Book 6

O Thou, my hope from my youth, where wert Thou to me, and whither wert Thou gone? Hadst not Thou created me, and separated me from the beasts of the field, and fowls of the air? Thou hadst made me wiser, yet did I walk in darkness, and in slippery places, and sought Thee abroad out of myself, and found not the God of my heart; and had come into the depths of the sea, and distrusted and despaired of ever finding truth. My mother had now come to me, resolute through piety, following me over sea and land, in all perils confiding in Thee. For in perils of the sea, she comforted the very mariners (by whom passengers unacquainted with the deep, use rather to be comforted when troubled), assuring them of a safe arrival, because Thou hadst by a vision assured her thereof. She found me in grievous peril, through despair of ever finding truth. But when I had discovered to her that I was now no longer a Manichee, though not yet a Catholic Christian, she was not overjoyed, as at something unexpected; although she was now assured concerning that part of my misery, for which she bewailed me as one dead, though to be reawakened by Thee, carrying me forth upon the bier of her thoughts, that Thou mightest say to the son of the widow, Young man, I say unto thee, Arise; and he should revive, and begin to speak, and Thou shouldest deliver him to his mother. Her heart then was shaken with no tumultuous exultation, when she heard that what she daily with tears desired of Thee was already in so great part realised; in that, though I had not yet attained the truth, I was rescued from falsehood; but, as being assured, that Thou, Who hadst promised the whole, wouldest one day give the rest, most calmly, and with a heart full of confidence, she replied to me, "She believed in Christ, that before she departed this life, she should see me a Catholic believer." Thus much to me. But to Thee, Fountain of mercies, poured she forth more copious prayers and tears, that Thou wouldest hasten Thy help, and enlighten my darkness; and she hastened the more eagerly to the Church, and hung upon the lips of Ambrose, praying for the fountain of that water, which springeth up unto life everlasting. But that man she loved as an angel of God, because she knew that by him I had been brought for the present to that doubtful state of faith I now was in, through which she anticipated most confidently that I should pass from sickness unto health, after the access, as it were, of a sharper fit, which physicians call "the crisis."

From my youth, where were You, my hope, and where had You gone? Though You created me and set me apart from the beasts and birds, making me wiser, I still walked in darkness. I searched for You outside myself, unable to find the God of my heart. I had ventured into life's depths, losing faith and despairing of ever finding truth. My mother came to me then, driven by her devotion, following me across sea and land, trusting in You through every danger. During sea voyages, she even comforted the sailors (who typically comfort nervous passengers), assuring them of safe passage because You had shown her this in a vision. She found me in deep despair about finding truth. When I told her I was no longer a Manichee, though not yet a Catholic Christian, she remained calm, as if expecting this news. While she was relieved about this part of my spiritual journey—for which she had mourned me as dead until You would revive me—her heart stayed steady. She was like the widow whose son You raised, saying, "Young man, arise," returning him to his mother alive and speaking. Her heart didn't burst with sudden joy upon hearing that her daily tearful prayers were partially answered—that though I hadn't found truth, I had escaped falsehood. Instead, confident that You would fulfill Your promise completely, she calmly replied, "I believe in Christ that before I die, I will see you become a Catholic believer." This she said to me. But to You, Fountain of mercy, she poured out even more prayers and tears, begging You to hasten Your help and illuminate my darkness. She went more frequently to church and hung on Ambrose's every word, praying for the water of eternal life. She loved him like an angel of God, knowing he had guided me to my current uncertain faith. She was confident I would move from spiritual sickness to health, after what doctors call "the crisis"—that critical moment before recovery.

When then my mother had once, as she was wont in Afric, brought to the Churches built in memory of the Saints, certain cakes, and bread and wine, and was forbidden by the door-keeper; so soon as she knew that the Bishop had forbidden this, she so piously and obediently embraced his wishes, that I myself wondered how readily she censured her own practice, rather than discuss his prohibition. For wine-bibbing did not lay siege to her spirit, nor did love of wine provoke her to hatred of the truth, as it doth too many (both men and women), who revolt at a lesson of sobriety, as men well-drunk at a draught mingled with water. But she, when she had brought her basket with the accustomed festival-food, to be but tasted by herself, and then given away, never joined therewith more than one small cup of wine, diluted according to her own abstemious habits, which for courtesy she would taste. And if there were many churches of the departed saints that were to be honoured in that manner, she still carried round that same one cup, to be used every where; and this, though not only made very watery, but unpleasantly heated with carrying about, she would distribute to those about her by small sips; for she sought there devotion, not pleasure. So soon, then, as she found this custom to be forbidden by that famous preacher and most pious prelate, even to those that would use it soberly, lest so an occasion of excess might be given to the drunken; and for these, as it were, anniversary funeral solemnities did much resemble the superstition of the Gentiles, she most willingly forbare it: and for a basket filled with fruits of the earth, she had learned to bring to the Churches of the martyrs a breast filled with more purified petitions, and to give what she could to the poor; that so the communication of the Lord's Body might be there rightly celebrated, where, after the example of His Passion, the martyrs had been sacrificed and crowned. But yet it seems to me, O Lord my God, and thus thinks my heart of it in Thy sight, that perhaps she would not so readily have yielded to the cutting off of this custom, had it been forbidden by another, whom she loved not as Ambrose, whom, for my salvation, she loved most entirely; and he her again, for her most religious conversation, whereby in good works, so fervent in spirit, she was constant at church; so that, when he saw me, he often burst forth into her praises; congratulating me that I had such a mother; not knowing what a son she had in me, who doubted of all these things, and imagined the way to life could not be found out.

Once my mother, as she used to do in Africa, brought certain cakes, bread, and wine to the churches built in memory of the saints, and the doorkeeper stopped her. As soon as she learned that the bishop had forbidden this, she accepted his wishes so devoutly and obediently that I myself was amazed. She was quicker to find fault with her own custom than to dispute his ban. For drinking did not besiege her spirit, and love of wine did not stir her to hate the truth. It does that to too many, both men and women, who recoil from a lesson in sobriety as drunkards recoil from a drink mixed with water. When she brought her basket of the customary festival food, she would only taste it herself and then give it away. She never added more than one small cup of wine, diluted to suit her own sober habits, and she tasted it out of courtesy. If there were many churches of departed saints to be honored in that way, she still carried that same one cup around to use everywhere. By then it was not only very watery but unpleasantly warm from being carried about. She shared it with those around her in small sips, for she sought devotion there, not pleasure. Then she found that this custom had been forbidden by that famous preacher and most devout bishop, even to those who would observe it soberly. He forbade it so that no occasion for excess would be given to drunkards, and because these funeral feasts, held like anniversaries, closely resembled the superstition of the pagans. As soon as she found this, she most willingly gave it up. Instead of a basket full of the fruits of the earth, she had learned to bring to the churches of the martyrs a heart full of purer prayers, and to give what she could to the poor. In this way the communion of the Lord's Body could be rightly celebrated there, where the martyrs had been sacrificed and crowned after the example of his Passion. But yet it seems to me, O Lord my God, and my heart thinks so in your sight, that perhaps she would not so readily have given up this custom if it had been forbidden by someone else, whom she did not love as she loved Ambrose. She loved him most dearly for the sake of my salvation. And he loved her in return for her most devout way of life, for she was so fervent in spirit in good works and so constant at church. So when he saw me, he often burst out in her praise, congratulating me on having such a mother. He did not know what kind of son she had in me. I doubted all these things and imagined that the way to life could not be found.

