Memory, p.20
Memory, page 20
As Tennessee Williams wrote in The Milk Train Doesn’t Stop Here Anymore, describing what we now call explicit memory, ‘Has it ever struck you … that life is all memory, except for the one present moment that goes by you so quickly you hardly catch it going? It’s really all memory … except for each passing moment.’
For all of us, explicit memory makes it possible to leap across space and time and conjure up events and emotional states that have vanished into the past yet somehow continue to live on in our minds. But recalling a memory episodically – no matter how important the memory – is not like simply turning to a photograph in an album. Recall of memory is a creative process. What the brain stores is thought to be only a core memory. Upon recall, this core memory is then elaborated upon and reconstructed, with subtractions, additions, elaborations, and distortions. What biological processes enable me to review my own history with such emotional vividness?
The Idea of Memory
PLATO, Theaetetus (360 BC), translated by Benjamin Jowett (1892)
Socrates. I would have you imagine, then, that there exists in the mind of man a block of wax, which is of different sizes in different men; harder, moister, and having more or less of purity in one than another, and in some of an intermediate quality.
Theaetetus. I see.
Soc. Let us say that this tablet is a gift of Memory, the mother of the Muses; and that when we wish to remember anything which we have seen, or heard, or thought in our own minds, we hold the wax to the perceptions and thoughts, and in that material receive the impression of them as from the seal of a ring; and that we remember and know what is imprinted as long as the image lasts; but when the image is effaced, or cannot be taken, then we forget and do not know. Theaet. Very good ….
Soc. I knowing Theodorus, and remembering in my own mind what sort of person he is, and also what sort of person Theaetetus is, at one time see them, and at another time do not see them, and sometimes I touch them, and at another time not, or at one time I may hear them or perceive them in some other way, and at another time not perceive them, but still I remember them, and know them in my own mind.
Theaet. Very true ….
Soc. The only possibility of erroneous opinion is, when knowing you and Theodorus, and having on the waxen block the impression of both of you given as by a seal, but seeing you imperfectly and at a distance, I try to assign the right impression of memory to the right visual impression, and to fit this into its own print: if I succeed, recognition will take place; but if I fail and transpose them, putting the foot into the wrong shoe – that is to say, putting the vision of either of you on to the wrong impression, or if my mind, like the sight in a mirror, which is transferred from right to left, err by reason of some similar affection, then ‘heterodoxy’ and false opinion ensues.
Theaet. Yes, Socrates, you have described the nature of opinion with wonderful exactness ….
Soc. When, therefore, perception is present to one of the seals or impressions but not to the other, and the mind fits the seal of the absent perception on the one which is present, in any case of this sort the mind is deceived; in a word, if our view is sound, there can be no error or deception about things which a man does not know and has never perceived, but only in things which are known and perceived; in these alone opinion turns and twists about, and becomes alternately true and false; – true when the seals and impressions of sense meet straight and opposite – false when they go awry and are crooked.
Theaet. And is not that, Socrates, nobly said?
Soc. Nobly! Yes but wait a little and hear the explanation, and then you will say so with more reason; for to think truly is noble and to be deceived is base. Theaet. Undoubtedly.
Soc. And the origin of truth and error is as follows: – When the wax in the soul of any one is deep and abundant and smooth and perfectly tempered, then the impressions which pass through the senses and sink into the heart of the soul …; these, I say, being pure and clear, and having a sufficient depth of wax, are also lasting, and minds, such as these, easily learn and easily retain, and are not liable to confusion, but have true thoughts, for they have plenty of room, and having clear impressions of things, as we term them, quickly distribute them into their proper places on the block. And such men are called wise. Do you agree? Theaet. Entirely.
Soc. But when the heart of any one is shaggy … or muddy and of impure wax, or very soft, or very hard, then there is a corresponding defect in the mind – the soft are good at learning, but apt to forget; and the hard are the reverse; the shaggy and rugged and gritty, or those who have an admixture of earth or dung in their composition, have the impressions indistinct, as also the hard, for there is no depth in them; and the soft too are indistinct, for their impressions are easily confused and effaced. Yet greater is the indistinctness when they are all jostled together in a little soul, which has no room. These are the natures which have false opinion; for when they see or hear or think of anything, they are slow in assigning the right objects to the right impressions – in their stupidity they confuse them, and are apt to see and hear and think amiss – and such men are said to be deceived in their knowledge of objects, and ignorant.
From PLATO, Meno (c.382 BC), translated by Benjamin Jowett (1892)
So the soul is immortal and has been many times reborn; and since it has seen all things, both in this world and in the other, there is nothing it has not learnt. No wonder, then, that it can recover the memory of what it has formerly known concerning virtue or any other matter. All Nature is akin and the soul has learnt all things; so there is nothing to prevent one who has recollected – learnt, as we call it – one single thing, from discovering all the rest for himself, if he is resolute and unwearying in the search; for seeking or learning is nothing but recollection.
