13 20 5655 https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/a43e72fd1efafe5ab829751cd4d5223c.jpg ce7b4350f5fa6b696cb1318467d0c01c Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Image Collection—Annapolis Description An account of the resource The Greenfield Library Image Collection houses over 5,000 photographs, postcards, drawings, and other graphic materials. The images in the collection document the history, academic, and community life of St. John’s College. To learn more about the Greenfield Library's archives use policy or to obtain high-resolution images, please see the <a title="Image Collection Use Policy" href="http://www.sjc.edu/academic-programs/libraries/greenfield-library/policies/#photographicarchivepolicy" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">Library’s Image Collection Use Policy</a>. Click on <a title="Photographic Archives" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=7">Items in the Image Collection—Annapolis Collection</a> to view and sort all items in the collection. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context imagecollectionannapolis Still Image A static visual representation. Examples include paintings, drawings, graphic designs, plans and maps. Recommended best practice is to assign the type Text to images of textual materials. Physical Dimensions The actual physical size of the original image 12.5 x 9 cm. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data Photograph Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context SJC-P-2074 Title A name given to the resource Administrative Office in Woodward Hall Library, St. John's College, Annapolis, Maryland Description An account of the resource 1 Kodachrome print : b&w Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1969-10 Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Unknown Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Type The nature or genre of the resource Still Image Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource jpeg Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College owns the rights to this photograph. Woodward Hall Library https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/e1f286f3a6fb927f0cc702c291d21584.jpg 1271cd517a430d1da084938467219ad8 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Image Collection—Annapolis Description An account of the resource The Greenfield Library Image Collection houses over 5,000 photographs, postcards, drawings, and other graphic materials. The images in the collection document the history, academic, and community life of St. John’s College. To learn more about the Greenfield Library's archives use policy or to obtain high-resolution images, please see the <a title="Image Collection Use Policy" href="http://www.sjc.edu/academic-programs/libraries/greenfield-library/policies/#photographicarchivepolicy" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">Library’s Image Collection Use Policy</a>. Click on <a title="Photographic Archives" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=7">Items in the Image Collection—Annapolis Collection</a> to view and sort all items in the collection. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context imagecollectionannapolis Still Image A static visual representation. Examples include paintings, drawings, graphic designs, plans and maps. Recommended best practice is to assign the type Text to images of textual materials. Physical Dimensions The actual physical size of the original image 12.5 x 9 cm. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data Photograph Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context SJC-P-2075 Title A name given to the resource Administrative Office in Woodward Hall Library, St. John's College, Annapolis, Maryland Description An account of the resource 1 Kodachrome print : b&w Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1969-10 Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Unknown Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Type The nature or genre of the resource Still Image Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource jpeg Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College owns the rights to this photograph. Woodward Hall Library https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/16017743e10ca6248d93778eec0b1432.jpg 7b38e47e928b35c1aca8aca63c93a433 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Image Collection—Annapolis Description An account of the resource The Greenfield Library Image Collection houses over 5,000 photographs, postcards, drawings, and other graphic materials. The images in the collection document the history, academic, and community life of St. John’s College. To learn more about the Greenfield Library's archives use policy or to obtain high-resolution images, please see the <a title="Image Collection Use Policy" href="http://www.sjc.edu/academic-programs/libraries/greenfield-library/policies/#photographicarchivepolicy" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">Library’s Image Collection Use Policy</a>. Click on <a title="Photographic Archives" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=7">Items in the Image Collection—Annapolis Collection</a> to view and sort all items in the collection. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context imagecollectionannapolis Still Image A static visual representation. Examples include paintings, drawings, graphic designs, plans and maps. Recommended best practice is to assign the type Text to images of textual materials. Physical Dimensions The actual physical size of the original image 20.5 x 25.5 cm. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data Photograph Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context SJC-P-2171 Title A name given to the resource Admissions Flyer for St. John's College, Annapolis, Maryland Description An account of the resource 1 photographic copy : b&w Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1831-1857 [circa] Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Unknown Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Type The nature or genre of the resource Still Image Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource jpeg Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College owns the rights to this photograph. https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/eb0975973c82273597a4b7e2c5d69d13.jpg f4ddc04fa94eefcb7e5541159e42c122 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Image Collection—Annapolis Description An account of the resource The Greenfield Library Image Collection houses over 5,000 photographs, postcards, drawings, and other graphic materials. The images in the collection document the history, academic, and community life of St. John’s College. To learn more about the Greenfield Library's archives use policy or to obtain high-resolution images, please see the <a title="Image Collection Use Policy" href="http://www.sjc.edu/academic-programs/libraries/greenfield-library/policies/#photographicarchivepolicy" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">Library’s Image Collection Use Policy</a>. Click on <a title="Photographic Archives" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=7">Items in the Image Collection—Annapolis Collection</a> to view and sort all items in the collection. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context imagecollectionannapolis Still Image A static visual representation. Examples include paintings, drawings, graphic designs, plans and maps. Recommended best practice is to assign the type Text to images of textual materials. Physical Dimensions The actual physical size of the original image 33 x 23 cm. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data document Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context SJC-P-0382 Title A name given to the resource Admissions Flyer with Front view of McDowell Hall with Cupola, St. John's College, Annapolis, Maryland Description An account of the resource 1 printed document : color Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1960-1970 [circa] Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Unknown Subject The topic of the resource St. John's College (Annapolis, Md.). -- Admissions Flyers. St. John's College (Annapolis, Md.). -- McDowell Hall -- 1960-1970. Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis,MD Type The nature or genre of the resource still image Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource jpeg Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College owns the rights to this photograph. McDowell Hall https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/71540757a06ff9371bb2c2ade4af4ff8.pdf 61e047c88dc6bce75c822d7595c868f9 PDF Text Text Adventures in Second Sailing (or, Hands-On Learning as Central to a Liberal Arts Education) Kirsten Jacobson, Associate Professor of Philosophy, University of Maine Rainer Maria Rilke once reflected: “Our greatest task is this: to find a written language which can withstand our tears and re-create before us—clear, pure, precise—the beautiful goodbyes of those who sailed the seas” (The Inner Sky, p. 41). Even if you have never gone to sea, I believe that, should you take a moment to imagine a sailor’s parting words to family, friends, a child, or a lover, you will be able to feel at least a hint of the earth-shattering and, alternatingly, exhilarating force of a goodbye that can know no secure promise of a homecoming, a goodbye that juxtaposes the certainty of the now and how one has come to this present with the utter unfathomability of what is to come. What might Rilke be suggesting when he makes the bold and intriguing suggestion that our ultimate task is to find a way to write this goodbye? If such writing is our ultimate task, surely we must no longer be talking about something that only matters to sailors. We must be talking about a goodbye that we all share. I will come back to Rilke’s challenge later, but for the moment, I will turn away from it, for it was only by doing so in my own life that I became able to face the core of such a question more directly. For many years, I have wondered over the vital questions of how we connect with others through language, as well as how our intimate use of language is deeply embedded in our explicit or implicit awareness of our vulnerability and, ultimately, our mortality. And, I have been particularly interested in how meaning is lived and experienced by us in spatially thick terms. My research has focused on the nature of home and dwelling, “disturbed” spatial experiences (such as those found in agoraphobia, anorexia, hypochondria, and spatial neglect), the significance of space in political life, and the spatial roots of memory and identity. 1 �About a decade ago, these interests took on a seemingly idiosyncratic character: I began to wonder after the intensity of a ship’s spatial reality. After nine years of relatively disembodied and meandering nautical musings, I dove head on into this fascination by signing on as a trainee crewmember of the three-masted, square-rigged, sail-training vessel the Picton Castle. Before describing anything specific about this hands-on education into sailing, I want first to paint a fuller picture of what drew me into this fascination. As unsophisticated as it may sound, I was lured into the seafaring world by the Hollywood blockbuster “Master and Commander.” More than any aspect of the film’s plot, its characters, its scenery, or Russell Crowe, I was struck by its emotionally-rich portrayal of the way in which a ship must become a self-sustaining world-untoitself when it cuts its umbilical lines to any given port. Being at port is pointedly not where a ship belongs or is at home; it belongs at sea, cut off, one might think, from the stability, safety, and regularity of terrestrial life. Yet, neither “Master and Commander” nor, more significantly, real life reports of ship-life tend to depict a frightened or cut-off crew; instead, they reveal a functioning microcosmic reality. A ship offers an exceptionally focused model of people working together with one another, their available resources, the elements of nature around them and the predicted as well as chance situations that arise. It was especially fascinating to me that sailors are able not only to work and survive, but also to be at home and often to thrive in an environment—the wide open and often wildly difficult sea—that can seem and often be unfathomable and terrifying. Perhaps as intriguing to me were the notions that such a small space serves as a home to so many people; carries cargo and missives and ideas between places at “opposite ends of the earth”; and has for so much of human history been the platform by which some of the greatest and grandest adventures, explorations, and business ventures have been undertaken. 2 �As my sabbatical year from teaching at the University of Maine approached in 2012, I knew I wanted to continue my phenomenological studies of spatiality and its ability to reveal significant aspects of our existential reality and health, and to do so through an immersive research experience that would help bring to the fore issues that often remain concealed to us owing to their familiarity in our lives. After taking a trial two-week passage up the eastern seaboard of the United States and Canada as a sailor-in-training, I determined that the experience of voyaging on a working square-rigged ship would provide an excellent observation ground for continuing my research into spatial experience, the nature of home, existential health, and interpersonal relations. And, so, with only a twinge of academic qualm, I signed onto the Picton Castle for an additional four-month journey throughout the South Pacific as an integral part of my sabbatical research plan. At the start of this adventure, I was quite a competent person: I had been driving a car for over half my life, been living on my own for twenty years, had both a bachelor’s degree and a doctorate, had been teaching philosophy at the university level for eight years, and was very recently tenured at my university. These were and are signs, I believe, of being able to understand and do many significant things. And, yet suddenly, when I stepped aboard the ship, I was a true novice again: never since I was a child had I been in a situation that returned me to such a state of not-knowing, of needing to start at the beginning. I had to learn anew nearly every move I made—from walking on a swell-shifting and often slippery surface to tackling sail setting and the 175-plus lines that must be mastered to do so; from considering the significance of the sky and its multitudinous signs of weather and wind to how to moderate one’s voice on a ship that sometimes required the quietness befitting a workplace with three shifts and sometimes required the bellowing voice required to reach from rigging ten stories aloft down to the deck 3 �below; from how to bathe, wash dishes, and clean clothes using an endless supply of salt water, but limited fresh water to steering a 180 foot-long vessel according to the compass, the wind, or the “landmarks” of the sky above; from moving about at night with the aid of only moon and starlight and the occasional red lamp to fitting into a rigid chain of authority; from sleeping in odd temporal rhythms and physical positions to any dozen upon dozen techniques of ship’s maintenance. In the four months I spent learning the ways and insights of sailors of centuries past, my body and soul and habits of moving about in the world were indelibly changed: I began to become a sailor. This education was not one of books or even of much lengthy discussion: it was an education from doing and being, an education of the hands, limbs, and their successful (and quite regularly mistake-ridden) engagement with the surrounding world. Accustomed in my life as a professor and scholar to learning through the intellectual endeavors of reason and description, I learned aboard the ship that there is nothing like feeling the resistance of the helm under one’s hand, the flow of telltales aloft, the wind upon one’s face and the fill of the sail to help one learn—deep in one’s body—when one has taken a right or a wrong turn. Amongst other practical lessons, at sea, it came palpably home to me that wind and water are indisputably partners, perhaps even closer than that: a system whose parts can never be held apart from one another and still make sense. The human challenge, then, was to discover how to successfully introduce the sailing vessel into this system, and, on a grander scale, how we are to navigate our way through this elemental and human world. Many of Joseph Conrad’s words in The Mirror of the Sea finally came home to me during this adventure; he writes: “Of all the living creatures upon land and sea, it is ships alone that cannot be taken in by barren pretenses, that will not put up with bad art from their masters.” Later, he connects this lesson to the deepest matters of humanity: “All vessels are handled in the same way as far as theory goes, 4 �just as you may deal with all men on broad and rigid principles. But if you want that success in life which comes from the affection and confidence of your fellows, then with no two men, however similar they may appear in their nature, will you deal in the same way. There may be a rule of conduct; there is no rule of human fellowship. To deal with men is as fine an art as it is to deal with ships” (Conrad, The Mirror of the Sea, VIII). Conrad’s insights here and in his many great books are not speculations made at arm’s length, but rather the fruit-filled outpourings of someone who was first a sailor and only much later an author. So, how does this relate to the liberal arts and, given my own launching point today, to the ability to say a “proper goodbye”? Well, to begin, I’ll note that in my experience, it is an understatement to say that the liberal arts are under attack these days. At the University of Maine, I spoke on a panel just this past week about the value of liberal arts in higher education. This topic was not, however, poised as a celebration as it largely is here this week; rather, the topic was one of vital necessity for my university: local financial stakeholders are increasingly seeing the liberal arts as “optional” and as “luxuries.” So, I felt a pressing need on that panel to advocate for the essential role of the living value of the liberal arts. While I’ve never had a moment’s doubt about the value of my relationship with the liberal arts, I’ve noticed that my ability to articulate their significance in “real world terms” was radically amplified by my own move to temporarily leave behind my formal studies in order to head to sea as a sailor—not immediately the place one would imagine the liberal arts to be enacted or celebrated. And yet, there aboard my ship, I felt more palpably than ever that the liberal arts must never be seen merely as matters of dinner party conversation or even classroom discussion, as engaging and enriching as such conversations may be for our lives. The liberal arts are not topics reserved for 5 �conferences, formal studies, or moments of self-reflection; indeed, they are not mere “topics” at all. The liberal arts are practices of action, of deciding upon and making commitments within our everyday lives. If these practices have been developed into fields for study and private or social reflection, it is because they arise from the issues, questions, and activities of our very real and very demanding human lives. I felt this reality every day aboard the ship—whether I was working on the mathematics and celestial navigation involved in charting our course; the physics of setting and trimming sail; the psychology of interpersonal dynamics and chains of authority in tight and demanding quarters; the history, literature, and music of sailors’ adventures gone by; or, the philosophical reflections and wonderment opened up by the wide open sea and the questions it can prompt in us regarding mortality, our hopes, ethics, and what truly matters to us. The ship inspired me daily to livingly engage with such aspects of human reality as the significance and nature of privacy, community, hierarchy, equilibrium, wonder, apprenticeship, eros, work, loneliness, the elements, boredom, communication, becoming, unfathomability, adventure, nature, learning, clothing, skill, beauty, tradition, death, music, embodiment, disappointment, hope, fear, ritual, space, property, responsibility, home, and, truly, so much more. While these themes are wide ranging, they share in common the fact that they are matters of deep human concern; and also that my awareness of and relationship to these living issues were directly and significantly developed through my sailing experience. I was in each case brought to see anew these significant dimensions of everyday human life, and to be able to articulate something I deem important about human life through this unique, and yet utterly relatable undertaking. 6 �I see my nautical adventure and its lessons as a sort of second sailing in my personal, interpersonal, and intellectual life. While Socrates’ second sailing is one that ostensibly turns him toward the intelligible realm, I would equally argue that his turn was not one of leaving “this” palpable world behind. Far from this, we see Socrates again and again moving up the ladder of truth from a deeply engaged and erotic situation within this human world. Socrates does not model for us the life of a disembodied philosopher, a life of an education of the mind alone. Rather, he takes up questions of what seemingly lies beyond from the vantage point of the here and now; he is inspired by his situation, what it demands of its participants, and what, with his guidance, they can open themselves to seeing anew. The image of a “second sailing” comes, as you may already know, from a practical situation sometimes faced in the undertaking of sailing—namely, the loss of wind that can carry a ship forward on its path. If winds cannot fill a ship’s sails adequately enough, sailors may be called upon to use their own bodies and resources to row the ship along its course, and this is their “second sailing.” This is certainly not an act of turning away from one’s embodiment or one’s situation in the world; rather, it is one of facing the fact that to get to one’s destination, one cannot always rely on an external force—whether the wind or free-floating rationality—to get where one aims; instead, one must recognize one’s own determination and work to be integral to achieving a new position—whether physical or intellectual—beyond one’s present situation. Further, we are challenged to acknowledge that former approaches and even areas of expertise can secure neither our relationship to the truth nor to our future; indeed, we may very well need to let go of past competencies and situations of comfort in order to venture insightfully into something new. In going to sea, I most certainly left behind my competencies and comforts, and in doing so, I arrived somewhere quite different than where I began. While further details of that 7 �transformation belong to another writing, I will speak briefly now to changes I experienced in my sense of what it means to say goodbye. Most straightforwardly, I began my trip thinking, quite reasonably, that a goodbye is most fundamentally the marker of some sort of ending. Yet, without claiming to be speaking to the entirety of Rilke’s challenge to us to learn to write the sailor’s goodbye, I’d now propose that the sailor’s goodbye is a goodbye that is pointedly not a closure or a move away from life, but rather the undertaking of learning how to make an authentic opening to life. The sailor’s goodbye, like a second sailing, is one, I would argue, that brings us home to the key existential recognitions that 1) without our effort, nothing will be accomplished: there simply will be no sailing without our sense of personal responsibility and our participation; 2) as much as a new venture makes a break with former ways of being, to be a successful sailor, you must not forget the land from which you came even when you leave its sight; you must remember that when you’re sailing away, you are only able to do so because you are also always sailing from some specific here; 3) it is only by saying goodbye to our former positions of comfort and certainty that we can say our next hellos; and, I would argue that this reflective leave-taking and vista-opening is the very activity of our never-ending, alwaysdemanding adventure of pursuing an examined life; 4) we forever require the push and pull of others as well as of new and unsettling experiences to continue to prompt us to the practice of reflective and engaged living; I also only learn how to engage life with both commitment and openness through companionship with others who are also engaged in the practice of caring for our shared world and for another; and, finally, 5) pursuing the examined life is necessarily a journey of uncertainty; just as the sailor faces in her voyage, the person living the examined life must go out into the unknown, with the only certainty being that she will arrive at her next destination a different person than when she departed. If she makes landfall, she will do so with 8 �such pressing questions as: Will those ashore be ready to greet me anew? Will they have waited for me, and, if so, will they, too, have traveled in such a way that they can resume being active companions for me in this life’s journey? Who have I become? Who should or must I become to arrive where next I ought to go? Is death my final destination, and if so, how ought I prepare for it? These questions return me once again and in conclusion to the significance of the liberal arts: for whether in conversation around a seminar table or working with others aloft in the rigging of the Picton Castle, I have found throughout my life that it is the liberal arts that provide us with both the grounding and the unsettling experiences that bring us humanely together in the activity of pursuing an examined life, and that prompt us to think, talk, and ultimately write about this undertaking. If I identify the sailor’s goodbye as one that acknowledges that we can never say enough to secure our relationships and their meaning once and for all, and one that also recognizes that we are not thereby excused from attempting to do so, the liberal arts can be seen as the practice and living testaments of our attempts of enacting this unending meaning making. Whether aboard a ship or collected in a classroom, may we heed the call, addressed to both our bodies and our minds, to keep alive and well this practice of “writing our existence”, and in so doing, never cease trying to figure out how to say a living goodbye. Said again, may we sail onwards, under second sail, towards our always-still-to-come homecoming. 9 � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource "What is Liberal Education For?" 2014 Conference Papers Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Santa Fe Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2014-10 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Meem Library has been given permission to make these items available online. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF Language A language of the resource English Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Meem Library Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 9 pages Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Adventures in second sailing, or, Hands-on learning as central to a liberal arts education Description An account of the resource Paper presented on October 18, 2014 by Kirsten Jacobson at What is Liberal Education For? : a conference at St. John's College on the 50th Anniversary of the Santa Fe campus. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Jacobson, Kirsten Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Santa Fe, NM Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2014-10-18 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Meem Library has been given permission to make this item available online. Type The nature or genre of the resource text Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Subject The topic of the resource Education, Humanistic Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context 24004536 https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/3f1a2d98e1e35b42554d5193b9325791.jpg 3c5fadb4389a620abb108470de97aa05 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Image Collection—Annapolis Description An account of the resource The Greenfield Library Image Collection houses over 5,000 photographs, postcards, drawings, and other graphic materials. The images in the collection document the history, academic, and community life of St. John’s College. To learn more about the Greenfield Library's archives use policy or to obtain high-resolution images, please see the <a title="Image Collection Use Policy" href="http://www.sjc.edu/academic-programs/libraries/greenfield-library/policies/#photographicarchivepolicy" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">Library’s Image Collection Use Policy</a>. Click on <a title="Photographic Archives" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=7">Items in the Image Collection—Annapolis Collection</a> to view and sort all items in the collection. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context imagecollectionannapolis Still Image A static visual representation. Examples include paintings, drawings, graphic designs, plans and maps. Recommended best practice is to assign the type Text to images of textual materials. Physical Dimensions The actual physical size of the original image 25.5 x 20.5 cm. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data Photograph Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context SJC-P-0504 Title A name given to the resource Aerial View of Back Campus, St. John's College, Annapolis, Maryland Description An account of the resource 1 photographic print : b&w Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1935-1950 [circa] Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Unknown Subject The topic of the resource St. John's College (Annapolis, Md.). Aerial Photographs (St. John's College, Annapolis, MD) 1930-1950. Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Type The nature or genre of the resource Still Image Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource jpeg Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College owns the rights to this photograph. https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/a8832b5da99672d1f92944b60fc4eb40.jpg ffab89f27b722ef83113b5d719a90f80 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Image Collection—Annapolis Description An account of the resource The Greenfield Library Image Collection houses over 5,000 photographs, postcards, drawings, and other graphic materials. The images in the collection document the history, academic, and community life of St. John’s College. To learn more about the Greenfield Library's archives use policy or to obtain high-resolution images, please see the <a title="Image Collection Use Policy" href="http://www.sjc.edu/academic-programs/libraries/greenfield-library/policies/#photographicarchivepolicy" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">Library’s Image Collection Use Policy</a>. Click on <a title="Photographic Archives" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=7">Items in the Image Collection—Annapolis Collection</a> to view and sort all items in the collection. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context imagecollectionannapolis Still Image A static visual representation. Examples include paintings, drawings, graphic designs, plans and maps. Recommended best practice is to assign the type Text to images of textual materials. Physical Dimensions The actual physical size of the original image 25.5 x 20.5 cm. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data photograph Resolution Resolution of the image in dpi. 600 dpi Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context SJC-P-2241 Title A name given to the resource Aerial view of Croquet with Onlookers by the Liberty Tree, St. John's College, Annapolis, Maryland Description An account of the resource 1 photographic print : b&w Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Unknown Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1983 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College owns the rights to this photograph. Type The nature or genre of the resource still image Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource jpeg Croquet Liberty tree https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/770c0ea8f4e5665345c46be746bcc1a6.jpg 0b9476044b74c1e3a269ca7e042ed3da Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Image Collection—Annapolis Description An account of the resource The Greenfield Library Image Collection houses over 5,000 photographs, postcards, drawings, and other graphic materials. The images in the collection document the history, academic, and community life of St. John’s College. To learn more about the Greenfield Library's archives use policy or to obtain high-resolution images, please see the <a title="Image Collection Use Policy" href="http://www.sjc.edu/academic-programs/libraries/greenfield-library/policies/#photographicarchivepolicy" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">Library’s Image Collection Use Policy</a>. Click on <a title="Photographic Archives" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=7">Items in the Image Collection—Annapolis Collection</a> to view and sort all items in the collection. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context imagecollectionannapolis Still Image A static visual representation. Examples include paintings, drawings, graphic designs, plans and maps. Recommended best practice is to assign the type Text to images of textual materials. Physical Dimensions The actual physical size of the original image 15 x 10 cm. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data Photograph Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context SJC-P-1870 Title A name given to the resource Aerial View of Koogle Hall, Heating Plant, St. John's College, Annapolis, Maryland Description An account of the resource 1 photographic print : b&w Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1950 [circa] Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Unknown Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Type The nature or genre of the resource Still Image Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource jpeg Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College owns the rights to this photograph. https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/b30535b27e04e102b10e6b49e42c677d.jpg 48d11da3989bde090315759e2a6d64ad Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Image Collection—Annapolis Description An account of the resource The Greenfield Library Image Collection houses over 5,000 photographs, postcards, drawings, and other graphic materials. The images in the collection document the history, academic, and community life of St. John’s College. To learn more about the Greenfield Library's archives use policy or to obtain high-resolution images, please see the <a title="Image Collection Use Policy" href="http://www.sjc.edu/academic-programs/libraries/greenfield-library/policies/#photographicarchivepolicy" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">Library’s Image Collection Use Policy</a>. Click on <a title="Photographic Archives" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=7">Items in the Image Collection—Annapolis Collection</a> to view and sort all items in the collection. