The Senses and Mental Pictures
Bodies that strike the eyes, awaking sight.From certain things flow odours evermore,As cold from rivers, heat from sun, and sprayFrom waves of ocean, eater-out of wallsAround the coasts. Nor ever cease to flitThe varied voices, sounds athrough the air.Then too there comes into the mouth at timesThe wet of a salt taste, when by the seaWe roam about; and so, whene’er we watchThe wormword being mixed, its bitter stings.To such degree from all things is each thingBorne streamingly along, and sent aboutTo every region round; and nature grantsNor rest nor respite of the onward flow,Since ’tis incessantly we feeling have,And all the time are suffered to descryAnd smell all things at hand, and hear them sound.Besides, since shape examined by our handsWithin the dark is known to be the sameAs that by eyes perceived within the lightAnd lustrous day, both touch and sight must beBy one like cause aroused. So, if we testA square and get its stimulus on usWithin the dark, within the light what squareCan fall upon our sight, except a squareThat images the things? Wherefore it seemsThe source of seeing is in images,Nor without these can anything be viewed.
Now these same films I name are borne aboutAnd tossed and scattered into regions all.But since we do perceive alone through eyes,It follows hence that whitherso we turnOur sight, all things do strike against it thereWith form and hue. And just how far from usEach thing may be away, the image yieldsTo us the power to see and chance to tell:For when ’tis sent, at once it shoves aheadAnd drives along the air that’s in the spaceBetwixt it and our eyes. And thus this airAll glides athrough our eyeballs, and, as ‘twere,Brushes athrough our pupils and thuswisePasses across. Therefore it comes we seeHow far from us each thing may be away,And the more air there be that’s driven before,And too the longer be the brushing breezeAgainst our eyes, the farther off removedEach thing is seen to be: forsooth, this workWith mightily swift order all goes on,So that upon one instant we may seeWhat kind the object and how far away.
Nor over-marvellous must this be deemedIn these affairs that, though the films which strikeUpon the eyes cannot be singly seen,The things themselves may be perceived. For thusWhen the wind beats upon us stroke by strokeAnd when the sharp cold streams, ’tis not our wontTo feel each private particle of windOr of that cold, but rather all at once;And so we see how blows affect our body,As if one thing were beating on the sameAnd giving us the feel of its own bodyOutside of us. Again, whene’er we thumpWith finger-tip upon a stone, we touchBut the rock’s surface and the outer hue,Nor feel that hue by contact—rather feelThe very hardness deep within the rock.
Now come, and why beyond a looking-glassAn image may be seen, perceive. For seenIt soothly is, removed far within.’Tis the same sort as objects peered uponOutside in their true shape, whene’er a doorYields through itself an open peering-place,And lets us see so many things outsideBeyond the house. Also that sight is madeBy a twofold twin air: for first is seenThe air inside the door-posts; next the doors,The twain to left and right; and afterwardsA light beyond comes brushing through our eyes,Then other air, then objects peered uponOutside in their true shape. And thus, when firstThe image of the glass projects itself,As to our gaze it comes, it shoves aheadAnd drives along the air that’s in the spaceBetwixt it and our eyes, and brings to passThat we perceive the air ere yet the glass.But when we’ve also seen the glass itself,Forthwith that image which from us is borneReaches the glass, and there thrown back againComes back unto our eyes, and driving rollsAhead of itself another air, that then’Tis this we see before itself, and thusIt looks so far removed behind the glass.Wherefore again, again, there’s naught for wonder
In those which render from the mirror’s planeA vision back, since each thing comes to passBy means of the two airs. Now, in the glassThe right part of our members is observedUpon the left, because, when comes the imageHitting against the level of the glass,’Tis not returned unshifted; but forced offBackwards in line direct and not oblique,—Exactly as whoso his plaster-maskShould dash, before ‘twere dry, on post or beam,And it should straightway keep, at clinging there,Its shape, reversed, facing him who threw,And so remould the features it gives back:It comes that now the right eye is the left,The left the right. An image too may beFrom mirror into mirror handed on,Until of idol-films even five or sixHave thus been gendered. For whatever thingsShall hide back yonder in the house, the same,However far removed in twisting ways,May still be all brought forth through bending pathsAnd by these several mirrors seen to beWithin the house, since nature so compelsAll things to be borne backward and spring offAt equal angles from all other things.To such degree the image gleams acrossFrom mirror unto mirror; where ’twas leftIt comes to be the right, and then againReturns and changes round unto the left.Again, those little sides of mirrors curvedProportionate to the bulge of our own flankSend back to us their idols with the rightUpon the right; and this is so becauseEither the image is passed on alongFrom mirror unto mirror, and thereafter,When twice dashed off, flies back unto ourselves;Or else the image wheels itself around,When once unto the mirror it has come,Since the curved surface teaches it to turnTo usward. Further, thou might’st well believeThat these film-idols step along with usAnd set their feet in unison with oursAnd imitate our carriage, since from thatPart of a mirror whence thou hast withdrawnStraightway no images can be returned.
