288 AUGUSTINE
voice is past and is a voice no longer. Before it sounded forth it was a future thing, so it
could not be measured because it did not yet exist; neither can it be now, because it
exists no more. Perhaps, then, it could be measured while it was sounding forth,
because something did then exist that could be measured? But at that time it was not
standing still; it was but a fleeting thing that was speeding on its way. Was it therefore
any more measurable while sounding than before or after? Only as something transient
was it extended over a period of time whereby it might be measured—only as transient,
because the present moment has no duration. If it is argued that the sound could, never-
theless, be measured while it lasted, consider this: another voice begins to sound and is
still sounding in a continuous, steady tone. Let us measure it, then, while it is sounding,
for once it has fallen silent it will be a thing of the past, and nothing measurable will
then exist. By all means let us measure it now, and state how long it lasts.
Ah, but it is still sounding, and there is no way of timing it except from its begin-
ning, when the sound originated, to its end, when it ceases. Obviously we measure any
interval of time from some inception to some ending. Hence the sound of a voice which
has not yet finished cannot be measured in such a way that anyone can say how long or
how short it is, nor can it be declared to be of the same length as something else, or half
the length, or twice the length, or anything of the kind. But once finished, it will not
exist. So by what criteria will it then be subject to measurement?
All the same we do measure periods of time, not periods which as yet have no
being, nor those which have ceased to be, nor those which have no duration, nor those
which have no terminus. We measure neither future nor past nor present nor passing
time. Yet time we do measure.
- Take the line,Deus, creator omnium.* This line consists of eight syllables,
short and long alternating. The four short ones—the first, third, fifth and seventh—are
thus half the length of the four long ones—the second, fourth, sixth and eighth. Each
of these latter lasts twice as long as each of the former; I have only to pronounce the
line to report that this is the case, insofar as clear sense-perception can verify it.
Relying on this unmistakable evidence of my ear I measure each long syllable by the
criterion of a short one, and perceive that it is twice the quantity. But the syllables
make themselves heard in succession; and if the first is short and the second long, how
am I to hold on to the short one, how am I to apply it to the long one as a measuring-
rod in order to discover that the long one has twice the quantity, when the long one
does not begin to sound until the short one has ceased? Am I to measure the long one
while it is present? Impossible, because I cannot measure something unfinished. But
its completion is its passing away, so what now exists for me to measure? Where is the
short syllable I was going to use as a standard? What has become of the long one I
want to measure? Both have made their sound, and flown away, and passed by, and
exist no more; yet I do my calculation and confidently assert that insofar as the testi-
mony of my trained ear can be trusted, the short is half the long, the long twice the
short; and obviously I am speaking about a space of time. I can only do this because
the syllables have passed away and are completed. Evidently, then, what I am measur-
ing is not the syllables themselves, which no longer exist, but something in my mem-
ory, something fixed and permanent there. - In you, my mind, I measure time. Do not interrupt me by clamoring that time
has objective existence, nor hinder yourself with the hurly-burly of your impressions.
In you, I say, do I measure time. What I measure is the impression which passing
*[Ambrose’s evening hymn: “God, Creator of all.”]