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context imagecollectionannapolis Still Image A static visual representation. Examples include paintings, drawings, graphic designs, plans and maps. Recommended best practice is to assign the type Text to images of textual materials. Physical Dimensions The actual physical size of the original image mount 13 x 7.5 cm. image 10 x 7 cm. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data photograph Resolution Resolution of the image in dpi. 600 dpi Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context SJC-P-0497 Title A name given to the resource Aerial View of McDowell Hall and Front Campus, St. John's College, Annapolis, Maryland Description An account of the resource 1 photographic print : b&w Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Unknown Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1935-1950 [circa] Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College owns the rights to this photograph. Type The nature or genre of the resource still image Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource jpeg Subject The topic of the resource St. John's College (Annapolis, Md.). Aerial Photographs (St. John's College, Annapolis, MD) 1930-1950. https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/1625998664f75b7372f69ab60c06a363.jpg 86c9f401424d0b450036ed27ca605f70 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Image Collection—Annapolis Description An account of the resource The Greenfield Library Image Collection houses over 5,000 photographs, postcards, drawings, and other graphic materials. The images in the collection document the history, academic, and community life of St. John’s College. To learn more about the Greenfield Library's archives use policy or to obtain high-resolution images, please see the <a title="Image Collection Use Policy" href="http://www.sjc.edu/academic-programs/libraries/greenfield-library/policies/#photographicarchivepolicy" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">Library’s Image Collection Use Policy</a>. Click on <a title="Photographic Archives" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=7">Items in the Image Collection—Annapolis Collection</a> to view and sort all items in the collection. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context imagecollectionannapolis Still Image A static visual representation. Examples include paintings, drawings, graphic designs, plans and maps. Recommended best practice is to assign the type Text to images of textual materials. Physical Dimensions The actual physical size of the original image 25.5 x 20.5 cm. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data Photograph Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context SJC-P-2168 Title A name given to the resource Aerial View of McDowell Hall and the St. John's College Campus, Annapolis, Maryland Description An account of the resource 1 photographic print : b&w Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1870 [circa] Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Unknown Subject The topic of the resource McDowell Hall (St. John's College, Annapolis, MD) Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Type The nature or genre of the resource Still Image Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource jpeg Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College owns the rights to this photograph. McDowell Hall https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/bbb48ca9b01d4fb479eaefd8f9acc401.jpg 9b77f6d4f1bf2492e4a405710c181c7f Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Image Collection—Annapolis Description An account of the resource The Greenfield Library Image Collection houses over 5,000 photographs, postcards, drawings, and other graphic materials. The images in the collection document the history, academic, and community life of St. John’s College. To learn more about the Greenfield Library's archives use policy or to obtain high-resolution images, please see the <a title="Image Collection Use Policy" href="http://www.sjc.edu/academic-programs/libraries/greenfield-library/policies/#photographicarchivepolicy" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">Library’s Image Collection Use Policy</a>. Click on <a title="Photographic Archives" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=7">Items in the Image Collection—Annapolis Collection</a> to view and sort all items in the collection. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context imagecollectionannapolis Still Image A static visual representation. Examples include paintings, drawings, graphic designs, plans and maps. Recommended best practice is to assign the type Text to images of textual materials. Physical Dimensions The actual physical size of the original image 25.5 x 20.5 cm. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data Photograph Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context SJC-P-2238 Title A name given to the resource Aerial View of Proposed New Campus in Stockbridge Bowl, Massachusetts Description An account of the resource 1 photographic print : b&w Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1947 Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Unknown Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Type The nature or genre of the resource Still Image Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource jpeg Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College owns the rights to this photograph. https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/bc9d024ecd1da3ed4835800ca2f3ebe7.jpg 39c8a419c99e483648b28d2999de9335 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Image Collection—Annapolis Description An account of the resource The Greenfield Library Image Collection houses over 5,000 photographs, postcards, drawings, and other graphic materials. The images in the collection document the history, academic, and community life of St. John’s College. To learn more about the Greenfield Library's archives use policy or to obtain high-resolution images, please see the <a title="Image Collection Use Policy" href="http://www.sjc.edu/academic-programs/libraries/greenfield-library/policies/#photographicarchivepolicy" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">Library’s Image Collection Use Policy</a>. Click on <a title="Photographic Archives" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=7">Items in the Image Collection—Annapolis Collection</a> to view and sort all items in the collection. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context imagecollectionannapolis Still Image A static visual representation. Examples include paintings, drawings, graphic designs, plans and maps. Recommended best practice is to assign the type Text to images of textual materials. Physical Dimensions The actual physical size of the original image 25.5 x 20.5 cm. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data photograph Resolution Resolution of the image in dpi. 600 dpi Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context SJC-P-1081 Title A name given to the resource Aerial View of St. John's College Campus, Annapolis, Maryland Description An account of the resource 1 photographic print : b&w Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Unknown Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College owns the rights to this photograph. Type The nature or genre of the resource still image Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource jpeg https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/9d2e8be1db54e3b40e8e84a3f0a3c33d.jpg 01e64c27e6c7ecf7ecb61050a35c1e88 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Image Collection—Annapolis Description An account of the resource The Greenfield Library Image Collection houses over 5,000 photographs, postcards, drawings, and other graphic materials. The images in the collection document the history, academic, and community life of St. John’s College. To learn more about the Greenfield Library's archives use policy or to obtain high-resolution images, please see the <a title="Image Collection Use Policy" href="http://www.sjc.edu/academic-programs/libraries/greenfield-library/policies/#photographicarchivepolicy" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">Library’s Image Collection Use Policy</a>. Click on <a title="Photographic Archives" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=7">Items in the Image Collection—Annapolis Collection</a> to view and sort all items in the collection. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context imagecollectionannapolis Still Image A static visual representation. Examples include paintings, drawings, graphic designs, plans and maps. Recommended best practice is to assign the type Text to images of textual materials. Physical Dimensions The actual physical size of the original image 25.5 x 20.5 cm. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data photograph Resolution Resolution of the image in dpi. 600 dpi Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context SJC-P-1082 Title A name given to the resource Aerial View of St. John's College Campus, Annapolis, Maryland Description An account of the resource 1 photographic print : b&w Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Unknown Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College owns the rights to this photograph. Type The nature or genre of the resource still image Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource jpeg https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/ef522565dfc4fcf1fda6ac9ae4f2e1fb.jpg 2008ce208bc70856cba1c775639bed9f Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Image Collection—Annapolis Description An account of the resource The Greenfield Library Image Collection houses over 5,000 photographs, postcards, drawings, and other graphic materials. The images in the collection document the history, academic, and community life of St. John’s College. To learn more about the Greenfield Library's archives use policy or to obtain high-resolution images, please see the <a title="Image Collection Use Policy" href="http://www.sjc.edu/academic-programs/libraries/greenfield-library/policies/#photographicarchivepolicy" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">Library’s Image Collection Use Policy</a>. Click on <a title="Photographic Archives" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=7">Items in the Image Collection—Annapolis Collection</a> to view and sort all items in the collection. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context imagecollectionannapolis Still Image A static visual representation. Examples include paintings, drawings, graphic designs, plans and maps. Recommended best practice is to assign the type Text to images of textual materials. Physical Dimensions The actual physical size of the original image 19.5 x 14.5 cm Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data Photograph Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context SJC-P-0499 Title A name given to the resource Aerial View of St. John's College Campus, Annapolis, Maryland Description An account of the resource 1 photographic print (cut into a triangular shape) : b&w Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1939 [circa] Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Unknown Subject The topic of the resource St. John's College (Annapolis, Md.). Aerial Photographs (St. John's College, Annapolis, MD) 1940-1950. Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Type The nature or genre of the resource Still Image Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource jpeg Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College owns the rights to this photograph. https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/c801236dc4b3bf8ea4be6be940795037.jpg b54b44e909fb84d68e6e0d548c8cb363 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Image Collection—Annapolis Description An account of the resource The Greenfield Library Image Collection houses over 5,000 photographs, postcards, drawings, and other graphic materials. The images in the collection document the history, academic, and community life of St. John’s College. To learn more about the Greenfield Library's archives use policy or to obtain high-resolution images, please see the <a title="Image Collection Use Policy" href="http://www.sjc.edu/academic-programs/libraries/greenfield-library/policies/#photographicarchivepolicy" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">Library’s Image Collection Use Policy</a>. Click on <a title="Photographic Archives" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=7">Items in the Image Collection—Annapolis Collection</a> to view and sort all items in the collection. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context imagecollectionannapolis Still Image A static visual representation. Examples include paintings, drawings, graphic designs, plans and maps. Recommended best practice is to assign the type Text to images of textual materials. Physical Dimensions The actual physical size of the original image 25.5 x 20.5 cm. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data Photograph Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context SJC-P-2106 Title A name given to the resource Aerial View of St. John's College Campus, Annapolis, Maryland Description An account of the resource 1 photographic print : b&w Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1958 [circa] Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Unknown Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Type The nature or genre of the resource Still Image Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource jpeg Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College owns the rights to this photograph. https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/eea3e779d9235dca0cfc64ac799a2926.pdf 89fef65059b523582c3e667104a90ce3 PDF Text Text Against Time* Eva Brann •Given as two Friday Night Lectures at St. John's College in :\nnapolis on February 18 and 2; , 1983. THE ST. JOHNS REVIEW 65 �Contents I. Approaches to the Inquiry . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 67 Time Language Time Puzzles Time in Science Temporal Sensibility The Philosophers II. Aristotle: Time as the Number of Motion 73 1. Time and its Measures 2. The Now 3. Memory III. Augustine: Time as the "Distention" of the Soul . . . . . . . . . . . . Husserl: The Phenomenology of Time . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 78 80 1. Retention 2. The Diagram of Time IV. Kant: Time as Inner Sense . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 82 Inner Sense Understanding Imagination Time and Space Temporal Thinking V. Heidegger: Temporality as the Meaning of Existence 86 1. Ecstatic Temporality 2. Difficulties VI. Time and Imagination 89 1. The Non-Being of Time 2. Time as Noticed Passage 3. The Phases of Time a. b. c. d. The Present The Past The Future The Past as Paramount Phase Bibliography . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 100 I. II. III. IV. Main Texts Supplementary Texts, Studies, Commentaries Collections Time in Science Notes 1-37 ................................................ 101 �Against Time That time has no being and no power, that the- past is most to be cherished by those who have least taste for bygones, that our own temporality is the work of the imagination-these are the reflections that I want to articulate and confirm in the following inquiry, for I believe and hope to show that opinions of this sort are necessary for thinking of ourselves as free and for filling our lives with substance. I. APPROACHES TO THE INQUIRY* Given this purpose, the first question is where to begin an inquiry whose object appears to be both ubiquitous and nowhere. There seem to be so many likely approaches to the topic of time: through attention to our all-pervading talk of time in ordinary life and through the neat enigmas which even the lightest musing upon time generates, through the science of nature which claims to determine its concept, and through the observations of poets, novelists, and psychologists concerning our temporal sensibilities. All these efforts provide necessary grist to the mill of reflection, but Time itself does not seem to be revealed in or through them, and the very profusion of speculation bears witness to its elusiveness. There remains the way through philosophy, where time is treated in conjunction with the question of being-and particularly of human being. Here the nature of time becomes at last a direct theme. I shall, therefore, after a brief review of the other approaches, devote the middle section of this study to an interpretation of the five philosophers who seem to me to have given the most coherent and pregnant answers to the question What is Time?, and conclude with a section of my own thoughts on, or rather against, time. 1. TIME LANGUAGE The first and obvious way to get to the nature of time might seem to be through examining the mentions of time in ordinary language, through attending to what everyday speech says of time, for example: My watch tells the time, and I can give you the time. Do you have the time to give • ..\II references are to books listed in the Bibliography. Eva Brann recently published Pau1doxes of Education in a Republic.(University of Chicago Press, 1979). THE ST. JOHNS REVIEW me some time? I am wasting my time, while having the time of my life. Time is money, and the times are bad. At this point in time he has no comment, but time will tell. Time heals.and at the same time, time destroys. The time is coming; the time is now; the time is past We live in time and through times, are on time, race against time, kill time, donate time, are true to the end of time, and imagine once upon a time. _ · Now the very profusion of usages, although it is an index of the great frequency of our references to time 1, seems to me to preclude the discovery of a central meaning without our falling into the error of decreeing which of these usages is canonically ordinary. Certainly, how time occurs in daily speech is suggestive: Augustine, for instance, begins his inquiry by asking how it is that we can speak of time as long or short (XI 15), and Heidegger refers to the observation that we speak of time as passing away and not as coming into being (Logik, par. 20). It turns out, however, that both authors, far from being guided by what is said, conclude that ordinary speech obscures the nature of time. · It seems, all in all, that from listening to the use of the term time one, but only one, crucial conclusion can be reached: Time is always spoken of metaphorically or figuratively. It may be treated as a spatial dimension with length and points, or as a possession to have and to give, or in a personification, as an agent of multifarious potency. Its power is sometimes benign but far more often hurtful, as in the insistently grim time-figures of the Shakespearean Sonnets: devouring Time, confounding Time, decaying Time, swift-footed Time, sluttish Time, Time's injurious hand, Time's fell hand (19, 55, 63-65). Most time references are well-worn and mean little; they are time-honored phrases, once perhaps heartfelt, for disposing of the mysteries of change. When we talk of time as healing we consign to a hackneyed phrase the miraculous restorative power of nature and the blessed oblivion of which memory is capable. Poets, on the other hand, tend to give time injurious epithets, because, I think, they speak more often and more accurately of the high, intense, and vulnerable configurations of life than we do in ordinary speech. · The word "time" is not, of course, remotely all that language says of time.·All our sentences requfre tensed verbs, particularly "is," "was," and "'shall be." But can their use tell us their meaning? Or must we not rather know what is meant by present, past, and future, the three phases of time, to understand the use of aspects and tenses? 67 �2. TIME PUZZLES A second start might be made from the puzzles about time which can be so copiously and near-spontaneously generated. For example, why does time seem to have a forward arrow and a leading edge? 2 Does it progress in a continuous flux or in atomic jerks? Is it within or outside of us, in the soul or in the world? What is the "now" in which aloQe things are present and which reason reduces to a point between past and future? And above all, how is it possible that anything be in that past which is no longer, or in the future which is not yet? There are many more such problems, even excluding those concerning temporal continuity, which belong primarily to mathematics. Such conundrums are easily disposed of by the positivist, who obviates them by pointing out that in ordinary life, before the onset of a philosophical seizure, no one is at all inconvenienced by them, so why concoct enigmas? 3 To be more than idle puzzles they must arise in the context of a well-grounded inquiry into time itself. They are not its beginning but its by-products. 3. TIME IN SCIENCE In view of the fact that time is the basic independent variable of all the physics accessible to laymen, it would seem reasonable to turn first to the science of nature, that is, to physics, for help in the search for the nature of time. Reflective physicists and philosophers of physics have, accordingly, propounded powerful theories of time. At the very beginning of the science of dynamics stands the most extreme theory of the reality of time, Newton's self-subsisting, equably flowing, absolute world time-and its equally extreme opponent, Leibniz's relative time, a mere order of phenomenal succession. 4 Newton's theory of an absolute temporal flux may well be integral to the theological purposes of the Principia, but it does not seem to be operational within its physics. It is a philosophical rather than a physical requirement. In contrast, the plain statement by a great physicist of the most minimal notion of time conceivable is fairly recent, namely Einstein's wholly operational or instrumental definition of local time as "the position of the small hand of my watch" (p. 39; an instrumental definition is one in which the term is defined through the instrument and the operation which measures its magnitude). Although it may seem strange at first that after two and a half millenia of arduous exploration of the question "What is time?" the outcome should be that time is what the clock tells, one soon sees that this definition is the cleanest and clearest reflection on time that a physicist can give. For in physics time must be positive, that is to say, it should be no more than an observable quantity the method of whose measurement is defined. There is then an enormous and intellectually most 68 acute literature about the philosophical implications o. time in nature, or more accurately, in the science of nature. (For all references see Sec. IV of the Bibliography.) Three branches of physics seem to be especially amenable to philosophical interpretation: Thermodynamics seems to have implications about the forward motion, the socalled "arrow" of time and its irreversibility. Relativity theory appears to have exploded the common sense notion of universal time or the simultaneity of the present moment throughout space. Quantum theory throws in doubt the continuity of time. But intriguing as such theories are, because they are bent on interpreting with ingenuity and vigour the unignorable discoveries of physics, they help only incidentally and negatively with the question: \\!hat is time? For in these theories time is invariably understood as a privileged 9r process or motion, either a macro-motion_ an atomic vibration; the temporality of these timing-motions is itself left unexplained-as indeed it should be since such an explanation would no longer be amenable to verification by observation. The implication is that time really is an aspect of motion to be got at only in telling time. But time-telling is commonly taken to be a three-cornered affair, involving an observable event, a timing device, and an observer who can distinguish and relate the two and communicate his findings. And though a physical theory may include the observer with respect to his relative motion or his unavoidable interference with the observation, it is regarded as the part of psychology to deal with the distinguishing and rt lating itself, that is, with the internal observer. In sum, in physics time itself is the name of a fundamental motion, while the telling of time is not ultimately explicable in physical terms. Furthermore the philosophical interpretation of physical time is by no means univocal, any more than ate those of philosophy in the wider sense, with which the philosophy of physics does, after all, eventually merge. Therefore, through this approach a clarification of the concepts of time implicit in various physical theories is the most that can be expected. Let me give very brief versions of three accessible cases in point. _ I. Eddington introduced the phrase "Time's Arrow" to sum up the observations of thermodynamics. Let there be a partitioned container, isolated from outside influences, and let one part be filled with air, the other empty. Now remove the partition, and the molecules of air in their individual random motions will over time spre~d through the whole vessel (while the probability that they will ever again simultaneously collect at one end is so vanishingly small as to make the case practically impossible). The aggregate of molecules as a whole will then have less organization and will be said to show increasing "disorder," by which is meant here a certain kind of homogeneity. Its measure is called "entropy." The large-scale phenomenal effects of this statistical law of nature are quite familiar in lifr SUMMER 1983 �Things Jeft to their own devices tend to fall into sprawling disorder. Now Eddington interprets this irreversible process of nature as an intrinsic forward tendency of time itself. If he is right, physics is indeed capable of revealing the nature of time. There are, however, many and much debated difficulties, for example, whether the universe is an isolated system, whether a probable event and a process subject to fluctuations can be imputed to the steady underlying action of time, whether to show that time is "anisotropic," that is, directed, is necessarily to show that it advances, whether the physical law applies as well to life. But the most telling difficulty for present purposes is this: An observer can assert that time is reversible, for example, that if the time coordinate were imagined as reversed the planets would exactly retrace their orbits, only if .h e also imagines his own time as maintaining its direction so that he can compare the two successive motions. Would not the same hold for an observer of irreversible processes, so that he would have to say not that physical time itself was advancing, but that "disorder" was irreversibly increasing with time, namely his psychological observer's time the question of whose advance is no longer a matter for physics? There is a counterargument, to be sure, namely that human memory itself, the condition of time-telling, is an entropic process since it has an entropic physical basis. But that leaves us with the question, certainly no longer in the realm of physics, whether the human observer of nature can logically himself be subject to its law (Eddington, Ch. IV; Gruenbaum, Chps. 8, 9; Schlegel, pp. 55 ff.; Whitrow, Ch. IV 3, 4). 2. Einstein begins his 1905 paper, which sets forth the special theory of relativity, by defining what the common sense of mankind had so far taken as a natural given, namely what it means to say that it is the same time at places very far apart. His need to do so follows immediately from his definition of local time as what the dock tells, and that, in turn, embodies a deep reflection on the nature of physical knowledge. For nothing is to be counted as scientific theory which does not ultimately refer to possible sensory events. So to tell what time it is at a fixed place somewhere far off we must have a dock and an observer there and sensible signalling between him and us. Now even the fastest signal, light, takes time to go there and to be reflected back; we all know that the light from the star we now see is not the light being emitted by the star now. That means that a procedure for synchronizing both clocks must be established so that we here can say what time it is there now. Einstein defines such a procedure. The time for the light signal to come and go is taken to be equal by definition. We signal our time !o the remote observer who sets his clock by it just as he reflects the signal. Upon receiving it we set our clock to a time exactly half way between our sending and receiving the signal. The two clocks are thus said to be synchronized, and when an event occurs at the 11-IE ST. JOHNS REVIEW · place far off it will be said to occur at the same time or simultaneously, with our clock-time for the: arrival of its signal. Further, clocks which are synchronized with a third are said to be synchronized with each other: Therefore simultaneity is not universal "nowness" but merely what it is defined to be by the synchronizing process. Next Einstein lays down two fundamental axioms. The first of these is the principle of relativity itself, which says that the laws of physics governing a system are not af· fected if the whole is put into uniform rectilinear motion. The second is that the speed of light is absolute, namely the same whether the light is emitted from a stationary or a moving source. Within a page Einstein has shown that two clocks which are affixed to the ends of a moving rod and which have been separately synchronized with a clock in the stationary system, and so with each other from the point of view of the stationary observer, will not appear to meet the criteria of synchronicity from the point of view of the moving observers. What the stationary observer sees as simultaneous the moving observers do not. That means that what one observer takes to be the same moment comes apart for another observer into different moments. There is no absolute signification to the concept of simultaneity. The now is not universal. This result is usually interpreted as confuting the com· mon sense notion qf a universal contemporaneity, the feeling we have in ordinary circumstances that our now is everyone's now. But I wonder if that follows. The theory means by "the same time here and there" an operation definable in terms of observations, namely, the relating of clocks by a signal which takes time to travel back and forth. The speed of the signal, namely the speed of light, is the crucial element in the formula which shows that events simultaneous in one system will not be so in another relatively moving one. If that signalling speed were to be in· creased beyond all bounds, an impossibility in physical theory to be sure, simultaneity would be reinstated.5 But are we in our thinking and imagining bound by the physicist's requirements? Can we not in our thoughtswhich are as swift as the ships of Homer's Phaeacians, namely instantaneous-extend ourselves over all space at once? If our thinking were in principle incapable of coming under the requirements of science we might well imag· ine any number of friendly extra-terrestria1s, moving and stationary, all thinking of us and of each other simultaneously, now. A concord of consciousnesses is not inconceivable. I cannot think that the deep-seated human sense of a universal now can be confuted by a definition of time and a canon of knowledge not its own (Einstein, I 1-2; Reichenbach, par. 19; Dingle, pp. 460 ff.). 3. In Plato's Sophist the debate between the proponents of being and bec9ming is called the Battle of Gods and Giants. This battle rages between interpreters of relativity theory and furnishes my last example of the difficulty of extracting a clear philosophical interpretation from physical theory. The argument arises over the interpretation of 69 �the Minkowslci diagram, which is a geometric representa· tion of a world in which the space coordinates are interde· pendent with the time coordinates. A number of authors claim that the relativization of simultaneity and the in· volvement or covariance of space and time so spoil the objectivity of the temporal order, that is, the unambiguous and universal separation of past and future, that one can no longer speak of becoming in the world. The world is a four-dimensional continuum of three spatial and one "spa· tializing" time coordinate, spatializing in the sense that in this geometric diagram the motion of any substantial point is represented by a stationary curve. This world is already "written." It is and does not become, though it appears to us successively, like a prepared cartoon strip we read by moving our eyes. Thus the only change is that in the per· ceiving consciousness of the observer, and if there is real time it is only his psychological time. The defenders of becoming argue, on the other hand, that the perturbations of time pointed to by proponents of being do not occur for causally related events, whose suc· cession is preserved in all frames of reference; only the suc· cession of causally unrelated and of simultaneous events is relativized. So nothing, they claim, stands in the way of positing real, that is, causally conditioned, becoming. Aside from self.contradictory use of the term "being" to mean static appearance and the too-narrow use of the term becoming for causally related succession, the diffi· culty in drawing philosophical conclusions about time and the world, even supposing the physicists came to terms, seems to me to be that the interpretation really concerns only the representation of the theory, that is, a model of its world, not the world itself (Frazer, pp. 415 ff.; Whitrow, pp. 227-228; Gruenbaum, Basic Issues, 195-228). It seems that while the study of physical theory is indis· pensable to an understanding of process and motion, it can be no more than suggestive with respect to time. But that really implies that time properly speaking must be· long not to nature but to the observer. 