Augustine on Memory: A Note on Confessions 10.8-37
Amlan Dasgupta The Greek word for truth – or more correctly, one of the several words that appear to have been used – is aletheia. The word figures largely in NT Greek and is usually rendered in Latin by the word veritas. Literally, however, aletheia, from the verb lanthanō with the alpha-privative, would mean that which is unconcealed or even unforgotten, that which does not escape memory. The river Lethe in the Greek underworld is the river of forgetting, by crossing which mortals forget their past lives. This view was famously held by Heidegger, who pointed to the pre-Socratic, specifically Homeric, sense of the word. In the oral world of the Homeric epic it is the poet’s commemorative power that enables him to cross the boundary between the living and the dead, between presence and oblivion. Charles Segal writes: “what is truthful for the archaic poet is not the so much what is factually exact as what successfully resists the corrosive darkness of forgetting”. There are many powerful characterizations of memory and remembering in Greek philosophy which may usefully serve to contextualize Augustine’s own reflections on the subject. Starting from the Platonic discussion of memory in the late dialogues, through Aristotle’s subtle distinction of recollection and memory, to the Stoics, there were a number of important theoretical statements to choose from. Even as Augustine inaugurates a new ethic of memory, there is much he carries over from the past, which is only natural considering his deep immersion in classical culture in his early life. Augustine was certainly familiar with the main arguments of his predecessors, and his own treatment has certainly both Platonic and Stoic resonances. We might briefly point to the fact that Augustine tacitly adopts a position popularized in Stoic physical doctrine, that the human soul, or a part of it, is the controlling principle of the human organism. It is to this regulating, rational faculty that the Stoics gave the name hegemonikon; technically part of the soul, pneuma, it regulated ideally the other parts, namely the five senses, the reproductive faculty and the speech faculty. It was the hegemonikon which received sense-data and retained it either as “imprinting” (tuposis) or an” alteration” (alloiosis). The fundamental power of the hegemonikon was to form presentations or phantasiai, which were conveyed by the senses. Memory was stored phantasiai, but they could produce complex structures: conceptions (ennoemata) or even fictional and non-existent things. Marcia Colish points out that Augustine’s own notion of the soul, while retaining traces of the Stoic position, is immeasurably more complex: he integrates into the Stoic concept of the faculties the distinction between the vegetative, animate and rational soul as put forward by the Peripatetics and the Neoplatonic valuation of the spiritual over the physical aspects of human nature: to this Neoplatonized and Aristotelianized conception of the Stoic hegemonikon he adds “the Christian goal of spiritual renewal and communion” (1990:206). There are three major locations for studying Augustine’s thought on memory and remembering, though the subject is an important one to him, and one to which he frequently turns. Significantly they span a great part of his career, and it is quite obvious that there are some differences in approach. The three primary texts are De Magistro, dating from about 389, Confessions 10, probably composed somewhere between 397 and 401, and De Trinitate, completed not before 422. I shall look today solely at one of these texts for reasons simply of easy accessibility: but also the Confessions are not only the most widely read of Augustine’s works, but from the point of view of the present discussion, clearly one that allows us to form a cogent idea of some of the leading notions that inform Augustine’s thought on the memory. The first 9 books of the Augustine chart the story of his early life bringing us to the critical point of his baptism, his abandonment of the study of classical rhetoric and his consequent entry into the Christian life. The 9th book describes also a number of personal tragedies: the death of his mother Monica and the death of his friends. The 10th book is in some senses the beginning of a new section, which includes the discussion of memory, time (11) and language (12). The reflections in this concluding section turn back on the nature of personal recollection: what kind of truth value can be attributed to this narrative of personal experience? Do past memories influence behavior, and if so is the result for the better or the worse? The discussion of memory in Book 10 thus introduces a new form of self reflexivity into the narrative: the product of memory now leads to a discussion of the faculty of memory and the process of remembering. Augustine encounters memory in the course of a journey of self realization and self expression: to realize himself through his record of personal experience, and to present