The Cloud of Unknowing
Anonymous
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INTRODUCTION
Glossary
Here Beginneth the Prayer on the Prologue
Here Beginneth the Prologue
Here Beginneth a Table of the Chapters
HERE BEGINNETH THE FIRST CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE SECOND CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE THIRD CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE FOURTH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE FIFTH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE SIXTH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE SEVENTH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE EIGHTH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE NINTH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE TENTH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE ELEVENTH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE TWELFTH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE THIRTEENTH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE FOURTEENTH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE FIFTEENTH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE SIXTEENTH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE SEVENTEENTH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE EIGHTEENTH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE NINETEENTH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE TWENTIETH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE ONE AND TWENTIETH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE TWO AND TWENTIETH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE THREE AND TWENTIETH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE FOUR AND TWENTIETH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE FIVE AND TWENTIETH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE SIX AND TWENTIETH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE SEVEN AND TWENTIETH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE EIGHT AND TWENTIETH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE NINE AND TWENTIETH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE THIRTIETH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE ONE AND THIRTIETH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE TWO AND THIRTIETH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE THREE AND THIRTIETH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE FOUR AND THIRTIETH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE FIVE AND THIRTIETH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE SIX AND THIRTIETH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE SEVEN AND THIRTIETH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE EIGHT AND THIRTIETH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE NINE AND THIRTIETH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE FORTIETH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE ONE AND FORTIETH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE TWO AND FORTIETH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE THREE AND FORTIETH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE FOUR AND FORTIETH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE FIVE AND FORTIETH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE SIX AND FORTIETH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE SEVEN AND FORTIETH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE EIGHT AND FORTIETH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE NINE AND FORTIETH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE FIFTIETH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE ONE AND FIFTIETH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE TWO AND FIFTIETH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE THREE AND FIFTIETH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE FOUR AND FIFTIETH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE FIVE AND FIFTIETH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE SIX AND FIFTIETH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE SEVEN AND FIFTIETH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE EIGHT AND FIFTIETH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE NINE AND FIFTIETH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE SIXTIETH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE ONE AND SIXTIETH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE TWO AND SIXTIETH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE THREE AND SIXTIETH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE FOUR AND SIXTIETH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE FIVE AND SIXTIETH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE SIX AND SIXTIETH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE SEVEN AND SIXTIETH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE EIGHT AND SIXTIETH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE NINE AND SIXTIETH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE SEVENTIETH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE ONE AND SEVENTIETH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE TWO AND SEVENTIETH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE THREE AND SEVENTIETH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE FOUR AND SEVENTIETH CHAPTER
HERE BEGINNETH THE FIVE AND SEVENTIETH CHAPTER
Scanned by Harry Plantinga, January 1998
This book is in the public domain.
A BOOK OF CONTEMPLATION THE WHICH
IS CALLED THE CLOUD OF UNKNOWING, IN THE
WHICH A SOUL IS ONED WITH GOD
Edited from the British Museum MS. Harl. 674
With an Introduction
BY
EVELYN UNDERHILL
THE little family of mystical treatises which is known to students
as "the Cloud of Unknowing group," deserves more attention than it has
hitherto received from English lovers of mysticism: for it represents
the first expression in our own tongue of that great mystic tradition
of the Christian Neoplatonists which gathered up, remade, and "salted
with Christ's salt" all that was best in the spiritual wisdom of the
ancient world.
That wisdom made its definite entrance into the Catholic fold
about A.D. 500, in the writings of the profound and nameless mystic who
chose to call himself "Dionysius the Areopagite." Three hundred and
fifty years later, those writings were translated into Latin by John
Scotus Erigena, a scholar at the court of Charlemagne, and so became
available to the ecclesiastical world of the West. Another five hundred
years elapsed, during which their influence was felt, and felt
strongly, by the mystics of every European country: by St. Bernard, the
Victorines, St. Bonaventura, St. Thomas Aquinas. Every reader of Dante
knows the part which they play in the Paradiso. Then, about the
middle of the 14th century, England—at that time in the height of her
great mystical period—led the way with the first translation into the
vernacular of the Areopagite's work. In Dionise Hid Divinite, a
version of the Mystica Theologia, this spiritual treasure-house
was first made accessible to those outside the professionally religious
class. Surely this is a fact which all lovers of mysticism, all
"spiritual patriots," should be concerned to hold in remembrance.
It is supposed by most scholars that Dionise Hid
Divinite, which—appearing as it did in an epoch of great spiritual
vitality—quickly attained to a considerable circulation, is by the
same hand which wrote the Cloud of Unknowing and its companion
books; and that this hand also produced an English paraphrase of
Richard of St. Victor's Benjamin Minor, another work of much
authority on the contemplative life. Certainly the influence of Richard
is only second to that of Dionysius in this unknown mystic's own
work—work, however, which owes as much to the deep personal
experience, and extraordinary psychological gifts of its writer, as to
the tradition that he inherited from the past.
Nothing is known of him; beyond the fact, which seems clear
from his writings, that he was a cloistered monk devoted to the
contemplative life. It has been thought that he was a Carthusian. But
the rule of that austere order, whose members live in hermit-like
seclusion, and scarcely meet except for the purpose of divine worship,
can hardly have afforded him opportunity of observing and enduring all
those tiresome tricks and absurd mannerisms of which he gives so
amusing and realistic a description in the lighter passages of the
Cloud. These passages betray the half-humorous exasperation of the
temperamental recluse, nervous, fastidious, and hypersensitive, loving
silence and peace, but compelled to a daily and hourly companionship
with persons of a less contemplative type: some finding in extravagant
and meaningless gestures an outlet for suppressed vitality; others
overflowing with a terrible cheerfulness like "giggling girls and nice
japing jugglers"; others so lacking in repose that they "can neither
sit still, stand still, nor lie still, unless they be either wagging
with their feet or else somewhat doing with their hands." Though he
cannot go to the length of condemning these habits as mortal sins, the
author of the Cloud leaves us in no doubt as to the irritation
with which they inspired him, or the distrust with which he regards the
spiritual claims of those who fidget.
The attempt to identify this mysterious writer with Walter
Hilton, the author of The Scale of Perfection, has completely
failed: though Hilton's work—especially the exquisite fragment called
the Song of Angels—certainly betrays his influence. The works
attributed to him, if we exclude the translations from Dionysius and
Richard of St. Victor, are only five in number. They are, first, The
Cloud of Unknowing—the longest and most complete exposition of its
author's peculiar doctrine—and, depending from it, four short tracts
or letters: The Epistle of Prayer, The Epistle of Discretion in the
Stirrings of the Soul, The Epistle of Privy Counsel, and The
Treatise of Discerning of Spirits. Some critics have even disputed
the claim of the writer of the Cloud to the authorship of these
little works, regarding them as the production of a group or school of
contemplatives devoted to the study and practice of the Dionysian
mystical theology; but the unity of thought and style found in them
makes this hypothesis at least improbable. Everything points rather to
their being the work of an original mystical genius, of strongly marked
character and great literary ability: who, whilst he took the framework
of his philosophy from Dionysius the Areopagite, and of his psychology
from Richard of St. Victor, yet is in no sense a mere imitator of these
masters, but introduced a genuinely new element into mediaeval
religious literature.
What, then, were his special characteristics? Whence came the
fresh colour which he gave to the old Platonic theory of mystical
experience? First, I think, from the combination of high spiritual
gifts with a vivid sense of humour, keen powers of observation, a
robust common-sense: a balance of qualities not indeed rare amongst
the mystics, but here presented to us in an extreme form. In his eager
gazing on divinity this contemplative never loses touch with humanity,
never forgets the sovereign purpose of his writings; which is not a
declaration of the spiritual favours he has received, but a helping of
his fellow-men to share them. Next, he has a great simplicity of
outlook, which enables him to present the result of his highest
experiences and intuitions in the most direct and homely language. So
actual, and so much a part of his normal existence, are his
apprehensions of spiritual reality, that he can give them to us in the
plain words of daily life: and thus he is one of the most realistic of
mystical writers. He abounds in vivid little phrases—"Call sin a
lump": "Short prayer pierceth heaven": "Nowhere bodily, is
everywhere ghostly": "Who that will not go the strait way to heaven, .
. . shall go the soft way to hell." His range of experience is a wide
one. He does not disdain to take a hint from the wizards and
necromancers on the right way to treat the devil; he draws his
illustrations of divine mercy from the homeliest incidents of
friendship and parental love. A skilled theologian, quoting St.
Augustine and Thomas Aquinas, and using with ease the language of
scholasticism, he is able, on the other hand, to express the deepest
speculations of mystical philosophy without resorting to academic
terminology: as for instance where he describes the spiritual heaven as
a "state" rather than a "place":
"For heaven ghostly is as nigh down as up, and up as down:
behind as before, before as behind, on one side as other. Insomuch,
that whoso had a true desire for to be at heaven, then that same time
he were in heaven ghostly. For the high and the next way thither is run
by desires, and not by paces of feet."
His writings, though they touch on many subjects, are chiefly
concerned with the art of contemplative prayer; that "blind intent
stretching to God" which, if it be wholly set on Him, cannot fail to
reach its goal. A peculiar talent for the description and
discrimination of spiritual states has enabled him to discern and set
before us, with astonishing precision and vividness, not only the
strange sensations, the confusion and bewilderment of the beginner in
the early stages of contemplation—the struggle with distracting
thoughts, the silence, the dark—and the unfortunate state of those
theoretical mystics who, "swollen with pride and with curiosity of much
clergy and letterly cunning as in clerks," miss that treasure which is
"never got by study but all only by grace"; but also the happiness of
those whose "sharp dart of longing love" has not "failed of the prick,
the which is God."
A great simplicity characterises his doctrine of the soul's
attainment of the Absolute. For him there is but one central necessity:
the perfect and passionate setting of the will upon the Divine, so that
it is "thy love and thy meaning, the choice and point of thine heart."
Not by deliberate ascetic practices, not by refusal of the world, not
by intellectual striving, but by actively loving and choosing, by that
which a modern psychologist has called "the synthesis of love and will"
does the spirit of man achieve its goal. "For silence is not God," he
says in the Epistle of Discretion, "nor speaking is not God;
fasting is not God, nor eating is not God; loneliness is not God, nor
company is not God; nor yet any of all the other two such contraries.
He is hid between them, and may not be found by any work of thy soul,
but all only by love of thine heart. He may not be known by reason, He
may not be gotten by thought, nor concluded by understanding; but He
may be loved and chosen with the true lovely will of thine heart. . .
. Such a blind shot with the sharp dart of longing love may never fail
of the prick, the which is God."
To him who has so loved and chosen, and "in a true will and
by an whole intent does purpose him to be a perfect follower of Christ,
not only in active living, but in the sovereignest point of
contemplative living, the which is possible by grace for to be come to
in this present life," these writings are addressed. In the prologue of
the Cloud of Unknowing we find the warning, so often prefixed to
mediaeval mystical works, that it shall on no account be lent, given,
or read to other men: who could not understand, and might misunderstand
in a dangerous sense, its peculiar message. Nor was this warning a mere
expression of literary vanity. If we may judge by the examples of
possible misunderstanding against which he is careful to guard himself,
the almost tiresome reminders that all his remarks are "ghostly, not
bodily meant," the standard of intelligence which the author expected
from his readers was not a high one. He even fears that some "young
presumptuous ghostly disciples" may understand the injunction to "lift
up the heart" in a merely physical manner; and either "stare in the
stars as if they would be above the moon," or "travail their fleshly
hearts outrageously in their breasts" in the effort to make literal
"ascensions" to God. Eccentricities of this kind he finds not only
foolish but dangerous; they outrage nature, destroy sanity and health,
and "hurt full sore the silly soul, and make it fester in fantasy
feigned of fiends." He observes with a touch of arrogance that his book
is not intended for these undisciplined seekers after the abnormal and
the marvellous, nor yet for "fleshly janglers, flatterers and blamers,
. . . nor none of these curious, lettered, nor unlearned men." It is to
those who feel themselves called to the true prayer of contemplation,
to the search for God, whether in the cloister or the world—whose
"little secret love" is at once the energizing cause of all action, and
the hidden sweet savour of life—that he addresses himself. These he
instructs in that simple yet difficult art of recollection, the
necessary preliminary of any true communion with the spiritual order,
in which all sensual images, all memories and thoughts, are as he says,
"trodden down under the cloud of forgetting" until "nothing lives in
the working mind but a naked intent stretching to God." This "intent
stretching"—this loving and vigorous determination of the will—he
regards as the central fact of the mystical life; the very heart of
effective prayer. Only by its exercise can the spirit, freed from the
distractions of memory and sense, focus itself upon Reality and ascend
with "a privy love pressed" to that "Cloud of Unknowing"—the Divine
Ignorance of the Neoplatonists—wherein is "knit up the ghostly knot of
burning love betwixt thee and thy God, in ghostly onehead and according
of will."
There is in this doctrine something which should be
peculiarly congenial to the activistic tendencies of modern thought.
Here is no taint of quietism, no invitation to a spiritual limpness.
From first to last glad and deliberate work is demanded of the
initiate: an all-round wholeness of experience is insisted on. "A man
may not be fully active, but if he be in part contemplative; nor yet
fully contemplative, as it may be here, but if he be in part active."
Over and over again, the emphasis is laid on this active aspect of all
true spirituality—always a favourite theme of the great English
mystics. "Love cannot be lazy," said Richard Rolle. So too for the
author of the Cloud energy is the mark of true affection. "Do
forth ever, more and more, so that thou be ever doing. . . . Do on then
fast; let see how thou bearest thee. Seest thou not how He standeth
and abideth thee?"
True, the will alone, however ardent and industrious, cannot
of itself set up communion with the supernal world: this is "the work
of only God, specially wrought in what soul that Him liketh." But man
can and must do his part. First, there are the virtues to be acquired:
those "ornaments of the Spiritual Marriage" with which no mystic can
dispense. Since we can but behold that which we are, his character must
be set in order, his mind and heart made beautiful and pure, before he
can look on the triple star of Goodness, Truth, and Beauty, which is
God. Every great spiritual teacher has spoken in the same sense: of the
need for that which Rolle calls the "mending of life"—regeneration,
the rebuilding of character—as the preparation of the contemplative
act.
For the author of the Cloud all human virtue is
comprised in the twin qualities of Humility and Charity. He who has
these, has all. Humility, in accordance with the doctrine of Richard of
St. Victor, he identifies with self-knowledge; the terrible vision of
the soul as it is, which induces first self-abasement and then
self-purification—the beginning of all spiritual growth, and the
necessary antecedent of all knowledge of God. "Therefore swink and
sweat in all that thou canst and mayst, for to get thee a true knowing
and a feeling of thyself as thou art; and then I trow that soon after
that, thou shalt have a true knowing and a feeling of God as He is."
As all man's feeling and thought of himself and his relation
to God is comprehended in Humility, so all his feeling and thought of
God in Himself is comprehended in Charity; the self-giving love of
Divine Perfection "in Himself and for Himself" which Hilton calls "the
sovereign and the essential joy." Together these two virtues should
embrace the sum of his responses to the Universe; they should govern
his attitude to man as well as his attitude to God. "Charity is nought
else . . . but love of God for Himself above all creatures, and of man
for God even as thyself."
Charity and Humility, then, together with the ardent and
industrious will, are the necessary possessions of each soul set upon
this adventure. Their presence it is which marks out the true from the
false mystic: and it would seem, from the detailed, vivid, and often
amusing descriptions of the sanctimonious, the hypocritical, the
self-sufficient, and the self-deceived in their "diverse and wonderful
variations," that such a test was as greatly needed in the "Ages of
Faith" as it is at the present day. Sham spirituality flourished in the
mediaeval cloister, and offered a constant opportunity of error to
those young enthusiasts who were not yet aware that the true freedom of
eternity "cometh not with observation." Affectations of sanctity,
pretense to rare mystical experiences, were a favourite means of
advertisement. Psychic phenomena, too, seem to have been common:
ecstasies, visions, voices, the scent of strange perfumes, the hearing
of sweet sounds. For these supposed indications of Divine favour, the
author of the Cloud has no more respect than the modern
psychologist: and here, of course, he is in agreement with all the
greatest writers on mysticism, who are unanimous in their dislike and
distrust of all visionary and auditive experience. Such things, he
considers, are most often hallucination: and, where they are not,
should be regarded as the accidents rather than the substance of the
contemplative life—the harsh rind of sense, which covers the sweet nut
of "pure ghostliness." Were we truly spiritual, we should not need
them; for our communion with Reality would then be the direct and
ineffable intercourse of like with like.
Moreover, these automatism are amongst the most dangerous
instruments of self-deception. "Ofttimes," he says of those who
deliberately seek for revelations, "the devil feigneth quaint sounds in
their ears, quaint lights and shining in their eyes, and wonderful
smells in their noses: and all is but falsehood." Hence it often
happens to those who give themselves up to such experiences, that "fast
after such a false feeling, cometh a false knowing in the Fiend's
school: . . . for I tell thee truly, that the devil hath his
contemplatives, as God hath His." Real spiritual illumination, he
thinks, seldom comes by way of these psycho-sensual automatism "into
the body by the windows of our wits." It springs up within the soul in
"abundance of ghostly gladness." With so great an authority it comes,
bringing with it such wonder and such love, that "he that feeleth it
may not have it suspect." But all other abnormal
experiences—"comforts, sounds and gladness, and sweetness, that come
from without suddenly"—should be set aside, as more often resulting in
frenzies and feebleness of spirit than in genuine increase of "ghostly
strength."