Further, our eye-balls tend to flee the brightAnd shun to gaze thereon; the sun even blinds,If thou goest on to strain them unto him,Because his strength is mighty, and the filmsHeavily downward from on high are borneThrough the pure ether and the viewless winds,And strike the eyes, disordering their joints.So piecing lustre often burns the eyes,Because it holdeth many seeds of fireWhich, working into eyes, engender pain.Again, whatever jaundiced people viewBecomes wan-yellow, since from out their bodiesFlow many seeds wan-yellow forth to meetThe films of things, and many too are mixedWithin their eye, which by contagion paintAll things with sallowness. Again, we viewFrom dark recesses things that stand in light,Because, when first has entered and possessedThe open eyes this nearer darkling air,Swiftly the shining air and luminousFolloweth in, which purges then the eyesAnd scatters asunder of that other airThe sable shadows, for in large degreesThis air is nimbler, nicer, and more strong.And soon as ever ‘thas filled and oped with lightThe pathways of the eyeballs, which beforeBlack air had blocked, there follow straightawayThose films of things out-standing in the light,Provoking vision—what we cannot doFrom out the light with objects in the dark,Because that denser darkling air behindFolloweth in, and fills each apertureAnd thus blockades the pathways of the eyesThat there no images of any thingsCan be thrown in and agitate the eyes.
And when from far away we do beholdThe squared towers of a city, oftRounded they seem,—on this account becauseEach distant angle is perceived obtuse,Or rather it is not perceived at all;And perishes its blow nor to our gazeArrives its stroke, since through such length of airAre borne along the idols that the airMakes blunt the idol of the angle’s pointBy numerous collidings. When thuswiseThe angles of the tower each and allHave quite escaped the sense, the stones appearAs rubbed and rounded on a turner’s wheel—Yet not like objects near and truly round,But with a semblance to them, shadowily.Likewise, our shadow in the sun appearsTo move along and follow our own stepsAnd imitate our carriage—if thou thinkestAir that is thus bereft of light can walk,Following the gait and motion of mankind.For what we use to name a shadow, sureIs naught but air deprived of light. No marvel:Because the earth from spot to spot is reftProgressively of light of sun, wheneverIn moving round we get within its way,While any spot of earth by us abandonedIs filled with light again, on this accountIt comes to pass that what was body’s shadowSeems still the same to follow after usIn one straight course. Since, evermore pour inNew lights of rays, and perish then the old,Just like the wool that’s drawn into the flame.Therefore the earth is easily spoiled of lightAnd easily refilled and from herselfWasheth the black shadows quite away.
