Confessions 11.12–11.35

See, are they not full of their old nature who say to us: "What was God doing before he made heaven and earth? For if he was at leisure," they say, "and doing nothing, why did he not always remain so, and from then on, just as for ever before he had rested from work? For if any new motion arose in God, and a new will, to establish a creation which he had never established before, how is there then true eternity, where a will arises that was not there before? For the will of God is not a creature, but is before the creature, because nothing would be created unless the will of the Creator came first. So his will belongs to the very substance of God. And if something arose in God's substance which was not there before, that substance is not truly called eternal; but if God's will that there should be a creation was eternal, why is the creation not eternal too?"

Those who say this do not yet understand you, O Wisdom of God, light of minds; they do not yet understand how the things are made that are made through you and in you; and they try to taste eternal things, but their heart still flutters about in the past and future motions of things, and is still vain. Who will hold it and fix it, so that it may stand still a little and a little catch the splendor of ever-standing eternity, and compare it with times that never stand still, and see that it is incomparable; and see that a long time does not become long except from many passing motions, which cannot be extended all at once; but that in the eternal nothing passes, but the whole is present; whereas no time is wholly present; and see that all past time is driven on by the future, and all future follows from the past, and all past and future is created by, and runs out from, that which is always present? Who will hold the heart of man, so that it may stand still and see how eternity, standing still, neither future nor past, dictates future and past times? Is my hand able to do this, or does the hand of my mouth accomplish so great a thing by speaking?

See, I answer the one who asks, "What was God doing before he made heaven and earth?" I do not give the answer which someone is said to have given, jokingly evading the force of the question: "He was preparing hell," he said, "for those who pry into deep matters." It is one thing to see, another to scoff. I do not give that answer. For I would more willingly answer, "I do not know what I do not know," than give an answer by which the one who asked deep things is mocked and the one who answered falsely is praised. But I say that you, our God, are the Creator of every creature, and if every creature is understood by the name of heaven and earth, I boldly say: before God made heaven and earth, he made nothing. For if he was making anything, what was he making but a creature? And I wish I knew whatever I desire to know for my good as surely as I know that no creature was being made before any creature was made.

But if someone's fickle mind wanders among images of past times, and marvels that you, God almighty, all-creating and all-sustaining, maker of heaven and earth, refrained from so great a work for countless ages before you made it, let him wake up and take note that he marvels at something false. For how could countless ages pass which you yourself had not made, since you are the author and founder of all ages? Or what times could there have been which were not founded by you? Or how could they pass if they had never been? Since, then, you are the maker of all times, if there was any time before you made heaven and earth, why is it said that you refrained from work? For you had made that very time, and times could not pass before you made times. But if there was no time before heaven and earth, why is it asked what you were doing then? For there was no "then" where there was no time.

Nor do you precede times in time; otherwise you would not precede all times. But you precede all past times in the height of an ever-present eternity, and you surpass all future times, because they are future, and when they have come they will be past; "but you are the same, and your years do not fail." Your years neither go nor come; but these years of ours go and come, so that all may come. Your years all stand at once, because they stand still, and those that go are not excluded by those that come, because they do not pass; but these years of ours will all be only when they all are no more. "Your years are one day," and your day is not daily but today, because your today does not give way to tomorrow, nor does it follow yesterday. Your today is eternity; therefore you begot the Coeternal, to whom you said, "Today I have begotten you." You made all times, and you are before all times, and there was no time when there was no time.

So at no time had you not made something, because you had made time itself. And no times are coeternal with you, because you remain; but if they remained, they would not be times. For what is time? Who can easily and briefly explain it? Who can grasp it even in thought, so as to put it into words? Yet what do we mention more familiarly and knowingly in our speech than time? And we certainly understand when we speak of it; we understand also when we hear another speak of it. What, then, is time? If no one asks me, I know; if I want to explain it to someone who asks, I do not know. Yet I say with confidence that I know that if nothing passed away, there would be no past time; and if nothing were coming, there would be no future time; and if nothing were, there would be no present time. How, then, do those two times, the past and the future, exist, when the past is no longer and the future is not yet? But if the present were always present and did not pass into the past, it would no longer be time but eternity. If, then, the present, in order to be time, comes to be only because it passes into the past, how can we say that it exists, when the cause of its being is that it will not be? So we cannot truly say that time exists, except in the sense that it tends toward not being.

