On the Trinity 10.7–11.1

When, therefore, it thinks itself something of this kind, it thinks itself to be a body. And because it is well aware of its rule by which it governs the body, it has come about that some have asked what part of the body has most power in the body, and have thought that this is the mind, or indeed the whole soul. And so some have thought it is the blood, others the brain, others the heart: not as Scripture says, “I will confess to you, Lord, with my whole heart,” and, “You shall love the Lord your God with your whole heart” (for here the word is carried over from the body to the soul by misuse or transfer), but they thought it to be that very little part of the body which we see in torn-open entrails. Others believed that it is made of very tiny and indivisible bodies, which they call atoms, running together and cohering. Others said that its substance is air, others fire. Others that it is no substance, because they could not think of any substance except body, and did not find that it was a body; but they supposed it to be the very tempering of our body, or the framework of the elements by which this flesh is, as it were, held together. And therefore all these held that it is mortal, because, whether it were a body or some composition of the body, it certainly could not remain immortally. But those who found its substance to be a kind of life in no way bodily, since they found that it is life that animates and quickens every living body, consequently tried, each as he could, to prove it immortal too, because life cannot lack life. For about that fifth body, whatever it is, which some, joining it to the four very well known elements of this world, have said is the source of the soul, I do not think there is need for a long discussion at this point. For either they call body what we do, a thing of which in a space of place a part is less than the whole, and then they are to be numbered among those who believed the mind to be bodily; or, if they call either every substance or every changeable substance a body, though they know that not every one is contained in spaces of place by some length, breadth, and height, we need not fight with them over a question of the word. In all these opinions, whoever sees that the nature of the mind is both a substance and not bodily, that is, that it does not occupy a smaller space of place with a smaller part of itself and a larger with a larger, must at the same time see that those who think it bodily err, not because the mind is lacking to their knowledge, but because they add those things without which they can think of no nature. For whatever they are told to think of without images of bodies, they suppose to be nothing at all. And therefore let the mind not seek itself as though 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 too what is called invention (inventio), if we go back to the origin of the word, what else does it say but that to find (invenire) is to come into (in id venire) what is sought? For this reason, things that come into the mind as it were of their own accord are not usually said to be found, although they can be said to be known; because we were not tending towards them by seeking, in order to come into them, that is, to find them. Therefore, just as the mind itself seeks the things that are sought by the eyes or by any other sense of the body (for it is the mind that directs the sense of the flesh, and it finds when that sense comes upon the things that are sought), so it finds other things, which it must know not through a bodily sense as messenger but through itself, when it comes upon them; either in the higher substance, that is, in God, or in the other parts of the soul, as when it judges of the images of bodies themselves; for it finds them within the soul, impressed through the body.

How, then, the mind seeks and finds itself is a wonderful question: where it tends in order to seek, or where it comes in order to find. For what is so much in the mind as the mind is? But because it is in the things it thinks of with love, and it has grown used with love to sensible, that is, bodily things, it is not able to be in itself without their images. Hence arises the shame of its error, since it cannot separate the images of things perceived from itself, so as to see itself alone. For they have stuck to it wonderfully by the glue of love; and this is its uncleanness, since, while it tries to think of itself alone, it thinks itself to be that without which it cannot think of itself. When, therefore, it is commanded to know itself, let it not seek itself as though it had been withdrawn from itself, but withdraw what it has added to itself. For it is itself more inward not only than these sensible things, which are plainly outside, but also than their images, which are in a certain part of the soul which beasts too have, though they lack understanding, which is proper to the mind. Since, then, the mind is inward, it goes out in a certain way from itself when it puts forth the affection of love towards these, as it were, traces of its many attentions. And these traces are, as it were, impressed on the memory when these bodily things outside are perceived, so that even when they are absent, their images are present to those who think of them. Let the mind, then, know itself, and not seek itself as if absent, but fix on itself the attention of the will by which it was wandering through other things, and think of itself. So it will see that it never did not love itself, never did not know itself; but by loving something else with itself it has confused itself with it and in a certain way grown together with it; and so, while it embraces diverse things as one, it has thought to be one things that are diverse.

Let it not, then, seek to discern itself as absent, but take care to distinguish itself as present. Nor let it know itself as though it did not know itself, but distinguish itself from what it knows as another. For how will it take care to do what it hears, “Know yourself,” if it does not know either what “know” is or what “yourself” is? But if it knows both, it knows itself too; because “Know yourself” is not said to the mind as “Know the cherubim and seraphim” is said; for we believe about them, who are absent, according as they are proclaimed to be certain heavenly powers. Nor as it is said, “Know the will of that man,” which is in no way available to us either to perceive or to understand, except through bodily signs given; and this in such a way that we believe rather than understand. Nor as it is said to a man, “See your face,” which cannot be done except in a mirror. For even our own face is absent from our sight, because it is not where our sight can be directed. But when it is said to the mind, “Know yourself,” in the very instant in which it understands what was said, “yourself,” it knows itself; and for no other reason than that it is present to itself. But if it does not understand what was said, it certainly does not do it. It is commanded, then, to do this, which it does when it understands the command itself.

