I. AGAINST THE ACADEMICS, THREE BOOKS. BOOK ONE. O Romanianus, would that virtue could in turn wrest from resisting fortune a man suited to itself, just as it suffers itself to be wrested from him by no one! Then indeed it would already have laid hands upon you, and, proclaiming that you are of its own right and leading you into possession of the most certain goods, it would not permit you to be a slave even to prosperous chances.
But since it has been so arranged, whether by our deserts or by the necessity of nature, that the haven of wisdom in no way receives the divine soul while it cleaves to mortal things — where it would be moved neither by the adverse blast of fortune nor by the favouring one — unless either the favourable or the seemingly adverse itself lead it thither: nothing else remains for us on your behalf but prayers, whereby, if we can, we may obtain from that God to whom these things are a care, that he restore you to yourself — for so he will easily restore you to us also — and permit that mind of yours, which has long been labouring to draw breath, at last to emerge into the airs of true liberty.
For perhaps that which is commonly called fortune is governed by some hidden order, and we call nothing else in things 'chance' except that whose reason and cause is secret; and nothing, whether of advantage or of disadvantage, befalls in one part which does not fit and accord with the whole. This opinion, published in the oracles of the most fruitful teachings and set very far from the understanding of the profane, philosophy promises to demonstrate to her true lovers — to which philosophy I am inviting you. Wherefore, when many things unworthy of your spirit befall you, do not despise yourself; for if divine providence extends even to us — which is by no means to be doubted, believe me — it is fitting, so I hold, that it should deal with you as it is dealing.
For when, with that great natural endowment of yours which I always admire, you were entering upon human life — most full of all errors — from your early youth, with reason's step still weak and slipping, a superabundance of riches received you, which had begun to swallow up in its enticing whirlpools that age and spirit of yours, greedily pursuing what seemed beautiful and honourable — had not those blasts of fortune, which are thought adverse, snatched you away as you were all but drowning.
But truly, if the applause of the theatre — always most favourable — had received you as you gave the shows of bears and spectacles never before seen there to our fellow-citizens; if by the combined and consenting voices of foolish men, whose crowd is immense, you were borne to the sky; if no one dared to be your enemy; if the municipal tablets marked you in bronze as patron not only of citizens but even of neighbours; if statues were set up, if honours flowed in, if powers too were added which overtopped the municipal station; if at daily banquets sumptuous tables were laid, so that whatever anyone needed, whatever anyone's delight thirsted for, he might unhesitatingly ask and unhesitatingly quaff, and much be poured out even upon those who did not ask, and the estate itself,
diligently and faithfully administered by your people, showed itself adequate and ready-prepared for such great expenditures; while you meanwhile were living amid the most exquisite piles of buildings, in the splendour of baths, at the dice-tables which honour does not spurn, in hunts, in banquets, on the lips of your clients, on the lips of your fellow-citizens, on the lips finally of whole peoples — and were being flaunted as most humane, most liberal, most refined, most fortunate: would anyone, Romanianus, would anyone, I ask, dare to make mention to you of that other blessed life, which alone is blessed?
Could anyone persuade you that not only are you not happy, but that you are most wretched precisely in that you would least seem so to yourself? But now, indeed, how briefly must you be admonished, seeing that so many and so great the adversities are which you have endured! For you need not be persuaded by others' examples how fleeting and fragile and full of calamities are all those things which mortals reckon goods, since you have so experienced it that from yourself we can persuade the rest.
That therefore, that quality of yours — by which you always desired what is comely and honourable, by which you chose to be liberal rather than rich, by which you never coveted to be more powerful than more just, and never yielded to adversities or to villainies — that very thing, I say, which is divine in you and has been lulled asleep by I know not what slumber and torpor of this life, secret providence has decreed to awaken by those varied and hard buffetings. Awake, awake, I pray you;
much, believe me, will you rejoice that scarcely by any prosperities — by which the incautious are held — have the gifts of this world flattered you; those gifts which were daily contriving to capture me myself as I sang these very songs, had not the pain in my chest compelled me to cast off my windy profession and take refuge in the bosom of philosophy. She now nourishes and cherishes me in the leisure we so vehemently desired; she has utterly freed me from that superstition into which I had cast myself headlong, and you along with me. For she teaches, and teaches truly, that nothing at all is to be worshipped, and that whatever is discerned by mortal eyes, whatever any sense attains, is wholly to be despised.
