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- confessions
- text
- I recognise what I name. And where do I recognise it, but in the memory
itself? Is it also present to itself by its image, and not by itself?
What, when I name forgetfulness, and withal recognise what I name?
whence should I recognise it, did I not remember it? I speak not of the
sound of the name, but of the thing which it signifies: which if I had
forgotten, I could not recognise what that sound signifies. When then I
remember memory, memory itself is, through itself, present with itself:
but when I remember forgetfulness, there are present both memory
and forgetfulness; memory whereby I remember, forgetfulness which I
remember. But what is forgetfulness, but the privation of memory? How
then is it present that I remember it, since when present I cannot
remember? But if what we remember we hold it in memory, yet, unless we
did remember forgetfulness, we could never at the hearing of the name
recognise the thing thereby signified, then forgetfulness is retained by
memory. Present then it is, that we forget not, and being so, we forget.
It is to be understood from this that forgetfulness when we remember it,
is not present to the memory by itself but by its image: because if
it were present by itself, it would not cause us to remember, but to
forget. Who now shall search out this? who shall comprehend how it is?
Lord, I, truly, toil therein, yea and toil in myself; I am become a
heavy soil requiring over much sweat of the brow. For we are not now
searching out the regions of heaven, or measuring the distances of the
stars, or enquiring the balancings of the earth. It is I myself who
remember, I the mind. It is not so wonderful, if what I myself am not,
be far from me. But what is nearer to me than myself? And lo, the force
of mine own memory is not understood by me; though I cannot so much as
name myself without it. For what shall I say, when it is clear to
me that I remember forgetfulness? Shall I say that that is not in my
memory, which I remember? or shall I say that forgetfulness is for this
purpose in my memory, that I might not forget? Both were most absurd.
What third way is there? How can I say that the image of forgetfulness
is retained by my memory, not forgetfulness itself, when I remember it?
How could I say this either, seeing that when the image of any thing is
impressed on the memory, the thing itself must needs be first present,
whence that image may be impressed? For thus do I remember Carthage,
thus all places where I have been, thus men's faces whom I have seen,
and things reported by the other senses; thus the health or sickness of
the body. For when these things were present, my memory received from
them images, which being present with me, I might look on and bring
back in my mind, when I remembered them in their absence. If then this
forgetfulness is retained in the memory through its image, not through
itself, then plainly itself was once present, that its image might
be taken. But when it was present, how did it write its image in the
memory, seeing that forgetfulness by its presence effaces even what it
finds already noted? And yet, in whatever way, although that way be
past conceiving and explaining, yet certain am I that I remember
forgetfulness itself also, whereby what we remember is effaced.
Great is the power of memory, a fearful thing, O my God, a deep and
boundless manifoldness; and this thing is the mind, and this am I
myself. What am I then, O my God? What nature am I? A life various and
manifold, and exceeding immense. Behold in the plains, and caves, and
caverns of my memory, innumerable and innumerably full of innumerable
kinds of things, either through images, as all bodies; or by actual
presence, as the arts; or by certain notions or impressions, as the
affections of the mind, which, even when the mind doth not feel, the
memory retaineth, while yet whatsoever is in the memory is also in the
mind--over all these do I run, I fly; I dive on this side and on that,
as far as I can, and there is no end. So great is the force of memory,
so great the force of life, even in the mortal life of man. What shall I
do then, O Thou my true life, my God? I will pass even beyond this power
of mine which is called memory: yea, I will pass beyond it, that I may
approach unto Thee, O sweet Light. What sayest Thou to me? See, I am
mounting up through my mind towards Thee who abidest above me. Yea, I
now will pass beyond this power of mine which is called memory, desirous
to arrive at Thee, whence Thou mayest be arrived at; and to cleave unto
Thee, whence one may cleave unto Thee. For even beasts and birds have
memory; else could they not return to their dens and nests, nor many
other things they are used unto: nor indeed could they be used to any
thing, but by memory. I will pass then beyond memory also, that I may
arrive at Him who hath separated me from the four-footed beasts and made
me wiser than the fowls of the air, I will pass beyond memory also,
and where shall I find Thee, Thou truly good and certain sweetness? And
where shall I find Thee? If I find Thee without my memory, then do I not
retain Thee in my memory. And how shall I find Thee, if I remember Thee
not?
For the woman that had lost her groat, and sought it with a light;
unless she had remembered it, she had never found it. For when it was
found, whence should she know whether it were the same, unless she
remembered it? I remember to have sought and found many a thing; and
this I thereby know, that when I was seeking any of them, and was asked,
"Is this it?" "Is that it?" so long said I "No," until that were offered
me which I sought. Which had I not remembered (whatever it were) though
it were offered me, yet should I not find it, because I could not
recognise it. And so it ever is, when we seek and find any lost thing.
Notwithstanding, when any thing is by chance lost from the sight, not
from the memory (as any visible body), yet its image is still retained
within, and it is sought until it be restored to sight; and when it is
found, it is recognised by the image which is within: nor do we say
that we have found what was lost, unless we recognise it; nor can we
recognise it, unless we remember it. But this was lost to the eyes, but
retained in the memory.
But what when the memory itself loses any thing, as falls out when we
forget and seek that we may recollect? Where in the end do we search,
but in the memory itself? and there, if one thing be perchance offered
instead of another, we reject it, until what we seek meets us; and when
it doth, we say, "This is it"; which we should not unless we recognised
it, nor recognise it unless we remembered it. Certainly then we had
forgotten it. Or, had not the whole escaped us, but by the part whereof
we had hold, was the lost part sought for; in that the memory felt that
it did not carry on together all which it was wont, and maimed, as it
were, by the curtailment of its ancient habit, demanded the restoration
of what it missed? For instance, if we see or think of some one known
to us, and having forgotten his name, try to recover it; whatever else
occurs, connects itself not therewith; because it was not wont to be
thought upon together with him, and therefore is rejected, until that
present itself, whereon the knowledge reposes equably as its wonted
object. And whence does that present itself, but out of the memory
itself? for even when we recognise it, on being reminded by another, it
is thence it comes. For we do not believe it as something new, but,
upon recollection, allow what was named to be right. But were it utterly
blotted out of the mind, we should not remember it, even when reminded.
For we have not as yet utterly forgotten that, which we remember
ourselves to have forgotten. What then we have utterly forgotten, though
lost, we cannot even seek after.
How then do I seek Thee, O Lord?