If we had only read a description of the accident, it would be more
difficult to recall the image; because that which we gain through language
is less vitally a part of ourselves than is that which comes to us through
experience.
When called upon to reproduce the images suggested to us by language, our
memory is apt to concern itself with the words that suggested the image,
and our expression is hampered rather than aided by this remembrance. The
author has made, or should have made, the best possible selection of words
and phrases. If we repeat his language, we have but memory drill or copy
work; and if we do not, we are limited to such second-class language as we
may be able to find.
Word memory has its uses, but it is less valuable than image memory. It is
necessary to distinguish carefully between the images that a writer
presents and the words that he uses. If a botany lesson should consist of
a description of fifteen different leaves, a pupil deficient in image
memory will attempt to memorize the language of the book. A better-trained
pupil, on meeting such a term as _serrated_, will ask himself: "Have I
ever seen such a leaf? Can I form an image of it?" If so, his only task
will be to give the new name, _serrated_, to the idea that he already has.
In a similar way he will form images for each of the fifteen leaves
described in the lesson. The language of the book may help him form these
images, but he will make no attempt to commit the language to memory.
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