She promises that she will clearly demonstrate the most true and most hidden God, and now, even now, she deigns as it were through luminous clouds to show him. In this pursuit our friend Licentius lives most zealously with me; wholly turned to it from youthful enticements and pleasures, so that I would not rashly propose him to his father as a model to be imitated. For it is philosophy from whose breasts no age will complain of being shut out. And that I might spur you the more eagerly to lay hold of her and to drink from her — although I well know your thirst — I nevertheless wished to send you a taste; which I beg may prove most sweet to you and, so to speak, an inducement, that I may not have hoped in vain. For I have sent you, set down in writing, the disputation which Trygetius and Licentius held between themselves.
For that young man too, as though to wipe away his distaste for the disciplines, had usurped to himself a little of military service, and thus restored himself to us most ardent and most voracious for the great and honourable arts. When, therefore, a few days had passed, after we had begun to live in the countryside, as I was exhorting and animating them to their studies, and saw them prepared beyond what I had wished and downright gaping for it, I resolved to test, according to their age, what they could do — especially since Cicero's book Hortensius seemed already for the most part to have won them over to philosophy. And so, a shorthand-writer having been brought in, lest the breezes should scatter our labour, I allowed nothing to perish. Indeed, in this book you will read their matter and opinions, but the very words of myself and of Alypius.
When, therefore, at my urging we had all been gathered together into one place for this purpose, where it seemed opportune, I said: 'Do you doubt at all that we ought to know the truth?' — 'By no means,' said Trygetius, and the rest signified by their very countenance that they approved. — 'What,' said I, 'if we can be happy even without truth being comprehended: do you think the comprehension of truth necessary?' — Here Alypius: 'This question,' he said, 'I think it safer for me to be the judge of. For since a journey into the city has been fixed for me, I ought to be relieved of the burden of undertaking any one side; and at the same time because I can more easily delegate to someone the part of judge than the defence of anyone. Wherefore henceforth expect nothing from me on behalf of either side.'
When this had been granted him by all, and I had repeated my question, Trygetius said: 'Certainly we wish to be happy, and if we can arrive at this without truth, the truth need not be sought by us.' — 'What of this very thing?' said I; 'do you think we can be happy even without the truth being found?' — Then Licentius: 'We can,' he said, 'if we seek the truth.' — Here, when I demanded the opinion of the others by a nod, Navigius said: 'What Licentius has said moves me. For perhaps this very thing may be to live happily: to live in the inquiry after truth.'
— 'Define, then,' said Trygetius, 'what the happy life is, so that from it I may gather what it is fitting to answer.' — 'What,' said I, 'do you think it is to live happily, other than to live according to that which is best in man?' — 'I will not,' said he, 'pour out words rashly; for what that very best is, I think must be defined for me by you.' — 'Who,' said I, 'would doubt that man's best is nothing other than that part of the soul which, when it rules, it is fitting for all the other things in man to obey? This, moreover — that you may not demand another definition — can be called mind or reason. But if this does not seem so to you, seek how you yourself would define either the happy life or man's best.' — 'I assent,' said he. 'What then?'
'That we may return to our proposition,' said I, 'does it seem to you that one can live happily without truth being found, if only it be sought?' — 'I repeat,' said he, 'that opinion of mine: it does not seem so.' — 'You,' said I, 'what do you think?' — Then Licentius: 'To me it does altogether seem so,' he said. 'For our forefathers, whom we have received as wise and happy, by this alone, that they sought the truth, lived well and happily.' — 'I give thanks,' said I, 'that together with Alypius you have made me the judge — a role which, I confess, I had already begun to envy him.'
'Since, therefore, to one of you it seems that the happy life can be attained by the mere investigation of truth, and to the other only by its discovery, while Navigius a little before showed that he wishes to cross over to your side, Licentius, I greatly look to see what sort of advocates of your opinions you can be. For the matter is great and most worthy of diligent discussion.' — 'If the matter is great,' said Licentius, 'it requires great men.' — 'Do not seek,' said I, 'especially in this country villa, what is hard to find anywhere among the nations; but rather explain why that which was uttered by you not rashly, as I suppose, seems so to you, and on what reasoning. For even the greatest matters, when they are inquired into by small men, are wont to make them great.'
'Since,' said he, 'I see you greatly pressing us to dispute against one another — which I trust you usefully wish — I ask: why cannot he be happy who seeks the truth, even if he does not find it?' — 'Because,' said Trygetius, 'we wish the happy man to be perfect and wise in all things. But he who is still seeking is not perfect. How, then, you can assert this man to be happy, I do not at all see.' — And the other: 'Has the authority of our forefathers,' he said, 'any weight with you?' — 'Not of all,' said Trygetius. — 'Of whom, then?' — He: 'Of those, namely, who were wise.' — Then Licentius: 'Does Carneades,' he said, 'not seem wise to you?' — 'I,' said he, 'am no Greek; I do not know who that Carneades was.'
