論人的受造 第 1 章

To Peter, his brother and fellow-servant of God, from Gregory, bishop of Nyssa.

If those who excel in virtue ought to be honoured with gifts of money, then—as Solomon says—the whole world of riches would prove too small to be set as a counterweight to your virtue;

for the gratitude owed to your reverend self is something greater than any honour rendered in wealth.

But the holy Pascha calls for the customary tribute of love, which we offer to your magnanimity—a gift, O man of God, smaller indeed than is worthy to be brought to you, yet not falling short of our ability.

And the gift is a discourse—like some poor garment woven, not without toil, from our impoverished mind.

The subject of this discourse may perhaps seem to many a bold one, yet it has not been deemed beyond what is fitting.

For he alone worthily contemplated the creation of God—he who was truly created according to God and whose soul was formed in the image of its Maker: Basil, our common father and teacher, who through his own contemplation made the lofty ordering of the universe accessible to the many, and made the world, which was constituted by God in true wisdom, known to those who through his understanding are led toward contemplation.

And we, who fall short even of admiring him as he deserves, have nonetheless resolved to add to the great man's work what was lacking to his contemplations—not as adulterating his labour by our interpolation (for it would be impious that that lofty mouth should be dishonoured by having our words attributed to it), but so that the teacher's glory may not seem deficient among his disciples.

For if, since the Hexaemeron lacked the contemplation concerning man, none of his pupils were to bring any zeal toward supplying what was missing, then reproach might reasonably gain a hold against his great glory, as though he had been unwilling to engender in his hearers any faculty of understanding.

But now that we have ventured, according to our ability, upon the exposition of what was missing, if anything be found among our words not unworthy of his teaching, the credit will assuredly be referred wholly to the teacher;

but if our discourse does not attain to his magnificent contemplation, then he, for his part, will be free of such an accusation—escaping the censure of seeming unwilling that anything skilful should arise in his disciples—while we should reasonably appear answerable to those who scrutinize for faults, as not having had room in the littleness of our heart for the wisdom of our master.

The aim set before us for contemplation is no small one, nor does it take second place to any of the wonders in the world—indeed it is perhaps greater than each of the things we know, since nothing else among existing beings has been made like God except the creation that is man; so that among the fair-minded of our hearers, pardon for what is said will be readily available to us, even if our discourse falls far short of the dignity of the subject.

For our zeal would indeed be convicted of falling short of its promise if, with man set before us for contemplation, anything contributing to the subject were passed over.

But also those features which seem to be in conflict regarding man—because his nature is now seen, by some necessary sequence, not to be the same as in those who came into being at the beginning—

with things that seem to be in opposition being brought, in a connected order and arrangement, toward one and the same goal, so too the divine power discovers hope for what is beyond hope, and a way for what seems impossible.

For the sake of clarity I thought it well to set the discourse before you under headings, so that you may grasp the gist of each of the particular arguments of the whole treatise in brief.

In it there is a partial natural account concerning the world, and a somewhat more elaborate narrative concerning the things that came into being before the creation of man.

"This is the book of the generation of heaven and earth," says the Scripture;

when all that is visible had been completed, and each of the things that exist, having been distinguished, withdrew to its proper place;

when the heavenly body encompassed all things round about in a circle, and the heavy, downward-tending bodies—earth and water—held fast within one another, occupied the middle region of the universe.

And as a kind of bond and stability for the things that had come into being, the divine art and power was implanted in the nature of existing things, governing all things by means of twofold operations.

For by rest and motion it contrived coming-into-being for things that were not, and continuance for things that are: about the heavy and immovable core of the motionless nature, as about some fixed axle, driving the swiftest motion of the celestial pole round in a circle after the manner of a wheel, and through each preserving in both the indissolubility—while the revolving substance, through its swift motion, grips fast the solid mass of the earth round about, and the firm and unyielding element, through its immovable fixity, ceaselessly intensifies the whirling of the bodies that circle about it.

And an equal excess was wrought in each of the two activities that differ from one another—in the stationary nature and in the unresting revolution.

For neither does the earth shift from its own base, nor does the heaven ever slacken the vehemence of its motion or relax it.

These things, indeed, according to the wisdom of the Maker, were first prepared in advance as a kind of beginning of the whole mechanism of existing things—Moses the great showing, I think, by saying that "in the beginning God made the heaven and the earth," that all the phenomena in creation, which were brought forth into being according to the divine will, are the offspring of motion and rest.

