Sometimes I provide lengthy reviews. It is impossible to really provide any type of review of the Confessions which will actually be helpful. This is one of the most important books of human history. Written by a North African Christian theologian who taught in Carthage, Rome, Milan, and finished his life as bishop of Hippo. This book is a book length prayer to God in which Augustine publicly confesses his life, his wanderings, his ups and downs, and so on. It is, at once, a work containing both deep theological and philosophical reflection (i.e. - the nature of evil, the nature and human experience of time, the nature and wonder of memory, how even pagan philosophers are able to know something of God through nature, and so on), and touching reminders that nobody is perfect (Augustine tells us both of his many evil actions before becoming a Christian and of his many struggles and moral failures as even a mature Christian.) or always right (Augustine, the most important theologian of Christian history, tells us of his many errors, of the lies and errors he accepted as true, and even of many things that he is just unsure about.).
If you haven't read this book yet, or recently, you need to read it again.

With passages such as

You were fragrant, and I drew in my breath and now pant after you. I tasted you, and I feel but hunger and thirst for you. You touched me, and I am set on fire to attain the peace which is yours. (X.xxvii)

it's manifestly plain that this text is the original theophiliac deomance.

Some items of interest, such as the nuanced interpretations of Genesis and the interaction of Plotinus with scripture--but on the whole, a self-indulgent and dogmatic presentation that simply assumes its conclusions and pursues them recklessly in circles, such as in the dismissal of contrary opinion, e.g.:

This is the utterance of madmen. They do not see your works with the help of your Spirit and do not recognize you in them. (XIII.xxx)

We see the regular conflation of ethics with merely aesthetic ends in statements such as "I travelled much further away from you into more and more sterile things productive of unhappiness" (II.ii). There is also a tendency to equivocate through figure, however rhetorically elegant it may be: "Your omnipotence is never far from us, even when we are far from you" (id.).

This is an introspective book. In it, St. Augustine traces his spiritual journey — from the hedonism and materialism of his early youth — to intellectual pursuits of secular philosophy, academic success, and worldly wisdom — to attempting to reach God via alternative spirituality, a blend of false asceticism, skepticism of scripture, and a cafeteria approach to truths of the Church — then, finally, to full repentance from these to acceptance of and obedience to Jesus Christ and His Church.

Augustine critically examines each thought process within each of these stages of his life. It’s a long process — as it has been also for those on similar spiritual journeys.

There is a poetry and a beauty to much of his writing. In other places, however, Augustine seems stuck in a rut as he ruminates at length on some aspect of one of his life’s events or periods that can make it seem plodding at times.

In other places, such as near the end — as seemed his wont to do in “City of God” — he seemingly gets sidetracked into long philosophical, intellectual discussions. In one chapter, he does this on the topic of time. I found it very dull, and, although he weaves God’s nature of timelessness into the discussion, it seemed almost an effort to appeal to debates among the pagan and atheist philosophers of his day.

However, over all, “Confessions “ deserves its place as one of the great works of Early Christianity — the story of a man who made that difficult journey from the empty trifles of a world in decline to a place of building a close relationship with God via the life of the Church. I recommend it for those interested in the Early Church, in theology or philosophy, or in Christian spiritual growth and progress.

n  Entrust to the Truth all that you have from the Truth, and you shall lose nothing. The parts of you that are withered shall bloom again, and all your illnesses shall be healed. (4.11.16)

Seek what you seek, but it is not where you seek it. You seek a life of blessedness in the land of death; it is not there. How can there be a blessed life in a place where there is not even life itself? (4.12.18)

As for those who think there is another life, they are chasing after another joy, and not the true one. (10.22.32)n

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Going in with most works 'blind' (so to speak) as I like to do, I had no idea that Augustine’s Confessions was so suffused with the former's religious experience. The work is strongly interwoven with Scripture, but apart from this, Augustine muses on many topics such as Beauty, Memory, and Metaphysics.