From ARISTOTLE, On Memory and Recollection (c.345 BC), translated by W.S. Hett (1936)
It is obvious, then, that memory belongs to that part of the soul to which imagination belongs; all things which are imaginable are essentially objects of memory, and those which necessarily involve imagination are objects of memory only incidentally. The question might be asked how one can remember something which is not present, since it is only the affection that is present, and the fact is not. For it is obvious that one must consider the affection which is produced by sensation in the soul, and in that part of the body which contains the soul – the affection, the lasting state of which we call memory – as a kind of picture; for the stimulus produced impresses a sort of likeness of the percept, just as when men seal with signet rings. Hence in some people, through disability or age, memory does not occur even under a strong stimulus, as though the stimulus or seal were applied to running water; while in others owing to detrition like that of old walls in buildings, or to the hardness of the receiving surface, the impression does not penetrate. For this reason the very young and the old have poor memories; they are in a state of flux, the young because of their growth, the old because of their decay. For a similar reason neither the very quick nor the very slow appear to have good memories; the former are moister than they should be, and the latter harder; with the former the picture does not remain in the soul, with the latter it makes no impression.
Now if memory really occurs in this way, is what one remembers the present affection, or the original from which it arose? If the former, then we could not remember anything in its absence; if the latter, how can we, by perceiving the affection, remember the absent fact which we do not perceive? If there is in us something like an impression or picture, why should the perception of just this be memory of something else and not of itself? For when one exercises his memory this affection is what he considers and perceives. How, then, does he remember what is not present? This would imply that one can also see and hear what is not present. But surely in a sense this can and does occur. Just as the picture painted on the panel is at once a picture and a portrait, and though one and the same, is both, yet the essence of the two is not the same, and it is possible to think of it both as a picture and as a portrait, so in the same way we must regard the mental picture within us both as an object of contemplation in itself and as a mental picture of something else. In so far as we consider it in itself, it is an object of contemplation or a mental picture, but in so far as we consider it in relation to something else, e.g., as a likeness, it is also an aid to memory. Hence when the stimulus of it is operative, if the soul perceives the impression as independent, it appears to occur as a thought, or a mental picture; but if it is considered in relation to something else, it is as though one contemplated a figure in a picture as a portrait, e.g., of Coriscus, although he has not just seen Coriscus. As in this case the affection caused by the contemplation differs from that which is caused when one contemplates the object merely as a painted picture, so in the soul the one object appears as a mere thought, but the other, being (as in the former case) a likeness, is an aid to memory. And for this reason sometimes we do not know, when such stimuli occur in our soul from an earlier sensation, whether the phenomenon is due to sensation, and we are in doubt whether it is memory or not. But sometimes it happens that we reflect and remember that we have heard or seen this something before. Now this occurs whenever we first think of it as itself, and then change and think of it as referring to something else. The opposite also occurs, as happened to Antipheron of Oreus, and other lunatics; for they spoke of their mental pictures as if they had actually taken place, and as if they actually remembered them. This happens when one regards as a likeness what is not a likeness. Memorising preserves the memory of something by constant reminding. This is nothing but the repeated contemplation of an object as a likeness, and not independently.
From SENECA, Letters to Lucilius, (1st century BC), translated by Robin Campbell (1969)
It is one thing … to remember, another to know. To remember is to safeguard something entrusted to your memory, whereas to know, by contrast, is actually to make each item your own, and not to be dependent on some original and be constantly looking to see what the master said.
From PLUTARCH, ‘Cato the Younger’ (75 AD), translated by John Dryden (1683)
When he began to learn, he proved dull, and slow to apprehend, but of what he once received his memory was remarkably tenacious. And such in fact we find generally to be the course of nature; men of fine genius are readily reminded of things, but those who receive with most pains and difficulty, remember best; every new thing they learn, being, as it were, burnt and branded in on their minds.
From PLOTINUS, Fourth Ennead, (3rd century AD), translated by Stephen McKenna (1930)
A memory has to do with something brought into ken from without, something learned or something experienced; the Memory-Principle, therefore, cannot belong to such beings as are immune from experience and from time.
No memory, therefore, can be ascribed to any divine being, or to the Authentic-Existent or the Intellectual-Principle; these are intangibly immune; time does not approach them; they possess eternity, centred around Being; they know nothing of past and sequent; all is an unbroken state of identity, not receptive of change.
From ST AUGUSTINE, Confessions, Book X (c.AD 400), translated by William Watts (1633)
VIII: I will soar therefore beyond this faculty of my nature, still rising by degrees unto him who hath made both me and that nature. And I come into these fields and spacious palaces of my memory, where the treasures of innumerable forms brought into it from these things that have been perceived by the senses be hoarded up. There is laid up whatsoever besides we think, either by way of enlarging or diminishing, or any other ways varying of those things which the sense hath come at: yea, and if there be anything recommended to it and there laid up, which forgetfulness hath not swallowed up and buried. To this treasury whenever I have recourse, I demand to have anything brought forth whatsoever I will: thereupon some things come out presently, and others must be longer enquired after, which are fetched, as it were, out of some more secret receptacles: other things rush out in troops; and while a quite contrary thing is desired and required, they start forth, as who should say: Lest peradventure it should be we that are called for. These I drive away with the hand of my heart from the face of my remembrance; until that at last be discovered which I desire, appearing in sight out of its hidden cells. Other things are supplied more easily and without disorder, just as they are desired: former notions giving way to the following, by which giving way are they laid up again, to be forthcoming whenever I will have them. Which takes place all together, whenas I repeat anything by heart.
