“Lift up thine heart unto God with a meek stirring of love; and mean Himself, and none of His goods. And thereto, look the loath to think on aught but Himself. So that nought work in thy wit, nor in thy will, but only Himself.”

The author provides the foundational instruction for his contemplative method. He argues that true prayer requires directing the will toward God’s essential being, stripping away all thoughts about divine attributes or created things. This command to “mean Himself” establishes love as a pure, non-intellectual intention directed at God alone.

“This work asketh no long time or it be once truly done, as some men ween; for it is the shortest work of all that man may imagine. It is never longer, nor shorter, than is an atom: The which atom, by the definition of true philosophers in the science of astronomy, is the least part of time.”

The author demystifies the contemplative act by defining it in terms of time. It is not a prolonged state, but an instantaneous “stirring” of the will toward God, as brief as an atom. This makes the work accessible and emphasizes that its power lies in frequency and intention, rather than duration.

“And if ever thou shalt come to this cloud and dwell and work therein as I bid thee, thee behoveth as this cloud of unknowing is above thee, betwixt thee and thy God, right so put a cloud of forgetting beneath thee; betwixt thee and all the creatures that ever be made.”

Here, the author introduces the two-part structure central to his spiritual discipline. He posits that reaching the “cloud of unknowing” where God is met requires first creating a “cloud of forgetting” to block out all worldly and mental distractions. The mind must be cleared from below before the will can reach upward.

“[O]f God Himself can no man think. And therefore I would leave all that thing that I can think, and choose to my love that thing that I cannot think. For why; He may well be loved, but not thought. By love may He be gotten and holden; but by thought never.”

This passage presents the book’s central thesis on the limits of human reason. The author asserts a fundamental distinction between the intellect, which cannot grasp God, and the will, which can connect to Him through love. This claim grounds his entire argument for abandoning thought in favor of pure affection.

“This word shall be thy shield and thy spear, whether thou ridest on peace or on war. With this word, thou shalt beat on this cloud and this darkness above thee. With this word, thou shall smite down all manner of thought under the cloud of forgetting.”

The author offers a primary practical tool for achieving mental stillness. Rather than focusing on meditation, it is a single word that is a weapon to repel intrusive thoughts and focus the will. This transforms prayer from a reflective activity into an aggressive, determined act of spiritual concentration against all mental distractions.

“In the lower part of active life a man is without himself and beneath himself. In the higher part of active life and the lower part of contemplative life, a man is within himself and even with himself. But in the higher part of contemplative life, a man is above himself and under his God.”

To justify his focus on interior prayer, the author establishes a clear spiritual hierarchy mapping physical location to spiritual state. The active life is ‘beneath’ the self, while the highest contemplation is “above” it. This positions his method as the ultimate spiritual goal, transcending even the most virtuous deeds and meditations.

“Meekness in itself is nought else, but a true knowing and feeling of a man’s self as he is. For surely whoso might verily see and feel himself as he is, he should verily be meek.”

The author defines true humility as radical self-honesty. Meekness is simply seeing oneself as one truly is, with all flaws and frailties. This grounds spiritual practice in reality, making self-knowledge the essential starting point for any authentic journey toward God by stripping away pride and illusion.

“When our Lord said to Mary, in person of all sinners that be called to contemplative life, ‘Thy sins be forgiven thee,’ it was not for her great sorrow, nor for the remembering of her sins, nor yet for her meekness that she had in the beholding of her wretchedness only. But why then? Surely because she loved much.”

Through a reinterpretation of a scriptural story, the author champions love above all other virtues. He uses Mary (interpreted at the time as Mary Magdalene) as a case study to argue that intense, loving desire for God is more powerful than even sorrow for one’s sins. This prioritizes the affective will over penitential acts for achieving forgiveness.

“But to the sovereignest wisdom of His Godhead lapped in the dark words of His manhood, thither beheld she with all the love of her heart. For from thence she would not remove, for nothing that she saw nor heard spoken nor done about her; but sat full still in her body, with many a sweet privy and a listy love pressed upon that high cloud of unknowing betwixt her and her God.”

The author presents Mary as the model for contemplative life, focusing her love on the divine mystery he embodies, rather than on Christ’s physical presence. This introduces the “cloud of unknowing” as the space between the human soul and God, a barrier that is embraced with love instead of being pierced by intellect.

“The first part is good, the second is better, but the third is best of all. This is the ‘best part’ of Mary.”

The author establishes a clear spiritual hierarchy, elevating the contemplative practice associated with the “cloud of unknowing” above all other religious pursuits. By defining this apophatic prayer as another option and, more significantly, as the “best part,” he justifies the contemplative’s withdrawal from both charitable works and conventional meditation, framing it as the ultimate goal.

“A naked intent I call it. For why, in this work a perfect Prentice asketh neither releasing of pain, nor increasing of meed, nor shortly to say, nought but Himself. Insomuch, that neither he recketh nor looketh after whether that he be in pain or in bliss, else that His will be fulfilled that he loveth.”

The author defines perfect love for God as an intention stripped of self-interest. This “naked intent” is not a means to an end, such as salvation or spiritual reward. It is an end in itself. The passage asserts that the highest form of devotion is completely disinterested, focused only on God’s being rather than any benefit for the soul.