Nor did I yet groan in my prayers, that Thou wouldest help me; but my spirit was wholly intent on learning, and restless to dispute. And Ambrose himself, as the world counts happy, I esteemed a happy man, whom personages so great held in such honour; only his celibacy seemed to me a painful course. But what hope he bore within him, what struggles he had against the temptations which beset his very excellencies, or what comfort in adversities, and what sweet joys Thy Bread had for the hidden mouth of his spirit, when chewing the cud thereof, I neither could conjecture, nor had experienced. Nor did he know the tides of my feelings, or the abyss of my danger. For I could not ask of him, what I would as I would, being shut out both from his ear and speech by multitudes of busy people, whose weaknesses he served. With whom when he was not taken up (which was but a little time), he was either refreshing his body with the sustenance absolutely necessary, or his mind with reading. But when he was reading, his eye glided over the pages, and his heart searched out the sense, but his voice and tongue were at rest. Ofttimes when we had come (for no man was forbidden to enter, nor was it his wont that any who came should be announced to him), we saw him thus reading to himself, and never otherwise; and having long sat silent (for who durst intrude on one so intent?) we were fain to depart, conjecturing that in the small interval which he obtained, free from the din of others' business, for the recruiting of his mind, he was loth to be taken off; and perchance he dreaded lest if the author he read should deliver any thing obscurely, some attentive or perplexed hearer should desire him to expound it, or to discuss some of the harder questions; so that his time being thus spent, he could not turn over so many volumes as he desired; although the preserving of his voice (which a very little speaking would weaken) might be the truer reason for his reading to himself. But with what intent soever he did it, certainly in such a man it was good.

I didn't yet pray for Your help—instead, my mind was consumed with learning and eager for debate. I considered Ambrose a fortunate man, as most would, given the high regard such important people held him in. Only his choice to remain unmarried seemed difficult to me. I couldn't guess, having never experienced it myself, what inner hope sustained him, how he fought against temptations that came with his virtues, or what comfort he found in hardship. I didn't know what private joy Your Word brought him in quiet moments of reflection. He knew nothing of my inner turmoil or the depths of my struggles. I couldn't speak with him as I wished, since crowds of people with their own needs constantly surrounded him. During his rare free moments, he either ate what he needed to sustain himself or read. When reading, his eyes moved across the pages while his mind absorbed the meaning, but he never read aloud. Often when we visited (for anyone could enter without being announced), we found him reading silently—always this way. After sitting quietly for a while (for who would dare interrupt someone so focused?), we would leave, assuming that in these brief moments of peace from others' demands, he preferred not to be disturbed. Perhaps he worried that if he encountered something unclear in his reading, listeners might ask him to explain or debate complex points, preventing him from covering as much material as he wanted. Though the real reason for his silent reading might have been to preserve his voice, which weakened easily. Whatever his reason, for someone of his character, it was surely the right choice.

I however certainly had no opportunity of enquiring what I wished of that so holy oracle of Thine, his breast, unless the thing might be answered briefly. But those tides in me, to be poured out to him, required his full leisure, and never found it. I heard him indeed every Lord's day, rightly expounding the Word of truth among the people; and I was more and more convinced that all the knots of those crafty calumnies, which those our deceivers had knit against the Divine Books, could be unravelled. But when I understood withal, that "man created by Thee, after Thine own image," was not so understood by Thy spiritual sons, whom of the Catholic Mother Thou hast born again through grace, as though they believed and conceived of Thee as bounded by human shape (although what a spiritual substance should be I had not even a faint or shadowy notion); yet, with joy I blushed at having so many years barked not against the Catholic faith, but against the fictions of carnal imaginations. For so rash and impious had I been, that what I ought by enquiring to have learned, I had pronounced on, condemning. For Thou, Most High, and most near; most secret, and most present; Who hast not limbs some larger, some smaller, but art wholly every where, and no where in space, art not of such corporeal shape, yet hast Thou made man after Thine own image; and behold, from head to foot is he contained in space.

I never had the chance to properly consult that holy oracle, his heart, since my questions required more than brief answers. Those thoughts I longed to pour out to him needed his undivided attention, which I never found. Still, every Sunday I heard him accurately interpret Scripture to his congregation, and I became increasingly convinced that all the twisted accusations our deceivers had made against the Holy Books could be proven false. I also came to understand that when your spiritual children, reborn through grace in the Catholic Church, spoke of "man being created in Your image," they didn't mean You had a human form. Though I still couldn't grasp what a spiritual substance truly was, I felt embarrassed but relieved to realize I had spent years attacking not the Catholic faith itself, but merely misconceptions based on physical imagery. I had been foolish and irreverent, condemning what I should have tried to understand. For You, Most High, are both closest to us and beyond reach, hidden yet ever-present. You aren't bound by physical dimensions or space—You exist everywhere and nowhere at once. Though You have no bodily form, You created humans in Your image, even though we are confined to physical space from head to toe.

Ignorant then how this Thy image should subsist, I should have knocked and proposed the doubt, how it was to be believed, not insultingly opposed it, as if believed. Doubt, then, what to hold for certain, the more sharply gnawed my heart, the more ashamed I was, that so long deluded and deceived by the promise of certainties, I had with childish error and vehemence, prated of so many uncertainties. For that they were falsehoods became clear to me later. However I was certain that they were uncertain, and that I had formerly accounted them certain, when with a blind contentiousness, I accused Thy Catholic Church, whom I now discovered, not indeed as yet to teach truly, but at least not to teach that for which I had grievously censured her. So I was confounded, and converted: and I joyed, O my God, that the One Only Church, the body of Thine Only Son (wherein the name of Christ had been put upon me as an infant), had no taste for infantine conceits; nor in her sound doctrine maintained any tenet which should confine Thee, the Creator of all, in space, however great and large, yet bounded every where by the limits of a human form.

Since I did not know how this image of yours could exist, I should have knocked and asked how it was to be believed. I should not have mocked and attacked it as though that were what was believed. So the doubt about what to hold as certain gnawed at my heart all the more sharply, the more ashamed I was. For so long I had been deluded and deceived by the promise of certainties. With childish error and vehemence I had chattered about so many uncertain things. That they were falsehoods became clear to me later. But I was already certain that they were uncertain. And I was certain that I had once counted them certain, when I blindly and contentiously accused your Catholic Church. I had not yet found that she taught the truth. But I now found at least that she did not teach what I had so harshly condemned her for. So I was confounded, and turned. And I rejoiced, O my God, that the One Only Church, the body of your Only Son (in which the name of Christ had been put on me as an infant), had no taste for childish notions. In her sound doctrine she held no teaching that would confine you, the Creator of all, in a space, however great and wide, yet bounded on every side by the limits of a human form.

I joyed also that the old Scriptures of the law and the Prophets were laid before me, not now to be perused with that eye to which before they seemed absurd, when I reviled Thy holy ones for so thinking, whereas indeed they thought not so: and with joy I heard Ambrose in his sermons to the people, oftentimes most diligently recommend this text for a rule, The letter killeth, but the Spirit giveth life; whilst he drew aside the mystic veil, laying open spiritually what, according to the letter, seemed to teach something unsound; teaching herein nothing that offended me, though he taught what I knew not as yet, whether it were true. For I kept my heart from assenting to any thing, fearing to fall headlong; but by hanging in suspense I was the worse killed. For I wished to be as assured of the things I saw not, as I was that seven and three are ten. For I was not so mad as to think that even this could not be comprehended; but I desired to have other things as clear as this, whether things corporeal, which were not present to my senses, or spiritual, whereof I knew not how to conceive, except corporeally. And by believing might I have been cured, that so the eyesight of my soul being cleared, might in some way be directed to Thy truth, which abideth always, and in no part faileth. But as it happens that one who has tried a bad physician, fears to trust himself with a good one, so was it with the health of my soul, which could not be healed but by believing, and lest it should believe falsehoods, refused to be cured; resisting Thy hands, Who hast prepared the medicines of faith, and hast applied them to the diseases of the whole world, and given unto them so great authority.

