I will now call to mind my past foulness, and the carnal corruptions of my soul; not because I love them, but that I may love Thee, O my God. For love of Thy love I do it; reviewing my most wicked ways in the very bitterness of my remembrance, that Thou mayest grow sweet unto me (Thou sweetness never failing, Thou blissful and assured sweetness); and gathering me again out of that my dissipation, wherein I was torn piecemeal, while turned from Thee, the One Good, I lost myself among a multiplicity of things. For I even burnt in my youth heretofore, to be satiated in things below; and I dared to grow wild again, with these various and shadowy loves: my beauty consumed away, and I stank in Thine eyes; pleasing myself, and desirous to please in the eyes of men.
I will now call to mind my past foulness and the fleshly corruptions of my soul. I do this not because I love them, but so that I may love you, O my God. I do it for love of your love. I review my most wicked ways in the very bitterness of remembering them, so that you may grow sweet to me. You are a sweetness that never fails, a blissful and secure sweetness. You gather me again out of the scattered state in which I was torn to pieces, when I turned from you, the One Good, and lost myself among many things. For in my youth I once burned to have my fill of things below. And I dared to run wild again with various shadowy loves. My beauty wasted away, and I stank in your eyes, pleasing myself and eager to please in the eyes of men.
And what was it that I delighted in, but to love, and be loved? but I kept not the measure of love, of mind to mind, friendship's bright boundary: but out of the muddy concupiscence of the flesh, and the bubblings of youth, mists fumed up which beclouded and overcast my heart, that I could not discern the clear brightness of love from the fog of lustfulness. Both did confusedly boil in me, and hurried my unstayed youth over the precipice of unholy desires, and sunk me in a gulf of flagitiousnesses. Thy wrath had gathered over me, and I knew it not. I was grown deaf by the clanking of the chain of my mortality, the punishment of the pride of my soul, and I strayed further from Thee, and Thou lettest me alone, and I was tossed about, and wasted, and dissipated, and I boiled over in my fornications, and Thou heldest Thy peace, O Thou my tardy joy! Thou then heldest Thy peace, and I wandered further and further from Thee, into more and more fruitless seed-plots of sorrows, with a proud dejectedness, and a restless weariness.
What delighted me most was to love and be loved, but I couldn't maintain the proper bounds of love between minds—the pure essence of friendship. Instead, from the murky desires of flesh and the turbulence of youth, fog rose up and clouded my heart, making it impossible to distinguish genuine love from mere lust. These feelings churned within me chaotically, driving my reckless youth over the edge of sinful desires and plunging me into a pit of shameful acts. Your anger loomed over me, though I was blind to it. The rattling chains of my mortal nature had deafened me—punishment for my soul's pride. I drifted further from You, and You let me wander. I was thrown about, depleted, scattered, and consumed by my lustful acts while You remained silent, O my delayed joy! In Your silence, I strayed ever further, stumbling through increasingly barren fields of sorrow, filled with proud despair and restless exhaustion.
Oh! that some one had then attempered my disorder, and turned to account the fleeting beauties of these, the extreme points of Thy creation! had put a bound to their pleasureableness, that so the tides of my youth might have cast themselves upon the marriage shore, if they could not be calmed, and kept within the object of a family, as Thy law prescribes, O Lord: who this way formest the offspring of this our death, being able with a gentle hand to blunt the thorns which were excluded from Thy paradise? For Thy omnipotency is not far from us, even when we be far from Thee. Else ought I more watchfully to have heeded the voice from the clouds: Nevertheless such shall have trouble in the flesh, but I spare you. And it is good for a man not to touch a woman. And, he that is unmarried thinketh of the things of the Lord, how he may please the Lord; but he that is married careth for the things of this world, how he may please his wife.
If only someone had helped temper my unruly desires and channel these fleeting pleasures, which are the furthest reaches of Your creation! If only they had set limits on these indulgences, so my youthful passions might have found harbor in marriage—if they couldn't be completely calmed—and been contained within family life, as Your law commands, Lord. You who shapes the offspring born of our mortality, You can gently dull the thorns that were banished from Your paradise. Your power reaches us even when we stray far from You. I should have paid more attention to the warning from above: "Yet those who marry will face many troubles in this life, and I want to spare you this." And "It is good for a man not to marry." And "An unmarried man concerns himself with the Lord's work—how he can please the Lord. But a married man concerns himself with worldly matters—how he can please his wife."
