Band of Horses

i know you tried
i know you’re cursed
i know your best was still your worst
when hollywood was calling out your name

St. Augustine

wikipedia practically accuses him of creating the autobiography

from Allegory of Love, in which C. S. Lewis traces the birth & perpetuation of Romance:

“Augustine…when he comments on the fact – to him apparently remarkable – that Ambrose [Augustine’s matey], when reading to himself, read silently. You could see his eyes moving, but you could hear nothing. In such a passage one has the solemn privilege of being present at the birth of a new world. Behind us is that almost unimaginable period, so restlessly objective that in it even ‘reading’ (in our sense) did not yet exist. The book was still a ‘speech’ thinking was still talking. Before us is our own world, the world of the printed or written page, and of the solitary reader who is accustomed to pass hours in the silent society of mental images evoked by written characters.

“This is a new light, and a better one than we have yet had, on that turning inward which I have tried to describe. It is the very moment of a transition more important, I would suggest, than any that is commonly recorded in our works of ‘history’. But it is seldom that Augustine is so unconscious as in this statement; more often he conveys to us a vivid sense of the delighted and horrified wonder with which he is consciously exploring the new inner world.” […]

“‘I myself comprehend not all the thing I am.’ He is lost and bewildered. Every new path in this country excites his curiosty and his awe. Why did he rob the pear tree? Why does tragedy please? He worries such problems as a dog worries a bone. He wanders hither and dither in his own mind and speaks the very language of a traveller.

“‘Climbing up, therefore, step by step to Him that made me, I will pass beyond this faculty of my nature and come to the fields and wide pavilions of the Memory…’

“‘Great is the power of Memory, Lord; an astonishment, a deep and boundless manifold. Yet this also is mind? I am this. What am I, Lord? What is my kind? Even a life that changes and hath many modes and cannot in any wise be measured. The fields, the caves, the dens of Memory cannot be counted; their fullness cannot be counted nor the kinds of things counted that fill them… I force my way in amidst them, even as far as my power reaches, and nowhere find an end.’

“Such a passage, if not allegorical itself, paints vividly for us the experiences of the age in which allegory was born – experiences strangely analogous to those of the beginner in modern psychology. And though Augustine writes no full-length allegory, he pushes his imagery elsewhere a little further in the allegorical direction. He also must talk of soldiers and of a road; and in the great scene of his conversion, the temptation – here none will dare to call them abstractions – step forth in bodily form.

“‘Trifles of trifles and very vanities which I had made my mistresses now held me back and plucked me by my carnal robe, whispering me, “Will you turn us away? Shall the moment come when you must part from us forever? Shall the moment come when this – and this – will be forbidden you forever?”… And now I harkened to them with less than half myself. No longer did they gainsay me openly nor look me in the face, but came as it were behind me whispering and plucking at my robe as I went away; holding me back while I yet delayed to tear myself from them, to shake them off, to leap whither I was called – tyrranous custom asking me the while, “Is it possible, think you, to live without them?”‘”

maybe it’s that the book is about the increasing realism employed in using descriptions of the external to relate the experience of the internal. tells about how it’s changed anyway.

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