Against the Academics 1.20–2.13

"Next, even if I grant that human things are the things of men, do you think anything is ours that chance can give us or snatch from us? Or when we speak of knowledge of human things, do we mean the knowledge by which someone knows how many farms we have or of what kind, how much gold, how much silver, or, finally, what verses of others we are thinking of? That is the knowledge of human things which knows the light of prudence, the beauty of temperance, the strength of fortitude, the holiness of justice. For these are the things which, fearing no fortune, we dare to call truly ours; and if that Albicerius had learned them, believe me, he would never have lived so luxuriously and shamefully. As for his telling what verse the one who consulted him was turning over in his mind, I do not think that is to be counted among our goods either; not that I deny that the most honorable studies belong to a kind of possession of our mind, but because even the most ignorant are allowed to sing and recite another's verse. So when such things have come into our memory, it is no wonder if they can be sensed by certain very base animals of this air, whom they call demons; I grant that they can surpass us in sharpness and subtlety of the senses, but I deny that they surpass us in reason; and this happens in some very hidden way, far removed from our senses. For if we marvel that a little bee, when honey has been set out, flies to it from wherever it may be by some keenness of scent in which it surpasses man, we need not on that account rank it above us or even compare it with us."

"So I would rather that this Albicerius, when questioned by someone eager to learn, had taught the meters themselves, or, when pressed by one of his clients, had sung verses of his own on a subject just put to him. You often recall that the same Flaccianus used to say this, when with great loftiness of mind he mocked and despised that kind of divination and attributed it to some utterly contemptible little soul (for so he used to call it), by whose prompting or inspiration, as by a spirit, the man used to give these answers. For that most learned man used to ask those who marveled at such things whether Albicerius could teach grammar or music or geometry. And who that knew him would not admit that he was utterly ignorant of all these? Therefore he used to urge in the end that those who had learned such things should without hesitation prefer their own minds to that divination, and should take pains to instruct and support their minds with those disciplines by which they might leap over and fly above that airy nature of invisible animals."

"Now since divine things, as everyone grants, are much better and more august than human things, how could he attain them who did not know what he himself was? Unless perhaps he thinks the stars, which we contemplate every day, are something great in comparison with the most true and most hidden God, whom the intellect perhaps rarely touches and no sense touches at all. But these are present to our eyes. So these are not those divine things which wisdom professes that she alone knows; and the other things, which these diviners, whoever they are, misuse for vain boasting or for gain, are surely more worthless than the stars. So Albicerius did not share in the knowledge of things human and divine, and our definition was attacked by you in this way in vain. Finally, since we ought to regard as most worthless and altogether despise whatever lies outside things human and divine, I ask in what things that wise man of yours seeks the truth." "In divine things," said Licentius; "for virtue, even in man, is without doubt divine." "So Albicerius already knew these things which your wise man will always be seeking?" Then Licentius said: "He too knew divine things, but not those that the wise man must seek. For who would not overturn all usage of speech if he granted him divination but took away divine things, from which divination is named? So that definition of yours, unless I am mistaken, included something else that did not belong to wisdom."

Then Trygetius said: "That definition will be defended, if he pleases, by the one who put it forward. Now answer me, so that we may at last come to the point at issue." "I am ready," said Licentius. "Do you grant," he said, "that Albicerius knew the truth?" "I grant it," he said. "Then he is better than your wise man." "Not at all," said Licentius; "for the kind of truth the wise man seeks is attained not only not by that crazy soothsayer but not even by the wise man himself while he lives in this body. Yet it is so great that it is far more excellent always to seek it than sometimes to find that other." "In my straits," said Trygetius, "that definition must come to my aid. If it seemed faulty to you because it included one whom we cannot call wise, I ask whether you would approve it if we said that wisdom is the knowledge of things human and divine, but of those that pertain to the happy life." "That too is wisdom," said Licentius, "but not the only wisdom. So the former definition invaded what belonged to another, and this one abandoned what belongs to it; the former can be convicted of greed, this one of folly. For to explain now by a definition what I myself think, wisdom seems to me to be not only the knowledge but also the diligent search of things human and divine that pertain to the happy life. If you wish to divide this description, the first part, which holds knowledge, belongs to God, and this part, which is content with searching, to man. By the former, then, God is happy, by the latter man." Then Trygetius said: "I wonder how you claim that your wise man spends his effort in vain." "How does he spend his effort in vain," said Licentius, "when he seeks for so great a reward? For by the very fact that he seeks he is wise, and in that he is wise he is happy, since he unwinds his mind as much as he can from all the wrappings of the body and gathers himself into himself, since he does not let himself be torn by desires but always tranquilly directs himself toward himself and toward God; so that here he enjoys reason, which we agreed above is happiness, and on the last day of his life he is found ready to attain what he desired, and deservedly enjoys divine blessedness, having first enjoyed the human."