And yet in this we don’t at all concedeThat eyes be cheated. For their task it isTo note in whatsoever place be light,In what be shadow: whether or no the gleamsBe still the same, and whether the shadow whichJust now was here is that one passing thither,Or whether the facts be what we said above,’Tis after all the reasoning of mindThat must decide; nor can our eyeballs knowThe nature of reality. And soAttach thou not this fault of mind to eyes,Nor lightly think our senses everywhereAre tottering. The ship in which we sailIs borne along, although it seems to stand;The ship that bides in roadstead is supposedThere to be passing by. And hills and fieldsSeem fleeing fast astern, past which we urgeThe ship and fly under the bellying sails.The stars, each one, do seem to pause, affixedTo the ethereal caverns, though they allForever are in motion, rising outAnd thence revisiting their far descentsWhen they have measured with their bodies brightThe span of heaven. And likewise sun and moonSeem biding in a roadstead,—objects which,As plain fact proves, are really borne along.Between two mountains far away aloftFrom midst the whirl of waters open liesA gaping exit for the fleet, and yetThey seem conjoined in a single isle.When boys themselves have stopped their spinning round,The halls still seem to whirl and posts to reel,Until they now must almost think the roofsThreaten to ruin down upon their heads.And now, when nature begins to lift on highThe sun’s red splendour and the tremulous fires,And raise him o’er the mountain-tops, those mountains—O’er which he seemeth then to thee to be,His glowing self hard by atingeing themWith his own fire—are yet away from usScarcely two thousand arrow-shots, indeedOft scarce five hundred courses of a dart;Although between those mountains and the sunLie the huge plains of ocean spread beneathThe vasty shores of ether, and interveneA thousand lands, possessed by many a folkAnd generations of wild beasts. Again,A pool of water of but a finger’s depth,Which lies between the stones along the pave,Offers a vision downward into earthAs far, as from the earth o’erspread on highThe gulfs of heaven; that thus thou seemest to viewClouds down below and heavenly bodies plungedWondrously in heaven under earth.Then too, when in the middle of the streamSticks fast our dashing horse, and down we gazeInto the river’s rapid waves, some forceSeems then to bear the body of the horse,Though standing still, reversely from his course,And swiftly push up-stream. And wheresoe’erWe cast our eyes across, all objects seemThus to be onward borne and flow alongIn the same way as we. A portico,Albeit it stands well propped from end to endOn equal columns, parallel and big,Contracts by stages in a narrow cone,When from one end the long, long whole is seen,—Until, conjoining ceiling with the floor,And the whole right side with the left, it drawsTogether to a cone’s nigh-viewless point.To sailors on the main the sun he seemsFrom out the waves to rise, and in the wavesTo set and bury his light—because indeedThey gaze on naught but water and the sky.Again, to gazers ignorant of the sea,Vessels in port seem, as with broken poops,To lean upon the water, quite agog;For any portion of the oars that’s raisedAbove the briny spray is straight, and straightThe rudders from above. But other parts,Those sunk, immersed below the water-line,Seem broken all and bended and inclinedSloping to upwards, and turned back to floatAlmost atop the water. And when the windsCarry the scattered drifts along the skyIn the night-time, then seem to glide alongThe radiant constellations ’gainst the cloudsAnd there on high to take far other courseFrom that whereon in truth they’re borne. And then,If haply our hand be set beneath one eyeAnd press below thereon, then to our gazeEach object which we gaze on seems to be,By some sensation twain—then twain the lightsOf lampions burgeoning in flowers of flame,And twain the furniture in all the house,Two-fold the visages of fellow-men,And twain their bodies. And again, when sleepHas bound our members down in slumber softAnd all the body lies in deep repose,Yet then we seem to self to be awakeAnd move our members; and in night’s blind gloomWe think to mark the daylight and the sun;And, shut within a room, yet still we seemTo change our skies, our oceans, rivers, hills,To cross the plains afoot, and hear new sounds,Though still the austere silence of the nightAbides around us, and to speak replies,Though voiceless. Other cases of the sortWondrously many do we see, which allSeek, so to say, to injure faith in sense—In vain, because the largest part of theseDeceives through mere opinions of the mind,Which we do add ourselves, feigning to seeWhat by the senses are not seen at all.For naught is harder than to separatePlain facts from dubious, which the mind forthwithAdds by itself.
