On the Greatness of the Soul 1–9

E. Since I see that you have plenty of leisure, I beg you to answer me about the things that trouble me—not, I think, at an unfitting time or unsuitably. For often, when I had asked you many things, you thought I should be put off by some Greek saying or other which forbids us to inquire into the things above us; but now I do not think that we ourselves are above us. So when I ask about the soul, I do not deserve to be told, “What is above us is nothing to us”; but perhaps I deserve to be told what we ourselves are. A. Enumerate briefly what you want to hear about the soul. E. I will; for these questions have been prepared by long reflection. I ask, then, where the soul comes from, what it is like, how great it is, why it was given to the body, what it becomes when it has come to the body, and what when it has left it. A. When you ask where the soul comes from, I am compelled to think of two things. For we say “where a man is from” in one sense when we want to know his homeland, and in another when we ask what he consists of, that is, of what elements and things he is composed. Which of these do you want to know when you ask where the soul is from? Do you wish to know its region, as it were, and its homeland, from which it came here; or are you asking what its substance is? E. I would like to know both; but which should be known first, I prefer to leave to your judgment. A. I believe that the soul's own proper dwelling and homeland is God himself, by whom it was created. Its substance I cannot name; for I do not think it is one of those ordinary and familiar natures which we touch with these senses of the body. For I do not think that the soul consists of earth, or of water, or of air, or of fire, or of all of these, or of some of them joined together. But just as, if you asked me what this tree consists of, I would name those four very familiar elements, of which all such things must be believed to consist; and if you went on to ask what earth itself, or water, or air, or fire consists of, I would find nothing more to say: so, when it is asked of what man is composed, I can answer, of soul and body; again, if you ask about the body, I will go back to those four elements; but if you ask about the soul, since it seems to be something simple and of its own substance, I am as much at a loss as if you asked, as was said, what earth is from. E. I do not understand how you can hold that it has a substance of its own, when you have said that it was made by God. A. In the same way that I cannot deny that earth itself was made by God, and yet I cannot say of what other bodies, as it were, earth consists. For earth is a simple body by the very fact that it is earth; and therefore it is called an element of all those bodies which are made from the four elements. So there is no contradiction in saying both that the soul was made by God and that it has a nature of its own. For this proper nature of it, its very own, God himself made, as he made the nature of fire, of air, of water, of earth, so that all other things might be composed of them.

E. For the time being I accept where the soul comes from, that is, from God; I will go over this carefully by myself, and if anything troubles me I will ask later. Now please explain what the soul is like. A. It seems to me to be like God. For you are asking, unless I am mistaken, about the human soul. E. That is exactly what I wanted you to explain: how the soul is like God, since we believe that God was made by no one, whereas you said above that the soul was made by God himself. A. What? Do you think it was difficult for God to make something like himself, when you see that even we have been granted this, in such a variety of images? E. But we seem to make mortal things, while God made the soul immortal—I think so, unless perhaps you think otherwise. A. So you would want men to make such things as God made? E. I would not say that. But just as he, immortal, made something immortal to his likeness, so we too, made immortal by God, ought to make immortal what we make to our likeness. A. You would be right if you painted a picture to the image of what you believe to be immortal in you; but as it is, you express in it the likeness of your body, which is certainly mortal. E. How then am I like God, when I can make nothing immortal as he does? A. Just as the image of your body cannot have the power that your body has, so it is no wonder if the soul does not have as great a power as he to whose likeness it was made.

E. This too is enough for the time being; now tell me how great the soul is. A. In what sense do you ask how great it is? For I do not understand whether you are asking about its extent, as it were, of breadth or of length or of strength, or of all of these together; or whether you want to know how much it is capable of. For we usually ask how great Hercules was, that is, to how many feet his stature reached; and again how great a man he was, that is, of how much power and valor. E. I want to know both about the soul. A. But the first cannot be said, or understood at all, of the soul. For the soul must in no way be supposed to be long, or broad, or, as it were, strong. These things are bodily, it seems to me, and we ask about the soul in this way from our habit with bodies. And therefore it is rightly taught in the mysteries too that whoever desires to be restored to the state in which he was made by God, that is, to be like God, should despise all bodily things and renounce this whole world, which, as we see, is bodily. For there is no other salvation of the soul, or renewal, or reconciliation to its author. Therefore I cannot answer you how great the soul is in the sense of this inquiry; but I can affirm that it is neither long, nor broad, nor strong, nor any of those things usually sought in the measures of bodies. And I will give you the reason why I think so, if you wish. E. I do wish it, and I am eagerly waiting for it; for it seems to me that the soul is as good as nothing if it is none of these. A. First, then, if you agree, I will show you that there are many things which you cannot say are nothing, and yet you cannot find in them any extents of the kind you are looking for in the soul; so that the soul may not only not seem to you to be nothing because you do not find length or anything of that sort in it, but may be thought the more precious and of greater worth the more it lacks all these. Then we shall see whether it truly has none of them. E. Use whatever order and method you wish; I am ready to listen and to learn.

