Variae & Works 16 part 1/4

When I was now rejoicing in the longed-for end of the work I had undertaken, and a quiet harbor was receiving me, tossed about by twelve volumes—where, even if not praised, at least delivered, I had arrived—the sweet fellowship of friends thrust me back into the open sea of cogitation, demanding that I should open up certain things, abstruse both in sacred and in secular books, that I had discovered concerning the substance of the soul or its virtues, to me, to whom it was given to unlock the secrets of such mighty matters; adding that it was exceedingly absurd, if we should suffer ourselves to be ignorant, as though alien from us, of that through which we know so many things, since to know that by which we have understanding is useful for all matters. For it is no foreign matter to speak about one's own sense, since nature, when interrogated, answers to itself, nor does it reach far to be able to find itself.

With us is ever that very thing which we seek; it is present, it handles, it speaks, and, if it be lawful to say so, amid these things it is unknown. Accordingly that which is at hand to itself ought to be known, because it is then more set before itself, when it is more subtly treated of. For since it has been enjoined by the wise that we should know ourselves, how can this be sustained, if we hold ourselves unknown? For we desire to know the courses of the planets contrary to the heaven, the consonant gliding of the constellations. For of these some are abiding and lacking motion, but others which are ever turned with a moving rotation and at no times rest.

These, as the teachers of this world attempted to investigate, are rolled with harmonic delights in an inestimable modulation, whose tinklings and concord effect a united sweet-sounding melody. We desire also to comprehend the height of the aether, the measure of the earth, the cloud-bearing rains, the storms of fierce hail, the trembling of stable lands, the nature of the wandering winds, the depth of the inconstant sea, the powers of the green herbs, the dissociated combinations of the four elements throughout every body; and is it to be endured that it cannot know its very self, to which it has been granted from on high to discuss such great things? For we do not seek anything by contention, but most modestly we desire to know the most profound matters.

Let us therefore first learn why it is called the soul (anima), then what its definition is; third, what its substantial quality is; fourth, whether it is to be believed to have any form; fifth, what moral virtues it has, which the Greeks call aretai, conferred upon it for its honor and glory; sixth, what natural virtues it has, namely for containing the substance of the body; seventh, let the origin of the soul be discussed; eighth, since it is diffused through all the members, where rather it is to be believed to be seated; ninth, let us learn about the form and composition of the body itself; tenth, what properties the soul of sinners has, let it be declared to us by fitting signs;

eleventh, by what distinction the souls of the just may be known, so that those whom we cannot see with these eyes we may infer by probable indications; twelfth, in the resurrection, which the truly wise man believes, what is felt to become of each, we especially desire to learn, so that the fragile hearts of mortals may be roused to the desires divinely promised. Answer us these things, by God's enabling, in the order observed, that both we may easily be instructed and you may deserve to find the glory of a teacher. I said that these propositions accord not with the precepts of kings which were lately being treated, but with profound and remote dialogues, which are proved to seek not so much these bodily ears as the attentive and most pure hearing of the inner man.

Nor is it for that reason easy to speak of the soul itself, since through it we know that countless things are unfolded. For the eye, which reaches as far as the stars, has not the power to see itself; and our palate, though it perceives diverse things by taste, is ignorant of what flavour it is itself. The nostrils too draw in the various odours of fragrant bodies, yet do not perceive what they themselves smell of. Our brain, finally, though it transmits sensation to the remaining members, is itself read to possess no sensation. And then, what sort of things could I, weary, set forth, who with eager mind was already hastening toward the end of my labour? Lastly, you, friends so sweet, lay upon me to ponder yet again that which, by reasoning beyond dispute, you know to be named from 'compelling' (cogere);

especially since this matter, debated by many, seems to have been left almost inexplicable. But when by many arguments I could neither overcome their wits, nor had they resolved to grant me my own wish, being overcome I begged that they would at least bear with me for some few days, and not demand precipitately what they were imposing as a thing full of difficulties. Wherefore there befell me the lot of Proteus, who, what he would not by his own will disclose, being bound with fetters was compelled to set free. Yet this seemed therein tolerable, because I was being pressed to speak of such a matter as, if (God favouring) it be truly expressed, both deservedly refreshes the hearer and illumines the understanding of one who persuades well.

