Excerpts. Institutio oratoria.

Some have regarded Memory as simply a gift of Nature, nd no doubt it does depend mostly on this. But like everything else, it is improved by cultivation. All the effort I have described up to now is futile unless the other parts are held together, as it were, by this animating principle. All learning depends on memory, and teaching is in vain if everything we hear slips away. It is this capacity too that makes available to us the reserves of examples, laws, rulings, sayings, and facts which the orator must possess in abundance and have always at his finger-tips. It is with good reason that it has been called the Treasury of Eloquence.

  But when you are going to plead you must not only hold many things firmly in mind, but apprehend them quickly. It is not enough to keep hold of what you have written by reading it over and over again; you must also follow the chain of facts and words contained in what you have thought out, remember everything that has been said by the other side, and refute it, not necessarily in the order in which it was said, but arranging it as is most advantageous. Even impromptu eloquence rests, it seems to me, on this same power of the mind. While we are saying one thing, we have to be looking to what we are to say next, and so, as thought is always going on ahead, it is always seeking something further away, and whatever it finds it commits to the care of Memory, which thus acts as a sort of intermediary, and hands on to Elocution what it receives from Invention.

  I do not think I need to dwell on the question of what produces Memory. Many hold, however, that certain traces are impressed upon the mind, in the way that the mark of a signet persists in the wax. Nor shall I be so credulous as [to believe that] the memory which [I know] becomes slower and more secure as a result of habit...(unclear in manuscript) the mind also. My inclination is rather to wonder at nature, that so many old facts, revived after so long, present themselves to us once again, not only when we call them up, but sometimes spontaneously, and not only when we are awake but also when we are quietly resting. And I marvel all the more because even those animals which seem to lack understanding nevertheless remember, recognise, and return to their accustomed homes, however far they have been taken from them. Again, is it not an extraordinary contrast that recent events slip out of our minds while older ones remain, and we forget what happened yesterday but remember events of our boyhood? Think too of the way in which some things hide themselves away when we try to recall them, and then come to mind quite by chance. Or the way in which Memory does not always remain with us, but sometimes goes and then comes back. Yet we should never have known how great is its power and its divinity, had it not raised the light of eloquence on high. For it is Memory that ensures not only the order of our thoughts but that of our words too, nor does it simply string a few words together, but continues unimpaired almost infinitely; even in the longest pleadings the patience of the audience flags sooner than the speaker's trusty memory. This is itself an argument that there is some art underlying it, and that nature is assisted by reason, because we cannot do this without teaching and practice. I find in Plato, however, that the use of letters is a hindrance to Memory, presumably because we cease to keep hold of what we have committed to writing, and allow it to escape since we feel so sure of it. There is no doubt that the most important factor in Memory is mental concentration, a shapr eye, as it were, never diverted from the object of its gaze. This is why what we spend several days writing out has to be learned by heart, whereas the process of mental preparation automatically retains its contents.

  The first person to have made public an art of Memory is said to have been Simonides of Ceos. The story is well known. He had composed a victory ode of the customary kind for a boxer who had won the crown. The price had been agreed, but part of it was withheld because Simonides, following the common poetical practice, had digressed into an encomium of Castor and Pollux. He was told to ask for the balance of his fee from those whose deeds he had celebrated. And, according to the story, they did indeed pay. A great banquet was held to honour the victory and Simonides was invited, but he was called out of the room by a message that two young men on horseback were said to be asking for him urgently. There were no young men to be found, but he realised from what happened next that the gods were grateful to him. For scarcely had he left the building, when the dining hall collapsed on the heads of the diners, and so crushed them that the relative who looked for the bodies for burial could not identify their faces or even their limbs by any makrs. Then, it is said, Simonides, who remembered the order in which they had all been sitting, restored the bodies to their respective families. There is however great disagreement among our authorities whether the poem was written for Glaucus of Carystus, Leocrates, Agatharchus, or Scopas, and whether the house was at Pharsalus (as Simonides himself seems to indicate in one passage, and as Apollodorus, Eratosthenes, Euphorion, and Eurypylus of Larissa all say) or at Crannon, as according to Apollas [and] Callimachus, whom Cicero followed when he popularised the story. It is agreed that the Thessalian nobleman Scopas perished at the banquet, his sister's son is also mentioned, and [it is thought] several descendants of an elder Scopas. However, I regard the whole episode of the Tyndarids as mythical, and the poet himself nowhere mentions it, though he would surely not have kept silent on an affair so glorious to himself.

