文集（天主之城·論三位一體等） 第 41 章

I. Dialectic is the science of disputing well. Now we dispute, of course, with words. Words, then, are either simple or joined together. Simple ones are those which signify some one thing, as when we say 'man, horse, disputes, runs.' And do not wonder that 'disputes,' although it is composed of two, is nevertheless counted among the simple ones; for the matter is made clear by the definition. For it was said that that is simple which signifies some one thing. And so this is included by this definition, by which is not included the case when we say 'I speak.' For although it is one word, it does not nevertheless have a simple signification, since it signifies also the person who speaks. Therefore it is now liable to truth or falsehood, for it can be both denied and affirmed.

And so every first and second person of a verb, although it be uttered singly, will nevertheless be counted among the joined words, because it does not have a simple signification. For whoever says 'I walk' makes both the walking to be understood and himself who walks; and whoever says 'you walk' likewise signifies both the thing that is done and him who does it.

But he who says 'he walks' signifies nothing else than the walking itself; wherefore the third person of a verb is always counted among the simple ones and cannot yet be either affirmed or denied, except when the verbs are such that the signification of a person necessarily coheres with them by the custom of speaking, as when we say 'it rains' or 'it snows'; even if it be not added who rains or who snows, nevertheless, because it is understood, it cannot be counted among the simple ones. II. Joined words are those which, connected to one another, signify several things, as when we say 'a man walks' or 'a hurrying man walks into the mountain' and anything of that kind.

But of joined words, some are those which comprise a complete sense, as those which have been mentioned; others are those which do not comprise it but await something, as those very ones which we now spoke of, if you take away the word that was placed, 'walks.' For although the words 'a hurrying man into the mountain' are joined, nevertheless the sentence still hangs. Therefore, when these joined words that do not fulfill the sense have been set apart, there remain those joined words which comprise a complete sense. Of these there are again two kinds: for either the sense is comprised in such a way that it is held liable to true or false, as is 'every man walks' or 'every man does not walk' and anything of this kind.

Or the sense is fulfilled in such a way that, although it accomplishes the purpose of the mind, it nevertheless can neither be affirmed nor denied, as when we command, when we wish, when we curse, and the like. For whoever says 'go to the country house' or 'would that he might go to the country house' or 'may the gods destroy him' cannot be convicted of lying nor be believed to speak truth. For he has neither affirmed nor denied anything. Therefore neither do such sentences come into question, so as to require a disputant. III. But those which do require it are either simple or joined. Simple are those which are enunciated without any coupling of another sentence, as is that which we say 'every man walks.' Joined are those about whose coupling judgment is made, as is 'if he walks, he is moved.'

But when judgment is made concerning the connection of sentences, it continues so long until one arrives at the conclusion. Now the conclusion is that which is composed of the things conceded. What I mean is such as this: he who says 'if he walks, he is moved' wishes to prove something, so that when I have conceded this to be true, it remains for him to show that he walks and that the conclusion follows, which now cannot be denied, that is, that he is moved—or it remains for him to show that he is not moved, so that the conclusion may follow which likewise cannot but be conceded, that is, that he does not walk. Again, if he should wish to say in this manner 'this man walks,' it is a simple sentence:

which if I have conceded, and he has adjoined another, 'but whoever walks is moved,' and I have conceded this also, from this connection of sentences, although singly enunciated and conceded, there follows that conclusion which must now necessarily be conceded, that is, 'therefore this man is moved.' IV. These things having been briefly established, let us consider the individual parts. For there are two primary ones: one concerning those things which are said simply, where there is, as it were, the material of dialectic; the other concerning those things which are said joined, where now, as it were, the work appears. That which is about simple things is called 'concerning speaking' (de loquendo). But that which is about joined things is divided into three parts:

for, the connection of words that does not fulfill the sense being set apart, that which so fulfills the sense that it does not yet make a question or require a disputant is called 'concerning uttering' (de eloquendo). That which so fulfills the sense that judgment is made about simple sentences is called 'concerning proposing' (de proloquendo). That which so comprises the sense that judgment is made also about its very coupling, until one arrives at the conclusion, is called 'concerning the conclusion of propositions' (de proloquiorum summa). Let us therefore explain these individual parts more carefully. V. A word is the sign of any single thing, which can be understood by the hearer, being uttered by the speaker. A thing is whatever is either sensed or understood or lies hidden. A sign is that which shows both itself to the sense and something beyond itself to the mind.

To speak is to give a sign by an articulate voice. Now I call articulate that which can be comprehended by letters. Whether all these things which have been defined are rightly defined, and whether the words of the definition were thus far to be pursued by other definitions, that place will indicate, in which the discipline of defining is treated. Now receive attentively what is at hand. Every word sounds. For when it is in writing, it is not a word but the sign of a word; since, the letters being inspected by the reader, there occurs to the mind what breaks forth in the voice. For what else do written letters show than themselves to the eyes and, beyond themselves, voices to the mind? And a little before we said that a sign is that which shows both itself to the sense and something beyond itself to the mind.

