 Section 9 of On the Nature of Things, this is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Anna Simon. On the Nature of Things by Lucrisis, translated by John Selby Watson. Section 9. Book 3, Part 3 Death, therefore, is nothing, nor at all concerns us, since the nature or substance of the soul is to be accounted mortal. And as in past times we felt no anxiety when the Carthaginians gathered on all sides to fight with our forefathers, and when all things under the lofty air of heaven, shaken with the dismaying tumult of war, trembled with dread, and men were uncertain to the sway of which power everything human, by land and by sea, was to fall. So when we shall cease to be, when there shall be a separation of the body and soul of which we are conjointly composed, it is certain that to us who shall not then exist, nothing will by any possibility happen or excite our feeling, not even if the earth shall be mingled with the sea and the sea with the heaven. And even if the substance of the mind and the powers of the soul, after they have been separated from our body, still retain their faculties, it is nothing to us who subsist only as being conjointly constituted by an arrangement and union of body and soul together. Nor if time should collect our material atoms after death and restore them again as they are now placed, and the light of life should be given back to us, would it yet at all concern us that this were done, when the recollection of our existence has once been interrupted? And it is now of no importance to us in regard to ourselves what we were before, nor does any solicitude affect us in reference to those whom a new age shall produce from our matter. Should it again be brought together as it is at present? For when you consider the whole past space of infinite time and reflect how various are the motions of matter, you may easily believe that our atoms have often been placed in the same order as that in which they now are. Yet we cannot revive that time in our memory, for a pause of life has been thrown between, and all the motions of our atoms have wandered hither and thither, far away from sentient movements. For he among men now living, to whom misery and pain are to happen after his death, must himself exist again in his own identity at that very time on which the evil which he is to suffer may have power to fall. But since death which interrupts all consciousness and prevents all memory of the past precludes the possibility of this, and since the circumstance of having previously existed prohibits him who lived before and with whom these calamities which we suffer might be associated from existing a second time with any recollection of his other life, as the same combination of atoms of which we now consist, we may be assured that in death there is nothing to be dreaded by us, that he who does not exist cannot become miserable, and that it makes not the least difference to a man when immortal death has ended his mortal life that he was ever born at all. Whenever therefore you see a man express concern that it should be his lot after his death either to putrefy on the ground when his body is laid aside, or to be destroyed by flames, or by the jaws of wild beasts, you may know that his mind is not in a healthy state, and that some secret disquietude as to his fate is concealed in his breast, although he may himself deny that he believes any consciousness will remain to him after death. For, as I think, he does not make good what he professes, nor speaks from conviction from which he pretends to speak, nor withdraws and removes himself in thought wholly out of life, but foolish as he is makes something of himself still to survive. For when any one of such a character represents to himself while alive that birds and beasts will tear his body at death, he is seized with commissuration for himself, for neither does he at all distinguish himself dead from himself living, nor sufficiently withdraw himself from his exposed carcass, but supposes it to be still himself, and standing by it in imagination communicates to it a portion of his own feeling. Hence he is concerned that he was born mortal, nor reflect that in real death there will remain of him no other self, which surviving may mourn for him that he has perished, and standing upright may lament that he lying down is torn in pieces or burned to ashes. For if it is an evil at death to be ill-treated by the jaws and teeth of wild beasts, I do not see how it can be otherwise than unpleasant for a man being laid on a funeral pyre to burn in hot flames, or placed in honey to be suffocated, or to grow stiff with cold when he is lying on the highest flat of a jellied rock, or to be pressed down and overwhelmed with the weight of superincumbent earth. For now, men say, your pleasant home shall no more receive you nor your excellent wife, nor shall your dear children run to snatch kisses and touch your breast with secret delight. You will no more be able to be in flourishing circumstances and to be a protection to your friends. Unhappily, one adverse day has taken from you, unfortunate man, all the numerous blessings of life. In such remarks they do not add this, nor now moreover does any regret for those things remain with you. Which truth, if men would well consider in their thoughts and adhere to it in their words, they would relieve themselves from much anxiety and fear of mind. You, for your part, says a mourner over a corpse, laid to sleep in your bed, will so remain as you are for whatever time is to come, released from all distressing griefs. But we, standing near you, shall inconsolably lament you reduced to ashes on the awful pyre, and no lapse of time shall remove our unfading sorrow from our hearts. Of him, however, who makes such lamentations, we may ask this question. If the matter of death is reduced to sleep and rest, what can there be so bitter in it, that anyone should pine in eternal grief for the disease of a friend? This also is often a practice among men, that when they have sat down to a feast, and hold their cups in their hands, and overshadow their faces with chaplets, they say seriously and from their hearts, This enjoyment is but short to us, little man, soon it will have passed, nor will it ever hereafter be possible to recall it. As if, at their death, this evil were to be dreaded above all, that parching thirst should scorch and burn up the wretches, or an insatiable longing for some other thing should settle on them. Yet how different will be the fact, since not even when the mind and body are merely at rest together in sleep, will anyone feel concerned for himself and his life, for, for our parts, our sleep might thus be eternal, nor does any care for ourselves affect us. And yet, at that season, the atoms throughout our limbs withdraw to no great distance from sensible motions, and the man who is suddenly roused from sleep quickly recollects himself. Death, then, we must consider to be of far less concern to us, if less can be than that which we see to be nothing. For a greater separation of the atoms of matter takes place in death, nor does any man awake when once the cold pause of life has overtaken him. Furthermore, if universal nature should suddenly utter a voice, and thus herself abrade any one of us, what mighty cause have you, O mortal, thus excessively to indulge in bitter grief? Why do you groan and weep at a thought of death? For, if your past and former life has been an object of gratification to you, and all your blessings have not, as if poured into a leaky vessel, flowed away and been lost without pleasure. Why do you not, O unreasonable man, retire like a guest satisfied with life and take your understood rest with a resignation? But if those things of which you have had to use have been wasted and lost, and life is offensive to you, why do you seek to incur further trouble, which may all again pass away and end in dissatisfaction? Why do you not rather put an end to life and anxiety? For there is nothing further which I can contrive and discover to please you. Everything is always the same. If your body is not yet withered with years, and your limbs are not worn out and groan feeble, yet all things remain the same, even if you should go on to outlast all ages in living, and still more would you see them the same if you should never come to die? What do we answer to this, for that nature brings a just charge against us, and sets forth in her words a true allegation? But would she not more justly reproach and abrade in severe accents him who, being miserable unreasonably, deplores death? Away with thy tears, wretch, she might well say, and forbear thy complains. But if he who is older and more advanced in years complain, she may retold thus. After having been possessed of all the most valuable things of life, thou pines then wasted away with age. But because thou always desirest what is absent and despises present advantages, life has passed from thee imperfect and unsatisfactory, and death has took by thy head unawares, and before thou canst depart content and satisfied with thy circumstances. Now, however, resign all things unsuitable to thy age, and yield at once with submissive feelings to that which is stronger than thou, for it is necessary. And justly, as I think, would she address him, justly would she abrade and reproach him, for that which is old, driven out by that which is new, always retires, and it is indispensable to repair one thing out of another. Nor has any man consigned to the gulf of Erbus or black Tartarus, but allowed