On the Trinity — Book X

Let us now proceed in proper order, with more precise purpose, to explain this same point more thoroughly. First, since no one can love a thing of which he is completely ignorant, we must carefully examine what kind of love those who are eager to learn possess—that is, those who do not already know but are still wanting to learn any field of knowledge. In matters where the word "study" is not ordinarily used, love often arises from hearing about something, when the reputation of something for its beauty stirs the mind to see and enjoy it. This happens because the mind knows in a general way what makes bodily things beautiful, having seen them very often, and because there exists within us a capacity to approve what is desired from outside. When this happens, the love that is awakened is not for something completely unknown, since its general category is already known. But when we love a good man whose face we have never seen, we love him based on knowledge of his virtues, which virtues we know in truth itself. But in the case of learning, it is mostly the authority of others who praise and recommend it that kindles our love for it. Nevertheless, we could not be stirred with any enthusiasm at all for studying it unless we already had in our mind at least some faint impression of knowledge about each kind of learning. For instance, who would devote any effort and work to learning rhetoric unless he already knew it was the science of speaking? Sometimes, again, we marvel at the results of learning itself, which we have heard about or experienced, and from this we burn to gain, through learning, the ability to achieve these results. Suppose someone who did not know his letters were told that there is a kind of learning that enables a man to send words, crafted silently by hand, to someone far away, for the recipient in turn to gather these words not with his ears but with his eyes. If the man were to see this thing actually done, would he not be moved to pursue study toward a result he already knows and grasps, since he desires to know how he can do this? This is how the eager enthusiasm of learners is kindled: for what anyone is utterly ignorant of, he cannot in any way love.

1. Let us now proceed, then, in due order, with a more exact purpose, to explain this same point more thoroughly. And first, since no one can love at all a thing of which he is wholly ignorant, we must carefully consider of what sort is the love of those who are studious, that is, of those who do not already know, but are still desiring to know any branch of learning. Now certainly, in those things whereof the word study is not commonly used, love often arises from hearsay, when the reputation of anything for beauty inflames the mind to the seeing and enjoying it; since the mind knows generically wherein consist the beauties of corporeal things, from having seen them very frequently, and since there exists within a faculty of approving that which outwardly is longed for. And when this happens, the love that is called forth is not of a thing wholly unknown, since its genus is thus known. But when we love a good man whose face we never saw, we love him from the knowledge of his virtues, which virtues we know [abstractly] in the truth itself. But in the case of learning, it is for the most part the authority of others who praise and commend it that kindles our love of it; although nevertheless we could not burn with any zeal at all for the study of it, unless we had already in our mind at least a slight impression of the knowledge of each kind of learning. For who, for instance, would devote any care and labor to the learning of rhetoric, unless he knew before that it was the science of speaking? Sometimes, again, we marvel at the results of learning itself, which we have heard of or experienced; and hence burn to obtain, by learning, the power of attaining these results. Just as if it were said to one who did not know his letters, that there is a kind of learning which enables a man to send words, wrought with the hand in silence, to one who is ever so far absent, for him in turn to whom they are sent to gather these words, not with his ears, but with his eyes; and if the man were to see the thing actually done, is not that man, since he desires to know how he can do this thing, altogether moved to study with a view to the result which he already knows and holds? So it is that the studious zeal of those who learn is kindled: for that of which any one is utterly ignorant, he can in no way love.

When someone hears an unknown sign—for instance, the sound of a word whose meaning they don't know—they want to know what it is. That is, they want to know what thing has been agreed upon to be brought to mind by that sound. For example, if someone heard the word "temetum" and didn't know what it meant, they would ask what it is. They must already know that it is a sign—that is, that the word is not just an empty sound, but that something is signified by it. In other respects this three-syllable word is already known to them, and has already impressed its form upon their mind through the sense of hearing. Then what more is needed for them to gain greater knowledge of it, when all the letters and all the sounds of its syllables are already known? Only this: that they must recognize it is a sign, and that this recognition must stir in them the desire to know what it is a sign of. The more the thing is known, yet not fully known, the more the mind desires to know what remains. For if someone knew it only as a spoken word, but didn't know it was the sign of something, they would seek nothing further, since the sensible thing has already been perceived as far as it can be by the senses. But because they know it is not only a spoken word but also a sign, they want to know it perfectly. And no sign is known perfectly unless it is known what it is the sign of. Can someone who seeks this with eager care, and perseveres in the search with studious zeal, be said to be without love? What then does such a person love? For certainly nothing can be loved unless it is known. That person does not love those three syllables, which they already know. But if they love in them the fact that they know the syllables signify something, this is not what we're asking about now, for this is not what they seek to know. We are asking what they love in that which they desire to know but certainly do not yet know, and we are therefore wondering why they love, since we know most certainly that nothing can be loved unless it is known. What then do they love, except that they know and perceive in the reason of things what excellence there is in learning, in which the knowledge of all signs is contained, and what benefit there is in being skilled in these, since through them human fellowship mutually communicates its own perceptions? Otherwise gatherings of people would be actually worse than complete solitude if they could not share their thoughts by conversing together. The soul, then, discerns this fitting and serviceable form, and knows it, and loves it. And whoever seeks the meaning of words they don't know is working to make that form as perfect in themselves as they can. For it is one thing to see it in the light of truth, another to desire it as within one's own capacity. In the light of truth one sees how great and good a thing it is to understand and to speak all tongues of all nations, and so to hear no tongue and to be heard by none as a foreigner. The beauty, then, of this knowledge is already discerned by thought, and the thing being known is loved. And that thing is so regarded and so stimulates the studious zeal of learners that they are moved with respect to it and desire it eagerly in all the labor they spend upon attaining such a capacity, so that they may also embrace in practice what they know beforehand by reason. And so everyone, the nearer they approach that capacity in hope, the more fervently desires it with love. For those branches of learning are studied more eagerly which people do not despair of being able to attain. When anyone has no hope of attaining their end, they either love lukewarmly or do not love at all, however much they may see the excellence of it. Accordingly, because the knowledge of all languages is almost universally felt to be hopeless, everyone studies most to know that of their own nation. But if they feel they are not sufficient even to comprehend this perfectly, yet no one is so indolent in this knowledge as not to wish to know, when they hear an unknown word, what it is, and to seek and learn it if they can. And while they are seeking it, certainly they have a studious zeal of learning and seem to love a thing they do not know—but the case is really otherwise. For that form touches the mind, which the mind knows and thinks, wherein the fitness is clearly visible which comes from the associating of minds with one another in the hearing and returning of known and spoken words. And this form kindles studious zeal in the one who seeks what they do not know, but who gazes upon and loves the unknown form to which that belongs. If then, for example, anyone were to ask, "What is temetum?" (for I had used this word as an example already), and it were said to them, "What does this matter to you?"—they will answer, "So that I don't hear someone speaking and fail to understand them, or perhaps read the word somewhere and not know what the writer meant." Who would say to such an inquirer, "Don't care about understanding what you hear; don't care about knowing what you read"? For almost every rational soul quickly discerns the beauty of that knowledge through which the thoughts of people are mutually made known by the speaking of significant words. And it is on account of this fitness thus known, and because known therefore loved, that such an unknown word is eagerly sought out. When they hear and learn that wine was called "temetum" by our forefathers, but that the word is now quite obsolete in our present use of language, they may think they still need the word on account of this or that book of those forefathers. But if they consider these also to be unnecessary, perhaps they do now think the word not worth remembering, since they see it has nothing to do with that form of learning which they know with the mind, and gaze upon, and so love.

