O madness, which knowest not how to love men, like men! O foolish man that I then was, enduring impatiently the lot of man!
I fretted then, sighed, wept, was distracted; had neither rest nor counsel. For I bore about a shattered and bleeding soul,
impatient of being borne by me, yet where to repose it, I found not. Not in calm groves, not in games and music, nor in fragrant
spots, nor in curious banquetings, nor in the pleasures of the bed and the couch; nor (finally) in books or
poesy, found it repose. All things looked ghastly, yea, the very light; whatsoever was not what he was, was revolting
and hateful, except groaning and tears. For in those alone found I a little refreshment. But when my soul was withdrawn from
them a huge load of misery weighed me down. To Thee, O Lord, it ought to have been raised, for Thee to lighten; I knew it;
but neither could nor would; the more, since, when I thought of Thee, Thou wert not to me any solid or substantial thing.
wert not Thyself, but a mere phantom, and my error was my God. If I offered to discharge my load thereon, that it might
rest, it glided through the void, and came rushing down again on me; and I had remained to myself a hapless spot, where I
could neither be, nor be from thence. For whither should my heart flee from my heart? Whither should I flee from myself? Whither
not follow myself? And yet I fled out of my country; for so should mine eyes less look for him, where they were not wont to
him. And thus from Thagaste, I came to Carthage.