A nice work, and great translation.
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For as we grow up, we weed such habits out of ourselves and throw them away; but I have never known any wise farmer, when weeding his plot, to throw good plants out with the bad. (1.7.11)

And yet we did sin . . . We paid less attention to our books than was expected of us. (1.9.15)

Adults have their games, which they dignify by the name of 'business'. (1.9.15)

It is but vanity to make a profession of these earthly things . . . (5.5.8)

They think they are radiant and exalted as the stars of heaven, when all the while they have fallen headlong to earth, and their heart is darkened in its folly. (5.3.5)

The daily ruin of our body is called ‘pleasure’. (10.31.43)

As for the reason why I hated the Greek literature in which I was steeped as a boy—for that I have still found no satisfactory explanation. I had fallen in love with Latin literature . . . (1.13.20)

I confess I was eager to learn these books, for they were the joy of my wretched life. (1.16.26)

But it was not surprising that I was drifting off towards these vanities . . . considering what sort of men were held up to me as examples to imitate. (1.18.28)

Around me lay the quagmire of carnal desire, bubbling with the springs of pubescence, and breathing a mist that left my heart fog-bound and benighted; I could no longer tell the clear skies of love from the dark clouds of lust. The two swirled around me in confusion; and in my youthful ignorance I was quickly drawn over the cliffs of desire and sucked down by the eddying currents of vice. (2.2.2)

My vanity was so excessive that I longed to be smart and sophisticated. (3.1.1)

My studies, too—'The Liberal Arts', as they were called—were leading me in a direction of their own. (3.3.6)

In the regular course of study I came to a book by a certain Cicero . . . this book of his contains an exhortation to philosophy; it is called the Hortensius. It was this book that changed my outlook . . . Suddenly all my vain hopes seemed cheap, and I began to lust with a passion scarcely to be believed after the immortality conferred by philosophy . . . It was not in order to hone my tongue that I took it up, nor was it Cicero's manner of speech that swayed me, but what he was saying. (3.4.7)

. . . in Cicero's exhortation to philosophy there was one thing that I loved especially, namely that his words aroused me and set me on fire not to be a lover of this or that sect, but of wisdom itself, whatever it may be; to love it and seek it and gain it and keep it, to embrace it with all my strength. (3.4.)8

He will find out for himself from his reading the nature of his mistake . . . (3.12.21)

'What is it that we love except what is beautiful? What, then, is "beautiful"? And what is beauty? What is there in the things we love that charms and attracts us? They could not draw us to themselves unless there were some internal harmony and beauty of form about them.' I looked around and saw that within physical objects there is one sort of beauty that comes, so to speak, from the totality, and another which gives a sense of harmony through the congruence with which it fits in without another object, as part of a body fits in with the whole, or as a shoe fits a foot, and so forth. This thought welled up in the depths of my heart and filled my mind . . . (4.13.20)

I sought to know why I thought good the beauty of physical objects, whether in the heavens or on earth, and what it was that helped me judge correctly when I said of mutable objects, 'This thing ought to be such and such, but that thing so and so.' As I asked the question of why I judged thus (seeing that I did judge thus) I had found an eternity of truth, unchangeable and true . . . (7.17.23)

From that Beauty these craftsmen that pursue outward beauties take the yardstick by which they perceive what is good, but not the yardstick by which they should use it. (10.34.53)

I read by myself all the books on the so-called liberal arts, and understood all that I read . . . (4.16.30)

. . . I discovered that this erstwhile master of the liberal arts knew only literature—and had no special knowledge even of that. He had read some of Cicero's speeches, a few books by Seneca, some odds and ends of poetry, and the more literate of the Latin works of his own sect. (5.6.11)

I had not yet attained the truth, but had now been rescued from falsehood.(6.1.1)