This healthy and manly view of the mystical life, as a growth
towards God, a right employment of the will, rather than a short cut to
hidden knowledge or supersensual experience, is one of the strongest
characteristics of the writer of the Cloud; and constitutes
perhaps his greatest claim on our respect. "Mean only God," he says
again and again; "Press upon Him with longing love"; "A good will
is the substance of all perfection." To those who have this good will,
he offers his teaching: pointing out the dangers in their way, the
errors of mood and of conduct into which they may fall. They are to set
about this spiritual work not only with energy, but with courtesy:
not "snatching as it were a greedy greyhound" at spiritual
satisfactions, but gently and joyously pressing towards Him Whom
Julian of Norwich called "our most courteous Lord." A glad spirit of
dalliance is more becoming to them than the grim determination of the
fanatic.
"Shall I, a gnat which dances in Thy ray,
Dare to be reverent."
Further, he communicates to them certain "ghostly devices" by
which they may overcome the inevitable difficulties encountered by
beginners in contemplation: the distracting thoughts and memories which
torment the self that is struggling to focus all its attention upon the
spiritual sphere. The stern repression of such thoughts, however
spiritual, he knows to be essential to success: even sin, once it is
repented of, must be forgotten in order that Perfect Goodness may be
known. The "little word God," and "the little word Love," are the only
ideas which may dwell in the contemplative's mind. Anything else splits
his attention, and soon proceeds by mental association to lead him
further and further from the consideration of that supersensual Reality
which he seeks.
The primal need of the purified soul, then, is the power of
Concentration. His whole being must be set towards the Object of his
craving if he is to attain to it: "Look that nothing live in thy
working mind, but a naked intent stretching into God." Any thought of
Him is inadequate, and for that reason defeats its own end—a doctrine,
of course, directly traceable to the "Mystical Theology" of Dionysius
the Areopagite. "Of God Himself can no man think," says the writer of
the Cloud, "And therefore I would leave all that thing that I
can think, and choose to my love that thing that I cannot think. "The
universes which are amenable to the intellect can never satisfy the
instincts of the heart.
Further, there is to be no wilful choosing of method: no
fussy activity of the surface-intelligence. The mystic who seeks the
divine Cloud of Unknowing is to be surrendered to the direction of his
deeper mind, his transcendental consciousness: that "spark of the soul"
which is in touch with eternal realities. "Meddle thou not therewith,
as thou wouldest help it, for dread lest thou spill all. Be thou but
the tree, and let it be the wright: be thou but the house, and let it
be the husbandman dwelling therein."
In the Epistle of Privy Counsel there is a passage
which expresses with singular completeness the author's theory of this
contemplative art—this silent yet ardent encounter of the soul with
God. Prayer, said Mechthild of Magdeburg, brings together two lovers,
God and the soul, in a narrow room where they speak much of love: and
here the rules which govern that meeting are laid down by a master's
hand. "When thou comest by thyself," he says, "think not before what
thou shalt do after, but forsake as well good thoughts as evil
thoughts, and pray not with thy mouth but list thee right well. And
then if thou aught shalt say, look not how much nor how little that it
be, nor weigh not what it is nor what it bemeaneth . . . and look that
nothing live in thy working mind but a naked intent stretching into
God, not clothed in any special thought of God in Himself. . . . This
naked intent freely fastened and grounded in very belief shall be
nought else to thy thought and to thy feeling but a naked thought and a
blind feeling of thine own being: as if thou saidest thus unto God,
within in thy meaning, `That what I am, Lord, I offer unto Thee,
without any looking to any quality of Thy Being, but only that Thou art
as Thou art, without any more.' That meek darkness be thy mirror, and
thy whole remembrance. Think no further of thyself than I bid thee do
of thy God, so that thou be one with Him in spirit, as thus without
departing and scattering, for He is thy being, and in Him thou art that
thou art; not only by cause and by being, but also, He is in thee both
thy cause and thy being. And therefore think on God in this work as
thou dost on thyself, and on thyself as thou dost on God: that He is as
He is and thou art as thou art, and that thy thought be not scattered
nor departed, but proved in Him that is All."
The conception of reality which underlies this profound and
beautiful passage, has much in common with that found in the work of
many other mystics; since it is ultimately derived from the great
Neoplatonic philosophy of the contemplative life. But the writer
invests it, I think, with a deeper and wider meaning than it is made to
bear in the writings even of Ruysbroeck, St. Teresa, or St. John of the
Cross. "For He is thy being, and in Him thou art that thou art; not
only by cause and by being, but also, He is in thee both thy cause and
thy being." It was a deep thinker as well as a great lover who wrote
this: one who joined hands with the philosophers, as well as with the
saints.
"That meek darkness be thy mirror." What is this darkness? It
is the "night of the intellect" into which we are plunged when we
attain to a state of consciousness which is above thought; enter on a
plane of spiritual experience with which the intellect cannot deal.
This is the "Divine Darkness"—the Cloud of Unknowing, or of Ignorance,
"dark with excess of light"—preached by Dionysius the Areopagite, and
eagerly accepted by his English interpreter. "When I say darkness, I
mean a lacking of knowing . . . and for this reason it is not called a
cloud of the air, but a cloud of unknowing that is betwixt thee and thy
God." It is "a dark mist," he says again, "which seemeth to be between
thee and the light thou aspirest to." This dimness and lostness of mind
is a paradoxical proof of attainment. Reason is in the dark, because
love has entered "the mysterious radiance of the Divine Dark, the
inaccessible light wherein the Lord is said to dwell, and to which
thought with all its struggles cannot attain."
"Lovers," said Patmore, "put out the candles and draw the
curtains, when they wish to see the god and the goddess; and, in the
higher communion, the night of thought is the light of perception."
These statements cannot be explained: they can only be proved in the
experience of me individual soul. "Whoso deserves to see and know God
rests therein," says Dionysius of that darkness, "and, by the very fact
that he neither sees nor knows, is truly in that which surpasses
all truth and all knowledge."
"Then," says the writer of the Cloud—whispering as it
were to the bewildered neophyte the dearest secret of his love—"
then will He sometimes peradventure send out a beam of ghostly
light, piercing this cloud of unknowing that is betwixt thee and Him;
and show thee some of His privity, the which man may not, nor cannot
speak."
* * * * * * *
Numerous copies of the Cloud of Unknowing and the other
works attributed to its writer are in existence. Six manuscripts of the
Cloud are in the British Museum: four on vellum (Harl. 674, Harl.
959, Harl. 2373, and Royal 17 C. xxvii.), all of the 15th century; and
two on paper (Royal 17 C. xxvii. of the 16th century, and Royal 17 D.
v. late 15th century). All these agree fairly closely; except for the
facts that Harl. 2373 is incomplete, several pages having disappeared,
and that Harl. 959 gives the substance of the whole work in a slightly
shortened form. The present edition is based upon Harl. 674; which has
been transcribed and collated with Royal 17 C. xxvi., and in the case
of specially obscure passages with Royal 17 C. xxvii., Royal 17 D. v.,
and Harl. 2373. Obvious errors and omissions have been corrected, and
several obscure readings elucidated, from these sources.
The Cloud of Unknowing was known, and read, by English
Catholics as late as the middle or end of the 17th century. It was much
used by the celebrated Benedictine ascetic, the Venerable Augustine
Baker (1575-1641), who wrote a long exposition of the doctrine which it
contains. Two manuscripts of this treatise exist in the Benedictine
College of St. Laurence at Ampleforth; together with a transcript of
the Cloud of Unknowing dated 1677. Many references to it will
also be found in the volume called Holy Wisdom, which contains
the substances of Augustine Baker's writings on the inner life. The
Cloud has only once been printed: in 1871, by the Rev. Henry
Collins, under the title of The Divine Cloud, with a preface and
notes attributed to Augustine Baker and probably taken from the
treatise mentioned above. This edition is now out of print. The MS.
from which it was made is unknown to us. It differs widely, both in
the matter of additions and of omissions, from all the texts in the
British Museum, and represents a distinctly inferior recension of the
work. A mangled rendering of the sublime Epistle of Privy Counsel
is prefixed to it. Throughout, the pithy sayings of the original are
either misquoted, or expanded into conventional and flavourless
sentences. Numerous explanatory phrases for which our manuscripts give
no authority have been incorporated into the text. All the quaint and
humorous turns of speech are omitted or toned down. The responsibility
for these crimes against scholarship cannot now be determined; but it
seems likely that the text from which Father Collins' edition was—in
his own words—"mostly taken" was a 17th-century paraphrase, made
rather in the interests of edification than of accuracy; and that it
represents the form in which the work was known and used by Augustine
Baker and his contemporaries.
The other works attributed to the author of the Cloud
have fared better than this. Dionise Hid Divinite still remains
in MS.: but the Epistle of Prayer, the Epistle of Discretion,
and the Treatise of Discerning of Spirits, together with the
paraphrase of the Benjamin Minor of Richard of St. Victor which
is supposed to be by the same hand, were included by Henry Pepwell, in
1521, in a little volume of seven mystical tracts. These are now
accessible to the general reader; having been reprinted in the "New
Medieval Library" (1910) under the title of The Cell of
Self-knowledge, with an admirable introduction and notes by Mr.
Edmund Gardner. Mr. Gardner has collated Pepwell's text with that
contained in the British Museum manuscript Harl. 674; the same volume
which has provided the base-manuscript for the present edition of the
Cloud.
This edition is intended, not for the student of
Middle English, nor for the specialist in mediaeval literature; but for
the general reader and lover of mysticism. My object has been to
produce a readable text, free from learned and critical apparatus. The
spelling has therefore been modernised throughout: and except in a few
instances, where phrases of a special charm or quaintness, or the
alliterative passages so characteristic of the author's style, demanded
their retention, obsolete words have been replaced by their nearest
modern equivalents. One such word, however, which occurs constantly has
generally been retained, on account of its importance and the
difficulty of finding an exact substitute for it in current English.
This is the verb "to list," with its adjective and adverb "listy" and
"listily," and the substantive "list," derived from it. "List" is best
understood by comparison with its opposite, "listless." It implies a
glad and eager activity, or sometimes an energetic desire or craving:
the wish and the will to do something. The noun often stands for
pleasure or delight, the adverb for the willing and joyous performance
of an action: the "putting of one's heart into one's work." The modern
"lust," from the same root, suggests a violence which was expressly
excluded from the Middle English meaning of "list."
My heartiest thanks are due to Mr. David Inward, who
transcribed the manuscript on which this version is based, and
throughout has given me skilled and untiring assistance in solving many
of the problems which arose in connection with it; and to Mr. J. A.
Herbert, Assistant-keeper of Manuscripts in the British Museum, who has
read the proofs, and also dated the manuscripts of the Cloud for
the purposes of the present edition, and to whose expert knowledge and
unfailing kindness I owe a deep debt of gratitude.
EVELYN UNDERHILL.
Beholding
Regard, consideration.
Boisterous
Rough, violent, unskilful, crude.
Clergy
Learning.
Con
To know, or be able.
Counsel
Spiritual adviser or director.
Doomsman
Judge.
Even-christian
Neighbour.
Fairhead
Beauty.
Forsobbed
Soaked or penetrated.
Forsunken
Immersed.
Let
To hinder.
Lewd
Unlettered, or ignorant.
Namely
Specially.
Onehead
Union.
Out!
Alas.
Pincher
A covetous or niggardly person.
Ravishing
Ecstasy.
Reckless
Indifferent.
Ronker
A whisperer.
Ronner
A gossip or tale-bearer.
Swink
To labour.
Witting
Knowledge.
Wode
Mad, furious.
Here beginneth a book of contemplation, the which is called the CLOUD OF
UNKNOWING, in the which a soul is oned with GOD.
GOD, unto whom all hearts be open, and unto whom all will
speaketh, and unto whom no privy thing is hid. I beseech Thee so for to
cleanse the intent of mine heart with the unspeakable gift of Thy
grace, that I may perfectly love Thee, and worthily praise Thee. Amen.
IN the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost! I
charge thee and I beseech thee, with as much power and virtue as the
bond of charity is sufficient to suffer, whatsoever thou be that this
book shalt have in possession, either by property, either by keeping,
by bearing as messenger, or else by borrowing, that in as much as in
thee is by will and advisement, neither thou read it, nor write it, nor
speak it, nor yet suffer it be read, written, or spoken, of any or to
any but if it be of such one, or to such one, that hath by thy
supposing in a true will and by an whole intent purposed him to be a
perfect follower of Christ not only in active living, but in the
sovereignest point of contemplative living the which is possible by
grace for to be come to in this present life of a perfect soul yet
abiding in this deadly body; and thereto that doth that in him is, and
by thy supposing hath done long time before, for to able him to
contemplative living by the virtuous means of active living. For else
it accordeth nothing to him. And over this I charge thee and I beseech
thee by the authority of charity, that if any such shall read it, write
it, or speak it, or else hear it be read or spoken, that thou charge
him as I do thee, for to take him time to read it, speak it, write it,
or hear it, all over. For peradventure there is some matter therein in
the beginning or in the middle, the which is hanging, and not fully
declared where it standeth: and if it be not there, it is soon after,
or else in the end. Wherefore if a man saw one matter and not another,
peradventure he might lightly be led into error; and therefore in
eschewing of this error, both in thyself and in all other, I pray thee
for charity do as I say thee.
Fleshly janglers, open praisers and blamers of themselves or
of any other, tellers of trifles, ronners and tattlers of tales, and
all manner of pinchers, cared I never that they saw this book. For mine
intent was never to write such thing unto them, and therefore I would
that they meddle not therewith; neither they, nor any of these curious,
lettered, or unlearned men. Yea, although that they be full good men of
active living, yet this matter accordeth nothing to them. But if it be
to those men, the which although they stand in activity by outward form
of living, nevertheless yet by inward stirring after the privy spirit
of God, whose dooms be hid, they be full graciously disposed, not
continually as it is proper to very contemplatives, but now and then to
be perceivers in the highest point of this contemplative act; if such
men might see it, they should by the grace of God be greatly comforted
thereby.
This book is distinguished in seventy chapters and five. Of
the which chapters, the last chapter of all teacheth some certain
tokens by the which a soul may verily prove whether he be called of God
to be a worker in this work or none.
THE FIRST CHAPTER
Of four degrees of Christian men's living; and of the course of his
calling that this book was made unto
THE SECOND CHAPTER
A short stirring to meekness, and to the work of this book
THE THIRD CHAPTER
How the work of this book shall be wrought and of the worthiness of
it before all other works
THE FOURTH CHAPTER
Of the shortness of this work, and how it may not be come to by the
curiosity of wit, nor by imagination
THE FIFTH CHAPTER
That in the time of this work all the creatures that ever have
been, be now, or ever shall be, and all the works of those same
creatures, should be hid under the cloud of forgetting
THE SIXTH CHAPTER
A short conceit of the work of this book, treated by question
THE SEVENTH CHAPTER
How a man shall have him in this work against all thoughts, and
specially against all those that arise of his own curiosity, of
cunning, and of natural wit
THE EIGHTH CHAPTER
A good declaring of certain doubts that may fall in this work,
treated by question, in destroying of a man's own curiosity, of
cunning, and of natural wit, and in distinguishing of the degrees and
the parts of active living and contemplative
THE NINTH CHAPTER
That in the time of this work the remembrance of the holiest
creature that ever God made letteth more than it profiteth
THE TENTH CHAPTER
How a man shall know when his thought is no sin; and if it be sin,
when it is deadly and when it is venial
THE ELEVENTH CHAPTER
That a man should weigh each thought and each stirring after that
it is, and always eschew recklessness in venial sin
THE TWELFTH CHAPTER
That by virtue of this work sin is not only destroyed, but also
virtues begotten
THE THIRTEENTH CHAPTER
What meekness is in itself, and when it is perfect and when it is
imperfect
THE FOURTEENTH CHAPTER
That without imperfect meekness coming before, it is impossible for
a sinner to come to the perfect virtue of meekness in this life
THE FIFTEENTH CHAPTER
A short proof against their error that say that there is no
perfecter cause to be meeked under, than is the knowledge of a man's
own wretchedness
THE SIXTEENTH CHAPTER
That by virtue of this work a sinner truly turned and called to
contemplation cometh sooner to perfection than by any other work; and
by it soonest may get of God forgiveness of sins
THE SEVENTEENTH CHAPTER
That a very contemplative list not meddle him with active life, nor
of anything that is done or spoken about him, nor yet to answer to his
blamers in excusing of himself
THE EIGHTEENTH CHAPTER
How that yet unto this day all actives complain of contemplatives
as Martha did of Mary. Of the which complaining ignorance is the cause
THE NINETEENTH CHAPTER
A short excusation of him that made this book, teaching how all
contemplatives should have all actives fully excused of their
complaining words and deeds
THE TWENTIETH CHAPTER
How Almighty God will goodly answer for all those that for the
excusing of themselves list not leave their business about the love of
Him
THE ONE AND TWENTIETH CHAPTER
The true exposition of this gospel word, "Mary hath chosen the best
part"
THE TWO AND TWENTIETH CHAPTER
Of the wonderful love that Christ had to man in person of all
sinners truly turned and called to the grace of contemplation
THE THREE AND TWENTIETH CHAPTER
How God will answer and purvey for them in spirit, that for
business about His love list not answer nor purvey for themselves
THE FOUR AND TWENTIETH CHAPTER
What charity is in itself, and how it is truly and perfectly
contained in the work of this book.
