A. TJte Chronicle of Memory
Between sacred story and the mundane stories there is a mediating form: the form of the experiencing consciousness itseif. For consciousness is moulded by the sacred story to which it awakens, and in turn it finds expression in the mundane stories that articulate its sense of reality. But consciousness itself is not a blank. Consciousness has a form of its own, without which no coherent experience at all would be possible.5 Aside from that formidable inconvenience, it is difficult to see how a consciousness, itself entirely formless, could be the fulcrum that I have suggested it is between sacred and mundane stories. I want further to propose that the form of active consciousness, i.e., die form of its experiencing, is in at least some rudimentary sense narrative. That is why consciousness is able to mediate between the sacred and mundane stories through which it orients itself in a world.6 A square peg would not fit into a round hole. The stories give qualitative substance to the form of experience because it is itself an incipient story.
That is the central thesis of this essay. Of all the unlikely things that have been said thus far, it perhaps seems the least plausible. In attempting to explain and support it I want to do the usual thing in such straits, and appeal for the help of a favorite teacher. The teacher is Augus
5. As Kant argued in Vie Critique of Pure Reason, though of course reaching quite different conclusions about the constitution of this necessary form. To make at the level of strenge Wissensckafl my case tliat the primary- forms of possible experience are narrative, I should also have to follow Kant's load by providing a transcendental deduction of these incipient narrative forms. But i content myself with the gestures in that direction contained in this and the following section.
6. There is an implicit circularity here that may as well be made explicit, since : am sure to be found out anyway: I appeal to the form of sacred and mundane story to suggest that the structure of experience informed by such stories must itself be in some sense narrative. But I have not really proven that what I have called sacred story is in any acceptable sense narrative itself, and among the reasons that make me think it is. the most important is that experience has at root a narrative form: experience can derive a specific sense of its own temporal course in a coherent world only by being informed by a qualifying structure that gives definite contours to its own form. Very well. The points are mutually supportive, i.e., the argument is in the end circular, as any good philosophical argument is. And in the end it has only the explanatory power of this particular circle to commend it.
tine of Hippo. Not that he would necessarily subscribe to my thesis. But being a good teacher, he has helped me find my way to my own notions, and even when I have pursued my own follies he has only given me help when I knew I needed it.
The help in this case is offered in his brooding reflections on memory and time in the tenth and eleventh books of the Confessions. Whether or not he succeeded in establishing the subjectivity of time in that famous discussion, whether indeed that is what he was trying to do, I want to invert the problem and suggest that he did succeed in establishing the temporality of the subject. Consciousness grasps its objects iii an inherently temporal way, and that temporality is retained in the unity of its experience as-a whole.
Augustine ponders the paradox that the future, which does not yet exist, should pass into the past which no longer exists, through a present that is difficult to conceptualize as more than a vanishing quasi-mathematical point. The paradox is resolved when past, present, and future are considered to be not necessarily independent metaphysical modalities, but unavoidable modalities of experience in the mind or experiencing consciousness (anima). For consciousness ''anticipates and attends and remembers, so that what it anticipates passes through what it attends into what it remembers" (Xl.xxviii).7 We will consider in the next section the highly developed temporality implicit in this three-fold function of consciousness. But already in memory alone there is the simpler temporality of sequence, of before and after.
Without memory, in fact, experience would have no coherence at ail. Consciousness would be locked in a bare, momentary present, i.e., in a disconnected succession of perceptions which it would have no power to relate to one another. It might be argued that that would already imply a temporality of the most elemental sort. It is already significant that experience has, in its present, this sheer momentary quality. But it is memory that bestows the sense of temporal succession as well as the power to abstract coherent unities from this succession of momentary percepts.
In Book X Augustine singles out this capacity of memory for analysis, and also for a kind of awe—Augustine is a thinker for whom awe and close analysis are intensified together:
Great is this power of memory, excessively great, my God, a vast and infinite interior space: who has plumbed it to the depths? Yet this is a power of my mind and pertains to my nature, so that I myself do not grasp all that I am. (X:viii)