Then, as Trygetius was searching a long time for an answer, I said: "I do not think, Licentius, that arguments will fail him either, if we let him search at leisure. For what has he lacked for answering at any point? First he himself brought forward that, since the question had arisen about the happy life, and only the wise man can be happy (since folly is wretched even in the judgment of fools), the wise man must be perfect, but one who is still inquiring what the truth is is not perfect, and therefore not happy either. When you threw against this point the mass of authority, he was somewhat modestly disturbed by Cicero's name, yet he at once rose up again and with a noble defiance leapt to the summit of freedom, seized again what had been violently struck from his hands, and asked you whether one who was still seeking seemed to you perfect; so that, if you admitted he was not perfect, he could run back to the beginning and show, if he could, by that definition, that the man is perfect who governs his life by the law of the mind, and hence that one cannot be happy unless he is perfect. When you had freed yourself from that snare more cautiously than I expected, saying that the perfect man is the most diligent inquirer after truth, and had fought too confidently and too openly with that very definition by which we had said that the happy life is the one lived according to reason, he plainly paid you back; for he seized your stronghold, and, driven from it, you would have lost the whole battle had not the truce restored you. For where did the Academics, whose opinion you defend, place their citadel, if not in the definition of error? Had it not perhaps come back to your mind at night in a dream, you would have had no answer, though you yourself had mentioned that very point earlier in setting out Cicero's opinion. Then we came to the definition of wisdom. You tried to undermine it with such cunning that perhaps not even your helper Albicerius would have detected your thefts; yet with what vigilance, with what strength he resisted you, how nearly he entangled and overthrew you, had you not at last protected yourself with your new definition, saying that human wisdom is the search for truth, from which, through tranquility of mind, the happy life comes! He will not answer this view, especially if he asks that the favor be returned to him by putting off the matter for the day, or for the part of it that remains."

"But not to make it long, let this discussion now be closed, if you please; I think it even superfluous to linger in it. For the matter has been treated sufficiently for the task we took up; it could have been finished altogether in a few words, had I not wanted to exercise you and to test your strength and your zeal, which is a great concern to me. For when I had set out to urge you strongly to seek the truth, I had begun to ask you how much importance you placed on it; and all of you placed so much on it that I want no more. For since we desire to be happy, whether that cannot come about except by finding the truth or only by seeking it diligently, we must, setting aside all other things, search it out if we want to be happy. Therefore, as I said, let us now end this discussion and, Licentius, send it written down above all to your father. I already hold his mind for philosophy entirely, but I am still looking for the fortune that will admit him to it. He can be set more ardently on fire for these studies when he learns, not only by hearing but also by reading this, that you yourself are already living with me in this way. As for you, if, as I sense, the Academics please you, prepare stronger forces to defend them; for I have decided to accuse them." When this had been said, we rose.

If it were as necessary that wisdom be found while it is sought as it is necessary that the wise man cannot be without the discipline and knowledge of wisdom, then surely every quibble or obstinacy or stubbornness of the Academics, or, as I sometimes think, their reasoning suited to that time, would have been buried together with that time and with the bodies of Carneades and Cicero themselves. But whether because of the many and various tossings of this life, Romanianus, as you prove in your own case, or because of a certain stupor or sluggishness or slowness of dull minds, or because of despair of finding (since the star of wisdom does not rise as easily to minds as this light rises to eyes), or also because of what is the error of whole peoples, the false opinion that they have found the truth, men do not seek diligently, if any do seek, and are turned away from the will to seek; and so it happens that knowledge comes rarely and to few. Hence the weapons of the Academics, when one comes to grips with them, seem invincible and as if forged by Vulcan, not to mediocre men but to sharp and well-educated ones. Therefore, against those waves and storms of fortune we must both strive with the oars of whatever virtues we have and, above all, implore divine help with all devotion and piety, so that the most constant intent of good studies may hold its course, from which no chance may shake it so as to keep the safest and most pleasant harbor of philosophy from receiving it. This is your first cause; on this account I fear for you, on this account I long for you to be freed; on this account, if only I am worthy to obtain it, I do not cease to pray in daily prayers for favorable winds for you; and I pray to the very power and wisdom of the most high God. For what else is he whom the mysteries hand down to us as the Son of God?