I rejoiced too that the old Scriptures of the Law and the Prophets were set before me to be read no longer with the eye to which they had once seemed absurd. Back then I had reviled your holy ones for thinking such things, when in fact they did not think so. And I listened with joy as Ambrose, in his sermons to the people, often and most carefully commended this text as a rule: The letter kills, but the Spirit gives life. Meanwhile he drew aside the mystic veil and opened up the spiritual meaning of passages that, taken literally, seemed to teach something unsound. In this he taught nothing that offended me, though he taught things I did not yet know to be true or not. For I kept my heart from assenting to anything, afraid of falling headlong. But by hanging in suspense I was being killed all the more. I wanted to be as sure of the things I did not see as I was that seven and three make ten. I was not so mad as to think that even this could not be known. But I wanted other things to be as clear as this, whether bodily things not present to my senses, or spiritual things, which I did not know how to conceive except in bodily terms. By believing I could have been cured. Then the eyesight of my soul, once cleared, might somehow have been directed to your truth, which always abides and in no part fails. But it often happens that someone who has tried a bad doctor is afraid to trust himself to a good one. So it was with the health of my soul. It could not be healed except by believing, and for fear of believing falsehoods, it refused to be cured. It resisted your hands. You have prepared the medicines of faith, applied them to the diseases of the whole world, and given them such great authority.

Being led, however, from this to prefer the Catholic doctrine, I felt that her proceeding was more unassuming and honest, in that she required to be believed things not demonstrated (whether it was that they could in themselves be demonstrated but not to certain persons, or could not at all be), whereas among the Manichees our credulity was mocked by a promise of certain knowledge, and then so many most fabulous and absurd things were imposed to be believed, because they could not be demonstrated. Then Thou, O Lord, little by little with most tender and most merciful hand, touching and composing my heart, didst persuade me—considering what innumerable things I believed, which I saw not, nor was present while they were done, as so many things in secular history, so many reports of places and of cities, which I had not seen; so many of friends, so many of physicians, so many continually of other men, which unless we should believe, we should do nothing at all in this life; lastly, with how unshaken an assurance I believed of what parents I was born, which I could not know, had I not believed upon hearsay—considering all this, Thou didst persuade me, that not they who believed Thy Books (which Thou hast established in so great authority among almost all nations), but they who believed them not, were to be blamed; and that they were not to be heard, who should say to me, "How knowest thou those Scriptures to have been imparted unto mankind by the Spirit of the one true and most true God?" For this very thing was of all most to be believed, since no contentiousness of blasphemous questionings, of all that multitude which I had read in the self-contradicting philosophers, could wring this belief from me, "That Thou art" whatsoever Thou wert (what I knew not), and "That the government of human things belongs to Thee."

Yet from this I was led to prefer the Catholic teaching. I felt that her way was more modest and honest. She required people to believe things that were not demonstrated, whether they could be demonstrated in themselves but not to certain people, or could not be demonstrated at all. Among the Manichees, by contrast, our credulity was mocked by a promise of certain knowledge. Then so many utterly fabulous and absurd things were forced on us to believe, because they could not be demonstrated. Then you, O Lord, little by little, with a most tender and merciful hand, touched and calmed my heart and persuaded me. I considered the countless things I believed that I had not seen, and was not present when they happened. There were so many things in secular history, so many reports of places and cities I had never seen. There were so many things I believed from friends, from doctors, and constantly from other people. Unless we believed these, we would do nothing at all in this life. Last of all, I considered how firmly I believed who my parents were, which I could not know unless I believed what I was told. Considering all this, you persuaded me that those who believed your Books were not to blame, but those who did not believe them. You have established those Books with such great authority among almost all nations. And you persuaded me not to listen to anyone who might say to me, "How do you know those Scriptures were given to mankind by the Spirit of the one true and most true God?" For this very thing was most of all to be believed. In all the quarrelsome and blasphemous questions I had read among the self-contradicting philosophers, none could wring from me this belief: "That you exist," whatever you were (which I did not know), and "That the government of human things belongs to you."

This I believed, sometimes more strongly, more weakly otherwhiles; yet I ever believed both that Thou wert, and hadst a care of us; though I was ignorant, both what was to be thought of Thy substance, and what way led or led back to Thee. Since then we were too weak by abstract reasonings to find out truth: and for this very cause needed the authority of Holy Writ; I had now begun to believe that Thou wouldest never have given such excellency of authority to that Writ in all lands, hadst Thou not willed thereby to be believed in, thereby sought. For now what things, sounding strangely in the Scripture, were wont to offend me, having heard divers of them expounded satisfactorily, I referred to the depth of the mysteries, and its authority appeared to me the more venerable, and more worthy of religious credence, in that, while it lay open to all to read, it reserved the majesty of its mysteries within its profounder meaning, stooping to all in the great plainness of its words and lowliness of its style, yet calling forth the intensest application of such as are not light of heart; that so it might receive all in its open bosom, and through narrow passages waft over towards Thee some few, yet many more than if it stood not aloft on such a height of authority, nor drew multitudes within its bosom by its holy lowliness. These things I thought on, and Thou wert with me; I sighed, and Thou heardest me; I wavered, and Thou didst guide me; I wandered through the broad way of the world, and Thou didst not forsake me.

I believed this, sometimes more strongly, at other times more weakly. Yet I always believed both that you exist and that you care for us, though I did not know what to think about your substance, or what way led, or led back, to you. We were too weak to find out the truth by abstract reasoning, and for this very reason we needed the authority of Holy Scripture. So I had now begun to believe that you would never have given that Scripture such surpassing authority in all lands unless you willed that through it you would be believed in and sought. Some things that sounded strange in Scripture used to offend me. But now that I had heard several of them explained satisfactorily, I attributed such things to the depth of its mysteries. And its authority seemed to me all the more worthy of reverence and of religious faith for this reason. It lies open for all to read, yet keeps the majesty of its mysteries in its deeper meaning. It stoops to all in the great plainness of its words and the humility of its style. Yet it calls for the closest attention from those who are not shallow-hearted. So it receives all into its open embrace, and through narrow passages it carries some few over toward you. Yet these are many more than if it did not stand so high in authority, and did not draw crowds into its embrace by its holy humility. I thought about these things, and you were with me. I sighed, and you heard me. I wavered, and you guided me. I wandered along the broad way of the world, and you did not forsake me.

I panted after honours, gains, marriage; and thou deridedst me. In these desires I underwent most bitter crosses, Thou being the more gracious, the less Thou sufferedst aught to grow sweet to me, which was not Thou. Behold my heart, O Lord, who wouldest I should remember all this, and confess to Thee. Let my soul cleave unto Thee, now that Thou hast freed it from that fast-holding birdlime of death. How wretched was it! and Thou didst irritate the feeling of its wound, that forsaking all else, it might be converted unto Thee, who art above all, and without whom all things would be nothing; be converted, and be healed. How miserable was I then, and how didst Thou deal with me, to make me feel my misery on that day, when I was preparing to recite a panegyric of the Emperor, wherein I was to utter many a lie, and lying, was to be applauded by those who knew I lied, and my heart was panting with these anxieties, and boiling with the feverishness of consuming thoughts. For, passing through one of the streets of Milan, I observed a poor beggar, then, I suppose, with a full belly, joking and joyous: and I sighed, and spoke to the friends around me, of the many sorrows of our frenzies; for that by all such efforts of ours, as those wherein I then toiled dragging along, under the goading of desire, the burthen of my own wretchedness, and, by dragging, augmenting it, we yet looked to arrive only at that very joyousness whither that beggar-man had arrived before us, who should never perchance attain it. For what he had obtained by means of a few begged pence, the same was I plotting for by many a toilsome turning and winding; the joy of a temporary felicity. For he verily had not the true joy; but yet I with those my ambitious designs was seeking one much less true. And certainly he was joyous, I anxious; he void of care, I full of fears. But should any ask me, had I rather be merry or fearful? I would answer merry. Again, if he asked had I rather be such as he was, or what I then was? I should choose to be myself, though worn with cares and fears; but out of wrong judgment; for, was it the truth? For I ought not to prefer myself to him, because more learned than he, seeing I had no joy therein, but sought to please men by it; and that not to instruct, but simply to please. Wherefore also Thou didst break my bones with the staff of Thy correction.