Heaven, then, and earth standing apart from one another diametrically, in the opposition of their activity, the creation that lies between the opposites, partaking in turn of the things adjacent to it,

by itself mediates between the extremes, so that the mutual conjunction of the opposites through the middle term may become manifest.

For the air in some way imitates the ever-moving and subtle quality of the fiery substance, both in the lightness of its nature and in being well-suited for motion.

Yet it is not such as to be estranged from kinship with the stable elements—neither remaining ever motionless, nor perpetually flowing and being dispersed;

but by its affinity to the other it becomes, as it were, a kind of border between the contrariety of the activities, at once mingling and dividing within itself the things that are separated in nature.

By the same principle, the moist substance also, by its twofold qualities, is fitted to each of the opposites.

For by being heavy and downward-tending, it has much kinship with the earthy element;

but by partaking of a certain fluid and progressive activity, it is not wholly estranged from the moving nature; rather, through this too there is a mingling and union of the opposites, the heaviness being transferred into motion, and the motion not being fettered in the heaviness, so that the things which by nature stand apart at the furthest extremes come to coincide with one another, being united through the things that mediate between them.

Or rather, according to the precise account, not even the very nature of opposites stands wholly unmixed toward the other in its properties—so that, I think, all the phenomena in the world may incline toward one another, and creation may breathe in harmony with itself, being found amid the properties of opposites.

For motion is understood not only as change of place, but is also observed in turning and alteration;

yet motion does not admit of being itself altered.

Interchanging their properties, the wisdom of God wrought immutability into that which is ever-moving, and turning into that which is motionless—arranging such a thing, perhaps, by a certain forethought, lest the property proper to the divine nature, which is to be immutable and unchangeable, being seen in some one of the things within creation, should cause the creature to be reckoned as God.

For whatever happens to be in motion or undergoing alteration could no longer hold any supposition of divinity.

And the heaven, not having the mutability of the opposite, neither possesses fixity—so that the divine power, having interwoven turning into the nature that stands still, and motion into that which does not turn, has by the interchange of their properties made both akin to one another, and has estranged them from any supposition of divinity.

For neither of these, as has been said, could be reckoned as belonging to the more divine nature;

neither that which is unstable, nor that which undergoes alteration.

Now, then, all things have attained to their proper end.

For "the heaven and the earth and all that lies between were completed," as Moses says, and each particular thing was set in order with its corresponding beauty;

the heaven with the radiance of the luminaries, the sea and the air with the swimming and flying creatures, the earth with all manner of varieties of plants and grazing beasts—all of which, having been empowered all at once by the divine will, it brought forth together in a single act.

And the earth was full of fair things, putting forth fruits together with flowers;

and the meadows were full of all such things as overspread the meadows.

And all the rocky shores and mountain-ridges, and every sloping and level place, and all that lay in the hollows, were crowned with fresh-springing grass and with the varied bloom of the trees—which, having just risen from the earth, at once shot up to perfect beauty.

And all rejoiced, as was fitting, and the beasts that had been brought to life by the command of God leaped and frolicked, ranging in herds and kinds through the thickets.

And with the songs of the musical birds every shady and overarching place resounded on all sides.

And the aspect of the sea, too, as was fitting, was another such scene—just then settling into stillness and calm within the gatherings of the hollows, where anchorages and harbours, hollowed out of their own accord along the shores by the divine will, made the sea, as it were, neighbourly toward the dry land.

The gentle motions of the waves vied in beauty with the loveliness of the meadows, as they rippled delicately upon the surface beneath light and gentle breezes.

And all the wealth of creation, both on land and on sea, was made ready; but there was none to partake of it.

For not yet had that great and precious thing, man, taken his place amid the order of things that are.

For it was not fitting that the ruler should appear before those who were to be ruled; rather, the dominion having first been prepared, it was fitting that he who was to reign should then be revealed. Since, therefore, the Maker of all had beforehand made ready, as it were, a royal dwelling for him who was to reign,

and this was the earth and the islands, and the sea, and the heaven arched over them all like a roof;

and manifold wealth of every kind was laid up in this royal abode.

By wealth I mean all of creation: all that is in plants and growing things, and all that is sentient, breathing, and living.

And if one must also reckon among this wealth the various materials which, by reason of some fair hue, are esteemed precious in human eyes—such as gold and silver, and those stones which men so love—

then by the greatness of the things that are seen one may trace out the ineffable power of the Maker, a power that transcends all reason.

