Book 10

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.

Let me know you, Lord, as you know me: let me understand you as deeply as you understand me. Enter my soul and transform it, making it worthy of you, so you may possess it, pure and perfect. This is what I hope for, which is why I speak; and in this hope I find true joy. The things of this world bring less sorrow the more we grieve them, yet deserve more grief when we ignore them. For you love truth, and those who embrace it step into the light. This is what I wish to do—confess to you in my heart, and through my writing, share it with 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.

Lord, you see into the depths of my conscience—nothing can be hidden from you even if I wanted to conceal it. I could only hide you from myself, never myself from you. My discontent with myself is clear in my groaning, while you shine forth—beloved, pleasing, and deeply desired. This makes me ashamed of myself, leading me to reject my old self and choose you instead. I seek to please neither myself nor you directly, but to find pleasure through you. I am completely open before you, Lord, whatever I may be, and I've explained why I confess to you. My confession comes not through physical words and sounds, but through my soul's voice and thoughts that only you can hear. When I am sinful, confession simply means acknowledging my self-disappointment. When I am righteous, it means recognizing that this goodness comes from you—for you bless the godly only after first redeeming the ungodly. My confession before you, my God, is both silent and voiced—silent in sound but crying out in spirit. Everything right that I might tell others, you have already heard from me. And everything I hear from you, you have already spoken into my heart.

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.

Why should I share my confessions with others? Can they heal my flaws? People are eager to learn about others' lives while neglecting to improve their own. Why do they want to know who I am, when they won't listen to You about who they are? And how can they know if what I tell them about myself is true, since only a person's own spirit knows what lies within them? But if they heard from You about themselves, they couldn't claim You were lying. After all, hearing from You about themselves means knowing themselves truly—and who would claim that's false unless they themselves were lying? Yet since charity believes all things (among those it unites as one), I will confess to You, Lord, knowing that others may hear. Though I cannot prove the truth of my confessions, those whose hearts are opened by charity will believe 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.

Lord, as my inner healer, show me what benefit I'll gain from this confession. When others read or hear about my past sins—which You've forgiven and erased, blessing me through faith and Your sacrament—it stirs their hearts. It prevents them from falling into despair and thinking "I can't," but instead awakens them to Your mercy and grace. Through Your grace, the weak become strong once they recognize their weakness. Good people find comfort in hearing about others' past struggles that have been overcome—not because they delight in the struggles themselves, but because they celebrate the triumph over them. So why do I confess to others, in Your presence, what I am now rather than what I was? I've already seen and spoken about the value of sharing past experiences. Yet many who know me—or know of me—want to understand who I am right now, as I make these confessions. But they can't truly access my inner self, no matter how much they wish to. Their eyes, ears, and minds cannot reach into my heart where my true self resides. They want to hear my confessions and are ready to believe them—but can they really understand? The charity that makes them good tells them I'm being truthful, and through that same charity, they trust 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, be 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.

But what benefit would they gain from hearing this? Would they rejoice with me when they hear how close I've come to You through Your grace? Would they pray for me when they learn how my own burdens still hold me back? To such people, I will reveal myself. For it is no small blessing, Lord my God, that many should thank You on our behalf and appeal to You for us. Let those with brotherly love cherish in me what You teach is worthy of love, and grieve for what You teach deserves grief. Let it be a brotherly heart—not a stranger's, not one of those whose words are empty and whose actions are false—but a truly brotherly heart that celebrates my successes and mourns my failures, loving me whether it approves or disapproves. To these people I will open myself: they will take joy in my good works and feel sorrow for my sins. My good works come from Your guidance and gifts; my sins are my own faults, deserving Your judgment. Let them rejoice in the former and grieve for the latter. Let both praise and tears rise before You from my brothers' hearts, like incense from Your censers. And Lord, may You find pleasure in Your holy temple's offering. Have mercy on me according to Your great compassion, for Your name's sake. Do not abandon what You have started—make whole what is incomplete in me.

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.

This is the outcome of my confessions about who I am now, not who I was. I confess not only to You, with a mix of trembling joy and hopeful sorrow, but also to my fellow believers—those who share my joy and mortality, my fellow citizens and travelers who have gone before or will follow after me on this journey. These are Your servants, my brothers and sisters, whom You wish to make Your children. They are my teachers, whom You command me to serve if I wish to live with and through You. But Your Word would mean little if it only commanded through speech and did not lead by example. So I do this in both action and word, under Your protection, for without Your wings and Your knowledge of my weakness, I would face overwhelming danger. I am small, but my Father lives forever, and my Guardian is all I need. For He who created me also protects me, and You are my complete good—You, the Almighty, who are with me even before I am with You. So to those whom You command me to serve, I will reveal not what I was, but what I am now and continue to be. Yet I do not judge myself. This is how I wish to be understood.

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.

You alone, Lord, can truly judge me, for even though a person's own spirit knows their inner thoughts, there are still parts of themselves they don't understand. But You, having created us, know everything about us. While I may view myself as worthless—mere dust and ashes—I understand some things about You that I don't even know about myself. For now, we see only a dim reflection, not yet face to face. As long as I'm separated from You, I'm more aware of myself than I am of You. Though I know You are beyond suffering, I remain uncertain of which temptations I can resist and which might overcome me. Yet there is hope, because You are faithful and won't let us face more than we can handle. With each temptation, You provide a way to endure it. I will acknowledge both what I know and don't know about myself. What I do know comes from Your light within me, and what remains unknown will stay hidden until Your presence illuminates my darkness like the midday sun.

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.

I love You with certainty, Lord, not with doubt. Your word has touched my heart, and I fell in love with You. Indeed, everything around me—heaven, earth, and all creation—calls me to love You. They constantly remind everyone, leaving no room for excuses. Yet You choose to show deeper mercy to those You wish, and compassion to those You've already blessed. Without Your grace, heaven and earth's praises fall on deaf ears. But what am I loving when I love You? It's not physical beauty, perfect timing, pleasing light, beautiful music, or the sweet scent of flowers, perfumes, and spices. It's not even earthly pleasures like food or physical intimacy. When I love my God, I love none of these things. Instead, I love a different kind of light, melody, fragrance, nourishment, and embrace—one that feeds my inner self. In my soul, there shines a light that no space can hold, sounds a melody that time cannot erase, lives a fragrance that breath cannot scatter, exists a taste that eating cannot diminish, and remains an embrace that satisfaction cannot end. This is what I truly 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."

I asked the earth, and it replied, "I am not Him." Everything on it said the same. I questioned the sea, its depths, and all living creatures there, and they answered, "We are not your God—look higher." I asked the wind, and the air and everything in it responded, "Anaximenes was wrong—I am not God." I asked the heavens, sun, moon, and stars, and they said, "We are not the God you seek." I then said to everything that surrounds my physical senses, "You've told me you're not my God—tell me something about Him." They shouted in unison, "He created us!" My questions came from observing them, and their beauty provided the answer. I turned inward and asked myself, "Who are you?" And answered, "A human." I realized I consist of both body and soul—one external, one internal. Through which should I search for God? I had looked for Him physically, from earth to heaven, as far as my eyes could see. But the inner self is superior, since it processes and judges all the physical messages from heaven and earth, which all declared, "We are not God—He created us." My inner self learned this through my outer self: I, the mind, understood through my body's senses. When I asked the entire universe about my God, it answered simply, "I am not Him, 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.

