For this space of nine years (from my nineteenth year to my eight-and-twentieth) we lived seduced and seducing, deceived and deceiving, in divers lusts; openly, by sciences which they call liberal; secretly, with a false-named religion; here proud, there superstitious, every where vain. Here, hunting after the emptiness of popular praise, down even to theatrical applauses, and poetic prizes, and strifes for grassy garlands, and the follies of shows, and the intemperance of desires. There, desiring to be cleansed from these defilements, by carrying food to those who were called "elect" and "holy," out of which, in the workhouse of their stomachs, they should forge for us Angels and Gods, by whom we might be cleansed. These things did I follow, and practise with my friends, deceived by me, and with me. Let the arrogant mock me, and such as have not been, to their soul's health, stricken and cast down by Thee, O my God; but I would still confess to Thee mine own shame in Thy praise. Suffer me, I beseech Thee, and give me grace to go over in my present remembrance the wanderings of my forepassed time, and to offer unto Thee the sacrifice of thanksgiving. For what am I to myself without Thee, but a guide to mine own downfall? or what am I even at the best, but an infant sucking the milk Thou givest, and feeding upon Thee, the food that perisheth not? But what sort of man is any man, seeing he is but a man? Let now the strong and the mighty laugh at us, but let us poor and needy confess unto Thee.
For nine years, from age nineteen to twenty-eight, I lived a life of deception—both deceiving others and being deceived myself, caught up in various desires. Publicly, I pursued what they called the "liberal sciences"; privately, I followed a falsely-named religion. I was proud in one moment, superstitiously devoted in the next, and always consumed by vanity. I chased the hollow praise of others—seeking applause in theaters, poetry competitions, and trivial contests for leafy crowns. I indulged in spectacles and unrestrained desires. I sought purification by bringing food to those who called themselves the "elect" and "holy," believing they would transform it in their stomachs into angels and gods who would cleanse us. I pursued these practices with friends whom I had deceived and led astray with me. Let the arrogant mock me—those who haven't been humbled and brought low by You, my God. I will still confess my shame while praising You. Grant me, I pray, the grace to reflect on my past wanderings and offer You my thanksgiving. For what am I without You but my own destroyer? At my best, I am merely an infant, sustained by Your milk and nourished by Your eternal food. But what is any person, being merely human? Let the strong and mighty laugh at us—we who are poor and needy will continue to confess to You.
In those years I taught rhetoric, and, overcome by cupidity, made sale of a loquacity to overcome by. Yet I preferred (Lord, Thou knowest) honest scholars (as they are accounted), and these I, without artifice, taught artifices, not to be practised against the life of the guiltless, though sometimes for the life of the guilty. And Thou, O God, from afar perceivedst me stumbling in that slippery course, and amid much smoke sending out some sparks of faithfulness, which I showed in that my guidance of such as loved vanity, and sought after leasing, myself their companion. In those years I had one,—not in that which is called lawful marriage, but whom I had found out in a wayward passion, void of understanding; yet but one, remaining faithful even to her; in whom I in my own case experienced what difference there is betwixt the self-restraint of the marriage-covenant, for the sake of issue, and the bargain of a lustful love, where children are born against their parents' will, although, once born, they constrain love.
During those years I taught public speaking, and, driven by greed, sold the art of persuasion. Though I preferred honest students (as God knows), I taught them rhetorical tricks without deception—not to harm the innocent, but sometimes to defend the guilty. God saw me from afar, stumbling on this dangerous path, yet even through the haze of my failings, I showed sparks of loyalty in guiding those who chased empty pursuits and lies, as I too was caught up in the same pursuits. At that time, I had a partner—not through legal marriage, but one I found through misguided passion and poor judgment. Though it was just one relationship, and we remained faithful to each other, I learned firsthand the difference between marriage's structured commitment for raising children and the chaos of passionate love, where unwanted children are born, who, once here, force us to love them.
I remember also, that when I had settled to enter the lists for a theatrical prize, some wizard asked me what I would give him to win; but I, detesting and abhorring such foul mysteries, answered, "Though the garland were of imperishable gold, I would not suffer a fly to be killed to gain me it." For he was to kill some living creatures in his sacrifices, and by those honours to invite the devils to favour me. But this ill also I rejected, not out of a pure love for Thee, O God of my heart; for I knew not how to love Thee, who knew not how to conceive aught beyond a material brightness. And doth not a soul, sighing after such fictions, commit fornication against Thee, trust in things unreal, and feed the wind? Still I would not forsooth have sacrifices offered to devils for me, to whom I was sacrificing myself by that superstition. For what else is it to feed the wind, but to feed them, that is by going astray to become their pleasure and derision?
I remember when I planned to compete for a theater award, a self-proclaimed sorcerer asked what I'd pay him to ensure my victory. I was disgusted by such dark practices and replied, "Even if the prize were made of eternal gold, I wouldn't let a single fly die for my success." He intended to sacrifice living creatures in rituals to curry favor with demons on my behalf. I rejected this evil, though not from pure love for You, God of my heart—for I didn't yet know how to love You, understanding only physical things I could see. When a soul yearns for such false powers, isn't it betraying You, putting faith in illusions and chasing empty promises? Though I refused to let demons receive sacrifices on my behalf, I was already sacrificing myself through these superstitious beliefs. After all, what is chasing empty promises but feeding demons themselves, letting them mock and manipulate us through our own misguided ways?
Those impostors then, whom they style Mathematicians, I consulted without scruple; because they seemed to use no sacrifice, nor to pray to any spirit for their divinations: which art, however, Christian and true piety consistently rejects and condemns. For, it is a good thing to confess unto Thee, and to say, Have mercy upon me, heal my soul, for I have sinned against Thee; and not to abuse Thy mercy for a licence to sin, but to remember the Lord's words, Behold, thou art made whole, sin no more, lest a worse thing come unto thee. All which wholesome advice they labour to destroy, saying, "The cause of thy sin is inevitably determined in heaven"; and "This did Venus, or Saturn, or Mars": that man, forsooth, flesh and blood, and proud corruption, might be blameless; while the Creator and Ordainer of heaven and the stars is to bear the blame. And who is He but our God? the very sweetness and well-spring of righteousness, who renderest to every man according to his works: and a broken and contrite heart wilt Thou not despise.
I consulted these self-proclaimed mathematicians freely, as they didn't use sacrifices or prayers in their divinations. Yet Christianity and true religious devotion reject and condemn such practices. It's better to be honest with You and say, "Have mercy on me, heal my soul, for I have sinned against You." We shouldn't abuse Your mercy as permission to sin, but remember Jesus's words: "You are healed now; don't sin again, or something worse may happen." These mathematicians try to destroy this healthy wisdom by claiming, "Your sins were predetermined by heaven" or "Venus, Saturn, or Mars caused this." They want humans—mere flesh and blood in their arrogant corruption—to be blameless, while placing fault on the Creator who arranged the heavens and stars. And who is this Creator but our God? He is the source of all goodness and justice, giving each person what they deserve, while never rejecting a truly repentant heart.
