Letter 3: 1. Whether I am to regard it as the effect of what I may call your flattering language, or whether the thing be really so, is a point which I am unable to decide. For the impression was sudden, and I am not yet resolved how far it deserves to be believed.

Letter 3 (387 AD) To Nebridius — Augustine sends greetings. 1. Whether this is the effect of your flattering words or whether it is actually true, I cannot decide. The impression came suddenly, and I have not yet worked out how far I should believe it. You are wondering what I am talking about. What do you think? You have almost made me believe — not that I am happy (that belongs only to the wise) — but that I am happy in a qualified sense. The way we loosely call someone a "man" even though compared to Plato's ideal man they barely deserve the name. Or the way we call things "round" or "square" even though they are nothing like the perfect geometric figures that only the trained mind perceives. I read your letter by lamplight after supper. Then I lay down, but could not sleep right away. On my bed I thought for a long time, talking to myself — Augustine questioning and Augustine answering: "Is it true, as Nebridius says, that I am happy? It cannot be absolutely true, since he himself would not deny that I am still far from wise. But can a happy life belong even to those who are not wise? That seems unlikely — because if it could, then lack of wisdom would be a minor inconvenience, not what it actually is: the single source of all unhappiness. So why did Nebridius call me happy? Was it that after reading my little books he went so far as to call me wise? Surely the rush of joy would not make him that reckless — especially since he is a man whose judgment I know to be substantial. I have it now: he wrote what he thought would please me most, because my writing had pleased him. He wrote in a joyful mood without carefully weighing the words his joyful pen set down. But then — what would he have said if he had read my Soliloquies? He would have been even more delighted, yet he could not have found a loftier word than the one he already used in calling me happy. So all at once he has spent his highest compliment, with nothing left in reserve for future praise. See what joy does to a person!" 2. But where is that truly happy life? Where? If only we could attain it — we would dismiss Epicurus's atomic theory without a second thought. If only we could attain it — we would understand that there is nothing here below but the visible world. If only we could attain it — we would grasp why a globe spinning on its axis moves faster at the equator than at the poles, and other such matters that we also happen to know. But for now, how can I be called happy when I do not even understand why the world is the size it is? The geometric proportions that shape it would not in themselves prevent it from being any size at all. Could we not be forced to admit that matter is infinitely divisible — so that from any given starting point, a specific number of particles must add up to a specific quantity? If we do not accept that any particle is too small to be divided further, what forces us to accept that any collection of parts is too large to be increased? Perhaps there is something to what I once suggested privately to Alypius: that number, as grasped by the mind, can be increased infinitely but cannot be reduced below the unit. Whereas number as perceived by the senses (which really just means the quantity of material bodies) can be diminished infinitely but has a limit to how large it can grow. This might be why philosophers rightly say that riches belong to the realm of the mind, and poverty to the realm of the senses. What is poorer than being endlessly reducible? And what richer than being able to grow as much as you wish, to go where you wish, to return when and as far as you wish, loving something that is great and cannot be made less? For whoever understands these numbers loves nothing so much as the unit — and no wonder, since through the unit all other numbers become lovable. But to return to the point: why is the world the size it is, when it could have been bigger or smaller? I do not know. It is what it is, and I can go no further. And why is the world in this place rather than another? Better not even to ask — whatever the answer, more questions would remain. One thing did perplex me greatly: that bodies could be infinitely subdivided. But perhaps the answer lies in the corresponding property of abstract number — that it can be infinitely multiplied. 3. But wait — let us consider this elusive something the mind is grasping at. This visible world that our senses know is surely an image of some world the intellect perceives. Now, here is a strange thing about mirrors: no matter how large the mirror, it never makes the reflected image bigger than the actual object, however small that object may be. But in small mirrors — such as the pupil of an eye — even a vast scene produces only a tiny image, proportioned to the size of the mirror. So making mirrors smaller shrinks the images, but making them bigger does not enlarge them. There is surely something here worth investigating further. But for now, I must sleep. And if Nebridius thinks me happy, it is not because I am still searching, but perhaps because I have found something. So what is that something? Is it that chain of reasoning I am so fond of caressing like my only treasure — in which perhaps I take too much delight? 