And just as a good host does not bring in his guest before the provision of food is prepared, but having made all things seemly and adorned the house, the couch, and the table with fitting decorations, then, when everything needful for the meal stands ready, welcomes the diner to his hearth;

in the same way, the rich and bountiful Host of our nature, having adorned our dwelling with beauties of every kind and prepared this great and manifold banquet, then brings in man, giving him as his task not the acquiring of what he lacks, but the enjoyment of what is already present.

And for this reason He lays down for him a twofold origin in his constitution, mingling the divine with the earthly;

so that through both he might have kinship and affinity with each form of enjoyment—enjoying God by means of his more divine nature, and the good things of earth by means of the sense-perception that is akin to them.

That the nature of man is more precious than all the visible creation.

It is worth not passing over this point unexamined: that whereas this whole world and the parts within it were laid down element by element for the constitution of the universe, creation comes into being, as it were, offhand, subsisting by the divine power together with the command.

But the fashioning of man is preceded by deliberation; and there is prefigured by the Artificer, through the writing of the word, what is to be: what manner of thing it ought to be, after what archetype it is to bear likeness, for what purpose it shall come to be, what it shall do once it has come to be, and over what things it shall hold rule.

The Word foresees all things, so that man should obtain a dignity prior to his very coming to be, having received the sovereignty over all that exists before he passes into being.

"For God said," it says, "Let us make man according to our image and likeness; and let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, and the beasts of the earth, and the birds of heaven, and the cattle, and over all the earth." O the wonder of it!

The sun is fashioned, and no deliberation precedes it;

likewise the heaven—and none of the things in creation is equal to these—yet by a word alone such a marvel is established, the Word indicating nothing of whence, nor how, nor any other such thing.

So too all things severally—the ether, the stars, the air that lies between, the sea, the earth, the animals, the plants—all are brought into being by a word.

But to the making of man alone does the Maker of all proceed with circumspection, so as both to prepare beforehand the material for his constitution, and to liken his form to a certain archetypal beauty, and, having set forth the purpose for which he is to come to be, to fashion a nature suited and proper to him for its activities, fitly disposed toward the appointed end.

That the making of man signifies throughout his ruling authority.

For just as in this present life the instrument is shaped by the craftsmen in accordance with its use,

so the supreme Artificer fashioned our nature as a vessel fit for the exercise of kingship, having made it such—both in the excellences of the soul and in the very form of the body—as to be well suited for royal rule.

set apart by being its own master and self-determining, governed in sovereign fashion by its own will.

For to whom else does this belong, if not to a king? And besides this, to have become the image of the Nature which holds dominion over all things is nothing other than to have been made forthwith a nature of royal rank.

For just as, according to human custom, those who fashion the images of rulers both mould the character of the form and, by the wrapping of the purple robe, append the royal dignity, and by custom the image too is called "king";

so too human nature, since it was fashioned to rule over others, was set up like a living image, sharing with the archetype both in dignity and in name, through its likeness to the King of all.

not wrapped in purple, nor signifying its dignity by scepter and diadem (for neither is the archetype found in these), but, instead of the purple robe, clothed with virtue, which is of all garments the most kingly;

and instead of the scepter, supported by the blessedness of immortality;

and instead of the royal diadem, adorned with the crown of righteousness—so that in all respects, in the rank of kingship, it is shown to have been precisely likened to the archetypal beauty.

That man is a likeness of the divine sovereignty.

But the divine beauty is not radiant by any shape, nor by the comeliness of form through some fair hue, but is contemplated in unspeakable blessedness according to virtue.

Just as, then, painters transfer human forms onto their panels by means of certain pigments, laying on the mimic copy the appropriate and corresponding tints, so that the archetypal beauty might be exactly transferred to the likeness;

so understand it also of our Fashioner, who, as it were with certain pigments, by the application of the virtues painted the image over with His own proper beauty, to show in us His own ruling power.

Manifold and varied are the colors, as it were, of the image, by which the true form is portrayed: not ruddiness and brightness, and a certain blending of these with one another, nor any outlining of black shading the brow and eyes, and by some mixture casting shadow upon the hollows of the features, and all such things as painters' hands have contrived;

but, instead of these, purity, freedom from passion, blessedness, estrangement from all evil, and all that is of this kind, by which there is formed in men the likeness to the Divine.

With such flowers did the Maker engrave our nature with His own image.

