When I raised the possibility that a perfect memory might be a handicap to Whetstone's spokesperson, Erica Meyers, she had a ready reply. "This is no different from the concerns people used to have about retinal projectors," she said. "They worried that seeing updates constantly would be distracting or overwhelming, but we've all adapted to them."
I didn't mention that not everyone considered that a positive development.
"And Remem is entirely customizable," she continued. "If at any time you find it's doing too many searches for your needs, you can decrease its level of responsiveness. But according to our customer analytics, our users haven't been doing that. As they become more comfortable with it, they're finding that Remem becomes more helpful the more responsive it is."
But even if Remem wasn't constantly crowding your field of vision with unwanted imagery of the past, I wondered if there weren't issues raised simply by having that imagery be perfect.
"Forgive and forget" goes the expression, and for our idealized magnanimous selves, that was all you needed. But for our actual selves the relationship between those two actions wasn't so straightforward. In most cases we had to forget a little bit before we could forgive; when we no longer experienced the pain as fresh, the insult was easier to forgive, which in turn made it less memorable, and so on. It was this psychological feedback loop that made initially infuriating offences seem pardonable in the mirror of hindsight.
What I feared was that Remem would make it impossible for this feedback loop to get rolling. By fixing every detail of an insult in indelible video, it could prevent the softening that's needed for forgiveness to begin. I thought back to what Erica Meyers said about Remem's inability to hurt solid marriages. Implicit in that assertion was a claim about what qualified as a solid marriage. If someone's marriage was built on – as ironic as it might sound – a cornerstone of forgetfulness, what right did Whetstone have to shatter that?
The issue wasn't confined to marriages; all sorts of relationships rely on forgiving and forgetting. My daughter Nicole has always been strong-willed; rambunctious when she was a child, openly defiant as an adolescent. She and I had many furious arguments during her teen years, arguments that we have mostly been able to put behind us, and now our relationship is pretty good. If we'd had Remem, would we still be speaking to each other?
I don't mean to say that forgetting is the only way to mend relationships. While I can no longer recall most of the arguments Nicole and I had – and I'm grateful that I can't – one of the arguments I remember clearly is one that spurred me to be a better father.
It was when Nicole was sixteen, a junior in high school. It had been two years since her mother Angela had left, probably the two hardest years of both our lives. I don't remember what started the argument – something trivial, no doubt – but it escalated and before long Nicole was taking her anger at Angela out on me.
"You're the reason she left! You drove her away! You can leave too, for all I care. I sure as hell would be better off without you." And to demonstrate her point, she stormed out of the house.
I knew it wasn't premeditated malice on her part – I don't think she engaged in much premeditation in anything during that phase of her life – but she couldn't have come up with a more hurtful accusation if she'd tried. I'd been devastated by Angela's departure, and I was constantly wondering what I could have done differently to keep her.
Nicole didn't come back until the next day, and that night was one of soul searching for me. While I didn't believe I was responsible for her mother leaving us, Nicole's accusation still served as a wake-up call. I hadn't been conscious of it, but I realized that I had been thinking of myself as the greatest victim of Angela's departure, wallowing in self-pity over just how unreasonable my situation was. It hadn't even been my idea to have children; it was Angela who'd wanted to be a parent, and now she had left me holding the bag. What sane world would leave me with sole responsibility for raising an adolescent girl? How could a job that was so difficult be entrusted to someone with no experience whatsoever?
Nicole's accusation made me realize her predicament was worse than mine. At least I had volunteered for this duty, albeit long ago and without full appreciation for what I was getting into. Nicole had been drafted into her role, with no say whatsoever. If there was anyone who had a right to be resentful, it was her. And while I thought I'd been doing a good job of being a father, obviously I needed to do better.
I turned myself around. Our relationship didn't improve overnight, but over the years I was able to work myself back into Nicole's good graces. I remember the way she hugged me at her college graduation, and I realized my years of effort had paid off.
Would those years of repair have been possible with Remem? Even if each of us could have refrained from throwing the other's bad behavior in their faces, the opportunity to privately rewatch video of our arguments seems like it could be pernicious. Vivid reminders of the way she and I yelled at each other in the past might have kept our anger fresh, and prevented us from rebuilding our relationship.
Jijingi wanted to write down some of the stories of where the Tiv people came from, but the storytellers spoke rapidly, and he wasn't able to write fast enough to keep up with them. Moseby said he would get better with practice, but Jijingi despaired that he'd ever become fast enough.
Then, one summer a European woman named Reiss came to visit the village. Moseby said she was "a person who learns about other people" but could not explain what that meant, only that she wanted to learn about Tivland. She asked questions of everyone, not just the elders but young men, too, even women and children, and she wrote down everything they told her. She didn't try to get anyone to adopt European practices; where Moseby had insisted that there were no such thing as curses and that everything was God's will, Reiss asked about how curses worked, and listened attentively to explanations of how your kin on your father's side could curse you while your kin on your mother's side could protect you from curses.