4. TEMPORAL SENSIBILl1Y . Sometimes it is the matter itself which arouses wonder and perplexity, while sometimes the world's preoccupa· tion with it excites curiosity and concern. In the case of time the two motives for starting a study seem to me to coincide. There is certainly plenty of external evidence for our world's pervasive fascination with time. In the decades close to us there is no getting away from observations to the effect that the rate of change of the human environ· ment has increased stupendously, and this increase is usually expressed as a speeding up of time itself. "Innovation" is the incantatory term which people feel they must utter to keep time from outrunning them. Complementing this 70 general sense of the urgency of our situation there is al~~ _ flood of scientific work on time; for example, intriguing bi· elogical experiments on the_ temporal rhythms of animals and jet-setters, psychological studies of time perception and estimation, sociological accounts of time management in different cultures (e.g., Zerubavel). But this overwrought sense of time's power did not arise only after the First World War. It had been in the offing, one might say, for tw9 millenia, but it first broke out acutely almost two centuries ago, in Hegel's writings. It in· fected common opinion with the notion that the times are informed by a supraindividual force whose laws human science can divine and with whose ends human beings must, on pain of merciless punishment, cooperate. There was the widespread sense that this movement of time was coming to a culmination, either in an earthly paradise or in a man-made apocalypse. There was a passionate elevation of personal time in its vitality over space in its dead exter· nality (Bergson, Note 27, 3). There were discoveries of the interdependence of space and time (Einstein, Alexander, Note 6). And, as was to be expected, an irritated reaction against this "time-mind" soon followed (Lewis, Note 7). But most weightily, there was the claim that the philo· sophical situation of our time forces us to view the ground of human being itself as temporal (Heidegger, Logik p. 267). . Although cataloguing the elements and sources of what everyone is saying is a dry and dubious business, I car · °' help speculating, or rather summarizing the speculatio .. _ ) others, on how time, having been dethroned from its mythical majesty by Aristotle, returned as the demon force of modernity. Four root references seem to me discernible, four causes to which the temporal preoccupation oflate moder· nity is referrable. First and fundamentally this preoccupation is the secu· Jar residue of Christianity. Christian time has a beginning, an end, and an internal epoch. These are the Creation, the Final Judgment, and the birth of God as man. Our other· wise apostate world retains a secularized sense of impend·. ing doom, of a man-made catastrophe (which long ante· cedes the concrete fear of nuclear annihilation), and, alternately, of coming salvation through progress toward a divinization of mankind or a return to an original crea· turely equality in a terrestrial paradise. A second cause is the simple fact that we come late in history, not in the sense in which Greek philosophers pos· ited innumerably repeated cycles of the discovery and loss of art and wisdom (Note 13), but because we have behind us a minutely documented civiliution, classical antiquity, uniquely brilliant and irrevocably bygone, to which we have a peculiar relation. For modernity begins with a seJf. conscious, systematic transformation of the classical cate· gories of thought and conduct. Hence the shape of mod· em preoccupations is not quite intelligible without ·e reference to their ancient origins. At the same tim SUMMER 1983 �seem to have every reason for forgetting those origins as being superseded. For we have more power over nature and are, in the modem West, better governed than were our intellectual ancestors. Such forgetfulness, however, in· duces a vague feeling of discontinuity and leaves us with the contradiction of a chronic sense that our situation is utterly new. Third is the temporal effect that goes with the sheer massiveness of modernity, its human numbers, informa· lion, organizations, wars, crimes, and instruments of plea· sure. The motion of magnitudes so far beyond human per· spective appears to us to be attributable to an agency less than divine and yet suprahuman; we call it time and con· sider its effects inevitable. the Finally, and most to my purpose, is _ special modem propensity for a kind of psychological introspection which, in contrast to philosophical self-knowledge, consists of a prolonged pursuit of intimate affective subtleties. It seems to me to stem from two sources coincidentally: from that secularization of the anxious Christian interest in the sal· vation of one's soul which motivates Augustine's Confes· sions, and from that sophisticated reaction against the early modern view that human subjectivity is ultimately rational which is called romanticism and whose founding work is Rousseau's Confessions (Note 7). Naturally such introspection-it is really an ingenious kind of musing-is especially rich in observations about the sense of time and ready to luxuriate in the aroma of temporality. Those of us who were born in the first third of this century participate in these affects by birthright. For then a sense of decadence and fin de siecle, climaxed by the First World War which realized all the worst forebod· ings and indeed closed an era in civilization, had worked the temporal sensibility into an acute state, which was the psychological complement of the new interest in the phys· ical time. Three novelistic masterworks of the early century which, although demandingly voluminous, found avid readers, are at once a sign and a source of this sensibility: The first is Proust's novel, literally entitled Toward a Search for Lost Times. It is an account of the ennui· infected author's quest for the catalyst of his art, which he finds in the last part of the novel, Time Retrieved; it comes in the form of an instantaneous, time-annihilating recov· ery of certain paradisical childhood moments. The second is Mann's Magic Mountain. It is a book described by its au· thor as intended to induce in the reader that same "subli· mation of time," a warping of the sense of time in accor· dance with the intensity of life, experienced by its solidly bourgeois yet physically tainted young hero. The book contains several phenomenological expositions of time, in· eluding a whole "Digression on the Time Sense." Finally there is Joyce's Ulysses, an Irish odyssey, whose hero is a Jew, an ordinary man and an outsider, who enacts within one Dublin day the adventurous Mediterranean voyage performed over a decade by his Homeric original. Joyce THE ST. JOHNS REVIEW learnedly interweaves mythical, historical, personal time; the book is a recollection of European civilization. • • • Let me describe some of these experiences of temporal· ity-a mere personal sample of temporal affections indica· tive of our time-under the interlaced rubrics of pacing, routine, and skewing. l. By "pacing" I mean the phenomenon that our inter· · nal time seems to undergo drastic shifts in tempo. We modems are so acutely subject to these, it seems to me, because the rhythms of modem life are not long-breathed natural periods, punctuated by public ritual, but tightly scheduled stretches interrupted by private vacations. The characteristically modem art forms, like the novel and symphonic music, seem tQ me peculiarly expressive of our habituation to sharp changes in pace. We modems are a). most congenitally expert in the central temporal experi· ence of the Magic Mountain-the periods of apathy, sur· feit, distraction, and boredom which are long to live through but vanishingly brief in retrospect, "wastes" of time, poor in feature and welded in memory; they alter· nate with times of intense eventfulness, accomplished at breakneck speed, while depositing memories so close· packed and vivid, that today seems aeons from yesterday. A similar experience is that haunting sense of its expanded or contracted availability which makes time seem like money to be prodigally spent in one phase and anxiously hoarded in another, always with a guilty sense that one's lifetime is being mismanaged. Again there is that pecu· liarly modem drivenness which prevents us from ever "having" time-and its complementary lethargy when the possession of no amount of "free" time avails: our time devils either ride or bind us. There are, similarly, those oC· casions of wild anticipation when the present moment, overburdened with the concentrated desire that time should pass, stalls in a bad imitation of the "standing now" of eternity, and will not give way to the next second. Then again, though, time suddenly takes off and shimmies away, as in periods of nervous distraction. Perhaps the latter af· fections are not peculiar to our time, but here is one that surely is, the strangest and most characteristic of modem time experiences: our watchful subjection to that ubiqui· tous little face on the wrist which, -through all internal tempi, equably shows the time. It is somehow, I suspect, the cause of our loss of temporal equanimity. _ 2. Next, "routine": Routine is that organization of our time economy which causes periods of time to be end· lessly reflected as in facing mirrors, so that our memory can scarcely discern whether it contains an infinity of times or just one moment. Almost everyone who works in the modem mode, according to a nonseasonal repeating schedule, has some sense of the enigma of the time· constrained round. How are such calendar days additive? What memorable difference could be powerful enough to 71 �now! But is being in the same place at the same time _.., ) distinguish each of the ten-thousand times of hastening up certain a remedy for remoteness? Can it not equally be its these particular brownstone stairs at the sound of the bell from every other? The memory is curiously cavalier about cause? Cannot the absent soul be more vividly a presence the routines of life. It abstracts one event and remembers than the present body? One writer on time illustrates the that schema, modified by the mere knowledge of its multicommon claim, that the feature which most distinguishes present from past is vividness, by· referring to his colleague tudinous recurrence, its mere temporal heaping. The duX who is, he asserts, more acutely there than Plato; I wonties of each day, when done in the present, at the front of der, or rather I doubt it. On the other hand, there does time, as it were, are vivid and absorbing enough, but when seem to be a special bond of awareness-if only of disilluwe tum around to face the past an enigma stares back: There has certainly been living but has there been a life, sioned awareness-that links not only those who live in that complete shape which the Greeks call bios, as distinct neighbourly contiguity but also those who coexist in spa· tially distant contemporaneity. from mere vital process, zoe? Can a temporally bureaucratized life become a whole unless the routine is no more To extend the speculation from spatial to temporal relothan the thorough·bass of some atemporal melody? Again, cation: If it is sometimes, though perhaps rarely, possible the complement of clock-bound business is the vacation, a to go back to former places and presences, and to reenter vacancy of time, "free" time, and this_ whole temporal contheir continuity, why should it be an interdicted purfiguration of engaged and disengaged periods is subject to pose-as the common opinion of our age con'siders it-to a curious inversion of background and foreground, as in go back to former times by internal recovery and an external reconstruction? Such a collective return, or rather re· certain optical illusions, such that work time, in which life's energy is, after all, primarily invested, feels like the trieval, such a going back which means a bringing back, mere backdrop to the periods of "off' time. No matter has, after all, been attempted, and always these renaishow contentedly we are enmeshed in the cocoon of daily sance times are also the newest of times. Similarly, why should not individual retrievals of our private lost times be absorption, let there be a.break in busyness, and the inertia which is strong in the scheduled spirit exerts itself to resist a possibility? That is, after all, Proust's project-just as the not only all duties but all actions, and the released soul Renaissance revives antiquity in grand vignettes, so Proust drinks deep draughts of diversion. relives his childhood in paradisical tableaus. Could it be, 3. "Skewing" is my term for the overpowering sense indeed, that such retrievals of time, public or private, a1e which befalls us moderns especially in historical settings, the modem replacements for the ancient periodic ri ) thie sense that space and time can be at cross purposes. I enactments of mythical moments-these being the ·~ · have been in Athens, at a place where my path crossed spective modes of bringing the then and there into the that of Socrates, not conjecturally but precisely, since arhere and now and of undoing the skewing of time and place? chaeology, that quintessentially modem discipline, has fixed the exact location, for instance, of the court where I have only described some time affections which seem he was tried. Nor was I. on the spot in plane coordinates to .me particularly acute in modern life. But such diverse only, for again archaeology, which brings back the past by musings while expressing the mood and providing the madigging down, had laid bare the level of his time. I was, terial for the inquiry into time have no end and lead to no resolutions. then, correctly located in all three spatial dimensions. I was in the right place but at the wrong time. That melancholic sense of the irreparable loss of what we have never 5. THE PlllLOSOPHERS had which is induced by written histories of bygone splendours-for histories induce memories of the never-experiWhat is left, in the end, for someone anxious to clarify enced-that temporal nostalgia, is many times intensified and test certain iiitimations about time, is the way through. when no space intervenes to compound the temporal disthe philosophers. It is, after all, their proper and specific tance, when here and now are directly at odds. It is, after business to ask boldly and set out coherently what Time all, to bask in such melancholy that we visit "historic itself is. The five writers I have chosen are those who seem spots." · to me to present the most deep-reaching, well-grounded, The apprehension of this skewing of space and time inand mutually responsive thematic treatment of time. vites much rumination. Take, for instance, the common Aristotle defines time as the number of motion. His is inverse experience of the case above: being contemporathe first thematic treatment in the West, unsurpassibly neous, even precisely simultaneous, with another chercomprehensive and therefore the natural reference for all subsequent expositions. ished human being, but apart in space. How does the case of spatial distance differ from temporal separation? Appar· Augustine, in his effort to comprehend the temporal ently by the fact that the latter seems to be remediable; by creature's relation to his eternal God and Creator, discov. ers time as the "distension" or worldly dimension of the an investing of available time in transversing space I can come again into the other's presence-incidentally itself soul. His ardent and original inquiry first establishes t~-o:i porality as at the root of human existence. ) the strangest business, this going into and out of another's 72 SUMMER 1983 �On this Augustinian discovery Husserl bases a phenomenology, namely a description, as presuppositionless as possible, of the internal appearances of time, that is, of time-consciousness. · Kant finds time to be the "inner sense," the sense in which the self becomes an appearance to itself; here time, as the form of human sensibility, is of the soul without belonging to the ultimate subject, the self. Heidegger understands the very ground of human existence as temporality, inverting Kant's relation of the self to time and driving the notion of time to its most extreme distance from Aristotle. There are, of course, other writers on time who are of great stature. Of these my chief omission is Hegel, whose writings, (except for the paragraphs on time in nature, _ Note 27, 2) are just not capable of a dissevered thematic _ treatment of time. For his system is the account of the spirit in its necessary appearances which is Time.8 Plotinus (20), Leibniz and Newton (4), Locke (24), Nietzsche (13). Bergson (27, 3) and Whitehead (16 and 32) are briefly treated in the Notes indicated. As for the absence of Plato, it is not really an omission because there is no extended treatment of time in the Dialogues except in myths (See Notes 12 and 13) and, significantly, none of these are told by Socrates himself-whose images are reierved for the atemporal. Finally, I should say that it is not so much the gist of the theories here presented that is instructive for my purpose but the exposition of their motives and principles, the tracing of their explicit and implicit consequences, and the formulation of those oppositions and analogies which mark them as belonging to one tradition. Using the texts in that way, I shal1 in the last section (VI) try to formulate my suspicions against time. II. ARISTOTLE: TIME AS THE NUMBER OF MOTION Time, Chronos, is endowed among the _Creeks with vividly various shapes and widely diverse, even opposite, powers; he is monster, god, and heaven itself, all-seeing, healing, and all-destroying. 9 Sophocles, for example, says once that "omnipotent time" confounds and· destroys all, and then again he calls him "a gentle god" (Oed. Col. 609, Electra 179).·Time's attributes are evidently fluid, but he is always a potent being. In the fourth book of the Physics, the first extensive thematic treatment of time, Aristotle suddenly and drastically reduces it to the lowest possible status. This epoch-making triumph of thinking over myth-making has not prevailed. · Indeed, the dethroned god has been resurrected as God himself by Aristotle's modern counterpart, Hegel. So much the more, it seems to me, should the overthrow accomplished by Aristotle be recalled. 1HE ST. JOHNS REVIEW 1. TIME AND ITS MEASURES* Aristotle begins with the suspicion that time is "either wholly not, or scarcely and obscurely" (217 b--34). For many perplexities arise if being is ascribed to time, chief of which is that some of it is gone and is no longer, some of it is to come and is not yet, while the now is no part of time at all. He resolves the difficulty-like this: Time is a mere affection or aspect (pathos, hexis, 223 a 19) of motion: "Time is the number of motion with respect to before and after" (220 a 25). The Loeb translators comment ·that Aristotle "enters into no profound metaphysical speculation as to its essential nature" (I, 378). But the profundity of his speculation lies precisely in his showing that time has no essential nature; an interpretation of his treatment ought to show what the deep-lying reasons for this determined trivialization of time are. Not only is time a mere aspect of motion for Aristotleit is not even a necessary aspect, since not all motions are temporal. Two kinds of motion at least are prior to time. They are the motions at the two limits of the natural world, so to speak, and they are timeless because they are themselves the source and principle of time. The first is the ultimate, primary rotational motion of the heavens, the second is the motion of the soul apprehending time. I shall say more of these later, but I must mention right now that to identify these motions as pretemporal is by no means to say that they cannot be timed. We can clock the heavens and we can time our cogitations-but we have clocks only because of the regular continuous motions of the heavens, and we can tell time only because of the counting motion of our soul. Time is the measure of motion, and therefore motion can in tum measure time (220 b 24). Up to the last book the Physics is about inner-worldly motions and these alone are the motions affected .with time, the number of motion according to before and after. Where there is no physical body, there is no time (On the Heavens 279 a 16). Motion (kinesis) includes every kind of change (metabole) of qu~ntity, quality, place, and the process of becoming (218 b 21, though not becoming as simple coming into being, Met. 1067 b 32): How can motion possess number, that is, come in ordered units? Motion has a quantitative aspect; it is a magnitude; we may say that it has extension. Motion derives its sequential extended character of before-and-after from this aspect which is merely a property in the motion although separable in thought (219 a 22; see Loeb Ip. 384, n.b.). (Strictly speaking, as we shall see, the motion derives its magnitudinal property from the thing moved, the mobile.) In other a •Tue section on Aristotle was worked out during year of learning with and from Anderson Weekes, then a senior at St. John's College, Annapolis, who during that time developed a coherent and illuminating account of Aristotle's theory of cognition. 73 �words, the category of continuous quantity is predicated of motion. 10 To say that time moves is meaningless; rather motion is temporal, and from motion time derives all its properties·· and problems. As motion is continuous, so is time, and all the problems continuity offers to reason, time does likewise. First among these is its relation to the now, which is analogous to that of a point to its line. !\fore of that later. A second difficulty is that since motion is continuous, so is time: Whence, then, come the unit measures, the periods, through which time can become the number of motions? Time, therefore, pertains to motion insofar as motion is a continuous quality or quantity, which always has a before-and-after. The primary before-and-after, according to Aristotle, is that of place (219 a 16), and therefore locomotion is in all ways the primary motion: It is the condition of all other motions, and it is the motion of a completed being, and it is temporally prior to other motions since it initiates them (VIII, 7). But it would be false to conclude that motion is continuous because it is spatial, as if it were the covering of extended space by an indifferent point-mobile. That would be an importation of the modem physical view that a motion is sufficiently understood through its "quantity,'' which is called momentum and defined as the measure of the mass multiplied by the velocity of the moving body. Aristotle rejects the possibility of a motion indifferent to the nature of the mobile and its proper places. I I Indeed, as was said, motion itself is defined in terms of the mobile, as its state. He says clearly that motion is continuous because the thing moved is continuous and not because that in which it is moved is so (Coming to Be 337 a 27). He does not, of course, mean the continuity of the present extent of the thing, for example, its length, but rather that continuity which a mobile has by reason of possessing a matter which remains continuous through change, the substrate or subject of the motion (Met. 1042 a 32, 1044 b 7). The magnitude of motion, and derivatively of time, is an affection of a divisible subject which is not the momentary present movable thing itself but "what was moved" (Met. 1020 a 32), which must mean the mobile in its_progressive changes of place. In this continuing-through-its-phases the mobile displays that extension which is reflected in the motion and which, when counted, is called temporal durations. In brief: what is countable in motion is its continuously phased development, its "before-and-after." It should be noted here that, accurately speaking, the magnitudinalaffections are so-called "proper affections"; they belong to the mobile not essentially but yet necessar· ily, just as a human being is not essentially either a male or a female and yet is necessarily one of these. Temporal duration is therefore not of the essence of the mobile. From this fact follows the crucial distinction between Aristotelian and modem physics: To Aristotle the science that leaves out motion and magnitude is closer to essences, more intelligible, and therefore more accurate than that 74 which includes-them (Met. 1078 a 12); therefore physi~ a subordinate science, and not Science simply, as it is with us. Locomotion, then, is prior in all ways to the other motions. Of locomotions, rotary motion alone is continuous in all senses: It has no beginning and it does not end through having completed its process, nor does it abruptly double back on itself; it can be regular, smooth, uninterrupted, and eternal (Phys. VIII 8-9). The first heavenly sphere is the uniquely perfect embodiment of such rotary motion. It comes as close to being at rest as a mobile can be, since every point in a circular motion is equally a beginning, middle, and end, so that in a certain sense it has no before-and-after (265 b l~ It is in motion, but not toward an end; its movement is rather a steady state which imitates in its regularity the pure activity of completely fulfilled being, Cod (Met. XII 7). This is the motion which is the cause of all other inner-worldly motions, and so, indirectly, of time (Phys. VIII 9). IZ Beyond the heavens there is no time (On the Heavens 279 a 15). The continual character of time, its endlessness and its uninterruptedness, is therefore derived from that of the ultimate motion. Because of the heavenly motion, time is one and the same throughout the world (Phys. 218 b 14). The discontinuous motions of the terrestrial world, which come to an end with the reaching of their goal, are all fitted into continuous cosmic time. And since everything within the world is mobile and subject to timing, time i~ · everything (223 a 17). As the heavens are the source of temporal continualness, so they provide the measure of time. The cycle of rotation is the best unit of time, because it is easiest to count (223 b 19}-a continuous quantity must have a unit measure in order to be countable. The unit measures of time in the terrestrial world of be· coming are provided by the ·sun's oblique motion along the ecliptic. Just as the movement of the whole heaven is responsible for the continuity of motion and time, so the sun, the "generator,'' by its approaches and withdrawals causes each life to have its span: "Every life and time is measured by a period, though not the same for all .... For some the measure is a year, for some a greater and for others lesser period" (On Coming to Be 336 b 13 ff.). Hence the period or cycle is the natural time unit (Phys. 223 b 28). God has made this somewhat irregular but uninterrupted cycle of becoming perpetual so that it may come as near as possible to eternal being (336 b 35); becoming approaches being in a kind of Eternal Retum.13 To tell continuous time over such annual cycles it would seem necessary that -each cycle should differ somewhat from the next, as, because of the accidents of matter, it certainly will be. Time, then, belongs, strictly speaking, only to the sublunar world of change, of becoming and of linearly advanc· ing motion in which before and after are distinguishable. Such motion, defined in Physics III (201 a 11), 14 is to be ) understood through Aristotle's two fundamental tf a SUMMER 1983 �potentiality or capability for being (df11amis) and actuality, activity, or being-at-work (energeia; also entelecheia, fulfill· ment). Motion, then, is the fulfillment of a capability; it is the actual exercise of the potentiality that the mobtle has for being what it was meant to be, for achieving its full form (eidos). Each motion is a unity, governed by its .o wn end and ceasing when that end has been fulfilled. Its time is just the measured course of this activity of approaching full being. Since a terrestrial mobile, unlike the heavens (On the Heavens I, 3), has a corruptible material substrate and is subject to accidents, it cannot hold its perfected state. If it is an animal it will instead have generated a new animal, different in number but the same with itself in form. And so as a member of the species it will participate in eternity, in spite of the temporary life of each genera· lion (On the Soul 415 b 4). Such generating is the terrestrial complement to the work of the generating sun: "Man is begotten by man and by the sun" (Phys. 194 b 13). The father as progenitor comes before the child in time, but because he contributes the form toward which the child is moving he is prior not only in time but also in being. That toward which as an end the motion is, the actual· ity, is prior in dignity (Met. 1050 a). This priority is time· less. When a moving thing has come to the state of beingat-its-own-end or fulfillment it straightaway cuts out of the continuum of time and becomes, with respect to its being, timeless. What is actual, fully in being, is present (hypcir· chon, 1048 a 32), in a state imaginable as a kind of motion· less vibrancy. One must say of it that it has been and is at once (1048 b 24); it is not temporally determinable or articulable. But just as for pure eternal objects "to be while time is is not the same as to be in time" (Phys. 221 a 19), so worldly things which are composites of form and material can have temporal duration in their actuality. For their having come into their own form does not preclude lheir informed material from being in time. Thus the men of Troy cannot be said to be either before or ~fter us with respect to their form, and yet the Trojan War in which they served certainly occurred long before our day (Prob le· mata 916 a 18 ff.).15 It is just because every motion is one and terminates in its own end that time is powerless as a cause. For this end is always discontinuous with the motion that leads up to it. Aristotle separates the concluding moment as no longer belonging to the motion but to its completion and fulfillment (Phys. 263 b 15). So while a motion and its time are yet in process, none of the moments of this continuous span is determinate or complete enough to be the suffi· cient cause of the next moment. When mere time inter· venes between a cause and its end, that is, when the motion is not a completed unity, the end is merely contingent (Post. An. II 12). Thus, while a cause may be in time, it can never act through mere time: That means that there is no mechanical causation, which is a causation where each momentary state fully determines the next. Furthermore, Aristotle notes that the mere ]apse of time is never responTIIE ST. JOHNS REVIEW sible for a thing being made new or beautiful. If anything, we say that time destroys, but only because motion itself is, from one perspective, "ebtatic" (a word Heidegger will raise to central importance~ that is to say, it is a destabilization and a "standing forth" from the status quo (Phys. 221 bl; 222 b 17). Time is but the number of motion-the objective number, the countable parts themselves (219 b 9~ Motion is potentially numerable, but it has an actual number or be· comes temporal only when it is actually counted. It is the soul that counts motion. How? By noting change, of course. When we have no awareness of change, as during sleep, we say that rio time has passed, for we fit ·the earlier directly onto the later now (218 b 26). (Because of the continuity of motion the opposite case, that there should be no change to_ perceive, is apparently impossible.) So time depends on distinguishing nows. 2. THE NOW If time is thought of on the analogy of a continuous directed line whose parts have an intrinsic order (though of position rather than of before-and-after, Cat. 5 a 30), the now corresponds to a Eudidean point, namely a point which is not a constituent element of a line but merely lies upon it (Elements, Def. 4). For the now, Aristotle is at pains to show, is not a part of time but its very "continuity" (220 a 19, 222 a 10), at once the pivotal link of before· and-after and the possibility of temporal division. This mathematized now reproduces whatever perplexities a mathematical point raises, and so, since time depends on motion and motion on the continuous magnitude of the mobile (219 a 12), time shares all the problems of geometric continuity. For example, the nows are the limits of seg· men ts of time without belonging to time and are therefore not attainable by dividing time, just as the point is a part· less element which indefinite divisions of a line approach but do not reach. Further, the now is always the same in function but never in "position" (219 b 16), just as any ·point which produces a cut in the line is indistinguishable from another except by location; similarly, as a point divides a line everywhere potentialJy, but actually only when a cut is made, so the now does not divide time actually until a temporal c, t is made. µ How is that temporal cut made? As time accompanies motion, so the now hovers, as it were, over the moving thing (219 b 24 ff.) It is by the now alighting on an object that before-and-after in motion are first distinguished, for "the now is most apprehensible." We conclude that the now must be the presentness of the perception 16 of a moving thing; and that the cut in time is niade by the act of perceptual attention to a moving object: "Perception is necessarily of a this and a where and a now" (Post. An. 87 b 30). Perception is "an innate distinguishing power" (99 b 36) which is actualized by the external and the particular 75 �(On the Soul 417 b 21 ), and the now-cut in time is actualized with it. But, on the other hand, how can there be perception of the point-now? If perception itself takes time, then how can it cut time except in time, which means, not at a now. But if, on the other hand, perception as the activity of the faculty of sensation (On the Soul II 5,12) is, like all actuality, essentially not in time (though it can be accompanied by time), then what does it have to do with the now which makes the temporal cut? What Aristotle says of the activity of pleasure exemplifies this problem: "It is a kind of whole in the now" (Nie. Eth. 1174 b 9; a 14). 17 Is this psychic now which is capable of atemporal substantial fulness formally identical with the now of physical time? Similarly for perception: What is perceived in the soul's now is the atemporal actuality of the object-the .soul perceives its form through the sensing of its shape. How then can the soul simultaneously perceive the partless point-now of the mobile's temporal extension? Aristotle does not say. He does indeed try to make provision for the perception of lengths of time (see below, 3). But even then it will not be clear how the soul cuts time, and this is a crucial difficulty since "time is what is determined by the now" (Phys. 219 a 30). It is this difficulty which later philosophers solve by taking time into the soul so that the now becomes identical with its noting. When the soul has pronounced "now" twice (however it does so), namely before and after a motion-stretch, we say that a certain time has passed (219 a 28). Since time is that by which motion has number, it must be possible to count the stretch between the termini, which requires reference to a standard measure. We have, as was shown, such universal measures given us by the heavenly spheres: days by the revolution of the starry sphere, years and seasons by the sun, months by the moon. With these natural passages and their more minute subdivisions we compare the stretch of time and, counting the bounding nows-for the now corresponds to the unit in number (221 a 16)-we count the substretches which they mark off. There is no time without soul, for time arises where countable motion is actually counted, and only a soul, by means of the perceptive intellect (nous) can count (223 a 23 ff.). What, then, is counting? We must cast loose completely from latter-day Kantian notion that counting is the articulation of an inner stream of consciousness, an internal time-flux. The soul, for Aristotle, has no original psychic time because it has no one continuous underlying flow or motion; nor does thought run through or touch on a continuum as it counts: "The motion of reason is not a continuum and in an underlying matter, as is that of a moving thing" (On Invisible Lines 969 a 32). When the soul thinks time it does not actually run through the temporal continuum but takes its sections atomically, as it thinks its successive thoughts discretely, like numbers(On the Soul 430 b 7, 407 a 9). . The soul, locomotive, affective, or rational, cannot well be said to be in physical motion (408 a 34 ff.). 