To these words I should have listened more attentively, and being severed for the kingdom of heaven's sake, had more happily awaited Thy embraces; but I, poor wretch, foamed like a troubled sea, following the rushing of my own tide, forsaking Thee, and exceeded all Thy limits; yet I escaped not Thy scourges. For what mortal can? For Thou wert ever with me mercifully rigorous, and besprinkling with most bitter alloy all my unlawful pleasures: that I might seek pleasures without alloy. But where to find such, I could not discover, save in Thee, O Lord, who teachest by sorrow, and woundest us, to heal; and killest us, lest we die from Thee. Where was I, and how far was I exiled from the delights of Thy house, in that sixteenth year of the age of my flesh, when the madness of lust (to which human shamelessness giveth free licence, though unlicensed by Thy laws) took the rule over me, and I resigned myself wholly to it? My friends meanwhile took no care by marriage to save my fall; their only care was that I should learn to speak excellently, and be a persuasive orator.
I should have paid more attention to those words. By separating myself for heaven's sake, I could have more joyfully awaited Your embrace. Instead, I was like a turbulent sea, following my own destructive course and abandoning You, breaking all Your boundaries. Yet I couldn't escape Your discipline—what mortal can? You were always there, strictly merciful, making all my forbidden pleasures bitter so I would seek pure ones instead. But I could find such pure pleasure only in You, Lord, who teaches through pain, who wounds to heal, and kills to prevent our eternal death. How lost I was, how far from the joy of Your house in my sixteenth year, when lustful madness took control of me—that human vice which society freely permits but Your laws forbid. I gave myself completely to it. My friends, meanwhile, never tried to protect me through marriage. Their only concern was that I should become an excellent speaker and persuasive orator.
For that year were my studies intermitted: whilst after my return from Madaura (a neighbour city, whither I had journeyed to learn grammar and rhetoric), the expenses for a further journey to Carthage were being provided for me; and that rather by the resolution than the means of my father, who was but a poor freeman of Thagaste. To whom tell I this? not to Thee, my God; but before Thee to mine own kind, even to that small portion of mankind as may light upon these writings of mine. And to what purpose? that whosoever reads this, may think out of what depths we are to cry unto Thee. For what is nearer to Thine ears than a confessing heart, and a life of faith? Who did not extol my father, for that beyond the ability of his means, he would furnish his son with all necessaries for a far journey for his studies' sake? For many far abler citizens did no such thing for their children. But yet this same father had no concern how I grew towards Thee, or how chaste I were; so that I were but copious in speech, however barren I were to Thy culture, O God, who art the only true and good Lord of Thy field, my heart.
That year I had to pause my studies after returning from Madaura, a nearby city where I had gone to study grammar and rhetoric. My father was arranging funds for my further education in Carthage, despite being just a poor freeman of Thagaste and stretching beyond his means to do so. To whom am I telling this? Not to You, my God, but rather to my fellow humans who might come across these words. And why? So that whoever reads this might understand the depths from which we must call out to You. For what is closer to Your ears than a heart that confesses and a life lived in faith? Everyone praised my father for providing everything needed for my distant studies, despite his limited resources. Many wealthier citizens didn't do the same for their children. Yet this same father paid no attention to my spiritual growth or moral character. As long as I was eloquent in speech, he didn't care how barren I was in Your cultivation, O God, the only true and good Lord of my heart's field.