THE FIVE AND TWENTIETH CHAPTER
That in the time of this work a perfect soul hath no special
beholding to any one man in this life
THE SIX AND TWENTIETH CHAPTER
That without full special grace, or long use in common grace, the
work of this book is right travailous; and in this work, which is the
work of the soul helped by grace, and which is the work of only God
THE SEVEN AND TWENTIETH CHAPTER
Who should work in the gracious work of this book
THE EIGHT AND TWENTIETH CHAPTER
That a man should not presume to work in this work before the time
that he be lawfully cleansed in conscience of all his special deeds of
sin
THE NINE AND TWENTIETH CHAPTER
That a man should bidingly travail in this work, and suffer the
pain thereof, and judge no man
THE THIRTIETH CHAPTER
Who should blame and condemn other men's defaults
THE ONE AND THIRTIETH CHAPTER
How a man should have him in beginning of this work against all
thoughts and stirrings of sin
THE TWO AND THIRTIETH CHAPTER
Of two ghostly devices that be helpful to a ghostly beginner in the
work of this book
THE THREE AND THIRTIETH CHAPTER
That in this work a soul is cleansed both of his special sins and
of the pain of them, and yet how there is no perfect rest in this life
THE FOUR AND THIRTIETH CHAPTER
That God giveth this grace freely without any means, and that it
may not be come to with means
THE FIVE AND THIRTIETH CHAPTER
Of three means in the which a contemplative prentice should be
occupied; in reading, thinking, and praying
THE SIX AND THIRTIETH CHAPTER
Of the meditations of them that continually travail in the work of
this book
THE SEVEN AND THIRTIETH CHAPTER
Of the special prayers of them that be continual workers in the
work of this book
THE EIGHT AND THIRTIETH CHAPTER
How and why that short prayer pierceth heaven
THE NINE AND THIRTIETH CHAPTER
How a perfect worker shall pray, and what prayer is in itself; and,
if a man shall pray in words, which words accord them most to the
property of prayer
THE FORTIETH CHAPTER
That in the time of this work a soul hath no special beholding to
any vice in itself nor to any virtue in itself
THE ONE AND FORTIETH CHAPTER
That in all other works beneath this, men should keep discretion;
but in this none
THE TWO AND FORTIETH CHAPTER
That by indiscretion in this, men shall keep discretion in all
other things; and surely else never
THE THREE AND FORTIETH CHAPTER
That all writing and feeling of a man's own being must needs be
lost if the perfection of this work shall verily be felt in any soul in
this life
THE FOUR AND FORTIETH CHAPTER
How a soul shall dispose it on its own part, for to destroy all
witting and feeling of its own being
THE FIVE AND FORTIETH CHAPTER
A good declaring of some certain deceits that may befall in this
work
THE SIX AND FORTIETH CHAPTER
A good teaching how a man shall flee these deceits, and work more
with a listiness of spirit than with any boisterousness of body
THE SEVEN AND FORTIETH CHAPTER
A slight teaching of this work in purity of spirit; declaring how
that on one manner a soul should shew his desire unto God, and on ye
contrary, unto man
THE EIGHT AND FORTIETH CHAPTER
How God will be served both with body and with soul, and reward men
in both; and how men shall know when all those sounds and sweetness
that fall into the body in time of prayer be both good and evil
THE NINE AND FORTIETH CHAPTER
The substance of all perfection is nought else but a good will; and
how that all sounds and comforts and sweetness that may befall in this
life be to it but as it were accidents
THE FIFTIETH CHAPTER
Which is chaste love; and how in some creatures such sensible
comforts be but seldom, and in some right oft
THE ONE AND FIFTIETH CHAPTER
That men should have great wariness so that they understand not
bodily a thing that is meant ghostly; and specially it is good to be
wary in understanding of this word in, and of this word up
THE TWO AND FIFTIETH CHAPTER
How these young presumptuous disciples misunderstand this word
in, and of the deceits that follow thereon
THE THREE AND FIFTIETH CHAPTER
Of divers unseemly practices that follow them that lack the work of
this book
THE FOUR AND FIFTIETH CHAPTER
How that by virtue of this work a man is governed full wisely, and
made full seemly as well in body as in soul
THE FIVE AND FIFTIETH CHAPTER
How they be deceived that follow the fervour of spirit in
condemning of some without discretion
THE SIX AND FIFTIETH CHAPTER
How they be deceived that lean more to the curiosity of natural
wit, and of clergy learned in the school of men than to the common
doctrine and counsel of Holy Church
THE SEVEN AND FIFTIETH CHAPTER
How these young presumptuous disciples misunderstand this other
word up; and of the deceits that follow thereon
THE EIGHT AND FIFTIETH CHAPTER
That a man shall not take ensample of Saint Martin and of Saint
Stephen, for to strain his imagination bodily upwards in the time of
his prayer
THE NINE AND FIFTIETH CHAPTER
That a man shall not take ensample at the bodily ascension of
Christ, for to strain his imagination upwards bodily in the time of
prayer: and that time, place, and body, these three should be forgotten
in all ghostly working
THE SIXTIETH CHAPTER
That the high and the next way to heaven is run by desires, and not
by paces of feet
THE ONE AND SIXTIETH CHAPTER
That all bodily thing is subject unto ghostly thing, and is ruled
thereafter by the course of nature, and not contrariwise
THE TWO AND SIXTIETH CHAPTER
How a man may wit when his ghostly work is beneath him or without
him and when it is even with him or within him, and when it is above
him and under his God
THE THREE AND SIXTIETH CHAPTER
Of the powers of a soul in general, and how Memory in special is a
principal power comprehending in it all the other powers and all those
things in the which they work
THE FOUR AND SIXTIETH CHAPTER
Of the other two principal powers, Reason and Will, and of the work
of them before sin and after
THE FIVE AND SIXTIETH CHAPTER
Of the first secondary power, Imagination by name; and of the works
and of the obedience of it unto Reason, before sin and after
THE SIX AND SIXTIETH CHAPTER
Of the other secondary power, Sensuality by name; and of the works
and of the obedience of it unto Will, before sin and after
THE SEVEN AND SIXTIETH CHAPTER
That whoso knoweth not the powers of a soul and the manner of her
working, may lightly be deceived in understanding of ghostly words and
of ghostly working; and how a soul is made a God in grace
THE EIGHT AND SIXTIETH CHAPTER
That nowhere bodily, is everywhere ghostly; and how our outer man
calleth the work of this book nought
THE NINE AND SIXTIETH CHAPTER
How that a man's affection is marvelously changed in ghostly
feeling of this nought, when it is nowhere wrought
THE SEVENTIETH CHAPTER
That right as by the defailing of our bodily wits we begin more
readily to come to knowing of ghostly things, so by the defailing of
our ghostly wits we begin most readily to come to the knowledge of God,
such as is possible by grace to be had here
THE ONE AND SEVENTIETH CHAPTER
That some may not come to feel the perfection of this work but in
time of ravishing, and some may have it when they will, in the common
state of man's soul
THE TWO AND SEVENTIETH CHAPTER
That a worker in this work should not deem nor think of another
worker as he feeleth in himself
THE THREE AND SEVENTIETH CHAPTER
How that after the likeness of Moses, of Bezaleel and of Aaron
meddling them about the Ark of the Testament, we profit on three
manners in this grace of contemplation, for this grace is figured in
that Ark
THE FOUR AND SEVENTIETH CHAPTER
How that the matter of this book is never more read or spoken, nor
heard read or spoken, of a soul disposed thereto without feeling of a
very accordance to the effect of the same work: and of rehearsing of
the same charge that is written in the prologue
THE FIVE AND SEVENTIETH CHAPTER
Of some certain tokens by the which a man may prove whether he be
called of God to work in this work
AND HERE ENDETH THE TABLE OF THE CHAPTERS
GHOSTLY FRIEND IN GOD, I pray thee and I beseech thee that thou
wilt have a busy beholding to the course and the manner of thy calling.
And thank God heartily so that thou mayest through help of His grace
stand stiffly in the state, in the degree, and in the form of living
that thou hast entirely purposed against all the subtle assailing of
thy bodily and ghostly enemies, and win to the crown of life that
evermore lasteth. Amen.
Of four degrees of Christian men's living; and of
the course of his calling that this book was made unto.
GHOSTLY friend in God, thou shalt well understand that I find, in
my boisterous beholding, four degrees and forms of Christian men's
living: and they be these, Common, Special, Singular, and Perfect.
Three of these may be begun and ended in this life; and the fourth may
by grace be begun here, but it shall ever last without end in the bliss
of Heaven. And right as thou seest how they be set here in order each
one after other; first Common, then Special, after Singular, and last
Perfect, right so me thinketh that in the same order and in the same
course our Lord hath of His great mercy called thee and led thee unto
Him by the desire of thine heart. For first thou wottest well that when
thou wert living in the common degree of Christian men's living in
company of thy worldly friends, it seemeth to me that the everlasting
love of His Godhead, through the which He made thee and wrought thee
when thou wert nought, and sithen bought thee with the price of His
precious blood when thou wert lost in Adam, might not suffer thee to be
so far from Him in form and degree of living. And therefore He kindled
thy desire full graciously, and fastened by it a leash of longing, and
led thee by it into a more special state and form of living, to be a
servant among the special servants of His; where thou mightest learn to
live more specially and more ghostly in His service than thou didst, or
mightest do, in the common degree of living before. And what more?
Yet it seemeth that He would not leave thee thus lightly, for
love of His heart, the which He hath evermore had unto thee since thou
wert aught: but what did He? Seest thou nought how Mistily and how
graciously He hath privily pulled thee to the third degree and manner
of living, the which is called Singular? In the which solitary form and
manner of living, thou mayest learn to lift up the foot of thy love;
and step towards that state and degree of living that is perfect, and
the last state of all.
A short stirring to meekness, and to the work of
this book.
LOOK up now, weak wretch, and see what thou art. What art thou,
and what hast thou merited, thus to be called of our Lord? What weary
wretched heart, and sleeping in sloth, is that, the which is not
wakened with the draught of this love and the voice of this calling!
Beware, thou wretch, in this while with thine enemy; and hold thee
never the holier nor the better, for the worthiness of this calling and
for the singular form of living that thou art in. But the more wretched
and cursed, unless thou do that in thee is goodly, by grace and by
counsel, to live after thy calling. And insomuch thou shouldest be more
meek and loving to thy ghostly spouse, that He that is the Almighty
God, King of Kings and Lord of Lords, would meek Him so low unto thee,
and amongst all the flock of His sheep so graciously would choose thee
to be one of His specials, and sithen set thee in the place of pasture,
where thou mayest be fed with the sweetness of His love, in earnest of
thine heritage the Kingdom of Heaven.
Do on then, I pray thee, fast. Look now forwards and let be
backwards; and see what thee faileth, and not what thou hast, for that
is the readiest getting and keeping of meekness. All thy life now
behoveth altogether to stand in desire, if thou shalt profit in degree
of perfection. This desire behoveth altogether be wrought in thy will,
by the hand of Almighty God and thy consent. But one thing I tell thee.
He is a jealous lover and suffereth no fellowship, and Him list not
work in thy will but if He be only with thee by Himself. He asketh
none help, but only thyself. He wills, thou do but look on Him and let
Him alone. And keep thou the windows and the door, for flies and
enemies assailing. And if thou be willing to do this, thee needeth but
meekly press upon him with prayer, and soon will He help thee. Press on
then, let see how thou bearest thee. He is full ready, and doth but
abideth thee. But what shalt thou do, and how shalt thou press?
How the work of this book shall be wrought, and of
the worthiness of it before all other works.
LIFT up thine heart unto God with a meek stirring of love; and
mean Himself, and none of His goods. And thereto, look the loath to
think on aught but Himself. So that nought work in thy wit, nor in thy
will, but only Himself. And do that in thee is to forget all the
creatures that ever God made and the works of them; so that thy thought
nor thy desire be not directed nor stretched to any of them, neither in
general nor in special, but let them be, and take no heed to them. This
is the work of the soul that most pleaseth God. All saints and angels
have joy of this work, and hasten them to help it in all their might.
All fiends be furious when thou thus dost, and try for to defeat it in
all that they can. All men living in earth be wonderfully holpen of
this work, thou wottest not how. Yea, the souls in purgatory be eased
of their pain by virtue of this work. Thyself art cleansed and made
virtuous by no work so much. And yet it is the lightest work of all,
when a soul is helped with grace in sensible list, and soonest done.
But else it is hard, and wonderful to thee for to do.
Let not, therefore, but travail therein till thou feel list.
For at the first time when thou dost it, thou findest but a darkness;
and as it were a cloud of unknowing, thou knowest not what, saving that
thou feelest in thy will a naked intent unto God. This darkness and
this cloud is, howsoever thou dost, betwixt thee and thy God, and
letteth thee that thou mayest neither see Him clearly by light of
understanding in thy reason, nor feel Him in sweetness of love in thine
affection.
And therefore shape thee to bide in this darkness as long as
thou mayest, evermore crying after Him that thou lovest. For if ever
thou shalt feel Him or see Him, as it may be here, it behoveth always
to be in this cloud in this darkness. And if thou wilt busily travail
as I bid thee, I trust in His mercy that thou shalt come thereto.
Of the shortness of this word, and how it may not
be come to by curiosity of wit, nor by imagination.
BUT for this, that thou shalt not err in this working and ween
that it be otherwise than it is, I shall tell thee a little more
thereof, as me thinketh.
This work asketh no long time or it be once truly done, as
some men ween; for it is the shortest work of all that man may imagine.
It is never longer, nor shorter, than is an atom: the which atom, by
the definition of true philosophers in the science of astronomy, is the
least part of time. And it is so little that for the littleness of it,
it is indivisible and nearly incomprehensible. This is that time of the
which it is written: All time that is given to thee, it shall be asked
of thee, how thou hast dispended it. And reasonable thing it is that
thou give account of it: for it is neither longer nor shorter, but even
according to one only stirring that is within the principal working
might of thy soul, the which is thy will. For even so many willings or
desirings, and no more nor no fewer, may be and are in one hour in thy
will, as are atoms in one hour. And if thou wert reformed by grace to
the first state of man's soul, as it was before sin, then thou
shouldest evermore by help of that grace be lord of that stirring or of
those stirrings. So that none went forby, but all they should stretch
into the sovereign desirable, and into the highest willable thing: the
which is God. For He is even meet to our soul by measuring of His
Godhead; and our soul even meet unto Him by worthiness of our creation
to His image and to His likeness. And He by Himself without more, and
none but He, is sufficient to the full and much more to fulfil the
will and the desire of our soul. And our soul by virtue of this
reforming grace is made sufficient to the full to comprehend all Him by
love, the which is incomprehensible to all created knowledgeable
powers, as is angel, or man's soul; I mean, by their knowing, and not
by their loving. And therefore I call them in this case knowledgeable
powers. But yet all reasonable creatures, angel and man, have in them
each one by himself, one principal working power, the which is called a
knowledgeable power, and another principal working power, the which is
called a loving power. Of the which two powers, to the first, the which
is a knowledgeable power, God that is the maker of them is evermore
incomprehensible; and to the second, the which is the loving power, in
each one diversely He is all comprehensible to the full. Insomuch that
a loving soul alone in itself, by virtue of love should comprehend in
itself Him that is sufficient to the full—and much more, without
comparison—to fill all the souls and angels that ever may be. And this
is the endless marvellous miracle of love; the working of which shall
never take end, for ever shall He do it, and never shall He cease for
to do it. See who by grace see may, for the feeling of this is endless
bliss, and the contrary is endless pain.
And therefore whoso were reformed by grace thus to continue
in keeping of the stirrings of his will, should never be in this
life—as he may not be without these stirrings in nature—without some
taste of the endless sweetness, and in the bliss of heaven without the
full food. And therefore have no wonder though I stir thee to this
work. For this is the work, as thou shalt hear afterward, in the which
man should have continued if he never had sinned: and to the which
working man was made, and all things for man, to help him and further
him thereto, and by the which working a man shall be repaired again.
And for the defailing of this working, a man falleth evermore deeper
and deeper in sin, and further and further from God. And by keeping and
continual working in this work only without more, a man evermore riseth
higher and higher from sin, and nearer and nearer unto God.
And therefore take good heed unto time, how that thou
dispendest it: for nothing is more precious than time. In one little
time, as little as it is, may heaven be won and lost. A token it is
that time is precious: for God, that is given of time, giveth never two
times together, but each one after other. And this He doth, for He will
not reverse the order or the ordinal course in the cause of His
creation. For time is made for man, and not man for time. And therefore
God, that is the ruler of nature, will not in His giving of time go
before the stirring of nature in man's soul; the which is even
according to one time only. So that man shall have none excusation
against God in the Doom, and at the giving of account of dispending of
time, saying, "Thou givest two times at once, and I have but one
stirring at once."
But sorrowfully thou sayest now, "How shall I do? and sith
this is thus that thou sayest, how shall I give account of each time
severally; I that have unto this day, now of four and twenty years age,
never took heed of time? If I would now amend it, thou wottest well, by
very reason of thy words written before, it may not be after the course
of nature, nor of common grace, that I should now heed or else make
satisfaction, for any more times than for those that be for to come.
Yea, and moreover well I wot by very proof, that of those that be to
come I shall on no wise, for abundance of frailty and slowness of
spirits, be able to observe one of an hundred. So that I am verily
concluded in these reasons. Help me now for the love of JESUS!"
