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The Analysis Of Mind
By
Bertrand Russell
Contents
MUIRHEAD
LIBRARY OF PHILOSOPHY
LECTURE
I. RECENT CRITICISMS OF "CONSCIOUSNESS".
LECTURE
II. INSTINCT AND HABIT
LECTURE
III. DESIRE AND FEELING
LECTURE
IV. INFLUENCE OF PAST HISTORY ON PRESENT OCCURRENCES IN LIVING ORGANISMS
LECTURE
V. PSYCHOLOGICAL AND PHYSICAL CAUSAL LAWS.
LECTURE
VII. THE DEFINITION OF PERCEPTION..
LECTURE
VIII. SENSATIONS AND IMAGES
LECTURE
XI. GENERAL IDEAS AND THOUGHT
LECTURE
XIII. TRUTH AND FALSEHOOD
LECTURE
XIV. EMOTIONS AND WILL
LECTURE
XV. CHARACTERISTICS OF MENTAL PHENOMENA..
An admirable statement of the aims of the Libr=
ary
of Philosophy was provided by the first editor, the late Professor J. H.
Muirhead, in his description of the original programme printed in Erdmann's
History of Philosophy under the date 1890. This was slightly modified in
subsequent volumes to take the form of the following statement:
"The Muirhead Library of Philosophy was
designed as a contribution to the History of Modern Philosophy under the he=
ads:
first of Different Schools of Thought--Sensationalist, Realist, Idealist,
Intuitivist; secondly of different Subjects--Psychology, Ethics, Aesthetics=
, Political
Philosophy, Theology. While much had been done in England in tracing the co=
urse
of evolution in nature, history, economics, morals and religion, little had
been done in tracing the development of thought on these subjects. Yet 'the
evolution of opinion is part of the whole evolution'.
"By the co-operation of different writers= in carrying out this plan it was hoped that a thoroughness and completeness of treatment, otherwise unattainable, might be secured. It was believed also t= hat from writers mainly British and American fuller consideration of English Philosophy than it had hitherto received might be looked for. In the earlier series of books containing, among others, Bosanquet's "History of Aesthetic," Pfleiderer's "Rational Theology since Kant," Alb= ee's "History of English Utilitarianism," Bonar's "Philosophy and Political Economy," Brett's "History of Psychology," Ritchie= 's "Natural Rights," these objects were to a large extent effected.<= o:p>
"In the meantime original work of a high
order was being produced both in England and America by such writers as
Bradley, Stout, Bertrand Russell, Baldwin, Urban, Montague, and others, and=
a
new interest in foreign works, German, French and Italian, which had either
become classical or were attracting public attention, had developed. The sc=
ope of
the Library thus became extended into something more international, and it =
is
entering on the fifth decade of its existence in the hope that it may
contribute to that mutual understanding between countries which is so press=
ing
a need of the present time."
The need which Professor Muirhead stressed is =
no
less pressing to-day, and few will deny that philosophy has much to do with
enabling us to meet it, although no one, least of all Muirhead himself, wou=
ld
regard that as the sole, or even the main, object of philosophy. As Profess=
or Muirhead
continues to lend the distinction of his name to the Library of Philosophy =
it
seemed not inappropriate to allow him to recall us to these aims in his own
words. The emphasis on the history of thought also seemed to me very timely;
and the number of important works promised for the Library in the very near
future augur well for the continued fulfilment, in this and other ways, of =
the
expectations of the original editor.
H. D. Lewis PREFACE
This book has grown out of an attempt to harmo=
nize
two different tendencies, one in psychology, the other in physics, with bot=
h of
which I find myself in sympathy, although at first sight they might seem in=
consistent.
On the one hand, many psychologists, especially those of the behaviourist
school, tend to adopt what is essentially a materialistic position, as a ma=
tter
of method if not of metaphysics. They make psychology increasingly dependen=
t on
physiology and external observation, and tend to think of matter as somethi=
ng
much more solid and indubitable than mind. Meanwhile the physicists, especi=
ally
Einstein and other exponents of the theory of relativity, have been making =
"matter"
less and less material. Their world consists of "events," from wh=
ich
"matter" is derived by a logical construction. Whoever reads, for=
example,
Professor Eddington's "Space, Time and Gravitation" (Cambridge Un=
iversity
Press, 1920), will see that an old-fashioned materialism can receive no sup=
port
from modern physics. I think that what has permanent value in the outlook of
the behaviourists is the feeling that physics is the most fundamental scien=
ce
at present in existence. But this position cannot be called materialistic, =
if,
as seems to be the case, physics does not assume the existence of matter.
The view that seems to me to reconcile the
materialistic tendency of psychology with the anti-materialistic tendency of
physics is the view of William James and the American new realists, accordi=
ng
to which the "stuff" of the world is neither mental nor material,=
but
a "neutral stuff," out of which both are constructed. I have
endeavoured in this work to develop this view in some detail as regards the
phenomena with which psychology is concerned.
My thanks are due to Professor John B. Watson =
and
to Dr. T. P. Nunn for reading my MSS. at an early stage and helping me with
many valuable suggestions; also to Mr. A. Wohlgemuth for much very useful
information as regards important literature. I have also to acknowledge the
help of the editor of this Library of Philosophy, Professor Muirhead, for s=
everal
suggestions by which I have profited.
The work has been given in the form of lectures
both in London and Peking, and one lecture, that on Desire, has been publis=
hed
in the Athenaeum.
There are a few allusions to China in this boo=
k,
all of which were written before I had been in China, and are not intended =
to
be taken by the reader as geographically accurate. I have used
"China" merely as a synonym for "a distant country," wh=
en I
wanted illustrations of unfamiliar things.
Peking, January 1921.
THE
ANALYSIS OF MIND
There are certain occurrences which we are in =
the
habit of calling "mental." Among these we may take as typical
BELIEVING and DESIRING. The exact definition of the word "mental"
will, I hope, emerge as the lectures proceed; for the present, I shall mean=
by
it whatever occurrences would commonly be called mental.
I wish in these lectures to analyse as fully a=
s I
can what it is that really takes place when we, e.g. believe or desire. In =
this
first lecture I shall be concerned to refute a theory which is widely held,=
and
which I formerly held myself: the theory that the essence of everything men=
tal
is a certain quite peculiar something called "consciousness,"
conceived either as a relation to objects, or as a pervading quality of
psychical phenomena.
The reasons which I shall give against this th=
eory
will be mainly derived from previous authors. There are two sorts of reason=
s,
which will divide my lecture into two parts:
(1) Direct reasons, derived from analysis and =
its
difficulties;
(2) Indirect reasons, derived from observation=
of
animals (comparative psychology) and of the insane and hysterical
(psycho-analysis).
Few things are more firmly established in popu=
lar
philosophy than the distinction between mind and matter. Those who are not
professional metaphysicians are willing to confess that they do not know wh=
at
mind actually is, or how matter is constituted; but they remain convinced t=
hat
there is an impassable gulf between the two, and that both belong to what
actually exists in the world. Philosophers, on the other hand, have maintai=
ned
often that matter is a mere fiction imagined by mind, and sometimes that mi=
nd
is a mere property of a certain kind of matter. Those who maintain that min=
d is
the reality and matter an evil dream are called "idealists"--a wo=
rd
which has a different meaning in philosophy from that which it bears in
ordinary life. Those who argue that matter is the reality and mind a mere
property of protoplasm are called "materialists." They have been =
rare
among philosophers, but common, at certain periods, among men of science.
Idealists, materialists, and ordinary mortals have been in agreement on one
point: that they knew sufficiently what they meant by the words
"mind" and "matter" to be able to conduct their debate
intelligently. Yet it was just in this point, as to which they were at one,
that they seem to me to have been all alike in error.
The stuff of which the world of our experience=
is
composed is, in my belief, neither mind nor matter, but something more
primitive than either. Both mind and matter seem to be composite, and the s=
tuff
of which they are compounded lies in a sense between the two, in a sense ab=
ove
them both, like a common ancestor. As regards matter, I have set forth my r=
easons
for this view on former occasions,* and I shall not now repeat them. But the
question of mind is more difficult, and it is this question that I propose =
to
discuss in these lectures. A great deal of what I shall have to say is not
original; indeed, much recent work, in various fields, has tended to show t=
he
necessity of such theories as those which I shall be advocating. Accordingl=
y in
this first lecture I shall try to give a brief description of the systems of
ideas within which our investigation is to be carried on.
*
"Our Knowledge of the External World" (Allen & Unwin), Chapters III and IV. Also "Myst=
icism
and Logic," Essays VII and
VIII.
If there is one thing that may be said, in the
popular estimation, to characterize mind, that one thing is
"consciousness." We say that we are "conscious" of what=
we
see and hear, of what we remember, and of our own thoughts and feelings. Mo=
st
of us believe that tables and chairs are not "conscious." We think
that when we sit in a chair, we are aware of sitting in it, but it is not a=
ware
of being sat in. It cannot for a moment be doubted that we are right in
believing that there is SOME difference between us and the chair in this
respect: so much may be taken as fact, and as a datum for our inquiry. But =
as
soon as we try to say what exactly the difference is, we become involved in
perplexities. Is "consciousness" ultimate and simple, something t=
o be
merely accepted and contemplated? Or is it something complex, perhaps
consisting in our way of behaving in the presence of objects, or,
alternatively, in the existence in us of things called "ideas,"
having a certain relation to objects, though different from them, and only
symbolically representative of them? Such questions are not easy to answer;=
but
until they are answered we cannot profess to know what we mean by saying th=
at we
are possessed of "consciousness."
Before considering modern theories, let us look
first at consciousness from the standpoint of conventional psychology, since
this embodies views which naturally occur when we begin to reflect upon the
subject. For this purpose, let us as a preliminary consider different ways =
of being
conscious.
First, there is the way of PERCEPTION. We
"perceive" tables and chairs, horses and dogs, our friends, traff=
ic
passing in the street--in short, anything which we recognize through the
senses. I leave on one side for the present the question whether pure sensa=
tion
is to be regarded as a form of consciousness: what I am speaking of now is
perception, where, according to conventional psychology, we go beyond the
sensation to the "thing" which it represents. When you hear a don=
key
bray, you not only hear a noise, but realize that it comes from a donkey. W=
hen
you see a table, you not only see a coloured surface, but realize that it is
hard. The addition of these elements that go beyond crude sensation is said=
to constitute
perception. We shall have more to say about this at a later stage. For the
moment, I am merely concerned to note that perception of objects is one of =
the
most obvious examples of what is called "consciousness." We are
"conscious" of anything that we perceive.
We may take next the way of MEMORY. If I set to
work to recall what I did this morning, that is a form of consciousness
different from perception, since it is concerned with the past. There are
various problems as to how we can be conscious now of what no longer exists=
. These
will be dealt with incidentally when we come to the analysis of memory.
From memory it is an easy step to what are cal=
led
"ideas"--not in the Platonic sense, but in that of Locke, Berkeley
and Hume, in which they are opposed to "impressions." You may be
conscious of a friend either by seeing him or by "thinking" of hi=
m;
and by "thought" you can be conscious of objects which cannot be
seen, such as the human race, or physiology. "Thought" in the
narrower sense is that form of consciousness which consists in
"ideas" as opposed to impressions or mere memories.
We may end our preliminary catalogue with BELI=
EF,
by which I mean that way of being conscious which may be either true or fal=
se.
We say that a man is "conscious of looking a fool," by which we m=
ean
that he believes he looks a fool, and is not mistaken in this belief. This =
is a
different form of consciousness from any of the earlier ones. It is the form
which gives "knowledge" in the strict sense, and also error. It i=
s,
at least apparently, more complex than our previous forms of consciousness;=
though
we shall find that they are not so separable from it as they might appear to
be.
Besides ways of being conscious there are other
things that would ordinarily be called "mental," such as desire a=
nd
pleasure and pain. These raise problems of their own, which we shall reach =
in
Lecture III. But the hardest problems are those that arise concerning ways =
of
being "conscious." These ways, taken together, are called the
"cognitive" elements in mind, and it is these that will occupy us
most during the following lectures.
There is one element which SEEMS obviously in
common among the different ways of being conscious, and that is, that they =
are
all directed to OBJECTS. We are conscious "of" something. The
consciousness, it seems, is one thing, and that of which we are conscious is
another thing. Unless we are to acquiesce in the view that we can never be
conscious of anything outside our own minds, we must say that the object of=
consciousness
need not be mental, though the consciousness must be. (I am speaking within=
the
circle of conventional doctrines, not expressing my own beliefs.) This
direction towards an object is commonly regarded as typical of every form of
cognition, and sometimes of mental life altogether. We may distinguish two
different tendencies in traditional psychology. There are those who take me=
ntal
phenomena naively, just as they would physical phenomena. This school of
psychologists tends not to emphasize the object. On the other hand, there a=
re
those whose primary interest is in the apparent fact that we have KNOWLEDGE,
that there is a world surrounding us of which we are aware. These men are
interested in the mind because of its relation to the world, because knowle=
dge,
if it is a fact, is a very mysterious one. Their interest in psychology is
naturally centred in the relation of consciousness to its object, a problem
which, properly, belongs rather to theory of knowledge. We may take as one =
of
the best and most typical representatives of this school the Austrian
psychologist Brentano, whose "Psychology from the Empirical Standpoint=
,"*
though published in 1874, is still influential and was the starting-point o=
f a
great deal of interesting work. He says (p. 115):
*
"Psychologie vom empirischen Standpunkte," vol. i, 1874. (The second volume was never publish=
ed.)
"Every psychical phenomenon is characteri=
zed
by what the scholastics of the Middle Ages called the intentional (also the
mental) inexistence of an object, and what we, although with not quite
unambiguous expressions, would call relation to a content, direction toward=
s an
object (which is not here to be understood as a reality), or immanent
objectivity. Each contains something in itself as an object, though not eac=
h in
the same way. In presentation something is presented, in judgment something=
is acknowledged
or rejected, in love something is loved, in hatred hated, in desire desired,
and so on.
"This intentional inexistence is exclusiv=
ely
peculiar to psychical phenomena. No physical phenomenon shows anything simi=
lar.
And so we can define psychical phenomena by saying that they are phenomena
which intentionally contain an object in themselves."
The view here expressed, that relation to an
object is an ultimate irreducible characteristic of mental phenomena, is one
which I shall be concerned to combat. Like Brentano, I am interested in
psychology, not so much for its own sake, as for the light that it may thro=
w on
the problem of knowledge. Until very lately I believed, as he did, that men=
tal
phenomena have essential reference to objects, except possibly in the case =
of
pleasure and pain. Now I no longer believe this, even in the case of knowle=
dge.
I shall try to make my reasons for this rejection clear as we proceed. It m=
ust
be evident at first glance that the analysis of knowledge is rendered more
difficult by the rejection; but the apparent simplicity of Brentano's view =
of
knowledge will be found, if I am not mistaken, incapable of maintaining its=
elf
either against an analytic scrutiny or against a host of facts in
psycho-analysis and animal psychology. I do not wish to minimize the proble=
ms.
I will merely observe, in mitigation of our prospective labours, that think=
ing,
however it is to be analysed, is in itself a delightful occupation, and that
there is no enemy to thinking so deadly as a false simplicity. Travelling,
whether in the mental or the physical world, is a joy, and it is good to kn=
ow
that, in the mental world at least, there are vast countries still very
imperfectly explored.
The view expressed by Brentano has been held v=
ery
generally, and developed by many writers. Among these we may take as an exa=
mple
his Austrian successor Meinong.* According to him there are three elements =
involved
in the thought of an object. These three he calls the act, the content and =
the
object. The act is the same in any two cases of the same kind of consciousn=
ess;
for instance, if I think of Smith or think of Brown, the act of thinking, in
itself, is exactly similar on both occasions. But the content of my thought,
the particular event that is happening in my mind, is different when I thin=
k of
Smith and when I think of Brown. The content, Meinong argues, must not be
confounded with the object, since the content must exist in my mind at the
moment when I have the thought, whereas the object need not do so. The obje=
ct
may be something past or future; it may be physical, not mental; it may be
something abstract, like equality for example; it may be something imaginar=
y,
like a golden mountain; or it may even be something self-contradictory, lik=
e a
round square. But in all these cases, so he contends, the content exists wh=
en the
thought exists, and is what distinguishes it, as an occurrence, from other
thoughts.
*=
See,
e.g. his article: "Ueber Gegenstande hoherer Ordnung und deren Verhaltniss zur inneren
Wahrnehmung," "Zeitschrift fur Psychologie and Physiologie der
Sinnesorgane," vol. xxi, =
pp.
182-272 (1899), especially pp. 185-8.
To make this theory concrete, let us suppose t=
hat
you are thinking of St. Paul's. Then, according to Meinong, we have to
distinguish three elements which are necessarily combined in constituting t=
he
one thought. First, there is the act of thinking, which would be just the s=
ame whatever
you were thinking about. Then there is what makes the character of the thou=
ght
as contrasted with other thoughts; this is the content. And finally there is
St. Paul's, which is the object of your thought. There must be a difference
between the content of a thought and what it is about, since the thought is
here and now, whereas what it is about may not be; hence it is clear that t=
he
thought is not identical with St. Paul's. This seems to show that we must
distinguish between content and object. But if Meinong is right, there can =
be
no thought without an object: the connection of the two is essential. The
object might exist without the thought, but not the thought without the obj=
ect:
the three elements of act, content and object are all required to constitute
the one single occurrence called "thinking of St. Paul's."
The above analysis of a thought, though I beli=
eve
it to be mistaken, is very useful as affording a schema in terms of which o=
ther
theories can be stated. In the remainder of the present lecture I shall sta=
te
in outline the view which I advocate, and show how various other views out =
of
which mine has grown result from modifications of the threefold analysis in=
to
act, content and object.
The first criticism I have to make is that the=
ACT
seems unnecessary and fictitious. The occurrence of the content of a thought
constitutes the occurrence of the thought. Empirically, I cannot discover
anything corresponding to the supposed act; and theoretically I cannot see =
that
it is indispensable. We say: "I think so-and-so," and this word
"I" suggests that thinking is the act of a person. Meinong's
"act" is the ghost of the subject, or what once was the full-bloo=
ded
soul. It is supposed that thoughts cannot just come and go, but need a pers=
on
to think them. Now, of course it is true that thoughts can be collected into
bundles, so that one bundle is my thoughts, another is your thoughts, and a
third is the thoughts of Mr. Jones. But I think the person is not an ingred=
ient
in the single thought: he is rather constituted by relations of the thought=
s to
each other and to the body. This is a large question, which need not, in its
entirety, concern us at present. All that I am concerned with for the momen=
t is
that the grammatical forms "I think," "you think," and
"Mr. Jones thinks," are misleading if regarded as indicating an
analysis of a single thought. It would be better to say "it thinks in
me," like "it rains here"; or better still, "there is a
thought in me." This is simply on the ground that what Meinong calls t=
he
act in thinking is not empirically discoverable, or logically deducible from
what we can observe.
The next point of criticism concerns the relat=
ion
of content and object. The reference of thoughts to objects is not, I belie=
ve,
the simple direct essential thing that Brentano and Meinong represent it as
being. It seems to me to be derivative, and to consist largely in BELIEFS: =
beliefs
that what constitutes the thought is connected with various other elements
which together make up the object. You have, say, an image of St. Paul's, or
merely the word "St. Paul's" in your head. You believe, however
vaguely and dimly, that this is connected with what you would see if you we=
nt
to St. Paul's, or what you would feel if you touched its walls; it is furth=
er
connected with what other people see and feel, with services and the Dean a=
nd
Chapter and Sir Christopher Wren. These things are not mere thoughts of you=
rs,
but your thought stands in a relation to them of which you are more or less
aware. The awareness of this relation is a further thought, and constitutes=
your
feeling that the original thought had an "object." But in pure im=
agination
you can get very similar thoughts without these accompanying beliefs; and in
this case your thoughts do not have objects or seem to have them. Thus in s=
uch
instances you have content without object. On the other hand, in seeing or
hearing it would be less misleading to say that you have object without
content, since what you see or hear is actually part of the physical world,
though not matter in the sense of physics. Thus the whole question of the
relation of mental occurrences to objects grows very complicated, and canno=
t be
settled by regarding reference to objects as of the essence of thoughts. All
the above remarks are merely preliminary, and will be expanded later.
Speaking in popular and unphilosophical terms,=
we
may say that the content of a thought is supposed to be something in your h=
ead
when you think the thought, while the object is usually something in the ou=
ter world.
It is held that knowledge of the outer world is constituted by the relation=
to
the object, while the fact that knowledge is different from what it knows is
due to the fact that knowledge comes by way of contents. We can begin to st=
ate
the difference between realism and idealism in terms of this opposition of
contents and objects. Speaking quite roughly and approximately, we may say =
that
idealism tends to suppress the object, while realism tends to suppress the
content. Idealism, accordingly, says that nothing can be known except thoug=
hts,
and all the reality that we know is mental; while realism maintains that we
know objects directly, in sensation certainly, and perhaps also in memory a=
nd
thought. Idealism does not say that nothing can be known beyond the present
thought, but it maintains that the context of vague belief, which we spoke =
of
in connection with the thought of St. Paul's, only takes you to other thoug=
hts,
never to anything radically different from thoughts. The difficulty of this
view is in regard to sensation, where it seems as if we came into direct
contact with the outer world. But the Berkeleian way of meeting this diffic=
ulty
is so familiar that I need not enlarge upon it now. I shall return to it in=
a
later lecture, and will only observe, for the present, that there seem to m=
e no
valid grounds for regarding what we see and hear as not part of the physica=
l world.
Realists, on the other hand, as a rule, suppre=
ss
the content, and maintain that a thought consists either of act and object
alone, or of object alone. I have been in the past a realist, and I remain a
realist as regards sensation, but not as regards memory or thought. I will =
try to
explain what seem to me to be the reasons for and against various kinds of
realism.
Modern idealism professes to be by no means
confined to the present thought or the present thinker in regard to its
knowledge; indeed, it contends that the world is so organic, so dove-tailed,
that from any one portion the whole can be inferred, as the complete skelet=
on
of an extinct animal can be inferred from one bone. But the logic by which =
this
supposed organic nature of the world is nominally demonstrated appears to r=
ealists,
as it does to me, to be faulty. They argue that, if we cannot know the phys=
ical
world directly, we cannot really know any thing outside our own minds: the =
rest
of the world may be merely our dream. This is a dreary view, and they there
fore seek ways of escaping from it. Accordingly they maintain that in knowl=
edge
we are in direct contact with objects, which may be, and usually are, outsi=
de
our own minds. No doubt they are prompted to this view, in the first place,=
by bias,
namely, by the desire to think that they can know of the existence of a wor=
ld
outside themselves. But we have to consider, not what led them to desire the
view, but whether their arguments for it are valid.