to his readers a life that can be read, that is turned into writing. Thus Augustine’s “confessions” in front of God has another kind of audience, that of the readers and hearers of the Christian community for whom it must be an exemplary exercise. In 10.7.11 Augustine says that will transcend even the natural power by which he lives and has the experience of the senses, as this is enjoyed by baser animals too: and in doing so he encounters memory, which for Cicero distinguished man from beast (Tusc. 1.24.57ff). The wide fields and roomy palaces of memory that Augustine describes in the inaugural section (10.8.12) are a storehouse (thesaurus) of images (imagines) which are conveyed to it by the senses. It appears thus to be a repository, a place, essentially a passive faculty, in which the information provided by the senses is stored up: all that which has not been taken away (absorbuit et sepelevit, lit. devoured and buried) by oblivion. It may be noted that the use of memoria is however not wholly fixed, sometimes referring to something like
In the City of Kaal-Ketu
Sumanta Mukhopadhyay Delusion clear field afternoon hops and the sisterly evening lugs him, clutching hands sitting by the bus window why did i think all this the world a quiet family why did I think thus News when news arrives it arrives like an emperor killer king couldn’t give two hoots about us tail up, towards the cowshed we scamper scurry like our forefathers and keep on running when events happen we do not care about news. Lock cold, brass lock i touch and it speaks at night each shard of this broken life soaked in wretched sadness an absent fairytale if you hold on to it a bit more bodily like an old man, it inquires “has everyone come back?” it seeks do I really know how much of the door is outside and how much inside Gita sprinkling a bit of a mirth i see the scene is quite drenched by the evening redness in fields, in the grass the way a restless worm moves to another such grass so darts troop of souls from blade to blade in vedic discipline but as they rush like atheists broken from their spell they speak up about that torn shirt they inquire why hurry if the kids fall behind what then? Bag running, suppose one trips at the moving bus what then? and if one forgot, suddenly to run as the train approached when he beckons he does when he does not he hits you straight at the chest the canvas bag remains and the mother’s talking, bony polestar this bag know this bag is your bread and butter Coma blind in rage you are senseless, about two hours now is this called coma? do i then step out this midnight or tomorrow, early morning perhaps bed, flowers, frankincense, robe getting hold i’d reach straight to the hospital thinking all this i woke up darkly room Poison Tree who are these around tigers, wolves may be milk white dhoti-kurta roots of poison on leaves, flowers, buds, branches milk flows. Touch at a great height the wail that mutes one i write the sound of its saline contour in Braille. Fever the skeleton’s forehead i feel it’s running fever, 100 celsius no fan no cash no light no words a suffocating room. ——————————————— Sumanta Mukhopadhyay works at the Barasat Government College. This is a short selection from his recently published book of poems Kaal-Ketur Shohore. adminhumanitiesunderground.org
The Kitchen
Amiya Sen Translated by Bhaswati Ghosh At a time when there was a drought of jobs, Nirupama felt uncertain on receiving a job offer. Her husband, Salil Dutta, figured that by looking at his wife. He still encouraged her, “I don’t want to force you, but you shouldn’t let go of Lakshmi if she’s coming your way. That too, when the offer has come on its own…” “Is getting the offer everything? How will I cope with that kind of a job?” Nirupama’s voice choked. At forty-five—though she didn’t look much older than thirty–Nirupama was no longer a contender in the job market. Salil Dutta used to work in an ordinary government job. He had a lot of weight to carry, mostly in the form of responsibilities towards his extended family. Like any refined bhadralok, he carried that load despite drowning in debt all his working life. After that, the inevitable happened. As he stepped on the shore of retirement, he was in deep sea, with no coast in sight. Attempting to cross the shores on a broken boat would be like counting the hours to one’s death. The family had to surrender the government quarter to find shelter in the stable-like shed of a rich man’s house. Having been used to a life of struggle, Nirupama didn’t complain. For years, she had rowed the boat of this impoverished household with remarkable skill. But when she could no longer manage with her husband’s 150 rupees of pension, she too had contemplated working—at any petty job. She kept it to herself, however. Nirupama was afraid of the outside world. That’s when the offer arrived. Some well-to-do women had started a service centre for underprivileged Bengali girls. The chief project was having nakshi kanthas stitched by disadvantaged women from East Bengal. It was