A. You do well. But I want you to answer my questions; for perhaps you already know what I am trying to teach you. I believe you do not doubt that this tree is not altogether nothing. E. Who would doubt it? A. What of this? Do you doubt that justice is much better than this tree? E. That is laughable—as if there were any comparison! A. You treat me generously. But now attend to this: since it is agreed that this tree is so inferior to justice that it does not seem to you even comparable, and you have admitted that this wood is not nothing, do you wish us to believe that justice itself is nothing? E. What madman would believe that? A. Quite right. But perhaps this tree seems to you to be something because it is long in its own way, and broad, and strong; and if you took these away, it would be nothing. E. So it seems. A. What then? Does justice, which you admitted is not nothing—indeed, something far more divine and far more excellent than this—seem to you to be long? E. In no way can justice come to my mind as long or broad or anything of the kind when I think of it. A. If, then, justice is none of these, and yet it is not nothing, why does the soul seem to you to be nothing unless it has some length? E. Very well: the soul no longer seems to me to be nothing because it is neither long nor broad nor strong; but whether it really is so, you know you have not yet told me. For it may be that many things that lack these are to be highly valued; but I do not think it must straightway be believed that the soul is of this kind. A. I know that this remains for us to unravel, and I had promised to explain it next. But since the matter is very subtle and calls for eyes of the mind far different from those that human habit usually has in the actions of daily life, I advise you to go along willingly by the paths along which I think you should be led, and not to take it ill, wearied by our necessary detour, if you arrive somewhat more slowly at what you desire. First, then, I ask you whether you think there is any body that does not have, in its own measure, some length, breadth, and height. E. I do not understand what you mean by height. A. I mean that by which the interior of a body is thought of, or even perceived, if it is transparent like glass; although, if you take this away from bodies, in my opinion they can neither be perceived nor rightly be thought to be bodies at all. On this I want you to tell me what you think. E. I have absolutely no doubt that no body can lack these. A. What of this? Can you think of these three as existing anywhere but in bodies? E. I do not understand how they could be anywhere else. A. Then you think the soul is nothing other than a body? E. If we also admit that wind is a body, I cannot deny that the soul seems to me to be a body; for I think it is something of that sort. A. I grant that wind is a body as readily as if you asked me about a wave. For we perceive that wind is nothing but this air of ours moved and stirred; which can be proved in the stillest place, quite free from all winds, even with a little fan, with which we stir the air when we drive away flies, and feel a breeze. When this happens through some more hidden movement of heavenly or earthly bodies over a great space of the world, it is called wind, and it has also received different names from the different quarters of the sky. Or do you think otherwise? E. Not at all; I accept what you say as probable. But I said that the soul is not wind itself, but something of that sort. A. Tell me first whether you perceive that the wind you mentioned has some length, breadth, and height. Then we shall see whether the soul is something of that sort, so that in this way we can also find out how great it is. E. What can more easily be found to be longer and broader and higher than this air, which, when stirred, is wind, as you have now persuaded me?

