Letters & Polemics (CSEL) 26

ON THE HAPPY LIFE. If reason well ordered, and the will itself, could bring one to the harbour of philosophy — from which one now advances into the region and land of the happy life — I know not, most humane and great Theodorus, whether I should be rash to say that far fewer men would come to attain it; though even now, as we see, exceedingly few and rare do attain it.

For since — whether it be God, or nature, or necessity, or our own will, or some combination of these, or all of them together (for the matter is very obscure, though you have already undertaken to shed light on it) — has cast us into this world as it were rashly and at random, into a kind of stormy sea, how few would recognize whither they ought to strive or by what way to return, unless some tempest — which to the foolish seems adverse — should, even against their will and their struggling resistance, dash them, unknowing and wandering, upon the most longed-for land? Therefore of men whom philosophy is able to receive I seem to see, as it were, three kinds of voyagers.

One is that of those who, when an age capable of reason has come upon them, flee from near at hand with a small effort and stroke of the oars, and hide themselves away in that tranquillity, whence they raise up for their fellow citizens — for those whom they can — a most luminous sign of some work of theirs, that thus admonished they may strive toward it. The other is that of those who are the opposite of the former: deceived by the sea's most treacherous face, they have chosen to advance into the midst and to journey far from their homeland, and they often forget it. If a wind from the stern — which they think favourable — should, in some hidden way, follow after these, they penetrate, elated and rejoicing, into the deepest miseries, because everywhere a most deceitful calm flatters them with pleasures and honours.

For these, surely, what else is to be wished than a certain unprosperousness in those very things by which they are joyfully received, and — if that is too little — an altogether raging tempest and a contrary wind blowing against them, which may lead them, even weeping and groaning, to sure and solid joys? Yet the greater part of this kind, having not yet strayed too far, are brought back by certain not-so-grievous troubles. These are men whom, when either the lamentable tragedies of their fortunes, or the anxious difficulties of empty affairs, have thrust — as though having nothing else to do — into the books of learned and most wise men, awaken as it were in the very harbour, from which no promises of that sea, laughing with all too false a smile, can shut them out.

But among these there is a third kind: those who, whether at the very threshold of youth, or after being long and greatly tossed about, nevertheless look back upon certain signs, and remember their most sweet homeland even amid the very waves; and either by a straight course, deceived in nothing and delaying at nothing, they make for it again, or — very often — either straying amid the clouds, or gazing at sinking stars, or captivated by certain allurements, deferring the seasons of a good voyage, they wander longer, and often are even endangered. These too, often, some calamity amid their flowing fortunes — as a tempest adverse to their efforts — drives into the most longed-for and peaceful life.

But for all these, who in whatever way are borne toward the region of the happy life, there is one most monstrous mountain, set before the very harbour, which even for those entering causes great straits, and is to be most vehemently feared and most warily avoided. For it so gleams, it is so clothed in that lying light, that not only does it offer itself to be dwelt in by those arriving and not yet entered, and promises to satisfy their will in place of that happy land itself, but it often invites men to itself from the very harbour, and sometimes detains them, delighted by its very height, from which they take pleasure in looking down upon the rest.

These, however, often warn those coming, lest they be deceived by hidden reefs beneath, or think it easy to ascend to themselves; and they most kindly teach by what way, on account of the nearness of that land, one may enter without danger. Thus, while they envy men that most empty glory, they point out the place of security. For what other mountain does reason mean to be feared by those drawing near to philosophy, or having entered it, than the proud pursuit of that emptiest glory — which has within it nothing full and solid, so that, with its frail soil crumbling beneath, it sinks and swallows those puffed up and walking upon it, and, when they have been rolled back into the darkness, snatches from them the shining home which they had almost already beheld?

Since these things are so, receive, my Theodorus — for toward that which I desire I look to you alone, and I ever admire you as the fittest — receive, I say, both an account of which of those three kinds of men has given me to you, and of what place I seem to myself to be in, and of what kind of help I confidently expect from you. From the nineteenth year of my age, after in the school of rhetoric I received that book of Cicero which is called Hortensius, I was so kindled with love of philosophy that I meditated at once betaking myself to it. But neither did the mists fail me by which my course was confounded, and long, I confess, I gazed up at the stars gliding down into the Ocean, by which I was led into error.

For a certain childish superstition frightened me away from the very inquiry; and when, having grown more upright, I had dispelled that gloom and persuaded myself that I ought to yield to teachers rather than to those who merely command, I fell in with men to whom this light which is discerned by the eyes seemed among the things supremely divine and to be worshipped. I did not assent, but I supposed they were concealing some great thing within those wrappings, which they would sometime disclose. But when, having examined them, I escaped them — especially after this sea was crossed — for a long while the tenets of the Academics held my rudder, resisting all winds, amid the waves. Then I came into these lands; here I learned the north star to which I might entrust myself.

For I observed, often in the discourses of our priest and sometimes in yours, that when God was being thought of, nothing whatsoever of body was to be conceived, nor when the soul was thought of; for that is the one thing nearest to God among all things. But that I might not swiftly fly into the bosom of philosophy, I confess I was held back by the allurement of a wife and of honour, so that, when I had attained these, then at last I might, as few most happy men have been permitted, sweep myself with all sails and all oars into that bay, and there find rest.

But when I had read a very few books of Plotinus, of whom I have learned you are a most devoted student, and had compared them, as far as I could, with the authority also of those who handed down the divine mysteries, I was so set aflame that I wished to break all those anchors, had not the esteem of certain men swayed me. What then remained but that a tempest, thought adverse, should come to my aid as I lingered over superfluous things? And so such a pain of the chest seized me that, unable to bear the burden of that profession by which I was making sail perhaps toward the Sirens, I cast away all things and steered my ship, battered and weary as it was, into the longed-for tranquillity. You see, then, in what philosophy I now sail as in a harbour. But this too lies open wide;

its vastness, though now less perilous, does not yet wholly exclude error. For to which part of the land — which, assuredly, is the one that is happy — I should draw near and touch, I am utterly ignorant. For what solid thing have I grasped, while the question of the soul still wavers and tosses within me? Wherefore I beseech you, by your virtue, by your humanity, by the bond and commerce of souls with one another, that you stretch out your right hand — that is, that you love me and believe yourself in turn to be loved by me and held dear. And if I obtain this, I shall most easily, with a small effort, draw near to the happy life itself, to which I presume you already cleave.