  This exploit of Simonides seems to have led to the observation that memory can be assisted if localities are impressed upon the mind. Everyone will believe this from his own experience. When we reutnr to a certain place after an interval, we not only recognise it but remember what we did there, persons are recalled, and sometimes even unspoken thoughts come back to mind. So, as usual, Art was born of Experience. Students learn Sites which are as extensive as possible and are marked by a variety of objects, perhaps a large hosue divided into many separate areas. They carefully fix in their mind everything there which is notable, so that their thoughts can run over all the parts of it without any hesitation or delay. The first task is to make sure that it all comes to mind without any hold-up, because a memory which is to help another memory has to be something more than secure. The next stage is to mark what they have written or are mentally preparing with some sign which will jog their memory. This may be based on the subject as a whole (on navigation or warfare, for example) or on a word, because even people who lose the thread of what they are saying can have their memory put back on track by the cue of a single word. (FuckingA.)

  Let us suppose a symbol of navigation, such as an anchor, or of warfare, such as a weapon. Then this is how they arrange it. They place the first idea, as it were, in the vestibule, the second, let us say, in the atrium, and then they go round the open areas, assigning ideas systematically not only to bedrooms and bays, but to statues and the like. This done, when they have to revive the memory, they begin to go over these Sites from the beginning, calling in whatever they deposited with each of them, as the images remind them. Thus, however many things have to be remembered, they become a single item, held together as it were by a sort of outer shell, so that speakers do not make mistakes (?) by trying to connect what follows with what goes before by the sole effort of learning by heart.

  What I said about a house can be done also with public buildings, a long road, a town perambulation, or pictures. One can even invent these settings for oneself.

  So one needs (1) Sites, which may be invented or taken from reality, (2) Images or Symbols, which we must of course invent. By images I mean the aids we use to mark what we have to learn by heart; as Cicero says, we use the Sites as our wax tablet, the Symbols as our letters. It may be best to quote him verbatim: "The Sites we adopt should be numerous, well lit, clearly defined, and at moderate intervals; the Images effectives, sharp, distinctive, and such as can come to mind and make a quick impression." This makes me wonder all the more how Metrodorus found 360 Sites in the twelve Signs of the Zodiac. (footnote: Of Scepsis, Academic Philosopher (Cicero, op. cit. 360; also Tusculanae Disputationes 1.59). His system involved memorising 30 places in each of the 12 signs of the Zodiac, i.e. one for each degree.) No doubt this was vanity and ostentation in a man who, where memory was concerned, took more pride in his art than in his natural powers.

  I do not wish to deny that these processes are useful for some purposes, for example if we have to recall many names of things in the same order as we have heard them. Our experts then set them in the Sites they have learned: a table (for example) in the vestibule, a platform in the atrium, and so on; then, retracing their steps, they find them where they have put them. This may well have been an aid to those who, at the end of a sale, repeated what they had sold to each buyer, precisely as the cashiers's records testified. Quintus Hortensius is said to have performed this feat. But the technique will be less useful for leaning by heart what is to be a continuous speech. For on the one hand, ideas do not have the same image as objects, since we always have to invent a separate sign for them, as it may of a conversation held there; on the other hand, how can a verbal structure be grasped by this art? I say nothing of the fact that there are some words which cannot be respresented by Symbols, for example Conjunctions. For suppose that, like shorthand writers, we have definite Images for all these things and [of course] infinite Sites for them, enough to have room for all the words in the five books of the second pleading against Verres, and suppose we remember them all, as if they were safe in the bank: will not the run of our speech actually be held up by this double effort of memorising? How can we produce a continuous flow of words if we have to refer to a distinct Symbol for every individual word? So Charmadas and Metrodorus of Scepsis, whom I mentioned just now, both of whom Cicero tells us made use of this sort of training, may be left to their own devices. Let our business be to give some simpler advice.