Therefore the things we read are not words but signs of words. But just as, although the letter itself is the smallest part of an articulate voice, we nevertheless misuse this term so as to call it a 'letter' even when we see it written, although it is altogether silent and appears to be no part of a voice but the sign of a part of a voice; so also it is called a 'word' when it is written, although the sign of a word—that is, the sign of a signifying voice—shines forth. Therefore, as I had begun to say, every word sounds. But what sounds pertains in no way to dialectic.

For it is the sound of a word that is dealt with, when it is asked or observed by how great a disposition of vowels it is softened, or by their concurrence it gapes open; likewise how it is knotted by the interposition of consonants, or roughened by their heaping together, and of how many or of what kind of syllables it consists—wherein poetic rhythm and accent are treated by the grammarians as the business of the ears alone. And yet, when these things are disputed about, it is not outside of dialectic. For this is the science of disputing. But since words are of things, when they obtain concerning these very things, yet they are of words when one disputes about them. For since we cannot speak of words except with words, and when we speak we speak only of certain things, it occurs to the mind that words are thus signs of things in such a way that they do not cease to be things.

When, therefore, a word proceeds from the mouth, if it proceeds for its own sake, that is, so that something may be asked or disputed about the word itself, it is indeed a thing subjected to disputation and question, but the thing itself is called a 'word' (verbum). But whatever from the word not the ears but the mind perceives, and which is held enclosed in the mind itself, is called a 'sayable' (dicibile). But when the word proceeds not for its own sake but for the sake of signifying something else, it is called a 'saying' (dictio). But the thing itself, which is now neither a word nor the conception of a word in the mind, whether it has a word by which it can be signified or has not, is called nothing other than a 'thing' (res) by its own proper name now. Let these four, then, be held as distinct: 'word, sayable, saying, thing.'

What I said, 'word' (verbum), both is a word and signifies 'word.' What I said, 'sayable' (dicibile), is a word, yet does not signify 'word,' but that which is understood in the word and is contained in the mind. What I said, 'saying' (dictio), is a word, but signifies those two together, that is, both the word itself and that which comes to be in the mind through the word. What I said, 'thing' (res), is a word, which signifies whatever remains beyond those three which have been named. But I perceive that these things must be illustrated by examples. Suppose, then, that a boy is questioned by some grammarian in this way: "'arms' (arma)—what part of speech is it?" What was said, 'arms,' was said for its own sake, that is, a word for the sake of the word itself.

The rest, however—what he calls 'which part of speech'—was not thought in the mind or uttered by the voice for its own sake, but on account of the word which was said to be 'arms.' But when things are thought in the mind, they will be 'sayables' before they become voice; when, however, they burst forth into voice on account of what I have described, they become 'utterances.' Now this very 'arms,' which here is a word, when it was pronounced by Vergil, was an utterance; for it was not uttered for its own sake, but so that by it might be signified either the wars which Aeneas waged, or the shield and the other arms which Vulcan fashioned for the hero.

But those very wars or arms which were waged or borne by Aeneas—those very things, I say, which while they were being carried on and existed were seen, and which, if they were now present, we could point out with the finger or touch, and which, even if they are not thought of, do not thereby come to not have been—these therefore, in themselves, are neither words nor sayables nor utterances, but things which are now called by their proper name, 'things.' We must therefore treat, in this part of dialectic, of 'words,' of 'sayables,' of 'utterances,' and of 'things.' Among all of which, though some are words that are signified and some not words, there is nevertheless nothing about which it is not necessary to dispute by means of words. And so let us first dispute about those things through which it is granted to dispute about the rest. VI.

Therefore any word whatever—apart from its sound (concerning which to dispute well belongs to the faculty of the dialectician, not to the discipline of dialectic, just as Cicero's defenses do indeed belong to the rhetorical faculty, yet rhetoric itself is not taught by them)—every word, then, besides what it sounds, necessarily calls four things into question: its origin, its force, its inflection, and its arrangement. The origin of a word is inquired into when one asks why it is so called—a matter, in my opinion, too curious and not very necessary. Nor did it please me to say this because it also seems so to Cicero; for who would need authority in a matter so plain?