18 But in some 76 other manner, never quite defined, it must be spoken ot as moving. For example, thinking is motion for "without continuity and time it is impossible for us to think even those things which are not in time" (On Memory 450 a 8). Coming to know is a motion for it requires experience, repeated and remembered perceptions through which the universal is suddenly established (Post. An. 100 a 3 ff.). The attaining of a good condition takes time, for the human intellect, being composite, needs a continuous approach to perfection (Met. 1075 a 9). So there are psychic motions, but they are discontinuous, in fact in two ways: Motion is not always present and each motion proceeds discretely. I think it can be shown that the human soul does have an everpresentness, namely its first actuality, analogous to the un.intermittent thought of the pure intellect, but it is not the continuity of an ever-advancing, ever-incomplete homogeneous flux. The continuity of time is entirely external and physical. Its source is the heavenly local motion with which the intermittent inner motion of the soul has only this in common-that it, too, must be in a strict sense achronic; for how, without infinite regress, will the soul count its own counting?l9 3. MEMORY Without the now, then, there is no time, and no t;.,,e without a now (219 b 34), but as we have seen, then. .s not a part of time. Indeed its mode of being is quite ditrerent from that of time, which is to say that it comes under a different category. Time belongs to the category of "how great" or quantity; the now belongs to the category of "when" (Cat. 2 a 2, 11 b 12) along with "yesterday" and "tomorrow." Except for an isolated chapter on the usage of "when" words, nothing is said of this latter category in the Physics nor is it elucidated in the Categories. This most significant and strange disjunction of time and the now is implied by Aristotle's problematic theory of the role duration plays in perception and perceptible being: The perceptive intellect comes into contact with the continuously moving physical world always at a here and a now; the here may stay put, but the now passes on along with the motion, and from that, derivatively, arises the perception of time. But the now has another relation to time besides generating its perception: Each present now forms an impenetrable limit between all the nows that have passed and all the nows that are to come (234 a 1). Or perhaps since there are, strictly speaking, no past and future nows, one should say that the now separates time before from time after. Therefore there is a past-or rather, we humans have a past (as do certain animals, On Mem. 450 a 15). The inanimate physical world has no past or future, although it has a before-and-after, which simply means that it is in a prior or a posterior phase of its approach to being. Nor has r ~ a _ past, for having no sensory perception he has no nL _ 1 How then is it possible for us to have a past, that is to SUMMER 198l �say, passed nows? Aristotle deals with this most humanly soul, resulting from the activity of perception, by which we have images (On the Soul 429 a 3). No human being, as interesting of temporal problems, the triune character of the category "when," in the brilliant little essay On Mema composite of matter and form, can think without images; ory and Recollection. We know even beforehand that we for example, one cannot do geometry without at least internal diagrams. For the image is an accommodation of must have a capacity for retaining nows drained of present material objects to the thinking soul, a holding of their perception. Without such an ability we could not tell time, since we could not interpret what we had counted up. Nor form and their continuity without their matter; the human could we learn, since we could accumulate no experience. intellect needs this form to go to work (On Mem. 450 b 31 For it is many memories which make one experience, and - ff.). memory is of past perception (Post. An. 100 a 4). Memory and imagination, then, both belong to the About the three "whens" Aristotle says succinctly: "Of same part of the soul, that "primary organ" of perception what is present, there is perception, of what is to come, which receives deliverances incidental and common to all expectation, of what has been, memory" (On Mem. 449 b the senses, namely magnitude, motion, and, consequently, time (450 a 8 ff., On the Soul 425 a 14 ff.). Memory is the 28). The present (pciron, being-at-hand) is the perceptionaffection of this power when time has gone by (On Mem. filled now. It is immediate: Of the now in the now there . 449 b 26), a kind of perception perpetuated past its cause. can be no memory (449 b 26). Enough has been said of it. All things imaginable can be remembered (450 a 24); indeed it is hard to think what sense-derived image would Heidegger will subject it to a fundamental critique. It is the imagination which makes the two non-present not be, strictly speaking, a memory, since all images arise phases of time possible. The future arises when the soul, from perception as soon as the actual sensing in the sense organ has ceased. in present deliberation about what is to be, projects images (On the Soul 431 b 8). Aristotle observes that we appear to Only what is no longer present can be remembered. But face into the future since the before of the past is more how is that possible? Aristotle never tells hows imagining works, except by analogy. He likens a memory-image to a remote from the now than the after, while the before of the future is closer (Phys. 223 a 9). But beyond that he seal impression, a simile which expresses the crux of his treats the future mostly from the logical point of view, askdifficulty: Imaging compounds the mystery of perception: ing what it might mean to speak now the truth about what how can a material somatic organ receive the physical obwill be. For if futural assertions are always either true or ject extendedly and yet immaterially (On the Soul 424 a 18 false, just like assertions about past and present, then conff., 427 b 29 ff.)-and then hold it through time ready for recovery? tingency and chance are excluded-the future is determinate. But that cannot be, since both human choice and the But he does tell what it means to be an image. The memvagaries of matter work to make future events contingent. ory recovers the perceptual trace or memory-image in the So while it is certainly necessary that tomorrow there must soul. However it is not the image we remember but the be a seafight or not, it is impossible to say which of these is thing itself, and therein lies a problem. Aristotle resolves it the case (On lnterp. 9). Therefore, in order to judge of fu. by pointing out that· that is just what it means to be an ture propositions, one must know which things will be by image: to be all in one an affection present in the soul and necessity (either because they are part of a necessary cycle a likeness of an object, just as a picture is before us both as of becoming, Post. An. 95 b 38 ff., or because they are ala physical object and as a likeness of a person. Aristotle is ways or never), and what things are within human choice. here prefiguring one of Husserl's central conceptions, that Then one can say either "it will be" or "it is expected" (to of "intentionality," which is the defining characteristic of esti, to mellon, Coming to Be 337 b 3 ff.), knowing that · consciousness as always consciousness of something. these sentences really refer to two different futures-the We have a past, then, by virture of memory, and we foreknown and the merely anticipated. have memory by virtue of our threefold receptive power. But Aristotle never intimates that there is anything in These are its facets: 1. perception (aisthesis), which is rethe future as future, some innovation or fulfillment to be sponsible for the actual present sensory event; 2. imaginacredited to mere futurity. What will be necessarily in the tion (phantasia), which is the capability of being affected by the continuities of place and motion abstracted from future is what has already always been (Note 13). Even human affairs run· in cyCles: "It is likely that art and philosotheir matter; and 3. memory (mneme), which permits rephy have often been discovered as far as possible and pertention of images and their revival together with an awareished again" (l<.Jet. 1074 b 11). So the future is of no great ness of the time elapsed since perception (452 b 23). Arisinterest to him. It will be otherwise with Augustine to totle supplies a not quite intelligible explanation of how whom prophecy, as the foreknowledge of the apparently such elapsed times are gauged (452 b 7 ff.): Just as one esticontingent, is a serious matter, and with Heidegger for mates a great external object not by actually reaching for it · whom the future will become the spring of time itself. but by representing it in a proportionate figure in the field It is the past which Aristotle treats most significantly. of the imagination, so one does not actually go back a long There is a past because there is memory and memory is a time to estimate the age of a memory-image, but one repmode of the imagination. There is a kind of motion in the resents it proportionately in a speeded-up motion-for exTHE ST. JOHNS REVIEW 77 �ample, by running through a decade in a second. What is hard to see is how such a scaling of time can given more than a very impressionistic comparative judgement of its length, since temporal extent cannot be panoramically surveyed in the imagination-for it does not appear-so as to give some sense of a scaling factor. As I have said, the chief difficulty in Aristotle's account of time is his insistence that duration itself can be perceived and imaged. Aristotle, nonetheless, summarizes: "Only those animate beings who perceive time remember, and by that part by which they perceive time" (449 b 29). This might seem to be a circular outcome: We have a past, because we have memory and memory because we have a sense of passed time. Yet with all its difficulties it sets the terms for future debate-the past can be only for animate beings who have an imagination with a temporal dimension, that is, memory. What is entirely missing in Aristotle's founding account is any sense that our triple temporality is humanly significant. The reason for this omission is that not time but timeless actuality is life in the full sense. This view is plainly expressed in this passage from the Nichomachean Ethics, which may serve as an epigraph: · Pleasant is the activity of the present, the hope of what is to come, the memory of what has been. But what is truly pleasant and lovable in these is their being in the way of actuality. (IX 1168 a 13] * * * The vulnerable places in this magnificently detailed and dovetailed theory of time which can be culled from Aristotle's various works are patent. They occur, I have argued, at its outer and its inner termini: the continuous celestial revolution which is the cause of all motion and the perceptual now, which is the point of tangency of natural motion and the soul. Happily the central thesis, the reduction of time to an affection of motion, is not, I think, exclusively bound into Aristotle's terms. (See Sec. YI 2.) Before going on to Augustine, who fully makes good Aristotle's lack of temporal pathos, let me at least refer to the intervening grand psycho-cosmological theory of the Neoplatonist Plotinus. (It is briefly sketched in No~e 20.). III. AUGUSTINE: TIME AS THE "DISTENTION" OF THE SOUL Time and the soul's temporality is transfigured in acreated world. Augustine bums with curiosity, expressed in ardent language, to know how the temporal human creature can reach beyond creation to the creator so as to find God's will "before" the world. He begins by throwing out an impetuous barrage of time quandaries and reflecti ') (Confessions, XI 14-19). What is time? How can there ht d ·past when what is gone is now no longer and what will be is not yet? And yet, did the present not pass, it would be eternity. Again, how can I say that is, whose cause of being is that it shall be? And how can I measure times when those gone are no longer and those to come are not yet available? If I do it, it must be while it is passing. But then what of the "three times" -how can I preserve them concurrently? Augustine thus begins, in some faith of getting satisfaction, with just those questions which Aristotle cites as perplexities arising from the error of giving time substantial being. In the course of his passionate inquiry some truths do come clear to Augustine. He thinks he can affirm boldly that if nothing were passing there would be no past time; if nothing were coming, no future; if nothing were, no present. So there must be a motion of the world; God's creation has passage. Further he sees that he always faces time: It does not come up from behind and out of the past, and he cannot, like Aristotle, go along with it, but it comes toward him from the future. As Aristotle, in Greek, calls the past "that which has become" (gen6menon), so Augustine calls it what has gone by (praeteritum). For there is a real future, not merely a necessitating cycliCal return, but events-to-be, contingent to human apprehension, yet revealed to the prophets through God's omniscience. A real future is the human consequence of God's foreknowledge. However he approaches the perplexity, Augustine j s sure of this-and here begin his wonderful resolutior ) that past, present, and future, wherever they are to ~i found, are only as present (20). There are not, properly speaking, three times (Aristotle's "whens"} called past, present, and future. Rather there is "a present of what is past, a present of what is present, and a present of the future." Such three are indeed in our soul (anima) and elsewhere I do not see them. The present of what has gone by is memory, the present of what is present, eyewitness (contuitus), the present of what is future, expectation. [20) Augustine is not describing an Aristotelian faculty for sensing what is before us, for reviving images with their accrued times and for projecting them in planning. He is speaking of time itself, and he is placing it within the human soul. The problem of measuring this psychic time leads him on (21-22). His mind "is set afire" by it, by the burning perplexity of the dispersal of time into its three phaseshow to lay them together for comparison, in what space, in what dimension to do the measuring. For time is not the measure of a motion but what is itself to be measured: While the sun stood still, time yet went on for Joshua. · "New," he exclaims, .. is the discovery of these things!" The discovery is this: "In you, my mind (animus), do I mea- . sure my times" (27). Times can be measured in the mind ) 78 SUMMER 1983 �because they are co-present there, and hence comparable. Thus is resolved the great puzzle of primary time measurement: ml1ike a length of space whose rigid measure can be transported intact and made congruent with another length, times and their measures flow away and are incapable of superimposition. (One must keep in mind that clocks measure and compare times only derivatively, through motion.): But in the soul times do coexist. The soul's collection of all times into its present proceeds, I infer, as follows. Worldly motion passes, so to speak, under the attentively apprehending soul. The soul perceives each moment as it goes past and absorbs it into its own temporal dimension, its memory. Thus the now remains fixed in its context but sinks ever further down as new moments of motion are perceived. At the same time that the soul remembers, and at the same juncture of the world's motion and the soul's present, it also expects. The difference between remembering and expecting is only this, that whereas present moments drop into memory, fu. ture moments drop, as it were, out of the dimension of expectation into the world. The future, therefore, is not a long time, for it is not, but the long future time is merely a long expectation of the future. Nor is the time past a long time, for it is not; but a long past time is merely a long memory of past time. [28] Augustine has referred to this co-temporaneity of the times as being in the mind. But now he goes further. Time is the dimension of the soul. Here is how Augustine putS it: " ... It seems to me that time is nothing else but a stretching out in length," [distentio is his word] "but of what I know not, and I marvel if it be not of the very mind" (26). Note that here time is not in the mind but it is the mind, or rather the dimension of the mind: The soul is the "space of time," that is to say it is drawn out into a temporal longitude along which memories, perception, and expectations are copresently arrayed. This "distention" can therefore be visualized as a kind of vertical elongation, an ordinate in a diagram. The horizontal axis represents the world's motion coming from the future towards the soul's "eyewitness." That moment is the origin, the perceptual present, where the soul's "distention" intersects, or sits astride, the world's motion and turns its sensation-events into memory images. These con· tinually drop down, preserving the order of entry, into the memory segment of the soul's distention, falling deeper with every passing moment. At the same juncture expectation or foreknowledge is drawn down from the upper segment to meet the real moment, to become realized in a perceptual present. The whole ordinate, the expectation and memory segment joined in the point of perception, constitutes the soul's triune present. The diagram expresses three significant elements of Augustine's temporality. First, since time is the soul's ver· tical dimension, the world's horizontal axis is timeless. It is Expectation (Future) Past (memory) indeed implicit in Augustine's understanding that the external creation has events but no temporal succession; it is the world as God sees it, all at once. It is the "standing now" (11) which becomes fluid only to the finite creature: Whatever God doth, it shall be forever .... That which hath been is now, and what is to be hath already been, and God requireth what is to be. [Ecclesiastes iii H-15] Second is the real futurity of the projections and previsions of the expectation segment; prophesies, as Godgiven visions of what is to be, meet their own realizations in the world, when the moment of their juncture with it arrives. Finally, the diagram points to the plenitude of memory for Augustine. He has indeed already devoted a most beautiful book (X) to its power, its "ample and infinite inward· ness (penetrale)," its "fields and spacious palaces," whence he can make present to himself by their images things he has seen and learned, including himself as he was, and which he traverses to come to God (8, 9, 17, 25). Augustine's passionate interest in temporality has its reason in his faith. He wants to discover the condition under which a temporally diS"persed being can approa<:h union with God. Having collected time from what might be called its horizontal extension into the vertical dimension representing the cotemporaneity of the phases of time, he has achieved a human present which is analogous to God's "standing now." But he prays further that his soul's stretching apart, its "distention"-William Watt's vivid translation of 1631 says "distraction" (Loeb}-should be gathered in, so that he might be not stretched apart in time (distentus} but stretched forth (extentus), not. in distraction (securidum distentionem) but in concentration (se.. cundum intentionem) toward the delights of the eternal father "which are neither to come nor to pass away" (29). This "extention" out of and beyond the world is represented by the third dimension in the diagram. 79 1liE ST. JOHNS REVIEW ' �Temporality, then, is the wordly dimension of the created soul, namely its capacity for taking in and containing the world, that is, was, and will be. And so time is also the soul's "distraction." HUS.SERL: THE PHENOMENOLOGY OF TIME Husserl's abstruse, intricate, and subtle description of the sense of time, The Phenomenology of Internal TimeConsciousness, begins with the praise of Augustine as the unsurpassed master of the problem of time. Indeed, Augustine's "distention" furnishes Husserl with his guiding schema, and Husserl may be-regarded as Augustine's expositor, with this difference: Husserl's analysis is intended to require no act of faith or philosophical thesis at all since he aims to write a phenomenology, a presuppositionless description of the phenomena of temporality and of temporal appearances. He therefore requires a rigorous "abstention" from all substantializing assumptions. He suppresses what might be called ontological greed, not in order to gaze about aesthetically, but to develop a penetrating analytic insight into the deep constituting structures of phenomena seen as phenomena, namely as they appear to consciousness. To put time before oneself strictly as a phenomenon hence requires the exclusion of objective or world time insofar as its existence is posited, and a transfer of attention to the fundamental phenomenon of immanent time, the flow of consciousness from now to now. This flow is the "temporally constitutive flux," the "originary" stream, in which temporal phenomena and, remarkably, the consciousness of time itself are simultaneously constituted (par. 39). In the end, to be sure, this flux is interpreted as consciousne!;s itself, as absolute subjectivity or self (36). But that is a leap beyond simple phenomenology, forced by the irrepressible human need for more than merely descriptive accounts. The early section, entitled "The Analysis of TimeConsciousness," is, however, rigorously phenomenological, and from it I shall sketch some findings: apt new coinages, illuminating discriminations, and, as the centerpiece, a diagrammatic synthesis of the elements found in the · analysis. 1. RETENTION Although each now is a source of fresh perception and the spring of the living present, temporally enduring objects are not perceived in a pointillistic mode, but in longer presences. This is a fact of temporal phenomena seen as phenomena. They have enduring_presence, even though the flux of time has an instantaneous leading edge. (To overcome the perplexity associated with this observation, 80 which Aristotle had left unresolved, namely how anythinb can be perceived in the partless point-now, the so-called . "specious present," an unintelligible notion of a finite, enduring now, had been introduced,21 but Husserl admits no such constructs.) How is an appearance, say of a melody, which develops over time as a unified object, to be understood? The term "intentionality" was mentioned in reference to Aristotle's understanding of the memory-image as an image of a thing. Husserl develops intentionality into an indispensable element in the description of consciousness. Consciousness is always also consciousness of something: it is always intentional. "Truly ... it pertains to the essence of the intuition of time that in every point of its du· ration ... it is consciousness of what has just been and not mere consciousness of the now-point of the objective thing ... " (12). Every now-consciousness is also a yetconsciousness, like a comet's tail of a previous perception. ·Thus besides the veritable perception, the content present in consciousness in its own right, there is also a consciousness of the time gone by-not a faded perception but something quite different: a past tone present as a past tone. This mode is distinct from ordinary memory, and Husserl calls it retention, or primary memory. It is the consciousness in the present of what has just been, discovered through the analysis of the phenomenal fact that an experience has duration within the immediately superseded now. Every present impressional consciousness "sha· ) off' into an everfresh retentional consciousness of ti •., temporal object's immediate past. But when the spring of tonal impressions gives out, the melody is over and sinks back to a vanishing point, passing into ordinary, or secondary, memory. Secondary memory is distinguished from primary, or retentive, memory by these features: Perception has the distinguishing character of "self-givenness" which means that it stands there, uncalled-for, in its own right. So too is "originary" time-consciousness self-given, for one cannot inhibit time's running-off. What we can do is to re-produce or re-present sections of temporal experience. Husserl employs the term "representification" (Vergegenwaertigung), "making present again" (Appendix II). Retention, then, yields the immediate past which is present; memory yields the remoter past which must be made present again. Husserl makes numerous other acute observations about memory phenomena (See Note 22). Memory is a mode which posits, that is to say, requires, a previous perception. The intentional reaching for the past is fulfilled in the presentification of a perception which is no longer self-given. The phenomenon of memory as a whole is precisely that of a present givenness of the past as past-but it is no longer a question for phenomenology how the past can be. Thus the present is characterized by perception, the past by an "intention" or a reaching for a previous percPl"\tion, and the future by a "protention," that is, an exp( ~1 SUMMER 1983 �tion of fulfillment in a perception to come. Protention is therefore inverted memory: Perception succeeds proten· tion but precedes memory (24-28). 2. THE DIAGRAM OF TIME Husserl's famous "Diagram of Time" (10) displays the phenomena of these three phases of time in their conjunction with the phenomenon of the "running off' or coursing of time in a coordinate schema which had been suggested by William James (Ch. XVII, end). One might say that it accomplishes the junction of Aristotle's two distinct categories of "when" and of "how much," or duration. Husserl is careful to state that the diagram is not a repre- sentation of objects as they appear in time, that is, of temporal appearances, but rather of the phenomenon of temporality itself. Here is an elaborated composite version of Husserl's schemata: +f' ' •' ' I \. I .I \ \ I '' I _:._~L---~~~ ~ - f ' ~,- - - - - - - - I '' \ '' \ \ I I \~ P" I I I The horizontal axis represents the originary flux of now points in consciousness. E is the now. PE is the span of the temporal flux of one temporally perceived object, for example, a melody, and it is therefore one retentional episode whose beginning was at P. 0 is some now before the initial now of the melody and belongs to the time of an event now past. Fis a future now. The oblique lines PP', 00' represent the "shading off' or "sinking away" into memory of the consciousness of P THE ST. JOHNS REVIEW and 0 as the perception-filled now has advanced to E. The line FF' represents a protention to be fulfilled in a coming perception at F. The vertical axis F'EP'O' stands for Augustine's "distention" of the mind, namely present consciousness encompassing perception, memories, and expectation. lrito it flow the oblique parallel memory and protention lines which fix past events and future expectations into the .memory and expectation order of the present. The present therefore contains a continuous and unperturbable time-order; the latter feature is schematically guaranteed by the parallelism of the oblique Jines. EP' is the present retentional memory of the temporctl event-object which occurred over PE. The triangle PEP' js the whole melodic episode in its "double continuity": the horizontal line represents the continuous flux of ever new perceptual nows, while the broadening triangular surface composed of parallel paths which fall out, as it were, from the flux, stands for the continuous memory lines of past nows feed· ing into the present memory. . The horizontal through P marks a variable threshold between retention and secondary memory, below which the melody would have outlasted the retentiona] span of that consciousness and would cease to be a unified temporal object. When F is now, the melody will have to be deliberately or spontaneously recaUed, being by then a secondary memory at P. . Husserl's diagram differs from tlie schema I have drawn for Augustine in that the horizontal axis of the former stands for the internal temporal flux rather than for the external motion of the world. Husserl regards that inner flux as the fundamental temporal phenomenon; an external time-consciousness would be for him a contradiction in terms, because to be conscious of a phenomenon temporally is just to constitute the temporal flux in consciousness. Therefore Husserl uses one time coordinate to represent the simultaneous presence of all the phases of time in consciousness and another to stand for the advancing temporal flux whose front is the now-consciousness. But whether this flux is really a primary phenomenon is just the question. (See Sec. VI 1.) • • • Aristotle's understanding of time as the number of motion counted by the soul follows from his theory of motion as actualization. Augustine's view of time as the dimensionality of the soul follows from his desire to relate the three phases of human temporality to the eternity of the . Creator. Kant's theory of time will serve to ground the new science of dynamics, particularly its causal relations. Insofar as the temporal relations of nature are contributed by a faculty of the soul, its formative ·sensibility, Kant is Augustine's heir, but it wiU be more interesting to see his theory in terms of an antithesis to Aristotle. 81 �IV. KANT: TIME AS INNER SENSE I. INNER SENSE The first and all-determining discovery Kant presents in the Critique of Pure Reason is a truly revolutionary understanding of what it means to sense ("Transcendental Aesthetic"). Recall that Aristotle had said that time is sensed, or better, perceived, in the primary sensory organ, because whatever is sensible also has duration. Now Kant claims that time is not sensed but is the form of sense. That means that the sensibility is not only a receptive but also a formative faculty; and the first form it gives sensation is temporal form. What is behind this claim? The immediate purpose of the Critique is the grounding of the knowledge of nature, above all of the new science of motion, Newtonian physics. "Grounding" means setting out the conditions of possibility of such a science, which guarantee its necessity and its universality-which make it certain. Aristotelian physics was the science of individual motions by which an indeterminate material, which is only potentially, is formed into an independent, fully actual, natural substance. Newtonian science, in stark contrast, studies the motion of a system of bodies homogeneously constitu.ted of massy matter and moving inertially through space unless deflected by interactions with other masses, interactions which are governed by universal mathematical laws of force. For the former, time was the counting of the actualizing motion, for the latter it is the independent variable in the expression of natural laws. Kant assumes that knowledge of this system of nature requires the cooperation of two faculties. One is active, law-giving, spontaneous (which means that it originates with the human subject itself); it is the thinking function, and the faculty is called the understanding. The other is a receptive power which must be affected by something given to it from outside; it is the sensibility. The latter is needed because human thinking is for Kant purely formal, that is to say, it has a merely rule-s.u pplying function. Therefore it is incapable of conceiving its own objects of thought without being supplied with matter; for it to try to do so would be like a hand grasping its own grasp-less than an empty form. Therefore, thinking requires that a material be given to it, and the faculty in which such givens are received as representations-since Kant con· siders everything before consciousness at all a representa· tion-is precisely the sensibility (B 33). Kant also calls this receptive faculty the intuition, and he applies that same term to the original pure content which he ascribes to it and into which sensory affection is received. Now all physical experience in fact occurs in terms of space and time, and these are understood to be the pri· mary dimensions of physics. Therefore, if it is to be a cer· tain science, there must be neither absolute, independent, 82 external substances in space nor adventitious develop· ments through time. For both of these could be known only a~er the fact of experience, and that means they could not be known necessarily or universally. The only knowledge which can be certain is that which is condi· tioned from the beginning through the observer himselfwhich is, in Kant's term, a priori. Therefore, not only the conceptual side of physics but also the invariable components of its sensory aspect, namely space and time, must proceed from the knower. Accordingly Kant assigns to him an original formative re· ceptivity-on the face of it a contradiction in terms, but an unavoidable one. This actively receptive capacity is Janus· . faced. One face is turned outward and shapes sense material into spatial configurations; the other looks inward and forms what it receives into temporal sequences. The sen~i· bility, then, is dual; it has an inner and an outer sense. Kant presents the outer sense first, significantly, as it turns out. This sense receives in the mode of outsideness, in two meanings of the word. First it receives those sensations which are alien and adventitious, which come to us as they will from outside ourselves. But then it also re· ceives them in the mode of outsideness, of extemality, namely as spatially extensive. The outer sense is therefore the reason why external sensations always assume spatial form. Furthermore, because the spatial form has inherent formative characteristics, namely those of Euclidean ~ometry, spatial appearances are certain to be amenabk ) geometric treatment. Hence the outer sense guarantees the applicability of mathematics to science. The inner sense, on the other hand, faces toward the innermost parts, the very subject or referrent of all representations, the Self. The inner sense receives the self as if it too were a given, namely as it presents -itself to its own intuition. Within the ·inner sense the subject itself becomes, by definition, an appearance, for whatever the sen· sibility receives and forms is called an appearance. The inner sense is called time. It is not that time is an inner sense, but that the inner sense, and the self appearing within it, are temporal in character. In so presenting inner sense Kant is therefore not saying what time is but only why it is the inevitable form every appearance takes. Nevertheless, a new understanding of the nature of time will come out of Kant's discovery, one aspect of which has already emerged: Contrary to Aristotle, for whom time is not an affection of motion, Kant will argue that motion itself is possible only under the form of inner sense. Indeed it is only under the form of temporality that motion is even conceivable for Kant, since it is only the succession of time which fluidifies the law of contradiction so that opposite predicates can, at different times, belong to the same ob· · ject-that being the much reduced post-Aristotelian con· cept of motion (B 48). But why is the inner sense given the name of time? And what does it mean to say that the self appears withir' . ~. ) The paradoxical fact that the self, the ultimate subjec SUMMER 1983 �representations, is somehow also an appearance to itself is taken as given, and, Kant says, is equally a mystery in all theories (B 68, 152). But to learn how it happens we go to that part of the Critique which deals with thinking ("Tran· scendental Deduction"). 