There was in those days a wise man, very skilful in physic, and renowned therein, who had with his own proconsular hand put the Agonistic garland upon my distempered head, but not as a physician: for this disease Thou only curest, who resistest the proud, and givest grace to the humble. But didst Thou fail me even by that old man, or forbear to heal my soul? For having become more acquainted with him, and hanging assiduously and fixedly on his speech (for though in simple terms, it was vivid, lively, and earnest), when he had gathered by my discourse that I was given to the books of nativity-casters, he kindly and fatherly advised me to cast them away, and not fruitlessly bestow a care and diligence, necessary for useful things, upon these vanities; saying, that he had in his earliest years studied that art, so as to make it the profession whereby he should live, and that, understanding Hippocrates, he could soon have understood such a study as this; and yet he had given it over, and taken to physic, for no other reason but that he found it utterly false; and he, a grave man, would not get his living by deluding people. "But thou," saith he, "hast rhetoric to maintain thyself by, so that thou followest this of free choice, not of necessity: the more then oughtest thou to give me credit herein, who laboured to acquire it so perfectly as to get my living by it alone." Of whom when I had demanded, how then could many true things be foretold by it, he answered me (as he could) "that the force of chance, diffused throughout the whole order of things, brought this about. For if when a man by haphazard opens the pages of some poet, who sang and thought of something wholly different, a verse oftentimes fell out, wondrously agreeable to the present business: it were not to be wondered at, if out of the soul of man, unconscious what takes place in it, by some higher instinct an answer should be given, by hap, not by art, corresponding to the business and actions of the demander."
In those days there lived a renowned physician, highly skilled in his practice. He had personally placed the victory wreath on my troubled head—though not in his capacity as a doctor. Only You can cure this affliction, You who oppose the proud and show grace to the humble. But did You work through this elderly man to heal my soul? I had grown close to him, hanging on his every word (for though he spoke simply, his speech was vibrant and passionate). When he learned from our conversations that I was invested in the books of fortune-tellers, he gave me kind, fatherly advice to abandon them. He urged me not to waste energy and attention on such pointless pursuits when they could be spent on worthwhile matters. He told me he had studied astrology in his youth, intending to make it his profession. Being well-versed in Hippocrates, he could have easily mastered such studies. Yet he had abandoned it for medicine for one simple reason: he discovered it was completely false. As a man of integrity, he refused to make a living by deceiving others. "But you," he said, "have rhetoric to support yourself. You pursue this out of choice, not necessity. You should therefore trust my judgment, as I worked to master this field until I could earn my living from it." When I asked him how astrology could predict so many true things, he explained (as best he could) that it was the force of chance, spread throughout the natural order. He said, "Sometimes when someone randomly opens a book of poetry, they find verses that remarkably relate to their situation, even though the poet was thinking of something entirely different. Similarly, it shouldn't surprise us if the human soul, unaware of its own workings, occasionally produces answers that coincidentally match the questioner's circumstances—by chance, not skill."
And thus much, either from or through him, Thou conveyedst to me, and tracedst in my memory, what I might hereafter examine for myself. But at that time neither he, nor my dearest Nebridius, a youth singularly good and of a holy fear, who derided the whole body of divination, could persuade me to cast it aside, the authority of the authors swaying me yet more, and as yet I had found no certain proof (such as I sought) whereby it might without all doubt appear, that what had been truly foretold by those consulted was the result of haphazard, not of the art of the star-gazers.
Through him, you planted these ideas in my mind and memory for me to examine later. But at that time, neither he nor my dear friend Nebridius—a remarkably virtuous and God-fearing young man who mocked all forms of fortune-telling—could convince me to abandon it. I was still too influenced by the authority of classical writers, and I hadn't yet found definitive proof that accurate predictions by fortune-tellers were merely lucky guesses rather than genuine astrological insight.
In those years when I first began to teach rhetoric in my native town, I had made one my friend, but too dear to me, from a community of pursuits, of mine own age, and, as myself, in the first opening flower of youth. He had grown up of a child with me, and we had been both school-fellows and play-fellows. But he was not yet my friend as afterwards, nor even then, as true friendship is; for true it cannot be, unless in such as Thou cementest together, cleaving unto Thee, by that love which is shed abroad in our hearts by the Holy Ghost, which is given unto us. Yet was it but too sweet, ripened by the warmth of kindred studies: for, from the true faith (which he as a youth had not soundly and thoroughly imbibed), I had warped him also to those superstitious and pernicious fables, for which my mother bewailed me. With me he now erred in mind, nor could my soul be without him. But behold Thou wert close on the steps of Thy fugitives, at once God of vengeance, and Fountain of mercies, turning us to Thyself by wonderful means; Thou tookest that man out of this life, when he had scarce filled up one whole year of my friendship, sweet to me above all sweetness of that my life.
When I first started teaching rhetoric in my hometown, I befriended someone who became too precious to me. We were the same age, both in the bloom of youth, and shared similar interests. We'd grown up together as schoolmates and playmates. Yet our friendship hadn't reached its full depth—true friendship can only exist when God binds people together through the Holy Spirit's love in our hearts. Still, our bond grew intensely sweet, strengthened by our shared academic pursuits. I led him away from the genuine faith he hadn't fully embraced in his youth, drawing him into the same harmful superstitions my mother had lamented in me. His mind wandered with mine, and I felt incomplete without him. But God, you closely pursued us who tried to flee—you who are both justice and mercy, guiding us back to yourself through mysterious ways. You took him from this life when we'd barely shared one year of friendship—a friendship that had become the sweetest part of my existence.
Who can recount all Thy praises, which he hath felt in his one self? What diddest Thou then, my God, and how unsearchable is the abyss of Thy judgments? For long, sore sick of a fever, he lay senseless in a death-sweat; and his recovery being despaired of, he was baptised, unknowing; myself meanwhile little regarding, and presuming that his soul would retain rather what it had received of me, not what was wrought on his unconscious body. But it proved far otherwise: for he was refreshed, and restored. Forthwith, as soon as I could speak with him (and I could, so soon as he was able, for I never left him, and we hung but too much upon each other), I essayed to jest with him, as though he would jest with me at that baptism which he had received, when utterly absent in mind and feeling, but had now understood that he had received. But he so shrunk from me, as from an enemy; and with a wonderful and sudden freedom bade me, as I would continue his friend, forbear such language to him. I, all astonished and amazed, suppressed all my emotions till he should grow well, and his health were strong enough for me to deal with him as I would. But he was taken away from my frenzy, that with Thee he might be preserved for my comfort; a few days after in my absence, he was attacked again by the fever, and so departed.
