In an age of smart phones and Apple watches, how important is human memory?
An unimaginable number of facts, explanations, theories, opinions, images, and more are available on the Internet, and the rest of human recorded knowledge is available somewhere else: a library, an archive, a museum. When all that information is available to the seeker, often literally at the touch of a finger, do we really need to commit much to memory?
The question is central to the work we do in the academy. As scholars, we generate much of this information through our research and creative work. As teachers, we impart it to the next generation of thinkers and leaders. In many cases, we even test students over this information. Many people would urge us to stop bothering. As research fellow Jared Horvath put it in an issue of the Atlantic, “So long as you know where that information is at and how to access it, then you don’t really need to recall it.”
Alas, we forget at our peril.
What is overlooked in this conversation about memory is that humans depend on their working knowledge of the world—specifically, the knowledge stored in their own brains—to make meaning, connections, and decisions. We can expand this knowledge easily by consulting the Internet, books, and more, but we must have a foundation immediately accessible in our heads, or we miss understandings and opportunities.
The reason we need memory is simple: we don’t know what we don’t know, and what we do know dramatically improves our ability to manage our health and money, build and sustain relationships, vote for candidates who will represent our interests, and do just about everything else as effectively and efficiently as we can.
Imagine all knowledge as a giant image—say, a map or a flow chart. No one knows everything, so some parts of the image are missing in every individual brain, but some people have richer images than others. Which people are better equipped to find their way and simply feel more at peace in their environment, the ones with many lines and shapes and colors or the ones with giant blanks?
To make the point less abstractly, we might consider some specific kinds of information worth remembering, starting with concepts. Broad explanations, theories, and the like help us to make sense of what we experience in the world. If we don’t remember these concepts, new experiences are likely to mystify us—or worse. If we have forgotten what we learned about the post hoc fallacy, we may fall for it. If we don’t remember the meaning of the scientific method, the basics of supply and demand, the differences between correlation and causation, or the tenets of Marxism, republicanism, or Christianity, we are in a poor position to respond to current events.
Specific facts—names, titles, quotations—are somewhat less important than concepts, but many are still worth remembering. So much of communication, not just verbal language but also music and imagery, is allusive that a command of certain touchstones in literature, history, and more facilitates our reading of the world. Consider white whale, crossing the Rubicon, and fifteen minutes of fame. One could Google such phrases if they are unfamiliar, but doing so would certainly interrupt the flow of conversation, and, besides, how many of us would actually take the time anyway? Most people are more likely to let the allusion pass and miss some nuanced meaning—or more—in the communication. Besides, facts put us in touch with concrete reality, and a foundation in fact is especially valuable these days.
Memory not only informs; it also directs. Reflecting on my own knowledge, I have some inkling of how thoroughly it shapes both my comprehension and my actions. As an English professor, I am especially indebted to the concepts—“truths,” as authors tend to call them—I have encountered in my reading. Here are just a few that still come to mind years after I first encountered them:
“I began to suspect that this doctrine, tho’ it might be true, was not very useful.” (Benjamin Franklin)
“The Imp of the Perverse” (Edgar Allan Poe’s notion of an inherent predisposition toward self-destruction)
“The other terror that scares us from self-trust is our consistency: a reverence for our past act or word, because the eyes of others have no other data for computing our orbit than our past acts, and we are loath to disappoint them.” (Ralph Waldo Emerson)
I could go on (and on and on). People well versed in other branches of knowledge could identity other memories that help them make sense of the world. It should come as no surprise that the worlds in which we immerse ourselves shape our understanding of people, nature, and more. We are not restricted to our disciplines, though. All that we have learned inside and outside our own areas of expertise informs and directs us.
It may seem odd that some of the people questioning the value of memory are the same ones who already know a lot, but then we take our memories for granted. We forget how much we know, and we assume that we could do well without it. We couldn’t, and we wouldn’t. Indeed, without this knowledge, we might not even notice much of what we see and hear each day. All would amount to waves of information washing over us.
To test this hypothesis—there’s a term we all remember—I suggest an experiment. Spend a day pretending you don’t remember anything you learned in your education. When you interact with co-workers, shop for groceries, read a newspaper, or just stroll through the park, catch yourself every time you start to reflect on something you remember and pretend you have forgotten it. Notice how much different your grasp of the world is in this vast vacuum and how different your decisions would be without this knowledge directly accessible and directive in your head. You would not be able to deploy psychological and sociological concepts to understand the people you meet. You probably would fall prey to marketing ploys instead of making sound purchases. You might not even believe in global warming.
Without our memories of concepts and facts, which we constantly draw on to illuminate our experiences, we would have to fall back on our instincts and desires, which are not always trustworthy guides, or we would have to operate entirely in the dark.
It’s a sobering experiment, one that helps us to appreciate the necessity of memory, lest we forget how much we remember.