2. UNDERSTANDING All conceiving is steadfastly accompanied- by an "I think," a kind of pervasive prefix to all thinking, which is, however, purely formal in that it adds nothing to what I think. Furthermore, the prefix tells me at most that I am but never what I am (B 157). Kant calls this consciousness "apperception," a term that had . previously meant self. consciousness. He, however, indicates by the term not self-knowing but only the inmost subject or self of a rational being, the ultimate knower. The apperception is "transendental," which in Kantian terminology means that it is a faculty, not an object. So Kant does not mean that the self is self-conscious in the sense of having itself as an object; it is not, like Aristotle's pure intellect, thought thinking itself. Nor is the self my self; indeed its self-hood is not in the ordinary sense personal. The self might as well be an "it" (B 404), for it is simply the hidden subject underlying all thinking func· tions. (Heidegger will criticize the lack of "my-ownness" in the Kantian self.) Moreover, the transcendental subject cannot be known to itself, because its strictly formal, that is, rule-giving thinking functions cannot, by their very character, become objects of thought to themselves (A 402). Collectively these conceiving functions (the word "function" is taken statically, as in mathematics) are called the understanding, which is therefore the self as it is diversified into certain definite enumerable functions or "categories." Each of these accomplishes certain syntheses or unifications proper to itself. Besides these operations the categories are nothing and mean nothing. What do they synthesize? Sensible givenness is assumed to be in its very nature manifold, spread out, various. Accordingly, the sensibility must be capable of receiving such a manifold. In the case of the outer sense there must be ready a transcendental space for its reception. This sense therefore contains a "pure manifold," the pure intuition mentioned above, which is the form-giving content affected by sensationthe pure space of geometry itself. The nature of this pure content of inner sense will be addressed presently. It is this pure content of the sensibility that is unified, or determined, or structured by the understanding in definite ways, as many ways as there are concept-categories. What the understanding determines first is the content closest to it, so to speak, namely that of the inner sense. That is how the thinking functions first obtain their required object, although a pure, not a sensory one. rnE ST. JOHNS REVIEW Objects represented in the sensibility and unified by the understanding are called phenomena or appearances (A -429 ff.). Kant claims that when the pure content of inner sense is determined by thinking, the resulting appearance is that of the apperceiving subject itself. Kant takes the word appearance seriously-only that which is not itself on the scene can have appearances. So the self, which cannot know itself in itself, appears in the inner sense, and since every appearance is an appearance for the subject, the self appears to itself. The primary example of self-appearance is the act of attention, in which thinking, having determined the inner sense according to laws of connection contained in the categories, appears as a succession of moments (B 155)-our ordinary awareness of the now-succession. The transcendental self, then, the inaccessible rational source of thinking, can determine another part of the soul, and though it cannotJmow itself, it can at least represent itself to itself as an appearance. Note; however, that the situation is peculiar in that the self can hardly be said to affect the sensibility as sensory material could affect it: it cannot materially fill but only determine or unify the inner sense. The motive for establishing an inner sense is, on the face of it, to ground the temporal or causal dimension of physics, but its deeper role is that of providing for self. appearance. The reason why this sense, or rather its content, is identified with time now emerges. This content is the steady, unceasing, underlying flow which we always come to in self-inspection: "Time does not pass away but in it passes the existence of what is changeable." Time it· self is unchangeable and permanent (B 183), for it is the original flux-content of the inner sense itself; it is this flux· content which our thinking determines and structures. The thought-determined inner sense is consciousness, , but it is emphatically not self-consciousness in the sense of self-knowledge, since the self has not affected the inner ' self so as to produce the kind of real knowledge Kant calls experience. For experience requires more than that the subject should work on itself: it requires a material object (where "material" refers not to physical matter but to a real sensory content). 3. IMAGINATION The configurations to which thinking determines the inner sense are the work of that most central power, "an art hidden in the depth of the human soul" (B 181), the imagination. For ~ristotle, the activity of the imagination, identical with that of the primary sensorium, is not hidden in the depth at all; it is, in fact, on the interface of soul and nature and has a physical base. Kant rightly considers his discovery of the original contribution of the transcendental imagination quite new (A 120 n.). For him thinking and sensing are too heterogeneous to come.! together without 83 �some intermediate agency; it is the imagination which is the meeting ground of the two. It performs what Kant calls a "figurative" synthesis (B 154), which produces schemata through which thinking can determine sense and accomplish the mystery of empty, meaningless thought interpenetrating with pure inner flux. The schemata are essentially rules for sensualizing concepts or, equally, conceptualizing sense content. The imagination makes time thinkable or, as we have seen, conscious. But much more importantly, it does the inverse: it makes thought temporal. Here are just two examples of the schemata which are the work of the imagination. (Oddly, and significantly, this work is always presented as picture or figure-making, although it is supposed to be primarily temporal.) l. The inner flux, the pure intuition of time, is, as was said, assumed to be an even, primary flow. (Recalling that Kant's project is the grounding of Newtonian physics we can recognize in this flux the internalization of Newton's equably flowing absolute world time.) Kant calls it the pure picture of quantity, applicable to all objects in general. The first schema or conceptualization of this continuous forward flow of inner quantity is number. Number is the imaginative scheme of a countable succession of units, that is, of articulated, measured internal duration. In cotmting, the understanding is continually unifying the undifferentiatedly fluid manifold of pure Time, and generating pure, conscious, temporal succession, or the pure sense of passing: counting is not so different from the pulsing of mere consciousness itself. (The spatial analogue to the difference between Time as flux and conceptdetermined time would be that between Space as a whole and measured space.) 2. Another imaginative configuration brings toge~her pure inner intuition with the concept of necessary connection in the schema of before-and-afte.r. Thus is added to conscious advancing time a necessary, unperturbable time-order, the ground, for Kant, of the principle of cause and effect in nature. All the schemata together-there are as many as the understanding has concepts-circumscribe thoughtinformed temporal flux, or speaking more familiarly, temporal thinking. It was, after all, to be expected that when the rational self cast itself into inner sense to become an appearance the result should be thinking in time. What are its features? 4. TIME AND SPACE For Aristotle, the external world with its continuity of places defined by movable substances is clearly prior to being in time, which is merely the countable aspect of motion. Kant, on the other hand, at first, at least, presents time as the sense of senses, the first formal condition of all ap- 84 pearing objects in general, both self and nature. Time -. ceives all representations, everything which is there for consciousness at all; it is the ultimate relating receptacle and the condition of all connectedness. Space, on the other hand, is the condition of outer appearance, namely of nature, only (A 99, B 177). The reason is that time belongs immediately to the soul and is the place of consciousness itself, while space must wait to receive material from the outside. But then, in a crucial section added to the second edition of the Critique, the "Refutation of Idealism" (B 274279), Kant totally inverts his new order in a doctrine surprising in the context but also quite unavoidable. Space is again the condition of temporal experience. In the "Refutation" Kant explicitly aims to prove that mere consciousness of one's own existence-thoughtdetermined inner sense-proves, in being affected by outer sense, the real existence of external objects in space. Implicitly, however, he shows that objects in space are the necessary condition of self-experience. The internal flux of unfocussed attention, he argues, is absolutely featureless, indeterminate, a mere fugitiveness . To determine time and give it steadiness it must be projected on something permanent; it must be represented in terms of perceived permanence in space. Spatial appearances seem to stay put while time has no aspect that stands but its flux itself. Time supports only the alteration of determinations, but no determinate steady object: · . the soul "everything is in continual flux" (A 381). Tht. ) fore the representation of time is always spatial; if time is to appear at all it must be in a spatial form, most appropriately as a one-dimensional straight line (B 156): Time appears as space reduced by two dimensions. It is now also clear why the self cannot really properly appear in time. The inner intuition admits no material affection except through space. (Indeed, it is only this geometrization of appearing time which makes possible the primary measurement of physical motion, namely velocity. For velocity is conceivable only as a ratio of homogeneous magnitudes, namely space lengths and time lengths. But as I said, that means that time, insofar as it is apprehensible at all, which is to say, insofar as it is representable, is only a dimension abstracted from space: Bergson has a point when he accuses Kant of confusing time with space (Essay, "Conclusion"). Yet more follows: There can be no full consciousness without the appearances of three-dimensional externality. For the linear representation of the determinate inner sense, while it may be formally adequate, is also utterly poverty-stricken and unrevealing (Foundations of the Metaphysics of Nature, Preface). T9 appear to itself, the self must put the inner sense in the way of spatial appearances which then represent to it ·its own formative powers and that of its sensibility. The system of such revealing thought-informed spatio-temporal appearances Kant calls nature and its science is Newtonian physics. ·· \ SUMMER 1983 �Inner experience is, then, only mediately possible through space. That is why, I think, space is treated before time in the "Transcendental Aesthetic" and why the imagination is fundamentally figurative. Time·began as the formal (or better, formative) condition of all appearance whatsoever, but space turns out to be the condition of the appearance of time. A self having only an inner sense would have no representations of itself at all. If it were conscious it would be conscious of nothing; it would be at most a forever-idle capability of a possible experience. 5. TEMPORAL TillNKING To recapitulate: 1. Self.consciousness: Of the self which underlies all thinking and sensing there is no knowledge. There is no immediate representation of it; it cannot become an object to itself beyond the indication given in the universal prefix "I think." There is therefore no self. consciousness in the sense of reflective self-knowledge. (It is one of the mysteries of the Critique how any of the re· flective terms necessary to critical analysis of the self obtain their meaning.) 2. Consciousness: Consciousness, awareness, belongs to the thought-determined inner sense, or better, is identical with it. That time is in the soul and that the soul is in time are converse propositions (A 362). Both claims mean that the. self is ready and able to receive an external material. But to be merely aware in this way is no more to know oneself than it is actually to experience an external object. Time, even when determined by thought, yields no formed object but merely the schemata of relations of possible representations within the soul (B 50). It is the mere capacity for thinking objects. 3. Self· experience: If self-knowledge in the reflective sense is impossible to the self, it can yet experience itself, that is, its own powers, in inner sense-but only if that sense is spatially represented and determined by real objects. Then the self can appear to itself as a temporally thinking subject and behold its formative faculties constituting nature. Self-experience begins23 when temporal thinking, namely the time-informed categories, such as number, perma· nence, and causality, is exercised on-spatial material. A great question arises. The explicit motive of the Critique was to find what the human constitution must be if physics is to be a science. From this point of view the temporal sense was established primarily to secure the causal ordering of motion. But is it plausible that Kant's view of the soul should be so altogether a mere consequence of this motive? Indeed, there might well be other ways to ground physical causality than by means of the original flux which, as has been shown, is in itself insufficient to account for self-conscious thought. 24 A deeper reason, · namely Kant's thinking about thought itself, seems to me to be at work. It is best phrased in terms of the conse· quences following from his very modem rejection of Aris· totle. rnE ST. JOHNS REVIEW For Aristotle knowing is a motion of the soul, an actualization, which achieves actuality as the intellect achieves its end and becomes the thing thought. That final activity is true life. For Kant, knowing, as the conceiving of material objects, cannot be such a motion, since motion is itself generated by thinking, when it determines space through time (B 155, note). Nor can it be an activity, for thought is not fulfilled in its object: It simply determines or unifies the manifold and, so to speak, fits itself about the object and constitutes it. Truth is no longer the simple luminous identity of the intellect with its intelligible object, but rather the "adequcition" of thought with the material object (B 82). 25 Therefore Kant's thinking has neither motion nor life; it has no actuating principle. The pure flux of inner sense can now be seen in the light of a deep though inexplicit need. Time is needed to float thought, as it were. It gives thinking a spurious kind of motion, a pseudo-activity. . In themselves the thinking functions are merely empty, static forms; cast on the stream of inner sense they assume fluidity. Time is the animating principle of that kind of thinking which has no end in itself, and the Kcintian temporcility is the substitute for the lost life of thought. "' "' "' Kant's treatment of time is the focus of Heidegger's deep, engaged, but also strained reading· of the first Cri· tique. Heidegger calls this kind of interpretative reading a "recovery" or "repetition" (Wiederholung). It is meant to bring to light the unspoken, and for the author unspeakable, implications of the text. It attempts to reveal not what the author meant and failed to say-an author worth "repeating" is quite able to express himself-but rather the inexorable ultimate outcome implicit in his thought. This interpretation yields very striking-if not quite persuasive-results especially with respect to an aspect of time markedly missing from Kant's account, namely its three phases. Heidegger reconstructs these from the first, superseded version of the Transcendental Deduction. (See Note 26 for a summary of Kant's text with reference to Heidegger's interpretation.) I have just argued that Kant has deep reasons for making time the primary sense, namely to vivify the inert functions of his concepts, but that his almost inadvertent, yet inescapable tendency is the spatialization of time. How· ever, Heidegger, who sees in Kant his predecessor, views the whole critical enterprise as centered on the unexpressed fundamental temporality of the human being. Heidegger understands that hidden art of the imagination, to which Kant assigns the function of temporalizing thinking (or, equivalently, of thought-determining time) as the "temporalizing," the time-origination which is the being of human existence. Kant drew back, as it were, from an opportunity he was not ready for, the possibility of seeing the imagination not as a third and mediating faculty, the 85 �·meeting ground of thought and sense, but as the common root of both. He could not yet abstract from its figurative character to see it as transcendental temporality simply. Kant's failure to explain the "my-0wnness" of the self, together with his inability to see the imagination, the meet· ing ground of self and time, as anything but a mystery are Heidegger's clues to a new understanding of human exis· tence. Heidegger owes debts also to Hegel and Bergson (see Note 27), and most certainly to Augustine (paras. 9, 81 end), who anticipates him in the essential temporality of the human being and in the primacy of the future among the time phases-indeed one might almost call Heidegger a godless Augustine. But he goes beyond all of them, as far as one can go, I think, in the exaltation of time. If for Kant the inner sense is a mysterious mirror. for the unknowable self, for Heidegger time will be the very meaning of being human. The answer to the question ''What is time?" will fall out of the analysis of human existence. V. HEIDEGGER: TEMPORALilY AS THE MEANING OF EXISTENCE 1. ECSTATIC TEMPORALilY Heidegger's starting point in Being and Time is the old question concerning Being. However, he does not ask: What is Being?, since he considers that question a fateful wrong tum into metaphysics. He rather asks: What is the meaning of being?, What makes a being possible?, What is the being (Sein) of Being \Seiendes)? Assuming that there are different beings, he chooses to pursue the question by analyzing the being most expressive of the inquiry itself, the being that exists. To exist means to position oneself beyond oneself so as to understand one's own being. The being that so exists is also the being that is there, that finds itself involved in the world, not merely present in it. It is, further, that being which is in each case mine, which has "each-his-0wnness," in contrast to the unowned Kantian subject. Heidegger names it by the ordinary German term for existence, Dasein, "there-being." It is the human being. The larger first part of the book is devoted to an "exis· tential analysis," an interpretative description of the phe· nomena of existence which will reveal its basic structure. These original modes are called "existentials," and the structure so revealed is called "care." The "meaning" of care, that is to say, that which makes it possible, will be temporality. In the following abbreviated account of "care," the prodigious originality and ingeniousness of Heidegger's analy· sis will perforce be blunted. 86 Care has a threefold constitution: 1. The being tha cares, understands. Understanding~sharply distinguished from theoretical knowing-is its ability to project before itself its own possibilities. It is aware of being able to be (not that it has that possibility but that it is that possibility). The being that exists is always "ahead of itself." For what it is, its essence, is just that it exists, that it understands itself as a being that is able to be. 2. This being, Dasein, also has moods, "existential moods," which are the ground of ordinaiy, familiar moodi· ness. These moods are testimony to the condition in which it already finds itself (Befindlichkeit). They attest to its "facticity," to the bald fact that it always finds itself al· ready cast or thrown into an alien world. Heidegger calls the existential condition of existing always already in the world, "thrownness." 3. In this world Dasein is always already preoccupied with what it finds there, alongside itself, namely other existences and things. It is its lot to sink into a state of self· forgetfulness or "fallenness" as it busily "takes care" of this world. This .state of "inauthenticity," literally: "unone's-0wnness," is as genuine a possibility of existence as its opposite, authenticity; Heidegger disclaims any invidi· ous connotation in these terms. In sum, then, the being that cares is a being ahead of itself in projecting its own possibilities, which finds itself involved in a world along with other existences·and enti· ties, and which can lose itself in being busy about them. -. Now Heidegger asks what it means for Daesin to be : this way. This question belongs to a deeper, that is, an on· / tological, level of analysis, for here is discovered the mean· ing of care, namely the condition of its possibility. The an· swer is: temporality (Second Part, Chps. 3-6). The existent being is one about .whom there is always something yet outstanding, something still .to come, namely its death. So also is it an "ecstatic" being. "Ecstatic" is a word used by Aristotle in his chapters on time (Phys. 222 b 17) to describe the self-unsettling of motion. Heidegger uses if for the primordial "being out of itself" of Dasein, namely its temporality (par. 65). 28 The word has, of course, the connotation of being transported and rapt away. Dasein is "out of itself" in three ecstatic phases, each of which accounts primarily but not exclusively for one of the aspects of care in either its inauthentic or its authentic version. Hence the ontological analysis covers a large num· her of combinations, of which I_ shall sketch only the primary ones, reversing Heidegger's order so as to begin with the ecstasis to which Heidegger assigns the least standing (par. 68). l. The self-forgetfulness of fallenness is in its nature al· ways inauthentic. It is the mode of-note well-actuality, of fact, of mere presentness and nowness, greedy for satis· factions which hold no further possibilities, The !'.>ntologi· cal ground of this existential mode is the ectasis of the present. Heidegger understands the present not in the tr:J,, . SUMMEJt 1983 ) �tional way as the phase of perceptual vividness, but as a derivative mode, abstracted from living involvement-the mode of "presentification," .the grasping attempt to tum the possibilities of existence into present actualities. The ecstasis which yields the present, the phase which is traditionally the front or fulcrum of time, is the one most dependent on the other phases for its authentic version (68 c~ 2. Just as in English there is a periphrastic past perfect "I am gone," so in Cennan one says "I am having been" (Ich bin gewesen). Human existence always is as having been, for it always finds itself already cast into the al_ien world. It is this fact which makes it moody. An existential mood is a condition in which Dasein finds itself coming back to or brought before the · mere fact of its own exis· tence.29 Heidegger gives as a cardinal example the authentic mood which he calls dread or anxiety (Angst; the inau· thentic counterpart is ordinary fear). In anxiety Dasein discovers the world into which it has been thrown as uncanny, unhomy, unmeaning, unamenable to being taken care of. Anxiety brings Dasein back to the fact of its own isolated thrownness, and this "being brought back to itself" apprises it that it can return to itself, that it has the possibility of "recovering" or "repeating" itself. What ac· counts for the possibility human existence has of finding itself already in a state of mind or mood and what brings it face to face with its own recoverableness (Wiederholbar· keit; sometimes translated "repeatability") is the ecstasis of the past, in which Dasein goes out of itself to be as having been (68 b). Through this ecstasis human existence comes back to itself as an ever-antecedent fact whose possibilities can always be repeated. Therewith is also revealed the possibility of authentic existence. It demands the introduction of a future element into the repetition of its past. 3. Therefore the primary ecstasis of primordial authentic temporality is the future (65). This future is not an indeterminate "not yet.'' It is, as the German Zu-kun~ suggests to Heidegger, that toward which Dasein goes, but it is also the tenninus from which Dasein comes back into the situation in which it finds itself, to face the present resolutely. The future thus comprehends and makes possible the other two ecstases. Futurity accounts for the aspect of care called understanding, since to understand means to project one's own possibilities. Future means an· ticipation; rather than being propelled by present urgencies that need to be taken care of, futuraJ Dasein cares authentically: It Jets its own possibilities for being come toward itself. The future, too, enables the human being to repossess its past properly; it is in facing its possibilities that Dasein is brought back to what it already was. The futural ecstasis of coming toward oneself accounts for authentic existence (69 a). The dominant case of authentic futurity, understood as resolute anticipation, is Dasein's facing of its own death (46-63). The human being is that being which lives as a being which is going to die. Dasein discovers among its ex11-IE ST. JOHNS REVIEW istential possibilities the ultimate one of not being, and this discovery makes it focus on the wholeness of its existence. Death is what it escapes from in the inauthentic present; death is what it is already inescapably saddled with; death is what it resolutely anticipates. Death therefore has the threefold structure exhibited by care and time, and conversely. The inference follows that our temporality is finite and that primordial existential time comes to an end. What then of ordinary time, the common time human beings have, spend, puzzle about? Heidegger undertakes to show that, strange though it seems, time is tempora~ namely that ordinary time falls.out of primordial temporality (79-82). . . Dasein finds itself in the world, and it is in dealing with its "gear" or "equipment" (Zeug~ iil circumspectly taking care of its affairs,That ordinary time shows itself. Affairs in the world can be dated: "Later, when ... " or "now, that ... " or "formerly, when ... "-that is the language of worldly management. This datability of the world is derived from ecstatic temporality because "later, when" can be said only on the condition that there is possibility, "now, that" only if there is presentification, and "formerly, when" only if there is repeatability. So Heidegger has grounded anticipation, ·presence, and memory-for that is what he -is talking about-in the primordial temporality which is human existence. Precise public datability must refer to universal 0ccurrences, originally to the sun's rising and setting. People say, for instance, "now, that" the sun has set it is time to turn in. This public reference enables people to make and set clocks, and thence "vulgar,'' worldly time comes to be what the clock tells, What the clock sho"'s is a perfectly levelled and indifferent equable succession of jerks called nows, going forward from what is no longer to what is not yet, and spawning many puzzles. Such time passes rather than arises; the very use of clocks is witness to the attempt to hold on to the not-yets and the no-Jongers by making them all in turn present, as the clock's hands are followed while they tick off the nows. What is worst of all for Heidegger is that this meaningless derivative clock time is theoreticalJy infinite: It is the time of fallen, inauthentic humanity because it masks the radical finitude of mortal human existence.JO 2. DIFFICULTIES Here is the extreme of opposition to Aristotle. Actuality, fulfilled presence, is interpreted as human fallenness. Possibility, a notion even Jess determinate than potentiality (which is always a.specific "potentiality for") ·is raised to being human existence itself. Time, which was for Aristotle merely the measurable aspect of a being's actualization, is for ~eidegger the very meaning of existence. And, 87 �tradition, that is to say, the going back into a Dasein t' ) finally, time ends in actuality for Aristotle, but for Heideghas been there." Authentic repetition means that "Daseiri ger, in death. Being and Time, in its potent and coherent originality chooses for itself its hero" on the basis of an anticipatory resolution. What Dasein thus recovers is a possibility, not a (though originality in the pursuit of being may well be a state (74). disability) deserves at least the tribute of not being treated Dasein takes over such possibilities as its heritage. How? like a lending library of terms and notions; one must enter Heidegger begins his analysis of the historical past with a its world or stay out-the latter I think. The reasons are discussion of real antiquities, the objects of archaeology. sketched below. These are things which were once "to hand," by which 1. The first is a mere intimation of a possible argument: Heidegger means functional, in a world that is gone. They That actualizing motion has temporal duration which is measurable by the soul, or that time is a dimension of the are now present in our world. They are not genuinely but only secondarily historical because insofar as they are created mind, or that the lawful causality of nature has a "equipment" they are not in the past but in this world. As ground in the observer's temporality-these theories of the being of their own world was wholly conditional on Aristotle, Augustine, and Kant respectively can be apprethat of a past Dasein, so its passing is wholly a matter of hended and judged directly, although their context illumihuman temporality. nates their motive. It is otherwise with Heidegger's underNow here is the difficulty: If Dasein is to recover its heri· standing of time, which is more inextricably and originally implicated in his approaches: in the problematic formulatage, the possibilities of an existence that has been, it must do so by way of the surviving "equipment" of the past, tion of the question concerning the "meaning of being," through ruins, pots and manuscripts. Heidegger suggests in the doubtful insistence that the human being is the beno other way (73). ing of choice for such an inquiry, in the interpretation of human being as existence, in its analysis in terms of care, But how does it recognize these as testimony of antecedent existence? The ecstasis of the past was formulated and in the grounding of care in temporality. The doubts one might have about any of these elements or about their in terms of the indivual, unique, and separate being. What concatenation would make questionable the notion of a can it mean to recognize in the stuff "to hand" in the primordial ecstatic temporality. present world the possibilities of other, past existences, not to speak of making them one's own? 2. The interpretation of human existence as the being which is its possibilities leads to its essential futurity, the The problem points to what seems to me a crucial h : ecstasis which accounts for living in possibility. Dasein's cuna in Heidegger's account of the past. The ecstasis : ) ultimate possibility is that of being able not to be: it is be the necessary condition of ordinary temporality but 1( death (50), the extreme possibility. In requiring of the hudoes not seem to be a sufficient condition. The "ontic" man being that it face at every moment this end as its own, consequences, namely human beings with their past, do Heidegger deprecates-I am disregarding the pretense not immediately fall out of the "ontological" ground of that these are not terms of judgement-as inauthentic and past being. To lay down that Dasein must have a past befallen the perennial wisdom of humankind that the dread cause it is in its being temporalizing does not tell how the of death must not dominate life. The question arises individual human being comes back to itself, that is, rewhether the stark and unspecific resolution to face one's members. And yet, the additional element that is needed own death can at all be the basis of public decency and to complete the account, namely what is ordinarily called even inner dignity. I shall argue that the future is of the memory, may change the whole complexion of the acthree phases the most impotent for human action and that count. our death should be allowed to exert its power only as a Since Heidegger considers existence to be possibility he remote and indefinite limit of life. cannot ascribe a nature or faculties to .human beings. In3. The greatest problem and the one with most bearing deed, in his "recovery" of Kant he had suppressed the fig· on the final section of my inquiry has to do with Heidegurative, primarily spatial, imagination, Kant's faculty for ger's treatment of the past. Human existence has a certain having objects without their presence. But how is the reself-antecedence which is grounded in the ecstases of "beconstruction or recovery of one's own possibilities, or of ing as having been." The defining characteristic of this the possibilities of the past world of historical remains, to mode is that it brings Dasein back to the "repetition" of its take place without such a faculty for reconstituting re· own possibilities and to authentic being. This ecstasis natmembrance of the past, personal, or historical? urally plays the chief role in the constitution of "historicalOne final point:.Repetition, the authentic appropriation ity"-although the most fundamental role is still played by of past possibilities, seems to be most practicable for writthe future. For true historicality ultimately arises from a ten works, records of past thought. The mode of resolute repetition of the past which is motivated by the resolute purpose, however, in which such a recovery is to be carried projection of a life span dominated by "being-unto-death." • on seems to invite a certain wilfulness of illterpretation Dasein can explicitly repeat possibilities of existence which leads to highly pointed constructive readings. Such that have been handed down. Such repeating "is explicit repetition may be incomparably more serious than ? ' · 'c ) 88 SUMMER 1983 �toricistic approach, but it is also very constricted, since, being grounded in the stark mood of the past ecstasis, it excludes less harsh modes of pastness. In particular, there is no authentic mode of panoramic revery or imaginative contemplation,31 though these, I shall argue, are of pri· mary importance in human temporality. try to capture its being, though time-terms there are aplenty. For, I claim, time as a distinct object of inquiry, or rather our sense of its being one, comes about when we block our usual mental activity and try to concentrate on time itself: · - • Die Ziet • • So I now come to some reflections of my own about time. Naturally, I shall draw on the philosophers just studied for the terms of the inquiry, for insight into the con· texts implied in certain answers, and for examples of what seem to me fertile errors. Since I shall argue that time has no being and that to think otherwise has harmful conse· quences, I should not attempt to present a theory of what time is, but rather an intimation of what it is that induces the illusion of temporal being. And, of course, I should explain why, for all that, I think of the past as the prime phase of time. Es gibt ein sehr probates Mittel, die Zeit zu halten am Schlawittel: Man nimmt die Taschenuhr zur Hand und folgt dem Zeiger unverwandt. Sie geht so langsam dann, so brav als wie ein wohlgezogen Schaf, setzt Fuss vor Fuss so voll Manier als wie ein Fraulein von Saint-Cyr. Jedoch vertraumst du dich ein Weilchen, so ruckt das zuchtigliche Veilchen mit Beinen wie der Vogel Strauss und heimlich wie ein Puma aus. VI. TIME AND THE IMAGINATION 1. TIIE NON-BEING OF TIME The beloved text of writers on time is Augustine, Con· ) fesSions, XI 14: For what is time? Who is able easily and briefly to explain that? Who is able so much in thought to comprehend it as to . bring forth something in words? Although what do we more familiarly and knowingly mention in speaking than time? And' we understand surely when we speak of it; we also understand when we hear someone else speaking of it. What then is time? If no one asks it of me, I know; if I want to explain it to the one that is asking, I do not know. At first thought, Augustine's observation seems to be no more true of time than of any other matter: Questioning always makes the familiar strange and precipitates perplexity. Yet there is this difference: Though we sometimes quarrel about the management and the worth of time, we deal with its ubiquitous appearances not only with perfect, practical aplomb but also without anxiety to defend a doctrine concerning its being. I think that is because we have an intimation that our dealing with temporal affairs and our speaking in temporal terms has, as it were, nothing to it, no object of inquiry whose name is time. We sense that the bold question "What is Time?" itself drives the answer implied in our unimpeded behavior out of sight. But from another aspect, what Augustine says seems not quite right. We really do not know what time is when we are not asked; we only know how to live familiarly with watches and words and our sense of time. And therefore we do not know it less when we ask ourselves about it. On the contrary, there is not even any Time to know until we THE ST. JOHNS REVIEW Und wieder siehst du auf sie nieder; ha, Elendel-Doch was ist das? Unschuldig lachelnd macht sie wiedcr die zierlichsten Sekunden-Pas. Christia_ Morgenstern, Zeitgedichte n Ti11ie There is a good and proven way To strongarm Time and make it stay. Just take your wrist-watch by the band And concentrate upon her hand. Then she goes slow enough to keep The pace, as of a well bred sheepCoes step by step, as mannerly As any high-bred miss could be. But if you daydream for a while The shrinking violet with guile Makes off on legs of ostrich length And with a puma's stealthy strength. Now you look down just as before0 wretched watch! 