You will help me greatly as I pray for you if you do not despair that we can be heard, and strive with us not only by prayers but also by will and by that natural loftiness of your mind for which I seek you, in which I take singular delight, which I always admire, which in you (alas!) is wrapped up like lightning in those clouds of domestic affairs and is hidden from many, indeed from almost all, but cannot be hidden from me and from one or two others, your closest friends, who have often not only listened attentively to your rumblings but also seen some flashes nearer to thunderbolts. For, to pass over other things for the present and mention one, who, I ask, ever thundered so suddenly and flashed so brightly with the light of the mind that, under one roar of reason and a kind of lightning of temperance, a lust that had been most savage the day before died utterly in one day? Will not this virtue, then, one day break out and turn the laughter of many who despair into dread and amazement, and, having spoken on earth like a sign of things to come, return again to heaven, the burden of the whole body cast off? Has Augustine, then, said these things of Romanianus in vain? He will not allow it, to whom I have given myself wholly, and whom I have now begun to know again in some measure.

So undertake philosophy with me; here is whatever wonderfully moves you when you are often anxious and in doubt. For I do not fear for your mind either from sluggish habits or from slowness of wit. Who, when you were allowed to breathe a little, appeared more alert in our conversations, who sharper? Shall I not repay your kindness? Or perhaps I owe you only a little? When I was a poor young man setting out for my studies, you received me with your home, your money, and, what is more, your heart. When I was bereft of my father, you consoled me with friendship, encouraged me with exhortation, helped me with your resources. In our own town you made me, by your favor, your friendship, and the sharing of your house, almost as distinguished and prominent as yourself. When I was returning to Carthage for the sake of a more illustrious profession, and had disclosed my plan and hope to you and to none of my own, you hesitated a while, out of that love of our homeland implanted in you, because I was already teaching there; yet when you could not overcome the desire of a young man striving toward what seemed better, you turned with a wonderful restraint of goodwill from dissuader to helper. You furnished my journey with everything necessary; there again you, who had cherished the cradle and as it were the nest of my studies, supported the first attempts of one now daring to fly. Even when I had sailed away in your absence and without your knowledge, though you were somewhat angry that I had not consulted you as I used to, and suspected anything but defiance, you remained unshaken in friendship, and the children abandoned by their teacher were no more before your eyes than the inner chambers and purity of my mind.

Finally, whatever I now rejoice in from my leisure, that I have flown free of the chains of superfluous desires, that having laid down the burdens of dead cares I breathe again, come to my senses, return to myself, that I seek the truth with the greatest intent, that I am now beginning to find it, that I trust I shall reach the very highest measure: you encouraged it, you urged it, you brought it about. But whose minister you were, I have so far conceived more by faith than grasped by reason. For when, face to face, I had set out to you the inner fears of my mind, and asserted strongly and repeatedly that no fortune seemed favorable to me unless it gave leisure for philosophy, no life happy unless it were lived in philosophy, but that I was held back by the great burden of my dependents, whose living hung on my office, and by many necessities, whether of propriety or of the foolish distress of my people, you were lifted up with such great joy, so inflamed with holy ardor for this life, that you said that if you could somehow be freed from the chains of those troublesome lawsuits, you would break all my chains too by sharing even your patrimony with me.

So when you had applied the kindling to us and departed, we never ceased longing for philosophy and thinking of absolutely nothing but that life which we had agreed upon among ourselves; and we pursued it steadily indeed, but less keenly, though we thought we were doing enough. And since the flame that was to seize us completely had not yet come, we thought the one with which we glowed was the very greatest, when behold, certain books full, as Celsinus says, of good things from Arabia breathed them upon us; when they let fall a very few drops of most precious ointment on that little flame, they kindled, incredibly, Romanianus, incredibly, and beyond what perhaps even you believe of me (what more shall I say?), a fire incredible even to myself about myself. What honor, what human pomp, what desire for empty fame, in short what comfort or tie of this mortal life moved me then? I was returning wholly and swiftly into myself. Yet I looked back, I confess, as if from the road, to that religion which was implanted in us as boys and woven into our very marrow; but she herself was drawing me to herself without my knowing it. So, stumbling, hurrying, hesitating, I seized the apostle Paul. For truly, I said, those men could not have done such great things or lived as they clearly lived, if their writings and reasonings were opposed to this great good. I read it all through with the greatest attention and reverence.

