Confessions #11: The Real World

As a young guy in Carthage, Augustine was "captivated by theatrical shows". He loved them because he identified with them; their performances moved him; he craved to feel response to suffering on stage without having to suffer it himself. Looking back, it seemed strange to Augustine, foolish and grotesque even, that he and others would find pleasure in the pain induced by the sufferings on stage which they would never wish upon themselves or their friends and family.

"What is this but amazing folly?" Augustine remarked in his Confessions. What use is it to excite grief without the opportunity to show mercy because the object of that grief is fictitious? Is it not sadistic that for the spectator "the greater his pain, the greater his approval of the actor in these representations"?

"Tears and agonies," Augustine says, "are objects of love. Certainly everyone wishes to enjoy himself."

But Augustine does see some light to this experience of feeling grief and compassion if it then in turn moves one to mercy so that there would be no cause for sorrow. But this is not possible for the actor, because it is all an act. Right...?

So then, Augustine recounts his miserable state,

"But at that time, poor thing that I was, I loved to suffer and sought out occasions for such suffering. So when an actor on stage gave a fictional imitation of someone else's misfortunes, I was the more pleased; and the more vehement the attraction for me, the more the actor compelled my tears to flow. There can be no surprise that an unhappy sheep wandering from your flock and impatient of your protection was infected by a disgusting sore. Hence came my love for sufferings, but not a kind that pierced me very deeply; for my longing was not to experience myself miseries such as I saw on stage. I wanted only to hear stories and imaginary legends of sufferings which, as it were, scratched me on the surface. Yet like the scratches of fingernails, they produced inflamed spots, pus, and repulsive sores. That was my kind of life. Surely, my God, it was no real life at all?"

It was no real life because there was no real grief, no real mercy, no real objects of compassion but only "representations of [his] own miseries", and no real effect, but instead they only "fueled [his] fire" to continue in his pernicious lifestyle.

The Real World, circa 4th century A.D. "Surely, ... it was [not] real life at all."