文集（天主之城·論三位一體等） 第 41 章 第 1/2 段

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;