Existence and Character of the Images
But since I’ve taught already of what sortThe seeds of all things are, and how distinctIn divers forms they flit of own accord,Stirred with a motion everlasting on,And in what mode things be from them create,And since I’ve taught what the mind’s nature is,And of what things ’tis with the body knitAnd thrives in strength, and by what mode uptornThat mind returns to its primordials,Now will I undertake an argument—One for these matters of supreme concern—That there exist those somewhats which we callThe images of things: these, like to filmsScaled off the utmost outside of the things,Flit hither and thither through the atmosphere,And the same terrify our intellects,Coming upon us waking or in sleep,When oft we peer at wonderful strange shapesAnd images of people lorn of light,Which oft have horribly roused us when we layIn slumber—that haply nevermore may weSuppose that souls get loose from Acheron,Or shades go floating in among the living,Or aught of us is left behind at death,When body and mind, destroyed together, eachBack to its own primordials goes away.
And thus I say that effigies of things,And tenuous shapes from off the things are sent,From off the utmost outside of the things,Which are like films or may be named a rind,Because the image bears like look and formWith whatso body has shed it fluttering forth—A fact thou mayst, however dull thy wits,Well learn from this: mainly, because we seeEven ‘mongst visible objects many beThat send forth bodies, loosely some diffused—Like smoke from oaken logs and heat from fires—And some more interwoven and condensed—As when the locusts in the summertimePut off their glossy tunics, or when calvesAt birth drop membranes from their body’s surface,Or when, again, the slippery serpent doffsIts vestments ‘mongst the thorns—for oft we seeThe breres augmented with their flying spoils:Since such takes place, ’tis likewise certain tooThat tenuous images from things are sent,From off the utmost outside of the things.For why those kinds should drop and part from things,Rather than others tenuous and thin,No power has man to open mouth to tell;Especially, since on outsides of thingsAre bodies many and minute which could,In the same order which they had before,And with the figure of their form preserved,Be thrown abroad, and much more swiftly too,Being less subject to impediments,As few in number and placed along the front.For truly many things we see dischargeTheir stuff at large, not only from their coresDeep-set within, as we have said above,But from their surfaces at times no less—Their very colours too. And commonlyThe awnings, saffron, red and dusky blue,Stretched overhead in mighty theatres,Upon their poles and cross-beams fluttering,Have such an action quite; for there they dyeAnd make to undulate with their every hueThe circled throng below, and all the stage,And rich attire in the patrician seats.And ever the more the theatre’s dark wallsAround them shut, the more all things withinLaugh in the bright suffusion of strange glints,The daylight being withdrawn. And therefore, sinceThe canvas hangings thus discharge their dyeFrom off their surface, things in general mustLikewise their tenuous effigies discharge,Because in either case they are off-thrownFrom off the surface. So there are indeedSuch certain prints and vestiges of formsWhich flit around, of subtlest texture made,Invisible, when separate, each and one.Again, all odour, smoke, and heat, and suchStreams out of things diffusedly, because,Whilst coming from the deeps of body forthAnd rising out, along their bending pathThey’re torn asunder, nor have gateways straightWherethrough to mass themselves and struggle abroad.But contrariwise, when such a tenuous filmOf outside colour is thrown off, there’s naughtCan rend it, since ’tis placed along the frontReady to hand. Lastly those imagesWhich to our eyes in mirrors do appear,In water, or in any shining surface,Must be, since furnished with like look of things,Fashioned from images of things sent out.There are, then, tenuous effigies of forms,Like unto them, which no one can divineWhen taken singly, which do yet give back,When by continued and recurrent dischargeExpelled, a picture from the mirrors’ plane.Nor otherwise, it seems, can they be keptSo well conserved that thus be given backFigures so like each object.
Now then, learnHow tenuous is the nature of an image.And in the first place, since primordials beSo far beneath our senses, and much lessE’en than those objects which begin to growToo small for eyes to note, learn now in fewHow nice are the beginnings of all things—That this, too, I may yet confirm in proof:First, living creatures are sometimes so smallThat even their third part can nowise be seen;Judge, then, the size of any inward organ—What of their sphered heart, their eyes, their limbs,The skeleton?—How tiny thus they are!And what besides of those first particlesWhence soul and mind must fashioned be?—Seest notHow nice and how minute? Besides, whateverExhales from out its body a sharp smell—The nauseous absinth, or the panacea,Strong southernwood, or bitter centaury—If never so lightly with thy [fingers] twainPerchance [thou touch] a one of them
Then why not rather know that imagesFlit hither and thither, many, in many modes,Bodiless and invisible?
