Absence of Secondary Qualities
Now come, this wisdom by my sweet toil soughtLook thou perceive, lest haply thou shouldst guessThat the white objects shining to thine eyesAre gendered of white atoms, or the blackOf a black seed; or yet believe that aughtThat’s steeped in any hue should take its dyeFrom bits of matter tinct with hue the same.For matter’s bodies own no hue the least—Or like to objects or, again, unlike.But, if percase it seem to thee that mindItself can dart no influence of its ownInto these bodies, wide thou wand’rest off.For since the blind-born, who have ne’er surveyedThe light of sun, yet recognise by touchThings that from birth had ne’er a hue for them,’Tis thine to know that bodies can be broughtNo less unto the ken of our minds too,Though yet those bodies with no dye be smeared.Again, ourselves whatever in the darkWe touch, the same we do not find to beTinctured with any colour.
Now that hereI win the argument, I next will teach
Now, every colour changes, none except,And every…Which the primordials ought nowise to do.Since an immutable somewhat must remain,Lest all things utterly be brought to naught.For change of anything from out its boundsMeans instant death of that which was before.Wherefore be mindful not to stain with colourThe seeds of things, lest things return for theeAll utterly to naught.
But now, if seedsReceive no property of colour, and yetBe still endowed with variable formsFrom which all kinds of colours they begetAnd vary (by reason that ever it matters muchWith what seeds, and in what positions joined,And what the motions that they give and get),Forthwith most easily thou mayst deviseWhy what was black of hue an hour agoCan of a sudden like the marble gleam,—As ocean, when the high winds have upheavedIts level plains, is changed to hoary wavesOf marble whiteness: for, thou mayst declare,That, when the thing we often see as blackIs in its matter then commixed anew,Some atoms rearranged, and some withdrawn,And added some, ’tis seen forthwith to turnGlowing and white. But if of azure seedsConsist the level waters of the deep,They could in nowise whiten: for howeverThou shakest azure seeds, the same can neverPass into marble hue. But, if the seeds—Which thus produce the ocean’s one pure sheen—Be now with one hue, now another dyed,As oft from alien forms and divers shapesA cube’s produced all uniform in shape,‘Twould be but natural, even as in the cubeWe see the forms to be dissimilar,That thus we’d see in brightness of the deep(Or in whatever one pure sheen thou wilt)Colours diverse and all dissimilar.Besides, the unlike shapes don’t thwart the leastThe whole in being externally a cube;But differing hues of things do block and keepThe whole from being of one resultant hue.Then, too, the reason which entices usAt times to attribute colours to the seedsFalls quite to pieces, since white things are notCreate from white things, nor are black from black,But evermore they are create from thingsOf divers colours. Verily, the whiteWill rise more readily, is sooner bornOut of no colour, than of black or aughtWhich stands in hostile opposition thus.
Besides, since colours cannot be, sans light,And the primordials come not forth to light,’Tis thine to know they are not clothed with colour—Truly, what kind of colour could there beIn the viewless dark? Nay, in the light itselfA colour changes, gleaming variedly,When smote by vertical or slanting ray.Thus in the sunlight shows the down of dovesThat circles, garlanding, the nape and throat:Now it is ruddy with a bright gold-bronze,Now, by a strange sensation it becomesGreen-emerald blended with the coral-red.The peacock’s tail, filled with the copious light,Changes its colours likewise, when it turns.Wherefore, since by some blow of light begot,Without such blow these colours can’t become.
And since the pupil of the eye receivesWithin itself one kind of blow, when saidTo feel a white hue, then another kind,When feeling a black or any other hue,And since it matters nothing with what hueThe things thou touchest be perchance endowed,But rather with what sort of shape equipped,’Tis thine to know the atoms need not colour,But render forth sensations, as of touch,That vary with their varied forms.
Besides,Since special shapes have not a special colour,And all formations of the primal germsCan be of any sheen thou wilt, why, then,Are not those objects which are of them madeSuffused, each kind with colours of every kind?For then ‘twere meet that ravens, as they fly,Should dartle from white pinions a white sheen,Or swans turn black from seed of black, or beOf any single varied dye thou wilt.
