Against the Academics 1.1–1.19

O Romanianus, if only virtue could take a man suited to her away from fortune when fortune resists, as she allows no one to be taken from her by fortune! She would surely have laid hands on you long ago, proclaimed you her own, and, bringing you into possession of the most certain goods, would not let you be a slave even to prosperous chances. But since it has been so arranged, whether for our deserts or by the necessity of nature, that the divine mind dwelling in mortal things is never received into the harbor of wisdom, where it is moved neither by fortune's adverse wind nor by its favorable one, unless fortune herself, favorable or seemingly adverse, brings it there, nothing remains for us to do for you but prayers. By them, if we can, let us obtain from God, who cares for these things, that he give you back to yourself (for so he will easily give you back to us as well), and let that mind of yours, which has long been in labor to breathe, at last come out into the air of true freedom. For perhaps what is commonly called fortune is governed by some hidden order, and what we call chance in events is nothing but that whose reason and cause is secret; and nothing advantageous or disadvantageous happens in a part that does not fit and agree with the whole. Philosophy, to which I invite you, promises to show this view to her true lovers, a view set forth in the oracles of the richest teachings and very far removed from the understanding of the uninitiated. Therefore, when many things happen to you that are unworthy of your mind, do not despise yourself. For if divine providence reaches down even to us, which is not to be doubted in the least, believe me, you must be dealt with as you are being dealt with. For when, with that great natural gift of yours which I always admire, you entered from early youth upon human life, so full of every error, while the footing of your reason was still weak and slipping, an overflowing abundance of riches received you. It had begun to swallow up in its alluring whirlpools that age and that mind, eagerly following whatever seemed beautiful and honorable, and it would have done so had not those blasts of fortune that are thought adverse snatched you out of it as you were almost going under.

Or if, when you put on bear shows and spectacles never before seen there for our fellow citizens, the applause of the theater, always most favorable, had greeted you; if you were carried to the skies by the united and agreeing voices of foolish men, whose crowd is immense; if no one dared be your enemy; if the town's tablets marked you in bronze as patron not only of the citizens but also of the neighboring towns; if statues were set up, honors flowed in, and powers were even added that rose above a municipal rank; if rich tables were spread at daily banquets, and whatever anyone needed, whatever anyone's pleasures even thirsted for, he could ask without hesitation and drink in without hesitation, and much were poured out even on those who did not ask; and if your household estate itself, carefully and faithfully managed by your people, showed itself adequate and ready for such great expenses, while you meanwhile lived in the most exquisite masses of buildings, in the splendor of baths, in dice (which honorable men do not reject), in hunts, in banquets, and were spoken of on the lips of clients, of citizens, and finally of whole peoples as the most humane, most generous, most refined, most fortunate of men: would anyone, Romanianus, would anyone, I ask, dare to mention to you another happy life, which alone is happy? Could anyone persuade you that you were not only not happy but most wretched precisely where you seemed to yourself least so? But now, how briefly you need to be reminded, after the many great adversities you have endured! For you do not need to be persuaded by the examples of others how fleeting and fragile and full of calamity are all the things mortals think good, since you have so experienced them that we can persuade others from your case.

That, then, that quality of yours by which you always desired what was fitting and honorable, by which you preferred to be generous rather than rich, by which you never desired to be more powerful than you were just, and never gave way to adversities and wickedness: that very thing, I say, that divine element in you which has been lulled to sleep by I know not what slumber and lethargy of this life, secret providence has decided to awaken by those various and hard tossings. Wake up, wake up, I beg you! Believe me, you will greatly rejoice that the gifts of this world have flattered you with hardly any of the prosperities by which the unwary are held. They were trying to capture me too, as I daily sang their praises, had not a pain in my chest compelled me to throw away my windy profession and take refuge in the lap of philosophy. She now nourishes and cherishes me in the leisure we so earnestly desired; she has completely freed me from that superstition into which I had thrown you headlong along with me. For she teaches, and teaches truly, that nothing at all is to be worshiped, and that everything is to be despised that is seen by mortal eyes or touched by any sense. She promises to show clearly the most true and most hidden God, and already, as it were, she deigns to display him through bright clouds.