4. What are we made of? Soul and body. Which is nobler? Obviously the soul. What do people praise in the body? Nothing, as far as I can see, except beauty. And what is bodily beauty? Harmony of parts together with a pleasing color. Is this beauty better when it is real or when it is illusory? Undoubtedly when it is real. And where is it found to be real? In the soul. Therefore the soul deserves more love than the body. But in what part of the soul does this truth reside? In the mind and understanding. What does the understanding struggle against? The senses. Must we resist the senses with all our strength? Absolutely. But what if the things we perceive through our senses give us pleasure? We must stop them from doing so. How? By learning to do without them, and by desiring better things. But what if the soul dies? Well then, either truth dies, or intelligence is not truth, or intelligence is not part of the soul, or something that contains an immortal part can still die. I showed long ago in my Soliloquies that all these conclusions are absurd because impossible. I am firmly persuaded of this — yet somehow, conditioned by our long experience of suffering, we are terrified and we hesitate. But even granting, finally, that the soul dies (which I do not see as possible in any way), it remains true that a happy life does not consist in the fleeting pleasure that material things can provide. I have thought this through carefully and proved it. Perhaps it is because of reasoning like this that my dear Nebridius has judged me, if not absolutely happy, then happy in some sense. Let me also judge myself happy — what do I lose by it? Why should I grudge myself a favorable verdict on my own condition? That is how I talked with myself. Then I prayed, as is my habit, and fell asleep. 5. I thought it right to write all this to you. It pleases me that you appreciate it when I write freely, whatever crosses my mind — and to whom can I more willingly write nonsense than to someone I can never displease? But if it depends on fortune whether one person loves another, then tell me: how can I rightly be called happy when I am so elated by fortune's favors and openly wish for more of them? The truly wise — the only people who deserve to be called happy — have always maintained that fortune's gifts should be neither feared nor desired. Now, here I used the word cupi ["to be desired"]: could you tell me whether it should be cupi or cupiri? And I am glad this came up, because I want you to instruct me on the inflection of the verb cupio ["I desire"]. When I compare similar verbs, my uncertainty only increases. For cupio is formed like fugio ["I flee"], sapio ["I taste/understand"], jacio ["I throw"], and capio ["I take"]. But whether the infinitive should be fugiri or fugi, sapiri or sapi — I do not know. I might look to jaci and capi as parallel examples, except I am afraid some grammarian will bat me around like a ball by pointing out that the supine forms jactum and captum are different from fugitum, cupitum, and sapitum. And even about those three, I do not know whether the penultimate syllable should be pronounced long with a circumflex accent, or short and unaccented. I am trying to provoke you into writing me a good long letter. Let me have something that takes a while to read. I cannot begin to express the pleasure I find in reading what you write.

Letter 3 (A.D. 387) To Nebridius Augustine Sends Greeting. 1. Whether I am to regard it as the effect of what I may call your flattering language, or whether the thing be really so, is a point which I am unable to decide. For the impression was sudden, and I am not yet resolved how far it deserves to be believed. You wonder what this can be. What do you think? You have almost made me believe, not indeed that I am happy— for that is the heritage of the wise alone — but that I am at least in a sense happy: as we apply the designation man to beings who deserve the name only in a sense if compared with Plato's ideal man, or speak of things which we see as round or square, although they differ widely from the perfect figure which is discerned by the mind of a few. I read your letter beside my lamp after supper: immediately after which I lay down, but not at once to sleep; for on my bed I meditated long, and talked thus with myself — Augustine addressing and answering Augustine: Is it not true, as Nebridius affirms, that I am happy? Absolutely true it cannot be, for that I am still far from wise he himself would not deny. But may not a happy life be the lot even of those who are not wise? That is scarcely possible; because, in that case, lack of wisdom would be a small misfortune, and not, as it actually is, the one and only source of unhappiness. How, then, did Nebridius come to esteem me happy? Was it that, after reading these little books of mine, he ventured to pronounce me wise? Surely the vehemence of joy could not make him so rash, especially seeing that he is a man to whose judgment I well know so much weight is to be attached. I have it now: he wrote what he thought would be most gratifying to me, because he had been gratified by what I had written in those treatises; and he wrote in a joyful mood, without accurately weighing the sentiments entrusted to his joyous pen. What, then, would he have said if he had read my Soliloquies? He would have rejoiced with much more exultation, and yet could find no loftier name to bestow on me than this which he has already given in calling me happy. All at once, then, he has lavished on me the highest possible name, and has not reserved a single word to add to my praises, if at any time he were made by me more joyful than he is now. See what joy does. 2. But where is that truly happy life? Where? Ay, where? Oh! If it were attained, one would spurn the atomic theory of Epicurus. Oh! If it were attained, one would know that there is nothing here below but the visible world. Oh! If it were attained, one would know that in the rotation of a globe on its axis, the motion of points near the poles is less rapid than of those which lie half way between them — and other such like things which we likewise know. But now, how or in what sense can I be called happy, who know not why the world is such in size as it is, when the proportions of the figures according to which it is framed do in no way hinder its being enlarged to any extent desired? Or how might it not be said to me — nay, might we not be compelled to admit that matter is infinitely divisible; so that, starting from any given base (so to speak), a definite number of corpuscles must rise to a definite and ascertainable quantity? Wherefore, seeing that we do not admit that any particle is so small as to be insusceptible of further diminution, what compels us to admit that any assemblage of parts is so great that it cannot possibly be increased? Is there perchance some important truth in what I once suggested confidentially to Alypius, that since number, as cognisable by the understanding, is susceptible of infinite augmentation, but not of infinite diminution, because we cannot reduce it lower than to the units, number, as cognisable by the senses (and this, of course, just means quantity of material parts or