Soliloquies 2.3–2.10

R. Now I would like you to answer me whether it seems to you that the soul perceives, or the body. A. The soul, it seems. R. What? Does the intellect seem to you to belong to the soul? A. Entirely. R. To the soul alone, or to something else? A. I see nothing besides the soul, except God, in which I would believe there is intellect. R. Now let us look at this. If someone told you that this wall is not a wall but a tree, what would you think? A. That either his sense or mine was deceived, or that he called a wall by this name. R. What if the appearance of a tree appeared in it to him, and of a wall to you? Could not both be true? A. In no way; because one and the same thing cannot be both a tree and a wall. For although to each of us it seems to be a different thing, one of us must suffer a false imagination. R. What if it is neither a wall nor a tree, and you are both deceived? A. That can indeed be. R. So this one possibility you had passed over above. A. I admit it. R. What if you both recognize that the thing seems to you other than it is? Are you deceived then? A. No. R. So what seems can be false, and the one to whom it seems not be deceived. A. It can. R. It must be admitted, then, that the one deceived is not the one who sees false things, but the one who assents to false things. A. Plainly it must be admitted. R. What is the false itself? Why is it false? A. Because it is otherwise than it seems. R. So if there were none to whom it seemed, nothing would be false. A. That follows. R. Falsity, then, is not in things but in sense; and one who does not assent to false things is not deceived. It follows that we are one thing and sense another, since when it is deceived we can avoid being deceived. A. I have nothing to say against it. R. But when the soul is deceived, do you dare say that you are not deceived? A. How could I dare that? R. But there is no sense without soul, no falsity without sense. So the soul either produces falsity or cooperates with it. A. What went before draws my consent. R. Now answer this: whether it seems to you possible that at some time there will be no falsity. A. How can that seem possible to me, when the difficulty of finding truth is so great that it would be more absurd to say that falsity cannot exist than that truth cannot? R. Do you think that one who does not live can perceive? A. It cannot happen. R. It is established that the soul always lives. A. You urge me too quickly into joy: step by step, I beg you. R. But if those things were rightly granted, I see nothing to doubt about this matter. A. It is too quick, I say. So I am more easily led to think I have granted something rashly than to become secure now about the immortality of the soul. Still, unfold that conclusion and show how it was reached. R. You said that falsity cannot exist without sense, and that it cannot fail to exist; therefore sense always exists. But there is no sense without soul; therefore the soul is everlasting. Nor can it perceive unless it lives. Therefore the soul always lives.

A. O leaden dagger! For you could conclude that man is immortal if I had granted you that this world can never be without man, and that this world is everlasting. R. You are certainly alert. Yet what we have established is no small thing: that the nature of things cannot be without soul, unless perhaps at some time there will be no falsity in the nature of things. A. That I admit follows. But I think we must deliberate further whether what was granted above is not shaky. For I see that no small step has been taken toward the immortality of the soul. R. Have you considered sufficiently, lest you have granted anything rashly? A. Sufficiently indeed, but I see nothing for which to accuse myself of rashness. R. So it is established that the nature of things cannot be without a living soul. A. Established so far as that some souls may be born and others die in turn. R. What if falsity were taken from the nature of things? Would it not come about that all things are true? A. I see that it follows. R. Answer: how does this wall seem to you to be true? A. Because I am not deceived by the sight of it. R. So because it is as it seems. A. Yes. R. If, then, something is false because it seems otherwise than it is, and true because it seems as it is, then, when the one to whom it seems is removed, nothing is either false or true. But if there is no falsity in the nature of things, all things are true. And nothing can seem except to a living soul. So the soul remains in the nature of things if falsity cannot be removed; it remains if it can. A. I see that what had already been concluded has been made stronger; but by this addition we have made no progress. For there still remains what moves me most: that souls are born and perish, and that they are never lacking to the world not because they are immortal but because they succeed one another.

R. Does it seem to you that any bodily, that is, sensible, things can be grasped by the intellect? A. It does not. R. What about this: does God seem to you to use the senses to know things? A. I dare affirm nothing rashly on this matter; but as far as one may conjecture, God in no way uses the senses. R. So we conclude that only the soul can perceive. A. Conclude for now as far as probability allows. R. What about this: do you grant that this wall, if it is not a true wall, is not a wall? A. I could grant nothing more easily. R. And that nothing is a body if it is not a true body? A. This is of the same kind. R. So if nothing is true unless it is as it seems, and nothing bodily can seem except to the senses, and none can perceive but the soul, and nothing is a body if it is not a true body, it remains that body cannot exist unless there is soul. A. You press too hard, and I have nothing with which to resist.