2. So also, if any one hear an unknown sign, as, for instance, the sound of some word of which he does not know the signification, he desires to know what it is; that is, he desires to know what thing it is which it is agreed shall be brought to mind by that sound: as if he heard the word temetum uttered, and not knowing, should ask what it is. He must then know already that it is a sign, i.e. that the word is not an empty sound, but that something is signified by it; for in other respects this trisyllabic word is known to him already, and has already impressed its articulate form upon his mind through the sense of hearing. And then what more is to be required in him, that he may go on to a greater knowledge of that of which all the letters and all the spaces of its several sounds are already known, unless that it shall at the same time have become known to him that it is a sign, and shall have also moved him with the desire of knowing of what it is the sign? The more, then, the thing is known, yet not fully known, the more the mind desires to know concerning it what remains to be known. For if he knew it to be only such and such a spoken word, and did not know that it was the sign of something, he would seek nothing further, since the sensible thing is already perceived as far as it can be by the sense. But because he knows it to be not only a spoken word, but also a sign, he wishes to know it perfectly; and no sign is known perfectly, except it be known of what it is the sign. He then who with ardent carefulness seeks to know this, and inflamed by studious zeal perseveres in the search; can such an one be said to be without love? What then does he love? For certainly nothing can be loved unless it is known. For that man does not love those three syllables which he knows already. But if he loves this in them, that he knows them to signify something, this is not the point now in question, for it is not this which he seeks to know. But we are now asking what it is he loves, in that which he is desirous to know, but which certainly he does not yet know; and we are therefore wondering why he loves, since we know most assuredly that nothing can be loved unless it be known. What then does he love, except that he knows and perceives in the reason of things what excellence there is in learning, in which the knowledge of all signs is contained; and what benefit there is in the being skilled in these, since by them human fellowship mutually communicates its own perceptions, lest the assemblies of men should be actually worse than utter solitude, if they were not to mingle their thoughts by conversing together? The soul, then, discerns this fitting and serviceable species, and knows it, and loves it; and he who seeks the meaning of any words of which he is ignorant, studies to render that species perfect in himself as much as he can: for it is one thing to behold it in the light of truth, another to desire it as within his own capacity. For he beholds in the light of truth how great and how good a thing it is to understand and to speak all tongues of all nations, and so to hear no tongue and to be heard by none as from a foreigner. The beauty, then, of this knowledge is already discerned by thought, and the thing being known is loved; and that thing is so regarded, and so stimulates the studious zeal of learners, that they are moved with respect to it, and desire it eagerly in all the labor which they spend upon the attainment of such a capacity, in order that they may also embrace in practice that which they know beforehand by reason. And so every one, the nearer he approaches that capacity in hope, the more fervently desires it with love; for those branches of learning are studied the more eagerly, which men do not despair of being able to attain; for when any one entertains no hope of attaining his end, then he either loves lukewarmly or does not love at all, howsoever he may see the excellence of it. Accordingly, because the knowledge of all languages is almost universally felt to be hopeless, every one studies most to know that of his own nation; but if he feels that he is not sufficient even to comprehend this perfectly, yet no one is so indolent in this knowledge as not to wish to know, when he hears an unknown word, what it is, and to seek and learn it if he can. And while he is seeking it, certainly he has a studious zeal of learning, and seems to love a thing he does not know; but the case is really otherwise. For that species touches the mind, which the mind knows and thinks, wherein the fitness is clearly visible which accrues from the associating of minds with one another, in the hearing and returning of known and spoken words. And this species kindles studious zeal in him who seeks what indeed he knows not, but gazes upon and loves the unknown form to which that pertains. If then, for example, any one were to ask, What is temetum (for I had instanced this word already), and it were said to him, What does this matter to you? He will answer, Lest perhaps I hear some one speaking, and understand him not; or perhaps read the word somewhere, and know not what the writer meant. Who, pray, would say to such an inquirer, Do not care about understanding what you hear; do not care about knowing what you read? For almost every rational soul quickly discerns the beauty of that knowledge, through which the thoughts of men are mutually made known by the enunciation of significant words; and it is on account of this fitness thus known, and because known therefore loved, that such an unknown word is studiously sought out. When then he hears and learns that wine was called temetum by our forefathers, but that the word is already quite obsolete in our present usage of language, he will think perhaps that he has still need of the word on account of this or that book of those forefathers. But if he holds these also to be superfluous, perhaps he does now come to think the word not worth remembering, since he sees it has nothing to do with that species of learning which he knows with the mind, and gazes upon, and so loves.

Therefore in every case, the love of an eager mind—that is, one that wants to know what it doesn't know—is not love of the thing it doesn't know, but of what it does know. It's because of what it knows that it wants to know what it doesn't know. Or if someone is so curious as to be driven not by any other known reason, but simply by the love of knowing unknown things, then such a curious person is certainly different from an ordinary student. Yet even this person doesn't love things they don't know any more than the student does. In fact, it's more accurate to say they hate things they don't know, since they want there to be nothing they don't know—they want to know everything. But in case someone raises a harder question by claiming that it's just as impossible to hate what you don't know as to love what you don't know, we won't deny what is true. However, we must understand that saying someone loves to know unknown things is not the same as saying they love unknown things. It's possible for someone to love to know unknown things, but it's not possible for them to love unknown things. The words "to know" aren't placed there without meaning. Someone who loves to know unknown things doesn't love the unknown things themselves, but loves knowing them. And unless someone knew what knowing means, no one could confidently say either that they knew something or that they didn't know it. Not only must the person who says "I know" (and says it truly) necessarily know what knowing is, but also the person who says "I don't know" (and says it confidently and truly, and knows they're saying it truly) certainly knows what knowing is. For they distinguish someone who doesn't know from someone who knows when they look into themselves and truly say "I don't know." And since they know they're saying this truly, how could they know it if they didn't know what knowing is?

3. Wherefore in all cases the love of a studious mind, that is, of one that wishes to know what it does not know, is not the love of that thing which it does not know, but of that which it knows; on account of which it wishes to know what it does not know. Or if it is so inquisitive as to be carried away, not for any other cause known to it, but by the mere love of knowing things unknown; then such an inquisitive person is, doubtless distinguishable from an ordinary student, yet does not, any more than he, love things he does not know; nay, on the contrary, he is more fitly said to hate things he knows not, of which he wishes that there should be none, in wishing to know everything. But lest any one should lay before us a more difficult question, by declaring that it is just as impossible for any one to hate what he does not know, as to love what he does not know, we will not withstand what is true; but it must be understood that it is not the same thing to say he loves to know things unknown, as to say he loves things unknown. For it is possible that a man may love to know things unknown; but it is not possible that he should love things unknown. For the word to know is not placed there without meaning; since he who loves to know things unknown, does not love the unknown things themselves, but the knowing of them. And unless he knew what knowing means, no one could say confidently, either that he knew or that he did not know. For not only he who says I know, and says so truly, must needs know what knowing is; but he also who says, I do not know, and says so confidently and truly, and knows that he says so truly, certainly knows what knowing is; for he both distinguishes him who does not know from him who knows, when he looks into himself and says truly I do not know; and whereas he knows that he says this truly, whence should he know it, if he did not know what knowing is?

No serious student or inquiring person loves things they don't know, even when they urgently desire with intense longing to know what they don't know. Either they already know generically what they love and long to know it also in some individual instance or instances—which perhaps are praised but not yet known to them—and they form a mental image that might stir them to love. Where does this image come from, except from things they have already known? Yet perhaps they won't love it if they find that the praised form is unlike the other form they had imagined and fully known in their mind. And if they loved it, they will only begin to love it from the moment they learned it, since just before, the form they loved was different from the one their mind had been accustomed to present to itself. But if they find it similar to the form that report had proclaimed, so that they could truly say "I was already loving you," still even then they did not love a form they didn't know, since they had known it in that likeness. Or else we see something in the species of eternal reason and love it there, and when this is revealed in some image of a temporal thing and we believe the praises of those who have experienced it and so love it, then we do not love anything unknown, according to what we have already discussed sufficiently above. Or else again, we love something known and because of it seek something unknown, and so it is by no means the love of the unknown thing that grips us, but the love of the known thing to which we know the unknown thing belongs, so that we also know that which we still seek as unknown—as I said a little earlier about an unknown word. Or else again, everyone loves knowing itself, as no one can fail to know who desires to know anything. For these reasons, people seem to love unknown things when they wish to know something they don't know, and because of their intense desire to investigate, they cannot be said to be without love. But how different the reality is, and that nothing at all can be loved which is not known, I think I have persuaded everyone who carefully examines the truth. But since the examples we have given belong to those who desire to know something which they themselves are not, we must consider carefully lest perhaps some new idea appear when the mind desires to know itself.