But if it were altogether of much use to unfold the origin of a word, it would be foolish to undertake what to pursue is surely endless. For who could discover, of whatever has been said, why it was so said? To this is added that, like the interpretation of dreams, so the origin of words is judged according to each person's ingenuity. For behold, one person thinks that the very word 'words' (verba) is so called because they 'strike' (verberent) the ear, as it were. Nay, says another, because they strike the air. But what of it? Ours is no great quarrel, for each derives the origin of this term from 'striking' (verberando). But see what a brawl a third brings in from a different direction. For because it behooves us, he says, to speak the truth (verum), and a lie is odious, nature herself being the judge, 'word' (verbum) is named from 'the true' (vero). Nor was a fourth wit lacking.

For there are those who think that 'word' (verbum) is indeed said from 'the true' (vero), but that, the first syllable having been sufficiently noted, the second ought not to be neglected. For when we say 'verbum,' they say, its first syllable signifies 'the true' (verum), the second 'a sound.' For they wish 'bum' to be this. Whence Ennius called the sound of feet 'the boom of feet' (bombum pedum), and the Greeks {Gk boēsai} means 'to cry out,' and Vergil: 'the woods re-boom' (reboant silvae). Therefore 'verbum' is said as if from 'true booming' (verum boando), that is, 'true sounding.' And if it is so, this name indeed prescribes that we not lie when we make a word; but I fear that those very ones who say these things may be lying.

It therefore now belongs to you to judge whether we should think that 'word' (verbum) is said from 'striking' (verberando), or from 'the true' (vero) alone, or from 'true booming' (verum boando), or rather that we should not care whence it is said, provided we understand what it signifies. Yet I wish that you would briefly note this topic for a little while (that is, concerning the origin of words), lest we seem to have passed over any part of the work we have undertaken. The Stoics maintain—whom Cicero in this matter ridicules, as Cicero would—that there is no word whose sure origin cannot be explained.

And because in this way it was easy to press them—if you were to say that this is endless, since by whatever words you would interpret the origin of some word, the origin of those words in turn must be sought from you, until one arrives at the point where the thing agrees with the sound of the word by some resemblance, as when we say the 'ringing' (tinnitum) of bronze, the 'neighing' (hinnitum) of horses, the 'bleating' (balatum) of sheep, the 'blare' (clangorem) of trumpets, the 'clanking' (stridorem) of chains. For you perceive that these words so sound as do the very things which are signified by these words. But because there are things which do not make a sound, in these a resemblance of touch holds good, so that, if they touch the sense gently or roughly, the smoothness or roughness of the letters, as it touches the hearing, so has begotten names for them: as when we say 'smooth' (lene) itself, it sounds smoothly.

Who likewise would not judge 'roughness' (asperitatem) to be rough by its very name? 'Pleasure' (voluptas) is smooth to the ears when we say it, 'cross' (crux) is rough when we say it. Thus the things themselves affect us as the words are perceived. 'Honey' (mel): as sweetly the thing itself touches the taste, so smoothly does the name touch the hearing. 'Sharp' (acre) is rough in both respects. 'Wool' (lana) and 'brambles' (vepres): as the words are heard, so are those things touched. These they believed to be, as it were, the cradles of words, where the perception of things agreed with the perception of sounds. Hence, they held, the license of naming proceeded to the resemblance of the things themselves among one another;

so that, though for example 'cross' (crux) was so called because the roughness of the word itself agrees with the roughness of the pain which the cross produces, yet 'legs' (crura) were so named not on account of the roughness of pain, but because, by their length and hardness, they are among the other members more similar to the wood of a cross. Thence one came to catachresis (misuse), so that a name is employed not of a similar thing but as it were of a neighboring one. For what similarity does the signification of 'small' (parvi) have with 'diminished' (minuti), since a thing can be small which is not only in no way diminished but has even grown somewhat? Yet on account of a certain neighborliness we say 'diminished' (minutum) for 'small' (parvo). But this misuse of a term is in the speaker's power; for he has 'small' (parvum) available, so that he need not say 'diminished' (minutum).

This bears more on what we now wish to show: that when a 'fishpond' (piscina) is spoken of in the baths, in which there is nothing of fish and which has nothing similar to fishes, it nevertheless seems to be named from fishes (piscibus) on account of the water, wherein is the life of fishes. And if someone should say that men become similar to fishes by swimming, and that thence the name of 'fishpond' (piscina) was born, it is foolish to resist, since neither is far removed from the reality, and both lie hidden. Yet this fell out well, that by this single example we can now discern how the origin of a word which is taken from neighborliness differs from that which is drawn from similarity. Hence there was a progression as far as the contrary.