Let it not, then, add anything else to what it knows itself to be, when it hears that it should know itself. For it certainly knows that it is spoken to, namely to itself, which is, and lives, and understands. But a corpse too is, and a beast lives; but neither a corpse nor a beast understands. So it knows that it is and lives in the way that understanding is and lives. When, therefore, for example, the mind thinks itself to be air, it thinks that air understands; yet it knows that it understands; but it does not know that it is air, it only thinks so. Let it set aside what it thinks itself to be, and discern what it knows; let this remain to it, which not even those doubted who thought the mind to be this or that body. For not every mind thinks itself to be air; but some think themselves fire, some the brain, and some some other body, and others something else, as I mentioned above; yet all know that they understand, and are, and live; but they refer understanding to what they understand, and being and living to themselves. And no one doubts that no one understands who does not live, and no one lives who does not exist. Consequently, therefore, that which understands both is and lives, not as a corpse is, which does not live, nor as a soul lives which does not understand, but in a certain proper and more excellent way. Likewise they know that they will, and know equally that no one can do this who does not exist and does not live; and likewise they refer the will itself to something which they will with that will. They know also that they remember; and at the same time they know that no one would remember unless he existed and lived; but we refer memory too to something which we remember by it. In two of these three, then, memory and understanding, the knowledge and science of many things are contained; but the will is present, by which we enjoy or use them. For we enjoy things known in which the will rests, delighted in them for their own sake; but we use those things which we refer to something else which is to be enjoyed. Nor is there any other faulty and blameworthy life of men than one that uses badly and enjoys badly. But this is not the place to discuss that. But since we are dealing with the nature of the mind, let us remove from our consideration all knowledge that is taken in from outside through the senses of the body, and let us attend more carefully to what we have laid down, that all minds know about themselves and are certain of. For men have doubted whether the power of living, remembering, understanding, willing, thinking, knowing, judging belongs to air, or to fire, or to the brain, or to the blood, or to atoms, or to some fifth body, whatever it is, besides the usual four elements, or whether the framework or tempering of our flesh itself can produce these things; and one has tried to affirm this, another that. Yet who doubts that he lives, and remembers, and understands, and wills, and thinks, and knows, and judges? For 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. Whoever, then, doubts about anything else ought not to doubt about all these; for if they did not exist, he could not doubt about anything. All these things those who think the mind is either a body or the composition or tempering of a body wish to be seen as being in a subject: so that the substance is air, or fire, or some other body which they think is the mind, while understanding is in this body as its quality; so that the one is the subject and the other in the subject; the subject being the mind, which they think is a body, and in the subject understanding, or any other of the things we have mentioned as certain to us. Those too think nearly the same who deny that the mind itself is a body but say it is the framework or tempering of the body. For the difference is this: the former say that the mind itself is a substance, in which subject understanding is; the latter say that the mind itself is in a subject, namely the body of which it is the composition or tempering. Hence, consequently, where else do they think understanding is but in the same subject, the body? None of these notice that the mind knows itself even when it seeks itself, as we have already shown. But in no way is a thing rightly said to be known while its substance is unknown. Therefore, when the mind knows itself, it knows its substance; and when it is certain about itself, it is certain about its substance. But it is certain about itself, as what has been said above proves. And it is not at all certain whether it is air, or fire, or some body, or something of a body. Therefore it is none of these; and the whole of what it is commanded to know about itself comes to this, that it should be certain that it is not any of the things about which it is uncertain, and should be certain that it is only that which alone it is certain that it is. For so it thinks of fire or air, and whatever else of body it thinks of. And it could in no way happen that it should think of what it itself is in the same way as it thinks of what it is not. For it thinks of all these through an imaginary image, whether fire, or air, or this or that body, or that part, or the framework and tempering of the body; and certainly it is not said to be all these, but one of them. But if it were any of these, it would think of it otherwise than the rest, namely not through an imaginary fiction, as absent things are thought of which have been touched by the sense of the body, whether those very things or some of the same kind, but by a certain inward presence, not feigned but true (for nothing is more present to it than itself); as it thinks that it 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 sense outside itself, as all bodily things are touched. And if from the thoughts of these things it attaches nothing to itself, so as to think itself something of the kind, whatever remains to it of itself, that alone is itself.

