When considering a classic work originally written in another language, the choice of translation can feel daunting. And it matters more than we sometimes realize. A good translation can heighten the reading experience and sharpen our understanding of what the original author was up to.
My favorite example comes from Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables. Near the end of the novel, when Marius and Cosette visit the elderly and ailing Jean Valjean, Marius finally understands the depth of Valjean’s sacrificial love. Valjean has acted valiantly and heroically, at immense personal cost, to secure their redemption and happiness. Marius exclaims (here’s the original French),
Il m’a sauvé la vie. Il a fait plus. Il t’a donnée à moi. Et après m’avoir sauvé et après t’avoir donnée à moi, Cosette, qu’a-t-il fait de lui-même ? il s’est sacrifié. Voilà l’homme. Et, à moi l’ingrat, à moi l’oublieux, à moi l’impitoyable, à moi le coupable, il me dit : Merci !
Julie Rose’s excellent translation renders it this way (note the bold):
He saved my life! He did more than that. He gave me you. And after saving me, and after giving me you, Cosette, what did he do with himself? He sacrificed himself. That is the kind of man he is. And to me—the oblivious, the pitiless, the guilty, the ungrateful wretch—he says: “Thank you!”
Perfectly accurate. But notice what Christine Donougher picks up when she translates the same line with an ear tuned to biblical resonance. Hugo is deliberately echoing the Latin Ecce homo (John 19:5), linking Valjean’s self-giving love to Christ himself:
He has saved my life. He has done more. He has given you to me. And after having saved me, and after having given you, Cosette, to me, what did he do with himself? He sacrificed himself. Behold the man. And to me, the ungrateful one, to me, the forgetful one, the pitiless one, the guilty one, to me he says thank you!
Rendering that line as “Behold the man” illuminates Hugo’s intent. This is the kind of nuance that can elevate a reading experience from good to great.
Why Translation Choices Matter
Over the years, I’ve had a similar experience reading Fyodor Dostoevsky in multiple translations. For Crime and Punishment, I find Michael Katz nearly unbeatable; he ably captures the suffocating atmosphere of frenzied distress. For The Brothers Karamazov—which I’ve read in Romanian, in the older Constance Garnett translation, and in more recent versions by Pevear and Volokhonsky, Ignat Avsey, and Katz—I appreciate them all, even if I ultimately lean toward Garnett or Katz.
Russian literature scholar Gary Saul Morson explains what’s at stake:
The reader of the translation should be able to experience, as closely as possible, what a sensitive reader of the original might experience. That is the only way to appreciate what makes the work great.
That brings us to Augustine’s Confessions.
Coming Home to Augustine
Here is a classic book most Christians have heard of, but far too few have read. It gives us the life story of one of the most influential theologians in Christian history—an autobiography that was composed as a prayer of thanksgiving. A tale of human dissolution overcome by divine deliverance, that culminates with contemplation of the beauty of God’s being.
Looking back through my journals, I see I first began reading Confessions when I was 18 years old. I returned to it as a newlywed during one of the dark, snowy winters I lived in Romania. Both times, I was reading Albert C. Outler’s 1955 translation, with its now-dated but once-standard use of “thee” and “thou.”
Over the years, I returned to Augustine often, but my love for the book was reinvigorated by Sarah Ruden’s translation in 2017, which captures more of Augustine’s literary flair and emotional immediacy. That translation didn’t come without controversy, with James K. A. Smith objecting to Ruden’s rendering of dominus as “Master” rather than the more traditional “Lord.”
Several years ago, I adopted a new practice: reading Confessions at the beginning of each year, each time in a different translation. Since then, I’ve revisited Ruden but also read versions by Peter Constantine, Henry Chadwick, Frank Sheed, Maria Boulding, Anthony Esolen, and Thomas Williams. This annual read-through has become a spiritual reorientation for me, a way of tuning my heart at the year’s outset.
Sampling Various Translations of Augustine
The thing to remember about Confessions is that you can’t really go wrong. (The lone exception may be the widely used R. S. Pine-Coffin translation from 1961—which Peter Kreeft memorably dismissed as “worthy of his name . . . a dead translation.” By contrast, Kreeft says Sheed’s version is “as living as molten lava.”) Augustine’s fire breaks through almost every rendering. His devotion, ardor, worship, philosophical curiosity, gratitude for salvation, and horror at sin remain palpable.
So if you’re just beginning, my advice is simple: Pick one and dive in. This will (hopefully!) not be the last time you read Confessions, nor the last translation you explore. Once you realize that, the pressure is off.
Still, for readers who want a sense of what distinguishes these translations, here are a few observations. I’ve chosen one of Augustine’s most beloved passages and placed it side by side in multiple versions.
Outler, 1955
Here’s the first translation I encountered. Despite its dated diction, Outler’s version remains influential, especially in academic and ecclesial settings. His great strength is theological reliability paired with reverent prose, designed for mid-20th-century readers steeped in biblical cadences.
Belatedly I loved Thee, O Beauty so ancient and so new, belatedly I loved Thee. For see, Thou wast within and I was without, and I sought Thee out there. Unlovely, I rushed heedlessly among the lovely things Thou hast made. Thou wast with me, but I was not with Thee. These things kept me far from Thee, even though they were not at all unless they were in Thee. Thou didst call and cry aloud, and didst force open my deafness. Thou didst gleam and shine, and didst chase away my blindness. Thou didst breathe fragrant odors and I drew in my breath; and now I pant for Thee. I tasted, and now I hunger and thirst. Thou didst touch me, and I burned for Thy peace.
Sheed, 1942
Sheed’s translation is often celebrated for its spiritual vitality and rhetorical power. With an elevated style, it pulses with devotion and urgency, making it a favorite for readers who want Augustine’s prayerfulness to feel alive. It’s available in a handsome new volume from Word on Fire.