7. I take responsibility for the translation of extracts from The Confessioyis quoted here.
Yet, Augustine muses, people take this prodigy within themselves for granted. Ignoring this interior space, they are amazed by the great dimensions of mountains, oceans, rivers, the orbits of the stars. But greater than the wonder of these external, natural wonders is the simple fact that he himself can speak of these things even though he does not at the moment see them. That is possible because he sees "inwardly in my memory" these things he had once seen outwardly with his eyes—yet it is not the very things themselves that appear in this inner vision: For still I did not absorb these things [into myself] in seeing them ... nor are they themselves attached to me, but their images only, and I know by what sense of the body each was impressed upon me. (X:viii)
Detached from things and lodged in memory, along with inner impressions of feeling and mood, these images are susceptible to the uses of thought and the play of imagination. Called up by the activities of the mind, they can be dismantled and reassembled or combined in original ways. When we do not attend to them they are "submerged and they slide down, as it were, into the remote interior spaces" of memory. But from this "dispersion" they can always be "collected" again by our thought, i.e., literally, by our cogitations. Augustine likes to play on the etymological connection between cogo — collect—and cogito. (X:xi)
So there is an important distinction between memory and recollection that goes back at least to Augustine. All the sophisticated activities of consciousness literally re-coilect the images lodged in memory into new configurations, reordering past experience. But that would be impossible were it not for the much more naive functioning of memory itseif, preserving the images drawn from experience. But I venture to suggest that memory does not contain its images quite so "scatteredlv and confusedly" as Augustine suggests in the passage cited above. The memory also has its order, not the recollected order formed by thought and imagination, but a simple order of succession. This succession is the order in which the images of actual experience through time have been impressed upon the memory. It constitutes a kind of lasting chronicle, fixed in my memory, on the temporal course of my experience. This chronicle does not need to be recollected strictly, but merely to be recalled: I need only call up again the succession of images which stand waiting in memory in the order in which I experience them. Of course the recall is not total, the chronicle is not without lacunae. In fact, it is for great stretches quite fragmentary. But what we do succeed in calling up we find differentiated into fairly clear sequence. We are aware of what comes before and what comes after. When we are uncertain, or feel that a crucial scene is missing, we have the sense of
"consulting" our memory. The recall is not infallible, but we have the sense that this "consultation" is possible, that the chronicle is "there/' in memory, to be consulted, thai if we concentrate intensely on our remembering we will be able to recall a sequence of events accurately. I consult my memory in this way, for example, when 1 mentally retrace my steps in the effort to recall where 1 may have lost something.
Yet that odd consultation is not strictlv an act of recollection. We must consult our memory in order to recollect its images, to reorganize them for the more sophisticated purposes of the mind. But remembering is not yet knowing. Its chronicle is too elemental, too fixed to be illuminating. Experience is illuminated only by the more subtle processes of recollection. At least in this sense, all knowledge is recollection! So is all art, including the art of storytelling. It is an act. It has style. But mere remembering as such has no style, if we could isolate it from the process of recollection that in practice generally accompanies it.
Yet storytelling is not an arbitrary imposition upon remembered experience, altogether alien to its own much simpler form. Images do not exist in memory as atomic units, like photographs in an album, but as transient episodes in an image-stream, cinematic, which I must suspend and from which I must abstract in order to isolate a particular image. The most direct and obvious way of recollecting it is by celling a story, though the story is never simply the tedious ana unilluminating recital of the chronicle of memory itself. And, of course, I can manipulate the image-stream in other ways. I can abstract general features and formal elements of it for purposes of theory, or suspend it in order to draw a picture, or splice episodes from it in a way that gives them new significance. I can contemplate a whole segment of the image-stream in a single glance of inner vision, then fragment it so that its elements are left twinkling in isolation like stars—yet even then memory is not shattered. Indeed, I can do such things because the original chronicle, the image stream, is always at hand, needing only to be recalled. I can even measure out its segments into long times and short times, recalling some episodes as having occurred a long time ago, others more recently (a phenomenon that Augustine ponders with great care in XI:xv-xxv»i).8
I recall, for example, a sequence from my own memory. In telling it, of course?, recollection already intervenes, but I recollect in a way as faithful as possible to the memory itself. I measure out "a long time" and recall an episode from my childhood. I have not thought about it for many years, and yet I find its chronicle in good condition, extremely detailed
8. In recognizing the importance of this strange measurement oi what no longer exists, Augustine does implicitly acknowledge the primitive order of succession within memory. Memory is not simply a vast interior space in which images tumble at random.
and in clear sequence. In an impetuous fit of bravado I threw a rock through a garage window. I recall the exact spot on the ground from which I picked up the rock, I recall the wind-up, the pitch, the rock in mid-air, the explosive sound of the impact, the shining spray of glass, the tinkling hail of shards falling on the cement below, the rough, stony texture of the cement I recall also my inner glee at that moment, and my triumph when a playmate, uncertain at first how to react, looked to me for his cue and then broke into a grin. Now I could cut and splice a bit, passing over hours not so clearly recalled anyway, except that my mood underwent drastic change. Then I recall that moment in the evening when I heard my father's returning footsteps on the porch and my guilty terror reached a visceral maximum the very memory of which wrenches a fat adult belly—for remembering is not simply a process in the head! The details of the scene that ensued are likewise very vivid in my memory.