Right well hast thou said, for the love of JESUS. For in the
love of JESUS; there shall be thine help. Love is such a power, that it
maketh all thing common. Love therefore JESUS; and all thing that He
hath, it is thine. He by His Godhead is maker and giver of time. He by
His manhood is the very keeper of time. And He by His Godhead and His
manhood together, is the truest Doomsman, and the asker of account of
dispensing of time. Knit thee therefore to Him, by love and by belief,
and then by virtue of that knot thou shalt be common perceiver with
Him, and with all that by love so be knitted unto Him: that is to say,
with our Lady Saint Mary that full was of all grace in keeping of time,
with all the angels of heaven that never may lose time, and with all
the saints in heaven and in earth, that by the grace of JESUS heed time
full justly in virtue of love. Lo! here lieth comfort; construe thou
clearly, and pick thee some profit. But of one thing I warn thee
amongst all other. I cannot see who may truly challenge community thus
with JESUS and His just Mother, His high angels and also with His
saints; but if he be such an one, that doth that in him is with helping
of grace in keeping of time. So that he be seen to be a profiter on his
part, so little as is, unto the community; as each one of them doth on
his.
And therefore take heed to this work, and to the marvellous
manner of it within in thy soul. For if it be truly conceived, it is
but a sudden stirring, and as it were unadvised, speedily springing
unto God as a sparkle from the coal. And it is marvellous to number the
stirrings that may be in one hour wrought in a soul that is disposed to
this work. And yet in one stirring of all these, he may have suddenly
and perfectly forgotten all created thing. But fast after each
stirring, for corruption of the flesh, it falleth down again to some
thought or to some done or undone deed. But what thereof? For fast
after, it riseth again as suddenly as it did before.
And here may men shortly conceive the manner of this working,
and clearly know that it is far from any fantasy, or any false
imagination or quaint opinion: the which be brought in, not by such a
devout and a meek blind stirring of love, but by a proud, curious, and
an imaginative wit. Such a proud, curious wit behoveth always be borne
down and stiffly trodden down under foot, if this work shall truly be
conceived in purity of spirit. For whoso heareth this work either be
read or spoken of, and weeneth that it may, or should, be come to by
travail in their wits, and therefore they sit and seek in their wits
how that it may be, and in this curiosity they travail their
imagination peradventure against the course of nature, and they feign a
manner of working the which is neither bodily nor ghostly—truly this
man, whatsoever he be, is perilously deceived. Insomuch, that unless
God of His great goodness shew His merciful miracle, and make him soon
to leave work, and meek him to counsel of proved workers, he shall fall
either into frenzies, or else into other great mischiefs of ghostly
sins and devils' deceits; through the which he may lightly be lost,
both life and soul, without any end. And therefore for God's love be
wary in this work, and travail not in thy wits nor in thy imagination
on nowise: for I tell thee truly, it may not be come to by travail in
them, and therefore leave them and work not with them.
And ween not, for I call it a darkness or a cloud, that it be
any cloud congealed of the humours that flee in the air, nor yet any
darkness such as is in thine house on nights when the candle is out.
For such a darkness and such a cloud mayest thou imagine with curiosity
of wit, for to bear before thine eyes in the lightest day of summer:
and also contrariwise in the darkest night of winter, thou mayest
imagine a clear shining light. Let be such falsehood. I mean not thus.
For when I say darkness, I mean a lacking of knowing: as all that thing
that thou knowest not, or else that thou hast forgotten, it is dark to
thee; for thou seest it not with thy ghostly eye. And for this reason
it is not called a cloud of the air, but a cloud of unknowing, that is
betwixt thee and thy God.
That in the time of this word all the creatures
that ever have been, be now, or ever shall be, and all the works of
those same creatures, should be hid under the cloud of forgetting.
AND if ever thou shalt come to this cloud and dwell and work
therein as I bid thee, thee behoveth as this cloud of unknowing is
above thee, betwixt thee and thy God, right so put a cloud of
forgetting beneath thee; betwixt thee and all the creatures that ever
be made. Thee thinketh, peradventure, that thou art full far from God
because that this cloud of unknowing is betwixt thee and thy God: but
surely, an it be well conceived, thou art well further from Him when
thou hast no cloud of forgetting betwixt thee and all the creatures
that ever be made. As oft as I say, all the creatures that ever be
made, as oft I mean not only the creatures themselves, but also all the
works and the conditions of the same creatures. I take out not one
creature, whether they be bodily creatures or ghostly, nor yet any
condition or work of any creature, whether they be good or evil: but
shortly to say, all should be hid under the cloud of forgetting in this
case.
For although it be full profitable sometime to think of
certain conditions and deeds of some certain special creatures,
nevertheless yet in this work it profiteth little or nought. For why?
Memory or thinking of any creature that ever God made, or of any of
their deeds either, it is a manner of ghostly light: for the eye of thy
soul is opened on it and even fixed thereupon, as the eye of a shooter
is upon the prick that he shooteth to. And one thing I tell thee, that
all thing that thou thinketh upon, it is above thee for the time, and
betwixt thee and thy God: and insomuch thou art the further from God,
that aught is in thy mind but only God.
Yea! and, if it be courteous and seemly to say, in this work
it profiteth little or nought to think of the kindness or the
worthiness of God, nor on our Lady, nor on the saints or angels in
heaven, nor yet on the joys in heaven: that is to say, with a special
beholding to them, as thou wouldest by that beholding feed and increase
thy purpose. I trow that on nowise it should help in this case and in
this work. For although it be good to think upon the kindness of God,
and to love Him and praise Him for it, yet it is far better to think
upon the naked being of Him, and to love Him and praise Him for
Himself.
A short conceit of the work of this book, treated
by question.
BUT now thou askest me and sayest, "How shall I think on Himself,
and what is He?" and to this I cannot answer thee but thus: "I wot
not."
For thou hast brought me with thy question into that same
darkness, and into that same cloud of unknowing, that I would thou wert
in thyself. For of all other creatures and their works, yea, and of the
works of God's self, may a man through grace have fullhead of knowing,
and well he can think of them: but of God Himself can no man think. And
therefore I would leave all that thing that I can think, and choose to
my love that thing that I cannot think. For why; He may well be loved,
but not thought. By love may He be gotten and holden; but by thought
never. And therefore, although it be good sometime to think of the
kindness and the worthiness of God in special, and although it be a
light and a part of contemplation: nevertheless yet in this work it
shall be cast down and covered with a cloud of forgetting. And thou
shalt step above it stalwartly, but Mistily, with a devout and a
pleasing stirring of love, and try for to pierce that darkness above
thee. And smite upon that thick cloud of unknowing with a sharp dart of
longing love; and go not thence for thing that befalleth.
How a man shall have him in this work against all
thoughts, and specially against all those that arise of his own
curiosity, of cunning, and of natural wit.
AND if any thought rise and will press continually above thee
betwixt thee and that darkness, and ask thee saying, "What seekest
thou, and what wouldest thou have?" say thou, that it is God that thou
wouldest have. "Him I covet, Him I seek, and nought but Him."
And if he ask thee, "What is that God?" say thou, that it is
God that made thee and bought thee, and that graciously hath called
thee to thy degree. "And in Him," say, "thou hast no skill." And
therefore say, "Go thou down again," and tread him fast down with a
stirring of love, although he seem to thee right holy, and seem to thee
as he would help thee to seek Him. For peradventure he will bring to
thy mind diverse full fair and wonderful points of His kindness, and
say that He is full sweet, and full loving, full gracious, and full
merciful. And if thou wilt hear him, he coveteth no better; for at the
last he will thus jangle ever more and more till he bring thee lower,
to the mind of His Passion.
And there will he let thee see the wonderful kindness of God,
and if thou hear him, he careth for nought better. For soon after he
will let thee see thine old wretched living, and peradventure in seeing
and thinking thereof he will bring to thy mind some place that thou
hast dwelt in before this time. So that at the last, or ever thou wit,
thou shalt be scattered thou wottest not where. The cause of this
scattering is, that thou heardest him first wilfully, then answeredest
him, receivedest him, and lettest him alone.
And yet, nevertheless, the thing that he said was both good
and holy. Yea, and so holy, that what man or woman that weeneth to come
to contemplation without many such sweet meditations of their own
wretchedness, the passion, the kindness, and the great goodness, and
the worthiness of God coming before, surely he shall err and fail of
his purpose. And yet, nevertheless, it behoveth a man or a woman that
hath long time been used in these meditations, nevertheless to leave
them, and put them and hold them far down under the cloud of
forgetting, if ever he shall pierce the cloud of unknowing betwixt him
and his God. Therefore what time that thou purposest thee to this work,
and feelest by grace that thou art called of God, lift then up thine
heart unto God with a meek stirring of love; and mean God that made
thee, and bought thee, and that graciously hath called thee to thy
degree, and receive none other thought of God. And yet not all these,
but if thou list; for it sufficeth enough, a naked intent direct unto
God without any other cause than Himself.
And if thee list have this intent lapped and folden in one
word, for thou shouldest have better hold thereupon, take thee but a
little word of one syllable: for so it is better than of two, for ever
the shorter it is the better it accordeth with the work of the Spirit.
And such a word is this word GOD or this word LOVE. Choose thee whether
thou wilt, or another; as thee list, which that thee liketh best of one
syllable. And fasten this word to thine heart, so that it never go
thence for thing that befalleth.
This word shall be thy shield and thy spear, whether thou
ridest on peace or on war. With this word, thou shalt beat on this
cloud and this darkness above thee. With this word, thou shall smite
down all manner of thought under the cloud of forgetting. Insomuch,
that if any thought press upon thee to ask thee what thou wouldest
have, answer them with no more words but with this one word. And if he
proffer thee of his great clergy to expound thee that word and to tell
thee the conditions of that word, say him: That thou wilt have it all
whole, and not broken nor undone. And if thou wilt hold thee fast on
this purpose, be thou sure, he will no while abide. And why? For that
thou wilt not let him feed him on such sweet meditations of God touched
before.
A good declaring of certain doubts that may fall in
this word treated by question, in destroying of a man's own curiosity,
of cunning, and of natural wit, and in distinguishing of the degrees
and the parts of active living and contemplative.
BUT now thou askest me, "What is he, this that thus presseth upon
me in this work; and whether it is a good thing or an evil? And if it
be an evil thing, then have I marvel," thou sayest, "why that he will
increase a man's devotion so much. For sometimes me think that it is a
passing comfort to listen after his tales. For he will sometime, me
think, make me weep full heartily for pity of the Passion of Christ,
sometime for my wretchedness, and for many other reasons, that me
thinketh be full holy, and that done me much good. And therefore me
thinketh that he should on nowise be evil; and if he be good, and with
his sweet tales doth me so much good withal, then I have great marvel
why that thou biddest me put him down and away so far under the cloud
of forgetting?"
Now surely me thinketh that this is a well moved question, and
therefore I think to answer thereto so feebly as I can. First when thou
askest me what is he, this that presseth so fast upon thee in this
work, proffering to help thee in this work; I say that it is a sharp
and a clear beholding of thy natural wit, printed in thy reason within
in thy soul. And where thou askest me thereof whether it be good or
evil, I say that it behoveth always be good in its nature. For why, it
is a beam of the likeness of God. But the use thereof may be both good
and evil. Good, when it is opened by grace for to see thy wretchedness,
the passion, the kindness, and the wonderful works of God in His
creatures bodily and ghostly. And then it is no wonder though it
increase thy devotion full much, as thou sayest. But then is the use
evil, when it is swollen with pride and with curiosity of much clergy
and letterly cunning as in clerks; and maketh them press for to be
holden not meek scholars and masters of divinity or of devotion, but
proud scholars of the devil and masters of vanity and of falsehood. And
in other men or women whatso they be, religious or seculars, the use
and the working of this natural wit is then evil, when it is swollen
with proud and curious skills of worldly things, and fleshly conceits
in coveting of worldly worships and having of riches and vain plesaunce
and flatterings of others.
And where that thou askest me, why that thou shalt put it
down under the cloud of forgetting, since it is so, that it is good in
its nature, and thereto when it is well used it doth thee so much good
and increaseth thy devotion so much. To this I answer and say—That
thou shalt well understand that there be two manner of lives in Holy
Church. The one is active life, and the other is contemplative life.
Active is the lower, and contemplative is the higher. Active life hath
two degrees, a higher and a lower: and also contemplative life hath two
degrees, a lower and a higher. Also, these two lives be so coupled
together that although they be divers in some part, yet neither of them
may be had fully without some part of the other. For why? That part
that is the higher part of active life, that same part is the lower
part of contemplative life. So that a man may not be fully active, but
if he be in part contemplative; nor yet fully contemplative, as it may
be here, but if he be in part active. The condition of active life is
such, that it is both begun and ended in this life; but not so of
contemplative life. For it is begun in this life, and shall last
without end. For why? That part that Mary chose shall never be taken
away. Active life is troubled and travailed about many things; but
contemplative sitteth in peace with one thing.
The lower part of active life standeth in good and honest
bodily works of mercy and of charity. The higher part of active life
and the lower part of contemplative life lieth in goodly ghostly
meditations, and busy beholding unto a man's own wretchedness with
sorrow and contrition, unto the Passion of Christ and of His servants
with pity and compassion, and unto the wonderful gifts, kindness, and
works of God in all His creatures bodily and ghostly with thanking and
praising. But the higher part of contemplation, as it may be had here,
hangeth all wholly in this darkness and in this cloud of unknowing;
with a loving stirring and a blind beholding unto the naked being of
God Himself only.
In the lower part of active life a man is without himself and
beneath himself. In the higher part of active life and the lower part
of contemplative life, a man is within himself and even with himself.
But in the higher part of contemplative life, a man is above himself
and under his God. Above himself he is: for why, he purposeth him to
win thither by grace, whither he may not come by nature. That is to
say, to be knit to God in spirit, and in onehead of love and accordance
of will. And right as it is impossible, to man's understanding, for a
man to come to the higher part of active life, but if he cease for a
time of the lower part; so it is that a man shall not come to the
higher part of contemplative life, but if he cease for a time of the
lower part. And as unlawful a thing as it is, and as much as it would
let a man that sat in his meditations, to have regard then to his
outward bodily works, the which he had done, or else should do,
although they were never so holy works in themselves: surely as
unlikely a thing it is, and as much would it let a man that should work
in this darkness and in this cloud of unknowing with an affectuous
stirring of love to God for Himself, for to let any thought or any
meditation of God's wonderful gifts, kindness, and works in any of His
creatures bodily or ghostly, rise upon him to press betwixt him and his
God; although they be never so holy thoughts, nor so profound, nor so
comfortable.
And for this reason it is that I bid thee put down such a
sharp subtle thought, and cover him with a thick cloud of forgetting,
be he never so holy nor promise he thee never so well for to help thee
in thy purpose. For why, love may reach to God in this life, but not
knowing. And all the whiles that the soul dwelleth in this deadly body,
evermore is the sharpness of our understanding in beholding of all
ghostly things, but most specially of God, mingled with some manner of
fantasy; for the which our work should be unclean. And unless more
wonder were, it should lead us into much error.
That in the time of this work the remembrance of
the holiest Creature that ever God made letteth more than it profiteth.
AND therefore the sharp stirring of thine understanding, that will
always press upon thee when thou settest thee to this work, behoveth
always be borne down; and but thou bear him down, he will bear thee
down. Insomuch, that when thou weenest best to abide in this darkness,
and that nought is in thy mind but only God; an thou look truly thou
shalt find thy mind not occupied in this darkness, but in a clear
beholding of some thing beneath God. And if it thus be, surely then is
that thing above thee for the time, and betwixt thee and thy God. And
therefore purpose thee to put down such clear beholdings, be they
never so holy nor so likely. For one thing I tell thee, it is more
profitable to the health of thy soul, more worthy in itself, and more
pleasing to God and to all the saints and angels in heaven—yea, and
more helpful to all thy friends, bodily and ghostly, quick and
dead—such a blind stirring of love unto God for Himself, and such a
privy pressing upon this cloud of unknowing, and better thee were for
to have it and for to feel it in thine affection ghostly, than it is
for to have the eyes of thy soul opened in contemplation or beholding
of all the angels or saints in heaven, or in hearing of all the mirth
and the melody that is amongst them in bliss.
And look thou have no wonder of this: for mightest thou once
see it as clearly, as thou mayest by grace come to for to grope it and
feel it in this life, thou wouldest think as I say. But be thou sure
that clear sight shall never man have here in this life: but the
feeling may men have through grace when God vouchsafeth. And therefore
lift up thy love to that cloud: rather, if I shall say thee sooth, let
God draw thy love up to that cloud and strive thou through help of His
grace to forget all other thing.
For since a naked remembrance of any thing under God pressing
against thy will and thy witting putteth thee farther from God than
thou shouldest be if it were not, and letteth thee, and maketh thee
inasmuch more unable to feel in experience the fruit of His love, what
trowest thou then that a remembrance wittingly and wilfully drawn upon
thee will hinder thee in thy purpose? And since a remembrance of any
special saint or of any clean ghostly thing will hinder thee so much,
what trowest thou then that the remembrance of any man living in this
wretched life, or of any manner of bodily or worldly thing, will hinder
thee and let thee in this work?