There are two different kinds of realism,
according as we make a thought consist of act and object, or of object alon=
e.
Their difficulties are different, but neither seems tenable all through. Ta=
ke,
for the sake of definiteness, the remembering of a past event. The remember=
ing
occurs now, and is therefore necessarily not identical with the past event.=
So
long as we retain the act, this need cause no difficulty. The act of
remembering occurs now, and has on this view a certain essential relation to
the past event which it remembers. There is no LOGICAL objection to this
theory, but there is the objection, which we spoke of earlier, that the act
seems mythical, and is not to be found by observation. If, on the other han=
d,
we try to constitute memory without the act, we are driven to a content, si=
nce
we must have something that happens NOW, as opposed to the event which happ=
ened
in the past. Thus, when we reject the act, which I think we must, we are dr=
iven
to a theory of memory which is more akin to idealism. These arguments, howe=
ver,
do not apply to sensation. It is especially sensation, I think, which is co=
nsidered
by those realists who retain only the object.* Their views, which are chief=
ly
held in America, are in large measure derived from William James, and before
going further it will be well to consider the revolutionary doctrine which =
he
advocated. I believe this doctrine contains important new truth, and what I
shall have to say will be in a considerable measure inspired by it.
*=
This
is explicitly the case with Mach's "Analysis of Sensations," a book of fundamen=
tal
importance in the present connection. (Translation of fifth Ge=
rman
edition, Open Court Co., 1914.=
First
German edition, 1886.)
Willi=
am
James's view was first set forth in an essay called "Does 'consciousne=
ss'
exist?"* In this essay he explains how what used to be the soul has
gradually been refined down to the "transcendental ego," which, he
says, "attenuates itself to a thoroughly ghostly condition, being only=
a
name for the fact that the 'content' of experience IS KNOWN. It loses perso=
nal form
and activity--these passing over to the content--and becomes a bare Bewusst=
heit
or Bewusstsein uberhaupt, of which in its own right absolutely nothing can =
be
said. I believe (he continues) that 'consciousness,' when once it has
evaporated to this estate of pure diaphaneity, is on the point of disappear=
ing
altogether. It is the name of a nonentity, and has no right to a place among
first principles. Those who still cling to it are clinging to a mere echo, =
the
faint rumour left behind by the disappearing 'soul' upon the air of philoso=
phy"(p.
2).
*
"Journal of Philosophy, Psychology and Scientific Methods," vol. i, 1904. Reprint=
ed in
"Essays in Radical Empiricism" (Longmans, Green &a=
mp;
Co., 1912), pp. 1-38, to which
references in what follows refer.
He ex=
plains
that this is no sudden change in his opinions. "For twenty years
past," he says, "I have mistrusted 'consciousness' as an entity; =
for
seven or eight years past I have suggested its non-existence to my students,
and tried to give them its pragmatic equivalent in realities of experience.=
It
seems to me that the hour is ripe for it to be openly and universally
discarded"(p. 3).
His next concern is to explain away the air of
paradox, for James was never wilfully paradoxical. "Undeniably," =
he
says, "'thoughts' do exist." "I mean only to deny that the w=
ord
stands for an entity, but to insist most emphatically that it does stand fo=
r a
function. There is, I mean, no aboriginal stuff or quality of being, contra=
sted
with that of which material objects are made, out of which our thoughts of =
them
are made; but there is a function in experience which thoughts perform, and=
for
the performance of which this quality of being is invoked. That function is
KNOWING"(pp. 3-4).
James's view is that the raw material out of w=
hich
the world is built up is not of two sorts, one matter and the other mind, b=
ut
that it is arranged in different patterns by its inter-relations, and that =
some
arrangements may be called mental, while others may be called physical.
"My thesis is," he says, "that =
if
we start with the supposition that there is only one primal stuff or materi=
al
in the world, a stuff of which everything is composed, and if we call that
stuff 'pure experience,' then knowing can easily be explained as a particul=
ar
sort of relation towards one another into which portions of pure experience=
may
enter. The relation itself is a part of pure experience; one of its 'terms'
becomes the subject or bearer of the knowledge, the knower, the other becom=
es
the object known"(p. 4).
After mentioning the duality of subject and
object, which is supposed to constitute consciousness, he proceeds in itali=
cs:
"EXPERIENCE, I BELIEVE, HAS NO SUCH INNER DUPLICITY; AND THE SEPARATIO=
N OF
IT INTO CONSCIOUSNESS AND CONTENT COMES, NOT BY WAY OF SUBTRACTION, BUT BY =
WAY OF
ADDITION"(p. 9).
He illustrates his meaning by the analogy of p=
aint
as it appears in a paint-shop and as it appears in a picture: in the one ca=
se
it is just "saleable matter," while in the other it "perform=
s a
spiritual function. Just so, I maintain (he continues), does a given undivi=
ded
portion of experience, taken in one context of associates, play the part of=
a knower,
of a state of mind, of 'consciousness'; while in a different context the sa=
me
undivided bit of experience plays the part of a thing known, of an objective
'content.' In a word, in one group it figures as a thought, in another grou=
p as
a thing"(pp. 9-10).
He does not believe in the supposed immediate
certainty of thought. "Let the case be what it may in others," he
says, "I am as confident as I am of anything that, in myself, the stre=
am
of thinking (which I recognize emphatically as a phenomenon) is only a care=
less
name for what, when scrutinized, reveals itself to consist chiefly of the
stream of my breathing. The 'I think' which Kant said must be able to accom=
pany
all my objects, is the 'I breathe' which actually does accompany them"=
(pp.
36-37).
The same view of "consciousness" is =
set
forth in the succeeding essay, "A World of Pure Experience" (ib.,=
pp.
39-91). The use of the phrase "pure experience" in both essays po=
ints
to a lingering influence of idealism. "Experience," like
"consciousness," must be a product, not part of the primary stuff=
of
the world. It must be possible, if James is right in his main contentions, =
that
roughly the same stuff, differently arranged, would not give rise to anythi=
ng
that could be called "experience." This word has been dropped by =
the
American realists, among whom we may mention specially Professor R. B. Perr=
y of
Harvard and Mr. Edwin B. Holt. The interests of this school are in general
philosophy and the philosophy of the sciences, rather than in psychology; t=
hey
have derived a strong impulsion from James, but have more interest than he =
had
in logic and mathematics and the abstract part of philosophy. They speak of
"neutral" entities as the stuff out of which both mind and matter=
are
constructed. Thus Holt says: "If the terms and propositions of logic m=
ust
be substantialized, they are all strictly of one substance, for which perha=
ps
the least dangerous name is neutral-stuff. The relation of neutral-stuff to
matter and mind we shall have presently to consider at considerable
length." *
*
"The Concept of Consciousness" (Geo. Allen & Co., 1914), p. 52.
My own belief--for which the reasons will appe=
ar
in subsequent lectures--is that James is right in rejecting consciousness a=
s an
entity, and that the American realists are partly right, though not wholly,=
in
considering that both mind and matter are composed of a neutral-stuff which=
, in
isolation, is neither mental nor material. I should admit this view as rega=
rds
sensations: what is heard or seen belongs equally to psychology and to phys=
ics.
But I should say that images belong only to the mental world, while those o=
ccurrences
(if any) which do not form part of any "experience" belong only to
the physical world. There are, it seems to me, prima facie different kinds =
of
causal laws, one belonging to physics and the other to psychology. The law =
of
gravitation, for example, is a physical law, while the law of association i=
s a
psychological law. Sensations are subject to both kinds of laws, and are
therefore truly "neutral" in Holt's sense. But entities subject o=
nly
to physical laws, or only to psychological laws, are not neutral, and may be
called respectively purely material and purely mental. Even those, however,
which are purely mental will not have that intrinsic reference to objects w=
hich
Brentano assigns to them and which constitutes the essence of
"consciousness" as ordinarily understood. But it is now time to p=
ass
on to other modern tendencies, also hostile to "consciousness."
There is a psychological school called
"Behaviourists," of whom the protagonist is Professor John B.
Watson,* formerly of the Johns Hopkins University. To them also, on the who=
le,
belongs Professor John Dewey, who, with James and Dr. Schiller, was one of =
the
three founders of pragmatism. The view of the "behaviourists" is =
that
nothing can be known except by external observation. They deny altogether t=
hat
there is a separate source of knowledge called "introspection," by
which we can know things about ourselves which we could never observe in
others. They do not by any means deny that all sorts of things MAY go on in=
our
minds: they only say that such things, if they occur, are not susceptible of
scientific observation, and do not therefore concern psychology as a scienc=
e.
Psychology as a science, they say, is only concerned with BEHAVIOUR, i.e. w=
ith
what we DO; this alone, they contend, can be accurately observed. Whether we
think meanwhile, they tell us, cannot be known; in their observation of the
behaviour of human beings, they have not so far found any evidence of thoug=
ht.
True, we talk a great deal, and imagine that in so doing we are showing tha=
t we
can think; but behaviourists say that the talk they have to listen to can be
explained without supposing that people think. Where you might expect a cha=
pter
on "thought processes" you come instead upon a chapter on "T=
he
Language Habit." It is humiliating to find how terribly adequate this
hypothesis turns out to be.
*=
See
especially his "Behavior: an Introduction to Comparative Psychology," New Yo=
rk,
1914.
Behaviourism has not, however, sprung from
observing the folly of men. It is the wisdom of animals that has suggested =
the
view. It has always been a common topic of popular discussion whether anima=
ls
"think." On this topic people are prepared to take sides without
having the vaguest idea what they mean by "thinking." Those who
desired to investigate such questions were led to observe the behaviour of
animals, in the hope that their behaviour would throw some light on their
mental faculties. At first sight, it might seem that this is so. People say
that a dog "knows" its name because it comes when it is called, a=
nd
that it "remembers" its master, because it looks sad in his absen=
ce,
but wags its tail and barks when he returns. That the dog behaves in this w=
ay
is matter of observation, but that it "knows" or
"remembers" anything is an inference, and in fact a very doubtful
one. The more such inferences are examined, the more precarious they are se=
en
to be. Hence the study of animal behaviour has been gradually led to abandon
all attempt at mental interpretation. And it can hardly be doubted that, in
many cases of complicated behaviour very well adapted to its ends, there ca=
n be
no prevision of those ends. The first time a bird builds a nest, we can har=
dly
suppose it knows that there will be eggs to be laid in it, or that it will =
sit
on the eggs, or that they will hatch into young birds. It does what it does=
at
each stage because instinct gives it an impulse to do just that, not becaus=
e it
foresees and desires the result of its actions.*
*=
An
interesting discussion of the question whether instinctive actions, when first perf=
ormed,
involve any prevision, however
vague, will be found in Lloyd Morgan's "Instinct and Experience"
(Methuen, 1912), chap. ii.
Careful observers of animals, being anxious to
avoid precarious inferences, have gradually discovered more and more how to
give an account of the actions of animals without assuming what we call &qu=
ot;consciousness."
It has seemed to the behaviourists that similar methods can be applied to h=
uman
behaviour, without assuming anything not open to external observation. Let =
us
give a crude illustration, too crude for the authors in question, but capab=
le
of affording a rough insight into their meaning. Suppose two children in a
school, both of whom are asked "What is six times nine?" One says
fifty-four, the other says fifty-six. The one, we say, "knows" wh=
at
six times nine is, the other does not. But all that we can observe is a cer=
tain
language-habit. The one child has acquired the habit of saying "six ti=
mes
nine is fifty-four"; the other has not. There is no more need of
"thought" in this than there is when a horse turns into his
accustomed stable; there are merely more numerous and complicated habits. T=
here
is obviously an observable fact called "knowing" such-and-such a
thing; examinations are experiments for discovering such facts. But all tha=
t is
observed or discovered is a certain set of habits in the use of words. The
thoughts (if any) in the mind of the examinee are of no interest to the
examiner; nor has the examiner any reason to suppose even the most successf=
ul
examinee capable of even the smallest amount of thought.
Thus what is called "knowing," in the
sense in which we can ascertain what other people "know," is a
phenomenon exemplified in their physical behaviour, including spoken and
written words. There is no reason--so Watson argues--to suppose that their
knowledge IS anything beyond the habits shown in this behaviour: the infere=
nce
that other people have something nonphysical called "mind" or
"thought" is therefore unwarranted.
So far, there is nothing particularly repugnan=
t to
our prejudices in the conclusions of the behaviourists. We are all willing =
to
admit that other people are thoughtless. But when it comes to ourselves, we
feel convinced that we can actually perceive our own thinking. "Cogito,
ergo sum" would be regarded by most people as having a true premiss. T=
his,
however, the behaviourist denies. He maintains that our knowledge of oursel=
ves
is no different in kind from our knowledge of other people. We may see MORE,
because our own body is easier to observe than that of other people; but we=
do
not see anything radically unlike what we see of others. Introspection, as a
separate source of knowledge, is entirely denied by psychologists of this
school. I shall discuss this question at length in a later lecture; for the
present I will only observe that it is by no means simple, and that, though=
I
believe the behaviourists somewhat overstate their case, yet there is an
important element of truth in their contention, since the things which we c=
an
discover by introspection do not seem to differ in any very fundamental way
from the things which we discover by external observation.
So far, we have been principally concerned with
knowing. But it might well be maintained that desiring is what is really mo=
st
characteristic of mind. Human beings are constantly engaged in achieving so=
me
end they feel pleasure in success and pain in failure. In a purely material=
world,
it may be said, there would be no opposition of pleasant and unpleasant, go=
od
and bad, what is desired and what is feared. A man's acts are governed by
purposes. He decides, let us suppose, to go to a certain place, whereupon he
proceeds to the station, takes his ticket and enters the train. If the usual
route is blocked by an accident, he goes by some other route. All that he d=
oes
is determined--or so it seems--by the end he has in view, by what lies in f=
ront
of him, rather than by what lies behind. With dead matter, this is not the
case. A stone at the top of a hill may start rolling, but it shows no perti=
nacity
in trying to get to the bottom. Any ledge or obstacle will stop it, and it =
will
exhibit no signs of discontent if this happens. It is not attracted by the
pleasantness of the valley, as a sheep or cow might be, but propelled by the
steepness of the hill at the place where it is. In all this we have
characteristic differences between the behaviour of animals and the behavio=
ur
of matter as studied by physics.
Desire, like knowledge, is, of course, in one
sense an observable phenomenon. An elephant will eat a bun, but not a mutton
chop; a duck will go into the water, but a hen will not. But when we think =
of
our own desires, most people believe that we can know them by an immediate =
self-knowledge
which does not depend upon observation of our actions. Yet if this were the
case, it would be odd that people are so often mistaken as to what they des=
ire.
It is matter of common observation that "so-and-so does not know his o=
wn
motives," or that "A is envious of B and malicious about him, but
quite unconscious of being so." Such people are called self-deceivers,=
and
are supposed to have had to go through some more or less elaborate process =
of
concealing from themselves what would otherwise have been obvious. I believe
that this is an entire mistake. I believe that the discovery of our own mot=
ives
can only be made by the same process by which we discover other people's,
namely, the process of observing our actions and inferring the desire which=
could
prompt them. A desire is "conscious" when we have told ourselves =
that
we have it. A hungry man may say to himself: "Oh, I do want my lunch.&=
quot;
Then his desire is "conscious." But it only differs from an "=
;unconscious"
desire by the presence of appropriate words, which is by no means a fundame=
ntal
difference.
The belief that a motive is normally conscious
makes it easier to be mistaken as to our own motives than as to other peopl=
e's.
When some desire that we should be ashamed of is attributed to us, we notice
that we have never had it consciously, in the sense of saying to ourselves,=
"I
wish that would happen." We therefore look for some other interpretati=
on
of our actions, and regard our friends as very unjust when they refuse to be
convinced by our repudiation of what we hold to be a calumny. Moral
considerations greatly increase the difficulty of clear thinking in this
matter. It is commonly argued that people are not to blame for unconscious
motives, but only for conscious ones. In order, therefore, to be wholly
virtuous it is only necessary to repeat virtuous formulas. We say: "I
desire to be kind to my friends, honourable in business, philanthropic towa=
rds
the poor, public-spirited in politics." So long as we refuse to allow
ourselves, even in the watches of the night, to avow any contrary desires, =
we
may be bullies at home, shady in the City, skinflints in paying wages and
profiteers in dealing with the public; yet, if only conscious motives are to
count in moral valuation, we shall remain model characters. This is an
agreeable doctrine, and it is not surprising that men are un willing to aba=
ndon
it. But moral considerations are the worst enemies of the scientific spirit=
and
we must dismiss them from our minds if we wish to arrive at truth.
I believe--as I shall try to prove in a later
lecture--that desire, like force in mechanics, is of the nature of a conven=
ient
fiction for describing shortly certain laws of behaviour. A hungry animal i=
s restless
until it finds food; then it becomes quiescent. The thing which will bring a
restless condition to an end is said to be what is desired. But only experi=
ence
can show what will have this sedative effect, and it is easy to make mistak=
es.
We feel dissatisfaction, and think that such and-such a thing would remove =
it;
but in thinking this, we are theorizing, not observing a patent fact. Our
theorizing is often mistaken, and when it is mistaken there is a difference
between what we think we desire and what in fact will bring satisfaction. T=
his
is such a common phenomenon that any theory of desire which fails to account
for it must be wrong.
What have been called "unconscious"
desires have been brought very much to the fore in recent years by
psycho-analysis. Psycho-analysis, as every one knows, is primarily a method=
of
understanding hysteria and certain forms of insanity*; but it has been found
that there is much in the lives of ordinary men and women which bears a
humiliating resemblance to the delusions of the insane. The connection of
dreams, irrational beliefs and foolish actions with unconscious wishes has =
been
brought to light, though with some exaggeration, by Freud and Jung and their
followers. As regards the nature of these unconscious wishes, it seems to
me--though as a layman I speak with diffidence--that many psycho-analysts a=
re
unduly narrow; no doubt the wishes they emphasize exist, but others, e.g. f=
or
honour and power, are equally operative and equally liable to concealment.
This, however, does not affect the value of their general theories from the
point of view of theoretic psychology, and it is from this point of view th=
at
their results are important for the analysis of mind.
*=
There
is a wide field of "unconscious" phenomena which does not depend upon psycho-analytic
theories. Such occurrences as
automatic writing lead Dr. Morton Prince to say: "As I view this question o=
f the
subconscious, far too much wei=
ght is
given to the point of awareness or not awareness of our conscious processes=
. As a
matter of fact, we find entire=
ly
identical phenomena, that is, identical in every respect but one-that of awaren=
ess in
which sometimes we are aware of
these conscious phenomena and sometimes not"(p. 87 of "Subconscious
Phenomena," by various authors, Rebman). Dr. Morton Price conceives =
that
there may be "consciousness" without
"awareness." But this is a difficult view, and one which makes some defin=
ition
of "consciousness" imperative. For nay part, I cannot s=
ee how
to separate consciousness from
awareness.
What, I think, is clearly established, is that=
a
man's actions and beliefs may be wholly dominated by a desire of which he is
quite unconscious, and which he indignantly repudiates when it is suggested=
to
him. Such a desire is generally, in morbid cases, of a sort which the patie=
nt
would consider wicked; if he had to admit that he had the desire, he would
loathe himself. Yet it is so strong that it must force an outlet for itself;
hence it becomes necessary to entertain whole systems of false beliefs in o=
rder
to hide the nature of what is desired. The resulting delusions in very many
cases disappear if the hysteric or lunatic can be made to face the facts ab=
out
himself. The consequence of this is that the treatment of many forms of
insanity has grown more psychological and less physiological than it used to
be. Instead of looking for a physical defect in the brain, those who treat
delusions look for the repressed desire which has found this contorted mode=
of
expression. For those who do not wish to plunge into the somewhat repulsive=
and
often rather wild theories of psychoanalytic pioneers, it will be worth whi=
le
to read a little book by Dr. Bernard Hart on "The Psychology of
Insanity."* On this question of the mental as opposed to the physiolog=
ical
study of the causes of insanity, Dr. Hart says:
*
Cambridge, 1912; 2nd edition, 1914. The following references are to the second edition=
.
"The psychological conception [of insanit=
y]
is based on the view that mental processes can be directly studied without =
any
reference to the accompanying changes which are presumed to take place in t=
he
brain, and that insanity may therefore be properly attacked from the standp=
oint
of psychology"(p. 9).
This illustrates a point which I am anxious to
make clear from the outset. Any attempt to classify modern views, such as I
propose to advocate, from the old standpoint of materialism and idealism, is
only misleading. In certain respects, the views which I shall be setting fo=
rth
approximate to materialism; in certain others, they approximate to its
opposite. On this question of the study of delusions, the practical effect =
of
the modern theories, as Dr. Hart points out, is emancipation from the
materialist method. On the other hand, as he also points out (pp. 38-9),
imbecility and dementia still have to be considered physiologically, as cau=
sed
by defects in the brain. There is no inconsistency in this If, as we mainta=
in,
mind and matter are neither of them the actual stuff of reality, but differ=
ent
convenient groupings of an underlying material, then, clearly, the question
whether, in regard to a given phenomenon, we are to seek a physical or a me=
ntal
cause, is merely one to be decided by trial. Metaphysicians have argued
endlessly as to the interaction of mind and matter. The followers of Descar=
tes held
that mind and matter are so different as to make any action of the one on t=
he
other impossible. When I will to move my arm, they said, it is not my will =
that
operates on my arm, but God, who, by His omnipotence, moves my arm whenever=
I
want it moved. The modern doctrine of psychophysical parallelism is not
appreciably different from this theory of the Cartesian school. Psycho-phys=
ical
parallelism is the theory that mental and physical events each have causes =
in
their own sphere, but run on side by side owing to the fact that every stat=
e of
the brain coexists with a definite state of the mind, and vice versa. This =
view
of the reciprocal causal independence of mind and matter has no basis excep=
t in
metaphysical theory.* For us, there is no necessity to make any such
assumption, which is very difficult to harmonize with obvious facts. I rece=
ive
a letter inviting me to dinner: the letter is a physical fact, but my
apprehension of its meaning is mental. Here we have an effect of matter on
mind. In consequence of my apprehension of the meaning of the letter, I go =
to
the right place at the right time; here we have an effect of mind on matter=
. I
shall try to persuade you, in the course of these lectures, that matter is =
not
so material and mind not so mental as is generally supposed. When we are
speaking of matter, it will seem as if we were inclining to idealism; when =
we
are speaking of mind, it will seem as if we were inclining to materialism.