Who can list all the ways You touched my life? What did You do then, my God, and how mysterious are Your judgments? For a long time, he lay unconscious with a severe fever, sweating as if near death. Since his recovery seemed hopeless, he was baptized while unconscious, and I barely noticed, assuming his soul would keep what I had taught him rather than what was done to his unaware body. But things turned out very differently: he recovered and was restored to health. As soon as I could talk with him (which was as soon as he was able, since I never left his side, as we were so dependent on each other), I tried to joke with him about the baptism he had received while completely unaware, but had now learned about. But he recoiled from me as if I were his enemy, and with surprising boldness told me that if I wanted to remain his friend, I should never speak of it that way again. Shocked and confused, I held back my feelings until he would be well enough for me to handle the situation as I wished. But he was taken from my madness to be preserved with You as my comfort; a few days later, while I was away, the fever returned and he died.
At this grief my heart was utterly darkened; and whatever I beheld was death. My native country was a torment to me, and my father's house a strange unhappiness; and whatever I had shared with him, wanting him, became a distracting torture. Mine eyes sought him every where, but he was not granted them; and I hated all places, for that they had not him; nor could they now tell me, "he is coming," as when he was alive and absent. I became a great riddle to myself, and I asked my soul, why she was so sad, and why she disquieted me sorely: but she knew not what to answer me. And if I said, Trust in God, she very rightly obeyed me not; because that most dear friend, whom she had lost, was, being man, both truer and better than that phantasm she was bid to trust in. Only tears were sweet to me, for they succeeded my friend, in the dearest of my affections.
In my grief, darkness consumed my heart, and death seemed to pervade everything I saw. My homeland became unbearable, and my father's house felt alien and painful. Everything I had once shared with him now brought only anguish in his absence. My eyes searched for him everywhere, but found nothing. I hated every place for its emptiness, for no longer could anyone say "he's on his way" as they did when he was alive but away. I became a mystery to myself, questioning my soul about its sadness and inner turmoil, but finding no answers. When told to "Trust in God," my soul rightly refused—for the dear friend I had lost, though merely human, was more real and precious than this abstract concept I was asked to believe in. Only my tears brought comfort, as they became the closest companion to replace my friend in my deepest affections.
And now, Lord, these things are passed by, and time hath assuaged my wound. May I learn from Thee, who art Truth, and approach the ear of my heart unto Thy mouth, that Thou mayest tell me why weeping is sweet to the miserable? Hast Thou, although present every where, cast away our misery far from Thee? And Thou abidest in Thyself, but we are tossed about in divers trials. And yet unless we mourned in Thine ears, we should have no hope left. Whence then is sweet fruit gathered from the bitterness of life, from groaning, tears, sighs, and complaints? Doth this sweeten it, that we hope Thou hearest? This is true of prayer, for therein is a longing to approach unto Thee. But is it also in grief for a thing lost, and the sorrow wherewith I was then overwhelmed? For I neither hoped he should return to life nor did I desire this with my tears; but I wept only and grieved. For I was miserable, and had lost my joy. Or is weeping indeed a bitter thing, and for very loathing of the things which we before enjoyed, does it then, when we shrink from them, please us?
Now, Lord, these things have passed, and time has softened my pain. Let me learn from You, who are Truth, and bring my heart close to Your words, so You can explain why the suffering find comfort in tears. Though You are everywhere, have You distanced our suffering from Yourself? You remain constant, while we are buffeted by various trials. Yet if we didn't cry out to You, we would lose all hope. How is it that sweetness comes from life's bitterness—from our groans, tears, sighs, and laments? Is it sweet because we believe You hear us? This is certainly true of prayer, which carries our desire to reach You. But what about grief over loss, and the sorrow that once consumed me? I neither hoped for his return to life nor begged for it with my tears; I simply wept and mourned. I was miserable, having lost my joy. Or perhaps weeping is bitter precisely because it makes us loathe what we once cherished, and in turning away from these things, we find relief?
But what speak I of these things? for now is no time to question, but to confess unto Thee. Wretched I was; and wretched is every soul bound by the friendship of perishable things; he is torn asunder when he loses them, and then he feels the wretchedness which he had ere yet he lost them. So was it then with me; I wept most bitterly, and found my repose in bitterness. Thus was I wretched, and that wretched life I held dearer than my friend. For though I would willingly have changed it, yet was I more unwilling to part with it than with him; yea, I know not whether I would have parted with it even for him, as is related (if not feigned) of Pylades and Orestes, that they would gladly have died for each other or together, not to live together being to them worse than death. But in me there had arisen some unexplained feeling, too contrary to this, for at once I loathed exceedingly to live and feared to die. I suppose, the more I loved him, the more did I hate, and fear (as a most cruel enemy) death, which had bereaved me of him: and I imagined it would speedily make an end of all men, since it had power over him. Thus was it with me, I remember. Behold my heart, O my God, behold and see into me; for well I remember it, O my Hope, who cleansest me from the impurity of such affections, directing mine eyes towards Thee, and plucking my feet out of the snare. For I wondered that others, subject to death, did live, since he whom I loved, as if he should never die, was dead; and I wondered yet more that myself, who was to him a second self, could live, he being dead. Well said one of his friend, "Thou half of my soul"; for I felt that my soul and his soul were "one soul in two bodies": and therefore was my life a horror to me, because I would not live halved. And therefore perchance I feared to die, lest he whom I had much loved should die wholly.
Why do I speak of these things? Now is the time for confession, not questions. I was miserable, as is anyone bound by attachment to temporary things. When we lose them, we're torn apart, finally feeling the pain that was there all along, hidden beneath the surface. That's how it was for me. I wept intensely, finding strange comfort in my own misery. I was wretched, yet I clung to that wretched life more than I had to my friend. Though I wished my life were different, I was less willing to give it up than I had been to lose him. I'm not even sure I would have sacrificed my life for him, unlike the story of Pylades and Orestes, who would have gladly died for each other, considering life apart worse than death. I experienced a bizarre contradiction: I absolutely hated living yet feared death. I suppose the more I loved him, the more I feared death as an enemy that had stolen him from me. I imagined death would quickly claim everyone else, since it had taken him. This is how I felt, I remember it clearly. Look into my heart, God, see inside me. I remember it well, my Hope, you who cleanse me from such unhealthy attachments, guiding my eyes toward you and freeing me from these traps. I was amazed that others continued living while he, whom I thought immortal, was dead. Even more surprising was that I could live on, I who was like his other half. As his friend once said, "You are half of my soul." Indeed, I felt our souls were one split between two bodies. That's why life became unbearable—I couldn't stand living as only half of myself. Perhaps this is why I feared death: I worried that losing my own life would mean his complete extinction.