But that you may know what I am doing and by what means I gather my dear ones toward that harbour, and thereby more fully understand my mind — for I find no other signs by which to reveal myself — I thought I ought to write to you, and to dedicate under your name, that one of my disputations which seems to me to have turned out more devout and more worthy of your title. Most fittingly, indeed; for concerning the happy life we inquired among ourselves, and I see nothing else that is more to be called a gift of God. Your eloquence has not terrified me. For whatever I love, though I attain it not, I cannot fear; and the loftiness of fortune far less. For with you, though it be great, it is truly of secondary rank; for those over whom it holds sway it makes themselves secondary.

But now, I beg you, attend to what I bring forward. On the Ides of November was my birthday. After a meal so light that from it nothing of our faculties might be hindered, I called all who were dining together with me — not only on that day but daily — to sit down in the baths; for that secret place, suited to the occasion, presented itself. There were present — for I am not afraid to make known to your singular kindness by name, for the moment, those who took part — first of all our mother, to whose merit I believe belongs all that I live; my brother Navigius; Trygetius and Licentius, my fellow townsmen and pupils; nor did I wish Lartidianus and Rusticus, my cousins, to be absent, though they had suffered not even a grammarian to instruct them; and I judged their very common sense necessary for the matter I was attempting.

There was also with us the youngest of all in age, but whose talent, if love does not deceive me, promises something great — my son Adeodatus. With these attentive, I thus began. 'Does it seem manifest to you that we are composed of soul and body?' — When all agreed, Navigius answered that he did not know. — To him I said: 'Do you know nothing at all, or is this too to be counted among the things you do not know?' — 'I do not think,' he said, 'that I am ignorant of everything.' — 'Can you tell us something of the things you do know?' — 'I can,' he said. — 'If it is not troublesome,' I said, 'bring forth something.' — And when he hesitated: 'Do you know at least,' I said, 'that you are alive?' — 'I know it,' he said. — 'You know, then, that you have life, since indeed no one can live except by life.' — 'This too,' he said, 'I know.'

— 'Do you also know that you have a body?' — He assented. — 'Then you already know that you consist of body and life.' — 'I know it for now, but whether these are the only two, I am uncertain.' — 'Then you do not doubt,' I said, 'that these two exist, body and soul, but you are uncertain whether there is something else which avails to complete and perfect the man.' — 'Just so,' he said. — 'Of what sort this may be, we will inquire another time, if we can,' I said. 'Now I ask this of you all: since we all confess that a man can exist neither without body nor without soul, on account of which of these do we seek food?'

— 'For the sake of the body,' said Licentius. — But the others hesitated and debated among themselves in various talk, how food could seem necessary for the sake of the body, when it was sought for the sake of life, and life pertained to nothing but the soul. — Then I: 'It seems to you,' I said, 'that food pertains to that part which we see grow and become stronger by food?' — They assented, except Trygetius; for he said, 'Why then have I not grown in proportion to my gluttony?' — 'All bodies,' I said, 'have their measure fixed by nature, beyond which limit they cannot advance. Yet they would be smaller than that measure if food had been lacking to them; which we observe more easily in cattle, and no one doubts that, when food is withdrawn, the bodies of all living things waste away.'

— 'They waste away,' said Licentius, 'they do not shrink.' — 'It is enough for me,' I said, 'for what I want. For the question is whether food pertains to the body. And it does pertain, since when it is withdrawn the body is brought to emaciation.' — All judged that it was so. 'What then of the soul?' I said; 'has it no proper nourishment? Or does its food seem to you to be knowledge?' — 'Plainly,' said mother, 'I believe the soul is nourished by nothing else than the understanding of things and knowledge.' — When Trygetius showed himself doubtful of this opinion: 'Today,' she said, 'did you not yourself teach whence and where the soul is fed?'

'For after a certain part of the meal you said you had noticed what little dish we were using, because you had been thinking of some other thing I know not what, and yet you had not kept your hands and your bites from the very food. Where then was your mind, at the time when, while you were eating that, it was not attending to it? Thence, believe me, and by such fare the mind is fed — that is, by its cares and its own thoughts, if through them it can perceive anything.' — When they murmured doubtfully about this matter: 'Do you not grant,' I said, 'that the minds of the most learned men are much fuller and greater, as it were in their own kind, than those of the untaught?' — They said it was manifest.

— 'Rightly, then, do we say that the minds of those who have been instructed in no disciplines and have imbibed nothing of the good arts are fasting and, as it were, famished.' — 'Full,' said Trygetius, 'I judge that their minds too are full, but of vices and wickedness.' — 'That very thing,' I said, 'believe me, is a kind of barrenness and, as it were, a famine of minds. For just as the body, when food is withdrawn, is for the most part filled with diseases and scurf, which vices in it indicate hunger, so also the minds of those men are full of diseases, by which they confess their fastings. For indeed the ancients meant that wickedness itself — the mother of all vices — was so called from the fact that it is worth nothing (nequicquam), that is, from the fact that it is nothing. The virtue contrary to this vice is named frugality.'

'As therefore this virtue is named from fruge, that is, from fruit, on account of a certain fruitfulness of minds, so that vice is named from barrenness, that is, from nothing — nequitia; for everything that flows, that dissolves, that melts and as it were perpetually perishes, is nothing. Therefore we call such men also 'lost' (perditos). But that is something, if it remains, if it stands firm, if it is always such — as virtue is. A great and most beautiful part of it is what is called temperance and frugality. But if this is too obscure for you to be able to see it now, at least you grant this: that if the minds of the untaught too are full, then, as of bodies, so of minds two kinds of nourishment are found — one wholesome and useful, the other diseased and pestilent.'