4. No studious person, then, no inquisitive person, loves things he does not know, even while he is urgent with the most vehement desire to know what he does not know. For he either knows already generically what he loves, and longs to know it also in some individual or individuals, which perhaps are praised, but not yet known to him; and he pictures in his mind an imaginary form by which he may be stirred to love. And whence does he picture this, except from those things which he has already known? And yet perhaps he will not love it, if he find that form which was praised to be unlike that other form which was figured and in thought most fully known to his mind. And if he has loved it, he will begin to love it from that time when he learned it; since a little before, that form which was loved was other than that which the mind that formed it had been wont to exhibit to itself. But if he shall find it similar to that form which report had proclaimed, and to be such that he could truly say I was already loving you; yet certainly not even then did he love a form he did not know, since he had known it in that likeness. Or else we see somewhat in the species of the eternal reason, and therein love it; and when this is manifested in some image of a temporal thing, and we believe the praises of those who have made trial of it, and so love it, then we do not love anything unknown, according to that which we have already sufficiently discussed above. Or else, again, we love something known, and on account of it seek something unknown; and so it is by no means the love of the thing unknown that possesses us, but the love of the thing known, to which we know the unknown thing belongs, so that we know that too which we seek still as unknown; as a little before I said of an unknown word. Or else, again, every one loves the very knowing itself, as no one can fail to know who desires to know anything. For these reasons they seem to love things unknown who wish to know anything which they do not know, and who, on account of their vehement desire of inquiry, cannot be said to be without love. But how different the case really is, and that nothing at all can be loved which is not known, I think I must have persuaded every one who carefully looks upon truth. But since the examples which we have given belong to those who desire to know something which they themselves are not, we must take thought lest perchance some new notion appear, when the mind desires to know itself.

What, then, does the mind love when it eagerly seeks to know itself while it is still unknown to itself? Look, the mind seeks to know itself and is stirred up by studious zeal. Therefore it loves. But what does it love? Does it love itself? But how can this be when it does not yet know itself, and no one can love what he does not know? Has some report described to it its own nature, in the same way we commonly hear about people who are absent? Perhaps, then, it does not love itself but loves what it imagines itself to be, which may be very different from what it actually is. Or if the mental image in the mind is like the mind itself, and when it loves this imagined picture it loves itself before knowing itself because it gazes at what is like itself, then it knew other minds from which to picture itself, and so it knows itself generically. Why, then, when it knows other minds, does it not know itself, since nothing can possibly be more present to it than itself? But if, just as the eyes of other people are better known to the eyes of the body than those eyes are to themselves, then let it not seek itself because it will never find itself. For eyes can never see themselves except in mirrors, and it cannot be supposed in any way that something like that could also apply to the contemplation of incorporeal things, so that the mind should know itself, as it were, in a mirror. Or does it see in the reason of eternal truth how beautiful it is to know oneself, and so loves what it sees, and works to bring it to pass in itself? Because, although it is not known to itself, yet it knows how good it is that it should be known to itself. And this is indeed very wonderful, that it does not yet know itself, yet already knows how excellent a thing it is to know itself. Or does it see some most excellent end, namely its own serenity and blessedness, by some hidden remembrance which has not left it, although it has gone far onward, and believes that it cannot reach that same end unless it knows itself? And so while it loves that, it seeks this, and loves what is known on account of which it seeks what is unknown. But why should the remembrance of its own blessedness be able to last, and the remembrance of itself not be able to last as well, so that it should know itself which wishes to attain, as well as know that which it wishes to attain? Or when it loves to know itself, does it love not itself, which it does not yet know, but the very act of knowing, and feel the more frustrated that itself is missing from its own knowledge with which it wishes to embrace all things? And it knows what it is to know, and while it loves this, which it knows, it desires also to know itself. By what means, then, does it know its own knowing if it does not know itself? For it knows that it knows other things but that it does not know itself, for it is from this that it also knows what knowing is. In what way, then, does that which does not know itself know itself as knowing anything? For it does not know that some other mind knows, but that it itself does so. Therefore it knows itself. Further, when it seeks to know itself, it knows itself now as seeking. Therefore again it knows itself. And so it cannot be altogether unknown to itself, when it certainly knows itself this much, that it knows itself as not knowing itself. But if it does not know that it does not know itself, then it does not seek to know itself. And therefore, in the very fact that it seeks itself, it is clearly proven to be more known to itself than unknown. For it knows itself as seeking and as not knowing itself, in that it seeks to know itself.

5. What, then, does the mind love, when it seeks ardently to know itself, while it is still unknown to itself? For, behold, the mind seeks to know itself, and is excited thereto by studious zeal. It loves, therefore; but what does it love? Is it itself? But how can this be when it does not yet know itself, and no one can love what he does not know? Is it that report has declared to it its own species, in like way as we commonly hear of people who are absent? Perhaps, then, it does not love itself, but loves that which it imagines of itself, which is perhaps widely different from what itself is: or if the phantasy in the mind is like the mind itself, and so when it loves this fancied image, it loves itself before it knew itself, because it gazes upon that which is like itself; then it knew other minds from which to picture itself, and so is known to itself generically. Why, then, when it knows other minds, does it not know itself, since nothing can possibly be more present to it than itself? But if, as other eyes are more known to the eyes of the body, than those eyes are to themselves; then let it not seek itself, because it never will find itself. For eyes can never see themselves except in looking-glasses; and it cannot be supposed in any way that anything of that kind can be applied also to the contemplation of incorporeal things, so that the mind should know itself, as it were, in a looking-glass. Or does it see in the reason of eternal truth how beautiful it is to know one's self, and so loves this which it sees, and studies to bring it to pass in itself? Because, although it is not known to itself, yet it is known to it how good it is, that it should be known to itself. And this, indeed, is very wonderful, that it does not yet know itself, and yet knows already how excellent a thing it is to know itself. Or does it see some most excellent end, viz. its own serenity and blessedness, by some hidden remembrance, which has not abandoned it, although it has gone far onwards, and believes that it cannot attain to that same end unless it know itself? And so while it loves that, it seeks this; and loves that which is known, on account of which it seeks that which is unknown. But why should the remembrance of its own blessedness be able to last, and the remembrance of itself not be able to last as well; that so it should know itself which wishes to attain, as well as know that to which it wishes to attain? Or when it loves to know itself, does it love, not itself, which it does not yet know, but the very act of knowing; and feel the more annoyed that itself is wanting to its own knowledge wherewith it wishes to embrace all things? And it knows what it is to know; and while it loves this, which it knows, desires also to know itself. Whereby, then, does it know its own knowing, if it does not know itself? For it knows that it knows other things, but that it does not know itself; for it is from hence that it knows also what knowing is. In what way, then, does that which does not know itself, know itself as knowing anything? For it does not know that some other mind knows, but that itself does so. Therefore it knows itself. Further, when it seeks to know itself, it knows itself now as seeking. Therefore again it knows itself. And hence it cannot altogether not know itself, when certainly it does so far know itself as that it knows itself as not knowing itself. But if it does not know itself not to know itself, then it does not seek to know itself. And therefore, in the very fact that it seeks itself, it is clearly convicted of being more known to itself than unknown. For it knows itself as seeking and as not knowing itself, in that it seeks to know itself.

