reference to that point, other events of the series are either past, that is, over and done with, or are future, that is, are later in the series, or are not yet when this one point of the series is in this sense present. Every word of the uttered line of poetry, viewed in its reference to the other words, or to previous and later experiences, is present in its own place in the series, is over and done with before later events can come, or when they are present, and is not yet when the former events of the succession are present. And that all this is true, certainly is a matter of our experience of succession.
But the sense in which, nevertheless, the whole series of the uttered words of the line, or of some considerable portion of the line, is presented to our consciousness at once, is precisely the sense in which we apprehend this line as one line, and this succession as one succession. The whole series of words has for us its rhythmic unity, and forms an instance of conscious experience, whose unity we overlook at one glance. And unless we could thus overlook a succession and view at once its serially related and mutually exclusive events, we should never know anything whatever about the existence of succession, and should have no problem about time upon our hands.
This extremely simple and familiar character of our consciousness of succession, — this essentially double aspect of every experience of a present series of events, — this inevitably twofold sense in which the term present can be used in regard to our perception of temporal happenings, — this is a matter of the most fundamental importance for our whole conception of Time, and, as I may at once add, for our conception of Eternity. Yet this is also a
