For I demand these too, if it please me, and they are there at once; and with my tongue at rest and my throat silent I sing as much as I wish, and those images of colours, which are there nonetheless, do not interpose themselves nor interrupt, while another treasure is reconsidered which flowed in from the ears. So too with the rest which have been brought in and heaped up through the other senses, I recall as it pleases me, and I distinguish the breath of lilies from violets while smelling nothing, and I prefer honey to boiled wine, the smooth to the rough, while tasting nothing then nor touching, but only by remembering. These things I do within, in the vast hall of my memory. For there are present to me heaven and earth and sea, with all that I have been able to perceive in them, except those things which I have forgotten.
There too I meet myself and recall myself—what, when, and where I did something, and in what manner I was affected when I did it. There are all the things which I remember, whether experienced by myself or believed on report. From the same store I myself also weave, into the past, now these and now those likenesses of things, whether experienced or, from those I have experienced, believed; and out of these also future actions and events and hopes, and all these again I meditate upon as if present. 'I will do this and that,' I say to myself in that vast recess of my mind, full of so many and such great images of things, and this or that follows. 'O that this or that might be!' 'God avert this or that':
I say these things to myself, and when I say them, there are present the images of all the things I say, from the same treasury of memory; nor should I say any of them at all, if they had been wanting. Great is this power of memory, exceedingly great, O my God—a vast and boundless inner chamber. Who has reached its bottom? And this power is of my mind and pertains to my nature, yet I myself do not grasp the whole of what I am. Therefore the mind is too narrow to contain itself. But where can that be which it does not contain of itself? Is it outside it and not in it? How then does it not contain it? Great wonder arises in me over this; amazement seizes me.
And men go to marvel at the heights of mountains, and the huge waves of the sea, and the broadest courses of rivers, and the compass of the ocean, and the circuits of the stars, and they pass themselves by, nor do they marvel that, when I was speaking of all these things, I did not see them with my eyes; nor yet should I speak of them, unless I saw within in my memory—with spaces so vast, as if I saw without—the mountains and waves and rivers and stars which I have seen, and the ocean which I have believed. Nor yet did I swallow them up by seeing, when I saw them with my eyes; nor are they themselves present with me, but their images; and I know by what sense of the body each was impressed upon me. But not these alone does that immense capacity of my memory bear.
Here too are all those things which, received from the liberal disciplines, have not yet fallen away, as it were removed into an inner place, which is not a place; nor do I bear their images, but the things themselves.
For what literature is, what skill in disputation, how many kinds of questions there are—whatever of these I know, is in my memory in such a way that I have not retained the image and left the thing outside, nor has it sounded and passed away, as a voice impressed through the ears by a trace, whereby it might be recalled as if it sounded when now it sounds not; nor as an odour, while it passes and vanishes into the winds, affects the smell, whence it transmits into the memory an image of itself which we repeat by remembering; nor as food, which certainly no longer tastes in the belly and yet as it were tastes in the memory; nor as something which is perceived by touching the body, which the memory imagines even when separated from us.
For these things are not admitted into the memory, but their images alone are caught with wondrous swiftness and stored away in wondrous cells, as it were, and brought forth in wondrous wise by remembering. But indeed, when I hear that there are three kinds of questions—whether a thing is, what it is, of what sort it is—I hold the images of the sounds by which these words were formed, and I know that they have passed through the air with a noise and now are not. But the things themselves which are signified by those sounds I have touched by no sense of the body, nor have I seen them anywhere except in my mind, and in my memory I have stored away not their images, but the things themselves: whence they entered into me, let them say if they can. For I run through all the gates of my flesh and find not by which they entered. For the eyes say:
"If they are coloured, it was we who reported them"; the ears say: "If they made a sound, they were disclosed by us"; the nostrils say: "If they had a smell, they passed through us"; the sense of taste also says: "If there is no flavour, do not question me at all"; the touch says: "If a thing is not bodily, I did not handle it, and if I did not handle it, I did not report it." From where, then, and by what way did these things enter into my memory? I do not know how; for when I learned them, I did not trust them to another's heart, but recognized them in my own, and approved them as true, and committed them to it as if storing them away, that I might bring them forth when I wished. There, then, they were even before I had learned them, but they were not in my memory. Where then, or why, when they were spoken, did I recognize them and say:
"It is so, it is true"—unless because they were already in the memory, but so remote and pushed back, as it were into more hidden recesses, that unless they were drawn out at someone's prompting, I should perhaps not be able to think of them? Therefore we find that to learn those things, of which we do not drink in images through the senses, but discern them within by themselves, as they are, without images, is nothing other than, by thinking, to gather as it were and by attending to take care that things which the memory was holding here and there in scattered and disordered fashion may, placed as it were ready at hand within that very memory, where before they lay scattered and neglected and hidden, now readily present themselves to a mind already familiar with attending to them.