O madness, which knowest not how to love men, like men! O foolish man that I then was, enduring impatiently the lot of man! I fretted then, sighed, wept, was distracted; had neither rest nor counsel. For I bore about a shattered and bleeding soul, impatient of being borne by me, yet where to repose it, I found not. Not in calm groves, not in games and music, nor in fragrant spots, nor in curious banquetings, nor in the pleasures of the bed and the couch; nor (finally) in books or poesy, found it repose. All things looked ghastly, yea, the very light; whatsoever was not what he was, was revolting and hateful, except groaning and tears. For in those alone found I a little refreshment. But when my soul was withdrawn from them a huge load of misery weighed me down. To Thee, O Lord, it ought to have been raised, for Thee to lighten; I knew it; but neither could nor would; the more, since, when I thought of Thee, Thou wert not to me any solid or substantial thing. For Thou wert not Thyself, but a mere phantom, and my error was my God. If I offered to discharge my load thereon, that it might rest, it glided through the void, and came rushing down again on me; and I had remained to myself a hapless spot, where I could neither be, nor be from thence. For whither should my heart flee from my heart? Whither should I flee from myself? Whither not follow myself? And yet I fled out of my country; for so should mine eyes less look for him, where they were not wont to see him. And thus from Thagaste, I came to Carthage.
Oh, what madness to not know how to love people as they truly are! How foolish I was then, unable to accept the human condition! I was anxious, sighing, weeping, and confused, finding neither peace nor direction. My soul was broken and bleeding, too painful to carry, yet I found nowhere to lay it down. I searched everywhere—peaceful gardens, entertainment and music, fragrant spaces, elaborate feasts, physical pleasures, even books and poetry—but found no relief. Everything seemed horrible, even daylight. Anything that wasn't him was repulsive and hateful, except for my crying and tears, which provided brief comfort. But when I pulled myself away from weeping, crushing misery would return. Lord, I should have lifted this burden to You for relief. I knew this, but I neither could nor would, especially since my concept of You wasn't real or tangible. You weren't truly You to me then, but a mere illusion, and my misunderstanding was my god. When I tried to unload my burden there, it fell through emptiness and crashed back onto me. I became a wretched place where I could neither exist nor escape. Where could my heart flee from itself? How could I escape myself? Where could I go without following myself? Still, I fled my homeland, thinking my eyes would search less for him where they weren't used to seeing him. And so I left Thagaste for Carthage.
Times lose no time; nor do they roll idly by; through our senses they work strange operations on the mind. Behold, they went and came day by day, and by coming and going, introduced into my mind other imaginations and other remembrances; and little by little patched me up again with my old kind of delights, unto which that my sorrow gave way. And yet there succeeded, not indeed other griefs, yet the causes of other griefs. For whence had that former grief so easily reached my very inmost soul, but that I had poured out my soul upon the dust, in loving one that must die, as if he would never die? For what restored and refreshed me chiefly was the solaces of other friends, with whom I did love, what instead of Thee I loved; and this was a great fable, and protracted lie, by whose adulterous stimulus, our soul, which lay itching in our ears, was being defiled. But that fable would not die to me, so oft as any of my friends died. There were other things which in them did more take my mind; to talk and jest together, to do kind offices by turns; to read together honied books; to play the fool or be earnest together; to dissent at times without discontent, as a man might with his own self; and even with the seldomness of these dissentings, to season our more frequent consentings; sometimes to teach, and sometimes learn; long for the absent with impatience; and welcome the coming with joy. These and the like expressions, proceeding out of the hearts of those that loved and were loved again, by the countenance, the tongue, the eyes, and a thousand pleasing gestures, were so much fuel to melt our souls together, and out of many make but one.
Time doesn't stand still or pass aimlessly—it works mysteriously on our minds through our senses. Each passing day brought new thoughts and memories, gradually rebuilding me with my familiar pleasures as my grief subsided. Yet while new sorrows didn't come, the seeds of future grief were planted. My earlier grief had cut so deep because I had invested my whole self in loving someone mortal as if they were immortal. What helped me heal most was the comfort of other friends, whom I loved instead of You. This was an elaborate fiction, a drawn-out lie that corrupted our souls with its seductive whispers. Yet this fiction wouldn't die, even as my friends passed away. Other aspects of friendship captivated me: our conversations and jokes, our mutual kindness, reading pleasant books together, sharing both foolishness and sincerity. We could disagree without anger, like arguing with oneself, and these rare disagreements made our frequent agreements sweeter. We taught and learned from each other, missed the absent impatiently, and joyfully welcomed returns. These expressions of friendship, flowing from loving hearts through faces, words, eyes, and countless warm gestures, merged our souls together, uniting many into one.
This is it that is loved in friends; and so loved, that a man's conscience condemns itself, if he love not him that loves him again, or love not again him that loves him, looking for nothing from his person but indications of his love. Hence that mourning, if one die, and darkenings of sorrows, that steeping of the heart in tears, all sweetness turned to bitterness; and upon the loss of life of the dying, the death of the living. Blessed whoso loveth Thee, and his friend in Thee, and his enemy for Thee. For he alone loses none dear to him, to whom all are dear in Him who cannot be lost. And who is this but our God, the God that made heaven and earth, and filleth them, because by filling them He created them? Thee none loseth, but who leaveth. And who leaveth Thee, whither goeth or whither fleeth he, but from Thee well-pleased, to Thee displeased? For where doth he not find Thy law in his own punishment? And Thy law is truth, and truth Thou.
This is what we love in friends—we love them so much that our conscience condemns us if we don't return their love or fail to love those who love us, expecting nothing but signs of their affection in return. This is why we mourn when someone dies, why sorrow darkens our world, why our hearts drown in tears, and all life's sweetness turns bitter. When the dying pass, the living feel a death within themselves. Blessed are those who love You, and who love their friends through You, and even their enemies because of You. For only they never truly lose anyone dear to them, since all are cherished through Him who cannot be lost. And who is this but our God, creator of heaven and earth, who fills all things by the very act of creating them? No one loses You except those who leave You. And those who leave You—where can they go, where can they flee, except from Your favor into Your displeasure? For where can anyone escape Your law in their own punishment? Your law is truth, and You are truth itself.
Turn us, O God of Hosts, show us Thy countenance, and we shall be whole. For whithersoever the soul of man turns itself, unless toward Thee, it is riveted upon sorrows, yea though it is riveted on things beautiful. And yet they, out of Thee, and out of the soul, were not, unless they were from Thee. They rise, and set; and by rising, they begin as it were to be; they grow, that they may be perfected; and perfected, they wax old and wither; and all grow not old, but all wither. So then when they rise and tend to be, the more quickly they grow that they may be, so much the more they haste not to be. This is the law of them. Thus much has Thou allotted them, because they are portions of things, which exist not all at once, but by passing away and succeeding, they together complete that universe, whereof they are portions. And even thus is our speech completed by signs giving forth a sound: but this again is not perfected unless one word pass away when it hath sounded its part, that another may succeed. Out of all these things let my soul praise Thee, O God, Creator of all; yet let not my soul be riveted unto these things with the glue of love, through the senses of the body. For they go whither they were to go, that they might not be; and they rend her with pestilent longings, because she longs to be, yet loves to repose in what she loves. But in these things is no place of repose; they abide not, they flee; and who can follow them with the senses of the flesh? yea, who can grasp them, when they are hard by? For the sense of the flesh is slow, because it is the sense of the flesh; and thereby is it bounded. It sufficeth for that it was made for; but it sufficeth not to stay things running their course from their appointed starting-place to the end appointed. For in Thy Word, by which they are created, they hear their decree, "hence and hitherto."