Neither is the truth. Our world is to be constructed out of what the Americ=
an realists
call "neutral" entities, which have neither the hardness and inde=
structibility
of matter, nor the reference to objects which is supposed to characterize m=
ind.
*=
It
would seem, however, that Dr. Hart accepts this theory as 8
methodological precept. See his contribution to "Subconscious Phenomena" (=
quoted
above), especially pp. 121-2.
There is, it is true, one objection which migh=
t be
felt, not indeed to the action of matter on mind, but to the action of mind=
on
matter. The laws of physics, it may be urged, are apparently adequate to
explain everything that happens to matter, even when it is matter in a man'=
s brain.
This, however, is only a hypothesis, not an established theory. There is no
cogent empirical reason for supposing that the laws determining the motions=
of
living bodies are exactly the same as those that apply to dead matter.
Sometimes, of course, they are clearly the same. When a man falls from a
precipice or slips on a piece of orange peel, his body behaves as if it were
devoid of life. These are the occasions that make Bergson laugh. But when a
man's bodily movements are what we call "voluntary," they are, at=
any
rate prima facie, very different in their laws from the movements of what is
devoid of life. I do not wish to say dogmatically that the difference is
irreducible; I think it highly probable that it is not. I say only that the
study of the behaviour of living bodies, in the present state of our knowle=
dge,
is distinct from physics. The study of gases was originally quite distinct =
from
that of rigid bodies, and would never have advanced to its present state if=
it
had not been independently pursued. Nowadays both the gas and the rigid body
are manufactured out of a more primitive and universal kind of matter. In l=
ike
manner, as a question of methodology, the laws of living bodies are to be
studied, in the first place, without any undue haste to subordinate them to=
the
laws of physics. Boyle's law and the rest had to be discovered before the
kinetic theory of gases became possible. But in psychology we are hardly ye=
t at
the stage of Boyle's law. Meanwhile we need not be held up by the bogey of =
the
universal rigid exactness of physics. This is, as yet, a mere hypothesis, t=
o be
tested empirically without any preconceptions. It may be true, or it may no=
t.
So far, that is all we can say.
Returning from this digression to our main top=
ic,
namely, the criticism of "consciousness," we observe that Freud a=
nd
his followers, though they have demonstrated beyond dispute the immense
importance of "unconscious" desires in determining our actions and
beliefs, have not attempted the task of telling us what an
"unconscious" desire actually is, and have thus invested their
doctrine with an air of mystery and mythology which forms a large part of i=
ts
popular attractiveness. They speak always as though it were more normal for=
a
desire to be conscious, and as though a positive cause had to be assigned f=
or
its being unconscious. Thus "the unconscious" becomes a sort of
underground prisoner, living in a dungeon, breaking in at long intervals up=
on
our daylight respectability with dark groans and maledictions and strange
atavistic lusts. The ordinary reader, almost inevitably, thinks of this
underground person as another consciousness, prevented by what Freud calls =
the
"censor" from making his voice heard in company, except on rare a=
nd
dreadful occasions when he shouts so loud that every one hears him and ther=
e is
a scandal. Most of us like the idea that we could be desperately wicked if =
only
we let ourselves go. For this reason, the Freudian "unconscious" =
has
been a consolation to many quiet and well-behaved persons.
I do not think the truth is quite so picturesq=
ue
as this. I believe an "unconscious" desire is merely a causal law=
of
our behaviour,* namely, that we remain restlessly active until a certain st=
ate
of affairs is realized, when we achieve temporary equilibrium If we know
beforehand what this state of affairs is, our desire is conscious; if not, =
unconscious.
The unconscious desire is not something actually existing, but merely a
tendency to a certain behaviour; it has exactly the same status as a force =
in
dynamics. The unconscious desire is in no way mysterious; it is the natural
primitive form of desire, from which the other has developed through our ha=
bit
of observing and theorizing (often wrongly). It is not necessary to suppose=
, as
Freud seems to do, that every unconscious wish was once conscious, and was
then, in his terminology, "repressed" because we disapproved of i=
t.
On the contrary, we shall suppose that, although Freudian
"repression" undoubtedly occurs and is important, it is not the u=
sual
reason for unconsciousness of our wishes. The usual reason is merely that
wishes are all, to begin with, unconscious, and only become known when they=
are
actively noticed. Usually, from laziness, people do not notice, but accept =
the
theory of human nature which they find current, and attribute to themselves=
whatever
wishes this theory would lead them to expect. We used to be full of virtuous
wishes, but since Freud our wishes have become, in the words of the Prophet
Jeremiah, "deceitful above all things and desperately wicked." Bo=
th
these views, in most of those who have held them, are the product of theory
rather than observation, for observation requires effort, whereas repeating
phrases does not.
*=
Cf.
Hart, "The Psychology of Insanity," p. 19.
The interpretation of unconscious wishes which=
I
have been advocating has been set forth briefly by Professor John B. Watson=
in an
article called "The Psychology of Wish Fulfilment," which appeare=
d in
"The Scientific Monthly" in November, 1916. Two quotations will s=
erve
to show his point of view:
"The Freudians (he says) have made more or
less of a 'metaphysical entity' out of the censor. They suppose that when
wishes are repressed they are repressed into the 'unconscious,' and that th=
is
mysterious censor stands at the trapdoor lying between the conscious and th=
e unconscious.
Many of us do not believe in a world of the unconscious (a few of us even h=
ave
grave doubts about the usefulness of the term consciousness), hence we try =
to
explain censorship along ordinary biological lines. We believe that one gro=
up
of habits can 'down' another group of habits--or instincts. In this case ou=
r ordinary
system of habits--those which we call expressive of our 'real selves'--inhi=
bit or
quench (keep inactive or partially inactive) those habits and instinctive
tendencies which belong largely in the past"(p. 483).
Again, after speaking of the frustration of so=
me
impulses which is involved in acquiring the habits of a civilized adult, he
continues:
"It is among these frustrated impulses th=
at I
would find the biological basis of the unfulfilled wish. Such 'wishes' need
never have been 'conscious,' and NEED NEVER HAVE BEEN SUPPRESSED INTO FREUD=
'S
REALM OF THE UNCONSCIOUS. It may be inferred from this that there is no par=
ticular
reason for applying the term 'wish' to such tendencies"(p. 485).
One of the merits of the general analysis of m=
ind
which we shall be concerned with in the following lectures is that it remov=
es
the atmosphere of mystery from the phenomena brought to light by the psycho=
-analysts.
Mystery is delightful, but unscientific, since it depends upon ignorance. M=
an
has developed out of the animals, and there is no serious gap between him a=
nd
the amoeba. Something closely analogous to knowledge and desire, as regards=
its
effects on behaviour, exists among animals, even where what we call
"consciousness" is hard to believe in; something equally analogous
exists in ourselves in cases where no trace of "consciousness" ca=
n be
found. It is therefore natural to suppose that, what ever may be the correct
definition of "consciousness," "consciousness" is not t=
he
essence of life or mind. In the following lectures, accordingly, this term =
will
disappear until we have dealt with words, when it will re-emerge as mainly a
trivial and unimportant outcome of linguistic habits.
In attempting to understand the elements out of
which mental phenomena are compounded, it is of the greatest importance to
remember that from the protozoa to man there is nowhere a very wide gap eit=
her
in structure or in behaviour. From this fact it is a highly probable infere=
nce
that there is also nowhere a very wide mental gap. It is, of course, POSSIB=
LE that
there may be, at certain stages in evolution, elements which are entirely n=
ew
from the standpoint of analysis, though in their nascent form they have lit=
tle
influence on behaviour and no very marked correlatives in structure. But the
hypothesis of continuity in mental development is clearly preferable if no
psychological facts make it impossible. We shall find, if I am not mistaken,
that there are no facts which refute the hypothesis of mental continuity, a=
nd
that, on the other hand, this hypothesis affords a useful test of suggested
theories as to the nature of mind.
The hypothesis of mental continuity throughout
organic evolution may be used in two different ways. On the one hand, it ma=
y be
held that we have more knowledge of our own minds than those of animals, and
that we should use this knowledge to infer the existence of something simil=
ar to
our own mental processes in animals and even in plants. On the other hand, =
it
may be held that animals and plants present simpler phenomena, more easily
analysed than those of human minds; on this ground it may be urged that
explanations which are adequate in the case of animals ought not to be ligh=
tly
rejected in the case of man. The practical effects of these two views are
diametrically opposite: the first leads us to level up animal intelligence =
with
what we believe ourselves to know about our own intelligence, while the sec=
ond
leads us to attempt a levelling down of our own intelligence to something n=
ot
too remote from what we can observe in animals. It is therefore important to
consider the relative justification of the two ways of applying the princip=
le
of continuity.
It is clear that the question turns upon anoth=
er,
namely, which can we know best, the psychology of animals or that of human
beings? If we can know most about animals, we shall use this knowledge as a
basis for inference about human beings; if we can know most about human bei=
ngs,
we shall adopt the opposite procedure. And the question whether we can know=
most
about the psychology of human beings or about that of animals turns upon yet
another, namely: Is introspection or external observation the surer method =
in
psychology? This is a question which I propose to discuss at length in Lect=
ure
VI; I shall therefore content myself now with a statement of the conclusion=
s to
be arrived at.
We know a great many things concerning ourselv=
es
which we cannot know nearly so directly concerning animals or even other
people. We know when we have a toothache, what we are thinking of, what dre=
ams
we have when we are asleep, and a host of other occurrences which we only k=
now
about others when they tell us of them, or otherwise make them inferable by
their behaviour. Thus, so far as knowledge of detached facts is concerned, =
the
advantage is on the side of self-knowledge as against external observation.=
But when we come to the analysis and scientific
understanding of the facts, the advantages on the side of self-knowledge be=
come
far less clear. We know, for example, that we have desires and beliefs, but=
we do
not know what constitutes a desire or a belief. The phenomena are so famili=
ar
that it is difficult to realize how little we really know about them. We se=
e in
animals, and to a lesser extent in plants, behaviour more or less similar to
that which, in us, is prompted by desires and beliefs, and we find that, as=
we
descend in the scale of evolution, behaviour becomes simpler, more easily
reducible to rule, more scientifically analysable and predictable. And just=
because
we are not misled by familiarity we find it easier to be cautious in
interpreting behaviour when we are dealing with phenomena remote from those=
of
our own minds: Moreover, introspection, as psychoanalysis has demonstrated,=
is
extraordinarily fallible even in cases where we feel a high degree of certa=
inty.
The net result seems to be that, though self-knowledge has a definite and
important contribution to make to psychology, it is exceedingly misleading
unless it is constantly checked and controlled by the test of external
observation, and by the theories which such observation suggests when appli=
ed
to animal behaviour. On the whole, therefore, there is probably more to be
learnt about human psychology from animals than about animal psychology from
human beings; but this conclusion is one of degree, and must not be pressed
beyond a point.
It is only bodily phenomena that can be direct=
ly
observed in animals, or even, strictly speaking, in other human beings. We =
can
observe such things as their movements, their physiological processes, and =
the
sounds they emit. Such things as desires and beliefs, which seem obvious to
introspection, are not visible directly to external observation. Accordingl=
y,
if we begin our study of psychology by external observation, we must not be=
gin
by assuming such things as desires and beliefs, but only such things as
external observation can reveal, which will be characteristics of the movem=
ents
and physiological processes of animals. Some animals, for example, always r=
un
away from light and hide themselves in dark places. If you pick up a mossy
stone which is lightly embedded in the earth, you will see a number of small
animals scuttling away from the unwonted daylight and seeking again the
darkness of which you have deprived them. Such animals are sensitive to lig=
ht,
in the sense that their movements are affected by it; but it would be rash =
to infer
that they have sensations in any way analogous to our sensations of sight. =
Such
inferences, which go beyond the observable facts, are to be avoided with the
utmost care.
It is customary to divide human movements into
three classes, voluntary, reflex and mechanical. We may illustrate the
distinction by a quotation from William James ("Psychology," i, 1=
2):
"If I hear the conductor calling 'all abo=
ard'
as I enter the depot, my heart first stops, then palpitates, and my legs
respond to the air-waves falling on my tympanum by quickening their movemen=
ts.
If I stumble as I run, the sensation of falling provokes a movement of the
hands towards the direction of the fall, the effect of which is to shield t=
he
body from too sudden a shock. If a cinder enter my eye, its lids close forc=
ibly
and a copious flow of tears tends to wash it out.
"These three responses to a sensational
stimulus differ, however, in many respects. The closure of the eye and the
lachrymation are quite involuntary, and so is the disturbance of the heart.
Such involuntary responses we know as 'reflex' acts. The motion of the arms=
to
break the shock of falling may also be called reflex, since it occurs too
quickly to be deliberately intended. Whether it be instinctive or whether i=
t result
from the pedestrian education of childhood may be doubtful; it is, at any r=
ate,
less automatic than the previous acts, for a man might by conscious effort
learn to perform it more skilfully, or even to suppress it altogether. Acti=
ons
of this kind, with which instinct and volition enter upon equal terms, have
been called 'semi-reflex.' The act of running towards the train, on the oth=
er
hand, has no instinctive element about it. It is purely the result of
education, and is preceded by a consciousness of the purpose to be attained=
and
a distinct mandate of the will. It is a 'voluntary act.' Thus the animal's
reflex and voluntary performances shade into each other gradually, being
connected by acts which may often occur automatically, but may also be modi=
fied
by conscious intelligence.
"An outside observer, unable to perceive =
the
accompanying consciousness, might be wholly at a loss to discriminate betwe=
en
the automatic acts and those which volition escorted. But if the criterion =
of
mind's existence be the choice of the proper means for the attainment of a
supposed end, all the acts alike seem to be inspired by intelligence, for A=
PPROPRIATENESS
characterizes them all alike."
There is one movement, among those that James
mentions at first, which is not subsequently classified, namely, the stumbl=
ing.
This is the kind of movement which may be called "mechanical"; it=
is
evidently of a different kind from either reflex or voluntary movements, and
more akin to the movements of dead matter. We may define a movement of an
animal's body as "mechanical" when it proceeds as if only dead ma=
tter
were involved. For example, if you fall over a cliff, you move under the in=
fluence
of gravitation, and your centre of gravity describes just as correct a para=
bola
as if you were already dead. Mechanical movements have not the characterist=
ic
of appropriateness, unless by accident, as when a drunken man falls into a
waterbutt and is sobered. But reflex and voluntary movements are not ALWAYS
appropriate, unless in some very recondite sense. A moth flying into a lamp=
is
not acting sensibly; no more is a man who is in such a hurry to get his tic=
ket
that he cannot remember the name of his destination. Appropriateness is a
complicated and merely approximate idea, and for the present we shall do we=
ll
to dismiss it from our thoughts.
As James states, there is no difference, from =
the
point of view of the outside observer, between voluntary and reflex movemen=
ts.
The physiologist can discover that both depend upon the nervous system, and=
he
may find that the movements which we call voluntary depend upon higher cent=
res
in the brain than those that are reflex. But he cannot discover anything as=
to
the presence or absence of "will" or "consciousness," f=
or
these things can only be seen from within, if at all. For the present, we w=
ish
to place ourselves resolutely in the position of outside observers; we will
therefore ignore the distinction between voluntary and reflex movements. We
will call the two together "vital" movements. We may then disting=
uish
"vital" from mechanical movements by the fact that vital movements
depend for their causation upon the special properties of the nervous syste=
m,
while mechanical movements depend only upon the properties which animal bod=
ies
share with matter in general.
There is need for some care if the distinction
between mechanical and vital movements is to be made precise. It is quite
likely that, if we knew more about animal bodies, we could deduce all their
movements from the laws of chemistry and physics. It is already fairly easy=
to
see how chemistry reduces to physics, i.e. how the differences between
different chemical elements can be accounted for by differences of physical=
structure,
the constituents of the structure being electrons which are exactly alike in
all kinds of matter. We only know in part how to reduce physiology to
chemistry, but we know enough to make it likely that the reduction is possi=
ble.
If we suppose it effected, what would become of the difference between vital
and mechanical movements?
Some analogies will make the difference clear.=
A
shock to a mass of dynamite produces quite different effects from an equal
shock to a mass of steel: in the one case there is a vast explosion, while =
in
the other case there is hardly any noticeable disturbance. Similarly, you m=
ay sometimes
find on a mountain-side a large rock poised so delicately that a touch will=
set
it crashing down into the valley, while the rocks all round are so firm that
only a considerable force can dislodge them What is analogous in these two
cases is the existence of a great store of energy in unstable equilibrium r=
eady
to burst into violent motion by the addition of a very slight disturbance.
Similarly, it requires only a very slight expenditure of energy to send a
post-card with the words "All is discovered; fly!" but the effect=
in
generating kinetic energy is said to be amazing. A human body, like a mass =
of
dynamite, contains a store of energy in unstable equilibrium, ready to be
directed in this direction or that by a disturbance which is physically very
small, such as a spoken word. In all such cases the reduction of behaviour =
to physical
laws can only be effected by entering into great minuteness; so long as we
confine ourselves to the observation of comparatively large masses, the way=
in
which the equilibrium will be upset cannot be determined. Physicists
distinguish between macroscopic and microscopic equations: the former deter=
mine
the visible movements of bodies of ordinary size, the latter the minute
occurrences in the smallest parts. It is only the microscopic equations that
are supposed to be the same for all sorts of matter. The macroscopic equati=
ons
result from a process of averaging out, and may be different in different
cases. So, in our instance, the laws of macroscopic phenomena are different=
for
mechanical and vital movements, though the laws of microscopic phenomena ma=
y be
the same.
We may say, speaking somewhat roughly, that a
stimulus applied to the nervous system, like a spark to dynamite, is able to
take advantage of the stored energy in unstable equilibrium, and thus to
produce movements out of proportion to the proximate cause. Movements produ=
ced
in this way are vital movements, while mechanical movements are those in wh=
ich
the stored energy of a living body is not involved. Similarly dynamite may =
be
exploded, thereby displaying its characteristic properties, or may (with due
precautions) be carted about like any other mineral. The explosion is analo=
gous
to vital movements, the carting about to mechanical movements.
Mechanical movements are of no interest to the
psychologist, and it has only been necessary to define them in order to be =
able
to exclude them. When a psychologist studies behaviour, it is only vital
movements that concern him. We shall, therefore, proceed to ignore mechanic=
al movements,
and study only the properties of the remainder.
The next point is to distinguish between movem=
ents
that are instinctive and movements that are acquired by experience. This
distinction also is to some extent one of degree. Professor Lloyd Morgan gi=
ves
the following definition of "instinctive behaviour":
"That which is, on its first occurrence,
independent of prior experience; which tends to the well-being of the
individual and the preservation of the race; which is similarly performed by
all members of the same more or less restricted group of animals; and which=
may
be subject to subsequent modification under the guidance of experience.&quo=
t; *
*
"Instinct and Experience" (Methuen, 1912) p. 5.
This definition is framed for the purposes of
biology, and is in some respects unsuited to the needs of psychology. Though
perhaps unavoidable, allusion to "the same more or less restricted gro=
up of
animals" makes it impossible to judge what is instinctive in the behav=
iour
of an isolated individual. Moreover, "the well-being of the individual=
and
the preservation of the race" is only a usual characteristic, not a
universal one, of the sort of movements that, from our point of view, are t=
o be
called instinctive; instances of harmful instincts will be given shortly. T=
he
essential point of the definition, from our point of view, is that an
instinctive movement is in dependent of prior experience.
We may say that an "instinctive"
movement is a vital movement performed by an animal the first time that it
finds itself in a novel situation; or, more correctly, one which it would
perform if the situation were novel.* The instincts of an animal are differ=
ent
at different periods of its growth, and this fact may cause changes of
behaviour which are not due to learning. The maturing and seasonal fluctuat=
ion
of the sex-instinct affords a good illustration. When the sex-instinct firs=
t matures,
the behaviour of an animal in the presence of a mate is different from its
previous behaviour in similar circumstances, but is not learnt, since it is
just the same if the animal has never previously been in the presence of a
mate.
*
Though this can only be decided by comparison with other members of the species, and thus exp=
oses
us to the need of comparison w=
hich
we thought an objection to Professor Lloyd Morgan's definition.
On the other hand, a movement is
"learnt," or embodies a "habit," if it is due to previo=
us
experience of similar situations, and is not what it would be if the animal=
had
had no such experience.
There are various complications which blur the
sharpness of this distinction in practice. To begin with, many instincts ma=
ture
gradually, and while they are immature an animal may act in a fumbling mann=
er
which is very difficult to distinguish from learning. James
("Psychology," ii, 407) maintains that children walk by instinct,=
and
that the awkwardness of their first attempts is only due to the fact that t=
he
instinct has not yet ripened. He hopes that "some scientific widower, =
left
alone with his offspring at the critical moment, may ere long test this
suggestion on the living subject." However this may be, he quotes evid=
ence
to show that "birds do not LEARN to fly," but fly by instinct when
they reach the appropriate age (ib., p. 406). In the second place, instinct
often gives only a rough outline of the sort of thing to do, in which case =
learning
is necessary in order to acquire certainty and precision in action. In the
third place, even in the clearest cases of acquired habit, such as speaking,
some instinct is required to set in motion the process of learning. In the =
case
of speaking, the chief instinct involved is commonly supposed to be that of
imitation, but this may be questioned. (See Thorndike's "Animal
Intelligence," p. 253 ff.)
In spite of these qualifications, the broad
distinction between instinct and habit is undeniable. To take extreme cases,
every animal at birth can take food by instinct, before it has had opportun=
ity
to learn; on the other hand, no one can ride a bicycle by instinct, though,
after learning, the necessary movements become just as automatic as if they=
were
instinctive.