One evening Kokwa, the best storyteller in the village, told the story of how the Tiv people split into different lineages, and Reiss had written it down exactly as he told it. Later she had recopied the story using a machine she poked at noisily with her fingers, so that she had a copy that was clean and easy to read. When Jijingi asked if she would make another copy for him, she agreed, much to his excitement.
The paper version of the story was curiously disappointing. Jijingi remembered that when he had first learned about writing, he'd imagined it would enable him to see a storytelling performance as vividly as if he were there. But writing didn't do that. When Kokwa told the story, he didn't merely use words; he used the sound of his voice, the movement of his hands, the light in his eyes. He told you the story with his whole body, and you understood it the same way. None of that was captured on paper; only the bare words could be written down. And reading just the words gave you only a hint of the experience of listening to Kokwa himself, as if one were licking the pot in which okra had been cooked instead of eating the okra itself.
Jijingi was still glad to have the paper version, and would read it from time to time. It was a good story, worthy of being recorded on paper. Not everything written on paper was so worthy. During his sermons Moseby would read aloud stories from his book, and they were often good stories, but he also read aloud words he had written down just a few days before, and those were often not stories at all, merely claims that learning more about the European god would improve the lives of the Tiv people.
One day, when Moseby had been eloquent, Jijingi complimented him. "I know you think highly of all your sermons, but today's sermon was a good one."
"Thank you," said Moseby, smiling. After a moment, he asked, "Why do you say I think highly of all my sermons?"
"Because you expect that people will want to read them many years from now."
"I don't expect that. What makes you think that?"
"You write them all down before you even deliver them. Before even
one person has heard a sermon, you have written it down for future generations."
Moseby laughed. "No, that is not why I write them down."
"Why, then?" He knew it wasn't for people far away to read them, because sometimes messengers came to the village to deliver paper to Moseby, and he never sent his sermons back with them.
"I write the words down so I do not forget what I want to say when I give the sermon."
"How could you forget what you want to say? You and I are speaking right now, and neither of us need paper to do so."
"A sermon is different from conversation." Moseby paused to consider. "I want to be sure I give my sermons as well as possible. I won't forget what I want to say, but I might forget the best way to say it. If I write it down, I don't have to worry. But writing the words down does more than help me remember. It helps me think."
"How does writing help you think?"
"That is a good question," he said. "It is strange, isn't it? I do not know how to explain it, but writing helps me decide what I want to say. Where I come from, there's a very old proverb: verba volant, scripta manent. In Tiv you would say, 'spoken words fly away, written words remain.' Does that make sense?"
"Yes," Jijingi said, just to be polite; it made no sense at all. The missionary wasn't old enough to be senile, but his memory must be terrible and he didn't want to admit it. Jijingi told his age-mates about this, and they joked about it amongst themselves for days. Whenever they exchanged gossip, they would add, "Will you remember that? This will help you," and mimic Moseby writing at his table.
On an evening the following year, Kokwa announced he would tell the story of how the Tiv split into different lineages. Jijingi brought out the paper version he had, so he could read the story at the same time Kokwa told it. Sometimes he could follow along, but it was often confusing because Kokwa's words didn't match what was written on the paper. After Kokwa was finished, Jijingi said to him, "You didn't tell the story the same way you told it last year."
"Nonsense," said Kokwa. "When I tell a story it doesn't change, no matter how much time passes. Ask me to tell it twenty years from today, and I will tell it exactly the same."
Jijingi pointed at the paper he held. "This paper is the story you told last year, and there were many differences." He picked one he remembered. "Last time you said, 'the Uyengi captured the women and children and carried them off as slaves.' This time you said, 'they made slaves of the women, but they did not stop there: they even made slaves of the children.'"
"That's the same."
"It is the same story, but you've changed the way you tell it."
"No," said Kokwa, "I told it just as I told it before."
Jijingi didn't want to try to explain what words were. Instead he said, "If you told it as you did before, you would say 'the Uyengi captured the women and children and carried them off as slaves' every time."
For a moment Kokwa stared at him, and then he laughed. "Is this what you think is important, now that you've learned the art of writing?"
Sabe, who had been listening to them, chided Kokwa. "It's not your place to judge Jijingi. The hare favors one food, the hippo favors another. Let each spend his time as he pleases."
"Of course, Sabe, of course," said Kokwa, but he threw a derisive glance at Jijingi.
Afterwards, Jijingi remembered the proverb Moseby had mentioned. Even though Kokwa was telling the same story, he might arrange the words differently each time he told it; he was skilled enough as a storyteller that the arrangement of words didn't matter. It was different for Moseby, who never acted anything out when he gave his sermons; for him, the words were what was important. Jijingi realized that Moseby wrote down his sermons not because his memory was terrible, but because he was looking for a specific arrangement of words. Once he found the one he wanted, he could hold on to it for as long as he needed.