But while in that my sixteenth year I lived with my parents, leaving all school for a while (a season of idleness being interposed through the narrowness of my parents' fortunes), the briers of unclean desires grew rank over my head, and there was no hand to root them out. When that my father saw me at the baths, now growing towards manhood, and endued with a restless youthfulness, he, as already hence anticipating his descendants, gladly told it to my mother; rejoicing in that tumult of the senses wherein the world forgetteth Thee its Creator, and becometh enamoured of Thy creature, instead of Thyself, through the fumes of that invisible wine of its self-will, turning aside and bowing down to the very basest things. But in my mother's breast Thou hadst already begun Thy temple, and the foundation of Thy holy habitation, whereas my father was as yet but a Catechumen, and that but recently. She then was startled with a holy fear and trembling; and though I was not as yet baptised, feared for me those crooked ways in which they walk who turn their back to Thee, and not their face.
But in my sixteenth year I lived with my parents and left all school for a while. This time of idleness came about because my parents' means were so narrow. Then the thorns of unclean desires grew thick over my head, and there was no hand to root them out. My father saw me at the baths, now growing toward manhood and full of restless youth. Already looking forward from this to grandchildren, he gladly told my mother. He rejoiced in that turmoil of the senses in which the world forgets you, its Creator, and falls in love with your creature instead of you. It is drunk on the fumes of the invisible wine of its own self-will, turning aside and bowing down to the very lowest things. But in my mother's heart you had already begun your temple and the foundation of your holy dwelling. My father, by contrast, was still only a catechumen, and only recently. So she was startled with a holy fear and trembling. Though I was not yet baptized, she feared for me the crooked ways in which those walk who turn their backs to you, and not their faces.
Woe is me! and dare I say that Thou heldest Thy peace, O my God, while I wandered further from Thee? Didst Thou then indeed hold Thy peace to me? And whose but Thine were these words which by my mother, Thy faithful one, Thou sangest in my ears? Nothing whereof sunk into my heart, so as to do it. For she wished, and I remember in private with great anxiety warned me, "not to commit fornication; but especially never to defile another man's wife." These seemed to me womanish advices, which I should blush to obey. But they were Thine, and I knew it not: and I thought Thou wert silent and that it was she who spake; by whom Thou wert not silent unto me; and in her wast despised by me, her son, the son of Thy handmaid, Thy servant. But I knew it not; and ran headlong with such blindness, that amongst my equals I was ashamed of a less shamelessness, when I heard them boast of their flagitiousness, yea, and the more boasting, the more they were degraded: and I took pleasure, not only in the pleasure of the deed, but in the praise. What is worthy of dispraise but vice? But I made myself worse than I was, that I might not be dispraised; and when in any thing I had not sinned as the abandoned ones, I would say that I had done what I had not done, that I might not seem contemptible in proportion as I was innocent; or of less account, the more chaste.
God, how I suffer! How could you remain silent while I strayed further from you? But were you truly silent? Weren't those your words that my faithful mother sang into my ears? Yet nothing penetrated my heart enough to change my actions. She would pull me aside, anxiously warning me "not to engage in casual sex, and above all, never to sleep with another man's wife." At the time, I dismissed these as feminine concerns that I would be embarrassed to heed. But they were your words, though I didn't realize it. I thought you were silent and that only she was speaking. Through her, you were speaking to me, yet I, her son—your handmaid's son, your servant—disrespected you by dismissing her. I was blind to all this and rushed headlong into sin. Among my peers, I was ashamed to be less shameless than they were. When they boasted of their depravity, becoming more degraded the more they bragged, I enjoyed not just the acts themselves but also the praise they brought. What deserves criticism except vice? Yet I made myself appear worse than I was to avoid criticism. When I hadn't sinned as badly as the most depraved, I would claim I had done things I hadn't, fearing I would seem contemptible for my innocence or less worthy for my chastity.
Behold with what companions I walked the streets of Babylon, and wallowed in the mire thereof, as if in a bed of spices and precious ointments. And that I might cleave the faster to its very centre, the invisible enemy trod me down, and seduced me, for that I was easy to be seduced. Neither did the mother of my flesh (who had now fled out of the centre of Babylon, yet went more slowly in the skirts thereof as she advised me to chastity, so heed what she had heard of me from her husband, as to restrain within the bounds of conjugal affection, if it could not be pared away to the quick) what she felt to be pestilent at present and for the future dangerous. She heeded not this, for she feared lest a wife should prove a clog and hindrance to my hopes. Not those hopes of the world to come, which my mother reposed in Thee; but the hope of learning, which both my parents were too desirous I should attain; my father, because he had next to no thought of Thee, and of me but vain conceits; my mother, because she accounted that those usual courses of learning would not only be no hindrance, but even some furtherance towards attaining Thee. For thus I conjecture, recalling, as well as I may, the disposition of my parents. The reins, meantime, were slackened to me, beyond all temper of due severity, to spend my time in sport, yea, even unto dissoluteness in whatsoever I affected. And in all was a mist, intercepting from me, O my God, the brightness of Thy truth; and mine iniquity burst out as from very fatness.