Again, the more an object’s rent to bits,The more thou see its colour fade awayLittle by little till ’tis quite extinct;As happens when the gaudy linen’s pickedShred after shred away: the purple there,Phoenician red, most brilliant of all dyes,Is lost asunder, ravelled thread by thread;Hence canst perceive the fragments die awayFrom out their colour, long ere they departBack to the old primordials of things.And, last, since thou concedest not all bodiesSend out a voice or smell, it happens thusThat not to all thou givest sounds and smells.So, too, since we behold not all with eyes,’Tis thine to know some things there are as muchOrphaned of colour, as others without smell,And reft of sound; and those the mind alertNo less can apprehend than it can markThe things that lack some other qualities.
But think not haply that the primal bodiesRemain despoiled alone of colour: so,Are they from warmth dissevered and from coldAnd from hot exhalations; and they move,Both sterile of sound and dry of juice; and throwNot any odour from their proper bodies.Just as, when undertaking to prepareA liquid balm of myrrh and marjoram,And flower of nard, which to our nostrils breathesOdour of nectar, first of all behoovesThou seek, as far as find thou may and can,The inodorous olive-oil (which never sendsOne whiff of scent to nostrils), that it mayThe least debauch and ruin with sharp tangThe odorous essence with its body mixedAnd in it seethed. And on the same accountThe primal germs of things must not be thoughtTo furnish colour in begetting things,Nor sound, since pow’rless they to send forth aughtFrom out themselves, nor any flavour, too,Nor cold, nor exhalation hot or warm.
The rest; yet since these things are mortal all—The pliant mortal, with a body soft;The brittle mortal, with a crumbling frame;The hollow with a porous-all must beDisjoined from the primal elements,If still we wish under the world to layImmortal ground-works, whereupon may restThe sum of weal and safety, lest for theeAll things return to nothing utterly.
Now, too: whate’er we see possessing senseMust yet confessedly be stablished allFrom elements insensate. And those signs,So clear to all and witnessed out of hand,Do not refute this dictum nor oppose;But rather themselves do lead us by the hand,Compelling belief that living things are bornOf elements insensate, as I say.Sooth, we may see from out the stinking dungLive worms spring up, when, after soaking rains,The drenched earth rots; and all things change the same:Lo, change the rivers, the fronds, the gladsome pasturesInto the cattle, the cattle their nature changeInto our bodies, and from our body, oftGrow strong the powers and bodies of wild beastsAnd mighty-winged birds. Thus nature changesAll foods to living frames, and procreatesFrom them the senses of live creatures all,In manner about as she uncoils in flamesDry logs of wood and turns them all to fire.And seest not, therefore, how it matters muchAfter what order are set the primal germs,And with what other germs they all are mixed,And what the motions that they give and get?
But now, what is’t that strikes thy sceptic mind,Constraining thee to sundry argumentsAgainst belief that from insensate germsThe sensible is gendered?—Verily,’Tis this: that liquids, earth, and wood, though mixed,Are yet unable to gender vital sense.And, therefore, ‘twill be well in these affairsThis to remember: that I have not saidSenses are born, under conditions all,From all things absolutely which createObjects that feel; but much it matters hereFirstly, how small the seeds which thus composeThe feeling thing, then, with what shapes endowed,And lastly what they in positions be,In motions, in arrangements. Of which factsNaught we perceive in logs of wood and clods;And yet even these, when sodden by the rains,Give birth to wormy grubs, because the bodiesOf matter, from their old arrangements stirredBy the new factor, then combine anewIn such a way as genders living things.