'What,' said Licentius, 'do you think, then, of that Cicero of ours?' — Here, after he had long kept silent: 'He was wise,' he said. — And the other: 'Therefore his opinion on this matter has some weight with you?' — 'It has,' said he. — 'Receive, then, what it is; for I think it has slipped from your memory. For it pleased our Cicero that he is happy who investigates truth, even if he cannot succeed in attaining to its discovery.' — 'Where,' said he, 'did Cicero say this?' — And Licentius: 'Who does not know that he vehemently affirmed that nothing can be perceived by man, and that nothing remains to the wise man except the most diligent inquiry after truth — for this reason, that if he assented to uncertain things, even though perhaps they were true,
he could not be freed from error, which is the greatest fault of a wise man? Wherefore, if it must be believed both that the wise man is necessarily happy, and that the sole inquiry after truth is the perfect function of wisdom, why do we doubt to reckon that the happy life can be attained even by the very investigation of truth in itself?' Then the other: 'Is it permitted at last to return to those things which were rashly conceded?' — Here I: 'They,' said I, 'are not wont to grant this, whom to disputation not a desire of finding the truth but a childish vaunting of talent impels. And so, before these — especially since you are still to be nourished and educated — it is not only granted but I wish you even to hold it among your precepts, that you ought to return to examining those things which you conceded incautiously.'
— And Licentius: 'I think it no small advance in philosophy,' he said, 'when, in comparison with finding out the right and the true, victory is despised by the disputant. And so I gladly obey your precepts and your judgment, and I permit Trygetius to return to that which he thinks he conceded rashly — for the matter is within my right.' — Then Alypius: 'You yourselves do not yet recognize with me what are the parts of the office I have undertaken. But since the departure long arranged compels me to break off, for my part too, sharing in the judgment, he will not refuse me a doubled power for himself until my return; for I see this contest of yours going to proceed rather far.' — And when he had departed: 'What,' said Licentius, 'had you conceded rashly? Bring it forth.'
— And the other said: 'I rashly granted that Cicero was wise.' — 'Then was not Cicero wise, by whom in the Latin tongue philosophy was both begun and perfected?' — 'Even if I concede,' said he, 'that he is wise, yet I do not approve everything of his.' — 'And yet you ought to refute many other things of his, that you may not seem impudently to disapprove this thing which is under discussion.' — 'What if I am prepared to affirm that in this alone he did not judge rightly? It matters nothing to you, I suppose, except of what weight are the reasons I bring to assert what I wish.' — 'Proceed,' said the other. — 'For what,' said he, 'should I dare against him who professes himself the adversary of Cicero?' Here Trygetius: 'I wish you to attend,' he said, 'you our judge, to how earlier you defined the happy life;
for you said that he is happy who lives according to that part of the soul which it is fitting to command the rest. But you, Licentius, I wish you even now to concede to me — for now, by the liberty into which philosophy chiefly promises she will vindicate us, I have shaken off that yoke of authority — that he is not perfect who still requires the truth.' — Then the other, after a long silence: 'I do not concede it,' he said. — Trygetius: 'Why, pray? Explain. For here I stand and long to hear in what manner a man can both be perfect and still seek the truth.' — Here he: 'He who,' said he, 'has not arrived at the end, I confess, is not perfect.