Turn to us, God of Hosts. Show us Your face, and we will be made whole. Wherever the human soul turns, unless it's toward You, it becomes fixed on sorrows—even when fixed on beautiful things. These beautiful things exist only because they come from You, emerging from both You and the soul. They rise and set; in rising, they begin to exist. They grow toward perfection, and once perfected, they age and fade—though not all age, but all do fade. When they rise and strive to exist, the faster they grow, the quicker they rush toward non-existence. This is their nature, the law You have given them. They are fragments of reality, unable to exist simultaneously, but through their passing and succession, they complete the universe they're part of. It's like our speech, completed through sounds that form signs: one word must fade after playing its part so another can follow. Let my soul praise You, God, Creator of all, from all these things. But don't let my soul become stuck to them through bodily senses and the glue of love. These things go where they must—toward non-existence—and they tear at the soul with harmful desires, because the soul yearns to exist while seeking rest in what it loves. But these things offer no true rest. They don't stay; they flee. Who can follow them with physical senses? Who can grasp them, even when near? Physical senses are slow by nature and limited by their physicality. They serve their intended purpose but cannot hold back things racing from their starting point to their destined end. In Your Word, which creates them, they receive their command: "from here to there."
Be not foolish, O my soul, nor become deaf in the ear of thine heart with the tumult of thy folly. Hearken thou too. The Word itself calleth thee to return: and there is the place of rest imperturbable, where love is not forsaken, if itself forsaketh not. Behold, these things pass away, that others may replace them, and so this lower universe be completed by all his parts. But do I depart any whither? saith the Word of God. There fix thy dwelling, trust there whatsoever thou hast thence, O my soul, at least now thou art tired out with vanities. Entrust Truth, whatsoever thou hast from the Truth, and thou shalt lose nothing; and thy decay shall bloom again, and all thy diseases be healed, and thy mortal parts be reformed and renewed, and bound around thee: nor shall they lay thee whither themselves descend; but they shall stand fast with thee, and abide for ever before God, Who abideth and standeth fast for ever.
Don't be foolish, my soul, and don't let your mind become deaf with chaos and confusion. Listen carefully. The Word itself calls you to return to a place of unshakeable peace, where love endures if you remain faithful. See how things fade away and are replaced by others, completing the cycle of this earthly realm. "But do I ever leave?" asks the Word of God. Make your home there, my soul, and trust in what you've received, especially now that you're weary of life's empty pursuits. Trust in Truth, hold fast to whatever truth you possess, and you'll lose nothing. Your decay will transform into new life, your ailments will heal, and your mortal self will be made new and whole again. These renewed parts won't drag you down to their fate, but will stand firm with you, lasting forever before God, who remains unchanging and eternal.
Why then be perverted and follow thy flesh? Be it converted and follow thee. Whatever by her thou hast sense of, is in part; and the whole, whereof these are parts, thou knowest not; and yet they delight thee. But had the sense of thy flesh a capacity for comprehending the whole, and not itself also, for thy punishment, been justly restricted to a part of the whole, thou wouldest, that whatsoever existeth at this present, should pass away, that so the whole might better please thee. For what we speak also, by the same sense of the flesh thou hearest; yet wouldest not thou have the syllables stay, but fly away, that others may come, and thou hear the whole. And so ever, when any one thing is made up of many, all of which do not exist together, all collectively would please more than they do severally, could all be perceived collectively. But far better than these is He who made all; and He is our God, nor doth He pass away, for neither doth aught succeed Him.
Why then be corrupted and follow your physical desires? Instead, be transformed and follow God. Whatever you experience through your senses is only partial—you don't understand the whole of which these experiences are merely parts, yet still they bring you pleasure. If your physical senses could grasp everything at once, rather than being justly limited to experiencing only parts, you would wish for all present things to fade away so you could better appreciate the whole. It's like when you listen to speech—you hear it through your physical senses, but you don't want the syllables to linger. You want them to pass so new ones can come and you can understand the complete message. Similarly, whenever something is made up of many parts that can't exist simultaneously, the whole would be more pleasing than its individual pieces if we could perceive it all at once. But far greater than all of these things is the One who created everything—our God—who never passes away, for nothing comes after Him.
If bodies please thee, praise God on occasion of them, and turn back thy love upon their Maker; lest in these things which please thee, thou displease. If souls please thee, be they loved in God: for they too are mutable, but in Him are they firmly stablished; else would they pass, and pass away. In Him then be they beloved; and carry unto Him along with thee what souls thou canst, and say to them, "Him let us love, Him let us love: He made these, nor is He far off. For He did not make them, and so depart, but they are of Him, and in Him. See there He is, where truth is loved. He is within the very heart, yet hath the heart strayed from Him. Go back into your heart, ye transgressors, and cleave fast to Him that made you. Stand with Him, and ye shall stand fast. Rest in Him, and ye shall be at rest. Whither go ye in rough ways? Whither go ye? The good that you love is from Him; but it is good and pleasant through reference to Him, and justly shall it be embittered, because unjustly is any thing loved which is from Him, if He be forsaken for it. To what end then would ye still and still walk these difficult and toilsome ways? There is no rest, where ye seek it. Seek what ye seek; but it is not there where ye seek. Ye seek a blessed life in the land of death; it is not there. For how should there be a blessed life where life itself is not?
If physical things bring you joy, praise God for them, but direct your love toward their Creator, so you don't lose sight of what truly matters. If you find joy in souls, love them through God, for they are changeable—only in Him are they secure. Otherwise, they would fade away. Love them in Him, and bring with you whatever souls you can, telling them, "Let us love Him, for He created all this and remains close to us." He didn't just create everything and leave—all things exist in and through Him. You'll find Him where truth is valued. He dwells within your heart, even when your heart wanders from Him. Return to your heart, you who have strayed, and hold fast to your Creator. Stand with Him to find stability. Rest in Him to find peace. Why do you choose difficult paths? Where are you going? The good things you love come from Him. They are pleasant because of their connection to Him, but they become bitter when you wrongly choose them over Him. Why continue down these hard, exhausting roads? You won't find rest where you're looking. Keep searching for what you seek, but know it's not where you're looking. You're searching for a blessed life in a place of death—it can't be there. How could true happiness exist where there isn't even life?
"But our true Life came down hither, and bore our death, and slew him, out of the abundance of His own life: and He thundered, calling aloud to us to return hence to Him into that secret place, whence He came forth to us, first into the Virgin's womb, wherein He espoused the human creation, our mortal flesh, that it might not be for ever mortal, and thence like a bridegroom coming out of his chamber, rejoicing as a giant to run his course. For He lingered not, but ran, calling aloud by words, deeds, death, life, descent, ascension; crying aloud to us to return unto Him. And He departed from our eyes, that we might return into our heart, and there find Him. For He departed, and lo, He is here. He would not be long with us, yet left us not; for He departed thither, whence He never parted, because the world was made by Him. And in this world He was, and into this world He came to save sinners, unto whom my soul confesseth, and He healeth it, for it hath sinned against Him. O ye sons of men, how long so slow of heart? Even now, after the descent of Life to you, will ye not ascend and live? But whither ascend ye, when ye are on high, and set your mouth against the heavens? Descend, that ye may ascend, and ascend to God. For ye have fallen, by ascending against Him." Tell them this, that they may weep in the valley of tears, and so carry them up with thee unto God; because out of His spirit thou speakest thus unto them, if thou speakest, burning with the fire of charity.