'Since these things are so, I think that on my birthday, seeing that we agree there are two things in a man — that is, body and soul — I ought to set forth a somewhat more sumptuous meal not for our bodies only, but for our souls as well. But what this meal is, if you are hungry, I will bring forth. For if I try to feed you unwilling and disdainful, I shall spend my labour in vain, and vows must rather be made that you may desire such fare rather than that of the body — which will come to pass if your minds are healthy; for the sick, as we see in the diseases of the body itself, refuse and spit out their food.' — All said, by their very look and with consenting voice, that they now wished to take and devour whatever I had prepared. And I, beginning again:

'We wish to be happy,' I said. — Scarcely had I poured this out when they concurred with one voice. — 'Does it seem to you,' I said, 'that he is happy who does not have what he wills?' — They denied it. — 'What? Is everyone who has what he wills happy?' — Then mother: 'If he wills good things,' she said, 'and has them, he is happy; but if he wills evil things, though he have them, he is wretched.' — To her, smiling and delighted, I said: 'Mother, you have grasped the very citadel of philosophy. For doubtless words only failed you, so that you did not just now unfold yourself like Tullius, whose words on this opinion are these. For in the Hortensius, the book he made in praise and defence of philosophy: But behold,'

'he says, not philosophers indeed, but men ready enough to dispute, all say that those are happy who live as they themselves will. This is false indeed; for to will what is not fitting, that is itself most wretched. Nor is it so wretched not to attain what you will as to will to attain what you ought not. For the depravity of the will brings more of evil to anyone than fortune brings of good.' — At these words she cried out in such a way that, forgetting utterly her sex, we believed that some great man was sitting with us — while I, meanwhile, understood as well as I could from what and from how divine a source these things flowed forth. — And Licentius: 'But you must tell us,' he said, 'in order that anyone may be happy, what he ought to will and of what things it behoves him to have desire.'

— 'Invite me,' I said, 'on your birthday, whenever you shall deem me worthy; whatever you set before me I shall gladly take. On this condition I ask that today you feast at my table, and do not demand what is perhaps not prepared.' — When he was sorry for his modest and bashful reminder: 'Then this,' I said, 'is agreed among us: that no one can be happy who does not have what he wills, nor is everyone who has what he wills happy?' — They granted it. 'What of this?' I said; 'do you concede that everyone who is not happy is wretched?' — They did not doubt it. — 'Everyone, therefore,' I said, 'who does not have what he wills is wretched.' — It pleased all. — 'What then ought a man to procure for himself, that he may be happy?' I said;

'for perhaps this too will be supplied to this our banquet of ours, lest Licentius' craving be neglected; for that, I suppose, is what he must procure, which he has when he wills.' — They said it was manifest. — 'That, then,' I said, 'ought to be something always abiding, neither dependent on fortune nor subject to any chances. For whatever is mortal and perishable cannot be had by us when we will and as long as we will.' — All assented. But Trygetius: 'There are,' he said, 'many fortunate men who nonetheless possess those very things, fragile and subject to chances, as pleasant, abundantly and lavishly for this life, and none of the things they will is lacking to them.' — To him I said: 'Does one who fears seem to you to be happy?' — 'He does not,' he said.

— 'Then if whatever anyone loves he can lose, can he fail to fear?' — 'He cannot,' he said. — 'But those fortuitous things can be lost. Therefore he who loves and possesses this can in no way be happy.' — Nothing opposed this. But at this point mother: 'Even if he be secure,' she said, 'that he will not lose all those things, yet with such things he cannot be sated. Therefore he too is wretched, in that he is always in want.' — To her I said: 'What if,' I said, 'abounding and overflowing with all these things, he set for himself a limit of desiring, and, content with them, enjoyed them fittingly and pleasantly — does he not seem to you happy?' — 'Then it is not by those things,' she said, 'but by the moderation of his own mind, that he is happy.' — 'Excellently,'

I said, 'neither to this question ought anything else to have been answered, nor anything else by you. Therefore we in no way doubt that, if anyone has resolved to be happy, he ought to procure for himself that which always abides and cannot be snatched away by any raging fortune.' — 'This,' said Trygetius, 'we agreed to long ago.' — 'Does God,' I said, 'seem to you eternal and always abiding?' — 'This indeed,' said Licentius, 'is so certain that it needs no questioning'; and all the rest chimed in with pious devotion. — 'God, therefore,' I said, 'whoever has him, is happy.' — When they received this joyfully and most willingly: 'Nothing then,' I said, 'do I think we now need to inquire, save which of men has God; for he assuredly will be happy — and concerning this I ask what seems to you.'

— Here Licentius: 'He has God who lives well.' — Trygetius: 'He has God,' he said, 'who does what God wills to be done.' — To this opinion Lartidianus agreed. But that youngest one of all: 'He has God,' he said, 'who does not have an unclean spirit.' — Mother approved all these, but this last most of all. Navigius was silent. When I asked him what he thought, he answered that this last pleased him. Nor did it seem right to neglect asking Rusticus what his opinion on so great a matter might be; he seemed to me to be silent, hindered not so much by deliberation as by bashfulness. He agreed with Trygetius. Then I: 'I hold,' I said, 'the opinions of all on a matter truly great, and beyond which nothing ought either to be sought or can be found.'

'if only we investigate it, as we have begun, most serenely and most sincerely. But because this is a long matter for today, and they have in their meal a certain luxuriance of mind as well — if beyond measure and greedily they rush upon these things, for so they in a manner digest ill; whence no less danger is to be feared for the health of minds than from that very hunger — this question, if it seems good, will better receive us tomorrow when we are hungry. Only I wish you now to lick with pleasure at that which has suddenly been suggested to my mind must be brought in by your waiter — and it is, unless I am mistaken, such as the last courses are wont to be set out, as though confected and seasoned with a certain scholastic honey.' — Hearing this, they all reached out, as it were, toward the raised dish and pressed together, that I should hasten to say what it might be.