Where are all things distinctly and under general heads preserved, according to the several gates that each notion hath been brought in at? As (for example) light and all colours and forms of bodies brought in by the eyes: and by the ears all sorts of sounds: and all smells by the nostrils; all tastes by the gate of the mouth: and by the sense which belongs to the whole body, is brought in whatsoever is hard or soft: whatsoever is hot or cold; whatsoever is smooth or rugged, heavy or light, in respect of the body either outwardly or inwardly: all these doth that great receipt of the memory receive in her many secret and inexpressible windings, to be forthcoming, and to be called for again, whenas need so requireth, each entering in by his own port, and there lain up in it. And yet do not the things themselves enter the memory; only the images of the things perceived by the senses are ready there at hand, whenever the thoughts will recall them. Which images who can tell how they came to be formed, notwithstanding it plainly appears by which of the senses each hath been fetched in and locked up? For even whilst I dwell in the darkness and silence, yet into my memory can I draw colours, if I please, and can discern betwixt black and white, and what others I desire; nor yet do sounds break in and disturb that notion drawn in by mine eyes, which I am not considering upon: seeing these sounds be in the memory too, and laid up as it were apart by themselves. For I can call for them if I please, and they present themselves to me at an instant; and though my tongue be quiet, and my throat silent, yet can I sing as much as I will. Nor do the images of those colours which notwithstanding be then there, now encroach and interrupt me, when another piece of treasure is called for which came in by the ears. And thus all other things brought in and laid up by other of the senses, do I call to remembrance at my pleasure. Yea, I discern the breath of lilies from that of violets, though at the instant I smell nothing: and I prefer honey before sweet wine, smooth before rough; though at that time I neither taste, nor handle, but remember only.
All this do I within, in that huge court of my memory. For there have I in a readiness the heaven, the earth, the sea, and whatever I could perceive in them, besides those which I have forgotten.
Great is this force of memory, excessive great, O my God; a large and an infinite roomthiness: who can plummet the bottom of it? Yet is this a faculty of mine, and belongs unto my nature: nor can I myself comprehend all that I am. Therefore is the mind too strait to contain itself: so where could that be which cannot contain itself? Is it without itself and not within? How then doth it not contain itself? A wonderful admiration surprises me, and an astonishment seizes me upon this. And men go abroad to wonder at the heights of mountains, the lofty billows of the sea, the long courses of rivers, the vast compass of the ocean, and the circular motions of the stars, and yet pass themselves by, nor wonder that while I spake of all these things I did not then see them with mine eyes; yet could I not have spoken of them, unless those mountains, and billows, and rivers, and stars which I have seen, and that ocean which I believed to be, I saw inwardly in my memory, yea, with such vast spaces between, as if I verily saw them abroad. Yet did I not swallow them into me by seeing, whenas with mine eyes I beheld them. Nor are the things themselves not within me, but the images of them only. And I distinctly know by what sense of the body each of these took impression in me …
XVII: Great is this power of memory; a thing, O my God, to be amazed at, a very profound and infinite multiplicity: and this thing is the mind, and this thing am I. What am I therefore, O my God? What kind of nature am I? A life various and full of changes, yea exceedingly immense. Behold, in those innumerable fields, and dens, and caves of my memory, innumerably full of innumerable kinds of things, brought in, first, either by the images, as all bodies are: secondly, or by the presence of the things themselves, as the arts are: thirdly, or by certain notions and impressions, as the affections of the mind are, – which even then when the mind doth suffer, yet doth the memory retain, since whatsoever is in the mind, is also in the memory: – through all these do I run and flit about, on this side, and on that side, mining into them so far as ever I am able, but can find no bottom. So great is the force of memory, so great is the force of life, even in man living as mortal. What am I now to do, O thou my true Life, my God? I will pass even beyond this faculty 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 now? See, I am now mounting up by the steps of my soul towards thee who dwellest above me. Yea, I will pass beyond this faculty of mine which is called memory, desirous to touch thee, whence thou mayest be touched; and to cleave fast unto thee, whence one may cleave to thee. For even the beasts and birds have memory; else could they never find their dens and nests again, nor those many other things which they are used unto: nor indeed could they ever enure themselves unto anything, but by their memory. I will pass beyond my memory, therefore, 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: yea, I will soar beyond mine own memory, that I may find thee – where, O thou truly Good, and thou secure Sweetness? where shall I be able to find thee? If I now find thee not by my memory, then am I unmindful of thee: and how shall I find thee, if I do not remember thee? …
