Lucretius · a new plain-English translation from the original language
I roam the pathless places of the Pierides, untrodden before by anyone's
foot. It delights me to approach untouched springs
and draw from them, and it delights me to pluck fresh flowers
and seek from there a distinguished crown for my head,
from which no Muse has ever before wreathed anyone's brow;
first because I teach of great matters, and I go on
to free the mind from the tight knots of superstition,
then because on so dark a subject I compose verses so clear,
touching everything with the Muses' charm.
For this too seems not without reason;
just as when physicians, wanting to give children foul wormwood,
try first to smear the rims of the cup all around
with the sweet golden liquid of honey,
so that the unwary age of children may be beguiled
as far as the lips, and meanwhile may drink down the bitter
draught of wormwood, and not be caught out by the deception,
but rather, restored by such a trick, may grow strong,
so I now, since this doctrine mostly seems
too harsh to those by whom it has not been handled, and the crowd
shrinks back from it, have wished to set out our reasoning for you
in sweet-speaking Pierian song
and to touch it, as it were, with the sweet honey of the Muses;
if perhaps by this method I might hold your mind
fast in my verses, while you grasp the whole
nature of things and feel through to its usefulness.
But since I have taught the first-beginnings of all things,
what they are like, and how, differing in varied shapes,
they fly of their own accord, driven by eternal motion,
and in what way each thing can be created from them,
[now I shall begin to set forth for you what bears strongly upon these matters,
namely that there exist what we call the images of things,
which should be named, as it were, films or a rind,]
and since I have taught what the nature of the mind is,
and out of what things, joined with the body, it thrives,
and in what way, torn apart, it returns to its first elements,
now I shall begin to set forth for you what bears strongly upon these matters,
namely that there exist what we call the images of things,
because its image bears an appearance and shape like it,
whatever thing it is said to wander, poured out from the body;
which, like films stripped from the outer surface of things,
fly here and there through the breezes,
and these same, meeting us while we are awake, terrify
our minds, and in sleep too, when we often behold
strange shapes and images of those who lack the light,
which have often, dreadfully, roused us as we lay slack in sleep,
lest we think that souls escape from Acheron,
or that shades fly about among the living,
and lest we think that anything of us can be left behind after death,
when the body, together with the nature of the mind, destroyed,
have each given way, departing into their own first-beginnings.
I say, then, that likenesses of things and thin shapes
are sent off from things, from their outermost rind;
this one may recognize, even with a dull mind, from the following.
First, since among things plainly before us many things
send off bodies, partly loosely diffused,
as timbers send off smoke and fires send off vapor,
and partly more closely woven and dense, as once,
when in summer the cicadas lay aside their smooth coats,
and when calves, being born, send off membranes
from the surface of their body, and likewise when the slippery snake
strips off its garment on the thorns; for we often see
the brambles increased by their fluttering spoils.
Since these things happen, a thin image too must
be sent from things, from the outer surface of things.
For why those should fall away and withdraw from things more readily
than what is thin, there is no power to say;
especially since on the surfaces of things there are
many minute bodies, which can be cast off in the same order
in which they were, and preserve the shape of their form,
and much more quickly, inasmuch as fewer bodies, being few
in number, are less easily hindered, and those which are placed at the front.
For we certainly see that many things are cast off and given forth abundantly,
not only from deep within, as we said before,
but also often the very color itself from the surfaces.
And yellow and red awnings commonly do this,
and rust-colored ones too, when stretched over great theaters
spread out over the masts and beams, they flap and quiver;
for there, beneath, they dye the assembly of the cavea, and all
the show of the stage, and the fathers and mothers below,
and force it to swim in their own color.
And the more the walls of the theater are enclosed round about,
the more all this within, drenched in charm,
laughs together, caught up in the light of day.
Therefore, since the awnings send off dye from the surface of their body,
they must also send off thin likenesses,
each and every thing, since both are cast off from the surface.
There exist, then, definite traces of shapes,
which commonly fly about, endowed with a fine thread,
and cannot be seen singled out one by one.
Besides, every smell, smoke, vapor, and other
similar things stream out abundantly from things for this reason,
because, while they come out from within, having arisen deep inside,
they are torn apart along a winding path, and there are no straight
doorways by which, once risen, they might strive to get out.
But on the other hand the thin film of surface color,
when it is cast off, there is nothing that can tear it apart,
since it lies ready at hand, placed at the very front.
Finally, in mirrors, in water, and in every bright surface,
whatever images appear to us, it must be
since they are endowed with an appearance like that of things,
that they consist of images sent off from those things.
[For why those should fall away and withdraw from things more readily
than what is thin, there is no power to say.]
There exist, then, thin likenesses of shapes, similar to them,
images, which no one can discern one by one,
yet still, by constant and frequent rebound,
thrown back, they give back a sight from the surface of mirrors,
and they seem unable to be preserved by any other means,
in such a way that they are rendered similar to each figure.
Now come, grasp of how fine a nature the image
consists. And first, since the first-beginnings are so far
below our senses and are so much smaller
than what our eyes first begin to be unable to see,
still, so that I may confirm this too, grasp in a few words
how fine are the first-beginnings of all things.
First, there are already living creatures so tiny in part, that a third part
of them could not possibly be seen at all.
Of what sort must any inward organ of theirs be thought to be!
What of the ball of the heart, or the eye? What of the limbs? What of the joints?
How tiny they are! What besides of the first-beginnings each,
from which the soul and the nature of the mind must necessarily consist,
do you not see how fine and how minute they are?
Besides, whatever things breathe out a sharp smell
from their own body, all-heal, foul wormwood,
and heavy southernwood, and bitter centaury,
if by chance any one of these, lightly, between two
* * *
Rather you should recognize that images of things wander about
in many ways, many of them, empty of force and devoid of sense.
But lest you perhaps think that only those wander about
which withdraw from things as the images of things,
there are also some which are born of their own accord and are themselves
formed in this sky, which is called air,
which, shaped in many ways, are borne aloft,
just as we sometimes easily see clouds thickening on high
and marring the clear appearance of the sky,
stroking the air with their motion; for often the faces
of Giants seem to fly, and to trail a shadow far and wide,
and sometimes great mountains and rocks torn away
from mountains seem to go ahead and pass across before the sun,
and then a monstrous shape seems to drag and draw on other clouds.
Nor do these flowing shapes cease to change their appearance
and to turn into the outlines of every kind of shape.
Now grasp by how easy and swift a process these are generated
and continually flow from things and, having slipped off, pass away
* * *
For always whatever streams off in abundance from the surface of things,
so as to be cast off. And this, when it arrives elsewhere among things,
passes through, as first of all through cloth; but when it reaches
rough stones or the substance of wood, there at once
it is torn apart, so that it can give back no image.
But when bright and dense things have been set in its way,
as a mirror is above all, none of this happens;
for they can neither pass through it, as through cloth, nor yet
be torn apart; the smoothness, mind you, ensures its safety.
Because of which it happens that images stream back to us from it.
And however suddenly, at whatever moment, you set
any thing before a mirror, an image appears;
so that you may know that fine textures and thin shapes
of things continually flow from the outer surface.
Therefore many images are generated in a brief space of time,
so that their origin may rightly be called swift in this matter.
And just as the sun must send up many beams of light
in a brief space, so that everything is perpetually filled with them,
so likewise, by a similar process, it must be that from things
images of things are borne in an instant of time
in many ways to every part on every side;
since to whatever quarter we turn a mirror facing,
things there answer back with a like shape and color.
