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The Art of Memory
2017-02-13 Today I walked to a nearby park, in Huafu near the Jinjiang River, to commit Li Bai's "Lament of the Jeweled Stairs" to memory. I hadn't done it the day or two before as I'd meant to, and was impatient for a new room in the palace. As the ancients well knew, memory is best served by a walk in which the items one wishes to remember are placed along one's path. The theory these days is that that when we were hunters and gatherers, we developed memory as a method to help us find our way in the world and back again, and so, when we are journeying, our minds fired with activity; we remember well when walking. Notice how your eyes flit from one place to another when next you take a car ride; those saccades are your mind spinning a narrative out of buildings and benches and street corners, in the primal fear that you'll not otherwise know how to find home.

Jonathan Spence, who always writes beautifully, wrote the story of Matteo Ricci, that old Jesuit who came first to Macau and tried to teach the memory palace technique to the Chinese. Ricci was unsuccessful in that venture, but nevertheless managed to convert some government officials to the Universal Church, and to get Confucius translated into Latin. Before him, the Romans and Greeks were both practitioners of the Method of Loci, and their methods live with us today: when they memorized some lines of oratory, they literally put those lines into mental loci. Today, because of their mental peripatetics, it isn't uncommon for an essayist to write "in the first place..." and "in the second place...".

We've mostly forgotton these ways, what with writing taking the place of oral tradition, and then again with the rise of the internet. But memory champions (and multilingualists like me) still use them. And so today, as I wrote, I went to a park to make a memory palace to walk through. Thus, I started at some nameless statue, where I put "玉阶” and then onto a little platform where "生白露" went. This process continued for six more steps until I had put the whole poem into physical locations. One was the set of steps in front of a stage; the next the stage itself. This kind of thing strains the notion of linearity, or of time moving from A to B. For the poem, it may, but for memory...well, it can be spatial, and I certainly needn't recall "秋月” after "玲珑望." Nor does any of us, with our own memories. Memories gain primacy not by age or immediacy, but by becoming totemic; by becoming central to other, lesser memories. In this way, they are like characters in a book, which, being persons, or animals, or ideas, or something else, are characters in as much as they are something the text surrounds and seems to be working towards.


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