I say not that such a naked sudden thought of any good and
clean ghostly thing under God pressing against thy will or thy witting,
or else wilfully drawn upon thee with advisement in increasing of thy
devotion, although it be letting to this manner of work—that it is
therefore evil. Nay! God forbid that thou take it so. But I say,
although it be good and holy, yet in this work it letteth more than it
profiteth. I mean for the time. For why? Surely he that seeketh God
perfectly, he will not rest him finally in the remembrance of any angel
or saint that is in heaven.
How a man shall know when his thought is no
sin; and if it be sin, when it is deadly and when it is venial.
BUT it is not thus of the remembrance of any man or woman living
in this life, or of any bodily or worldly thing whatsoever that it be.
For why, a naked sudden thought of any of them, pressing against thy
will and thy witting, although it be no sin imputed unto thee—for it
is the pain of the original sin pressing against thy power, of the
which sin thou art cleansed in thy baptism—nevertheless yet if this
sudden stirring or thought be not smitten soon down, as fast for
frailty thy fleshly heart is strained thereby: with some manner of
liking, if it be a thing that pleaseth thee or hath pleased thee
before, or else with some manner of grumbling, if it be a thing that
thee think grieveth thee, or hath grieved thee before. The which
fastening, although it may in fleshly living men and women that be in
deadly sin before be deadly; nevertheless in thee and in all other that
have in a true will forsaken the world, and are obliged unto any degree
in devout living in Holy Church, what so it be, privy or open, and
thereto that will be ruled not after their own will and their own wit,
but after the will and the counsel of their sovereigns, what so they
be, religious or seculars, such a liking or a grumbling fastened in the
fleshly heart is but venial sin. The cause of this is the grounding and
the rooting of your intent in God, made in the beginning of your living
in that state that ye stand in, by the witness and the counsel of some
discreet father.
But if it so be, that this liking or grumbling fastened in thy
fleshly heart be suffered so long to abide unreproved, that then at
the last it is fastened to the ghostly heart, that is to say the will,
with a full consent: then, it is deadly sin. And this befalleth when
thou or any of them that I speak of wilfully draw upon thee the
remembrance of any man or woman living in this life, or of any bodily
or worldly thing other: insomuch, that if it be a thing the which
grieveth or hath grieved thee before, there riseth in thee an angry
passion and an appetite of vengeance, the which is called Wrath. Or
else a fell disdain and a manner of loathsomeness of their person, with
despiteful and condemning thoughts, the which is called Envy. Or else a
weariness and an unlistiness of any good occupation bodily or ghostly,
the which is called Sloth.
And if it be a thing that pleaseth thee, or hath pleased thee
before, there riseth in thee a passing delight for to think on that
thing what so it be. Insomuch, that thou restest thee in that thought,
and finally fastenest thine heart and thy will thereto, and feedest thy
fleshly heart therewith: so that thee think for the time that thou
covetest none other wealth, but to live ever in such a peace and rest
with that thing that thou thinkest upon. If this thought that thou thus
drawest upon thee, or else receivest when it is put unto thee, and that
thou restest thee thus in with delight, be worthiness of nature or of
knowing, of grace or of degree, of favour or of fairhead, then it is
Pride. And if it be any manner of worldly good, riches or chattels, or
what that man may have or be lord of, then it is Covetyse. If it be
dainty meats and drinks, or any manner of delights that man may taste,
then it is Gluttony. And if it be love or plesaunce, or any manner of
fleshly dalliance, glosing or flattering of any man or woman living in
this life, or of thyself either: then it is Lechery.
That a man should weigh each thought and each
stirring after that it is, and always eschew recklessness in venial sin.
I SAY not this for that I trow that thou, or any other such as I
speak of, be guilty and cumbered with any such sins; but for that I
would that thou weighest each thought and each stirring after that it
is, and for I would that thou travailedst busily to destroy the first
stirring and thought of these things that thou mayest thus sin in. For
one thing I tell thee; that who weigheth not, or setteth little by, the
first thought—yea, although it be no sin unto him—that he, whosoever
that he be, shall not eschew recklessness in venial sin. Venial sin
shall no man utterly eschew in this deadly life. But recklessness in
venial sin should always be eschewed of all the true disciples of
perfection; and else I have no wonder though they soon sin deadly.
That by Virtue of this word sin is not only
destroyed, but also Virtues begotten.
AND, therefore, if thou wilt stand and not fall, cease never in
thine intent: but beat evermore on this cloud of unknowing that is
betwixt thee and thy God with a sharp dart of longing love, and loathe
for to think on aught under God, and go not thence for anything that
befalleth. For this is only by itself that work that destroyeth the
ground and the root of sin. Fast thou never so much, wake thou never so
long, rise thou never so early, lie thou never so hard, wear thou never
so sharp; yea, and if it were lawful to do—as it is not—put thou out
thine eyes, cut thou out thy tongue of thy mouth, stop thou thine ears
and thy nose never so fast, though thou shear away thy members, and do
all the pain to thy body that thou mayest or canst think: all this
would help thee right nought. Yet will stirring and rising of sin be in
thee.
Yea, and what more? Weep thou never so much for sorrow of thy
sins, or of the Passion of Christ, or have thou never so much mind of
the joys of heaven, what may it do to thee? Surely much good, much
help, much profit, and much grace will it get thee. But in comparison
of this blind stirring of love, it is but a little that it doth, or may
do, without this. This by itself is the best part of Mary without these
other. They without it profit but little or nought. It destroyeth not
only the ground and the root of sin as it may be here, but thereto it
getteth virtues. For an it be truly conceived, all virtues shall truly
be, and perfectly conceived, and feelingly comprehended, in it, without
any mingling of the intent. And have a man never so many virtues
without it, all they be mingled with some crooked intent, for the
which they be imperfect.
For virtue is nought else but an ordained and a measured
affection, plainly directed unto God for Himself. For why? He in
Himself is the pure cause of all virtues: insomuch, that if any man be
stirred to any one virtue by any other cause mingled with Him, yea,
although that He be the chief, yet that virtue is then imperfect. As
thus by example may be seen in one virtue or two instead of all the
other; and well may these two virtues be meekness and charity. For
whoso might get these two clearly, him needeth no more: for why, he
hath all.
What meekness is in itself, and when it is
perfect and when it is imperfect.
NOW let see first of the virtue of meekness; how that it is
imperfect when it is caused of any other thing mingled with God
although He be the chief; and how that it is perfect when it is caused
of God by Himself. And first it is to wit, what meekness is in itself,
if this matter shall clearly be seen and conceived; and thereafter may
it more verily be conceived in truth of spirit what is the cause
thereof.
Meekness in itself is nought else, but a true knowing and
feeling of a man's self as he is. For surely whoso might verily see and
feel himself as he is, he should verily be meek. Two things there be,
the which be cause of this meekness; the which be these. One is the
filth, the wretchedness, and the frailty of man, into the which he is
fallen by sin; and the which always him behoveth to feel in some part
the whiles he liveth in this life, be he never so holy. Another is the
over-abundant love and the worthiness of God in Himself; in beholding
of the which all nature quaketh, all clerks be fools, and all saints
and angels be blind. Insomuch, that were it not that through the wisdom
of His Godhead He measured their beholding after their ableness in
nature and in grace, I defail to say what should befall them.
This second cause is perfect; for why, it shall last without
end. And the tother before is imperfect; for why, it shall not only
fail at the end of this life, but full oft it may befall that a soul in
this deadly body for abundance of grace in multiplying of his
desire—as oft and as long as God vouchsafeth for to work it—shall
have suddenly and perfectly lost and forgotten all witting and feeling
of his being, not looking after whether he have been holy or wretched.
But whether this fall oft or seldom to a soul that is thus disposed, I
trow that it lasteth but a full short while: and in this time it is
perfectly meeked, for it knoweth and feeleth no cause but the Chief.
And ever when it knoweth and feeleth the tother cause, communing
therewith, although this be the chief: yet it is imperfect meekness.
Nevertheless yet it is good and notwithstanding must be had; and God
forbid that thou take it in any other manner than I say.
That without imperfect meekness coming before,
it is impossible for a sinner to come to the perfect Virtue of meekness
in this life.
FOR although I call it imperfect meekness, yet I had liefer have a
true knowing and a feeling of myself as I am, and sooner I trow that it
should get me the perfect cause and virtue of meekness by itself, than
it should an all the saints and angels in heaven, and all the men and
women of Holy Church living in earth, religious or seculars in all
degrees, were set at once all together to do nought else but to pray to
God for me to get me perfect meekness. Yea, and yet it is impossible a
sinner to get, or to keep when it is gotten, the perfect virtue of
meekness without it.
And therefore swink and sweat in all that thou canst and
mayest, for to get thee a true knowing and a feeling of thyself as thou
art; and then I trow that soon after that thou shalt have a true
knowing and a feeling of God as He is. Not as He is in Himself, for
that may no man do but Himself; nor yet as thou shalt do in bliss both
body and soul together. But as it is possible, and as He vouchsafeth to
be known and felt of a meek soul living in this deadly body.
And think not because I set two causes of meekness, one
perfect and another imperfect, that I will therefore that thou leavest
the travail about imperfect meekness, and set thee wholly to get thee
perfect. Nay, surely; I trow thou shouldest never bring it so about.
But herefore I do that I do: because I think to tell thee and let thee
see the worthiness of this ghostly exercise before all other exercise
bodily or ghostly that man can or may do by grace. How that a privy
love pressed in cleanness of spirit upon this dark cloud of unknowing
betwixt thee and thy God, truly and perfectly containeth in it the
perfect virtue of meekness without any special or clear beholding of
any thing under God. And because I would that thou knewest which were
perfect meekness, and settest it as a token before the love of thine
heart, and didst it for thee and for me. And because I would by this
knowing make thee more meek.
For ofttimes it befalleth that lacking of knowing is cause of
much pride as me thinketh. For peradventure an thou knewest not which
were perfect meekness, thou shouldest ween when thou hadst a little
knowing and a feeling of this that I call imperfect meekness, that thou
hadst almost gotten perfect meekness: and so shouldest thou deceive
thyself, and ween that thou wert full meek when thou wert all belapped
in foul stinking pride. And therefore try for to travail about perfect
meekness; for the condition of it is such, that whoso hath it, and the
whiles he hath it, he shall not sin, nor yet much after.
A short proof against their error that say,
that there is no perfecter cause to be meeked under, than is the
knowledge of a man's own wretchedness.
AND trust steadfastly that there is such a perfect meekness as I
speak of, and that it may be come to through grace in this life. And
this I say in confusion of their error, that say that there is no
perfecter cause of meekness than is that which is raised of the
remembrance of our wretchedness and our before-done sins.
I grant well, that to them that have been in accustomed sins,
as I am myself and have been, it is the most needful and speedful
cause, to be meeked under the remembrance of our wretchedness and our
before-done sins, ever till the time be that the great rust of sin be
in great part rubbed away, our conscience and our counsel to witness.
But to other that be, as it were, innocents, the which never sinned
deadly with an abiding will and avisement, but through frailty and
unknowing, and the which set them to be contemplatives—and to us both
if our counsel and our conscience witness our lawful amendment in
contrition and in confession, and in making satisfaction after the
statute and the ordinance of all-Holy Church, and thereto if we feel us
stirred and called by grace to be contemplatives also—there is then
another cause to be meeked under as far above this cause as is the
living of our Lady Saint Mary above the living of the sinfullest
penitent in Holy Church; or the living of Christ above the living of
any other man in this life; or else the living of an angel in heaven,
the which never felt—nor shall feel—frailty, is above the life of the
frailest man that is here in this world.
For if it so were that there were no perfect cause to be
meeked under, but in seeing and feeling of wretchedness, then would I
wit of them that say so, what cause they be meeked under that never see
nor feel—nor never shall be in them—wretchedness nor stirring of sin:
as it is of our Lord JESUS CHRIST, our Lady Saint Mary, and all the
saints and angels in heaven. To this perfection, and all other, our
Lord JESUS CHRIST calleth us Himself in the gospel: where He biddeth
that we should be perfect by grace as He Himself is by nature.
That by Virtue of this work a sinner truly
turned and called to contemplation cometh sooner to perfection than by
any other work; and by it soonest may get of God forgiveness of sins.
LOOK that no man think it presumption, that he that is the
wretchedest sinner of this life dare take upon him after the time be
that he have lawfully amended him, and after that he have felt him
stirred to that life that is called contemplative, by the assent of his
counsel and his conscience for to profer a meek stirring of love to his
God, privily pressing upon the cloud of unknowing betwixt him and his
God. When our Lord said to Mary, in person of all sinners that be
called to contemplative life, "Thy sins be forgiven thee," it was not
for her great sorrow, nor for the remembering of her sins, nor yet for
her meekness that she had in the beholding of her wretchedness only.
But why then? Surely because she loved much.
Lo! here may men see what a privy pressing of love may
purchase of our Lord, before all other works that man may think. And
yet I grant well, that she had full much sorrow, and wept full sore for
her sins, and full much she was meeked in remembrance of her
wretchedness. And so should we do, that have been wretches and
accustomed sinners; all our lifetime make hideous and wonderful sorrow
for our sins, and full much be meeked in remembrance of our
wretchedness.
But how? Surely as Mary did. She, although she might not feel
the deep hearty sorrow of her sins—for why, all her lifetime she had
them with her whereso she went, as it were in a burthen bounden
together and laid up full privily in the hole of her heart, in manner
never to be forgotten—nevertheless yet, it may be said and affirmed by
Scripture, that she had a more hearty sorrow, a more doleful desire,
and a more deep sighing, and more she languished, yea! almost to the
death, for lacking of love, although she had full much love (and have
no wonder thereof, for it is the condition of a true lover that ever
the more he loveth, the more he longeth for to love), than she had for
any remembrance of her sins.
And yet she wist well, and felt well in herself in a sad
soothfastness, that she was a wretch most foul of all other, and that
her sins had made a division betwixt her and her God that she loved so
much: and also that they were in great part cause of her languishing
sickness for lacking of love. But what thereof? Came she therefore down
from the height of desire into the deepness of her sinful life, and
searched in the foul stinking fen and dunghill of her sins; searching
them up, by one and by one, with all the circumstances of them, and
sorrowed and wept so upon them each one by itself? Nay, surely she did
not so. And why? Because God let her wit by His grace within in her
soul, that she should never so bring it about. For so might she sooner
have raised in herself an ableness to have oft sinned, than to have
purchased by that work any plain forgiveness of all her sins.
And therefore she hung up her love and her longing desire in
this cloud of unknowing, and learned her to love a thing the which she
might not see clearly in this life, by light of understanding in her
reason, nor yet verily feel in sweetness of love in her affection.
Insomuch, that she had ofttimes little special remembrance, whether
that ever she had been a sinner or none. Yea, and full ofttimes I hope
that she was so deeply disposed to the love of His Godhead that she had
but right little special beholding unto the beauty of His precious and
His blessed body, in the which He sat full lovely speaking and
preaching before her; nor yet to anything else, bodily or ghostly. That
this be sooth, it seemeth by the gospel.
That a Very contemplative list not meddle him
with active life, nor of anything that is done or spoken about him, nor
yet to answer to his blamers in excusing of himself.
IN the gospel of Saint Luke it is written, that when our Lord was
in the house of Martha her sister, all the time that Martha made her
busy about the dighting of His meat, Mary her sister sat at His feet.
And in hearing of His word she beheld not to the business of her
sister, although her business was full good and full holy, for truly it
is the first part of active life; nor yet to the preciousness of His
blessed body, nor to the sweet voice and the words of His manhood,
although it is better and holier, for it is the second part of active
life and the first of contemplative life.
But to the sovereignest wisdom of His Godhead lapped in the
dark words of His manhood, thither beheld she with all the love of her
heart. For from thence she would not remove, for nothing that she saw
nor heard spoken nor done about her; but sat full still in her body,
with many a sweet privy and a listy love pressed upon that high cloud
of unknowing betwixt her and her God. For one thing I tell thee, that
there was never yet pure creature in this life, nor never yet shall be,
so high ravished in contemplation and love of the Godhead, that there
is not evermore a high and a wonderful cloud of unknowing betwixt him
and his God. In this cloud it was that Mary was occupied with many a
privy love pressed. And why? Because it was the best and the holiest
part of contemplation that may be in this life, and from this part her
list not remove for nothing. Insomuch, that when her sister Martha
complained to our Lord of her, and bade Him bid her sister rise and
help her and let her not so work and travail by herself, she sat full
still and answered not with one word, nor shewed not as much as a
grumbling gesture against her sister for any plaint that she could
make. And no wonder: for why, she had another work to do that Martha
wist not of. And therefore she had no leisure to listen to her, nor to
answer her at her plaint.
Lo! friend, all these works, these words, and these gestures,
that were shewed betwixt our Lord and these two sisters, be set in
ensample of all actives and all contemplatives that have been since in
Holy Church, and shall be to the day of doom. For by Mary is understood
all contemplatives; for they should conform their living after hers.
And by Martha, actives on the same manner; and for the same reason in
likeness.
How that yet unto this day all actives complain
of contemplatives as Martha did of Mary. Of the which complaining
ignorance is the cause.
AND right as Martha complained then on Mary her sister, right so
yet unto this day all actives complain of contemplatives. For an there
be a man or a woman in any company of this world, what company soever
it be, religious or seculars—I out-take none—the which man or woman,
whichever that it be, feeleth him stirred through grace and by counsel
to forsake all outward business, and for to set him fully for to live
contemplative life after their cunning and their conscience, their
counsel according; as fast, their own brethren and their sisters, and
all their next friends, with many other that know not their stirrings
nor that manner of living that they set them to, with a great
complaining spirit shall rise upon them, and say sharply unto them that
it is nought that they do. And as fast they will reckon up many false
tales, and many true also, of falling of men and women that have given
them to such life before: and never a good tale of them that stood.