我的記憶承載了多少這類事物，它們已被尋見、並如我所說彷彿安置於觸手可及之處，就是我們所說已學會且已知曉的事物！倘若我隔了適度的時間不去回想它們，它們便又沉沒下去，彷彿滑入更遙遠的內室，以致必須重新思想，彷彿從那同一處再度取出——因為它們別無他鄉——並須再次聚集，方能被知曉；也就是說，須彷彿從某種散亂中收聚，「思想」（cogitare）一詞便由此而來。因為 cogo（我聚集）之於 cogito（我思想），正如 ago 之於 agito，facio 之於 factito。然而心靈恰當地將這詞據為己有，以致並非凡別處被聚集的，唯有在心靈中被聚集、即被收聚（cogitur）的，如今才恰當地稱為被思想。
And how many things of this kind my memory carries, which have already been found and, as I said, as it were placed ready at hand, things we are said to have learned and to know! If I cease to recall them at moderate intervals of time, they sink down again and slip away as it were into more remote inner chambers, so that they must be thought out anew as though fresh from that same place once more—for there is no other region for them—and gathered again, that they may be known; that is, they must be collected as it were out of a certain dispersion, whence the word "to think" (cogitare) is derived. For cogo (I gather) is to cogito (I think) as ago is to agito, and facio to factito. Yet the mind has properly claimed this word for itself, so that not what is gathered elsewhere, but only what is gathered, that is, collected, in the mind, is now properly said to be thought.
Likewise the memory contains the principles and innumerable laws of numbers and dimensions, none of which any bodily sense has imprinted, since these are neither coloured nor sound nor smell nor have they been tasted or handled. I have heard the sounds of the words by which they are signified, when these matters are discussed; but those sounds are one thing, these laws are another. For the sounds are pronounced one way in Greek, another in Latin, but these laws are neither Greek nor Latin nor any other kind of speech. I have seen the lines of craftsmen, even the finest, like a spider's thread; but those laws are different—they are not images of the lines my eye of flesh reported to me: whoever knows them, knows them inwardly without any thinking of any kind of body.
I have also perceived through all the bodily senses the numbers we count; but the numbers by which we count are other, nor are they images of these, and therefore they truly exist. Let him who does not see these laugh at me for saying such things, and let me grieve for him as he laughs at me. All these things I hold in memory, and I hold in memory how I learned them. Many things too which are most falsely argued against these I have heard and hold in memory; and although they are false, yet that I remember them is not false; and that I have distinguished between those truths and these falsehoods which are urged against them—this too I remember, and I see that I now discern these things in one way, while in another way I remember that I have often distinguished them when I often pondered them.
Therefore I remember that I have understood these things rather often; and what I now discern and understand, I store away in memory, so that afterward I may remember that I understood it now. And I remember that I have remembered; just as afterward, if I shall recall that I was now able to remember these things, I shall surely recall it by the power of memory. The affections of my mind also this same memory contains, not in the manner in which the mind itself has them when it experiences them, but in a manner far different, as the power of memory has them. For I recall that I once rejoiced, without being joyful; and I recollect my past sadness, without being sad; and I remember that I once feared something, without fear; and I am mindful of a former desire, without desire.
Sometimes, on the contrary, I recall my past sadness while joyful, and my past joy while sad. This is not to be wondered at concerning the body, for the mind is one thing, the body another. So if I remember a past bodily pain while rejoicing, that is not so strange. But here, since the mind is itself also this very memory—for when we commit something to be held by heart, we say: "See that you have it in mind," and when we forget, we say:
"It was not in my mind" and "it slipped from my mind," calling the memory itself "mind"—since this is so, what is this, that when I joyfully remember my past sadness, the mind has joy and the memory has sadness, and the mind is joyful from the joy that is in it, but the memory is not sad from the sadness that is in it? Does it perhaps not pertain to the mind? Who would say this? Therefore, no doubt, the memory is as it were the belly of the mind, while joy and sadness are like sweet and bitter food: when they are committed to the memory, they can, as if passed into the belly, be stored away there, but cannot be tasted. It is ridiculous to think these things like those, and yet they are not in every way unlike.