Our true Life came down to earth and faced our death, defeating it through His abundant life. He called out thunderously for us to return to that mysterious place from which He emerged. He first entered the Virgin's womb, where He joined with human form—our mortal flesh—so it would not remain forever mortal. Then, like a bridegroom leaving his chamber, He rejoiced like a giant ready to run His course. He didn't hesitate but ran forward, calling to us through His words, actions, death, life, descent, and ascension—always urging us to return to Him. Though He vanished from sight, it was so we might look within our hearts and find Him there. He left, yet remains here. His time with us was brief, but He didn't abandon us. He returned to where He had always been, for He created the world. He was in this world and came to save sinners, to whom my soul confesses. He heals it, though it has sinned against Him. O people, why do you remain so hesitant? Even now, after Life itself has come down to you, why won't you rise up and live? But where are you climbing to when you're already high up, speaking against heaven? Come down so you may truly rise up to God. For in rising against Him, you have fallen. Share this message so they may weep in the valley of tears, and then guide them upward to God. For you speak with His spirit when you speak with the fire of love.
These things I then knew not, and I loved these lower beauties, and I was sinking to the very depths, and to my friends I said, "Do we love any thing but the beautiful? What then is the beautiful? and what is beauty? What is it that attracts and wins us to the things we love? for unless there were in them a grace and beauty, they could by no means draw us unto them." And I marked and perceived that in bodies themselves, there was a beauty, from their forming a sort of whole, and again, another from apt and mutual correspondence, as of a part of the body with its whole, or a shoe with a foot, and the like. And this consideration sprang up in my mind, out of my inmost heart, and I wrote "on the fair and fit," I think, two or three books. Thou knowest, O Lord, for it is gone from me; for I have them not, but they are strayed from me, I know not how.
At that time, I didn't understand these things. I was drawn to superficial pleasures and was falling into their depths. I would ask my friends, "Do we love anything that isn't beautiful? But what exactly is beauty? What makes something beautiful? There must be something graceful and attractive about the things we love, otherwise why would we be drawn to them?" I began to notice that physical objects possessed beauty in two ways: first in their completeness, and second in how their parts fit together harmoniously—like how body parts complement the whole body, or how a shoe matches a foot. These thoughts emerged from deep within me, and I wrote two or three books about "Beauty and Proportion." You know about these works, Lord, but they're lost to me now—somehow they've disappeared, and I don't know where they've gone.
But what moved me, O Lord my God, to dedicate these books unto Hierius, an orator of Rome, whom I knew not by face, but loved for the fame of his learning which was eminent in him, and some words of his I had heard, which pleased me? But more did he please me, for that he pleased others, who highly extolled him, amazed that out of a Syrian, first instructed in Greek eloquence, should afterwards be formed a wonderful Latin orator, and one most learned in things pertaining unto philosophy. One is commended, and, unseen, he is loved: doth this love enter the heart of the hearer from the mouth of the commender? Not so. But by one who loveth is another kindled. For hence he is loved who is commended, when the commender is believed to extol him with an unfeigned heart; that is, when one that loves him, praises him.
I felt compelled, Lord, to dedicate these books to Hierius, a Roman orator I had never met but admired for his renowned scholarship. I had heard some of his words that resonated with me, but what impressed me more was how others praised him. They marveled that someone from Syria, initially trained in Greek rhetoric, could become such an exceptional Latin orator and philosopher. When someone is praised, we can come to love them without ever meeting them. But does this love truly come from the words of those who praise? No. Rather, love spreads from one person to another. We come to love those who are praised when we believe their admirers are sincere—when the praise comes from genuine affection.
For so did I then love men, upon the judgment of men, not Thine, O my God, in Whom no man is deceived. But yet why not for qualities, like those of a famous charioteer, or fighter with beasts in the theatre, known far and wide by a vulgar popularity, but far otherwise, and earnestly, and so as I would be myself commended? For I would not be commended or loved, as actors are (though I myself did commend and love them), but had rather be unknown, than so known; and even hated, than so loved. Where now are the impulses to such various and divers kinds of loves laid up in one soul? Why, since we are equally men, do I love in another what, if I did not hate, I should not spurn and cast from myself? For it holds not, that as a good horse is loved by him, who would not, though he might, be that horse, therefore the same may be said of an actor, who shares our nature. Do I then love in a man, what I hate to be, who am a man? Man himself is a great deep, whose very hairs Thou numberest, O Lord, and they fall not to the ground without Thee. And yet are the hairs of his head easier to be numbered than his feelings, and the beatings of his heart.
I loved others based on human judgment rather than yours, God, in whom no one is deceived. But why did I not value the same qualities that brought widespread fame to charioteers or gladiators? Instead, I wanted a different kind of recognition—one that reflected my true self. I didn't want the kind of praise or love given to actors (though I admired them myself). I would rather remain unknown than be famous that way, even preferring hatred to such shallow love. How can one soul contain such varied and different types of love? Why do I admire in others what I would reject in myself, even though we're all human? This isn't like admiring a fine horse, knowing you can't become one—actors share our human nature. So why do I love in others what I hate to become, despite being human myself? The human spirit is unfathomable. You, Lord, count every hair on our heads, and none falls without your knowledge. Yet it's easier to count those hairs than to understand our emotions and heartbeats.
But that orator was of that sort whom I loved, as wishing to be myself such; and I erred through a swelling pride, and was tossed about with every wind, but yet was steered by Thee, though very secretly. And whence do I know, and whence do I confidently confess unto Thee, that I had loved him more for the love of his commenders, than for the very things for which he was commended? Because, had he been unpraised, and these self-same men had dispraised him, and with dispraise and contempt told the very same things of him, I had never been so kindled and excited to love him. And yet the things had not been other, nor he himself other; but only the feelings of the relators. See where the impotent soul lies along, that is not yet stayed up by the solidity of truth! Just as the gales of tongues blow from the breast of the opinionative, so is it carried this way and that, driven forward and backward, and the light is overclouded to it, and the truth unseen. And lo, it is before us. And it was to me a great matter, that my discourse and labours should be known to that man: which should he approve, I were the more kindled; but if he disapproved, my empty heart, void of Thy solidity, had been wounded. And yet the "fair and fit," whereon I wrote to him, I dwelt on with pleasure, and surveyed it, and admired it, though none joined therein.