Isn't this physical form visible to anyone with functioning senses? Why then doesn't it communicate the same message to everyone? Animals big and small see it, but they can't question it because they lack the reasoning ability to analyze what their senses tell them. Humans can ask questions, allowing them to perceive God's invisible qualities through observing creation. But when people become attached to material things, they become subordinate to them, and subordinates cannot judge clearly. Creation doesn't respond differently to different observers. It doesn't change its appearance whether one person sees it or another person questions it. It appears the same to both, staying silent to one while speaking to another. In fact, it speaks to everyone, but only those who compare its external message with their inner truth can understand. For truth tells me, "Neither heaven, earth, nor any physical object is your God." This is what nature itself reveals to those who observe it: "These things are mere matter, and any part of matter is less than its whole." Now I speak to you, my soul, my superior element: you give life to my physical body, something no other body can do. But even for you, your God is the very Life of your 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.

What do I love when I love my God? Who is this being above my consciousness? Through my soul itself, I will rise to Him. I will transcend the life force that connects me to my body and animates my physical form. Yet I cannot find God through this life force alone—even horses and mules, without understanding, possess such animation. There exists another power beyond mere physical life—the power of sensory perception that God designed for me. He gave distinct purposes to each sense: eyes for seeing, not hearing; ears for hearing, not seeing. Through these different senses, my single mind experiences the world. But I must go beyond even this power of perception, as horses and mules also experience the world through their bodily senses.

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.

I will move beyond the limits of my natural powers, climbing step by step toward my Creator. I enter the vast fields and grand halls of my memory, where countless images from sensory experiences are stored. Here lies everything I've ever thought about—things I've mentally enlarged, reduced, or changed from their original form, along with everything else I've saved that hasn't yet been lost to forgetfulness. When I access this space, I can call forth whatever I want. Some memories appear instantly, while others need to be searched for, as if pulled from deep storage. Sometimes memories flood forward in groups—when I'm looking for one thing, others jump out as if saying "Maybe it's me?" These I push away with my mind's hand, clearing my memory's view until what I'm seeking emerges from its hiding place. Other memories come easily, in perfect sequence as summoned, with each one making way for the next. As they step aside, they disappear but remain ready to return when needed. This is exactly what happens when I recite something from memory.

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.

Information is stored distinctly in our memory, organized by how it entered our senses: visual information through our eyes—colors, shapes, and forms; sounds through our ears; smells through our nose; tastes through our mouth; and physical sensations through our skin—texture, temperature, and weight, both external and internal. Our memory is like a vast warehouse with countless hidden compartments, storing everything for later retrieval. Each sense has its own entrance and storage area. Yet what's stored isn't the actual thing itself, but rather our brain's image of it, ready to be recalled when needed. Though we don't fully understand how these mental images form, we know which sense captured each one. Even in complete darkness and silence, I can mentally recreate colors and distinguish between black, white, and any other shade I choose. These visual memories aren't disrupted by remembered sounds, which remain quietly stored in their own space until summoned. I can recall these sounds at will—even mentally singing while staying physically silent. When I focus on remembered sounds, stored visual images don't interfere, just as other sensory memories stay separate until called upon. I can recall any sensory experience at will. Without actually smelling anything, I can distinguish between lily and violet scents. Without tasting or touching, I can remember my preference for honey over sweet wine, and smooth textures over rough ones.

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.

In the vast chamber of my memory, everything exists: heaven, earth, sea, and all I can imagine, except what I've forgotten. Here, I also encounter myself—remembering who I was, recalling what I did, where I was, and how I felt. Everything I remember is here, whether from personal experience or others' accounts. From this mental treasury, I constantly create new connections, combining past experiences with beliefs to imagine future actions, events, and hopes, all of which feel immediate and present. "I'll do this," I tell myself in this great storehouse of my mind, filled with countless powerful images, "and that will happen." "If only this would occur!" "May God prevent that!" These are my inner conversations, and as I speak, the images of everything I mention appear from my memory. Without these mental pictures, I couldn't speak of anything at all.

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.

The power of memory is incredible—a vast, limitless space. Who can truly understand its depths? Though this ability is part of my nature, I can't fully grasp all that I am. The mind seems too small to contain itself. But if it can't contain itself, where does the rest go? Is it outside rather than inside? How then can it not understand itself? This fills me with wonder and astonishment. People travel far to marvel at tall mountains, massive ocean waves, wide rivers, the sea's expanse, and the paths of stars, yet they overlook themselves. It's remarkable that when I describe these things, I didn't need to see them at that moment. I could speak of them because I had seen mountains, waves, rivers, and stars before, and I believed in the ocean's existence. They exist in my memory as clearly as if I were looking at them now, with all their proper scale and distance. Yet I didn't physically pull these things into myself when I saw them—only their images remain. And I know exactly which of my senses captured each impression.

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.

My memory's vast capacity holds more than just these experiences. It contains all my knowledge of the liberal arts that I haven't forgotten, stored in some internal space that isn't really a space at all. And what's stored isn't just images of these concepts, but the concepts themselves. When I think about literature, debate techniques, or different types of questions, my memory isn't just replaying recordings—it's accessing the actual knowledge. This isn't like remembering a voice that's no longer speaking, or recalling a scent that's faded away, or thinking about the taste of food long after eating it, or remembering a physical sensation after it's gone. Instead of storing mere copies of these things, my memory instantly captures their essence, filing them away like documents in remarkable cabinets, ready to be retrieved whenever needed through the wonder of recollection.

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?

Now when I consider the three types of questions—"Does it exist? What is it? What kind is it?"—I understand the sounds of these words, though they've passed through the air and are now gone. But the actual concepts behind these words? I've never experienced them through my physical senses, only through my mind. Yet in my memory, I've stored not just images of these concepts, but the concepts themselves. How did they get there? I've examined every physical sense but can't trace their entry point. My eyes say, "If they had color, we would have seen them." My ears say, "If they made sound, we would have heard them." My nose says, "If they had smell, they would have passed through us." My taste buds say, "Don't ask me unless they had flavor." My sense of touch says, "If it wasn't tangible, I couldn't feel it; if I couldn't feel it, I couldn't report it." So how did these concepts enter my memory? I honestly don't know. When I learned them, I wasn't simply accepting someone else's understanding—I recognized them within my own mind. Once I verified their truth, I stored them away, ready to retrieve whenever needed. They existed in my mind even before I learned them, but they weren't in my conscious memory. So where were they? Why did I recognize them as true when I heard them spoken? Perhaps they were already in my memory, buried deep within, and someone else's words simply helped unearth what was already there—concepts I might never have realized on my own.

Wherefore we find, that to learn these things whereof we imbibe not 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, be 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.

We discover that learning things we can't experience through our senses, but rather perceive directly in our minds without images, is simply a process of gathering and organizing information. When we pay attention to random, scattered knowledge already stored in our memory, we make it readily accessible to our familiar mind. My memory contains many such discoveries that have been organized and made easily retrievable—things we say we've learned and understood. Yet if I stop thinking about them even briefly, they sink back into memory's depths and must be rediscovered as if new. They have no other home but memory, and must be gathered together again to be known. This process of bringing scattered thoughts together is the root of the word "cogitation." Just as "cogo" (collect) relates to "cogito" (recollect), similar to how "ago" relates to "agito," and "facio" to "factito." The mind has claimed this word "cogitation" for itself, so that it specifically refers not to just any collection of thoughts, but to what is consciously recollected and brought together in the mind—what we properly call thinking.