But behold, I bring forth from memory when I say that there are four perturbations of the mind: desire, joy, fear, sadness; and whatever I have been able to argue about these, dividing each into the species of its own kind and defining them, there I find what I may say and from there I bring it forth, yet I am not disturbed by any of those perturbations when I call them to mind by remembering; and before they were recalled and handled by me, they were there; for that reason they could be drawn out thence through recollection. Perhaps, then, as food is brought up from the belly by chewing the cud, so these things are brought forth from the memory by recalling. Why then, in the mouth of thought, does the one disputing—that is, the one remembering—not feel the sweetness of joy or the bitterness of sadness?
Or is it dissimilar in this, that it is not similar in every respect? For who would willingly speak of such things, if as often as we name sadness or fear, we were so often compelled to grieve or to be afraid? And yet we should not speak of them, did we not find in our memory not only the sounds of the names according to the images imprinted by the bodily senses, but also the notions of the very things themselves, which we received through no door of the flesh, but which the mind itself, perceiving them through the experience of its own passions, committed to memory—or which the memory retained of itself even without their being committed to it. But whether through images or not, who could easily say? For I name a stone, I name the sun, while the things themselves are not present to my senses; but their images are indeed at hand in my memory.
I name bodily pain, and it is not present to me while nothing pains me; yet unless its image were present in my memory, I should not know what I was saying, nor should I distinguish it from pleasure in disputing. I name bodily health while I am healthy in body; the thing itself is present to me; yet unless its image too were in my memory, I could in no way recall what the sound of this name signified, nor would the sick, when health was named, recognize what was meant, unless that same image were held by the power of memory, although the thing itself were absent from the body. I name the numbers by which we count: behold, present in my memory are not their images, but they themselves. I name the image of the sun, and this is present in my memory; for I recall not the image of its image, but that image itself:
it is present to me as I recall it. I name memory, and I recognize what I name. And where do I recognize it but in the very memory? Is it also present to itself through its own image, and not through itself? But what of this: when I name forgetfulness and likewise recognize what I name, how do I recognize the thing, unless I remembered it? I do not mean the very sound of the name, but the thing which it signifies; which, had I forgotten it, I could not at all recognize what that sound meant. When I remember memory, memory itself is present to itself through itself; but when I remember forgetfulness, both memory and forgetfulness are present—memory, by which I remember, forgetfulness, which I remember. But what is forgetfulness, except the privation of memory?
How then is it present, so that I may remember it, when by its very presence I cannot remember? But if we retain in memory what we remember, and unless we remembered forgetfulness we could by no means, on hearing this name, recognize the thing signified by it, then forgetfulness is retained in memory. It is present, therefore, lest we forget—the very thing which, when it is present, we forget. Or is it understood from this that forgetfulness is not present in the memory through itself, when we remember it, but through its image; because, if forgetfulness were present through itself, it would bring it about not that we remembered, but that we forgot? And who in the end will track this down? Who will comprehend how it may be? I, Lord, certainly labour here, and labour within myself: I have become to myself a soil of difficulty and of much sweat.
For we are not now scrutinizing the tracts of heaven, nor measuring the distances of the stars, nor seeking the balancings of the earth: it is I who remember, I, the mind. It is not so strange if whatever I am not is far from me; but what is nearer to me than I myself? And behold, the power of my own memory is not comprehended by me, though without it I cannot even speak of myself. For what shall I say, when it is certain to me 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 for this purpose, that I may not forget? Both are most absurd. What of that third option? In what manner shall I say that the image of forgetfulness is held by my memory, not forgetfulness itself, when I remember it?
And how shall I say even this, seeing that when the image of any thing is imprinted on the memory, the thing itself must first be present, whence that image can be imprinted? For thus I remember Carthage, thus all the places where I have been, thus the faces of men whom I have seen, and the reports of the other senses, thus the health or pain of the body itself: when these things were present, the memory took images from them, which I might gaze upon when present and turn over in mind, when I recalled those things even in their absence. If, then, forgetfulness is held in memory through its image and not through itself, it surely was present, that its image might be taken.
But when it was present, how did it write its image in the memory, when forgetfulness by its very presence deletes even that which it finds already noted down? And yet in whatever manner—though that manner be incomprehensible and inexplicable—I am certain that I remember forgetfulness itself, by which what we remember is buried. Great is the power of memory, something dreadful, my God, a deep and boundless manifoldness; and this is the mind, and this am I myself. What then am I, my God? What is my nature? A varied, manifold, and vehemently immense life.