I pursued honors, wealth, and marriage, while you mocked my ambitions. These desires brought me bitter hardships, though you showed greater mercy by preventing anything but yourself from bringing me joy. Look into my heart, Lord, as you wish me to remember and confess all this. Let my soul cling to you, now that you've freed it from death's sticky trap. How miserable it was! You aggravated its wound so that, abandoning everything else, it might turn to you—who are above all, without whom nothing would exist—and be healed. How wretched I was then, and how you made me feel my misery that day when I prepared to deliver the Emperor's praise, planning to tell many lies and expecting applause from those who knew I was lying. My heart raced with anxiety and burned with feverish thoughts. Walking through Milan's streets, I saw a poor beggar, presumably well-fed, laughing and happy. I sighed and told my friends about the foolishness of our struggles. Despite all my efforts—dragging along my burdens of desire and misery, making them heavier as I went—I was only trying to reach the same happiness this beggar had already found, though I might never achieve it. What he gained through a few coins, I sought through exhausting schemes: the pleasure of temporary happiness. True, his joy wasn't genuine, but what I sought through my ambitious plans was even less so. He was happy while I was anxious, he was carefree while I was afraid. If asked whether I'd rather be cheerful or fearful, I'd choose cheerful. Yet if asked to choose between being him or myself, I'd have chosen to remain myself, despite my worries and fears. But this was poor judgment. How could I justify preferring myself just because I was more educated, when that knowledge brought me no joy and I only used it to please others—not to teach, but simply to impress? That's why you broke my bones with your corrective staff.

Away with those then from my soul who say to her, "It makes a difference whence a man's joy is. That beggar-man joyed in drunkenness; Thou desiredst to joy in glory." What glory, Lord? That which is not in Thee. For even as his was no true joy, so was that no true glory: and it overthrew my soul more. He that very night should digest his drunkenness; but I had slept and risen again with mine, and was to sleep again, and again to rise with it, how many days, Thou, God, knowest. But "it doth make a difference whence a man's joy is." I know it, and the joy of a faithful hope lieth incomparably beyond such vanity. Yea, and so was he then beyond me: for he verily was the happier; not only for that he was thoroughly drenched in mirth, I disembowelled with cares: but he, by fair wishes, had gotten wine; I, by lying, was seeking for empty, swelling praise. Much to this purpose said I then to my friends: and I often marked in them how it fared with me; and I found it went ill with me, and grieved, and doubled that very ill; and if any prosperity smiled on me, I was loth to catch at it, for almost before I could grasp it, it flew away.

Away from my soul, then, with those who say to her, "It makes a difference where a man's joy comes from. That beggar rejoiced in drunkenness. You wanted to rejoice in glory." What glory, Lord? Glory that is not in you. For just as his was no true joy, so that was no true glory, and it overturned my soul even more. He would sleep off his drunkenness that very night. But I had gone to sleep with mine and risen with it, and was going to sleep with it again and rise with it again, for how many days, you, God, know. But "it does make a difference where a man's joy comes from." I know it. And the joy of a faithful hope lies incomparably beyond such vanity. Yes, but so was he then beyond me. He was truly the happier one, and not only because he was soaked through with mirth while I was gutted by cares. He had gotten his wine by wishing people well, while I was seeking empty, swollen praise by lying. I said much to this effect to my friends at the time. And I often saw in them how things stood with me. I found that it went badly with me, and I grieved, and so doubled that very misery. And if any good fortune smiled on me, I was reluctant to grab it, for almost before I could grasp it, it flew away.

These things we, who were living as friends together, bemoaned together, but chiefly and most familiarly did I speak thereof with Alypius and Nebridius, of whom Alypius was born in the same town with me, of persons of chief rank there, but younger than I. For he had studied under me, both when I first lectured in our town, and afterwards at Carthage, and he loved me much, because I seemed to him kind, and learned; and I him, for his great towardliness to virtue, which was eminent enough in one of no greater years. Yet the whirlpool of Carthaginian habits (amongst whom those idle spectacles are hotly followed) had drawn him into the madness of the Circus. But while he was miserably tossed therein, and I, professing rhetoric there, had a public school, as yet he used not my teaching, by reason of some unkindness risen betwixt his father and me. I had found then how deadly he doted upon the Circus, and was deeply grieved that he seemed likely, nay, or had thrown away so great promise: yet had I no means of advising or with a sort of constraint reclaiming him, either by the kindness of a friend, or the authority of a master. For I supposed that he thought of me as did his father; but he was not such; laying aside then his father's mind in that matter, he began to greet me, come sometimes into my lecture room, hear a little, and be gone.

I shared these troubles with my friends, but discussed them most deeply with Alypius and Nebridius. Alypius, who came from my hometown and was born into a prominent family, was younger than me. He had been my student when I taught both in our town and later in Carthage. We formed a strong bond—he appreciated my kindness and knowledge, while I admired his exceptional virtue, especially remarkable in someone so young. Unfortunately, the corrupting influence of Carthage, particularly its obsession with entertainment, had pulled him into an unhealthy obsession with the Circus races. During this troubled period, while I was teaching rhetoric at a public school, he wasn't attending my lectures due to a falling out between his father and me. I was deeply concerned about his Circus addiction and worried that he was wasting his potential. However, I had no way to help or guide him, either as a friend or as a teacher. I assumed he shared his father's negative opinion of me, but I was wrong. Eventually, setting aside his father's prejudices, he began reaching out—occasionally visiting my classroom, listening briefly, and leaving.

I however had forgotten to deal with him, that he should not, through a blind and headlong desire of vain pastimes, undo so good a wit. But Thou, O Lord, who guidest the course of all Thou hast created, hadst not forgotten him, who was one day to be among Thy children, Priest and Dispenser of Thy Sacrament; and that his amendment might plainly be attributed to Thyself, Thou effectedst it through me, unknowingly. For as one day I sat in my accustomed place, with my scholars before me, he entered, greeted me, sat down, and applied his mind to what I then handled. I had by chance a passage in hand, which while I was explaining, a likeness from the Circensian races occurred to me, as likely to make what I would convey pleasanter and plainer, seasoned with biting mockery of those whom that madness had enthralled; God, Thou knowest that I then thought not of curing Alypius of that infection. But he took it wholly to himself, and thought that I said it simply for his sake. And whence another would have taken occasion of offence with me, that right-minded youth took as a ground of being offended at himself, and loving me more fervently. For Thou hadst said it long ago, and put it into Thy book, Rebuke a wise man and he will love Thee. But I had not rebuked him, but Thou, who employest all, knowing or not knowing, in that order which Thyself knowest (and that order is just), didst of my heart and tongue make burning coals, by which to set on fire the hopeful mind, thus languishing, and so cure it. Let him be silent in Thy praises, who considers not Thy mercies, which confess unto Thee out of my inmost soul. For he upon that speech burst out of that pit so deep, wherein he was wilfully plunged, and was blinded with its wretched pastimes; and he shook his mind with a strong self-command; whereupon all the filths of the Circensian pastimes flew off from him, nor came he again thither. Upon this, he prevailed with his unwilling father that he might be my scholar. He gave way, and gave in. And Alypius beginning to be my hearer again, was involved in the same superstition with me, loving in the Manichees that show of continency which he supposed true and unfeigned. Whereas it was a senseless and seducing continency, ensnaring precious souls, unable as yet to reach the depth of virtue, yet readily beguiled with the surface of what was but a shadowy and counterfeit virtue.

I, however, had forgotten to work on him, so that he would not ruin so fine a mind through a blind and headlong passion for empty entertainments. But you, O Lord, who guide the course of all you have created, had not forgotten him. He was one day to be among your children, a priest and dispenser of your Sacrament. And so that his reform might plainly be credited to you, you brought it about through me, though I did not know it. One day I was sitting in my usual place with my students before me. He came in, greeted me, sat down, and turned his mind to what I was dealing with. I happened to have a passage in hand. While I was explaining it, a comparison from the Circensian races occurred to me. I thought it would make my point more pleasant and plain, and I seasoned it with biting mockery of those enslaved by that madness. God, you know that I was not thinking then of curing Alypius of that infection. But he took it all to himself, and thought I had said it just for his sake. Another young man would have taken it as a reason to be angry with me. But that right-minded youth took it as a reason to be angry with himself, and to love me more warmly. For you had said it long ago and put it in your book: Rebuke a wise man and he will love you. But I had not rebuked him. It was you, who use everyone, knowing or not knowing, in the order you know (and that order is just). You made my heart and tongue into burning coals, to set on fire that promising mind that was wasting away, and so to cure it. Let anyone who does not consider your mercies be silent in your praises. Those mercies confess to you out of my inmost soul. For at that speech he burst out of that deep pit, where he had willfully plunged and been blinded by its wretched pastimes. He shook his mind with strong self-control. At that, all the filth of the Circensian pastimes fell away from him, and he never went there again. After this he won over his unwilling father to let him be my student. His father gave way and gave in. And when Alypius began to hear me again, he was caught up with me in the same superstition. He loved in the Manichees that show of self-restraint, which he thought was true and genuine. But it was a senseless and seductive self-restraint. It ensnared precious souls who could not yet reach the depth of virtue, but were easily fooled by the surface of what was only a shadowy, counterfeit virtue.