Besides, when the weather of the sky has just been perfectly clear,
it very suddenly turns foully turbulent,
so that you would think that all the darkness had left Acheron everywhere
and filled the great caverns of the sky.
So utterly, once the foul night of storm-clouds has risen,
do the faces of black Dread hang above.
Of these, how small a part is image, there is no one
who could say, nor give an account of it in words.
Now come, and the swiftness of motion with which images are borne,
and what speed is granted to them as they swim across the breezes,
is granted to them, so that a short hour is spent over a long distance,
into whatever place each, by its differing impulse, tends,
I shall set forth rather in sweet-spoken verses than in many.
As the swan's small song is finer than the cry of cranes
scattered among the clouds of the south wind in the upper air.
First, we may see very often that light things, and those made
of minute bodies, are swift.
Of this kind now is the sun's light and its heat,
because they are made of minute first-bodies,
which are, as it were, struck out and do not hesitate to cross
the interval of air, driven on by the following stroke;
for light is supplied at once upon light,
and flash is spurred on by flash as if in relay.
Because of which images, by an equal process, must
be able to run across an unspeakable distance
in an instant of time; first, because a very small cause
lies far behind them to carry and drive them forward,
seeing that besides, they are borne along with such swift lightness,
then because they are sent off endowed with such a loose
texture that they can easily penetrate whatever things
and, as it were, seep through the interval of air.
Besides, if certain tiny bodies of things, from deep within
and sent forth outward, as the sun's light
and heat, these are seen in an instant of daylight, once released,
to spread themselves through the whole expanse of the sky
and to fly across sea and lands and drench the heaven.
What then of those which are already prepared right at the front,
when they are cast off, and nothing hinders what has been sent forth?
Do you not see that they must go more quickly and farther,
and cross a many-times-greater span of space in the same
time in which the sun's rays spread through the sky?
This too seems to be, first of all, a true proof
of how swift a motion carries the images of things:
that as soon as, in the open air, the bright surface of water
is set out, at once, when the sky is clear and starry,
the shining stars of heaven answer back in the water.
Do you see now, then, in how short an instant of time the image
falls from the shores of the upper sky to the shores of the earth?
Wherefore again and again you must admit that bodies are sent off
which strike the eyes and provoke sight.
And smells continually flow from definite things,
as cold from rivers, heat from the sun, spray from the waves
of the sea, the eater-away of walls around the shores,
nor do varied voices cease to fly through the air.
Finally, moisture of a salty taste often comes into the mouth,
when we move about near the sea, and, on the other hand, when diluted
wormwood is being mixed before our eyes, its bitterness touches us.
To such a degree does each thing flow from all things
and is sent out on every side into every part,
and no delay, no rest, is ever granted in this flowing,
since we perpetually perceive, and are always able
to see, to smell, and to sense things sounding.
Besides, since a shape handled in the dark by the hands
is recognized to be the same one that
is seen in the light and in clear brightness, it must be
that touch and sight are moved by a similar cause.
Now then, if we feel out something square, and it, in the dark,
affects us, what thing in the light will be able
to strike our sight as square, except its image?
Because of which the cause of perceiving seems to lie
in images, and no thing can be seen without them.
Now these images of things, which I speak of, are carried
in every direction and are cast, scattered, into every part;
but because we can perceive only with the eyes,
it therefore happens that, wherever we turn our sight, all
things there strike it in return with shape and color.
And how far off each thing is from us, the image
brings it about that we see, and takes care that we distinguish it;
for when it is sent off, at once it thrusts forward and drives
whatever air is placed between it and our eyes,
and so it glides through all our eyes,
and, as it were, brushes across the pupils, and so passes through.
Because of this it happens that we see how far off
each thing is. And the more air is stirred up before it,
and the longer the current that brushes across our eyes,
the farther off and more distant each thing seems to be.
Of course, all this happens by an extremely swift process,
so that we see both what a thing is like and how far off it is, together.
This must be considered the least surprising thing in this matter,
why, though the images that strike the eyes cannot be seen
one by one, the things themselves are clearly perceived.
For when the wind too gradually lashes us, and when
sharp cold flows over us, we do not usually feel
each single particle of the wind and of that cold,
but rather all at once, and we see it happen just as if
some blow were then being dealt in our body, as if some thing
were striking us, and gave the sensation of its own body from outside.
Besides, when we strike a stone with a finger, we touch
the very outer edge of the stone and its outermost color,
and we do not feel that by touch, but rather
we feel the hardness of the stone deep within.
Now come, grasp why the image seems to lie beyond the mirror—
for it certainly seems removed deep within.
Of the same kind as those things outside which are truly seen through,
when a door of itself offers an open view through,
and makes many things outside be seen from within the house;
for this sight too comes about through a double, twinned air.
For first the air is seen on this side of the doorposts,
then the door-panels themselves follow, on right and left,
then the outside light brushes across the eyes, and another air,
and those things outside which are truly seen through.
So, when the image of the mirror has first thrown itself forth,
as it comes to our sight, it thrusts forward and drives
whatever air is placed between it and our eyes,
and brings it about that we can feel all this air first,
before the mirror; but when we have also sensed the mirror itself,
at once the image which is carried from us to it
arrives, and, thrown back, returns to visit our eyes,
and, driving another body of air before it, rolls it along,
and brings it about that we see this air before we see the image itself, and for that reason
it seems removed and set apart from the mirror by just that much.
Wherefore again and again it is fitting to marvel least at
* * *
those which give back a sight from the surface of mirrors,
since each of the two effects is accomplished through a pair of airs.
Now, that part of our limbs which is our right side,
comes to be seen in mirrors on the left, because,
when the image, coming to the flat surface of the mirror, strikes against it,
it is not turned around unchanged, but is beaten straight
back again, just as if, before it is dry,
someone should dash a mask of clay against a pillar or a beam,
and if it should at once, keeping its shape straight in front,
preserve it, and, being struck, press itself back out again in reverse.
It will happen that the eye which before was the right one, that same one
now becomes the left, and, in exchange, the left becomes the right.
It also happens that an image is passed on from mirror to mirror,
so that as many as five or six images have been known to occur.
For whatever things lie hidden in an inner part behind,
from there nevertheless, however twistingly and deeply removed,
being all led out through winding passages, it will be possible
for these to be seen, by means of several mirrors, to be within the house.
To such a degree does the image shine through from mirror to mirror,
and when a left has been given, it happens in turn that it becomes a right,
then it goes back again and turns to the same side once more.
Moreover, whatever mirrors have slightly curved sides,
furnished with a curve similar to that of our own side,
for this reason send back to us right-handed images,
either because the image is transferred from mirror to mirror,
then, struck twice, flies to us, or also because,
as it comes, the image is turned around, for this reason:
the curved shape of the mirror teaches it to turn round towards us.
Further, you might believe that the images step forward in step with us
and set their foot with ours, and imitate our gesture,
because, from whatever part of the mirror you withdraw,
the images at once cannot return from there;
since nature compels all of them to be sent back
and to rebound from things, given back at equal angles.
Further, our eyes shun and avoid gazing at bright things.
The sun even blinds, if you go on trying to face it,
because its own force is great, and its images
are carried on high through the clear air,
and, striking the eyes, they disturb their fine arrangement.
Besides, whatever brightness is sharp often burns
the eyes, for this reason, because it possesses seeds of fire,
many, which produce pain in the eyes by working their way in.