to retire peaceably to a dreamless sleep. The matter of which thou art made is wanted by nature that succeeding generations may grow up from it. All which, however, when they have passed their appointed term of life, will follow thee, and so have other generations before these fallen into destruction, and other generations not less certainly than thyself will fall. Thus shall one thing never cease to rise from another, and thus is life given to none in possession, but to all only for use. Consider also how utterly unimportant to us was the past antiquity of infinite time that elapsed before we were born. This, then, nature exhibits to us as a specimen of the time which will be again after our death. For what does there appear terrible in it? Does anything seem gloomy? Is not all more free from trouble than any sleep? And of the souls likewise, whatever are said to be in the profundity of Akron, all the sufferings happen to ourselves, not in death, but in life. Tantalus, torpid, vain terror, does not, as it is reported, fear that huge rock impending over him in the air, but such terror rather dwells with us in life. A grandless fear of the gods oppresses mortals, and they dread that full which fortune may assign to each. Nor do vultures penetrate into Titius, lying in Hades. Nor, however they might search in his huge breast, would they be able to find, through infinite time, anything to devour, of however vast an extent of body he may be, even though it be such as may cover, with limbs outspread, not merely nine acres, but the orb of the whole earth. Nor yet would he be able to endure eternal pain, or to supply food incessantly from his own body. But he is at Titius among us, whom, lying under the influence of love, the vultures of passion tear, and anxious disquietude devours, or whom cares with any other unbecoming feeling, lesserate. A sycophist likewise is before our eyes in life, who sets his heart to solicit from the people the fascus and sharp axes, and always retires repulsed and disappointed. For to seek power which is empty, nor is ever granted, and constantly to endure hard labour in the pursuit of it, this is to push with effort the stone up the hill, which yet is rolled down again from the summit, and impetuously seeks the level of the open plain. To feed perpetually, moreover, an ungrateful nature, and to fill it with good things, and never to satisfy it. A kindness which the seasons of the years do to us, as they come round in their cause, and bring their fruits and various charms, whilst we, notwithstanding, are never satisfied with the blessings of life. This is, I think, that which they relayed off the damsels in the flower of their youth, that they pour water into the punctured vessel, which, however, can by no means be filled. But also carbrous and the furies are mentioned, and privation of light, and tartars, casting forth fires from its jaws, objects which are nowhere, nor indeed can be, but there is, in life, an eminent dread of punishment for enormous crimes. There is the prison, the reward of guilt, and the terrible precipitation of those who are condemned from the rock. There are stripes, executioners, the wooden horse, pitch, hot iron, firebrands, and though these may be absent, yet the mind, conscious of evil deeds, feeling dread in anticipation, applies to itself stings, and tortures itself with scorches. Nor sees, in the meantime, what end there can be of its sufferings, nor what can be the limit of its punishment, and fears, rather lest these same tortures should become heavier at death. Hence, in fine, the life of fools becomes, as it were, an existence in tartars. This reflection likewise you may at times address to yourself. Even the good Ancus, as Aeneas expresses it, has deserted the light with his eyes, who was much better in many things than thou, wordless man, besides many other kings and rulers of affairs, who swayed mighty nations, have yielded up the ghost. And what am I better than they? He, even himself, who formerly paved a road over the vast sea, and afforded a way to his legions to path through the deep, and taught them to walk on foot through salt gulfs, and despise the murmurs of the ocean, trampling on it with his cavalry, even he, I say, the light of life being withdrawn from him, poured forth his soul from his dying body. Scipio, the thunderbolt of war, the dread of cartage, gave his bones to the earth, just as if he'd been a meanest slave. Add to these the inventors of the sciences and the graces. Add the associates of the muses, over whom the unrivaled Homer, having obtained the supremacy, has been laid to rest in the same sleep with others. When mature old age, too, gave Democritus warning that the mindful motions of his intellect were languishing, he himself, of his owner called, offered his head to death. Epicurus himself, having run through his light of life, is dead. Epicurus, who exelt the human race in genius, and threw all into the shade as the ethereal sun when rising obscures the stars. Will thou then hesitate, and grudge to die, in whom, even while living and seeing, life is almost dead? Thou, who wasted the greater part of existence in sleep, and snorst waking, nor ceases to see dreams, and bears the mind disturbed with empty terror. Nor canst thou frequently discover what evil affects thee, when, stupefied and wretched, thou art oppressed with numerous cares on all sides, and fluctuating with uncertain thought, wondrous in terror. If men could feel, as they seem to feel, that there is an oppression on their minds which wears them with its weight, and could also perceive from what causes it arises, and whence so great a mass as it were of evil exists in their breasts. They would not live in the manner in which we generally see them living, for we observe them uncertain what they would have, and always inquiring for something new, and changing their place as if by the change they could lay aside alone. He, who has grown wary of remaining at home, often goes forth from his vast mention, and suddenly returns, inasmuch as he perceives that he is nothing bettered by being abroad. He runs precipitately, hurrying on his horses to his villa, as if he were eager to carry succor to an edifice on fire, but as soon as he has touched the threshold of the building, he yawns, or falls heavily to sleep, and seeks forgetfulness of himself, or even, with equal haste, goes back and revisits the city. In this way each man flees from himself, but himself, as it always happens, whom he cannot escape, and whom he still hates, adheres to him in spite of his efforts, and for this reason, that the sick man does not know the cause of his disease, which, if everyone could understand, he would, in the first place, having laid aside all other pursuits, studied to learn the nature of things, since, in such inquiries, the state of eternity, not of one hour merely, is concerned, a state in which the whole age of mortals, whatever remains after death, must continue. Besides, why does so pernicious and so strong desire of existence compel us to remain anxious in uncertain perils? A certain bound of life is fixed to mortals, nor can death be avoided, or can we exempt ourselves from undergoing it? Moreover, we are continually engaged and fixed in the same occupations, nor, by the prolongation of life, is any new pleasure discovered, yet that which we desire seems, while it is distant in the future, to excel all other objects, but afterwards, when it has fallen to our lot, we covet something else, and thus, a uniform thirst of life occupies us, longing earnestly for that which is to come. While what fate the last period may bring us, or what chance may throw in our way, or what death awaits us, still remains an uncertainty. Nor, by protecting life, though we deduct a single moment from the duration of death, we cannot diminish ought from its reign, or cause that we may be, for a last period, sunk in non-existence. How many generations, soever, therefore, we may pass in life, nevertheless, that same eternal death will still await us. Nor will he be less long out of being, who terminated his life under this day's sun, than he who died many months and years ago. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Eric DeSigo. On the Nature of Things. By Lucretius. Translated by John Selby Watson. Section 10. Book 4. Part 1. I range over the trackless regions of the Muses, trodden before by the foot of no poet. It delights me to approach the untasted fountains and to drink, and it transports me to pluck the fresh flowers, and to obtain a distinguished chaplet from my head from those groves once the Muses have hitherto veiled the temples of no one. In the first place, because I give instruction concerning mighty things, and to proceed to free the mind from the closely confining shackles of religion. In the second place, because I compose such lucid verses concerning so obscure a subject, affecting everything with the grace of poetry. Since such ornament also seems not unjustifiable or without reason. But as physicians, when they attempt to give bitter wormwood to children, first tinge the rim round the cup with the sweet and yellow liquid of honey, that the age of childhood, as yet unsuspicious, may find the lips diluted, and may in the meantime drink of the bitter juice of the wormwood, and, though deceived, may not be injured, but rather, recruited by such a process, may recover strength. So now I, since this argument seems, in general, too severe and forbidding to those by whom it has not been handled, and since the multitude shrink back from it, was desirous to set forth my chain of reasoning to the Ommemius in sweetly speaking Perian verse, and, as it were, to tinge it with the honey of the Muses. If, perchance, by such a method, I might detain thy attention upon my strains, until thou gainest a knowledge of the whole nature of things, and to perceiveest the utility of that knowledge. But since I have demonstrated of what nature the primordial atoms of all things are, and with how different figures distinguished they fly spontaneously through space, actuated by motion from all eternity, and in what manner all things may severally be produced from them, and since I have shown what is the nature of the soul, and from what substances it derives its vigor in its connection with the body, and in what way, being separated from it, it returns to its original elements. I shall now begin to treat of another subject, which is of the greatest concern to these inquiries, namely that there exist those shapes which we call images of things, shapes which, being separated, like membranes from the surface of the bodies of objects, flit hither and thither through the air, and which same shapes, not only occurring to us when awake, startle our minds, but also alarm us in sleep, when we often seem to behold strange forms and spectres of the dead, that frequently, when we are torped in slumber, rouse us with horror. I say that these are images thrown off the bodies of objects, that we may not, by any possibility, suppose that souls escape from Acheron, or that shades of the dead hover about among the living, or that any portion of us can be left after death, when, after the body and substance of the soul have been disunited, they have suffered disillusion into their respective elements. I affirm, then, that thin shapes and figures of objects are detached from those objects, from the surface, I mean, of their bodies, shapes which are to be designated, as it were, their pellicle or bark, because each image bears the likeness and form of that object, whatsoever it be, from whose surface it is detached and seems to wander through the air. This fact, any one, with however dull an intellect, may understand from what follows. In the first place, since many bodies, among objects manifest before our eyes, send off, when disunited, various particles from their substance, partly diffused and subtle, as wood discharges smoke and fire heat, and partly more close and condensed, as one-ever grasshoppers in summer lay aside their thin coats, and when calves, at their birth, cast the membrane from the surface of their bodies, and likewise, when the slippery snake puts off his garment among the thorns, for we frequently see the briars gifted with their spoils. Since these things, I say, take place, a thin image may naturally be detached from bodies, that is to say, from the extreme surface of bodies. For why those substances which are more dense, should more readily fall away and recede from bodies, than these shapes which are light and subtle, it is quite impossible to tell, especially when there are numberless, minute particles on the surface of objects, which may be thrown off in the order in which they have lain, and keep the outline of their figure, and this so much the more easily as, being comparatively few, and placed on the outmost superficies. They are less liable to be obstructed. For assuredly, we not only see many particles discharge themselves, and become detached, as we said before, from the middle and inward parts of bodies, but we observe also color itself frequently fly off from their surfaces, and this effect yellow, red, and purple curtains publicly exhibit when, stretched across the vast theaters, displayed over the poles and beams, they fluctuate with a tremulous motion. For they then tinge the assembly on the benches, and the whole face of the scene beneath, the persons of senators, matrons, and gods, and vary them with their own color. And the more the walls of the theater are shut in around, so much the more all these objects within, suffused with the hue of the curtains, the light of day being affected with it, smile and look gay. When the curtains, therefore, send off color from their surface, all other objects may naturally send off subtle images. For it is from the superficies that both emit. There are therefore, we must believe, certain outlines of figures which, formed of a subtle texture, fly abroad, and which nevertheless cannot, at the time that they are separated from bodies, be individually discerned by the eye. Besides, if all odor, smoke, vapor, and other similar substances fly off from bodies in a scattered manner, it is because, while rising from within, they are, as they issue forth, broken by winding passages, nor are there any direct openings of the orifices by which they strive as they spring up to fly out. But, on the other hand, when a thin coat of color from the surface is thrown off, there is nothing that can scatter it. Since, being placed on the very superficies, it lies in readiness to fall off unbroken. Moreover, whatever images appear to us in mirrors, in the water, and in any bright object, their substance, since they are distinguished by a form similar to their objects, must necessarily consist in forms thrown off from those objects. For why those grosser consistencies, as smoke and vapor, which many bodies obviously send forth from their substance, should more readily detach themselves and recede from objects, than those which are thin and subtle, there is no possibility of telling. There are, therefore, we may believe, thin images of the forms of bodies, and unlike those of a grosser nature, which, though no one can see them severally thrown off, yet, being thrown off and repelled by successive and frequent reflections from the flat surface of mirrors, strike the eye and produce sight. Nor can shapes of bodies be imagined by any other means to be so accurately preserved, as that forms corresponding to each should be represented to us. Give me now your attention further and learn of how subtle nature or substance an image consists. You may imagine this subtlety, in the first place, inasmuch as the primordial atoms of things are so far below our senses, and so exceedingly less than those smallest objects, which our eyes first begin to be unable to distinguish. But that I may make plain to you how exquisitely diminutive the primary particles of all bodies are. Listen to what I shall state in these few observations. First, there are some animals so exceedingly minute that the third part of them can by no possibility be seen. Of what size can any internal part of these creatures be imagined to be? What is the globule of their heart or of their eye? What are their members and joints? How extremely diminutive they must be. What, moreover, is the size of the several atoms of which their vital principle and the substance of their soul must necessarily consist? Do you not conceive how subtle and minute they must be? Contemplate, besides, whatever bodies exhale from their substance a powerful odor, as panacea, bitter wormwood, strong smelling southern wood, and pungent sentry, any one of which, if you shall happen to shake gently, and imagine how small must be the atoms that affect your nostrils. You may, then the better, understand that numerous images of bodies, composed of still smaller atoms, may flit about in various ways, without force or weight, and without impression on the senses, of which bodies how fine a part the image is, there is no one can express, or give the due estimation of it in words. But lest perchance you should think that those images of objects alone wander abroad, which fly off from the objects themselves, there are others also, which are produced spontaneously, and are combined of themselves in this sky which is called the air. Those images, namely, which, fashioned in various shapes, are born along on high, and, being soft in their contexture, never cease to change their figure, and to metamorphose themselves into the outlines of forms of every sort. This we sometimes see the clouds do, when we observe them thicken on high, and dim the serene face of the firmament, yet soothing the air, as it were, with their motion, as frequently the faces of giants seem to fly over the heaven, and to spread their shadows far and wide. Sometimes huge mountains, and rocks, apparently torn from those mountains, seem now to go before the sun, now to follow close behind him, then some monster seems to drag forward, and to obtrude other stormy clouds. Understand now, with how easy and expeditious a process these images are formed, and perpetually flow off, and pass away from objects, for there is always on the surface of bodies something redundant, which they may throw off, and this redundancy, or outside form, when it comes in contact with certain objects as, for example, a thin garment, passes through it, but when it strikes against rough rocks, or the substance of wood, is at once broken into fragments, so that it can present no image. But when objects which are bright and dense have stood in its way, as, above all, a looking glass, neither of these effects happens, for neither can images pass through it like a garment, nor be divided into parts before the smooth surface has succeeded in securing its entireness. From this cause it happens that images abound among us, and however suddenly, at any time whatsoever, you may place a mirror opposite an object, the image of it appears, so that you may conclude that filmy textures of objects and subtle shapes are