Setting aside, then, for a little the other things of which the mind is certain about itself, let us consider and treat chiefly these three: memory, understanding, and will. For in these three the abilities of little children too are usually examined, to see what kind of disposition they show. For the more firmly and easily a boy remembers, and the more sharply he understands, and the more ardently he studies, the more praiseworthy is his ability. But when the question is about anyone's learning, it is asked not with what firmness and ease he remembers, or with what sharpness he understands, but what he remembers and what he understands. And since a mind is considered praiseworthy not only for how learned it is but also for how good it is, attention is paid not only to what it remembers and what it understands, but also to what it wills; not with how great ardour it wills, but first what it wills, and then how much. For then a mind that loves vehemently is to be praised, when what it loves is to be loved vehemently. When, therefore, these three are spoken of, ability, learning, and use, the first of them is considered in those three, what each can do with memory, understanding, and will. The second of them is considered as what each has in memory and understanding, at which he has arrived by a studious will. And use, the third, lies in the will, handling the things contained in memory and understanding, whether it refers them to something or rests delighted in them as an end. For to use is to take something into the power of the will; but to enjoy is to use with joy, no longer of hope but of the thing itself. Therefore everyone who enjoys uses, for he takes something into the power of the will with delight as an end; but not everyone who uses enjoys, if he has sought what he takes into the power of the will not for its own sake but for the sake of something else. These three, then, memory, understanding, and will, since they are not three lives but one life, nor three minds but one mind, consequently are certainly not three substances but one substance. For memory, which is called life, and mind, and substance, is so called with reference to itself; but in being called memory it is said relatively to something. I would say the same of understanding and of will; for understanding and will too are said with relation to something. But each is life with reference to itself, and mind, and essence. Therefore these three are one in that they are one life, one mind, one essence; and whatever else each is called with reference to itself, they are called together, not in the plural but in the singular. But they are three in that they are referred to one another; and if they were not equal, not only each to each but also each to all, they certainly would not contain one another. For not only is each contained by each, but all are contained 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 my whole memory, and understanding, and will together. For what of my memory I do not remember is not in my memory. But nothing is so much in memory as memory itself. I remember it whole, then. Likewise, whatever I understand, I know that I understand, and I know that I will whatever I will; but whatever I know I remember. I remember, then, my whole understanding and my whole will. Similarly, when I understand these three, I understand them whole together. 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. Whatever intelligible thing I do not understand, therefore, I consequently neither remember nor will. But whatever intelligible thing I remember and will, I consequently understand. My will too contains my whole understanding and my whole memory, while I use the whole of what I understand and remember. Therefore, since all are contained by each mutually and as wholes, each whole is equal to each whole, and each whole to all together as wholes; and these three are one, one life, one mind, one essence.

Must we now, then, ascend with whatever strength of attention we have to that supreme and most high essence, of which the human mind is an unequal image, but still an image? Or must these same three be shown more distinctly in the soul through the things we take in from outside by the sense of the body, where the knowledge of bodily things is impressed in time? For we found the mind itself to be such in its memory, understanding, and will of itself that, since it was understood always to know itself and always to will itself, it was understood at the same time always to remember itself and always to understand and love itself; although it does not always think of itself as distinct from the things that are not what it is. And therefore its memory of itself and its understanding of itself are hard to distinguish in it. For in a matter where these are very closely joined, and one is not preceded by the other in any time, it appears as though they were not two, but one thing called by two names; and love itself is not so felt to exist when want does not betray it, since what is loved is always present. Therefore these things may become clear even to slower minds when those things are treated which come to the mind in time and which happen to it in time, when it remembers what it did not remember before, and when it sees what it did not see before, and when it loves what it did not love before. But this treatment now requires another beginning, because of the length of this book.

No one doubts that, as the inner man is endowed with understanding, so the outer man is endowed with bodily sense. Let us strive, then, if we can, to track down in this outer man also some trace or other of the Trinity; not because he too is in the same way the image of God. For the apostle's statement is plain, which declares that the inner man is renewed in the knowledge of God according to the image of him who created him; while in another place he says, “Even if our outer man is perishing, yet the inner man is being renewed day by day.” In this man, then, who is perishing, let us seek, as best we can, a certain likeness of the Trinity, which, if not more exact, may perhaps be easier to discern. For he too is not called “man” for nothing, but because there is in him some likeness of the inner man. And by that very order of our condition, by which we have been made mortal and carnal, we handle visible things more easily and, as it were, more familiarly than intelligible things; for the former are outside, the latter inside, and the former we perceive by bodily sense, the latter we understand by the mind; and we ourselves, that is, our souls, are not sensible things, that is, bodies, but intelligible, since we are life. Yet, as I have said, so great a habit has been formed in bodies, and our attention, sliding back into them in a wonderful way, has so thrown itself outward, that when it has been drawn away from the uncertainty of bodies to be fixed on the spirit with a far more certain and stable knowledge, it flees back to them and seeks rest there, from where it drew its weakness. We must adapt ourselves to its sickness: so that, if we ever try to distinguish inner spiritual things more suitably and to convey them more easily, we should take illustrations by way of likeness from outer bodily things. The outer man, then, endowed with bodily sense, perceives bodies; and this sense, as is easily noticed, is fivefold: seeing, hearing, smelling, tasting, touching. But it would be much, and unnecessary, to question all these five senses about what we are seeking. For what one of them reports to us holds also in the others. So let us use above all the testimony of the eyes. For this sense of the body is the most excellent, and, for all the difference in kind, it is nearest to the mind's vision.