In her our Licentius lives with me most zealously; he has turned to her wholly from the enticements and pleasures of youth, so much so that I venture, not rashly, to set him before his father for imitation. For philosophy is one from whose breasts no age will complain that it is shut out. To spur you on to hold and drink her more eagerly, although I know your thirst well, I wanted nevertheless to send you a taste. I ask that it may be most sweet to you and, so to speak, an inducement, so that I may not have hoped in vain. For I have sent you, written down, the discussion that Trygetius and Licentius held between themselves. Military service had, as it were, claimed the former young man for a while to rub away his distaste for studies, and so it has given him back to us most ardent and hungry for the great and honorable arts. So, when a few days had passed after we began to live in the country, and I saw them, as I encouraged and stirred them to their studies, more ready than I had hoped and positively eager, I wanted to test what they could do for their age, especially since Cicero's Hortensius seemed already to have won them over to philosophy in large part. So, employing a stenographer so that the winds should not scatter our labor, I let nothing be lost. In this book, then, you will read their topics and opinions, but my words and also those of Alypius.

So when we had all gathered in one place at my urging for this purpose, where it seemed convenient, I said: "Do you doubt at all that we ought to know the truth?" "Not at all," said Trygetius, and the others indicated by their faces that they agreed. "What if," I said, "we can be happy even without having grasped the truth: do you think the grasping of truth necessary?" At this Alypius said: "I think it safer for me to be judge of this question. For since my journey to the city has been arranged, I must be relieved of the burden of taking up either side; and besides, I can more easily delegate to someone the role of judge than that of any defense. So from now on expect nothing from me for either side." When everyone had granted him this and I had repeated my question, Trygetius said: "Certainly we want to be happy, and if we can reach this without truth, we need not seek truth." "What of this very point?" I said. "Do you think we can be happy even without having found the truth?" Then Licentius said: "We can, if we seek the truth." When I had asked the opinion of the others by a nod, Navigius said: "What Licentius said moves me. For perhaps this itself may be living happily: to live in the search for truth." "Then define," said Trygetius, "what the happy life is, so that I may infer from it what answer is fitting." "What do you think living happily is," I said, "but living according to what is best in man?" "I will not pour out words rashly," he said, "for I think that what that best thing is must be defined for me by you." "Who would doubt," I said, "that the best thing in man is nothing other than that part of the mind which, when it rules, all the other things in man should obey? And this, so that you do not demand another definition, can be called mind or reason. If you do not agree, consider how you yourself would define either the happy life or the best thing in man." "I agree," he said.

"Well then," I said, "to return to our subject: do you think one can live happily without having found the truth, if only it is sought?" "I repeat my opinion," he said: "I do not think so at all." "And what do you think?" I said to the others. Then Licentius said: "I certainly think so. For our ancestors, whom we have been taught to regard as wise and happy, lived well and happily simply because they sought the truth." "I thank you," I said, "for making me judge along with Alypius, whom, I confess, I had already begun to envy. Since, then, one of you thinks the happy life can come about by the mere search for truth, and the other only by finding it, while Navigius showed a little while ago that he wants to cross over to your side, Licentius, I am very eager to see what sort of advocates for your opinions you can be. For the matter is a great one and most worthy of careful discussion." "If the matter is great," said Licentius, "it calls for great men." "Do not look," I said, "especially in this country house, for what is hard to find anywhere on earth; rather explain why you said what you said, not rashly, I think, and on what reasoning it seems so to you. For when the greatest matters are investigated even by small men, they usually make them great."

"Since I see," he said, "that you are pressing us hard to dispute against each other, which I trust you want for our benefit, I ask why one who seeks the truth cannot be happy, even if he does not find it at all." "Because," said Trygetius, "we hold that the happy man is the wise man, perfect in all things. But one who is still seeking is not perfect. So how you can claim that he is happy I do not see at all." And Licentius said: "Does the authority of our ancestors carry weight with you?" "Not of all of them," said Trygetius. "Of whom, then?" He said: "Of those, of course, who were wise." Then Licentius said: "Does Carneades not seem wise to you?" "I am not a Greek," he said; "I do not know who this Carneades was." "Well," said Licentius, "what then do you think of our own Cicero?" After a long silence he said: "He was wise." And Licentius said: "So his opinion on this matter has some weight with you?" "It has," he said. "Then hear what it is, for I think it has slipped your mind. Our Cicero held that he is happy who investigates the truth, even if he cannot attain to finding it." "Where did Cicero say this?" he said. And Licentius: "Who does not know that he strongly asserted that nothing can be perceived by man, and that nothing remains for the wise man but the most diligent search for truth, because, if he assented to uncertain things, even if they perhaps were true, he could not be free from error, which is the greatest fault of the wise man? Therefore, if we must believe both that the wise man is necessarily happy and that the mere search for truth is the perfect task of wisdom, why do we hesitate to think that the happy life can come about even through the investigation of truth by itself?"