Look at the companions with whom I walked the streets of Babylon. I rolled in its mud as if in a bed of spices and precious ointments. And to make me cling more tightly to its very center, the invisible enemy trampled me down and seduced me, because I was easy to seduce. My mother in the flesh had by now fled from the center of Babylon, though she still moved slowly in its outskirts. She advised me to be chaste. Yet she did not take what she had heard about me from her husband seriously enough to act on it. She did not try to confine within the bounds of married love what she felt was harmful now and dangerous for the future, if it could not be cut away to the quick. She did not do this, because she feared that a wife would be a burden and a hindrance to my hopes. These were not the hopes of the world to come, which my mother placed in you. They were the hopes of learning, which both my parents were too eager for me to gain. My father wanted it because he gave almost no thought to you, and only empty thoughts to me. My mother wanted it because she judged that the usual course of studies would not only be no hindrance, but even some help toward reaching you. This is my guess, as I recall my parents' characters as well as I can. Meanwhile the reins were loosened for me beyond all proper strictness, to spend my time in amusement, and even in dissolute living, in whatever I fancied. And in all of it there was a mist, O my God, cutting me off from the brightness of your truth. And my wickedness burst out as if from sheer fatness.
Theft is punished by Thy law, O Lord, and the law written in the hearts of men, which iniquity itself effaces not. For what thief will abide a thief? not even a rich thief, one stealing through want. Yet I lusted to thieve, and did it, compelled by no hunger, nor poverty, but through a cloyedness of well-doing, and a pamperedness of iniquity. For I stole that, of which I had enough, and much better. Nor cared I to enjoy what I stole, but joyed in the theft and sin itself. A pear tree there was near our vineyard, laden with fruit, tempting neither for colour nor taste. To shake and rob this, some lewd young fellows of us went, late one night (having according to our pestilent custom prolonged our sports in the streets till then), and took huge loads, not for our eating, but to fling to the very hogs, having only tasted them. And this, but to do what we liked only, because it was misliked. Behold my heart, O God, behold my heart, which Thou hadst pity upon in the bottom of the bottomless pit. Now, behold, let my heart tell Thee what it sought there, that I should be gratuitously evil, having no temptation to ill, but the ill itself. It was foul, and I loved it; I loved to perish, I loved mine own fault, not that for which I was faulty, but my fault itself. Foul soul, falling from Thy firmament to utter destruction; not seeking aught through the shame, but the shame itself!
Theft is punished by your law, O Lord, and by the law written in human hearts, which even wickedness does not erase. For what thief will put up with a thief? Not even a rich thief will put up with one who steals out of need. Yet I wanted to steal, and I did it. No hunger or poverty drove me. I did it out of a disgust for doing right and a pampered appetite for wickedness. For I stole what I had plenty of, and much better. Nor did I care to enjoy what I stole. I took joy in the theft and the sin itself. There was a pear tree near our vineyard, loaded with fruit that was tempting neither in color nor in taste. Late one night, a group of us wicked young fellows went to shake and rob it. We had kept up our games in the streets until then, as was our harmful habit. We carried off huge loads, not to eat, but to throw to the pigs, after only tasting them. And we did this only because we liked doing what was forbidden. Look at my heart, O God, look at my heart, which you pitied at the bottom of the bottomless pit. Now let my heart tell you what it was seeking there, that I should be evil for nothing, with no temptation to evil but the evil itself. It was foul, and I loved it. I loved to perish. I loved my own fault, not the thing I did wrong to get, but my fault itself. Foul soul, falling from your firmament to utter destruction, seeking nothing through the shame but the shame itself!
