Letter 50003: Whether I should take this as the effect of your flattering words, or whether the thing is really so, I cannot...

Augustine to his dear friend Nebridius -- greetings. 1. Whether I should take this as the effect of your flattering words, or whether the thing is really so, I cannot decide -- the impression came on me too suddenly, and I have not yet worked out how far it deserves to be believed. You are wondering what I mean. What do you think? You have nearly made me believe -- not that I am happy (for that belongs to the wise alone) -- but that I am at least happy in some qualified sense. In the way we loosely call people "men" who barely deserve the name compared to Plato's ideal, or call things "round" or "square" that are far from the perfect figures only a few minds can perceive. I read your letter by lamplight after supper. Then I lay down, but not to sleep right away. On my bed I thought for a long time, carrying on a kind of inner dialogue -- Augustine questioning and answering Augustine: "Is what Nebridius says true -- that I am happy? It cannot be absolutely true, because I am still far from wise, and even he would not deny that. But can a happy life belong to those who are not wise? Hardly -- because if it could, then lack of wisdom would be a minor misfortune, when in fact it is the one and only source of unhappiness. So how did Nebridius come to call me happy? Was it that, after reading my little books, he ventured to pronounce me wise? Surely his joy could not have made him that reckless, especially since he is someone whose judgment I know carries great weight. I think I have it: he wrote what he thought would most please me, because my writing had pleased him, and he wrote in a joyful mood without carefully weighing his words. But then what would he have said if he had read my Soliloquies? He would have rejoiced even more -- and yet he could find no loftier name than the one he has already given me by calling me happy. He has used up his highest praise all at once and left himself nothing in reserve. Look what joy does to a person." 2. But where is that truly happy life? Where? If it were attained, one would dismiss the atomic theory of Epicurus with contempt. If it were attained, one would know there is nothing here below but the visible world. If it were attained, one would understand why a point near the pole of a rotating globe moves more slowly than one at the equator -- and other things like that, which I also know. But how can I be called happy when I do not even know why the world is the size it is, when the mathematical proportions governing its structure do not prevent it from being made larger? Or might it not be proved that matter is infinitely divisible, so that starting from any given base, a definite number of particles must build up to a definite and calculable total? Since we do not admit that any particle is too small for further division, what compels us to admit that any collection of parts is too large for further increase? Perhaps there is real insight in something I once confided to Alypius: that since number, as grasped by the understanding, can be increased infinitely but cannot be reduced below the unit, then number as grasped by the senses -- which simply means the quantity of material parts or bodies -- is, conversely, infinitely divisible but limited in how far it can grow. This may be the reason philosophers rightly say that riches are found in the things the understanding deals with, and poverty in those the senses deal with. For what is poorer than being endlessly diminishable? And what is richer than being able to grow as much as you wish, go wherever you wish, return whenever you wish, and love as your object something that is great and can never be made less? Whoever understands these numbers loves nothing so much as the unit -- and no wonder, since it is through the unit that all other numbers become lovable. But to return: why is the world the size it is, when it might have been larger or smaller? I do not know -- it is the size it is, and I can go no further. And why does the world occupy this particular place rather than some other? Here too it is better not to ask, because whatever the answer, more questions would remain. One thing greatly puzzled me: that bodies can be infinitely subdivided. But perhaps an answer has been found by setting against this the corresponding property of abstract number -- its capacity for infinite multiplication. 3. But wait -- let us examine that indefinable something which stirs in the mind. The world we perceive through our senses must be an image of some world the understanding grasps. And there is a curious phenomenon in mirrors: however large the mirror, it does not make reflected images larger than the objects themselves, no matter how small they are. But in small mirrors -- such as the pupil of the eye -- even a large surface placed before them produces only a tiny image, proportioned to the mirror's size. Reducing the mirror reduces the image; but enlarging the mirror cannot enlarge the image. Surely there is something here worth investigating further. But for now, I need to sleep. And if Nebridius thinks me happy, perhaps it is not because I seek, but because I have found something. But what is that something? Is it that chain of reasoning I am so fond of caressing, as if it were my only treasure -- in which, perhaps, I take too much delight? 4. What are we made of? Soul and body. Which is nobler? The soul, beyond question. What do people praise in the body? Nothing, as far as I can see, except beauty. And what is bodily beauty? Harmony of parts, together with a certain agreeableness of color. Is this beauty better when it is genuine or when it is illusory? When it is genuine, obviously. And where is it found genuine? In the soul. Therefore the soul deserves more love than the body. But in what part of the soul does this truth reside? In the mind and understanding. What does the understanding struggle against? Against the senses. Must we then resist the senses with all our strength? Certainly. But what if things perceived through the senses give us pleasure? We must prevent them from doing so. How? By learning to do without them, and by desiring better things. But what if the soul dies? Then truth dies -- or else intelligence is not truth, or intelligence is not part of the soul, or something with an immortal part can nonetheless die. All of these are conclusions I demonstrated long ago in my Soliloquies to be absurd and impossible, and I remain firmly convinced of this. But somehow the cumulative weight of our experience with suffering frightens us and makes us waver. Yet even granting, for argument's sake, that the soul dies -- which I see no way of maintaining -- it remains true that the happy life does not consist in the fleeting joy that sensory things can offer. I have thought this through deliberately and proved it. Perhaps it is because of reasoning like this that my dear Nebridius has judged me to be, if not perfectly happy, at least happy in some sense. Let me judge myself happy too -- what do I lose by it, and why should I begrudge thinking well of my own condition? That is how I talked with myself. Then I prayed, as is my habit, and fell asleep. 