Behold, in the fields and dens and innumerable caverns of my memory, innumerably full of innumerable kinds of things—whether through images, as of all bodies, or through presence, as of the arts, or through I know not what notions or notations, as of the affections of the mind, which the memory holds even when the mind is not experiencing them, since whatever is in the memory is in the mind—through all these I run and flit hither and thither, and I penetrate even as far as I can, and there is nowhere an end: so great is the power of memory, so great is the power of life in a man living mortally! What then shall I do, you my true life, my God? I will pass beyond even this power of mine which is called memory, I will pass beyond it, that I may stretch toward you, sweet light. What do you say to me?
I, ascending through my mind to you who abide above me, will pass beyond even this power of mine which is called memory, willing to reach you from where you can be reached, and to cleave to you from where you can be cleaved to. For even beasts and birds have memory; otherwise they would not return to their lairs and nests, nor to many other things to which they grow accustomed; nor indeed could they grow accustomed to anything except through memory. I will pass beyond memory, then, that I may reach him who separated me from the four-footed beasts and made me wiser than the birds of heaven. I will pass beyond memory, that I may find you—where? You who are truly good and secure sweetness—where shall I find you? If I find you beyond my memory, I am unmindful of you.
And how shall I now find you, if I am not mindful of you? For the woman had lost her drachma and sought it with a lamp, and unless she had been mindful of it she would not have found it. For when it was found, how would she know whether it was the very one, unless she were mindful of it? Many things I remember having lost and sought and found. From this I know it, because when I was seeking any of those things and it was said to me: "Is this perhaps it?" "Is that perhaps it?"—so long did I keep saying: "It is not," until that which I was seeking was offered. Of which, unless I had been mindful—whatever it was—even if it were offered to me, I would not find it, because I would not recognize it. And so it always happens, when we seek something lost and find it.
Yet if perchance something perishes from the eyes but not from the memory—like any visible body—its image is held within and is sought until it is restored to sight. And when it is found, it is recognized from the image which is within. Nor do we say we have found what had perished, if we do not recognize it, nor can we recognize it, if we do not remember it: but this had perished indeed to the eyes, it was held in the memory. What of this? When the memory itself loses something—as happens when we forget and seek to recollect—where in the end do we seek but in the memory itself? And there, if one thing is perchance offered for another, we reject it, until that which we seek comes up. And when it comes up, we say: "This is it";
which we would not say unless we recognized it, nor would we recognize it unless we remembered it. For surely we had forgotten it. Or had not the whole thing fallen away, but in part, while from the part which was retained the other part was sought, because the memory perceived that it was not turning over together what it was wont to turn over together, and as if maimed in its habit, limping, it demanded that what was lacking be restored? Just as if a known man should be seen with the eyes or thought of, and having forgotten his name we should search for it: whatever else comes up is not connected, because it was not wont to be thought of together with him, and therefore is rejected, until that comes up where the acquaintance, accustomed to come together with him, may rest in no unequal fashion. And whence does it come up but from the memory itself? For even when, prompted by another, we recognize it, it comes up from there.
For we do not believe it as something new, but recalling it we approve that this is what was said. But if it is utterly abolished from the mind, then not even when admonished do we remember. For we have not yet in every way forgotten that which we remember having forgotten. Therefore we shall not be able to seek even as lost that which we have entirely forgotten. How then do I seek you, Lord? For when I seek you, my God, I seek the happy life. Let me seek you, that my soul may live. For my body lives from my soul, and my soul lives from you. How then do I seek the happy life? For it is not mine, until I can say: "It is enough, it is there."
Here I must say how I seek it: whether through recollection, as though I had forgotten it and still hold that I have forgotten it, or through a desire to learn something unknown—whether something I never knew, or something I had so forgotten that I do not even remember that I had forgotten it. Is not the happy life that very thing which all desire, and there is absolutely no one who does not desire it? Where did they come to know it, that they so desire it? Where did they see it, that they should love it? Doubtless we have it in some way I know not. And there is some other way in which, when anyone has it, he is then happy; and there are those who are happy in hope. These have it in an inferior way to those who are already happy in the very reality, yet better than those who are happy neither in reality nor in hope.