— 'What,' I said, 'do you think, except that with the Academics the whole business we had taken up has been settled?' — At the mention of this name, those three, to whom the matter was known, raised themselves up more eagerly, and, as it happens, with hands as it were outstretched, helped the servant bringing it in with such words as they could, showing that they would hear nothing more delightful. Then I put the matter thus: 'If it is manifest,' I said, 'that he is not happy who does not have what he wills — which reason demonstrated a little while ago — and no one seeks what he does not wish to find, and they always seek the truth — they wish, therefore, to find it; they wish, therefore, to have the discovery of the truth — but they do not find it, it follows that they do not have what they will, and from this it follows also that they are not happy.

'But no one is wise unless he is happy: the Academic, therefore, is not wise.' — Hereupon suddenly those men cried out, as if snatching the whole thing. But Licentius, attending more carefully and warily, feared his assent and interjected: 'I did indeed snatch it along with you, since I cried out, moved by that conclusion. But I will admit nothing hence into my vitals, and I will keep my portion for Alypius; for either he will lap it up together with me, or he will warn me why it ought not to be touched.' — 'Navigius,' I said, 'ought rather to fear sweet things, with his defective spleen.' — Hereupon he, smiling: 'Plainly,' he said, 'such things will cure me. For somehow this twisted and barbed thing which you have set forth — as that man says of Hymettian honey — is sharply sweet and puffs up the vitals not at all.'

'Wherefore, even with my palate somewhat bitten, yet, as I can, I most gladly pass the whole of it into my marrow. For I do not see how this conclusion can be refuted.' — 'It can in no way at all,' said Trygetius; 'wherefore I rejoice that I long ago took up enmities with those men. For, by I know not what nature impelling me — or, to speak more truly, by God, even without my knowing how they were to be refuted — I nonetheless was too much opposed to them.' Hereupon Licentius: 'I,' he said, 'do not yet desert them.' — 'Then,' said Trygetius, 'you dissent from us?' — 'Do you, then,' he said, 'in any way dissent from Alypius?' — To him I said: 'I do not doubt that, if Alypius were present, he would yield to this little argument.

'For he could not think so absurdly as either that he should seem happy who did not have that great good of the mind which he most ardently wished to have, or that those men do not wish to find the truth, or that one who is not happy is wise; for by these three things, as by honey, meal, and little nuts, that which you fear to taste has been confected.' — 'Would he yield to this so depraved enticement of boys, once the Academics' so great richness had been deserted, by whose flood this — I know not what brief thing — would be either overwhelmed or dragged away?' — 'As though indeed,' I said, 'we were seeking something long, especially against Alypius; for he himself argues, not moderately, from your own body, that these small things are strong and useful enough.'

'But you, who have chosen to hang upon the authority of one who is absent — which of these do you not approve? Whether that he is not happy who does not have what he wills? Or do you deny that those men wish to have the truth found, which they so vehemently seek? Or does anyone seem to you wise who is not happy?' — 'He is quite happy,' he said, 'who does not have what he wills' — smiling as though in vexation. And when I ordered this to be written down: 'I did not say it,' he said, crying out. And when again I nodded that it be written: 'I did say it,' he said. And I had once for all given orders that no word be poured forth except the letters. Thus I kept the youth stirred up between bashfulness and constancy.

But when with these words we jokingly urged him, as it were, to eat up his portion, I noticed that the others, ignorant of the whole matter and eager to know what was being carried on so pleasantly between just the two of us, looked upon us without laughing. They seemed to me altogether like — as very often happens — those who, when they feast among the greediest and most rapacious of table-companions, refrain from snatching either out of self-restraint or are held back by shame. And because I had issued the invitation, and you had taught me to sustain the role of a certain great man and — to unfold the whole of it — even of a true man who invites others to those feasts, that inequality and discordance of our table moved me. I smiled at my mother.

And she, most freely — as though commanding that what they lacked be brought forth from her own storeroom — said: 「Now tell us, and explain, who these Academics are and what they mean.」 When I had briefly and openly set it forth to her in such a way that none of them departed uninformed, she said: 「These men are 'fallers' (caducarii)」 — by which name those whom the epileptic disease overthrows are commonly called among us — and at once she rose to leave. And here we all, glad and laughing, broke off and departed. On the next day, however, when likewise after the midday meal, but somewhat later than the day before, we had sat down at the same place, I said: 「You have come late to the banquet;」

which I judge did not happen to you from indigestion, but from a sense of security about the scarcity of the courses, since it seemed to you that there was no great need to set to early upon what you supposed you would quickly devour to the end. For it was not to be believed that much of the leftovers remained, where on the very day and festival itself only a little had been found. Perhaps rightly. But what has been prepared for you, I too, along with you, do not know. For there is another who does not cease to furnish such feasts to all — both to all in general and most of all to such as these — but we, whether from weakness or satiety or business, for the most part hold back from eating; and it had, yesterday, if I am not mistaken, been piously and firmly agreed among us that he, abiding in men, makes them blessed.

For when reason had shown that he is blessed who possesses God, and none of you had resisted this opinion, the question was raised what it seemed to you was meant by possessing God. On this matter, if I remember well, three opinions were expressed. For to some it seemed good that he possesses God who does the things that God wills; certain others said that he possesses God who lives well; but to the rest, God seemed to be present in those in whom that which is called the unclean spirit is not. But perhaps all of you, in differing words, felt one and the same thing. For, if we consider the first two, both everyone who lives well does the things God wills, and everyone who does the things God wills lives well, nor is there anything else to live well

than to do those things that please God — unless something else seems otherwise to you. They assented. But that third view must be considered a little more carefully, for this reason: that, in the practice of the most chaste sacred rites, the 「unclean spirit,」 as far as I understand, is wont to be spoken of in two ways — either that one which invades the soul from without and disturbs the senses and brings a certain madness upon men, for the shutting out of which those who preside are said to 「lay on hands」 or 「exorcize,」 that is, to drive it out by adjuring it through divine things; but in another way every wholly unclean soul is called an unclean spirit, which is nothing other than a soul defiled by vices and errors.