And if you should examine also the other features by which the divine beauty is characterized,

you will find the likeness to them too precisely preserved in the image that is according to us.

Mind and Word are the Godhead;

"for in the beginning was the Word."

And the prophets, according to Paul, have the mind of Christ, who speaks within them.

Nor is the human far removed from these.

You see in yourself both reason and thought, an imitation of the very Mind and Word.

Again, God is love, and the fountain of love.

For this is what the great John says, that "love is from God," and, "God is love." This too the Fashioner of our nature has made to be our countenance.

"For by this," He says, "shall all know that you are my disciples, if you love one another." So then, when this love is not present, the whole stamp of the image is transformed into something else.

The Divine beholds all things, and hearkens to all things, and searches out all things.

You too possess the apprehension of existing things through sight and hearing, as well as the mind that searches out and investigates the things that are.

An examination of the kinship of the mind with the nature, in which the doctrine of the Anomoeans is also refuted in passing.

…by some such activity, to say that the Divine touches upon existing things through differing powers.

For it is not possible, within the simplicity of the Godhead, to conceive of the variegated and manifold character of an apprehending activity.

Nor indeed do we ourselves possess many separate powers for apprehending things, even though we touch them in manifold ways through the senses that belong to life.

For there is one single power—the mind itself that dwells within—which passes through each of the sense-organs and lays hold of the things that are.

This mind beholds what appears by means of the eyes;

this same mind understands what is spoken through hearing, loves what is agreeable and turns away from what is not pleasing, and uses the hand for whatever it wills—through it grasping or thrusting away whatever it judges to be expedient, employing the instrument as a fellow-worker to that end.

If, then, in man—even though the organs fashioned by nature for sense-perception happen to be different—the one who works through them all, who moves and uses each one suitably toward the matter at hand, is one and the same, not altering his nature along with the differences of the activities;

how could anyone, in the case of God, descry a multiplicity of essence through diverse powers? For He who formed the eye, as the Prophet says, and He who planted the ear, has impressed upon the nature of men these activities—as certain distinguishing marks—after the patterns that are in Himself.

For "Let us make man," He says, "after our own image." But where now, for me, is the heresy of the Anomoeans? What will they say in reply to such a word? How will they preserve, amid these statements, the emptiness of their doctrine? Will they dare to say that it is possible for one image to be made like to differing forms? If the Son is unlike the Father in nature, how does He fashion one single image of natures that differ? For He who said, "Let us make man after our image," and by the plural expression revealed the Holy Trinity, would not have mentioned the image in the singular, if the archetypes were unlike one another.

For it was not possible that things which do not agree with one another should be displayed in one single likeness;

but if the natures were diverse, He would assuredly have established their images as diverse also, fashioning the one appropriate to each.

But since the image is one, while the archetype of the image is not one and the same…

But what is the purpose of the upright posture of his form? And why are the powers needful for life not connate with the body? Rather, stripped of natural coverings, man is brought into life as a creature unarmed and poor, lacking all that is needful for use—seeming, to outward appearance, more worthy of pity than of blessing—not armed with thrusting horns, nor with sharp claws, nor hoofs, nor teeth, nor any sting bearing by nature a deadly venom, such as many of the animals possess within themselves for defense against those that harm them.

nor is the body clothed with a covering of hair;

and yet, surely, one would think that he who was set in advance to rule over the rest ought to have been fenced about by nature with his own weapons, so that he should not need the help of others for his own safety.

But as it is, the lion, the wild boar, the tiger, the leopard, and any other such beast, has from nature a power sufficient for its preservation;

and there has been implanted in it by nature a means of safety.

But man alone of all is slower than the swift-running creatures, smaller than the bulky ones, and more easily taken than those secured with connate weapons.

"And how, then," someone will ask, "has such a creature been allotted dominion over all?" But I think it is not at all hard to show that this seeming deficiency of our nature is in fact a means toward ruling over those subject to us.

For if man had such bodily power that he could outrun the horse in swiftness, and have a foot untiring through hardness, propped on certain hoofs or cloven hooves, and bear within himself horns and stings and claws—

first, he would be a kind of beast, savage and hard to deal with, with such things connate to his body;

and then he would have despised dominion over the others, needing nothing of the cooperation of those subject to him.

But as it is, for this very reason the needs of life have been distributed among each of the creatures yoked under us, so as to make our rule over them necessary.

The slowness and unwieldiness of the body brought the horse into our service and tamed it.