The process of learning, which consists in the
acquisition of habits, has been much studied in various animals.* For examp=
le:
you put a hungry animal, say a cat, in a cage which has a door that can be
opened by lifting a latch; outside the cage you put food. The cat at first =
dashes
all round the cage, making frantic efforts to force a way out. At last, by
accident, the latch is lifted and the cat pounces on the food. Next day you
repeat the experiment, and you find that the cat gets out much more quickly
than the first time, although it still makes some random movements. The thi=
rd
day it gets out still more quickly, and before long it goes straight to the
latch and lifts it at once. Or you make a model of the Hampton Court maze, =
and
put a rat in the middle, assaulted by the smell of food on the outside. The=
rat
starts running down the passages, and is constantly stopped by blind alleys,
but at last, by persistent attempts, it gets out. You repeat this experiment
day after day; you measure the time taken by the rat in reaching the food; =
you
find that the time rapidly diminishes, and that after a while the rat cease=
s to
make any wrong turnings. It is by essentially similar processes that we lea=
rn
speaking, writing, mathematics, or the government of an empire.
*=
The
scientific study of this subject may almost be said to begin with Thorndike's "Animal
Intelligence" (Macmillan, 1911).
Professor Watson ("Behavior," pp. 26=
2-3)
has an ingenious theory as to the way in which habit arises out of random
movements. I think there is a reason why his theory cannot be regarded as a=
lone
sufficient, but it seems not unlikely that it is partly correct. Suppose, f=
or
the sake of simplicity, that there are just ten random movements which may =
be
made by the animal--say, ten paths down which it may go--and that only one =
of these
leads to food, or whatever else represents success in the case in question.
Then the successful movement always occurs during the animal's attempts,
whereas each of the others, on the average, occurs in only half the attempt=
s.
Thus the tendency to repeat a previous performance (which is easily explica=
ble
without the intervention of "consciousness") leads to a greater
emphasis on the successful movement than on any other, and in time causes it
alone to be performed. The objection to this view, if taken as the sole
explanation, is that on improvement ought to set in till after the SECOND
trial, whereas experiment shows that already at the second attempt the anim=
al
does better than the first time. Something further is, therefore, required =
to
account for the genesis of habit from random movements; but I see no reason=
to
suppose that what is further required involves "consciousness."
Mr. Thorndike (op. cit., p. 244) formulates two
"provisional laws of acquired behaviour or learning," as follows:=
"The Law of Effect is that: Of several
responses made to the same situation, those which are accompanied or closely
followed by satisfaction to the animal will, other things being equal, be m=
ore firmly
connected with the situation, so that, when it recurs, they will be more li=
kely
to recur; those which are accompanied or closely followed by discomfort to =
the
animal will, other things being equal, have their connections with that
situation weakened, so that, when it recurs, they will be less likely to oc=
cur.
The greater the satisfaction or discomfort, the greater the strengthening or
weakening of the bond.
"The Law of Exercise is that: Any respons=
e to
a situation will, other things being equal, be more strongly connected with=
the
situation in proportion to the number of times it has been connected with t=
hat situation
and to the average vigour and duration of the connections."
With the explanation to be presently given of =
the
meaning of "satisfaction" and "discomfort," there seems=
every
reason to accept these two laws.
What is true of animals, as regards instinct a=
nd
habit, is equally true of men. But the higher we rise in the evolutionary
scale, broadly speaking, the greater becomes the power of learning, and the
fewer are the occasions when pure instinct is exhibited unmodified in adult
life. This applies with great force to man, so much so that some have thoug=
ht instinct
less important in the life of man than in that of animals. This, however, w=
ould
be a mistake. Learning is only possible when instinct supplies the
driving-force. The animals in cages, which gradually learn to get out, perf=
orm
random movements at first, which are purely instinctive. But for these rand=
om
movements, they would never acquire the experience which afterwards enables
them to produce the right movement. (This is partly questioned by
Hobhouse*--wrongly, I think.) Similarly, children learning to talk make all
sorts of sounds, until one day the right sound comes by accident. It is cle=
ar
that the original making of random sounds, without which speech would never=
be learnt,
is instinctive. I think we may say the same of all the habits and aptitudes
that we acquire in all of them there has been present throughout some
instinctive activity, prompting at first rather inefficient movements, but
supplying the driving force while more and more effective methods are being
acquired. A cat which is hungry smells fish, and goes to the larder. This i=
s a
thoroughly efficient method when there is fish in the larder, and it is oft=
en
successfully practised by children. But in later life it is found that mere=
ly
going to the larder does not cause fish to be there; after a series of rand=
om
movements it is found that this result is to be caused by going to the City=
in
the morning and coming back in the evening. No one would have guessed a pri=
ori
that this movement of a middle-aged man's body would cause fish to come out=
of
the sea into his larder, but experience shows that it does, and the middle-=
aged
man therefore continues to go to the City, just as the cat in the cage
continues to lift the latch when it has once found it. Of course, in actual
fact, human learning is rendered easier, though psychologically more comple=
x,
through language; but at bottom language does not alter the essential chara=
cter
of learning, or of the part played by instinct in promoting learning. Langu=
age,
however, is a subject upon which I do not wish to speak until a later lectu=
re.
*
"Mind in Evolution" (Macmillan, 1915), pp. 236-237.
The popular conception of instinct errs by
imagining it to be infallible and preternaturally wise, as well as incapabl=
e of
modification. This is a complete delusion. Instinct, as a rule, is very rou=
gh
and ready, able to achieve its result under ordinary circumstances, but eas=
ily
misled by anything unusual. Chicks follow their mother by instinct, but when
they are quite young they will follow with equal readiness any moving object
remotely resembling their mother, or even a human being (James, "Psych=
ology,"
ii, 396). Bergson, quoting Fabre, has made play with the supposed extraordi=
nary
accuracy of the solitary wasp Ammophila, which lays its eggs in a caterpill=
ar.
On this subject I will quote from Drever's "Instinct in Man," p. =
92:
"According to Fabre's observations, which
Bergson accepts, the Ammophila stings its prey EXACTLY and UNERRINGLY in EA=
CH
of the nervous centres. The result is that the caterpillar is paralyzed, but
not immediately killed, the advantage of this being that the larva cannot be
injured by any movement of the caterpillar, upon which the egg is deposited,
and is provided with fresh meat when the time comes.
"Now Dr. and Mrs. Peckham have shown that=
the
sting of the wasp is NOT UNERRING, as Fabre alleges, that the number of sti=
ngs
is NOT CONSTANT, that sometimes the caterpillar is NOT PARALYZED, and somet=
imes
it is KILLED OUTRIGHT, and that THE DIFFERENT CIRCUMSTANCES DO NOT APPARENT=
LY MAKE
ANY DIFFERENCE TO THE LARVA, which is not injured by slight movements of the
caterpillar, nor by consuming food decomposed rather than fresh
caterpillar."
This illustrates how love of the marvellous may
mislead even so careful an observer as Fabre and so eminent a philosopher as
Bergson.
In the same chapter of Dr. Drever's book there=
are
some interesting examples of the mistakes made by instinct. I will quote on=
e as
a sample:
"The larva of the Lomechusa beetle eats t=
he
young of the ants, in whose nest it is reared. Nevertheless, the ants tend =
the
Lomechusa larvae with the same care they bestow on their own young. Not onl=
y so,
but they apparently discover that the methods of feeding, which suit their =
own larvae,
would prove fatal to the guests, and accordingly they change their whole sy=
stem
of nursing" (loc. cit., p. 106).
Semon ("Die Mneme," pp. 207-9) gives=
a
good illustration of an instinct growing wiser through experience. He relat=
es
how hunters attract stags by imitating the sounds of other members of their
species, male or female, but find that the older a stag becomes the more
difficult it is to deceive him, and the more accurate the imitation has to =
be.
The literature of instinct is vast, and illustrations might be multiplied i=
ndefinitely.
The main points as regards instinct, which need to be emphasized as against=
the
popular conceptions of it, are:
(1) That instinct requires no prevision of the
biological end which it serves;
(2) That instinct is only adapted to achieve t=
his
end in the usual circumstances of the animal in question, and has no more
precision than is necessary for success AS A RULE;
(3) That processes initiated by instinct often
come to be performed better after experience;
(4) That instinct supplies the impulses to
experimental movements which are required for the process of learning;
(5) That instincts in their nascent stages are
easily modifiable, and capable of being attached to various sorts of object=
s.
All the above characteristics of instinct can =
be
established by purely external observation, except the fact that instinct d=
oes
not require prevision. This, though not strictly capable of being PROVED by=
observation,
is irresistibly suggested by the most obvious phenomena. Who can believe, f=
or
example, that a new-born baby is aware of the necessity of food for preserv=
ing
life? Or that insects, in laying eggs, are concerned for the preservation o=
f their
species? The essence of instinct, one might say, is that it provides a
mechanism for acting without foresight in a manner which is usually
advantageous biologically. It is partly for this reason that it is so impor=
tant
to understand the fundamental position of instinct in prompting both animal=
and
human behaviour.
Desire is a subject upon which, if I am not
mistaken, true views can only be arrived at by an almost complete reversal =
of
the ordinary unreflecting opinion. It is natural to regard desire as in its
essence an attitude towards something which is imagined, not actual; this s=
omething
is called the END or OBJECT of the desire, and is said to be the PURPOSE of=
any
action resulting from the desire. We think of the content of the desire as
being just like the content of a belief, while the attitude taken up towards
the content is different. According to this theory, when we say: "I ho=
pe
it will rain," or "I expect it will rain," we express, in the
first case, a desire, and in the second, a belief, with an identical conten=
t,
namely, the image of rain. It would be easy to say that, just as belief is =
one
kind of feeling in relation to this content, so desire is another kind.
According to this view, what comes first in desire is something imagined, w=
ith
a specific feeling related to it, namely, that specific feeling which we ca=
ll
"desiring" it. The discomfort associated with unsatisfied desire,=
and
the actions which aim at satisfying desire, are, in this view, both of them
effects of the desire. I think it is fair to say that this is a view agains=
t which
common sense would not rebel; nevertheless, I believe it to be radically
mistaken. It cannot be refuted logically, but various facts can be adduced
which make it gradually less simple and plausible, until at last it turns o=
ut
to be easier to abandon it wholly and look at the matter in a totally diffe=
rent
way.
The first set of facts to be adduced against t=
he
common sense view of desire are those studied by psycho-analysis. In all hu=
man
beings, but most markedly in those suffering from hysteria and certain form=
s of
insanity, we find what are called "unconscious" desires, which ar=
e commonly
regarded as showing self-deception. Most psycho-analysts pay little attenti=
on
to the analysis of desire, being interested in discovering by observation w=
hat
it is that people desire, rather than in discovering what actually constitu=
tes
desire. I think the strangeness of what they report would be greatly dimini=
shed
if it were expressed in the language of a behaviourist theory of desire, ra=
ther
than in the language of every-day beliefs. The general description of the s=
ort
of phenomena that bear on our present question is as follows: A person stat=
es
that his desires are so-and-so, and that it is these desires that inspire h=
is actions;
but the outside observer perceives that his actions are such as to realize
quite different ends from those which he avows, and that these different en=
ds
are such as he might be expected to desire. Generally they are less virtuous
than his professed desires, and are therefore less agreeable to profess than
these are. It is accordingly supposed that they really exist as desires for
ends, but in a subconscious part of the mind, which the patient refuses to
admit into consciousness for fear of having to think ill of himself. There =
are no
doubt many cases to which such a supposition is applicable without obvious
artificiality. But the deeper the Freudians delve into the underground regi=
ons
of instinct, the further they travel from anything resembling conscious des=
ire,
and the less possible it becomes to believe that only positive self-decepti=
on
conceals from us that we really wish for things which are abhorrent to our
explicit life.
In the cases in question we have a conflict
between the outside observer and the patient's consciousness. The whole
tendency of psycho-analysis is to trust the outside observer rather than the
testimony of introspection. I believe this tendency to be entirely right, b=
ut
to demand a re-statement of what constitutes desire, exhibiting it as a cau=
sal
law of our actions, not as something actually existing in our minds.
But let us first get a clearer statement of the
essential characteristic of the phenomena.
A person, we find, states that he desires a
certain end A, and that he is acting with a view to achieving it. We observ=
e,
however, that his actions are such as are likely to achieve a quite differe=
nt
end B, and that B is the sort of end that often seems to be aimed at by ani=
mals
and savages, though civilized people are supposed to have discarded it. We =
sometimes
find also a whole set of false beliefs, of such a kind as to persuade the
patient that his actions are really a means to A, when in fact they are a m=
eans
to B. For example, we have an impulse to inflict pain upon those whom we ha=
te;
we therefore believe that they are wicked, and that punishment will reform
them. This belief enables us to act upon the impulse to inflict pain, while
believing that we are acting upon the desire to lead sinners to repentance.=
It
is for this reason that the criminal law has been in all ages more severe t=
han
it would have been if the impulse to ameliorate the criminal had been what
really inspired it. It seems simple to explain such a state of affairs as d=
ue
to "self-deception," but this explanation is often mythical. Most
people, in thinking about punishment, have had no more need to hide their v=
indictive
impulses from themselves than they have had to hide the exponential theorem.
Our impulses are not patent to a casual observation, but are only to be
discovered by a scientific study of our actions, in the course of which we =
must
regard ourselves as objectively as we should the motions of the planets or =
the
chemical reactions of a new element.
The study of animals reinforces this conclusio=
n,
and is in many ways the best preparation for the analysis of desire. In ani=
mals
we are not troubled by the disturbing influence of ethical considerations. =
In dealing
with human beings, we are perpetually distracted by being told that
such-and-such a view is gloomy or cynical or pessimistic: ages of human con=
ceit
have built up such a vast myth as to our wisdom and virtue that any intrusi=
on
of the mere scientific desire to know the facts is instantly resented by th=
ose
who cling to comfortable illusions. But no one cares whether animals are
virtuous or not, and no one is under the delusion that they are rational.
Moreover, we do not expect them to be so "conscious," and are
prepared to admit that their instincts prompt useful actions without any
prevision of the ends which they achieve. For all these reasons, there is m=
uch
in the analysis of mind which is more easily discovered by the study of ani=
mals
than by the observation of human beings.
We all think that, by watching the behaviour of
animals, we can discover more or less what they desire. If this is the
case--and I fully agree that it is--desire must be capable of being exhibit=
ed
in actions, for it is only the actions of animals that we can observe. They=
MAY
have minds in which all sorts of things take place, but we can know nothing
about their minds except by means of inferences from their actions; and the=
more
such inferences are examined, the more dubious they appear. It would seem,
therefore, that actions alone must be the test of the desires of animals. F=
rom
this it is an easy step to the conclusion that an animal's desire is nothing
but a characteristic of a certain series of actions, namely, those which wo=
uld
be commonly regarded as inspired by the desire in question. And when it has
been shown that this view affords a satisfactory account of animal desires,=
it
is not difficult to see that the same explanation is applicable to the desi=
res
of human beings.
We judge easily from the behaviour of an anima=
l of
a familiar kind whether it is hungry or thirsty, or pleased or displeased, =
or inquisitive
or terrified. The verification of our judgment, so far as verification is
possible, must be derived from the immediately succeeding actions of the
animal. Most people would say that they infer first something about the
animal's state of mind--whether it is hungry or thirsty and so on--and then=
ce
derive their expectations as to its subsequent conduct. But this detour thr=
ough
the animal's supposed mind is wholly unnecessary. We can say simply: The
animal's behaviour during the last minute has had those characteristics whi=
ch
distinguish what is called "hunger," and it is likely that its
actions during the next minute will be similar in this respect, unless it f=
inds
food, or is interrupted by a stronger impulse, such as fear. An animal whic=
h is
hungry is restless, it goes to the places where food is often to be found, =
it
sniffs with its nose or peers with its eyes or otherwise increases the
sensitiveness of its sense-organs; as soon as it is near enough to food for=
its
sense-organs to be affected, it goes to it with all speed and proceeds to e=
at;
after which, if the quantity of food has been sufficient, its whole demeano=
ur
changes it may very likely lie down and go to sleep. These things and others
like them are observable phenomena distinguishing a hungry animal from one
which is not hungry. The characteristic mark by which we recognize a series=
of
actions which display hunger is not the animal's mental state, which we can=
not observe,
but something in its bodily behaviour; it is this observable trait in the
bodily behaviour that I am proposing to call "hunger," not some
possibly mythical and certainly unknowable ingredient of the animal's mind.=
Generalizing what occurs in the case of hunger=
, we
may say that what we call a desire in an animal is always displayed in a cy=
cle
of actions having certain fairly well marked characteristics. There is firs=
t a state
of activity, consisting, with qualifications to be mentioned presently, of
movements likely to have a certain result; these movements, unless interrup=
ted,
continue until the result is achieved, after which there is usually a perio=
d of
comparative quiescence. A cycle of actions of this sort has marks by which =
it
is broadly distinguished from the motions of dead matter. The most notable =
of
these marks are--(1) the appropriateness of the actions for the realization=
of
a certain result; (2) the continuance of action until that result has been =
achieved.
Neither of these can be pressed beyond a point. Either may be (a) to some
extent present in dead matter, and (b) to a considerable extent absent in
animals, while vegetable are intermediate, and display only a much fainter =
form
of the behaviour which leads us to attribute desire to animals. (a) One mig=
ht
say rivers "desire" the sea water, roughly speaking, remains in
restless motion until it reaches either the sea or a place from which it ca=
nnot
issue without going uphill, and therefore we might say that this is what it
wishes while it is flowing. We do not say so, because we can account for the
behaviour of water by the laws of physics; and if we knew more about animal=
s,
we might equally cease to attribute desires to them, since we might find
physical and chemical reactions sufficient to account for their behaviour. =
(b)
Many of the movements of animals do not exhibit the characteristics of the =
cycles
which seem to embody desire. There are first of all the movements which are
"mechanical," such as slipping and falling, where ordinary physic=
al
forces operate upon the animal's body almost as if it were dead matter. An
animal which falls over a cliff may make a number of desperate struggles wh=
ile
it is in the air, but its centre of gravity will move exactly as it would if
the animal were dead. In this case, if the animal is killed at the end of t=
he
fall, we have, at first sight, just the characteristics of a cycle of actio=
ns
embodying desire, namely, restless movement until the ground is reached, and
then quiescence. Nevertheless, we feel no temptation to say that the animal
desired what occurred, partly because of the obviously mechanical nature of=
the
whole occurrence, partly because, when an animal survives a fall, it tends =
not to
repeat the experience.
There may be other reasons also, but of them I=
do
not wish to speak yet. Besides mechanical movements, there are interrupted
movements, as when a bird, on its way to eat your best peas, is frightened =
away
by the boy whom you are employing for that purpose. If interruptions are
frequent and completion of cycles rare, the characteristics by which cycles=
are
observed may become so blurred as to be almost unrecognizable. The result of
these various considerations is that the differences between animals and de=
ad
matter, when we confine ourselves to external unscientific observation of
integral behaviour, are a matter of degree and not very precise. It is for =
this
reason that it has always been possible for fanciful people to maintain that
even stocks and stones have some vague kind of soul. The evidence that anim=
als
have souls is so very shaky that, if it is assumed to be conclusive, one mi=
ght
just as well go a step further and extend the argument by analogy to all
matter. Nevertheless, in spite of vagueness and doubtful cases, the existen=
ce of
cycles in the behaviour of animals is a broad characteristic by which they =
are
prima facie distinguished from ordinary matter; and I think it is this
characteristic which leads us to attribute desires to animals, since it mak=
es
their behaviour resemble what we do when (as we say) we are acting from des=
ire.
I shall adopt the following definitions for
describing the behaviour of animals:
A "behaviour-cycle" is a series of
voluntary or reflex movements of an animal, tending to cause a certain resu=
lt,
and continuing until that result is caused, unless they are interrupted by
death, accident, or some new behaviour-cycle. (Here "accident" ma=
y be
defined as the intervention of purely physical laws causing mechanical
movements.)
The "purpose" of a behaviour-cycle is
the result which brings it to an end, normally by a condition of temporary
quiescence-provided there is no interruption.
An animal is said to "desire" the
purpose of a behaviour cycle while the behaviour-cycle is in progress.
I believe these definitions to be adequate als=
o to
human purposes and desires, but for the present I am only occupied with ani=
mals
and with what can be learnt by external observation. I am very anxious that=
no ideas
should be attached to the words "purpose" and "desire"
beyond those involved in the above definitions.
We have not so far considered what is the natu=
re
of the initial stimulus to a behaviour-cycle. Yet it is here that the usual
view of desire seems on the strongest ground. The hungry animal goes on mak=
ing
movements until it gets food; it seems natural, therefore, to suppose that =
the idea
of food is present throughout the process, and that the thought of the end =
to
be achieved sets the whole process in motion. Such a view, however, is
obviously untenable in many cases, especially where instinct is concerned.
Take, for example, reproduction and the rearing of the young. Birds mate, b=
uild
a nest, lay eggs in it, sit on the eggs, feed the young birds, and care for
them until they are fully grown. It is totally impossible to suppose that t=
his
series of actions, which constitutes one behaviour-cycle, is inspired by any
prevision of the end, at any rate the first time it is performed.* We must
suppose that the stimulus to the performance of each act is an impulsion fr=
om
behind, not an attraction from the future. The bird does what it does, at e=
ach stage,
because it has an impulse to that particular action, not because it perceiv=
es
that the whole cycle of actions will contribute to the preservation of the
species. The same considerations apply to other instincts. A hungry animal
feels restless, and is led by instinctive impulses to perform the movements
which give it nourishment; but the act of seeking food is not sufficient
evidence from which to conclude that the animal has the thought of food in =
its
"mind."
*=
For
evidence as to birds' nests, cf. Semon, "Die Mneme," pp. 209, 210.
Coming now to human beings, and to what we know
about our own actions, it seems clear that what, with us, sets a
behaviour-cycle in motion is some sensation of the sort which we call
disagreeable. Take the case of hunger: we have first an uncomfortable feeli=
ng
inside, producing a disinclination to sit still, a sensitiveness to savoury
smells, and an attraction towards any food that there may be in our
neighbourhood. At any moment during this process we may become aware that we
are hungry, in the sense of saying to ourselves, "I am hungry"; b=
ut
we may have been acting with reference to food for some time before this
moment. While we are talking or reading, we may eat in complete
unconsciousness; but we perform the actions of eating just as we should if =
we
were conscious, and they cease when our hunger is appeased. What we call
"consciousness" seems to be a mere spectator of the process; even
when it issues orders, they are usually, like those of a wise parent, just =
such
as would have been obeyed even if they had not been given. This view may se=
em
at first exaggerated, but the more our so-called volitions and their causes=
are
examined, the more it is forced upon us. The part played by words in all th=
is
is complicated, and a potent source of confusions; I shall return to it lat=
er.