Again, if one supposeThat naught is known, he knows not whether thisItself is able to be known, since heConfesses naught to know. Therefore with himI waive discussion—who has set his headEven where his feet should be. But let me grantThat this he knows,—I question: whence he knowsWhat ’tis to know and not-to-know in turn,And what created concept of the truth,And what device has proved the dubiousTo differ from the certain?—since in thingsHe’s heretofore seen naught of true. Thou’lt findThat from the senses first hath been createConcept of truth, nor can the senses beRebutted. For criterion must be foundWorthy of greater trust, which shall defeatThrough own authority the false by true;What, then, than these our senses must there beWorthy a greater trust? Shall reason, sprungFrom some false sense, prevail to contradictThose senses, sprung as reason wholly isFrom out the senses?—For lest these be true,All reason also then is falsified.Or shall the ears have power to blame the eyes,Or yet the touch the ears? Again, shall tasteAccuse this touch or shall the nose confuteOr eyes defeat it? Methinks not so it is:For unto each has been divided offIts function quite apart, its power to each;And thus we’re still constrained to perceiveThe soft, the cold, the hot apart, apartAll divers hues and whatso things there beConjoined with hues. Likewise the tasting tongueHas its own power apart, and smells apartAnd sounds apart are known. And thus it isThat no one sense can e’er convict another.Nor shall one sense have power to blame itself,Because it always must be deemed the same,Worthy of equal trust. And therefore whatAt any time unto these senses showed,The same is true. And if the reason beUnable to unravel us the causeWhy objects, which at hand were square, afarSeemed rounded, yet it more availeth us,Lacking the reason, to pretend a causeFor each configuration, than to letFrom out our hands escape the obvious thingsAnd injure primal faith in sense, and wreckAll those foundations upon which do restOur life and safety. For not only reasonWould topple down; but even our very lifeWould straightaway collapse, unless we daredTo trust our senses and to keep awayFrom headlong heights and places to be shunnedOf a like peril, and to seek with speedTheir opposites! Again, as in a building,If the first plumb-line be askew, and ifThe square deceiving swerve from lines exact,And if the level waver but the leastIn any part, the whole construction thenMust turn out faulty—shelving and askew,Leaning to back and front, incongruous,That now some portions seem about to fall,And falls the whole ere long—betrayed indeedBy first deceiving estimates: so tooThy calculations in affairs of lifeMust be askew and false, if sprung for theeFrom senses false. So all that troop of wordsMarshalled against the senses is quite vain.
And now remains to demonstrate with easeHow other senses each their things perceive.
Firstly, a sound and every voice is heard,When, getting into ears, they strike the senseWith their own body. For confess we mustEven voice and sound to be corporeal,Because they’re able on the sense to strike.Besides voice often scrapes against the throat,And screams in going out do make more roughThe wind-pipe—naturally enough, methinks,When, through the narrow exit rising upIn larger throng, these primal germs of voiceHave thus begun to issue forth. In sooth,Also the door of the mouth is scraped against[By air blown outward] from distended [cheeks].
And thus no doubt there is, that voice and wordsConsist of elements corporeal,With power to pain. Nor art thou unawareLikewise how much of body’s ta’en away,How much from very thews and powers of menMay be withdrawn by steady talk, prolongedEven from the rising splendour of the mornTo shadows of black evening,—above allIf ‘t be outpoured with most exceeding shouts.Therefore the voice must be corporeal,Since the long talker loses from his frameA part.
Moreover, roughness in the soundComes from the roughness in the primal germs,As a smooth sound from smooth ones is create;Nor have these elements a form the sameWhen the trump rumbles with a hollow roar,As when barbaric Berecynthian pipeBuzzes with raucous boomings, or when swansBy night from icy shores of HeliconWith wailing voices raise their liquid dirge.