For there is an attractiveness in beautiful bodies, in gold and silver, and all things; and in bodily touch, sympathy hath much influence, and each other sense hath his proper object answerably tempered. Worldy honour hath also its grace, and the power of overcoming, and of mastery; whence springs also the thirst of revenge. But yet, to obtain all these, we may not depart from Thee, O Lord, nor decline from Thy law. The life also which here we live hath its own enchantment, through a certain proportion of its own, and a correspondence with all things beautiful here below. Human friendship also is endeared with a sweet tie, by reason of the unity formed of many souls. Upon occasion of all these, and the like, is sin committed, while through an immoderate inclination towards these goods of the lowest order, the better and higher are forsaken,—Thou, our Lord God, Thy truth, and Thy law. For these lower things have their delights, but not like my God, who made all things; for in Him doth the righteous delight, and He is the joy of the upright in heart.
Beautiful things have their allure—be it physical beauty, precious metals, or sensual pleasures. Each of our senses finds satisfaction in what appeals to it. Worldly status has its charm too, as does the power to triumph and dominate, which can fuel desires for vengeance. Yet in pursuing these things, we must not stray from You, Lord, or violate Your law. Even our earthly existence has its enchantments, reflecting a natural harmony with all that is beautiful here. Human bonds of friendship are sweetened by the unity of kindred spirits. It is in excessive attachment to these lesser goods that sin takes root, causing us to abandon what is truly higher and better—You, Lord God, Your truth, and Your law. These earthly pleasures may satisfy, but they pale beside my God, creator of all things, in whom the righteous find delight and the pure in heart find joy.
When, then, we ask why a crime was done, we believe it not, unless it appear that there might have been some desire of obtaining some of those which we called lower goods, or a fear of losing them. For they are beautiful and comely; although compared with those higher and beatific goods, they be abject and low. A man hath murdered another; why? he loved his wife or his estate; or would rob for his own livelihood; or feared to lose some such things by him; or, wronged, was on fire to be revenged. Would any commit murder upon no cause, delighted simply in murdering? who would believe it? for as for that furious and savage man, of whom it is said that he was gratuitously evil and cruel, yet is the cause assigned; "lest" (saith he) "through idleness hand or heart should grow inactive." And to what end? that, through that practice of guilt, he might, having taken the city, attain to honours, empire, riches, and be freed from fear of the laws, and his embarrassments from domestic needs, and consciousness of villainies. So then, not even Catiline himself loved his own villainies, but something else, for whose sake he did them.
When we ask why a crime was committed, we do not believe the answer unless it appears there may have been a desire to gain some of those goods we called lower, or a fear of losing them. For they are beautiful and attractive, though compared with the higher goods that bring bliss, they are base and low. A man has murdered another. Why? He loved the other man's wife or estate. Or he wanted to rob him to make a living. Or he feared to lose some such thing through him. Or he had been wronged and burned for revenge. Would anyone commit murder for no cause, simply delighting in murder? Who would believe it? Even that furious and savage man, who was said to be evil and cruel for no reason, still had a cause assigned. "Lest," he says, "my hand or heart should grow sluggish through idleness." And to what end? So that through that practice of crime he might take the city and gain honors, power, and riches. He wanted to be free from fear of the laws, from his troubles caused by want at home, and from the awareness of his crimes. So not even Catiline himself loved his crimes, but something else, for whose sake he committed them.
What then did wretched I so love in thee, thou theft of mine, thou deed of darkness, in that sixteenth year of my age? Lovely thou wert not, because thou wert theft. But art thou any thing, that thus I speak to thee? Fair were the pears we stole, because they were Thy creation, Thou fairest of all, Creator of all, Thou good God; God, the sovereign good and my true good. Fair were those pears, but not them did my wretched soul desire; for I had store of better, and those I gathered, only that I might steal. For, when gathered, I flung them away, my only feast therein being my own sin, which I was pleased to enjoy. For if aught of those pears came within my mouth, what sweetened it was the sin. And now, O Lord my God, I enquire what in that theft delighted me; and behold it hath no loveliness; I mean not such loveliness as in justice and wisdom; nor such as is in the mind and memory, and senses, and animal life of man; nor yet as the stars are glorious and beautiful in their orbs; or the earth, or sea, full of embryo-life, replacing by its birth that which decayeth; nay, nor even that false and shadowy beauty which belongeth to deceiving vices.