For the present, I am still concerned with primitive desire, as it exists in
man, but in the form in which man shows his affinity to his animal ancestor=
s.
Conscious desire is made up partly of what is
essential to desire, partly of beliefs as to what we want. It is important =
to
be clear as to the part which does not consist of beliefs.
The primitive non-cognitive element in desire
seems to be a push, not a pull, an impulsion away from the actual, rather t=
han
an attraction towards the ideal. Certain sensations and other mental
occurrences have a property which we call discomfort; these cause such bodi=
ly
movements as are likely to lead to their cessation. When the discomfort cea=
ses,
or even when it appreciably diminishes, we have sensations possessing a pro=
perty
which we call PLEASURE. Pleasurable sensations either stimulate no action at
all, or at most stimulate such action as is likely to prolong them. I shall
return shortly to the consideration of what discomfort and pleasure are in
themselves; for the present, it is their connection with action and desire =
that
concerns us. Abandoning momentarily the standpoint of behaviourism, we may
presume that hungry animals experience sensations involving discomfort, and
stimulating such movements as seem likely to bring them to the food which is
outside the cages. When they have reached the food and eaten it, their
discomfort ceases and their sensations become pleasurable. It SEEMS,
mistakenly, as if the animals had had this situation in mind throughout, wh=
en
in fact they have been continually pushed by discomfort. And when an animal=
is
reflective, like some men, it comes to think that it had the final situatio=
n in
mind throughout; sometimes it comes to know what situation will bring
satisfaction, so that in fact the discomfort does bring the thought of what
will allay it. Nevertheless the sensation involving discomfort remains the
prime mover.
This brings us to the question of the nature of
discomfort and pleasure. Since Kant it has been customary to recognize three
great divisions of mental phenomena, which are typified by knowledge, desire
and feeling, where "feeling" is used to mean pleasure and discomf=
ort.
Of course, "knowledge" is too definite a word: the states of mind
concerned are grouped together as "cognitive," and are to embrace=
not
only beliefs, but perceptions, doubts, and the understanding of concepts.
"Desire," also, is narrower than what is intended: for example, W=
ILL
is to be included in this category, and in fact every thing that involves a=
ny kind
of striving, or "conation" as it is technically called. I do not =
myself
believe that there is any value in this threefold division of the contents =
of
mind. I believe that sensations (including images) supply all the
"stuff" of the mind, and that everything else can be analysed into
groups of sensations related in various ways, or characteristics of sensati=
ons
or of groups of sensations. As regards belief, I shall give grounds for this
view in later lectures. As regards desires, I have given some grounds in th=
is
lecture. For the present, it is pleasure and discomfort that concern us. Th=
ere
are broadly three theories that might be held in regard to them. We may reg=
ard
them as separate existing items in those who experience them, or we may reg=
ard
them as intrinsic qualities of sensations and other mental occurrences, or =
we
may regard them as mere names for the causal characteristics of the occurre=
nces
which are uncomfortable or pleasant. The first of these theories, namely, t=
hat
which regards discomfort and pleasure as actual contents in those who
experience them, has, I think, nothing conclusive to be said in its favour.=
* It
is suggested chiefly by an ambiguity in the word "pain," which has
misled many people, including Berkeley, whom it supplied with one of his
arguments for subjective idealism. We may use "pain" as the oppos=
ite
of "pleasure," and "painful" as the opposite of "p=
leasant,"
or we may use "pain" to mean a certain sort of sensation, on a le=
vel
with the sensations of heat and cold and touch. The latter use of the word =
has
prevailed in psychological literature, and it is now no longer used as the
opposite of "pleasure." Dr. H. Head, in a recent publication, has
stated this distinction as follows:**
*
Various arguments in its favour are advanced by A. Wohlgemuth, "On the feelings and
their neural correlate, with an
examination of the nature of pain," "British Journal of Psychology," viii, 4. (1917)=
. But
as these arguments are largely=
a
reductio ad absurdum of other theories, among which that which I am advocating is =
not
included, I cannot regard them=
as
establishing their contention.
**
"Sensation and the Cerebral Cortex," "Brain," vol. xli,=
part ii (September, 1918), p. 90. Cf=
. also
Wohlgemuth, loc. cit. pp. 437,=
450.
"It is necessary at the outset to disting=
uish
clearly between 'discomfort' and 'pain.' Pain is a distinct sensory quality
equivalent to heat and cold, and its intensity can be roughly graded accord=
ing
to the force expended in stimulation. Discomfort, on the other hand, is that
feeling-tone which is directly opposed to pleasure. It may accompany sensat=
ions
not in themselves essentially painful; as for instance that produced by
tickling the sole of the foot. The reaction produced by repeated pricking
contains both these elements; for it evokes that sensory quality known as p=
ain,
accompanied by a disagreeable feeling-tone, which we have called discomfort=
. On
the other hand, excessive pressure, except when applied directly over some
nerve-trunk, tends to excite more discomfort than pain."
The confusion between discomfort and pain has =
made
people regard discomfort as a more substantial thing than it is, and this in
turn has reacted upon the view taken of pleasure, since discomfort and plea=
sure
are evidently on a level in this respect. As soon as discomfort is clearly
distinguished from the sensation of pain, it becomes more natural to regard=
discomfort
and pleasure as properties of mental occurrences than to regard them as
separate mental occurrences on their own account. I shall therefore dismiss=
the
view that they are separate mental occurrences, and regard them as properti=
es
of such experiences as would be called respectively uncomfortable and pleas=
ant.
It remains to be examined whether they are act=
ual
qualities of such occurrences, or are merely differences as to causal
properties. I do not myself see any way of deciding this question; either v=
iew
seems equally capable of accounting for the facts. If this is true, it is s=
afer
to avoid the assumption that there are such intrinsic qualities of mental
occurrences as are in question, and to assume only the causal differences w=
hich
are undeniable. Without condemning the intrinsic theory, we can define
discomfort and pleasure as consisting in causal properties, and say only wh=
at
will hold on either of the two theories. Following this course, we shall sa=
y:
"Discomfort" is a property of a
sensation or other mental occurrence, consisting in the fact that the
occurrence in question stimulates voluntary or reflex movements tending to
produce some more or less definite change involving the cessation of the
occurrence.
"Pleasure" is a property of a sensat= ion or other mental occurrence, consisting in the fact that the occurrence in question either does not stimulate any voluntary or reflex movement, or, if= it does, stimulates only such as tend to prolong the occurrence in question.*<= o:p>
*=
Cf.
Thorndike, op. cit., p. 243.
"Conscious" desire, which we have no=
w to
consider, consists of desire in the sense hitherto discussed, together with=
a
true belief as to its "purpose," i.e. as to the state of affairs =
that
will bring quiescence with cessation of the discomfort. If our theory of de=
sire
is correct, a belief as to its purpose may very well be erroneous, since on=
ly experience
can show what causes a discomfort to cease. When the experience needed is
common and simple, as in the case of hunger, a mistake is not very probable.
But in other cases--e.g. erotic desire in those who have had little or no
experience of its satisfaction--mistakes are to be expected, and do in fact
very often occur. The practice of inhibiting impulses, which is to a great
extent necessary to civilized life, makes mistakes easier, by preventing
experience of the actions to which a desire would otherwise lead, and by of=
ten
causing the inhibited impulses themselves to be unnoticed or quickly forgot=
ten.
The perfectly natural mistakes which thus arise constitute a large proporti=
on
of what is, mistakenly in part, called self-deception, and attributed by Fr=
eud to
the "censor."
But there is a further point which needs
emphasizing, namely, that a belief that something is desired has often a te=
ndency
to cause the very desire that is believed in. It is this fact that makes the
effect of "consciousness" on desire so complicated.
When we believe that we desire a certain state=
of
affairs, that often tends to cause a real desire for it. This is due partly=
to
the influence of words upon our emotions, in rhetoric for example, and part=
ly
to the general fact that discomfort normally belongs to the belief that we =
desire
such-and-such a thing that we do not possess. Thus what was originally a fa=
lse
opinion as to the object of a desire acquires a certain truth: the false
opinion generates a secondary subsidiary desire, which nevertheless becomes
real. Let us take an illustration. Suppose you have been jilted in a way wh=
ich
wounds your vanity. Your natural impulsive desire will be of the sort expre=
ssed
in Donne's poem:
W=
hen by
thy scorn, O Murderess, I am dead,
in which he explains how he will haunt the poor
lady as a ghost, and prevent her from enjoying a moment's peace. But two th=
ings
stand in the way of your expressing yourself so naturally: on the one hand,
your vanity, which will not acknowledge how hard you are hit; on the other =
hand,
your conviction that you are a civilized and humane person, who could not
possibly indulge so crude a desire as revenge. You will therefore experienc=
e a
restlessness which will at first seem quite aimless, but will finally resol=
ve
itself in a conscious desire to change your profession, or go round the wor=
ld,
or conceal your identity and live in Putney, like Arnold Bennett's hero.
Although the prime cause of this desire is a false judgment as to your prev=
ious
unconscious desire, yet the new conscious desire has its own derivative
genuineness, and may influence your actions to the extent of sending you ro=
und
the world. The initial mistake, however, will have effects of two kinds. Fi=
rst,
in uncontrolled moments, under the influence of sleepiness or drink or
delirium, you will say things calculated to injure the faithless deceiver.
Secondly, you will find travel disappointing, and the East less fascinating
than you had hoped--unless, some day, you hear that the wicked one has in t=
urn
been jilted. If this happens, you will believe that you feel sincere sympat=
hy,
but you will suddenly be much more delighted than before with the beauties =
of
tropical islands or the wonders of Chinese art. A secondary desire, derived
from a false judgment as to a primary desire, has its own power of influenc=
ing action,
and is therefore a real desire according to our definition. But it has not =
the
same power as a primary desire of bringing thorough satisfaction when it is
realized; so long as the primary desire remains unsatisfied, restlessness
continues in spite of the secondary desire's success. Hence arises a belief=
in
the vanity of human wishes: the vain wishes are those that are secondary, b=
ut
mistaken beliefs prevent us from realizing that they are secondary.
What may, with some propriety, be called
self-deception arises through the operation of desires for beliefs. We desi=
re
many things which it is not in our power to achieve: that we should be
universally popular and admired, that our work should be the wonder of the =
age,
and that the universe should be so ordered as to bring ultimate happiness to
all, though not to our enemies until they have repented and been purified by
suffering. Such desires are too large to be achieved through our own effort=
s.
But it is found that a considerable portion of the satisfaction which these
things would bring us if they were realized is to be achieved by the much e=
asier
operation of believing that they are or will be realized. This desire for
beliefs, as opposed to desire for the actual facts, is a particular case of
secondary desire, and, like all secondary desire its satisfaction does not =
lead
to a complete cessation of the initial discomfort. Nevertheless, desire for
beliefs, as opposed to desire for facts, is exceedingly potent both
individually and socially. According to the form of belief desired, it is
called vanity, optimism, or religion. Those who have sufficient power usual=
ly
imprison or put to death any one who tries to shake their faith in their ow=
n excellence
or in that of the universe; it is for this reason that seditious libel and
blasphemy have always been, and still are, criminal offences.
It is very largely through desires for beliefs
that the primitive nature of desire has become so hidden, and that the part
played by consciousness has been so confusing and so exaggerated.
We may now summarize our analysis of desire and
feeling.
A mental occurrence of any kind--sensation, im=
age,
belief, or emotion--may be a cause of a series of actions, continuing, unle=
ss interrupted,
until some more or less definite state of affairs is realized. Such a serie=
s of
actions we call a "behaviour-cycle." The degree of definiteness m=
ay
vary greatly: hunger requires only food in general, whereas the sight of a
particular piece of food raises a desire which requires the eating of that
piece of food. The property of causing such a cycle of occurrences is called
"discomfort"; the property of the mental occurrences in which the
cycle ends is called "pleasure." The actions constituting the cyc=
le
must not be purely mechanical, i.e. they must be bodily movements in whose
causation the special properties of nervous tissue are involved. The cycle =
ends
in a condition of quiescence, or of such action as tends only to preserve t=
he
status quo. The state of affairs in which this condition of quiescence is
achieved is called the "purpose" of the cycle, and the initial me=
ntal
occurrence involving discomfort is called a "desire" for the stat=
e of
affairs that brings quiescence. A desire is called "conscious" wh=
en
it is accompanied by a true belief as to the state of affairs that will bri=
ng
quiescence; otherwise it is called "unconscious." All primitive
desire is unconscious, and in human beings beliefs as to the purposes of
desires are often mistaken. These mistaken beliefs generate secondary desir=
es, which
cause various interesting complications in the psychology of human desire,
without fundamentally altering the character which it shares with animal
desire.
In this lecture we shall be concerned with a v=
ery
general characteristic which broadly, though not absolutely, distinguishes =
the
behaviour of living organisms from that of dead matter. The characteristic =
in question
is this:
The response of an organism to a given stimulu=
s is
very often dependent upon the past history of the organism, and not merely =
upon
the stimulus and the HITHERTO DISCOVERABLE present state of the organism.
This characteristic is embodied in the saying
"a burnt child fears the fire." The burn may have left no visible
traces, yet it modifies the reaction of the child in the presence of fire. =
It
is customary to assume that, in such cases, the past operates by modifying =
the
structure of the brain, not directly. I have no wish to suggest that this
hypothesis is false; I wish only to point out that it is a hypothesis. At t=
he
end of the present lecture I shall examine the grounds in its favour. If we=
confine
ourselves to facts which have been actually observed, we must say that past
occurrences, in addition to the present stimulus and the present ascertaina=
ble
condition of the organism, enter into the causation of the response.
The characteristic is not wholly confined to
living organisms. For example, magnetized steel looks just like steel which=
has
not been magnetized, but its behaviour is in some ways different. In the ca=
se of
dead matter, however, such phenomena are less frequent and important than in
the case of living organisms, and it is far less difficult to invent
satisfactory hypotheses as to the microscopic changes of structure which
mediate between the past occurrence and the present changed response. In the
case of living organisms, practically everything that is distinctive both of
their physical and of their mental behaviour is bound up with this persiste=
nt
influence of the past. Further, speaking broadly, the change in response is=
usually
of a kind that is biologically advantageous to the organism.
Following a suggestion derived from Semon
("Die Mneme," Leipzig, 1904; 2nd edition, 1908, English translati=
on,
Allen & Unwin, 1921; "Die mnemischen Empfindungen," Leipzig,
1909), we will give the name of "mnemic phenomena" to those respo=
nses
of an organism which, so far as hitherto observed facts are concerned, can =
only
be brought under causal laws by including past occurrences in the history of
the organism as part of the causes of the present response. I do not mean
merely--what would always be the case--that past occurrences are part of a
CHAIN of causes leading to the present event. I mean that, in attempting to
state the PROXIMATE cause of the present event, some past event or events m=
ust
be included, unless we take refuge in hypothetical modifications of brain
structure. For example: you smell peat-smoke, and you recall some occasion =
when
you smelt it before. The cause of your recollection, so far as hitherto
observable phenomena are concerned, consists both of the peat smoke (present
stimulus) and of the former occasion (past experience). The same stimulus w=
ill
not produce the same recollection in another man who did not share your for=
mer
experience, although the former experience left no OBSERVABLE traces in the
structure of the brain. According to the maxim "same cause, same
effect," we cannot therefore regard the peat-smoke alone as the cause =
of
your recollection, since it does not have the same effect in other cases. T=
he
cause of your recollection must be both the peat-smoke and the past occurre=
nce.
Accordingly your recollection is an instance of what we are calling "m=
nemic
phenomena."
Before going further, it will be well to give
illustrations of different classes of mnemic phenomena.
(a) ACQUIRED HABITS.--In Lecture II we saw how
animals can learn by experience how to get out of cages or mazes, or perform
other actions which are useful to them but not provided for by their instin=
cts
alone. A cat which is put into a cage of which it has had experience behave=
s differently
from the way in which it behaved at first. We can easily invent hypotheses,
which are quite likely to be true, as to connections in the brain caused by
past experience, and themselves causing the different response. But the
observable fact is that the stimulus of being in the cage produces differing
results with repetition, and that the ascertainable cause of the cat's
behaviour is not merely the cage and its own ascertainable organization, but
also its past history in regard to the cage. From our present point of view,
the matter is independent of the question whether the cat's behaviour is du=
e to
some mental fact called "knowledge," or displays a merely bodily
habit. Our habitual knowledge is not always in our minds, but is called up =
by
the appropriate stimuli. If we are asked "What is the capital of
France?" we answer "Paris," because of past experience; the =
past
experience is as essential as the present question in the causation of our
response. Thus all our habitual knowledge consists of acquired habits, and
comes under the head of mnemic phenomena.
(b) IMAGES.--I shall have much to say about im=
ages
in a later lecture; for the present I am merely concerned with them in so f=
ar
as they are "copies" of past sensations. When you hear New York
spoken of, some image probably comes into your mind, either of the place it=
self
(if you have been there), or of some picture of it (if you have not). The i=
mage
is due to your past experience, as well as to the present stimulus of the w=
ords
"New York." Similarly, the images you have in dreams are all
dependent upon your past experience, as well as upon the present stimulus to
dreaming. It is generally believed that all images, in their simpler parts,=
are
copies of sensations; if so, their mnemic character is evident. This is
important, not only on its own account, but also because, as we shall see
later, images play an essential part in what is called "thinking."=
;
(c) ASSOCIATION.--The broad fact of associatio=
n,
on the mental side, is that when we experience something which we have
experienced before, it tends to call up the context of the former experienc=
e.
The smell of peat-smoke recalling a former scene is an instance which we
discussed a moment ago. This is obviously a mnemic phenomenon. There is als=
o a
more purely physical association, which is indistinguishable from physical =
habit.
This is the kind studied by Mr. Thorndike in animals, where a certain stimu=
lus
is associated with a certain act. This is the sort which is taught to soldi=
ers
in drilling, for example. In such a case there need not be anything mental,=
but
merely a habit of the body. There is no essential distinction between
association and habit, and the observations which we made concerning habit =
as a
mnemic phenomenon are equally applicable to association.
(d) NON-SENSATIONAL ELEMENTS IN PERCEPTION.--W=
hen
we perceive any object of a familiar kind, much of what appears subjectivel=
y to
be immediately given is really derived from past experience. When we see an
object, say a penny, we seem to be aware of its "real" shape we h=
ave
the impression of something circular, not of something elliptical. In learn=
ing
to draw, it is necessary to acquire the art of representing things accordin=
g to
the sensation, not according to the perception. And the visual appearance is
filled out with feeling of what the object would be like to touch, and so o=
n.
This filling out and supplying of the "real" shape and so on cons=
ists
of the most usual correlates of the sensational core in our perception. It =
may
happen that, in the particular case, the real correlates are unusual; for
example, if what we are seeing is a carpet made to look like tiles. If so, =
the
non-sensational part of our perception will be illusory, i.e. it will supply
qualities which the object in question does not in fact have. But as a rule
objects do have the qualities added by perception, which is to be expected,=
since
experience of what is usual is the cause of the addition. If our experience=
had
been different, we should not fill out sensation in the same way, except in=
so
far as the filling out is instinctive, not acquired. It would seem that, in
man, all that makes up space perception, including the correlation of sight=
and
touch and so on, is almost entirely acquired. In that case there is a large
mnemic element in all the common perceptions by means of which we handle co=
mmon
objects. And, to take another kind of instance, imagine what our astonishme=
nt
would be if we were to hear a cat bark or a dog mew. This emotion would be =
dependent
upon past experience, and would therefore be a mnemic phenomenon according =
to
the definition.
(e) MEMORY AS KNOWLEDGE.--The kind of memory of
which I am now speaking is definite knowledge of some past event in one's o=
wn
experience. From time to time we remember things that have happened to us,
because something in the present reminds us of them. Exactly the same prese=
nt fact
would not call up the same memory if our past experience had been different.
Thus our remembering is caused by--
(1) The present stimulus,
(2) The past occurrence.
It is therefore a mnemic phenomenon according =
to
our definition. A definition of "mnemic phenomena" which did not
include memory would, of course, be a bad one. The point of the definition =
is
not that it includes memory, but that it includes it as one of a class of
phenomena which embrace all that is characteristic in the subject matter of=
psychology.
(f) EXPERIENCE.--The word "experience&quo=
t;
is often used very vaguely. James, as we saw, uses it to cover the whole pr=
imal
stuff of the world, but this usage seems objection able, since, in a purely
physical world, things would happen without there being any experience. It =
is
only mnemic phenomena that embody experience. We may say that an animal &qu=
ot;experiences"
an occurrence when this occurrence modifies the animal's subsequent behavio=
ur,
i.e. when it is the mnemic portion of the cause of future occurrences in the
animal's life. The burnt child that fears the fire has "experienced&qu=
ot;
the fire, whereas a stick that has been thrown on and taken off again has n=
ot
"experienced" anything, since it offers no more resistance than
before to being thrown on. The essence of "experience" is the
modification of behaviour produced by what is experienced. We might, in fac=
t,
define one chain of experience, or one biography, as a series of occurrences
linked by mnemic causation. I think it is this characteristic, more than any
other, that distinguishes sciences dealing with living organisms from physi=
cs.
The best writer on mnemic phenomena known to m=
e is
Richard Semon, the fundamental part of whose theory I shall endeavour to
summarize before going further:
When an organism, either animal or plant, is
subjected to a stimulus, producing in it some state of excitement, the remo=
val
of the stimulus allows it to return to a condition of equilibrium. But the =
new
state of equilibrium is different from the old, as may be seen by the chang=
ed capacity
for reaction. The state of equilibrium before the stimulus may be called the
"primary indifference-state"; that after the cessation of the
stimulus, the "secondary indifference-state." We define the "=
;engraphic
effect" of a stimulus as the effect in making a difference between the
primary and secondary indifference-states, and this difference itself we de=
fine
as the "engram" due to the stimulus. "Mnemic phenomena"=
are
defined as those due to engrams; in animals, they are specially associated =
with
the nervous system, but not exclusively, even in man.