Thus, when from deep within our frame we forceThese voices, and at mouth expel them forth,The mobile tongue, artificer of words,Makes them articulate, and too the lipsBy their formations share in shaping them.Hence when the space is short from starting-pointTo where that voice arrives, the very wordsMust too be plainly heard, distinctly marked.For then the voice conserves its own formation,Conserves its shape. But if the space betweenBe longer than is fit, the words must beThrough the much air confounded, and the voiceDisordered in its flight across the winds—And so it haps, that thou canst sound perceive,Yet not determine what the words may mean;To such degree confounded and encumberedThe voice approaches us. Again, one word,Sent from the crier’s mouth, may rouse all earsAmong the populace. And thus one voiceScatters asunder into many voices,Since it divides itself for separate ears,Imprinting form of word and a clear tone.But whatso part of voices fails to hitThe ears themselves perishes, borne beyond,Idly diffused among the winds. A part,Beating on solid porticoes, tossed backReturns a sound; and sometimes mocks the earWith a mere phantom of a word. When thisThou well hast noted, thou canst render countUnto thyself and others why it isAlong the lonely places that the rocksGive back like shapes of words in order like,When search we after comrades wanderingAmong the shady mountains, and aloudCall unto them, the scattered. I have seenSpots that gave back even voices six or sevenFor one thrown forth—for so the very hills,Dashing them back against the hills, kept onWith their reverberations. And these spotsThe neighbouring country-side doth feign to beHaunts of the goat-foot satyrs and the nymphs;And tells ye there be fauns, by whose night noiseAnd antic revels yonder they declareThe voiceless silences are broken oft,And tones of strings are made and wailings sweetWhich the pipe, beat by players’ finger-tips,Pours out; and far and wide the farmer-raceBegins to hear, when, shaking the garmentingsOf pine upon his half-beast head, god-PanWith puckered lip oft runneth o’er and o’erThe open reeds,—lest flute should cease to pourThe woodland music! Other prodigiesAnd wonders of this ilk they love to tell,Lest they be thought to dwell in lonely spotsAnd even by gods deserted. This is whyThey boast of marvels in their story-tellings;Or by some other reason are led on—Greedy, as all mankind hath ever been,To prattle fables into ears.
Again,One need not wonder how it comes aboutThat through those places (through which eyes cannotView objects manifest) sounds yet may passAnd assail the ears. For often we observePeople conversing, though the doors be closed;No marvel either, since all voice unharmedCan wind through bended apertures of things,While idol-films decline to—for they’re rent,Unless along straight apertures they swim,Like those in glass, through which all imagesDo fly across. And yet this voice itself,In passing through shut chambers of a house,Is dulled, and in a jumble enters ears,And sound we seem to hear far more than words.Moreover, a voice is into all directionsDivided up, since off from one anotherNew voices are engendered, when one voiceHath once leapt forth, outstarting into many—As oft a spark of fire is wont to sprinkleItself into its several fires. And so,Voices do fill those places hid behind,Which all are in a hubbub round about,Astir with sound. But idol-films do tend,As once sent forth, in straight directions all;Wherefore one can inside a wall see naught,Yet catch the voices from beyond the same.
Nor tongue and palate, whereby we flavour feel,Present more problems for more work of thought.Firstly, we feel a flavour in the mouth,When forth we squeeze it, in chewing up our food,—As any one perchance begins to squeezeWith hand and dry a sponge with water soaked.Next, all which forth we squeeze is spread aboutAlong the pores and intertwined pathsOf the loose-textured tongue. And so, when smoothThe bodies of the oozy flavour, thenDelightfully they touch, delightfullyThey treat all spots, around the wet and tricklingEnclosures of the tongue. And contrariwise,They sting and pain the sense with their assault,According as with roughness they’re supplied.Next, only up to palate is the pleasureComing from flavour; for in truth when down‘Thas plunged along the throat, no pleasure is,Whilst into all the frame it spreads around;Nor aught it matters with what food is fedThe body, if only what thou take thou canstDistribute well digested to the frameAnd keep the stomach in a moist career.