“Surely, this travail is all in treading down of the remembrance of all the creatures that ever God made, and in holding of them under the cloud of forgetting named before. In this is all the travail, for this is man’s travail, with help of grace. And the tother above—that is to say, the stirring of love—that is the work of only God.”

The author clarifies the roles of human effort and divine action in the contemplative practice. He argues that the practitioner’s difficult work is purely negative: suppressing all thoughts and memories into a “cloud of forgetting.” The positive movement of love, however, is not a human act. It is a work performed solely by God upon the prepared soul.

“Forasmuch as thou willest it and desirest it, so much hast thou of it, and no more nor no less: and yet is it no will, nor no desire, but a thing thou wottest never what, that stirreth thee to will and desire thou wottest never what.”

This passage examines the central paradox that the contemplative calling cannot be achieved through conscious effort or a systematic method. The author argues that the very desire for this state is a sign of its presence, initiated by an ineffable divine stirring. The contemplative’s role is to surrender to this movement, rather than to create it.

“Prayer in itself properly is not else, but a devout intent direct unto God, for getting of good and removing of evil.”

The author defines prayer as a pure act of the will, stripping away external rituals and specific words. This definition frames the contemplative work as a fundamental orientation of the soul’s intent toward God, making the will—rather than the intellect—the essential faculty for spiritual connection.

“And feel sin a lump, thou wottest never what, but none other thing than thyself.”

The author reframes sin as the very feeling of the self. This conceptual shift is important to his argument, as it identifies self-awareness itself as the “lump” or core obstacle separating the soul from God, which must be overcome through the work of forgetting.

“But in this work shalt thou hold no measure: for I would that thou shouldest never cease of this work the whiles thou livest.”

The author asserts that the work of contemplative prayer is absolute and continuous, exempt from the moderation required in all other aspects of life. By removing the need for “discretion,” he elevates this spiritual practice above all other duties, presenting it as the singular, all-consuming focus of the contemplative’s existence.

“For, an thou wilt busily set thee to the proof, thou shalt find when thou hast forgotten all other creatures and all their works—yea, and thereto all thine own works—that there shall live yet after, betwixt thee and thy God, a naked witting and a feeling of thine own being: The which witting and feeling behoveth always be destroyed, ere the time be that thou feel soothfastly the perfection of this work.”

This passage identifies the final and most difficult barrier to union with God as the “naked witting and feeling of thine own being.” The author argues that true spiritual perfection requires the complete annihilation of self-consciousness, moving beyond the forgetting of external things to the forgetting of the self, which is the ultimate aim of the work.

“For I tell thee truly, that the devil hath his contemplatives as God hath His.”

The author introduces the high stakes of his spiritual instruction by warning that misdirected contemplation can lead to demonic deception. He argues that there are false, deluded forms of spiritual practice, establishing the necessity of his specific guidance to distinguish between authentic union with God and self-induced or diabolical fantasies.

“Whoso had this work, it should govern them full seemly, as well in body as in soul: and make them full favourable unto each man or woman that looked upon them.”

The author presents the tangible, positive result of correctly practicing the work of unknowing. He argues that true spiritual development manifests in a person’s outward demeanor, creating a seemly and gracious presence. This is a practical test to distinguish genuine contemplatives from the deluded practitioners he previously described.

“But I say that the work of our spirit shall not be direct neither upwards nor downwards, nor on one side nor on other, nor forward nor backward, as it is of a bodily thing. For why, our work should be ghostly not bodily, nor on a bodily manner wrought.”

The author argues that contemplative prayer is a non-spatial, spiritual activity, directly refuting the common approach of imagining God in a physical location. This statement establishes a fundamental rule for the “work,” insisting on its purely “ghostly” (spiritual) nature, distinct from any physical orientation or imaginative effort which he deems deceptive.

“For the high and the next way thither is run by desires, and not by paces of feet.”

The author redefines the spiritual journey as an interior movement of the will, instead of a physical pilgrimage. This aphorism contrasts the spiritual path with any worldly concept of travel, asserting that the soul’s proximity to God is measured by the intensity of its loving desire, not by physical location or action.

“For why, nowhere bodily, is everywhere ghostly. Look then busily that thy ghostly work be nowhere bodily; and then wheresoever that that thing is, on the which thou wilfully workest in thy mind in substance, surely there art thou in spirit, as verily as thy body is in that place that thou art bodily.”

The author presents a central paradox of contemplative prayer: Abandoning a sense of physical location allows the soul to exist everywhere spiritually. This instruction guides the reader away from imaginative self-placement—“within” or “without”—and toward a non-localized spiritual focus that transcends the limitations of the body and its senses, which perceive this state as a “nought.”

“For have a man never so much ghostly understanding in knowing of all made ghostly things, yet may he never by the work of his understanding come to the knowing of an unmade ghostly thing: The which is nought but God. But by the failing it may: for why, that thing that it faileth in is nothing else but only God.”

The author claims that God can only be known through the failure of the human intellect. He argues that reason and understanding, while useful for comprehending created spiritual things, are incapable of grasping the uncreated divine reality. True spiritual knowledge, he suggests, begins precisely at the point where the mind admits to its own inadequacy.