The bareness of our flesh made the keeping of sheep necessary, supplying what is lacking to our nature from the yearly yield of their wool.

The fact that the resources for our life are brought to us also from elsewhere yoked the beasts of burden to such services.

Moreover, our inability to feed on grass after the manner of the grazing animals rendered the ox subject to our life, making our living easier for us by its own labors.

And since there was need of teeth and biting for overcoming some of the other animals, the dog, by the injury its teeth inflict, has furnished its own jaw together with its swiftness for our use, becoming as it were a living sword for man.

And mightier and sharper than the thrust of horns or the point of claws, iron has been devised for men—iron that is not always connate with us, as those weapons are with the beasts, but, having served as an ally in time of need, thereafter remains by itself.

And in place of the crocodile's scaly hide, it is possible even to make that very creature into armor, putting on its skin as occasion requires.

Or if not, iron too is shaped for this purpose by art; and having served for war in time of need, it again leaves the warrior free of its burden in time of peace.

The wing of birds, too, serves our life, so that not even in winged swiftness are we left behind, thanks to our ingenuity.

For some of them become tame and assist those who hunt;

while others, by means of these, are brought into the service of our needs through our ingenuity.

Indeed, art, having by ingenuity made our arrows winged, bestows winged swiftness upon our needs by means of the bow.

But the fact that our feet are delicate and easily worn for travelling makes the cooperation of the subject creatures necessary.

For it is from them that we are able to fit sandals about our feet.

…wherein there is also some philosophizing concerning the difference of souls.

Upright is the form given to man; it is stretched toward heaven and looks upward.

These too are marks of rule, and they signify the kingly dignity.

For the fact that man alone among existing beings is of this kind, while the bodies of all the rest are bent toward the ground, clearly shows the difference of dignity between those that stoop beneath the dominion and the authority that rises above them.

For in all the other creatures the fore-limbs of the body are feet, because what stoops downward needed in every way something to prop it up;

but in the construction of man the limbs became hands.

For the upright form had, sufficient for its use, a single base, supporting the stance securely upon two feet.

And the service of the hands is a fellow-worker to the use of reason (logos).

And if one were to call the service of the hands the special property of the rational nature, he would not wholly miss the mark—not only running in thought to that common and obvious point, that we signify our speech by letters through the dexterity of the hands (for indeed this too is not without a share of rational grace, namely that we utter through letters and in a certain manner converse by means of the hand, preserving our spoken sounds in the characters of the alphabet);

but I, looking to something else, declare that the hands cooperate with the utterance of speech;

or rather, before examining these matters in detail, let us first take note of the argument that was set aside.

For we have nearly overlooked the meaning that lies in the order in which created things came to be;

namely, why the growth of things that spring from the earth comes first, while the irrational animals come afterward, and only after the fashioning of these does man appear.

For perhaps it is not only the obvious lesson that we learn from this,

namely that the grass was shown to be useful to the Creator for the sake of the animals, and the cattle for the sake of man;

for which reason, before the grazing herds there came their food, and before man there came that which was destined to serve human life.

But it seems to me that by these things Moses is intimating one of the hidden doctrines, and conveying through mysteries that philosophy concerning the soul which the learning of the outside world also imagined, yet did not clearly comprehend.

For one kind of soul is merely augmentative and nutritive, supplying what is suitable for the growth of the things nourished; this is called natural (vegetative), and is observed in plants.

For one may discern even in growing things a certain vital power that has no share in sensation.

Besides this there is another form of life, which possesses this also, and has further received the power of being regulated by sensation; and this is found in the nature of the irrational animals.

For it not only is nourished and grows, but also has sensory activity and perception.

But the perfect bodily life is seen in the rational nature—I mean the human—which is nourished, perceives, partakes of reason, and is governed by mind.

And the division of our subject by reason might be made by us somewhat as follows:

Of existing things, one part is altogether intelligible, the other corporeal.

But let us now set aside the subdivision of the intelligible into its proper kinds;

of the corporeal, one part is wholly without share in life, while the other partakes of vital activity.

Again, of the living body, one part lives together with sensation, while the other has no share in sensation.

Then the sensitive is again divided into rational and irrational.

And so in this way he introduces the genesis of the beings that are governed by sensation.

And since, according to this same sequence, among the things that have received life through the flesh the sensitive ones are able to exist by themselves even apart from the intellectual nature, whereas the rational could not otherwise come to be in a body unless it were blended with the sensitive,

for this reason man was fashioned last, after the plants and the cattle, since nature was advancing by a certain ordered path toward perfection.