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.

Memory also contains countless principles and laws of numbers and dimensions, none of which come from physical senses—they have no color, sound, taste, smell, or texture. I've heard the words used to describe these concepts, but the sounds themselves are separate from what they represent. The words differ between Greek and Latin, yet the concepts themselves belong to no specific language. I've seen architects' lines drawn impossibly fine, like spider silk, but these too are different from the pure geometric lines I understand in my mind—lines that anyone can grasp without picturing anything physical. I've also observed the numbers we use to count physical objects, but the abstract numbers we use for counting are distinct from these objects and aren't mere images of them—they truly exist on their own. If someone doesn't understand this and mocks me for saying it, I'll feel sorry for them.

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.

I remember all these things and how I learned them. I also remember hearing many false accusations against these truths. Though the accusations were false, my memory of hearing them is real. I recall distinguishing between the truths and the false claims made against them. I understand that recognizing these differences now is distinct from remembering how I analyzed them during my previous reflections. I remember frequently understanding these concepts, and what I now grasp, I store in my memory so I can recall my current understanding later. Similarly, I remember having remembered before—just as in the future, I will recall that I was once able to remember these things, through the power of memory itself.

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.

My memory holds my mind's emotions differently than how I experience them in the moment. When I recall feeling joy, I don't necessarily feel joy now. I can remember past sorrows without feeling sad, past fears without being afraid, and old desires without wanting them again. Sometimes it's the opposite—I might happily remember a sad time, or feel sad remembering a happy one. This isn't strange when it comes to physical sensations—mind and body are separate things. It makes sense that I can pleasantly recall physical pain. But here's what's interesting: memory itself is part of the mind. We say things like "keep it in mind" when we want to remember something, or "it slipped my mind" when we forget. So how can my mind feel joy while remembering sadness, if memory is part of the mind? How can one part be happy while another holds sadness? You could think of memory as the mind's stomach, with emotions like joy and sadness being sweet and bitter foods. Once these emotions are stored in memory, they're like food in the stomach—they can be kept there but can't be tasted anymore. This comparison isn't perfect, but it helps explain how we can store emotions without feeling them.

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.

Memory brings forth these thoughts when I speak of the four disturbances of the mind: desire, joy, fear, and sorrow. Whatever I discuss about them—breaking them into subcategories or defining them—I find the words in my memory and draw them out. Yet when I recall these disturbances, I don't actually feel them. They existed in my memory before I recalled them, which is why I could summon them through recollection. Perhaps this is like how animals bring up food from their stomachs to chew again—we bring up memories for review. But why then doesn't someone discussing these emotions taste the sweetness of joy or the bitterness of sorrow in their thoughts? Maybe this comparison isn't perfect because they're not exactly the same thing. After all, who would want to discuss grief or fear if merely naming them forced us to experience those feelings? Yet we can discuss these emotions because we find in our memory not just their names and physical sensations, but also concepts of the emotions themselves—things we didn't learn through our physical senses, but which the mind stored away after experiencing them directly.

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?

I can speak of a stone or the sun even when they're not physically in front of me, because their images exist in my memory. Similarly, when I talk about pain while feeling none, I can only do so because I remember what pain feels like—otherwise, how could I distinguish it from pleasure? When I mention good health while being healthy, both the reality and its memory are with me. Without that memory, I wouldn't understand what the word "health" means. Even sick people can understand the concept of health through memory, despite not experiencing it themselves. When I think of numbers, I'm working with the actual concepts, not just images of them. But when I think of the sun, I'm recalling its image in my memory—not an image of an image, but the direct mental picture itself. When I think about memory itself, I recognize what I mean. But where does this recognition happen if not in memory? And does memory know itself directly, or through some kind of self-image?

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?

When I speak of forgetfulness, how do I understand what I'm talking about? How can I recognize it if I didn't already remember it? I'm not talking about the word itself, but what it means—if I had truly forgotten it, I wouldn't know what the word meant. When I remember memory, memory is directly present to itself. But when I remember forgetfulness, both memory and forgetfulness are present—memory allows me to remember, while forgetfulness is what I'm remembering. Yet what is forgetfulness if not the absence of memory? How can I remember it when its very presence prevents remembering? If we hold memories in our mind, and we can recognize forgetfulness when we hear the word, then memory must somehow retain forgetfulness. It must be present so we don't forget, yet its presence makes us forget. The only explanation is that forgetfulness exists in memory not directly, but as an image—because if forgetfulness itself were present, it would make us forget rather than remember. Who can unravel this puzzle? Who can truly understand how this works?

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 lo, 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.

Lord, I work hard at this, both externally and within myself. I've become like dense soil that needs excessive effort to cultivate. We're not studying the heavens, measuring star distances, or investigating Earth's balance. I'm simply trying to understand my own memory—it's me, my mind, doing the remembering. It's strange that things outside myself can feel so distant, when nothing is closer to me than my own being. Yet I can't even comprehend how my memory works, though I couldn't speak my own name without it. What can I say about remembering forgetfulness? Should I claim it's not in my memory, even though I remember it? Or suggest that forgetfulness exists in my memory specifically to prevent forgetting? Both ideas are ridiculous. Is there another explanation? How can I claim to remember only an image of forgetfulness, rather than forgetfulness itself? This makes no sense, since forming a memory image requires the actual thing to be present first. This is how I remember Carthage, places I've visited, faces I've seen, and other sensory experiences—even physical sensations of health and illness. When these things were present, my memory captured their images, which I can later recall in their absence. But if forgetfulness is stored as an image, it must have been present to create that image. Yet how could it imprint itself when its very presence erases existing memories? Still, however impossible this seems to understand or explain, I'm certain that I remember forgetfulness itself—the very thing that erases what we remember.

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?

Memory is an incredible force, a profound and limitless complexity. This force is my mind, and this is who I am. So what am I, God? What is my nature? I am a life of endless variety, vast beyond measure. Look at the landscapes, chambers, and depths of my memory, filled with countless types of things: images of physical objects, direct knowledge like technical skills, and impressions of emotions that memory holds even when they're not actively felt. Everything in memory exists in the mind too. I race through all of this, soaring and diving in every direction as far as I can go, finding no end. Such is memory's power, such is life's power, even in our brief human existence. What should I do then, God, my true life? I must go beyond this power called memory. I must transcend it to reach You, Divine Light. What do You say to me? Watch as I climb through my mind toward You who dwells above me. Yes, I will move past this force called memory, eager to reach You, to connect with You where connection is possible. Even animals have memory—how else could they find their homes and nests, or learn familiar patterns? They couldn't develop habits without memory. So I will go beyond memory itself to reach the One who set me apart from four-legged creatures and made me wiser than birds. But where will I find You, true goodness and absolute peace? Where are You? If I find You outside my memory, how can I hold onto You? And how can I find You if I can't remember You?

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.