He, not forsaking that secular course which his parents had charmed him to pursue, had gone before me to Rome, to study law, and there he was carried away incredibly with an incredible eagerness after the shows of gladiators. For being utterly averse to and detesting spectacles, he was one day by chance met by divers of his acquaintance and fellow-students coming from dinner, and they with a familiar violence haled him, vehemently refusing and resisting, into the Amphitheatre, during these cruel and deadly shows, he thus protesting: "Though you hale my body to that place, and there set me, can you force me also to turn my mind or my eyes to those shows? I shall then be absent while present, and so shall overcome both you and them." They, hearing this, led him on nevertheless, desirous perchance to try that very thing, whether he could do as he said. When they were come thither, and had taken their places as they could, the whole place kindled with that savage pastime. But he, closing the passage of his eyes, forbade his mind to range abroad after such evil; and would he had stopped his ears also! For in the fight, when one fell, a mighty cry of the whole people striking him strongly, overcome by curiosity, and as if prepared to despise and be superior to it whatsoever it were, even when seen, he opened his eyes, and was stricken with a deeper wound in his soul than the other, whom he desired to behold, was in his body; and he fell more miserably than he upon whose fall that mighty noise was raised, which entered through his ears, and unlocked his eyes, to make way for the striking and beating down of a soul, bold rather than resolute, and the weaker, in that it had presumed on itself, which ought to have relied on Thee. For so soon as he saw that blood, he therewith drunk down savageness; nor turned away, but fixed his eye, drinking in frenzy, unawares, and was delighted with that guilty fight, and intoxicated with the bloody pastime. Nor was he now the man he came, but one of the throng he came unto, yea, a true associate of theirs that brought him thither. Why say more? He beheld, shouted, kindled, carried thence with him the madness which should goad him to return not only with them who first drew him thither, but also before them, yea and to draw in others. Yet thence didst Thou with a most strong and most merciful hand pluck him, and taughtest him to have confidence not in himself, but in Thee. But this was after.

He did not give up the worldly career his parents had coaxed him into. He had gone to Rome before me to study law. There he was carried away, incredibly, by an incredible craving for gladiator shows. He had utterly loathed and detested such spectacles. But one day, by chance, he met several of his acquaintances and fellow students coming from dinner. With the rough force friends use, they dragged him, though he strongly refused and resisted, into the Amphitheatre during these cruel and deadly shows. He protested, "Though you drag my body to that place and sit me there, can you force me also to turn my mind or my eyes to those shows? I will be absent while present, and so I will overcome both you and them." Hearing this, they led him on all the same, perhaps wanting to test that very thing, whether he could do as he said. When they arrived and had taken what seats they could, the whole place was blazing with that savage entertainment. But he shut the doors of his eyes and forbade his mind to roam out after such evil. If only he had stopped his ears too! For during the fight, when a man fell, a mighty roar from the whole crowd struck him hard. He was overcome by curiosity. As if ready to despise whatever it was and rise above it, even once seen, he opened his eyes. He was struck with a deeper wound in his soul than the man he wanted to see had received in his body. He fell more miserably than the man whose fall had raised that great noise. The noise entered through his ears and unlocked his eyes, to make way for striking and beating down his soul. It was a soul bold rather than resolute, and all the weaker because it had relied on itself when it ought to have relied on you. For as soon as he saw that blood, he drank in savagery with it. He did not turn away, but fixed his eyes on it, drinking in frenzy without knowing it. He was delighted with that wicked fight and drunk with the bloody sport. He was no longer the man who had come, but one of the crowd he had come into, and a true companion of those who had brought him there. Why say more? He watched, he shouted, he was inflamed. He carried away with him the madness that would goad him to come back, not only with those who had first dragged him there, but even ahead of them, and to drag others in too. Yet you plucked him out of this with a most strong and most merciful hand, and taught him to trust not in himself but in you. But this was later.

But this was already being laid up in his memory to be a medicine hereafter. So was that also, that when he was yet studying under me at Carthage, and was thinking over at mid-day in the market-place what he was to say by heart (as scholars use to practise), Thou sufferedst him to be apprehended by the officers of the market-place for a thief. For no other cause, I deem, didst Thou, our God, suffer it, but that he who was hereafter to prove so great a man, should already begin to learn that in judging of causes, man was not readily to be condemned by man out of a rash credulity. For as he was walking up and down by himself before the judgment-seat, with his note-book and pen, lo, a young man, a lawyer, the real thief, privily bringing a hatchet, got in, unperceived by Alypius, as far as the leaden gratings which fence in the silversmiths' shops, and began to cut away the lead. But the noise of the hatchet being heard, the silversmiths beneath began to make a stir, and sent to apprehend whomever they should find. But he, hearing their voices, ran away, leaving his hatchet, fearing to be taken with it. Alypius now, who had not seen him enter, was aware of his going, and saw with what speed he made away. And being desirous to know the matter, entered the place; where finding the hatchet, he was standing, wondering and considering it, when behold, those that had been sent, find him alone with the hatchet in his hand, the noise whereof had startled and brought them thither. They seize him, hale him away, and gathering the dwellers in the market-place together, boast of having taken a notorious thief, and so he was being led away to be taken before the judge.

This experience would later serve as a valuable lesson. Another such lesson occurred while he was studying under me in Carthage. One afternoon in the marketplace, while Alypius was practicing his speech recitation (as students commonly did), you, God, allowed him to be arrested as a thief. I believe you permitted this incident for no other reason than to teach this future great man an early lesson about not hastily condemning others based on circumstantial evidence. While he was pacing near the courthouse with his notebook and pen, a young lawyer—the actual thief—snuck in unnoticed by Alypius. The man brought a hatchet and approached the lead gratings that protected the silversmiths' shops, beginning to cut away the metal. When the silversmiths below heard the hatchet's noise, they raised an alarm and sent people to catch the culprit. The thief, hearing their shouts, fled, abandoning his hatchet to avoid being caught with it. Alypius, who hadn't seen the man enter, noticed him fleeing at high speed. Curious about what had happened, he entered the area and found the hatchet. As he stood there examining it in confusion, the search party arrived to find him alone, holding the tool that had drawn them there. They seized him, dragged him away, and paraded him before the marketplace crowd, proudly announcing they had caught a notorious thief. And so Alypius was led away to face the judge.

But thus far was Alypius to be instructed. For forthwith, O Lord, Thou succouredst his innocency, whereof Thou alone wert witness. For as he was being led either to prison or to punishment, a certain architect met them, who had the chief charge of the public buildings. Glad they were to meet him especially, by whom they were wont to be suspected of stealing the goods lost out of the market-place, as though to show him at last by whom these thefts were committed. He, however, had divers times seen Alypius at a certain senator's house, to whom he often went to pay his respects; and recognising him immediately, took him aside by the hand, and enquiring the occasion of so great a calamity, heard the whole matter, and bade all present, amid much uproar and threats, to go with him. So they came to the house of the young man who had done the deed. There, before the door, was a boy so young as to be likely, not apprehending any harm to his master, to disclose the whole. For he had attended his master to the market-place. Whom so soon as Alypius remembered, he told the architect: and he showing the hatchet to the boy, asked him "Whose that was?" "Ours," quoth he presently: and being further questioned, he discovered every thing. Thus the crime being transferred to that house, and the multitude ashamed, which had begun to insult over Alypius, he who was to be a dispenser of Thy Word, and an examiner of many causes in Thy Church, went away better experienced and instructed.