And so I ask of you, you, boy — you who perhaps put forth that opinion with a somewhat more serene and more purified spirit — which seems to you not to have an unclean spirit: is it he who does not have a demon, by which men are wont to be made frenzied, or is it he who has already cleansed his soul from all vices and sins? 「He seems to me,」 he said, 「not to have an unclean spirit who lives chastely.」 「But whom,」 I said, 「do you call chaste? Him who sins in nothing, or only him who abstains from unlawful intercourse?」 「How,」 he said, 「can he be chaste, if, while abstaining only from unlawful intercourse, he does not cease to be defiled by the other sins? He is truly chaste who attends to God and holds himself to Him alone.」

When it had pleased me that the boy's words be written down just as they had been spoken, I said: 「He, then, must necessarily live well, and he who lives well is necessarily such — unless something else seems otherwise to you.」 He conceded, along with the rest. 「Therefore one opinion has here been stated,」 I said. 「But this little thing I ask of you: whether God wills that man should seek God.」 They granted it. 「Likewise I ask: can we by any means say that he who seeks God lives badly?」 「By no means,」 they said. 「Answer also this third point: can an unclean spirit seek God?」 They denied it, though Navigius hesitated somewhat, who afterward yielded to the voices of the rest.

「If, therefore,」 I said, 「he who seeks God does that which God wills, and lives well, and does not have an unclean spirit — but he who seeks God does not yet have God — then it is not the case that whoever either lives well, or does what God wills, or does not have an unclean spirit, is forthwith to be said to possess God.」 Here, when the others laughed at themselves for being deceived by their own concessions, my mother, who had long been dumbfounded, asked me to relax and resolve for her by explanation this very thing which I had said in the constrained manner of a necessary conclusion. When that had been done, she said: 「But no one can arrive at God unless he has sought God.」 「Excellent,」 I said; 「and yet he who still seeks has not yet arrived at God, and already lives well.」

「Therefore not everyone who lives well possesses God.」 「It seems to me,」 she said, 「that no one does not possess God; but those who live well have Him as favorable, those who live badly, as hostile.」 「Badly, then,」 I said, 「did we yesterday concede that he is blessed who possesses God, if indeed every man possesses God, and yet not every man is blessed.」 「Add, then,」 she said, 「'favorable.'」 「At least,」 I said, 「this much is sufficiently established among us: that he is blessed who has God favorable?」 「I would like,」 said Navigius, 「to agree, but I am wary of the man who still seeks — especially lest you conclude that the Academic is blessed, who in yesterday's discourse was named, by a word indeed common and in bad Latin, but nonetheless most apt, as it seems to me, a 'faller' (caducarius).」

「For I cannot say that God is against a man who seeks God. And if it is impious to say this, He will be favorable; and he who has God favorable is blessed. Blessed, therefore, will be he who seeks; but everyone who seeks does not yet have what he wills: therefore a man will be blessed who does not have what he wills.」 This yesterday seemed absurd to us all, whence we believed the darkness of the Academics to have been dispelled. 「Wherefore now Licentius will triumph over me, and will warn me — as a prudent physician — that those sweet things which I rashly took against my health exact these penalties from me.」 Here, when my mother too had smiled, Trygetius said: 「I do not concede that God forthwith opposes one to whom He is not favorable, but I think there is something intermediate.」 To whom I said:

「Yet this intermediate man,」 I said, 「to whom God is neither favorable nor hostile, do you concede that in some way he possesses God?」 Here, when he hesitated, my mother said: 「It is one thing to possess God, another not to be without God.」 「What then,」 I said, 「is better: to possess God, or not to be without God?」 「As far as I can understand,」 she said, 「this is my opinion: he who lives well possesses God, but as favorable; he who lives badly possesses God, but as adverse; but he who still seeks and has not yet found, possesses Him neither as favorable nor as adverse, yet is not without God.」 「Is this,」 I said, 「your opinion too?」 They said it was. 「Tell me, I pray,」 I said, 「does it not seem to you that God is favorable to a man to whom He is well-disposed?」 They confessed that He is.

「Does not God, then,」 I said, 「favor the man who seeks Him?」 They answered that He favors. 「Therefore,」 I said, 「he who seeks God has God favorable, and everyone who has God favorable is blessed. Blessed, then, is also he who seeks. But he who seeks does not yet have what he wills. Therefore he will be blessed who does not have what he wills.」 「By no means,」 said my mother, 「does he seem to me to be blessed who does not have what he wills.」 「Therefore,」 I said, 「not everyone who has God favorable is blessed.」 「If reason compels this,」 she said, 「I cannot deny it.」 「This, then,」 I said, 「will be the distribution: that everyone who has already found God both has God favorable and is blessed, but everyone who seeks God

has God favorable but is not yet blessed; but whoever estranges himself from God by vices and sins, not only is not blessed, but does not even live with God favorable.」 When this had pleased all, I said: 「It is well; but I still fear this, lest you be moved by what we had already conceded above, that whoever was not blessed was wretched; from which it will follow that a man is wretched who [lacks] anyone blessed. Or rather, as Tullius says, shall we, who call men the masters of many estates rich, name the possessors of all the virtues poor? But consider this: whether, just as it is true that everyone in need is wretched, so it is true that everyone wretched is in need.」