bodies), is on the contrary susceptible of infinite diminution, but has a limit to its augmentation? This may perhaps be the reason why philosophers justly pronounce riches to be found in the things about which the understanding is exercised, and poverty in those things with which the senses have to do. For what is poorer than to be susceptible of endless diminution? And what more truly rich than to increase as much as you will, to go whither you will, to return when you will and as far as you will, and to have as the object of your love that which is large and cannot be made less? For whoever understands these numbers loves nothing so much as the unit; and no wonder, seeing that it is through it that all the other numbers can be loved by him. But to return: Why is the world the size that it is, seeing that it might have been greater or less? I do not know: its dimensions are what they are, and I can go no further. Again: Why is the world in the place it now occupies rather than in another? Here, too, it is better not to put the question; for whatever the answer might be, other questions would still remain. This one thing greatly perplexed me, that bodies could be infinitely subdivided. To this perhaps an answer has been given, by setting over against it the converse property of abstract number [viz. its susceptibility of infinite multiplication]. 3. But stay: let us see what is that indefinable object which is suggested to the mind. This world with which our senses acquaint us is surely the image of some world which the understanding apprehends. Now it is a strange phenomenon which we observe in the images which mirrors reflect to us — that however great the mirrors be, they do not make the images larger than the objects placed before them, be they ever so small; but in small mirrors, such as the pupil of the eye, although a large surface be placed over against them, a very small image is formed, proportioned to the size of the mirror. Therefore if the mirrors be reduced in size, the images reflected in them are also reduced; but it is not possible for the images to be enlarged by enlarging the mirrors. Surely there is in this something which might reward further investigation; but meanwhile, I must sleep. Moreover, if I seem to Nebridius to be happy, it is not because I seek, but because perchance I have found something. What, then, is that something? Is it that chain of reasoning which I am wont so to caress as if it were my sole treasure, and in which perhaps I take too much delight? 4. Of what parts do we consist? Of soul and body. Which of these is the nobler? Doubtless the soul. What do men praise in the body? Nothing that I see but comeliness. And what is comeliness of body? Harmony of parts in the form, together with a certain agreeableness of color. Is this comeliness better where it is true or where it is illusive? Unquestionably it is better where it is true. And where is it found true? In the soul. The soul, therefore, is to be loved more than the body; but in what part of the soul does this truth reside? In the mind and understanding. With what has the understanding to contend? With the senses. Must we then resist the senses with all our might? Certainly. What, then, if the things with which the senses acquaint us give us pleasure? We must prevent them from doing so. How? By acquiring the habit of doing without them, and desiring better things. But if the soul die, what then? Why, then truth dies, or intelligence is not truth, or intelligence is not a part of the soul, or that which has some part immortal is liable to die: conclusions all of which I demonstrated long ago in my Soliloquies to be absurd because impossible; and I am firmly persuaded that this is the case, but somehow through the influence of custom in the experience of evils we are terrified, and hesitate. But even granting, finally, that the soul dies, which I do not see to be in any way possible, it remains nevertheless true that a happy life does not consist in the evanescent joy which sensible objects can yield: this I have pondered deliberately, and proved. Perhaps it is on account of reasonings such as these that I have been judged by my own Nebridius to be, if not absolutely happy, at least in a sense happy. Let me also judge myself to be happy: for what do I lose thereby, or why should I grudge to think well of my own estate? Thus I talked with myself, then prayed according to my custom, and fell asleep. 5. These things I have thought good to write to you. For it gratifies me that you should thank me when I write freely to you whatever crosses my mind; and to whom can I more willingly write nonsense than to one whom I cannot displease? But if it depends upon fortune whether one man love another or not, look to it, I pray you, how can I be justly called happy when I am so elated with joy by fortune's favours, and avowedly desire that my store of such good things may be largely increased? For those who are most truly wise, and whom alone it is right to pronounce happy, have maintained that fortune's favours ought not to be the objects of either fear or desire. Now here I used the word cupi: will you tell me whether it should be cupi or cupiri? And I am glad this has come in the way, for I wish you to instruct me in the inflexion of this verb cupio, since, when I compare similar verbs with it, my uncertainty as to the proper inflexion increases. For cupio is like fugio, sapio, jacio, capio; but whether the infinitive mood is fugiri or fugi, sapiri or sapi, I do not know. I might regard jaci and capi as parallel instances answering my question as to the others, were I not afraid lest some grammarian should catch and throw me like a ball in sport wherever he pleased, by reminding me that the form of the supines jactum and captum is different from that found in the other verbs fugitum, cupitum and sapitum. As to these three words, moreover, I am likewise ignorant whether the penultimate is to be pronounced long and with circumflex accent, or without accent and short. I would like to provoke you to write a reasonably long letter. I beg you to let me have what it will take some time to read. For it is far beyond my power to express the pleasure which I find in reading what you write. 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/1102003.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.