thoughtfully renewing itself as and when the need arises, is in fact incredibly unstable; that fats and proteins are falling apart almost as soon as they are made ; that every molecule around a synapse is replaced by the hour, and some molecules by the minute. Indeed, that the brain you had even last year will have been rebuilt many times over by now.
Memory in childhood—at least, as I remember it—is rarely a problem. Not just because of the briefer time span between the event and its evocation, but because of the nature of memories then: they appear to the young brain as exact simulacra, rather than processed and coloured-in versions, of what has happened. Adulthood brings approximation, fluidity, and doubt; and we keep the doubt at bay by retelling that familiar story, with pauses and periods of a calculated effect, pretending that the solidity of narrative is a proof of truth. But the child or adolescent rarely doubts the veracity and precision of the bright, lucid chunks of the past it possesses and celebrates. So at that age it seems logical to think of our memories as stored in some left-luggage office, available for retrieval when we produce the necessary ticket; or (if that seems an antique comparison, suggesting steam trains and ladies-only compartments), as goods left in one of those self-storage units now a feature of arterial roads. We know to expect the seeming paradox of old age, when we shall start to recall lost segments of our early years, which then become more vivid than our middle ones. But this only seems to confirm that it’s all really up there, in some orderly cerebral storage unit, whether we can access it or not.
My brother doesn’t remember that more than half a century ago he came second in a wheelbarrow race with Dion Shirer, and is therefore unable to confirm which of them was the barrow and which the trundler. Nor does he remember the unacceptable ham sandwiches on the journey to Switzerland. Instead he remembers matters he failed to mention on his postcard: that it was the first time he saw an artichoke, and the first time he was “sexually approached by another chap.” He also admits that over the years he has transposed the whole action to France: a confusion, perhaps, between the lesser-known Champéry in Switzerland (source of cowbells) and the more familiar Chambéry in France (source of the aperitif ). We talk about our memories, but should perhaps talk more about our forgettings, even if that is a more difficult—or logically impossible—feat.
Perhaps I should warn you (especially if you are a philosopher, theologian, or biologist) that some of this book will strike you as amateur, do-it-yourself stuff. But then we are all amateurs in and of our own lives. When we veer into other people’s professionalisms, we hope that the graph of our approximate understanding roughly shadows the graph of their knowledge; but we cannot count on it. I should also warn you that there are going to be a lot of writers in this book. Most of them dead, and quite a few of them French. One is Jules Renard, who said: “It is when faced with death that we turn most bookish.” There will also be some composers. One of them is Stravinsky, who said: “Music is the best way we have of digesting time.” Such artists—such dead artists—are my daily companions, but also my ancestors. They are my true bloodline (I expect my brother feels the same about Plato and Aristotle). The descent may not be direct, or provable—wrong side of the blanket, and all that—but I claim it nonetheless.
My brother forgets the ham sandwich, remembers the artichoke and the sexual approach, and has suppressed Switzerland. Can you feel a theory coming on? Perhaps the thistly rebarbativeness of the artichoke attached itself to the memory of the sexual approach. In which case, the connection might have put him off artichokes (and Switzerland) thereafter. Except that my brother eats artichokes and worked in Geneva for
Memory in childhood—at least, as I remember it—is rarely a problem. Not just because of the briefer time span between the event and its evocation, but because of the nature of memories then: they appear to the young brain as exact simulacra, rather than processed and coloured-in versions, of what has happened. Adulthood brings approximation, fluidity, and doubt; and we keep the doubt at bay by retelling that familiar story, with pauses and periods of a calculated effect, pretending that the solidity of narrative is a proof of truth. But the child or adolescent rarely doubts the veracity and precision of the bright, lucid chunks of the past it possesses and celebrates. So at that age it seems logical to think of our memories as stored in some left-luggage office, available for retrieval when we produce the necessary ticket; or (if that seems an antique comparison, suggesting steam trains and ladies-only compartments), as goods left in one of those self-storage units now a feature of arterial roads. We know to expect the seeming paradox of old age, when we shall start to recall lost segments of our early years, which then become more vivid than our middle ones. But this only seems to confirm that it’s all really up there, in some orderly cerebral storage unit, whether we can access it or not.
My brother doesn’t remember that more than half a century ago he came second in a wheelbarrow race with Dion Shirer, and is therefore unable to confirm which of them was the barrow and which the trundler. Nor does he remember the unacceptable ham sandwiches on the journey to Switzerland. Instead he remembers matters he failed to mention on his postcard: that it was the first time he saw an artichoke, and the first time he was “sexually approached by another chap.” He also admits that over the years he has transposed the whole action to France: a confusion, perhaps, between the lesser-known Champéry in Switzerland (source of cowbells) and the more familiar Chambéry in France (source of the aperitif ). We talk about our memories, but should perhaps talk more about our forgettings, even if that is a more difficult—or logically impossible—feat.
Perhaps I should warn you (especially if you are a philosopher, theologian, or biologist) that some of this book will strike you as amateur, do-it-yourself stuff. But then we are all amateurs in and of our own lives. When we veer into other people’s professionalisms, we hope that the graph of our approximate understanding roughly shadows the graph of their knowledge; but we cannot count on it. I should also warn you that there are going to be a lot of writers in this book. Most of them dead, and quite a few of them French. One is Jules Renard, who said: “It is when faced with death that we turn most bookish.” There will also be some composers. One of them is Stravinsky, who said: “Music is the best way we have of digesting time.” Such artists—such dead artists—are my daily companions, but also my ancestors. They are my true bloodline (I expect my brother feels the same about Plato and Aristotle). The descent may not be direct, or provable—wrong side of the blanket, and all that—but I claim it nonetheless.
My brother forgets the ham sandwich, remembers the artichoke and the sexual approach, and has suppressed Switzerland. Can you feel a theory coming on? Perhaps the thistly rebarbativeness of the artichoke attached itself to the memory of the sexual approach. In which case, the connection might have put him off artichokes (and Switzerland) thereafter. Except that my brother eats artichokes and worked in Geneva for
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