What was it that I, in my misery, loved about you—this petty theft, this act of darkness, when I was sixteen? You weren't beautiful, being theft. But what are you really, that I address you this way? The pears we stole were beautiful because they were Your creation, most beautiful Creator of all, good God—God, the highest good and my true good. Those pears were beautiful, but my troubled soul didn't want them—I had better ones at home. I took them only to steal. After picking them, I threw them away, feasting only on my sin, which I enjoyed. If I tasted any of those pears, the sin was what made them sweet. Now, Lord my God, I wonder what pleased me about that theft. I see no beauty in it—not the beauty of justice and wisdom, nor the beauty found in human consciousness, memory, senses, and life. Not the glory of stars in their orbits, nor Earth's splendor, nor the sea teeming with life that replaces what dies. Not even the false, hollow beauty that makes vices attractive.
For so doth pride imitate exaltedness; whereas Thou alone art God exalted over all. Ambition, what seeks it, but honours and glory? whereas Thou alone art to be honoured above all, and glorious for evermore. The cruelty of the great would fain be feared; but who is to be feared but God alone, out of whose power what can be wrested or withdrawn? when, or where, or whither, or by whom? The tendernesses of the wanton would fain be counted love: yet is nothing more tender than Thy charity; nor is aught loved more healthfully than that Thy truth, bright and beautiful above all. Curiosity makes semblance of a desire of knowledge; whereas Thou supremely knowest all. Yea, ignorance and foolishness itself is cloaked under the name of simplicity and uninjuriousness; because nothing is found more single than Thee: and what less injurious, since they are his own works which injure the sinner? Yea, sloth would fain be at rest; but what stable rest besides the Lord? Luxury affects to be called plenty and abundance; but Thou art the fulness and never-failing plenteousness of incorruptible pleasures. Prodigality presents a shadow of liberality: but Thou art the most overflowing Giver of all good. Covetousness would possess many things; and Thou possessest all things. Envy disputes for excellency: what more excellent than Thou? Anger seeks revenge: who revenges more justly than Thou? Fear startles at things unwonted and sudden, which endangers things beloved, and takes forethought for their safety; but to Thee what unwonted or sudden, or who separateth from Thee what Thou lovest? Or where but with Thee is unshaken safety? Grief pines away for things lost, the delight of its desires; because it would have nothing taken from it, as nothing can from Thee.
For pride imitates loftiness, while you alone are God, high over all. What does ambition seek but honors and glory? Yet you alone are to be honored above all, and glorious forever. The cruelty of the powerful wants to be feared. But who is to be feared but God alone? What can be seized or taken away from his power? When, or where, or to where, or by whom? The caresses of the lustful want to be counted as love. Yet nothing is more tender than your love, and nothing is loved more wholesomely than your truth, bright and beautiful above all. Curiosity pretends to be a desire for knowledge, while you supremely know all things. Even ignorance and foolishness hide under the name of simplicity and harmlessness. For nothing is found more simple than you. And what is less harmful than you, since it is the sinner's own works that harm him? Sloth wants to be at rest. But what sure rest is there besides the Lord? Luxury likes to be called plenty and abundance. But you are the fullness and never-failing plenty of pleasures that do not decay. Wastefulness puts on a shadow of generosity. But you are the most overflowing Giver of all good. Greed wants to possess many things, and you possess all things. Envy fights for excellence. What is more excellent than you? Anger seeks revenge. Who takes revenge more justly than you? Fear is startled by unusual and sudden things that endanger what it loves, and it plans for their safety. But what is unusual or sudden to you? Or who can separate from you what you love? Or where but with you is there unshaken safety? Grief wastes away over lost things that its desires delighted in. It wants nothing taken from it, just as nothing can be taken from you.
