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- confessions
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- innocency to his own strength; that so he should love Thee the less, as
if he had less needed Thy mercy, whereby Thou remittest sins to those
that turn to Thee? For whosoever, called by Thee, followed Thy voice,
and avoided those things which he reads me recalling and confessing
of myself, let him not scorn me, who being sick, was cured by that
Physician, through whose aid it was that he was not, or rather was less,
sick: and for this let him love Thee as much, yea and more; since by
whom he sees me to have been recovered from such deep consumption of
sin, by Him he sees himself to have been from the like consumption of
sin preserved.
What fruit had I then (wretched man!) in those things, of the
remembrance whereof I am now ashamed? Especially, in that theft which
I loved for the theft's sake; and it too was nothing, and therefore the
more miserable I, who loved it. Yet alone I had not done it: such was I
then, I remember, alone I had never done it. I loved then in it also
the company of the accomplices, with whom I did it? I did not then love
nothing else but the theft, yea rather I did love nothing else; for that
circumstance of the company was also nothing. What is, in truth? who can
teach me, save He that enlighteneth my heart, and discovereth its
dark corners? What is it which hath come into my mind to enquire, and
discuss, and consider? For had I then loved the pears I stole,
and wished to enjoy them, I might have done it alone, had the bare
commission of the theft sufficed to attain my pleasure; nor needed
I have inflamed the itching of my desires by the excitement of
accomplices. But since my pleasure was not in those pears, it was in the
offence itself, which the company of fellow-sinners occasioned.
What then was this feeling? For of a truth it was too foul: and woe was
me, who had it. But yet what was it? Who can understand his errors? It
was the sport, which as it were tickled our hearts, that we beguiled
those who little thought what we were doing, and much disliked it. Why
then was my delight of such sort that I did it not alone? Because none
doth ordinarily laugh alone? ordinarily no one; yet laughter sometimes
masters men alone and singly when no one whatever is with them, if
anything very ludicrous presents itself to their senses or mind. Yet
I had not done this alone; alone I had never done it. Behold my God,
before Thee, the vivid remembrance of my soul; alone, I had never
committed that theft wherein what I stole pleased me not, but that
I stole; nor had it alone liked me to do it, nor had I done it. O
friendship too unfriendly! thou incomprehensible inveigler of the soul,
thou greediness to do mischief out of mirth and wantonness, thou thirst
of others' loss, without lust of my own gain or revenge: but when it is
said, "Let's go, let's do it," we are ashamed not to be shameless.
Who can disentangle that twisted and intricate knottiness? Foul is it: I
hate to think on it, to look on it. But Thee I long for, O Righteousness
and Innocency, beautiful and comely to all pure eyes, and of a
satisfaction unsating. With Thee is rest entire, and life imperturbable.
Whoso enters into Thee, enters into the joy of his Lord: and shall not
fear, and shall do excellently in the All-Excellent. I sank away from
Thee, and I wandered, O my God, too much astray from Thee my stay, in
these days of my youth, and I became to myself a barren land.
BOOK III
To Carthage I came, where there sang all around me in my ears a cauldron
of unholy loves. I loved not yet, yet I loved to love, and out of a
deep-seated want, I hated myself for wanting not. I sought what I might
love, in love with loving, and safety I hated, and a way without snares.
For within me was a famine of that inward food, Thyself, my God; yet,
through that famine I was not hungered; but was without all longing for
incorruptible sustenance, not because filled therewith, but the more
empty, the more I loathed it. For this cause my soul was sickly and full
of sores, it miserably cast itself forth, desiring to be scraped by the
touch of objects of sense. Yet if these had not a soul, they would not
be objects of love. To love then, and to be beloved, was sweet to
me; but more, when I obtained to enjoy the person I loved, I defiled,
therefore, the spring of friendship with the filth of concupiscence, and
I beclouded its brightness with the hell of lustfulness; and thus
foul and unseemly, I would fain, through exceeding vanity, be fine
and courtly. I fell headlong then into the love wherein I longed to be
ensnared. My God, my Mercy, with how much gall didst Thou out of Thy
great goodness besprinkle for me that sweetness? For I was both beloved,
and secretly arrived at the bond of enjoying; and was with joy fettered
with sorrow-bringing bonds, that I might be scourged with the iron
burning rods of jealousy, and suspicions, and fears, and angers, and
quarrels.
Stage-plays also carried me away, full of images of my miseries, and of
fuel to my fire. Why is it, that man desires to be made sad, beholding
doleful and tragical things, which yet himself would no means suffer?
yet he desires as a spectator to feel sorrow at them, and this very
sorrow is his pleasure. What is this but a miserable madness? for a man
is the more affected with these actions, the less free he is from such
affections. Howsoever, when he suffers in his own person, it uses to be
styled misery: when he compassionates others, then it is mercy. But what
sort of compassion is this for feigned and scenical passions? for the
auditor is not called on to relieve, but only to grieve: and he applauds
the actor of these fictions the more, the more he grieves. And if the
calamities of those persons (whether of old times, or mere fiction)
be so acted, that the spectator is not moved to tears, he goes away
disgusted and criticising; but if he be moved to passion, he stays
intent, and weeps for joy.
Are griefs then too loved? Verily all desire joy. Or whereas no man
likes to be miserable, is he yet pleased to be merciful? which because
it cannot be without passion, for this reason alone are passions loved?
This also springs from that vein of friendship. But whither goes that
vein? whither flows it? wherefore runs it into that torrent of pitch
bubbling forth those monstrous tides of foul lustfulness, into which it
is wilfully changed and transformed, being of its own will precipitated
and corrupted from its heavenly clearness? Shall compassion then be
put away? by no means. Be griefs then sometimes loved. But beware of
uncleanness, O my soul, under the guardianship of my God, the God of our
fathers, who is to be praised and exalted above all for ever, beware of
uncleanness. For I have not now ceased to pity; but then in the theatres
I rejoiced with lovers when they wickedly enjoyed one another, although
this was imaginary only in the play. And when they lost one another, as
if very compassionate, I sorrowed with them, yet had my delight in both.
But now I much more pity him that rejoiceth in his wickedness, than him
who is thought to suffer hardship, by missing some pernicious pleasure,
and the loss of some miserable felicity. This certainly is the truer
mercy, but in it grief delights not. For though he that grieves for the
miserable, be commended for his office of charity; yet had he, who is
genuinely compassionate, rather there were nothing for him to grieve
for. For if good will be ill willed (which can never be), then may
he, who truly and sincerely commiserates, wish there might be some
miserable, that he might commiserate. Some sorrow may then be allowed,
none loved. For thus dost Thou, O Lord God, who lovest souls far more
purely than we, and hast more incorruptibly pity on them, yet are
wounded with no sorrowfulness.