Now it would be quite possible for me to tell this story very differently. My perspective on it has been changed, partly by the death of my father and the fact that I am now myself the father of chiidren, partly, too, by my reading in the Confessions a story about a wanton theft of pears and by some reading in Freud on the rivalry of fathers and sons, and so forth. So I have many insights into this chronicle that I could not have had at the time its events occurred. Yet the sophisticated new story I might tell about it would be superimposed on the image-stream of the original chronicle. It could not replace the original without obliterating the very materials to be recollected in the new story. Embedded in every sophisticated retelling of such a story is this primitive chronicle preserved in memory. Even conscious fictions presuppose its successive form, even when they artfully reorder it.
In the chronicle of memory there is the simple temporality of succession, duration, of before and after, but not yet the decisive distinction between past, present, and future, that provides the tension of experience and therefore demands the tenses of language. Memory, containing the past, is only one modality of experience, that never exists in isolation from those that are oriented to the present and the future. To understand the relation of the three we may again refer to Augustine.
He points out that past, present, and future cannot be three distinct realities or spheres of being that somehow coexist. Only the present exists.
But perhaps it might properly be said: there are three times, a present of things past, a present of things present, a present of things future. (XI:xx)
Only the present exists, but it exists only in these tensed modalities. They are inseparably joined in the present itself. Only from the standpoint of present experience could one speak of past and future. The three modalities are correlative to one another, in every moment of experience.
For these are in the mind as a certain triadic form, and elsewhere I do not see them; the present of things past is memory, the present of things present is direct attention, the present of things future is anticipation.
I want to suggest that the inner form of any possible experience is determined by the union of these three distinct modalities in every moment of experience. I want further" to suggest that the tensed unity of these modalities requires narrative forms both for its expression (mundane stories) and for its own sense of the meaning of its internal coherence (sacred stories). For this tensed unity has already an incipient narrative form.
The chronicle of memory, with its simple successiveness, its before and after, is in actual experience always already taken up into the more sophisticated temporality of tense. If we would attempt to isolate anticipation as we did memory we would again discover a very elemental narrative form. We might call it the scenario of anticipation.9 I have in mind our guesses and predictions about what may happen, hunches generally formulated in the attempt to lay some plans about our own projected courses of action. Projected action often dominates this modality of experience, though one may simply worry about the future or indulge in euphoric dreams about it. But whether anticipation takes the passive form of dreams, worries, and wishes, or is instrumental in laving plans or making resolutions for projected actions, it seems intuitively clear that we anticipate bv framing little stories about how things may fall out. As the term scenario implies, these anticipatory stories are very thin and vague as compared with the dense, sharp detail of the chronicle of memory. It is also clear that the course of events generally turns out quite differently from what we had anticipated. But the experience of thwarted expectations, or the comic situation when parties to an encounter come to it with very different scenarios in mind—e.g., she prepared for political discussion, he for romantic rendezvous—simply serve to show that we do orient ourselves to the future by means
9.1 have discussed such anticipatory scenarios in some detail in an essay to which the present one is in many ways a sequel: "Myth, Story, History," published in a symposium entitled Parable. Myth and Language (Cambridge, Mass.: The Church Society for College Work. 1968). p. 68.
of such scenarios. Though they are generally vague they are not altogether formless. However freely our action may improvise upon the scenario, it is never simply random.
Now it is not as though the scenario of anticipation were set alongside the chronicle of memory, as two quite separate stories. Our sense of personal identity depends upon the continuity of experience through time, a continuity bridging even the cleft between remembered past and projected future. Even when it is largely implicit, not vividly self-conscious, our sense of ourselves is at every moment to some extent integrated into a single story. That on the one hand.