Next, they who deem that feeling objects canFrom feeling objects be create, and these,In turn, from others that are wont to feel
When soft they make them; for all sense is linkedWith flesh, and thews, and veins—and such, we see,Are fashioned soft and of a mortal frame.Yet be’t that these can last forever on:They’ll have the sense that’s proper to a part,Or else be judged to have a sense the sameAs that within live creatures as a whole.But of themselves those parts can never feel,For all the sense in every member backTo something else refers—a severed hand,Or any other member of our frame,Itself alone cannot support sensation.It thus remains they must resemble, then,Live creatures as a whole, to have the powerOf feeling sensation concordant in each partWith the vital sense; and so they’re bound to feelThe things we feel exactly as do we.If such the case, how, then, can they be namedThe primal germs of things, and how avoidThe highways of destruction?—since they beMere living things and living things be allOne and the same with mortal. Grant they could,Yet by their meetings and their unions all,Naught would result, indeed, besides a throngAnd hurly-burly all of living things—Precisely as men, and cattle, and wild beasts,By mere conglomeration each with eachCan still beget not anything of new.But if by chance they lose, inside a body,Their own sense and another sense take on,What, then, avails it to assign them thatWhich is withdrawn thereafter? And besides,To touch on proof that we pronounced before,Just as we see the eggs of feathered fowlsTo change to living chicks, and swarming wormsTo bubble forth when from the soaking rainsThe earth is sodden, sure, sensations allCan out of non-sensations be begot.
But if one say that sense can so far riseFrom non-sense by mutation, or becauseBrought forth as by a certain sort of birth,‘Twill serve to render plain to him and proveThere is no birth, unless there be beforeSome formed union of the elements,Nor any change, unless they be unite.
In first place, senses can’t in body beBefore its living nature’s been begot,—Since all its stuff, in faith, is held dispersedAbout through rivers, air, and earth, and allThat is from earth created, nor has metIn combination, and, in proper mode,Conjoined into those vital motions whichKindle the all-perceiving senses—theyThat keep and guard each living thing soever.
Again, a blow beyond its nature’s strengthShatters forthwith each living thing soe’er,And on it goes confounding all the senseOf body and mind. For of the primal germsAre loosed their old arrangements, and, throughout,The vital motions blocked,—until the stuff,Shaken profoundly through the frame entire,Undoes the vital knots of soul from bodyAnd throws that soul, to outward wide-dispersed,Through all the pores. For what may we surmiseA blow inflicted can achieve besidesShaking asunder and loosening all apart?It happens also, when less sharp the blow,The vital motions which are left are wontOft to win out—win out, and stop and stillThe uncouth tumults gendered by the blow,And call each part to its own courses back,And shake away the motion of death which nowBegins its own dominion in the body,And kindle anew the senses almost gone.For by what other means could they the moreCollect their powers of thought and turn againFrom very doorways of destructionBack unto life, rather than pass wheretoThey be already well-nigh sped and soPass quite away?
Again, since pain is thereWhere bodies of matter, by some force stirred up,Through vitals and through joints, within their seatsQuiver and quake inside, but soft delight,When they remove unto their place again:’Tis thine to know the primal germs can beAssaulted by no pain, nor from themselvesTake no delight; because indeed they areNot made of any bodies of first things,Under whose strange new motions they might acheOr pluck the fruit of any dear new sweet.And so they must be furnished with no sense.
Once more, if thus, that every living thingMay have sensation, needful ’tis to assignSense also to its elements, what thenOf those fixed elements from which mankindHath been, by their peculiar virtue, formed?Of verity, they’ll laugh aloud, like men,Shaken asunder by a spasm of mirth,Or sprinkle with dewy tear-drops cheeks and chins,And have the cunning hardihood to sayMuch on the composition of the world,And in their turn inquire what elementsThey have themselves,—since, thus the same in kindAs a whole mortal creature, even theyMust also be from other elements,And then those others from others evermore—So that thou darest nowhere make a stop.Oho, I’ll follow thee until thou grantThe seed (which here thou say’st speaks, laughs, and
*****thinks)Is yet derived out of other seedsWhich in their turn are doing just the same.But if we see what raving nonsense this,And that a man may laugh, though not, forsooth,Compounded out of laughing elements,And think and utter reason with learn’d speech,Though not himself compounded, for a fact,Of sapient seeds and eloquent, why, then,Cannot those things which we perceive to haveTheir own sensation be composed as wellOf intermixed seeds quite void of sense?