an ambitious project. Apparently, the government would earn hefty revenue just by selling those kanthas. A shelter had been opened for nearly a hundred women—widows or abandoned by their husbands—and their children. Nirupama would have to assume charge of the shelter. There was a time when Nirupama used to play the sitar quite well. Not that she couldn’t anymore, but time was scarce now. Sitar was what drew the attention of Bardi or Mrs. Basu, the director of Srimangal. Nirupama had once played sitar at a women’s soiree held in the government quarters. Mrs. Basu was the chief guest there. She had since maintained contact with Nirupama. The elderly lady appreciated Nirupama’s talent and was affectionate towards her. She had brought the job offer. Nirupama was afraid. Terribly. To begin with, she had never had a job before. Moreover, despite being poor, they were cultured, educated people. But none of those underprivileged women were sophisticated. They formed the society’s fringe. “Why are you so worried, Niru? Take up the job and find out for yourself. There’s nothing to fear. You are an artist after all. Food and clothing aren’t the ultimate ends of one’s life. We also need artistic sensibilities for the soul’s development. That’s why I suggested your name. In your free time, you can entertain them with your music. All they do is worry about food and squabble with each other. They don’t even know that a world exists beyond all that.” That was what Mrs. Basu had said. Another world! Nirupama didn’t say anything, but felt a sting. It occurred to her how women like Mrs. Basu had no work at home, were lavished with luxury, wealth and rich husbands to look after them. That’s why they had embarked on providing entertainment to others. But did the “other world” of Nirupama exist just because she hadn’t come out on the street with a begging bowl? Sadly, Nirupama was bhadralok. Salil Dutta said, “Women are working in every field. These days, no middle-class family can survive on one person’s income.” Nirupama couldn’t take it anymore. She had almost screamed, “Then why didn’t you drag me out on the road thirty years ago?” “Did I know then that the country will be divided and we will lose all our land and belongings?” “If I only had a capable son…” Tears streamed down her face before she could finish the sentence. All this was the first act. With time, Nirupama became too tired to quibble. She would quietly listen to whatever her husband and Bardi had to say. The situation at home had worsened. For days, she had been serving rice boiled with salt and a spoonful of turmeric to family members. She was still scared to death to go out and work. Mrs. Basu hadn’t given up though. For two months, she kept hovering around Nirupama. One evening she showed up unannounced. Nirupama had just finished washing the dishes. As tenants, they had only one small room. In front of that was a tiny cemented area with a tap in one corner. The same area was also used for cooking. The tap was defective and ran ceaselessly, leaving the whole place wet all the time. The bottom of Nirupama’s sari had become wet. It was December in Delhi. Still shivering, she said, “Please go inside, Bardi; I’ll be right there.” Mrs. Basu flashed her characteristic gentle smile and said, “Nah, dear, I won’t sit. Come with me; I will show you Srimangal. It’s such a beautiful, expansive, ashram-like place on the city’s outskirts. Come, you will like it.” “I have to cook, Bardi…” “Come back and do that. How long will it take in the car anyway?” “You go, Ma, I will prepare everything for dinner. You come back and cook,” reassured fifteen-year-old Shampa. She was in class ten and lately had been busy because of the approaching annual examinations. There was a secret reason behind her selfless act—she felt a sense of pride when an esteemed lady like Mrs. Basu took her Ma through the neighbourhood in a car. Nirupama ended up being even more scared after meeting the women at Srimangal. They had always been
The Civic & the Ludic
Rajarshi Dasgupta & Prasanta Chakravarty Abstract This dialogue, written in 2008, tried to unpack the terms of thinking about the transformations in Indian politics, especially in West Bengal, following the turn of events in Nandigram. It tried to appraise left-liberal issues of governance, and develop new categories to understand some of the forms of resistance at that time. The speakers were also conversing, at the same time, with a shared sense of the changing topography of the political. New kinds of spaces, new practices and interventions, new kinds of concerns were presenting unfamiliar gestures within the familiar structures of power. Things looked new but also disturbing. Much has changed now, of course. The dialogue approaches these questions with three interwoven but distinct engagements: a resurgent conception of ethics, the problems of realpolitik and the political role of aesthetics. The outcome is not a standard article of political science, but a revisionist excursion with a touch of lightness, which raises questions