For 'grove' (lucus) is thought to be so called because it least shines (minime luceat), and 'war' (bellum) because the matter is not fine (bella), and the name 'treaty' (foederis) because the matter is not foul (foeda). But if it is said from the foulness (foeditate) of a pig, as some would have it, the origin returns to that neighborliness, since that which is done is named from that through which it is done. For that neighborliness lies open altogether widely and is divided through many parts:

either through efficient cause, as this very case from the foulness of a pig, through which the treaty (foedus) is effected—or through effects, as 'well' (puteus) is believed to be so called because its effect is drinking (potatio)—or through that by which something is contained, as they will have it that 'city' (urbem) is named from 'circle' (orbe), because the place is customarily marked out with a plow after taking the auspices (a thing which Vergil too recalls, where Aeneas marks out the city with a plow)—or through that which is contained, as if someone should assert that 'granary' (horreum), with a letter changed, is named from 'barley' (hordeo)—or through catachresis, as when we say 'granary' (horreum) even where wheat is stored—or the whole from a part, as by the name of 'point' (mucronis), which is the topmost part of a sword, we call the whole sword—or the part from the whole, as 'hair' (capillus) as if 'hair of the head' (capitis pilus). Why should I go on further?

Whatever else can be enumerated, you will see that the origin of a word is contained either by the similarity of things and sounds, or by the similarity of the things themselves, or by neighborliness, or by contrary. This origin we cannot indeed pursue beyond the similarity of sound, but even this we cannot always do. For innumerable are the words whose origin and reason cannot be rendered: either it does not exist, as I think, or it lies hidden, as the Stoics contend. Yet consider a little how they think one arrives at those cradles of words, or rather their root and indeed their seed, beyond which they forbid the origin to be sought, nor, even if anyone should wish, can he find anything.

No one denies that syllables in which the letter v holds the place of a consonant—as are the first syllables in these words: 'crafty' (vafer), 'veil' (velum), 'wine' (vinum), 'plowshare' (vomis), 'wound' (vulnus)—produce a heavy and, as it were, strong sound. This is approved also by the custom of speaking, when from certain words we withdraw those letters, lest they burden the ear. For whence is it that we say 'amasti' more willingly than 'amavisti,' and 'nosti' than 'novisti,' and 'abiit' not 'abivit,' and innumerable words in this manner? Therefore when we say 'force' (vim), the sound of the word, as has been said, being as it were strong, agrees with the thing which it signifies. Now from that neighborliness, through what they effect—that is, because they are forcible (violenta)—'chains' (vincula) can seem to be said, and 'withe' (vimen) by which something is bound (vinciatur).

Thence 'vines' (vites), because with their bindings they grasp the props on which they lean. Hence now, on account of similarity, Terence called a crooked old man 'vietus' (bent). Hence the earth, which is winding and worn by the feet of travelers, is called 'road' (via). But if 'road' (via) is rather believed to be said because it is worn 'by the force of feet' (vi pedum), the origin returns to that neighborliness. But let us make it to be said from the similarity of the 'vine' (vitis) or the 'withe' (viminis), that is, from bending. Someone therefore asks me why 'road' (via) is so called; I answer: from bending, because the ancients called what was bent, as it were crooked, 'vietum'—whence they also call 'vieti' the pieces of wood in wheels which are enclosed by the rim. He goes on to ask whence 'vietum' is called 'bent'; and to this I answer: from the similarity of the vine (vitis).

He presses on and demands whence the name 'vine' (vitis) is so derived; I say, because it binds (vinciat) the things which it has grasped. He scrutinizes whence 'to bind' (vincire) itself is said; we shall say, from 'force' (vi). Why 'force' (vis) is so called, he will inquire; a reason will be rendered: because with a robust and, as it were, strong sound the word agrees with the thing which it signifies. Beyond this he has nothing to inquire. But in how many ways the origin of words is varied by the corruption of the sounds, it is foolish to pursue. For it is both long and less necessary than the things which have been said. VII. Now let us briefly consider the force of words, as far as the matter permits. The force of a word is that by which is known how much it avails. But it avails as much as it can move the hearer.

Further, it moves the hearer either according to itself, or according to what it signifies, or from both in common. But when it moves according to itself, it pertains either to the sense alone, or to art, or to both. The sense is moved either by nature or by custom. Nature will judge, when it is offended if someone names King Artaxerxes, or is soothed when it hears 'Euryalus.' For who, even if he had never heard anything about those men whose these names are, would nevertheless not judge that in the one there is the greatest roughness and in the other smoothness? The sense is moved by custom, when it is offended if, for example, someone is called 'Motta,' and is not offended when it hears 'Cotta.'

For here it makes no difference to the sweetness or unsweetness of the sound, but the inner recesses of the ears avail only so far in this: whether they receive the sounds passing through them, as it were, as known guests or as unknown ones. But the hearer is moved by art when, a word having been uttered to him, he attends to what part of speech it is, or if he has received anything else in those disciplines which are handed down concerning words. But indeed a word is judged from both—that is, from sense and from art—when reason marks what the ears measure, and so sets down the name that, when 'optimus' is said, as soon as one long syllable and two short of this name have struck the ear, the mind, by art, immediately recognizes a dactyl foot.