For he is nourished according to the natural (vegetative) form of the soul;

and to the augmentative power the sensitive was joined, holding by its own nature a middle place between the intellectual and the more material substance,

being as much grosser than the latter as it is purer than the former.

Then there comes about a certain kinship and commingling of the intellectual substance with the subtle and luminous element of the sensitive nature, so that man has his constitution in these three;

even as we have learned this very thing from the Apostle, where he says to the Ephesians, praying for them that the complete grace of body, of soul, and of spirit might be preserved at the coming of the Lord—calling the body the nutritive part, indicating the sensitive by the soul, and the intellectual by the spirit.

In like manner the Lord also, in the Gospel, instructs the scribe to set before every commandment the love toward God, which is wrought out of the whole heart and soul and mind.

For here too the text seems to me to interpret the same distinction, calling the more bodily condition the heart, the soul the intermediate, and the mind the higher nature—the intellectual and creative power. Hence the Apostle too knows of three differences of disposition: he names the one carnal, which is occupied with the belly and the pleasures connected with it;

the other psychical (animate), which stands midway between virtue and vice, being raised above the latter, yet not purely partaking of the former;

and the third spiritual, which beholds the perfection of life lived according to God.

And in another place, making a certain comparison of the intermediate with the perfect, he says:

"The natural (psychical) man receives not the things of the Spirit;

but the spiritual man judges all things, while he himself is judged of no one." As, then, the psychical man has risen above the carnal, so by the same analogy the spiritual man stands above the latter.

If, then, Scripture says that man was made last, after every living creature, the lawgiver is doing nothing else than philosophizing to us concerning the soul, beholding the perfect among the last by a certain necessary consequence of order.

For in the rational the other parts also are comprehended;

and in the sensitive the natural (vegetative) form is altogether present.

But that latter is observed only in connection with the material.

Rightly, therefore, as if by steps—I mean the properties of life—nature makes its ascent from the lower to the perfect.

Since, then, man is a rational living being, the instrument of his body had to be fashioned in a manner suitable to the use of reason (speech).

Just as one may see musicians practicing their music in accordance with the kind of instrument, neither playing the flute on lyres nor strumming the strings on flutes;

in the same way the construction of the organs had to be suited to reason (speech), so that, being shaped by the vocal parts, it might fittingly resound for the use of words.

For even if one could enumerate countless uses in life for which these well-contrived and versatile instruments, the hands, are serviceable in every art and every activity—for one who handles deftly the affairs of war and of peace—

yet above all the rest it was especially for the sake of reason (speech) that nature added them to the body.

For if man had been without hands, the parts of his face would certainly have been arranged, like those of the quadrupeds, to suit the need of feeding—so that the shape would be elongated, tapering toward the nostrils, and the lips of the mouth would project, being callous, firm, and thick, well fitted for cropping the grass; and a different tongue would lie among the teeth,

some such tongue—fleshy, resistant, and rough—working together with the teeth on whatever comes under the tooth;

or else moist and spread out along the sides, such as is that of dogs and of the other carnivores, flowing in between the gaps of their jagged teeth.

If, then, the hands had not been present to the body, how could articulate speech have been impressed upon it, when the structure of the parts of the mouth was not shaped to suit the need of utterance? So that man would necessarily either bleat outright, or bray, or bark, or neigh, or cry like oxen or asses, or emit some beast-like bellowing.

But as it is, since the hand has been set in the body, the mouth is at leisure for the service of reason (speech).

Thus the hands have shown themselves to be proper to the rational nature, the Maker having through them devised facility for reason (speech).

That the form of man was fashioned as an instrument for the use of reason (speech).

Since, then, our Maker has bestowed upon our formation a certain godlike grace, implanting in the image the likenesses of His own good things;

For this reason He gave the remaining good things to human nature out of His bountiful liberality.

But of mind and understanding it cannot properly be said that He gave them, but rather that He imparted them, bestowing upon the image the proper adornment of His own nature.

Now since the mind is something intellectual and incorporeal, its grace would have remained incommunicable and unmingled, were its motion not made manifest by some contrivance.

For this cause it stood in need of this instrumental apparatus, so that—touching the vocal organs after the manner of a plectrum—it might, by the particular shaping of the sounds, interpret the inward motion.

