Augustine and the Soul's Mystery
Medieval manuscript decoration showing St. Augustine. Augustine's is one of the most potent influences on Western thought and, in the Medieval period, his works are cited more than any other non-biblical writings.
Memory and the Knowledge of God
In Book X of the Confessions, Augustine returns to the questions "where is God to be found?" and "what is the origin of our knowledge of God?" His reflections find their climax in a meditation on the "profound and limitless multiplicity" of "memory." By "memory," Augustine refers to the bewildering complexity, range, and application of our power to "bring to mind," to make things present to us. What is involved, here, is more than our power to recall information from the past, it also includes, for instance, our knowledge of language, of mathematics, our ability to pursue and appreciate happiness, to recognize good and evil, as well as the self-knowledge that accompanies all we do and think. God, Augustine concludes, has been present to his mind, in his "memory," ever since he first learnt of God, and because of this presence Augustine is able to turn to God, to pray, confess, and love. A crucial problem still remains, though. "You [God] were not in my memory before I learnt of you." How then did he learn of God in the first place? By the fact, Augustine argues, that, when we seek truth, God is already present to us, has already given himself to us as the object of our seeking. God is present as both the goal and the origin of our asking after truth: "you who are Truth are everywhere to answer all who consult you."
from Book X of Augustine's Confessions
Great is the power of memory; it is an awe-inspiring thing, my God, a profound and limitless multiplicity. And this thing is the mind, and this I myself am. What then am I, O my God? What is my nature? It is various and manifold and immeasurable: behold the numberless fields and caves and caverns of memory, each innumerably full of an in-numerable variety of things. Some of these things are there through images, as in the case of all physical objects; some through their own immediate presence, as with the intellectual arts; some by indefinable notions or impressions, as with the affections of the mind which, even when the mind is not experi-encing them, the mind yet retains (although whatever is in the memory is also in the mind). Through all of these do I run to and from, flying hither and thither. I penetrate them as far as I am able, on this side and that, and nowhere is there an end. So great is the power of memory, so great the power of life in man, whose life is mortal. What then shall I do, O my true life, my God? I will pass even beyond this power of mine which is called memory - I will pass beyond it that I may proceed towards you, sweet light. What are you saying to me? See, I am soaring by my mind towards you who remain above me. I will pass beyond this power of mine which is called memory, wishing to reach unto you where you can be reached, and to cleave unto you where it is possible to cleave unto you. For even beasts and birds possess memory, otherwise they would never rediscover their lairs and nests and all the other things to which they are accustomed. Indeed they could not become accustomed to anything except by memory. I will pass, then, beyond memory that I may reach Him who set me apart from the four-footed beasts and made me wiser than the fowls of the air. I will pass beyond memory to find you. But where shall I find you, O truly good and certain delight? Where shall I find you? If I find you beyond memory, then I shall be without memory of you. And how then shall I find you, if I do not remember you?
The Woman who had lost her drachma and searched for it with a lamp would never, unless she had remembered it, have found it. For when it was found, how could she know whether it was the same unless she remembered it? I myself remember having lost and found many things, from which ex-perience I know that when I was searching for any of these things and was asked: 'Is this it?' and 'Is that it?' I answered always 'No' until that which I sought was found. If I had not remembered it, whatever it was, even if it had been offered to me I would not have found it, because I would not have recognized it. It is always thus when we search for and find anything that is lost. For if a thing is lost from sight but not from memory - as may happen in the case of any visible object - its image is retained within, and is searched for until it is restored to sight. When it is found it is recognized from the image that is within. We do not say we have found the thing that was lost unless we recognize it, and we cannot recognize it unless we remember it. It was lost to the eyes, but retained in the memory.
What happens when the memory itself loses something, as when we forget and try to recall? Where, fin-ally, do we search but in the memory itself? And there, if by chance the memory offers us some other thing, we refuse it until we meet with what we seek. And when we do, we exclaim, 'This is it!' We would not do this unless we recognized it, and we would not recognize it unless we remembered it. It seems cer-tain, therefore, that we had forgotten it. Or was it that, the thing not having as a whole slipped our memory, we sought for the lost part by way of a part of which we still had hold? The memory perceived that the thing was not the whole to which it was accustomed and, moving more slowly, as if from injury to its established habit, demanded the restoration of that which was wanting. For example, we may see or imagine a man who is known to us and, having forgotten his name, will try to remem-ber it. Whatever other names present themselves to us which we do not associate with the man we reject, until that name presents itself with which the mind is satisfied, having been accustomed to associate it with that man. And from where, but from the memory itself, does that name present itself? For even when we recognize it after being reminded of it by something else, it is from memory that it comes. For we do not believe it as something newly learned: it is by memory that we are assured that it is the correct name. Were the name entirely blotted out of the mind, even when reminded we would not remember it. For even the thing we remember having forgotten is not yet entirely for-gotten. For that which we have truly forgotten, we cannot even search.