  If a longish speech has to be held in the memory, it will be best to learn it section by section (memory suffers most by being overburdened), but these sections should not be too small, or there will be a lot of them, and they will distract and fragment the memory. I do not want to lay down a definite length, but, if possible, the sections should coincide with the ends of topics, unless a topic is so complex that it needs to be subdivided. Some well-defined stopping points should be established, so that the sequence of the words (which is the most difficult thing) is assured by continuous and frequent revision, and the sequence of the parts by the repeated recall of the order. If some things do not stick easily in the mind, it is quite useful to attach some marks to them, the recall of which will warn and jog the memory. No one surely will be so ill-endowed as not to remember what Symbol he has assigned to any given passage. But if a student is slow at this, let him use the further device (which is quite a useful contribution of the Arts of Memory) of suiting his marks to the ideas which he is liable to forget, an achor, as I suggested, if he has to speak about a ship, or a javelin if it is about a battle. Symbols are very effective, and one memory leads to another, just as a ring put on a different finger or tied with a thread reminds us why we did these things. These Symbols acquire even more binding force when people transfer memory from some similar object to the item which has to be remembered. Take names for example: if we have to remember the name Fabius, let us think of the famous Cunctator, (footnote: The Punic War general who checked Hannibal and saved Rome by "delaying".) whom we cannot possibly forget, or of some personal friend of the same name. This is easier with names like Aper, Ursus, Naso, or Crispus, where we can fix in our memory the origin of the name. Origins is also sometimes a means of remembering derived names better, such as Cicero, Verrius, or Aurelius. But I prefer to pass over this.

  Something that every student will find useful is to learn by heart from the same tablets on  which he wrote the speech. He thus pursues his memory along a trail, as it were, and sees in his mind's eye not only the pages but almost the actual lines: and so, when he speaks, he is almost in the position of a person reading aloud. And if we come to an erasure or some addition and alteration, these are a sort of signal, the sight of which prevents us from going wrong. This system, while it bears some resemblance to the Art which I began by describing, is, if my experience has taught me anything, both more quick and more effective.

  Learning by heart silently, this again is something which has been discussed, would be ideal, were it not that other thoughts often invade the unoccupied mind, which therefore needs to be kept on the alert by the voice, so that memory can be assisted by the double activity of speaking and listening. But the voice should be subdued, more of a mumble.

  Learning by heart from someone else reading aloud is in part a slower process, because the eyes are quicker than the ears, and in part possibly easier, because, when we have heard a passage once or twice, we can test our memory instantly and compete with the reader. It is important in any case to let ourselves from time to time, because continuous reading passes at the same speed over passages which stick in the mind and those which do not. In testing whether you retain something, you employ greater concentration without wasting the extra time usually spent on going over also what is already known. On this method, only the forgotten parts are revised, with a view to fixing them by frequent repetition, though the mere fact that we forgot them often makes them stick particularly well. Learning by heart and writing have in common that both are greatly assisted by good health, good digestion, and a mind free of other distractions.

  But it is Division and Composition which are important factors in memorising what we have written, and almost uniquely important factors (apart of course from practice, which is the most potent of all) in helping to retain what we compose mentally. The man who has got his Division right will never be able to make mistakes in the order of his ideas. This is because what comes first, second, and so on, not only in the original layout of the Questions but in their development, provides fixed points (if, of course, our speech follows the straightforward order), and the entire structure thus hangs together so that nothing can be removed or inserted without this becoming obvious. Scaevola, who had been playing Twelve Rows, and had been beaten despite having made the first move, went over the whole course of the game on his way to his country estate, remembered where he had gone wrong, and returned to his opponent, who admitted that that was what had happened. How then can order be any less important in a speech, where it is wholly determined by our own decision, when it is so important in a game where you only make one decision in two?

  Furthermore, good Composition will guide Memory by means of its own patterns. As it is easier to learn verse by heart than prose, so it is easier to learn rhythmical prose than non-rhythmical. This has made it possible even for passages which seemed to be the outpourings of impovisation to be repeated verbatim. Even my own limited powers of memory could achieve this, if I was ever forced to repeat part of a declamation by the late arrival of persons who had a claim to this courtesy. (There is no room for me to lie about this, because some of those who were present are still living.)

