MEMORY AND FORGETFULNESS

279

CHAPTER XVI.

And Forgetfulness itself can be remembered.

WHAT, when I name forgetfulness, and also

recognise what I name? whence should I recognise it, unless by the exercise of memory? I do not refer to the sound of the name, but to its signification; which, if I were to forget, I should not be able to recognise what the sound meant. When, then, I remember memory, memory itself is present, by itself, to itself; but when I remember forgetfulness, both memory is present to me and forgetfulness-memory, whereby I remember, and forgetfulness, which I remember. But what is forgetfulness but the privation of memory? How, then, is it present that I should remember it, seeing that when it is present I am unable to remember. But whatever we remember, we retain in the memory; yet, unless we remembered forgetfulness, we should by no means be able to recognise what was meant when we heard the word; forgetfulness, then, is retained in the memory. present, then, lest we forget it; and when it is present, we forget. Is it therefore to be understood that forgetfulness is present to the memory, when we remember it, not by itself, but by its image? Because, if forgetfulness were present through itself, it would cause us not to remember, but to forget. And who, I pray you, can find this out? Who shall comprehend how this is?

It is

O Lord, I indeed am toiling herein, yes, toiling in myself; I am become to myself a land of hardness and of excessive sweat.' For we are not now investigating I Gen. iii. 17.

280

FORGETFULNESS IS REMEMBERED

the tracts of heaven, nor are we measuring the distances of the stars, nor inquiring into the gravity of the earth. It is I who remember.-I, the mind. It would not be so wonderful, if something not myself were beyond my reach. But what is nearer to me than myself? And behold, the power of my own memory is not comprehended by me, though I cannot name myself without making use of it. For what shall I say, when I am quite sure that I remember forgetfulness? Shall I say that what I remember is not in my memory? or shall I say that forgetfulness is in my memory to prevent my forgetting? Either of these is most absurd. What third course is there? How can I say that the image of forgetfulness is found in my memory when I remember it, not forgetfulness itself? How can I say this, when, for the image of anything to be imprinted on the memory, it is necessary that the thing itself should first be present, whence the image is able to be imprinted? For thus I remember Carthage, thus I remember all places where I have been, thus men's faces whom I have seen, and the messages of the other senses, thus I remember a pain of the body or a sickness. When these were present, the memory took the images of things which I might behold when present, and reflect upon in my mind and bring back when absent. If, then, by its image and not by itself, forgetfulness is retained in the memory, itself must have been present some time that its image might be received. But when it was present, how did it write its image on the memory, seeing that what it finds already traced there, by its very presence, forgetfulness effaces? And yet, however it may be, though it be after some incomprehensible and indescribable manner, I am sure that I

GOD BEYOND THE LIMITS OF MEMORY 281

remember forgetfulness itself also, whereby what we remember is buried.

CHAPTER XVII.

Great is the Power of Memory, but we must go beyond it to attain to God.

GR

nature? vastness.

REAT is the power of memory, inconceivably wonderful, O my God, profound and infinite in its manifoldness; and this thing is the mind, and I am myself it. What, then, am I, my God? what is my A life various, multiform, and of exceeding Behold, in the plains, and caves, and caverns of my memory, countless and full of numberless kinds of things, either through images, as of all bodies; or through the presence of the things themselves, as of the arts; or through I know not what notions or observations, as of the affections of the mind, which even, when the mind does not suffer, the memory retains, whereas whatever is in the memory, is also in the mind: through all these I run hither and thither, and flit about; I dive down here and there, as far as I can, and never reach the bottom. So great is the power of memory; so great the power of life, in this mortal life of man! What, then, shall I do, O Thou my true Life, my God? I will transcend even this power of mine which is called memory, I will pass beyond it, that I may attain to Thee, sweet Light. What sayest Thou to me? Behold, I am soaring up by my mind to Thee, Who abidest above me. I will transcend even this my power which is called memory,―eager to reach Thee whence Thou canst be reached, and to cleave

282

IMAGES OF THINGS

to Thee whence one may cleave. For even beasts and birds have memory; otherwise they could not return to their dens or nests, nor do many other things they are accustomed to; neither could they become accustomed to anything, unless through their memory. I will pass, then, beyond memory, that I may attain to Him Who has separated me from four-footed beasts and the fowls of the air, by giving me more wisdom. I will pass even beyond memory, and where, then, shall I find Thee, O really good and secure Sweetness? I find Thee beyond my memory, I do not have Thee in remembrance. And how now shall I find Thee, if I have Thee not in remembrance?

If

CHAPTER XVIII.

A Thing lost could not be found, unless it were retained in the Memory.

OR the woman who lost her coin,' and searched

FOR

for it with a light, had she not remembered it, would never have sought for it. For how, when it was found, would she have known that it was the same, had she no remembrance of it? I remember that I have lost and found many things; and how do I know this, but that when I was seeking any of them, and was asked, "Is this it ?” “Is that it?” I continued to reply, 'No," until that was produced which I sought. Of which had I no remembrance (whatever it might be), even if it were presented to me, I should not find it, for I should not recognise it. And this always takes place, when we seek and find something which we had lost. 1 Luke xv. 8.

RETAINED IN THE MEMORY

283

Yet, however, if anything perchance is lost from the sight, not from the memory, as any visible body, its image is retained within, and it is sought until it is brought back to sight; and when it is found, it is recognised by its correspondence with the image within. Neither can we say that we have found what we had lost, unless we recognise it; nor can we recognise it, unless we remember it. But this was lost only to sight, but was kept in the memory.

CHAPTER XIX.

What is it to remember?

BUT what if the memory itself lose anything, which

is what takes place when we forget and try to recollect? Where, indeed, do we search, but in the memory itself? And there, if perhaps one thing instead of another presents itself, we reject it, until the one we are seeking occurs; and then we say, "This is it;" which we should not say unless we recognised it, nor recognise it unless we remembered it. Certainly, therefore, we had forgotten it. Or was it, that the whole had not escaped us, but a part remained, through which we gained the other part we were seeking; because the memory was conscious that it did not put together all that it was wont, and maimed, as it were, by the mutilation of its wonted operation, demanded the restoration of what was wanting? Thus, if we think of or see some one we know, and having forgotten his name, endeavour to recall it; whatever other name occurs has no association with him, because we were not wont to think of it in relation to him, and conse