Thus doth the soul commit fornication, when she turns from Thee, seeking without Thee, what she findeth not pure and untainted, till she returns to Thee. Thus all pervertedly imitate Thee, who remove far from Thee, and lift themselves up against Thee. But even by thus imitating Thee, they imply Thee to be the Creator of all nature; whence there is no place whither altogether to retire from Thee. What then did I love in that theft? and wherein did I even corruptly and pervertedly imitate my Lord? Did I wish even by stealth to do contrary to Thy law, because by power I could not, so that being a prisoner, I might mimic a maimed liberty by doing with impunity things unpermitted me, a darkened likeness of Thy Omnipotency? Behold, Thy servant, fleeing from his Lord, and obtaining a shadow. O rottenness, O monstrousness of life, and depth of death! could I like what I might not, only because I might not?
So the soul commits fornication when she turns away from you and seeks outside you what she cannot find pure and untainted until she returns to you. So all who go far from you and set themselves up against you imitate you in a perverse way. But even by imitating you like this, they show that you are the Creator of all nature. So there is no place where they can wholly get away from you. What, then, did I love in that theft? In what way did I imitate my Lord, even in a corrupt and perverse way? Did I want to act against your law at least by stealth, because I could not do it by power? Was I, a prisoner, mimicking a crippled freedom by doing forbidden things without punishment, a darkened likeness of your almighty power? Look, your servant runs from his Lord and gets hold of a shadow. O rottenness! O monstrous life and depth of death! Could I like what was forbidden, only because it was forbidden?
What shall I render unto the Lord, that, whilst my memory recalls these things, my soul is not affrighted at them? I will love Thee, O Lord, and thank Thee, and confess unto Thy name; because Thou hast forgiven me these so great and heinous deeds of mine. To Thy grace I ascribe it, and to Thy mercy, that Thou hast melted away my sins as it were ice. To Thy grace I ascribe also whatsoever I have not done of evil; for what might I not have done, who even loved a sin for its own sake? Yea, all I confess to have been forgiven me; both what evils I committed by my own wilfulness, and what by Thy guidance I committed not. What man is he, who, weighing his own infirmity, dares to ascribe his purity and innocency to his own strength; that so he should love Thee the less, as if he had less needed Thy mercy, whereby Thou remittest sins to those that turn to Thee? For whosoever, called by Thee, followed Thy voice, and avoided those things which he reads me recalling and confessing of myself, let him not scorn me, who being sick, was cured by that Physician, through whose aid it was that he was not, or rather was less, sick: and for this let him love Thee as much, yea and more; since by whom he sees me to have been recovered from such deep consumption of sin, by Him he sees himself to have been from the like consumption of sin preserved.
What shall I give back to the Lord for this, that my memory recalls these things and yet my soul is not frightened by them? I will love you, O Lord, and thank you, and confess to your name, because you have forgiven me these great and wicked deeds of mine. I credit it to your grace and to your mercy that you have melted my sins away like ice. I also credit to your grace whatever evil I have not done. For what might I not have done, when I even loved a sin for its own sake? Yes, I confess that all has been forgiven me, both the evils I did by my own willfulness and those I did not do because you guided me. Who is there who weighs his own weakness and yet dares to credit his purity and innocence to his own strength? Such a man would love you less, as if he had less needed your mercy, by which you forgive the sins of those who turn to you. Someone may have been called by you, followed your voice, and avoided the things he reads me recalling and confessing about myself. Let him not scorn me. I was sick and was cured by the same Physician whose help kept him from being sick, or rather, from being so sick. And for this let him love you as much, and even more. For he sees that the one who rescued me from so deep a wasting disease of sin is the one who kept him from the same wasting disease.