I loved that speaker because I wanted to be like him. But I was misguided by my own pride, being tossed around by others' opinions while You quietly guided me. Looking back, I can now admit to You that I loved him more for his admirers' praise than for his actual qualities. If these same people had criticized instead of praised him, speaking of the same traits with contempt, I wouldn't have felt such enthusiasm for him. Nothing about him would have changed—only the opinions of those describing him had shifted. See how weak the soul is when it isn't anchored in truth! Like a leaf in the wind, it's blown about by others' opinions, pushed back and forth until the light dims and truth becomes hidden, even though it's right in front of us. It meant so much to me then that this man would know my work and speeches. His approval would have fueled my passion, while his disapproval would have wounded my empty heart, which lacked Your foundation. Still, I took pleasure in writing to him about "beauty and proportion," contemplating and admiring these concepts, even though I stood alone in my reflections.
But I saw not yet, whereon this weighty matter turned in Thy wisdom, O Thou Omnipotent, who only doest wonders; and my mind ranged through corporeal forms; and "fair," I defined and distinguished what is so in itself, and "fit," whose beauty is in correspondence to some other thing: and this I supported by corporeal examples. And I turned to the nature of the mind, but the false notion which I had of spiritual things, let me not see the truth. Yet the force of truth did of itself flash into mine eyes, and I turned away my panting soul from incorporeal substance to lineaments, and colours, and bulky magnitudes. And not being able to see these in the mind, I thought I could not see my mind. And whereas in virtue I loved peace, and in viciousness I abhorred discord; in the first I observed a unity, but in the other, a sort of division. And in that unity I conceived the rational soul, and the nature of truth and of the chief good to consist; but in this division I miserably imagined there to be some unknown substance of irrational life, and the nature of the chief evil, which should not only be a substance, but real life also, and yet not derived from Thee, O my God, of whom are all things. And yet that first I called a Monad, as it had been a soul without sex; but the latter a Duad;—anger, in deeds of violence, and in flagitiousness, lust; not knowing whereof I spake. For I had not known or learned that neither was evil a substance, nor our soul that chief and unchangeable good.
Yet I didn't understand what drove this important matter in Your wisdom, O Omnipotent One, who alone performs wonders. My mind wandered through physical forms, defining "beautiful" as what is inherently so, and "fitting" as what complements something else. I used physical examples to support these ideas. When I turned to examine the mind's nature, my misconceptions about spiritual matters blocked me from seeing the truth. Though truth's power flashed before my eyes, I turned my struggling mind away from non-physical substance toward shapes, colors, and sizes. Unable to see these things in my mind, I wrongly concluded I couldn't see my mind at all. I recognized that in virtue I loved peace, while in vice I hated discord. In virtue I saw unity, in vice division. I thought this unity contained the rational soul, truth, and the highest good. But in division, I mistakenly imagined some unknown substance of irrational life and ultimate evil—a substance I believed was real life, yet not from You, my God, source of everything. I called the first concept a Monad, like a genderless soul, and the second a Duad, manifesting as violent anger and lustful behavior. I spoke without understanding, not yet knowing that evil isn't a substance, nor that our soul isn't that supreme and unchanging good.
For as deeds of violence arise, if that emotion of the soul be corrupted, whence vehement action springs, stirring itself insolently and unrulily; and lusts, when that affection of the soul is ungoverned, whereby carnal pleasures are drunk in, so do errors and false opinions defile the conversation, if the reasonable soul itself be corrupted; as it was then in me, who knew not that it must be enlightened by another light, that it may be partaker of truth, seeing itself is not that nature of truth. For Thou shalt light my candle, O Lord my God, Thou shalt enlighten my darkness: and of Thy fulness have we all received, for Thou art the true light that lighteth every man that cometh into the world; for in Thee there is no variableness, neither shadow of change.
When our emotional core is corrupted, violent acts emerge from our uncontrolled and rebellious impulses. Similarly, when we fail to govern our physical desires, we become slaves to carnal pleasures. False beliefs and misunderstandings poison our daily lives when our reasoning is flawed—as mine was then. I didn't understand that our minds need illumination from a higher source to grasp truth, since we ourselves are not truth's essence. For You, Lord my God, will light my way and brighten my darkness. We all receive from Your abundance, as You are the true light that illuminates every person born into this world. In You, there is perfect consistency, without even a hint of change.
But I pressed towards Thee, and was thrust from Thee, that I might taste of death: for thou resistest the proud. But what prouder, than for me with a strange madness to maintain myself to be that by nature which Thou art? For whereas I was subject to change (so much being manifest to me, my very desire to become wise, being the wish, of worse to become better), yet chose I rather to imagine Thee subject to change, and myself not to be that which Thou art. Therefore I was repelled by Thee, and Thou resistedst my vain stiffneckedness, and I imagined corporeal forms, and, myself flesh, I accused flesh; and, a wind that passeth away, I returned not to Thee, but I passed on and on to things which have no being, neither in Thee, nor in me, nor in the body. Neither were they created for me by Thy truth, but by my vanity devised out of things corporeal. And I was wont to ask Thy faithful little ones, my fellow-citizens (from whom, unknown to myself, I stood exiled), I was wont, prating and foolishly, to ask them, "Why then doth the soul err which God created?" But I would not be asked, "Why then doth God err?" And I maintained that Thy unchangeable substance did err upon constraint, rather than confess that my changeable substance had gone astray voluntarily, and now, in punishment, lay in error.
I pushed toward You, but was pushed away, forced to confront mortality—for You oppose the proud. And what could be more prideful than my bizarre insistence that I was naturally Your equal? Though I knew I was changeable (evident in my very desire to grow wiser), I chose instead to believe You were the changeable one, while denying my own nature. For this arrogance, You rejected me, resisting my stubborn pride. I became lost in physical forms and, being flesh myself, I blamed the flesh. Like a passing breeze, I drifted away from You, chasing things that had no real existence—neither in You, nor in me, nor in physical reality. These weren't creations of Your truth, but delusions my vanity constructed from material things. I would foolishly ask Your faithful followers, my fellow citizens (from whom I was unknowingly exiled), "Why does the soul God created fall into error?" Yet I refused to consider, "Why would God err?" I insisted that Your unchanging nature was forced into error, rather than admit that my changeable nature had willfully strayed and now suffered the consequences of its mistakes.
I was then some six or seven and twenty years old when I wrote those volumes; revolving within me corporeal fictions, buzzing in the ears of my heart, which I turned, O sweet truth, to thy inward melody, meditating on the "fair and fit," and longing to stand and hearken to Thee, and to rejoice greatly at the Bridegroom's voice, but could not; for by the voices of mine own errors, I was hurried abroad, and through the weight of my own pride, I was sinking into the lowest pit. For Thou didst not make me to hear joy and gladness, nor did the bones exult which were not yet humbled.
I was around twenty-six or twenty-seven when I wrote those books. My mind was filled with worldly stories, echoing in my heart's depths, while I tried to turn toward Your sweet truth and inner harmony. I pondered concepts of beauty and appropriateness, yearning to stand still and listen to You, to find joy in the Bridegroom's voice. But I couldn't. My own mistakes drove me away, and my pride weighed me down into darkness. You had not yet let me experience true joy, for my spirit remained unhumbled.