perpetually flying off from the superficies of every body. Many images are therefore carried off in a short space, so that the production of these forms must naturally be thought rapid. And as the sun must send forth many rays in a short time, that all places may be constantly full of light, so, by a like process, many different images of bodies must necessarily be carried off from those bodies in a moment of time in all directions round about. Since, whatsoever way, we turn the mirror to the figures of objects. The objects are represented in it of a correspondent form and color. Besides, at times when the state of the sky has just before been clear as possible, it becomes, with extreme suddenness, so frightfully overclouded on all sides, that you might think that all the darkness had left acheron and filled the immense vault of heaven so formatively, when such a gloomy night of clouds has arisen, does the face of black terror hang over the earth from above? Of which clouds, thin as they are, how thin a portion of their image must be, as viewed in a reflecting surface, there is no man that can express or give in words such an estimation as would be conceivable. And now attend further, and with how swift emotion images are borne along, and what activity is given to them as they swim across the air, so that, to whatever part they move, each with its several tendency, a short time only is spent in a long distance. I will proceed to explain, though rather, if possible, in agreeably sounding verses than in many, as the short melody of the swan is better than the croak of cranes swept afar among the ethereal clouds driven by the south wind. In the first place, we have constant means of observing how swift, in their motion those bodies, which are light, and which consist of minute particles, are. Of which kind is the sun's light, and his heat, for this reason that they are composed of minute primary atoms, which are, as it were, struck out, and make no difficulty to pass through the interval of air, driven on by a succeeding stroke, for the place of light passing on is instantly supplied by other light, and brightness is, as it were, propelled by successive brightness. Wherefore, images must, in like manner, be able to pass through an inexpressible space in a moment of time. In the first place, because there is always some slight impulse at a distance behind them, which may carry them forward and urge them on, and secondly, because they are sent forth formed with so subtle a texture that they can easily penetrate any substances whatsoever, and, as it were, flow through the intervening body of air. Besides, if those atoms of bodies which are sent forth from within, and from the central portion of them, as the light and heat of the sun are seen gliding over the whole space of the air to diffuse themselves abroad in a moment of time, and to fly through sea and land, and to flood the heaven which is above, where they are born along with such rapid lightness, what shall we say of those particles, then, which lie ready on the outmost surface of bodies? Do you not conceive how much quicker and farther they ought to go when they are once thrown off, and when nothing delays their progress? And do you not feel certain that they should fly over a much greater distance of space in the same time in which the light of the sun traverses the heaven? This also seems to be an eminently fitting example to show with how swift a motion the images of things are born along, namely, that as soon as a bright surface of water is placed in the open air, when the clear heaven is shining with stars, the radiant constellations of the sky immediately correspond in the water. Do you now understand, then, in what a moment of time this image descends from the regions of the air to the regions of the earth? From which cause, however wonderful, you must necessarily admit, again and again, the existence of bodies which strike the eyes and excite our vision, and flow with a perpetual issue from substances, as cold from rivers, heat from the sun, spray from the waves of the sea, which is the consumer of walls round the shore, nor do various voices cease to fly through the air, moreover the moisture, so to speak, of assault taste comes often into the mouth when we are walking near the sea, and again when we look at diluted wormwood being mixed, a bitterness affects our palate, so evidently a certain substance is born rapidly away from all bodies, and is dispersed in all directions around, nor is there any delay or interruption allowed to the efflux, since we perpetually perceive it with our senses, and may see all objects at all times, and smell them, and hear them sound. Further, since any figure felt with the hands in the dark is known to be the same which is seen by day and in clear light, it necessarily follows that touch and sight are excited by a light cause. If, therefore, we handle a square object, and that object affects us as a square in the dark, what object, in the light, will be able to answer to the shape of it, except its quadrangular image? For which reason the faculty of discerning forms is found to depend upon images, and it seems that no object can be distinguished by the eye without them? Now those images of objects, of which I am speaking, are carried in every direction, and are thrown off so as to be distributed on all sides. But, because we can see only with our eyes, it therefore happens that whatsoever way we turn our sight, all objects on that quarter strike on it with their shape and color. And the image causes us to see, and gives us means to distinguish how far each object is distant from us. For when it is sent forth from the object, it immediately strikes and drives forward that portion of air which is situated between itself and our eyes. And the whole of that air thus glides through our eyes, and, as it were, brushes the pupils gently and so passes on. Hence it comes to pass that we see how far distant each object is, and the more air is driven before the image, and the longer the stream of it that brushes through our eyes, the farther each object seems to be removed from us. These effects, you may be sure, are produced with an exquisitely rapid process, so that we see what the object is, and at the same time how far it is distant. In these matters it is by no means to be accounted wonderful why, when those images which strike the eyes cannot be severally discerned, the objects themselves, from which they proceed, are perceived. For, in like manner, when the wind strikes upon us by degrees, and when sharp cold spreads over us, we are not want to perceive each first and successive particle of that wind and cold, but rather the whole together, and we then perceive, as it were, blows inflicted upon our body as if some substance were striking us, and producing in our frame a sense of its force which is without us. Besides, when we strike a stone with our finger we touch the very extreme superficies of the stone, and the outside color, and yet we do not feel that color with our touch, but rather perceive the hardness of the stone deeply seated within its substance, and now learn, in addition to this, why the image of an object in a mirror is seen beyond the mirror, for certainly it seems extremely remote from us. The case is the same as with those objects which are plainly seen out of doors, when a door, standing open, affords an unobstructed prospect through it, and allows many objects out of the house to be contemplated. For this view, also, as well as that in the mirror, takes place, if I may so express it, with a double and twofold tide of air. For first is perceived the air on this side of the doorposts, then follow the doorposts themselves on the right hand and on the left. Next the external light strikes the eyes, and the second portion of air, and all those objects which are clearly seen abroad. So when the image from the glass has first thrown itself forward, and whist it is coming to our sight, it strikes and drives forward the air which is situate between itself and the eyes, and causes us to perceive all this air before we see the mirror. But when we have looked on the mirror itself, the image which is thrown off from us reaches it, and, being reflected, returns to our eyes, and so, propelling another portion of air before it, rolls it on, and causes us to perceive this air before we see itself. And on that account seems to be distant, and to be so much removed from or behind the mirror. For which reason, again and again I say, it is by no means right for those who study these matters to wonder at the effects which attribute vision from the surface of mirrors to the influence of two portions of air, since the appearance is produced by means of both. Now that which is, in reality, the right side of our bodies is made to appear on the left side in mirrors, for this reason, that when the image which proceeds from our person strikes upon the plane of the mirror, it is not reflected without a change. But being turned back, it is so struck out of its former state, as would be the case with a mask of plaster. If, before it were dry, anyone should dash its face against a pillar or a beam, when, if it should preserve, at that instant, its true figure as in front, or as when its front was presented to you, and should exhibit itself, or its exact features, driven back through the hinder part of the head, it will happen that the eye which before was the right is now become the left, and that which was on the left, correspondingly, is made the right. It is contrived