For thus it will be true that wretchedness is nothing other than want — which, when it was being said, you perceived that I praised. But this today would be long, for us to inquire; wherefore I ask that it not be irksome to you to gather again at this table tomorrow also. When all had said that they would very gladly do so, we arose. The third day of our discussion had a morning that scattered the clouds which were driving us into the baths, and rendered the afternoon time most bright. It pleased us, then, to go down into the neighborhood of the little meadow; and when all of us had seated ourselves where it seemed convenient, the remaining discourse was carried through thus: 「Almost everything,」 I said, 「that I wished to be conceded to me as I questioned, I have and hold;」

wherefore on this present day, on which at length we can mark off this banquet of ours by some interval of days, there will be, I think, either nothing or not much that it is necessary for you to answer me. For it had been said by my mother that wretchedness is nothing other than want, and it was agreed among us that those who are in want are wretched. But whether all who are wretched are also in want is a certain question, which yesterday we were unable to unfold. But if reason shall have demonstrated that this is so, it has been most perfectly found who is blessed; for he will be the one who is not in want. For everyone not wretched is blessed; therefore he is blessed who is free from want, if it be established that the want of which we speak is the same as wretchedness. For what?

Trygetius said: 「Can it not already be inferred from this — that it is manifest that everyone who is in want is wretched — that everyone not in want is blessed? For I remember that we conceded that there is nothing intermediate between the wretched and the blessed.」 「Does there seem to you,」 I said, 「to be anything intermediate between the dead and the living? Is not every man either living or dead?」 「I confess,」 he said, 「that here too there is nothing intermediate; but to what end is that?」 「Because,」 I said, 「I believe you also confess this: that everyone who was buried a year ago is dead.」 He did not deny it. 「What? Does everyone who was not buried a year ago live?」 「It does not follow,」 he said.

「Therefore,」 I said, 「it does not follow that, if everyone who is in want is wretched, everyone who is not in want is blessed — although between the wretched and the blessed, as between the living and the dead, nothing intermediate can be found.」 When some of them had understood this a little too slowly, I opening and turning it over with such words adapted, as far as I could, to their understanding, I said: 「Therefore no one doubts that everyone who is in want is wretched; nor do certain things necessary to the body of the wise man alarm us. The soul itself does not lack them — the soul in which the blessed life is placed. For it is itself perfect; but nothing perfect lacks anything, and what seems necessary to the body it will take, if it be at hand; if it be not at hand, the lack of these things will not break it.」

For every wise man is brave, and no brave man fears anything: therefore the wise man does not fear either the death of the body or pains, for the repelling or avoiding or deferring of which those things are necessary, the lack of which can befall him. Yet nonetheless he does not cease to use them well, if they themselves are not lacking. For most true is that saying: 「For what you can avoid, it is folly to admit.」 He will therefore avoid death and pain, as far as he can and as far as is fitting, lest — if he should by no means avoid them — he be wretched not from the fact that these things happen, but because, when he could avoid them, he was unwilling; which is a manifest sign of folly. That man, then, not avoiding them, will be wretched not from the endurance of those things, but from folly.

But if he shall not have been able to avoid it, when he has striven for it diligently and becomingly, those things rushing in upon him will not make him wretched. For that other saying of the same comic poet is no less true: 「Since that cannot be done which you will, will that which you can.」 How will he be wretched, to whom nothing happens contrary to his will, since he cannot will what he sees cannot come about for him? For he has a will fixed on the most certain of things — that is, that whatever he does he does only by a certain prescript of virtue and by the divine law of wisdom, which can by no compact be snatched from him. Now, then, see whether everyone also who is wretched is in want.

For that which makes it difficult to concede this opinion is the fact that many, set in a great abundance of fortuitous things — to whom all things are so easy that at their nod whatever desire demands is ready to hand — this life is indeed difficult. But let us imagine, nonetheless, some such man as Tullius says Orata was. For who could easily say that Orata labored under want — a most wealthy man, most delightful, most luxurious, to whom nothing was lacking, neither for pleasure, nor for favor, nor for good and unimpaired health?

For he abounded, as much as he pleased, both in most profitable estates and in most delightful friends, and he used all these most aptly for the health of his body; and — to unfold the whole briefly — a prosperous success attended his every undertaking and every wish. But perhaps some one of you will say that he wished to have more than he had. This we do not know. But — what is sufficient for the question — let us grant that he did not desire more than he held: does it seem to you that he was in want? 「Even if I should concede,」 said Licentius, 「that he desired nothing more — which in a man who is not wise I know not how I may accept — nonetheless he feared (for he was, as they say, of no mean intelligence) lest all those things should be snatched from him by even a single adverse assault.」

「For it was no great matter to understand that all such things, however great they were, were set beneath the sway of chance.」 Then I, smiling, said: 「You see, Licentius, that this most fortunate man was hindered from the blessed life by the goodness of his intelligence. For the sharper he was, the more he saw that he could lose all those things; and by that fear he was broken, and he confirmed that common saying well enough — that the untrustworthy man is shrewd to his own hurt.」 Here, when both he and the rest had smiled, I said: 「Yet let us attend to this more carefully: because, even if he feared, he was not in want — whence the question arises. For to be in want is to be in the not-having, not in the fear of losing the things you have. But that man was wretched because he feared, although he was not in want. Therefore not everyone who is wretched is in want.」

When she too, along with the rest — she whose opinion I was defending — had approved this, yet still doubting somewhat, she said: 「I do not know, and I do not yet plainly understand, how wretchedness can be separated from want, or want from wretchedness. For even that man, who was rich and wealthy and, as you say, desired nothing more — nonetheless, because he feared lest he lose it, was in want of wisdom. Shall we, then, call him needy if he were in want of silver and money, but not say so when he was in want of wisdom?」 When all had cried out in wonder — and I myself was no little cheered and gladdened, because this had been said, of all people, by her, the very thing which I had prepared to bring forth as something great and final from the books of the philosophers:

「Do you not see,」 I said, 「that it is one thing to have many and varied doctrines, another to have a mind most attentive to God? For whence do these things which we marvel at proceed, if not from thence?」 Here Licentius, exclaiming joyfully, said: 「Absolutely nothing truer, nothing more divine, could have been said. For there is no greater and more pitiable want than to be in want of wisdom; and he who is not in want of wisdom can be in want of nothing whatever.」 「Therefore the want of the soul,」 I said, 「is nothing other than folly. For this is the contrary of wisdom, and so contrary as death is to life, as the blessed life to the wretched — that is, without any intermediate. For as every man not blessed is wretched, and every man not dead lives, so it is manifest that everyone not foolish is wise.」

From which it is now permitted also to see this: that Sergius Orata was wretched not only from the fact that he feared lest he lose those gifts of fortune, but because he was foolish. Whence it comes about that he would have been more wretched, if amid these things so pendent and wavering, which he thought good, he had feared nothing at all. For he would have been more secure not by the watchfulness of fortitude but by the sleep of the mind, and, plunged in a deeper folly, more wretched. But if everyone who lacks wisdom suffers a great want, and everyone who possesses wisdom lacks nothing, it follows that folly is want. And as every fool is wretched, so every wretched man is foolish. Therefore, as all want is wretchedness, so all wretchedness is proved to be want. When Trygetius said that he had understood this conclusion too little:

「What,」 I said, 「has been agreed among us by reason?」 「That he is in want,」 he said, 「who does not have wisdom.」 「What, then,」 I said, 「is it to be in want?」 「To not have wisdom.」 「What is it,」 I said, 「to not have wisdom?」 When here he was silent, I said: 「Is not this to have folly?」 「It is,」 he said. 「Therefore,」 I said, 「to have want is nothing other than to have folly; from which it is now necessary that want be named by another word, since it is named folly — although I know not how we may say 'he has want' or 'he has folly.' For it is just as if we should say that some place which lacks light 'has darkness,' which is nothing other than to not have light.」

For darkness does not, as it were, come or recede; but to lack light — this very thing is already to be in darkness, just as to lack clothing is to be naked. For nakedness does not, as though it were some movable thing, flee at the approach of clothing. So, then, we say that someone 「has want,」 as if we said he 「has nakedness.」 For want is a word of not-having. Wherefore — that I may explain what I mean, as best I can — 「he has want」 is said just as if it were said 「he has a not-having.」 And so, if folly itself has been shown to be the true and certain want, see now whether the question we had undertaken has been resolved. For it was doubted among us whether, when we call it wretchedness, we were naming nothing other than want.

But we have given the reason why folly is rightly called want. As, therefore, every fool is wretched and every wretched man is foolish, so it is necessary that we confess not only that everyone who is in want is wretched, but also that everyone who is wretched is in want. But if, from the fact that both every fool is wretched and every wretched man is foolish, it is concluded that folly is wretchedness — why do we not, from the fact that both whoever is in want is wretched and whoever is wretched is in want, conclude that wretchedness is nothing other than want? When all confessed that this was so, I said: 「This now follows: that we see who is not in want; for he will be the one who is wise and blessed. But want is folly, and it is the name of want;」

but this word is wont to signify a certain sterility and lack. Attend, then, more deeply, with how great care by men of old either all words, or — what is manifest — certain words were created, especially of those things the knowledge of which was most necessary. For now you concede that every fool is in want, and that everyone who is in want is foolish; I believe you also concede that a foolish soul is vicious, and that all the vices of the soul are included under the one name of folly. But on the first day of this discussion of ours, we had said that 'worthlessness' (nequitia) was so called from the fact that it is 'nothing-worthy' (necquicquam), to which the contrary 'frugality' (frugalitas) was named from 'fruit' (frux). Therefore in these two contraries — that is, frugality and worthlessness — those two things seem to stand out: to be and not to be.

But to want, concerning which the question is, what do we think is the contrary? Here, when they hesitated somewhat, Trygetius said: 「If I should say riches, I see that poverty is contrary to these.」 「It is indeed,」 I said, 「something akin; for poverty and want are wont to be taken as one and the same. Yet another word must be found, lest the better part be without a single term — so that, whereas that part abounds in the name of poverty and want, from this part only the name of riches be set in opposition. For nothing is more absurd than that there be here a want of a term, where there is the part contrary to want.」 「Fullness (plenitudo),」 said Licentius, 「if it may be so said, seems to me rightly opposed to want.」 「Afterward,」 I said, 「we will inquire about the word perhaps more diligently;」

for this is not to be fussed over in the search for truth. For although Sallust, a most choice weigher of words, opposed 「opulence」 (opulentia) to want, nonetheless I accept this 「fullness.」 For neither here shall we be freed from the dread of the grammarians, nor is it to be feared lest we be chastised by them for using words carelessly — we who gave them their own possessions to use. Where, when they had smiled, I said: 「Therefore, because I have resolved not to despise your minds, when you are intent upon God, as certain oracles, let us see what this name means for itself; for I judge that none is more suited to truth. Fullness, then, and want are contraries;」

but here too, similarly as in worthlessness and frugality, those two things appear — to be and not to be — and, if want is folly itself, fullness will be wisdom. Deservedly, too, have many called frugality the mother of all the virtues. Agreeing with whom, Tullius also, in a public oration, says: 「Let each take it as he will; I nonetheless judge frugality — that is, moderation and temperance — the greatest virtue」: most learnedly and most fittingly. For he considered 'fruit' (frux) — that is, that which we say 'to be,' whose contrary is 'not to be.' But on account of the common custom of speaking, by which frugality is wont to be called, as it were, thrift, he illustrated what he meant by adding two consequent terms: moderation and temperance;

and let us attend to these two words more diligently. Moderation (modestia) is assuredly named from 「measure」 (modus), and temperance (temperantia) from 「temper」 (temperies). But where there is measure and temper, there is nothing either more or less. This, then, is that very fullness which we had set as contrary to want — much better than if we had set 「abundance.」 For in abundance is understood an affluence and, as it were, an outpouring of a thing overflowing to excess. And when this comes about beyond what is enough, there too measure is wanting, and the thing that is excessive is in want of measure. Therefore want is not alien even from redundancy itself, whereas from measure both more and less are alien. Opulence too, if you examine it, you will find to hold nothing other than measure. For opulence (opulentia) is named only from 「help」 (ops).