A. You are right. But do you think that your soul is anywhere but in your body? E. I think so. A. Only inside, so as to fill it like a wineskin; or only outside, like a coating; or do you think it is both inside and outside? E. I hold the last thing you asked. For if it were not inside, nothing in our inner parts would have life; if it were not outside, it could not feel even a light prick on the skin. A. Why then do you ask any further how great the soul is, when you see that it is as great as the extents of the body allow? E. If reason teaches this, I ask nothing more. A. You do well to seek nothing more than reason teaches. But does this reasoning seem to you very firm? E. Since I find no other, it does. In its place I shall ask something that troubles me a great deal, whether this shape remains when the soul has left the body; for I remember that I put this last among the questions to be discussed. But since asking about the number of souls seems to me to belong to their quantity, I think it should not be passed over here. A. You think not unfittingly; but first, if you agree, let us clear up the question of its extent, which still troubles me, so that I too may learn something, if you are already satisfied. E. Ask as you wish; for that feigned doubt of yours makes me doubt in very truth about the very thing I had presumed was settled. A. Tell me, please, whether what is called memory seems to you an empty name. E. To whom could it seem so? A. Do you think it belongs to the soul or to the body? E. To doubt this too is laughable. What? Can a lifeless body be believed or understood to remember anything? A. Do you remember the city of Milan? E. Very well. A. Now, then, since mention of it has been made, do you recall how great and of what kind it is? E. I do indeed, and nothing more freshly or completely. A. So now, though you do not see it with your eyes, you see it with your mind. E. That is so. A. I believe you also remember how great a stretch of land lies between it and us now. E. I remember this too. A. So you see with your mind even the distance between the places. E. I see it. A. Since, then, your soul is here where your body is, and does not extend beyond the body's extent, as the reasoning above showed, how is it that it sees all those things? E. I think this happens through memory, not because it is present in those places. A. Then images of those places are contained in the memory. E. So I think; for I do not know what is being done there now, which I certainly would know if my mind extended as far as those places and perceived things present. A. You seem to me to speak the truth; but surely these are images of bodies. E. Necessarily so; for cities and lands are nothing but bodies. A. Have you never looked into small mirrors, or never seen your face in the pupil of someone else's eye? E. Often. A. Why does it appear much smaller than it is? E. What else would you have, but that it appear according to the size of the mirror? A. It is necessary, then, that images of bodies appear small if the bodies in which they appear are small. E. Absolutely necessary. A. Why then, when the soul is in a space as small as its body, can such great images be expressed in it that it can picture to itself cities, and the breadth of lands, and any other huge things? For I want you to consider a little more carefully how great and how many things our memory contains, which are certainly contained in the soul. What depth, then, what bay, what immensity is there that can hold these things, when the reasoning above seems to have taught that the soul is as great as the body? E. I find nothing to answer, nor can I explain well enough how much these things trouble me; and I laugh at myself a great deal for having agreed so quickly to the reasoning above, so as to fix the soul's size by the measure of the body. A. Then does it no longer seem to you something like wind? E. Not at all: for even if this air, of which wind is credibly believed to be a kind of wave, could fill this whole world, the soul can picture to itself innumerable worlds as great, and I cannot guess in what space it contains these images. A. See, then, whether it is not better to believe, as I said above, that it is neither long nor broad nor high, just as you granted me about justice. E. I would readily agree, if I were not more troubled by the question how, in turn, it can hold innumerable images of such great extents while having no length, breadth, or height of its own.

A. We shall perhaps find this out, as far as is permitted, if we first carefully examine these three, that is, length, breadth, and height. So try to think of a length that has not yet taken on any breadth. E. I can think of nothing of the kind: for if I set before my mind a spider's thread, than which we usually see nothing finer, there occur to me even in it length by itself, and breadth, and height; and whatever they may be like, I cannot deny that they exist. A. Your answer is not altogether absurd. But surely, when you understand that these three are in the spider's thread, you distinguish them, and you know how they differ from one another? E. Why should I not know how they differ? How else could I see that none of them is lacking to this thread? A. Then by the same understanding by which you distinguished these, you can also separate them and think of length alone, provided you do not turn any body over in your mind; for whatever body it is, it will not lack all these. For what I now want you to understand is incorporeal: length alone can only be understood by the mind; it cannot be found in a body. E. Now I understand. A. Then if you wish to cut this length lengthwise, as it were, in thought, you surely see that it cannot be done; for if it can, it has breadth too. E. That is plain. A. Let us, then, if you please, call this pure and simple length a line; for it is usually called by this name by many learned men. E. Call it what you like; I need not labor over names when the thing is clear. A. You do well, and I not only approve but also advise you always to delight in caring more for things than for words. But this line, which I think you now understand well, if it is extended, at one end or at both, as far as it can be extended lengthwise, you see has no end. Or is the edge of your mind less able to contemplate this? E. I contemplate it entirely, and nothing is easier. A. You see, then, that no figure can be made either, if nothing else is done but extend that line. E. I do not yet understand what you mean by figure.

A. For the present I call it a figure when some space is enclosed by a line or lines, as if you made a circle, or joined four lines to one another at their ends so that no end was left free from joining with another. E. I think I now see what you mean by a figure; but I wish I saw as well where these things are tending, or what you mean to achieve by them, so that I may know what I am asking about the soul. A. I warned you of this at the beginning, and asked you to bear our rather long detour patiently, and I ask you to do so again. No light matter is being sought, nor one easy to come to know; for we want to know it clearly and hold it, if that can be done. For it is one thing when we believe authority, another when we believe reason. To believe authority is a great shortcut and involves no labor. If this pleases you, you will be able to read many things that great and divine men have said about these matters, as seemed necessary, for the salvation of the less skilled, by a kind of nod, as it were; and they wished to be believed by those whose minds, being either slower or more entangled, could have no other salvation. For such men, who certainly make up the greatest multitude, if they want to grasp the truth by reason, are very easily deceived by things that resemble reasons, and slip into various harmful opinions, so that they can emerge from them and be freed either never or with very great difficulty. For these, then, it is most useful to believe the most excellent authority and to lead their life according to it. If you think this safer, I not only do not resist at all, but also strongly approve. But if you cannot rein in that desire of yours by which you have persuaded yourself that you will arrive at the truth by reason, you must bear many long detours, so that nothing leads you but what alone is to be called reason, that is, true reason—and not only true, but so certain and so remote from every semblance of falsehood (if indeed such a thing can be found by man in any way) that no arguments, false or plausible, can draw you away from it. E. I shall no longer desire anything too hastily: let reason act and lead where it will, provided it leads me to the end.

