What is more pitiable than a pitiful being who does not pity himself but weeps at the death of Dido for love of Aeneas; a pitiful being who does not weep over the death he is suffering because he does not love You, O God, light of my heart, bread of the mouth deep within my soul, vigor that impregnates my mind and the vessel of my thoughts. I did not love You, and fornicated against You, and as I did so I heard from all around cries of “Well done! Well done!” for the friendship of this world is fornication against You; and “Well done! Well done!” is what they shout in order to shame a man who is not like them. For all this I did not weep, but wept for Dido, “who with a dagger did the lowest ends pursue,” just as I, having forsaken You, pursued the lowest of Your creations, dust turning to dust. Had I been forbidden to read these works, I would have suffered at not being able to read what made me suffer. And such foolishness is considered a higher and better education than that by which I learned to read and write.

But now may my God call out in my soul, Your Truth proclaiming to me, “This is wrong, this is wrong! Your first lessons were better by far!” For I would readily forget the strayings of Aeneas rather than forget how to read and write. The doors of the grammarians’ schools are indeed hung with precious curtains, but this is not so much a sign of high distinction as a cloak for their errors. Let not those whom I no longer fear cry out against me while I confess to You what my soul seeks, finding peace in condemning my evil ways and loving Your good ways. Let not the sellers and buyers of high learning cry out against me. If I ask them whether it is true that Aeneas once came to Carthage, as the poet says, the less learned will reply that they do not know, while the more learned will say that he never did. But if I ask with what letters the name “Aeneas” is written, everyone who has learned this will answer me correctly, according to the agreement and decision that men have reached concerning these signs. Likewise, if I should ask which was the greater inconvenience, forgetting how to read and write or forgetting those poetic fictions, who would not know what answer someone in possession of his senses would give. Thus as a boy I sinned, preferring empty learning to learning that was more useful, going so far as to love the former and hate the latter. “One plus one is two, two plus two is four” was a hateful incantation, while the sweetest dream of my vanity was the wooden horse filled with armed men, the burning of Troy, and even the ghost of Creusa.