Late have I loved Thee, O Beauty so ancient and so new; late have I loved Thee! For behold Thou wert within me, and I outside; and I sought Thee outside and in my unloveliness fell upon those lovely things that Thou hast made. Thou wert with me and I was not with Thee. I was kept from Thee by those things, yet had they not been in Thee, they would not have been at all. Thou didst call and cry to me and break open my deafness: and Thou didst set forth Thy beams and shine upon me and chase away my blindness: Thou didst breathe fragrance upon me, and I drew in my breath and do now pant for Thee: I tasted Thee, and now hunger and thirst for Thee: Thou didst touch me, and I have burned for Thy peace.
Chadwick, 1991
I have often recommended Chadwick’s Oxford translation as the best “all-purpose” edition of Confessions. It combines literary grace, philosophical precision, and theological sensitivity, making it suitable for serious readers, students, and pastors alike.
Late have I loved you, beauty so old and so new: late have I loved you. And see, you were within and I was in the external world and sought you there, and in my unlovely state I plunged into those lovely created things which you made. You were with me, and I was not with you. The lovely things kept me far from you, though if they did not have their existence in you, they had no existence at all. You called and cried out loud and shattered my deafness. You were radiant and resplendent, you put to flight my blindness. You were fragrant, and I drew in my breath and now pant after you. I tasted you, and I feel but hunger and thirst for you. You touched me, and I am set on fire to attain the peace which is yours.
Boulding, 1997
Boulding’s translation is distinctive for presenting some of Confessions in poetic form, including this portion of Augustine’s prayerful address to God. It’s especially beloved among contemplative readers who experience the text less as argument and more as doxology.
Late have I loved you, Beauty so ancient and so new,
late have I loved you!
Lo, you were within,
but I outside, seeking there for you,
and upon the shapely things you have made I rushed headlong,
I, misshapen.
You were with me, but I was not with you.
They held me back far from you,
those things which would have no being
were they not in you.
You called, shouted, broke through my deafness;
you flared, blazed, banished my blindness;
you lavished your fragrance, I gasped, and now I pant for you;
I tasted you, and I hunger and thirst;
you touched me, and I burned for your peace.
Ruden, 2017
Ruden’s translation is notable for her attempt to restore Augustine’s emotional intensity and rhetorical playfulness. She brings out the strangeness, boldness, and immediacy of the Latin, helping modern readers hear Augustine as a living voice.
I took too long to fall in love with you, beauty so ancient and so new. I took too long to fall in love with you! But there you were, inside, and I was outside—and there I searched for you, and into those shapely things you made, my misshapen self went sliding. You were with me, but I wasn’t with you. Those things, which wouldn’t exist unless they existed in you, held me back, far from you. You called and shouted and shattered my deafness. You flashed, you shone, and you put my blindness to flight. You smelled sweet, and I drew breath, and now I pant for you. I tasted you, and now I’m starving and parched; you touched me, and I burst into flame with a desire for your peace.
Constantine, 2018
The esteemed translator of many classic works, Constantine renders Confessions in a way that reflects his reputation as a master stylist. This version is often commended for its clarity, smoothness, and its contemporary literary feel.
I was late in loving You, O Beauty so ancient and so new; I was late in loving You! And behold, You were inside and I was outside, and there I looked for You, deformed as I was, immersing myself among the beautiful forms You had made. You were with me, but I was not with You. These forms kept me far from You, forms that do not exist unless they exist in You. You called and shouted and pierced my deafness. You sparkled and shone, and dispelled my blindness; You were fragrant and I breathed in and now gasp for You. I tasted and now am hungry and thirsty for You; You touched me and now I burn for Your peace.
Williams, 2019
Williams offers perhaps the most philosophically precise English Confessions available. Scholars and students value his translation for its conceptual clarity. I also appreciate his claim that “Augustine does not quote Scripture; he speaks the language of Scripture as his own language” and his decision to rarely put biblical quotes or allusions in quotation marks.
Late have I loved you, beauty so ancient and so new!
Late have I loved you!
And behold, you were within, but I was outside and looked
for you there, and in my ugliness I seized upon these
beautiful things that you have made.
You were with me, but I was not with you.
Those things held me far away from you—
things that would not even exist if they were not in you.
You called, you shouted, and you broke through my deafness;
you flashed, you shone, and you dispersed my blindness;
you breathed perfume, and I drew in my breath and pant for you.
I tasted, and I hunger and thirst;
you touched me, and I was set on fire for your peace.
Esolen, 2024
Esolen’s translation builds intentionally on the best of earlier English renderings while expanding the reader’s linguistic palette. I appreciate the rich vocabulary, poetic beauty, and sensitivity to both classical and Christian literary tradition. It has quickly become one of my favorites.
Late have I loved you, Beauty so ancient and so new, late have I loved you! And behold, you were within me and I was without, and I sought you there, and I, though uncomely, rushed upon the comely things you have made. You were with me, but I was not with you. They held me far away from you, though if they had not been in you, they would not have been at all. You called to me, you cried, you broke through my deafness; you gleamed, you shone in splendor, and you put my blindness to flight; you sent forth a fragrance, and I breathed it in, and I pant for you. I tasted, and now I hunger and thirst; you touched me, and I burned for your peace.
So, Where Should You Start?
My friend Tony Reinke has assembled several helpful side-by-side comparisons of another paragraph—Augustine’s self-description of sin—including translations not listed here, though his survey stops at 2017.
In the end, I return to where I began. You can’t really go wrong with Confessions. Pick a translation. Enter the prayer. Walk the road. And meet again the Lord who stirs us to delight in praising him, “because you have made us for yourself, and our heart is restless until it rests in you” (Chadwick).
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