about the desired forms of life and practices in a democracy like India. The discussion tries to go beyond the familiar Marxist and liberal arguments on agency and self and re-frame the role of subjectivity and matter in politics. Keeping the predominant institutional forms of politics like the parties and election in the background, the exchange speculates on the new kinds of political associations and potential communities waiting on the wings of democracy. Hope was twelve hours gone/And frightful a nightfall folded rueful a day/Nor rescue, only rocket and lightship, shone, /And lives at last were washing away. The Wreck of the Deutschland–Gerard Manley Hopkins Prasanta: Whether the succession of events that have unfolded in West Bengal over the past two year or so, reaching a sort of crescendo in the months of October-November, 2007, are momentous enough to make any tangible difference in the social and political life of the state is still an open question, but going by the sheer volume of protests and the visibility factor, these are extraordinary times. The processes of institutional politics are still unfolding though, with some interesting results coming up in the 2008 Panchayat elections. Having a long-standing interest in studying left politics in India and thinking about the language of politics in more general terms, I was wondering about your reactions on certain key points that have been emerging since. There are certainly diverse issues of interest involved here, but one important talking point pivots around questions of ethics, or their lack of, in everyday politics in West Bengal. Rajarshi: It is a testing time for the Indian Left, I agree, but I don’t think it will lead to a change in the power structure or in the language of everyday politics too soon. I also doubt if questions of ethics are being raised directly and pointedly, even if we sense a moral overtone in the indignation of some segments of society and in their unusual modes of protest. This may have more to do with a growing disquiet with our party system’s tiresome monopoly over representative politics, seen as instrumental, manipulative, unsavory and untrustworthy by many. The blackmail of having no rational alternative, flogged by the left, right and centre alike, has narrowed the political space so much that any intervention begins from a place called ‘apolitical’, hence, mistaken as ethical. This doesn’t mean there is no ethical side to what is happening. But I want to be careful in thinking how exactly such dissent is ethical: because it is not political? I will disagree with that. It is useful to separate the ethical and moral here, as the latter has more currency in common sense and what we might describe as the liberal contractual language. Indeed, most party discourses contain appeals to morality: we know their competing notions of virtue and good life; we hear them pledging truth all the time. But the sense of these properties has become a matter of cynic polemic and superficial reasoning, as we know, in such opaque terms that only cadres can administer and make careers out of them. As Nandigram shows, the language of politics has been replete with moral appeal on both sides, yet it sadly remains bereft of justice, tolerance, transparency and equal decision-making to a great degree. Besides, how is the moral lack of a ruling party at all relevant if it continues to enjoy electoral majority? (Should we not consider Narendra Modi’s election as a lesson?) It seems to me a crisis of the techniques of representative politics, a crisis of the parliament seemingly lacking energy for democratic change, which must be underlined before we discuss the ethical side. Prasanta: One appreciates your distinction between the moral and the ethical, but in popular imagination one can still see that a language of virtue and conscience being coupled with a scathing criticism of an ossified and dangerous culture of totalitarianism that has become synonymous with West Bengal. It is here that one notices a real possibility: the collective across the civil society discourse and the one around extra-parliamentary political order both would galvanize around the ethical language of virtue and conscience. But this could of course be dangerous. Both these groups have thus can rise, in fact have risen, above the contractual language of moderate mainstream liberalism as well that of official Marxism. There is a sudden and momentous realization among sections of the much vilified Bengali middle class at least, that there is something more to politics and society than the metaphors of merit or equality around which much of our contemporary political discussions revolve. There is some hope but it could be mistaken too. But, I have two questions here. One, what constitutes this new language? And why would this language of virtue itself be not a platform that would demand a certain kind of austerity that would be equally top-down and closed? Rajarshi: That is the question I have in mind too. What is new about this new language? If we