Nature and Composition of the Mind
First, then, I say, the mind which oft we callThe intellect, wherein is seated life’sCounsel and regimen, is part no lessOf man than hand and foot and eyes are partsOf one whole breathing creature. [But some hold]That sense of mind is in no fixed part seated,But is of body some one vital state,—Named “harmony” by Greeks, because therebyWe live with sense, though intellect be notIn any part: as oft the body is saidTo have good health (when health, however, ‘s notOne part of him who has it), so they placeThe sense of mind in no fixed part of man.Mightily, diversly, meseems they err.Often the body palpable and seenSickens, while yet in some invisible partWe feel a pleasure; oft the other way,A miserable in mind feels pleasure stillThroughout his body—quite the same as whenA foot may pain without a pain in head.Besides, when these our limbs are given o’erTo gentle sleep and lies the burdened frameAt random void of sense, a something elseIs yet within us, which upon that timeBestirs itself in many a wise, receivingAll motions of joy and phantom cares of heart.Now, for to see that in man’s members dwellsAlso the soul, and body ne’er is wontTo feel sensation by a “harmony”Take this in chief: the fact that life remainsOft in our limbs, when much of body’s gone;Yet that same life, when particles of heat,Though few, have scattered been, and through the mouthAir has been given forth abroad, forthwithForever deserts the veins, and leaves the bones.Thus mayst thou know that not all particlesPerform like parts, nor in like manner allAre props of weal and safety: rather those—The seeds of wind and exhalations warm—Take care that in our members life remains.Therefore a vital heat and wind there isWithin the very body, which at deathDeserts our frames. And so, since nature of mindAnd even of soul is found to be, as ‘twere,A part of man, give over “harmony”—Name to musicians brought from Helicon,—Unless themselves they filched it otherwise,To serve for what was lacking name till then.Whate’er it be, they’re welcome to it—thou,Hearken my other maxims.
Mind and soul,I say, are held conjoined one with other,And form one single nature of themselves;But chief and regnant through the frame entireIs still that counsel which we call the mind,And that cleaves seated in the midmost breast.Here leap dismay and terror; round these hauntsBe blandishments of joys; and therefore hereThe intellect, the mind. The rest of soul,Throughout the body scattered, but obeys—Moved by the nod and motion of the mind.This, for itself, sole through itself, hath thought;This for itself hath mirth, even when the thingThat moves it, moves nor soul nor body at all.And as, when head or eye in us is smitBy assailing pain, we are not tortured thenThrough all the body, so the mind aloneIs sometimes smitten, or livens with a joy,Whilst yet the soul’s remainder through the limbsAnd through the frame is stirred by nothing new.But when the mind is moved by shock more fierce,We mark the whole soul suffering all at onceAlong man’s members: sweats and pallors spreadOver the body, and the tongue is broken,And fails the voice away, and ring the ears,Mists blind the eyeballs, and the joints collapse,—Aye, men drop dead from terror of the mind.Hence, whoso will can readily remarkThat soul conjoined is with mind, and, when’Tis strook by influence of the mind, forthwithIn turn it hits and drives the body too.
And this same argument establishethThat nature of mind and soul corporeal is:For when ’tis seen to drive the members on,To snatch from sleep the body, and to changeThe countenance, and the whole state of manTo rule and turn,—what yet could never beSans contact, and sans body contact fails—Must we not grant that mind and soul consistOf a corporeal nature?—And besidesThou markst that likewise with this body of oursSuffers the mind and with our body feels.If the dire speed of spear that cleaves the bonesAnd bares the inner thews hits not the life,Yet follows a fainting and a foul collapse,And, on the ground, dazed tumult in the mind,And whiles a wavering will to rise afoot.So nature of mind must be corporeal, sinceFrom stroke and spear corporeal ’tis in throes.