What fruit had I then (wretched man!) in those things, of the remembrance whereof I am now ashamed? Especially, in that theft which I loved for the theft's sake; and it too was nothing, and therefore the more miserable I, who loved it. Yet alone I had not done it: such was I then, I remember, alone I had never done it. I loved then in it also the company of the accomplices, with whom I did it? I did not then love nothing else but the theft, yea rather I did love nothing else; for that circumstance of the company was also nothing. What is, in truth? who can teach me, save He that enlighteneth my heart, and discovereth its dark corners? What is it which hath come into my mind to enquire, and discuss, and consider? For had I then loved the pears I stole, and wished to enjoy them, I might have done it alone, had the bare commission of the theft sufficed to attain my pleasure; nor needed I have inflamed the itching of my desires by the excitement of accomplices. But since my pleasure was not in those pears, it was in the offence itself, which the company of fellow-sinners occasioned.
What fruit did I have then, wretched man that I was, in those things I am now ashamed to remember? Above all, what fruit was there in that theft, which I loved for the theft's sake? It too was nothing, and so I, who loved it, was the more miserable. Yet I would not have done it alone. Such was I then, I remember, that alone I would never have done it. Did I then also love in it the company of the accomplices I did it with? Then it was not the theft alone that I loved. And yet I loved nothing else, for the company too was nothing. What is the truth? Who can teach me, but he who lights up my heart and uncovers its dark corners? What is it that has come into my mind to ask about, discuss, and consider? If I had loved the pears I stole and wanted to enjoy them, I could have done it alone, if the mere act of theft had been enough to give me my pleasure. I would not have needed to inflame the itch of my desires by the excitement of accomplices. But my pleasure was not in those pears. It was in the offense itself, which the company of fellow sinners brought about.
What then was this feeling? For of a truth it was too foul: and woe was me, who had it. But yet what was it? Who can understand his errors? It was the sport, which as it were tickled our hearts, that we beguiled those who little thought what we were doing, and much disliked it. Why then was my delight of such sort that I did it not alone? Because none doth ordinarily laugh alone? ordinarily no one; yet laughter sometimes masters men alone and singly when no one whatever is with them, if anything very ludicrous presents itself to their senses or mind. Yet I had not done this alone; alone I had never done it. Behold my God, before Thee, the vivid remembrance of my soul; alone, I had never committed that theft wherein what I stole pleased me not, but that I stole; nor had it alone liked me to do it, nor had I done it. O friendship too unfriendly! thou incomprehensible inveigler of the soul, thou greediness to do mischief out of mirth and wantonness, thou thirst of others' loss, without lust of my own gain or revenge: but when it is said, "Let's go, let's do it," we are ashamed not to be shameless.
What was this feeling? Truthfully, it was despicable, and I was miserable because of it. But what exactly was it? Who can truly understand their own flaws? It was like a game that tickled our hearts as we deceived those who would have disapproved, had they known what we were doing. Why did I only find pleasure in doing it with others? Is it because no one laughs alone? Generally not, though sometimes people laugh by themselves when something ridiculous catches their eye or mind. Yet I wouldn't have done this alone; I never would have. Here before You, my God, in my soul's clear memory: I would never have committed that theft where the stolen item itself gave me no pleasure—only the act of stealing did. I wouldn't have enjoyed it alone, nor would I have done it. Oh, what toxic friendship! You're an inexplicable seducer of the soul, a desire to cause trouble for fun, a thirst for others' misfortune without seeking personal gain or revenge. But when someone says, "Come on, let's do it," we become ashamed of not being shameless.
Who can disentangle that twisted and intricate knottiness? Foul is it: I hate to think on it, to look on it. But Thee I long for, O Righteousness and Innocency, beautiful and comely to all pure eyes, and of a satisfaction unsating. With Thee is rest entire, and life imperturbable. Whoso enters into Thee, enters into the joy of his Lord: and shall not fear, and shall do excellently in the All-Excellent. I sank away from Thee, and I wandered, O my God, too much astray from Thee my stay, in these days of my youth, and I became to myself a barren land.
Who can untangle such complex confusion? It's repulsive—I hate to dwell on it or even look at it. But I yearn for You, O Righteousness and Innocence, beautiful and graceful to pure eyes, bringing endless satisfaction. In You lies complete peace and unshakeable life. Whoever finds You enters into their Lord's joy, free from fear, excelling in the presence of Excellence itself. I drifted away from You, my God, wandering far from Your protection in my youth, until I became an empty wasteland.