The Second Digression
Memory was once regarded as a very simple function. It was assumed that the names used to designate objects adhered to them like labels—as solidly as those a good housewife uses to designate the items on her pantry shelf. Hence (to continue the analogy), one merely had to check that shelf for whatever he needed. Though this typified a much earlier approach to memory, many people still assume the mind operates this way.
But this is hardly the case. Even as early a writer as Swift satirized these simplistic notions in Gulliver’s Travels. The Laputans had actually decided to dispense with labels entirely, since words were unnecessary and they could make themselves understood by objects. Hence they carried sacks on their backs and took out whatever object they wished to indicate.
If one were to assume the mind functioned this way, he would be hard put to explain why we have so much trouble sometimes finding a particular word, why it sometimes becomes as difficult as recovering a lost memory.
A material object has many attributes, it is not a simple essence. Consider a billiard table, for example. It resembles an ordinary table, though its felt covering looks a bit like moss and its under part, a slate board. It has pockets on the sides and in each corner, and the balls roll across the surface, while the table itself is always placed in the middle of a room. Given these characteristics, how does one turn up the word billiard table? Table, cloth, field, pockets, balls designate some of its attributes but not the thing itself. Furthermore, the balls are stacked in a pyramid. How is one to remember that the term is pyramid, rather than pile, nest, threesome? In short, how does the memory single out precisely the essential characteristic from among the many and inhibit the endless flow of associations the object itself brings to mind?
In recollecting words, we always have to select from a variety of possible alternatives. In some cases the right association is far more likely to turn up, and the chance of others emerging is almost nil. Assume, for instance, that you had to complete the following sentence: “When winter came, the streets were covered with________.” It is doubtful whether anyone would fail to come up with a word other than “snow.” The choice is simple: here there are only two or three possibilities. But often the situation is far more complex. Take the following sentence: “I went out to buy a_________.” What? Bread? A newspaper? A hat? Only by knowing the context could you complete this sentence, for there are thousands of alternatives. In this case, the probability of finding the right word is indeterminate; you simply need more information about the particular circumstances in order to select the right word from the storehouse of memory.
But how does one operate if he has no context, nothing whatever to go on, and simply has to turn up a word? The process is far less simple than it appears. Let us assume you enter a laboratory, see a familiar instrument, but can’t remember what it is called. You know it is used to cut preparations coated with paraffin into extremely thin sections like the cutters used in food shops to slice ham, only thousands of times finer. But what is the instrument called? Even though the object is familiar, you have to rack your brain to think of the word. You know it has something to do with “micro . . .”. But is it a microscope? a micro-cutter? No, but you’re close, and finally the word “microtome” comes to mind.
Or let us say you go to a museum and suddenly find you can’t remember the name of a painter (assume it is the name of a Georgian painter, one of the founders of primitivism). Is it Passarieur? you ask yourself. Pirestone? Prangishvili? No, none of these is right. There’s something about the name that suggests “fire.” You try again. Is it Pyrotechnik? No. You also know it has something to do with Turks. Osman? No, but you move right on to Piresman, then to the name itself—Pirosmanishvili. Once you’ve remembered the name, your memory automatically discards all the associations that turned up along the way.
Rarely do we have to hunt like this for a word. We do so only if there is little to reinforce our memory of a particular word or we momentarily forget a name – like the character in Chekov’s story who, when he tried to remember the name “Oates,” turned up any number of names having to do with “horses”: “Konyashin” (from kon—“steed”); “Oglovyev” (oglovlya—“shaft”); “Yamshchikov” (yamshchik—“driver”). As a rule, this does not happen when we recall the names of common objects; the name is firmly impressed on our memory, and often the characteristic quality of the object is clear from the name itself. For example, in a word like stol (table), the root “stl” is the same as in the words nastaar (“to lay”); postilaf (“to spread or lay”); nastil (“flooring”). Hence we have no trouble distinguishing the predominant linguistic feature. In words like chasy (“clock” or “watch”—the root word being chas, “hour”), parokhod (“steamboat”—a compound word consisting of roots par and khod, “steam,” and “motion”), and parovoz (“locomotive”—a compound word consisting of roots par and vos—“steam” and “cart”), the predominant feature is so obvious that the name strikes us as entirely logical. We feel no need to consider other alternatives, for the name itself is so suggestive of the object it designates as to guarantee it is the right choice.
But what if damage to the brain has affected precisely those areas that enable one to analyze and synthesize visual impressions of objects, by isolating the essential features and inhibiting the emergence of secondary associations?
I. P. Pavlov, an expert on cortical functions, noted that under normal circumstances, the cortex is subject to the “law of strength.” Powerful, substantial stimuli produce strong reactions and leave solid traces that more readily come to mind. Only during states of exhaustion or sleep is this balance disrupted: strong and weak stimuli register with the same intensity, arouse equally strong responses, and leave just as permanent traces. Hence there is equal likelihood that one or the other will come to mind.
Think of the strange associations that unexpectedly occur when you are falling asleep; your thoughts are confused and you can readily become disturbed by things that appear trifling during the day. A cortical condition such as this, but pathologically induced, is what Pavlov termed a “damped” or “phased” condition. In this state the cortex functions far less precisely and is barely able to distinguish the essential from the inessential; the dominant characteristics of objects (which it normally would discern) cease to predominate, but are “leveled off” with secondary, less essential attributes. It then becomes terribly difficult to select the right attribute (hence, also, the right word) from the entire range of alternatives that now seem equally probable.
The bullet that penetrated this patient’s brain disrupted the functions of precisely those parts of the cortex that control the analysis, synthesis, and organization of complex associations into a coherent framework (by isolating the essential features of objects perceived and retaining traces of language habits). Some of his nerve cells had been destroyed; others were in a pathological “damped” condition. Is it any wonder he found it so difficult, impossible at times, to distinguish the essential feature of an object and come up with the right word?
He had to hunt for a word and sort through dozens of others he turned up along the way, just as people do when they are searching for a name they’ve forgotten. He would try to find the class to which a word belonged and substitute too broad a category (“It’s . . . an object . . . a thing . . . an animal . . . ”). He tried to find some sort of context that might help him think of a word (“But you see . . . they smell so good . . . these red, beautiful, fragrant . . . roses!”). He tried automatically to evoke what he could not remember at will, but only succeeded at times, though he resorted to every conceivable device in that world of deranged probability.
This process of recollecting words and names was far removed from the graphic images that usually come to mind and eliminate the need for choosing between a range of equally probable alternatives. His impaired “speech-memory” was equally dissimilar to the normal, complete recollection of events.
And so it went for years on end: a struggle for every word his damaged brain, with its limited capacity for words and verbal associations, could not recall. These systematic associations are precisely what enable one to build a vocabulary and readily think up a word. This explains the kinds of problems he experienced. He would no sooner think of the right word than his mind would race on to find the next one; being so distracted, he quickly lost track of the first word and had to hunt for it again. His was not just a constricted, impoverished memory but a wasted one. And it did not improve with time.