What should we say then? Does something that knows itself partially not know itself partially? But it would be absurd to say that it does not know as a whole what it knows. I am not saying it knows everything about itself completely; but whatever it knows, it knows as a whole. So when it knows something about itself, which it can only know as a whole, it knows itself as a whole. But it does know that it knows something, and it cannot know anything except as a whole. Therefore it knows itself as a whole. Furthermore, what is more clearly known to it about itself than that it lives? And it cannot be a mind without living, though it also has something beyond this, namely that it understands—for the souls of animals also live but do not understand. Therefore, just as a mind is completely a mind, so it lives completely. But it knows that it lives. Therefore it knows itself as a whole. Finally, when the mind seeks to know itself, it already knows that it is a mind. Otherwise it does not know whether it is seeking itself, and might seek one thing while intending to seek another. For it could be that it was not actually a mind, and so in seeking to know a mind, it would not be seeking to know itself. Therefore, since the mind when it seeks to know what a mind is, knows that it seeks itself, it certainly knows that it is itself a mind. Moreover, if it knows this about itself—that it is a mind and a whole mind—then it knows itself as a whole. But suppose it did not know itself to be a mind, and in seeking itself only knew that it was seeking itself. In that case too, it might seek one thing instead of another if it did not know this. But to avoid seeking one thing instead of another, it undoubtedly knows what it seeks. And if it knows what it seeks and it seeks itself, then it certainly knows itself. What more then does it seek? But if it knows itself in part but still seeks itself in part, then it is not seeking itself but only part of itself. However, when we speak of the mind itself, we speak of it as a whole. Furthermore, because it knows that it has not yet found itself as a whole, it knows how much the whole is. And so it seeks what is missing, just as we usually try to recall to mind something that has slipped from memory but has not completely disappeared, since we can recognize it when it returns as the same thing we were seeking. But how can mind come into mind, as if it were possible for the mind not to be in the mind? Add to this: if after finding a part it does not seek itself as a whole, yet it seeks itself as a whole. Therefore it is present to itself as a whole, and nothing remains to be sought—for what is sought is what is missing, not the mind that is seeking. Since therefore it seeks itself as a whole, nothing of it is missing. Or if it does not seek itself as a whole, but the part that has been found seeks the part not yet found, then the mind does not seek itself, since no part of it seeks itself. For the part that has been found does not seek itself, nor does the part not yet found seek itself, since it is sought by the part already found. Therefore, since neither the mind as a whole seeks itself nor does any part of it seek itself, the mind does not seek itself at all.

6. What then shall we say? Does that which knows itself in part, not know itself in part? But it is absurd to say, that it does not as a whole know what it knows. I do not say, it knows wholly; but what it knows, it as a whole knows. When therefore it knows anything about itself, which it can only know as a whole, it knows itself as a whole. But it does know that itself knows something, while yet except as a whole it cannot know anything. Therefore it knows itself as a whole. Further, what in it is so known to itself, as that it lives? And it cannot at once be a mind, and not live, while it has also something over and above, viz., that it understands: for the souls of beasts also live, but do not understand. As therefore a mind is a whole mind, so it lives as a whole. But it knows that it lives. Therefore it knows itself as a whole. Lastly, when the mind seeks to know itself, it already knows that it is a mind: otherwise it knows not whether it seeks itself, and perhaps seeks one thing while intending to seek another. For it might happen that itself was not a mind, and so, in seeking to know a mind, that it did not seek to know itself. Wherefore since the mind, when it seeks to know what mind is, knows that it seeks itself, certainly it knows that itself is a mind. Furthermore, if it knows this in itself, that it is a mind, and a whole mind, then it knows itself as a whole. But suppose it did not know itself to be a mind, but in seeking itself only knew that it sought itself. For so, too, it may possibly seek one thing for another, if it does not know this: but that it may not seek one thing for another, without doubt it knows what it seeks. But if it knows what it seeks, and seeks itself, then certainly it knows itself. What therefore more does it seek? But if it knows itself in part, but still seeks itself in part, then it seeks not itself, but part of itself. For when we speak of the mind itself, we speak of it as a whole. Further, because it knows that it is not yet found by itself as a whole, it knows how much the whole is. And so it seeks that which is wanting, as we are wont to seek to recall to the mind something that has slipped from the mind, but has not altogether gone away from it; since we can recognize it, when it has come back, to be the same thing that we were seeking. But how can mind come into mind, as though it were possible for the mind not to be in the mind? Add to this, that if, having found a part, it does not seek itself as a whole, yet it as a whole seeks itself. Therefore as a whole it is present to itself, and there is nothing left to be sought: for that is wanting which is sought, not the mind which seeks. Since therefore it as a whole seeks itself, nothing of it is wanting. Or if it does not as a whole seek itself, but the part which has been found seeks the part which has not yet been found then the mind does not seek itself, of which no part seeks itself. For the part which has been found, does not seek itself; nor yet does the part itself which has not yet been found, seek itself; since it is sought by that part which has been already found. Wherefore, since neither the mind as a whole seeks itself, nor does any part of it seek itself, the mind does not seek itself at all.

Why, then, is the soul commanded to know itself? I believe it is so that the soul may consider itself and live according to its own nature—that is, seek to be ordered according to its own nature: under Him to whom it ought to be subject, and above those things to which it is to be preferred. Under Him by whom it ought to be ruled, above those things which it ought to rule. For through corrupt desire, the soul does many things as if it has forgotten itself. It sees certain things that are intrinsically excellent in that more excellent nature which is God, and although it ought to remain steadfast in order to enjoy them, it turns away from Him by wanting to claim those things for itself, and not to be like Him through His gift, but to be what He is through its own power. And so it begins to move and gradually slip down into lesser and lesser things, which it thinks are greater and greater. For it is neither sufficient for itself, nor is anything at all sufficient for it if it withdraws from Him who alone is sufficient. And so through lack and distress it becomes too focused on its own actions and on the restless pleasures it obtains through them. And thus, by the desire to acquire knowledge from those things that are external, whose nature it knows and loves, and which it feels can be lost unless held fast with anxious care, it loses its security and thinks of itself less and less, in proportion as it feels more and more secure that it cannot lose itself. Now, it is one thing not to know oneself, and another thing not to think of oneself—for we do not say of someone skilled in much learning that he is ignorant of grammar when he is simply not thinking of it because he is thinking at the time of the art of medicine. So, I say, it is one thing not to know oneself and another not to think of oneself. Yet such is the strength of love that the mind draws into itself those things which it has long thought of with love and has grown into them by the close adherence of diligent study, even when it returns in some way to think of itself. And because these things are bodily which it loved externally through the bodily senses, and because it has become entangled with them by a kind of daily familiarity, and yet cannot carry those bodily things themselves with it internally, as it were, into the region of incorporeal nature, therefore it combines certain images of them and thrusts them thus made from itself into itself. For it gives to the forming of them something of its own substance, yet preserves meanwhile something by which it may judge freely of the appearance of those images. And this something is more properly the mind, that is, the rational understanding, which is preserved so that it may judge. For we see that we have those parts of the soul which are formed by the likenesses of bodily things in common also with beasts.