And just as a man skilled in music, if through some affliction he should have no voice of his own, yet wishing to make his knowledge manifest, might make melody with the voices of others, publishing his art by means of flutes or the lyre,

even so the human mind, being the discoverer of all manner of thoughts, since it cannot show the impulses of its reasoning to the soul (which perceives through the bodily senses) except thus, like a skilled performer lays hold of these living instruments and, through the sound produced in them, makes manifest its hidden thoughts.

The music about the human instrument is a kind of blend of flute and lyre, as though in a single concord both sounded together in unison with one another.

For the breath, driven up through the windpipe from the vessels that receive the air, whenever the impulse of the speaker tenses that part for utterance, striking against the inward projections that encircle this flute-like passage, in some way imitates the sound made by the flute, being whirled round in a circle by the membranous ridges.

The palate receives the sound from below in the hollow at its place, by means of the twin channels that reach to the nostrils; and, splitting the voice as it were upon the scale-like projections of the cartilages about the sieve-bone, it renders the sound more resonant.

The cheek, the tongue, and the whole arrangement about the throat—whereby the chin is relaxed and hollowed, or tensed and raised to a higher pitch—

all these mimic, in varied and manifold ways, the motion of the plectrum upon the strings, adjusting the tones to the need at the right moment with great swiftness.

The opening and closing of the lips does the same thing as those who with their fingers stop the breath of the flute and produce the harmony of the melody.

That the mind operates by means of the senses.

Thus, then, since the mind, by means of this instrumental construction within us, makes music of speech, we have become rational beings—though we should not, I think, have had the gift of reason, had we provided to the lips, for the body's need, the heavy and laborious service of taking in food.

But as it is, the hands, having taken over such service to themselves, have left the mouth free and well-suited for the ministry of speech.

The one is for the production of sound, the other for the reception of thoughts from without; and the one function is not mixed up with the other, but each abides at the activity to which it was appointed by nature, not interfering with its neighbor—neither does the hearing speak, nor the voice hear.

For the one is always pouring something forth, while the hearing, continually receiving, is never filled, as Solomon says somewhere: "The ear is not satisfied with hearing."

And this seems to me to be one of the things in us most worthy to be marveled at.

Whither flows together all that is poured in through the hearing? Who are the recorders of the words introduced into it? What are the receptacles of the thoughts deposited in the hearing? And how is it that, when many and varied things are thrown in one upon another, no confusion or error arises from the successive lodging of what is stored within? One might marvel equally at the activity of the eyes.

For likewise through these too the mind lays hold of the things outside the body, and draws to itself the images of what appears, inscribing within itself the characters of visible things.

And just as if there were some spacious city receiving from its various entrances those who throng to it, who do not all converge upon one and the same spot within the city, but some betake themselves to the marketplace, others to dwellings, others to the assemblies, or the broad streets, or the lanes, or the theatres, each moving off according to his own inclination—

such, in some way, do I behold the city of the mind also, settled within us, which the various entrances through the senses fill up.

And the mind, sifting and thoroughly examining each of the things that enter, deposits them in the places of knowledge that correspond to them.

And just as in the illustration of the city, it is often the case that some who are of the same race and kindred do not even come within the same gate, one running in by one entrance, another by another as it chances; yet nonetheless, once within the circuit of the wall, they are again together, being on familiar terms with one another—

and one may find the reverse also happening:

for those who are strangers and unknown to one another often use one and the same entrance into the city, yet the common entry does not join these to one another;

for even after coming within, they are able to be separated according to their kinship.

Such a thing do I behold also in the spaciousness of the mind.

For often a single piece of knowledge is gathered for us from different sense-organs, the same object being distributed in manifold ways to the senses.

And again, conversely, it is possible to learn many and varied things from some one of the senses, things in no way akin to one another in nature.

For instance (since it is better to make the argument clear by an example), let it be proposed that something be inquired concerning the property of flavors—what is pleasant to the sense, and what is to be shunned by those who taste.

Now there has been discovered through experience both the bitterness of gall and the agreeableness of the quality belonging to honey.

For one who has seen the honey, and heard its name, and taken it by taste, and recognized its scent through the sense of smell, and tested it by touch, has come to know the same object through each of the sense-organs.

And again, we are taught varied and manifold things through some single sense:

the hearing receiving sounds of every kind, and the apprehension through the eyes having an undifferentiated activity in the contemplation of things of diverse kinds.

For it falls alike upon white and upon black, and upon all things that stand opposed to one another in color.

So too the taste, so the smell, so the apprehension through touch—each implants the knowledge of all manner of things by means of its proper mode of apprehension.