On the other hand, the distinction between memory and anticipation is absolute. The present is not merely an indifferent point moving along a single unbroken and undifferentiated line, nor is the temporality of experience such a line. Nor do past and future simply "meet" in the present. Memory and anticipation, the present of things past and the present of things future, are tensed modalities of the present itself. They are the tension of every moment of experience, both united in that present and qualitatively differentiated by it. For precisely in this momentary present which embraces my whole experience, the past remembered is fixed, a chronicle that I can radically reinterpret but cannot reverse or displace: what is done cannot be undone! And within this same present the future is, on the contrary, still fluid, awaiting determination, subject to alternative scenarios.10 Precisely as modalities of the present of experience, the past remembered is determinate, the future anticipated is indeterminate, and the distinction between them is intuitively clear and absolute.
But how can the present contain such tension, on the one hand unifying, on the other hand absolutely distinguishing its tensed modalities? It can do so because the whole experience, as it is concentrated in a conscious present, has a narrative form. Narrative alone can contain the full temporality of experience in a unity of form. But this incipient story, implicit in the very possibility of experience, must be such that it can absorb both the chronicle of memory and the scenario of anticipation, absorb them within a richer narrative form without effacing the difference between the determinacv of the one and the indeter-minacv of the other.
We can define such a narrative form a little more fully by remind-ing ourselves that the conscious present has a third modality: the present of things present. This praesens dc praesentibus Augustine designates
10. The fluidity of the future from the standpoint of consciousness lias nothing to do with the truth or faisitv of deterministic theories. The point is phenomenological. not metaphysical.
as contuitus— direct attention. True enough, but there is something more. If discussion of the aetherial-seeming objects of memory and anticipation may have tempted us to speak of consciousness itself as if it were an invisibility suspended in a void, mention of its direct present must sharply remind us that consciousness is a function of an altogether bodily life. The conscious present is that of a body impacted in a world and moving, in process, in that world. In this present, action and experience meet. Memory is its depth, the depth of its experience in particular; anticipation is its trajectory, the trajectory of its action in particular. The praestns de praesentibus is its full bodily reality.
It is, moreover, the moment of decision within the story as a whole. It is always the decisive episode in the story, its moment of crisis between the past remembered and the future anticipated but still undetermined. The critical position of this modality gives the story a dramatic character as a whole. And since action and experience join precisely at this decisive and critical juncture in the drama, the whole drama vibrates with the musicality of personal style.
Still, it is a drama of a rudimentary sort. Life is not, after all, a work of art. An artistic drama has a coherence and a fullness of articulation that are never reached by our rudimentary drama. But the drama of experience is the crude original of all high drama. High drama can only contrive the appearance of that crisis which the conscious present actually is. The difference between a fixed past and a future still to be resolved., which in experience is an absolute difference, must be artfully contrived on a stage by actors who know the outcome as well as they know the beginning. The art of drama imitates the life of experience, which is the true drama.
Life also imitates art. The stories people hear and tell, the dramas they see performed, not to speak of the sacred stories that are absorbed without being directly heard or seen, shape in the most profound way the inner story of experience. We imbibe a sense of the meaning of our own baffling dramas from these stories, and this sense of its meaning in turn affects the form of a man's experience and the style of his action. Such cultural forms, both sacred and mundane, are of course socially shared in varying degrees, and so help to link men's inner lives as well as orienting them to a common public world. Both the content and the form of experience are mediated by symbolic systems which we are able to employ simply by virtue of awakening within a particular culture in which those symbolic systems are the common currency. Prevailing narrative forms are among the most important of such symbolic systems. It is not as though a man begins as a purely individual consciousness with the incipient story ana musicality of his private experience, and then casts about for a satisfying tale to lend it some higher significance. People awaken to consciousness in a society, with the inner story of experience and its enveloping musicality already infused with cultural forms. The vitalities of experience itself may in turn make a man feel that some of the old stories have a hollow ring and may be the source of originality in the formation of new stories, or even new kinds of stories. But the way we remember, anticipate, and even directly perceive, is largely social. A sacred story in particular infuses experience at its root, linking a man's individual consciousness with ultimate powers and also with the inner lives of those with whom he shares a common soil.