Then Trygetius said: "Is it allowed, then, to go back to what was rashly granted?" Here I said: "Those whom no desire to find the truth but a childish display of cleverness drives to dispute do not usually allow this. But with me, especially since you are still to be nurtured and educated, it is not only allowed; I want you to have it among your rules that you should go back to examine what you have granted too incautiously." And Licentius said: "I think it no small progress in philosophy when a disputant despises victory in comparison with finding what is right and true. So I gladly obey your rules and your view, and I allow Trygetius to go back to what he thinks he granted rashly, since the matter is in my hands." Then Alypius said: "You yourselves recognize with me that the part of the office I took on has not yet come into play. But since the journey long arranged compels me to break off, my partner in judging will not refuse to take double authority, my share too, until my return; for I see that this contest of yours will go on a long time." And when he had left, Licentius said: "What had you granted rashly? Tell us." And he said: "I granted rashly that Cicero was wise." "So Cicero was not wise, by whom philosophy in the Latin language was both begun and completed?" "Even if I grant," he said, "that he was wise, I still do not approve everything of his." "But you must refute many other things of his, so as not to seem shameless in rejecting this point at issue." "What if I am prepared to assert that only on this did he not think rightly? It matters nothing to you, I think, except how weighty are the reasons I bring for what I want to assert." "Go on," said Licentius. "For what," he said, "would I dare against one who professes himself Cicero's opponent?"

Here Trygetius said: "You, our judge, I want you to note how you defined the happy life above; for you said that he is happy who lives according to that part of the mind which ought to command the rest. And you, Licentius, I want you to grant me at least now (for I have already shaken off that yoke of authority by the freedom into which philosophy above all promises to set us) that one who is still searching for the truth is not perfect." Then, after a long silence, Licentius said: "I do not grant it." Trygetius: "Why, I ask? Explain. I am all attention and eager to hear how a man can both be perfect and still be seeking the truth." Here Licentius said: "I admit that one who has not reached the end is not perfect. But I think that only God knows that truth, or perhaps the soul of a man when it has left this body, that is, this dark prison. The end of man, however, is to seek the truth perfectly; for we are looking for a perfect being, but still a man." And Trygetius said: "Then man cannot be happy. For how can he, when he cannot attain what he greatly desires? But man can live happily, if indeed he can live according to that part of the mind which rightly rules in man. Therefore he can find the truth. Or else let him collect himself and not desire the truth, so that he is not necessarily wretched when he cannot attain it." "But this very thing is man's happiness," said Licentius, "to seek the truth perfectly; for this is to reach the end beyond which one cannot go. Whoever, then, seeks the truth less earnestly than he should does not reach the end of man; but whoever gives as much effort to finding the truth as a man can and should, even if he does not find it, is happy; for he does everything that he was born to do. If finding is lacking, what is lacking is what nature did not give. Finally, since a man must be either happy or wretched, is it not madness to call wretched one who presses on day and night, as much as he can, in investigating the truth? So he will be happy. Then too, that definition, as I think, supports me more abundantly. For if he is happy, as he is, who lives according to that part of the mind which ought to reign over the rest, and this part is called reason, I ask whether one who perfectly seeks the truth does not live according to reason. If that is absurd, why do we hesitate to call a man happy by the mere search for truth?"

"To me," said Trygetius, "whoever errs seems neither to live according to reason nor to be happy at all. But everyone errs who always seeks and does not find. So you must show one of two things: either that one who errs can be happy, or that one who never finds what he seeks does not err." Here Licentius said: "The happy man cannot err." And after a long silence he said: "But he does not err when he seeks, because he seeks in order not to err." And Trygetius said: "He seeks in order not to err, indeed, but he errs when he does not find. You thought it would help you that he does not want to err, as though no one erred unwillingly, or anyone at all erred except unwillingly." Then, as Licentius hesitated a long time over what to answer, I said: "You must define what error is; for you can more easily see its boundaries when you have already gone deep into it." "I am not fit to define anything," said Licentius, "although it is easier to define error than to bring it to an end." "I will define it," said Trygetius, "which is very easy for me, not by cleverness but because my case is excellent. To err is surely always to seek and never to find." "If I could easily refute even that definition," said Licentius, "I would long ago have come to the help of my case. But since either the matter is difficult in itself or seems so to me, I ask you to put off the question until tomorrow's light, if I can find nothing to answer today after turning it over carefully by myself." Since I thought this should be granted and the others did not object, we got up to go for a walk; and while we talked of many different things among ourselves, he remained fixed in thought. When he realized this was in vain, he chose to relax his mind and join our conversation. Later, as evening came on, they had returned to the same contest; but I set a limit and persuaded them to let it be put off to another day. Then to the baths.