When two stimuli occur together, one of them,
occurring afterwards, may call out the reaction for the other also. We call
this an "ekphoric influence," and stimuli having this character a=
re
called "ekphoric stimuli." In such a case we call the engrams of =
the
two stimuli "associated." All simultaneously generated engrams are
associated; there is also association of successively aroused engrams, thou=
gh
this is reducible to simultaneous association. In fact, it is not an isolat=
ed stimulus
that leaves an engram, but the totality of the stimuli at any moment;
consequently any portion of this totality tends, if it recurs, to arouse the
whole reaction which was aroused before. Semon holds that engrams can be
inherited, and that an animal's innate habits may be due to the experience =
of
its ancestors; on this subject he refers to Samuel Butler.
Semon formulates two "mnemic
principles." The first, or "Law of Engraphy," is as follows:
"All simultaneous excitements in an organism form a connected simultan=
eous
excitement-complex, which as such works engraphically, i.e. leaves behind a
connected engram-complex, which in so far forms a whole" ("Die
mnemischen Empfindungen," p. 146). The second mnemic principle, or
"Law of Ekphory," is as follows: "The partial return of the
energetic situation which formerly worked engraphically operates ekphorical=
ly
on a simultaneous engram-complex" (ib., p. 173). These two laws togeth=
er
represent in part a hypothesis (the engram), and in part an observable fact.
The observable fact is that, when a certain complex of stimuli has original=
ly
caused a certain complex of reactions, the recurrence of part of the stimuli
tends to cause the recurrence of the whole of the reactions.
Semon's applications of his fundamental ideas =
in
various directions are interesting and ingenious. Some of them will concern=
us
later, but for the present it is the fundamental character of mnemic phenom=
ena
that is in question.
Concerning the nature of an engram, Semon
confesses that at present it is impossible to say more than that it must
consist in some material alteration in the body of the organism ("Die
mnemischen Empfindungen," p. 376). It is, in fact, hypothetical, invok=
ed
for theoretical uses, and not an outcome of direct observation. No doubt
physiology, especially the disturbances of memory through lesions in the br=
ain,
affords grounds for this hypothesis; nevertheless it does remain a hypothes=
is,
the validity of which will be discussed at the end of this lecture.
I am inclined to think that, in the present st=
ate
of physiology, the introduction of the engram does not serve to simplify the
account of mnemic phenomena. We can, I think, formulate the known laws of s=
uch phenomena
in terms, wholly, of observable facts, by recognizing provisionally what we=
may
call "mnemic causation." By this I mean that kind of causation of=
which
I spoke at the beginning of this lecture, that kind, namely, in which the
proximate cause consists not merely of a present event, but of this together
with a past event. I do not wish to urge that this form of causation is
ultimate, but that, in the present state of our knowledge, it affords a
simplification, and enables us to state laws of behaviour in less hypotheti=
cal
terms than we should otherwise have to employ.
The clearest instance of what I mean is
recollection of a past event. What we observe is that certain present stimu=
li
lead us to recollect certain occurrences, but that at times when we are not
recollecting them, there is nothing discoverable in our minds that could be
called memory of them. Memories, as mental facts, arise from time to time, =
but
do not, so far as we can see, exist in any shape while they are "laten=
t."
In fact, when we say that they are "latent," we mean merely that =
they
will exist under certain circumstances. If, then, there is to be some stand=
ing
difference between the person who can remember a certain fact and the person
who cannot, that standing difference must be, not in anything mental, but in
the brain. It is quite probable that there is such a difference in the brai=
n,
but its nature is unknown and it remains hypothetical. Everything that has,=
so
far, been made matter of observation as regards this question can be put
together in the statement: When a certain complex of sensations has occurre=
d to
a man, the recurrence of part of the complex tends to arouse the recollecti=
on of
the whole. In like manner, we can collect all mnemic phenomena in living
organisms under a single law, which contains what is hitherto verifiable in
Semon's two laws. This single law is:
IF A COMPLEX STIMULUS A HAS CAUSED A COMPLEX
REACTION B IN AN ORGANISM, THE OCCURRENCE OF A PART OF A ON A FUTURE OCCASI=
ON
TENDS TO CAUSE THE WHOLE REACTION B.
This law would need to be supplemented by some
account of the influence of frequency, and so on; but it seems to contain t=
he
essential characteristic of mnemic phenomena, without admixture of anything=
hypothetical.
Whenever the effect resulting from a stimulus =
to
an organism differs according to the past history of the organism, without =
our
being able actually to detect any relevant difference in its present struct=
ure,
we will speak of "mnemic causation," provided we can discover law=
s embodying
the influence of the past. In ordinary physical causation, as it appears to
common sense, we have approximate uniformities of sequence, such as
"lightning is followed by thunder," "drunkenness is followed=
by
headache," and so on. None of these sequences are theoretically
invariable, since something may intervene to disturb them. In order to obta=
in
invariable physical laws, we have to proceed to differential equations, sho=
wing
the direction of change at each moment, not the integral change after a fin=
ite
interval, however short. But for the purposes of daily life many sequences =
are
to all in tents and purposes invariable. With the behaviour of human beings,
however, this is by no means the case. If you say to an Englishman, "Y=
ou
have a smut on your nose," he will proceed to remove it, but there wil=
l be
no such effect if you say the same thing to a Frenchman who knows no Englis=
h. The
effect of words upon the hearer is a mnemic phenomena, since it depends upon
the past experience which gave him understanding of the words. If there are=
to
be purely psychological causal laws, taking no account of the brain and the
rest of the body, they will have to be of the form, not "X now causes Y
now," but--
"A, B, C,... in the past, together with X
now, cause Y now." For it cannot be successfully maintained that our
understanding of a word, for example, is an actual existent content of the =
mind
at times when we are not thinking of the word. It is merely what may be cal=
led
a "disposition," i.e. it is capable of being aroused whenever we =
hear
the word or happen to think of it. A "disposition" is not somethi=
ng
actual, but merely the mnemic portion of a mnemic causal law.
In such a law as "A, B, C,... in the past,
together with X now, cause Y now," we will call A, B, C,... the mnemic
cause, X the occasion or stimulus, and Y the reaction. All cases in which
experience influences behaviour are instances of mnemic causation.
Believers in psycho-physical parallelism hold =
that
psychology can theoretically be freed entirely from all dependence on
physiology or physics. That is to say, they believe that every psychical ev=
ent
has a psychical cause and a physical concomitant. If there is to be paralle=
lism,
it is easy to prove by mathematical logic that the causation in physical and
psychical matters must be of the same sort, and it is impossible that mnemic
causation should exist in psychology but not in physics. But if psychology =
is
to be independent of physiology, and if physiology can be reduced to physic=
s,
it would seem that mnemic causation is essential in psychology. Otherwise we
shall be compelled to believe that all our knowledge, all our store of imag=
es and
memories, all our mental habits, are at all times existing in some latent
mental form, and are not merely aroused by the stimuli which lead to their
display. This is a very difficult hypothesis. It seems to me that if, as a
matter of method rather than metaphysics, we desire to obtain as much
independence for psychology as is practically feasible, we shall do better =
to
accept mnemic causation in psychology protem, and therefore reject parallel=
ism,
since there is no good ground for admitting mnemic causation in physics.
It is perhaps worth while to observe that mnem=
ic
causation is what led Bergson to deny that there is causation at all in the
psychical sphere. He points out, very truly, that the same stimulus, repeat=
ed,
does not have the same consequences, and he argues that this is contrary to=
the
maxim, "same cause, same effect." It is only necessary, however, =
to
take account of past occurrences and include them with the cause, in order =
to
re-establish the maxim, and the possibility of psychological causal laws. T=
he
metaphysical conception of a cause lingers in our manner of viewing causal
laws: we want to be able to FEEL a connection between cause and effect, and=
to
be able to imagine the cause as "operating." This makes us unwill=
ing
to regard causal laws as MERELY observed uniformities of sequence; yet that=
is
all that science has to offer. To ask why such-and-such a kind of sequence
occurs is either to ask a meaningless question, or to demand some more gene=
ral
kind of sequence which includes the one in question. The widest empirical l=
aws
of sequence known at any time can only be "explained" in the sens=
e of
being subsumed by later discoveries under wider laws; but these wider laws,=
until
they in turn are subsumed, will remain brute facts, resting solely upon
observation, not upon some supposed inherent rationality.
There is therefore no a priori objection to a causal law in which part of the cause has ceased to exist. To argue against such a law on the ground that what is past cannot operate now, is to introd= uce the old metaphysical notion of cause, for which science can find no place. = The only reason that could be validly alleged against mnemic causation would be that= , in fact, all the phenomena can be explained without it. They are explained wit= hout it by Semon's "engram," or by any theory which regards the result= s of experience as embodied in modifications of the brain and nerves. But they a= re not explained, unless with extreme artificiality, by any theory which regar= ds the latent effects of experience as psychical rather than physical. Those w= ho desire to make psychology as far as possible independent of physiology woul= d do well, it seems to me, if they adopted mnemic causation. For my part, howeve= r, I have no such desire, and I shall therefore endeavour to state the grounds w= hich occur to me in favour of some such view as that of the "engram."<= o:p>
One of the first points to be urged is that mn=
emic
phenomena are just as much to be found in physiology as in psychology. They=
are
even to be found in plants, as Sir Francis Darwin pointed out (cf. Semon,
"Die Mneme," 2nd edition, p. 28 n.). Habit is a characteristic of=
the
body at least as much as of the mind. We should, therefore, be compelled to
allow the intrusion of mnemic causation, if admitted at all, into non-psych=
ological
regions, which ought, one feels, to be subject only to causation of the
ordinary physical sort. The fact is that a great deal of what, at first sig=
ht,
distinguishes psychology from physics is found, on examination, to be commo=
n to
psychology and physiology; this whole question of the influence of experien=
ce
is a case in point. Now it is possible, of course, to take the view advocat=
ed
by Professor J. S. Haldane, who contends that physiology is not theoretical=
ly
reducible to physics and chemistry.* But the weight of opinion among physio=
logists
appears to be against him on this point; and we ought certainly to require =
very
strong evidence before admitting any such breach of continuity as between
living and dead matter. The argument from the existence of mnemic phenomena=
in
physiology must therefore be allowed a certain weight against the hypothesis
that mnemic causation is ultimate.
*=
See
his "The New Physiology and Other Addresses," Griffin, 1919, also the symposium, "Are
Physical, Biological and Psychological Categories
Irreducible?" in "Life and Finite Individuality," edited for the
Aristotelian Society, with an Introduction. By H. Wildon Carr, Wil=
liams
& Norgate, 1918.
The argument from the connection of brain-lesi=
ons
with loss of memory is not so strong as it looks, though it has also, some
weight. What we know is that memory, and mnemic phenomena generally, can be
disturbed or destroyed by changes in the brain. This certainly proves that =
the
brain plays an essential part in the causation of memory, but does not prov=
e that
a certain state of the brain is, by itself, a sufficient condition for the
existence of memory. Yet it is this last that has to be proved. The theory =
of
the engram, or any similar theory, has to maintain that, given a body and b=
rain
in a suitable state, a man will have a certain memory, without the need of =
any
further conditions. What is known, however, is only that he will not have
memories if his body and brain are not in a suitable state. That is to say,=
the
appropriate state of body and brain is proved to be necessary for memory, b=
ut
not to be sufficient. So far, therefore, as our definite knowledge goes, me=
mory
may require for its causation a past occurrence as well as a certain present
state of the brain.
In order to prove conclusively that mnemic
phenomena arise whenever certain physiological conditions are fulfilled, we
ought to be able actually to see differences between the brain of a man who
speaks English and that of a man who speaks French, between the brain of a =
man who
has seen New York and can recall it, and that of a man who has never seen t=
hat
city. It may be that the time will come when this will be possible, but at
present we are very far removed from it. At present, there is, so far as I =
am
aware, no good evidence that every difference between the knowledge possess=
ed
by A and that possessed by B is paralleled by some difference in their brai=
ns.
We may believe that this is the case, but if we do, our belief is based upon
analogies and general scientific maxims, not upon any foundation of detaile=
d observation.
I am myself inclined, as a working hypothesis, to adopt the belief in quest=
ion,
and to hold that past experience only affects present behaviour through
modifications of physiological structure. But the evidence seems not quite
conclusive, so that I do not think we ought to forget the other hypothesis,=
or
to reject entirely the possibility that mnemic causation may be the ultimate
explanation of mnemic phenomena. I say this, not because I think it LIKELY =
that
mnemic causation is ultimate, but merely because I think it POSSIBLE, and b=
ecause
it often turns out important to the progress of science to remember hypothe=
ses
which have previously seemed improbable.
The traditional conception of cause and effect=
is
one which modern science shows to be fundamentally erroneous, and requiring=
to
be replaced by a quite different notion, that of LAWS OF CHANGE. In the tra=
ditional
conception, a particular event A caused a particular event B, and by this it
was implied that, given any event B, some earlier event A could be discover=
ed
which had a relation to it, such that--
(1) Whenever A occurred, it was followed by B;=
(2) In this sequence, there was something
"necessary," not a mere de facto occurrence of A first and then B=
.
The second point is illustrated by the old
discussion as to whether it can be said that day causes night, on the ground
that day is always followed by night. The orthodox answer was that day could
not be called the cause of night, because it would not be followed by night=
if
the earth's rotation were to cease, or rather to grow so slow that one comp=
lete
rotation would take a year. A cause, it was held, must be such that under no
conceivable circumstances could it fail to be followed by its effect.
As a matter of fact, such sequences as were so=
ught
by believers in the traditional form of causation have not so far been foun=
d in
nature. Everything in nature is apparently in a state of continuous change,=
* so
that what we call one "event" turns out to be really a process. If
this event is to cause another event, the two will have to be contiguous in=
time;
for if there is any interval between them, something may happen during that
interval to prevent the expected effect. Cause and effect, therefore, will =
have
to be temporally contiguous processes. It is difficult to believe, at any r=
ate
where physical laws are concerned, that the earlier part of the process whi=
ch
is the cause can make any difference to the effect, so long as the later pa=
rt
of the process which is the cause remains unchanged. Suppose, for example, =
that
a man dies of arsenic poisoning, we say that his taking arsenic was the cau=
se of
death. But clearly the process by which he acquired the arsenic is irreleva=
nt:
everything that happened before he swallowed it may be ignored, since it ca=
nnot
alter the effect except in so far as it alters his condition at the moment =
of
taking the dose. But we may go further: swallowing arsenic is not really the
proximate cause of death, since a man might be shot through the head
immediately after taking the dose, and then it would not be of arsenic that=
he
would die. The arsenic produces certain physiological changes, which take a
finite time before they end in death. The earlier parts of these changes ca=
n be
ruled out in the same way as we can rule out the process by which the arsen=
ic
was acquired. Proceeding in this way, we can shorten the process which we a=
re
calling the cause more and more. Similarly we shall have to shorten the eff=
ect.
It may happen that immediately after the man's death his body is blown to
pieces by a bomb. We cannot say what will happen after the man's death, thr=
ough
merely knowing that he has died as the result of arsenic poisoning. Thus, i=
f we
are to take the cause as one event and the effect as another, both must be
shortened indefinitely. The result is that we merely have, as the embodimen=
t of
our causal law, a certain direction of change at each moment. Hence we are
brought to differential equations as embodying causal laws. A physical law =
does
not say "A will be followed by B," but tells us what acceleration=
a
particle will have under given circumstances, i.e. it tells us how the
particle's motion is changing at each moment, not where the particle will b=
e at
some future moment.
* The theory of quanta suggests that=
the
continuity is only apparent. I=
f so,
we shall be able theoretically to reach events which are not processes. But =
in
what is directly observable th=
ere is
still apparent continuity, which justifies the above remarks for the
prevent.
Laws embodied in differential equations may
possibly be exact, but cannot be known to be so. All that we can know
empirically is approximate and liable to exceptions; the exact laws that are
assumed in physics are known to be somewhere near the truth, but are not kn=
own
to be true just as they stand. The laws that we actually know empirically h=
ave
the form of the traditional causal laws, except that they are not to be
regarded as universal or necessary. "Taking arsenic is followed by dea=
th"
is a good empirical generalization; it may have exceptions, but they will be
rare. As against the professedly exact laws of physics, such empirical
generalizations have the advantage that they deal with observable phenomena=
. We
cannot observe infinitesimals, whether in time or space; we do not even know
whether time and space are infinitely divisible. Therefore rough empirical
generalizations have a definite place in science, in spite of not being exa=
ct
of universal. They are the data for more exact laws, and the grounds for
believing that they are USUALLY true are stronger than the grounds for
believing that the more exact laws are ALWAYS true.
Science starts, therefore, from generalization=
s of
the form, "A is usually followed by B." This is the nearest appro=
ach
that can be made to a causal law of the traditional sort. It may happen in =
any
particular instance that A is ALWAYS followed by B, but we cannot know this,
since we cannot foresee all the perfectly possible circumstances that might=
make
the sequence fail, or know that none of them will actually occur. If, howev=
er,
we know of a very large number of cases in which A is followed by B, and fe=
w or
none in which the sequence fails, we shall in PRACTICE be justified in sayi=
ng
"A causes B," provided we do not attach to the notion of cause an=
y of
the metaphysical superstitions that have gathered about the word.
There is another point, besides lack of
universality and necessity, which it is important to realize as regards cau=
ses
in the above sense, and that is the lack of uniqueness. It is generally ass=
umed
that, given any event, there is some one phenomenon which is THE cause of t=
he
event in question. This seems to be a mere mistake. Cause, in the only sens=
e in
which it can be practically applied, means "nearly invariable antecede=
nt."
We cannot in practice obtain an antecedent which is QUITE invariable, for t=
his
would require us to take account of the whole universe, since something not
taken account of may prevent the expected effect. We cannot distinguish, am=
ong
nearly invariable antecedents, one as THE cause, and the others as merely i=
ts
concomitants: the attempt to do this depends upon a notion of cause which is
derived from will, and will (as we shall see later) is not at all the sort =
of
thing that it is generally supposed to be, nor is there any reason to think
that in the physical world there is anything even remotely analogous to what
will is supposed to be. If we could find one antecedent, and only one, that=
was
QUITE invariable, we could call that one THE cause without introducing any
notion derived from mistaken ideas about will. But in fact we cannot find a=
ny
antecedent that we know to be quite invariable, and we can find many that a=
re
nearly so. For example, men leave a factory for dinner when the hooter soun=
ds
at twelve o'clock. You may say the hooter is THE cause of their leaving. But
innumerable other hooters in other factories, which also always sound at tw=
elve
o'clock, have just as good a right to be called the cause. Thus every event=
has
many nearly invariable antecedents, and therefore many antecedents which ma=
y be
called its cause.
The laws of traditional physics, in the form in
which they deal with movements of matter or electricity, have an apparent
simplicity which somewhat conceals the empirical character of what they ass=
ert.
A piece of matter, as it is known empirically, is not a single existing thi=
ng, but
a system of existing things. When several people simultaneously see the same
table, they all see something different; therefore "the" table, w=
hich
they are supposed all to see, must be either a hypothesis or a construction.
"The" table is to be neutral as between different observers: it d=
oes
not favour the aspect seen by one man at the expense of that seen by anothe=
r.
It was natural, though to my mind mistaken, to regard the "real"
table as the common cause of all the appearances which the table presents (=
as
we say) to different observers. But why should we suppose that there is some
one common cause of all these appearances? As we have just seen, the notion=
of
"cause" is not so reliable as to allow us to infer the existence =
of
something that, by its very nature, can never be observed.
Instead of looking for an impartial source, we=
can
secure neutrality by the equal representation of all parties. Instead of
supposing that there is some unknown cause, the "real" table, beh=
ind
the different sensations of those who are said to be looking at the table, =
we
may take the whole set of these sensations (together possibly with certain
other particulars) as actually BEING the table. That is to say, the table w=
hich
is neutral as between different observers (actual and possible) is the set =
of
all those particulars which would naturally be called "aspects" of
the table from different points of view. (This is a first approximation,
modified later.)
It may be said: If there is no single existent
which is the source of all these "aspects," how are they collected
together? The answer is simple: Just as they would be if there were such a
single existent. The supposed "real" table underlying its appeara=
nces
is, in any case, not itself perceived, but inferred, and the question wheth=
er
such-and-such a particular is an "aspect" of this table is only t=
o be
settled by the connection of the particular in question with the one or mor=
e particulars
by which the table is defined. That is to say, even if we assume a
"real" table, the particulars which are its aspects have to be co=
llected
together by their relations to each other, not to it, since it is merely
inferred from them. We have only, therefore, to notice how they are collect=
ed
together, and we can then keep the collection without assuming any
"real" table as distinct from the collection. When different peop=
le
see what they call the same table, they see things which are not exactly the
same, owing to difference of point of view, but which are sufficiently alik=
e to
be described in the same words, so long as no great accuracy or minuteness =
is
sought. These closely similar particulars are collected together by their
similarity primarily and, more correctly, by the fact that they are related=
to
each other approximately according to the laws of perspective and of reflec=
tion
and diffraction of light. I suggest, as a first approximation, that these p=
articulars,
together with such correlated others as are unperceived, jointly ARE the ta=
ble;
and that a similar definition applies to all physical objects.*
*=
See
"Our Knowledge of the External World" (Allen & Unwin), chaps. iii and iv.
In order to eliminate the reference to our
perceptions, which introduces an irrelevant psychological suggestion, I will
take a different illustration, namely, stellar photography. A photographic
plate exposed on a clear night reproduces the appearance of the portion of =
the
sky concerned, with more or fewer stars according to the power of the teles=
cope
that is being used. Each separate star which is photographed produces its
separate effect on the plate, just as it would upon ourselves if we were
looking at the sky. If we assume, as science normally does, the continuity =
of
physical processes, we are forced to conclude that, at the place where the
plate is, and at all places between it and a star which it photographs,
SOMETHING is happening which is specially connected with that star. In the =
days
when the aether was less in doubt, we should have said that what was happen=
ing
was a certain kind of transverse vibration in the aether. But it is not
necessary or desirable to be so explicit: all that we need say is that
SOMETHING happens which is specially connected with the star in question. I=
t must
be something specially connected with that star, since that star produces i=
ts
own special effect upon the plate. Whatever it is must be the end of a proc=
ess
which starts from the star and radiates outwards, partly on general grounds=
of
continuity, partly to account for the fact that light is transmitted with a
certain definite velocity. We thus arrive at the conclusion that, if a cert=
ain
star is visible at a certain place, or could be photographed by a sufficien=
tly
sensitive plate at that place, something is happening there which is specia=
lly
connected with that star. Therefore in every place at all times a vast
multitude of things must be happening, namely, at least one for every physi=
cal object
which can be seen or photographed from that place. We can classify such
happenings on either of two principles:
(1) We can collect together all the happenings=
in
one place, as is done by photography so far as light is concerned;
(2) We can collect together all the happenings=
, in
different places, which are connected in the way that common sense regards =
as
being due to their emanating from one object.