And yet we speak of a long time and a short time, and we say this only of the past or the future. We call a past time long, for example, a hundred years ago, and a future time likewise long, a hundred years hence; and a short past time, say ten days ago, and a short future time, ten days hence. But how can something be long or short which does not exist? For the past is no longer and the future is not yet. So let us not say "it is long," but let us say of the past "it was long," and of the future "it will be long." My Lord, my light, will not your truth mock man here too? For was the past time that was long long when it was already past, or before, when it was still present? For it could be long then, when there was something to be long; but the past no longer existed, so it could not be long, since it did not exist at all. So let us not say, "The past time was long"; for we will not find what was long, since from the moment it became past it does not exist. Let us say, "That present time was long," because when it was present it was long. For it had not yet passed away so as not to exist, and so there was something that could be long; but after it passed away, it ceased to be long at the same moment that it ceased to be.

Let us see, then, human soul, whether present time can be long; for it has been given to you to perceive intervals and to measure them. What will you answer me? Are a hundred present years a long time? First see whether a hundred years can be present. For if the first of them is going on, it is present, but ninety-nine are future and so do not yet exist; if the second year is going on, one is already past, another present, the rest future. And so whichever year of this hundred we take as present, those before it will be past and those after it future. So a hundred years cannot be present. See at least whether the one year that is going on is itself present. For if its first month is going on, the rest are future; if the second, the first has already passed and the rest do not yet exist. So not even the year that is going on is wholly present; and if it is not wholly present, it is not a year that is present. For a year is twelve months, of which whichever month is going on is present, the rest past or future. And yet not even the month that is going on is present, but one day: if the first, the rest are future; if the last, the rest are past; if any in between, it is between past and future.

See, the present time, which alone we found might be called long, has shrunk to the space of scarcely one day. But let us examine even that, because not even one day is wholly present. For it is made up of twenty-four hours of night and day, of which the first has the rest in the future, the last has them in the past, and any in between has those before it past and those after it future. And that one hour itself passes in fleeting particles: whatever of it has flown away is past, whatever remains is future. If any time can be conceived which cannot be divided into even the tiniest parts of moments, that alone can be called present; yet it flies so swiftly from the future into the past that it is not extended by the least delay. For if it is extended, it is divided into past and future; but the present has no extent. Where, then, is the time we may call long? Is it the future? We do not say, "It is long," because there is not yet anything to be long, but we say, "It will be long." When, then, will it be? For if even then it is still future, it will not be long, because what may be long does not yet exist; but if it will be long at the time when, from being future and not yet existing, it has begun to exist and has become present, so that there can be something long, the present time cries out in the words above that it cannot be long.

And yet, Lord, we perceive intervals of time and compare them with each other, and we say that some are longer and others shorter. We even measure how much longer or shorter one time is than another, and we answer that this is double or triple that, and that one single, or that this is as long as that. But it is times passing by that we measure, when we measure them by perceiving them; but who can measure past times, which no longer exist, or future times, which do not yet exist, unless perhaps someone will dare to say that what does not exist can be measured? So while time is passing, it can be perceived and measured; but when it has passed, it cannot, because it does not exist.

I am inquiring, Father, not asserting. My God, preside over me and rule me. Who is there to tell me that there are not three times, as we learned as boys and have taught boys, past, present, and future, but only the present, since those two do not exist? Or do they exist too, but come forth from some hidden place when from future it becomes present, and withdraw into some hidden place when from present it becomes past? For where did those who sang of the future see these things, if they do not yet exist? For what does not exist cannot be seen. And those who tell of the past would certainly not tell true things if they did not discern them in their minds; and if these things did not exist at all, they could not be discerned at all. So both future and past things exist.