That the nature of man is not to be contemplated (comprehended).

What then, according to its own nature, is the mind—which distributes itself among the sensory faculties, and through each fittingly takes up the knowledge of the things that are? For that it is something other than the senses, I do not think any thoughtful person would doubt.

that it is itself, and that nothing manifold is to be contemplated in that which is simple.

But as it is, since all things are compounded—touch being one thing, smell another, and the rest likewise standing toward one another without communion and unmingled—since the mind is present in equal and corresponding measure to each, one must by all means suppose it to be something other than the sensible nature, lest any manifoldness be mingled with that which is intelligible.

"Who has known the mind of the Lord?" says the Apostle.

But I, going beyond this, say: Who has comprehended his own mind? Let those who include the nature of God within the grasp of their own comprehension say whether they have comprehended themselves—whether they have come to know the nature of their own mind. Is it something manifold and much-compounded?

And how can the intelligible be in composition? Or what is the manner of the blending of things of diverse kinds? But it is simple and uncompounded;

and how then is it scattered into the manifoldness of the senses? How is the manifold in unity? How is the one in manifoldness? But I have found the solution of these perplexities by running back to the very voice of God:

"Let us make man," He says, "according to Our image and according to Our likeness." For the image, so long as it is lacking in none of the things conceived to belong to the archetype, is properly an image;

but in whatever respect it falls short of the likeness to the prototype, in that part it is not an image.

Therefore, since one of the things contemplated concerning the divine nature is the incomprehensibility of its essence,

it is of all necessity that in this respect also the image should have its imitation of the archetype.

For if the nature of the image were comprehended, while the prototype were beyond comprehension,

the contrariety of the things observed in it exposed the failure of the image.

But since the nature of our mind, which is according to the image of its Creator, eludes knowledge, in this very respect it bears an exact resemblance to the One who transcends it, since by its own incomprehensibility it represents the character of that incomprehensible Nature.

An inquiry into where the ruling faculty is to be located; with which is also included a physiological account concerning tears and laughter, and a certain natural speculation concerning the communion of matter, nature, and mind.

Let there be silence, then, from all the conjectural idle talk of those who shut up the intellectual activity within certain bodily parts; of whom some place the ruling faculty in the heart, while others say that the mind dwells in the brain, supporting such notions with certain superficial plausibilities.

For he who assigns the supremacy to the heart makes its central position in the body the evidence of his argument, since the heart seems somehow to occupy the middle region of the whole body, as though the movement that proceeds from deliberate choice were easily distributed from the center to the entire body, and so passed into action.

And he makes the sorrowful and the angry disposition of man a witness to his argument, because such passions seem somehow to stir this part into sympathetic motion.

But those who consecrate the brain to the reasoning faculty say that the head has been built up by nature as a kind of citadel of the whole body;

and that the mind dwells in it like a king, guarded round about by the senses as by messengers or armor-bearers.

And these too make a sign of such a supposition the fact that the reasoning of those whose meninges are injured is driven from its normal state, and that those whose heads are made heavy by drunkenness fall into ignorance of what is fitting.

Each of those who maintain these opinions also adds certain more physical causes for such a supposition concerning the ruling faculty.

For the one says that the motion arising from the understanding is akin to the fiery element, on the ground that both fire and the understanding are ever in motion;

and since it is agreed that heat has its source in the region of the heart,

saying that they are blended together, he declares that the heart is the receptacle of the intellectual nature, in which the heat is contained.

But the other says that the meninx (for so they name the membrane that encloses the brain) is, as it were, a foundation and root for all the sense-organs;

and by this they confirm their own argument, namely that the intellectual activity is seated nowhere else but in that part, to which also the ear is fitted, dashing against it the sounds that fall upon it.

And the sight, growing together at the base of the seat of the eyes, makes its impression inward by means of the images that fall upon the pupils.

And the qualities of vapors are discerned in it through the drawing-in of the smelling.

And the sense of taste is tested by the judgment of the meninx, since from close by it has intermingled certain sinewy outgrowths of its own, sensory in kind, by way of the cervical vertebrae onto the sieve-like passage among the muscles there.

For my part, I affirm it to be true that the reasoning part of the soul is often thrown into disorder when the passions prevail, and that the reasoning faculty is dulled in its natural activity by some bodily circumstance;

and that the heart is a kind of source of the fiery element in the body, being stirred along with the angry impulses.