R. Attend to these things more carefully. A. Here I am. R. Surely this is a stone; and it is true if it is not otherwise than it seems; and it is not a stone if it is not true; and it can be seen only by the senses. A. Yes. R. So there are no stones in the most hidden bosom of the earth, nor anywhere at all where there are none to perceive; nor would this be a stone unless we saw it; nor will it be a stone when we have gone away and no one else present sees it. Nor, if you shut a chest well, will it contain anything, however many things you have shut in it. Nor indeed is wood itself wood inside. For whatever is in the depth of a body that is not at all transparent escapes all the senses, and so is compelled not to exist at all. For if it existed, it would be true; and nothing is true except what is as it seems; but that is not seen; therefore it is not true, unless you have something to answer to this. A. I see that this has arisen from what I granted; but it is so absurd that I would more easily deny any of those things you like than grant that this is true. R. I do not object. See then what you wish to say: that bodily things can be seen otherwise than by the senses, or that something besides the soul perceives, or that a stone or anything else exists but is not true, or that the true itself must be defined otherwise. A. Let us look, I beg you, at this last one. R. Define the true, then. A. The true is that which is as it seems to the knower, if he wishes and is able to know. R. So what no one can know will not be true? Again, if the false is what seems otherwise than it is, what if to one person this stone seems a stone, to another wood? Will the same thing be both false and true? A. What moves me more is the earlier point, how, if something cannot be known, it follows that it is not true. For that one thing is at once both true and false I do not much mind. For I see that one thing compared with different things is at once both greater and smaller. But this happens because nothing is greater or smaller in itself; for these are terms of comparison. R. But if you say that nothing is true in itself, do you not fear that it follows that nothing exists in itself? For that by which this is wood is also that by which it is true wood. Nor can it be that it is wood in itself, that is, without a knower, and yet not true wood. A. Then I say this and define it thus, and I do not fear that my definition will be rejected for being too short: the true seems to me to be that which is. R. Then nothing will be false, because whatever is, is true. A. You have thrown me into great straits, and I find nothing at all to answer. So it happens that, though I do not wish to be taught otherwise than by these questions, I am nevertheless now afraid to be questioned.

R. God, to whom we have committed ourselves, without doubt brings help and frees us from these straits, provided we believe and ask him most devoutly. A. Nothing would I more gladly do at this point; for nowhere have I endured such darkness. O God, our Father, who urge us to pray, and who also grant what you are asked (since when we ask you we live better and are better): hear me trembling in this darkness, and stretch out your right hand to me. Hold out your light before me, call me back from errors; with you as my guide let me return into myself and into you. Amen. R. Be here as much as you can, and attend most watchfully. A. Tell me, I beg, if anything has been suggested to you, lest we perish. R. Be here. A. See, you have me doing nothing else. R. First let us winnow again and again what the false is. A. I will be surprised if it is anything other than what is not as it seems. R. Attend rather, and let us first question the senses themselves. For certainly what the eyes see is not called false unless it has some likeness of the true. For example, a man we see in sleep is certainly not a true man but a false one, precisely because he has a likeness of the true. For who would see a dog and rightly say he had dreamed of a man? So that dog too is false because it is like a true one. A. It is as you say. R. What if someone awake, seeing a horse, thinks he sees a man? Is he not deceived because some likeness of a man appears to him? For if nothing but the appearance of a horse appears to him, he cannot think he sees a man. A. I yield entirely. R. Likewise we call false a tree we see painted, and the face reflected from a mirror, and the motion of towers seen by those sailing, and the break in an oar, for no other reason than that they are like the true. A. I admit it. R. So we are deceived with twins, with eggs, with seals impressed by one ring, and in other such things. A. I follow entirely and grant it. R. So likeness of things, in what pertains to the eyes, is the mother of falsity. A. I cannot deny it. R. But this whole forest, unless I am mistaken, can be divided into two kinds. For it is partly in equal things, partly in inferior ones. Things are equal when we say this is as like that as that is like this, as was said of twins or of the impressions of a ring. In inferior things, when we say that what is inferior is like the better. For who would look into a mirror and rightly say that he is like that image, and not rather that it is like him? This kind, again, is partly in what the soul undergoes, partly in the things that are seen. And what the soul undergoes it undergoes either in sense, like the motion of a tower which does not move, or within itself from what it has received from the senses, such as the visions of dreamers and perhaps also of madmen. Further, the likenesses that appear in the things we see are expressed and formed some by nature, others by living beings. Nature makes inferior likenesses by begetting or by reflecting: by begetting, when children are born like their parents; by reflecting, as with mirrors of every kind. For although men make most mirrors, they do not themselves form the images that are reflected. And the works of living beings are in paintings and all fictions of this kind; in this kind may also be included the things which demons make, if indeed they make them. As for the shadows of bodies, since it is not far from the mark to call them like bodies and as it were false bodies, and it must not be denied that they belong to the judgment of the eyes, it seems best to put them in the kind that comes about by reflection from nature. For every body placed before light reflects, and casts a shadow on the opposite side. Does anything seem to you to need contradicting? A. Nothing to me. But I am eagerly waiting to see where all this is heading.