Allow me, Lord, my hope, to inquire further; let my attention not be confused. For if future and past things exist, I want to know where they are. And if I am not yet able to know that, I do know that wherever they are, they are not there as future or past, but as present. For if they are future there too, they are not yet there; and if they are past there too, they are no longer there. So wherever they are, whatever they are, they are only present. Although when past things are truly told, what is brought out of memory is not the things themselves, which have passed away, but words conceived from their images, which they fixed in the mind like footprints as they passed through the senses. My boyhood, for instance, which no longer exists, is in past time, which no longer exists; but when I recall and tell of it, I see its image in present time, because it is still in my memory. Whether there is a similar cause for foretelling future things, so that already existing images of things that do not yet exist are perceived beforehand, I confess, my God, I do not know. This I do know: that we often plan our future actions beforehand, and that this planning is present, whereas the action we are planning does not yet exist, because it is future; when we have set about it and begun to do what we were planning, then that action will exist, because then it will not be future but present.

So, however it is with the mysterious foreknowledge of future things, nothing can be seen except what exists. And what already exists is not future but present. So when future things are said to be seen, it is not the things themselves which do not yet exist, that is, which are future, that are seen, but perhaps their causes or signs, which already exist; so they are not future but present to those who see them, and from them future things are foretold, conceived in the mind. These conceptions in turn already exist, and those who foretell those things see them present in themselves. Let some example out of the vast number of things speak to me. I look at the dawn; I announce that the sun is about to rise. What I look at is present; what I announce is future: not the sun, which already exists, but its rising, which does not yet exist. Yet unless I imagined the rising itself in my mind, as now when I speak of it, I could not foretell it. But neither that dawn which I see in the sky is the sunrise, although it precedes it, nor is that image in my mind: these two are seen as present, so that the future rising may be spoken of beforehand. So future things do not yet exist, and if they do not yet exist, they do not exist, and if they do not exist, they cannot be seen at all; but they can be foretold from present things, which already exist and are seen.

You, then, ruler of your creation, what is the way in which you teach souls things that are future? For you taught your prophets. What is the way in which you teach the future, you to whom nothing is future? Or rather, do you teach present things about the future? For what does not exist certainly cannot be taught. That way is far beyond my sight; "it has grown too strong for me, and I shall not be able to reach it"; but I shall be able by you, when you grant it, sweet light of my hidden eyes.

But what is now clear and plain is that neither future nor past things exist, nor is it properly said, "There are three times, past, present, and future." But perhaps it would be properly said, "There are three times: a present of past things, a present of present things, a present of future things." For these three are in the soul in some way, and I do not see them anywhere else: the present of past things is memory, the present of present things is direct attention, the present of future things is expectation. If we are allowed to say this, I see three times, and I confess there are three. Let it still be said, "There are three times, past, present, and future," as custom misuses the words; let it be said. See, I do not mind, nor resist, nor find fault, as long as what is said is understood: that neither what is future nor what is past exists now. For there are few things we speak of properly, and many improperly; but what we mean is recognized.

I said a little earlier, then, that we measure times as they pass, so that we can say that this time is double that single one, or this as long as that, and whatever else we can report about the parts of time by measuring. So, as I was saying, we measure times as they pass; and if anyone says to me, "How do you know?" I would answer: I know because we measure them, and we cannot measure what does not exist, and past and future things do not exist. But how do we measure present time, when it has no extent? It is measured, then, while it passes; but when it has passed, it is not measured, for there will be nothing to measure. But from where, by which way, and to where does it pass while it is measured? From where but from the future? By which way but through the present? To where but into the past? From that, then, which does not yet exist, through that which has no extent, into that which no longer exists. But what do we measure, if not time in some extent? For we do not speak of single and double and triple and equal, and anything else of this kind in time, except of extents of time. In what extent, then, do we measure time as it passes? In the future, from which it passes? But we do not measure what does not yet exist. In the present, by which it passes? But we do not measure what has no extent. In the past, into which it passes? But we do not measure what no longer exists.

