Soliloquies 1.10–2.2

R. Do you not see that these bodily eyes, even when healthy, are often struck back and turned away by the light of this sun, and flee to their own darkness? But you are thinking of how far you have advanced, not of what you wish to see; and yet I will discuss with you this very point, how far you think we have progressed. Do you desire no riches? A. This at least is not new for me. For since I am thirty-three years old, it is nearly fourteen years since I stopped desiring them, nor did I think of anything in them, if by some chance they were offered, beyond a necessary living and a use befitting a free man. One book of Cicero very easily persuaded me altogether that riches are in no way to be sought, but that if they come they are to be managed most wisely and cautiously. R. What about honors? A. I confess that I stopped desiring them only recently, almost in these very days. R. What about a wife? Does it not sometimes delight you to think of one who is beautiful, modest, compliant, educated, or who could easily be taught by you, bringing also a dowry just large enough (since you despise riches) that she would be no burden at all to your leisure, especially if you could hope and be sure that you would suffer no trouble from her? A. However much you wish to paint her and heap every good upon her, I have resolved that there is nothing I must flee so much as sexual union; I feel that nothing casts a man's mind down from its citadel more than a woman's caresses and that contact of bodies without which a wife cannot be had. Therefore, if it belongs to the duty of the wise man (which I have not yet discovered) to give attention to children, whoever has intercourse for this reason alone may seem to me worthy of admiration, but in no way of imitation; for it is more dangerous to attempt this than it is happy to be able to do it. Wherefore, I believe I have quite justly and usefully commanded myself, for the freedom of my soul, not to desire, not to seek, not to marry a wife. R. I am not asking now what you have resolved, but whether you are still struggling, or have now actually conquered lust itself. For the question is about the health of your eyes. A. I seek absolutely nothing of this kind, I desire nothing; I even recall such things with horror and disdain. What more do you want? And this good grows in me day by day; for the more the hope increases of seeing that beauty for which I burn so vehemently, the more all my love and delight are turned toward it. R. What about the pleasure of food? How much does it concern you? A. The foods I have resolved not to eat do not move me at all. Those I have not cut off I confess I enjoy when they are present, yet in such a way that they may be taken away, whether seen or tasted, without any disturbance of mind. And when they are not present at all, this appetite does not dare to insert itself to hinder my thoughts. But ask me nothing at all about food and drink, or baths, or the other pleasures of the body: I seek to have only as much as can contribute to the aid of health.

R. You have made much progress; yet the things that remain hinder you very greatly from seeing that light. But I am attempting something which seems to me easy to show: either that nothing remains for us to subdue, or that we have made no progress at all and the corruption of all those things we believe cut away remains. For I ask you: if you were persuaded that you could not otherwise live with your many dearest friends in the pursuit of wisdom unless some ample estate could sustain your needs, would you not desire and wish for riches? A. I agree. R. What if it also appeared that you would persuade many of wisdom if your authority grew through honor, and that those very friends of yours could not set a limit to their desires and turn themselves wholly to seeking God unless they too were honored, and that this could not happen except through your honors and dignity: would not these things also have to be desired, and pressed for earnestly so that they might come? A. It is as you say. R. About a wife I do not argue now; for perhaps no such necessity can arise that one must be married. And yet, if it were certain that by her ample patrimony all whom you wish to live with you at leisure in one place could be supported, she herself also harmoniously consenting, especially if she were so powerful by the nobility of her family that you could easily obtain through her those honors which you have already granted to be necessary, I do not know whether it belongs to your duty to despise these things. A. When would I dare hope for that? R. You say this as if I were now asking what you hope for. I am not asking what fails to delight when denied, but what delights when offered. For a plague exhausted is one thing, a plague lulled to sleep another. To this applies what some learned men have said, that all fools are mad in the way that all filth smells bad, which you do not always perceive, but only when you stir it. It makes a great difference whether desire is crushed by the mind's despair or driven out by its health. A. Although I cannot answer you, you will never persuade me that, with this disposition of mind in which I now feel myself, I have made no progress. R. I believe this seems so to you because, though you could wish for these things, they would seem to be sought not for their own sake but for the sake of something else. A. That is what I wanted to say. For when I desired riches, I desired them in order to be rich; and the honors themselves, the desire for which I answered that I have only now subdued, I wanted because I was delighted by some sort of splendor in them; and in a wife I always looked for nothing else, when I did look, than the pleasure she would afford me together with good reputation. Then there was in me a real desire for these things; now I spurn them all entirely. But if no passage is given me to the things I desire except through these, I do not seek them as things to embrace, but submit to them as things to be tolerated. R. Excellent indeed; for neither do I think that the seeking of things that are sought for the sake of something else should be called desire.