  However, if I am asked what is the one great art of Memory, the answer is practice and effort: the most important thing is to learn a lot by heart and think a lot out without writing, if possible every day. No other faculty is so much developed by practice or so much impaired by neglect. And so not only should children (as I recommended) learn as much as possible by heart from the beginning, but students of any age who are concerned to improve their memory by study should be willing to swallow the initially wearisome business of repeating over and over again what they have written or read, and as it were chewing over the same old food. This can be less burdensome if we start by learning a few things at a time, those which do not bore us, and then put the amount up by a line a day, an addition which will not produce any sense of increased work, but will ultimately lead to powers of memory that know no limits. Poetry should be learned first, then oratory, finally passages which are without rhythmical structure and more remote from oratorical speech, such as the prose of the lawyers. The tasks set for exercise need to be more difficult, so as to make the final object of the exercise easier, on the same principle that atheletes accustom their hands to leaden weights, though they will be bare and empty when they come to use them int the actual contest.

  I must not omit the fact, revealed by our daily experience, that slower minds have a less reliable memory for recent events.

  It is amazing to see, and there is no ready explanation for this, how a single intervening night can firm up the memory, either because the actual effort of remembering, the fatigue of which was self-defeating, is now removed, or because recollection (which is the most enduring part of memory) matures and ripens. Anyway, things which could not at first be recalled fall into place the following day, and the hours which are generally responsible for our forgetting in this case strengthen memory. Again, your very quick memory soon melts away; present duty done, as it were, and with no future obligations, it takes its leave and is off. It is not surprising, of course, that things which took longer to fix themselves in the mind have more chance of sticking.

  This diversity of natural ability has given rise to a doubt whether, before making a speech, one should learn it by heart word for word, or whether it is enough simply to grasp the essentials of the facts and their order. Of course, no universal rule can be laid down. If Memory supports me, and time has not been lacking, I should prefer not to let a single syllable escape me (on any other view, writing would be superfluous too). This accuracy must particularly be insisted on from childhood, and the memory disciplined then by exercise to get accustomed to it, so that we do not learn to find excuses for ourselves. This is why to be prompted or to look at the book is a fault, because it authorises carelessness; everyone thinks he has mastered something thoroughly if he has no fear of forgetting it. The consequence of these bad habits is an interruption in the swing of the delivery, and a halting and jerky style. A man who speaks as though he has learnt his speech by heart loses also all the charm of good writing, because he confesses by his manner that he has written it.

  On the other hand, Memory also gives a reputation for quickness of wit, so that we are believed to have made the speech up on the spot, instead of bringing it ready made from home; and this impression is very valuable both to the orator and to the Cause, because the judge admires more, and fears less, things which he does not suspect of having been prepared in advance to outwit him.

  Another very important point to observe in pleadings is to deliver even some of our best rhythmical passages as though they were non-rhythmical, and sometimes to give the impression of searching for phrases which in fact we had ready, as though we were thinking things out and hesitating.

  So everyone can see what the ideal is. If however your memory is naturally dull, or if time is not available, it will be useless to tie yourself down to every one, since forgetting just one word will bring on shameful hesitation or even reduce you to silence. It is much safer to get a good grasp of the bare facts and then leave yourself freedom in expressing them. Everyone is reluctant to waste a word he had chosen, and finds it difficult to put another in its place while he is hunting for what he had written. Yet even this remedy for a weak memory is available only to people who have acquired some facility for extempore speaking. For anyone who lacks both of these powers, my advice will be to give up pleading altogether, and, if he has any literary talent, turn it to writing. But this poverty of talent will be uncommon.

  How much aptitude and application can do for memory is proved by Themistocles, who is known to have spoken excellent Persian within one year; by Mithridates who is said to have known twenty-two languages, as many as the nations over whom he ruled; by Crassus the Rich, who, as governor of Asia, had such mastery of the five dialects of Greek that he would give judgement in whatever language the case had been put forward; and by Cyrus, who is believed to have known the names of all his soldiers. Theodectes too is said to have repeated off the cuff any number of verses which he had heard once. There were said to be people in our own time who could do this, but I never had the good fortune to witness it. We ought to believe it, however, simply because believing it gives us hope. (Bullshit.)