When a woman loses a coin and searches for it with a light, she can only find it because she remembers what it looks like. How else would she know if she found the right one without that memory? I've searched for and found many things myself, and I know that while searching, when asked "Is this it?" or "Is that it?" I always said "No" until I saw what I was actually looking for. Without remembering what I was searching for, I couldn't find it even if it was right in front of me—I wouldn't recognize it. This is always true when we look for lost items. Even when something simply disappears from view but not from memory (like any physical object), its image stays in our mind. We keep searching until we can see it again, and when we find it, we recognize it by matching it to that mental image. We can't say we've found something unless we recognize it, and we can't recognize it unless we remember it. The object may have been lost to our eyes, but it remained in our 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.

When memory fails and we forget something we're trying to recall, where do we look but in memory itself? If memory offers up the wrong thing, we reject it until we find what we're seeking. When we find it, we say "That's it!"—which we could only do if we recognized it, and we could only recognize it if we remembered it. So clearly we hadn't completely forgotten it. Perhaps we haven't lost the entire memory, but only part of it. Using the part we still hold, we search for what's missing. The memory feels incomplete, like something's been cut away from its usual whole, and it demands to have the missing piece restored. For example, when we see or think of someone we know but can't remember their name, anything else that comes to mind feels wrong. These other thoughts don't fit because they weren't normally associated with that person, so we reject them until the right name appears—the one that fits naturally with our knowledge of the person. And where does this name come from? From memory itself. Even when someone else reminds us of it, that's where it comes from. We don't accept it as new information; rather, we recognize it as correct once we remember it. If something were completely erased from our mind, we wouldn't remember it even when prompted. We haven't totally forgotten something if we can still remember having forgotten it. What we've truly forgotten, we can't even search for.

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.

How do I seek You, Lord? When I seek You, my God, I seek a happy life. I seek You so my soul may live, since my body lives through my soul, and my soul through You. But how do I pursue happiness when I don't have it yet—when I cannot say with certainty, "This is enough"? How do I search for it? Do I try to remember it like something forgotten, aware that I've forgotten it? Or do I seek to learn it as something new, either never known or so thoroughly forgotten that I don't even remember forgetting it? Isn't a happy life what everyone wants, with no one completely rejecting it? Where did they learn of it, to want it so much? Where did they see it, to love it so deeply? We surely possess it somehow, though I don't understand how. Yes, there's another perspective: some find happiness when they have it, and others are blessed simply by hoping for it. These hopeful ones have a lesser form of happiness than those who truly possess it, yet they're better off than those who neither have it nor hope for it. Even those without happiness must understand it somehow, or they wouldn't desire it so certainly. They must know it in some way, though I can't explain how. I'm unsure whether this knowledge lives in memory—if it does, then we were all happy once. Whether individually or through the first man who sinned, through whom we all died and inherited misery, I won't debate. I only ask: does the memory hold happiness? We wouldn't love happiness if we didn't know it. We hear the word and all agree we want it—it's not just the sound that appeals to us. A Greek hearing the Latin word feels nothing, not understanding its meaning, just as we Latins respond to it and he would respond to the Greek word. The concept itself isn't Greek or Latin—it's what people of all languages desperately seek. Everyone knows it, for if asked, "Do you want to be happy?" they would undoubtedly say yes. This universal response proves that the concept must exist in 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.

Is happiness like remembering Carthage after seeing it? No, since a happy life isn't something visible to the eye—it's not a physical thing. Is it like remembering numbers? No, because once you know numbers, you don't need to keep searching for them. But with happiness, though we understand it and want it, we keep pursuing it to become happy. Is it like remembering eloquence? No, because people who aren't eloquent can recognize it in others through their senses, admire it, and want to develop it themselves (their appreciation comes from some inner understanding, and their desire stems from that appreciation). But we can't experience someone else's happiness through our physical senses. Perhaps it's like remembering joy? This might be closer—I can remember feeling joy even when I'm sad, just as I can remember happiness when I'm unhappy. I never physically sensed my joy through sight, sound, smell, taste, or touch. Instead, I experienced it mentally while rejoicing, and that memory stuck with me. Now I can recall it with either disgust or yearning, depending on what caused the joy. Sometimes I felt a kind of joy from awful things, which I now hate to remember. Other times it came from good and honorable things, which I long for if they're no longer present. That's why remembering past joy can bring sadness.

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.

When and where did I experience this happiness that I remember, love, and long for? It's not just me or a select few—we all want to be happy. We must understand happiness on some deep level, or we wouldn't pursue it with such certainty. Consider this: if you ask two people whether they would go to war, one might say yes and the other no. But ask them if they want to be happy, and both would immediately say yes without hesitation. The one who chooses war and the one who doesn't are both seeking the same thing: happiness. Perhaps it's that different people find joy in different things, yet everyone agrees they want happiness. If asked, wouldn't everyone say they want joy, and isn't this joy what we call a happy life? Though people pursue happiness through different paths, they're all aiming for the same destination—joy. Since everyone claims to have experienced this feeling, it must exist in our memory, instantly recognizable whenever we speak of a happy life.

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.

Lord, let me never deceive myself into thinking any fleeting happiness makes me truly happy. For there exists a deeper joy—one that isn't given to nonbelievers, but only to those who love You simply because You are You. This joy comes from You alone. True happiness means rejoicing in You, because of You, and for You—this is the only real joy there is. Those who chase other forms of happiness are pursuing a mere imitation of joy, even though they don't realize their desires are focused on just a shadow of true happiness.

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.

While everyone claims to want happiness, not all truly seek it, since genuine happiness only comes from finding joy in Truth. When people reject this path, they aren't really pursuing true happiness. Perhaps everyone does want happiness, but because our physical desires clash with our spiritual ones, we often settle for what's easy rather than striving for what's best. Maybe we just don't want it badly enough to overcome our limitations. Ask anyone: would you rather find joy in truth or in lies? They'll quickly choose truth, just as readily as they'll say they want to be happy. After all, true happiness is simply joy found in truth—joy found in God, who is Truth itself, my light and salvation. Everyone wants this authentic happiness—it's the only real happiness there is. I've met many people willing to deceive others, but never anyone who wants to be deceived themselves. So how do they recognize this genuine happiness? They know it when they encounter truth. They value truth because they don't want to be fooled. When they desire happiness—which is nothing more than rejoicing in truth—they're actually loving truth itself. This recognition of truth must already exist somewhere in their memory. So why aren't they happy? Why don't they embrace this truth? Because they're distracted by other things—things that ultimately bring misery but have a stronger hold on them than their faint memory of what could bring true happiness. There's still a glimmer of light in humanity; let them follow it before darkness overtakes them.

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.

Why does truth breed hatred? Why do those who preach truth become enemies to others? People claim to love a happy life, which is simply finding joy in truth. Yet they only love truth when it aligns with their existing beliefs. They hate being proven wrong, so they resist evidence that challenges their views. People embrace truth when it illuminates their path but reject it when it exposes their flaws. They want to avoid deception while deceiving others, loving truth only when it validates them and hating it when it reveals their shortcomings. Truth responds by exposing them against their will while remaining hidden from their understanding. The human mind, in its blindness and weakness, wants to hide itself while demanding nothing be hidden from it. But the opposite occurs—the mind cannot hide from Truth, yet Truth remains hidden from it. Even in this miserable state, the mind prefers genuine truths to falsehoods. True happiness will come only when, without distraction, it can rejoice in the one Truth that makes all things 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.