Besides, whatever things people afflicted with jaundice
look at become sallow, because seeds of that sallow color
flow in abundance from their body to meet the images of things,
and many too are mingled finally in their own eyes,
which by their contact paint everything with their pallor.
But from darkness we see things that are in the light
for this reason, because, when the nearer air of darkness
enters our open eyes first and takes possession of them,
there follows immediately the bright, shining air,
which, as it were, cleanses them and scatters the black shadows
of that other air; for this air is in many respects
more mobile, and in many respects finer, and more powerful.
And as soon as it has filled the passages of the eyes with light
and opened them wide, which the dark air had before besieged,
at once the images of things follow after,
those which are placed in the light, and they provoke us to see.
But the opposite, to do this in darkness out of light, we cannot,
for this reason, because the following, darker air
comes after, thicker, and fills all the openings,
and besieges the passages of the eyes, so that the images
of any things at all, once cast, cannot be set in motion.
And when we see the square towers of a city from afar,
for this reason it happens that they often seem round,
because every angle is seen blunted from a distance,
or rather is not seen at all, and its blow
does not glide through to our sight, and its stroke is lost,
because, while the images are being carried through so much air,
the air forces them to grow blunt through frequent collisions.
When in this way every angle escapes our perception at once,
it comes about that the structures of stone seem as if turned on a lathe;
yet not in the way that things present before us and truly round are seen,
but they are seen as merely faintly and slightly imitated in outline.
Likewise a shadow seems to us to move in the sunlight
and to follow our footsteps and imitate our gesture,
if you believe that air deprived of light can
walk, following the movements and gesture of men;
for it can be nothing other than air empty of light,
that which we are accustomed to call shadow.
No wonder, because the earth, in certain places one after another,
is deprived of the sun's light wherever, as we pass along,
we block it, while that part which we have left behind is refilled;
because of this it happens that what was the shadow of our body
seems to have followed us continually from the very same spot.
For always new light of rays pours itself forth,
and the first perishes, as if wool were being drawn into a fire.
Because of this the earth is easily both stripped of light
and refilled again, and washes away its black shadows.
Yet we do not admit that here the eyes are deceived in the least.
For it is their business to see in what place, whatever it may be, light
and shadow are; but whether it is the same light or not,
and whether the shadow that was here is the same one that now passes there,
or rather whether what we said a little before happens instead,
this in the end the reasoning of the mind must decide,
and the eyes cannot know the nature of things.
Therefore do not attach this fault of the mind to the eyes.
The ship in which we are being carried moves, though it seems to stand still;
the one that remains at anchor is believed to be moving past.
And hills and fields seem to flee toward the stern,
past which we drive our ship and fly under sail.
The stars all seem to stand still, fixed in the vaults of heaven,
and yet all are in constant motion,
since, having risen, they revisit their long settings,
once they have measured across the sky with their bright body.
And the sun and moon likewise seem to remain
standing still, though the very fact indicates that they are being carried along.
And mountains standing out far off from the middle of the sea,
between which a great free passage lies open for fleets,
yet out of these seems to be one single joined island.
Halls seem to spin around, and columns to run in circles,
to such a degree that it happens for children, when they themselves
have stopped spinning, that they can scarcely believe
that all the roofs are not threatening to collapse upon them.
And now, when nature begins to raise up high its red radiance
with trembling fires, and to lift it above the mountains,
those mountains above which the sun then seems to you to be,
touching them close at hand itself with its blazing fire,
are scarcely two thousand arrow-shots distant from us,
scarcely, indeed, often five hundred casts of a javelin;
yet between them and the sun lie the immense
level waters of the sea, spread out beneath the vast shores of the sky,
and many thousands of miles of lands lie between,
which various nations and races of wild beasts hold.
But a pool of water, not deeper than a single finger's breadth,
which stands among the stones along the paving of the streets,
offers a view downward beneath the earth, with such great force,
as great as the high gap of the sky that stretches from the earth,
so that you seem to look down on clouds and to see the sky,
bodies of the sky wondrously hidden beneath the earth.
Finally, when our spirited horse has stopped in the middle
of a river, and we look down at the swift waves of the stream,
the body of the standing horse seems to be carried sideways
by some force, and to be thrust swiftly against the current,
and wherever we cast our eyes, everything seems
to be carried along and to flow, by the same illusion for us.
Finally, although a portico runs in a straight, level line
and stands forever, propped up on equal columns,
yet when the whole of it is seen from its far end,
it gradually draws in to the narrow point of a cone,
joining roof to floor, and all its right side to its left,
until it has drawn everything together into the dim point of the cone.
To sailors on the open sea, the sun seems to rise from the waves
and to set and hide its light in the waves;
since indeed they see nothing else but water and sky;
do not lightly believe that the senses are thereby shaken on all sides.
But to those unfamiliar with the sea, ships in harbor seem lame,
straining against the waves with their sterns broken.
For whatever part of the oars stands up above the spray of the salt water
is straight, and straight too above is the rudder;
but the parts that are submerged and pass beneath the water seem broken,
all seem turned about and bent back upward again,
and, bent back, to float almost on the top of the water.
And when the winds carry scattered clouds across the sky
in the time of night, then the shining constellations seem
to glide against the clouds and to move above them
in quite a different direction from the one in which they are truly carried.
But if by chance a hand, placed underneath one eye,
presses it, by a certain sensation it happens that all the things we look at
then seem, as we look, to become double,
double the blooming lights of lamps with their flames,
and double furniture doubling throughout the whole house,
and double the faces of men, and double their bodies.
Finally, when sleep has bound our limbs in sweet slumber
and the whole body lies in utter rest,
then nevertheless we seem to ourselves to be awake and to move
our limbs, and in the blind darkness of night
we think we see the sun and the light of day,
and, though shut up in a small space, we seem to change
sky, sea, rivers, mountains, and to cross plains on foot,
and to hear sounds, though the stern silences of night
prevail all around, and, though silent, to utter words in reply.
We see many other wondrous things of this kind,
which all seem to seek, as it were, to violate the trustworthiness of the senses,
in vain, since the greatest part of these deceives us
on account of the mind's own opinions, which we ourselves add,
so that things not actually seen by the senses count as seen.
For nothing is harder than to separate things that are plain
from doubtful ones which the mind straightway adds of itself.
Finally, if anyone thinks that nothing can be known, he does not know
whether even this can be known, since he admits he knows nothing.
Against this man, then, I shall refrain from arguing the case,
who himself plants his own footprints upon his own head.
And yet, even if I should grant that he knows this, still I shall ask this very thing:
since he has seen nothing true in things before,
how does he know what it is to know, and in turn not to know,
what thing has created the notion of the true and the false,
and what thing has proved that the doubtful differs from the certain?
You will find that the notion of the true has been created
first from the senses, and that the senses cannot be refuted.
For that must be found to have greater reliability
which is able of its own accord to overcome falsehoods with truths.
What, then, ought to be held with greater reliability than the senses?
Will reason, sprung from a false sense, have the power
to speak against them, when it is entirely sprung from the senses?
And unless they are true, reason too becomes entirely false.
Or will the ears be able to correct the eyes, or will touch
correct the ears? Or again will taste of the mouth impugn this touch,
or will the nostrils refute it, or the eyes overturn it?
It is not so, I think. For each sense has its power
allotted separately, each has its own function, and so it must be
that what is soft, and what is cold or hot, is perceived
by one sense, and separately the varied colors of things are perceived
by another, and whatever is joined to colors must be perceived by it too.
