eyes." Thou art the Truth who presidest over all, but I
   through my covetousness would not indeed forego Thee, but would with
   Thee possess a lie; as no man would in such wise speak falsely, as
   himself to be ignorant of the truth. So then I lost Thee, because Thou
   vouchsafest not to be possessed with a lie.
     Whom could I find to reconcile me to Thee? was I to have recourse to
   Angels? by what prayers? by what sacraments? Many endeavouring to
   return unto Thee, and of themselves unable, have, as I hear, tried
   this, and fallen into the desire of curious visions, and been
   accounted worthy to be deluded. For they, being high minded, sought
   Thee by the pride of learning, swelling out rather than smiting upon
   their breasts, and so by the agreement of their heart, drew unto
   themselves the princes of the air, the fellow-conspirators of their
   pride, by whom, through magical influences, they were deceived,
   seeking a mediator, by whom they might be purged, and there was
   none. For the devil it was, transforming himself into an Angel of
   light. And it much enticed proud flesh, that he had no body of
   flesh. For they were mortal, and sinners; but thou, Lord, to whom they
   proudly sought to be reconciled, art immortal, and without sin. But
   a mediator between God and man must have something like to God,
   something like to men; lest being in both like to man, he should he
   far from God: or if in both like God, too unlike man: and so not be
   a mediator. That deceitful mediator then, by whom in Thy secret
   judgments pride deserved to be deluded, hath one thing in common
   with man, that is sin; another he would seem to have in common with
   God; and not being clothed with the mortality of flesh, would vaunt
   himself to be immortal. But since the wages of sin is death, this hath
   he in common with men, that with them he should be condemned to death.
     But the true Mediator, Whom in Thy secret mercy Thou hast showed
   to the humble, and sentest, that by His example also they might
   learn that same humility, that Mediator between God and man, the Man
   Christ Jesus, appeared betwixt mortal sinners and the immortal just
   One; mortal with men, just with God: that because the wages of
   righteousness is life and peace, He might by a righteousness conjoined
   with God make void that death of sinners, now made righteous, which He
   willed to have in common with them. Hence He was showed forth to
   holy men of old; that so they, through faith in His Passion to come,
   as we through faith of it passed, might be saved. For as Man, He was a
   Mediator; but as the Word, not in the middle between God and man,
   because equal to God, and God with God, and together one God.
     How hast Thou loved us, good Father, who sparedst not Thine only
   Son, but deliveredst Him up for us ungodly! How hast Thou loved us,
   for whom He that thought it no robbery to be equal with Thee, was made
   subject even to the death of the cross, He alone, free among the dead,
   having power to lay down His life, and power to take it again: for
   us to Thee both Victor and Victim, and therefore Victor, because the
   Victim; for us to Thee Priest and Sacrifice, and therefore Priest
   because the Sacrifice; making us to Thee, of servants, sons by being
   born of Thee, and serving us. Well then is my hope strong in Him, that
   Thou wilt heal all my infirmities, by Him Who sitteth at Thy right
   hand and maketh intercession for us; else should I despair. For many
   and great are my infirmities, many they are, and great; but Thy
   medicine is mightier. We might imagine that Thy Word was far from
   any union with man, and despair of ourselves, unless He had been
   made flesh and dwelt among us.
     Affrighted with my sins and the burden of my misery, I had cast in
   my heart, and had purposed to flee to the wilderness: but Thou
   forbadest me, and strengthenedst me, saying, Therefore Christ died for
   all, that they which live may now no longer live unto themselves,
   but unto Him that died for them. See, Lord, I cast my care upon
   Thee, that I may live, and consider wondrous things out of Thy law.
   Thou knowest my unskilfulness, and my infirmities; teach me, and
   heal me. He, Thine only Son, in Whom are hid all the treasures of
   wisdom and knowledge, hath redeemed me with His blood. Let not the
   proud speak evil of me; because I meditate on my ransom, and eat and
   drink, and communicate it; and poor, desired to be satisfied from Him,
   amongst those that eat and are satisfied, and they shall praise the
   Lord who seek Him.