There is an entrancing half-truth that has gained wide currency, particularly among American undergraduates. It is that time itself is a cultural product, e.g., the creation of certain grammatical forms.11 Presumably we could be rid of it if we played our cards right, say, with a non-Western deck. The kernel of truth in this idyllic vision is that particular conceptions of times are indeed imbibed from cultural forms, not only from the structures of a language but from the kinds of stories being told. For the temporality that I have argued is necessary for the very possibility of experience does not of itself imply any particular conception of time. The connections among its episodes or moments is not necessarily, for example, either magical, causal, logical, or Ideological. Least of all does it imply any theory regarding the metaphysical status of time. The temporality of lived experience as such, with its inherent tensions and crises, can only, so to speak, raise questions about the reality and meaning of time. For the answers to these questions it must, as it were, turn to the sacred and mundane cultural forms lying at hand.
11. This view is usually linked with a toveable pnmitivism now in vogue. Students who make this link often seize upon the theories of Benjamin Lee VVhorf, who had observed, for example, that characteristically Western notions oi time could not be expressed at all in the language of the Hopi Indians. See "An American Indian Model of the Universe/' in the collection of Whorfs writings entitled Language, Thought, and Reality (Cambridge, Mass.: MJ.T. Press. 1956). Cf. Richard M. Gale, The Language of Time (London: Routlege & Kegan Paul 1968), pp. 45-48, for a critique of some of the general claims Whorfs observations led him to make. Those who cite Whorf are often less cautious than he is in claiming that time is the product of a particular culture, and therefore holding out the possibility that there arc or might be peoples blessedly free of the conflicts and traumas of temporal existence. Among some of my favorite students it comes out like this:
O happy hippy Hopis of peyote buds and herbs: No tensions in their teepees, no tenses in their verbs.
Far removed from this idyllic vision is the fine work of Georges Poulet, Sfurfi« rn Human Time, trans, by Elliott Coleman (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins Press, 1956). Poulet points up the radical developments and the subtle modulations in the sense of time within Western culture itself, particularly in the works of a succession of important French and American writers.
In fact, the answers precede and sometimes preclude the questions! Stories, in particular, infuse the incipient drama of experience with a definite sense of the way its scenes are connected. They reveal to people the kind of drama in which they are engaged, and perhaps its larger meaning. So the fact that there are very different notions of time implicit in the cultural forms of different historical traditions does not contradict the inherent temporality of all possible experience. There is only one absolute limit to that diversity: it is impossible that a culture could offer no interpretation of this temporality at all.
In principle, we can distinguish between the inner drama of experience and the stories through which it achieves coherence. But in any actual case the two so interpenetrate that they form a virtual identity, which, if we may pun a little, is in fact a man's very sense of his own personal identity. The sacred story in particular, with its musical vitality, enables him to give the incipient drama of his experience full dramatic dimensions and allows the incipient musicalitv of his style to break forth into real dance and song. Hence the powerful inner need for expressive forms, the music played and sung and danced, the stories told and acted, projected within the world of which men are conscious.
So the narrative quality of experience has three dimensions, the sacred story, the mundane stories, and the temporal form of experience itself: three narrative tracks, each constantly reflecting and affecting the course of the others.
And sometimes the tracks cross, causing a burst of light like a comet entering our atmosphere. Such a luminous moment, in which sacred, mundane, and personal are inseparably conjoined, we call symbolic in a special sense. Of course, there is a more general sense in which every element in a story is a symbol, an imaginative representation conveying a meaning; but even in that sense the symbol is partly constituted by its position in the story. A story is not a mere assembly of independently defined symbols. Still less is a symbol in the more pregnant sense, e.g., a religious symbol, an atomic capsule of meaning that drops from the heavens or springs from the unconscious in isolated splendor.12 The cross, or a holy mountain, receive their meaning from the stories in which they appear. Such a symbol imports into any icon or life situation or new story in which it appears, the significance given it
12. It has been widely assumed that symbols are in some sense primitive in experience, and that myths and other narrative forms are secondary constructions that assemble the prima! symbolic material into stories. That view, for example, in a highly sophisticated form, seems to be an important premise of Paul Ricoeur's fine studies in this field, e.g., Trie Symbolism of Evil trans, by Emerson Buchanan (New York: Harper & Row, 1967). But such a view seems to presuppose an atomism of experience that ! think is quite impossible.
in a cycle of mundane stories, and also the resonances of a sacred story. The shock of its appearance is like the recurrence in daylight of an episode recalled from dreams. For a religious symbol becomes fully alive to consciousness when sacred story dramatically intersects both an explicit narrative and the course of a man's personal experience. The symbol is precisely that double intersection.