How, then, do I seek you, Lord? For when I seek you, my God, I seek a happy life. I will seek you, that my soul may live. For my body lives by my soul, and my soul lives by you. How then do I seek a happy life? For it is not mine till I can say: 'It is enough; it is there,' in the place where I rightly may. How do I seek it? Should it be by the way of remembrance, as though I have forgotten it but am still aware that I have forgotten it? Or should it be as a longing to learn it as a thing unknown - either because I have never known it or because I have so forgotten it as not even to remem-ber that I have forgotten it? Is not a happy life that which all desire, and is there anyone who does not so desire? But from where did they who desire it acquire knowledge of it? Where have they seen it, that they love it so? Truly we have the desire of it, but I know not how. There is indeed a way by which one may actually have happiness and be blessed in it, and there are some who are happy in hope - the happiness of these is inferior to that of those who are happy in fact, yet they are more fortunate than those who are happy neither in fact nor in hope. And even these would not desire to be happy - which it is most certain that they do - if they did not possess happi-ness in some way. How they come to know of it I cannot tell. They possess it by some kind of knowledge unknown to me. I trouble greatly to know whether it is possessed in the mem-ory, for if it is there, then we have been happy once - whether individually or collectively (in that man who first committed sin, in whom we all died, and from whom we are all born into a condition of misery) I do not now ask. But I do ask whether the happy life is in the memory. I say again, if we did not know it we would not love it. We hear the name, and we all acknowledge that we desire the thing - for we find delight not in the sound only. When a Greek hears the name spoken in Latin he feels no delight, for he does not understand what is said. But we are delighted, as he too would be if he heard it in Greek. For the thing which Greeks and Latins and men of all other tongues long so earnestly to obtain is neither Greek nor Latin. It is, then, known unto all, and if they could with one voice be asked whether they wished to be happy, there is no doubt that they should all answer that they would. And this could not be unless the thing itself, to which the name refers, were retained in the memory.
But does it lie in the memory in the way that Carthage does for one who has seen it? No. For a happy life is not to be seen by the eye, because it is not a physical entity. Is it, then, to be remembered like numbers? No. For he who has a knowledge of numbers does not continue to strive to attain that knowledge. We have a happy life in our knowledge and there-fore we love it; yet we still wish to attain it, that we may be happy. Is it, then, as we remember eloquence? No. It is true that people who are not themselves eloquent call eloquence to mind when they hear its name and that many people wish to be elo-quent, which wish indicates a knowledge of the thing - but such people have, through their physical senses, perceived others who are eloquent and in that way been delighted, and have longed to be eloquent also. It is true that they would not be delighted save for some inward knowledge of eloquence, nor desire themselves to be thus unless they were delighted - but we cannot through the physical senses experience the happy life in others.
Is it, then, as we remember joy? It may be so. For I remember my joy even when sad, as I remember a happy life even when miserable. Nor did I ever with physical perception either see, hear, smell, taste or touch my joy. But I experienced it in my mind when I rejoiced, and the knowledge of it clung to my memory, so that I can call it to mind - sometimes with disdain, sometimes with desire, according to the variety in the nature of the things in which I remember having rejoiced. In the past I rejoiced sometimes in unclean things which now, in calling them to mind, I detest and execrate; at other times I rejoiced in good and honest things which now I recall with longing, though I may no longer have them, so that it is with sadness that I recall a former joy. Where and when, then, did I experience my happy life, that I should call it to mind and love and long for it? And it is not I alone, or a few others besides, who wish to be happy, but everyone. Unless we knew the thing with certain knowledge we should not desire it with so certain a will. But consider this: if two men are asked whether they would wish to serve as soldiers, one, perhaps, would reply that he would, the other that he would not; but if they were asked whether they wanted to be happy, both of them would unhesitatingly say that they did; and he who wished to be a soldier and he who wished not to be one both wished what they wished from no other motive but to be happy. Is it perhaps that, as one man joys in this and another in that, they all agree in their wish for happiness, just as they would agree if asked whether they wished to experience joy, and would call that joy a happy life? Even if one person pursues joy in this way and another pursues it in that, all have one goal which they strive to attain - namely, to have joy. No one can say that they have not experienced this, and so it is found in the memory, and recognized whenever the name of a happy life is heard.
Far be it, Lord, from the heart of your servant who makes this confession to think myself happy, whatever joy I may know. For there is a joy which is not granted to the wicked1 but to those who worship you for your own sake, whose joy you yourself are. And the happy life is this: to rejoice unto you, in you and for you. It is this, and nothing other. But those who think there is something other pursue a different joy, not the true one. Yet their will is still drawn to some shadow likeness of joy.