Wherefore, before I enter upon the thing sought, I must first cut away the likenesses of names, like obstructing branches, lest the path of our discussion seem to be overgrown with the shadowy images of words that sound alike. The soul (anima), then, is properly said of man, and not also of beasts, since their life is known to consist in the blood. But this soul, since it is immortal, is rightly called anima, as it were anema, that is, far separated from the blood (a sanguine), seeing that even after the body's death its substance abides perfect, as is declared in due place in what follows. Others, however, say it is called anima because it animates and quickens the substance of its own body.

But 'mind-spirit' (animus) is so called from apo tou anemou, that is, from wind, because its swift thought ranges about with rapid motion after the likeness of wind. And it arises stirred up out of the soul's appetite according to the quality of its desire. 'Mind' (mens), however, is so called from mene, that is, from the moon, which, although it is changed by varied alternation, yet restores itself to that which it was with a certain perfect newness; for now worn thin by tribulations, as if it were tested in darkness, now again it is renewed into its natural vigour as gladness returns. The 'spirit' (spiritus), then, is spoken of in a threefold manner. For there is truly and properly called Spirit that which lacks nothing, while it is itself lacked by all creatures; breathing in what it wills and dispensing all things as it wills;

filling all things, whole in the whole, immovable in place and eternal in will, and singularly powerful over all things that are highest. We also call spirit a substance that is fine and invisible to us, created, immortal, having such power as has been profitably given to it. Thirdly, we call spirit that which is sent forth and received throughout the whole body, by which the life of mortals is necessarily held together by breath, and never taking rest, is renewed by continual motion. And therefore it must be known that 'mind-spirit' (animus) and 'mind' (mens) are not properly called soul (anima); but because these things excel in the soul, they are sometimes so called by license.

Nor indeed is spirit set down distinctly in place of soul, because this name is common to it with others, that is, with angels, the powers of the air, and whatever things are held together by spirit. Nor can that spirit truly be called soul which is dissolved by the alternation of air, since this thing is common to it with the beasts. It remains, then, that separately and significantly the soul of man be called a spiritual substance which is in no way consumed by the pouring out of blood. Now let us discourse more freely concerning the substance of the soul itself, since we have separated it by a necessary distinction from the likeness of names.

Wherefore let us first, with most cautious deliberation, frame a definition pregnant with content, so that the consequences which may be born from it may very easily be recognized by the faithfulness of their kind. The masters of secular letters say that the soul is a simple substance, a natural form, distinct from the matter of its body, the instrument of the members, and possessing the virtue of life. But the soul of man is, as the authority of truthful teachers agrees, a spiritual and proper substance created by God, the quickener of its own body, rational indeed and immortal, yet convertible to good and to evil. It has been brought forth like an egg ready to give birth, wherein is contained the life of the future bird and the pleasing variety of its feathers.

Now let it be opened into its parts, since it is the custom of men to learn more easily those things which, divided, can shine forth more evidently. That souls are made or have been made by God, none of the prudent is ignorant, since everything that exists is either creator or creature. No created substance, therefore, can be a creatrix, since, in order that it may itself subsist, it needs God, and cannot give to another that subsistence which it received only that it might possess it. It remains that we most truly confess it to have been founded by the Divinity, who alone can create things mortal and immortal. For it is plainly read in Solomon: 'and the dust shall return to the earth as it was, and the spirit shall return to God who gave it'; and elsewhere: 'I have made every breath.'

This spiritual substance, accordingly, probable and conclusive reason confesses, because, since we know that all corporeal things are contained by three dimensions—length, breadth, depth—nothing of the kind is proved to be found in the soul. Then, because, associated with the body, although weighed down by its mass, it weighs the opinions of things with anxious curiosity, ponders heavenly things profoundly, traces out natural things by subtle investigation, and desires to know even the difficult things concerning its own Creator. But if it were corporeal, it would by no means discern or see spiritual things by its thoughts.

Let the suspicion of its corporeality cease, then, since it both renders the definition of body in every way foreign to itself, and seeks out such causes as only the sublime spirit strives to attain. Hence it is that by the holy Scriptures it is most justly admonished to despise all the visible things of this world; for it is itself incorporeal, that it may fittingly tend toward spiritual things, to which it recognizes itself to be formed like. Its substance is altogether its own, since no other spirit takes on flesh so as to either suffer with it or rejoice in its passions. But as for what we said, 'the quickener of its own body'—it is because, as soon as it has been given, by an unspeakable condition it loves its own prison, it loves that on account of which it cannot be free.