Then indeed, with however little light already sprinkled on me, so great a face of philosophy opened itself to me that, I will not say to you, who have always burned with hunger for her though you did not know her, but if I could have shown her even to your opponent himself, by whom I do not know whether you are more exercised or hindered, he would have cast away and left behind Baiae and pleasant gardens and delicate and elegant banquets and his household actors, and finally whatever keenly stirs him toward any delights, and would have flown to her beauty as a gentle and chaste lover, marveling, panting, glowing. For he too has, it must be confessed, a certain beauty of mind, or rather a kind of seed of beauty, which, striving to break out into true beauty, puts forth leaves crookedly and misshapenly among the roughness of vices and the thickets of false opinions; yet it does not cease to put forth leaves and to stand out, as far as it is allowed, to the few who look keenly and carefully into the thicket. From this comes that hospitality, from this the many seasonings of humanity at his banquets, from this the elegance, the polish, the very neat appearance of all things, and the refinement of shadowed grace that suffuses everything on every side.

This is commonly called philocalia. Do not despise this name because of its common use. For philocalia and philosophia are named almost alike and want to appear as kin to each other, and they are. For what is philosophy? The love of wisdom. What is philocalia? The love of beauty. Ask the Greeks. What, then, is wisdom? Is it not itself true beauty? So these two are full sisters, born of the same parent; but the one, dragged down from her heaven by the birdlime of lust and shut up in the common cage, has still kept the closeness of the name to warn the fowler not to despise her. Her sister, flying freely, often recognizes her, wingless, soiled, and needy, but rarely frees her; for this philocalia does not recognize her lineage except through philosophy. This whole fable (for I have suddenly become Aesop) Licentius will tell you more sweetly in a poem, for he is almost a perfect poet. So if that man could behold, with his eyes healed and uncovered a little, the true beauty of which he loves a false one, with what pleasure would he wrap himself in the lap of philosophy! How would he embrace you there, recognized as a true brother! You wonder at this and perhaps laugh. What if I explained these things as I wished? What if at least the voice of philosophy herself could be heard by you, if her face cannot yet be seen? You would surely wonder, but you would not laugh or despair. Believe me, one must despair of no one, least of all of such men; there are examples everywhere. This kind of bird easily escapes and easily flies back, while many who are shut in greatly marvel.

But let me return to us. Let us, I say, Romanianus, do philosophy; I will repay your kindness: your son has begun to do philosophy. I hold him back, so that, first trained in the necessary disciplines, he may rise up more vigorous and firmer. Do not fear that you lack these; if I know you well, I wish you only free winds. For what shall I say of your natural gifts? Would that they were as rare in men as they are sure in you! There remain two faults and obstacles to finding the truth, for which I do not much fear on your account; yet I do fear that you may despise yourself and despair of finding it, or certainly that you may believe you have found it. If the first of these is in you, this discussion will perhaps take it away. For you have often been angry with the Academics, the more seriously the less educated you were, and the more willingly because you were drawn by love of truth. So now I will contend with Alypius with you as my supporter, and I will easily persuade you of what I want, though only probably; for you will not see the truth itself unless you enter wholly into philosophy. As for the other, that you perhaps presume you have found something: although you left us still seeking and doubting, yet if any superstition has rolled back into your mind, it will surely be cast out, either when I send you some discussion between us on religion, or when I talk over many things with you in person.

For I am now doing nothing else but purging myself of vain and harmful opinions. So I do not doubt that I am better off than you. There is only one thing for which I envy your fortune: that you alone enjoy my Lucilianus. Or do you envy me too, because I said "my"? But what did I say except "yours" and "all of ours," all of us who are one? Yet what shall I ask of you to meet my longing for him? Or shall I earn it from you myself? You know only that you owe it. But now I say to you both: beware of thinking you know anything unless you have learned it at least as well as you know that one, two, three, and four added together make ten. But likewise beware of thinking that you will not come to know the truth by philosophy, or that it cannot be known in this way at all. For believe me, or rather believe him who says, "Seek and you will find," that knowledge is not to be despaired of, and that it will be clearer than those numbers. Now let us come to the subject. For I have begun, too late, to fear that this preface may exceed due measure. And that is no light thing. For measure is without doubt divine, but it deceives when it leads us on sweetly. I will be more careful when I am wise.