But I ask you, why do you desire the people you love either to live or to live with you? A. So that together, in harmony, we may inquire into our souls and God. For in this way whoever first attains discovery easily leads the others to it without labor. R. What if they do not wish to seek these things? A. I will persuade them to wish it. R. What if you cannot, either because they think they have already found them, or that these things cannot be found, or because they are hindered by the cares and desire of other things? A. I will keep them, and they me, as best we can. R. What if their presence even hinders you from inquiring? Will you not strive and wish, if they cannot be otherwise, that they not be with you rather than be with you thus? A. I admit it is as you say. R. So you desire neither their life nor their presence for its own sake, but for the sake of finding wisdom? A. I agree entirely. R. What then? If you were sure that your own life was a hindrance to grasping wisdom, would you wish it to remain? A. I would flee it altogether. R. What? If you were taught that you could reach wisdom as well having left this body as remaining in it, would you care whether you enjoyed what you love here or in another life? A. If I understood that nothing worse would befall me to drive me back from the point to which I have advanced, I would not care. R. So you now fear to die for this reason, lest you be entangled in some worse evil by which divine knowledge would be taken from you. A. I fear not only that what I may perhaps have perceived would be taken away, but also that the approach to those things I long to perceive would be shut off from me; although I think that what I already hold will remain with me. R. So you wish this life also to remain, not for its own sake, but for the sake of wisdom. A. So it is.

R. Pain of body remains, which perhaps moves you by its force. A. I dread that too, and vehemently, for no other reason than that it hinders me from seeking. For although in these days I was tormented by a most acute toothache, so that I was not allowed to turn over in my mind anything but what I had perhaps already learned, and was entirely hindered from learning, for which I needed the whole attention of my mind, yet it seemed to me that if that brightness of truth opened itself to my mind, I would either not have felt that pain or at least would have endured it as nothing. But because, although I have never borne anything greater, yet, often thinking how much more grievous pains may befall, I am sometimes compelled to agree with Cornelius Celsus, who says that the supreme good is wisdom and the supreme evil bodily pain. Nor does his reasoning seem absurd to me. For since, he says, we are composed of two parts, namely mind and body, of which the former, the mind, is the better and the body the worse, the supreme good is the best thing of the better part and the supreme evil the worst thing of the worse part; and the best thing in the mind is wisdom, the worst in the body is pain. Therefore it is concluded, without any falsehood, I think, that man's supreme good is to be wise, and his supreme evil to suffer pain. R. We shall look at these things later. For perhaps wisdom itself, to which we are striving to attain, will persuade us of something else. But if it shows this to be true, we shall hold this opinion about the supreme good and the supreme evil without hesitation.