5. I thought it good to write all of this to you. For it pleases me that you are grateful when I write freely to you whatever crosses my mind -- and to whom can I more willingly write nonsense than to someone I cannot possibly displease? But if it depends on fortune whether one person loves another, then consider: how can I justly be called happy when I am so elated by fortune's favors, and openly desire that my supply of such blessings be greatly increased? For the truly wise -- and they alone may rightly be called happy -- have maintained that fortune's favors should be neither feared nor craved. Now, I used the word "cupi" in this letter. Tell me -- should it be "cupi" or "cupiri"? I am glad this question came up, because I want your instruction on the conjugation of the verb "cupio." When I compare similar verbs, my uncertainty only grows. "Cupio" is like "fugio," "sapio," "jacio," and "capio" -- but should the infinitive be "fugiri" or "fugi," "sapiri" or "sapi"? I cannot tell. I might use "jaci" and "capi" as parallel guides, except that some grammarian would bat me around like a ball by pointing out that the supine forms "jactum" and "captum" are different from "fugitum," "cupitum," and "sapitum." And about those three words I am equally ignorant whether the penultimate should be pronounced long with a circumflex accent, or short without accent. I am trying to provoke you into writing me a reasonably long letter. Please give me something that will take a while to read. For the pleasure I find in reading what you write is beyond my power to express.

Letter 3 (A.D. 387) Please help support the mission of New Advent and get the full contents of this website as an instant download. Includes the Catholic Encyclopedia, Church Fathers, Summa, Bible and more — all for only $19.99... To Nebridius Augustine Sends Greeting. 1. Whether I am to regard it as the effect of what I may call your flattering language, or whether the thing be really so, is a point which I am unable to decide. For the impression was sudden, and I am not yet resolved how far it deserves to be believed. You wonder what this can be. What do you think? You have almost made me believe, not indeed that I am happy— for that is the heritage of the wise alone — but that I am at least in a sense happy: as we apply the designation man to beings who deserve the name only in a sense if compared with Plato's ideal man, or speak of things which we see as round or square, although they differ widely from the perfect figure which is discerned by the mind of a few. I read your letter beside my lamp after supper: immediately after which I lay down, but not at once to sleep; for on my bed I meditated long, and talked thus with myself — Augustine addressing and answering Augustine: Is it not true, as Nebridius affirms, that I am happy? Absolutely true it cannot be, for that I am still far from wise he himself would not deny. But may not a happy life be the lot even of those who are not wise? That is scarcely possible; because, in that case, lack of wisdom would be a small misfortune, and not, as it actually is, the one and only source of unhappiness. How, then, did Nebridius come to esteem me happy? Was it that, after reading these little books of mine, he ventured to pronounce me wise? Surely the vehemence of joy could not make him so rash, especially seeing that he is a man to whose judgment I well know so much weight is to be attached. I have it now: he wrote what he thought would be most gratifying to me, because he had been gratified by what I had written in those treatises; and he wrote in a joyful mood, without accurately weighing the sentiments entrusted to his joyous pen. What, then, would he have said if he had read my Soliloquies? He would have rejoiced with much more exultation, and yet could find no loftier name to bestow on me than this which he has already given in calling me happy. All at once, then, he has lavished on me the highest possible name, and has not reserved a single word to add to my praises, if at any time he were made by me more joyful than he is now. See what joy does. 2. But where is that truly happy life? Where? Ay, where? Oh! If it were attained, one would spurn the atomic theory of Epicurus. Oh! If it were attained, one would know that there is nothing here below but the visible world. Oh! If it were attained, one would know that in the rotation of a globe on its axis, the motion of points near the poles is less rapid than of those which lie half way between them — and other such like things which we likewise know. But now, how or in what sense can I be called happy, who know not why the world is such in size as it is, when the proportions of the figures according to which it is framed do in no way hinder its being enlarged to any extent desired? Or how might it not be said to me — nay, might we not be compelled to admit that matter is infinitely divisible; so that, starting from any given base (so to speak), a definite number of corpuscles must rise to a definite and ascertainable quantity? Wherefore, seeing that we do not admit that any particle is so small as to be insusceptible of further diminution, what compels us to admit that any assemblage of parts is so great that it cannot possibly be increased? Is there perchance some important truth in what I once suggested confidentially to Alypius, that since number, as cognisable by the understanding, is susceptible of infinite augmentation, but not of infinite diminution, because we cannot