also that an image may be transmitted from mirror to mirror, so that five, and even six images, have been often produced. For whatsoever object in a house shall be hid, as lying back in the interior part of it, it will yet be possible that every such object, however removed out of sight by crooked turnings and recesses, may, being drawn out by means of several glasses through the winding passages, be seen to be in the building. So exactly is an image reflected from glass to glass, and when it has been presented to us on the left hand, it happens afterwards that it is produced on the right, and, hence, it returns again, and changes to the same position as before. Moreover, whatever small sides or plates there are of glasses, formed with a round flexure similar to that of our own side, they, on that account, reflect to us images in the right position, either because the image is transferred from glass to glass and that fence, being twice reflected, flies forward to us, or again, because the image, when it comes forth, is turned about, in as much as the curved shape of the glass causes it to wheel itself round to us. Further, you would suppose that our images in a mirror advance together with us, and place their foot with ours, and imitate our gesture, which appearance happens from this cause, that from whatever part of the mirror you recede, the images, after that moment, cannot be reflected from that part, since nature obliges all images to be reflected from mirrors, as well as to fly off from objects, according to the corresponding gestures of the person whom they represent. Bright objects also the eyes avoid and shrink from beholding, the sun even blinds you, if you persist to direct your eyes against it, in as much as the power of it is great, and images from it are borne down impetuously from on high through the clear air, and strike the eyes forcibly, disturbing and causing pain in their sockets. Moreover, whatever splendor is strong often burns the eyes, because it contains many seeds of fire, which produce pain in the organs of sight by penetrating into them. Besides, whatever objects jaundiced persons look upon become in their sight yellow like themselves, because many atoms of yellow color flow off from their bodies, meeting and tinging the images of objects, and many of the same atoms are more over-mixed in their eyes, which, by their contagion, paint all things with lurid hues. But when we are in the dark, we see from the darkness objects that are in the light, because when the black air of the darkness, being nearer to us, has entered the open eyes first, and taken possession of them, the bright white air immediately follows, which, as it were, clears them, and dispels the black shades of the other air, for this lucid air is by many degrees more active, and far more subtle and powerful, which, as soon as it has filled with light, and laid open the passages of the eyes, which the dark air had previously stopped, plain images of objects immediately follow and strike upon the eyes, so that we see those objects which are situated in the light. This, on the other hand, we cannot do when we look from the light towards objects in the dark, because the thicker air of darkness follows behind the light air, which thicker air fills the pores and stops up the passages of sight, so that the images of any things whatsoever, be involved in it, cannot be moved forward into the eyes. And when we behold the square towers of a city a long way off, it happens on account of the distance that they often seem round, because every angle, being afar off, is seen as obtuse, or rather is not seen at all, the impulse of its image dies away, and the force of it does not reach to our eyes, since, while the images of it are borne through a large body of air, the air, by frequent percussions upon them, obliges that force to become ineffective. Hence it comes to pass that when every angle has escaped our vision at the same time, the constructed stones are seen as if fashioned to a round, not, however, like round objects which are immediately before us, and which are exactly circular, but they appear, as it were, nearly after a shadowy fashion resembling them. Our shadow likewise seems to us to move in the sun, and to follow our footsteps, and to imitate our gesture. If you can fancy air, devoid of light, to go forwards, following the movements and gesture of men, for that which we are accustomed to call shadow can be nothing else but air deprived of light. Evidently, because the ground, in certain spots excessively, is excluded from the radiance wherever we, as we go, obstruct it, and that part of it, which we have left, is again covered with light. From this it happens that what was the shadow of our body seems to be still the same, and to have followed exactly opposite us. For fresh illuminations of rays are perpetually pouring themselves forth, and the first disappear as quickly as wool vanishes if applied to a flame. By this means the ground is both easily deprived of light, and again covered with it, and discharges from itself the black shadows. Nor yet, in this case, do we allow that the eyes are at all deceived. For it is their business only to observe, in whatever place there may be light or shade, but whether the light is the same or not, and whether the same shadow, which was here, passes thither, or rather, as we said before, a new one is constantly produced. This the judgment of the mind only must determine. For the eyes cannot know the nature of things, and therefore you must not impute to the eyes that which may be the fault of the understanding. A ship in which we sail is carried forward when it seems to stand still, and that which remains stationary is imagined to go by us. And the hills and plains, past which we row our vessel, or fly with sails, seem to flee away astern. All the stars seem to be at rest, as, being fixed to the vaults of the sky, and yet all are in perpetual motion. For when, after rising, they have traversed the heaven with their shining orbs, they return to their distant places of setting, and the sun and the moon, in like manner, seem to remain stationary. Bodies which observation itself shows to be carried forwards, and mountains rising up at a distance from the middle of the sea, between which a free passage for ships is open, yet appear without separation, so that one vast island seems to be formed from the two united. It likewise happens that to children, after ceasing to whorl themselves about, the rooms seem to turn, and the pillars to run round, so that they can hardly believe that the whole building is not threatening to fall upon them. And when nature begins to raise on high the beams of the sun, red with tremulous fires, and to exult them above the hills, the hills over which the sun then appears to be, himself, apparently touching them close, glowing with its own beams, are scarcely distant from us two thousand flights of an arrow, often even scarcely five hundred casts of a dart. Yet, between them and the sun, which seems in contact with them, lie broad expanses of sea, stretched out under vast regions of sky, and many thousand miles of land also intervene, which various nations of men, and tribes of wild beasts occupy and overrun. And, to mention another ocular delusion, a puddle of water, not deeper than a finger, which settles among the stones in the paved streets, affords, apparently, a prospect downwards under the earth, to a depth as great as the height to which the lofty arch of heaven extends above the earth, so that you seem to look down upon the clouds, and to see a heaven beneath, and to behold, by a surprising effect, the celestial bodies buried in the sky underground. Moreover, when a spirited coarser sticks fast with us in the middle of a river, and we look down into the swiftly flowing water of the stream, a force seems to be carrying the body of the horse, though standing still, in a contrary direction to the current, and to drive it rapidly up the river, and whither so ever we turn our eyes, all objects appear to us to be carried along, and to flow in a similar manner. A portico too, although it be of equal dimensions throughout, and standing supported with equal columns from end to end, yet, when it is viewed from the extremity, through its whole length, contracts gradually, as it were, to the apex of a tapering cone, joining the roof to the floor, and all the right-hand parts to the left, until it has narrowed itself to the indistinct point of the cone. To sailors at sea it occurs that the sun, having risen from the waves, seems also to set, and bury its light in the waves, as, in their situation, they behold nothing else but water and sky, a remark which I make, that you may not lightly suppose that the senses are altogether deceived. But to those ignorant of the sea, ships in the harbor often appear to strive, disabled in their equipments, against the broken waves, for, though whatever part of the oars is raised above the water of the sea, is straight, and the part of the helm above the water is straight. The parts which go down, and are sunk in the water, seem all, as if broken, to be turned and inverted, sloping upwards, and thus bent back to float almost up to the surface of the water. And when the winds, in the nighttime, carry light vapors, a thwart the sky, the bright constellations seem then to glide against the clouds, and to pass along on high in a far different direction than that in which they are really born. But if by chance the hand, applied to one eye, presses it underneath, it happens, by