R. But we must patiently bear it until the other senses also report to us that falsity dwells in likeness to the true. For in hearing itself there are almost as many kinds of likenesses: as when, hearing the voice of a speaker whom we do not see, we think it is someone else whose voice is like his; and among inferior things, there is the witness of the echo, or that ringing of the ears themselves, or in clocks a certain imitation of the blackbird or the crow, or what dreamers or madmen think they hear. And it is incredible how much the notes musicians call false bear witness to truth, as will appear later; yet even they, which is enough for now, are not far from the likeness of those which they call true. Do you follow this? A. And most gladly; for I have no trouble understanding. R. Then, not to delay, does it seem to you that one lily can easily be distinguished from another by smell, or thyme honey from thyme honey of different hives by taste, or the softness of swan's feathers from goose's by touch? A. It does not. R. What when we dream that we smell, taste or touch such things? Are we not deceived by a likeness of images, the more inferior as it is emptier? A. You speak the truth. R. So it appears that in all the senses, whether in equal or in inferior things, we are either deceived by the enticement of likeness, or, even if we are not deceived, suspending assent or recognizing the difference, we nevertheless call those things false which we find to be like the true. A. I cannot doubt it.

R. Now attend, while we run over the same things again, so that what we are trying to show may become clearer. A. Here I am; say what you will. For I have resolved once for all to bear this roundabout way, and I will not grow weary in it, with such hope of reaching where I feel we are heading. R. You do well. But attend whether it seems to you that, when we see similar eggs, we can rightly say that any of them is false. A. In no way. For if they are all eggs, they are true eggs. R. What when we see an image reflected from a mirror? By what signs do we grasp that it is false? A. Obviously because it cannot be held, does not make a sound, does not move of itself, does not live, and by countless other signs which it would take long to go through. R. I see that you do not want to linger, and your haste must be humored. So, not to repeat each point, if those men we see in dreams could live, speak, and be held by those awake, and there were no difference between them and those whom we address and see when awake and sane, would we call them false? A. How could that rightly be said? R. So if they were true because they appeared most like the true, and there were no difference at all between them and the true, and false because they were proved unlike through those or other differences, must it not be admitted that likeness is the mother of truth, and unlikeness the mother of falsity? A. I do not know what to say, and I am ashamed of my rash consent earlier. R. It is ridiculous to be ashamed, as if we had not chosen conversations of this kind for that very reason. Since we are speaking with ourselves alone, I want them to be called and entitled Soliloquies, a new and perhaps harsh name, but quite suitable to show what the thing is. For since truth cannot be better sought than by questioning and answering, and hardly anyone is found who is not ashamed to be refuted in argument, and so it almost always happens that a matter well introduced for discussion is driven off by an unruly clamor of obstinacy, even with wounded feelings, usually concealed, sometimes open, it seemed to me most peaceful and most convenient to seek the truth, with God's help, by questioning myself and answering myself. So there is nothing for you to fear: if anywhere you have rashly entangled yourself, go back and untie the knot; for otherwise there is no escape from here.

A. You are right; but I do not plainly see what I granted wrongly, unless perhaps that it is rightly called false which has some likeness of the true, since nothing else at all occurs to me worthy of the name of false; and yet again I am compelled to admit that the things that are called false are so called because they differ from the true. From which it follows that that very unlikeness is the cause of falsity. So I am confused; for nothing easily comes into my mind that is produced by contrary causes. R. What if this is the one and only kind in the nature of things that is so? Or do you not know that, when you have run through the countless kinds of animals, the crocodile alone is found to move its upper jaw in chewing, especially since almost nothing can be found so like another thing that it is not also unlike it in something? A. I see that indeed; but when I consider that what we call false has both something like the true and something unlike, I cannot discern from which part rather it has earned the name of false. For if I say it is from what is unlike, there will be nothing that cannot be called false; for there is nothing that is not unlike some thing which we grant to be true. Again, if I say it is to be called false from what is like, not only will those eggs protest, which are true precisely because they are most alike, but even so I will not escape one who forces me to admit that all things are false, because I cannot deny that all things are in some respect like one another. But suppose I am not afraid to answer that likeness and unlikeness together make something rightly be called false: what way of escape will you give me? For I will nonetheless be pressed to declare that all things are false, since all things are found, as was said above, both like and unlike one another in some respect. It would remain for me to say that nothing else is false except what is otherwise than it seems, did I not fear all those monsters which I thought I had sailed past long ago. For I am driven back there by an unexpected whirlpool, so as to say that the true is that which is as it seems. From which it follows that nothing can be true without a knower; and there I must fear shipwreck on most hidden rocks, which are true even if they are not known. Or, if I say that the true is that which is, it will be concluded, whoever objects, that the false is nowhere. So those tides return, and I see that I have made no progress at all for all my patience with your delays.