Likewise taste of the mouth has its power separately, smells arise
separately, sounds separately. And so it must be
that one sense cannot convict another.
Nor further will they be able to correct themselves,
since equal trust must always be granted to them.
Accordingly, whatever has been perceived by them at any given moment is true.
And if reason will not be able to resolve the cause
why things that were square close up seem round
from far off, still it is better, for one lacking the explanation,
to give a mistaken account of the causes of both shapes
than to let slip from one's grasp, in any way, things manifest in themselves,
and to violate the primary trust, and to tear up entirely
the foundations on which life and its safety rest.
For not only would all reason collapse, but life itself too
would fall in an instant, unless you dared to trust the senses
and to avoid precipitous places and the other things that must be
shunned in this class, and to pursue their opposites.
That whole abundance of words is therefore empty for you,
which is marshaled and made ready against the senses.
Finally, just as in building, if the first ruler is crooked,
and if the square is deceptive and departs from true lines,
and if the level falters at all in some part,
everything must necessarily be built faultily and askew,
crooked, leaning forward or backward, and roofs out of true,
so that some parts already seem about to collapse, and do collapse,
all of them betrayed by the first deceptive judgments,
so likewise your reasoning about things must necessarily be
crooked and false, whatever springs from false senses.
Now let us see in what way the remaining senses each
perceives its own object; the account left to explain is not at all difficult.
First, sound and every voice is heard, when, having worked its way
into the ears, they have struck sense with their own body.
For it must be admitted that voice too, and sound,
consist of body, since they can strike the senses.
Besides, voice often scrapes the throat, and a shout,
going forth, makes the windpipe rougher,
since indeed, having arisen in greater crowd, through a narrow passage,
the first-beginnings of the voice have begun to go forth.
Of course the doorway of the mouth too is scraped when it is filled to overflowing.
There is no doubt, then, that voices and words consist
of bodily first-beginnings, so that they can cause hurt.
Nor does it escape you likewise how much of the body
a continuous speech, drawn out from the rising brightness of dawn
to the shadow of black night, takes away and draws off
from men's sinews and their very strength,
especially if it has been poured forth with the loudest shouting.
Therefore voice must consist of body,
since a man speaking much loses a part of his body.
And roughness of voice arises from the roughness
of its first-beginnings, and smoothness likewise is created by smoothness;
nor do the first-beginnings enter the ears in a similar shape,
when the trumpet bellows with a deep, low murmuring rumble,
and the swift lyre echoes back a hoarse booming,
and when the daughters of Daulis, born from the gardens of Helicon,
raise up a clear lament with mournful voice.
These voices, then, we squeeze out from deep within with our body
and send them forth out through our straightened mouth,
and the tongue, mobile and intricately built of sinews, shapes them into words,
and the shaping of the lips gives them form in its part.
When the space is not long from which that voice has set out
to reach us, each word too must necessarily
be clearly heard out and distinguished, articulated part by part;
for it preserves its formation and preserves its shape.
But if the space placed between is longer than is fitting,
the words must necessarily be jumbled through so much air
and the voice thrown into confusion, as it flies across the breezes.
Therefore it happens that you can perceive the sound, but not
distinguish what the sense of the words is;
so utterly confused and entangled does the voice arrive.
Besides, one single word, sent out from the mouth of a herald,
often stirs the ears of everyone in a crowd.
Into many voices, then, one voice suddenly
scatters, since it divides itself into separate ears,
stamping a shape upon the words, and a clear sound.
But that part of the voices which does not fall upon the ears themselves
passes by and perishes in vain, dispersed through the breezes.
Part, dashed against solid places, thrown back,
gives back a sound, and sometimes mocks us with the image of a word.
When you see this clearly, you can give an account,
both to yourself and to others, of how, through lonely places,
rocks give back matching shapes of words in order.
We seek our straying companions among shady mountains
and call to them, scattered, with a loud voice.
I have seen six or even seven places give back the voice,
when you had thrown out just one word: so did the hills themselves,
throwing the words back to the hills, repeat the sayings as they were carried back.
The neighboring people imagine that goat-footed Satyrs and Nymphs
hold these places, and say that Fauns are here,
and declare that, by their night-wandering noise and playful sport,
the silent stillnesses are commonly broken,
and that the sounds of strings arise, and sweet laments,
which the pipe, struck by the fingers of singers, pours forth,
and that the race of farmers far and wide perceive it, when Pan,
shaking the pine-wreathed coverings of his half-wild head,
often runs over the gaping reeds with his curved lip,
so that the pipe does not cease to pour forth its woodland music.
Other monstrous and marvelous things of this kind they tell,
lest the places be thought deserted by the gods too, and to be held
by them alone. For this reason they boast of these wonders in their tales,
or are led by some other motive, since the whole
human race is far too greedy for tales for the ear.
As for what remains, it is not to be wondered at by what means,
through places where the eyes cannot see things plainly,
these places, sounds can come through and reach and provoke the ears.
We often see also that conversation passes through closed doors;
no wonder, since voice can pass unharmed through the winding
openings of things, while images refuse to do so;
for they are torn apart, unless they pass through straight openings,
such as those of glass, through which every appearance flies across.
Besides, voice is divided into every part,
since from some voices others are born, once a single one
has once burst apart, having risen up, into many, just as a spark of fire
often scatters itself into fires of its own kind.
Therefore places hidden behind are filled up with voices,
all of which seethe round about and are set astir with sound.
But all images travel by straight paths only,
once they are sent; wherefore no one can
often see beyond an obstacle, but can receive voices from outside it.
And yet this voice too, while it passes through the closed spaces of houses,
is blunted, and enters the ears in a jumbled state,
and we seem to hear sound rather than words.
As for this — how we perceive flavor — the tongue and palate
have somewhat more explaining in them, more work to be done.
First, we perceive flavor in the mouth, when, in chewing food,
we squeeze it out, just as if someone should set about
squeezing and drying a sponge full of water with the hand.
Then what we squeeze out is spread through all the channels
of the palate, and through the winding, loose-textured openings of the tongue,
when the bodies of the flowing juice are smooth,
they touch and handle everything pleasantly,
around the moist, sweating regions of the tongue;
but on the contrary, once risen, they prick and tear at sense,
the more each is filled with roughness.
Then pleasure from the flavor lasts only to the limit of the palate;
but when it has rushed headlong down through the throat,
there is no pleasure at all, while it is spread entirely through the limbs;
nor does it matter at all by what food the body is nourished,
provided only that you can digest and distribute what you take in
to the limbs, and keep the swollen tension of the stomach steady.
Now let us see how it is that different food suits different creatures,
I shall explain, and why what is harsh and bitter to some
can nevertheless seem exceedingly sweet to others,
and there is such great difference and disparity in these matters,
that what is food to some becomes sharp poison to others;
so it is with the snake, which, touched by human saliva,
perishes, and destroys itself by biting itself.
Besides, hellebore is a sharp poison for us,
but it fattens goats and quails.
So that you may understand by what means this comes about,
first it is fitting to remember what we said before,
that seeds are held mixed in things in many ways.
Further, all living creatures, whichever take in food,
just as they are unlike from outside and, by their kind,
are bounded by their outer bodily contour,
so accordingly they too are made of seeds that vary in shape.
Further, since the seeds differ, it must be that the gaps
and passages, which we call openings, differ
in all their bodily parts, and in the mouth and in the palate itself.
Some, then, must be smaller and some larger,
some must be three-cornered, others four-cornered,
many round, some many-angled in many ways.