But this was as far as Alypius was to be taught. For at once, O Lord, you came to the help of his innocence, of which you alone were witness. As he was being led off either to prison or to punishment, they were met by a certain architect, who had chief charge of the public buildings. They were especially glad to meet him. He used to suspect them of stealing the goods that went missing from the market-place, and now they could show him at last who had committed these thefts. But he had several times seen Alypius at the house of a certain senator, whom he often visited to pay his respects. He recognized him at once and took him aside by the hand. He asked the cause of so great a calamity and heard the whole story. Then, amid much uproar and threatening, he ordered all present to go with him. So they came to the house of the young man who had done the deed. There, in front of the door, was a boy so young that he was likely to tell everything, not suspecting any harm to his master. For he had gone with his master to the market-place. As soon as Alypius remembered him, he told the architect. The architect showed the hatchet to the boy and asked him, "Whose is that?" "Ours," he answered at once. When questioned further, he revealed everything. So the crime was shifted to that house, and the crowd that had begun to jeer at Alypius was put to shame. And he who was to be a dispenser of your Word, and an examiner of many cases in your Church, went away more experienced and better instructed.

Him then I had found at Rome, and he clave to me by a most strong tie, and went with me to Milan, both that he might not leave me, and might practise something of the law he had studied, more to please his parents than himself. There he had thrice sat as Assessor, with an uncorruptness much wondered at by others, he wondering at others rather who could prefer gold to honesty. His character was tried besides, not only with the bait of covetousness, but with the goad of fear. At Rome he was Assessor to the count of the Italian Treasury. There was at that time a very powerful senator, to whose favours many stood indebted, many much feared. He would needs, by his usual power, have a thing allowed him which by the laws was unallowed. Alypius resisted it: a bribe was promised; with all his heart he scorned it: threats were held out; he trampled upon them: all wondering at so unwonted a spirit, which neither desired the friendship, nor feared the enmity of one so great and so mightily renowned for innumerable means of doing good or evil. And the very judge, whose councillor Alypius was, although also unwilling it should be, yet did not openly refuse, but put the matter off upon Alypius, alleging that he would not allow him to do it: for in truth had the judge done it, Alypius would have decided otherwise. With this one thing in the way of learning was he well-nigh seduced, that he might have books copied for him at Praetorian prices, but consulting justice, he altered his deliberation for the better; esteeming equity whereby he was hindered more gainful than the power whereby he were allowed. These are slight things, but he that is faithful in little, is faithful also in much. Nor can that any how be void, which proceeded out of the mouth of Thy Truth: If ye have not been faithful in the unrighteous Mammon, who will commit to your trust true riches? And if ye have not been faithful in that which is another man's, who shall give you that which is your own? He being such, did at that time cleave to me, and with me wavered in purpose, what course of life was to be taken.

I had found him at Rome. He was bound to me by a very strong tie, and he went with me to Milan. He went so that he would not leave me, and also to practice some of the law he had studied, more to please his parents than himself. There he had sat three times as an Assessor. Others wondered greatly at his incorruptness, while he wondered rather at those who could prefer gold to honesty. His character was tested in other ways too, not only by the bait of greed but by the goad of fear. At Rome he was Assessor to the count of the Italian Treasury. At that time there was a very powerful senator. Many people owed him favors, and many feared him greatly. Using his usual power, he insisted on being allowed something the laws did not allow. Alypius resisted it. A bribe was promised, and he scorned it with all his heart. Threats were made, and he trampled on them. Everyone wondered at so unusual a spirit. He neither wanted the friendship nor feared the hostility of so great a man, famous for countless means of doing good or harm. The judge himself, whose adviser Alypius was, also did not want it done. Yet he did not refuse openly. Instead he put the matter off onto Alypius, claiming that Alypius would not let him do it. And in truth, if the judge had done it, Alypius would have ruled the other way. In one thing only, his love of learning, he was nearly led astray. He could have had books copied for himself at Praetorian prices. But he consulted justice and changed his mind for the better. He judged the fairness that held him back to be more profitable than the power that would have allowed him. These are small things. But he that is faithful in little is faithful also in much. Nor can anything be empty that came from the mouth of your Truth: If you have not been faithful in the unrighteous Mammon, who will entrust true riches to you? And if you have not been faithful in what is another man's, who will give you what is your own? Such was the man who clung to me at that time, and who wavered with me over what course of life to take.

Nebridius also, who having left his native country near Carthage, yea and Carthage itself, where he had much lived, leaving his excellent family-estate and house, and a mother behind, who was not to follow him, had come to Milan, for no other reason but that with me he might live in a most ardent search after truth and wisdom. Like me he sighed, like me he wavered, an ardent searcher after true life, and a most acute examiner of the most difficult questions. Thus were there the mouths of three indigent persons, sighing out their wants one to another, and waiting upon Thee that Thou mightest give them their meat in due season. And in all the bitterness which by Thy mercy followed our worldly affairs, as we looked towards the end, why we should suffer all this, darkness met us; and we turned away groaning, and saying, How long shall these things be? This too we often said; and so saying forsook them not, for as yet there dawned nothing certain, which these forsaken, we might embrace.

Nebridius had left his homeland near Carthage, and even Carthage itself where he'd spent many years. He abandoned his family estate, his house, and his mother, who couldn't join him, to come to Milan. His sole purpose was to join me in an intense pursuit of truth and wisdom. Like me, he struggled and doubted, passionately searching for authentic life while skillfully tackling the most complex questions. The three of us were like hungry souls, sharing our yearnings with each other and waiting for You to provide sustenance at the right time. In all the hardships that accompanied our worldly pursuits—hardships You mercifully allowed—we looked for meaning in our suffering but found only darkness. We turned away in despair, asking, "How long must this continue?" We repeated this often, yet we didn't abandon our path, because we hadn't yet found anything certain enough to embrace in place of what we would leave behind.

And I, viewing and reviewing things, most wondered at the length of time from that my nineteenth year, wherein I had begun to kindle with the desire of wisdom, settling when I had found her, to abandon all the empty hopes and lying frenzies of vain desires. And lo, I was now in my thirtieth year, sticking in the same mire, greedy of enjoying things present, which passed away and wasted my soul; while I said to myself, "Tomorrow I shall find it; it will appear manifestly and I shall grasp it; lo, Faustus the Manichee will come, and clear every thing! O you great men, ye Academicians, it is true then, that no certainty can be attained for the ordering of life! Nay, let us search the more diligently, and despair not. Lo, things in the ecclesiastical books are not absurd to us now, which sometimes seemed absurd, and may be otherwise taken, and in a good sense. I will take my stand, where, as a child, my parents placed me, until the clear truth be found out. But where shall it be sought or when? Ambrose has no leisure; we have no leisure to read; where shall we find even the books? Whence, or when procure them? from whom borrow them? Let set times be appointed, and certain hours be ordered for the health of our soul. Great hope has dawned; the Catholic Faith teaches not what we thought, and vainly accused it of; her instructed members hold it profane to believe God to be bounded by the figure of a human body: and do we doubt to 'knock,' that the rest 'may be opened'? The forenoons our scholars take up; what do we during the rest? Why not this? But when then pay we court to our great friends, whose favour we need? When compose what we may sell to scholars? When refresh ourselves, unbending our minds from this intenseness of care?