Narrative form, and not the symbol as such, is primitive in experience. But narrative form is by no means innocent. It acknowledges and informs only what is contained in its own ordering of events. Even the most naive tale begins "once upon a time"—a time prior to which there is only darkness, no time so far as the temporality constituted by the story is concerned. That time begins with this "once ..." and when the tale has run its course there is nothing left. Its characters disappear into a timeless "happily ever after." It is meaningless to ask whether they really do. For thev live onlv within the tensions and crises which
constitute the significant time or the story, the narrative "tick-tock,"'3 between the tick of "once upon a time" and the tock of happy resolution. Of course, the resolution may not be happy. We may leave our characters in a state of horror also outside all time and, therefore, pure and unambiguous. This happiness, this horror, are both beyond the possibilities of recognizable human experience. Only narrative form can contain the tensions, the surprises, the disappointments and reversals and achievements of actual, temporal experience. The vague yet unambiguous, uncanny happiness and horror are "beyond." The story itself may, to be sure, contain symbolic accents that refer to such a beyond, e.g., the resurrection, or images of eternal blessedness or torment, or descents into a nether region that is strangely familiar. Such symbolic accents are not necessarily intimations of immortality. Imagination is projected by them beyond any possible experience, and yet the projection itself takes place within the contingencies of experience. It belongs to the story. However deep into the bowels of hell Dante leads us, however high into heaven, it is remarkable how he and his sinners and saints keep our attention fixed on the little disk of earth, that stage on which the drama of men's moral struggles in time is enacted. Far from reducing the significance of this time-bound story in which we are embroiled, such visions of happiness and horror make it all the more portentous. Even in secularized projections beyond the ambiguity of history into social Utopia or doomsday, a particular sense of the histori
13. Frank Kermode ingeniously treats "tick-tock" as a model of plot, contrasting the organized duration between the "humble genesis" of tick and the "feeble apocalypse" of tock with the "emptiness/' the unorganized blank that exists between our perception of "tock" and the next "tick." 77/c Sense of an Ending, pp. 44-46.
cal drama itself is implicit. For the meaning of both happiness and horror is derived, even in the uttermost leap of the imagination beyond our story, from our conception of the story itself.
If experience has the narrative quality attributed to it here, not only our self-identity but the empirical and moral cosmos in which we are conscious of living is implicit in our multidimensional story. It therefore becomes evident that a conversion or a social revolution that actually transforms consciousness requires a traumatic change in a man's Story. The stories within which he has awakened to consciousness must be undermined, and in the identification of his personal story through a new story both the drama of his experience and his style of action must be reoriented. Conversion is reawakening, a second awakening of consciousness. His style must change steps, he must dance to a new rhythm. Not only his past and future, but the very cosmos in which he lives is strung in a new way.
The point is beautifully made in a passage from the Protreptikos of Clement of Alexandria, selections from which, in verse translation, are among the last things we have from the pen of Thomas Merton. Clement, himself a convert to Christianity, is writing at the time Christianity first emerged in a serious way into a classical culture already become decadent. In a passage entitled 'The New Song," he retells an old Greek legend but glosses it in a way that gives it a radical new turn. A bard named Eunomos was singing, to his own accompaniment of the lyre, a hymn to the death of the Pythian dragon. Meanwhile, unnoticed by the pagan assembly, another performance is under way.
Crickets were singing among the leaves all up the mountainside, burning in the sun.
They were singing, not indeed for the death of the dragon, the dead Pythian, but
They hymned the all-wise God, in their own mode, far superior to that of Eunomos.
A cricket flies down on top of the lyre. She sings on the instrument as though on a branch. The singer, harmonteing with the cricket's tune, goes on without the lost string.
Not by the song of Eunomos is the cricket moved, as the myth supposes, or as is shown by the bronze statue the Delphians erected, showing Eunomos with his harp and his companion in the contest!
The cricket flies on her own and sings on her own.
The subversive cricket sings the new song, to Clement old as creation yet newly come to human lips, of the Christian logos.
See what power the new song has!
From stones, men,
From beasts it has made men.
Those otherwise dead, those without a share in life that is really life At the mere sound of this song Have come back to life. ...
Moreover He has structured the whole universe musically And the discord of elements He has brought together in an ordered symphony So that the whole Cosmos is tor Him in harmony.14
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