|
Tenth BookFurther Examinations
Further Examinations
I will pass then beyond this power of my nature also, rising by degrees
unto Him who made me. And I come to the fields and spacious palaces of my
memory, where are the treasures of innumerable images, brought into it from
things of all sorts perceived by the senses. There is stored up, whatsoever
besides we think, either by enlarging or diminishing, or any other way varying
those things which the sense hath come to; and whatever else hath been
committed and laid up, which forgetfulness hath not yet swallowed up and
buried. When I enter there, I require what I will to be brought forth, and
something instantly comes; others must be longer sought after, which are
fetched, as it were, out of some inner receptacle; others rush out in troops,
and while one thing is desired and required, they start forth, as who should
say, "Is it perchance I?" These I drive away with the hand of my heart, from
the face of my remembrance; until what I wish for be unveiled, and appear in
sight, out of its secret place. Other things come up readily, in unbroken
order, as they are called for; those in front making way for the following;
and as they make way, they are hidden from sight, ready to come when I will.
All which takes place when I repeat a thing by heart.
There are all things preserved distinctly and under general heads, each
having entered by its own avenue: as light, and all colours and forms of
bodies by the eyes; by the ears all sorts of sounds; all smells by the avenue
of the nostrils; all tastes by the mouth; and by the sensation of the whole
body, what is hard or soft; hot or cold; smooth or rugged; heavy or light;
either outwardly or inwardly to the body. All these doth that great harbour of
the memory receive in her numberless secret and inexpressible windings, to be
forthcoming, and brought out at need; each entering in by his own gate, and
there laid up. Nor yet do the things themselves enter in; only the images of
the things perceived are there in readiness, for thought to recall. Which
images, how they are formed, who can tell, though it doth plainly appear by
which sense each hath been brought in and stored up? For even while I dwell in
darkness and in silence, in my memory I can produce colours, if I will, and
discern betwixt black and white, and what others I will: nor yet do sounds
break in and disturb the image drawn in by my eyes, which I am reviewing,
though they also are there, lying dormant, and laid up, as it were, apart. For
these too I call for, and forthwith they appear. And though my tongue be
still, and my throat mute, so can I sing as much as I will; nor do those
images of colours, which notwithstanding be there, intrude themselves and
interrupt, when another store is called for, which flowed in by the ears. So
the other things, piled in and up by the other senses, I recall at my
pleasure, Yea, I discern the breath of lilies from violets, though smelling
nothing; and I prefer honey to sweet wine, smooth before rugged, at the time
neither tasting nor handling, but remembering only.
These things do I within, in that vast court of my memory. For there are
present with me, heaven, earth, sea, and whatever I could think on therein,
besides what I have forgotten. There also meet I with myself, and recall
myself, and when, where, and what I have done, and under what feelings. There
be all which I remember, either on my own experience, or others` credit. Out
of the same store do I myself with the past continually combine fresh and
fresh likenesses of things which I have experienced, or, from what I have
experienced, have believed: and thence again infer future actions, events and
hopes, and all these again I reflect on, as present. "I will do this or that,"
say I to myself, in that great receptacle of my mind, stored with the images
of things so many and so great, "and this or that will follow." "O that this
or that might be!" "God avert this or that!" So speak I to myself: and when I
speak, the images of all I speak of are present, out of the same treasury of
memory; nor would I speak of any thereof, were the images wanting.
Great is this force of memory, excessive great, O my God; a large and
boundless chamber! who ever sounded the bottom thereof? yet is this a power of
mine, and belongs unto my nature; nor do I myself comprehend all that I am.
Therefore is the mind too strait to contain itself. And where should that be,
which it containeth not of itself? Is it without it, and not within? how then
doth it not comprehend itself? A wonderful admiration surprises me, amazement
seizes me upon this. And men go abroad to admire the heights of mountains, the
mighty billows of the sea, the broad tides of rivers, the compass of the
ocean, and the circuits of the stars, and pass themselves by; nor wonder that
when I spake of all these things, I did not see them with mine eyes, yet could
not have spoken of them, unless I then actually saw the mountains, billows,
rivers, stars which I had seen, and that ocean which I believe to be, inwardly
in my memory, and that, with the same vast spaces between, as if I saw them
abroad. Yet did not I by seeing draw them into myself, when with mine eyes I
beheld them; nor are they themselves with me, but their images only. And I
know by what sense of the body each was impressed upon me.
Yet not these alone does the unmeasurable capacity of my memory retain.
Here also is all, learnt of the liberal sciences and as yet unforgotten;
removed as it were to some inner place, which is yet no place: nor are they
the images thereof, but the things themselves. For, what is literature, what
the art of disputing, how many kinds of questions there be, whatsoever of
these I know, in such manner exists in my memory, as that I have not taken in
the image, and left out the thing, or that it should have sounded and passed
away like a voice fixed on the ear by that impress, whereby it might be
recalled, as if it sounded, when it no longer sounded; or as a smell while it
passes and evaporates into air affects the sense of smell, whence it conveys
into the memory an image of itself, which remembering, we renew, or as meat,
which verily in the belly hath now no taste, and yet in the memory still in a
manner tasteth; or as any thing which the body by touch perceiveth, and which
when removed from us, the memory still conceives. For those things are not
transmitted into the memory, but their images only are with an admirable
swiftness caught up, and stored as it were in wondrous cabinets, and thence
wonderfully by the act of remembering, brought forth.
But now when I hear that there be three kinds of questions, "Whether the
thing be? what it is? of what kind it is?" I do indeed hold the images of the
sounds of which those words be composed, and that those sounds, with a noise
passed through the air, and now are not. But the things themselves which are
signified by those sounds, I never reached with any sense of my body, nor even
discerned them otherwise than in my mind; yet in my memory have I laid up not
their images, but themselves. Which how they entered into me, let them say if
they can; for I have gone over all the avenues of my flesh, but cannot find by
which they entered. For the eyes say, "if those images were coloured, we
reported of them." The ears say, "if they sound, we gave knowledge of them."
The nostrils say, "if they smell, they passed by us." The taste says, "unless
they have a savour, ask me not." The touch says, "if it have not size, I
handled it not; if I handled it not, I gave no notice of it." Whence and how
entered these things into my memory? I know not how. For when I learned them,
I gave no credit to another man`s mind, but recognized them in mine; and
approving them for true, I commended them to it, laying them up as it were,
whence I might bring them forth when I willed. In my heart then they were,
even before I learned them, but in my memory they were not. Where then? or
wherefore, when they were spoken, did I acknowledge them, and said, "So is it,
it is true," unless that they were already in the memory, but so thrown back
and buried as it were in deeper recesses, that had not the suggestion of
another drawn them forth I had perchance been unable to conceive of them?
Wherefore we find, that to learn these things whereof we imbibe not the
images by our senses, but perceive within by themselves, without images, as
they are, is nothing else, but by conception to receive, and by marking to
take heed that those things which the memory did before contain at random and
unarranged, be laid up at hand as it were in that same memory where before
they lay unknown, scattered and neglected, and so readily occur to the mind
familiarised to them. And how many things of this kind does my memory bear
which have been already found out, and as I said, placed as it were at hand,
which we are said to have learned and come to know; which were I for some
short space of time to ceases to call to mind, they are again so buried, and
glide back, as it were, into the deeper recesses, that they must again, as if
new, be thought out thence, for other abode they have none: but they must be
drawn together again, that they may be known: that is to say, they must as it
were be collected together from their dispersion: whence the word "cogitation"
is derived. For cogo (collect) and cogito (recollect) have the same relation
to each other as ago and agito, facio and factito. But the mind hath
appropriated to itself this word (cogitation), so that, not what is
"collected" any how, but what is "recollected," i.e., brought together, in the
mind, is properly said to be cogitated, or thought upon.
The memory containeth also reasons and laws innumerable of numbers and
dimensions, none of which hath any bodily sense impressed; seeing they have
neither colour, nor sound, nor taste, nor smell, nor touch. I have heard the
sound of the words whereby when discussed they are denoted: but the sounds are
other than the things. For the sounds are other in Greek than in Latin; but
the things are neither Greek, nor Latin, nor any other language. I have seen
the lines of architects, the very finest, like a spider`s thread; but those
are still different, they are not the images of those lines which the eye of
flesh showed me: he knoweth them, whosoever without any conception whatsoever
of a body, recognises them within himself. I have perceived also the numbers
of the things with which we number all the senses of my body; but those
numbers wherewith we number are different, nor are they the images of these,
and therefore they indeed are. Let him who seeth them not, deride me for
saying these things, and I will pity him, while he derides me.