My mind is on fire to know this most intricate riddle. Do not shut them, Lord my God, good Father; I beseech you through Christ, do not shut these things, both familiar and hidden, against my desire, so that it may not enter into them and they may not grow clear as your mercy shines on them, Lord. Whom shall I ask about these things? And to whom shall I confess my ignorance more fruitfully than to you, who are not wearied by my studies burning so vehemently toward your Scriptures? Give what I love; for I do love, and this you have given. Give, Father, who truly know how to give good gifts to your children; give, because I have undertaken to know, and "it is toil before me" until you open it. I beseech you through Christ, in his name, the Holy of holies, let no one disturb me. "I too have believed, and therefore I speak." This is my hope; for this I live, "to contemplate the delight of the Lord." "See, you have made my days old," and they pass, and how, I do not know. And we speak of time and time, times and times: "How long did he say this?" "How long did he do this?" and "How long a time it is since I saw that!" and "This syllable has double the time of that single short one." We say these things and hear them, and we are understood and we understand. They are most plain and most familiar, and at the same time they are deeply hidden, and their discovery is new.

I have heard from a certain learned man that the motions of the sun and moon and stars are themselves times, and I did not agree. For why should not the motions of all bodies rather be times? Or indeed, if the lights of heaven ceased and a potter's wheel were moving, would there be no time by which we could measure its turns and say either that they went at equal intervals, or, if it moved sometimes more slowly and sometimes faster, that some turns were longer and others shorter? Or when we said this, would we not also be speaking in time, and would there be some long syllables in our words and others short, except because the former sounded for a longer time and the latter for a shorter? God, grant men to see in something small the notions common to small and great things. The stars and lights of heaven are "for signs and for times and for days and for years." They are indeed; but neither would I say that the turning of that little wooden wheel is a day, nor would that learned man say that it is therefore not time.

I want to know the power and nature of time, by which we measure the motions of bodies and say, for example, that this motion lasts twice as long as that. For I ask this: since a day is called not only the stay of the sun above the earth, by which day is one thing and night another, but also its whole circuit from east to east, by which we say, "So many days have passed" (for so many days are counted with their nights, and the spaces of the nights are not reckoned separately); since, then, a day is completed by the motion and circuit of the sun from east to east, I ask whether the motion itself is the day, or the duration in which it is completed, or both. For if the first were the day, it would be a day even if the sun completed that course in a space of time as short as one hour. If the second, it would not be a day if from one sunrise to the next there were a duration as short as one hour, but the sun would have to go round twenty-four times to complete a day. If both, neither would that be called a day if the sun went its whole round in the space of an hour, nor would this, if the sun stopped and as much time passed as the sun usually takes to complete its whole circuit from morning to morning. So I will not now ask what it is that is called a day, but what time is, by which, measuring the sun's circuit, we would say that it was completed in half the usual space of time if it were completed in as much time as twelve hours take; and comparing both times, we would call the one single and the other double, even if the sun sometimes went round from east to east in the single and sometimes in the double time. Let no one tell me, then, that the motions of the heavenly bodies are times; for when the sun stood still at a certain man's prayer, so that he might finish a battle victoriously, the sun stood still, but time went on. For that battle was fought and finished in its own space of time, which sufficed for it. So I see that time is a kind of distension. But do I see it? Or do I seem to myself to see it? You will show me, Light, Truth.

Do you command me to agree if someone says that time is the motion of a body? You do not. For I hear that no body moves except in time: you say so. But I do not hear that the motion of a body is itself time: you do not say so. For when a body moves, I measure by time how long it moves, from when it begins to move until it stops. And if I did not see when it began, and it goes on moving so that I do not see when it stops, I cannot measure it, except perhaps from when I begin to see it until I stop. And if I see it for a long time, I can only report that the time is long, not how long it is; because when we say "how long," we say it by comparison, as "this is as long as that" or "this is double that," and so on. But if we can mark the distances of the places from which and to which the moving body goes, or its parts, if it moves as on a lathe, we can say how much time it took for the motion of the body or its part from this place to that. Since, then, the motion of a body is one thing and that by which we measure how long it lasts is another, who does not see which of these should rather be called time? For if a body sometimes moves and sometimes stands still, we measure by time not only its motion but also its rest, and we say, "It stood still as long as it moved," or "It stood still twice or three times as long as it moved," and whatever else our measurement either grasps exactly or estimates, as we usually say, more or less. So time is not the motion of a body.

And I confess to you, Lord, that I still do not know what time is; and again I confess to you, Lord, that I know that I say these things in time, and that I have now been speaking of time for a long time, and that this very "long" is not long except by a duration of time. How, then, do I know this, when I do not know what time is? Or perhaps I do not know how to say what I know? Alas for me, who do not even know what I do not know! See, my God, before you I do not lie: as I speak, so is my heart. "You will light my lamp, Lord my God; you will enlighten my darkness."