Look how far I've searched through my memories for You, Lord, yet I haven't found You separate from them. Everything I know about You exists only in my memory, since the moment I first came to know You. Once I knew You, I never forgot You. Where I discovered Truth, I found my God—Truth itself—and since learning this, it has stayed with me. Since knowing You, You've lived in my memory, and that's where I find You when I reflect and take joy in Your presence. These are my sacred pleasures, which You've given me through Your mercy, knowing my limitations.

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 in my memory do You dwell, Lord? What kind of space have You made for Yourself there? What sanctuary have You built? You've granted my memory the honor of Your presence, but I wonder which part of it holds You. When I think of You, I first looked past the basic parts of memory that even animals have, since You weren't there among physical images. I searched the emotional spaces where I store my feelings, but didn't find You there either. I even looked in my mind's core (where it exists in my memory, since the mind can remember itself), but You weren't there either. You're not a physical image or a mere emotion (like joy, sympathy, desire, fear, or the acts of remembering and forgetting). You're not even the mind itself—You are the Lord God of the mind. While all these things change, You remain constant. Yet You've chosen to live in my memory since I first knew You. Why do I search for Your specific location, as if memory has physical spaces? I know with certainty that You dwell there, since I've remembered You ever since I learned of You, and I find You whenever I think of You.

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.

Where did I find You, so that I might know You? You were not in my memory before I knew You. Where could I have found You, if not in Your presence above me? There is no physical place—we move back and forth, yet find no location. Everywhere, O Truth, You listen to all who seek Your guidance, answering everyone simultaneously despite their varied questions. Your answers are clear, though not everyone hears them clearly. All ask You what they wish, though they don't always hear the answers they want. Your best servant is not one who seeks to hear what they desire, but rather one who desires what they hear from You.

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.

Too late I came to love You, O Beauty both ancient and ever-new! Too late I loved You! There You were within me, while I searched outside myself, desperately seeking You among the beautiful things You created. My soul was distorted as I lost myself in Your creations. You were with me, but I was not with You. I was held back by things that would not exist at all if they were not part of You. You called and shouted until my deafness shattered. You flashed and shone until my blindness scattered. You released Your fragrance, and I breathed deeply, yearning for You. I tasted, and it left me hungry and thirsty. You touched me, and I burned with desire for Your 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?

When I completely unite with You, I will be free from sorrow and struggle, and my life will be completely full of You. But now, since I'm not filled with You, I am a burden to myself. You lift up those You fill, yet I remain unfilled. Bittersweet joys battle with sorrowful pleasures, and I don't know which will win. Have mercy on me, Lord! My harmful sorrows fight against my wholesome joys, and I can't tell which side prevails. Have mercy on me, Lord! Look—I'm not hiding my wounds. You are the Doctor, I am the patient; You are merciful, I am suffering. Isn't life on earth nothing but a test? Who actually wants hardship and problems? You tell us to endure them, not to love them. No one loves suffering, even if they appreciate their ability to endure it. Though someone might take pride in their resilience, they'd prefer to have nothing to endure at all. In hard times, I yearn for better days; in good times, I dread what might go wrong. Where is the middle ground between these extremes, where life isn't constantly testing us? Curse the world's good fortunes, again and again, for they bring fear of loss and corrupt our happiness! Curse its misfortunes, again and again, and once more, for they make us long for better days, wear us down, and threaten to break our spirit. Isn't life on earth just one continuous trial?

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.

All my hope rests solely in Your boundless mercy. Give me what You command, and command what You will. You command us to be self-controlled; and as someone once said, I learned that no one can be self-controlled unless God grants it—even this knowledge is a gift of wisdom. Through self-control, we are unified and brought back to the One, having been scattered into many. For anyone who loves something alongside You, but not because of You, loves You too little. O love that burns eternally yet never destroys! O divine love, my God, set me aflame. You command self-control: give me what You command, and command what You will.

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.

You call me to be disciplined in controlling physical desires, visual temptations, and worldly ambitions. You require restraint from casual relationships, and even for marriage, You've suggested an ideal beyond what You've allowed. Through Your grace, I achieved this even before becoming a minister of Your Sacrament. Yet my memory still holds images from my past bad habits. While these images are weak when I'm awake, during sleep they become not just pleasurable but convincing, almost real. The illusion is so powerful in my mind and body that when I'm asleep, false visions persuade me to do what reality cannot when I'm awake. Am I not still myself, Lord my God? Yet I become so different in that moment between wakefulness and sleep, or sleep and waking! Where then is my reasoning power which, when awake, fights off these temptations and stays firm even under direct pressure? Does it shut down with the eyes? Does it fall asleep with the body's senses? Why is it that even in sleep we often resist, remembering our commitments and staying pure, refusing to give in to such temptations? Yet the difference is so great that when we slip up, upon waking we return to a clear conscience, and this contrast shows us that while something happened within us, we weren't truly responsible for it.

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.

Are You not mighty enough, Lord, to heal all my soul's afflictions and, through Your abundant grace, to calm even the impure thoughts that arise in my sleep? Lord, continue to increase Your gifts in me, so my soul may follow You freely, unstuck from the trap of earthly desires. Let it not fight against itself, and in dreams may it not only avoid physical corruption through sensual images, but not even consent to them. That such things should have no influence over a sleeper's pure thoughts—not even the slightest urge that conscious thought would stop—this is easily within Your power, You who can do more than we could ever ask or imagine. I have confessed to my good Lord what weakness remains in me, rejoicing with humility in what You have given me, while acknowledging where I fall short. I hope You will complete Your mercy in me until I find perfect peace, when both my body and spirit will be in harmony with You, as death gives way to 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.

There's another daily struggle I wish was easier to handle. We eat and drink to restore our bodies' strength, and this will continue until You eliminate both appetite and food, when You fill our emptiness completely and grant us eternal life. But for now, I find comfort in this necessity, though I fight against its pleasures to avoid becoming enslaved by them. I wage a constant battle through fasting, working to control my body, and my discomfort is eased by satisfaction. Hunger and thirst are like forms of pain—they burn and harm like a fever unless we take the medicine of food. Since nourishment is readily available through Your generous gifts—the bounty of land, water, and air supporting our mortal needs—we've come to call our dependency a pleasure.

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.

You have taught me to treat food as medicine. Yet as I move from the discomfort of hunger to the satisfaction of fullness, I encounter the trap of desire. This transition itself brings pleasure, and there's no avoiding this path we must take. While eating and drinking are necessary for health, they come with a dangerous companion—pleasure—which often tries to become the primary motivation rather than just a side effect. I might claim or believe I'm eating for health, when really I'm pursuing enjoyment. These two needs follow different measures—what satisfies health isn't enough to satisfy pleasure. Often it's unclear whether my body truly needs nourishment or if I'm being deceived by greed masquerading as hunger. In this confusion, my troubled mind finds comfort and makes excuses, happy that health's requirements are unclear enough to hide behind while pursuing indulgence. I fight these temptations daily. I seek Your guidance and bring You my uncertainties, as I haven't yet found a clear solution to this struggle.

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.

