CONFESSIONS(BOOKXI) 287
moving and sometimes stationary, we measure not only its motion but also its static
periods in terms of time, and say, “Its stationary periods were equivalent in length to its
phases of motion,” or “It was stationary for two or three times as long as it was in
motion,” or whatever else our calculation has ascertained or estimated roughly—more
or less, as we customarily say. Clearly, then, time is not the movement of any corporeal
object.
25, 32. I confess to you, Lord, that even today I am still ignorant of what time is;
but I praise you, Lord, for the fact that I know I am making this avowal within time, and
for my realization that within time I am talking about time at such length, and that I know
this “length” itself is long only because time has been passing all the while. But how can
I know that, when I do not know what time is? Or perhaps I simply do not know how to
articulate what I know? Woe is me, for I do not even know what I do not know!
Behold me here before you, O my God; see that I do not lie. As I speak, this is the
true state of my heart. You, you alone, will light my lamp, O Lord; O my God, you will
illumine my darkness.
26, 33. Am I not making a truthful confession to you when I praise you for my
ability to measure time? But this must mean, O my God, that though I can measure it,
I do not know what I am measuring! I measure the movement of a body in terms of
time, but surely I am by that same calculation measuring time itself? Would it be possi-
ble for me to measure a body’s motion, to calculate how long it lasts and how long the
object takes to travel from here to there, without also measuring the time within which
the motion occurs? With what, then, do I measure time itself? Do we measure a longer
time by the standard of a shorter, as we use the cubit to measure the span of a cross-
beam? That indeed seems to be how we measure the quantity of a long syllable by that
of a short syllable, and decide that the former is twice as long. Similarly we measure the
length of poems by the length of their lines, and the length of the lines by the length of
the feet, and the length of each foot by the length of its syllables, and the length of a
long syllable by that of a short syllable. We do not reckon by the number of pages—that
would be to impose a spatial, not a temporal standard—but by the pronunciation as
voices recite them and die away. We declare, “That is a lengthy poem, for it consists of
so many lines; the lines are long, since each is composed of so many feet; the feet are
long, since each extends over so many syllables; and a syllable is long, when it is twice
the quantity of a short one.”
But the mensuration of time by these methods yields no result that is absolute,
since it may happen that the sound of a shorter line, spoken with a drawl, actually lasts
longer than that of a longer one hurried over. The same holds for the whole poem, a
foot, and a syllable.
I have therefore come to the conclusion that time is nothing other than tension:
but tension of what, I do not know, and I would be very surprised if it is not tension of
consciousness itself. What am I measuring, I beg you to tell me, my God, when I say in
imprecise terms, “This is longer than that,” or even, precisely, “This is twice that”? That
I am measuring time, I know; but I am not measuring future time, because it does not
yet exist, not present time, which is a point without extension, nor past time, which
exists no more. What, then, am I measuring? Time as it passes by, but not once it has
passed? That was what I said earlier.
27, 34. Stick to it, now, my mind, and pay close attention. God is our ally; and he
made us, not we ourselves. Mark where truth brightens to the dawn!
Suppose now that a physical voice begins to sound... and goes on
sounding...and is still sounding...and now stops. Now there is silence, and that