0 curious chancel With guiless smile she steps once more · The very daintiest second-dance. E.B. What we find when we concentrate on the- passage of time is the repeatediy frustrated impulse of our inten· tion to perceive time, indeed an iteration of attempts, orchestrated by the beating of our hearts and the coursing of our blood-a kind of internal perception 89 �called by psychologists prioperception, self-perception. As soon as we leave off trying to find in ourselves empty time · we see images of spatial .passage. Indeed even Kant finally admits that inner sense, to be actually affected, needs spatial appearance. The pure underlying flux seems to me, therefore, a philosophical construction which is the result of ulterior motives, and a phenomenon which is the effect of self-interference. So when Husserl claims such a flux for the first phenome· non of time-consciousness he is observing accuratelyhis own observing. Internal time flux is the first effect of attempting a phenomenology of time-consciousness. What of external time? Newton is alone in positing a genuine external time flux, absolute, equable time antecedent to all motion, physical, yet not apparent-a notion whose motives are as understandable as the concept is confusing. All the others who appear to believe in physical time turn out always to mean either some designated physical process or the "passage of nature" as a whole.32 It seems to be impossible for them to point to time itself or to refer to it except by spatial metaphors. From the physical point of view, time appears with as many natures as there are motions and ways of studying them: It is a discrete quantity for quantized micro-motions, a covariant of space for remote places, an anisotropic progress for irreversible processes, an in· dependent continuum for the local motions of bodies, and a numerable dimension for motions which are developments. I do not think it is possible to decide which of these conceptions should primarily determine our understanding of motion and thus time. It may just be impossible to give a single account of physical time, and therefore it may be best to say that various kinds of time seem . to occur in the world, depending on where our attention is fixed, whether on the statistical conceptions of aggregates, or on signaling to remote clocks, or on watching the formation of completed beings, or on the comprehension of human affairs, This last perspective raises yet another possibility. What if time were worldly but not of the world, not one of its physical dimensions, but rather the very life and moving principle of the world? Such a doctrine makes the appearances coherent, as the monolithic grandeur of Hegel's System shows, but so thoroughly coherent as to put an end to human freedom under· stood as .our possibility of thinking and choosing independently of our situation in time. It seems to me pernicious. The claim is that the appearances of nature as well as of human thought and action are manifestations of the substance of Time. Now the chief property of ap· pearances is usually thought to be that they are a becoming: variable in themselves, perspectival for us, in alterable passage, contingent. If, then, the being behind them and expressed in them is itself a primordial be- 90 coming such as Time must be, the variability of · pearances must be governed by that deeper beconu. . Time; appearance is the manifestation of the logic of becoming. But that means that we must give up the thought of a loose connection, of room for play between the world and its grounds, which supports our efforts at independent thought and free action, and submit to our time-determined fate. Human beings and nations must fulfill the historical role assigned by their time or be consigned to parochial impotence. Time is a tyrant, and the philosophy of time is a tool for tyrants: our time has seen the consequences. These, in sum, then, are the charges against Time: As an internal flux it is a philosophical or psychological illusion, as an external elapsing it is no more than the measure of motion, and as the fated logic of becoming it is a coercive myth. Aristotle, who first wrote a sustained- exposition of time, also introduced its most radical de-substantializa· tion, more complete even than that of the later great relativist of time, Leibniz, for whom time is at least an idea in the mind of God (Note 4). In that dethronement of time, in the · claim that time is only the counted measure of motion, it seems to me that Aristotle was simply right. But why, we must ask ourselves, if there is time neither within nor without, it is so copious a topic of talk, and whence oomes our ever-fertile feeling about time? The related words time, tick, and German Zeit, pear not to be specifically temporal in their etymolo& ) origin. They are connected with Greek daiomoi, "I divide or distribute," which has to do with all sorts of divisions, like that of the people, demos, and the portioned meal, dais. Originally "time" seems to refer quite neutrally to the dividing of certain passages of na· ture into stretches, just as Aristotle · says. The timefigures of poetry and ordinary speech, on the other hand, are usually strongly affective. Let me take as ex· amples two complexes of time figures which seem to me best to reveal why we speak of time with feeling. First, phrases like "the womb of time," "the ripeness of time," "the fullness of time." The Greeks have a word, kair6s, which although son:ietirnes used interchangeably with chr6nos, has the specific meaning of a special, critical, or opportune moment. n There was a famous statue by Lysippus, showing Kairos with a long lock over his brow and the back of his head shaved, as a figure for the fact that foresight is needed to seize opportunity by the forelock and that once gone it cannot be pulled back. In the New Testament the word has assumed great theological gravity; it means both the individual time for turning or doing the appointed deed, and the day of judgement "The kairos is near,'' the fulness of time is at hand, John 5ays in the opening of his Revelation (1,3). Leaving aside theological elaborations, what do such phrases betoken? They seem to me all / SUMMER 1983 �ways to mean at bottom this: We feel that there is something in the world's becoming which peculiarly concerns us, that something is in the offing, something to monitor, to watch, to prepare for. The second example is quite opposite in flavor, namely, the image of time as a tread-mill or a conveyor· belt on which we plod or are wafted willy·nilly past scheduled events and holidays to an unscheduled but sure cessation. For terrestrial beings this coursing of time has what biologists call a "circadian" rhythm, the natural twenty-four hour periodicity of the sun's circuit, imaged on the faces of our watches and iterated by the predesigned routines of our business lives. It is the pa· thos of the daily round-no matter whether it whirrs or grinds-that makes us time-conscious, conscious, that is, of a fleeting stillness in the countable accretion of our accomplished motions, of a flux that stays while it flows, since it ever bears the same event. Were our lives either totally mutable or total1y monotonous we would, I imagine, attairi neither to a sense of time nor to intimations of timelessness. The tread~mill figure of time, at any rate, expresses the mood in which the pas· sage of life seems at once inexorable and aimless, fugitive and onerous. Time, these figures show, is our word-and this is the meaning elaborated by Heidegger-for the world's passages insofar as we care. We speak of time often, because the world continuaJly concerns us; we speak of it variously, because our mood or concern shifts; and we speak of it always in figures because there is no other way to give shape to our sense of the world. 2. TIME AS NOTICED PASSAGE Time, I say, is noticed passage-besides that it has no being of its own. Perhaps I might have said that time is our noticing of passage, but it seems to me better to locate our sense of time where we feel it, in the changing world itself. But what is this "passage"? When we speak of the passage of time we cannot mean (although we say) that time passes, but rather that something, something primarily spatial, is going on. Indeed, passage is not, to begin with, a temporal word. It means a passing, a going from here to there, as in "pacing"; there even seems to be an etymologi~ cal connection to "space.'' It has a meaning similar to, but even wider than, Aristotle's "change," kinesis, which is it· self a wider term than locomotion, while preserving its spa· tial undertone. I am using the term to express my under· standing that appearances in their variability, however caused and however regu1ated, are as appearances spatial. Two views of motion seem to me paramount: Aristote· · lian motion, which is the actualization of the thing moved, and Newtonian motion, which is characterized by the time rate of change of a body with respect to space. For Aristotle the individual mobile is everything-the substrate THE ST. JOHNS REVIEW which undergoes the motion and the substance which is the aim and completion of the motion. For Newton the mobile is qualitatively indifferent to the motion it under· goes, though as a mass it figures at once as the cause of change in other bodies and as the cause of resistence to change in itself. Thus for both motion is dynamic, that is, it is regarded in terms of an indwelling cause: form for Aristotle, force for Newton. But consider that there are, to human discernment, apparently aimless motions which, like motes in sunlight, show some pattern only in the aggregate, and also that it is possible to regard bodies as moving not because of their own inertia or gravity but by reason of their location in a force field. In some of its appearances, motion is neither compellingly Aristotelian or Newtonian. So as a kind of exercise, let me try a wider view of passage and of time, a view less focusseCl on mobile and cause and more on field and configuration, a spatial view. By space I here mean not the abstracted infinite contin· uum of geometry but our extended human environment, ground and figures equaJly. I think of it as just that which is such as to be capable of being passed through and of containing passages. But even before it is the scene of pas· sages, it is the opening, the room for appearances, the place for patency, what.Keats caJJs "the World or Elemen· tal Space.'' The Cree~ word for the appearances, phenom· ena, means what shines out, and the appearances seem to me to have these four connected characteristics: They shine out, they spread out, they vary and they are for us. Patency, extendedness, multifariousness, and perceptibility-that is what makes space. The spatial scene is in its very nature variable, and variable in the nth degree. Its spread-out, variegated conformations themselves vary: variably or differentially-and those are the passages of space. Some passages are lawfully developing fulfillments, some negotiations of distance, some random dancesthese are the varieties of the variation of spatial variable· ness. It is not becoming that causes this display but just its remaining what it is-various; and our discerning and noticing only make it more so. We commonly think of the present configuration of space as being an aggregate result, the outcome of many separate paths of becoming. The world is full of forms which seem explicable by their genesis. Spa~ and its fig· ures, appearing space, seems to be the frontal face of be· coming, the advancing surface, so to speaJc, of the temporal succession. But now let us cut the world in another way, as it were, across the line of advance rather than lengthwise along the lines of its genesis. Then the passage of time no longer appears responsible for the configuration of space nor is its history what makes the world appear, but space with its present and passing appearances lies fully there and openly displayed befor~ us, in aJJ its immediacy, a pan· orama which is not the result but the Scene of time. I mean that the appearances are not apprehended as the current 91 �state of temporal becoming, but the reverse-that the world appears as a space, a room, a theatre of events and happenings. These goings-on may be recurrent or continuous or periodically culminating, fascinatingly lawful or astoundingly unique. But the study of these passages tells us only the route, not the reason for the panorama of appear· ances and directs us only to its elements and not to its integral sum. Let the contemplation of the world in this mode (which is analogous to the field notions of physics) be, to begin with, an exercise of the imagination in concentrating on the phenomenology of spatial passage. Accordingly I describe motion-passage now more particularly as discerned variation. I do not figure such motion to myself as being borne forward by time. By "being borne forward by time" I mean the sense we allow ourselves to entertain that each and all motions ride on some primary vehicle (describable, to be sure, only by spatial metaphors such as the flow of a river) which, when related to space by a ratio, yields their rate of change or velocity, for example 55 miles per hour. In such a rate we normally take time as the independent variable, precisely because we think of it as the steady ubiquitous reference-spatial location varies in three dimensions and two directions, while time only advances. But to the time-disencumbered eye, motion is not through space in time, but time, no longer equably universal, arises in different places and tempos as this or that passage is noticed: felt in the observer or referred to other motions, for instance to that of our natural clock, the sun. A passage can be noticed by us, in the sen.se that we care about it, when a distinguishable variation has been discerned within the variegated field of appearance. Such discerned variation, or perhaps better, differential variation, of course always requires that the observer be himself in the picture,H an appearance among appearances. Consequently certain kinds of passage arise from the relation of the observer himself to the appearances. For example, he can stay still and concentratedly look into the field, search it by scanning, or himself bodily pass through it to obtain varying perspectives. So, for example, little children some· times gaze into the world pressed up against their grownup and.sometimes run out to circulate and inspect. The world, on its side, also offers to observation various configurations of motion: There are distinct and isolated motions that occur against a still background: runners running along a ridge. There is the scene which vibrates everywhere with localized variation: the town-square on market day. And then is the still center of an indifferently varying field: the cynosure of one's eye in a crowded room. We are moving or still figures in a still or moving landscape of appearance, and all passages can be distinguished in tenns of the various combinations between the discerning viewer and the passing scene, and, if we wish, timed by means of some designated accompanying motion .. This primarily spatial way seems to me a particularly apt way to come upon the world. To begin with, there is the evidence of a common experience, namely that temporally 92 extended acquaintance dims vision, while sudden, ~ oramic sights make for poignant perception. Then there is the unfailing testimony of our spatial time-language. A "moment" of time is really -a "movement," as of the clock; the "passing" of time is a "pacing"; the "space of time" is never converted into the "time of space," and the words "time," "past," "present," "future," themselves all have spatially interpretable etymologies. Again, we have external organs for sensing all sorts of spatial motion, sights, sounds (which come out of space), and internal organs for sensing our own spatial position, and we have a capability for perceiving perspectival transformations. But we have no discernible organ or power for perceiving the mere elapsing of time. Our estimate of time depends on the spatial passages from light to dark, from fresh to worn, from full to empty, and if we are deprived of their sensory evidence our sense of time becomes totally confused. Moreover, time is somehow more accessible than space. We can "spend time" to gain space. Time serves to pass through space: Now when Joseph had named his underworld name to the Ismaelite, and had indicated to him what he wished to be called in Egyptland, these people trekked on, some days, several and many days, at an indescribably comfortable pace and full of serenity concerning time, which would one day, they knew, manage to overcome space, if one cooperated .but a little-and would do this most surely if one didn't fuss but ·). · gave in to its progress, each of whose advances might be c.. . account but which would, quite incidentally, run up a large sum, if only once carried on and reasonably maintained one's direction. [Thomas Mann, Joseph in F.gypt) One may even recover, in some sense, one's former place in space. But it is only in a figurative way that one can regain lost times by going down through space, as in archaeological exposure of earlier levels of life. Then, too, time's effects can be fugitive-a moment of bliss can sometimes obliterate a season of suffering, but a ravaged place cannot be healed without the investment of laborious motion. In brief, spaces and places contain the passages that concern us, that is, they contain time, but not the reverse. I take all that as suggestive, though of course merely circumstantial, evidence that time is not even coordinate with space, as a form of appearances, not to speak of being prior. Proof of such an assertion there cannot be beyond its possibly convincing consequences. But I can, at least, in concluding my brief collection of the evidence against time and for space try to invalidate the chief presumptive mark of their separate and coordinate standing. That is the supposed difference between the here and the now: The here, it is said, is repeatable; the now is not. The claim certainly holds for the mathematical repre· . sentation of space and time, though merely by definition. In a graphic coordinate system with a time-axis the space coordinates can return as often as you please, whilf' · · , ~ SUMMER 1983 �time coordinates must increase monotonically. But is it so plain in life that the now never returns? Is it so certain that a d~jA vue is always a pathological incident? But even if, in publicly corroborable fact, no now is indeed ever repeated because chances are overwhelmingly against the world's passages ever returning to the same state, yet it is imagin· able that we might, by a slightly different route, come back to the same moment. For if events had the cyclicality of a circle, as- Nietsche daims (Note 13), every now would be antecedent to itself and to all others, and if events moved as in a figure eight, the same now would be on different approaches. Whether we then said that it was the same now because its perceptual content was the same, or a different now because it had different antecedents, would depend on our desire to make the configurations of the world tell time or to make the advance of time distinguish its configurations. In principle and in imagination a passage which is an extended causa sui is not impossible, and therefore neither is the return of a now. I leave out of account here that unmodern "defence against Time" (Eliade) constituted by the celebration of the timeless, original, and ever-repeatable moments of myth. Similarly, as far as the here is concerned, is it so obvious that we can always come back to it? It seems to me that there are three kinds of here: There is the local mathematical point given by an origin and three coordinates, which is exactly repeatable but is only the abstraction of a here. There is the physical situation determined by reference to a system of moving bodies which can be only relatively recovered as one system moves with respect to its next larger . containing system (as does the cluster of people on the boat on the ocean in the solar system, and so ad infinitum). And finally, there is the human place of our lives which probably cannot in effect be regained because, no matter how stable, the world's passing affects its colorations and conformations, as well as the mood of the returning perceiver. Therefore it seems to me that, insofar as they are separa· hie notions at all, the now can be as repeatable as the here and the here as irrecoverable as the now-which is to say that time and space are not distinguishable, at least by that mark. That melancholy of the -missed rendevous described above (Sec. I 4), when we come to the right place at the wrong time, is, then, not the unavoidable consequence of the inherent skewness of space and time, but rather a temporal affection, a mood of diminution, the ebb tide of our awareness, when we can take notice of nothing which does not flaunt itself in front of our eyes. For if time is noticed passage, the vitality of our sense of time and of our sense for times past and times future will depend on the scope of our receptivity. The object of the foregoing exercisejn suppressing our image of time as ·bearing onward the shapes of space was to quell our propensity for insinuating time into our speech as an occult nature and into our lives as a flux bear· ing us from oblivion to oblivion on the narrow raft of a THE ST. JOHNS REVIEW present floating out of the mists of time gone into the murk of time to come. It seems to me that the world so purged of time is a more patent world. In it shapes pass by us, but also we, at will, pass by them. Sometimes it is in our power to recognize appearances; we are able to tum baclc, to revisit the scene, to follow its figures as they pass by or to ascend to a higher viewpoint so as to survey the whole panorama simultaneously. Appearances which carry that possibility we call spatial. Some variations, however, we can only remember; they go past us and are beyond perceptual recovery. They back out of our sight, so to speak, by changing not so much their place as themselves, so that we can no longer train our sensory vision on them at will. So the golden solids oflate afternoon plane out into the dusky silhouettes of early evening, and no one can hold them. Such perceptually irrecoverable passings are usually ac· companied for us by a sense of loss or relief or, at least, of watchfulness. These we call temporal. But if we do not care enough about their passing, not even enough to glance at a watch, then, there being no one to feel or tell time, the passages remain untimed. Of course, to attempt to imagine this untimed world is a contradictory undertaking, that of trying to attend while not attending. Nonetheless, we could try to reach untimed passage. It would amount to thinking about appearance in its variability as distinct from being involved in it. It would mean being on the approaches of tl)e mystery of Appearance. Here, it seems .to me, would start the real pursuit: What appears? What principles of self-sameness and ever· otherness can account for the determinate shapes appearance manifests in its endlessly varying variety? Must appearance be perceived to appear? Is it nothing or something in itself? And what is perception? What is space, that field and frame in which, or perhaps, as which, appearance shows itself? What rules, causes, ends govern that distinguishable variation of appearance called motion or passage?-This is the great battle ground to which leads the skirmish against time. The results of a substancial reflection are sometimes a bit bizarre, and their justification lies in their intention. Mine is to give an accou.nt of the three phases of time which lend to human life much of its pathos. 3. THE PHASES OF TIME Let me begin by readmitting the absurdly unavoidable thought which I had earlier proscribed: that if things had not come to the present juncture they would not be here. Sequences of appearances commonly seem to have, if no humanly ascertainable drift or even much recollectable continuity, at least a certain longitudinal connectedness. But how ·do we know of that connection? Space lies open before us in brilliant extendedness. It has no before and after, being, all that there is of it, there. How can it also display the past variety of its passages? How, in short, does 93 �the present worH bear witness to those of its states that have passed, to its past? What lets us interpret a fossil as testimony of life's evolution? What compels us to ascribe a tender babyhood even to the most desiccated adult? What makes a place revisited a place almost regained? What reconstitutes the sherd at the bottom of a Greek well into a goblet from a world gone by? The answer is that we do it, we give the world its past because we have the power of memory. For itself the . grandest mountain range, which to us expresses in its majestic presence the dignity of having been shaped by the passage of aeons, has no past and no world, and neither does the little loom-weight which once put tension on the warp of Penelope's loom. The depth of space is ours because we have memory. It makes time and its phases possible. Not as the poet says: ... only in time can the moment in the rose-garden, The moment in the arbour where the rain beat, The moment in the draughty church at smokefall Be remembered; involved with past and future. Only through time time is conquered. T. S. Eliot, "Burnt Norton" I, from Four Quartets but the opposite: the moments of memory first constitute past and future. What is memory? The past-rriaking memory is of the imagination. (I omit consideration of rote, short-term, motor, and verbal memory, and of those electronically stimulated, hallucination-like replays of the "memory-tape" which attest to the physical basis of the human activity of remembering.) The imagination I understand to be in the first instance the power for absorbing the world's variety into assorted shapes and coherent processes, a discerning receptivity riot at that point distinguishable from the power of perception. It is, in this aspect, a faculty universally and subconsciously exercised. (Kant, in his own context, calls it the productive imagination because it first produces those unities of thought and sense which he calls "phenomena.") Secondly and properly speaking, it is a capacity for holding the form of things without their matter, as Aristotle says, or the object without its presence, in Kant's terms; both formulations come to the same thing when one recalls that for Aristotle the material is a required element of the substantial presence of a physical object. Its dematerializing power is indeed what makes its holding capacity plausible. For one psychic space Qeaving aside the physical basis of memory) seems able to contain myriads of memories. I am not speaking of psychic space altogether figuratively but describing the interior experience of imagining which seems to be primarily visual, or better, pseudovisual, presumably because sight is the sense most adequate to the extendedness of space (cf. Note 35). And although images are extended, they do not seem necessarily to displace or occlude one another; images are, so to speak, transparent to images. How the imagination (and thus the memory) might its work is a question Aristotle tacitly sets aside and Kant answers by saying that it is a rriysterious power hidden in the depth of the soul. It seems to me of all philosophical questions the most engaging, but for another occasion. (See Note 35 for a formulation of its aspects.) In the meanwhile I will mention one-most crucial-feature of its work: In holding objects without their presence it is always intentional, for the retained form is an image of, or intends, the once present thing, and therein precisely lies its memorial power, its ability to re-present, to present the absent. (There may indeed be moments when remembering passes into reliving, when the memory-image intends its object not as an object that was, but as a present object, but such states are, like hallucinations, extraordinary.) How does the memory-imagination bring about the three temporal phases or present, past, and future?__ a. The Present The now is also called the present, and nowness is associated with presence. A "presence" (Greek: parousia) means a being that is by us, a confronting being which is immediately there. Let us call it perceived being, leaving out of account here the whole problem of perception itself. In this phase the imagination works as the involuntary power described above, which shapes sensory mater:-1, into perceived appearances, though some argue that ) world itself delivers fully shaped appearances (Gibson). People whose imaginative power is exhausted in this first function accordingly live in the present and prefer adven-. titious stimulation to memories and projects. It is this nowpresent which Heidegger combats. Being perceptible defines what is in the present, but I think its marks are not those usually stated: vividness, self. givenness, uniqueness. For the present can be dim and dreary, like a city parking lot on Sunday; and sights of things by no means present can come to us unbidden and adventitiously as do phantasms and hallucinations; . and many a present scene is worn out with repetition. What is peculiar to the present, then, is that it is perceived, that it declares itself to us through the conduits of sensation with a normally bland-though sometimes stunningimmediacy. Indeed, it is one of the mysteries of perception that our intermediary senses can leave us with so strong a sense of the immediacy of appearance. Besides being char· acterized by being right there, before us, perception also promises a certain completeness of perspective and detailing. The present picnic includes those garbage cans behind the bushes and the proverbial ants on the blanket which the past idyll has simply occulted. If the present is defined by the immediate presence of appearances and their passages, ·we should speak of the now not as an ever-new moment, but rather as the unvarying condition of being and having a present. This nr :s I ,' 94 SUMMER 1983 �our ability to be in and with the world. That ever-other, ever-same now of the time-flow which is thought of as be· ing at once the leading edge of time and also the cut be· tween past and future arises when we stop the passages of appearance to take notice of our relation to their passing. The present becomes a flux-now when reflection brings the world up short-the now arises from self-interruption. This is the now which our mathematical reason is com· pelled to whittle down to an unextended ·point. Percep· tion, on the other hand, insists on its elongation. From this conflict arises the bastard notion of the "specious present": When we consciously represent our time· consciousness, we do it by means of a line which underlies a set of dimensionless points, while we observe that our actual perceived present is an extended "space" of time, composed of a braid of retentions of just-passed passages. (That the actual present "takes time" accords with com· mon experiences, for example the curious exchanges of present and past at the moment of receiving sudden bad news; the shocked consciousness oscillates for a while between the apprised now of the present and the yet unsus· pecting now of the immediate past.) In sum, when left to its own devices, the present is not now but always, or better: It is always the present. This ever-present present acts nonetheless as a pivot between · the two other phases of time because through it come the images which stock the memory, although the memory it· self integrates and frames the scene. All that we have there by way of distinct forms came first through the senses. (Or perhaps not everything: Augustine regards the memory as a space furnished not only with likenesses of all the world, but also inhabited by imageless memories of intelligible objects. The question really comes to this: which domain is the larger, imagination or memory? All images, it seems to me, are at least in their elements memories, but Augus· tine must argue that some memories are not image-like, namely those belonging to intellectual learning. It seems to me a question not here soluble whether such learning is essentially memorial and I have therefore left it out of account.) In going on to the past, let me say something concerning the relation of flux-time and phase-time. Flux-time, cur· rent time, whose being independent of our attention to passage I am denying, is precisely not, and for just that rea· son has no power to bear off lapsed passages into nowhere, it flows not into the past but into oblivion. Instead, phasetime supervenes: As soon as passages are beyond percep· tion and out of sight, they come to a standstill, so to speak; they are laid away and accumulate as the permanent stock of the memory-imagination, available for recovery, and the more readily available the more we cared at the time. The hidden work of their consignment to this. permanent mode, called "consolidation," seems to demand the inter· vention of other passages, that is, it seems to take some time, apparently for physiological reasons. Consequently the recent past is often inchoate compared to more re· Tiffi ST. JOHNS REVIEW mote events, especially if it has been a monotony of mi· nute differences. What, then, accounts for the being of past passages, for a passing that has ceased to pass? . b. The Past The past is the work of the imagination proper. Had we no such power we would have no past-there would be no past. It is what Kant calls the "reproductive" imagination. It makes a world of re-presentations, of secondary occur· rences, which are distinguished from perceptions first of all in this: We move and have our place within the world of perception, but the world of the imagination is felt to take place within us. (Though there ·are memories which approach the sense of presence of a perception; they are usually triggered by one of the two contact