I hear God's command: "Do not let your hearts be weighed down by overindulgence and drunkenness." While drunkenness is far from me—and by Your mercy, may it stay that way—overeating sometimes sneaks up on me. Have mercy and keep this from me too. For no one can show restraint unless You grant it. You give us many things when we pray, and even the good things we received before praying came from You. You gave them so we would later understand their true source. Though I was never a drunk, I've seen You make sober those who were. It was by Your grace that some never became drunks, and others stopped being so. Both groups learned these changes came from You. I heard another of Your commands: "Don't chase your desires; turn away from pleasure." Through Your kindness, I heard this beautiful truth: neither eating nor fasting will define us—one won't make us prosperous, the other won't make us miserable. I also learned to be content in any situation. I know both abundance and scarcity; I can handle anything through Christ who strengthens me. Here stands a soldier of heaven's army, not mere dust like us. But remember, Lord, that we are dust, and You made humans from dust—we were lost but now are found. He couldn't do this alone, for the one I admired who spoke these words through Your inspiration was also made of dust. "I can do all things," he says, "through Him who strengthens me." Strengthen me so I can do the same. Give what You command, and command what You will. He acknowledges receiving everything, and when he boasts, he boasts in the Lord. I heard another asking, "Take away my appetite's cravings." This shows, my holy God, that You provide the power to follow Your commands.

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.

You have taught me, dear Father, that to those who are pure, all things are pure. Yet it causes harm to those who eat with a guilty conscience. Every one of your creations is good and should be accepted with gratitude, not rejected. Food does not bring us closer to God, and we should not judge others based on what they eat or drink. Those who eat should not look down on those who abstain, and those who abstain should not criticize those who eat. I have learned these lessons through your guidance—thank you for opening my ears and illuminating my heart. Free me from all temptation. I do not fear unclean food, but rather unclean desires. I understand that Noah was allowed to eat all types of wholesome meat, that Elijah was sustained by meat, and that John the Baptist, despite his remarkable self-discipline, was not corrupted by eating locusts. I also know that Esau was undone by his craving for lentils, that David regretted thirsting for water, and that our King was tempted not with meat, but with bread. Similarly, the people in the wilderness were rebuked not for wanting meat, but for complaining against the Lord in their hunger.

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.

Surrounded by these temptations, I struggle daily against my desires for food and drink. Unlike sexual relationships, which I can simply cut off completely, I cannot entirely avoid eating and drinking. The control of appetite must be balanced between too loose and too strict. Who among us, Lord, has not sometimes eaten more than necessary? Whoever has such perfect control is truly remarkable and brings glory to Your name. But I am not such a person, for I am a sinner. Still, I praise Your name, and He who has overcome the world pleads for my sins, counting me among the weaker members of His body. Your eyes have seen His imperfect parts, and all shall be recorded in Your book.

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.

I'm not overly concerned with the appeal of smells. I don't miss them when they're gone, and while I accept them when present, I'm always ready to do without them. At least, that's how I see myself—though perhaps I'm mistaken. It's frustrating how our inner workings remain hidden from us, like a dark cloud. Even when my mind examines its own capabilities, it hesitates to trust itself, since so much remains concealed until revealed through experience. No one should feel completely secure in this life, which is truly just one long test. After all, someone who has improved from their worst state could just as easily decline from their best. Our only hope, our only confidence, our only guaranteed promise lies in Your 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.

The pleasures of music had a strong hold on me, but You set me free. Now, when Your words are brought to life through sweet, harmonious singing, I find some peace—though I'm not bound by it and can step away when needed. Yet when these words, which give the music its meaning and touch my soul, seek a place in my feelings, I struggle to give them proper value. Sometimes I think I honor them too highly, believing our minds are more devoutly and passionately lifted toward spiritual devotion by these holy words when sung rather than spoken. Each emotion in our spirit seems to respond to its own particular rhythm in voice and song, stirred by some mysterious connection. But this physical pleasure, which shouldn't weaken the soul, often deceives me. Instead of letting the senses patiently follow reason, they try to take the lead, though they were only meant to support it. In these moments, I sin without realizing it, only becoming aware afterward.

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.

Sometimes I worry too much about being deceived by music and become overly strict—even wanting to ban the melodic church music used for David's Psalms. I recall being told that Athanasius, the Bishop of Alexandria, preferred psalms to be read with minimal vocal variation, making it more like speaking than singing. Yet I also remember weeping during church hymns when I first returned to faith. Now I'm moved not by the singing itself, but by the meaning of the words when they're sung clearly and appropriately. I recognize the value in this tradition. I waver between fearing pleasure and accepting its benefits. I tend to support singing in church, though not definitively, since it helps inspire devotion in those whose faith needs strengthening. However, when the melody distracts me from the words' meaning, I feel I've sinned and would rather not hear the music at all. This is my situation—join me in grief, those of you who understand these inner struggles that lead to righteous action. Those who don't act this way won't understand. But Lord my God, please listen, see my struggle, have mercy and heal me. In your presence, I've become a puzzle to myself, and this is my weakness.

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.

My physical eyes still bring me pleasure, and I must confess this to those who listen in Your temple—my faithful, understanding brothers and sisters. I continue to struggle with earthly temptations, yearning deeply for my heavenly home. My eyes are drawn to beautiful shapes and patterns, to vibrant and gentle colors. But I must not let these things consume my soul. Instead, let God fill it—He who created these admittedly beautiful things. He alone is my true good, not these earthly delights. These visual pleasures affect me constantly throughout my waking hours, unlike music and voices which sometimes fall silent. Light, the master of all colors, touches everything I see, following me in various forms throughout the day. It soothes me even when I'm focused elsewhere and not consciously aware of it. It has such a powerful hold that when it suddenly disappears, I long for its return, and when it's gone too long, my spirit grows sad.

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.

O Light that Tobias saw when, with closed eyes, he guided his son through life's path, leading by example with unwavering compassion. The same Light that Isaac perceived when, despite his aging eyes, he unknowingly blessed his sons and through those blessings came to truly know them. The Light that Jacob witnessed when, blind with age but with an enlightened heart, he foresaw future generations through his sons and crossed his hands in blessing over Joseph's children—not as their father would correct them by sight, but as Jacob himself understood in spirit. This Light is singular, and all who see and love it become one. Yet the physical light I speak of seasons earthly life with a dangerous sweetness for those who blindly chase it. Those who truly know how to praise You, "O all-creating Lord," celebrate this light in their hymns without becoming lost in its allure. This is what I strive to be. I resist these visual temptations, fearing they might lead me astray from Your path. I raise my spiritual eyes to You, asking that You free me from these snares. You continuously rescue me, for I am often caught. You never cease to free me, though I repeatedly entangle myself in the traps laid all around, for You, the guardian of Israel, 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.

We create countless decorative items through various crafts and industries—in our clothing, footwear, tools, and all kinds of works, including artwork and diverse imagery. These far exceed any practical need or religious purpose. People create these things to delight their eyes, outwardly pursuing their own creations while internally abandoning their Creator and destroying their true selves. Yet I, my God and my Glory, sing praise to You and honor the One who sanctifies me. The beautiful designs that flow from human souls into skilled hands come from that supreme Beauty above our souls—the Beauty my soul yearns for day and night. Those who create and pursue external beauty derive their aesthetic judgment from this source, but they misuse it. God remains present, though unseen, so they need not stray but might preserve their strength for Him rather than waste it on fleeting pleasures. Though I understand this truth, I still get caught up in these superficial beauties. But You rescue me, Lord, You rescue me, for Your kindness guides me. I am captured pathetically, and You free me mercifully—sometimes without my awareness when I'm only slightly entangled, other times painfully when I'm deeply ensnared.