Now, how it is we see some food for some,Others for others…
I will unfold, or wherefore what to someIs foul and bitter, yet the same to othersCan seem delectable to eat,—why hereSo great the distance and the difference isThat what is food to one to some becomesFierce poison, as a certain snake there isWhich, touched by spittle of a man, will wasteAnd end itself by gnawing up its coil.Again, fierce poison is the helleboreTo us, but puts the fat on goats and quails.That thou mayst know by what devices thisIs brought about, in chief thou must recallWhat we have said before, that seeds are keptCommixed in things in divers modes. Again,As all the breathing creatures which take foodAre outwardly unlike, and outer cutAnd contour of their members bounds them round,Each differing kind by kind, they thus consistOf seeds of varying shape. And furthermore,Since seeds do differ, divers too must beThe interstices and paths (which we do callThe apertures) in all the members, evenIn mouth and palate too. Thus some must beMore small or yet more large, three-cornered someAnd others squared, and many others round,And certain of them many-angled tooIn many modes. For, as the combinationAnd motion of their divers shapes demand,The shapes of apertures must be diverseAnd paths must vary according to their wallsThat bound them. Hence when what is sweet to some,Becomes to others bitter, for him to whom’Tis sweet, the smoothest particles must needsHave entered caressingly the palate’s pores.And, contrariwise, with those to whom that sweetIs sour within the mouth, beyond a doubtThe rough and barbed particles have gotInto the narrows of the apertures.Now easy it is from these affairs to knowWhatever…
Indeed, where one from o’er-abundant bileIs stricken with fever, or in other wiseFeels the roused violence of some malady,There the whole frame is now upset, and thereAll the positions of the seeds are changed,—So that the bodies which before were fitTo cause the savour, now are fit no more,And now more apt are others which be ableTo get within the pores and gender sour.Both sorts, in sooth, are intermixed in honey—What oft we’ve proved above to thee before.Now come, and I will indicate what wiseImpact of odour on the nostrils touches.And first, ’tis needful there be many thingsFrom whence the streaming flow of varied odoursMay roll along, and we’re constrained to thinkThey stream and dart and sprinkle themselves aboutImpartially. But for some breathing creaturesOne odour is more apt, to others another—Because of differing forms of seeds and pores.Thus on and on along the zephyrs beesAre led by odour of honey, vultures tooBy carcasses. Again, the forward powerOf scent in dogs doth lead the hunter onWhithersoever the splay-foot of wild beastHath hastened its career; and the white goose,The saviour of the Roman citadel,Forescents afar the odour of mankind.Thus, diversly to divers ones is givenPeculiar smell that leadeth each alongTo his own food or makes him start abackFrom loathsome poison, and in this wise areThe generations of the wild preserved.
Yet is this pungence not alone in odoursOr in the class of flavours; but, likewise,The look of things and hues agree not allSo well with senses unto all, but thatSome unto some will be, to gaze upon,More keen and painful. Lo, the raving lions,They dare not face and gaze upon the cockWho’s wont with wings to flap away the nightFrom off the stage, and call the beaming mornWith clarion voice—and lions straightway thusBethink themselves of flight, because, ye see,Within the body of the cocks there beSome certain seeds, which, into lions’ eyesInjected, bore into the pupils deepAnd yield such piercing pain they can’t hold outAgainst the cocks, however fierce they be—Whilst yet these seeds can’t hurt our gaze the least,Either because they do not penetrate,Or since they have free exit from the eyesAs soon as penetrating, so that thusThey cannot hurt our eyes in any partBy there remaining.
To speak once more of odour;Whatever assail the nostrils, some can travelA longer way than others. None of them,However, ‘s borne so far as sound or voice—While I omit all mention of such thingsAs hit the eyesight and assail the vision.For slowly on a wandering course it comesAnd perishes sooner, by degrees absorbedEasily into all the winds of air;—And first, because from deep inside the thingIt is discharged with labour (for the factThat every object, when ’tis shivered, ground,Or crumbled by the fire, will smell the strongerIs sign that odours flow and part awayFrom inner regions of the things). And next,Thou mayest see that odour is createOf larger primal germs than voice, becauseIt enters not through stony walls, wherethroughUnfailingly the voice and sound are borne;Wherefore, besides, thou wilt observe ’tis notSo easy to trace out in whatso placeThe smelling object is. For, dallying onAlong the winds, the particles cool off,And then the scurrying messengers of thingsArrive our senses, when no longer hot.So dogs oft wander astray, and hunt the scent.