senses, smell and touch, whose deliverances, as it happens, are also hardest to make into memory-images.) Aristotle thinks that we sense time, and therefore that the imagination, which holds memories, also holds their times. The difficulties of this view seem to me insuperable. (See Sec. II 3). For first, it is hard to conceive what such a time storage might mean. Does it mean that to reach a memory we must recount the time back to it, so that to remember a childhood scene we must reproduce the intervening decades? That would make remembering in principle impossible, because while we were working our way bade into memory, the present would carry us for· ward at a clip equal but opposite. Does it mean that we have, as Aristotle claims, an internal time-scaling capacity, a kind of speeding up of the inner temporal flux with an index of its ratio to the actual time? Not only is there, L have argued, no such flux, but pure time (as distinct from · its count) is, unlike space, incapable of proportionality because its stretches cannot be compared to each other by congruence. Precisely that mysterious property of the memory-imagination which makes it capable of containing the world, namely that its spaces can, so to speak, contin· ually be rescaled, that very property makes it incapable of containing the world's time, which cannot be scaled. Besides, the phenomena of memory are all against a temporally flowing memory medium. Memory is notori· ously discrete. The forgettable, a mere temporal stretch· ing, is forgotten. Memory-images float up or flash on in isolation, and time is remembered, if at all, not by being condensed but by being excerpted. At any rate, although the physiological basis for recalling every instance of our life may exist, it would not only be impossible in principle, as I argued above, to recover the continuum of our life· time, but it would be in practice a waste of oilr present to try _o recover even parts of our past temporally; Indeed, I t thinr - is plain impossible to rememb~r the passage of it time through time. . . Consequently, the time-keeping performance of memory is, in fact, quite unreliable. BetWeen the first and the 95 �final instance of a daily routine we merge the recurrent events into one schema; it is that summary foreshortening of an orderly life which is the source of so much distress and so much comfort. We lose days from our calendar, but we also multiply moments and think that we did often and long what we did skimpily and briefly-exercises, for instance. The shades of the remembered dead are nearer than the persons of the unregarded living, and in old age our childhood is closer than our middle age. By the public clock our unchecked memories can be relied on neither for the length or the continuity or the unperturbed succession of time. How then do we through memory constitute our past? Primarily the past is, I think, a series of timeless scenes, obtained by eyewitness or borrowed, acquired immediately by our own perception or through material images, for instance, pictures of historical events. These inner, immaterial sights, animated perhaps by unheard sounds, are marked as memory-images by our awareness that they are of a once present perceived passage, which has done what passages do-gone by. That is why memories, unless we deliberately mobilize them by passing them before our inner vision, have a certain immobility. What T. S. Eliot says of history holds a fortiori for memory: It is "a pattern of timeless moments." We remember not the coming and going of a motion but a representative frame-it might be called its configural gist, something like in feeling to pictorial representation of motion by means of flow lines. Memory-images do possess, secondarily, succession, and duration, which are therefore characteristics of the past. Memories have succession because passages leave various, usually discrete, traces, which we retain in their context. Certainly not every memory is well and accurately fixed, and its relations are subject to outside correction by those who have better recorded, more coherent, memories. But by and large memories lead into each other or hang together. It is this context character which makes recollection possible. Aristotle in On Memory and Recollection dis· tinguishes between this methodical recovery of a memory and remembering itself, which is conspicuously capricious, illuminating and occluding scenes uncontrollably. Remembering seems to be dependerit on fortuitous associative triggers (once much studied by Humean psychologists); the most famous literary example of such a memory trigger is Proust's taste of a tea cake dipped in a tisane which retrieves for him the bliss of childhood. The second temporal effect of memory is that of duration, which it achieves by means, so to speak, of its thickness, its lamination. This way of marking a long or a short time is, of course, highly deceptive by ·the clock, sincethis is the time theme of The Magic Mountain-full and eventful but fast passages leave thickly layered images, while passages long drawn out but eventless leave only sparse scenes. Of course, the order and the measure of memory time is subject to correction by correlation with external clock movements and with others' memories. But 96 the pacing of the original past, our past, can be made e ) ble only by extrapolation and abstraction, since itis constituted in the most inhomogeneous of spaces, our imagina· tion. (I want to add that the reason certain animals show very precisely paced behavior seems to be not that they have, any more than we do, an original sense of time but that they are themselves clocks.) The memory-imagination, then, is what is alone respon· sible for the past, for the past as a whole is what is poten· tially remembered, what the soul has noticed and could recall. The memory-imagination is where the world's passages find permanence and whence the present can learn of its own perpetuity; through the memory, space can testify to time. But even if space were devastated, if the accumated treasury of civilization were annihilated, if the present were a void-as long as human memory survived the past would exist. It should be clear that to say that the past is our doing by no means implies that it is our invention, to be manipu· lated for pleasant or pernicious ends. What is our doing is that there is a past, not what is past. The above-mentioned intentional ch3racter of the memory makes that distinction possible. A memory-image intends that thing or event o; which it is the memory. What our memorial capacity con tains is in one sense something of our own, namely insofar as it is simply a memory, but in another sense it belongs to the object remembered, namely insofar as it is a memory of the object. This double-sided character of memo,.... '--.is just what makes possible-and therefore obligatory )e effort to remember truthfully, an effort which feels, at least, like trying to pass through the memory to its intended object. Something similar holds for that reconstitu· tion of public memory called history. Historical truthfulness seems to me to consist of scrupulously using · the evidence to construct a history-image which is compellingly of something, namely of the way it was. An analogous effort, finally, seems to play a part even in poetry, for memory is said to be the mother of the Muses. Before I conclude by arguing that the past is the most humanly defining and consequential of the three phases of time, let me dispose of the future. c. The Future The future is said to come toward us, and we are sup· posed to face it. This seems to me to be a misleading figure of speech. Wherever we face, we confront the present, and nothing is coming at us or by us but that. The future, I say, is entirely derivative from the past. Huss.erl describes it formally as the inverse of memory. The future is that mode of the memory in which the image anticipates a perception, whereas in the past it follows. The future is projected memory. How is" that meant? ·There are, it seems to me, at least four ways to think of the future. The first defines the future as the realm r r -in. ) SUMMER 198.l �tingency. On the hypothesis that there "are" indeterminate events, the. future is that part of the world about which it is in principle impossible to make true-or-false statements. This is the future understood in terms of the use, in the present, of the future tense. (If, however, the future is supposed to be predetermined, that is to say, if all passages have an absolutely tight nexus, then future and past are indistinguishable: It is in principle possible to · make true statements about either and in fact extremely difficult.) The second way is that the future is an imageless, calculated projection of present trends, a way as necessary as it is fatal to bureaucratic planning; this future is the present elongated according to rules of conjecture. The third is the "futuristic" future. Its imagery bears the marks of a forced attempt to represent the never-yet-seen, the absolutely novel. This future, which comes out of a wilful subversion of the past, is usually antiseptically inhuman and terrifyingly technical. {Note, for example, that recent futuristic space movies, like Star Wars and Star Trek, tend to be humanly hollow and visually weird, while space movies in a contemporary setting like Close Encounters, E.T., and the Superman series are suffused with nostalgically homey, lovingly comic, all-American romance.) All these futures are, of course, present thoughts and images marked, as it were, with a future index. I cannot even conceive what it might mean literally to think future things, that is, to be with one's thoughts in the future. There is a fourth future, our lived human future. It is the projected past, and thus also the past as a project. This future is always a possible image_.:_not an image of possibilities, for that is an impossibly indeterminate notion; nor a formulation of possibilities, for that is merely a logical exercise; nor even a prospectus of possible images, for that is conjecture and contingency planning. The actual future with which we live is a settled envisioning of a scene we deem the world capable of harboring. Such a scene always comes from memory, not only because without memory there is no experience with which to judge what visions are capable of realization, but also because memory is the space in which diverse perceptions are first transformed into coherent patterns. For it is from memory-images that we shape our aim-images. Indeed, Bergson claims that memory is primarily action-oriented, though that "to call up the past in the form of an image, we must be able to withdraw ourselves from the action of the moment, we must have the power to value the useless, we must have the will to dream." However, I hope to show that memory has even deeper work than future-dreaming. Such memory-projections may come to nothing and return to memory, closed out and abandoned: Footfalls echo in the memory Down the passage which we did not take Towards the door we never opened Into the rose-garden. T. S. Eliot "Burnt Norton", I llfE ST. JOHNS REVIEW But if they are held desirously and vividly enough, they immediately go over into projects: Every real action in the world, no matter how modest, has as its formal and its final cause an image, and those acticms are most felicitous whose projected image is at home in a Colden Age. A small but apt example is the making of a garden-every garden is conceived as a comer in the Garden of Eden, though its beginning be with the loan of a pickaxe. (I might add here that it is a blessing for us that every terrestrial paradise requires continual maintenance or we would fall into the taunting melancholy of the completely fulfilled imagination.) One more observation about a projected image which seems to be kind of a limit of our living future and which concerns the one event sure of realization, our death. We come on our death, it seems to me, in various ways, for example, as a shapeless terror before an unimaginable termination or as an imagined scene in which we are called on to play a leading role. That ultimate image will be and ought to be the occasional subject of meditation. But why should we, as Heidegger demands, face resolutely, at every moment, the fact of our own death, understood as the possibility of our not-being, in order for our existence to be authentic? That death is the end of our being is a mere surmise, and it is an open question whether the imagination, which like Dante's journeys in the middle of this life to bring back visions of the next, is delivering phantasies or memories. Be that as it may, the aspect of the great futural fact of our death which is most effective in life seems to me to be that notorious gift of Prometheus, namely our blindness concerning its exact date, and that is how our end governs our future. For death has us on an elastic tether, with give enough, we may always hope, for. the well-paced play necessary to the perfection of any project, .and with tautness enough to snap us eventually back from diversion to work. Before proceeding to the past, I want to forestall an objection which might be raised-that in considering the future as projected past I am attributing the order of my awareness to the order of worldly becoming, with the antic result that things receive their futurity from my projection, for instance that an old place to which I now first envision visiting is therefore a place of the future. But it is not the sequence of knowing and being that, as I argue, makes the future, but my present apprehension of a sequence of modes of awareness: I call future what I expect to perceive. This view, to be sure, detracts from the pathos of futurity, from both its inexhorableness and its contingency and implies precisely that there is no future-being. Indeed such being is an unintelligible notion, for what will be is not. By being in the future can be meant no more than this: that the image is posited as coming before the perception, where "before'' is not a temporal relation at all, for the "coming before" is now; it is in my present "expectation''.. To give the future no beinB is, however,.not to deny that 97 �"shall" and "will" have a strongly effective meaning. To resolve that "it shall be" is now to recover in the imagina· tion an image-appearance, perhaps to modify it, and to will to bring it to perception by the proper action. When the perception becomes actual it is future no longer but present. To prognosticate that "it will be" is now to antici· pate an external appearance and to have well-grounded ex· pectation for perceiving it. We are warranted in such an· ticipations because the passages of the world usually show a certain symmetry about the pivotal present, a symmetry we establish by attending to each memory specifically as a by-gone present. The shape of ordinary passages, we then conclude, is distorted very slowly about the perceived present. In fact, most passages which are important to us are either cyclical or monotonic, and therefore continu· ously predictable. There are, or course, moments of crisis, catastrophic discontinuities which teach us that every "logic of becoming" so far discovered is unreliable. But it stands to reason that were the variations of appearance ei· ther totally monotonous or totally multifarious, we would have no sense of a coherent future at all. What room, one might ask, does this view of the lived future as projected past leave for newness? The present is in a superficial sense always novel, because no matter how accurately it was foreseen or how effectively it was planned, the world's passages will bring out in us and will bring before us the unexpected and the adventitfous. The question really concerns a deeper newness: not whether human beings can put into the world what has merely never been before, but whether they can establish a well· founded new way, a novus ordo seclorum. The vision behind such an epoch cannot help but come from the imagi· nation. (I leave out the element of thought because it is so doubtful that thought is rooted in the phases of time at all.) The imagination finds the materials for such a vision in the storehouse of memory, but its affective shaping seems to come from the power of phantasy. Now both aspects of the imagination, memory and phantasy, are past-oriented. The memory is the very source of the past, while phantasy characteristically works-as a matter of observation-in the mode of "once upon a time," of primeval, ancient pat· terns. Therefore genuinely imagined new beginnings, as distinct from those that are light-headedly contrived, usu· ally take the form of a rectification, renewal, rebirth-in sum, of a return to "that time" (illo tempore) which is to be recovered in a new paradise, a new Colden Age, a New Jerusalem. d. The Past as Paramount Phase Memory-image and phantasy-image, the image arising from perception and the image made in the imagination, are distinguished from each other by certain marks. The intentionality of memory is that of being of an original per· ception of which it is precisely the memory. A phantasy· image lays no claim to being the memory of a once-pres scene except in play, in the well-circumscribed space, whose proper phase, I have claimed, is the past, of "once upon a time." (This distinction between the reality claims of phantasy and memory can, of course, be confounded in very fascinating ways.) Consequently memories have a fairly fixed temporal context, while phantasy and fairy tales take place in a floating time frame. But in certain fundamental characteristics, memory and phantasy are the same: Both are representations without the material presence of the world and subject to the same transmutations that such absence sanctions. With that deep bond between the realm of phantasy and of the past in mind, let me now enumerate reasons why the past, constituted in memory, is the humanly preponderant of the three phases of time. First, the past is, of necessity, thicker in texture and longer in extent and therefore weightier for us than our immediate present. For while we have indeed always a present, not everything that we have is always present. Why then should we be willing, having put ourselves to the trouble of living, to lose our life to oblivion? Even more, the past contains not only all our own accomplished passages but is indefinitely extended by the memories we absorb from the common store, from that derivative mem· ory called history. The past can be an ever-widening pan· . orama, so capaeious and so Vivid that it may sometimes seem as if it were, after all, not within us but as if we wan~ dered in it, as in our own interior space. That is h ·.) Augustine speaks of it: I come into the fields and spacious palaces of my memory, where are the treasures of innumerable images drawn from things of whatever sort by the senses . ... And yet do not the things themselves enter the memory; only the images per· ceived by the senses are ready there at hand ... . For there I have in readiness the heaven, the earth, the sea, and whatever I could perceive in them. [X 8) Whether we think of our memory-past as an increasing freight or a widening space, it must inform our life in action and conversation. The past is present as those se· lect memories which the present has called up to comfort, goad, or illuminate it. From these memories are distilled not only the projects of the future but that experience which enables us to envision the transformation a project will undergo in the course of realization and its unintended consequences: most unsound judgement is, after all, a failure of the latter aspect of the projective imagination. Besides being the source of experience, memory-past has secondly a clarifying and shaping power. It is often said that the present is fact, the future possibility, and the past is necessity; Presence may be called bald fact, though what the fact is, is rarely known in the present, Tue future may be thought as possibility, but it is lived as a vivid picture. . And the past may be in certain gross features unalterable, but the inner sense of passages is revealed as memory P" / 98 SUMMER 1983 �gressively revives and reviews them; just as in space proxi· mate objects are invisible until we have gained perspective on them through distance. So if the past is the necessary, meaning that of which memory cannot be otherwise (for we cannot say that past things are necessary, since they are not at all, being gone), it is so first of all insofar as it has been laid to rest, as when we say, "let bygones be by· gones." Indeed it is yet another power of memory, to for· get the best-forgotten, and the price for not exercising it is the paralyzing repetition of a worn-out present. (I do not mean that we can expunge the brute fact but that we can deprive it of its effectiveness. The religious term for that effort, when it concerns our own deeds, is "repentance," which "seeks to annul an actuality," Kierkegaard, Philo· sophical Fragments, "Interlude 3, The Past.") And sec· ondly, the past is necessary as far as the grossly designat· able events and their calendar dates are concerned: for example I believe it was Clemenceau who observed concerning the shifting interpretations of the Great War, that whatever is said, no one will ever claim that on August 4, 1914, Belgium invaded Germany. With respect to such brute facts, memory merely records. But for most past passages, memory, when it is called upon, shows itself to have been active. It has purified the once-present of its obscuring passions and clarified its pat· terns. It is this shaped and rectified past which most strongly colors and directs the present. It is what the poet means when he speaks of Time which takes away And taking leaves all things in their right place An image of forever One and whole. Edwin Muir, "I have been taught" It is our frequent experience that we do not realize what is going on before our eyes, that the present is shapeless and imperfect, that appearances must reappear in mem· ory to show what they were meant to be. What is ongoing has presence merely, but what is past shows its essence. Third, the panoramic, projective, and purgative capacities of the memory-imagination make it the great propaedeutic power for philosophy. For example, out of its store are fashioned those cosmic visions which complete the ar· guments of reason, as do the myths in the Platonic dialogues. Again as the room which holds the world without its material presence, it provides the field of a first encounter with immaterial form. And further, because of its recti· fying, schematizing, canonizing tendency, the memory acquaints us with ideality, whether in the schemata of geometry or in the types of excellence. Finally, the mem· ory is a training ground for philosophizing, because concentratedly pursued remembering, or recollection, has features analogous to searching thought. Fourth and last, the memory-past has a power of trans· figuration, of enchantment. Its force is such that those un· der its spell may melt with nostalgia even for hell on earth. THE ST. JOHNS REVIEW In this mode memory saturates with feeling what it has purged of passion. Now its scenes float up fragrant with an illumination of inexpressibly familiar mystery and its set· tings are suffused by an enigmatically musical aura. Proust describes these atmospheric colorations as turning the memory-world into a hieroglyphic of happiness whose de· cipherment is an enthrallingly exigent task. Proust is both the painstalcing initiate and the exploiting connoisseur of the magic of memory. His acute temporal sensibility presents him with an absorbing problem: He has discovered that on the one hand, "the true paradises are the paradises we have lost," while on the other, only the immediacy of perception can add the last perfection, that of real existence, to these paradisical memories. He finds that he can su<:eeed in his search for Jost time only when a sensory trigger perceived in the present, and iden· tica) with so.me element of the past such-as that taste of the teacake, revivifies his memory. Then past and present become one and the past is literally relived. This fusion of temporal phases he calls "pure time." There is something fascinating and something repellent in Proust's self-immured pursuit of the past not as a tem· plate for the future but as means to momentary bliss. What he describes is, as it happens, the most magical of temporal experiences-when the past lies upon the prese.nt as a luminous-transparency,or behind it like a vibrant backdrop, or within it like animating music. In spite of, or better, precisely for the sake of, the magic, it seems to me sounder not to importune the past for golden moments but to let them come as they will, and when they come to let them do their proper work, which is not only to bring delight but also to be the source of ardour for a worldly project. So profiting by Proust's case, we should probably avoid . too direct a preoccupation with our paradise-producing power. Otherwise much more might be said, particularly about its dose relation to music. For music is the most memorial of arts. It occurs only min"imally in the present and · the whole burden of its being is on memory, since the apprehension of a musical whole depends on retention, as Husserl has named the quasi-perception of passages just now past, while the recognition of its intention depends on the memory of alJ the music heard before. But mosl to my point here, music is the art which best aids and intensi· fies the significance-producing function of our memoryimagination because, as can no other art, it suffuses space with feeling and vivifies it with intimations of schemata of the body which stand for gestures of the souJ.36 But of such musings there is no end. • • • ·To conclude: The soundness and the fuJness of our existence seems· to me to begin with a right" relation to the three phases of time. Of these the present with its passions is loud enough in its own behalf, and when it is dimmed it 99 �is very often because of our improvident preoccupation with the future. Here I have brought forward the past and its images not only because it is the forgotten phase of our time,3 7 but because I really think that it has the dignity I have ascribed to it: It is the depth of the present and the shape of the future. The wholeness of life and half of its happiness comesand its coming depends on good fortune and work, and above all, on single-minded desire-when the present world is perceived against a deep, luminous background of memory, which is at once also a prospect into the future and a project. That temporal whole (it cannot rightly be · called a present and I have no name for it) will sometimes-not often-submit itself to thought and invite contemplation. That is, I think, the complement of temporal completeness and a consummation of human happiness. Let my witness be, one last time, Aristotle, speaking of that human being-perhaps a little beyond our meanswho will be the best friend and live the happiest life (Nie. Eth. IX, on friendship, 1166 a 14 ff.): He is in harmony with himself and has the same desires throughout his whole soul ... Such a one wants to be in his own company since he makes it pleasant for himself. For he has delightful memories of what he has done and good hopes for what is to come, and finally, his mind abounds in objects of contemplation. Immanuel Kant, Critique of Pure Reason (1787) B 46- . ' "Transcendental Aesthetic: Of Time"; A 98-110: the three syntheses; B 150-159: "Of the Application of the Categories to the Objects of the Senses in General"; B 176-187: "Of the Schematism of the Pure Concepts of the Understanding"; B 274-279: "Refutation of Idealism"; B 399-432; A 341-405: "Of the Paralogisms of Pure Reason." II. SUPPORTING ThxTS, STUDIES, COMMENTARIES Samuel Alexander, Space, Time, and Deity (1916-1918), London 1920, Bk. I, i-iv. Staffan Bersten, Time and Eternity, A Study in the Structure and Symbolism of T. S. Eliot's Four Quartets, New York 1973, III iii. Henri Bergson, Time and Free Will, English version of An Essay on the Immediate Data of Consciousness (1889), F. L. Pogso!'l, trans., New York 1960, Ch. II and Conclusion. Otto F. Bollnow, Das Wesen der Stimmungen, Frankfurt a.M. 1968, Chps. IV, XII. Santa Fe, Summer 1982 Albert Einstein, and others, "On the Electrodynamic-. Moving Bodies" (1905), The Principle of Relativity Dover 1952, par. 1 BIBLIOGRAPHY I. MAIN TExrs Aristotle, Physics IV 10-14 (time); III 1-3 (motion); VIII (primary motion); On Memory and Recollection I (phases of time); On Coming to Be and Passing Away II 10-11 (cyclical time). Also: Metaphysics IX, XII; On the Soul III; Posterior Analytics II 12; On Interpretation 9. (4th cent. B.C.). Augustine, Confessions (c. 400 A.D.) X 8-26 (memory); XI 10-31 (time). Martin Heidegger, Being and Time (1927), John Macquarrie and Edward Robinson, trans., New York 1962, First Part, Second Section, paras. 65, 68-69, 79-82. · Edmund Husserl, The Phenomenology of Internal TimeConsciousness (1905), Martin Heidegger, ed~. James S. Churchill, trans., Bloomington 1964, Sec. II "The Analysis of Time-Consciousness"; III "The Levels of Constitution of Time and Temporal Objects." 100 Mircea Eliade, Myths, Dreams, and Mysteries (1957), P. Mairet, trans., New York 1975, Ch. I: "The Myths of the Modem World." J. N. Findlay, "Time: A Treatment of Some Puzzles," Logic and LAnguage, Garden City 1965, pp. 40-59. Michael Gelven, A Commentary on Heidegger's "Being and Time," New York 1970. James J. Gibson, The Senses Considered as Perceptual Systems, Boston 1966. John G. Gunnell, Political Philosophy and Time, Middletown 1968, Conclusion. G. W. F. Hegel, Encyclopedia: Philosophy of Nature (1827) paras. 257-260; Phenomenology of the Spirit (1807), Preface. Martin Heidegger, Kant and the Problem of Metaphysic (1934), James S. Churchill, trans., Bloomington 1962 Logik (1925-26), Gesammtausgabe, Bd. 21, FranV a.M. 1976, Sec. C. SUMMER 198 �William James, Psychology, Ch. XVII: "The Sense of Time." G. W. Leibniz, "Reply to Bayle's Reflections on the System of Preestablished Harmony" (1702); Third and Sev· enth Letter to Clarke (1716). Wyndham Lewis, Time and Western Man (1927), Boston 1957. John Locke, An Essay Concerning Human Understanding (1690), Bk. II 14-15. Phenomenology of Memory, The Third Lexington Confer· ence on Pure and Applied Phenomenology, E. W. Straus and R M. Griffith, eds ..t. Pittsburgh 1970. The Problem of Time, Berkeley 1935. The Study of Time, Proceedings of the First Conference of the International Society for the Study of Time, Vol. I, 1969, Springer 1972, and subsequent volumes. Time and its Mysteries, New York 1962. The Voices of Time, J. T. Frazer, ed., New York 1966. . Thomas Mann, The Magic Mountain (1924, begun 1912), Ch. 4, 2;.~'Introduction to The Magic Mountain," Princeton Lecture (1939), (Preface to Fisher edition, 1950). IV. TIME IN SCIENCE M. Merleau-Ponty, The Phenomenology of Perception (1945), Colin Smith, trans., London 1962, Part III 2. Sir Arthur Eddington, The Nature of the Physical World (1928), London 1947, Chps. III-IV. Isaac Newton, Mathematical Principles of Natural Philoso· phy (16871 Scholium to the Definitions. Adolf Gri.Ienbaum, Philosophical Problems of Space cind Time, Boston 1973, Chps. 8-9, 12. Plato, Timaeus 37-39. Hans Reichenbach, The Philosophy of Space and Time (1927), New York 1958, Chps. II, III. Plotinus, Ennead III 7 (3rd cent. A.O.): Plotin ueber Ewigkeit and Zeit, Werner Beierwaltes, trans. and ed., Frankfurt a.M. 1967. G. J. Whitrow, The Naturcil Philosophy of Time, New York 1963. Marcel Proust, Remembrance of Things Past (1913-1926), Time Retrieved Ch. 3. W. 0. Ross, Aristotle's Physics, Text, Introduction, Com· mentciry, Oxford 1955. Jean-Paul Sartre, Being and Nothingness (1943), Pt. II 2-3. Most of the collections contain articles on time in sci· ence. In particular, Voices of Time: H. Dingle, "Time in Relativity Theory: Measurement or Coordinate?", p. 455 ff.; 0. C. de Beauregard, "Time in Relativity Theory: Ar· guments for a Philosophy of Being," p. 417 ff.; M. Capek, "Time in Relativity Theory: Arguments for a Philosophy of Becoming," p. 434 ff.; R. Schlegel, "Time and Thermo· dynamics," p. 500 ff. Charles M. Sherover, Heidegger, Kant, and Time, Bloomington 1971. Simplicius, Commentary on Aristotle's Physics, H. Oiels, ed., Berlin 1895, pp. 829-832. Alfred North Whitehead, The Concept of Nciture (1920), Ann Arbor 1957, Ch. III. Eviator Zerubavel, Hidden Rhythms, Schedules and Calendars in Socicil Life, Chicago 1981. III. COLLECTI_ ONS ) Bcisic Issues in the Philosophy of Time, E. Freeman and W. Sellars, eds., LaSalle 1971. 1liE ST. JOHNS REVIEW 1. A supporting curiosity: the Oxford Dictionary of Quotations reveals a 24: I ratio of time to space sayings. (Study of Time I; p. 313~ 2. Merleau-Ponty (p. 41 l)presents an analysis of the pu~e. If time were like a river it would indeed appear, on its own, to flow from the past into the future, namely from the source toward the distant mouth, in the di· rection a twig floats. But a river unobserved really has no events or tern· poral direction, for these require ari onlooker's perspective: "Time pre· supposes a view of time." So no unwatched river can represent time. Now introduce an observer, and the "motion" of time is straightaway reversed: The waters flow from the source at the observer and pass him, so that time comes toward him as he expects it and passes out of sight, that is, it flows from future to past. 3. Findlay, p. 41 4. Newton distinguishes "absolute, true, and mathematical time," which is a condition of motion, from relative or apparent time, which is the common time measured by motion. His physical motive for positing absolute time appears to be his belief that rotary motion is absolute, an as· sumption criticized by Leibniz in De Motu. Leibniz speaks of mathematical time as "ideal." It is nothing in itself 101 �but an idea in the mind of God (Seventh Letter to Cfurke). namely that of the order of mutually inconsistent possibilities (as space is the order of possible coexistences); it expresses the order-relations of phenomena which cannot be simultaneous but are connected-note well, the relations of phenomena, not of the substances themselves. His chief reason for objecting to absolute time is the principle that contingent truths, i.e., truths of fact, must have a sufficient reason. Now if time were absolute and instants existed in themselves, one might reasonably ask why God did not create the world a year sooner, and claim that by choosing this particular beginning he acted without reason, arbitrarily. But if time is a mere relation of phenomena, the world made a year sooner is in every respect indiscemibly different from the later world, and the question is obviated (Third Letter to Clarke~ Augustine partly anticipates this argument: If any giddy brain should ask why God forbore creating the world for innumerable ages, the answer is, Cod does not in time precede time (XI 13). Time arises simultaneously with the creation, or better, with the creature. See Sec~ lll. 5. Of course, physically speaking, to ignore the finiteness of the speed of light reduces relative to classical kinematics. 6. Alexander's work, Space, Time and Deity, a very large book of lectures given from 1916-1918, has as its beginning thesis the interdependence of space and time: "There is not an instant in time without a position in space and no point of space without an instant of time." (1, p. 48). Although Alexander had read of relativity theory, his treatment, which is purely philosophical, is quite independently conceived. 7. Wyndham Lewis interprets the preoccupation with time in all departments of human activity as a romantic reaction; he understands by romanticism a fluid, indeterminate, sensation-seeking, sophisticated rebellion against distinctly formed reality (Ch. 1). 