It is vehemently affected by the body's pains; it dreads destruction, though it cannot die; and it is so anxious at the calamities of its own body that you would believe it rather to be enduring the last extremities—it, which cannot perish by nature. It enjoys also the most healthful tempering of the flesh, it feeds on the gazing of the eyes, it is delighted by sonorous hearings, it is gladdened by the sweetest odours, it is soothed by the necessary banqueting of taste; and although it by no means itself feeds on these things, yet when such things are withdrawn it is consumed with the heaviest grief, desiring not the things naturally suited to itself but those that are profitable to the joined limbs. Hence sometimes vices contrary to reason steal upon it, when the soul, by too indulgently yielding to the beloved body, is known to give place to sin.

The life of the body, therefore, is the presence of the soul it has received; but its death is proved to be the soul's departure. So we call it 'day' when the sun gives light, which, when it has departed, is called night. The body lives, then, by the protection of the soul, and is proved to receive from it that whereby it has power to move itself. But since this too is known to pertain to the kind of life of which we speak, it must be known that, when that fiery vigour has poured itself into the parts of the body and the vital spirit has breathed upon the carnal matter, if perchance it receives some wound, it at once feels the pain, because it is substantially inserted everywhere. But if its virtue and heat only animated, a cut finger could not feel pain—just as the sun is proved to feel nothing if you attempt to cut its rays.

It is, therefore, whole in its parts, nor is it lesser in one place and greater in another, but in one place more intently, in another more remissly, where nevertheless it is extended with vital intention. It gathers its members into one and joins them together; it does not suffer to flow away or waste those things which it guards with vital vigour; everywhere it distributes fitting nourishments, preserving in them congruity and measure. Moreover it seems marvellous that an incorporeal thing should be bound to the most solid members, and that natures so distant should have been brought into one harmony, so that the soul can neither separate itself when it wills, nor retain itself when it has recognized the Creator's command. All things are shut to it when it is bidden to dwell within; all things are rendered open when it is commanded to go forth.

For if the bitter pain of a wound be inflicted, it is not let go without the Author's command, just as it is not kept without His gift. Hence it is that we often see those gravely wounded escape, and again perish from slight occasions. But that reason is in man, who can doubt? since he treats of divine things, is wise in human things, is taught by excellent arts, is instructed in distinguished disciplines, and herein fittingly excels the other animals, in that comely reason composes him. But by reason I mean a probable motion of the mind, which through those things that are granted and known leads to something unknown, arriving at the secret of truth. This, by conjectures and arguments, longs to hasten to that which it recognizes to be in the nature of things.

For that alone is to be called true and pure and certain reason which is rendered foreign to every image of falsehood. It is given to the soul, then, in a manner to apprehend its own thoughts and, through the obedience of the tongue, to set them forth with voluble motion. Placed in the body, how many things the soul sees; not going out of itself, how diverse the things it looks round upon; everywhere it is as it were stretched out, and yet no departure of the soul is proved to occur. It is moved, it is raised up, it is known to fluctuate, and within itself, as if running through a great space, it ranges about. This does not go out to its objects, but by its own dealings represents to itself what it may regard by its own thought; now what it has seen with bodily eyes, now what it has conceived by fantastic imagination. It clearly thinks one thing at a time, just as it also speaks;

by an order it accomplishes nothing of sense when it confounds itself with diversity, because it is proper to the Divinity to arrange many things and to unfold all things at once with fitting measures. Endowed, then, with the bounty of reason, how many good things has it found by the gift of the Divinity: it has discovered the forms of letters, it has brought forth the uses and disciplines of the various arts, it has girt cities with a defensible wall, it has produced garments of varied kind, by industry it requires better fruits from the lands, it crosses the deeps in a winged ship, it has bored through vast mountains for the use of travellers, it has enclosed harbours for the benefit of seafarers by lunar arrangement, it has adorned the earth with a most beautiful arrangement of buildings.