For as the arrangement and motions of the shapes demand,
so accordingly the shapes must differ, matching the openings,
and the passages must vary, according to how the texture constrains them.
So, when what is sweet to some becomes bitter to others,
for the one to whom it is sweet, the smoothest bodies must
enter the channels of the palate gently and agreeably,
but on the contrary, for those to whom the same thing is bitter within,
no wonder rough, hooked particles penetrate their throat.
Now from these things it is easy to understand each case.
For indeed, when in someone a fever has arisen from an excess of bile,
or some other force of disease has been stirred up by another cause,
there the whole body is at once thrown into disorder, and all
the arrangements of its first-beginnings are there changed;
it comes about that the bodies which formerly fit the sense
now no longer fit, and others become more suited,
which, once they have entered, can produce a bitter sensation;
for both kinds of seed are mixed together in the flavor of honey;
which we have already shown you often before, above.
Now come, let me set forth in what way the impact of a smell
touches the nostrils. First, there must be many things
from which a varied flowing wave of smells rolls itself forth,
and it must be thought that it flows and is sent out and scattered widely;
but one smell suits one kind of creature more, another suits another,
on account of their differing shapes. And for this reason, through the air,
bees are drawn from however far away by the smell of honey,
and vultures by carcasses; then the force of hounds, sent ahead,
is led wherever the cloven hoof of wild beasts has carried its step,
and the guardian of the citadel of Romulus's sons, the white goose,
senses in advance a human smell from far away.
So, different smells given to different creatures lead each
to its own pasture, and force it to recoil from foul poison,
and by this means the races of wild beasts are preserved.
This very smell, then, whichever one provokes the nostrils,
is such that one can be sent farther than another;
but still, none of them is carried so far
as sound, as voice — I say nothing now of things
which strike the sight of the eyes and provoke vision.
For wandering aimlessly it comes slowly, and perishes before its time,
gradually and easily torn apart into the breezes of the air;
first because it is scarcely sent forth from deep within a thing;
for that smells flow and withdraw from deep within things
is shown by the fact that things seem to smell more strongly
when broken, when crushed, when broken down by fire.
Further, one can see that it is created from larger
first-beginnings than voice, since it does not pass through stone
walls, through which voice and sound commonly pass.
For this reason too you will see that it is not so easy
to track down in what region a smell is located;
for the blow grows cold by lingering as it travels through the air,
and the messengers of things do not rush warm to the sense.
So dogs often go astray and search for the trail.
Nor yet is this the case only in smells and in the class
of flavors, but likewise the appearances and colors of things
do not all suit the senses of all creatures equally,
so that some are not sharper to the sight of some than of others.
Indeed, the raging lions cannot bear to stand
face to face with, or even to look at, the cock,
which is accustomed, clapping the night away with its wings,
to call up the dawn with its clear voice: so at once they remember flight.
No wonder, since there are certain seeds in the body of cocks
which, when they are cast into the eyes of lions,
pierce through their pupils and cause them
sharp pain, so that the fierce beasts cannot bear to hold their ground,
although these seeds can do no harm at all to our eyes,
either because they do not penetrate, or because, though they penetrate,
a free exit from the eyes is granted them, so that in lingering
they cannot injure our eyes from any side.
Now come, learn what things move the mind, and grasp in a few words
from where the things that come into it come.
First I say this: that images of things wander about
in many ways, many of them, into every part on every side,
thin ones, which easily join together in the air when they meet,
like a spider's web or a leaf of gold.
For indeed these are far thinner in texture
than those which strike the eyes and provoke sight,
since these penetrate through the loose openings of the body and stir
the fine nature of the mind within, and rouse its sensation.
And so we see the limbs of Centaurs and of Scyllas,
and the dog-faces of Cerberus, and the images of those
whose bones, once death has met them, the earth now embraces;
since images of every kind are carried everywhere,
some of which arise spontaneously in the very air itself,
some of which withdraw from various things,
and some which are formed by combination out of the shapes of these.
For certainly the image of a Centaur does not arise from a living one,
since no such living creature ever existed;
but when by chance the image of a horse and of a man meet,
it easily clings together at once, as we said before,
because of their fine nature and thin texture.
Other things of this kind are created by the same process.
And since these are carried along swiftly, with the utmost lightness,
as I showed before, any one of these fine images easily stirs
our mind with a single blow;
for the mind itself is fine and wonderfully mobile.
That these things happen as I relate, you can easily learn from this.
Insofar as this is similar to that which we see with the mind
and with the eyes, it must come about by a similar process.
Now then, since I have taught that when, by chance, through images
which strike the eyes, I come to perceive lions,
one may know that the mind is moved in a similar way
through images of lions and other things which it likewise sees
no less than the eyes do, except that it perceives things even finer.
And by no other process, when sleep has relaxed the limbs,
does the mind stay awake, except that the very same images
provoke our minds as when we are awake,
to such a degree that we surely seem to see one
whom life has left, and whom death and earth now possess.
Nature compels this to happen for this reason: that all
the bodily senses, obstructed, rest throughout the limbs,
and cannot refute the false by means of true things.
Besides, memory lies inert and grows slack in sleep,
and it does not protest that he, whom the mind believes it sees
alive, has long since fallen into the possession of death and destruction.
As for what remains, it is not surprising that images move,
and toss their arms in rhythm, and their other limbs;
for it happens that in dreams the image seems to do this.
For indeed, when the first image perishes and another is born
in a different posture after it, the earlier one seems to have changed its gesture.
Of course this must be thought to happen by a swift process:
so great is the mobility, and so great the abundance of images,
and so great is the supply of particles in any one perceptible
moment of time, that it can keep up the supply.
And many things are asked about these matters, and many things
must be made clear by us, if we wish to set out the matter plainly.
It is asked, first of all, why, whatever desire has come
to anyone, the mind at once thinks of that very thing.
Do images watch over our will, and does an image
meet us as soon as we wish it,
if it is sea, if it is land that we have set our heart on, if finally the sky?
Gatherings of men, a procession, banquets, battles —
does nature create and make ready everything at a mere word?
Especially since, for others in the very same region and place,
the mind thinks of things entirely different, all of them.
What further, when we see images advance in rhythm
in dreams, and move their supple limbs,
when they nimbly throw their supple arms alternately,
and repeat the gesture to our eyes with a foot that keeps time?
Of course the images are steeped in skill, and wander learnedly,
so that they can perform their sport in the time of night.
Or will this rather be true? Because in one single moment,
when we perceive — that is, when a single sound is uttered —
many moments lie hidden, which reason has discovered to exist,
for this reason it happens that at any given moment, each
images stand ready at hand, prepared in each place,
so great is the mobility, so great the abundance of things.
when the first of these dies and another is born in a different
posture from it, the first seems to have changed its gesture.
and because they are thin, the mind cannot discern keenly
anything except what it strains toward; accordingly all things that
besides exist perish, except those which it has itself made ready from itself.
it prepares itself further, and hopes for what is to come,
that it may see what follows from each thing: and so it happens.
do you not see that the eyes too, when the things that are thin
[besides exist perish, except those which it has itself made ready from itself,]
have begun to discern, strain and prepare themselves,
and that without this it cannot happen that we discern keenly?
and yet you can observe, even in things plainly open to view,
that if you do not turn your mind to them, it is just as if for all
time they had been set apart and removed far off.
why then is it strange, if the mind loses everything else
except the things to which it is itself given over?
further, we guess at the greatest matters from small signs,
and we ourselves wrap ourselves in the deceit of self-delusion.
