The Question of Happiness
John Merritt - The winter light fell slant through the window. Voices gathered around a table where bread had been broken and wine poured, where the afternoon stretched long and the air held the stillness that comes before understanding. Augustine sat among them—his mother Monica, his friends Licentius and Trygetius, the young Lastidianus whose face still carried boyhood's earnestness. The question hung between them like incense.
What must a man possess to be happy?
The words were simple. The silence after them was not.
Augustine spoke slowly, as if drawing water from a well. "Grant me this," he said. "Whoever is not happy is unhappy." They nodded. The truth was too plain to contest. "Every man who does not have what he desires is unhappy." Again, agreement. Their faces reflected the same recognition—each had felt desire's ache, the empty palm, the reaching that finds nothing.
He continued. The room grew quieter.
"What then must a man attain to be happy?" His gaze moved from face to face. "Perhaps at this table we will find food that satisfies even Licentius." A small smile. Then the precision returned. "I think a man must reach for what he can possess when he desires it."
The answer seemed obvious. But Augustine was only beginning.
"It must be something stable," he said. "Something not subject to fortune, not bound to events." His hands moved as he spoke, shaping the argument in air. "We cannot secure what is perishable and fleeting, cannot hold it when we wish, for as long as we wish."
They murmured assent. All except Trygetius.
"Many accumulate fragile goods," Trygetius said, his voice careful. "Goods dependent on events. Yet they enjoy them widely. They lack nothing they desire." The objection rose like a stone thrown into still water. Circles formed, spreading.
Augustine turned to him. "Do you think a man who fears is happy?"
"I do not."
"Then if he can lose what he loves, can he not fear?"
Trygetius paused. The afternoon light had shifted, casting longer shadows. "It is impossible," he said finally.
"Now," Augustine said, and his voice was gentle, inexorable. "Goods subject to chance can be lost. Therefore, whoever loves and possesses them cannot be happy."
The room held its breath. Trygetius did not contest.
Then Monica spoke.
Her voice carried a weight the others lacked—not of learning but of living. "Even if he were certain not to lose his possessions," she said, "still he cannot be satisfied by them. He remains unhappy because he is always needing."
Augustine regarded his mother. Something passed between them—recognition, perhaps. The communion of those who have known true hunger.
"But mother," he said, "suppose a man, overflowing with such riches, sets a limit to his desire. Content with what he has, he enjoys it fittingly and joyfully. Is he not happy then?"
"No," Monica said. The single word rang clear. "He is happy not through possessing things, but through moderating his desire."
Augustine's face brightened. "Excellently said. From you, no other answer could be expected." He looked around the table. "So we no longer doubt. If someone wishes to be happy, he must secure what remains forever, what cannot be taken by merciless fortune."
"Now," Licentius said, "we agree on this truth."
The moment stretched. Augustine let the silence settle like dust in sunlight.
"Do you believe," he asked at last, "that God is eternal and never ceases to be?"
Licentius answered quickly. "It is so certain a truth that it need not be argued." The others nodded, some crossing themselves. The gesture was small, instinctive—body speaking what words could not.
"Then," Augustine said, and the conclusion arrived like dawn, inevitable and quiet, "whoever has God is happy."
They received this with joy. But Augustine was not finished.
"One thing remains," he said. "Who is the man who possesses God? He, certainly, will be happy. I ask your opinion."
Now the room became an offering. Each voice brought its gift.
Licentius: "He who lives well has God."
Trygetius: "He who obeys His commandments."
Lastidianus agreed with a nod, his young face solemn.
The youngest among them, barely more than a child, spoke last. "He who does not have an unclean soul has God." His voice was clear, unashamed. Monica's eyes glistened. She approved all the answers, but this one most of all.
Navigius had been silent. Augustine turned to him. "And you?"
"I like the last," Navigius said simply.
Even Rusticus, who had kept quiet from shyness rather than choice, found his voice. He agreed with Trygetius. The circle was complete.
But in the commentary that followed—in the words written later, when the dialogue had become memory—another understanding emerged.
What the heart seeks is something that remains. Not answers that dissolve like mist. Not pleasures that fade with morning. A response that stands before desire and corresponds to it completely.
For Augustine, the certainty was luminous: only whoever has God has fullness.
But what does it mean, to have God?
Here the language shifts. The possessive becomes passive. To have God is not to grasp but to be grasped. Not to hold but to be held. It is to recognize His presence embracing us.
Thus having God is discovering that He possesses us. That He takes us into His embrace. That happiness comes not from clutching but from opening. From allowing.
So the happy one is he who lets himself be loved by God.
The afternoon ended. The voices dispersed. The table grew dark.
But the question remained, luminous as a candle burning into night—not answered but lived. Not solved but entered. The way a man steps into water. The way light falls through a window and finds, at last, a face turned upward, waiting
The Sant’Agostino’s “De beata vita,” chapters 11–12 (section II) is reinterpreted and narrated using fiction writing techniques to convey real-life events. This method employs immersive scene-setting, vivid descriptions, realistic dialogue, and character development to make the story emotionally engaging and novel-like, while still maintaining factual accuracy and journalistic integrity.
The source of the texts by Augustine that you quoted is the philosophical dialogue “De beata vita” (“The Happy Life”), written by Augustine of Hippo in 386 during his stay in Cassiciaco, shortly after his conversion and before his baptism in Milan by Ambrose. In this dialogue, Augustine discusses with friends and family members—including his mother Monica, Licentius, Trigecius, Lastidianus, Navigius, and Rusticus—the meaning of happiness and what truly makes human beings happy.
The sections you mentioned are found in the book “De beata vita,” in chapters 11-12 of the second part of the dialogue, where Augustine leads a discussion on what constitutes true happiness, concluding that only those who possess God are truly happy. The full text is available in Latin and in Italian translation from various academic sources and Christian text sites, including Augustinus.it and Cassiciaco.it.