Thus, to return to the stars, we can collect
together either--
(1) All the appearances of different stars in a
given place, or,
(2) All the appearances of a given star in
different places.
But when I speak of "appearances," I=
do
so only for brevity: I do not mean anything that must "appear" to
somebody, but only that happening, whatever it may be, which is connected, =
at
the place in question, with a given physical object--according to the old
orthodox theory, it would be a transverse vibration in the aether. Like the
different appearances of the table to a number of simultaneous observers, t=
he
different particulars that belong to one physical object are to be collecte=
d together
by continuity and inherent laws of correlation, not by their supposed causal
connection with an unknown assumed existent called a piece of matter, which
would be a mere unnecessary metaphysical thing in itself. A piece of matter,
according to the definition that I propose, is, as a first approximation,* =
the
collection of all those correlated particulars which would normally be rega=
rded
as its appearances or effects in different places. Some further elaborations
are desirable, but we can ignore them for the present. I shall return to th=
em
at the end of this lecture.
*=
The
exact definition of a piece of matter as a construction will be given later.
According to the view that I am suggesting, a
physical object or piece of matter is the collection of all those correlated
particulars which would be regarded by common sense as its effects or
appearances in different places. On the other hand, all the happenings in a
given place represent what common sense would regard as the appearances of a
number of different objects as viewed from that place. All the happenings i=
n one
place may be regarded as the view of the world from that place. I shall call
the view of the world from a given place a "perspective." A photo=
graph
represents a perspective. On the other hand, if photographs of the stars we=
re
taken in all points throughout space, and in all such photographs a certain
star, say Sirius, were picked out whenever it appeared, all the different
appearances of Sirius, taken together, would represent Sirius. For the
understanding of the difference between psychology and physics it is vital =
to
understand these two ways of classifying particulars, namely:
(1) According to the place where they occur;
(2) According to the system of correlated
particulars in different places to which they belong, such system being def=
ined
as a physical object.
Given a system of particulars which is a physi=
cal
object, I shall define that one of the system which is in a given place (if
any) as the "appearance of that object in that place."
When the appearance of an object in a given pl=
ace
changes, it is found that one or other of two things occurs. The two
possibilities may be illustrated by an example. You are in a room with a ma=
n,
whom you see: you may cease to see him either by shutting your eyes or by h=
is
going out of the room. In the first case, his appearance to other people re=
mains
unchanged; in the second, his appearance changes from all places. In the fi=
rst
case, you say that it is not he who has changed, but your eyes; in the seco=
nd,
you say that he has changed. Generalizing, we distinguish--
(1) Cases in which only certain appearances of=
the
object change, while others, and especially appearances from places very ne=
ar
to the object, do not change;
(2) Cases where all, or almost all, the
appearances of the object undergo a connected change.
In the first case, the change is attributed to=
the
medium between the object and the place; in the second, it is attributed to=
the
object itself.*
*=
The
application of this distinction to motion raises complications due to relativity, but=
we
may ignore these for our prese=
nt
purposes.
It is the frequency of the latter kind of chan=
ge,
and the comparatively simple nature of the laws governing the simultaneous
alterations of appearances in such cases, that have made it possible to tre=
at a
physical object as one thing, and to overlook the fact that it is a system =
of
particulars. When a number of people at a theatre watch an actor, the chang=
es
in their several perspectives are so similar and so closely correlated that=
all
are popularly regarded as identical with each other and with the changes of=
the
actor himself. So long as all the changes in the appearances of a body are =
thus
correlated there is no pressing prima facie need to break up the system of
appearances, or to realize that the body in question is not really one thing
but a set of correlated particulars. It is especially and primarily such
changes that physics deals with, i.e. it deals primarily with processes in
which the unity of a physical object need not be broken up because all its =
appearances
change simultaneously according to the same law--or, if not all, at any rate
all from places sufficiently near to the object, with in creasing accuracy =
as
we approach the object.
The changes in appearances of an object which =
are
due to changes in the intervening medium will not affect, or will affect on=
ly
very slightly, the appearances from places close to the object. If the
appearances from sufficiently neighbouring places are either wholly un chan=
ged,
or changed to a diminishing extent which has zero for its limit, it is usua=
lly
found that the changes can be accounted for by changes in objects which are
between the object in question and the places from which its appearance has
changed appreciably. Thus physics is able to reduce the laws of most changes
with which it deals to changes in physical objects, and to state most of its
fundamental laws in terms of matter. It is only in those cases in which the
unity of the system of appearances constituting a piece of matter has to be
broken up, that the statement of what is happening cannot be made exclusive=
ly
in terms of matter. The whole of psychology, we shall find, is included amo=
ng
such cases; hence their importance for our purposes.
We can now begin to understand one of the
fundamental differences between physics and psychology. Physics treats as a
unit the whole system of appearances of a piece of matter, whereas psycholo=
gy
is interested in certain of these appearances themselves. Confining ourselv=
es
for the moment to the psychology of perceptions, we observe that perceptions
are certain of the appearances of physical objects. From the point of view =
that
we have been hitherto adopting, we might define them as the appearances of
objects at places from which sense-organs and the suitable parts of the ner=
vous
system form part of the intervening medium. Just as a photographic plate
receives a different impression of a cluster of stars when a telescope is p=
art
of the intervening medium, so a brain receives a different impression when =
an
eye and an optic nerve are part of the intervening medium. An impression du=
e to
this sort of intervening medium is called a perception, and is interesting =
to
psychology on its own account, not merely as one of the set of correlated
particulars which is the physical object of which (as we say) we are having=
a
perception.
We spoke earlier of two ways of classifying
particulars. One way collects together the appearances commonly regarded as=
a
given object from different places; this is, broadly speaking, the way of
physics, leading to the construction of physical objects as sets of such ap=
pearances.
The other way collects together the appearances of different objects from a
given place, the result being what we call a perspective. In the particular
case where the place concerned is a human brain, the perspective belonging =
to
the place consists of all the perceptions of a certain man at a given time.
Thus classification by perspectives is relevant to psychology, and is essen=
tial
in defining what we mean by one mind.
I do not wish to suggest that the way in which=
I
have been defining perceptions is the only possible way, or even the best w=
ay.
It is the way that arose naturally out of our present topic. But when we
approach psychology from a more introspective standpoint, we have to
distinguish sensations and perceptions, if possible, from other mental occu=
rrences,
if any. We have also to consider the psychological effects of sensations, as
opposed to their physical causes and correlates. These problems are quite
distinct from those with which we have been concerned in the present lectur=
e,
and I shall not deal with them until a later stage.
It is clear that psychology is concerned
essentially with actual particulars, not merely with systems of particulars=
. In
this it differs from physics, which, broadly speaking, is concerned with the
cases in which all the particulars which make up one physical object can be=
treated
as a single causal unit, or rather the particulars which are sufficiently n=
ear
to the object of which they are appearances can be so treated. The laws whi=
ch
physics seeks can, broadly speaking, be stated by treating such systems of
particulars as causal units. The laws which psychology seeks cannot be so
stated, since the particulars themselves are what interests the psychologis=
t.
This is one of the fundamental differences between physics and psychology; =
and
to make it clear has been the main purpose of this lecture.
I will conclude with an attempt to give a more
precise definition of a piece of matter. The appearances of a piece of matt=
er
from different places change partly according to intrinsic laws (the laws o=
f perspective,
in the case of visual shape), partly according to the nature of the interve=
ning
medium--fog, blue spectacles, telescopes, microscopes, sense-organs, etc. A=
s we
approach nearer to the object, the effect of the intervening medium grows l=
ess.
In a generalized sense, all the intrinsic laws of change of appearance may =
be
called "laws of perspective." Given any appearance of an object, =
we
can construct hypothetically a certain system of appearances to which the
appearance in question would belong if the laws of perspective alone were c=
oncerned.
If we construct this hypothetical system for each appearance of the object =
in
turn, the system corresponding to a given appearance x will be independent =
of
any distortion due to the medium beyond x, and will only embody such distor=
tion
as is due to the medium between x and the object. Thus, as the appearance by
which our hypothetical system is defined is moved nearer and nearer to the
object, the hypothetical system of appearances defined by its means embodies
less and less of the effect of the medium. The different sets of appearances
resulting from moving x nearer and nearer to the object will approach to a
limiting set, and this limiting set will be that system of appearances which
the object would present if the laws of perspective alone were operative and
the medium exercised no distorting effect. This limiting set of appearances=
may
be defined, for purposes of physics, as the piece of matter concerned.
One of the main purposes of these lectures is =
to
give grounds for the belief that the distinction between mind and matter is=
not
so fundamental as is commonly supposed. In the preceding lecture I dealt in=
outline
with the physical side of this problem. I attempted to show that what we ca=
ll a
material object is not itself a substance, but is a system of particulars
analogous in their nature to sensations, and in fact often including actual
sensations among their number. In this way the stuff of which physical obje=
cts
are composed is brought into relation with the stuff of which part, at leas=
t,
of our mental life is composed.
There is, however, a converse task which is
equally necessary for our thesis, and that is, to show that the stuff of our
mental life is devoid of many qualities which it is commonly supposed to ha=
ve,
and is not possessed of any attributes which make it incapable of forming p=
art
of the world of matter. In the present lecture I shall begin the arguments =
for
this view.
Corresponding to the supposed duality of matter
and mind, there are, in orthodox psychology, two ways of knowing what exist=
s.
One of these, the way of sensation and external perception, is supposed to
furnish data for our knowledge of matter, the other, called
"introspection," is supposed to furnish data for knowledge of our
mental processes. To common sense, this distinction seems clear and easy. W=
hen
you see a friend coming along the street, you acquire knowledge of an exter=
nal,
physical fact; when you realize that you are glad to meet him, you acquire
knowledge of a mental fact. Your dreams and memories and thoughts, of which=
you
are often conscious, are mental facts, and the process by which you become
aware of them SEEMS to be different from sensation. Kant calls it the
"inner sense"; sometimes it is spoken of as "consciousness of
self"; but its commonest name in modern English psychology is
"introspection." It is this supposed method of acquiring knowledg=
e of
our mental processes that I wish to analyse and examine in this lecture.
I will state at the outset the view which I sh=
all
aim at establishing. I believe that the stuff of our mental life, as oppose=
d to
its relations and structure, consists wholly of sensations and images.
Sensations are connected with matter in the way that I tried to explain in
Lecture V, i.e. each is a member of a system which is a certain physical
object. Images, though they USUALLY have certain characteristics, especiall=
y lack
of vividness, that distinguish them from sensations, are not INVARIABLY so =
distinguished,
and cannot therefore be defined by these characteristics. Images, as oppose=
d to
sensations, can only be defined by their different causation: they are caus=
ed
by association with a sensation, not by a stimulus external to the nervous
system--or perhaps one should say external to the brain, where the higher
animals are concerned. The occurrence of a sensation or image does not in
itself constitute knowledge but any sensation or image may come to be known=
if
the conditions are suitable. When a sensation--like the hearing of a clap of
thunder--is normally correlated with closely similar sensations in our
neighbours, we regard it as giving knowledge of the external world, since we
regard the whole set of similar sensations as due to a common external caus=
e.
But images and bodily sensations are not so correlated. Bodily sensations c=
an
be brought into a correlation by physiology, and thus take their place
ultimately among sources of knowledge of the physical world. But images can=
not
be made to fit in with the simultaneous sensations and images of others. Ap=
art
from their hypothetical causes in the brain, they have a causal connection =
with
physical objects, through the fact that they are copies of past sensations;=
but
the physical objects with which they are thus connected are in the past, no=
t in
the present. These images remain private in a sense in which sensations are
not. A sensation SEEMS to give us knowledge of a present physical object, w=
hile
an image does not, except when it amounts to a hallucination, and in this c=
ase
the seeming is deceptive. Thus the whole context of the two occurrences is
different. But in themselves they do not differ profoundly, and there is no
reason to invoke two different ways of knowing for the one and for the othe=
r. Consequently
introspection as a separate kind of knowledge disappears.
The criticism of introspection has been in the
main the work of American psychologists. I will begin by summarizing an art=
icle
which seems to me to afford a good specimen of their arguments, namely,
"The Case against Introspection," by Knight Dunlap
("Psychological Review," vol xix, No. 5, pp. 404-413, September,
1912). After a few historical quotations, he comes to two modern defenders =
of
introspection, Stout and James. He quotes from Stout such statements as the
following: "Psychical states as such become objects only when we atten=
d to
them in an introspective way. Otherwise they are not themselves objects, but
only constituents of the process by which objects are recognized"
("Manual," 2nd edition, p. 134. The word "recognized" in
Dunlap's quotation should be "cognized.") "The object itself=
can
never be identified with the present modification of the individual's
consciousness by which it is cognized" (ib. p. 60). This is to be true
even when we are thinking about modifications of our own consciousness; such
modifications are to be always at least partially distinct from the conscio=
us
experience in which we think of them.
At this point I wish to interrupt the account =
of
Knight Dunlap's article in order to make some observations on my own account
with reference to the above quotations from Stout. In the first place, the
conception of "psychical states" seems to me one which demands
analysis of a somewhat destructive character. This analysis I shall give in
later lectures as regards cognition; I have already given it as regards des=
ire.
In the second place, the conception of "objects" depends upon a
certain view as to cognition which I believe to be wholly mistaken, namely,=
the
view which I discussed in my first lecture in connection with Brentano. In =
this
view a single cognitive occurrence contains both content and object, the
content being essentially mental, while the object is physical except in
introspection and abstract thought. I have already criticized this view, and
will not dwell upon it now, beyond saying that "the process by which
objects are cognized" appears to be a very slippery phrase. When we
"see a table," as common sense would say, the table as a physical
object is not the "object" (in the psychological sense) of our
perception. Our perception is made up of sensations, images and beliefs, but
the supposed "object" is something inferential, externally relate=
d,
not logically bound up with what is occurring in us. This question of the
nature of the object also affects the view we take of self-consciousness.
Obviously, a "conscious experience" is different from a physical
object; therefore it is natural to assume that a thought or perception whose
object is a conscious experience must be different from a thought or percep=
tion
whose object is a physical object. But if the relation to the object is
inferential and external, as I maintain, the difference between two thoughts
may bear very little relation to the difference between their objects. And =
to
speak of "the present modification of the individual's consciousness by
which an object is cognized" is to suggest that the cognition of objec=
ts
is a far more direct process, far more intimately bound up with the objects,
than I believe it to be. All these points will be amplified when we come to=
the
analysis of knowledge, but it is necessary briefly to state them now in ord=
er
to suggest the atmosphere in which our analysis of "introspection"=
; is
to be carried on.
Another point in which Stout's remarks seem to=
me
to suggest what I regard as mistakes is his use of "consciousness.&quo=
t;
There is a view which is prevalent among psychologists, to the effect that =
one
can speak of "a conscious experience" in a curious dual sense,
meaning, on the one hand, an experience which is conscious of something, an=
d,
on the other hand, an experience which has some intrinsic nature characteri=
stic
of what is called "consciousness." That is to say, a "consci=
ous
experience" is characterized on the one hand by relation to its object=
and
on the other hand by being composed of a certain peculiar stuff, the stuff =
of "consciousness."
And in many authors there is yet a third confusion: a "conscious
experience," in this third sense, is an experience of which we are
conscious. All these, it seems to me, need to be clearly separated. To say =
that
one occurrence is "conscious" of another is, to my mind, to asser=
t an
external and rather remote relation between them. I might illustrate it by =
the
relation of uncle and nephew a man becomes an uncle through no effort of his
own, merely through an occurrence elsewhere. Similarly, when you are said t=
o be
"conscious" of a table, the question whether this is really the c=
ase
cannot be decided by examining only your state of mind: it is necessary als=
o to
ascertain whether your sensation is having those correlates which past
experience causes you to assume, or whether the table happens, in this case=
, to
be a mirage. And, as I explained in my first lecture, I do not believe that=
there
is any "stuff" of consciousness, so that there is no intrinsic ch=
aracter
by which a "conscious" experience could be distinguished from any
other.
After these preliminaries, we can return to Kn=
ight
Dunlap's article. His criticism of Stout turns on the difficulty of giving =
any
empirical meaning to such notions as the "mind" or the
"subject"; he quotes from Stout the sentence: "The most
important drawback is that the mind, in watching its own workings, must
necessarily have its attention divided between two objects," and he
concludes: "Without question, Stout is bringing in here illicitly the
concept of a single observer, and his introspection does not provide for the
observation of this observer; for the process observed and the observer are
distinct" (p. 407). The objections to any theory which brings in the
single observer were considered in Lecture I, and were acknowledged to be
cogent. In so far, therefore, as Stout's theory of introspection rests upon
this assumption, we are compelled to reject it. But it is perfectly possibl=
e to
believe in introspection without supposing that there is a single observer.=
William James's theory of introspection, which
Dunlap next examines, does not assume a single observer. It changed after t=
he
publication of his "Psychology," in consequence of his abandoning=
the
dualism of thought and things. Dunlap summarizes his theory as follows:
"The essential points in James's scheme of
consciousness are SUBJECT, OBJECT, and a KNOWING of the object by the subje=
ct.
The difference between James's scheme and other schemes involving the same
terms is that James considers subject and object to be the same thing, but =
at different
times In order to satisfy this requirement James supposes a realm of existe=
nce
which he at first called 'states of consciousness' or 'thoughts,' and later,
'pure experience,' the latter term including both the 'thoughts' and the
'knowing.' This scheme, with all its magnificent artificiality, James held =
on
to until the end, simply dropping the term consciousness and the dualism
between the thought and an external reality"(p. 409).
He adds: "All that James's system really
amounts to is the acknowledgment that a succession of things are known, and
that they are known by something. This is all any one can claim, except for=
the
fact that the things are known together, and that the knower for the differ=
ent
items is one and the same" (ib.).
In this statement, to my mind, Dunlap concedes=
far
more than James did in his later theory. I see no reason to suppose that
"the knower for different items is one and the same," and I am
convinced that this proposition could not possibly be ascertained except by
introspection of the sort that Dunlap rejects. The first of these points mu=
st
wait until we come to the analysis of belief: the second must be considered
now. Dunlap's view is that there is a dualism of subject and object, but th=
at the
subject can never become object, and therefore there is no awareness of an
awareness. He says in discussing the view that introspection reveals the
occurrence of knowledge: "There can be no denial of the existence of t=
he
thing (knowing) which is alleged to be known or observed in this sort of
'introspection.' The allegation that the knowing is observed is that which =
may
be denied. Knowing there certainly is; known, the knowing certainly is
not"(p. 410). And again: "I am never aware of an awareness"
(ib.). And on the next page: "It may sound paradoxical to say that one
cannot observe the process (or relation) of observation, and yet may be cer=
tain
that there is such a process: but there is really no inconsistency in the
saying. How do I know that there is awareness? By being aware of something.
There is no meaning in the term 'awareness' which is not expressed in the
statement 'I am aware of a colour (or what-not).'"
But the paradox cannot be so lightly disposed =
of.
The statement "I am aware of a colour" is assumed by Knight Dunla=
p to
be known to be true, but he does not explain how it comes to be known. The
argument against him is not conclusive, since he may be able to show some v=
alid
way of inferring our awareness. But he does not suggest any such way. There=
is nothing
odd in the hypothesis of beings which are aware of objects, but not of their
own awareness; it is, indeed, highly probable that young children and the
higher animals are such beings. But such beings cannot make the statement
"I am aware of a colour," which WE can make. We have, therefore, =
some
knowledge which they lack. It is necessary to Knight Dunlap's position to
maintain that this additional knowledge is purely inferential, but he makes=
no
attempt to show how the inference is possible. It may, of course, be possib=
le,
but I cannot see how. To my mind the fact (which he admits) that we know th=
ere
is awareness, is ALL BUT decisive against his theory, and in favour of the =
view
that we can be aware of an awareness.
Dunlap asserts (to return to James) that the r=
eal
ground for James's original belief in introspection was his belief in two s=
orts
of objects, namely, thoughts and things. He suggests that it was a mere
inconsistency on James's part to adhere to introspection after abandoning t=
he
dualism of thoughts and things. I do not wholly agree with this view, but i=
t is
difficult to disentangle the difference as to introspection from the differ=
ence
as to the nature of knowing. Dunlap suggests (p. 411) that what is called
introspection really consists of awareness of "images," visceral
sensations, and so on. This view, in essence, seems to me sound. But then I
hold that knowing itself consists of such constituents suitably related, and
that in being aware of them we are sometimes being aware of instances of
knowing. For this reason, much as I agree with his view as to what are the
objects of which there is awareness, I cannot wholly agree with his conclus=
ion
as to the impossibility of introspection.
The behaviourists have challenged introspection
even more vigorously than Knight Dunlap, and have gone so far as to deny the
existence of images. But I think that they have confused various things whi=
ch are
very commonly confused, and that it is necessary to make several distinctio=
ns
before we can arrive at what is true and what false in the criticism of
introspection.
I wish to distinguish three distinct questions,
any one of which may be meant when we ask whether introspection is a source=
of
knowledge. The three questions are as follows:
(1) Can we observe anything about ourselves wh=
ich
we cannot observe about other people, or is everything we can observe PUBLI=
C,
in the sense that another could also observe it if suitably placed?
(2) Does everything that we can observe obey t=
he
laws of physics and form part of the physical world, or can we observe cert=
ain
things that lie outside physics?
(3) Can we observe anything which differs in i=
ts
intrinsic nature from the constituents of the physical world, or is everyth=
ing
that we can observe composed of elements intrinsically similar to the
constituents of what is called matter?
Any one of these three questions may be used to
define introspection. I should favour introspection in the sense of the fir=
st
question, i.e. I think that some of the things we observe cannot, even
theoretically, be observed by any one else. The second question, tentatively
and for the present, I should answer in favour of introspection; I think th=
at images,
in the actual condition of science, cannot be brought under the causal laws=
of
physics, though perhaps ultimately they may be. The third question I should
answer adversely to introspection I think that observation shows us nothing
that is not composed of sensations and images, and that images differ from
sensations in their causal laws, not intrinsically. I shall deal with the t=
hree
questions successively.
(1) PUBLICITY OR PRIVACY OF WHAT IS OBSERVED.