Who now would doubt of its reason, when, illumined by its Author, it causes to be beheld by art that which ought to be praised with all solemnity? It is now fitting to discourse of its immortality. The authors of secular letters have proved souls immortal in manifold ways, saying: if everything that quickens another lives in itself, but the soul, since it quickens the body, lives in itself—surely it is immortal. They say also: all immortal things are simple; but the soul is not a harmony, nor does it consist of many things, but is a simple nature; the soul, therefore, is immortal. And again they propose: whatever is not corrupted by an original contrariety perseveres perpetually immortal;

the soul indeed, since it is simple and pure, is without doubt immortal. They add also: if everything rational that moves itself is immortal; but the rational soul moves itself; therefore it is immortal. We, however, easily prove souls to be immortal by truthful readings; for since we read that they were made to the image and likeness of their Author, who would dare against holy authority to call them mortal, so as rather to assert shamelessly that they differ from the likeness of their Creator? For how could there be an image or likeness of God, if the souls of men were shut up by the boundary of death? For He, ineffably ever-living, ineffably ever-abiding, Himself keeping perpetuity;

who contains all things, disposes all things, is without doubt able, being immortal, to make immortal things and to give a fitting measure of life according to His own measure. Someone says: how am I like to God, since I am not at all able to create immortal things? To whom we judge it must be answered thus by some comparison. Can a picture, which is like to us, imitate the things we make? For an image can have some likeness, but cannot fulfil that which the reality does. For from this too we ought to recognize the soul as immortal, in that it longs to think of eternity. For it desires, after the death of the body, to leave the fame of its own name; it longs to be praised without end; and a good conscience is the more anxious about future things, lest its reputation be stained by posterity.

Hence it is established among the more sublime authors that whatever is raised up by the dignity of reason is not pressed down by the injury of death. Add that truth absolutely professes that it will give perpetual torment to the wicked and perpetual joys to the good, so that it is not lawful to receive with hesitation that which the divinity of the Omnipotent deigns to promise. But this immortality of the soul we ought not so to understand as one that admits no suffering. For it is liable to mutability and open to griefs, yet nevertheless amid whatever weariness or anxieties it perseveres by the benefit of continuance. But God alone is singularly immortal, singularly just, singularly powerful, singularly good, singularly holy.

For although these things, or things like to them, are said to be in men or angels, yet none of them attain to the height of His reverend power. For all the lofty virtues are in that summit most fully and most perfectly, which by His bounty are granted to all creatures according to their own measure. Now it must be known in what manner this immortal soul is perceived to live on. It lives in itself after the loss of this present age, not by the spirit breathing back as in the body, but by an equal mobility which has been attributed to it: pure, subtle, swift, eternal, it sees, it hears, it touches, and prevails more efficaciously by the remaining senses; no longer understanding these things from its parts, but knowing all things spiritually from the whole.

Otherwise it is absurd to think that it can do less when free than when burdened by the mass of the most brutish body. For there is no doubt that angels and the powers of the air, or the other things known to consist of a sublime and immortal substance, are able to understand such things. It remains that we now teach it to be subject to mobility in due order. But who would doubt that we are now uplifted by joy, now cast down by grief, now mild by piety, now terrible by indignation, now raising our minds to virtues, now again declining to vices? Some things we tenaciously take up, others we reject by forgetfulness; what now pleases, afterward displeases.

We are edified also by the discourses of the good, we are destroyed by the conversation of the wicked, and as much as we profit with the upright, so much do we know ourselves to become worse with the worst. For if one rigour, one purpose held us, we should be made neither good out of evil, nor blessed out of the wicked, by the benefit of mutability. But that the cause of this variety may be more evidently recognized, let us recall, as has been said, that prudence has not been bestowed on us as unchangeable; and therefore we are wise when by divine illumination we act well, and again we are foolish when we are blinded by darkening transgressions. For an affection that comes and recedes is always uncertain.

God alone is omnipotent, for whom to be is the same as to be wise, to be able the same as to live, to will the same as to do; and rightly, since all things that are truly good do not come to Him but proceed from Him. Wherefore this origin of the soul, of which we have spoken, is not to be understood as a part of God, as certain madmen have thought with irreligious will, because it is convertible; nor as of the angels, because it is associable with flesh; nor from air, nor from water, nor from earth, nor from those things which are joined by mutual embrace;

but a simple and proper nature, a substance distinct from other spirits, which we ought to mark as far subtler and more luminous than air, since we behold the latter commonly, but cannot, by the condition of the flesh, behold the former. This species a natural mobility ever stirs up to unfold its thoughts agreeably. Hence it is that, relaxed through rest, when the matter of our accustomed thought has been withdrawn from us, and we are not intent in the customary manner upon daily actions, we dream of various things, now by false, now by true visions. It is a small thing that, with our senses lulled to sleep, we are deluded by flighty imagination, when frequently even waking we are led away from our contemplation.