It happens too that sometimes the image supplied
is not of the same kind — she who was before a woman
seems, in one's arms, to be present having become a man,
or one face and age follows another.
sleep and forgetfulness see to it that we do not wonder at this.
In these matters you must eagerly desire to shun this fault,
to flee this error and guard against it with foresight:
do not suppose the clear light-bearing eyes were made
so that we might see ahead, and that we might be able to put forth
long strides, and that for this reason the ends
of calves and thighs, set upon the feet, can bend,
and that arms, further, fitted from strong upper arms,
exist, and hands were given as servants on either side,
so that we might do whatever would serve life's use.
all the other things of this kind that are put forward
are every one perverse, reasoned backward,
since nothing was born in the body so that we might
use it, but what was born creates its own use.
seeing did not exist before the eyes' light-organs were born,
nor pleading in words before the tongue was made,
but rather the origin of the tongue came long before
speech, and the ears were made long before
sound was heard, and finally all the limbs
existed, I think, before there was any use for them;
so they could not have grown for the sake of use.
but on the contrary, to join hand-to-hand contests of battle
and to tear limbs and defile bodies with blood
existed long before bright weapons flew,
and nature compelled the avoiding of a wound earlier
than the left hand, by skill, could offer the shield's defense.
and clearly to commit a weary body to rest
is far older than the soft coverings of a bed,
and slaking thirst existed before the cup was made.
these things, then, can be believed to have been made known
for the sake of use, out of use and life's experience they were found.
but all those other things stand apart, which themselves first
were born, and only afterward gave notice of their usefulness.
in this class especially we see the senses and the limbs;
so, again and again, it is far from possible for you to believe
that they could have been created for the office of usefulness.
Likewise this too is not to be wondered at, that the very
nature of the body of each living creature seeks food.
for indeed I have taught that bodies flow and fall away from things
in many ways, in many manners, but the greater part must do so
from living creatures; because these are set in motion by movement,
much is breathed out through the mouth when they pant wearily,
and much, pressed out from deep within, is carried off in sweat.
by these things, then, the body is thinned, and its whole
nature is undermined — a process which pain follows.
therefore food is taken, so that, given within, it may prop up the limbs
and restore strength, and so that it may stop up the gaping
hunger for eating throughout the limbs and veins.
moisture likewise passes off into every place whatever
demands moisture; and the many gathered bodies of heat
which furnish fires to our stomach
the arriving liquid scatters and quenches, as it would fire,
so that the dry heat cannot burn the limbs any further.
thus, then, panting thirst is washed away from our body,
thus the empty craving is filled.
Now how it comes about that we can put forth our steps
when we wish, and why it has been granted to us to move our limbs,
and what thing has accustomed itself to push forward so great
a burden of our body, I will tell: do you grasp my words.
I say that images of walking first
fall upon our mind and strike it, as we said before.
from this the will arises; for no one begins to do any
thing before the mind has foreseen what it wants.
of what it foresees, an image of that thing stands ready,
so when the mind stirs itself in such a way that it wishes to go
and to step, it at once strikes the force of the soul, which lies
scattered through the limbs and joints in the whole body;
and this is easily done, since it is held joined to it.
from there this in turn strikes the body, and so the whole
mass is little by little pushed forward and set moving.
besides, then the body also grows porous, and the air,
since it must, being always mobile by its nature,
comes and penetrates in abundance through the opened passages,
and is scattered thus to each of the tiny parts
of the body. so by these two means it happens
that the body, like a ship, is carried by sails and wind.
and yet in these matters it does not stand as marvelous
that such tiny corpuscles can turn about
so great a body and swing our whole weight around;
for indeed the wind, thin in its fine-textured body,
drives and pushes a great ship with great effort,
and one hand steers it, however great the force with which it goes,
and turns the single rudder wherever it pleases,
and by pulleys and drums a machine moves many things
of great weight, and lifts them with a light effort.
Now in what ways sleep sends rest through the limbs
and releases the mind's cares from the breast,
I will set forth in sweet-speaking lines rather than in many,
just as the swan's small song is finer than the
clamor of cranes, scattered among the ethereal clouds of the south wind.
give me your attentive ears and a keen mind,
lest you deny that what I say can happen, and turn back,
rejecting true words with a resisting heart,
when the fault is your own and you cannot perceive it.
To begin with, sleep occurs when the force of the soul
is drawn apart through the limbs, and part of it, cast outward, has withdrawn,
and part, pressed together more, has retreated deeper within;
for only then do the limbs finally go slack and grow loose.
for there is no doubt that this sense in us
is the work of the soul, and when sleep hinders it from being,
then we must think that our soul has been thrown into disorder
and cast outward — not all of it; for otherwise the body would lie
drenched in the eternal cold of death.
for if no hidden part of the soul remained
in the limbs, as much fire lies hidden buried under ash,
from where could sense be rekindled suddenly through the limbs,
just as flame can rise up out of hidden fire?
But by what means this change comes about, and from where
the soul can be thrown into disorder and the body grow faint,
I will explain: see that you do not let my words pour out to the winds.
To begin with, it is necessary that the body, on its outer side,
since it is neighbored and touched by the airy breezes,
be pounded and repeatedly struck by their blow,
and for this reason nearly all things are covered either with hide,
or even with shells, or with hard skin, or with bark.
the air also strikes the inner part, in creatures that breathe,
this same air, as it is drawn in and breathed back out.
wherefore, since the body is beaten alike on both sides, and since
blows reach us through the small openings
of the body, down to its first parts and first elements,
a kind of collapse comes upon us little by little through the limbs.
for the arrangement of the first-beginnings
of body and mind is thrown into disorder. so it happens that part of the soul
is drawn out, and part withdraws hidden inward,
and part, torn apart through the limbs, cannot be
joined with itself, nor carry out its motion in common;
for nature blocks off their meeting-places and their paths between.
so sense departs deep within, its motions changed.
and since there is, as it were, nothing to prop up the limbs,
the body grows weak, and all the limbs grow faint,
arms and eyelids droop, and the knees of one lying down
often give way nonetheless, and their strength dissolves.
Then sleep follows food, because what the air does,
food does this same thing, while it is being spread through all the veins.
And that sleep stands far the heaviest,
which you fall into full or weary, because then very many
bodies, bruised by great exertion, throw themselves into disorder.
by the same process it happens that the soul, gathered together
more deeply in one part, and cast outward more abundantly in another,
is more divided within itself and more torn apart inside.