Now we are asking what kind of lover you are of wisdom, whom you desire to see and to hold, as it were naked, with the most chaste gaze and embrace, with no veil between, as she does not allow herself to be seen except by her very few and most chosen lovers. If you were burning with love for some beautiful woman, she would rightly not give herself to you if she found that you loved anything besides her; will the most chaste beauty of wisdom show herself to you unless you burn for her alone? A. Why then am I still kept in suspense, unhappy, and put off with miserable torment? Surely I have already shown that I love nothing else, since what is not loved for its own sake is not loved. And I love wisdom alone for its own sake; the other things, life, quiet, friends, I either wish to be present to me or fear to lose for its sake. And what limit can there be to the love of that beauty, in which I not only do not begrudge others, but even seek as many as possible to seek it with me, long for it with me, hold it with me, and enjoy it with me, who will be the more my friends the more our beloved is shared among us? R. That is exactly what lovers of wisdom ought to be. Such she seeks, union with whom is truly chaste and without any defilement. But one does not reach her by a single way. For each grasps that singular and truest good according to his own health and strength. It is a certain ineffable and incomprehensible light of minds. Let this common light teach us, as far as it can, how that light is. For there are some eyes so healthy and vigorous that, as soon as they are opened, they turn toward the sun itself without any trembling. For them, in a way, light itself is health, and they need no teacher, but perhaps only admonition. For them it is enough to believe, hope, and love. But others are struck by the very brightness they vehemently desire to see, and often, not having seen it, return with delight into darkness. For them, although they are already such that they may rightly be called healthy, it is dangerous to wish to show what they are not yet able to see. So these must first be exercised, and their love usefully held back and nourished. For first some things must be shown them which do not shine of themselves but can be seen through light, like a garment or a wall or something of that kind. Next, what shines more beautifully, not indeed of itself but through that light, like gold, silver and the like, yet not so radiant as to hurt the eye. Then perhaps this earthly fire should be shown with moderation, then the stars, then the moon, then the brightness of dawn and the gleam of the whitening sky. Growing accustomed to these, whether faster or slower, whether through the whole sequence or skipping some, each according to his own health, he will see the sun without trembling and with great pleasure. Something of this sort the best teachers do for those most devoted to wisdom, who already see, though not sharply. For to come to her by a certain order is the task of good education; without order, it is the work of a scarcely credible good fortune. But we have written enough today, I think; we must spare your health.

A. And on another day I said: Give me now, I beg, that order, if you can. Lead, come, where you will, through what you will, how you will. Command whatever hard things, however arduous, provided they are in my power, through which I may not doubt that I shall come where I desire. R. There is one thing I can prescribe to you; I know nothing more. These sensible things must be utterly fled, and great care must be taken, while we bear this body, that our wings are not entangled by any birdlime of theirs; we need them whole and perfect to fly from this darkness to that light, which does not deign even to show itself to those shut in this cage unless they are such that, whether it is broken or dissolved, they can escape into their own air. Therefore, when you are such that nothing earthly delights you at all, believe me, at the same moment, at the same point of time, you will see what you desire. A. When will that be, I beg you? For I do not think these things can come into utter contempt for me unless I see that in comparison with which they become vile. R. In this way the bodily eye too could say: I will not love darkness when I see the sun. For this too seems, as it were, to belong to the order, though it is far otherwise. For it loves darkness because it is not healthy; and it cannot see the sun unless it is healthy. And in this the mind is often deceived, thinking itself healthy and boasting; and because it does not yet see, it complains as if with right. But that beauty knows when to show itself. For it performs the office of physician, and understands better who are healthy than those very ones who are being healed. We seem to ourselves to see how far we have emerged; but how deeply we were sunk and how far we had progressed we are not permitted to think or feel, and in comparison with a graver disease we believe ourselves healthy. Do you not see how confidently, as it were, we declared yesterday that we were no longer held by any plague and loved nothing but wisdom, and sought or wanted other things only for its sake? How sordid, how foul, how execrable, how horrible the embrace of a woman seemed to you when we inquired between ourselves about the desire for a wife! Surely, lying awake this night, when we were again discussing the same things with ourselves, you felt how differently than you had presumed those imagined caresses and their bitter sweetness tickled you: far, far less indeed than usual, but also far otherwise than you had thought; so that that most secret physician showed you both things, from what his care has delivered you and what remains to be healed.