But that truth I think God alone knows, or perhaps the soul of man when it has left this body — that is, this dark prison. But man's end is to seek the truth perfectly; for we seek one perfect, yet still a man. — And Trygetius: 'Then man cannot be happy. For how, when he cannot attain that which he greatly covets? But man can live happily, if indeed he can live according to that part of the soul which it is right should rule in man. He can, therefore, find the truth. Or else let him collect himself and not covet the truth, lest, when he cannot attain it, he be necessarily wretched.' — 'But this very thing is man's blessedness,' said the other, 'to seek the truth perfectly;
for this is to arrive at the end, beyond which one cannot proceed. Whoever, then, seeks the truth less earnestly than he ought, does not arrive at man's end; but whoever gives such effort to finding the truth as a man can and ought, even if he does not find it, is happy; for he does the whole of that for the doing of which he was born. But if the finding be lacking, that will be lacking which nature did not give. Finally, since a man must necessarily be either happy or wretched, is it not the mark of a madman to call him wretched who, day and night, as much as he can, presses on to investigate the truth? He will therefore be happy. And then that definition, as I think, supports me the more richly;
for if he is happy — as indeed he is — who lives according to that part of the soul which it is fitting should reign over the rest, and this part is called reason, I ask whether he does not live according to reason who seeks the truth perfectly. But if that is absurd, why do we doubt to call a man happy by the sole investigation of truth itself?' — 'To me,' said the other, 'whoever errs seems neither to live according to reason nor to be happy at all. But everyone errs who always seeks and does not find. Whence you must show me one of two things: either that one who errs can be happy, or that he who never finds what he seeks does not err.' — Here he: 'A happy man cannot err.' And when he had long been silent: 'But he does not err,' said he, 'while he seeks, because he seeks in order not to err.' — And Trygetius:
'He seeks, indeed, in order not to err,' said he, 'but he errs when he does not find. And so you thought it would profit you that he does not wish to err — as though no one errs unwillingly, or as though anyone at all errs except unwillingly.' — Then I, when the other long delayed as to what he should reply, said: 'You must define what error is; for you will more easily see its bounds, into which you have now deeply entered.' — 'I,' said Licentius, 'am not fit to define anything, although to define error is easier than to set it a limit.' — 'I,' said the other, 'will define it, which is most easy for me — not by talent, but by the best of causes. For to err is assuredly always to seek, never to find.'
— 'I,' said Licentius, 'if I could easily refute even that definition, would long since not have failed my own cause. But since the matter itself is either of itself difficult, or so appears to me, I ask of you that the question be deferred until tomorrow's light, if today I can find nothing to answer, when I turn it over diligently with myself.' — When I thought this must be granted, the others not refusing, we rose to go for a walk; and while we conversed among ourselves on many and various matters, he remained fixed in thought. When he perceived that this was in vain, he chose rather to relax his mind and to mingle himself in our conversation. Afterwards, when it was growing toward evening, they had returned to the same conflict;
but I imposed a limit and persuaded them to suffer it to be deferred to another day. Thence to the baths. But on the next day, when we had sat down: 'Bring forth,' said I, 'what you began yesterday.' — Then Licentius: 'We had deferred the disputation, if I am not mistaken, at my request, since the definition of error was most difficult for me.' — 'Here plainly,' said I, 'you do not err; and that this may be an omen to you for the rest, I would gladly have wished.' — 'Hear then,' said he, 'what yesterday, had you not intervened, I would have brought forth. Error seems to me to be the approval of the false for the true. Into this in no way falls one who always thinks the truth must be sought; for he cannot approve the false who approves nothing; therefore he cannot err. But he can most easily be happy;
for, not to go too far afield, if it were permitted us daily to live as we were permitted yesterday, nothing occurs to me why we should doubt to call ourselves happy. For we lived with great tranquillity of mind, vindicating the soul from every taint of the body and being removed very far from the torches of the lusts, giving effort, as much as is permitted to man, to reason — that is, living according to that divine part of the soul which, by yesterday's definition agreed among us, is the happy life; and yet, as I think, we found nothing, but only sought the truth. Therefore the happy life can befall a man by the sole investigation of truth, even if he can by no means find it. For see with how great ease your definition is excluded by the common notion.'
'For you said that to err is to seek always and never to find. But what if someone were seeking nothing, and, being asked, for example, whether it were now day, should rashly and at once suppose it to be night and answer accordingly — would he not seem to you to be in error? This kind of error, then, and a most monstrous one, your definition has not embraced. And what if it has embraced even those who do not err — can any definition be more faulty? For if someone were seeking Alexandria and were making for it by a straight road, I do not think you could call him one who errs. But what if he should traverse that same road for a long time, hindered by various causes, and were overtaken by death upon it — has he not both sought always and never found, and yet not erred?' 'No,' said he, 'he has not sought always.'
'You speak rightly,' said Licentius, 'and you admonish me well. For from that very point your definition has nothing at all to do with the matter; for I did not say that he is blessed who always seeks the truth. This indeed cannot even happen, first because a man does not always exist, and next because it is not from the time he begins to be a man that he can at once seek the truth, since his age hinders him. Or if you think it must always be said thus — that no portion of the time in which he is already able to seek is allowed to perish — then you must return to Alexandria once more.'
'For suppose someone, from the time when either his age or his affairs permit him to make the journey, begins to set out on that road, and, as I said above, though he nowhere strays from it, yet departs from life before he arrives — you will surely be greatly mistaken if this man shall seem to you to have erred, even though for all the time he could he neither ceased to seek nor was able to find that whither he was going. Wherefore, if my description is true, and according to it he does not err who seeks perfectly, though he does not find the truth, and is blessed for this reason, namely that he lives according to reason — then your definition has both come to nothing; and even if it had not, I ought to give it no heed, if only on the ground of what I have defined.'