As I passed through a street in Milan, I noticed a pauper begging. I suppose he had already had a skinful, and was now in a happy mood, full of jokes. I groaned, and observed to the friends who were with me how many were the sufferings of our own madness inflicted upon us. In all our strivings, such as those under which I was then labouring as I dragged my burden of unhappiness, driven by the lash of my own desires, making it heavier as I dragged it, we had but one wish: to arrive at a state of happiness and confidence. But that beggar, I said, had beaten us to it, and we would perhaps never reach it. What he had attained with the aid of a few small coins, and begged ones at that, I was approaching by a circuitous route, with many painful twists and turns: namely, the happiness that comes from earthly felicity. It was no true jot that he had; but the joy that I was seeking through my ambitions was far falser. He, at any rate, was cheerful, while I was anxious he was carefree, while I was full of trepidation. If someone had asked me whether I would rather be happy or fearful, I would have said, ‘Happy’. If they had asked again, whether I would rather be like the beggar, or as I then was, I would have chosen to be myself, exhausted though I was with worries and fears. But this is a perverse choice; what of the truth? I should not have regarded my condition as preferable to his because I was more educated, for I had no joy of my education. Instead, I sought to please men with it; not to teach them, but only to please them . . . It does matter, I know, why one is happy; the happiness that comes from faithful hope is incomparably different from my vanity. But even then, there was a difference between us: he was the rapper, not only in that he was drenched with high spirits, whearas I was even up inside with anxieties, but also in that he had got his wine by wishing people good day, whearas I sought to get my vain glory by lying. (6.6.9, 6.6.10)

I was not now in that state of vanity; I had transcended it . . . (8.1.2)

My will was perverted, and became a lust; I obeyed my lust as a slave, and it became a habit; I failed to resist my habit, and it became a need. (8.5.10)

I was in both the flesh and the spirit, but I was more myself in that which I approved in myself, than that which I disapproved in myself. (8.5.11)

He was capable of far greater literary activity, if he wished . . . (8.6.13)

. . . avoiding in his teaching all that might disturb the quiet of his mind; for that he wished to keep free and unoccupied for as many hours of the day as possible, while he sought to read or hear something concerning wisdom. (8.6.13)

All these tasks we endure—where are they taking us? (8.6.15)

He read, and was changed within . . . and his mind began to put off the world. For as he read . . . he pondered the shifting tides of his heart . . . he discerned the better course, and resolved upon it. (8.6.15)

Merely to seek this wisdom, even if I did not find it, now seemed preferable to difficult treasure houses or kingships of the nations, or an abundance of bodily pleasures that surpasses all my wishes. (8.7.17)

To progress toward it—indeed to attain it—was nothing other than the will to progress, but with a will that was strong and whole throughout. (8.8.19)

They did not block my path and speak out openly against me, but whispered behind my back and punched furtively at me as I left them behind, to make me look back. Nevertheless, they did delay my progress, and I was slow to tear myself away from them, shake them off, and hasten where I was summoned, as long as Habit, with all its force, said to me, 'Do you think you can do without these?' (8.11.26)

For those whose with it is to rejoice in outward things, soon waste away and spend themselves on things visible and temporal, and feed their famished mind by licking at illusions. (9.4.10)

. . . honeyed with the honey of heaven, radiant with your radiance. (9.4.11)

The scent of your ointments was heavy in the air . . . (9.7.16)

. . . scented with costly perfumes. (9.13.36)

You cast your fragrance, and I drew breath, yet pant for you; I tasted, yet hunger and thirst; you touched me, and I was on fire for your peace. (10.27.38)

The allurements of scents, however, does not bother me too much. When they are absent, I do not feel the need of them; when they are present, I do not reject them. I would even be ready to do without them for ever. Or so I think I would, I may be deceived. (10.32.48)

When our conversation reached the point at which no pleasure derived from carnal senses, however great, however illumined by bodily light, seemed in respect of the sweetness of that Life was worthy not only of comparison, but even of mention, then we raised ourselves up in a more ardent longing for the Same, moving step by step through all things corporeal, even the sky itself, from which sun and moon and stars shine upon the earth. Still higher we went, through inward contemplation and discussion and admiration . . . We came to our own minds, and passed beyond them to attain the land of richness unfailing where you feed Israel forever with the food of truth. There, life is the Wisdom through which all things that were and that are to be come into being . . . (9.10.24)