The next day, when we had sat down, I said: "Bring out what you began yesterday." Then Licentius said: "We had put off the discussion, unless I am mistaken, at my request, since the definition of error was very difficult for me." "Here at least," I said, "you plainly do not err; and I would gladly wish that to be an omen for you for the rest." "Hear, then," he said, "what I would have brought out yesterday too, if you had not interrupted. Error seems to me to be the approval of what is false as true. One who always thinks the truth is to be sought in no way falls into it; for one who approves nothing cannot approve what is false; therefore he cannot err. But he can very easily be happy. For not to go far, if we could live every day as we were allowed to yesterday, nothing occurs to me why we should hesitate to call ourselves happy. For we lived in great tranquility of mind, keeping the mind free from every stain of the body and far removed from the firebrands of desires, giving our effort to reason as far as a man may, that is, living according to that divine part of the mind which, as we agreed in yesterday's definition, is the happy life; and yet, as I think, we found nothing, but only sought the truth. So the happy life can come to a man by the mere search for truth, even if he cannot find it at all. And see how easily your definition is excluded by common notion. You said that to err is always to seek and never to find. What if someone seeks nothing, and when asked, for example, whether it is now day, rashly and at once thinks and answers that it is night: does he not seem to you to err? Your definition, then, has not included even this most monstrous kind of error. And what if it has also included people who do not err: can any definition be more faulty? For if someone seeks Alexandria and goes toward it by the straight road, I do not think you can call him one who errs. What if, hindered by various causes, he takes a long time on the same road and is overtaken by death on it: has he not both always sought and never found, and yet not erred?" "He did not always seek," said Trygetius.

"You are right," said Licentius, "and you remind me well. For from that it follows that your definition has nothing at all to do with the matter; for I did not say that he is happy who always seeks the truth. That cannot even happen: first, because a man does not always exist; and second, because from the moment he begins to be a man he cannot yet seek the truth, his age preventing it. Or if you think 'always' should be said if he lets no time be lost in which he is now able to seek, you must go back again to Alexandria. Suppose someone begins to travel that road from the time his age or business allows him to travel, and, as I said above, though he never strays, he still departs this life before he arrives: you will surely err greatly if he seems to you to have erred, although at every moment he could he neither stopped seeking nor was able to find where he was heading. Therefore, if my description is true and, according to it, one who seeks perfectly does not err even though he does not find the truth, and he is happy because he lives according to reason, while your definition has been foiled and, even if it had not been, I need not care about it, if my case has been sufficiently established by my own definition alone: why, I ask, has this question between us not yet been settled?"

Here Trygetius said: "Do you grant that wisdom is the right way of life?" "I grant it without doubt," said Licentius; "but still I want you to define wisdom for me, so that I may know whether it seems to you the same as to me." And Trygetius said: "Does it seem to you too little defined by the very question you were just asked? You have even granted what I wanted. For, unless I am mistaken, the right way of life is called wisdom." Then Licentius said: "Nothing seems to me as ridiculous as that definition." "Perhaps," said Trygetius; "but step by step, I ask, so that reason may come before your laughter; for nothing is more shameful than laughter that deserves to be laughed at." "Well," said Licentius, "do you not admit that death is the opposite of life?" "I admit it," he said. "Then," said Licentius, "nothing seems to me more a way of life than the one by which each person goes so as not to fall into death." Trygetius agreed. "So if some traveler, avoiding a byroad that he has heard is beset by robbers, goes straight on and so escapes death, has he not followed both the way of life and the right way? And no one calls that wisdom. How then is every right way of life wisdom?" "I granted that it is wisdom, but not that it alone is." "But a definition ought to have included nothing foreign to it. So define again, if you please: what do you think wisdom is?"

He was silent a long time; then he said: "Look, I define it again, since you have decided never to finish. Wisdom is the right way that leads to truth." "This too is refuted in the same way," said Licentius. "For when Aeneas was told by his mother in Vergil, 'Only go on, and where the road leads you, direct your step,' following this road he came to what had been said, that is, to the truth. Maintain, if you please, that the place where he set his foot as he went can be called wisdom. And yet it is quite foolish of me to try to break down this description of yours, for none helps my case more. For you said that wisdom is not the truth itself but the way that leads to it. Whoever uses this way, then, surely uses wisdom, and whoever uses wisdom must be wise. So he will be wise who has perfectly sought the truth, even if he has not yet reached it. For no way that leads to truth, as I think, is better understood than the diligent search for truth. Using this way alone, then, he will already be wise. And no wise man is wretched; but every man is either wretched or happy. So not only finding but the investigation of truth by itself will make a man happy."