some impression on the sense, that all things, at which we look, seem to become double as we gaze on them. Two lights in the lamps appear blossoming with flames. The twin furniture seems to be doubled throughout the house, and the faces of the people seem double, and their persons double. Moreover, when sleep has bound our limbs in agreeable repose, and the whole body lies in profound rest. Yet, at that very time, our limbs appear to be awake and to move themselves. And we imagine that, in the thick darkness of night, we see the sun, and the light of day, and though in a confined place, we seem to change our position with respect to the heaven, the sea, rivers, and mountains, and to cross over plains on foot, and to hear sounds, though the unbroken silence of night rains around us, and to utter words, though our tongues remain still. Other things of this class, exciting our wonder, we see in great numbers, all which seek, as it were, to destroy the credit of our senses. But they strive in vain, since the greatest part of these appearances deceive us only because of the fancies which we allow to bear upon them, so that those things which have not been seen by our senses are to us as if seen, for nothing is more difficult than to separate certain from doubtful things, things which the mind, when their fallaciousness is discovered, straight away rejects from itself. Moreover, if any one believes that nothing is known, he himself also knows not whether that can be known from which he, forming a judgment, confesses that he knows nothing. Against him, therefore, I shall forbear to urge argument, who of his own will has placed himself with his face towards his footsteps. And although I should even grant that he knows this, I should still put to him the following question. When he has seen no truth in things previously, how he knows what it is to know and not to know, in contradistinction to one another. What cause, I shall ask him, produced his knowledge of truth and falsehood, and what power has proved to him that what is doubtful differs from what is certain. The knowledge of truth, you will find, is derived from the senses as its origin, and you will own that the senses cannot be refuted. For that which, of its own power, can refute false notions by real fact, must be found of greater credit than to be liable to confutation. What, then, must be esteemed of greater credit than the senses? Shall reasoning arising from erring sense, reasoning, I say, which has arisen wholly from the senses, and which can depend on nothing else, be of sufficient force to refute those senses? For unless these are senses, are true and trustworthy, all reasoning consequently becomes false and unfounded. But what, that is external to the senses, shall confute the senses? Or will they disagree among themselves and refute one another? Will the ears be able to refute the eyes? Or will the touch refute the ears? Or will the taste of the mouth moreover refute the touch? Will the nostrils confute the other senses? Or will the eyes contradict them? It is, as I think, not so, for each sense is separately assigned its own faculty. Each has its own power, and it is therefore necessary that what is soft and what is cold and what is hot should seem so, and it is necessary, also, that we should perceive distinctly the various colors of things, and whatever things are connected with colors. The taste of the mouth likewise has its own power separately, sense are produced independently, and sounds independently of the other senses, and it necessarily follows, therefore, that some senses cannot confute others, nor again will they, as a body, confute themselves, for equal trust must, at all times, be placed in every one of them. That, therefore, which, at any time whatsoever, has seemed true to them, is true. And if reasoning shall be unable to unfold the cause, why those objects which, when close at hand, were square, have appeared round at a distance, yet it is better for a man, being partially deficient in reasoning, to give explanations of each figure erroneously, than by any means to let slip from his hands things that are manifest, and to destroy the first principles of belief, and tear up all the foundations on which life and safety rest. For not only would all reasoning fall to the ground, but life itself would at once come to nothing, unless you venture to trust your senses, and to avoid precipices, and other things of this sort which are to be shunned, and to pursue those things which are of a contrary character. That, therefore, is all an empty body of words, you may be sure, which is arrayed and drawn up against the senses. Lastly, as in a building, if the rule is wrongly applied at first, if the square, being erroneously placed, deviates from the proper position, and if the level is in the least inexact in any spot, all parts of the edifice are necessarily rendered faulty and distorted, and become ill-shaped, sloping, hanging forwards or backwards, and inconsistent with one another, so that some seem inclined to fall, and some actually do fall, being all made unsound by false measures at the commencement. Thus, accordingly, whatever reasoning on things has sprung from fallacious senses must of necessity be erroneous and deceitful. If the senses be false, all arguments from them must be false. By Lucretius We have already spoken of sight, and now no difficult argument is left for us to show how the other senses discern each its own object. In the first place, every sound and voice is heard, when, being infused into the ears, they have struck with their substance on the sense. For we must admit that voice and sound are corporeal, since they can make impression on the senses. On this account the voice often abrades the throat, and its loud sound, as it passes forth, makes the windpipe rougher. For when the atoms of the voice, a larger body of them than usual having risen together, have proceeded to go forth from the mouth, the passage of the mouth, from the pores being filled up, is rendered hoarse, and the voice injures the road by which it issues into the air. It is by no means to be doubted, therefore, that voices and words consist of corporeal particles, as having power to cause corporeal injury. Nor does it escape your knowledge, also, how much substance perpetual speaking, protracted from the rising splendor of aurora to the shade of black night, detracts from the body, and how much it wears away from the very nerves and strength of men, especially if it is uttered with extreme loudness. The voice, therefore, must necessarily be corporeal, since he who speaks much loses, from its effect, a portion of his corporeal substance. Nor do the particles of sound penetrate the ear under a like form, when the crooked barbarian trumpet bellows heavily with a deep murmur, and calls up a hoarse dead sound, and when swans, in the pangs of death, raise, with a mournful voice, a liquid dirge from the veils of Helicon. These words and sounds, therefore, when being formed within, we expel them from our body, and send them forth straight by the mouth. The act of tongue, skillful informing words, articulates, and the shape into which the lips are put partly assists to fashion them. But asparity of the voice is caused by asparity of its particles, and its smoothness is also produced by their smoothness. For this reason, when the distance is not great to the spot whence each word, having started forth, arrives at our ears, it happens of necessity, that the words themselves are also plainly heard, and distinguished in every note, for the voice keeps its formation and maintains its figure. But if a greater space than is convenient is interposed, the words, passing through a large body of air, are necessarily confused, and the voice, while it flies through the aerial interval, is disordered. It accordingly happens that you hear a sound, but cannot distinguish what is the meaning of the words. So confused and obstructed does the voice come to you. Besides, one word, uttered from the mouth of a crier in the midst of the people, often penetrates the ears of all. One voice, therefore, suddenly divides into many voices, since it distributes itself to each individual ear, stamping on it as it were, the form and clear sound of the words. But that part of the several voices which does not fall on the ears themselves is lost, being carried past them and diffused through the air. Some portion of it, too, struck against solid objects and rebounding like a stone, returns and sometimes mocks you with the semblance of a word. Which things, when you consider my good friend, you may be able to render an account to yourself and others how rocks, in solitary places, regularly return similar forms of words to those which we utter when we seek our companions wandering among the shady hills and call them as they are scattered abroad with a loud voice. I have noticed places repeat six or seven words when you uttered only one, for the mountains reverberating the words spoken repeated them so that they were re-echoed without change. Such places the neighboring people pretend that satyrs and nymphs inhabit and say that there are fawns in them by whose noise and sportive play re-echoing through the night they universally affirmed that the dead silence is broken and that sounds of chords and sweet plaintive notes are heard which the pipe, struck with the fingers of those playing, pours forth around. They relate also that the race of husband-men here far and wide, when, frequently, pan, shaking the piney garland of his half-savage