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.

Beyond physical temptations of the flesh—those sensual pleasures that lead people astray—there exists another, more complex danger. The soul harbors a certain empty curiosity, disguised as intellectual pursuit. This isn't about physical pleasure, but rather about experimenting through physical means. This desire stems from our appetite for knowledge, and since sight is our primary means of gathering information, scripture calls it "the lust of the eyes." While seeing is technically the domain of our eyes, we apply this concept to all our senses when seeking knowledge. We don't say "hear how it flashes" or "smell how it glows" or "taste how it shines" or "touch how it gleams"—we say we "see" all these things. We don't just see brightness with our eyes; we "see" sounds, smells, tastes, and textures. Thus, this universal sensory experience is called "the lust of the eyes" because vision, being our dominant sense, has lent its language to how we describe all forms of knowledge-seeking.

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.

This contrast reveals the clear difference between pleasure and curiosity in how we use our senses. While pleasure seeks out beauty, melody, fragrance, flavor, and softness, curiosity will explore their opposites simply to experience them. Not to suffer, but just to know what they're like. What pleasure is there in viewing a mutilated corpse that makes you recoil? Yet people still crowd around such sights, making themselves upset and sick. Though they fear seeing such things in their dreams, when awake they'll seek them out—not because anyone forces them, or because they heard it was beautiful! This pattern repeats across all our senses. This disease of curiosity drives the shocking spectacles in theaters. It pushes people to probe nature's hidden forces (beyond any practical purpose), seeking knowledge for knowledge's sake alone. It even leads to the pursuit of magic arts for the same twisted purpose. In religion too, it manifests when people test God by demanding signs and wonders—not for any good reason, but simply to see what will happen.

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.

In this vast wilderness, full of traps and dangers, I have cut many temptations from my heart, as You have enabled me to do, O God of my salvation. Yet how can I claim that none of these daily distractions catch my attention or spark idle curiosity, when they buzz around me constantly? True, I'm no longer drawn to theaters, nor do I care about tracking stars' movements, and I've never consulted with spirits. I detest all unholy practices. But Lord my God, to whom I owe humble and devoted service, the enemy still tries to tempt me to seek signs and wonders! I beg You, by our King and by our pure and holy homeland, Jerusalem, that as I resist these temptations now, let me continue to resist them even more strongly. When I pray to You for salvation, my intentions are completely different. You give me the strength, and will continue to give me strength, to follow You willingly, doing what You command.

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?

Despite our best efforts, our curiosity is constantly tested by trivial matters—who can count how often we give in? We start by politely tolerating idle gossip to avoid offending others, only to find ourselves gradually becoming invested in it. While I no longer go to the circus to watch dogs chase hares, if I'm passing through a field and see such a chase, it can pull me from serious thoughts. Though I don't physically turn my horse aside, my mind wanders there. Unless You show me my weakness and guide me—either through the scene itself to contemplate higher things, or to simply ignore it—I remain stuck in that moment. Even at home, how often am I distracted by a lizard catching flies or a spider trapping prey in its web? Does their small size make it any different? These observations eventually lead me to praise You as the magnificent Creator of all things, but that's not my initial reaction. There's a difference between rising quickly and not falling at all. My life is filled with such distractions, and I rely solely on Your extraordinary mercy. When our hearts become vessels for these things, overwhelmed by countless trivial matters, our prayers are frequently interrupted. Even as we direct our hearts to You in prayer, random idle thoughts break our concentration. Should we dismiss this as unimportant? Can anything restore our hope except Your complete mercy, now that You have begun to transform 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.

You know how much you have already transformed me. First, you cured me of my need to defend myself, so that you could forgive all my other sins and heal my weaknesses. You saved my life from ruin, blessed me with mercy and compassion, and fulfilled my desires with goodness. You humbled my pride through reverence for you and taught me to accept your guidance. Now I carry your teachings willingly, and they feel light to me—just as you promised they would. This was always true, though I didn't know it when I was afraid to accept your way.

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.

O Lord, you alone rule without pride, being the only true Lord with no master above you. Has this third kind of temptation left me, or will it persist throughout life? I speak of wanting to be feared and loved by others solely for the hollow pleasure it brings. What a miserable life and ugly boasting this is! This is why people neither truly love nor fear you. You stand against the proud and bless the humble, thundering down on worldly ambitions until the very mountains shake. Though certain social positions require us to be loved and feared by others, our true happiness faces constant threats. Our adversary sets traps of flattery everywhere, and when we eagerly grasp at praise, we drift from your truth. We become satisfied with being loved and feared for our own sake rather than yours. In this way, we become like the adversary, belonging to him not through bonds of love, but through chains of punishment. He who aimed to establish his throne in the north, so that people might serve him in darkness and cold, distorting their imitation of you. But Lord, we are your small flock. Claim us as yours, spread your wings over us, and let us find shelter beneath them. Be our glory; let us be loved for your sake, and let your word be what others respect in us. Those praised by people despite your disapproval will find no defenders when you judge, no rescue when you condemn. When someone is praised for a gift you've given them, yet takes more pleasure in the praise than in the gift itself, they are being celebrated while you disapprove. The one giving praise is better than the one receiving it, for they appreciate God's gift in another person, while the praised one values human recognition above divine blessing.

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.

We face these temptations every day, Lord; they assault us constantly. Our daily trial comes from what people say about us. In this way, you test our self-control. Give us the strength to do what you command, and command what you will. You know the deep sighs of my heart and my flowing tears. I cannot tell how much I've overcome this affliction, and I deeply fear my hidden faults, which your eyes see but mine cannot. With other temptations, I have ways to test myself, but with this one, hardly any. When I avoid physical pleasures and pointless distractions, I can measure my progress by living without them. I can ask myself: how much easier or harder is it to go without? With wealth, which people want to satisfy their desires—whether one, two, or all three kinds—if we can't tell whether we truly dismiss it while having it, we can give it up to test ourselves. But to test ourselves by living without praise, must we behave so terribly that everyone despises us? What could be more foolish? Since praise naturally and rightfully accompanies a good life and good works, we shouldn't avoid it any more than we should avoid living well itself. Yet I'm uncertain whether I can handle having or not having anything until I experience its absence.

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?

What am I really confessing about this temptation, Lord? Simply that I enjoy praise, but love truth even more than praise? If given the choice between being completely wrong about everything yet praised by everyone, or being firmly grounded in truth yet criticized by all, I know which I'd choose. Still, I wish that others' approval wouldn't increase my joy in my own goodness. But I must admit it does, just as criticism diminishes it. When this weakness troubles me, I try to justify it, though You know how valid this excuse really is—it leaves me uncertain. You've commanded us not just to practice self-restraint in what we shouldn't love, but also to direct our love appropriately. Since You want us to love both You and our neighbors, I sometimes tell myself that when I enjoy thoughtful praise, I'm actually pleased with my neighbor's wisdom or progress. Or when I hear criticism, I'm concerned about their misunderstanding or fault when they criticize what they don't understand or what is actually good. Sometimes I'm troubled by praise I receive, either when people praise qualities I dislike in myself, or when they overvalue minor achievements. But how do I know if I feel this way because I genuinely want others to see me accurately, or because I simply enjoy when others validate the good I see in myself? After all, it feels like rejection when someone disagrees with my self-assessment—whether they're praising what I dislike or overemphasizing what I consider minor. Am I just deceiving myself about all this?