Then Trygetius said with a smile: "This serves me right, for confidently agreeing with my opponent on an unnecessary point; as though I were a great definer, or thought anything more superfluous in disputing! For what end will there be, if I in turn want you to define something, and then demand that the words of that definition, and of everything that follows, be defined one by one, pretending that I understand nothing? For what is there so plain that I may not by my own right compel it to be defined, if a definition of wisdom is rightly demanded of me? For of what word has nature willed that there be a clearer notion in our minds than of wisdom? But somehow, when the notion itself has left the harbor, as it were, of our mind and spread the sails of words, at once a thousand shipwrecks of quibbles assail it. Therefore, either let no definition of wisdom be demanded, or let our judge deign to come down to its defense." Then, since night was already hindering the pen, and I saw that something great was arising to be discussed as if from the beginning, I put it off to another day. For we had begun to dispute when the sun was already sinking toward its setting, and almost the whole day had been spent both in arranging farm matters and in going over the first book of Vergil.

Then, as soon as it was light (for matters had been so arranged the day before that there was ample leisure), the business we had taken up was immediately pursued. Then I said: "Yesterday, Trygetius, you asked me to come down from the office of judge to the defense of wisdom, as though wisdom suffered any opponent in your conversation, or were so hard pressed by anyone defending her that she had to call for greater help. For no question has arisen between you except what wisdom is, and on that point neither of you attacks her, since both of you long for her; nor, if you think you have failed in defining wisdom, must you therefore abandon the rest of the defense of your opinion. So from me you will have nothing but a definition of wisdom, which is neither mine nor new, but belongs to the men of old, and I am surprised that you do not remember it. For you are not hearing now for the first time that wisdom is the knowledge of things human and divine."

Here Licentius, who I thought would take a long time after that definition to find something to say, at once put in: "Why, then, I ask, do we not call wise that utterly disgraceful man whom we ourselves know well to be habitually dissipated with countless harlots, I mean that Albicerius who for many years at Carthage gave wonderful and sure answers to those who consulted him? I could mention countless instances, were I not speaking among people who have experienced them, and a few are enough now for my purpose. When a spoon could not be found at home" (he was speaking to me), "and he was asked at your bidding, did he not answer very quickly and very truly not only what was being sought but also, by name, whose it was and where it was hidden? Likewise in my presence (I pass over the fact that he was not at all mistaken in what he was asked) when the boy who carried the coins had stolen a certain part of them while we were on our way to him, he ordered them all to be counted out to him and compelled the boy, before our eyes, to give back the ones he had taken, before he himself had seen those coins at all or heard from us how much had been brought to him.

"What of the fact we have heard from you, that the most learned and distinguished Flaccianus used to marvel? When he had been discussing the purchase of a farm, he brought the matter to that diviner so that he might declare, if he could, what he had done. And at once the man pronounced not only the kind of business but also (at which Flaccianus loudly exclaimed in wonder) the very name of the farm, though it was so outlandish that Flaccianus himself hardly remembered it. And this I cannot tell without amazement: when a friend of ours, a pupil of yours, wanting to test him, insolently demanded that he say what he was silently turning over in his mind, he answered that he was thinking of a verse of Vergil. When the young man, astounded, could not deny it, he went on to ask which verse it was; and Albicerius, who had hardly ever seen a grammarian's school even in passing, did not hesitate to sing the verse itself, carefree and chattering. Were the matters on which he was consulted, then, not human things, or did he give such sure and true answers to those who consulted him without knowledge of divine things? But both are absurd. For human things are nothing but the things of men, such as silver, coins, a farm, and finally even a thought; and who would not rightly judge those things divine through which divination itself comes to a man? So Albicerius was wise, if we grant by that definition that wisdom is the knowledge of things human and divine."

Here Trygetius said: "First, I do not call it knowledge when the one who professes it is sometimes deceived. For knowledge consists not only in things grasped, but in things so grasped that no one should err in it or waver when pushed by any opponents whatever. Hence some philosophers say very truly that it can be found in no one but the wise man, who must not only possess perfectly what he maintains and follows but also hold it unshaken. But we know that the man you mentioned often said many false things; I learned this not only from others' reports but also perceived it once myself when present. Shall I call him one who knows, when he often said false things, whom I would not call so even if he had said true things hesitantly? Take what I have said as said also of haruspices and augurs and all who consult the stars, and of interpreters of dreams; or produce, if you can, someone of this class of men who, when consulted, never doubted his answers and, in short, never answered falsely. As for the inspired seers, I think I need not trouble myself about them, since they speak with another's mind."