'The case has been sufficiently established. Why then, I ask, is this question between us not yet resolved?' Here Trygetius said: 'Do you grant that wisdom is the straight road of life?' 'I do,' said he, 'without doubt; but nevertheless I want you to define wisdom for me, that I may know whether what seems to me the same seems so to you also.' And the other replied: 'Does it seem too little defined for you by this very thing about which you have just been asked? You have even conceded what I wished. For, if I am not mistaken, the straight road of life is called wisdom.' Then Licentius: 'Nothing,' said he, 'seems to me so ridiculous as that definition.' 'Perhaps so,' said he; 'yet I beg you, step by step, that reason may forestall your laughter; for nothing is more shameful than laughter most worthy of derision.'
'For what?' said he. 'Do you not admit that death is contrary to life?' 'I admit it,' he said. 'To me, then,' said he, 'no road seems more truly the road of life than that by which each one proceeds so as not to fall into death.' Trygetius assented. 'Therefore, if some traveller, avoiding a byway which he had heard was beset by robbers, should proceed to go straight on and thus escape destruction, has he not both followed the road of life and a straight one? And yet no one calls that wisdom. How then is every straight road of life wisdom?' 'I granted that it is such, but not that it alone is.' 'But a definition ought to embrace nothing that is foreign to it. And so define again, if you please: what does wisdom seem to you to be?' For a long while he was silent; then:
'Behold,' said he, 'I define once more, if you have determined never to make an end of this. Wisdom is the straight road which leads to the truth.' 'This too is refuted in like manner,' said he; 'for when in Virgil it was said to Aeneas by his mother, «Only go on, and where the road leads you, direct your step,» he, following this road to that which had been spoken of — that is, to the truth — arrived at it. Contend, if you please, that where he set his advancing foot may be called wisdom — although it is quite foolishly that I try to break down this description of yours; for nothing aids my cause more. For you said that wisdom is not the truth itself, but the road which leads to it. Whoever, then, uses this road, uses wisdom, assuredly; and he who uses wisdom must needs be wise.
Therefore he will be wise who has sought the truth perfectly, even if he has not yet attained it. For the road which leads to the truth, I think, is understood to be nothing better than the diligent search for truth. Using this road alone, then, this man will already be wise. And no one who is wise is wretched; but every man is either wretched or blessed: therefore not only the finding, but the very investigation of truth in and of itself will make a man blessed.' Then the other, smiling: 'Deservedly,' said he, 'do these things befall me, while I confidently assent to my adversary in a matter that is not necessary — as if indeed I were some great definer, or thought anything more superfluous in disputation.'
'For what limit will there be, if I in turn should wish something to be defined by you, and again should demand — feigning that I understand nothing — that the words of the same definition, and likewise every one of its consequences singly, be defined? For why should I compel by my right the plainest thing to be defined, if a definition of wisdom is rightly demanded of me? For of what word did nature wish there to be in our minds a clearer notion than of wisdom? But somehow or other, when the notion has, as it were, left the harbour of our mind and, as it were, spread the sails of words for itself, straightway a thousand shipwrecks of cavils rush upon it. Wherefore, either let no definition of wisdom be required, or let our judge deign to come down to its defence.'
Then I, since night was now hindering my pen and I saw that a great matter seemed to arise, to be discussed as it were afresh, put it off to another day. For we had begun to dispute when the sun was already declining toward its setting, and almost the whole day had been spent partly in ordering matters of the farm, partly in reviewing the first book of Virgil. Then presently, as soon as it grew light — for so matters had been arranged the day before, that there might be ample leisure — straightway the business we had undertaken was taken up to be finished. Then I said: 'Yesterday, Trygetius, you demanded that I come down from the office of judge to the defence of wisdom, as if indeed wisdom would suffer any adversary in your discourse, or, with anyone defending it, laboured so as to have need to implore greater aid.
For neither has anything else arisen to be sought among you than what wisdom is — in which neither of you attacks it, since each of you longs for it — nor, if you think you have failed in defining wisdom, ought you on that account to abandon the rest of the defence of your opinion. And so from me you shall have nothing else than a definition of wisdom, which is neither mine nor new, but both belongs to men of old and one which I marvel that you do not recall. For it is not now for the first time that you hear that wisdom is the knowledge of things human and divine.' Here Licentius, whom after that definition I thought would long ponder what to say, at once put in: