The Essential Augustine (continued)
MAN'S SOUL
and I recognize what I am naming. Where do I recognize it unless in memory itself? Now, could it be present to itself through its own image, and not through itself?
Now, when I name oblivion, and likewise recognize 16.24, what I am naming, what would be the source of my recognition if I did not remember it? I am not talking about the sound of the name, but the thing which it signifies. Now, if I had forgotten this meaning, I should not be able at all to recognize what the sound's function is. Therefore, when I remember my memory, the very memory is present to itself in itself, but when I remember oblivion, both memory and oblivion are present—memory, as that from which I recall; oblivion, as that which I recall. But what is oblivion except the privation of memory. How then can it be present, so that I may remember it, when I cannot remember while it is present? But if we keep in memory what we remember, and if, without remembering oblivion, we could not possibly know the meaning of this word when we heard it, then oblivion is retained in memory. Therefore, it is present so that we will not forget, and when it is present, we do forget.
Or is one to understand from this that it is not present in memory through itself, when we remember it, but rather through its image—because, if oblivion were present in itself, would not the result be that we would forget, not that we would remember? Now, who will eventually work this out? Who will understand how it is?
Certainly, O Lord, I am working hard on it, and my 25. work is being done on myself; I have become unto myself a soil of difficulty, and of too much sweat. For we are not now gazing curiously at the sky's expanses nor are we measuring the distances between the stars, nor are we trying to weigh the earth; I am the one who is remembering, I am the mind. It is not so astonishing if whatever I am not is far distant from me, but what is nearer to me than myself? And notice, the power of my memory is not understood by me, yet at the same time I cannot speak of myself without it. What should I say, when it is a certitude to me that I do remember oblivion? Or should I say that what I remember is not in my memory? Or should I say that oblivion is in my memory just for this—that I may not forget? Both are most absurd.
What of a third possibility? On what basis may I say that the image of oblivion is kept in my memory, not oblivion itself, when I do remember it? On what basis, too, may I say this, since, when any image of a thing is impressed on memory, it is first necessary for the thing itself to be present, from which the image can be impressed? For, thus do I remember Carthage; thus, all the places where I have been; thus, the faces of the men I have seen and the things Teported by the other senses; thus, the health of the body itself or its pain. When these things were at hand, my memory took the images from them, which, as being present, I might see directly and review in my mind when I remembered the things in their absence.
If, then, oblivion is held in memory through its image and not through itself, it must certainly have been present itself, in order that its image might be grasped. Now, when it was present, how did it write its image in the memory, when oblivion erases by its presence even what it finds already known? Yet I am certain that I do remember in some manner or other, though this manner be incomprehensible and inexplicable, even oblivion itself, whereby the object we remember is consigned to destruction.
Great is the power of memory; its deep and bound17.26. less multiplicity is something fearful, O my God! And this is the mind, and I am this myself. What then am I, O my God? What is my nature? A life of many aspects and many ways, strikingly immeasurable.
Look into the fields, hollows, and innumerable caverns of my memory, filled beyond number with innumerable kinds of things, either by means of images as in the case of all bodies, or by means of their own presence as in the case of the arts, or by means of some sort of notions or impressions as in the case of the feelings of the mind (which the memory keeps even when the mind is not undergoing them, though whatever is in the memory is in the mind!). I run through all these things, and I flit here and there. I even go as deep as I can, yet there is no limit. So great is the power of memory, so great is the power of life in man who lives mortally!
What shall I do, Thou true Life of mine, O my God? I shall pass over even this power of mine which is called memory; I shall pass over it to reach Thee, sweet Light. What dost Thou say to me? Behold, going up through my mind to Thee, who dwellest above me, I shall even pass over this power of mine which is called memory, desiring to attain Thee where Thou canst be attained, and to cleave to Thee where it is possible to be in contact with Thee.
For even beasts and birds have memory; otherwise, they could not find their lairs and nests, or the many other things to which they become accustomed. And they could not grow accustomed to any thing, unless through memory. Therefore, I shall even pass over memory to attain Him who has set me apart from the four-footed beasts and made me "wiser than the fowls of the air." [Job 35:11] I shall even pass over memory, so that I may find Thee—where, O truly good and serene Sweetness—where shall I find Thee? But if I find Thee without memory, I am without remembrance of Thee. And how indeed may I find Thee, if I am without remembrance of Thee?
The woman who had lost her drachma and looked 18.27. for it with a lamp would not have found it, unless she retained some remembrance of it. For, when it had been found, how would she know whether it was the one, if she retained no remembrance of it? I remember many lost things which I have looked for and found. From this I know that, when I was looking for one of them, and people would say to me: "Perhaps this is it? Maybe this one?" I would continue to say: "It is not," until the thing I was seeking was shown to me. Unless I had some remembrance of it, whatever it was, I should not have found it, even if it were shown to me, for I should not have recognized it. That is always the way it is, when we look for some lost thing and find it. Yet, of course, when by chance something is lost from sight, not from memory—any visible body, for example—its image is retained within, and it is sought until it comes back within view. And, when it is found, it is recognized from the image which is within. We do not say that we have found what we lost, if we do not recognize it, and we cannot recognize it, if we do not remember it. It disappeared indeed from before our eyes, but it was retained in memory.
What? When the memory itself loses something, as 19.28. happens when we forget and try to remember, pray, where do we look for it, unless in the memory itself? And in it, if one thing is presented in place of another, we reject it until the thing we are looking for turns up. When it does turn up, we say: "This is it." We would not say that unless we recognized it, and we would not recognize it unless we remembered. Yet we certainly had forgotten it.
Or had it disappeared, not completely but only in part? And is the other part sought by means of that which is retained, because the memory felt that its object of consideration was not as complete as usual, and, feeling the defect in 4 habit which was as it were defective in some part, it strove to get back what was missing?
For instance, if a man who is known comes before our eyes or into our thoughts, and we are trying to recall his name, which we have forgotten, then any other name which occurs fails to be connected, because it has not been customary for our thought of him to go along with it; hence it is rejected until that name occurs which our customary way of thinking of the man accepts as not inappropriate. And from what source does it occur, if not from memory itself? For when we recognize it, on being reminded by someone else, it is from there that it comes. So we do not accept it as something new, but, in recalling it, we judge that what has been said is the right name. But if it is entirely wiped out of mind, then we do not remember even when reminded. And if we even remember that we have forgotten it, then we have not yet completely forgotten. Therefore, we would not be able to look for something that has been lost, if we had altogether forgotten it.
Now, how do I look for Thee, O Lord? When I 20.29. look for Thee, my God, I am looking for the happy life. May I seek Thee, so that my soul may live. [Isa. 55:3] For my body has life from my soul, and my soul has life from Thee. How then do I seek the happy life? It is not mine, until I can say: "Enough, there it is." Here then I ought to say how I do look for it, whether through remembrance, as though I had forgotten it and I still retained the fact that I had forgotten, or through a desire to learn it.as something unknown, either something I never knew, or which I have so forgotten that I have no remembrance even that I have forgotten it. Surely the happy life is this: What all men desire and [such that] there is absolutely no one who does not desire it? Where did they know it, this object which they desire in such a way? Where did they see it, to love it so? Certainly we do possess it, but how I know not.
There is one certain way whereby each man, when he possesses this object, is then happy, and there also are those who are happy in hope. The latter possess it in an inferior way, compared to those who are already really happy, yet they are better off than those others who are happy neither in reality nor in hope. Still, unless this third kind of people possessed it, in some way, they would not desire to be happy; that they have such a desire is most certain. Somehow or other they came to know it, and so they possess it in some kind or other of knowledge. My problem concerning this is whether it may be in the memory; for if it is there, then we were at one time happy, either all individually, or all in that man who was the first to sin, in whom also we all died from whom we are all born amidst unhappiness. I do not ask this question now, but I do ask whether the happy life is in the memory.
Now, we would not love it, unless we knew it. We hear this word and we all admit that we seek this thing, for we are not delighted merely by the sound. When a Greek hears this word in Latin, he is not delighted, for he does not know what has been said. Yet we Latins are delighted, as he is, too, if he hears it in Greek, for the thing itself is neither Greek nor Latin, this thing which Greeks and Latins and men of every tongue yearn to obtain. So, it is known to all men who, if they could be asked whether they desire to be happy, would reply in one voice, without any hesitation, that they do, This would be impossible, unless the thing itself, of which this is the name, were kept in their memory.
Now, is this the same as the case of the man, who, 21.30. having seen Carthage, remembers it? No! The happy life is not seen with the eyes, since it is not a body. Ts it like the example of our remembering numbers? No! One who possesses these in knowledge does not seek to obtain further, but we possess the happy life in knowledge, and so we love it, yet wish to attain it further so that we may be happy.
Is it like the instance where we remember the art of oratory? No! For, though, when this word has been heard, people recall to mind the thing itself, even those who are not yet eloquent—and many do desire to be (whence it is apparent that eloquence exists in their knowledge), but, on the other hand, they have observed through the senses of the body that other people are eloquent and they are delighted and long to be likewise; they would not be delighted except from interior knowledge and they would not desire to be likewise unless they were so delighted. However, we do not have personal experience of the happy life in other people, through any sense of the body.
Is it like the way in which we remember joy? Perhaps so. For I remember my joy even when sad, just as I do the happy life when I am unhappy, and I have never seen or