What was it in you, theft of mine, that I, poor wretch, doted on—you deed of darkness—in my sixteenth year? You were not beautiful, for you were a theft. But are you anything at all, so that I could analyze the case with you? Those pears that we stole were lovely to look at because they were your creation, Beauty beyond compare, Creator of all, you good God—God the highest good and my true good. Those pears were truly pleasant to look at, but it was not for them that my miserable soul lusted, for I had an abundance of better pears. I stole those simply so that I might steal, for, having stolen them, I threw them away. My sole gratification in them was my own sin, which I was pleased to enjoy; for, if any one of these pears entered my mouth, the only good flavor it had was my sin in eating it. And now, Lord my God, I ask what it was in that theft of mine that caused me such delight; for it had no beauty of its own—certainly not the sort of beauty that exists in justice and wisdom, nor such as is in the mind, memory, senses, and the animal life of man; nor the kind that is the glory and beauty of the stars in their courses; nor the beauty of the earth, or the sea—teeming with spawning life, replacing in birth what dies and decays. Indeed, it did not have that false and shadowy beauty which attends the deceptions of vice.
So we see pride wearing the mask of high-spiritedness, although only you, God, are high above all. Ambition seeks honor and glory, whereas only you should be honored above all, and glorified forever. The powerful man seeks to be feared, because of his cruelty; but who ought really to be feared but God alone? What can be forced away or withdrawn out of his power—when or where or where to or by whom?⁠a The enticements of the lustful claim the name of love; and yet nothing is more enticing than your love, nor is anything loved more healthfully than your truth, bright and beautiful above all. Curiosity prompts a desire for knowledge, whereas it is only you who know all things supremely. Indeed, ignorance and foolishness themselves go masked under the names of simplicity and innocence; yet there is no being that has true simplicity like yours, and none is as innocent as you are. So it is that a sinner is harmed by his own deeds. Human sloth pretends to long for rest, but what sure rest is there except in the Lord? Luxury would gladly be called plenty and abundance; but you are the fullness and unfailing abundance of unfading joy. Prodigality presents a show of liberality; but you are the most lavish giver of all good things. Covetousness desires to possess much; but you are already the possessor of all things. Envy contends that its aim is for excellence; but what is so excellent as you? Anger seeks revenge; but who avenges more justly than you? Fear recoils at the unfamiliar and the sudden changes which threaten things beloved, and is wary for its own security; but what can happen that is unfamiliar or sudden to you? Or who can deprive you of what you love? Where, really, is there unshaken security except with you? Grief languishes for things lost in which desire had taken delight, because it wills to have nothing taken from it, just as nothing can be taken from you.
Thus the soul commits fornication when she is turned from you, and seeks apart from you what she cannot find pure and untainted until she returns to you. All things thus imitate you—but pervertedly—when they separate themselves far from you and raise themselves up against you. But, even in this act of perverse imitation, they acknowledge you to be the Creator of all nature, and recognize that there is no place where they can altogether separate themselves from you. What was it, then, that I loved in that theft? And in what was I imitating my Lord, even in a corrupted and perverted way? Did I wish, if only by gesture, to rebel against your law, even though I had no power to do so actually—so that, even as a captive, I might produce a sort of counterfeit liberty, by doing with impunity deeds that were forbidden, in a deluded sense of omnipotence? Behold this servant of yours, fleeing from his Lord and following a shadow! What rottenness! What monstrousness of life and abyss of death! Could I find pleasure only in what was unlawful, and only because it was unlawful?