After the earlier conversation, which we put into the first book, we were free from disputing for about seven days, though we went over three books of Vergil after the first and discussed them as seemed suitable at the time. Licentius was so inflamed by this work with zeal for poetry that it seemed to me he should even be held back somewhat; for he was no longer willing to be called away from this pursuit to anything else. At last, however, when I had praised the light of philosophy as much as I could, he came not unwillingly to take up again the question about the Academics that we had put off. And by chance the day had dawned so clear that it seemed suited to nothing so much as to clearing our minds. So we left our beds earlier than usual and attended a little with the farmhands to what the season pressed for. Then Alypius said: "Before I hear you disputing about the Academics, I want that conversation of yours read to me which you say was completed in my absence; for since the occasion of this debate arose from it, I cannot otherwise avoid either erring or at least struggling in hearing you." When this had been done, and we saw that almost the whole morning had been spent on it, we decided to return home from the field that had received us on our walk. And Licentius said: "Please do not mind briefly going over the whole opinion of the Academics for me before lunch, so that nothing in it escapes me that is in my favor." "I will," I said, "and the more gladly because, thinking about this, you may eat less." "Do not feel safe on that score," he said; "for I have often noticed that many people, and especially my father, are the greedier the fuller they are of cares. Then too, you have not found me, when I was thinking about those meters, such that my table is safe from my cares. I often wonder at this myself; for what does it mean that we go for food more stubbornly when we have turned our mind to something else? Or who is it that becomes so imperious over us when our hands and teeth are occupied?" "Listen rather," I said, "to what you asked about the Academics, so that I do not have to put up with you turning over those meters not only at meals without meter but also in our questions. And if I hide anything that is in favor of my side, Alypius will reveal it." "Your good faith is needed," said Alypius; "for if there is any fear that you may hide something, I think it would be hard for me to catch you, since no one who knows me is unaware from whom I learned these things, especially since in revealing the truth you will be considering not victory so much as your own mind."

"I will do it," I said, "in good faith, since you lay down the rule of law. For the Academics held both that knowledge cannot come to man, at least of those things that pertain to philosophy (for Carneades said he did not care about the rest), and yet that man can be wise, and that the whole task of the wise man, as you too, Licentius, argued in that conversation, is carried out in the search for truth. From this it followed that the wise man assents to nothing at all; for he must err, which is impious for the wise man, if he assents to uncertain things. And they not only said that all things are uncertain but asserted it with the most abundant reasons. But they seemed to have seized on the view that the truth cannot be grasped from that definition of the Stoic Zeno, who said that that true thing can be perceived which is so impressed on the mind from the source from which it comes that it could not come from a source from which it does not come. This is said more briefly and plainly thus: the truth can be grasped by those marks which what is false cannot have. They set themselves most vigorously to prove that this can never be found. Hence the disagreements of philosophers, hence the deceptions of the senses, hence dreams and madness, hence the liar arguments and sorites flourished in the defense of that cause. And since they had received from the same Zeno that nothing is more shameful than to hold opinions, they concluded most cleverly that, if nothing could be perceived and opinion was most shameful, the wise man would never approve anything."

"From this great ill will arose against them; for it seemed to follow that one who approved nothing would do nothing. Hence the Academics seemed to describe your wise man, whom they held to approve nothing, as always asleep and a deserter of all duties. Here they introduced a certain 'probable,' which they also called 'like the truth,' and asserted that the wise man in no way fails in his duties, since he has something to follow, while the truth lies hidden, either buried or confused, whether because of a certain darkness of nature or because of the likeness of things; although they said that this very restraint and, as it were, suspension of assent is a great act of the wise man. I think I have set out the whole briefly, as you wished, and have not departed from your rule, Alypius, that is, I have acted, as the saying goes, in good faith. For if I have said anything not as it is, or perhaps not said something, nothing has been done by me on purpose. Good faith, then, is according to the mind's intent. For a man who is mistaken ought to seem to another man someone to be taught, and a deceiver someone to be guarded against; the first requires a good teacher, the second a careful pupil."

Then Alypius said: "I am grateful that you have both satisfied Licentius and relieved me of the burden placed on me. For you had no more reason to fear saying anything less in order to test me (how else could it have been done?) than I would have had if it had been necessary to expose you in anything. So please do not be reluctant to explain, not so much for the inquiry as for the inquirer himself, what is lacking: the difference between the New and the Old Academy." "I confess," I said, "I am quite reluctant. So you will do me a favor (for I cannot deny that what you mention is very much to the point) if, while I rest a little, you will distinguish these names in my presence and explain the case of the New Academy." "I would think," he said, "that you too wanted to call me away from lunch, if I did not think you more frightened by Licentius a while ago, and if his request had not prescribed to us that whatever of this tangle there was should be unraveled for him before lunch." And as he was going on to say the rest, our mother (for we were already at home) began to push us so to lunch that there was no room for words.