Letter 50010: No question of yours has ever disturbed me as deeply, while I reflected on it, as the complaint in your last letter...

Augustine to his dear friend Nebridius -- greetings. 1. No question of yours has ever disturbed me as deeply, while I reflected on it, as the complaint in your last letter that I am indifferent about finding a way for us to live together. That is a serious charge, and if it were justified, it would be genuinely dangerous. But since there are good reasons to think we could live the way we want to more successfully here than in Carthage or even in the countryside, I am at a complete loss, my dear Nebridius, about what to do with you. Should I send a conveyance suitable for your health to bring you here? Our friend Lucinianus tells me you could be carried safely in a litter. But then I think of your mother, who could not bear your absence even when you were well, and who will bear it far less when you are ill. Should I come to you myself? I cannot. There are people here who cannot come with me and whom I would consider it a crime to abandon. You can already pass time contentedly when left to the resources of your own mind. But these people -- the whole point of my present efforts is to help them reach that state. Should I go back and forth frequently, spending time with you and then with them? But that would not be living together, and it would not be living the way we wish. The journey is not short; attempting it frequently would destroy the very leisure we are trying to secure. And on top of this there is my physical weakness -- as you know, I cannot accomplish what I want unless I stop wanting what is beyond my strength. 2. To fill one's life with the thought of journeys you cannot make calmly or easily is not the way for someone whose thoughts should be occupied with that final journey we call death -- which alone, as you understand, truly deserves serious attention. God has indeed granted to certain people whom He has called to lead churches the ability not only to await that final journey calmly, but even to desire it eagerly, while simultaneously meeting the demands of all these other journeys without anxiety. But I do not believe this gift is given either to those who seek such responsibilities out of ambition, or to those who, though in private life, crave busyness. Neither group, amid all their rushing around, will acquire that familiarity with death we are seeking -- since both had it in their power to seek growth in quietness instead. If this is wrong, then I am -- I will not say the most foolish of men -- but at least the most sluggish, since I find it impossible, without such periods of relief from noise and toil, to taste and savor that one true good. Believe me: a great deal of withdrawal from the tumult of passing things is needed before a person can develop -- not through numbness, not through arrogance, not through vanity, not through superstitious blindness -- the genuine ability to say, "I fear nothing." And through this same path we reach that enduring joy to which no pleasurable excitement found anywhere else is even remotely comparable. 3. But if such a life never falls to anyone's lot, then why do we sometimes experience tranquility of soul? Why is this experience more frequent in proportion to the devotion with which a person worships God in their innermost being? Why does this peace often hold steady even when we go out into the business of daily life, so long as we return from that inner sanctuary? Why are there moments when, speaking, we do not fear death, and in silence, even desire it? I say to you -- for I would not say this to everyone -- to you, whose visits to that higher realm I know well: you, who have often felt how sweetly the soul lives when it dies to all merely physical attachments, will you deny that a person's whole life can eventually become so free of fear that they deserve to be called wise? Or will you dare to claim that this state of mind, on which reason depends, has ever been yours except when you were shut up alone in conversation with your own heart? Since all of this is true, you see that what remains is simply for you to join me in the work of figuring out how we can arrange to live together. You know far better than I what should be done about your mother, whom your brother Victor does of course not leave alone. I will say no more, so as not to distract you from actually thinking about this plan.

Letter 10 (A.D. 389) 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. No question of yours ever kept me so disturbed while reflecting upon it, as the remark which I read in your last letter, in which you chide me for being indifferent as to making arrangements by which it may be possible for us to live together. A grave charge, and one which, were it not unfounded, would be most perilous. But since satisfactory reasons seem to prove that we can live as we would wish to do better here than at Carthage, or even in the country, I am wholly at a loss, my dear Nebridius, what to do with you. Shall such a conveyance as may best suit your state of health be sent from us to you? Our friend Lucinianus informs me that you can be carried without injury in a palanquin. But I consider, on the other hand, how your mother, who could not bear your absence from her when you were in health, will be much less able to bear it when you are ill. Shall I myself then come to you? This I cannot do, for there are some here who cannot accompany me, and whom I would think it a crime for me to leave. For you already can pass your time agreeably when left to the resources of our own mind; but in their case the object of present efforts is that they may attain to this. Shall I go and come frequently, and so be now with you, now with them? But this is neither to live together, nor to live as we would wish to do. For the journey is not a short one, but so great at least that the attempt to perform it frequently would prevent our gaining the wished-for leisure. To this is added the bodily weakness through which, as you know, I cannot accomplish what I wish, unless I cease wholly to wish what is beyond my strength. 2. To occupy one's thoughts throughout life with journeyings which you cannot perform tranquilly and easily, is not the part of a man whose thoughts are engaged with that last journey which is called death, and which alone, as you understand, really deserves serious consideration. God has indeed granted to some few men whom He has ordained to bear rule over churches, the capacity of not only awaiting calmly, but even desiring eagerly, that last journey, while at the same time they can meet without disquietude the toils of those other journeyings; but I do not believe that either to those who are urged to accept such duties through desire for worldly honour, or to those who, although occupying a private station, covet a busy life, so great a boon is given as that amid bustle and agitating meetings, and journeyings hither and there, they should acquire that familiarity with death which we seek: for both of these classes had it in their power to seek edification in retirement. Or if this be not true, I am, I shall not say the most foolish of all men, but at least the most indolent, since I find it impossible, without the aid of such an interval of relief from care and toil, to taste and relish that only real good. Believe me, there is need of much withdrawal of oneself from the tumult of the things which are passing away, in order that there may be formed in man, not through insensibility, not through presumption, not through vainglory, not through superstitious blindness, the ability to say, I fear nought. By this means also is attained that enduring joy with which no pleasurable excitement found elsewhere is in any degree to be compared. 3. But if such a life does not fall to the lot of man, how is it that calmness of spirit is our occasional experience? Wherefore is this experience more frequent, in proportion to the devotion with which any one in his inmost soul worships God? Why does this tranquillity for the most part abide with one in the business of life, when he goes forth to its duties from that sanctuary? Why are there times in which, speaking, we do not fear death, and, silent, even desire it? I say to you — for I would not say it to every one — to you whose visits to the upper world I know well, Will you, who have often felt how sweetly the soul lives when it dies to all mere bodily affections, deny that it is possible for the whole life of man to become at length so exempt from fear, that he may be justly called wise? Or will you venture to affirm that this state of mind, on which reason leans has ever been your lot, except when you were shut up to commune with your own heart? Since these things are so, you see that it remains only for you to share with me the labour of devising how we may arrange to live together. You know much better than I do what is to be done in regard to your mother, whom your brother Victor, of course, does not leave alone. I will write no more, lest I turn your mind away from considering this proposal.