head, runs over the open reeds with his curved lip, ceasing not to repeat his sylvan song. Other wonders and prodigies of this kind they relate, lest, perhaps they should be thought to dwell in lonely places, deserted even by the gods. For this reason they talk of such marvels in their discourse, or, perchance, are prompted by some other cause, as all men are too eager for ears that will listen to wonderful stories. Furthermore, it is not surprising how, through places where the eyes cannot discern plain objects, through these very places voices pass and excite the ears. We often, too, witness a dialogue held between two persons in different apartments with the doors closed. The cause is, evidently, this, that the voice can pass unbroken through winding pours of bodies, though images refuse to pass through them. For the latter are broken pieces, unless they go through straight passages, such as those of glass, through which every image flies. Besides, the voice is distributed in all directions, in as much as some voices are produced from others. For this happens where one voice has split itself into many, as a spark of fire, when it has started forth is often want to disperse itself into its own separate fires. Places, accordingly, which have been all shut up behind and around the speaker, are filled with voices, and shaken with sound. But as for images they all, when once they have been thrown off, pass only by straight openings, for which reason no one can see objects beyond walls, though he may hear voices from beyond them. And yet this very voice, also, while it goes through the obstructed passages, is dulled. And we seem to hear a sound rather than distinct words. That faculty, by which we perceive taste, the organs being the tongue and the palate, requires for itself somewhat more argument and more explanation. In the first place we perceive savor in the mouth, when we express it from food by mastication, as when any one, for example, proceeds to press and dry with his hand a sponge full of water. What we express is then distributed through all the ducts of the palate, and the arduous pores of the soft tongue. By this means, when the atoms of the juice flowing out are smooth, they touch the sense agreeably, and affect all parts around the humid, exuding regions of the tongue with pleasure. But, on the other hand, as atoms are severally more endowed with roughness, so much the more, issuing forth in a body, they sting and lacerate the sense. Moreover, pleasure experienced from the taste of food is limited by the extent of the palate, as, when the juice has descended downwards through the throat, there is no enjoyment while it is all being distributed through the members. Nor is it of any consequence with what food the body has nourished, so that you be but able to disperse what you take, when digested through the organs and preserve the humic tenor and action of the stomach. I will now explain, in order that we may understand this point, how it is that different food is allotted to different animals, or why that which is sour and bitter to some may yet seem to others extremely sweet, and so great is the difference and variety in these matters that that which to some is food to others is rank poison. Thus it happens that a serpent, which is touched with human saliva, perishes, and even commits suicide by biting himself. Besides, hellebore is strong poison to us, but increases the fat of goats and quails. That you may understand by what means this happens, it becomes you in the first place to call to mind what we have often said before, that in bodies are contained many seminal atoms mingled in many ways. Moreover, as all living creatures which take food are dissimilar externally, and as the extreme outline of their limbs restricts them variously according to their kinds, so they likewise consist of different seminal particles and vary in the figure of their elements. Further, when the seminal particles differ, their intervals and passages, which we call pores, in all the limbs and in the mouth and the palate itself, must likewise differ. Some of these pores therefore must be greater, and some less. Some animals must have triangular pores, some square, many pores must be round, and some polygonal, varied in several ways. For as the nature of the shapes of the seminal particles and their motions require, the figures of the pores must differ accordingly, and the intervals among the atoms must vary as the combination of the atoms demands. On this account, when that which is sweet to some animals is bitter to others, exquisitely smooth atoms must enter gently and easily into the pores of the palate of that animal to whom it is sweet. But, on the contrary, roughened jagged particles, as is evident, pierce the mouths of those animals to whom the same substance is bitter. From these facts it is now easy to understand every particular connected with this subject. For when in any person fever has arisen from the superabundance of the bile, or any violence of disease has been excited by any other means, his whole body is at once disturbed, and all the positions of the atoms in him are changed. It happens that particles which before suited his sense of taste are now unsuitable to it, and others, which, when they have penetrated the pores, produce a bitter sensation, are more adapted to it. For even in sweet bodies, as in the flavor and substance of honey, both rough and smooth particles are mixed, a fact which we have demonstrated to you frequently before. And now give me your attention further, for I shall show in what manner the approach of odor affects the nostrils. First, there must necessarily exist many substances, from which a varied effluence of odors streams forth and devolves itself. For that odors do both flow off, and are sent forth and dispersed abroad, we must naturally suppose. But certain odors, on account of the different shapes of their particles, are more suited to some animals than to others, and thus bees are attracted by the smell of honey in the air, however far distant, and vultures by the smell of carcasses. Also the keen scent of dogs, preceding their steps, leads them whether so ever the cloven hoof of the stag has directed its course, and the white goose, the preserver of the citadel of the Romans, perceives from afar the smell of a man. Thus different scent assigned to different animals leads each to its own food, and causes it to recoil from destructive poison. And by this means the tribes of beasts are preserved. Of this very odor then, which excites the nostrils, it happens that one kind is carried farther than another. But yet none of them is carried so far as sound or as the voice. I forbear to say as those airy substances which strike the eyes and excite vision. For odor, wandering about, passes but slowly, and being dispersed through the yielding air, soon gradually dies away, chiefly because it is with difficulty evolved out of any substance from its interior. For that odors flow and come forth from the interior of substances, this consideration sufficiently indicates that all bodies, when broken, bruised or split into fragments in the fire, seem to cast a stronger scent than when whole. It is, besides, easy to see that odor is composed of larger atoms than sound, since it does not penetrate through stone walls, through which the voice and sounds constantly pass. For which reason you will see that it is not so easy to ascertain in what quarter a body that casts a scent is placed, as to find out one that emits a sound? For the force and impulse of an odor, by moving slowly through the air, soon becomes chill and powerless. Nor do the atoms, the heralds of substances, come warm to the scents. From this cause dogs are often at fault and have to seek for the traces of the scent. Nor does this occur, indeed in respect to odors only, and in the case of tastes. But the appearances and colors of things, likewise, do not so agree with the senses of all men alike, but that some are more accurate and repulsive to the sight than others. Even fierce lions cannot endure to stand against and to look upon a cock, which, as his flapping wings startle the night, is accustomed to call Aurora with his loud voice. Lions, I say, will not endure him, so suddenly do they rethink them of flight. The cause evidently being that there are in the bodies of cocks certain particles which, when sent forth into the eyes of lions, pierce the pupils and cause sharp pain, so that the beasts, however fierce, cannot hold out against them, although these same particles cannot at all hurt our eyes, either because they do not penetrate, or because, if they do penetrate, a free outlet from the eyes permitted to them, so that they cannot, in any respect, hurt the organs of sight by remaining in them. And now give me your attention, and learn what substances affect the mind, and understand, in a few words, whence those things which come into the mind proceed. In the first place, I assert this, that numbers of subtle images of things wander about in many ways in all directions, images which, when they meet, are easily united together in the air as the spider's web and a leaf of gold. For these images are far finer in their texture than those which affect the eyes and excite vision, since these penetrate through the small pores of the body, and excite the subtle substance of the mind within, and arouse the sense. Thus it is that we see centaurs, and the members of Silai, and the Cerberian mouths of dogs, and the apparitions of those whose bones, after death has been