reduce it lower than to the units, number, as cognisable by the senses (and this, of course, just means quantity of material parts or bodies), is on the contrary susceptible of infinite diminution, but has a limit to its augmentation? This may perhaps be the reason why philosophers justly pronounce riches to be found in the things about which the understanding is exercised, and poverty in those things with which the senses have to do. For what is poorer than to be susceptible of endless diminution? And what more truly rich than to increase as much as you will, to go whither you will, to return when you will and as far as you will, and to have as the object of your love that which is large and cannot be made less? For whoever understands these numbers loves nothing so much as the unit; and no wonder, seeing that it is through it that all the other numbers can be loved by him. But to return: Why is the world the size that it is, seeing that it might have been greater or less? I do not know: its dimensions are what they are, and I can go no further. Again: Why is the world in the place it now occupies rather than in another? Here, too, it is better not to put the question; for whatever the answer might be, other questions would still remain. This one thing greatly perplexed me, that bodies could be infinitely subdivided. To this perhaps an answer has been given, by setting over against it the converse property of abstract number [viz. its susceptibility of infinite multiplication]. 3. But stay: let us see what is that indefinable object which is suggested to the mind. This world with which our senses acquaint us is surely the image of some world which the understanding apprehends. Now it is a strange phenomenon which we observe in the images which mirrors reflect to us — that however great the mirrors be, they do not make the images larger than the objects placed before them, be they ever so small; but in small mirrors, such as the pupil of the eye, although a large surface be placed over against them, a very small image is formed, proportioned to the size of the mirror. Therefore if the mirrors be reduced in size, the images reflected in them are also reduced; but it is not possible for the images to be enlarged by enlarging the mirrors. Surely there is in this something which might reward further investigation; but meanwhile, I must sleep. Moreover, if I seem to Nebridius to be happy, it is not because I seek, but because perchance I have found something. What, then, is that something? Is it that chain of reasoning which I am wont so to caress as if it were my sole treasure, and in which perhaps I take too much delight? 4. Of what parts do we consist? Of soul and body. Which of these is the nobler? Doubtless the soul. What do men praise in the body? Nothing that I see but comeliness. And what is comeliness of body? Harmony of parts in the form, together with a certain agreeableness of color. Is this comeliness better where it is true or where it is illusive? Unquestionably it is better where it is true. And where is it found true? In the soul. The soul, therefore, is to be loved more than the body; but in what part of the soul does this truth reside? In the mind and understanding. With what has the understanding to contend? With the senses. Must we then resist the senses with all our might? Certainly. What, then, if the things with which the senses acquaint us give us pleasure? We must prevent them from doing so. How? By acquiring the habit of doing without them, and desiring better things. But if the soul die, what then? Why, then truth dies, or intelligence is not truth, or intelligence is not a part of the soul, or that which has some part immortal is liable to die: conclusions all of which I demonstrated long ago in my Soliloquies to be absurd because impossible; and I am firmly persuaded that this is the case, but somehow through the influence of custom in the experience of evils we are terrified, and hesitate. But even granting, finally, that the soul dies, which I do not see to be in any way possible, it remains nevertheless true that a happy life does not consist in the evanescent joy which sensible objects can yield: this I have pondered deliberately, and proved. Perhaps it is on account of reasonings such as these that I have been judged by my own Nebridius to be, if not absolutely happy, at least in a sense happy. Let me also judge myself to be happy: for what do I lose thereby, or why should I grudge to think well of my own estate? Thus I talked with myself, then prayed according to my custom, and fell asleep. 5. These things I have thought good to write to you. For it gratifies me that you should thank me when I write freely to you whatever crosses my mind; and to whom can I more willingly write nonsense than to one whom I cannot displease? But if it depends upon fortune whether one man love another or not, look to it, I pray you, how can I be justly called happy when I am so elated with joy by fortune's favours, and avowedly desire that my store of such good things may be largely increased? For those who are most truly wise, and whom alone it is right to pronounce happy, have maintained that fortune's favours ought not to be the objects of either fear or desire. Now here I used the word cupi: will you tell me whether it should be cupi or cupiri? And I am glad this has come in the way, for I wish you to instruct me in the inflexion of this verb cupio, since, when I compare similar verbs with it, my uncertainty as to the proper inflexion increases. For cupio is like fugio, sapio, jacio, capio; but whether the infinitive mood is fugiri or fugi, sapiri or sapi, I do not know. I might regard jaci and capi as parallel instances answering my question as to the others, were I not afraid lest some grammarian should catch and throw me like a ball in sport wherever he pleased, by reminding me that the form of the supines jactum and captum is different from that found in the other verbs fugitum, cupitum and sapitum. As to these three words, moreover, I am likewise ignorant whether the penultimate is to be pronounced long and with circumflex accent, or without accent and short. I would like to provoke you to write a reasonably long letter. I beg you to let me have what it will take some time to read. For it is far beyond my power to express the pleasure which I find in reading what you write.