7. Why therefore is it enjoined upon it, that it should know itself? I suppose, in order that, it may consider itself, and live according to its own nature; that is, seek to be regulated according to its own nature, viz., under Him to whom it ought to be subject, and above those things to which it is to be preferred; under Him by whom it ought to be ruled, above those things which it ought to rule. For it does many things through vicious desire, as though in forgetfulness of itself. For it sees some things intrinsically excellent, in that more excellent nature which is God: and whereas it ought to remain steadfast that it may enjoy them, it is turned away from Him, by wishing to appropriate those things to itself, and not to be like to Him by His gift, but to be what He is by its own, and it begins to move and slip gradually down into less and less, which it thinks to be more and more; for it is neither sufficient for itself, nor is anything at all sufficient for it, if it withdraw from Him who is alone sufficient: and so through want and distress it becomes too intent upon its own actions and upon the unquiet delights which it obtains through them: and thus, by the desire of acquiring knowledge from those things that are without, the nature of which it knows and loves, and which it feels can be lost unless held fast with anxious care, it loses its security, and thinks of itself so much the less, in proportion as it feels the more secure that it cannot lose itself. So, whereas it is one thing not to know oneself, and another not to think of oneself (for we do not say of the man that is skilled in much learning, that he is ignorant of grammar, when he is only not thinking of it, because he is thinking at the time of the art of medicine) — whereas, then, I say it is one thing not to know oneself, and another not to think of oneself, such is the strength of love, that the mind draws in with itself those things which it has long thought of with love, and has grown into them by the close adherence of diligent study, even when it returns in some way to think of itself. And because these things are corporeal which it loved externally through the carnal senses; and because it has become entangled with them by a kind of daily familiarity, and yet cannot carry those corporeal things themselves with itself internally as it were into the region of incorporeal nature; therefore it combines certain images of them, and thrusts them thus made from itself into itself. For it gives to the forming of them somewhat of its own substance, yet preserves the while something by which it may judge freely of the species of those images; and this something is more properly the mind, that is, the rational understanding, which is preserved that it may judge. For we see that we have those parts of the soul which are informed by the likenesses of corporeal things, in common also with beasts.

The mind makes a mistake when it connects itself so intimately and affectionately with these mental images that it actually considers itself to be the same kind of thing as them. In doing this, the mind becomes conformed to these images to some degree—not by actually being such a thing, but by thinking it is. The mind doesn't think it is merely an image, but rather thinks it is the actual thing itself of which it holds the image. The mind still retains the ability to distinguish between the physical object that exists outside itself and the image of that physical object that it contains within itself—except when these images are projected outward as if they were being sensed externally rather than thought internally, as happens in people who are asleep, insane, or in a trance.

8. But the mind errs, when it so lovingly and intimately connects itself with these images, as even to consider itself to be something of the same kind. For so it is conformed to them to some extent, not by being this, but by thinking it is so: not that it thinks itself to be an image, but outright that very thing itself of which it entertains the image. For there still lives in it the power of distinguishing the corporeal thing which it leaves without, from the image of that corporeal thing which it contains therefrom within itself: except when these images are so projected as if felt without and not thought within, as in the case of people who are asleep, or mad, or in a trance.

When the soul thinks of itself in this way, it considers itself to be something corporeal. Because it is fully aware of its own superiority through which it rules the body, a question has arisen about which part of the body holds the greatest power in the body. Some have believed this to be the mind, or even the entire soul. Accordingly, some think it is the blood, others the brain, others the heart. This is not what Scripture means when it says, I will praise You, O Lord, with my whole heart, and, You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart. In Scripture, this word is transferred from the body to the soul through misapplication or metaphor. But these philosophers simply thought the soul was that small bodily part we see when the internal organs are torn open. Others have believed the soul is composed of extremely small, indivisible particles they call atoms, which meet and stick together within themselves. Others have said its substance is air, while others say fire. Some have concluded it is no substance at all, since they could only conceive of substance as body, and they did not find the soul to be body. Instead, they thought it was the blending of our body itself, or the combination of elements by which flesh is joined together. All of these have therefore held the soul to be mortal, since whether it was body or some combination of body, it certainly could not endure forever without dying. But those who have held its substance to be some kind of non-corporeal life, having found it to be a life that animates and gives life to every living body, have consequently tried, each according to his ability, to prove it immortal, since life cannot exist without life.

9. When, therefore, it thinks itself to be something of this kind, it thinks itself to be a corporeal thing; and since it is perfectly conscious of its own superiority, by which it rules the body, it has hence come to pass that the question has been raised what part of the body has the greater power in the body; and the opinion has been held that this is the mind, nay, that it is even the whole soul altogether. And some accordingly think it to be the blood, others the brain, others the heart; not as the Scripture says, I will praise You, O Lord, with my whole heart; and, You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart; for this word by misapplication or metaphor is transferred from the body to the soul; but they have simply thought it to be that small part itself of the body, which we see when the inward parts are rent asunder. Others, again, have believed the soul to be made up of very minute and individual corpustules, which they call atoms, meeting in themselves and cohering. Others have said that its substance is air, others fire. Others have been of opinion that it is no substance at all, since they could not think any substance unless it is body, and they did not find that the soul was body; but it was in their opinion the tempering together itself of our body, or the combining together of the elements, by which that flesh is as it were conjoined. And hence all of these have held the soul to be mortal; since, whether it were body, or some combination of body, certainly it could not in either case continue always without death. But they who have held its substance to be some kind of life the reverse of corporeal, since they have found it to be a life that animates and quickens every living body, have by consequence striven also, according as each was able, to prove it immortal, since life cannot be without life.

Regarding that fifth kind of body, whatever it may be, which some have added to the four well-known elements of the world and have claimed that the soul was made from it, I do not think we need to spend time discussing it here. Either they mean by "body" what we mean by it—namely, something whose part is smaller than the whole in terms of spatial extension—and in that case they should be counted among those who have believed the mind to be corporeal; or if they use the word "body" to refer either to all substance or to all changeable substance, while knowing that not all substance is contained in spatial extension through length, breadth, and height, then we need not argue with them over a matter of terminology.

For as to that fifth kind of body, I know not what, which some have added to the four well-known elements of the world, and have said that the soul was made of this, I do not think we need spend time in discussing it in this place. For either they mean by body what we mean by it, viz., that of which a part is less than the whole in extension of place, and they are to be reckoned among those who have believed the mind to be corporeal: or if they call either all substance, or all changeable substance, body, whereas they know that not all substance is contained in extension of place by any length and breadth and height, we need not contend with them about a question of words.

In all these views, anyone who understands that the nature of the mind is both a substance and yet not corporeal—meaning that a smaller part of it does not occupy less space and a larger part more space—must also recognize that those who believe the mind is corporeal do not err because they lack knowledge about the mind itself. Rather, they err because they attach to the mind certain qualities without which they cannot conceive of any nature whatsoever. If you ask them to think of existence apart from bodily mental images, they consider it simply nothing. Therefore, the mind would not search for itself as if it were lacking to itself. For what is so present to knowledge as that which is present to the mind? Or what is so present to the mind as the mind itself? Hence, what we call discovery—if we consider the word's origin—means nothing other than that finding out is arriving at what is sought. Accordingly, things that enter the mind spontaneously are not usually said to be discovered, though they may be said to be known, since we did not strive by searching to arrive at them, that is, to discover or find them out. Therefore, just as the mind truly seeks those things that are sought by the eyes or any other bodily sense—for the mind directs even bodily sensation and then discovers or finds out when that sense arrives at the things sought—so too it discovers or finds out other things it ought to know, not through the medium of bodily sense but through itself, when it arrives at them. This applies whether in the case of the higher substance that is in God, or of the other parts of the soul, just as it does when the mind judges bodily images themselves, for it finds these within, in the soul, impressed through the body.

10. Now, in the case of all these opinions, any one who sees that the nature of the mind is at once substance, and yet not corporeal — that is, that it does not occupy a less extension of place with a less part of itself, and a greater with a greater — must needs see at the same time that they who are of opinion that it is corporeal do not err from defect of knowledge concerning mind, but because they associate with it qualities without which they are not able to conceive any nature at all. For if you bid them conceive of existence that is without corporeal phantasms, they hold it merely nothing. And so the mind would not seek itself, as though wanting to itself. For what is so present to knowledge as that which is present to the mind? Or what is so present to the mind as the mind itself? And hence what is called invention, if we consider the origin of the word, what else does it mean, unless that to find out is to come into that which is sought? Those things accordingly which come into the mind as it were of themselves, are not usually said to be found out, although they may be said to be known; since we did not endeavor by seeking to come into them, that is to invent or find them out. And therefore, as the mind itself really seeks those things which are sought by the eyes or by any other sense of the body (for the mind directs even the carnal sense, and then finds out or invents, when that sense comes to the things which are sought); so, too, it finds out or invents other things which it ought to know, not with the medium of corporeal sense, but through itself, when it comes into them; and this, whether in the case of the higher substance that is in God, or of the other parts of the soul; just as it does when it judges of bodily images themselves, for it finds these within, in the soul, impressed through the body.