I grant that many fall and have fallen of them that have in
likeness forsaken the world. And where they should have become God's
servants and His contemplatives, because that they would not rule them
by true ghostly counsel they have become the devil's servants and his
contemplatives; and turned either to hypocrites or to heretics, or
fallen into frenzies and many other mischiefs, in slander of Holy
Church. Of the which I leave to speak at this time, for troubling of
our matter. But nevertheless here after when God vouchsafeth and if
need be, men may see some of the conditions and the cause of their
failings. And therefore no more of them at this time; but forth of our
matter.
A short excusation of him that made this book
teaching how all contemplatives should have all actives fully excused
of their complaining words and deeds.
SOME might think that I do little worship to Martha, that special
saint, for I liken her words of complaining of her sister unto these
worldly men's words, or theirs unto hers: and truly I mean no unworship
to her nor to them. And God forbid that I should in this work say
anything that might be taken in condemnation of any of the servants of
God in any degree, and namely of His special saint. For me thinketh
that she should be full well had excused of her plaint, taking regard
to the time and the manner that she said it in. For that that she
said, her unknowing was the cause. And no wonder though she knew not
at that time how Mary was occupied; for I trow that before she had
little heard of such perfection. And also that she said, it was but
courteously and in few words: and therefore she should always be had
excused.
And so me thinketh that these worldly living men and women of
active life should also full well be had excused of their complaining
words touched before, although they say rudely that they say; having
beholding to their ignorance. For why? Right as Martha wist full little
what Mary her sister did when she complained of her to our Lord; right
so on the same manner these folk nowadays wot full little, or else
nought, what these young disciples of God mean, when they set them from
the business of this world, and draw them to be God's special servants
in holiness and rightfulness of spirit. And if they wist truly, I
daresay that they would neither do nor say as they say. And therefore
me thinketh always that they should be had excused: for why, they know
no better living than is that they live in themselves. And also when I
think on mine innumerable defaults, the which I have made myself before
this time in words and deeds for default of knowing, me thinketh then
if I would be had excused of God for mine ignorant defaults, that I
should charitably and piteously have other men's ignorant words and
deeds always excused. And surely else, do I not to others as I would
they did to me.
How Almighty God will goodly answer for all
those that for the excusing of themselves list not leave their business
about the love of Him.
AND therefore me thinketh, that they that set them to be
contemplatives should not only have active men excused of their
complaining words, but also me thinketh that they should be so occupied
in spirit that they should take little heed or none what men did or
said about them. Thus did Mary, our example of all, when Martha her
sister complained to our Lord: and if we will truly do thus our Lord
will do now for us as He did then for Mary.
And how was that? Surely thus. Our lovely Lord Jesus Christ,
unto whom no privy thing is hid, although He was required of Martha as
doomsman for to bid Mary rise and help her to serve Him; nevertheless
yet, for He perceived that Mary was fervently occupied in spirit about
the love of His Godhead, therefore courteously and as it was seemly for
Him to do by the way of reason, He answered for her, that for the
excusing of herself list not leave the love of Him. And how answered
He? Surely not only as doomsman, as He was of Martha appealed: but as
an advocate lawfully defended her that Him loved, and said, "Martha,
Martha!" Twice for speed He named her name; for He would that she heard
Him and took heed to His words. "Thou art full busy," He said, "and
troubled about many things." For they that be actives behove always to
be busied and travailed about many diverse things, the which them
falleth, first for to have to their own use, and sithen in deeds of
mercy to their even-christian, as charity asketh. And this He said unto
Martha, for He would let her wit that her business was good and
profitable to the health of her soul. But for this, that she should not
think that it were the best work of all that man might do, therefore He
added and said: `But one thing is necessary.'
And what is that one thing? Surely that God be loved and
praised by Himself, above all other business bodily or ghostly that man
may do. And for this, that Martha should not think that she might both
love God and praise Him above all other business bodily or ghostly, and
also thereto to be busy about the necessaries of this life: therefore
to deliver her of doubt that she might not both serve God in bodily
business and ghostly together perfectly—-imperfectly she may, but not
perfectly—He added and said, that Mary had chosen the best part; the
which should never be taken from her. For why, that perfect stirring
of love that beginneth here is even in number with that that shall last
without end in the bliss of heaven, for all it is but one.
The true exposition of this gospel word, "Mary
hath chosen the best part."
WHAT meaneth this; Mary hath chosen the best? Wheresoever the best
is set or named, it asketh before it these two things—a good, and a
better; so that it be the best, and the third in number. But which be
these three good things, of the which Mary chose the best? Three lives
be they not, for Holy Church maketh remembrance but of two, active life
and contemplative life; the which two lives be privily understood in
the story of this gospel by these two sisters Martha and Mary—by
Martha active, by Mary contemplative. Without one of these two lives
may no man be safe, and where no more be but two, may no man choose
the best.
But although there be but two lives, nevertheless yet in these
two lives be three parts, each one better than other. The which three,
each one by itself, be specially set in their places before in this
writing. For as it is said before, the first part standeth in good and
honest bodily works of mercy and of charity; and this is the first
degree of active life, as it is said before. The second part of these
two lives lieth in good ghostly meditations of a man's own
wretchedness, the Passion of Christ, and of the joys of heaven. The
first part is good, and this part is the better; for this is the second
degree of active life and the first of contemplative life. In this part
is contemplative life and active life coupled together in ghostly
kinship, and made sisters at the ensample of Martha and Mary. Thus high
may an active come to contemplation; and no higher, but if it be full
seldom and by a special grace. Thus low may a contemplative come
towards active life; and no lower, but if it be full seldom and in
great need.
The third part of these two lives hangeth in this dark cloud
of unknowing, with many a privy love pressed to God by Himself. The
first part is good, the second is better, but the third is best of all.
This is the "best part" of Mary. And therefore it is plainly to wit,
that our Lord said not, Mary hath chosen the best life; for
there be no more lives but two, and of two may no man choose the best.
But of these two lives Mary hath chosen, He said, the best part;
the which shall never be taken from her. The first part and the second,
although they be both good and holy, yet they end with this life. For
in the tother life shall be no need as now to use the works of mercy,
nor to weep for our wretchedness, nor for the Passion of Christ. For
then shall none be able to hunger nor thirst as now, nor die for cold,
nor be sick, nor houseless, nor in prison; nor yet need burial, for
then shall none be able to die. But the third part that Mary chose,
choose who by grace is called to choose: or, if I soothlier shall say,
whoso is chosen thereto of God. Let him lustily incline thereto, for
that shall never be taken away: for if it begin here, it shall last
without end.
And therefore let the voice of our Lord cry on these actives,
as if He said thus now for us unto them, as He did then for Mary to
Martha, "Martha, Martha!"—"Actives, actives! make you as busy as ye
can in the first part and in the second, now in the one and now in the
tother: and, if you list right well and feel you disposed, in both two
bodily. And meddle you not of contemplatives. Ye wot not what them
aileth: let them sit in their rest and in their play, with the third
and the best part of Mary."
Of the wonderful love that Christ had to man in
person of all sinners truly turned and called to the grace of
contemplation.
SWEET was that love betwixt our Lord and Mary. Much love had she
to Him. Much more had He to her. For whoso would utterly behold all the
behaviour that was betwixt Him and her, not as a trifler may tell, but
as the story of the gospel will witness—the which on nowise may be
false—he should find that she was so heartily set for to love Him,
that nothing beneath Him might comfort her, nor yet hold her heart from
Him. This is she, that same Mary, that when she sought Him at the
sepulchre with weeping cheer would not be comforted of angels. For when
they spake unto her so sweetly and so lovely and said, "Weep not,
Mary; for why, our Lord whom thou seekest is risen, and thou shalt have
Him, and see Him live full fair amongst His disciples in Galilee as He
hight," she would not cease for them. For why? Her thought that whoso
sought verily the King of Angels, them list not cease for angels.
And what more? Surely whoso will look verily in the story of
the gospel, he shall find many wonderful points of perfect love written
of her to our ensample, and as even according to the work of this
writing, as if they had been set and written therefore; and surely so
were they, take whoso take may. And if a man list for to see in the
gospel written the wonderful and the special love that our Lord had to
her, in person of all accustomed sinners truly turned and called to the
grace of contemplation, he shall find that our Lord might not suffer
any man or woman—yea, not her own sister—speak a word against her,
but if He answered for her Himself. Yea, and what more? He blamed Symon
Leprous in his own house, for that he thought against her. This was
great love: this was passing love.
How God will answer and purvey for them in
spirit, that for business about His love list not answer nor purvey for
themselves
AND truly an we will lustily conform our love and our living,
inasmuch as in us is, by grace and by counsel, unto the love and the
living of Mary, no doubt but He shall answer on the same manner now for
us ghostly each day, privily in the hearts of all those that either say
or think against us. I say not but that evermore some men shall say or
think somewhat against us, the whiles we live in the travail of this
life, as they did against Mary. But I say, an we will give no more heed
to their saying nor to their thinking, nor no more cease of our
ghostly privy work for their words and their thoughts, than she did—I
say, then, that our Lord shall answer them in spirit, if it shall be
well with them that so say and so think, that they shall within few
days have shame of their words and their thoughts.
And as He will answer for us thus in spirit, so will He stir
other men in spirit to give us our needful things that belong to this
life, as meat and clothes with all these other; if He see that we will
not leave the work of His love for business about them. And this I say
in confusion of their error, that say that it is not lawful for men to
set them to serve God in contemplative life, but if they be secure
before of their bodily necessaries. For they say, that God sendeth the
cow, but not by the horn. And truly they say wrong of God, as they well
know. For trust steadfastly, thou whatsoever that thou be, that truly
turnest thee from the world unto God, that one of these two God shall
send thee, without business of thyself: and that is either abundance of
necessaries, or strength in body and patience in spirit to bear need.
What then recketh it, which man have? for all come to one in very
contemplatives. And whoso is in doubt of this, either the devil is in
his breast and reeveth him of belief, or else he is not yet truly
turned to God as he should be; make he it never so quaint, nor never so
holy reasons shew there again, whatnot ever that he be.
And therefore thou, that settest thee to be contemplative as
Mary was, choose thee rather to be meeked under the wonderful height
and the worthiness of God, the which is perfect, than under thine own
wretchedness, the which is imperfect: that is to say, look that thy
special beholding be more to the worthiness of God than to thy
wretchedness. For to them that be perfectly meeked, no thing shall
defail; neither bodily thing, nor ghostly. For why? They have God, in
whom is all plenty; and whoso hath Him—yea, as this book telleth—him
needeth nought else in this life.
What charity is in itself, and how it is truly
and perfectly contained in the work of this book.
AND as it is said of meekness, how that it is truly and perfectly
comprehended in this little blind love pressed, when it is beating upon
this dark cloud of unknowing, all other things put down and forgotten:
so it is to be understood of all other virtues, and specially of
charity.
For charity is nought else to bemean to thine understanding,
but love of God for Himself above all creatures, and of man for God
even as thyself. And that in this work God is loved for Himself, and
above all creatures, it seemeth right well. For as it is said before,
that the substance of this work is nought else but a naked intent
directed unto God for Himself.
A naked intent I call it. For why, in this work a perfect
Prentice asketh neither releasing of pain, nor increasing of meed, nor
shortly to say, nought but Himself. Insomuch, that neither he recketh
nor looketh after whether that he be in pain or in bliss, else that His
will be fulfilled that he loveth. And thus it seemeth that in this work
God is perfectly loved for Himself, and that above all creatures. For
in this work, a perfect worker may not suffer the memory of the holiest
creature that ever God made to commune with him.
And that in this work the second and the lower branch of
charity unto thine even-christian is verily and perfectly fulfilled, it
seemeth by the proof. For why, in this work a perfect worker hath no
special beholding unto any man by himself, whether that he be kin or
stranger, friend or foe. For all men him thinks equally kin unto him,
and no man stranger. All men him thinks be his friends, and none his
foes. Insomuch, that him thinks all those that pain him and do him
disease in this life, they be his full and his special friends: and him
thinketh, that he is stirred to will them as much good, as he would to
the homeliest friend that he hath.
That in the time of this work a perfect soul
hath no special beholding to any one man in this life.
I SAY not that in this work he shall have a special beholding to
any man in this life, whether that he be friend or foe, kin or
stranger; for that may not be if this work shall perfectly be done, as
it is when all things under God be fully forgotten, as falleth for this
work. But I say that he shall be made so virtuous and so charitable by
the virtue of this work, that his will shall be afterwards, when he
condescendeth to commune or to pray for his even-christian—not from
all this work, for that may not be without great sin, but from the
height of this work, the which is speedful and needful to do some time
as charity asketh—as specially then directed to his foe as to his
friend, his stranger as his kin. Yea, and some time more to his foe
than to his friend.
Nevertheless, in this work he hath no leisure to look after
who is his friend or his foe, his kin or his stranger. I say not but he
shall feel some time—yea, full oft—his affection more homely to one,
two, or three, than to all these other: for that is lawful to be, for
many causes as charity asketh. For such an homely affection felt Christ
to John and unto Mary, and unto Peter before many others. But I say,
that in the time of this work shall all be equally homely unto him; for
he shall feel then no cause, but only God. So that all shall be loved
plainly and nakedly for God, and as well as himself.
For as all men were lost in Adam and all men that with work
will witness their will of salvation are saved or shall be by virtue
of the Passion of only Christ: not in the same manner, but as it were
in the same manner, a soul that is perfectly disposed to this work, and
oned thus to God and as it s the proof of this work witnesseth, doth
that in it is to make all men as perfect in this work as itself is. For
right as if a limb of our body feeleth sore, all the tother limbs be
pained and diseased therefore, or if a limb fare well, all the remnant
be gladded therewith—right so is it ghostly of all the limbs of Holy
Church. For Christ is our head, and we be the limbs if we be in
charity: and whoso will be a perfect disciple of our Lord's, him
behoveth strain up his spas itin this work ghostly, for the salvation
of all his brethren and sisters in nature, as our Lord did His body on
the Cross. And how? Not only for His friends and His kin and His homely
lovers, but generally for all mankind, without any special beholding
more to one than to another. For all that will leave sin and ask mercy
shall be saved through the virtue of His Passion. And as it is said of
meekness and charity, so it is to be understood of all other virtues.
For all they be truly comprehended in this little pressing of love,
touched before.
That without full special grace, or long use in
common grace, the work of this book is right travailous; and in this
work, which is the work of the soul helped by grace, and which is the
work of only God.
AND therefore travail fast awhile, and beat upon this high cloud
of unknowing, and rest afterward. Nevertheless, a travail shall he have
who so shall use him in this work; yea, surely! and that a full great
travail, unless he have a more special grace, or else that he have of
long time used him therein.
But I pray thee, wherein shall that travail be? Surely not in
that devout stirring of love that is continually wrought in his will,
not by himself, but by the hand of Almighty God: the which is evermore
ready to work this work in each soul that is disposed thereto, and that
doth that in him is, and hath done long time before, to enable him to
this work.
But wherein then is this travail, I pray thee? Surely, this
travail is all in treading down of the remembrance of all the creatures
that ever God made, and in holding of them under the cloud of
forgetting named before. In this is all the travail, for this is man's
travail, with help of grace. And the tother above—that is to say, the
stirring of love—that is the work of only God. And therefore do on thy
work, and surely I promise thee He shall not fail in His.
Do on then fast; let see how thou bearest thee. Seest thou
not how He standeth and abideth thee? For shame! Travail fast but
awhile, and thou shalt soon be eased of the greatness and of the
hardness of this travail. For although it be hard and strait in the
beginning, when thou hast no devotion; nevertheless yet after, when
thou hast devotion, it shall be made full restful and full light unto
thee that before was full hard. And thou shalt have either little
travail or none, for then will God work sometimes all by Himself. But
not ever, nor yet no long time together, but when Him list and as Him
list; and then wilt thou think it merry to let Him alone.
Then will He sometimes peradventure send out a beam of
ghostly light, piercing this cloud of unknowing that is betwixt thee
and Him; and shew thee some of His privity, the which man may not, nor
cannot speak. Then shalt thou feel thine affection inflamed with the
fire of His love, far more than I can tell thee, or may or will at this
time. For of that work, that falleth to only God, dare I not take upon
me to speak with my blabbering fleshly tongue: and shortly to say,
although I durst I would do not. But of that work that falleth to man
when he feeleth him stirred and helped by grace, list me well tell
thee: for therein is the less peril of the two.
Who should work in the gracious work of this
book.
FIRST and foremost, I will tell thee who should work in this work,
and when, and by what means: and what discretion thou shalt have in it.
If thou asketh me who shall work thus, I answer thee—all that have
forsaken the world in a true will, and thereto that give them not to
active life, but to that life that is called contemplative life. All
those should work in this grace and in this work, whatsoever that they
be; whether they have been accustomed sinners or none.
That a man should not presume to work in this
work before the time that he be lawfully cleansed in conscience of all
his special deeds of sin.
BUT if thou asketh me when they should work in this work, then I
answer thee and I say: that not ere they have cleansed their conscience
of all their special deeds of sin done before, after the common
ordinance of Holy Church.