I shall therefore, transcend even that innate strength of mine, spending by degrees to him that made me. I shall come to the plains and broad palaces of memory, where there are boards of countless images brought in from the things of all kind that the senses perceive. There is the storehouse of all that we ever contemplate, whether by increasing or by diminishing or by altering in some way the objects that our senses have encountered, and of everything else which is entrusted for safekeeping there and has not yet been swallowed up and buried in oblivion . . . Some things come to hand easily and in unbroken sequence, just as they are requested; those that come first give way to those that follow on from them, and having given way, are stored up , to come forth the net time I want them. All this happens when I relate something from memory. (10.8.12)

All these things I do within, in the great hall of my memory. There heaven and earth stand ready for me, with everything in them that I have been able to perceive . . . (10.8.14)

Great is the strength of Memory, great indeed, my God; an inner chamber vast and infinite. Who has ever sounded its depths? This strength belongs to my mind and to my nature, yet I myself cannot comprehend all that I am. Is mind, then, too narrow to hold itself? And if so, what is the part of itself that it does not contain? How, then, can it be outside itself rather than inside itself? How, then, can it not contain itself? Great wonder arises within me over this question; bewilderment overwhelms me. (10.8.15)

But these are not the only things borne by my memory, with its innumerable capaciousness. In it also are all the elements of the liberal arts that I have acquired and not yet forgotten, as if kept apart in some placeless inner place. (10.9.16)

In the countless fields and grots and caverns of my memory, full beyond counting with countless kinds of thing, I range through images, as with all physical objects, through presences, as with the liberal arts, through mental concepts and records, as with my states of mind, which memory retains even when the mind is not undergoing them, though whatever is in the memory is also in the mind. Through all these things I range, flitting this way and that. I go as deep in as I can, and nowhere is there an end . . . (10.17.26)

And although I eat and drink for my health’s sake, a dangerous sweetness tags along at our heels and often attempts to go first, to make me do for pleasure’s sake what I say or wish to do for my health’s sake . . . My wretched soul is full of flee at this very uncertainty, and uses it in preparing the case for its defence, rejoicing that it is not clear what is the due amount of food to maintain one’s physical wellbeing, and covering the work of pleasure with the pretext of health. (10.31.44)

If I were given the choice of being on the one hand mad or mistaken on all matters and still praised by all men, or on the other hand of being firm in my wits, firmly convinced of the truth, and reviled by all, I know what I would choose. (10.37.61)

This is the profit I have of my confessions: that I should confess not what I was, but what I am, and confess it not only before you with secret exultation and trembling, and secret grief and hope, but also in the ears of those children of men who believe. These are my companions in my fellow-pilgrims; those that have gone before me, those that will come after me, those that come with me. (10.4.6)
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To Carthage then I came, where a cauldron of unholy loves sang all about mine ears . . . (Virtue Chastises Folly: Allergory of Lust; 3.1.1)
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. . . each drop off time is precious to me. (11.2.2)

‘My son, for my part, I no longer take any pleasure in this life. What I am now doing here still, and why I am here, I do not know; my hope in this world is spent. There was one thing for which I used to long to remain a while longer in this life . . . (9.10.26)

In his "Confessions", Augustine tells the story of his early life and ultimate acceptance of a Christian life. Augustine was born in 354 on a farm in Algeria, the son of a Christian mother and a pagan father. He describes his early life, during which time he mastered Latin literature and became a teacher of literature and public speaking.

Augustine describes in detail his secular life, marriage of 15 years, as well as his personal spiritual journey from a life of earthly desires towards the acceptance of the Christian values that he had learned from his mother. Early in his life, Augustine became interested in Manichee theosophy, but ultimately abandoned Manicheeism for the Neoplatonic mysticism of Plotinus. At the age of 32, after a vision in a Milanese garden, he renounced his secular life and devoted himself to Christianity.

The story of Augustine's early life and search for a spiritual philosophy is interesting reading, though not a short story. The "Confessions" can be read as more than just a spiritual journey, but also as a cultural history of the Roman world of the late 4th century. Augustine's descriptions of his friends and family are very real and give a good picture of life at that time in Algeria and Italy.