And whatever pursuit each person clings to, bound fast to it,
or whatever matters we have long been occupied with beforehand,
and in which the mind was more intently engaged,
in dreams we generally seem to carry on those same things:
lawyers plead cases and draft laws,
generals fight and go into battles,
sailors carry on their engaged war with the winds,
and I myself pursue this very task, and search out the nature of things
always, and set forth what I have found on my native pages.
so other pursuits and skills generally seem
to hold the minds of men in dreams, deceiving them.
and whoever, for many days running, has given
constant effort to games, we generally see,
that, even when they have already stopped taking them in through their senses,
paths still remain open in the mind
by which those same images of these things can come;
and so for many days those same things keep passing before
their eyes, so that even while awake people seem
to see dancers moving their supple limbs,
and to take in with their ears the lyre's clear song
and its speaking strings, and to see that same seated crowd,
and, together with it, the stage's varied splendors shining.
so much does devotion and will matter,
and the matters in which they have grown used to being occupied —
not for men alone, but truly for every living creature.
for you will see strong horses, when their limbs lie still,
nonetheless sweat in their sleep and pant without pause,
and strain with all their strength as if for the winning prize,
or as if, with the starting-gates thrown open, <they let out cries;>
and hunting dogs, often in soft repose,
nonetheless suddenly throw their legs about, and again and again
give voice, and repeatedly draw in air through their nostrils,
as if they held the found tracks of wild beasts,
and, once woken, often still pursue the empty
images of deer, as if they saw them given over to flight,
until, their delusions shaken off, they come back to themselves.
but the household puppies, that endearing brood accustomed to home,
strain to shake themselves and snatch their bodies up from the ground,
[nonetheless suddenly throw their legs about, and again and again
give voice, and repeatedly draw in air through their nostrils,
as if they held the found tracks of wild beasts,
and, once woken, often still pursue the empty,]
just as if they were gazing at unfamiliar shapes and faces.
and the fiercer the stock from which each breed comes,
the more fiercely, in the same way, it must rage in sleep.
but the various birds take flight, and suddenly with their wings
disturb the gods' groves at the hour of night,
if in light sleep they seem to be waging fights and battles
against hawks in pursuit of them, seen flying.
further, the minds of men, which carry out great deeds
through great efforts, likewise often do and perform the same in sleep,
they storm kings, are taken captive, join battles,
raise a shout, as if they were being slaughtered on the spot.
many fight to the death and give out groans of pain,
and, as if by the bite of a panther or a savage lion,
are being torn apart, and fill everything with great cries.
many speak of great matters in their sleep,
and very often have given away their own deeds by doing so.
many meet death. many, as if hurled headlong
from high mountains to the ground with their whole body,
are terrified, and, as if seized in mind, come back
from sleep to themselves scarcely at all, their body shaken by the turmoil.
likewise a thirsty man sits down beside a river or a pleasant spring
and all but takes the whole stream down his throat.
often, if children, bound fast in sleep, are beside a pool
or shallow tubs, they believe they are lifting up their clothes,
they pour out the strained moisture of their whole body,
while the Babylonian coverlets, splendid in their magnificence, are drenched.
then in those into whom the tide of youth
first instills its seed, when the ripening day itself has brought it forth in their limbs,
images come together from outside, from some other body too,
messengers of a splendid face and a lovely complexion,
which stirs and provokes the places swollen with abundant seed,
so that, as if the whole act had already been carried through, they often pour forth
a huge river's flood and stain their garments.
that which we spoke of before is stirred up in us —
the seed, when maturing age first gives strength to the limbs.
for one thing stirs and provokes one creature, another thing another;
only the power of a human being stirs human seed out of a human being.
and as soon as it is cast out and leaves its own seat,
it departs through the limbs and joints from the whole body,
and, gathering into the fixed places of the sinews, at once
stirs the very generative parts of the body.
the places, provoked, swell with seed, and the will arises
to cast it out toward where dire desire strains,
[it stirs, provoking the places swollen with abundant seed,]
and it seeks that body from which the mind has been wounded by love;
for nearly all generally fall toward the wound, and
blood spurts toward that part from which we are struck by the blow,
and if the enemy is at close range, red fluid covers him.
so then whoever receives the blows of Venus's shafts,
whether a boy with womanish limbs hurls them at him,
or a woman, casting love from her whole body,
toward that source from which he is struck he strains, and longs to come together
and cast his fluid, drawn body from body, into that body;
for silent desire has a presentiment of the pleasure.
this is what Venus is for us; and from this comes the name of Love,
from this first that drop of Venus's sweetness
trickled into the heart, and cold care followed after;
for if she whom you love is absent, images of her are nonetheless present,
and her sweet name hovers about your ears.
but it is fitting to flee the images and the food of love,
to drive them away from oneself, and turn the mind elsewhere,
and to cast the gathered fluid into any bodies at all,
and not to hold it back, once turned to the love of one alone,
and so keep for oneself care and a fixed sorrow;
for the sore comes alive and grows chronic by feeding it,
and day by day the madness swells and the misery grows heavier,
unless you disturb the first wounds with new blows
and, roaming, tend the still-fresh ones with a freely wandering Venus,
or unless you can turn the motions of your mind elsewhere.
Nor does the man who avoids love lack the fruit of Venus;
rather he takes the benefits that come without the penalty;
for the pleasure from it is surely purer for the sound of mind
than for the wretched; for indeed, at the very moment of possessing,
the ardor of lovers wavers in uncertain confusion,
and it is unclear what they should enjoy first, with eyes or with hands.
what they sought, they press tightly, and cause pain
to the body, and often drive their teeth into lips
and fasten kisses on, because the pleasure is not pure,
and goads lie beneath it, which spur them to hurt the very thing,
whatever it is, from which those seeds of frenzy arise.
but Venus lightly softens the pain in the midst of love,
and pleasure, mingled in and soothing, checks the bites.
for the hope lies in this — that from which the ardor takes its rise —
that the flame too can be quenched by that same body.
but nature wholly resists this happening the other way;
and this is the one thing of which, the more we have,
the more the breast burns with dire craving.
for food and drink are taken up into the limbs, within;
and since these can occupy fixed places,
the craving for drink and food is easily filled by this.
but from a person's face and beautiful complexion
nothing is given into the body to enjoy except thin
images; and this poor hope is often snatched off by the wind.
just as when a thirsty man seeks to drink in his sleep, and no water
is given that could quench the burning in his limbs,
but he seeks images of water and labors in vain,
and thirsts in the middle of a rushing river while drinking,
so in love Venus toys with lovers by means of images,
and they cannot satisfy themselves by gazing at the bodies before them,
nor can they scrape anything away with their hands from the tender limbs,
as they wander uncertain over the whole body.
finally, when, limbs joined together, they enjoy the flower
of youth, and the body already has a presentiment of its joys,
and Venus is on the point of sowing the woman's fields,
they cling to each other's body greedily and mingle the wetness
of their mouths, and breathe into one another, pressing mouths with their teeth,
all for nothing, since they can scrape nothing away from it,
nor penetrate and pass with their whole body into the other's whole body;
for at times they seem to want to do just that, and strive for it.
so eagerly do they cling in Venus's fastenings,
while their limbs, undone by the force of pleasure, melt away.
at last, when the desire gathered in the sinews has burst forth,
there comes a brief, small pause in the violent fire.
then the same frenzy returns, and that madness comes back,
when they themselves seek to lay hold of what they desire,
and cannot find any device to master that affliction.
so utterly, uncertain, do they waste away from a hidden wound.
add too that they wear away their strength and are ruined by the exertion,
add that their life is spent under another's command,
their duties languish and their tottering reputation sickens.
meanwhile their fortune slips away, and it turns into
Babylonian perfumes, and lovely Sicyonian slippers smile on her feet,
and, of course, great emeralds with their green light
are set in gold, and sea-colored cloth is worn thin,
worked constantly, drinking in the sweat of lovemaking.
and the goods their fathers won by hard toil become headbands, turbans,
sometimes turned into a cloak, or Elean and Coan robes.
banquets with rich clothing and fare, entertainments,
cups in plenty, perfumes, garlands, wreaths, are made ready,
all for nothing, since out of the very middle of the fountain of delights
something bitter rises up, which chokes them amid the very flowers,
either when the conscious mind itself happens to gnaw at itself
for wasting its life in idleness and perishing in dens of vice,
or because she has flung out some ambiguous word and left it hanging,
which, fixed in his eager heart, comes alive like fire,
or he thinks she casts her eyes about too much, or looks at another,
and sees traces of laughter in her face.