For in this work, a soul drieth up in it all the root and the
ground of sin that will always live in it after confession, be it never
so busy. And, therefore, whoso will travail in this work, let him first
cleanse his conscience; and afterward when he hath done that in him is
lawfully, let him dispose him boldly but meekly thereto. And let him
think, that he hath full long been holden therefrom. For this is that
work in the which a soul should travail all his lifetime, though he had
never sinned deadly. And the whiles that a soul is dwelling in this
deadly flesh, it shall evermore see and feel this cumbrous cloud of
unknowing betwixt him and God. And not only that, but in pain of the
original sin it shall evermore see and feel that some of all the
creatures that ever God made, or some of their works, will evermore
press in remembrance betwixt it and God. And this is the right wisdom
of God, that man, when he had sovereignty and lordship of all other
creatures, because that he wilfully made him underling to the stirring
of his subjects, leaving the bidding of God and his Maker; that right
so after, when he would fulfil the bidding of God, he saw and felt all
the creatures that should be beneath him, proudly press above him,
betwixt him and his God.
That a man should bidingly travail in this
work, and suffer the pain thereof, and judge no man.
AND therefore, whoso coveteth to come to cleanness that he lost
for sin, and to win to that well-being where all woe wanteth, him
behoveth bidingly to travail in this work, and suffer the pain thereof,
whatsoever that he be: whether he have been an accustomed sinner or
none.
All men have travail in this work; both sinners, and innocents
that never sinned greatly. But far greater travail have those that have
been sinners than they that have been none; and that is great reason.
Nevertheless, ofttimes it befalleth that some that have been horrible
and accustomed sinners come sooner to the perfection of this work than
those that have been none. And this is the merciful miracle of our
Lord, that so specially giveth His grace, to the wondering of all this
world. Now truly I hope that on Doomsday it shall be fair, when that
God shall be seen clearly and all His gifts. Then shall some that now
be despised and set at little or nought as common sinners, and
peradventure some that now be horrible sinners, sit full seemly with
saints in His sight: when some of those that seem now full holy and be
worshipped of men as angels, and some of those yet peradventure, that
never yet sinned deadly, shall sit full sorry amongst hell caves.
Hereby mayest thou see that no man should be judged of other
here in this life, for good nor for evil that they do. Nevertheless
deeds may lawfully be judged, but not the man, whether they be good or
evil.
Who should blame and condemn other men's
defaults.
BUT I pray thee, of whom shall men's deeds be judged?
Surely of them that have power, and cure of their souls:
either given openly by the statute and the ordinance of Holy Church, or
else privily in d as it t the special stirring of the Holy Ghost in
perfect charity. Each man beware, that he presume not to take upon him
to blame and condemn other men's defaults, but if he feel verily that
he be stirred of the Holy Ghost within in his work; for else may he
full lightly err in his dooms. And therefore beware: judge thyself as
thee list betwixt thee and thy God or thy ghostly father, and let other
men alone.
How a man should have him in beginning of this
work against all thoughts and stirrings of sin.
AND from the time that thou feelest that thou hast done that in
thee is, lawfully to amend theet t the doom of Holy Church, then shalt
thou set thee sharply to work in this work. And then if it so be that
thy foredone special deeds will always press in thy remembrance betwixt
thee and thy God, or any new thought or stirring of any sin either,
thou shalt stalwartly step above them with a fervent stirring of love,
and tread them down under thy feet. And try to cover them with a thick
cloud of forgetting, as they never had been done in this life of thee
nor of other man either. And if they oft rise, oft put them down: and
shortly to say, as oft as they rise, as oft put them down. And if thee
think that the travail be great, thou mayest seek arts and wiles and
privy subtleties of ghostly devices to put them away: the which
subtleties be better learned of God by the proof than of any man in
this life.
Of two ghostly devices that be helpful to a
ghostly beginner in the work of this book.
NEVERTHELESS, somewhat of this subtlety shall I tell thee as me
think. Prove thou and do better, if thou better mayest. Do that in thee
is, to let be as thou wist not that they press so fast upon thee
betwixt thee and thy God. And try to look as it were over their
shoulders, seeking another thing: the which thing is God, enclosed in a
cloud of unknowing. And if thou do thus, I trow that within short time
thou shalt be eased of thy travail. I trow that an this device be well
and truly conceived, it is nought else but a longing desire unto God,
to feel Him and see Him as it may be here: and such a desire is
charity, and it obtaineth always to be eased.
Another device there is: prove thou if thou wilt. When thou
feelest that thou mayest on nowise put them down, cower thou down under
them as a caitiff and a coward overcome in battle, and think that it is
but a folly to thee to strive any longer with them, and therefore thou
yieldest thee to God anthe hands of thine enemies. And feel then
thyself as thou wert foredone for ever. Take good heed of this device I
pray thee, for me think anthe proof of this device thou shouldest melt
all to water. And surely me think an this device be truly conceived it
is nought else but a true knowing and a feeling of thyself as thou art,
a wretch and a filthy, far worse than nought: the which knowing and
feeling is meekness. And this meekness obtaineth to have God Himself
mightily descending, to venge thee of thine enemies, for to take thee
up, and cherishingly dry thine ghostly eyen; as the father doth the
child that is in point to perish under the mouths of wild swine or wode
biting bears.
That in this work a soul is cleansed both of
his special sins and of the pain of them, and yet how there is no
perfect rest in this life.
MORE devices tell I thee not at this time; for an thou have grace
to feel the proof of these, I trow that thou shalt know better to learn
me than I thee. For although it should be thus, truly yet me think that
I am full far therefrom. And therefore I pray thee help me, and do thou
for thee and for me.
Do on then, and travail fast awhile, I pray thee, and suffer
meekly the pain if thou mayest not soon win to these arts. For truly it
is thy purgatory, and then when thy pain is all passed and thy devices
be given of God, and graciously gotten in custom; then it is no doubt
to me that thou art cleansed not only of sin, but also of the pain of
sin. I mean, of the pain of thy special foredone sins, and not of the
pain of the original sin. For that pain shall always last on thee to
thy death day, be thou never so busy. Nevertheless, it shall but little
provoke thee, in comparison of this pain of thy special sins; and yet
shalt thou not be without great travail. For out of this original sin
will all day spring new and fresh stirrings of sin: the which thee
behoveth all day to smite down, and be busy to shear away with a sharp
double-edged dreadful sword of discretion. And hereby mayest thou see
and learn, that there is no soothfast security, nor yet no true rest in
this life.
Nevertheless, herefore shalt thou not go back, nor yet be
overfeared of thy failing. For an it so be that thou mayest have grace
to destroy the pain of thine foredone special deeds, anthe manner
before said—or better if thou better mayest—sure be thou, that the
pain of the original sin, or else the new stirrings of sin that be to
come, shall but right little be able to provoke thee.
That God giveth this grace freely without any
means, and that it may not be come to with means.
AND if thou askest me by what means thou shalt come to this work,
I beseech Almighty God of His great grace and His great courtesy to
teach thee Himself. For truly I do thee well to wit that I cannot tell
thee, and that is no wonder. For why, that is the work of only God,
specially wrought in what soul that Him liketh without any desert of
the same soul. For without it no saint nor no angel can think to desire
it. And I trow that our Lord as specially and as oft—yea! and more
specially and more oft—will vouchsafe to work this work anthem that
have been accustomed sinners, than in some other, that never grieved
Him greatly in comparison of them. And this will He do, for He will be
seen all-merciful and almighty; and for He will be seen to work as Him
list, where Him list, and when Him list.
And yet He giveth not this grace, nor worketh not this work,
in any soul that is unable thereto. And yet, there is no soul without
this grace, able to have this grace: none, whether it be a sinner's
soul or an innocent soul. For neither it is given for innocence, nor
withholden for sin. Take good heed, that I say withholden, and not
withdrawn. Beware of error here, I pray thee; for ever, the nearer men
touch the truth, more wary men behoveth to be of error. I mean but
well: if thou canst not conceive it, lay it by thy side till God come
and teach thee. Do then so, and hurt thee not.
Beware of pride, for it blasphemeth God anHis gifts, and
boldeneth sinners. Wert thou verily meek, thou shouldest feel of this
work as I say: that God giveth it freely without any desert. The
condition of this work is such, that the presence thereof enableth a
soul for to have it and for to feel it. And that ableness may no soul
have without it. The ableness to this work is oned to the work's self
without departing; so that whoso feeleth this work is able thereto, and
none else. Insomuch, that without this work a soul is as it were dead,
and cannot covet it nor desire it. Forasmuch as thou willest it and
desirest it, so much hast thou of it, and no more nor no less: and yet
is it no will, nor no desire, but a thing thou wottest never what, that
stirreth thee to will and desire thou wottest never what. Reck thee
never if thou wittest no more, I pray thee: but do forth ever more and
more, so that thou be ever doing.
And if I shall shortlier say, let that thing do with thee and
lead thee whereso it list. Let it be the worker, and you but the
sufferer: do but look upon it, and let it alone. Meddle thee not
therewith as thou wouldest help it, for dread lest thou spill all. Be
thou but the tree, and let it be the wright: be thou but the house, and
let it be the husbandman dwelling therein. Be blind in this time, and
shear away covetise of knowing, for it will more let thee than help
thee. It sufficeth enough unto thee, that thou feelest thee stirred
likingly with a thing thou wottest never what, else that in this
stirring thou hast no special thought of any thing under God; and that
thine intent be nakedly directed unto God.
And if it be thus, trust then steadfastly that it is only God
that stirreth thy will and thy desire plainly by Himself, without means
either oanHis part or on thine. And be not feared, for the devil may
not come so near. He may never come to stir a man's will, but
occasionally and by means from afar, be he never so subtle a devil.
For sufficiently and without means may no good angel stir thy will:
nor, shortly to say, nothing but only God. So that thou mayest conceive
here by these words somewhat (but much more clearly by the proof), that
in this work men shall use no means: nor yet men may not come thereto
with means. All good means hang upon it, and it on no means; nor no
means may lead thereto.
Of three means in the which a contemplative
Prentice should be occupied, in reading, thinking, and praying.
NEVERTHELESS, means there be in the which a contemplative prentice
should be occupied, the which be these—Lesson, Meditation, and Orison:
or else to thine understanding they may be called—Reading, Thinking,
and Praying. Of these three thou shalt find written in another book of
another man's work, much better than I can tell thee; and therefore it
needeth not here to tell thee of the qualities of them. But this may I
tell thee: these three be so coupled together, that unto them that be
beginners and profiters—but not to them that be perfect, yea, as it
may be here—thinking may not goodly be gotten, without reading or
hearing coming before. All is one in manner, reading and hearing:
clerks reading on books, and lewd men reading on clerks when they hear
them preach the word of God. Nor prayer may not goodly be gotten in
beginners and profiters, without thinking coming before.
See by the proof. In this same course, God's word either
written or spoken is likened to a mirror. Ghostly, the eyes of thy soul
is thy reason; thy conscience is thy visage ghostly. And right as thou
seest that if a foul spot be in thy bodily visage, the eyes of the same
visage may not see that spot nor wit where it is, without a mirror or a
teaching of another than itself; right so it is ghostly, without
reading or hearing of God's word it is impossible to man's
understanding that a soul that is blinded in custom of sin should see
the foul spot in his conscience.
And so following, when a man seeth in a bodily or ghostly
mirror, or wots by other men's teaching, whereabouts the foul spot is
on his visage, either bodily or ghostly; then at first, and not before,
he runneth to the well to wash him. If this spot be any special sin,
then is this well Holy Church, and this water confession, with the
circumstances. If it be but a blind root and a stirring of sin, then is
this well merciful God, and this water prayer, with the circumstances.
And thus mayest thou see that no thinking may goodly be gotten in
beginners and profiters, without reading or hearing coming before: nor
praying without thinking.
Of the meditations of them that continually
travail in the work of this book.
BUT it is not so with them that continually work in the work of
this book. For their meditations be but as they were sudden conceits
and blind feelings of their own wretchedness, or of the goodness of
God; without any means of reading or hearing coming before, and without
any special beholding of any thing under God. These sudden conceits and
these blind feelings be sooner learned of God than of man. I care not
though thou haddest nowadays none other meditations of thine own
wretchedness, nor of the goodness of God (I mean if thou feel thee thus
stirred by grace and by counsel), but such as thou mayest have in this
word SIN, and in this word GOD: or in such other, which as thee list.
Not breaking nor expounding these words with curiosity of wit, in
beholding after the qualities of these words, as thou wouldest by that
beholding increase thy devotion. I trow it should never be so in this
case and in this work. But hold them all whole these words; and mean by
sin, a lump, thou wottest never what, none other thing but
thyself. Me think that in this blind beholding of sin, thus congealed
in a lump, none other thing than thyself, it should be no need to bind
a madder thing, than thou shouldest be in this time. And yet
peradventure, whoso looked upon thee should think thee full soberly
disposed in thy body, without any changing of countenance; but sitting
or going or lying, or leaning or standing or kneeling, whether thou
wert, in a full sober restfulness.
Of the special prayers of them that be
continual workers in the word of this book
AND right as the meditations of them that continually work in this
grace and in this work rise suddenly without any means, right so do
their prayers. I mean of their special prayers, not of those prayers
that be ordained of Holy Church. For they that be true workers in this
work, they worship no prayer so much: and therefore they do them, in
the form and in the statute that they be ordained of holy fathers
before us. But their special prayers rise evermore suddenly unto God,
without any means or any premeditation in d ecial coming before, or
going therewith.
And if they be in words, as they be but seldom, then be they
but in full few words: yea, and in ever the fewer the better. Yea, and
if it be but a little word of one syllable, me think t better than of
two: and more, too, according to the work of the spirit, since it so is
that a ghostly worker in this work should evermore be in the highest
and the sovereignest point of the spirit. That this be sooth, see by
ensample in the course of nature. A man or a woman, afraid with any
sudden chance of fire or of man's death or what else that it be,
suddenly in the height of his spas i, he is driven upon haste and upon
need for to cry or for to pray after help. Yea, how? Surely, not in
many words, nor yet in one word of two syllables. And why is that? For
him thinketh it over long tarrying for to declare the need and the work
of his spas i. And therefore he bursteth up hideously with a great
spas i, and cryeth a little word, but of one syllable: as is this word
"fire," or this word "out!"
And right as this little word "fire" stirreth rather and
pierceth more hastily the ears of the hearers, so doth a little word of
one syllable when it is not only spoken or thought, but privily meant
in the deepness of spas i; the which is the height, for in ghostliness
all is one, height and deepness, length and breadth. And rather it
pierceth the ears of Almighty God than doth any long psalter
unmindfully mumbled in the teeth. And herefore it is written, that
short prayer pierceth heaven.
How and why that short prayer pierceth heaven
AND why pierceth it heaven, this little short prayer of one little
syllable? Surely because it is prayed with a full spas i, in the height
and in the deepness, in the length and in the breadth of his spas i
that prayeth it. In the height it is, for it is with all the might of
the spas i. In the deepness it is, for in this little syllable be
contained all the wits of the spirit. In the length it is, for might it
ever feel as it feeleth, ever would it cry as it cryeth. In the breadth
it is, for it willeth the same to all other that it willeth to itself.
In this time it is that a soul hath comprehended after the
lesson of Saint Paul with all saints—not fully, but in manner and in
part, as it is according unto this work—which is the length and the
breadth, the height and the deepness of everlasting and all-lovely,
almighty, and all-witting God. The everlastingness of God is His
length. His love is His breadth. His might is His height. And His
wisdom is His deepness. No wonder though a soul that is thus nigh
conformed by grace to the image and the likeness of God his maker, be
soon heard of God! Yea, though it be a full sinful soul, the which is
to God as it were an enemy; an he might through grace come for to cry
such a little syllable in the height and the deepness, the length and
the breadth of his spas i, yet he should for the hideous noise of his
cry be always heard and helped of God.
See by ensample. He that is thy deadly enemy, an thou hear
him so afraid that he cry in the height of his spas i this little word
"fire," or this word "out"; yet without any beholding to him for he is
thine enemy, but for pure pity in thine heart stirred and raised with
the dolefulness of this cry, thou risest up—yea, though it be about
midwinter's night—and helpest him to slack his fire, or for to still
him and rest him in his distress. Oh, Lord! since a man may be made so
merciful in grace, to have so much mercy and so much pity of his enemy,
notwithstanding his enmity, what pity and what mercy shall God have
then of a ghostly cry in soul, made and wrought in the height and the
deepness, the length and the breadth of his spas i; the which hath all
by nature that man hath by grace? And much more, surely without
comparison, much more mercy will He have; since it is, that that thing
that is so had by nature is nearer to an eternal thing than that which
is had by grace.
How a perfect worker shall pray, and what
prayer is in itself; and if a man shall pray in words, which words
accord them most to the property of prayer.
AND therefore it is, to pray in the height and the deepness, the
length and the breadth of our spas i. And that not in many words, but
in a little word of one syllable.
And what shall this word be? Surely such a word as is best
according unto the property of prayer. And what word is that? Let us
first see what prayer is properly in itself, and thereafter we may
clearlier know what word will best accord to the property of prayer.