The soul's search for itself raises a remarkable question: how does it aim to seek itself, and where does it arrive when it finds itself? For what is more present in the mind than the mind itself? But because the mind exists in those things it thinks about with love, and has become accustomed to being with love in sensible—that is, corporeal—things, it cannot exist in itself without the images of those corporeal things. This is where shameful error blocks its path, because the mind cannot separate these images of sensible things from itself in order to see itself alone. These images have become remarkably stuck to it through the strong attachment of love. This attachment is what makes the mind unclean; for while it tries to think of itself alone, it imagines itself to be that without which it cannot think of itself. Therefore, when the mind is commanded to know itself, it should not search for itself as if it were removed from itself. Instead, it should remove what it has added to itself. For the mind lies deeper within, not only than those sensible things that are clearly outside it, but also than the images of them. These images exist in a part of the soul that even animals possess, though animals lack understanding, which belongs properly to the mind. Since the mind is within, it goes out from itself in a certain way when it directs its loving attention toward these traces left by many acts of attention. These traces are imprinted on the memory when corporeal things outside are perceived in such a way that even when those corporeal things are absent, their images are available to those who think about them. Therefore let the mind know itself, and not search for itself as if it were absent. Instead, let it fix its voluntary attention upon itself—the same attention that was wandering among other things—and let it think of itself. Then it will see that it never stopped loving itself and never stopped knowing itself. But by loving another thing alongside itself, it has confused itself with that thing and has in some way become one with it. Thus, while embracing different things as though they were one, it has come to think that things which are different are actually one.

11. It is then a wonderful question, in what manner the soul seeks and finds itself; at what it aims in order to seek, or whither it comes, that it may come into or find out. For what is so much in the mind as the mind itself? But because it is in those things which it thinks of with love, and is wont to be in sensible, that is, in corporeal things with love, it is unable to be in itself without the images of those corporeal things. And hence shameful error arises to block its way, while it cannot separate from itself the images of sensible things, so as to see itself alone. For they have marvellously cohered with it by the close adhesion of love. And herein consists its uncleanness; since, while it strives to think of itself alone, it fancies itself to be that, without which it cannot think of itself. When, therefore, it is bidden to become acquainted with itself, let it not seek itself as though it were withdrawn from itself; but let it withdraw that which it has added to itself. For itself lies more deeply within, not only than those sensible things, which are clearly without, but also than the images of them; which are indeed in some part of the soul, viz., that which beasts also have, although these want understanding, which is proper to the mind. As therefore the mind is within, it goes forth in some sort from itself, when it exerts the affection of love towards these, as it were, footprints of many acts of attention. And these footprints are, as it were, imprinted on the memory, at the time when the corporeal things which are without are perceived in such way, that even when those corporeal things are absent, yet the images of them are at hand to those who think of them. Therefore let the mind become acquainted with itself, and not seek itself as if it were absent; but fix upon itself the act of [ voluntary] attention, by which it was wandering among other things, and let it think of itself. So it will see that at no time did it ever not love itself, at no time did it ever not know itself; but by loving another thing together with itself it has confounded itself with it, and in some sense has grown one with it. And so, while it embraces diverse things, as though they were one, it has come to think those things to be one which are diverse.

The mind should not try to perceive itself as if it were absent, but should work to perceive itself as present. It should not try to gain knowledge of itself as if it didn't know itself, but should distinguish itself from what it knows to be something else. How could it work to obey the command given to it, "Know yourself," if it doesn't know what "know" means or what "yourself" means? But if it knows both of these, then it also knows itself. The command "Know yourself" is not said to the mind the way we say "Know the cherubim and the seraphim," because those beings are absent from us, and we believe things about them, and based on that belief they are described as certain heavenly powers. Nor is it like when someone says "Know that man's will," because that is not something we can perceive at all through our senses or understanding, except through physical signs that are actually displayed—and even then, we believe rather than truly understand. Nor is it like when someone says "Look at your own face," which you can only do in a mirror, because our own face is beyond the reach of our own sight since it is not located where we can direct our gaze. But when the mind is told "Know yourself," it knows itself by the very act through which it understands the word "yourself"—and for no other reason than that it is present to itself. If the mind doesn't understand what is being said, then it certainly doesn't do what it is commanded to do. Therefore, it is commanded to do the very thing that it does when it understands the command itself.

12. Let it not therefore seek to discern itself as though absent, but take pains to discern itself as present. Nor let it take knowledge of itself as if it did not know itself, but let it distinguish itself from that which it knows to be another. For how will it take pains to obey that very precept which is given it, Know yourself, if it knows not either what know means or what yourself means? But if it knows both, then it knows also itself. Since know yourself is not so said to the mind as is Know the cherubim and the seraphim; for they are absent, and we believe concerning them, and according to that belief they are declared to be certain celestial powers. Nor yet again as it is said, Know the will of that man: for this it is not within our reach to perceive at all, either by sense or understanding, unless by corporeal signs actually set forth; and this in such a way that we rather believe than understand. Nor again as it is said to a man, Behold your own face; which he can only do in a looking-glass. For even our own face itself is out of the reach of our own seeing it; because it is not there where our look can be directed. But when it is said to the mind, Know yourself; then it knows itself by that very act by which it understands the word yourself; and this for no other reason than that it is present to itself. But if it does not understand what is said, then certainly it does not do as it is bid to do. And therefore it is bidden to do that thing which it does do, when it understands the very precept that bids it.

The mind should not add anything to what it knows itself to be when it is told to know itself. For it knows, at least, that this command is said to itself—namely, to the self that exists, lives, and understands. But a dead body also exists, and cattle also live; yet neither a dead body nor cattle understand. Therefore the mind knows that it exists and lives in such a way that it understands. So when, for example, the mind thinks itself to be air, it thinks that air understands. However, it knows that it itself understands, but it does not know itself to be air; it only thinks so. Let it separate what it thinks itself to be; let it discern what it knows. Let this remain for it, which even those who have thought the mind to be one bodily thing or another have not doubted. For certainly not every mind considers itself to be air; some think themselves to be fire, others the brain, and some think themselves one kind of bodily thing, others another, as I mentioned before. Yet all know that they themselves understand, exist, and live. But they attribute understanding to what they understand, while they attribute existing and living to themselves. And no one doubts either that no one understands who does not live, or that no one lives of whom it is not true that he exists, and that therefore by consequence what understands both exists and lives—not as a dead body exists which does not live, nor as a soul lives which does not understand, but in some distinct and more excellent way. Furthermore, they know that they will, and they equally know that no one can will who does not exist and does not live; and they also relate that will itself to something which they will with that will. They also know that they remember, and they know at the same time that no one could remember unless he both existed and lived. But we relate memory itself also to something, in that we remember those things. Therefore the knowledge and science of many things are contained in two of these three: memory and understanding. But will must be present so that we may enjoy or use them. For we enjoy known things in which the will itself finds delight for their own sake, and so rests. But we use those things which we refer to some other thing that we are to enjoy. And the life of man is not vicious and blameworthy in any other way than by wrongly using and wrongly enjoying. But this is not the place to discuss this.

