Confessions is, by no means, a comprehensive guide to the history of antiquity; this is intentional, I’d imagine. It is of paramount importance that we recognize the state of Augustine when he was writing this piece; that of reflection; a novel written by a man contemplating his past, not one written by a man looking to educate posterity. Therefore, one must ask, ‘why am I doing this?’ when considering writing about one’s life.

Why would I be writing? Were I to create an autobiographical piece, it would not be a historical one. I, like Augustine, would be writing for myself. A syntactically sound journal, perhaps; a reflective piece. Moreover, I would hesitate to explore the nuance of modern, living history in my work.  This hypothetical autobiography would, more likely than not, focus on a very select few events, crucial moments that define who I am at the time of writing. I would not have any inclination to appease future historians — they can draw from my work what they will (and we have historians of our time for that purpose). While comparisons between modernity and the time of Augustine can be drawn, nobody will argue that the proliferation of knowledge is anywhere near akin. Were a historian some one-hundred years in the future to look back on my time, I’d suggest they read the hundreds upon thousands of news articles that tell our story much better than I could or would.

I am not interested in writing for the historians. After all, as I said, this would be a reflective work. An analysis of my life through my eyes; eyes that nobody else can or could glance through. Just as we do in class, should this work reach the same acclaim as Augustine’s, people will draw their conclusions.

I am not perfect; nobody is. Perfection only exists in fiction. Even still, I believe that one of mankind’s goals is our desire, and assumption, towards perfection — whatever that means. To be perfect is to be flawless, but the journey to flawlessness begins with an understanding of self that can only be gained through reflection. A reflection, for Augustine, put down in writing. Can we claim that a work written for one’s self “has missing content”? I’d argue not.

The notion of “missing” is so blanched nowadays. We love to claim that certain aspects of certain things are “missing”. ‘This desk is missing a drawer’; ‘this game is missing a feature’. Often, these things that we consider to be missing do not exist for a reason; a reason not of our own. Something had to have been there in the first place before it can be considered missing. A desk could be missing its drawer if some sawed it off, for example. Augustine, however, is the grand architect of his own design. His work contains what it does, and ‘lacks’ what it does not. Any other claim is merely historical fancy. Do I wish he would write more about the sociology and events of his time? Sure. I could also wish that he’d unequivocally provide evidence and answers to our timeless questions.

Augustine’s work is not missing anything. It set out to inspire conversion (an aim to which it succeeds). In addition, it offers those who may be questioning their choices a relativistic perspective. “If even Augustine sinned, maybe there is still hope for me.” Augustine reflects and, through telling his story, provides us answers. Do we need to know what’s happening within the commerce ward of the old Souk Ahras? No; asking for such explicit detail is, to an extent, undermining the nature of the work. Put differently, it’s greedy.

Of course, such greed isn’t unjustifiable. We, as historians, love explicit details. We want to know this, that, and how this interacted with that to lead to some other thing. What we get from Confessions is very little of that dance. Most everything that we’re told is self-referential; it doesn’t explore much outside the particular narrative points that Augustine is putting forth. Did he intentionally withhold some history from the reader? Yeah, to an extent. It’s a strange question, I think, to ask whether or not someone “intentionally withheld information” especially from a text like this. If the work became overburdened by historical facts, few peasants would desire to read it. After all, history means little to them; every minute wasted is food they won’t find on their plate in the future.

Nobody can see thousands of years into the future. During Augustine’s time, nobody could have expected that nearly everyone would be educated and have access to limitless information at our fingertips. Writing, then, had to exist in a state of practicality. Augustine had to be pragmatic. If he wanted Confessions to focus on history, then it would be a historical autobiography — nothing more. Things, back then, were not free. Parchment was expensive, books were hard to come by, and space (as much as we like to think we’re overcrowded now) was exorbitantly limited. Augustine’s vessel is not infinite; his work contained only enough room for reflection.