Does not my soul confess to you with truthful confession that I measure times? So, Lord my God, I measure, and I do not know what I measure. I measure the motion of a body by time. And do I not measure time itself? Could I measure the motion of a body, how long it lasts and how long it takes to get from here to there, unless I measured the time in which it moves? With what, then, do I measure time itself? Do we measure a longer time by a shorter one, as we measure the length of a beam by the length of a cubit? For so we see the length of a long syllable measured by the length of a short one, and called double. So we measure the lengths of poems by the lengths of lines, and the lengths of lines by the lengths of feet, and the lengths of feet by the lengths of syllables, and the lengths of long syllables by those of short ones; not on pages (for in that way we measure spaces, not times), but when the words pass by as we pronounce them, and we say: "It is a long poem, for it is made up of so many lines; the lines are long, for they consist of so many feet; the feet are long, for they stretch over so many syllables; the syllable is long, for it is double a short one." But not even in this way is a sure measure of time grasped, since it can happen that a shorter line, if it is pronounced more slowly, sounds for a longer space of time than a longer one pronounced more quickly. So with a poem, so with a foot, so with a syllable. From this it seemed to me that time is nothing other than distension; but of what, I do not know, and it would be strange if it were not of the mind itself. For what do I measure, I beseech you, my God, when I say either indefinitely, "This time is longer than that," or definitely, "This is double that"? I measure time, I know; but I do not measure the future, because it does not yet exist; I do not measure the present, because it is not extended over any space; I do not measure the past, because it no longer exists. What, then, do I measure? Times passing, not past? For so I had said.

Persevere, my mind, and attend strongly: "God is our helper"; "he made us, and not we ourselves." Attend to where truth is dawning. See, suppose a bodily voice begins to sound, and sounds, and still sounds, and then stops, and now there is silence, and that voice is past and is no longer a voice. It was future before it sounded, and it could not be measured, because it did not yet exist; and now it cannot, because it no longer exists. So it could be measured then, while it was sounding, because then there was something that could be measured. But even then it was not standing still; for it was going and passing away. Or was it for this reason more measurable? For in passing it was stretched out into some space of time by which it could be measured, since the present has no space. If, then, it could be measured then, see, suppose another voice has begun to sound and still sounds in one continuous tone without any break: let us measure it while it sounds; for when it has stopped sounding, it will already be past and there will be nothing that can be measured. Let us measure it, then, and say how long it is. But it is still sounding, and it cannot be measured except from its beginning, when it began to sound, to its end, when it stops. For it is the interval itself that we measure, from some beginning to some end. So a voice which has never ended cannot be measured, so as to say how long or short it is, nor can it be called equal to another, or single or double in relation to another, or anything else. But when it has ended, it will no longer exist. How, then, can it be measured? And yet we measure times: not those that do not yet exist, nor those that no longer exist, nor those that are extended by no duration, nor those that have no limits. So we measure neither future nor past nor present nor passing times, and yet we measure times.

"Deus creator omnium": this line of eight syllables alternates short and long syllables. So the four short ones, the first, third, fifth, and seventh, are single in relation to the four long ones, the second, fourth, sixth, and eighth. Each of these has double the time of each of those. I pronounce it and report on it, and it is so, as far as is perceived by plain perception. As far as perception is plain, I measure the long syllable by the short one and perceive that it has twice as much. But when one sounds after the other, if the first is short and the second long, how shall I hold the short one, and how shall I apply it to the long one to measure it, so as to find that the long has twice as much, since the long does not begin to sound until the short has stopped? And do I measure the long one itself while present, when I do not measure it until it has ended? For its ending is its passing away. What, then, is it that I measure? Where is the short syllable by which I measure? Where is the long one that I measure? Both have sounded, flown away, passed, and are no more; and yet I measure, and I answer confidently, as far as a trained sense can be trusted, that the one is single and the other double, in extent of time, of course. And I cannot do this except because they have passed and ended. So it is not the syllables themselves, which no longer exist, that I measure, but something in my memory which remains fixed there.