Now indeed a word moves not according to itself but according to what it signifies, when, the sign having been received through the ear, the mind gazes upon nothing other than the very thing of which that is the sign which it has received: as when, 'Augustine' having been named, nothing other than I myself am thought of by him to whom I am known—or some man or other occurs to the mind, if perhaps he who does not know me hears this name, or he who knows another who is called Augustine. But when a word moves the hearer both according to itself and according to what it signifies, then both the utterance itself and that which is uttered by it are attended to at once. For whence is it that the chastity of the ears is not offended when it hears 'with hand, belly, and member he had wasted his goodly patrimony'?

But it would be offended if the obscene part of the body were called by a sordid and vulgar name, since the thing is the same, of which each term is used—except that in the former the baseness of the thing which is signified is covered by the decorum of the signifying word, whereas in the latter the deformity of both would strike the sense and the mind: just as it is no different 'harlot' (meretrix), yet she seems otherwise in that dress in which she is wont to stand before a judge, and otherwise in that in which she would lie in a wanton's bedchamber. Since therefore it appears that the force of words is so great and so manifold, which we have touched upon briefly as time permits and in summary fashion, from this a twofold consideration of meaning arises: partly for the sake of unfolding truth, partly for the sake of preserving decorum;

of which the first pertains especially to the dialectician, the second to the orator. For although it neither befits disputation to be foolish nor ought eloquence to be mendacious, yet in the former the desire of learning often, and indeed almost always, despises the delights of hearing, and in the latter the more unskilled multitude thinks that what is said ornately is also said truly. Therefore, since it appears what is proper to each, it is manifest both that the disputer, if he has any care for delighting, is to be sprinkled with rhetorical color, and that the orator, if he wishes to persuade of the truth, is to be strengthened by dialectical sinews and bones, as it were—which nature itself in our bodies could neither withdraw from the firmness of strength nor allow to lie open to the offense of the eyes. VIII.

And so now, for the sake of judging truth—which is what dialectic professes—let us see what impediments arise from this force of words, of which we have scattered certain seeds. For obscurity or ambiguity in words impedes the hearer from seeing the truth. Between the ambiguous and the obscure there is this difference: that in the ambiguous several things show themselves, of which it is not known which is rather to be accepted; but in the obscure nothing, or little, appears that may be attended to. But where little is that appears, the obscure is like the ambiguous: just as if someone, entering upon a journey, should be met by some fork of two ways, or three, or even, so to speak, of many ways, and there, by the density of the fog, none of the ways which exists should be visible. Therefore he is first deterred from proceeding by the obscurity;

but when the fogs begin to thin out somewhat, something is seen, of which it is uncertain whether it be a road or the proper and brighter color of the ground itself. This is the obscure that is like the ambiguous (missing in Crecelius). But when it grows clear, as much as is enough for the eyes, from the sky, the branching-off of all the ways is now plain, but by which way one must proceed is doubted not by obscurity but by ambiguity. Likewise there are three kinds of obscure things. One is that which lies open to the sense but is closed to the mind; as if someone should see a painted pomegranate, who neither had ever seen one nor had at all heard what sort of thing it was: it is not a matter of the eyes but of the mind, that he does not know of what thing it is a picture. The second kind is where the thing would lie open to the mind, were it not closed to the sense: as is a man painted in the dark.

For when it appears to the eyes, the mind will in no way doubt that a man has been painted. The third kind is that in which it is hidden even from the sense, yet which, if it were laid bare, would stand out no more to the mind; which kind is the most obscure of all: as if an unskilled person should be compelled to recognize that painted pomegranate even in the dark. Now bring your mind back to words, of which these are the likenesses. Set in your mind that some grammarian, his disciples having been called together and silence made, has said in a suppressed voice 'temetum' (strong wine), which those who were sitting near enough heard sufficiently, those farther off little, but those farthest off were grazed by no voice at all.

But of these, those who were farther off, by some chance, partly knew what 'temetum' was, partly were ignorant of it; but those who had well received the master's voice, what 'temetum' was lay altogether hidden from them; all were impeded by obscurity. And here you now discern all those three kinds of obscurities. For those who had no doubt about the hearing suffered that first kind, to which is similar the pomegranate to those who are ignorant of it but painted in the light. Those who knew the word but had received the voice either too little or not at all with their ears, labored under that second kind, to which is similar the image of a man but in a place not clear or altogether shadowy.

