ABSTRACT

Stage plays also captivated me, with their sights full of the images of my own miseries: fuel for my own fire. Now, why does a man like to be made sad by viewing doleful and tragic scenes, which he himself could not by any means endure?… What is this wretched madness?… For what could be more wretched than the wretch who has no pity upon himself, who sheds tears over Dido, dead for the love of Aeneas, but who sheds no tears at his own death in not loving thee, O God, light of my heart, bread of the inner mouth of my soul, O power that links together my mind with my inmost thoughts? … For my own condition I shed no tears, though I wept for Dido, who “sought out the sword’s point,” while I myself was seeking the lowest rung of thy creation, having forsaken thee— earth sinking back again to earth. And, if I had been forbidden to read these poems, I would have grieved that I was not allowed to read what grieved me. This sort of madness is considered more honorable and more fruitful learning than the beginner’s course in which I learned to read and write.