In the last four books of the "Confessions", Augustine moves from a description of his own personal history to a theological discussion of the Christian view of creation and the nature of time, among other topics. For someone not interested in theological hair-splitting, these books can get pretty tedious. As an example, Augustine spends many, many pages discussing exactly what God created when he made the "heavens and the earth" and which he created first. This is quite a bit less compelling to read than his earlier discussions of life in Milan.

Well, I will definitely need to revisit this book. Augustine was a great thinker, and I was thinking throughout this book, though not what Augustine was thinking about. This book required a focused attention that I did not always have when I picked up to read. Maybe with a little bit of training, and a strong desire to learn something, I can return to Augustine’s confessions and understand everything that he has to say. Overall, a challenging, but not impossible read.

4/2024: This very well may be my favorite book. Certainly it has impacted me more than any other besides the Bible. This time I finally got around to reading the whole thing, including the philosophical sections in the last quarter. Augustine has officially become my dearest "heart" writer, the one who most fundamentally informs the way I view myself and the world. Though I stuck with my beloved Chadwick this time around, I did some comparison with the newest translation by Thomas Williams (Hackett, 2019), which is in many ways more direct while investing some familiar phrases with a unique punch and sparkle, but it's just a bit too informal for my liking. I still like how Chadwick keeps the highly polished, rhetorical style without trying to make it too "raw", as Williams arguably does. Reading the Latin, it's clear that Augustine was really a prose-poet who aims to impress and delight with his language, and that quality needs to be wholly preserved in any worthwhile translation. Next time I read it, I'll probably try to do it all in the original language.

Original review: If you're looking for a conventional "autobiography" (that term is quite misleading when applied to this work) or theological treatise, Augustine’s style can be frustrating due to its willingness to jump around into random ruminations and seemingly irrelevant minutiae of his life. But if you have the patience and a taste for poetic wonder, you will uncover poignancy and relevance beyond all expectations. The Henry Chadwick translation is remarkable for its transformation of an achingly poetic and distinctly literary Latin (I think all Latin students have to translate the first section or two at some point in their studies; it's usually their first look at artistic Latin prose that abandons the tidy grammar of the formal exercises) into a gorgeous English with plenty of passages that perfectly distill Augustine’s rhetorical brilliance while remaining faithful to the text. This is much better than, say, the strange and borderline unreadable Garry Wills translation, which ironically approaches paraphrase while simultaneously using obscure and pretentious Latin derivatives in an attempt to sound "faithful".

Read this one for class and I can’t stand this guy. He’s so lame and overly hard on himself. I promise you bruh no one cares that you stole some pears. The only cool people in the book are the Wreckers, “a title of ferocious devilry which the fashionable set chose for themselves”. He doesn’t really say anything else except that he enjoyed spending time but they were a secret snare of the devil. Honestly I’d much rather read their book.

I decided not to finish this one after making it through the first 4 sections. It's a bit out of my lane, so I'm not surprised I didn't love it. That's not to say there isn't a lot of value in it. The first two sections which focused on Augustine's childhood weren't for me, but I started to enjoy it more once he got to school in Carthage. But this is really for those who are studying theology or the history of theology. I'll give myself some props for giving it a go, but it benefits a certain audience. Two stars is too low, so we'll go with a low three.

Free download available at Project Gutenberg.

هي نوع من االاعترافات التي يقوم بها العقائديوين المتشددون بصورة تجليات نثرية مملة تعبر عن مدى مازوشية وحب لجلد الذات بصورة غير مبررة تستجدي من خلالها رغبة نرجسية لجلب اتباع ومريديين......... فقط ما أشيد به هي الترجمة التي ترجمت من اللاتينية الى العربية لم تكن سهلة .... رتيب

When high school Amy complained about the lack of devotions available to her, I wish someone had given her this book. I wish someone had told her to challenge herself and not be afraid. 'Cause let's be real, even at 25 I felt intimidated and pretentious picking up a book by a church father. Imagine 15-year-old me doing it.
I say that wish because I want to encourage 15 year olds to read this book. And 25 year olds. And 85 year olds. Augustine is not as scary as he sounds. Confessions is an incredibly readable and beautiful book. It is a love letter to God.
I found this book challenging and profound; I will definitely be coming back. This is one of those books that calls for multiple re-reads.