But those who were destitute not only of the voice but also of the signification of the word were wrapped in the blindness of the third kind, which is the foulest of all. But what was said, that a certain thing obscure is like the ambiguous, can be perceived in those to whom the word was indeed known, but they had perceived a voice neither wholly none nor altogether certain. Therefore he will avoid all kinds of obscure speaking who uses both a voice clear enough and not impeded by the mouth, and words most well-known. See now, in the same example of the grammarian, how far otherwise the ambiguity of a word impedes than does its obscurity. For suppose that those who were present had both sufficiently received the master's voice by their sense, and that he had uttered that word which was known to all;

namely, suppose that he had said 'magnum' (great) and then fallen silent. Attend to what uncertainties they suffer at hearing this name, for what if he were about to say 'what part of speech is it?' What if, about to inquire concerning meters, 'what foot is it?' What if concerning history, as for instance 'how many wars did great Pompey wage?' What if, for the sake of commending poems, he were about to say 'great, and almost the only poet, is Vergil'? What if, about to rebuke the negligence of his disciples, he then burst out into these words: 'a great torpor toward your studies has invaded you'? Do you see, the fog of obscurity being removed, that which was said above stand out, as it were, the many-forked way?

For this one thing which was said, 'magnum,' is both a noun, and a choriamb foot, and Pompey, and Vergil, and the torpor of negligence, and any other, or innumerable others not mentioned, which nevertheless can be understood through this utterance of the word. IX. And so it was most rightly said by the dialecticians that every word is ambiguous. Nor let it disturb us that in Cicero, Hortensius cavils in this manner: 'They dare, they say, to explain ambiguities clearly. The same men say that every word is ambiguous. How then will they explain ambiguities by ambiguities?'

'For this is to bring a light quenched into the darkness.' Wittily indeed and cleverly said, but this is what in the same Cicero Scaevola says to Antonius: 'in short, so that you seem to speak eloquently to the wise, and even truly to the foolish.' For what else did Hortensius do in that passage except that, by the sharpness of his wit and the charm of his speech, as it were with an unmixed and sweet cup, he poured a fog over the unskilled? For what was said, that every word is ambiguous, was said of single words. But ambiguities are explained by disputing, and no one disputes with single words.

No one, therefore, will explain ambiguous words by ambiguous words; and yet, though every word is ambiguous, no one will explain the ambiguity of words except by words—but now joined together, which will not be ambiguous. For just as, if I were to say 'every soldier is two-footed,' it would not follow from this that a cohort composed of soldiers who are certainly two-footed would itself be two-footed, so, when I say that every word is ambiguous, I do not say that a sentence is, nor that a disputation is, although these are woven of words. Every ambiguous word, therefore, will be explained by a non-ambiguous disputation. Now let us see the kinds of ambiguities; of which the first two are: one which makes doubt even in those things which are spoken, the other which does so only in those things which are written.

For whether someone hears 'acies' or someone reads it, he can hold it uncertain—unless it becomes clear through the sentence—whether a battle-line (acies) of soldiers, or a sharp edge (acies) of iron, or a keenness (acies) of eyes is spoken or written. But indeed if someone finds written, for example's sake, 'lepore,' and it does not appear in what sense it is placed, he will surely doubt whether the next-to-last syllable of this word is to be lengthened, from that which is 'lepos' (charm), or to be shortened, from that which is 'lepus' (hare)—an ambiguity which of course he would not suffer if he received the accusative case of this noun by the voice of a speaker.

But if someone should say that even a speaker could have pronounced badly, then the hearer would be impeded not by ambiguity but by obscurity—yet of that kind which is like the ambiguous, because a word pronounced in bad Latin does not draw the thinker into diverse notions, but impels him toward that which is apparent. Since therefore those two kinds differ from each other very much, the first kind is again divided into two. For whatever is said and can be understood through several things—those same several things can, namely, either be contained not only under one term but even under one definition, or are held only by a common term but are explained by diverse expositions.

Those things which one definition can include are called 'univocal'; but to those things which under one name must be diversely defined the name 'equivocal' is given. First, therefore, let us consider univocals, so that, since this kind has now been made plain by definition, they may be illustrated by examples. When we say 'man,' we say a boy as much as a youth, as much as an old man; a fool as much as a wise man; a great man as much as a small; a citizen as much as a foreigner; a townsman as much as a rustic; one who has already been as much as one who now is; one sitting as much as one standing; a rich man as much as a poor; one doing something as much as one at leisure; one rejoicing as much as one grieving, or neither.

But in all these expressions there is nothing which, as it has received the name of 'man,' is not likewise enclosed by the definition of man. For the definition of 'man' is: a rational mortal animal. Can anyone then say that a rational mortal animal is a youth only, and not also a boy or an old man; or a wise man only, and not also a fool? Nay, both these and the rest which have been enumerated are, as by the name of 'man,' so also by its definition, contained. For whether a boy, or a fool, or a poor man, or even one sleeping, if he is not a rational mortal animal, neither is he a man; but he is a man; therefore it is necessary that he too be contained by that definition. And concerning the rest indeed nothing will be doubtful.