13. Let it not then add anything to that which it knows itself to be, when it is bidden to know itself. For it knows, at any rate, that this is said to itself; namely, to the self that is, and that lives, and that understands. But a dead body also is, and cattle live; but neither a dead body nor cattle understand. Therefore it so knows that it so is, and that it so lives, as an understanding is and lives. When, therefore, for example's sake, the mind thinks itself air, it thinks that air understands; it knows, however, that itself understands, but it does not know itself to be air, but only thinks so. Let it separate that which it thinks itself; let it discern that which it knows; let this remain to it, about which not even have they doubted who have thought the mind to be this corporeal thing or that. For certainly every mind does not consider itself to be air; but some think themselves fire, others the brain, and some one kind of corporeal thing, others another, as I have mentioned before; yet all know that they themselves understand, and are, and live; but they refer understanding to that which they understand, but to be, and to live, to themselves. And no one doubts, either that no one understands who does not live, or that no one lives of whom it is not true that he is; and that therefore by consequence that which understands both is and lives; not as a dead body is which does not live, nor as a soul lives which does not understand, but in some proper and more excellent manner. Further, they know that they will, and they equally know that no one can will who is not and who does not live; and they also refer that will itself to something which they will with that will. They know also that they remember; and they know at the same time that nobody could remember, unless he both was and lived; but we refer memory itself also to something, in that we remember those things. Therefore the knowledge and science of many things are contained in two of these three, memory and understanding; but will must be present, that we may enjoy or use them. For we enjoy things known, in which things themselves the will finds delight for their own sake, and so reposes; but we use those things, which we refer to some other thing which we are to enjoy. Neither is the life of man vicious and culpable in any other way, than as wrongly using and wrongly enjoying. But it is no place here to discuss this.

Since we are dealing with the nature of the mind, let us set aside all knowledge that comes from outside through the bodily senses, and pay closer attention to the principle we have established: that all minds know and are certain about themselves. People have certainly debated whether the capacity to live, remember, understand, will, think, know, and judge belongs to air, or fire, or the brain, or blood, or atoms, or to some fifth kind of body beyond the usual four elements—I don't know what. They have also debated whether the combination or blending of our flesh itself has the power to accomplish these things. One person has tried to prove one theory, another person another. But who has ever doubted that he himself lives, remembers, understands, wills, thinks, knows, and judges? Even if he doubts, he lives. If he doubts, he remembers why he doubts. If he doubts, he understands that he doubts. If he doubts, he wishes to be certain. If he doubts, he thinks. If he doubts, he knows that he does not know. If he doubts, he judges that he ought not to give his agreement hastily. Therefore, whoever doubts about anything else ought not to doubt about all these things, because if they were not present, he would not be able to doubt about anything.

14. But since we treat of the nature of the mind, let us remove from our consideration all knowledge which is received from without, through the senses of the body; and attend more carefully to the position which we have laid down, that all minds know and are certain concerning themselves. For men certainly have doubted whether the power of living, of remembering, of understanding, of willing, of thinking, of knowing, of judging, be of air, or of fire, or of the brain, or of the blood, or of atoms, or besides the usual four elements of a fifth kind of body, I know not what; or,whether the combining or tempering together of this our flesh itself has power to accomplish these things. And one has attempted to establish this, and another to establish that. Yet who ever doubts that he himself lives, and remembers, and understands, and wills, and thinks, and knows, and judges? Seeing that even if he doubts, he lives; if he doubts, he remembers why he doubts; if he doubts, he understands that he doubts; if he doubts, he wishes to be certain; if he doubts, he thinks; if he doubts, he knows that he does not know; if he doubts, he judges that he ought not to assent rashly. Whosoever therefore doubts about anything else, ought not to doubt of all these things; which if they were not, he would not be able to doubt of anything.

Those who think the mind is either a body or a combination or tempering of the body will consider all these things to be present in a subject. They believe the substance is air, fire, or some other bodily thing, which they think is the mind. They believe understanding exists in this bodily thing as its quality, so that this bodily thing is the subject and understanding exists in the subject. In other words, the mind is the subject, which they judge to be a bodily thing, while understanding or any other of those things we have mentioned as certain to us exists in that subject. Those who deny the mind itself is body but think it is the combination or tempering together of the body hold nearly the same opinion. The difference is this: the former say the mind itself is the substance in which understanding exists as in a subject, but the latter say the mind itself exists in a subject, namely in the body, of which it is the combination or tempering together. Consequently, what else can they think except that understanding also exists in the same body as in a subject?

15. They who think the mind to be either a body or the combination or tempering of the body, will have all these things to seem to be in a subject, so that the substance is air, or fire, or some other corporeal thing, which they think to be the mind; but that the understanding ( intelligentia) is in this corporeal thing as its quality, so that this corporeal thing is the subject, but the understanding is in the subject: viz. that the mind is the subject, which they judge to be a corporeal thing, but the understanding [intelligence], or any other of those things which we have mentioned as certain to us, is in that subject. They also hold nearly the same opinion who deny the mind itself to be body, but think it to be the combination or tempering together of the body; for there is this difference, that the former say that the mind itself is the substance, in which the understanding [intelligence] is, as in a subject; but the latter say that the mind itself is in a subject, viz. in the body, of which it is the combination or tempering together. And hence, by consequence, what else can they think, except that the understanding also is in the same body as in a subject?

All of these people fail to recognize that the mind knows itself even when it is searching for itself, as we have already demonstrated. But nothing can properly be said to be known unless its substance is known. Therefore, when the mind knows itself, it knows its own substance. And when it is certain about itself, it is certain about its own substance. The mind is certain about itself, as the arguments presented above prove convincingly. Yet it is not at all certain whether it is air, or fire, or some kind of body, or some function of a body. Therefore it is none of these things. The entire command to know itself means this: the mind is certain that it is not any of those things about which it is uncertain, and is certain that it is only what it is certain that it is. For the mind thinks about fire or air and whatever else is bodily in a certain way. And it can never be made to think about what it actually is in the same way it thinks about what it is not. It thinks about all these things through imaginary fantasy—whether fire, or air, or this or that body, or some part or combination and mixture of body. The mind is certainly not said to be all of these things, but rather some one of them. But if it were any one of them, it would think about that one differently from the rest—not through imaginary fantasy, as absent things are thought about that either the mind itself or similar things have encountered through bodily sense, but rather through some inward, not made-up but true presence (for nothing is more present to it than itself). This is just how it thinks that it lives, remembers, understands, and wills. For it knows these things within itself and does not imagine them as if it had encountered them through external sense, as bodily things are encountered. And if the mind adds nothing to itself from thinking about these things, so as to think itself is something of that kind, then whatever remains to it from itself—that alone is what it actually is.

16. And all these do not perceive that the mind knows itself, even when it seeks for itself, as we have already shown. But nothing is at all rightly said to be known while its substance is not known. And therefore, when the mind knows itself, it knows its own substance; and when it is certain about itself, it as certain about its own substance. But it is certain about itself, as those things which are said above prove convincingly; although it is not at all certain whether itself is air, or fire, or some body, or some function of body. Therefore it is not any of these. And to that whole which is bidden to know itself, belongs this, that it is certain that it is not any of those things of which it is uncertain, and is certain that it is that only, which only it is certain that it is. For it thinks in this way of fire, or air, and whatever else of the body it thinks of. Neither can it in any way be brought to pass that it should so think that which itself is, as it thinks that which itself is not. Since it thinks all these things through an imaginary phantasy, whether fire, or air, or this or that body, or that part or combination and tempering together of the body: nor assuredly is it said to be all those things, but some one of them. But if it were any one of them, it would think this one in a different manner from the rest viz. not through an imaginary phantasy, as absent things are thought, which either themselves or some of like kind have been touched by the bodily sense; but by some inward, not feigned, but true presence (for nothing is more present to it than itself); just as it thinks that itself lives, and remembers, and understands, and wills. For it knows these things in itself, and does not imagine them as though it had touched them by the sense outside itself, as corporeal things are touched. And if it attaches nothing to itself from the thought of these things, so as to think itself to be something of the kind, then whatsoever remains to it from itself that alone is itself.