passed, the earth contains. Since spectra of all kinds are everywhere carried about, which are partly, such as are formed spontaneously in the air, partly whatever fly off from various objects, and partly those which images, formed of figures of these two kinds, compose. For assuredly the image of a centaur is not formed from a living centaur, since there has been no such figure in life, but when the images of a horse and a man have come together by chance they easily and quickly cohere, as we said before, because of their subtle nature and filmy texture. Other images of this sort are produced in the same manner, and since these, from their extreme lightness are, as I have shown above, swiftly carried about, any one thin image of them all easily stimulates our mind with a single impression, for the mind is itself subtle and eminently excitable. That these things take place, as I state, you may easily learn from hence. That inasmuch as this impression on the mind is similar to that on the bodily senses, it necessarily follows that that which we see with the mind and that which we see with the eye are effected by similar means. As I have shown accordingly that I perceive lions, for example, by means of images of lions which excite the eyes, we may understand that the mind is moved by images of lions in like manner, and by other images of other things, which it sees and discerns equally and not less than the eyes, only we must observe that it sees more subtle images. Nor, for any other reason, does this sense of the mind become awake when sleep has spread itself over the limbs, then because these same images excite our minds, which effect our senses when we are corporeally awake, to such a degree that we seem plainly to behold him of whom his life having been yielded up, death and the earth have already taken possession. This nature of necessity brings to pass, and from this cause, that all the senses of the body, being obstructed and bound up by sleep, are at rest throughout the several members, and are unable to refute any false appearance by real facts. Besides, the memory lies inactive and torpid in sleep, and shows no disbelief in appearances or intimates that he whom the mind imagines that it sees alive has long ago partaken of death and forgetfulness. As to what remains for consideration, it is not surprising that images could move and agitate their arms and other members with regularity, for it happens that many an image seems to do this in our sleep. This is to be explained in the following way. That when the first image passes off, and a second is afterwards produced in another position, the former then seems to have changed its gesture. This doubtless, we must conceive to be done by a very rapid process, so great is the activity of images, and so great the number of things from which they proceed, and so great too is the abundance of atoms, that it may suffice for that which is to be perceived by the senses at any time whatsoever. And many other questions are raised on these matters, and many points must be made clear by us if we wish to explain these subjects distinctly. In the first place, it is inquired why the mind immediately thinks of that very thing of which any one has desired to think. Do images watch our pleasure, and as soon as we wish, does an image present itself to us? If it is our desire to think of the sea, of the earth, or of the heaven, of assemblies of men, of a procession, of banquets, of battles, does nature create and prepare images of all these things at our word? Especially when the minds of different men in the same country and place think of things entirely different? What shall we say, moreover, when we perceive images in our sleep advance before us in order, and move their pliant limbs? When, as we observe them, they wave their bending arms alternately, and repeat gesture after gesture with the foot corresponding to the look? Are images forsooth inspired with the art of dancing? And do they, skilled in gesticulation, wander about, in order that they may make sport for us in the nighttime? Or will this rather be the truth, that we perceive that variety of motions in one and the same portion of time, as in that time in which one word is uttered many smaller portions of time, which reason discovers to be in it, are contained? From this cause it happens that at any time whatsoever any images are ready at hand, prepared for all places, so great is their activity and so great the abundance of objects from which they proceed. By this means, when the first image passes away, and a second is afterwards produced in another position, the first then seems to have changed its gesture. And because images are subtle, the mind cannot acutely discern any but those which it earnestly endeavors to discern, all therefore which exist besides these pass away unnoticed, unless the mind has thus prepared itself and endeavored to distinguish them. The mind, accordingly, does prepare itself and expects that that will occur which is consequent on that which has preceded, so that it observes each particular occurrence, thus, therefore, the effect is produced. Do you not see, also, that the eyes, when they have begun to look at things which are small, exert and prepare themselves, and that we could not, without this exertion, clearly discern them? And even in respect also to objects easily distinguishable, you may observe that if you do not apply your mind to remark any one of them, it is just the same as if it were all the time removed and far distant from you? How is it, therefore, surprising if the mind loses sight of all other images except those concerning matters to which it is itself directed? Besides, we form opinions of great things from small indications, and thus lead ourselves into the delusion of deceit. It happens, also, that sometimes a second image is not presented of the same kind as the first, but that that which was before a woman under our hands seems to be before us changed into a man, or that one face and one age follows after another, but at this sleep and oblivion prevent us from wondering. In these matters remember that it is necessary diligently to shun this fault and to avoid it cautiously as a most grievous error. The fault, namely, of supposing that all the parts of animals were formed with a view to the uses to which they have been adapted, lest you should suppose that the bright luminaries of the eyes were produced that we may be able to see with them, and that the pillars of the legs and thighs built upon the feet were united for this purpose that we might take long steps on the road, and, moreover, that the forearms fitted to the stout upper arms and the hands ministering on either side were given us that we might perform those offices which would be necessary for the support of life. Other suppositions of this sort, whatever explanations men give, are all preposterous, reasoning being thus perverted, for nothing was produced in the body to the end that we might use it, but that which has been produced, being found serviceable for certain ends, begets use. Neither was the faculty of scene in existence before the light of the eyes was made, nor that of speaking with words before the tongue was formed, but rather the origin of the tongue preceded speech, and the ears were made long before any sound was heard, and in fine all members, as I think existed before there was any use of them discovered, they could not, therefore, have been produced for the sake of being used. But, on the contrary, to engage in battle with the hand and to tear the limbs and to commit the body with gore was practiced long before bright darts were hurled, and nature compelled us to avoid a wound before the left hand, by the help of art, presented the defense of a shield, and certainly to commit the wearied body to rest is of much more antiquity than the soft cushions of the couch, and to quench the thirst was practiced before cups were invented. Such things as these, then, which were found out from experience and the objects of life, may be believed to have been invented for the purpose of using them. Those things, however, which were all first produced independently, gave a knowledge of their utility afterwards. Of which kind, especially, we see that the senses and members of the body are, wherefore again and again I say it is impossible for you to believe that they could have been produced for the sake of use. This, also, is not to be wondered at, that the very nature of the body of every animal requires food. For I have shown that many atoms pass off and recede from substances in many ways, but the most numerous must pass off from animals, because they are exercised by motion, and many particles are carried forth, urged from the interior of the body by perspiration. Many also are exhaled through the mouth when they pant from weariness. By these means, therefore, the body wastes, and all its nature is undermined, a state on which pain is attendant. On this account food is taken that it may support the limbs, and being given at intervals may recruit the strength and repress the eager desire of eating throughout the organs and veins. Liquid also descends into all parts of the body, whatsoever require liquid, and the moisture into the frame dissipates the many collected atoms of heat, which cause a burning in our stomach, and extinguishes them like fire, so that arid heat may no longer dry up our limbs. Thus, therefore, you see, panting thirst is expelled from our bodies, thus the pining desire of food is satisfied. Section 11, Book 4, Part 2