But concerning a small boy, or a fool or one utterly witless, or concerning one sleeping or drunk or raving, it can be doubted how they can be rational animals. It can indeed be defended, but for those hastening to other matters it is long. For what is at issue, it is enough that this definition of 'man' is not right and valid unless both every man is contained by it and nothing besides man. These, therefore, are 'univocals,' which are enclosed not only by one name but also by one definition of the same name, although they can be distinguished among themselves by their proper names and definitions. For 'boy,' 'youth,' 'rich' and 'poor,' 'free' and 'slave,' and whatever other differences there are, are diverse names. Therefore they have among themselves diverse proper definitions.

But as to them there is one common name, 'man,' so also 'rational mortal animal' is one common definition. X. Now let us see 'equivocals,' in which the perplexity of ambiguity grows into an almost infinite thicket. Yet I shall try to distinguish them into definite kinds. But whether ability may follow my attempt, you will judge. Of the ambiguities, therefore, which come from equivocals, the first kinds are three: one from art, another from usage, the third from both. I now call 'art' on account of the names which in the disciplines of words are imposed upon words. For 'equivocal' is defined otherwise among the grammarians, otherwise among the dialecticians. And yet this one thing which I say, 'Tullius,' is both a noun, and a dactyl foot, and an equivocal.

And so if someone should demand of me that I define what 'Tullius' is, I answer by the explanation of whichever notion. For I can rightly say: 'Tullius' is a name by which is signified a man, a certain supreme orator, who as consul crushed the conspiracy of Catiline. Attend subtly: I have defined the name itself. For if that Tullius himself, who if he were living could be pointed out with the finger, were to be defined by me, I would not say: 'Tullius' is a name by which a man is signified; but I would say: Tullius is a man, and so I would join the rest. Likewise it could be answered in this manner: 'Tullius' is a dactyl foot consisting of these letters—for what need is there now to enumerate the letters? It is also permitted to say:

'Tullius' is a word through which all the things mentioned above, together with this very thing, are equivocal among themselves, and if any other can be found. Since therefore this one thing which I have said, 'Tullius,' I have been permitted to define so variously according to the terms of the arts, why do we doubt that there is a kind of ambiguities coming from equivocals which can rightly be said to arise from art? For we have said that equivocals are those which, as they cannot be held by one name, so neither can they be held by one definition. See now the other kind, which we recalled comes from the usage of speaking. I now call 'usage' that very thing on account of which we come to know words. For who would seek out and collect words for the sake of words?

And so now suppose someone to be listening in such a way that it is known to him that nothing is being asked concerning parts of speech, or concerning meters, or concerning any discipline of words. Nevertheless, he can still, when 'Tullius' is said, be impeded by the ambiguity of equivocals. For by this name can be signified both the man himself who was the supreme orator, and his painted image or statue, and the volume in which his writings are contained, and whatever there is of his corpse in his tomb. For with diverse notions we say: 'Tullius freed his fatherland from ruin,' and 'Tullius stands gilded on the Capitol,' and 'the whole of Tullius is to be read by you,' and 'Tullius is buried in this place.' For it is one name, but all these things are to be explained by diverse definitions.

This, therefore, is the kind of equivocals in which no ambiguity now arises from the discipline of words, but from the very things which are signified. But if either kind should confound the hearer or reader—whether what is said from art or what from the usage of speaking—will not a third kind rightly be reckoned? An example of which appears indeed more openly in a sentence, as if someone should say: 'many have written in dactylic meter, as is Tullius.' For here it is uncertain whether 'Tullius' is placed for an example of the dactyl foot or of the dactylic poet, of which the former is taken from art, the latter from the usage of speaking. But it happens also in simple words, as if a grammarian should utter this word to his listening disciples, as we showed above.

Since, then, these three kinds differ from one another by manifest principles, the first kind is again divided into two. For whatever produces ambiguity through the art of words can partly serve as its own example and partly cannot. For when I have defined what 'noun' signifies, I can supply this very word by way of example. For this word 'noun' which I utter is itself indeed a noun; for by this rule it is inflected through the cases when we say 'noun, of a noun, to a noun,' and the rest. Likewise, when I have defined what 'dactyl' signifies, this very word can serve as an example. For when we say 'dactyl,' we pronounce one long syllable and then two short ones. But when 'adverb' is defined as to what it signifies, this word itself cannot be adduced as an example.