For often, when we direct ourselves in prayer with great intention, by I know not what sport we are suddenly removed by thoughts breathed in upon us, and so it comes about that something adverse is suggested to the mind which we had not purposed. It is established, therefore, that the soul is turned about in this world by an unstable and variable will, and is capable of losing and receiving good things, and does not always subsist by one rigour of its will, but even against its own disposition changes itself by manifold conversion. Nor are we of those who say that souls rather recollect than learn the usual arts and the other disciplines, since they are both prepared for the questions asked, where they can attain by reaching understanding, and so hear new things as if they had learned nothing of them before.

Behold, that pregnant definition is now delivered of its offspring; behold, the things that were shut up have burst forth into the light (unless I am mistaken). Nothing of the proposed framework has been left out, whose method is such that it so unfolds and determines what it intends, that it may seem to have said neither less nor more. Now let us approach with anxious senses the substantial quality of the soul, which you remember holds the third place of your questioning. The authors said that the quality of this substance is fiery, for the reason that it is ever quickened by a mobile ardour, and, joined to the body, quickens the members by its heat.

Then, because all heavenly things, they report, consist of a flaming vigour—not this smoky, consumable, and temporal flame, but one from a tranquil nourisher and immortal. This neither diminishes nor grows, but perseveres perpetually in the dignity of the origin it received. And it cannot be brought to an end, because it is not, like some body, compacted of a diversity of elements. For being one and simple, it knows not to have anything adverse, and therefore always abides, since in its essence it has no strife. So they say that all things created are immortal to which a spiritual substance has been granted.

But we, not unfittingly, would rather say that the soul is light, on account of the image of God, which it is recorded fittingly to have received among the conditions of things, as much as was necessary for it according to its measure. For God Himself, the Omnipotent, alone has immortality and dwells in inaccessible light, which beyond all brightnesses or wonders the soundness of mind understands; but the image has some likeness; nevertheless this light cannot have that which the reality does. But that which we revere as an ineffable mystery, which is everywhere whole and invisibly present, is the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit;

one essence and undivided majesty, splendour above all brightnesses, glory above all proclamation, which a most pure mind devoted to God can indeed in some part perceive, but is not able adequately to set forth. For how is it lawful to speak sufficiently of Him who cannot be comprehended by the sense of a creature? Let us, though by excessive piety, go beyond the measure of our soul, and with immense religion be silent above our very selves by lofty thought. Let us pass beyond also the powers of the heavenly creatures, and profoundly treat of who He is that made things so great by one command, in one moment; yet whatever we marvel at is greater, whatever we perceive is more exalted, while the human mind does not penetrate to that unsearchable majesty.

The one way, therefore, of regarding this power is to venerate that which is unsearchable, not to inquire definitively what and how great He is. Instructed, then, by these things, we seem not unfittingly to mark that souls have some substantial light, since in the Gospel it is read: 'the light which lighteneth every man that cometh into this world.' Then, because, placed in thought, we feel something fine, voluble, clear within us, which looks without the sun, which sees without an external light. For if it were not itself luminous in itself, it would not have such great power of beholding things. These things are not given to the dark; all blind things grow torpid. For the lights of this soul are so violent that they even behold things absent.

These lights, nevertheless, are then made far clearer and unchangeable, when by the grace of God they do not depart from good acts. For by their speculative virtue it is most certain, by experience itself, that many and difficult things which are hidden away in the secret of nature are inspected and comprehended. Now let us inspect whether the soul is believed to have forms, which we have already said are incorporeal. First it is fitting to know, by the definition of our elders, the most truthful framework of form itself. By form I mean that which encloses some space by a line or lines, and so it is easily given to be understood whether souls can receive it, which it is certain subsist by a spiritual vigour.

For since every form is either in a surface or in a body—surface only in a body, and body indeed solid and palpable—but it is established that the soul is manifestly excepted from these things, it remains that souls must be thought in no way to have forms, but to abide unfigured and incorporeal in their own quality. Nor let this move us, that the Apostle says of Christ the Lord: 'who, when He was in the form of God, thought it not robbery to be equal with God,' and the rest; for there he wishes 'nature' to be understood. But otherwise, what form could the incorporeal God have, who is everywhere whole and incomprehensible?