Yet even these, unless they had it in some way, would not so wish to be happy: which that they do wish is most certain. They have come to know it in some way I know not, and therefore they have it in some knowledge I know not, about which I am anxious whether it is in the memory; for if it is there, then we were once happy: whether all individually, or in that man who first sinned, in whom we all died and from whom we are all born into misery—I do not now ask, but I ask whether the happy life is in the memory. For we would not love it, unless we knew it. We have heard this name, and we all confess that we desire the thing, we all do; for we are not delighted by the sound alone. For when a Greek hears this in Latin, he is not delighted, because he does not know what is said;
but we are delighted, just as he too would be, if he heard this in Greek, since the thing itself is neither Greek nor Latin, which Greeks and Latins and men of other tongues pant to attain. It is therefore known to all, who, if they could be asked with one voice whether they wished to be happy, would without any doubt answer that they did wish it. This would not happen, unless the very thing whose name this is were held in their memory. Is it then in the way that I remember Carthage, which I have seen? No; for the happy life is not seen with the eyes, since it is not a body. Is it as we remember numbers? No; for he who has these in knowledge does not still seek to attain them, whereas we have the happy life in knowledge and therefore love it, and yet still wish to attain it, that we may be happy.
Is it as we remember eloquence? No: although even on hearing this name those who are not yet eloquent recall the thing itself, and many desire to be eloquent—from which it appears that it is in their knowledge—yet through the bodily senses they have observed others who are eloquent and have been delighted and long to be such (although, unless from an inner knowledge, they would not be delighted, nor would they wish to be such unless they were delighted)—but the happy life we do not experience by any bodily sense in others. Is it as we remember joy? Perhaps so.
For I remember my joy even when sad, as I remember the happy life when wretched; and never with a bodily sense did I see or hear or smell or 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 am able to recall it sometimes with disdain, sometimes with longing, according to the diversity of those things over which I remember having rejoiced. For even concerning shameful things I have been bathed in a certain joy, which now, recalling it, I detest and execrate; sometimes concerning good and honourable things, which I recall with longing, even though perhaps they are not present, and therefore I sadly recall my former joy. Where, then, and when did I experience my happy life, that I should recall it and love it and long for it?
Nor do I alone, or with a few, but absolutely all of us wish to be happy. And unless we knew this with certain knowledge, we would not wish it with so certain a will. But what is this? What? If two be asked whether they wish to serve as soldiers, it could happen that one of them answers he wishes it, the other that he does not: but if they be asked whether they wish to be happy, each would at once, without hesitation, say that he desired it; nor would the one wish to be a soldier, nor the other refuse, for any other reason than that they might be happy. Is it perhaps because one rejoices from this, another from that? So all agree that they wish to be happy, just as they would agree, if asked this, that they wish to rejoice; and that very rejoicing they call the happy life.
Although one attains it from this source, another from that, yet there is one thing toward which all strive to arrive: that they may rejoice. Since this is a thing which no one can say he has not experienced, therefore, found in the memory, it is recognized when the name of the happy life is heard. Far be it, Lord, far be it from the heart of your servant, who confesses to you—far be it that by whatever joy I rejoice, I should think myself happy. For there is a joy which is not given to the ungodly, but to those who worship you freely, whose joy you yourself are. And this is the happy life: to rejoice over you, toward you, on account of you; this it is, and there is no other. But those who think there is another pursue another joy, and not the true one. Yet their will is not turned away from some image of joy.
It is not therefore certain that all wish not to be happy, since those who do not wish to rejoice over you—which alone is the happy life—do not in fact wish for the happy life. Or do all wish for this, but because the flesh lusts against the spirit and the spirit against the flesh, so that they do not do what they would, they fall into what they are able to do, and are content with that, because what they are not able to do they do not wish for as much as is sufficient to enable them? For I ask of all, whether they would rather rejoice over truth or over falsehood: they do not hesitate to say they would rather rejoice over truth, just as they do not hesitate to say they wish to be happy. The happy life indeed is joy over truth.
For this is joy over you, who are the truth, O God, my enlightenment, the salvation of my countenance, my God. This happy life all do not wish for; this life, which alone is happy, all wish for; joy over truth all wish for. I have known many who wished to deceive, but none who wished to be deceived. Where then did they come to know this happy life, except where they also came to know the truth? For they love it too, since they do not wish to be deceived, and when they love the happy life—which is nothing other than joy over truth—they surely also love the truth, nor would they love it unless there were some knowledge of it in their memory. Why then do they not rejoice over it? Why are they not happy?