Prayer in itself properly is not else, but a devout intent
direct unto God, for getting of good and removing of evil. And then,
since it so is that all evil be comprehended in sin, either by cause or
by being, let us therefore when we will intentively pray for removing
of evil either say, or think, or mean, nought else nor no more words,
but this little word "sin." And if we will intentively pray for getting
of good, let us cry, either with word or with thought or with desire,
nought else nor no more words, but this word "God." For why, in God be
all good, both by cause and by being. Have no marvel why I set these
words forby all other. For if I could find any shorter words, so fully
comprehending in them all good and all evil, as these two words do, or
if I had been learned of God to take any other words either, I would
then have taken them and left these; and so I counsel that thou do.
Study thou not for no words, for so shouldest thou never come
to thy purpose nor to this work, for it is never got by study, but all
only by grace. And therefore take thou none other words to pray in,
although I set these here, but such as thou art stirred of God for to
take. Nevertheless, if God stir thee to take these, I counsel not that
thou leave them; I mean if thou shalt pray in words, and else not. For
why, they be full short words. But although the shortness of prayer be
greatly commended here, nevertheless the oftness of prayer is never the
rather refrained. For as it is said before, it is prayed in the length
of the spirit; so that it should never cease, till the time were that
it had fully gotten that that it longed after. Ensample of this have we
in a man or a woman afraid anthe manner beforesaid. For we see well,
that they cease never crying on this little word "out," or this little
word "fire," ere the time be that they have in great part gotten help
of their grief.
That in the time of this work a soul hath no
special beholding to any vice in itself nor to any virtue in itself.
DO thou, on the same manner, fill thy spas i with the ghostly
bemeaning of this word "sin," and without any special beholding unto
any kind of sin, whether it be venial or deadly: Pride, Wrath, or Envy,
Covetyse, Sloth, Gluttony, or Lechery. What recks it in contemplatives,
what sin that it be, or how muckle a sin that it be? For all sins them
thinketh—I mean for the time of this work—alike great in themselves,
when the least sin departeth them from God, and letteth them of their
ghostly peace.
And feel sin a lump, thou wottest never what, but none other
thing than thyself. And cry then ghostly ever upon one: a Sin, sin,
sin! Out, out, out!" This ghostly cry is better learned of God by
the proof, than of any man by word. For it is best when it is in pure
spas i, without special thought or any pronouncing of word; unless it
be any seldom time, when for abundance of spas i it bursteth up into
word, so that the body and the soul be both filled with sorrow and
cumbering of sin.
On the same manner shalt thou do with this little word "God."
Fill thy spas i with the ghostly bemeaning of it without any special
beholding to any of His works—whether they be good, better, or best of
all—bodily or ghostly, or to any virtue that may be wrought in man's
soul by any grace; not looking after whether it be meekness or charity,
patience or abstinence, hope, faith, or soberness, chastity or wilful
poverty. What recks this in contemplatives? For all virtues they find
and feel in God; for in Him is all thing, both by cause and by being.
For they think that an they had God they had all good, and therefore
they covet nothing with special beholding, but only good God. Do thou
on the same manner as far forth as thou mayest by grace: and mean God
all, and all God, so that nought work in thy wit and in thy will, but
only God.
And because that ever the whiles thou livest in this wretched
life, thee behoveth always feel in some part this foul stinking lump of
sin, as it were oned and congealed with the substance of thy being,
therefore shalt thou changeably mean these two words—sin and God. With
this general knowing, that an thou haddest God, then shouldest thou
lack sin: and mightest thou lack sin, then shouldest thou have God.
That in all other works beneath this, men
should keep discretion; but in this none.
AND furthermore, if thou ask me what discretion thou shalt have in
this work, then I answer thee and say, right none! For in all thine
other doings thou shalt have discretion, as in eating and in drinking,
and in sleeping and in keeping of thy body from outrageous cold or
heat, and in long praying or reading, or in communing in speech with
thine even-christian. In all these shalt thou keep discretion, that
they be neither too much nor too little. But in this work shalt thou
hold no measure: for I would that thou shouldest never cease of this
work the whiles thou livest.
I say not that thou shalt continue ever therein alike fresh,
for that may not be. For sometime sickness and other unordained
dispositions in body and in soul, with many other needfulness to
nature, will let thee full much, and ofttimes draw thee down from the
height of this working. But I say that thou shouldest evermore have it
either in earnest or in game; that is to say, either in work or in
will. And therefore for God's love be wary with sickness as much as
thou mayest goodly, so that thou be not the cause of thy feebleness, as
far as thou mayest. For I tell thee truly, that this work asketh a full
great restfulness, and a full whole and clean disposition, as well in
body as in soul.
And therefore for God's love govern thee discreetly in body
and in soul, and get thee thine health as much as thou mayest. And if
sickness come against thy power, have patience and abide meekly God's
mercy: and all is then good enough. For I tell thee truly, that
ofttimes patience in sickness and in other diverse tribulations
pleaseth God much more than any liking devotion that thou mayest have
in thy health.
That by indiscretion in this, men shall keep
discretion in all other things; and surely else never
BUT peradventure thou askest me, how thou shalt govern thee
discreetly in meat and in sleep, and in all these other. And hereto I
think to answer thee right shortly: "Get that thou get mayest." Do this
work evermore without ceasing and without discretion, and thou shalt
well ken begin and cease in all other works with a great discretion.
For I may not trow that a soul continuing in this work night and day
without discretion, should err in any of these outward doings; and
else, me think that he should always err.
And therefore, an I might get a waking and a busy beholding
to this ghostly work within in my soul, I would then have a
heedlessness in eating and in drinking, in sleeping and in speaking,
and in all mine outward doings. For surely I trow I should rather come
to discretion in them by such a heedlessness, than by any busy
beholding to the same things, as I would by that beholding set a mark
and a measure by them. Truly I should never bring it so about, for
ought that I could do or say. Say what men say will, and let the proof
witness. And therefore lift up thine heart with a blind stirring of
love; and mean now sin, and now God. God wouldest thou have, and sin
wouldest thou lack. God wanteth thee; and sin art thou sure of. Now
good God help thee, for now hast thou need!
That all witting and feeling of a man's own
being must needs be lost if the perfection of this word shall verily be
felt in any soul in this life.
LOOK that nought work in thy wit nor in thy will but only God. And
try for to fell all witting and feeling of ought under God, and tread
all down full far under the cloud of forgetting. And thou shalt
understand, that thou shalt not only in this work forget all other
creatures than thyself, or their deeds or thine, but also thou shalt in
this work forget both thyself and also thy deeds for God, as well as
all other creatures and their deeds. For it is the condition of a
perfect lover, not only to love that thing that he loveth more than
himself; but also in a manner for to hate himself for that thing that
he loveth.
Thus shalt thou do with thyself: thou shalt loathe and be
weary with all that thing that worketh in thy wit and in thy will
unless it be only God. For why, surely else, whatsoever that it be, it
is betwixt thee and thy God. And no wonder though thou loathe and hate
for to think on thyself, when thou shalt always feel sin, a foul
stinking lump thou wottest never what, betwixt thee and thy God: the
which lump is none other thing than thyself. For thou shalt think t
oned and congealed with the substance of thy being: yea, as it were
without departing.
And therefore break down all witting and feeling of all
manner of creatures; but most busily of thyself. For on the witting and
the feeling of thyself hangeth witting and feeling of all other
creatures; for in regard of i, all other creatures be lightly
forgotten. For, an thou wilt busily set thee to the proof, thou shalt
find when thou hast forgotten all other creatures and all their
works—yea, and thereto all thine own works—that there shall live yet
after, betwixt thee and thy God, a naked witting and a feeling of thine
own being: the which witting and feeling behoveth always be destroyed,
ere the time be that thou feel soothfastly the perfection of this work.
How a soul shall dispose it on its own part,
for to destroy all witting and feeling of its own being.
BUT now thou askest me, how thou mayest destroy this naked witting
and feeling of thine own being. For peradventure thou thinkest that an
it were destroyed, all other lettings were destroyed: and if thou
thinkest thus, thou thinkest right truly. But to this I answer thee and
I say, that without a full special grace full freely given of God, and
thereto a full according ableness to receive this grace on thy part,
this naked witting and feeling of thy being may on nowise be destroyed.
And this ableness is nought else but a strong and a deep ghostly
sorrow.
But in this sorrow needeth thee to have discretion, on this
manner: thou shalt be wary in the time of this sorrow, that thou
neither too rudely strain thy body nor thy spas i, but sit full still,
as it were in a sleeping device, all forsobbed and forsunken in sorrow.
This is true sorrow; this is perfect sorrow; and well were him that
might win to this sorrow. All men have matter of sorrow: but most
specially he feeleth matter of sorrow, that wotteth and feeleth that he
is. All other sorrows be unto this in comparison but as it were game to
earnest. For he may make sorrow earnestly, that wotteth and feeleth not
only what he is, but that he is. And whoso felt never this sorrow, he
may make sorrow: for why, he felt yet never perfect sorrow. This
sorrow, when it is had, cleanseth the soul, not only of sin, but also
of pain that it hath deserved for sin; and thereto it maketh a soul
able to receive that joy, the which reeveth from a man all witting and
feeling of his being.
This sorrow, if it be truly conceived, is full of holy
desire: and else might never man in this life abide it nor bear it. For
were it not that a soul were somewhat fed with a manner of comfort of
his right working, else should he not be able to bear the pain that he
hath of the witting and feeling of his being. For as oft as he would
have a true witting and a feeling of his God anpurity of spas i, as it
may be here, and sithen feeleth that he may not—for he findeth
evermore his witting and his feeling as it were occupied and filled
with a foul stinking lump of himself, the which behoveth always be
hated and be despised and forsaken, if he shall be God's perfect
disciple learned of Himself anthe mount of perfection—so oft, he
goeth nigh mad for sorrow. Insomuch, that he weepeth and waileth,
striveth, curseth, and banneth; and shortly to say, him thinketh that
he beareth so heavy a burthen of himself that he careth never what
betides him, so that God were pleased. And yet in all this sorrow he
desireth not to unbe: for that were devil's madness and despite unto
God. But him listeth right well to be; and he intendeth full heartily
thanking to God, for the worthiness and the gift of his being, for all
that he desire unceasingly for to lack the witting and the feeling of
his being.
This sorrow and this desire behoveth every soul have and feel
in itself, either in this manner or in another; as God vouchsafeth for
to learn to His ghostly disciples after His well willing and their
according ableness in body and in soul, in degree and disposition, ere
the time be that they may perfectly be oned unto God anperfect
charity—such as may be had here—if God vouchsafeth.
A good declaring of some certain deceits that
may befall in this work.
BUT one thing I tell thee, that in this work may a young disciple
that hath not yet been well used and proved in ghostly working, full
lightly be deceived; and, but he be soon wary, and have grace to leave
off and meek him to counsel, peradventure be destroyed in his bodily
powers and fall into fantasy in his ghostly wits. And all this is along
of pride, and of fleshliness and curiosity of wit.
And on this manner may this deceit befall. A young man or a
woman new set to the school of devotion heareth this sorrow and this
desire be read and spoken: how that a man shall lift up his heart unto
God, and unceasingly desire for to feel the love of his God. And as
fast in a curiosity of wit they conceive these words not ghostly as
they be meant, but fleshly and bodily; and travail their fleshly hearts
outrageously in their breasts. And what for lacking of grace and pride
and curiosity in themselves, they strain their veins and their bodily
powers so beastly and so rudely, that within short time they fall
either into frenzies, weariness, and a manner of unlisty feebleness in
body and in soul, the which maketh them to wend out of themselves and
seek some false and some vain fleshly and bodily comfort without, as it
were for recreation of body and of spas i: or else, if they fall not in
this, else they mes i for ghostly blindness, and for fleshly chafing of
their nature in their bodily breasts in the time of this feigned
beastly and not ghostly working, for to have their breasts either
enflamed with an unkindly heat of nature caused of misruling of their
bodies or of this feigned working, or else they conceive a false heat
wrought by the Fiend, their ghostly enemy, caused of their pride and of
their fleshliness and their curiosity of wit. And yet peradventure they
ween it be the fire of love, gotten and kindled by the grace and the
goodness of the Holy Ghost. Truly, of this deceit, and of the branches
thereof, spring many mischiefs: much hypocrisy, much heresy, and much
error. For as fast after such a false feeling cometh a false knowing in
the Fiend's school, right as after a true feeling cometh a true knowing
in God's school. For I tell thee truly, that the devil hath his
contemplatives as God hath His.
This deceit of false feeling, and of false knowing following
thereon, hath diverse and wonderful variations, after the diversity of
states and the subtle conditions of them that be deceived: as hath the
true feeling and knowing of them that be saved. But I set no more
deceits here but those with the which I trow thou shalt be assailed if
ever thou purpose thee to work in this work. For what should it profit
to thee to wit how these great clerks, and men and women of other
degrees than thou art, be deceived? Surely right nought; and therefore
I tell thee no more but those that fall unto thee if thou travail in
this work. And therefore I tell thee this, for thou shalt be wary
therewith in thy working, if thou be assailed therewith.
A good teaching how a man shall flee these
deceits, and work more with a listiness of spas i, than with any
boisterousness of body
AND therefore for God's love be wary in this work, and strain not
thine heart in thy breast over-rudely nor out of measure; but work more
with a list than with any worthless strength. For ever the more
Mistily, the more meekly and ghostly: and ever the more rudely, the
more bodily and beastly. And therefore be wary, for surely what beastly
heart that presumeth for to touch the high mount of this work, it shall
be beaten away with stones. Stones be hard and dry in their kind, and
they hurt full sore where they hit. And surely such rude strainings be
full hard fastened in fleshliness of bodily feeling, and full dry from
any witting of grace; and they hurt full sore the silly soul, and make
it fester in fantasy feigned of fiends. And therefore be wary with this
beastly rudeness, and learn thee to love listily, with a soft and a
demure behaviour as well in body as in soul; and abide courteously and
meekly the will of our Lord, and snatch not overhastily, as it were a
greedy greyhound, hunger thee never so sore. And, gamingly be it said,
I counsel that thou do that in thee is, refraining the rude and the
great stirring of thy spas i, right as thou on nowise wouldest let Him
wit how fain thou wouldest see Him, and have Him or feel Him.
This is childishly and playingly spoken, thee think
peradventure. But I trow whoso had grace to do and feel as I say, he
should feel good gamesome play with Him, as the father doth with the
child, kissing and clipping, that well were him so.
A slight teaching of this work anpurity of
spas i; declaring how that on one manner a soul should shed his desire
unto God, and on ye contrary unto man.
LOOK thou have no wonder why that I speak thus childishly, and as
it were follily and lacking natural discretion; for I do it for certain
reasons, and as me thinketh that I have been stirred many days, both to
feel thus and think thus and say thus, as well to some other of my
special friends in God, as I am now unto thee.
And one reason is this, why that I bid thee hide from God the
desire of thine heart. For I hope it should more clearly come to His
knowing, for thy profit and in fulfilling of thy desire, by such an
hiding, than it should by any other manner of shewing that I trow thou
couldest yet shew. And another reason is, for I would by such a hid
shewing bring thee out of the boisterousness of bodily feeling into the
purity and deepness of ghostly feeling; and so furthermore at the last
to help thee to knit the ghostly knot of burning love betwixt thee and
thy God, in ghostly onehead and according of will.
Thou wottest well this, that God is a Spas i; and whoso
should be oned unto Him, it behoveth to be in soothfastness and
deepness of spas i, full far from any feigned bodily thing. Sooth it is
that all thing is known of God, and nothing may be hid from His
witting, neither bodily thing nor ghostly. But more openly is that
thing known and shewed unto Him, the which is hid andeepness of
spas i, sith it so is that He is a Spas i, than is anything that is
mingled with any manner of bodilyness. For all bodily thing is farther
from God by the course of nature than any ghostly thing. By this
reason it seemeth, that the whiles our desire is mingled with any
matter of bodilyness, as it is when we stress and strain us in spas i
and in body together, so long it is farther from God than it should be,
an it were done more devoutly and more listily in soberness and in
purity and andeepness of spas i.
And here mayest thou see somewhat and anpart the reason why
that I bid thee so childishly cover and hide the stirring of thy desire
from God. And yet I bid thee not plainly hide it; for that were the
bidding of a fool, for to bid thee plainly do that which on nowise may
be done. But I bid thee do that in thee is to hide it. And why bid I
thus? Surely because I would that thou cast it into deepness of spas i,
far from any rude mingling of any bodilyness, the which would make i
less ghostly and farther from God inasmuch: and because I wot well that
ever the more that thy spas i hath of ghostliness, the less it hath of
bodilyness and the nearer it is to God, and the better it pleaseth Him
and the more clearly it may be seen of Him. Not that His sight may be
any time or in any thing more clear than in another, for it is evermore
unchangeable: but because it is more like unto Him, when it is in
purity of spas i, for He is a Spas i.
Another reason there is, why that I bid thee do that in thee
is to let Him not w i: for thou and I and many such as we be, we be so
able to conceive a thing bodily the which is said ghostly, that
peradventure an I had bidden thee shew unto God the stirring of thine
heart, thou shouldest have made a bodily shewing unto Him, either in
gesture or in voice, or in word, or in some other rude bodily
straining, as it is when thou shalt shew a thing that is hid anthine
heart to a bodily man: and insomuch thy work should have been impure.
For on one manner shall a thing be shewed to man, and on another manner
unto God.
How God will be served both with body and with
soul, and reward men in both; and how men shall know when all those
sounds and sweetness that fall into the body antime of prayer be both
good and evil
I SAY not this because I will that thou desist any time, if thou
be stirred for to pray with thy mouth, or for to burst out for
abundance of devotion in thy spas i for to speak unto God