A. Be silent, I beg you, be silent. Why do you torment me? Why do you dig so deep and go down so far? Now I can no longer hold back from weeping; from now on I promise nothing, I presume nothing; do not question me about these things. Surely you say that he whom I burn to see knows when I am healthy: let him do what pleases him; let him show himself when it pleases him; now I commit myself wholly to his mercy and care. Once for all I have believed of him that he does not cease to lift up those who are so disposed toward him. I will pronounce nothing about my health until I have seen that beauty. R. Do exactly that and nothing else. But now restrain yourself from tears and brace your mind. You have wept a great deal, and that sickness of your chest takes it badly. A. Do you want my tears to have a limit when I see no limit to my misery? Or do you bid me consider the health of my body when I myself am consumed with wasting? But I beg you, if you have any power over me, try to lead me by some shortcuts, so that by some nearness of that light, which, if I have made any progress, I can now bear, I may be ashamed to turn my eyes back to that darkness which I have left, if indeed it can be called left when it still dares to flatter my blindness.

R. Let us conclude this first volume, if you please, so that in the second we may now take up some convenient way that occurs to us. For this condition of yours must not give up moderate exercise. A. I will not allow this little book to be concluded at all unless you open to me a little of the nearby light, on which I may fix my attention. R. That physician humors you. For some brightness invites and touches me as to where I may lead you. So receive it attentively. A. Lead, I beg you, and carry me off where you will. R. You say, surely, that you wish to know the soul and God? A. That is my whole business. R. Nothing more? A. Nothing at all. R. What? Do you not wish to grasp truth? A. As if I could know these except through it. R. So it must first be known, through which those can be known. A. I object to nothing. R. First, then, let us see, since there are two words, ‘truth’ and ‘true,’ whether two things seem to you to be signified by these words, or one. A. Two things, it seems. For as chastity is one thing and what is chaste another, and many things of this kind, so I believe truth is one thing and what is called true another. R. Which of these two do you think is superior? A. Truth, I think. For chastity does not come from what is chaste, but what is chaste from chastity; so also, if anything is true, it is certainly true by truth. R. What? When some chaste person dies, do you think chastity also dies? A. In no way. R. So when something that is true perishes, truth does not perish. A. But how does something true perish? I do not see it. R. I am surprised that you ask this: do we not see thousands of things perish before our eyes? Unless perhaps you think that this tree either is a tree but not a true one, or certainly cannot perish. For although you do not trust the senses and could answer that you do not know at all whether it is a tree, yet you will not deny, I think, that it is a true tree if it is a tree; for this is judged not by sense but by intelligence. For if it is a false tree, it is not a tree; but if it is a tree, it must be true. A. I grant that. R. What about the other point? Do you not grant that a tree is the kind of thing that is born and perishes? A. I cannot deny it. R. So it is concluded that something that is true perishes. A. I do not oppose it. R. What about this? Does it not seem to you that when true things perish truth does not perish, as chastity does not die when a chaste person has died? A. I grant this too, and I am waiting eagerly to see what you are attempting. R. Then pay attention. A. I am here.