All these things I remember, and how I learnt them I remember. Many
things also most falsely objected against them have I heard, and remember;
which though they be false, yet is it not false that I remember them; and I
remember also that I have discerned betwixt those truths and these falsehoods
objected to them. And I perceive that the present discerning of these things
is different from remembering that I oftentimes discerned them, when I often
thought upon them. I both remember then to have often understood these things;
and what I now discern and understand, I lay up in my memory, that hereafter I
may remember that I understood it now. So then I remember also to have
remembered; as if hereafter I shall call to remembrance, that I have now been
able to remember these things, by the force of memory shall I call it to
remembrance.
The same memory contains also the affections of my mind, not in the same
manner that my mind itself contains them, when it feels them; but far
otherwise, according to a power of its own. For without rejoicing I remember
myself to have joyed; and without sorrow do I recollect my past sorrow. And
that I once feared, I review without fear; and without desire call to mind a
past desire. Sometimes, on the contrary, with joy do I remember my fore-past
sorrow, and with sorrow, joy. Which is not wonderful, as to the body; for mind
is one thing, body another. If I therefore with joy remember some past pain of
body, it is not so wonderful. But now seeing this very memory itself is mind
(for when we give a thing in charge, to be kept in memory, we say, "See that
you keep it in mind;" and when we forget, we say, "It did not come to my
mind," and, "It slipped out of my mind," calling the memory itself the mind);
this being so, how is it that when with joy I remember my past sorrow, the
mind hath joy, the memory hath sorrow; the mind upon the joyfulness which is
in it, is joyful, yet the memory upon the sadness which is in it, is not sad?
Does the memory perchance not belong to the mind? Who will say so? The memory
then is, as it were, the belly of the mind, and joy and sadness, like sweet
and bitter food; which, when committed to the memory, are, as it were, passed
into the belly, where they may be stowed, but cannot taste. Ridiculous it is
to imagine these to be alike; and yet are they not utterly unlike.
But, behold, out of my memory I bring it, when I say there be four
perturbations of the mind, desire, joy, fear, sorrow; and whatsoever I can
dispute thereon, by dividing each into its subordinate species, and by
defining it, in my memory find I what to say, and thence do I bring it: yet am
I not disturbed by any of these perturbations, when by calling them to mind, I
remember them; yea, and before I recalled and brought them back, they were
there; and therefore could they, by recollection, thence be brought.
Perchance, then, as meat is by chewing the cud brought up out of the belly, so
by recollection these out of the memory. Why then does not the disputer, thus
recollecting, taste in the mouth of his musing the sweetness of joy, or the
bitterness of sorrow? Is the comparison unlike in this, because not in all
respects like? For who would willingly speak thereof, if so oft as we name
grief or fear, we should be compelled to be sad or fearful? And yet could we
not speak of them, did we not find in our memory, not only the sounds of the
names according to the images impressed by the senses of the body, but notions
of the very things themselves which we never received by any avenue of the
body, but which the mind itself perceiving by the experience of its own
passions, committed to the memory, or the memory of itself retained, without
being committed unto.
But whether by images or no, who can readily say? Thus, I name a stone, I
name the sun, the things themselves not being present to my senses, but their
images to my memory. I name a bodily pain, yet it is not present with me, when
nothing aches: yet unless its image were present in my memory, I should not
know what to say thereof, nor in discoursing discern pain from pleasure. I
name bodily health; being sound in body, the thing itself is present with me;
yet, unless its image also were present in my memory, I could by no means
recall what the sound of this name should signify. Nor would the sick, when
health were named, recognise what were spoken, unless the same image were by
the force of memory retained, although the thing itself were absent from the
body. I name numbers whereby we number; and not their images, but themselves
are present in my memory. I name the image of the sun, and that image is
present in my memory. For I recall not the image of its image, but the image
itself is present to me, calling it to mind. I name memory, and I recognize
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 recognize 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. ^28 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 recognize 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 recognized by the image which is within: nor do we say that we
have found what was lost, unless we recognize it; nor can we recognize it,
unless we remember it. But this was lost to the eyes, but retained in the
memory.
[Footnote 28: Luke xv. 8.]
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 recognized it, nor recognize 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 is 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 recognize 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? For when I seek Thee, my God, I seek a
happy life. I will seek Thee, that my soul may live. For my body liveth by my
soul; and my soul by Thee. How then do I seek a happy life, seeing I have it
not, until I can say, where I ought to say it, "It is enough"? How seek I it?
By remembrance, as though I had forgotten it, remembering that I had forgotten
it? Or, desiring to learn it as a thing unknown, either never having known, or
so forgotten it, as not even to remember that I had forgotten it? is not a
happy life what all will, and no one altogether wills it not? where have they
known it, that they so will it? where seen it, that they so love it? Truly we
have it, how, I know not. Yea, there is another way, wherein when one hath it,
then is he happy; and there are, who are blessed in hope. These have it in a
lower kind, than they who have it in very deed; yet are they better off than
such as are happy neither in deed nor in hope. Yet even these, had they it not
in some sort, would not so will to be happy, which that they do will, is most
certain. They have known it then, I know not how, and so have it by some sort
of knowledge, what, I know not, and am perplexed whether it be in the memory,
which if it be, then we have been happy once; whether all severally, or in
that man who first sinned, in whom also we all died, ^29 and from whom we are
all born with misery, I now enquire not; but only, whether the happy life be
in the memory? For neither should we love it, did we not know it. We hear the
name, and we all confess that we desire the thing; for we are not delighted
with the mere sound. For when a Greek hears it in Latin, he is not delighted,
not knowing what is spoken; but we Latins are delighted, as would he too, if
he heard it in Greek; because the thing itself is neither Greek nor Latin,
which Greeks and Latins, and men of all other tongues, long for so earnestly.
Known therefore it is to all, for could they with one voice be asked, "would
they be happy?" they would answer without doubt, "they would." And this could
not be, unless the thing itself whereof it is the name were retained in their
memory.
[Footnote 29: 1 Cor. xv. 22.]
But is it so, as one remembers Carthage who hath seen it? No. For a happy
life is not seen with the eye, because it is not a body. As we remember
numbers then? No. For these, he that hath in his knowledge, seeks not further
to attain unto; but a happy life we have in our knowledge and therefore love
it, and yet still desire to attain it, that we may be happy. As we remember
eloquence then? No. For although upon hearing this name also, some call to
mind the thing, who still are not yet eloquent, and many who desire to be so,
whence it appears that it is in their knowledge; yet these have by their
bodily senses observed others to be eloquent, and been delighted, and desire
to be the like (though indeed they would not be delighted but for some inward
knowledge thereof, nor wish to be the like, unless they were thus delighted);
whereas a happy life, we do by no bodily sense experience in others. As then
we remember joy? Perchance; for my joy I remember, even when sad, as a happy
life, when unhappy; nor did I ever with bodily sense see, hear, smell, taste,
or touch my joy; but I experienced it in my mind, when I rejoiced; and the
knowledge of it clave to my memory, so that I can recall it with disgust
sometimes, at others with longing, according to the nature of the things,
wherein I remember myself to have joyed. For even from foul things have I been
immersed in a sort of joy; which now recalling, I detest and execrate;
otherwise in good and honest things, which I recall with longing, although
perchance no longer present; and therefore with sadness I recall former joy.
Where then and when did I experience my happy life, that I should
remember, and love, and long for it? Nor is it I alone, or some few besides,
but we all would fain be happy; which, unless by some certain knowledge we
knew, we should not with so certain a will desire. But how is this, that if
two men be asked whether they would go to the wars, one, perchance, would
answer that he would, the other, that he would not; but if they were asked
whether they would be happy, both would instantly without any doubting say
they would; and for no other reason would the one go to the wars, and the
other not, but to be happy. Is it perchance that as one looks for his joy in
this thing, another in that, all agree in their desire of being happy, as they
would (if they were asked) that they wished to have joy, and this joy they
call a happy life? Although then one obtains this joy by one means, another by
another, all have one end, which they strive to attain, namely, joy. Which
being a thing which all must say they have experienced, it is therefore found
in the memory, and recognised whenever the name of a happy life is mentioned.
Far be it, Lord, far be it from the heart of Thy servant who here
confesseth unto Thee, far be it, that, be the joy what it may, I should
therefore think myself happy. For there is a joy which is not given to the
ungodly, ^30 but to those who love Thee for Thine own sake, whose joy Thou
Thyself art. And this is the happy life, to rejoice to Thee, of Thee, for
Thee; this is it, and there is no other. For they who think there is another,
pursue some other and not the true joy. Yet is not their will turned away from
some semblance of joy.
[Footnote 30: Is. xlviii. 22.]
|
