The Art of Memory When we can traverse the plains of memory, stopping at each fire to warm ourselves before we start again on our journey, there is a world inside a world that keeps going on to infinity. If we are lucky enough to hear the eternal melody that is at work in these moments, many fine hours may come upon us. But sometimes the solace and hospitality are too much and we live with our new found companions, taking them along wherever we go, as a shadow upon our eyes. The memories of Thoreau, or the early frontier narratives of Indian captivity, are something that I have felt eternal and unchangeable in human nature, not for any piece of information they have given me, but because my melancholy has always found peace in their environment. For some the world is old or the world is new, but the point is that we tend to look at it through memory. One memorable event confounds all future celebrations; we remember so as not to forget, but we do not remember that we are able t
November 26th, 2013 Some wither, some have the barest trace, and others are just beginning: this is the state of the autumn trees at the moment. This is, however, not very interesting to know, but the value lies in recognition. We may use the same language to describe people as well, but if we do not know their momentum; if we do not perceive the movement of their spirit from the outward motion of their bodies, it touches us not even if we had the knowledge of ten thousand men in front of us. We open ourselves to the reality and the possibility of knowing something through appearance or intended purpose, but take as a sign for understanding the familiarity it brings to our own ideas. Yet to know something is to respond to it, just as the colour of the sky responds to the inclination of the sun; for we are all speaking even if we pronounce not the slightest word, but it is only those who answer us that we care to talk to--and so it is with the autumn trees. Douglas Thornton