Out of curiosity, Jijingi tried imagining he had to deliver a sermon, and began writing down what he would say. Seated on the root of a mango tree with the notebook Moseby had given him, he composed a sermon on tsav, the quality that enabled some men to have power over others, and a subject which Moseby hadn't understood and had dismissed as foolishness. He read his first attempt to one of his age-mates, who pronounced it terrible, leading them to have a brief shoving match, but afterwards Jijingi had to admit his age-mate was right. He tried writing out his sermon a second time and then a third before he became tired of it and moved on to other topics.
As he practiced his writing, Jijingi came to understand what Moseby had meant; writing was not just a way to record what someone said; it could help you decide what you would say before you said it. And words were not just the pieces of speaking; they were the pieces of thinking. When you wrote them down, you could grasp your thoughts like bricks in your hands and push them into different arrangements. Writing let you look at your thoughts in a way you couldn't if you were just talking, and having seen them, you could improve them, make them stronger and more elaborate.
Psychologists make a distinction between semantic memory – knowledge of general facts – and episodic memory – recollection of personal experiences. We've been using technological supplements for semantic memory ever since the invention of writing: first books, then search engines. By contrast, we've historically resisted such aids when it comes to episodic memory; few people have ever kept as many diaries or photo albums as they did ordinary books. The obvious reason is convenience; if we wanted a book on the birds of North America, we could consult one that an ornithologist has written, but if we wanted a daily diary, we had to write it for ourselves. But I also wonder if another reason is that, subconsciously, we regarded our episodic memories as such an integral part of our identities that we were reluctant to externalize them, to relegate them to books on a shelf or files on a computer.
That may be about to change. For years parents have been recording their children's every moment, so even if children weren't wearing personal cams, their lifelogs were effectively already being compiled. Now parents are having their children wear retinal projectors at younger and younger ages so they can reap the benefits of assistive software agents sooner. Imagine what will happen if children begin using Remem to access those lifelogs: their mode of cognition will diverge from ours because the act of recall will be different. Rather than thinking of an event from her past and seeing it with her mind's eye, a child will subvocalize a reference to it and watch video footage with her physical eyes. Episodic memory will become entirely technologically mediated.
An obvious drawback to such reliance is the possibility that people might become virtual amnesiacs whenever the software crashes. But just as worrying to me as the prospect of technological failure was that of technological success: how will it change a person's conception of herself when she's only seen her past through the unblinking eye of a video camera? Just as there's a feedback loop in softening harsh memories, there's also one at work in the romanticization of childhood memories, and disrupting that process will have consequences.
The earliest birthday I remember is my fourth; I remember blowing out the candles on my cake, the thrill of tearing the wrapping paper off the presents. There's no video of the event, but there are snapshots in the family album, and they are consistent with what I remember. In fact, I suspect I no longer remember the day itself. It's more likely that I manufactured the memory when I was first shown the snapshots and over time, I've imbued it with the emotion I imagine I felt that day. Little by little, over repeated instances of recall, I've created a happy memory for myself.
Another of my earliest memories is of playing on the living room rug, pushing toy cars around, while my grandmother worked at her sewing machine; she would occasionally turn and smile warmly at me. There are no photos of that moment, so I know the recollection is mine and mine alone. It is a lovely, idyllic memory. Would I want to be presented with actual footage of that afternoon? No; absolutely not.
Regarding the role of truth in autobiography, t
he critic Roy Pascal wrote, "On the one side are the truths of fact, on the other the truth of the writer's feeling, and where the two coincide cannot be decided by any outside authority in advance." Our memories are private autobiographies, and that afternoon with my grandmother features prominently in mine because of the feelings associated with it. What if video footage revealed that my grandmother's smile was in fact perfunctory, that she was actually frustrated because her sewing wasn't going well? What's important to me about that memory is the happiness I associated with it, and I wouldn't want that jeopardized.
It seemed to me that continuous video of my entire childhood would be full of facts but devoid of feeling, simply because cameras couldn't capture the emotional dimension of events. As far as the camera was concerned, that afternoon with my grandmother would be indistinguishable from a hundred others. And if I'd grown up with access to all the video footage, there'd have been no way for me to assign more emotional weight to any particular day, no nucleus around which nostalgia could accrete.
And what will the consequences be when people can claim to remember their infancy? I could readily imagine a situation where, if you ask a young person what her earliest memory is, she will simply look baffled; after all, she has video dating back to the day of her birth. The inability to remember the first few years of one's life – what psychologists call childhood amnesia – might soon be a thing of the past. No more would parents tell their children anecdotes beginning with the words "You don't remember this because you were just a toddler when it happened." It'll be as if childhood amnesia is a characteristic of humanity's childhood, and in ouroboric fashion, our youth will vanish from our memories.
The Best Science Fiction and Fantasy of the Year: Volume Eight Page 19