But lestHaply thou holdest that those imagesWhich come from objects are the sole that flit,Others indeed there be of own accordBegot, self-formed in earth’s aery skies,Which, moulded to innumerable shapes,Are borne aloft, and, fluid as they are,Cease not to change appearance and to turnInto new outlines of all sorts of forms;As we behold the clouds grow thick on highAnd smirch the serene vision of the world,Stroking the air with motions. For oft are seenThe giants’ faces flying far alongAnd trailing a spread of shadow; and at timesThe mighty mountains and mountain-sundered rocksGoing before and crossing on the sun,Whereafter a monstrous beast dragging amainAnd leading in the other thunderheads.Now [hear] how easy and how swift they beEngendered, and perpetually flow offFrom things and gliding pass away…
For ever every outside streams awayFrom off all objects, since discharge they may;And when this outside reaches other things,As chiefly glass, it passes through; but whereIt reaches the rough rocks or stuff of wood,There ’tis so rent that it cannot give backAn image. But when gleaming objects dense,As chiefly mirrors, have been set before it,Nothing of this sort happens. For it can’tGo, as through glass, nor yet be rent—its safety,By virtue of that smoothness, being sure.’Tis therefore that from them the imagesStream back to us; and howso suddenlyThou place, at any instant, anythingBefore a mirror, there an image shows;Proving that ever from a body’s surfaceFlow off thin textures and thin shapes of things.Thus many images in little timeAre gendered; so their origin is namedRightly a speedy. And even as the sunMust send below, in little time, to earthSo many beams to keep all things so fullOf light incessant; thus, on grounds the same,From things there must be borne, in many modes,To every quarter round, upon the moment,The many images of things; becauseUnto whatever face of things we turnThe mirror, things of form and hue the sameRespond. Besides, though but a moment sinceSerenest was the weather of the sky,So fiercely sudden is it foully thickThat ye might think that round about all murkHad parted forth from Acheron and filledThe mighty vaults of sky—so grievously,As gathers thus the storm-clouds’ gruesome night,Do faces of black horror hang on high—Of which how small a part an image isThere’s none to tell or reckon out in words.
Now come; with what swift motion they are borne,These images, and what the speed assignedTo them across the breezes swimming on—So that o’er lengths of space a little hourAlone is wasted, toward whatever regionEach with its divers impulse tends—I’ll tellIn verses sweeter than they many are;Even as the swan’s slight note is better farThan that dispersed clamour of the cranesAmong the southwind’s aery clouds. And first,One oft may see that objects which are lightAnd made of tiny bodies are the swift;In which class is the sun’s light and his heat,Since made from small primordial elementsWhich, as it were, are forward knocked alongAnd through the interspaces of the airTo pass delay not, urged by blows behind;For light by light is instantly suppliedAnd gleam by following gleam is spurred and driven.Thus likewise must the images have powerThrough unimaginable space to speedWithin a point of time,—first, since a causeExceeding small there is, which at their backFar forward drives them and propels, where, too,They’re carried with such winged lightness on;And, secondly, since furnished, when sent off,With texture of such rareness that they canThrough objects whatsoever penetrateAnd ooze, as ‘twere, through intervening air.Besides, if those fine particles of thingsWhich from so deep within are sent abroad,As light and heat of sun, are seen to glideAnd spread themselves through all the space of heavenUpon one instant of the day, and flyO’er sea and lands and flood the heaven, what thenOf those which on the outside stand prepared,When they’re hurled off with not a thing to checkTheir going out? Dost thou not see indeedHow swifter and how farther must they goAnd speed through manifold the length of spaceIn time the same that from the sun the raysO’erspread the heaven? This also seems to beExample chief and true with what swift speedThe images of things are borne about:That soon as ever under open skiesIs spread the shining water, all at once,If stars be out in heaven, upgleam from earth,Serene and radiant in the water there,The constellations of the universe—Now seest thou not in what a point of timeAn image from the shores of ether fallsUnto the shores of earth? Wherefore, again,And yet again, ’tis needful to confessWith wondrous…