Now, of what body, what components formedIs this same mind I will go on to tell.First, I aver, ’tis superfine, composedOf tiniest particles—that such the factThou canst perceive, if thou attend, from this:Nothing is seen to happen with such speedAs what the mind proposes and begins;Therefore the same bestirs itself more swiftlyThan aught whose nature’s palpable to eyes.But what’s so agile must of seeds consistMost round, most tiny, that they may be moved,When hit by impulse slight. So water moves,In waves along, at impulse just the least—Being create of little shapes that roll;But, contrariwise, the quality of honeyMore stable is, its liquids more inert,More tardy its flow; for all its stock of matterCleaves more together, since, indeed, ’tis madeOf atoms not so smooth, so fine, and round.For the light breeze that hovers yet can blowHigh heaps of poppy-seed away for theeDownward from off the top; but, contrariwise,A pile of stones or spiny ears of wheatIt can’t at all. Thus, in so far as bodiesAre small and smooth, is their mobility;But, contrariwise, the heavier and more rough,The more immovable they prove. Now, then,Since nature of mind is movable so much,Consist it must of seeds exceeding smallAnd smooth and round. Which fact once known to thee,Good friend, will serve thee opportune in else.This also shows the nature of the same,How nice its texture, in how small a space‘Twould go, if once compacted as a pellet:When death’s unvexed repose gets hold on manAnd mind and soul retire, thou markest thereFrom the whole body nothing ta’en in form,Nothing in weight. Death grants ye everything,But vital sense and exhalation hot.Thus soul entire must be of smallmost seeds,Twined through the veins, the vitals, and the thews,Seeing that, when ’tis from whole body gone,The outward figuration of the limbsIs unimpaired and weight fails not a whit.Just so, when vanished the bouquet of wine,Or when an unguent’s perfume delicateInto the winds away departs, or whenFrom any body savour’s gone, yet stillThe thing itself seems minished naught to eyes,Thereby, nor aught abstracted from its weight—No marvel, because seeds many and minuteProduce the savours and the redolenceIn the whole body of the things. And so,Again, again, nature of mind and soul’Tis thine to know created is of seedsThe tiniest ever, since at flying-forthIt beareth nothing of the weight away.
Yet fancy not its nature simple so.For an impalpable aura, mixed with heat,Deserts the dying, and heat draws off the air;And heat there’s none, unless commixed with air:For, since the nature of all heat is rare,Athrough it many seeds of air must move.Thus nature of mind is triple; yet those allSuffice not for creating sense—since mindAccepteth not that aught of these can causeSense-bearing motions, and much less the thoughtsA man revolves in mind. So unto theseMust added be a somewhat, and a fourth;That somewhat’s altogether void of name;Than which existeth naught more mobile, naughtMore an impalpable, of elementsMore small and smooth and round. That first transmitsSense-bearing motions through the frame, for thatIs roused the first, composed of little shapes;Thence heat and viewless force of wind take upThe motions, and thence air, and thence all thingsAre put in motion; the blood is strook, and thenThe vitals all begin to feel, and lastTo bones and marrow the sensation comes—Pleasure or torment. Nor will pain for naughtEnter so far, nor a sharp ill seep through,But all things be perturbed to that degreeThat room for life will fail, and parts of soulWill scatter through the body’s every pore.Yet as a rule, almost upon the skinThese motion aIl are stopped, and this is whyWe have the power to retain our life.
Now in my eagerness to tell thee howThey are commixed, through what unions fitThey function so, my country’s pauper-speechConstrains me sadly. As I can, however,I’ll touch some points and pass. In such a wiseCourse these primordials ‘mongst one anotherWith inter-motions that no one can beFrom other sundered, nor its agencyPerform, if once divided by a space;Like many powers in one body they work.As in the flesh of any creature stillIs odour and savour and a certain warmth,And yet from all of these one bulk of bodyIs made complete, so, viewless force of windAnd warmth and air, commingled, do createOne nature, by that mobile energyAssisted which from out itself to themImparts initial motion, whereby firstSense-bearing motion along the vitals springs.For lurks this essence far and deep and under,Nor in our body is aught more shut from view,And ’tis the very soul of all the soul.And as within our members and whole frameThe energy of mind and power of soulIs mixed and latent, since create it isOf bodies small and few, so lurks this fourth,This essence void of name, composed of small,And seems the very soul of all the soul,And holds dominion o’er the body all.And by like reason wind and air and heatMust function so, commingled through the frame,And now the one subside and now anotherIn interchange of dominance, that thusFrom all of them one nature be produced,Lest heat and wind apart, and air apart,Make sense to perish, by disseverment.There is indeed in mind that heat it getsWhen seething in rage, and flashes from the eyesMore swiftly fire; there is, again, that wind,Much, and so cold, companion of all dread,Which rouses the shudder in the shaken frame;There is no less that state of air composed,Making the tranquil breast, the serene face.But more of hot have they whose restive hearts,Whose minds of passion quickly seethe in rage—Of which kind chief are fierce abounding lions,Who often with roaring burst the breast o’erwrought,Unable to hold the surging wrath within;But the cold mind of stags has more of wind,And speedier through their inwards rouses upThe icy currents which make their members quake.But more the oxen live by tranquil air,Nor e’er doth smoky torch of wrath applied,O’erspreading with shadows of a darkling murk,Rouse them too far; nor will they stiffen stark,Pierced through by icy javelins of fear;But have their place half-way between the two—Stags and fierce lions. Thus the race of men:Though training make them equally refined,It leaves those pristine vestiges behindOf each mind’s nature. Nor may we supposeEvil can e’er be rooted up so farThat one man’s not more given to fits of wrath,Another’s not more quickly touched by fear,A third not more long-suffering than he should.And needs must differ in many things besidesThe varied natures and resulting habitsOf humankind—of which not now can IExpound the hidden causes, nor find namesEnough for all the divers shapes of thosePrimordials whence this variation springs.But this meseems I’m able to declare:Those vestiges of natures left behindWhich reason cannot quite expel from usAre still so slight that naught prevents a manFrom living a life even worthy of the gods.
