Memory

 

“Memory is the future of the past.” 

 

Paul Valéry

 

 

 Lucian laughed softly. Memory is a living dynamic, that play where the past replays itself at every recall. A discreet laugh, beginning in the eyes before reaching the mouth. He leaned back against the armchair, as if to better let the words come. Then Ignatius said, with that voice that steps forward — playful and solemn at once:

— What is memory? The memory-object, if such a thing exists…
– Ah… a very good question. A beautiful one, even.
Because it touches what is most alive: we all speak of memory, yet when we try to grasp it, it slips away. And that is fitting — memory is not meant to be seized.
– What is its use?
– It is made to play. So if you ask me, as a rational being, to define the “memory-object”… I would first say, like Daniel Sibony would: there is no object.
– Then what is there?
– There is a relation. Memory is not a thing one possesses; it is a play of differences between traces. A system of differences that maintains a link without fixing the content.
In mathematics, you see, we have structures, sets, relations. And memory is a living structure of relations between traces.
Memory is not a store of traces but the linking of those traces, the way they play among themselves — and also the space where those traces continue to shift, to illuminate one another.
If I were to be schematic:
Memory is the set (M) of traces (t₁, t₂, …, tₙ).
– Forgive my ignorance, but I am unfamiliar with that kind of language…
– And what matters is not each trace, but the differences (eᵢⱼ = tᵢ − tⱼ). These gaps make memory: they open a symbolic space where the past remains in play. That is why memory is not a recording. A computer records; it has storage, not memory.
Human memory forgets in order to remember. It erases to give form. It retains while letting go. It creates voids so that something may return.
Thus, if we want a “rational” definition, we must already accept that reason does not exclude play. Memory is a space of living iteration: each recall replays what it claims to keep. It is a dynamic function, not a stable content.
And it is here that mathematics and psychoanalysis meet, you see: an equation is a relation between terms that can move; a memory is the same — a relation one can replay differently.
Memory is the putting-into-play of the past in the present.
– Then the “memory-object”…
– I would say: it is not an object; it is a threshold.
A place of passage. A place where time folds, where traces exchange.
A place that allows us to remain continuous without remaining identical.
It is what ensures that even when everything changes, something holds — but that something is precisely movement itself.
So no, memory is not a box.
It is a geometry of the in-between: between what was and what is, between trace and life.
And perhaps it is the most beautiful invention of the human: the ability to hold together what no longer exists and what does not yet exist.

He paused, looked at Ignatius.
— You see, memory is like love: when you try to turn it into an object, it escapes you.
But as long as you let it play, it makes you exist.

Ignatius smiled. The tone settled again. One could feel that Lucian had indeed given a definition — but a living definition, in his way: through passage, play, and the in-between.

– Tell me, Ignatius, I believe it is time we clarified certain matters…
– Of what are you speaking?
– Of our relationship.
– This in-between…
– How would you define this in-between?
– You sound quite mysterious…

An attentive observer might notice that Ignatius feels himself perched in precarious balance on a tightrope no less unstable.

– You know it well, Lucian… we are friends…
A subtle doubt can be heard in his voice… quickly followed by a rising anxiety.

– It seems to me that, for some time now, your memory has been playing tricks on you, Ignatius. Have you forgotten why we are here… in my consulting room?

Lucian places particular emphasis on this last word. Enough to render Ignatius silent…