For when we say 'adverb,' this very utterance is a noun. Thus according to one notion 'adverb' is indeed an adverb, and a noun is a noun; but according to another notion 'adverb' is not an adverb, because it is a noun. Likewise, when it is defined what 'the cretic foot' signifies, this word itself cannot serve as an example. For this utterance which we speak, 'cretic,' consists of a first long syllable and then two short ones, whereas what it signifies is a long syllable, a short, and a long. Thus here too, according to one notion 'cretic' is nothing other than a cretic and is not a dactyl; but according to another notion 'cretic' is not a cretic, because it is a dactyl.

The second kind, which we have already said pertains not to the disciplines of words but to the usage of speaking, has two forms. For equivocal terms arise either from the same origin or from a diverse one. I call those 'from the same origin' which, though held under one name and not under one definition, yet flow as it were from one source; as is that case in which 'Tullius' can be understood to mean a man, a statue, a book, and a corpse. These indeed cannot be enclosed within one definition, yet they have one source, namely the true man himself, whose both that statue and those books and that corpse are. So when we say 'nepos,' it signifies, from far more diverse origins, both a grandson (a son's son) and a spendthrift.

Let us therefore keep these distinctions clear, and observe into what further divisions that kind which I call 'from the same origin' is divided. For it is divided into two, one of which arises by transference (metaphor), the other by inflection. I call it transference when, by likeness, one name is applied to many things—as 'Tullius' is said both of the man in whom there was great eloquence and of his statue; or when the whole is named from the part—as when his corpse can be called 'Tullius'; or the whole from the part—as when we say 'roofs' for whole houses; or the species from the genus—for 'words' are in the primary sense all those by which we speak, yet 'verbs' are properly so named which we inflect through moods and tenses; or the genus from the species:

for although 'scholastics' are properly and even originally said of those who are still in the schools, yet this name has been extended to all who live among letters—or the effect from the efficient cause, as 'Cicero' is a book of Cicero's—or the efficient cause from the effect, as 'terror' is that which produces terror—or what is contained from the container, as those who are in a house are also called 'the house'—or by a reversed exchange, as 'chestnut' is also said of the tree—or whatever else can be found which, from the same origin, is named as it were by transference. You see, as I judge, how much ambiguity this creates in words. But those things which, though belonging to the same origin, we have said are ambiguous by the condition of inflection, are of the following sort.

Suppose, for example, that someone has said 'pluit'—these must certainly be defined differently (as either 'it rains' or 'he has rained/it has rained'). Likewise, when someone says 'scribere,' it is uncertain whether he has pronounced the active infinitive or the passive imperative. 'Homo,' although it is a single word and a single utterance, yet one thing comes from the nominative and another from the vocative—unlike 'doctus' and 'docte,' where the utterance too is different. 'Doctius' is one thing when we say 'a more learned slave' (neuter comparative adjective), and another when we say 'this man argued more learnedly than that one' (adverb). Ambiguity has therefore arisen through inflection. For I now call 'inflection' whatever befalls words by their being bent, whether through their sounds or through their significations.

For 'hic doctus' and 'o docte' are bent even through their sounds, whereas 'hic homo' and 'o homo' are bent through their significations alone. But to cut apart and pursue this kind of ambiguity in every particular is well-nigh endless. And so it will suffice to have marked out the topic itself thus far, especially for one of your talent. Now consider those things which come from a diverse origin. For these too are further divided into two primary forms, one of which arises from the diversity of languages: as when we say 'tu,' this single sound means one thing among the Greeks and another among us. This kind had certainly to be noted; for it is not prescribed to anyone how many languages he must know, or in how many languages he must dispute.

The other form is that which produces ambiguity within one and the same language, yet from a diverse origin of the things signified by one and the same word—such as that which we set down above concerning 'nepos.' This in turn is split into two. For it occurs either under the same genus of part of speech—for 'nepos' is a noun whether it signifies 'a son's son' or 'a spendthrift'—or under a diverse one. For it is not only one thing when we say 'qui,' as it is said [Terence, Andria] 'how then do you know that, unless you have made trial of the danger?' but that same word is also a pronoun in one place, an adverb in another.

Now from both together—that is, from both the art and the usage of words—there can arise as many forms of ambiguity in that third kind which we had placed among equivocals as we have enumerated in the two preceding kinds. There remains that ambiguous kind which is found in writing alone, of which there are three species. For such an ambiguity arises either from the quantity of syllables, or from the accent, or from both: from quantity, as when 'venit' is written, and it is uncertain as to tense because of the hidden quantity of the first syllable; from accent, as when 'pone' is written, and it is uncertain whether it comes from 'pono' (I place) or, as it is said [Virgil, Georgics] 'following behind, for this law Proserpina had given,' because of the concealed position of the accent;

but it arises from both together, as in the case of what we said above concerning 'lepore.' For the penultimate syllable of this word must be not only lengthened but also accented, if it is derived from 'lepos' (charm) and not from 'lepus' (hare).