Thus it is not certain that all men desire to be happy, for those who do not wish to rejoice in you - which is the only happy life - do not truly desire the happy life. Or it may be that all do desire this, but because 'the flesh lusts against the spirit, and the spirit against the flesh' so that they 'cannot do the thing that they would', they fall back upon that which they can do, and are content with it. This is because they do not want to do that which they cannot do with an intensity sufficient to enable them to do it. For if I ask of any man whether he would rather rejoice in the truth or in falsehood, he would no more hesitate to prefer the truth than he would to be happy. The happy life is joy in the truth, in you who are the truth, 'O God, my light, the health of my countenance, and my God'. All wish for this happy life, which is the only happy one. All wish for joy in the truth. I have known many who wished to deceive, but none who wished to be deceived. But how have they come to know of this happy life but in the same way that they came to know also the truth? They love truth, for they do not wish to be deceived. And when they love happiness, which is nothing other than joy in the truth, they must love truth also - and they could not love it unless there were some knowledge of it in the memory. Why, then, do they not rejoice in it? Why are they not happy? Because they are much more occupied with other things, which cause them to be mis-erable, than they are with the truth, which would make them happy, and of which they remember so little. For there is yet a little light in men; let them walk, let them walk, that the darkness seizes them not.
Why, then, does truth beget hatred? Why does your servant who preaches the truth become an enemy to those who hear, seeing that a happy life, which is nothing other than joy in the truth, is loved? Maybe it is because truth is loved in such a way that those who love anything else wish that other thing to be the truth and, precisely because they do not wish to be deceived, are unwilling to be convinced that they are deceived. Thus, for the sake of whatever it is they love instead of the truth, they hate the truth itself. They love truth when it shines on them, and hate it when it rebukes them. Because they are unwilling to be deceived and wish themselves to deceive, they love the truth when it reveals itself and hate it when it reveals them. For this it will requite them: those who were unwilling to be discovered by truth will by it be unmasked against their wills, but to them truth will not discover itself. Thus indeed it is: the human mind, so blind and sick, so base and unseemly, wishes to lie concealed, but does not wish that anything should be concealed from it. Yet the Opposite is rendered unto it - it is not itself concealed from the truth, but the truth is concealed from it. And even while it is wretched in this way it prefers to rejoice in the truth rather than in falsehood. Happy, then, will it be if, with no distraction inter-fering, it shall one day come to rejoice in that only truth by which all things are true.
See Lord, how far I have ranged in seeking you in my memory. And outside it I have not found you. For I have found nothing concerning you beyond that which I have stored in my memory since I first learnt of you. From the time I learnt of you I have never forgotten you. For where I found truth, there I found my God, who is the truth itself, which from the time I learnt it I have not forgotten. And thus from the time I learnt of you, you have abided in my memory. I find you there whenever I call you to mind, and delight in you. These are the holy delights which you have bestowed upon me, looking, in your mercy, unto my poverty.
But where in my memory do you abide, Lord? Where in my memory do you abide? What manner of chamber have you made for yourself there? What sort of sanctuary have you built for yourself? You have granted this honor to my memory, to take up your abode in it; but in what part of it you abide I now consider. For in calling you to mind I soared beyond those parts of memory which the beasts also possess, for I found you not there among the images of corporeal things. I arrived at those parts to which I had committed the affections of the mind, but did not find you there. And I entered into the very seat of my mind, which is located in my memory, since the mind remem-bers itself also, and you were not there. For as you are not a bodily image, nor the affection of a living creature - as when we rejoice, condole, desire, fear, remember, forget, or anything of that kind - so you are not the mind itself. For you are the Lord God of the mind. All these things are liable to change, but you remain unchangeable above all things. Yet from the time that I learnt of you, you have deigned to dwell in my memory. But why do I now seek to know in what part of it you dwell, as if there were really places in it? It is assured that you dwell in it, for I have remembered you from the time I learnt of you, and when I call you to mind I find you there.
Where, then, did I find you so as to be able to learn of you? For you were not in my memory before I learnt of you. Where, then, did I find you so as to be able to learn of you, but in you yourself who are above me? There is no place; we go backward and forward, and there is no place. You who are truth are everywhere to answer all who consult you, and, though they consult you on divers things, you answer them all at one time. You answer clearly, though all do not clearly hear. All consult you on whatever they wish, though in reply they do not always hear that which they wish. He is your best servant who does not so much look to hear from you what he himself wills as to will what he hears from you.
Late have I loved you, fairness so ancient and so new; late have I loved you! For behold you were within me and I was without, and there did I seek you. In my unfair state I rushed heedlessly among the beautiful things of your creation. You were with me, but I was not with you. Those things kept me far from you, though they had no true existence except in you. You called and cried aloud, and forced open my deafness. You sent forth your beams and shone, and chased away my blind-ness. You breathed fragrance, and I drew in my breath and now do sigh after you. I tasted, and now do hunger and thirst after you. You touched me, and I burn for your peace.