A. God will bring this about, who is to be entreated about such things alone, or at least about these most of all. But let us return to the matter I had begun. Since you now know what a line is and what a figure is, tell me what I ask you: do you think any figure can be made if a line is drawn out infinitely at both ends, or at one? E. I affirm that this can in no way be done. A. What then must be done for us to make a figure? E. What but that the line not be infinite, and be drawn round in a circle so that it touches itself at the other end? For I do not see how else any space could be enclosed by one line; and unless that is done, according to your description, there will be no figure. A. What if I want to make a figure with straight lines? Can it be made of one line, or can it not? E. In no way. A. What of two? E. Not even that. A. What of three? E. I see that it can. A. So you know well and hold firmly that, when a figure is to be made with straight lines, it cannot be done with fewer than three. Or would some argument opposing you call you away from this opinion? E. Plainly, if anyone showed me that this is false, there will be nothing that I can be confident of knowing. A. Now, then, answer this: how did you make a figure with three lines? E. By joining them at their ends. A. What? Where they join, does not an angle seem to you to be made? E. Yes. A. How many angles, then, does this figure have? E. As many as it has lines. A. What? Do you make the lines themselves equal or unequal? E. Equal. A. What? Do all the angles open equally, or is one narrower or wider than another? E. I see that these too are equal. A. Can it be that in a figure made of three equal straight lines the angles are unequal, or can it not? E. In no way at all. A. What? If a figure consists of three straight but unequal lines, can the angles be equal in it too, or do you understand otherwise? E. They cannot at all. A. You are right. But tell me, please, which figure seems to you better and more beautiful: the one that consists of equal lines, or the one that consists of unequal lines? E. Who would doubt that the one in which equality prevails is better?

A. So you prefer equality to inequality? E. I do not know anyone who would not. A. Now see, in the figure completed with three equal angles, what is opposite an angle, that is, placed facing it on the other side: a line or an angle? E. I see a line. A. What then? If angle is opposite angle and line opposite line, do you not admit that equality is greater in the figure in which this happens? E. I admit it, but I do not see at all how it can be done with three lines. A. What? Can it be done with four lines? E. Certainly it can. A. So the figure consisting of four equal straight lines is better than the one consisting of three. E. Better, certainly, since equality counts for more in it. A. What then? Do you think that this figure made of four equal straight lines can also be made so that not all its angles are equal, or not? E. I see that it can. A. How? E. If two are narrower and two wider. A. Do you also see how both the narrower and both the wider are opposite each other? E. Yes, most truly and most plainly. A. You see, then, that here too equality has been kept as far as it could be. For you surely see that it cannot happen, when a figure is completed with four equal lines, that its angles are not either all equal or at least equal in pairs; and those that are equal answer each other from opposite sides. E. I see it, and hold it most firmly. A. Does not so great and so unshaken a kind of justice move you even in these things? E. How so? A. Because, I think, we call justice nothing but equity; and equity seems to be named from a kind of equality. But what is equity in this virtue, except that to each be given his own? Further, to each his own cannot be given except by some distinction. Or do you think otherwise? E. It is plain, and I entirely agree. A. What? Do you think there is any distinction if all things are equal, so that they do not differ at all from one another? E. Not at all. A. So justice cannot be preserved unless in the things in which it is preserved there is, so to speak, a certain unevenness and dissimilarity. E. I understand. A. Since, then, we admit that these figures we are discussing are unlike each other—the one consisting of three angles and this of four—though both are made of equal lines, does it not seem to you that a kind of justice has been kept: the one which cannot have the equality of opposites holds an unshaken equality of angles, while in this one, because the correspondence of opposites is so great, the law of angles admits some inequality? Since this moved me greatly, I thought I should ask you how far you were delighted by this truth, this equity, this equality. E. Now I see what you mean, and I admire it no little. A. Come now, since you rightly prefer equality to inequality, and there is no one at all endowed with human sense, I think, to whom it does not seem so, let us look, if you please, for a figure in which the highest equality can be found; for whatever it is, it will without doubt be preferred to the rest. E. I do indeed wish it, and I want to know what it is.