Letter 10: 1. No question of yours ever kept me so disturbed while reflecting upon it, as the remark which I read in your last letter, in which you chide me for being indifferent as to making arrangements by which it may be possible for us to live together. A grave charge, and one which, were it not unfounded, would be most perilous.

Letter 10 (389 AD) To Nebridius — Augustine sends greetings. 1. No question of yours has ever troubled me as much as the remark in your last letter where you scold me for not trying harder to arrange things so we can live together. That is a serious charge, and if it were true, it would be devastating. But since there are good reasons to believe we can live as we wish to more effectively here than in Carthage, or even in the countryside, I am completely at a loss, my dear Nebridius, about what to do with you. Should we send you whatever kind of transport best suits your health? Our friend Lucinianus tells me you could be carried in a litter without harm. But then I think about your mother, who could not bear your absence when you were healthy and will tolerate it even less now that you are ill. Should I come to you instead? I cannot — there are people here who cannot come with me, and I would consider it a crime to abandon them. You can already pass time pleasantly when left to the resources of your own mind, but these people are still working toward that ability. Should I go back and forth, spending time with you and then with them? But that is neither living together nor living as we wish. The journey is not short — it is long enough that trying to make it frequently would destroy the very leisure we are seeking. And there is my physical weakness, which, as you know, means I cannot accomplish what I want unless I stop wanting things that are beyond my strength. 2. Spending one's life preoccupied with journeys you cannot make peacefully and easily — that is not the way for someone whose thoughts are occupied with that final journey we call death, the only journey that truly deserves serious attention. God has indeed granted to a few people whom he has called to lead churches the ability not only to face that final journey calmly but even to welcome it eagerly, while still handling the demands of constant travel without anxiety. But I do not believe that such a gift is given either to those who pursue church leadership out of worldly ambition, or to those in private life who simply crave busyness. I do not believe they can find, amid all their bustle and agitating meetings and rushing here and there, the familiarity with death that we are seeking. Both groups had it in their power to seek growth in solitude. If this is wrong, then I am — I will not say the most foolish of men — but at least the most lazy, since I find it impossible, without a real interval of relief from care and toil, to taste and truly savor that one real good. Believe me: it takes a great deal of withdrawal from the noise of passing things before something can be formed in a person — not through numbness, not through arrogance, not through vanity, not through superstitious blindness — but the genuine ability to say: "I fear nothing." And from this comes a lasting joy that no pleasure found anywhere else can even begin to match. 3. But if such a life is not possible for human beings, then how do we explain those moments of deep calm we do experience? And why are they more frequent in proportion to the devotion with which a person worships God in their inmost soul? Why does this tranquility often stay with someone even as they go out from prayer into the business of life? Why are there times when, speaking, we do not fear death — and, silent, even long for it? I say this to you — I would not say it to just anyone — to you, whose visits to that higher realm I know well: you, who have so often felt how sweetly the soul lives when it dies to all merely physical attachments — will you deny that it is possible for someone's entire life to eventually become so free from fear that they rightly deserve to be called wise? Or will you dare to claim that this state of mind, which reason depends on, has ever been yours except when you were shut up alone with your own heart? Since all this is so, you can see that the only thing left is for you to share with me the work of figuring out how we can arrange to live together. You know far better than I do what to do about your mother — your brother Victor is there with her, of course. I will write no more, so as not to distract your mind from considering this proposal.

Letter 10 (A.D. 389) To Nebridius Augustine Sends Greeting. 1. No question of yours ever kept me so disturbed while reflecting upon it, as the remark which I read in your last letter, in which you chide me for being indifferent as to making arrangements by which it may be possible for us to live together. A grave charge, and one which, were it not unfounded, would be most perilous. But since satisfactory reasons seem to prove that we can live as we would wish to do better here than at Carthage, or even in the country, I am wholly at a loss, my dear Nebridius, what to do with you. Shall such a conveyance as may best suit your state of health be sent from us to you? Our friend Lucinianus informs me that you can be carried without injury in a palanquin. But I consider, on the other hand, how your mother, who could not bear your absence from her when you were in health, will be much less able to bear it when you are ill. Shall I myself then come to you? This I cannot do, for there are some here who cannot accompany me, and whom I would think it a crime for me to leave. For you already can pass your time agreeably when left to the resources of our own mind; but in their case the object of present efforts is that they may attain to this. Shall I go and come frequently, and so be now with you, now with them? But this is neither to live together, nor to live as we would wish to do. For the journey is not a short one, but so great at least that the attempt to perform it frequently would prevent our gaining the wished-for leisure. To this is added the bodily weakness through which, as you know, I cannot accomplish what I wish, unless I cease wholly to wish what is beyond my strength. 2. To occupy one's thoughts throughout life with journeyings which you cannot perform tranquilly and easily, is not the part of a man whose thoughts are engaged with that last journey which is called death, and which alone, as you understand, really deserves serious consideration. God has indeed granted to some few men whom He has ordained to bear rule over churches, the capacity of not only awaiting calmly, but even desiring eagerly, that last journey, while at the same time they can meet without disquietude the toils of those other journeyings; but I do not believe that either to those who are urged to accept such duties through desire for worldly honour, or to those who, although occupying a private station, covet a busy life, so great a boon is given as that amid bustle and agitating meetings, and journeyings hither and there, they should acquire that familiarity with death which we seek: for both of these classes had it in their power to seek edification in retirement. Or if this be not true, I am, I shall not say the most foolish of all men, but at least the most indolent, since I find it impossible, without the aid of such an interval of relief from care and toil, to taste and relish that only real good. Believe me, there is need of much withdrawal of oneself from the tumult of the things which are passing away, in order that there may be formed in man, not through insensibility, not through presumption, not through vainglory, not through superstitious blindness, the ability to say, I fear nought. By this means also is attained that enduring joy with which no pleasurable excitement found elsewhere is in any degree to be compared. 3. But if such a life does not fall to the lot of man, how is it that calmness of spirit is our occasional experience? Wherefore is this experience more frequent, in proportion to the devotion with which any one in his inmost soul worships God? Why does this tranquillity for the most part abide with one in the business of life, when he goes forth to its duties from that sanctuary? Why are there times in which, speaking, we do not fear death, and, silent, even desire it? I say to you — for I would not say it to every one — to you whose visits to the upper world I know well, Will you, who have often felt how sweetly the soul lives when it dies to all mere bodily affections, deny that it is possible for the whole life of man to become at length so exempt from fear, that he may be justly called wise? Or will you venture to affirm that this state of mind, on which reason leans has ever been your lot, except when you were shut up to commune with your own heart? Since these things are so, you see that it remains only for you to share with me the labour of devising how we may arrange to live together. You know much better than I do what is to be done in regard to your mother, whom your brother Victor, of course, does not leave alone. I will write no more, lest I turn your mind away from considering this proposal. About this page Source. Translated by J.G. Cunningham. From Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, First Series, Vol. 1. Edited by Philip Schaff. (Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing Co., 1887.) Revised and edited for New Advent by Kevin Knight. <https://www.newadvent.org/fathers/1102010.htm>. Contact information. The editor of New Advent is Kevin Knight. My email address is feedback732 at newadvent.org. (To help fight spam, this address might change occasionally.) Regrettably, I can't reply to every letter, but I greatly appreciate your feedback — especially notifications about typographical errors and inappropriate ads.