I went over things again and again. What amazed me most was how long it had been since my nineteenth year. At that age I had begun to burn with the desire for wisdom. And I had resolved that once I found her, I would abandon all the empty hopes and lying frenzies of vain desires. And look, I was now in my thirtieth year, stuck in the same mud. I was greedy to enjoy present things, which slipped away and wasted my soul. All the while I said to myself, "Tomorrow I will find it. It will appear plainly, and I will grasp it. Look, Faustus the Manichee will come and make everything clear! O you great men, you Academics, it is true then that no certainty can be reached for ordering our lives! No, let us search all the harder, and not despair. Look, things in the Church's books no longer seem absurd to us. They once seemed absurd, but they can be taken another way, and in a good sense. I will take my stand where my parents placed me as a child, until the clear truth is found. But where should it be sought, or when? Ambrose has no free time. We have no free time to read. Where will we even find the books? Where or when can we get them? Who can we borrow them from? Let set times be fixed, and certain hours be set aside for the health of our soul. Great hope has dawned. The Catholic Faith does not teach what we thought and wrongly accused it of. Its instructed members hold it impious to believe that God is bounded by the shape of a human body. So do we hesitate to 'knock,' so that the rest 'may be opened'? Our students take up the mornings. What do we do with the rest of the day? Why not this? But then when do we pay court to our great friends, whose favor we need? When do we write what we can sell to students? When do we refresh ourselves, relaxing our minds from this intense strain of care?

"Perish every thing, dismiss we these empty vanities, and betake ourselves to the one search for truth! Life is vain, death uncertain; if it steals upon us on a sudden, in what state shall we depart hence? and where shall we learn what here we have neglected? and shall we not rather suffer the punishment of this negligence? What, if death itself cut off and end all care and feeling? Then must this be ascertained. But God forbid this! It is no vain and empty thing, that the excellent dignity of the authority of the Christian Faith hath overspread the whole world. Never would such and so great things be by God wrought for us, if with the death of the body the life of the soul came to an end. Wherefore delay then to abandon worldly hopes, and give ourselves wholly to seek after God and the blessed life? But wait! Even those things are pleasant; they have some, and no small sweetness. We must not lightly abandon them, for it were a shame to return again to them. See, it is no great matter now to obtain some station, and then what should we more wish for? We have store of powerful friends; if nothing else offer, and we be in much haste, at least a presidentship may be given us: and a wife with some money, that she increase not our charges: and this shall be the bound of desire. Many great men, and most worthy of imitation, have given themselves to the study of wisdom in the state of marriage."

"Let everything go! Let us dismiss these empty vanities and give ourselves to the one search for truth! Life is empty, and death is uncertain. If death steals on us suddenly, in what state will we leave this world? And where will we learn what we have neglected here? Will we not rather suffer punishment for this neglect? But what if death itself cuts off and ends all care and feeling? Then that must be found out. But God forbid! It is not a vain and empty thing that the excellent dignity of the Christian Faith's authority has spread over the whole world. God would never have done such great things for us if the life of the soul ended with the death of the body. Why then do we delay to abandon worldly hopes and give ourselves wholly to seeking God and the blessed life? But wait! These things too are pleasant. They have some sweetness, and no small amount. We must not abandon them lightly, for it would be shameful to come back to them again. Look, it is no great matter now to get some position, and then what more should we want? We have plenty of powerful friends. If nothing else turns up, and we are in a great hurry, at least a provincial governorship could be given us. And a wife with some money, so that she does not add to our expenses. And this will be the limit of our desire. Many great men, most worthy of imitation, have devoted themselves to the study of wisdom while married."

While I went over these things, and these winds shifted and drove my heart this way and that, time passed on, but I delayed to turn to the Lord; and from day to day deferred to live in Thee, and deferred not daily to die in myself. Loving a happy life, I feared it in its own abode, and sought it, by fleeing from it. I thought I should be too miserable, unless folded in female arms; and of the medicine of Thy mercy to cure that infirmity I thought not, not having tried it. As for continency, I supposed it to be in our own power (though in myself I did not find that power), being so foolish as not to know what is written, None can be continent unless Thou give it; and that Thou wouldest give it, if with inward groanings I did knock at Thine ears, and with a settled faith did cast my care on Thee.

While I went over these things, and these winds shifted and drove my heart this way and that, time passed. But I delayed turning to the Lord. From day to day I put off living in you, yet I did not put off dying in myself every day. I loved the happy life, yet I feared it in its own home, and I sought it by running away from it. I thought I would be too miserable unless I were held in a woman's arms. I did not think of the medicine of your mercy to cure that weakness, because I had never tried it. As for self-restraint, I supposed it was in our own power (though I did not find that power in myself). I was foolish enough not to know what is written: No one can be self-restrained unless you give it. Nor did I know that you would give it, if I knocked at your ears with inward groaning and cast my care on you with settled faith.

Alypius indeed kept me from marrying; alleging that so could we by no means with undistracted leisure live together in the love of wisdom, as we had long desired. For himself was even then most pure in this point, so that it was wonderful; and that the more, since in the outset of his youth he had entered into that course, but had not stuck fast therein; rather had he felt remorse and revolting at it, living thenceforth until now most continently. But I opposed him with the examples of those who as married men had cherished wisdom, and served God acceptably, and retained their friends, and loved them faithfully. Of whose greatness of spirit I was far short; and bound with the disease of the flesh, and its deadly sweetness, drew along my chain, dreading to be loosed, and as if my wound had been fretted, put back his good persuasions, as it were the hand of one that would unchain me. Moreover, by me did the serpent speak unto Alypius himself, by my tongue weaving and laying in his path pleasurable snares, wherein his virtuous and free feet might be entangled.

Alypius tried to discourage me from marriage, arguing that we couldn't pursue our shared love of philosophy with undivided attention if I were married. He himself was remarkably pure in this regard, especially considering his early youth when he had briefly strayed from this path, only to turn back with regret and live continently ever since. I countered his arguments by pointing to examples of married men who had successfully pursued wisdom, served God, and maintained faithful friendships. But I fell far short of their strength of character. Bound by physical desires and their dangerous allure, I clung to my chains, fearing freedom. When Alypius tried to help, I recoiled like someone protecting a wound. Worse still, I became like a serpent, using my words to tempt Alypius himself, laying verbal traps to ensnare his virtuous and free spirit.

For when he wondered that I, whom he esteemed not slightly, should stick so fast in the birdlime of that pleasure, as to protest (so oft as we discussed it) that I could never lead a single life; and urged in my defence when I saw him wonder, that there was great difference between his momentary and scarce-remembered knowledge of that life, which so he might easily despise, and my continued acquaintance whereto if the honourable name of marriage were added, he ought not to wonder why I could not contemn that course; he began also to desire to be married; not as overcome with desire of such pleasure, but out of curiosity. For he would fain know, he said, what that should be, without which my life, to him so pleasing, would to me seem not life but a punishment. For his mind, free from that chain, was amazed at my thraldom; and through that amazement was going on to a desire of trying it, thence to the trial itself, and thence perhaps to sink into that bondage whereat he wondered, seeing he was willing to make a covenant with death; and he that loves danger, shall fall into it. For whatever honour there be in the office of well-ordering a married life, and a family, moved us but slightly. But me for the most part the habit of satisfying an insatiable appetite tormented, while it held me captive; him, an admiring wonder was leading captive. So were we, until Thou, O Most High, not forsaking our dust, commiserating us miserable, didst come to our help, by wondrous and secret ways.

When he was surprised that I, whom he respected, could be so caught up in pleasure's trap that I insisted I could never live a single life, I defended myself. I explained that he couldn't fairly judge what he barely knew or remembered—it was completely different from my deep personal experience. Add to that the honorable institution of marriage, and he shouldn't be surprised I couldn't dismiss it. This made him curious about marriage too, not from desire but from genuine interest. He wanted to understand what made this thing so essential that without it, my otherwise appealing life would feel like punishment to me. His mind, unburdened by such attachment, was puzzled by my bondage. This puzzlement led to curiosity, then to wanting to try it himself, and might have led him to fall into the same captivity that surprised him—essentially making a pact with death. After all, those who court danger often find it. The respectability of managing a married life and household barely influenced us. I was mostly driven by the habit of satisfying an unquenchable desire that held me captive, while he was driven by fascinated curiosity. We remained this way until You, Most High, refused to abandon us in our earthly state, took pity on our miserable condition, and came to our rescue through mysterious and hidden means.