Let us set aside for now all the other things that the mind knows with certainty about itself, and focus especially on these three: memory, understanding, and will. We can usually recognize the quality of a young person's abilities through these three things. A boy is more praiseworthy in ability when he remembers more firmly and easily, understands more sharply, and pursues his studies more eagerly. However, when we ask about someone's learning, we do not ask how firmly and easily he remembers or how keenly he understands, but rather what he remembers and what he understands. And since the mind is considered praiseworthy not only for being learned but also for being good, we pay attention not only to what someone remembers and understands, but also to what he wills. We look not at how eagerly he wills something, but first at what he wills, and then at how much he wills it. A mind that loves eagerly deserves praise when it loves what ought to be loved eagerly. Therefore, since we speak of these three things—ability, knowledge, and use—the first must be considered under three aspects: what a person can do in memory, understanding, and will. The second must be considered with regard to what someone has acquired in his memory and understanding through a diligent will. The third, namely use, belongs to the will, which handles those things contained in memory and understanding, either directing them toward some further goal or resting satisfied with them as a final end. To use something means to take it up into the power of the will. To enjoy means to use with joy, not any longer in hope but in the actual thing itself. Thus, everyone who enjoys also uses, for he takes something up into the power of the will and finds satisfaction in it as a final end. But not everyone who uses something enjoys it, if he has sought what he takes up into the power of the will not for its own sake but for the sake of something else.

17. Putting aside, then, for a little while all other things, of which the mind is certain concerning itself, let us especially consider and discuss these three — memory, understanding, will. For we may commonly discern in these three the character of the abilities of the young also; since the more tenaciously and easily a boy remembers, and the more acutely he understands, and the more ardently he studies, the more praiseworthy is he in point of ability. But when the question is about any one's learning, then we ask not how solidly and easily he remembers, or how shrewdly he understands; but what it is that he remembers, and what it is that he understands. And because the mind is regarded as praiseworthy, not only as being learned, but also as being good, one gives heed not only to what he remembers and what he understands, but also to what he wills ( velit); not how ardently he wills, but first what it is he wills, and then how greatly he wills it. For the mind that loves eagerly is then to be praised, when it loves that which ought to be loved eagerly. Since, then, we speak of these three — ability, knowledge, use — the first of these is to be considered under the three heads, of what a man can do in memory, and understanding, and will. The second of them is to be considered in regard to that which any one has in his memory and in his understanding, which he has attained by a studious will. But the third, viz. use, lies in the will, which handles those things that are contained in the memory and understanding, whether it refer them to anything further, or rest satisfied with them as an end. For to use, is to take up something into the power of the will; and to enjoy, is to use with joy, not any longer of hope, but of the actual thing. Accordingly, every one who enjoys, uses; for he takes up something into the power of the will, wherein he also is satisfied as with an end. But not every one who uses, enjoys, if he has sought after that, which he takes up into the power of the will, not on account of the thing itself, but on account of something else.

Since these three—memory, understanding, and will—are not three lives but one life, not three minds but one mind, it certainly follows that they are not three substances but one substance. Memory, which is called life and mind and substance, is called these things in relation to itself; but it is called memory in relation to something else. I would say the same about understanding and will, since they are called understanding and will in relation to something else; but each in relation to itself is life and mind and essence. Therefore these three are one, because they are one life, one mind, one essence. Whatever else they are individually called in relation to themselves, they are also called together—not in the plural, but in the singular. But they are three in that they are mutually related to each other. And if they were not equal—not only each to each, but also each to all—they certainly could not mutually contain each other. For not only is each contained by each, but also all are contained by each. I remember that I have memory and understanding and will; I understand that I understand and will and remember; and I will that I will and remember and understand. I remember together my whole memory and understanding and will. For whatever part of my memory I do not remember is not in my memory, and nothing is as fully in the memory as memory itself. Therefore I remember the whole memory. Also, whatever I understand, I know that I understand, and I know that I will whatever I will; but whatever I know, I remember. Therefore I remember the whole of my understanding and the whole of my will. Likewise, when I understand these three things, I understand them together as wholes. For there is nothing intelligible that I do not understand except what I do not know; but what I do not know, I neither remember nor will. Therefore, whatever intelligible things I do not understand, it follows that I also neither remember nor will them. And whatever intelligible things I remember and will, it follows that I understand. My will also embraces my whole understanding and my whole memory, while I use the whole of what I understand and remember. Therefore, since all are mutually comprehended by each as wholes, each as a whole is equal to each as a whole, and each as a whole is at the same time equal to all as wholes. And these three are one—one life, one mind, one essence.

18. Since, then, these three, memory, understanding, will, are not three lives, but one life; nor three minds, but one mind; it follows certainly that neither are they three substances, but one substance. Since memory, which is called life, and mind, and substance, is so called in respect to itself; but it is called memory, relatively to something. And I should say the same also of understanding and of will, since they are called understanding and will relatively to something; but each in respect to itself is life, and mind, and essence. And hence these three are one, in that they are one life, one mind, one essence; and whatever else they are severally called in respect to themselves, they are called also together, not plurally, but in the singular number. But they are three, in that wherein they are mutually referred to each other; and if they were not equal, and this not only each to each, but also each to all, they certainly could not mutually contain each other; for not only is each contained by each, but also all by each. For I remember that I have memory and understanding, and will; and I understand that I understand, and will, and remember; and I will that I will, and remember, and understand; and I remember together my whole memory, and understanding, and will. For that of my memory which I do not remember, is not in my memory; and nothing is so much in the memory as memory itself. Therefore I remember the whole memory. Also, whatever I understand I know that I understand, and I know that I will whatever I will; but whatever I know I remember. Therefore I remember the whole of my understanding, and the whole of my will. Likewise, when I understand these three things, I understand them together as whole. For there is none of things intelligible which I do not understand, except what I do not know; but what I do not know, I neither remember, nor will. Therefore, whatever of things intelligible I do not understand, it follows also that I neither remember nor will. And whatever of things intelligible I remember and will, it follows that I understand. My will also embraces my whole understanding and my whole memory while I use the whole that I understand and remember. And, therefore, while all are mutually comprehended by each, and as wholes, each as a whole is equal to each as a whole, and each as a whole at the same time to all as wholes; and these three are one, one life, one mind, one essence.

Are we now to ascend, with whatever strength of purpose we have, to that highest and supreme essence of which the human mind is an inadequate image, yet still an image? Or should these same three things be explained even more clearly in the soul through those things we receive from outside through the bodily senses, by which knowledge of physical things is impressed upon us in time? We have found that the mind itself exists in its own memory, understanding, and will in such a way that since it is understood always to know and always to will itself, it is also understood at the same time always to remember itself, always to understand and love itself, although it does not always think of itself as distinct from things that are not itself. Therefore its memory of itself and understanding of itself are difficult to discern in it. For in this situation, where these two things are very closely joined together and one does not come before the other by any amount of time, it appears as though they were not two things but one thing called by two names. And love itself is not so clearly felt to exist when a sense of need does not reveal it, since what is loved is always present. So these things can be explained more clearly, even to people with duller minds, if we discuss topics that come to the mind in time and occur to it in time—while it remembers what it did not remember before, sees what it did not see before, and loves what it did not love before. But this discussion now requires another beginning because of the length of the present book.

19. Are we, then, now to go upward, with whatever strength of purpose we may, to that chiefest and highest essence, of which the human mind is an inadequate image, yet an image? Or are these same three things to be yet more distinctly made plain in the soul, by means of those things which we receive from without, through the bodily sense, wherein the knowledge of corporeal things is impressed upon us in time? Since we found the mind itself to be such in its own memory, and understanding, and will, that since it was understood always to know and always to will itself, it was understood also at the same time always to remember itself, always to understand and love itself, although not always to think of itself as separate from those things which are not itself; and hence its memory of itself, and understanding of itself, are with difficult discerned in it. For in this case, where these two things are very closely conjoined, and one is not preceded by the other by any time at all, it looks as if they were not two things, but one called by two names; and love itself is not so plainly felt to exist when the sense of need does not disclose it, since what is loved is always at hand. And hence these things may be more lucidly set forth, even to men of duller minds, if such topics are treated of as are brought within reach of the mind in time, and happen to it in time; while it remembers what it did not remember before, and sees what it did not see before, and loves what it did not love before. But this discussion demands now another beginning, by reason of the measure of the present book.