And these ills are found in love that is going well
and most smoothly for its own sake; but in love thwarted and wanting, there are
ills you could grasp even with your eyes' light shut,
past counting; so that it is better to watch beforehand,
in the way I have taught, and to take care not to be lured in.
for to avoid being cast into the snares of love
is not so hard as, once caught in the very nets,
to get out and burst through Venus's strong knots.
and yet, even tangled up and shackled,
you could still escape the danger, unless you stand in your own way
and unless you first overlook all the flaws of mind
or of body in her, whatever woman you long for and desire.
for men, generally blinded by desire, credit her
with charms that are not truly hers.
and so in many ways we see women who are misshapen and ugly
held as darlings and flourishing in the highest esteem.
and men mock one another, and urge each other to make their peace
with Venus, since they are themselves afflicted by a shameful love,
and the wretches often fail to notice their own far greater faults.
the black-skinned girl is "honey-toned," the unwashed and rank one is "unadorned,"
the gray-eyed one a "little Pallas," the sinewy, wooden one a "gazelle,"
the tiny dwarf is "one of the Graces," pure wit through and through,
the huge, monstrous one is "awe-inspiring," and full of dignity.
the one who cannot speak plainly "has a charming lisp," the mute one is "shy";
but the fiery, hateful chatterbox becomes "little torch."
the one who can hardly live for thinness becomes a "slender darling";
the one who is truly half-dead of a cough is "delicate."
but the overlarge, big-breasted one is "Ceres herself, nursing Bacchus,"
the snub-nosed one a "wood-nymph" or a "Satyress," the thick-lipped one "all kiss."
it would be a long task if I tried to tell the rest of this kind.
but still, let her be granted whatever beauty of face you like,
the one from whose limbs the whole force of Venus rises up for you;
still there are other women too; still we lived before without her;
still she does the very same things, and we know an ugly woman does
all the same things, and the poor thing herself fumigates herself with foul smells,
whom her own maids flee far off and laugh at behind her back.
but the shut-out lover, weeping, often
covers her threshold with flowers and garlands, and anoints the proud
doorposts with marjoram oil, and, wretched, presses kisses on the door;
yet if, once let in and coming toward her, a single whiff
should offend him, he would look for respectable reasons to leave,
and his long-rehearsed complaint, deeply conceived, would collapse
then and there, and he would condemn himself for the folly of having granted her
more than it is right to grant a mortal, he now sees.
nor does this escape our own Venuses; all the more do they themselves
conceal with the utmost effort all this backstage of life from those
whom they wish to keep, and bound fast in love,
all for nothing, since you can still, in your own mind, drag
everything out into the light and search into all the laughter,
and, if she is good-natured and not hateful, in your turn
overlook it, and allow for human affairs.
Nor does a woman always sigh with feigned love,
when, embracing, she joins her body with a man's body
and holds him, wetting kisses with clinging lips;
for often she does it from the heart, and, seeking a joy
held in common, she urges love's race to run its full course.
nor in any other way could birds, herds, and wild beasts,
and cattle, and mares, submit to the males,
if their own nature did not itself, because it is in heat, burn with an abundant
desire, and joyfully draw back to meet the Venus of the mounting males.
do you not see too how those whom mutual pleasure has often
bound are tormented as if in shared chains,
when at the crossroads dogs, often wanting to part,
strain apart eagerly with all their strength,
while all the while they stay stuck fast in Venus's strong bonds?
which they would never do, unless they knew mutual joys
that could draw them into deception and hold them bound.
wherefore, again and again, as I say, the pleasure is shared.
And when, in the mingling of seed, the female by chance
overpowers the male's force with a sudden force of her own, and seizes it,
then children are made like their mothers, from the mother's seed,
as they are like their fathers from the father's. but those whom you see
to have the shape of both, mingling the faces of both parents together,
grow from the father's body and the mother's blood,
when the seeds, roused through the limbs by Venus's goads,
clashed together in meeting, as mutual passion breathed as one,
and neither of the two overcame, nor was overcome.
it happens too that sometimes children come to resemble
their grandparents, and often recall the features of great-grandparents,
because parents often conceal within their own body,
mixed in many ways, many first-beginnings,
which fathers hand down to fathers, descended from the family stock.
from these Venus brings forth features by varied chance,
and reproduces the faces, voices, and hair of ancestors;
since these arise no more from a fixed seed
than do our faces, bodies, and limbs.
and a female line arises from the father's seed,
and males come into being, begotten from the mother's body;
for offspring always consists of a twofold seed,
and whichever parent the thing that is created more resembles,
of that parent it holds more than an equal share; and this you can perceive,
whether the offspring is a male child, or a female one is its origin.
Nor do the divine powers ever bar anyone's generative seed,
so that he should never be called father
by sweet children, and should spend his life with a barren Venus —
as many generally suppose, and, in their grief, drench altars
with much blood and burn offerings on them,
so as to make their wives pregnant with abundant seed;
all in vain do they wear out the gods' power and the lots of fate;
for some are barren because their seed is, in part, too thick,
and others, in turn, because it is too watery and thin beyond what is fitting.
because the thin seed cannot fix its hold fast in place,
it dissolves at once, and, drawn back, gives way in miscarriage.
and further, since the thicker seed, being denser than is fitting,
is sent forth, either it does not shoot out with as full a thrust,
or it cannot penetrate the places as well, or, once it has penetrated,
the seed mixes only with difficulty with the woman's seed.
for couples clearly differ greatly in the harmony of their lovemaking.
and some men make some women conceive more readily, while from others
other women take up the burden more readily and grow heavy.
and many women were barren through many earlier
marriages, and yet later found a man from whom they could
conceive, and grow rich through sweet childbearing.
and men whose fertile wives at home had often been unable
to bear them children — for them too a matching
nature was found, so that they could secure their old age with children.
so greatly does it matter that the seeds should be able
to mix with seeds fit for generation,
and that thick should suit thin, and thin suit thick.
and it matters too on what diet life is nourished;
for by some foods the seeds thicken in the limbs,
and by others, in turn, they grow thin and waste away.
and in what ways the pleasing act itself is carried out —
this too matters a great deal; for it is generally thought
that wives conceive more after the manner of beasts and in the
fashion of four-footed creatures, because in this way the parts can take
the seed, with the chest lowered and the loins raised.
and wives have no need at all of soft, yielding movements.
for a woman prevents herself from conceiving and works against it,
if she herself, with delight, meets her man's lovemaking with her hips
and stirs waves of motion with her whole body gone limp;
for she throws the furrow off its straight direction and course
from the plowshare, and turns the seed's stroke away from its place.
and prostitutes are used to moving this way for their own purpose,
so that they should not be repeatedly made pregnant and lie with child,
and, at the same time, so that lovemaking itself might be more pleasing to the men;
which seems to be of no use at all to our own wives.
Nor is it by any divine agency, nor by Venus's arrows,
that a woman of lesser beauty sometimes comes to be loved;
for a woman herself sometimes brings this about by her own doing,
by compliant ways and by a body kept neatly groomed,
so that she easily accustoms you to spending your life with her.
and beyond this, habit itself fashions love;
for whatever is struck by a blow, however light, if struck often,
is nonetheless overcome and gives way over a long span of time.
do you not see too that drops of water falling on stone
wear the stone through over a long span of time?