R. Does this statement seem true to you: ‘Whatever exists must exist somewhere’? A. Nothing so leads me to consent. R. But you admit that truth exists? A. I admit it. R. Then we must ask where it is; for it is not in a place, unless perhaps you think either that something other than body is in a place or that truth is a body. A. I think neither. R. Where then do you believe it is? For what we grant exists is not nowhere. A. If I knew where it was, perhaps I would seek nothing further. R. Can you at least know where it is not? A. If you remind me, perhaps I can. R. It is certainly not in mortal things. For whatever exists cannot remain in something if that in which it is does not remain; and it was granted a little earlier that truth remains even when true things perish. Truth, therefore, is not in mortal things. But truth exists, and is not nowhere. Therefore there are immortal things. But nothing is true in which truth is not. It follows, then, that nothing is true except what is immortal. And every false tree is not a tree, and false wood is not wood, and false silver is not silver, and in general whatever is false is not. But everything that is not true is false. Therefore nothing is rightly said to be except immortal things. Consider this little argument carefully with yourself, lest anything in it seem to you not to be granted. For if it is valid, we have almost finished the whole business, which will perhaps appear better in another book. A. I thank you, and I will treat these things carefully and cautiously with myself, and indeed with you, when we are in silence, if no darkness intrudes and, as I greatly fear, makes me take delight in it. R. Believe God steadfastly and commit yourself wholly to him as far as you can. Do not wish to be, as it were, your own and in your own power; but profess yourself the servant of that most merciful and most beneficent Lord. For so he will not cease to lift you up to himself, and will allow nothing to happen to you but what is profitable to you, even if you do not know it. A. I hear, I believe, and I obey as far as I can; and I pray to him most earnestly that I may be able to do as much as possible, unless perhaps you desire something more of me. R. It is well for now; afterward you will do whatever he himself, once seen, shall command.

A. Our work has been interrupted long enough, and love is impatient, and there is no limit to tears unless love is given what it loves; so let us begin the second book. R. Let us begin. A. Let us believe that God will be present. R. Let us believe it indeed, if even this is in our power. A. He himself is our power. R. So pray, as briefly and perfectly as you can. A. O God, always the same, let me know myself, let me know you. I have prayed. R. You who wish to know yourself, do you know that you exist? A. I know. R. How do you know? A. I do not know. R. Do you feel yourself to be simple or manifold? A. I do not know. R. Do you know that you move? A. I do not know. R. Do you know that you think? A. I know. R. So it is true that you think. A. True. R. Do you know that you are immortal? A. I do not know. R. Of all these things you said you do not know, which would you rather know first? A. Whether I am immortal. R. So you love to live? A. I admit it. R. What, when you have learned that you are immortal: will that be enough? A. That will indeed be great, but for me it is too little. R. Yet how much will you rejoice in this which is too little? A. Very much. R. Will you weep no more? A. Not at all. R. What if life itself is found to be such that in it you may know nothing more than you know now: will you refrain from tears? A. On the contrary, I will weep so much that there will be no life. R. So you love to live not for the sake of living itself, but for the sake of knowing. A. I yield to the conclusion. R. What if this very knowledge of things should make you miserable? A. I believe that can in no way happen. But if it is so, no one can be happy; for now I am miserable from no other source than ignorance of things. And if knowledge of things also makes one miserable, misery is everlasting. R. Now I see all that you desire. For since you believe that no one is made miserable by knowledge, from which it is probable that understanding makes one happy, and no one is happy unless living, and no one lives who does not exist, you wish to exist, to live and to understand; but to exist in order to live, to live in order to understand. So you know that you exist, you know that you live, you know that you understand. But whether these will always be, or none of them will be, or something will remain always and something perish, or whether they can be diminished and increased while all remain, this you wish to know. A. That is so. R. If then we prove that we shall always live, it will follow also that we shall always exist. A. It will follow. R. It will remain to inquire about understanding.

A. I see a most clear and very brief order. R. Then be here now, so as to answer my questions carefully and firmly. A. I am here. R. If this world will always remain, is it true that the world will always remain? A. Who doubts that? R. What if it will not remain? Is it not then true that the world will not remain? A. I do not resist. R. What, when it has perished, if it is going to perish? Will it not then be true that the world has perished? For as long as it is not true that the world has perished, it has not perished; so it is contradictory that the world has perished and that it is not true that the world has perished. A. I grant this too. R. What about this? Does it seem to you that something can be true without truth existing? A. In no way. R. So there will be truth even if the world perishes. A. I cannot deny it. R. What if truth itself should perish? Will it not be true that truth has perished? A. And who denies that? R. But something true cannot exist if truth does not exist. A. I granted that a little while ago. R. In no way, then, will truth perish. A. Go on as you began, for nothing is truer than that inference.