R. Attend rather; for in no way will I bring myself to believe that we have implored divine help in vain. For I see, having tried all things as far as we could, that nothing remains which can rightly be called false except what either pretends to be what it is not, or tends to be and is not. But the former kind of false is either deceitful or lying. For that is rightly called deceitful which has a certain desire to deceive, which cannot be understood without a soul; but this comes about partly by reason, partly by nature: by reason in rational animals, as in man; by nature in beasts, as in the fox. What I call lying comes from those who tell untruths. They differ from the deceitful in this, that everyone deceitful seeks to deceive, but not everyone who tells an untruth wishes to deceive; for mimes and comedies and many poems are full of untruths, with the intention of delighting rather than deceiving, and almost all who joke tell untruths. But he is rightly called deceitful or deceiving whose business it is that someone should be deceived. Those, however, who do not aim to deceive but nevertheless invent something, no one doubts may be called liars, or, if not even that, at least tellers of untruths, unless you have something to say against this. A. Go on, I beg you; for now perhaps you have begun to teach things about falsehoods that are not false. But now I am waiting to learn what that kind is like which you described: it tends to be and is not. R. Why should you not wait? They are those very things, many of which we mentioned above. Does not your image in a mirror seem to you as it were to want to be you yourself, but to be false precisely because it is not? A. That seems very much so. R. What of every picture or likeness of any kind, and all such works of craftsmen? Do they not strive to be that in whose likeness each was made? A. I am wholly persuaded. R. And the things by which sleepers or madmen are deceived you grant, I think, to be of this kind. A. None more so; for none tend more to be such as those awake or sane see; and yet they are false precisely in that they cannot be what they tend to be. R. Why should I say more about the motion of towers, or the oar in water, or the shadows of bodies? It is plain, I think, that they must be measured by this rule. A. Most plain. R. I say nothing of the other senses; for no one who considers will fail to find this: that in the very things we perceive, that is called false which tends to be something and is not.

A. You are right; but I wonder why you thought those poems and jokes and other deceptions should be separated from this kind. R. Because, of course, it is one thing to wish to be false, another to be unable to be true. So we can join the works of men themselves, such as comedies or tragedies or mimes and other things of this kind, with the works of painters and sculptors. For a painted man can no more be true, although he tends toward the appearance of a man, than the things that are written in the books of the comic poets. For they do not wish to be false, nor are they false by any desire of their own, but by a certain necessity, insofar as they have been able to follow the will of the one who fashions them. But on the stage Roscius was by his will a false Hecuba, by nature a true man; and by that will also a true tragic actor, namely in that he fulfilled what he had set out to do; but a false Priam, in that he imitated Priam but was not Priam himself. From this there arises something wonderful, which yet no one doubts is so. A. What is it? R. What do you think, except that all these things are true in some respects precisely by being false in others, and that the only thing that helps them toward their own truth is that they are false with respect to something else? Hence they in no way reach what they wish or ought to be if they shun being false. For how would that man I mentioned be a true tragic actor if he were unwilling to be a false Hector, a false Andromache, a false Hercules, and countless others? Or how would a picture be true if it were not a false horse? How would the image of a man in a mirror be true, if not a false man? Therefore, if it helps some things to be something false in order to be something true, why do we so dread falsehoods and seek truth as a great good? A. I do not know, and I wonder greatly, except that in these examples I see nothing worthy of imitation. For we ought not, like actors, or things reflected in mirrors, or Myron's bronze heifers, to be true in some character of our own by being shaped and made like another's character, and so be false; but we should seek that truth which is not, as it were, two-faced and at odds with itself, true in one respect and false in another. R. You are asking for great and divine things. Yet if we find them, will we not admit that from them truth itself is made up and, as it were, forged, from which everything that is called true in any way takes its name? A. I assent not unwillingly.