Now mark, and hear what objects move the mind,And learn, in few, whence unto intellectDo come what come. And first I tell thee this:That many images of objects roveIn many modes to every region round—So thin that easily the one with other,When once they meet, uniteth in mid-air,Like gossamer or gold-leaf. For, indeed,Far thinner are they in their fabric thanThose images which take a hold on eyesAnd smite the vision, since through body’s poresThey penetrate, and inwardly stir upThe subtle nature of mind and smite the sense.Thus, Centaurs and the limbs of Scyllas, thusThe Cerberus-visages of dogs we see,And images of people gone before—Dead men whose bones earth bosomed long ago;Because the images of every kindAre everywhere about us borne—in partThose which are gendered in the very airOf own accord, in part those others whichFrom divers things do part away, and thoseWhich are compounded, made from out their shapes.For soothly from no living Centaur isThat phantom gendered, since no breed of beastLike him was ever; but, when imagesOf horse and man by chance have come together,They easily cohere, as aforesaid,At once, through subtle nature and fabric thin.In the same fashion others of this ilkCreated are. And when they’re quickly borneIn their exceeding lightness, easily(As earlier I showed) one subtle image,Compounded, moves by its one blow the mind,Itself so subtle and so strangely quick.
That these things come to pass as I record,From this thou easily canst understand:So far as one is unto other like,Seeing with mind as well as with the eyesMust come to pass in fashion not unlike.Well, now, since I have shown that I perceiveHaply a lion through those idol-filmsSuch as assail my eyes, ’tis thine to knowAlso the mind is in like manner moved,And sees, nor more nor less than eyes do see(Except that it perceives more subtle films)The lion and aught else through idol-films.And when the sleep has overset our frame,The mind’s intelligence is now awake,Still for no other reason, save that these—The self-same films as when we are awake—Assail our minds, to such degree indeedThat we do seem to see for sure the manWhom, void of life, now death and earth have gainedDominion over. And nature forces thisTo come to pass because the body’s sensesAre resting, thwarted through the members all,Unable now to conquer false with true;And memory lies prone and languishesIn slumber, nor protests that he, the manWhom the mind feigns to see alive, long sinceHath been the gain of death and dissolution.
And further, ’tis no marvel idols moveAnd toss their arms and other members roundIn rhythmic time—and often in men’s sleepsIt haps an image this is seen to do;In sooth, when perishes the former image,And other is gendered of another pose,That former seemeth to have changed its gestures.Of course the change must be conceived as speedy;So great the swiftness and so great the storeOf idol-things, and (in an instant briefAs mind can mark) so great, again, the storeOf separate idol-parts to bring supplies.
It happens also that there is suppliedSometimes an image not of kind the same;But what before was woman, now at handIs seen to stand there, altered into male;Or other visage, other age succeeds;But slumber and oblivion take careThat we shall feel no wonder at the thing.
And much in these affairs demands inquiry,And much, illumination—if we craveWith plainness to exhibit facts. And first,Why doth the mind of one to whom the whimTo think has come behold forthwith that thing?Or do the idols watch upon our will,And doth an image unto us occur,Directly we desire—if heart preferThe sea, the land, or after all the sky?Assemblies of the citizens, parades,Banquets, and battles, these and all doth she,Nature, create and furnish at our word?—Maugre the fact that in same place and spotAnother’s mind is meditating thingsAll far unlike. And what, again, of this:When we in sleep behold the idols step,In measure, forward, moving supple limbs,Whilst forth they put each supple arm in turnWith speedy motion, and with eyeing headsRepeat the movement, as the foot keeps time?Forsooth, the idols they are steeped in art,And wander to and fro well taught indeed,—Thus to be able in the time of nightTo make such games! Or will the truth be this:Because in one least moment that we mark—That is, the uttering of a single sound—There lurk yet many moments, which the reasonDiscovers to exist, therefore it comesThat, in a moment how so brief ye will,The divers idols are hard by, and readyEach in its place diverse? So great the swiftness,So great, again, the store of idol-things,And so, when perishes the former image,And other is gendered of another pose,The former seemeth to have changed its gestures.And since they be so tenuous, mind can markSharply alone the ones it strains to see;And thus the rest do perish one and all,Save those for which the mind prepares itself.Further, it doth prepare itself indeed,And hopes to see what follows after each—Hence this result. For hast thou not observedHow eyes, essaying to perceive the fine,Will strain in preparation, otherwiseUnable sharply to perceive at all?Yet know thou canst that, even in objects plain,If thou attendest not, ’tis just the sameAs if ‘twere all the time removed and far.What marvel, then, that mind doth lose the rest,Save those to which ‘thas given up itself?So ’tis that we conjecture from small signsThings wide and weighty, and involve ourselvesIn snarls of self-deceit.