Letters

^3. But stay: let us see what is that indefinable object which is suggested to the mind. This world with which our senses acquaint us is surely the image of some world which the understanding apprehends. Now it is a strange phenomenon which we observe in the images which mirrors reflect to us—that however great the mirrors be, they do not make the images larger than the objects placed before them, be they ever so small; but in small mirrors, such as the pupil of the eye, although a large surface be placed over against them, a very small image is formed, proportioned to the size of the mirror. Therefore if the mirrors be reduced in size, the images reflected in them are also reduced; but it is not possible for the images to be enlarged by enlarging the mirrors. Surely there is in this something which might reward further investigation; but meanwhile, I must sleep. Moreover, if I seem to Nebridius to be happy, it is not because I seek, but because perchance I have found something. What, then, is that something? Is it that chain of reasoning which I am wont so to caress as if it were my sole treasure, and in which perhaps I take too much delight?

4. “Of what parts do we consist?” “Of soul and body.” “Which of these is the nobler?” “Doubtless the soul.” “What do men praise in the body?” “Nothing that I see but comeliness.” “And what is comeliness of body?” “Harmony of parts in the form, together with a certain agreeableness of colour.” “Is this comeliness better where it is true or where it is illusive?” “Unquestionably it is better where it is true.” “And where is it found true? In the soul.” “The soul, therefore, is to be loved more than the body; but in what part of the soul does this truth reside?” “In the mind and understanding.” “With what has the understanding to contend?” “With the senses.” “Must we then resist the senses with all our might?” “Certainly.” “What, then, if the things with which the senses acquaint us give us pleasure?” “We must prevent them from doing so.” “How?” “By acquiring the habit of doing without them, and desiring better things.” “But if the soul die, what then?” “Why, then truth dies, or intelligence is not truth, or intelligence is not a part of the soul, or that which has some part immortal is liable to die: conclusions all of which I demonstrated long ago in my Soliloquies to be absurd because impossible; and I am firmly persuaded that this is the case, but somehow through the influence of custom in the experience of evils we are terrified, and hesitate. But even granting, finally, that the soul dies, which I do not see to be in any way possible, it remains nevertheless true that a happy life does not consist in the evanescent joy which sensible objects can yield: this I have pondered deliberately, and proved.”

Perhaps it is on account of reasonings such as these that I have been judged by my own Nebridius to be, if not absolutely happy, at least in a sense happy. Let me also judge myself to be happy: for what do I lose thereby, or why should I grudge to think well of my own estate? Thus I talked with myself, then prayed according to my custom, and fell asleep.