I will soar, then, beyond this power of my nature also, ascending by degrees unto Him who made me.

       And I enter the Neighborhoods of Memory, where are the treasures of countless images, imported into it from all manner of things by the senses.
There is treasured up whatsoever likewise we think, either by enlarging or diminishing, or by varying in any way whatever those things which the sense hath arrived at; yea, and whatever else hath been entrusted to it and stored up, which oblivion hath not yet engulfed and buried.

       When I am in this storehouse, I demand that what I wish should be brought forth, and some things immediately appear; others require to be longer sought after, and are dragged, as it were, out of some hidden receptacle; others, again, hurry forth in crowds, and while another thing is sought and inquired for, they leap into view, as if to say, "Is it not we, perchance?"

       These I drive away with the hand of my heart from before the face of my remembrance, until what I wish be discovered making its appearance out of its secret cell.

       Other things suggest themselves without effort, and in continuous order, just as they are called for, those in front giving place to those that follow, and in giving place are treasured up again to be forthcoming when I wish it.
All of which takes place when I repeat a thing from memory.

St. Augustine, The Confessions X.VIII.12.