But how does that which is excessive help, when it is often more inconvenient than too little? Whatever, therefore, is either too little or too much, because it is in want of measure, is subject to want. Measure, then, of the soul is wisdom. For it is not denied that wisdom is contrary to folly, and folly is want, and to want the contrary is fullness: therefore wisdom is fullness. But in fullness is measure: measure, therefore, is in the soul in wisdom. Whence that famous saying — and not undeservedly noised abroad — is: 「This is the first useful thing in life, that nothing be in excess (ne quid nimis).」 But we had said, in the opening of today's discussion, that if we should find wretchedness to be nothing other than want, we would confess him to be blessed who was not in want. And it has been found.

Therefore to be blessed is nothing other than not to be in want — that is, to be wise. But if you ask what wisdom is, reason has already, as far as at present it could, unfolded and brought it forth: for it is nothing other than the measure of the soul — that is, that by which the soul balances itself, so that it neither runs out into excess nor is contracted below what is full. But it runs out into luxuries, dominations, prides, and the rest of that kind, by which the souls of the immoderate and wretched suppose that joys and powers are procured for themselves. And it is contracted by sordidness, fears, grief, cupidity, and whatever else there is, by which men, wretched themselves, confess that men are wretched.

But when it contemplates wisdom, once found, and — to use this boy's word — holds itself to it, and is not turned aside by any emptiness to the deceit of images (whose weight, once embraced, is wont to make one fall away from one's God and sink down), it dreads nothing of immoderation, and therefore nothing of want, therefore nothing of wretchedness. Therefore whoever is blessed has his own measure — that is, wisdom. But what is to be called wisdom except the wisdom of God? And we have also received, on divine authority, that the Son of God is nothing other than the Wisdom of God; and the Son of God is assuredly God. Therefore whoever is blessed possesses God — which already before pleased all of us, when we entered upon this banquet.

But what do you think wisdom is, except truth? For this too has been said: 「I am the Truth.」 But that truth may be, it comes about through some supreme measure, from which it proceeds and into which, made perfect, it turns itself back. But upon the supreme measure itself no other measure is imposed; for if the supreme measure is a measure through the supreme measure, it is a measure through itself. But it is also necessary that the supreme measure be the true measure. As, therefore, truth is begotten by measure, so measure is known by truth. Neither, therefore, has truth ever been without measure, nor measure without truth. Who is the Son of God? It has been said: the Truth. Who is He that has no father? Who other than the supreme Measure? Whoever, therefore, shall have come to the supreme Measure through the Truth is blessed.

This is, for souls, to possess God — that is, to enjoy God. For other things, although they are possessed from God, do not possess God. But a certain admonition, which acts with us that we may remember God, that we may seek Him, that we may thirst for Him with all disdain driven off, flows to us from the very Fountain of Truth. This that hidden Sun pours into our inner lights. Of this is everything true that we speak, even when, with eyes still either not sound enough or suddenly opened, we tremble to turn ourselves boldly and to gaze upon the whole; and this too appears to be nothing other than God, perfect with no degeneration impeding. For there all and every whole is perfect, and at the same time He is the most omnipotent God.

But nonetheless, as long as we seek — not yet sated by the Fountain itself and (to use that word) by fullness — let us confess that we have not yet come to our own measure; and therefore, although already with God's help, we are nonetheless not yet wise and blessed. That, then, is the full satiety of souls — that is, the blessed life: to know, piously and perfectly, by whom you are led into truth, what truth you enjoy, through what you are joined to the supreme measure. These three show forth, to those who understand, one God and one substance, all the vanities of the various superstition being excluded. Here my mother, recognizing the words which clung deep in her memory, and as though awaking into her own faith, joyfully poured forth that verse of our priest: 「Foster those who pray, O Trinity,」 and added:

「This, with none doubting, is the blessed life, which is the perfect life, to which — hastening toward it — we must presume that we can be brought by solid faith, lively hope, and burning charity.」 「Therefore,」 I said, 「since the measure itself admonishes us to mark off our banquet also by some interval of days, I give thanks, as great as with my strength I can, to the supreme and true God, the Father, the Lord and Deliverer of souls; and then to you, who, harmoniously invited, have even heaped me with many gifts. For you contributed so much to our discourse that I cannot deny that I have been sated by my own guests.」 Here, when all rejoiced and praised God, Trygetius said: 「How I could wish that you would feed us in this manner every day!」

'That measure,' I said, 'must everywhere be preserved and everywhere loved, if our return to God lies at heart with you.' With these words the discussion was brought to a close, and we departed. It happened that I wrote the book On the Happy Life not after the books Against the Academics, but in the midst of them. For it arose on the occasion of my birthday and was completed in a discussion lasting three days, as the work itself sufficiently shows. In that book it was established among us, who were inquiring together, that there is no happy life except the perfect knowledge of God. But one thing displeases me there: that to Mallius Theodorus, to whom I wrote that very book, though he was a learned and Christian man, I attributed more than I ought,

and that even there I often named Fortune; and that I said the happy life dwells, during the time of this present life, only in the mind of the wise man—whatever the condition of his body may be—whereas the Apostle hopes for the perfect knowledge of God, that is, the knowledge than which a man can have none greater, in the life to come, which alone is to be called the happy life, where also the body, incorruptible and immortal, will be made subject to its own spirit without any trouble or resistance. To be sure, I found this book mutilated in our own copy and lacking not a little, and it was thus that it was transcribed by certain of the brethren; nor have I yet found it whole in anyone's possession, from which I might correct it, at the time when I reviewed these works. This book begins thus: 'If to the harbour of philosophy...'