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.

Look—in You, Truth itself, I see that I shouldn't be moved by praise for my own sake, but only for how it might benefit others. Yet I'm unsure if I truly live by this principle. In this matter, I understand myself far less than I understand You. I pray, my God, help me see myself clearly so I can honestly tell my brothers and sisters, who pray for me, where my weaknesses lie. Let me look deeper within myself. If I'm truly moved by praise only when it helps others, why don't I feel the same concern when someone else is unfairly criticized as when I am? Why does criticism hurt more when directed at me than when I see it unfairly aimed at others? Don't I know this about myself too? Or am I fooling myself, not being truthful before You in my thoughts and words? Keep this madness far from me, Lord, lest my own words become like flattery that feeds my ego. I am humble and wanting, and it's best when I'm quietly dissatisfied with myself, seeking Your mercy until my flaws are healed and made whole—reaching toward that peace that proud people can never know.

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.

Words spoken and actions seen by others bring dangerous temptation through the desire for praise. This desire, hoping to prove our own excellence, seeks approval from others. Even when I recognize and criticize this fault in myself, the very act of recognizing it becomes another source of pride. I might even boast about my ability to resist vanity, but this itself becomes a new form of vanity. At that point, it's no longer truly resisting vanity, because you can't claim to resist pride while simultaneously being proud of resisting it.

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.

Inside us lies another evil born of similar temptation—the one that makes us vain, taking pleasure in ourselves even when we don't please others, or when we displease them, or simply don't care to please them at all. In this self-satisfaction, we greatly offend You. We not only find joy in bad things as if they were good, but we claim Your good things as our own. Even when we acknowledge these gifts as Yours, we act as if we earned them through our own merit. And even when we recognize them as gifts of Your grace, we fail to share in brotherly joy, instead envying when that same grace is given to others. Through all these dangers and struggles, You see my heart tremble. I feel these wounds being healed by You, yet I know they were self-inflicted.

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.

Where have You not walked with me, O Truth, teaching me what to avoid and what to seek? I turned to You when exploring this world, seeking Your guidance. I used my physical senses to observe life itself—the life that flows from me to my body and through my senses. From there, I entered the depths of my memory—those vast, expansive chambers filled with countless treasures. I stood in awe as I examined them, realizing I could understand none of these things without You, yet finding that none of them were You. Even I, who discovered and examined these things, who sorted and valued them, who processed sensory information and questioned what was intertwined with my being, who counted and evaluated my senses themselves, who stored, retrieved, and organized memories—even I was not myself in doing these things. The power that enabled me to do all this was not You, for You are the eternal light I consulted about everything—about what exists, what things are, and how to value them. I heard You guiding and commanding me. I often do this still; it brings me joy, and whenever I can break free from my obligations, I return to this pleasure. Yet in all these things I examine with Your guidance, I can find no safe haven for my soul except in You, where my scattered pieces can be gathered and nothing of me can drift away from You. Sometimes You grant me an unusual feeling in my deepest soul, rising to an extraordinary sweetness—if it were to reach perfection, I imagine it would belong to the life hereafter. But my burdens drag me back down to earthly matters, and old habits pull me back and hold me fast. I weep bitterly, yet remain trapped. The weight of bad habits bears down heavily upon us. Here I can remain, though I wish not to; there I wish to be, but cannot go. Both ways bring misery.

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.

I've examined the sickness of my sins through these three forms of desire, and I've called upon your help. When I glimpsed your radiance with my wounded heart, I recoiled and asked, "Who could ever reach such heights? I am unworthy to stand before you." You are Truth itself, ruling over everything, yet in my greed I didn't want to give you up—instead, I wanted to possess both you and my lies. No one would deliberately speak falsely while knowing the truth. And so I lost you, because you refuse to coexist with deception.

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 be 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.

Who could bring me closer to You? Should I turn to Angels? Through what prayers or sacraments? I've heard of many who tried to return to You on their own but failed, falling instead into fantasies and delusions. In their arrogance, they sought You through intellectual pride, puffing themselves up rather than being humble. Their proud hearts attracted dark forces that shared their conceit. Through mystical practices, they were fooled while seeking a purifying mediator that didn't exist. For it was the devil himself, disguised as an Angel of light. Proud mortals were especially drawn to him because he lacked a physical form. But while they were mortal sinners, You, Lord, whom they arrogantly sought, are immortal and sinless. A true mediator between God and humanity must share qualities with both—without being too distant from either. If too similar to humans, they'd be far from God; if too godlike, they'd be too removed from humanity to mediate effectively. This deceptive mediator, who in Your wisdom was allowed to deceive the proud, shares one thing with humans—sin. He pretends to share immortality with God, and lacking mortal flesh, claims to be immortal. But since death is sin's punishment, he shares this fate with humans—he too is destined for 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.

The true Mediator, whom God revealed in His divine mercy to the humble and sent to teach humility by example, is Jesus Christ—the bridge between God and humanity. As both human and divine, Christ stood between mortal sinners and the immortal righteous God. Being mortal like humans but righteous like God, He could—through His divine righteousness—overcome the death that sinners deserved, a death He chose to share with them. This same Christ was revealed to holy people in ancient times, so that they could be saved through faith in His future sacrifice, just as we are saved through faith in His past sacrifice. Though He served as Mediator in His human nature, in His divine nature as the Word, He was not between God and humanity—for He was equal to God, was God with God, and together they were 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.

How deeply You have loved us, good Father, not holding back even Your only Son, but offering Him for us sinners! Such love You have shown us—He who was Your equal did not cling to that equality, but humbled Himself even to death on the cross. He alone was free among the dead, with power over His own life—to give it up and take it back. For us He became both Victor and Victim, winning victory through His sacrifice. For us He became both Priest and Offering, serving as Priest through His own sacrifice. Through His birth, He transformed us from servants into Your children, even as He served us. This gives me strong hope that You will heal all my weaknesses through Him who sits at Your right hand and pleads for us. Without this, I would despair. My weaknesses are many and deep, but Your medicine is stronger. We might think Your Word was too far removed from humanity to help us, and lose all hope, had He not become human and lived 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.

Terrified by my sins and the weight of my suffering, I planned to escape into the wilderness. But You stopped me and gave me strength, saying that Christ died for everyone so that those who live might stop living for themselves and start living for Him who died for them. Lord, I place my worries in Your hands so that I may live and understand the amazing things in Your law. You know my lack of skill and my weaknesses; please teach and heal me. Your only Son, who holds all wisdom and knowledge, has saved me through His blood. Don't let proud people criticize me because I think about my salvation, take part in communion, and, being poor in spirit, wish to be fulfilled by Him, among others who eat and find satisfaction. Those who seek the Lord will praise Him.