8. Phenomenology, Preface, par. 45 (Miller, trans.). In the passage Hegel draws attention to the fact that there is no temporal counterpart to geometry. Space is the existence into which the Concept writes its distinctions as into an empty, dead element. Time, on the other hand, is the pure unrest of life, absolute differentiation and negativity. 9. See "Chronos," Pauly-Wissowa, Realencyclopaedie. Cronos, the father of Zeus who devoured and later disgorged his own children, was sometimes identified with Chronos, Time. 10. Simplicius is right when he shows at length that time does not move, but mistaken when he gives that as the reason why Aristotle does not include time among the categories in which motion occurs (on Phys. 225 b ;). Aristotle does in fact include the category of "how much" or quan· tity, in which time, as it happens, belongs. \\'hat he omits is "when,'' which is the category not of time but of timing-of which more below. 11 . Aristotle discusses his analogue to space, i.e.. "void" just before motion (213 b ff.). He regards its pure infinite dimensionality as a physical absurdity in which all motion becomes impossible for lack of any natural direction toward a place. For Aristotle things are contained in demarcated places, not spread out over a continuous substrate of infinite extension. 12. When Timaeus-not Socrates-tells how time arose, simultaneously ~ith the heavens, as a moved image of "eternity" (a-ion, the un-going), a "likeness of the ungoing, going according to number," he is giving the m)·thological anticedent of Aristotle's treatment of time in terms of the number of motion and of the heavenly motion as providing the measures of time. 13. The logical possibility of such necessary cycles is given in Post. An. (II 12). Those cycles of becoming are non-contingent whose events imply each other. Aristotle's cyclicality is indeed a forerunner of Nietzsche's "Eternal Return:" "That everything returns is the most extreme approach of a world of becoming to a world of being: Summit of the inquiry" (Will to Power, no. 617). In the Eternal Return the impossible is accomplishedto be in the same now twice and so to be causa sui (if causation is temporal). Consequently every moment is, so to speak, a discrete eternity. composed of all the previous identical moments, and the future comes at the now out of the past. The difference from Aristotle's theory is that this cycle is not conceived as an approach to God and has no final cause be· yond itself, but is intrinsically necessitated. In the Statesman (269 ff.) Plato lets the Eleatic Stranger tell of a yet 102 more curious cyclical sequence. It is a time-fable playing on the possib. ties of time reversal In the primary age Cronos, i.e., Time (see Note 9). takes the tiller of the world. Human beings spring grey-haired from the earth and grow into childhood, fruit ripens without culture; animals are tame and human beings understand their language; there are no families and no cities. In our present age the god has let go and the world uo~inds itself. We are no longer the wards of the god, but are hurnanJy generated, meagre, and exposed. Prometheus and Athena have given us arts and wisdom to make this life bearable. The Stranger declines to decide which age is happier since he does not know what was the disposition of the Cronians with respect to knowledge and philosophy. The fable means that the era of human independence is more diverse and more difficult than the cycle guided by the god and that its temporality is, as it were, fallen and inverted since the phases of imperfection are prior to the states of perfection. Yet the fable also implies that in the Cronian age philoso. phy may be an unwanted superfluity, while in the human age it .is an ineradicable need. A story of immense cycles, repeated through an "infinity" of time, a serial sequence of development and destruction in human affairs is told by the Athenian in lAws (676 ff.) 14. For a fine exposition of Aristotle's definition of motion"See Joe Sachs, "Aristotle's Definition of '.\lotion," The College, Jan. 1976, pp. 12-18. 15. Gunnell, p. 232 16. I use the term perception to distinguish the work of the facultv of sensation from that of the sense organs. As Aristotle does implicitly, so Whitehead explicitly distinguishes between the point-now which he calls "moment" and thr. duration yielded by sense perception. The "moment" is defined in terms of "abstractive sets" of duration. An abstracfo"e set is all the nested durations converging to the same limit, and a moment is defined as the class of all such sets converging to the same limit, each set being a different "route of approximation" to the same moment (pp. 5762). 17. The relation between time and eternity is similarly quasi-contemporaneous; in distinction from the temporality of human thought, div· thought is the same with itself through the "whole" of eternity (Met. L a 11). The scholiast on Nie. Eth. 1174 b 9 wrongly but understandably speaks of the now as an "atom of time," that is, a minimal of time, a moment. This is a notion Aristotle takes pains to reject (Phys. 220 a 27), though he does speak of the limiting point of a period of time as "indivisible" (223 b 34). 18. Aristotle refers to motion "in" the soul in the absence of sensation (Phys. 219 a 6). to -imagination and opinion as "a certain kind.of motion" (254 a 30). and to "changes" of mind (218 b 21). 19. Interestingly enough, such double consciousness is just what Husserl observes in that internal time flux which seems to him the basic temporal phenonmenon (par. 39): While we are conscious of the passing of a tern· poral object like a melody we are also conscious of the time flo,.- itself. 20. Taking his clue from Plato's Timaeus, the Neoplatonic Plotinus elaborates a grand ontological cosmology in which time plays a role quite the opposite from that in "Aristotle (Enneads Ill 7). The two relevant elements from the Timaeus are these: The cosmos is an image of being and the soul encompasses it. Time, says Plotinus, "fell out of eternity" (11, 7) because of an original flaw in the soul, a kind of grasping busyness which keeps the soul from abiding in self-sufficient quiet and causes it always to look to the next thing, to something beyond the present. For the soul is itself a variable and discursi\·e image of the intellect (Beierwaltes, p. 54). Hence it falls into a sort of motion, a kind of self-displacement. As it accomplishes a stretch of its journey, time is produced as an image of eternity. Speaking less metaphorically, the- soul "temporalizes" itself (echronesen, 11. 30), making time instead of eternity. Within time it produces the place of \·ariability, namely the sensible world as an image of eternity. Therefore the world, which moves within the soul, is, not altogether metaphorically, in · time and serves time. Time, in opposition to Aristotle, is not the number of motion but that in which and by which motion is possible (8; 9, -t). Since time comes from a lcind of greed for continual self-exceeding, iUs in its very essence futural; the soul looks ahead and draws the ft ·1 through the now, which by nature always goes out of itself, into the~ ) SUMMER 1983 �it is continually cancelling the now. This passage defines time: Time is the life (zoe) of the soul in a transitive motion from one life-phase (bios) to another ( 11, 44~ But as time is only an image of eternity, so temporal life · is merely homonymous with the eternal life of the intellect (l l, 49~ The time of the world soul and world time are the same, and since all souls are one, the same time also appears in each human soul (13, 67). The first question about time must be: Is it of the soul or of the world, is its source consciousness or reality? Plotinus' grand scheme, in making time the life of the soul and making the soul the animating generator of the world, collapses this distinction: It is precisely in being of the soul that time is in the world. 21. \Vhitrow, pp. 78 ff. 22. For example: that we can reach a memory, either randomly, by a "glancing ray," or systematically, by a process of attention (a distinction roughly the same as that made by Aristotle between remembering and recollecting, On Memory and Recollection II); that the clarity of a presentified object is distinguishable from the clarity of the presentification; :hat there are memories of memories, and also memories of objects we 'tave never perceived such as historical scenes; that every memory is fixed in an unalterable temporal environment even as it runs off from the ;>resent; that the perception of time and the time of perception corre;pond; that memory is distinguished from phantasy by a factor of"positmg," i.e., by being given a definite temporal position with respect to the ;>resent. ?3. I have omitted in this account that connecting of concepts called udging, which is required to complete experience (B 187 ff.). !4. Locke, for example, presents a theory of time in which there is suc:ession without an underlying flux. Our mind contains a "train of ideas," 1 succession of objects of thinking, from which we derive our idea of du:ation by reflection. Duration is "fleeting extension," the perpetually perishing part of succession (Essay II 14, I). The theory neatly takes a middle ground between Aristotle's psychic counting of external motion and Kant's original, undifferentiated inner flux. 25. Aristotle distinguishes, under somewhat shifting terminology, between thought or intellection (n6esis) which is the immediate apprehension of form, and discursive thinking (dianoia, e.g., Met. 1027 b 25). In a comparison with the Kantian faculties, pure intellect (nous) would be contrasted with the transcendental apperception or pure reason, human noesis with conceiving or understanding, and dianoia with judging. 26. In the original Transcendental Deduction (A 98-102) Kant distinguishes three phases of the unifying synthesis performed by the apperception and assigns to each a faculty: I. The synthesis of apprehension in intuition, an original taking-up into awareness and temporal ordering of the manifold of sensation. 2. A synthesis of reproduction in the imagination, an original associati:ig or connecting of representations of objects in their absence which makes remembering possible. 3. A synthesis of recognition in a concept, by which what is successively sensed and then remembered is recognized and united in one concept. On the face of it the distinctive temporal phase-if the syntheses are indeed to be temporally interpreted-would seem to be the past: cumulative apprehension, reproduction, re-cognition. Nonetheless Heidegger makes a fascinating case that Kant has implicitly prefigured his own account of the origin of all three phases in the future by showing that the syntheses correspond exactly to his three temporalizing ecstases of human existence: The apprehensive · synthesis corresponds to "originary presentification," the reproductive synthesis to "repetition" of what has been, and the synthesis of recognition to the "anticipation" of understanding (Kant and Metaphysics par. 33; Sherover, pp. 186 ff.; for Heidegger's reinterpretation of the imagination as understood in the Critique see Sherover, pp. 142, 150). 27. I. Plotinus anticipates Heidegger in the central notion of the selftemporalization of the soul, and in regarding the future as the essence of time (See Note 20~ ·· . Hegel's abstruse dialectical exposition of time in the Philosophy of Nature (paras. 257-260) is meticulously but critically interpreted by Heidegger (Logik, par. 20; Being and Time, par. 82 a). Its gist is as follows. In his dictum that "the truth of space is time," i.e., that space in being thought reveals itself as time, Hegel is opposing the commonsense apprehension of their disjunction. Space, for Hegel, is the indifferent mµtual z. THE ST. JOHNS REVIEW extemality of the manifold of points: "Space is punctuality." Each point in this manifold is a negation insofar as it discriminates a difference in space, although the point is not distinguishable from space. That is how space represents itself to us, to begin with. Now .w hen the point-space is subjected to thought, when it is not merely represented but actually conceived, that is to say, when its truth is brought out, the point, or rather each point, is determined. For thinking is determination, i.e., delimitation and distinction. So each point is distinguished from the manifold and set for itself: It is this point, not that point. Hence negativity, space, has in turn been negated. This negated negativity is the "truth" of space, namely the point conceived, and it is time. For in being so determined for itself, the point's indifference with respect to other points is cancelled; it steps out of its own indifferent condition, although it maintains its indifference to its neighbors. Thus it no longer lies in a paralyzed quietus of space but, so to spealc. gets a move on, rears itself up, outdoes.or succeeds itself: It becomes a now. And the successive determination of this now and that now, the continual negating of spatial negativity, that is time. '1n time the point has actuality," namely as no~. The.complementary positive concept of time is "intuited becoming," by which Hegel means the disappearance of specifo::ally experienced nows. Heidegger is critical of Hegel's understanding of time as the mere nowsequence of which his own work is a critique. (See Sec. V l~ He does note that time as negating negativity is formally identified by Hegel with subjectivity (self-Overcoming~ but he fails to mention at all in the Logik, what in Being and Time (omitting reference to the later lectures on the Phenomenology,) he discounts as a mere formality, namely that in the Philosophy of Spirit, which goes beyond the physical time of the Philosophy of Nature, this identification raises time to an all-encompassing stature: Time is the existent Spirit itself, the Spirit externalized. Here time is no longer a mere succession of nows; indeed, the notion that time is subjec· tivity is at least a way station to Heidegger's temporality as the ground of human existence. 3. Bergson gets short shrift (Logik, par. 21~ but he too anticipates Heidegger in certain elements: A first such anticipation is Bergson's emphasis on the essential temporality of human life which is in accord with his understanding of time as a vital, non-discrete, non-numerable qualitative and interpenetrative heterogeneity called "duration proper." A second is in Bergson's understanding of the origin of quantified, countable time as externalization, that is to say as a spatialization of true duration, brought about when consciousness introduces succession into the dead simultaneity of spatial phenomena. (Spatial phenomena, even when so modified have no vitality of their own; they only have an unaccountable property of presenting to consciousness change at successive moments.) But above all, Bergson precedes Heidegger in the notion of an externalized variant of life which is permitted to unfold in space outside rather than in time within, and iii which "we speak rather than think, we are enacted rather than ourselves act" (Essay, Conclusion). This externalization of time is surely an anticipation of "inauthenticity." 4. Because of the complex transformation of the meanings I merely· mention Kierkegaard's theological terms "repetition" and "the moment." (For Heidegger's acknowledgement of the latter see Being and Time II 4, n. iii.) 28. Plotinus, who has a way with words not unlike Heidegger's, uses the word dillstaris-distance-as a designation precisely of that quantitatively apprehensible succession of time through which its qualitative nature, the unity of its phases, is also displayed as the future continually passes into the present and the present into the past (Beierwaltes, p. 65). In the word ecstasis Heidegger expresses the denial of this diastatic or sequential unity; for him there is no temporal continuu.m since past ;md present both come directly from the future, though of course not through a temporal succession but through an ontologieal derivation. 29. Bollnow (Ch. IV) criticizes Heidegger's existential interjlretation of mood because it posits the "depressed" moods as exemplary and takes no account of the elevated moods. He seems to me to be right, because the understanding of "moodiness' (Stimmung} as a disclosure of "having been" is entirely derived from the mterpretation of anxiety as a being brought back to one's thrownness. But why should the other moOds be similarly grounded in the ecstasis of the past? 103 �30. Heidegger claims that the concept of this vulgar, infinite now-time which he has established is nothing but the existential-ontological interpretation of Aristotle's definition of time (par. 81~ This critique gives no weight to the fact that this countable continuum is for Aristotle only an aspect of motion undentood as the actualization of being and that its infinity and its now-present are precisely regarded as expressing the approach of becoming to being. to its eternity and its presentness. 31. The lack of an imaginative mode shows up especially in Heidegger's discussion of the relation of practice to theory (paras. 15, 69 a, b). Each has its own temporality, but that of the latter is entirely secondary to the former. Do.sein fmds itself always already involved in the world and bound into a context of instrumentality, of "equipment," which is "ready to hand" for use. Heidegger gives the example of a hammer: The less the hammer-thing is merely gaped at, the more Douin seizes hold of it in a primordial relation much more revealing of its being than any contemplation would be. Only later, usually when some deficiency is encountered in the tool, does that speculative stance arise, in which Dosein "presenti· fies" objects to itself as things independent of their use, so that they are merely "present at hand." Recall that the present is the least prestigious of the ecstases. Thus practice is a more primordial mode than contemplati Ve theory. The phenomena seem to me to be misobserved here. From the wideopen receptivity of a baby's eyes to the slow contemplative inspection which precedes any proper tool-using, every appearance of satisfying human activity seems to begin with imaginative viewing. 32. Whitrow, a very perspicacious writer on natural time, concludes that from the viewpoint of natural science time is real (pp. 288-290) on the grounds that the past is determinate, that the present is the moment of determination or becoming, and that the future is a mathematical con· struction subject to correction by observation. Then "time is the media· tor between the possible and the actual." However, I cannot see why this mediating power is called time, rather than, for instance, becoming or the passage of nature (See Sec. VI 2~ Whitrow himself names numerous writers among scientists who deny the reality of time, The general difficulty is that in most of these treatments time is either already defined so as to enter the discussion as real or that the issue of its reality is not even raised. Whitehead, on the other hand, is careful to refrain from using the word time for his "fundamental fact," the "passages of nature," which includes spatial as well as temporal transitions. The passing of a temporal duration is an "exhibition" of this passage of nature, which is also respon· sible for the uniqueness of each act of perception and for the terminus, · i.e., its object (pp. 54-5 5~ 33. The etymology of chr6nos is unfortunately obscure. Both Greek words for time are masculine, and so, naturally, are the representations. In English. time, perhaps under the influence of feminine German Zeit, is sometimes given female attributes: "the womb of time," "sluttish time" (Sormet 55~ though we also speak.of "Father Time." 104 34. A difficulty about making perceived motion precede time might seem to be raised by the well-known discovery in the physiology of perception that there are quanta of perception, i.e., minimal times, below which events remain unregistered or subliminal, and threshold speeds above which the individual position of a mobile cannot be discriminated and its path appears as a streak. These temporal effects might seem to imply that time underlies them and is their condition of possibility, were it not for the fact that this time is itself measured by micro-motions observable to artificially refined perception. 35. The literature concerning the imagination, physiological, psychologicaL and philosophical, in this century is enormous. Of the last the most interesting writings seem to me to be those of the phenomenologists. They take their departure from Husserl's Ideos (1913, especially par. Ill~ The fullest and most original treatment is Sartre's Imagination (1936). The chief and most absorbing questions about the imagination are: Is it a faculty? How can it hold sensory objects without a material substrate? Are images likenesses? Whence comes their special affectivity? What is spatiality such that we can have an inner space-consciousness? Why are images primarily spatial and visual? What is the relation of voluntary to involuntary memory-images? And above all, how is the imagination related to thought: as object, product, instigator? 36. For a lovely study of the dance types of music and how they convey bodily schemata which in tum express the soul, see Wye Jamison Allan· brook, "Dance, Gesture and The Marriage of Figaro," The College XXIV, no. l (April 1974~ pp. 13-21. 37. The past is not given priority, at least not by any philosophical writers on time that I know of. For Nietzsche it is the future with its possibilities that conditions the present, since out of it come all valuations, including the true as that which is destined to be. So also it is in the future that Heidegger grounds authentic human existence. However, for the most part some kind of present is favored. For example, Sartre transforms Heidegger's analysis so as to place the ontological present at the center. He understands it as the phase in which consciousness makes itsr · present to all non-conscious beings, thus originally uniting them as c present in a world (Being and Nothingness II I b). Hume gives primary place to the vivid presence of sense impressions, of which memory and imagination are but pale residues (Enquiry Il~ As for the ancients, Plato, Aristotle, and Augustine, they honor an atemporal present, and of them Aristotle with the most authoritative explicitness: Speaking of the divine intellect he says (Met. 1072 b 14-18): Its way of life is lilce the best we have for a brief time. For that being is always in this state (which is impossible for us~ since its actuality is also a pleasure. And because of that, wakefulness, perception, intellection ~e most pleasant, and because of these, hopes and memories. This view of the phases of time as reflecting divine eternity is of course compatible with the claim that the past is primary in human life. � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. Items include audio and video recordings and typescripts. For more information, and a schedule of upcoming lectures, please visit the <a href="http://www.sjc.edu/programs-and-events/annapolis/formal-lecture-series/" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">St. John's College website</a>. Click on <a title="Formal Lecture Series" href="https://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=5&sort_field=Dublin+Core%2CDate&sort_dir=d">Items in the St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Collection</a> to view and sort all items in the collection. A growing number of lecture recordings are also available on the St. John's College (Annapolis) Lectures podcast. Visit <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a> or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe. Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Title A name given to the resource St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context formallectureseriesannapolis Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Page numeration Number of pages in the original item. 40 pages Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data paper Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Against Time Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1983-02-18 1983-02-25 Description An account of the resource Typescript of a lecture delivered on February 18 and 25, 1983 by Eva Brann as part of the Formal Lecture Series. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context lec Brann 1983-02 Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource text Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College has been given permission to make this item available online. Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pdf Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Brann, Eva T. H. Relation A related resource <a title="Audio recording" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/show/263">Audio recording (part one)</a> <a title="Audio recording" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/show/316">Audio recording (part two)</a> Deans Friday night lecture Tutors https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/38200fd7c406391596a25251f1c7cad7.mp3 541ed2683130d587bc4c79dc78d37afc Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. Items include audio and video recordings and typescripts. For more information, and a schedule of upcoming lectures, please visit the <a href="http://www.sjc.edu/programs-and-events/annapolis/formal-lecture-series/" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">St. John's College website</a>. Click on <a title="Formal Lecture Series" href="https://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=5&sort_field=Dublin+Core%2CDate&sort_dir=d">Items in the St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Collection</a> to view and sort all items in the collection. A growing number of lecture recordings are also available on the St. John's College (Annapolis) Lectures podcast. Visit <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a> or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe. Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Title A name given to the resource St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context formallectureseriesannapolis Sound A resource primarily intended to be heard. Examples include a music playback file format, an audio compact disc, and recorded speech or sounds. Duration Length of time involved (seconds, minutes, hours, days, class periods, etc.) 01:01:21 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context LEC_Brann_Eva_1983-08-18_ac Title A name given to the resource Against Time (part one) Description An account of the resource Audio recording of part one of a two-part lecture delivered on August 18, 1983, by Eva Brann as part of the Formal Lecture Series. The second part of the lecture was delivered on August 25, 1983. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Brann, Eva T. H. Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1983-08-18 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College has been given permission to make this item available online. Type The nature or genre of the resource sound Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource mp3 Subject The topic of the resource Time Philosophy, Modern Relation A related resource <a title="Against time (part two)" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/show/316">Against time (part two)</a> Deans Friday night lecture Tutors https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/f8ee9b6c94db38abb81625c20bea19d8.mp3 c2ae45e6bd4c142190c2d7b7e796f711 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. Items include audio and video recordings and typescripts. For more information, and a schedule of upcoming lectures, please visit the <a href="http://www.sjc.edu/programs-and-events/annapolis/formal-lecture-series/" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">St. John's College website</a>. Click on <a title="Formal Lecture Series" href="https://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=5&sort_field=Dublin+Core%2CDate&sort_dir=d">Items in the St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Collection</a> to view and sort all items in the collection. A growing number of lecture recordings are also available on the St. John's College (Annapolis) Lectures podcast. Visit <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a> or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe. Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Title A name given to the resource St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context formallectureseriesannapolis Sound A resource primarily intended to be heard. Examples include a music playback file format, an audio compact disc, and recorded speech or sounds. Duration Length of time involved (seconds, minutes, hours, days, class periods, etc.) 01:09:11 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Against Time (part two) Description An account of the resource Audio recording of part two of a two-part lecture delivered on August 25, 1983 by Eva Brann as part of the Formal Lecture Series. The first part of the lecture was delivered on August 18. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Brann, Eva T. H. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1983-08-25 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource St. John's College has been given permission to make this item available online. Type The nature or genre of the resource sound Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource pm3 Subject The topic of the resource Time Philosophy, Modern Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Bib # 13440 Relation A related resource <a title="Against time (part one)" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/show/263">Against Time (part one)</a> Deans Friday night lecture Tutors https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/7adf00f044b4062c642d91fb7662da57.mp3 29a43c2a17a9e6f80d25fd53ff7cd492 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Speeches, presentations, and other lectures Description An account of the resource Speeches, presentations, and other lectures given at St. John's College. These include convocation addresses delivered in both Annapolis, MD and Santa Fe, NM. Click on <a title="Speeches, presentations, and other lectures" href="http://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=15">Items in the Speeches, presentations, and other lectures Collection</a> to view and sort all items in the collection. Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context speechespresentationsotherlectures Sound A resource primarily intended to be heard. Examples include a music playback file format, an audio compact disc, and recorded speech or sounds. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data wav Duration Length of time involved (seconds, minutes, hours, days, class periods, etc.) 042:46 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Age of Illusions: America after the Cold War Description An account of the resource Audio recording of a lecture delivered on Apr. 26, 2019 by Andrew Bacevich as part of the LCDR Erik S. Kristensen Lecture Series. The lecture is part of a joint lectures series between St. John's College and the U.S. Naval Academy to honor the memory of Lieutenant Commander Erik S. Kristensen. An alumnus of the United States Naval Academy and the St. John's College Graduate Institute, Kristensen, a Navy SEAL, was killed in the line of duty in Afghanistan in 2005. This lecture series aims to create even greater ties between the two schools, as well as to educate the public about civil-military relations and the place of the liberal arts in education of naval and military professions. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Bacevich, Andrew J. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available St. John's College Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2019-04-26 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource A signed permission form has been received stating, "I hereby grant St. John's College permission to make an audio recording of my lecture, and retain copies for circulation and archival preservation at the St. John's College Greenfield Library and to make an audio recording of my lecture available online." Type The nature or genre of the resource sound Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource mp3 Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context Bacevich_Andrew_2019-04-26 Kristensen lecture series U.S. Naval Academy https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/sjcdigitalarchives/original/eb1762018a6bc907ea8aa72e612047bb.mp3 51a562672c7712ea46a0a12a5bdac659 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Description An account of the resource Items in this collection are part of a series of lectures given every year at St. John's College. During the Fall and Spring semesters, lectures are given on Friday nights. Items include audio and video recordings and typescripts. For more information, and a schedule of upcoming lectures, please visit the <a href="http://www.sjc.edu/programs-and-events/annapolis/formal-lecture-series/" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">St. John's College website</a>. Click on <a title="Formal Lecture Series" href="https://digitalarchives.sjc.edu/items/browse?collection=5&sort_field=Dublin+Core%2CDate&sort_dir=d">Items in the St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Collection</a> to view and sort all items in the collection. A growing number of lecture recordings are also available on the St. John's College (Annapolis) Lectures podcast. Visit <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/st-johns-college-annapolis-lectures/id1695157772">Apple Podcasts</a> or <a href="https://open.spotify.com/show/6GDsIRqC8SWZ28AY72BsYM?si=f2ecfa9e247a456f" title="Spotify">Spotify</a> to listen and subscribe. Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource St. John's College Greenfield Library Title A name given to the resource St. John's College Formal Lecture Series—Annapolis Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context formallectureseriesannapolis Sound A resource primarily intended to be heard. Examples include a music playback file format, an audio compact disc, and recorded speech or sounds. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data wav Duration Length of time involved (seconds, minutes, hours, days, class periods, etc.) 00:50:37 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Agonizing Over a Decision: What Can Neuroscience Tell Us About the Relationship Between Thought and Emotion Description An account of the resource Audio recording of a lecture delivered on September 6, 2007, by Julie Fiez as part of the Formal Lecture Series. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Fiez, Julie A. Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant Annapolis, MD Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2007-09-06 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource A signed permission form has been received stating: "I hereby grant St. John's College permission to: make a recording of my lecture, and retain copies for circulation and archival preservation at the St. John’s College Greenfield Library; make a recording of my lecture available online; make typescript copies of my lecture available for circulation and archival preservation at the St. John’s College Greenfield Library; make a copy of my typescript available online." Type The nature or genre of the resource sound Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource mp3 Subject The topic of the resource Affective neuroscience Emotions--Social aspects Emotions (Philosophy) Language A language of the resource English Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context LEC_Fiez_Julie_2007-09-07_ac Friday night lecture