So then this soul is kept by all the body,Itself the body’s guard, and source of weal:For they with common roots cleave each to each,Nor can be torn asunder without death.Not easy ’tis from lumps of frankincenseTo tear their fragrance forth, without its naturePerishing likewise: so, not easy ’tisFrom all the body nature of mind and soulTo draw away, without the whole dissolved.With seeds so intertwined even from birth,They’re dowered conjointly with a partner-life;No energy of body or mind, apart,Each of itself without the other’s power,Can have sensation; but our sense, enkindledAlong the vitals, to flame is blown by bothWith mutual motions. Besides the body aloneIs nor begot nor grows, nor after deathSeen to endure. For not as water at timesGives off the alien heat, nor is therebyItself destroyed, but unimpaired remains—Not thus, I say, can the deserted frameBear the dissevering of its joined soul,But, rent and ruined, moulders all away.Thus the joint contact of the body and soulLearns from their earliest age the vital motions,Even when still buried in the mother’s womb;So no dissevering can hap to them,Without their bane and ill. And thence mayst seeThat, as conjoined is their source of weal,Conjoined also must their nature be.
If one, moreover, denies that body feel,And holds that soul, through all the body mixed,Takes on this motion which we title “sense,”He battles in vain indubitable facts:For who’ll explain what body’s feeling is,Except by what the public fact itselfHas given and taught us?”But when soul is parted,Body’s without all sense.” True!—loses whatWas even in its life-time not its own;And much beside it loses, when soul’s drivenForth from that life-time. Or, to say that eyesThemselves can see no thing, but through the sameThe mind looks forth, as out of opened doors,Is—a hard saying; since the feel in eyesSays the reverse. For this itself draws onAnd forces into the pupils of our eyesOur consciousness. And note the case when oftenWe lack the power to see refulgent things,Because our eyes are hampered by their light—With a mere doorway this would happen not;For, since it is our very selves that see,No open portals undertake the toil.Besides, if eyes of ours but act as doors,Methinks that, were our sight removed, the mindOught then still better to behold a thing—When even the door-posts have been cleared away.
Herein in these affairs nowise take upWhat honoured sage, Democritus, lays down—That proposition, that primordialsOf body and mind, each super-posed on each,Vary alternately and interweaveThe fabric of our members. For not onlyAre the soul-elements smaller far than thoseWhich this our body and inward parts compose,But also are they in their number less,And scattered sparsely through our frame. And thusThis canst thou guarantee: soul’s primal germsMaintain between them intervals as largeAt least as are the smallest bodies, which,When thrown against us, in our body rouseSense-bearing motions. Hence it comes that weSometimes don’t feel alighting on our framesThe clinging dust, or chalk that settles soft;Nor mists of night, nor spider’s gossamerWe feel against us, when, upon our road,Its net entangles us, nor on our headThe dropping of its withered garmentings;Nor bird-feathers, nor vegetable down,Flying about, so light they barely fall;Nor feel the steps of every crawling thing,Nor each of all those footprints on our skinOf midges and the like. To that degreeMust many primal germs be stirred in usEre once the seeds of soul that through our frameAre intermingled ‘gin to feel that thosePrimordials of the body have been strook,And ere, in pounding with such gaps between,They clash, combine and leap apart in turn.
But mind is more the keeper of the gates,Hath more dominion over life than soul.For without intellect and mind there’s notOne part of soul can rest within our frameLeast part of time; companioning, it goesWith mind into the winds away, and leavesThe icy members in the cold of death.But he whose mind and intellect abideHimself abides in life. However muchThe trunk be mangled, with the limbs lopped off,The soul withdrawn and taken from the limbs,Still lives the trunk and draws the vital air.Even when deprived of all but all the soul,Yet will it linger on and cleave to life,—Just as the power of vision still is strong,If but the pupil shall abide unharmed,Even when the eye around it’s sorely rent—Provided only thou destroyest notWholly the ball, but, cutting round the pupil,Leavest that pupil by itself behind—For more would ruin sight. But if that centre,That tiny part of eye, be eaten through,Forthwith the vision fails and darkness comes,Though in all else the unblemished ball be clear.’Tis by like compact that the soul and mindAre each to other bound forevermore.