And what did it profit me, that scarce twenty years old, a book of Aristotle, which they call the ten Predicaments, falling into my hands (on whose very name I hung, as on something great and divine, so often as my rhetoric master of Carthage, and others, accounted learned, mouthed it with cheeks bursting with pride), I read and understood it unaided? And on my conferring with others, who said that they scarcely understood it with very able tutors, not only orally explaining it, but drawing many things in sand, they could tell me no more of it than I had learned, reading it by myself. And the book appeared to me to speak very clearly of substances, such as "man," and of their qualities, as the figure of a man, of what sort it is; and stature, how many feet high; and his relationship, whose brother he is; or where placed; or when born; or whether he stands or sits; or be shod or armed; or does, or suffers anything; and all the innumerable things which might be ranged under these nine Predicaments, of which I have given some specimens, or under that chief Predicament of Substance.
What good did it do me that at barely twenty years old, I got my hands on Aristotle's book known as the Ten Predicaments? I was captivated by its title alone, seeing it as something magnificent and divine—especially when my rhetoric teacher in Carthage and other supposed scholars spoke of it with such pompous pride. I read and understood it on my own, only to find that others who studied it with expert tutors (who explained it verbally and drew diagrams in the sand) couldn't tell me anything more than what I'd already figured out by myself. The book seemed straightforward enough, discussing substances like "man" and their qualities—a man's shape, his height in feet, his familial relationships, his location, birth date, whether he's standing or sitting, wearing shoes or carrying weapons, what he does or what happens to him. These examples, along with countless others, fell under nine Predicaments, or under the main Predicament of Substance.
What did all this further me, seeing it even hindered me? when, imagining whatever was, was comprehended under those ten Predicaments, I essayed in such wise to understand, O my God, Thy wonderful and unchangeable Unity also, as if Thou also hadst been subjected to Thine own greatness or beauty; so that (as in bodies) they should exist in Thee, as their subject: whereas Thou Thyself art Thy greatness and beauty; but a body is not great or fair in that it is a body, seeing that, though it were less great or fair, it should notwithstanding be a body. But it was falsehood which of Thee I conceived, not truth, fictions of my misery, not the realities of Thy blessedness. For Thou hadst commanded, and it was done in me, that the earth should bring forth briars and thorns to me, and that in the sweat of my brows I should eat my bread.
How did this help me when it actually held me back? I tried to understand Your wonderful and unchangeable Unity, my God, by imagining everything could be classified under those ten Predicaments. I wrongly assumed Your greatness and beauty existed within You as qualities, like they do in physical objects. But You are Your greatness and beauty—while a physical object isn't great or beautiful simply because it exists. Even if it were less impressive, it would still be an object. What I believed about You was false, not true—these were creations of my own misery, not reflections of Your blessedness. You had commanded, and I experienced it: that the earth would yield thorns and thistles for me, and I would eat my bread through the sweat of my labor.
And what did it profit me, that all the books I could procure of the so-called liberal arts, I, the vile slave of vile affections, read by myself, and understood? And I delighted in them, but knew not whence came all, that therein was true or certain. For I had my back to the light, and my face to the things enlightened; whence my face, with which I discerned the things enlightened, itself was not enlightened. Whatever was written, either on rhetoric, or logic, geometry, music, and arithmetic, by myself without much difficulty or any instructor, I understood, Thou knowest, O Lord my God; because both quickness of understanding, and acuteness in discerning, is Thy gift: yet did I not thence sacrifice to Thee. So then it served not to my use, but rather to my perdition, since I went about to get so good a portion of my substance into my own keeping; and I kept not my strength for Thee, but wandered from Thee into a far country, to spend it upon harlotries. For what profited me good abilities, not employed to good uses? For I felt not that those arts were attained with great difficulty, even by the studious and talented, until I attempted to explain them to such; when he most excelled in them who followed me not altogether slowly.
What good did it do me to read and understand all the books of liberal arts I could find, while I remained enslaved to base desires? I took pleasure in them, yet didn't understand the source of their truth and certainty. I had turned my back to the light, facing only the illuminated objects; thus my face, which perceived these enlightened things, remained in darkness itself. You know, Lord my God, that I easily grasped subjects like rhetoric, logic, geometry, music, and arithmetic without much help from teachers. While my quick understanding and sharp perception were Your gifts, I failed to offer them back to You in gratitude. Instead of benefiting me, these abilities led to my downfall. I tried to hoard these gifts as my personal possessions, refusing to dedicate my strength to You. Like the prodigal son, I wandered far from You, wasting my talents on worthless pursuits. What use were these abilities when misused? I never realized how challenging these subjects were for even the most dedicated and talented students until I tried teaching them to others. Even then, the best student was merely the one who could somewhat keep up with my pace.
But what did this further me, imagining that Thou, O Lord God, the Truth, wert a vast and bright body, and I a fragment of that body? Perverseness too great! But such was I. Nor do I blush, O my God, to confess to Thee Thy mercies towards me, and to call upon Thee, who blushed not then to profess to men my blasphemies, and to bark against Thee. What profited me then my nimble wit in those sciences and all those most knotty volumes, unravelled by me, without aid from human instruction; seeing I erred so foully, and with such sacrilegious shamefulness, in the doctrine of piety? Or what hindrance was a far slower wit to Thy little ones, since they departed not far from Thee, that in the nest of Thy Church they might securely be fledged, and nourish the wings of charity, by the food of a sound faith. O Lord our God, under the shadow of Thy wings let us hope; protect us, and carry us. Thou wilt carry us both when little, and even to hoar hairs wilt Thou carry us; for our firmness, when it is Thou, then is it firmness; but when our own, it is infirmity. Our good ever lives with Thee; from which when we turn away, we are turned aside. Let us now, O Lord, return, that we may not be overturned, because with Thee our good lives without any decay, which good art Thou; nor need we fear, lest there be no place whither to return, because we fell from it: for through our absence, our mansion fell not—Thy eternity.
But how did it help me to imagine You, Lord God of Truth, as some vast glowing body, with me as just a piece of it? What terrible confusion! That's what I was like. I don't hesitate now to confess Your mercy toward me, though back then I didn't hesitate to openly blaspheme and rage against You. What good was my quick mind in those sciences, or my ability to unlock complex texts without help? I was still tragically wrong about what truly mattered. And how did it hurt Your faithful ones to be slower learners, when they stayed close to You, growing safely in Your Church's nest, developing their capacity for love through sound teaching? Lord our God, let us find hope beneath Your wings. Protect and carry us. You'll carry us from childhood through old age—when we rely on Your strength, we stand firm; when we rely on our own, we falter. Our true good lives eternally with You; turning from it only leads us astray. Let us return to You now, Lord, before we fall completely, for our good lives uncorrupted in You. We needn't fear having nowhere to return, for though we wandered, our home still stands in Your eternal presence.