Continual effort was made to have me married. I wooed, I was promised, chiefly through my mother's pains, that so once married, the health-giving baptism might cleanse me, towards which she rejoiced that I was being daily fitted, and observed that her prayers, and Thy promises, were being fulfilled in my faith. At which time verily, both at my request and her own longing, with strong cries of heart she daily begged of Thee, that Thou wouldest by a vision discover unto her something concerning my future marriage; Thou never wouldest. She saw indeed certain vain and fantastic things, such as the energy of the human spirit, busied thereon, brought together; and these she told me of, not with that confidence she was wont, when Thou showedst her any thing, but slighting them. For she could, she said, through a certain feeling, which in words she could not express, discern betwixt Thy revelations, and the dreams of her own soul. Yet the matter was pressed on, and a maiden asked in marriage, two years under the fit age; and, as pleasing, was waited for.

There was constant pressure for me to get married. Through my mother's efforts primarily, I courted and became engaged. She hoped that once married, the holy baptism would cleanse me, and she was delighted to see me growing more suited to it daily. She felt her prayers and God's promises were being fulfilled through my faith. During this time, both at my request and from her own desire, she earnestly prayed daily that God would reveal something about my future marriage through a vision. He never did. She did experience some meaningless and fantastical thoughts, the kind that come from an active mind dwelling on something. When she told me about these, it wasn't with her usual confidence that she had when God truly revealed things to her. Instead, she dismissed them. She explained that she could sense, in a way she couldn't quite describe, the difference between divine revelations and her own thoughts. Nevertheless, marriage plans moved forward, and we waited for a girl who was two years shy of marriageable age, as she seemed suitable.

And many of us friends conferring about, and detesting the turbulent turmoils of human life, had debated and now almost resolved on living apart from business and the bustle of men; and this was to be thus obtained; we were to bring whatever we might severally procure, and make one household of all; so that through the truth of our friendship nothing should belong especially to any; but the whole thus derived from all, should as a whole belong to each, and all to all. We thought there might be some often persons in this society; some of whom were very rich, especially Romanianus our townsman, from childhood a very familiar friend of mine, whom the grievous perplexities of his affairs had brought up to court; who was the most earnest for this project; and therein was his voice of great weight, because his ample estate far exceeded any of the rest. We had settled also that two annual officers, as it were, should provide all things necessary, the rest being undisturbed. But when we began to consider whether the wives, which some of us already had, others hoped to have, would allow this, all that plan, which was being so well moulded, fell to pieces in our hands, was utterly dashed and cast aside. Thence we betook us to sighs, and groans, and our steps to follow the broad and beaten ways of the world; for many thoughts were in our heart, but Thy counsel standeth for ever. Out of which counsel Thou didst deride ours, and preparedst Thine own; purposing to give us meat in due season, and to fill our souls with blessing.

A group of us friends, disgusted by the chaos of everyday life, had been discussing and nearly decided to live apart from business and society. Our plan was this: we would pool our individual resources into one household, so that through our genuine friendship, nothing would belong to any single person. Instead, everything contributed would belong to everyone equally. We thought this community might include about ten people, some of whom were quite wealthy—especially our hometown friend Romanianus. He'd been driven to court by his complex business troubles, but was the most enthusiastic about our project. His opinion carried significant weight since his wealth far exceeded the rest of ours. We had planned to appoint two people annually to handle all necessities, leaving everyone else unburdened. But when we considered whether our wives—both current and future—would agree to this arrangement, the whole carefully constructed plan crumbled before us and had to be abandoned. We were left only with sighs and groans, forced back to following society's well-worn paths. Though our minds were full of schemes, Your plan stands eternal. From Your wisdom, You mocked our plans while preparing Your own, intending to provide for us at the right time and fill our souls with blessings.

Meanwhile my sins were being multiplied, and my concubine being torn from my side as a hindrance to my marriage, my heart which clave unto her was torn and wounded and bleeding. And she returned to Afric, vowing unto Thee never to know any other man, leaving with me my son by her. But unhappy I, who could not imitate a very woman, impatient of delay, inasmuch as not till after two years was I to obtain her I sought not being so much a lover of marriage as a slave to lust, procured another, though no wife, that so by the servitude of an enduring custom, the disease of my soul might be kept up and carried on in its vigour, or even augmented, into the dominion of marriage. Nor was that my wound cured, which had been made by the cutting away of the former, but after inflammation and most acute pain, it mortified, and my pains became less acute, but more desperate.

During this time, my sins kept growing. When my lover was taken from me because she stood in the way of my marriage, my heart was left torn and bleeding from her loss. She returned to Africa, swearing to God she would never be with another man, leaving behind our son. In my weakness, I couldn't match her noble example. Too impatient to wait the two years until my arranged marriage, and driven more by lust than a desire for matrimony, I found another mistress. Through this ongoing relationship, my soul's sickness was maintained and even strengthened as I approached marriage. The wound from losing my first love never truly healed. After the initial sharp pain and inflammation subsided, it festered—the agony dulled but grew more hopeless.

To Thee be praise, glory to Thee, Fountain of mercies. I was becoming more miserable, and Thou nearer. Thy right hand was continually ready to pluck me out of the mire, and to wash me thoroughly, and I knew it not; nor did anything call me back from a yet deeper gulf of carnal pleasures, but the fear of death, and of Thy judgment to come; which amid all my changes, never departed from my breast. And in my disputes with my friends Alypius and Nebridius of the nature of good and evil, I held that Epicurus had in my mind won the palm, had I not believed that after death there remained a life for the soul, and places of requital according to men's deserts, which Epicurus would not believe. And I asked, "were we immortal, and to live in perpetual bodily pleasure, without fear of losing it, why should we not be happy, or what else should we seek?" not knowing that great misery was involved in this very thing, that, being thus sunk and blinded, I could not discern that light of excellence and beauty, to be embraced for its own sake, which the eye of flesh cannot see, and is seen by the inner man. Nor did I, unhappy, consider from what source it sprung, that even on these things, foul as they were, I with pleasure discoursed with my friends, nor could I, even according to the notions I then had of happiness, be happy without friends, amid what abundance soever of carnal pleasures. And yet these friends I loved for themselves only, and I felt that I was beloved of them again for myself only.

To you be praise, glory to you, Fountain of mercies! I was becoming more miserable, and you were coming nearer. Your right hand was always ready to pull me out of the mud and wash me thoroughly, and I did not know it. Nothing called me back from a still deeper pit of carnal pleasures except the fear of death and of your judgment to come. Through all my changes, that fear never left my heart. In my debates with my friends Alypius and Nebridius about the nature of good and evil, I held that Epicurus would have won the prize in my mind. He would have, had I not believed that the soul lives on after death, and that there are places of repayment according to what people deserve. Epicurus refused to believe this. And I asked, "If we were immortal, and lived in endless bodily pleasure without fear of losing it, why would we not be happy? What else would we seek?" I did not know that great misery lay in this very thing. I was so sunk and blinded that I could not see that light of excellence and beauty which is to be embraced for its own sake. The eye of the flesh cannot see it, but the inner man sees it. Unhappy as I was, I did not consider the source of this: that I took pleasure in discussing even these things, foul as they were, with my friends. Nor could I be happy without friends, even by the ideas of happiness I held then, however great my abundance of carnal pleasures. And yet I loved these friends for their own sake alone, and I felt that they loved me in return for my own sake alone.

O crooked paths! Woe to the audacious soul, which hoped, by forsaking Thee, to gain some better thing! Turned it hath, and turned again, upon back, sides, and belly, yet all was painful; and Thou alone rest. And behold, Thou art at hand, and deliverest us from our wretched wanderings, and placest us in Thy way, and dost comfort us, and say, "Run; I will carry you; yea I will bring you through; there also will I carry you."

What twisted paths we take! How foolish is the soul that abandons You, hoping to find something better! It turns and twists, trying every direction, but finds only pain. You alone provide peace. Yet there You are, reaching out to save us from our aimless wandering. You set us on Your path and comfort us, saying "Run ahead—I'll carry you. Yes, I'll guide you through, and I'll carry you even then."