Confining ourselves, for the moment, to sensations, we find that there are
different degrees of publicity attaching to different sorts of sensations. =
If
you feel a toothache when the other people in the room do not, you are in no
way surprised; but if you hear a clap of thunder when they do not, you begi=
n to
be alarmed as to your mental condition. Sight and hearing are the most publ=
ic
of the senses; smell only a trifle less so; touch, again, a trifle less, si=
nce
two people can only touch the same spot successively, not simultaneously. T=
aste
has a sort of semi-publicity, since people seem to experience similar
taste-sensations when they eat similar foods; but the publicity is incomple=
te,
since two people cannot eat actually the same piece of food.
But when we pass on to bodily sensations--head=
ache,
toothache, hunger, thirst, the feeling of fatigue, and so on--we get quite =
away
from publicity, into a region where other people can tell us what they feel=
, but
we cannot directly observe their feeling. As a natural result of this state=
of
affairs, it has come to be thought that the public senses give us knowledge=
of
the outer world, while the private senses only give us knowledge as to our =
own
bodies. As regards privacy, all images, of whatever sort, belong with the
sensations which only give knowledge of our own bodies, i.e. each is only
observable by one observer. This is the reason why images of sight and hear=
ing
are more obviously different from sensations of sight and hearing than imag=
es
of bodily sensations are from bodily sensations; and that is why the argume=
nt
in favour of images is more conclusive in such cases as sight and hearing t=
han
in such cases as inner speech.
The whole distinction of privacy and publicity,
however, so long as we confine ourselves to sensations, is one of degree, n=
ot
of kind. No two people, there is good empirical reason to think, ever have
exactly similar sensations related to the same physical object at the same =
moment;
on the other hand, even the most private sensation has correlations which w=
ould
theoretically enable another observer to infer it.
That no sensation is ever completely public,
results from differences of point of view. Two people looking at the same t=
able
do not get the same sensation, because of perspective and the way the light
falls. They get only correlated sensations. Two people listening to the same
sound do not hear exactly the same thing, because one is nearer to the sour=
ce
of the sound than the other, one has better hearing than the other, and so =
on.
Thus publicity in sensations consists, not in having PRECISELY similar
sensations, but in having more or less similar sensations correlated accord=
ing
to ascertainable laws. The sensations which strike us as public are those w=
here
the correlated sensations are very similar and the correlations are very ea=
sy
to discover. But even the most private sensations have correlations with th=
ings
that others can observe. The dentist does not observe your ache, but he can=
see
the cavity which causes it, and could guess that you are suffering even if =
you
did not tell him. This fact, however, cannot be used, as Watson would
apparently wish, to extrude from science observations which are private to =
one
observer, since it is by means of many such observations that correlations =
are
established, e.g. between toothaches and cavities. Privacy, therefore does =
not
by itself make a datum unamenable to scientific treatment. On this point, t=
he
argument against introspection must be rejected.
(2) DOES EVERYTHING OBSERVABLE OBEY THE LAWS OF
PHYSICS? We come now to the second ground of objection to introspection,
namely, that its data do not obey the laws of physics. This, though less
emphasized, is, I think, an objection which is really more strongly felt th=
an
the objection of privacy. And we obtain a definition of introspection more =
in
harmony with usage if we define it as observation of data not subject to
physical laws than if we define it by means of privacy. No one would regard=
a
man as introspective because he was conscious of having a stomach ache.
Opponents of introspection do not mean to deny the obvious fact that we can
observe bodily sensations which others cannot observe. For example, Knight
Dunlap contends that images are really muscular contractions,* and evidently
regards our awareness of muscular contractions as not coming under the head=
of
introspection. I think it will be found that the essential characteristic of
introspective data, in the sense which now concerns us, has to do with
LOCALIZATION: either they are not localized at all, or they are localized, =
like
visual images, in a place already physically occupied by something which wo=
uld be
inconsistent with them if they were regarded as part of the physical world.=
If
you have a visual image of your friend sitting in a chair which in fact is
empty, you cannot locate the image in your body, because it is visual, nor =
(as
a physical phenomenon) in the chair, because the chair, as a physical objec=
t,
is empty. Thus it seems to follow that the physical world does not include =
all
that we are aware of, and that images, which are introspective data, have t=
o be
regarded, for the present, as not obeying the laws of physics; this is, I
think, one of the chief reasons why an attempt is made to reject them. I sh=
all
try to show in Lecture VIII that the purely empirical reasons for accepting
images are overwhelming. But we cannot be nearly so certain that they will =
not
ultimately be brought under the laws of physics. Even if this should happen,
however, they would still be distinguishable from sensations by their proxi=
mate
causal laws, as gases remain distinguishable from solids.
*
"Psychological Review," 1916, "Thought-Content and Feeling," p. 59. See also ib., =
1912,
"The Nature of Perceived
Relations," where he says: "'Introspection,' divested of its mythological suggest=
ion of
the observing of consciousness=
, is
really the observation of bodily sensations (sensibles) and feelings
(feelables)"(p. 427 n.).
(3) CAN WE OBSERVE ANYTHING INTRINSICALLY
DIFFERENT FROM SENSATIONS? We come now to our third question concerning
introspection. It is commonly thought that by looking within we can observe=
all
sorts of things that are radically different from the constituents of the
physical world, e.g. thoughts, beliefs, desires, pleasures, pains and emoti=
ons.
The difference between mind and matter is increased partly by emphasizing t=
hese
supposed introspective data, partly by the supposition that matter is compo=
sed
of atoms or electrons or whatever units physics may at the moment prefer. As
against this latter supposition, I contend that the ultimate constituents of
matter are not atoms or electrons, but sensations, and other things similar=
to
sensations as regards extent and duration. As against the view that
introspection reveals a mental world radically different from sensations, I
propose to argue that thoughts, beliefs, desires, pleasures, pains and emot=
ions
are all built up out of sensations and images alone, and that there is reas=
on
to think that images do not differ from sensations in their intrinsic
character. We thus effect a mutual rapprochement of mind and matter, and re=
duce
the ultimate data of introspection (in our second sense) to images alone. O=
n this
third view of the meaning of introspection, therefore, our decision is whol=
ly
against it.
There
remain two points to be considered concerning introspection. The first is a=
s to
how far it is trustworthy; the second is as to whether, even granting that =
it
reveals no radically different STUFF from that revealed by what might be ca=
lled
external perception, it may not reveal different RELATIONS, and thus acquire
almost as much importance as is traditionally assigned to it.
To begin with the trustworthiness of
introspection. It is common among certain schools to regard the knowledge of
our own mental processes as incomparably more certain than our knowledge of=
the
"external" world; this view is to be found in the British philoso=
phy
which descends from Hume, and is present, somewhat veiled, in Kant and his
followers. There seems no reason whatever to accept this view. Our spontane=
ous,
unsophisticated beliefs, whether as to ourselves or as to the outer world, =
are
always extremely rash and very liable to error. The acquisition of caution =
is
equally necessary and equally difficult in both directions. Not only are we
often un aware of entertaining a belief or desire which exists in us; we are
often actually mistaken. The fallibility of introspection as regards what we
desire is made evident by psycho-analysis; its fallibility as to what we kn=
ow
is easily demonstrated. An autobiography, when confronted by a careful edit=
or with
documentary evidence, is usually found to be full of obviously inadvertent
errors. Any of us confronted by a forgotten letter written some years ago w=
ill
be astonished to find how much more foolish our opinions were than we had
remembered them as being. And as to the analysis of our mental
operations--believing, desiring, willing, or what not--introspection unaided
gives very little help: it is necessary to construct hypotheses and test th=
em
by their consequences, just as we do in physical science. Introspection,
therefore, though it is one among our sources of knowledge, is not, in
isolation, in any degree more trustworthy than "external" percept=
ion.
I come now to our second question: Does
introspection give us materials for the knowledge of relations other than t=
hose
arrived at by reflecting upon external perception? It might be contended th=
at
the essence of what is "mental" consists of relations, such as
knowing for example, and that our knowledge concerning these essentially me=
ntal
relations is entirely derived from introspection. If "knowing" we=
re
an unanalysable relation, this view would be incontrovertible, since clearl=
y no
such relation forms part of the subject matter of physics. But it would seem
that "knowing" is really various relations, all of them complex.
Therefore, until they have been analysed, our present question must remain =
unanswered
I shall return to it at the end of the present course of lectures.
In Lecture V we found reason to think that the
ultimate constituents* of the world do not have the characteristics of eith=
er
mind or matter as ordinarily understood: they are not solid persistent obje=
cts
moving through space, nor are they fragments of "consciousness." =
But
we found two ways of grouping particulars, one into "things" or
"pieces of matter," the other into series of
"perspectives," each series being what may be called a
"biography." Before we can define either sensations or images, it=
is
necessary to consider this twofold classification in somewhat greater detai=
l,
and to derive from it a definition of perception. It should be said that, i=
n so
far as the classification assumes the whole world of physics (including its
unperceived portions), it contains hypothetical elements. But we will not
linger on the grounds for admitting these, which belong to the philosophy of
physics rather than of psychology.
*=
When
I speak of "ultimate constituents," I do not mean necessarily such as are theoretically
incapable of analysis, but onl=
y such
as, at present, we can see no means of analysing. I speak of such constitue=
nts as
"particulars," or as
"RELATIVE particulars" when I wish to emphasize the fact that they may be themselves complex.=
The physical classification of particulars
collects together all those that are aspects of one "thing." Given
any one particular, it is found often (we do not say always) that there are=
a
number of other particulars differing from this one in gradually increasing
degrees. Those (or some of those) that differ from it only very slightly wi=
ll be
found to differ approximately according to certain laws which may be called=
, in
a generalized sense, the laws of "perspective"; they include the
ordinary laws of perspective as a special case. This approximation grows mo=
re
and more nearly exact as the difference grows less; in technical language, =
the
laws of perspective account for the differences to the first order of small
quantities, and other laws are only required to account for second-order
differences. That is to say, as the difference diminishes, the part of the
difference which is not according to the laws of perspective diminishes much
more rapidly, and bears to the total difference a ratio which tends towards
zero as both are made smaller and smaller. By this means we can theoretical=
ly
collect together a number of particulars which may be defined as the
"aspects" or "appearances" of one thing at one time. If=
the
laws of perspective were sufficiently known, the connection between differe=
nt
aspects would be expressed in differential equations.
This gives us, so far, only those particulars
which constitute one thing at one time. This set of particulars may be call=
ed a
"momentary thing." To define that series of "momentary
things" that constitute the successive states of one thing is a problem
involving the laws of dynamics. These give the laws governing the changes of
aspects from one time to a slightly later time, with the same sort of
differential approximation to exactness as we obtained for spatially
neighbouring aspects through the laws of perspective. Thus a momentary thin=
g is
a set of particulars, while a thing (which may be identified with the whole=
history
of the thing) is a series of such sets of particulars. The particulars in o=
ne
set are collected together by the laws of perspective; the successive sets =
are
collected together by the laws of dynamics. This is the view of the world w=
hich
is appropriate to traditional physics.
The definition of a "momentary thing"
involves problems concerning time, since the particulars constituting a
momentary thing will not be all simultaneous, but will travel outward from =
the
thing with the velocity of light (in case the thing is in vacuo). There are
complications connected with relativity, but for our present purpose they a=
re
not vital, and I shall ignore them.
Instead of first collecting together all the
particulars constituting a momentary thing, and then forming the series of
successive sets, we might have first collected together a series of success=
ive
aspects related by the laws of dynamics, and then have formed the set of su=
ch series
related by the laws of perspective. To illustrate by the case of an actor on
the stage: our first plan was to collect together all the aspects which he
presents to different spectators at one time, and then to form the series of
such sets. Our second plan is first to collect together all the aspects whi=
ch
he presents successively to a given spectator, and then to do the same thing
for the other spectators, thus forming a set of series instead of a series =
of
sets. The first plan tells us what he does; the second the impressions he
produces. This second way of classifying particulars is one which obviously=
has
more relevance to psychology than the other. It is partly by this second me=
thod
of classification that we obtain definitions of one "experience" =
or
"biography" or "person." This method of classification =
is
also essential to the definition of sensations and images, as I shall endea=
vour
to prove later on. But we must first amplify the definition of perspectives=
and
biographies.
In our illustration of the actor, we spoke, for
the moment, as though each spectator's mind were wholly occupied by the one
actor. If this were the case, it might be possible to define the biography =
of
one spectator as a series of successive aspects of the actor related accord=
ing
to the laws of dynamics. But in fact this is not the case. We are at all ti=
mes
during our waking life receiving a variety of impressions, which are aspect=
s of
a variety of things. We have to consider what binds together two simultaneo=
us
sensations in one person, or, more generally, any two occurrences which for=
te
part of one experience. We might say, adhering to the standpoint of physics,
that two aspects of different things belong to the same perspective when th=
ey
are in the same place. But this would not really help us, since a "pla=
ce"
has not yet been defined. Can we define what is meant by saying that two
aspects are "in the same place," without introducing anything bey=
ond
the laws of perspective and dynamics?
I do not feel sure whether it is possible to f=
rame
such a definition or not; accordingly I shall not assume that it is possibl=
e,
but shall seek other characteristics by which a perspective or biography ma=
y be
defined.
When (for example) we see one man and hear ano=
ther
speaking at the same time, what we see and what we hear have a relation whi=
ch
we can perceive, which makes the two together form, in some sense, one expe=
rience.
It is when this relation exists that two occurrences become associated. Sem=
on's
"engram" is formed by all that we experience at one time. He spea=
ks
of two parts of this total as having the relation of "Nebeneinander&qu=
ot;
(M. 118; M.E. 33 ff.), which is reminiscent of Herbart's "Zusammen.&qu=
ot;
I think the relation may be called simply "simultaneity." It migh=
t be
said that at any moment all sorts of things that are not part of my experie=
nce
are happening in the world, and that therefore the relation we are seeking =
to
define cannot be merely simultaneity. This, however, would be an error--the
sort of error that the theory of relativity avoids. There is not one univer=
sal
time, except by an elaborate construction; there are only local times, each=
of
which may be taken to be the time within one biography. Accordingly, if I am
(say) hearing a sound, the only occurrences that are, in any simple sense, =
simultaneous
with my sensation are events in my private world, i.e. in my biography. We =
may
therefore define the "perspective" to which the sensation in ques=
tion
belongs as the set of particulars that are simultaneous with this sensation.
And similarly we may define the "biography" to which the sensation
belongs as the set of particulars that are earlier or later than, or
simultaneous with, the given sensation. Moreover, the very same definitions=
can
be applied to particulars which are not sensations. They are actually requi=
red
for the theory of relativity, if we are to give a philosophical explanation=
of
what is meant by "local time" in that theory The relations of sim=
ultaneity
and succession are known to us in our own experience; they may be analysabl=
e,
but that does not affect their suitability for defining perspectives and
biographies. Such time-relations as can be constructed between events in
different biographies are of a different kind: they are not experienced, and
are merely logical, being designed to afford convenient ways of stating the
correlations between different biographies.
It is not only by time-relations that the part=
s of
one biography are collected together in the case of living beings. In this =
case
there are the mnemic phenomena which constitute the unity of one
"experience," and transform mere occurrences into
"experiences." I have already dwelt upon the importance of mnemic
phenomena for psychology, and shall not enlarge upon them now, beyond obser=
ving
that they are what transforms a biography (in our technical sense) into a l=
ife.
It is they that give the continuity of a "person" or a
"mind." But there is no reason to suppose that mnemic phenomena a=
re
associated with biographies except in the case of animals and plants.
Our two-fold classification of particulars giv=
es
rise to the dualism of body and biography in regard to everything in the
universe, and not only in regard to living things. This arises as follows.
Every particular of the sort considered by physics is a member of two groups
(1) The group of particulars constituting the other aspects of the same
physical object; (2) The group of particulars that have direct time-relatio=
ns
to the given particular.
Each of these is associated with a place. When=
I
look at a star, my sensation is (1) A member of the group of particulars wh=
ich
is the star, and which is associated with the place where the star is; (2) =
A member
of the group of particulars which is my biography, and which is associated =
with
the place where I am.*
*=
I have
explained elsewhere the manner in which space is constructed on this theory, and in w=
hich
the position of a perspective =
is
brought into relation with the position of a physical object ("Our Knowledge=
of
the External World," Lect=
ure
III, pp. 90, 91).
The result is that every particular of the kind
relevant to physics is associated with TWO places; e.g. my sensation of the
star is associated with the place where I am and with the place where the s=
tar
is. This dualism has nothing to do with any "mind" that I may be
supposed to possess; it exists in exactly the same sense if I am replaced b=
y a photographic
plate. We may call the two places the active and passive places respectivel=
y.*
Thus in the case of a perception or photograph of a star, the active place =
is
the place where the star is, while the passive place is the place where the
percipient or photographic plate is.
*=
I use
these as mere names; I do not want to introduce any notion of "activity."
We can thus, without departing from physics,
collect together all the particulars actively at a given place, or all the
particulars passively at a given place. In our own case, the one group is o=
ur
body (or our brain), while the other is our mind, in so far as it consists =
of perceptions.
In the case of the photographic plate, the first group is the plate as dealt
with by physics, the second the aspect of the heavens which it photographs.
(For the sake of schematic simplicity, I am ignoring various complications
connected with time, which require some tedious but perfectly feasible
elaborations.) Thus what may be called subjectivity in the point of view is=
not
a distinctive peculiarity of mind: it is present just as much in the
photographic plate. And the photographic plate has its biography as well as=
its
"matter." But this biography is an affair of physics, and has non=
e of
the peculiar characteristics by which "mental" phenomena are
distinguished, with the sole exception of subjectivity.
Adhering, for the moment, to the standpoint of
physics, we may define a "perception" of an object as the appeara=
nce
of the object from a place where there is a brain (or, in lower animals, so=
me
suitable nervous structure), with sense-organs and nerves forming part of t=
he
intervening medium. Such appearances of objects are distinguished from
appearances in other places by certain peculiarities, namely:
(1) They give rise to mnemic phenomena;
(2) They are themselves affected by mnemic
phenomena.
That is to say, they may be remembered and
associated or influence our habits, or give rise to images, etc., and they =
are
themselves different from what they would have been if our past experience =
had
been different--for example, the effect of a spoken sentence upon the heare=
r depends
upon whether the hearer knows the language or not, which is a question of p=
ast
experience. It is these two characteristics, both connected with mnemic
phenomena, that distinguish perceptions from the appearances of objects in
places where there is no living being.
Theoretically, though often not practically, we
can, in our perception of an object, separate the part which is due to past
experience from the part which proceeds without mnemic influences out of the
character of the object. We may define as "sensation" that part w=
hich
proceeds in this way, while the remainder, which is a mnemic phenomenon, wi=
ll
have to be added to the sensation to make up what is called the
"perception." According to this definition, the sensation is a
theoretical core in the actual experience; the actual experience is the
perception. It is obvious that there are grave difficulties in carrying out
these definitions, but we will not linger over them. We have to pass, as so=
on as
we can, from the physical standpoint, which we have been hitherto adopting,=
to
the standpoint of psychology, in which we make more use of introspection in=
the
first of the three senses discussed in the preceding lecture.
But before making the transition, there are two
points which must be made clear. First: Everything outside my own personal
biography is outside my experience; therefore if anything can be known by me
outside my biography, it can only be known in one of two ways:
(1) By inference from things within my biograp=
hy,
or
(2) By some a priori principle independent of
experience.
I do not myself believe that anything approach=
ing
certainty is to be attained by either of these methods, and therefore whate=
ver
lies outside my personal biography must be regarded, theoretically, as
hypothesis. The theoretical argument for adopting the hypothesis is that it=
simplifies
the statement of the laws according to which events happen in our experienc=
e.
But there is no very good ground for supposing that a simple law is more li=
kely
to be true than a complicated law, though there is good ground for assuming=
a
simple law in scientific practice, as a working hypothesis, if it explains =
the
facts as well as another which is less simple. Belief in the existence of
things outside my own biography exists antecedently to evidence, and can on=
ly
be destroyed, if at all, by a long course of philosophic doubt. For purpose=
s of
science, it is justified practically by the simplification which it introdu=
ces into
the laws of physics. But from the standpoint of theoretical logic it must be
regarded as a prejudice, not as a well-grounded theory. With this proviso, I
propose to continue yielding to the prejudice.
The second point concerns the relating of our
point of view to that which regards sensations as caused by stimuli externa=
l to
the nervous system (or at least to the brain), and distinguishes images as =
"centrally
excited," i.e. due to causes in the brain which cannot be traced back =
to
anything affecting the sense-organs. It is clear that, if our analysis of
physical objects has been valid, this way of defining sensations needs
reinterpretation. It is also clear that we must be able to find such a new
interpretation if our theory is to be admissible.
To make the matter clear, we will take the
simplest possible illustration. Consider a certain star, and suppose for the
moment that its size is negligible. That is to say, we will regard it as, f=
or practical
purposes, a luminous point. Let us further suppose that it exists only for a
very brief time, say a second. Then, according to physics, what happens is =
that
a spherical wave of light travels outward from the star through space, just=
as,
when you drop a stone into a stagnant pond, ripples travel outward from the
place where the stone hit the water. The wave of light travels with a certa=
in
very nearly constant velocity, roughly 300,000 kilometres per second. This
velocity may be ascertained by sending a flash of light to a mirror, and
observing how long it takes before the reflected flash reaches you, just as=
the
velocity of sound may be ascertained by means of an echo.
What it is that happens when a wave of light
reaches a given place we cannot tell, except in the sole case when the plac=
e in
question is a brain connected with an eye which is turned in the right
direction. In this one very special case we know what happens: we have the
sensation called "seeing the star." In all other cases, though we
know (more or less hypothetically) some of the correlations and abstract
properties of the appearance of the star, we do not know the appearance its=
elf.
Now you may, for the sake of illustration, compare the different appearance=
s of
the star to the conjugation of a Greek verb, except that the number of its
parts is really infinite, and not only apparently so to the despairing
schoolboy. In vacuo, the parts are regular, and can be derived from the
(imaginary) root according to the laws of grammar, i.e. of perspective. The
star being situated in empty space, it may be defined, for purposes of phys=
ics,
as consisting of all those appearances which it presents in vacuo, together
with those which, according to the laws of perspective, it would present
elsewhere if its appearances elsewhere were regular. This is merely the
adaptation of the definition of matter which I gave in an earlier lecture. =
The
appearance of a star at a certain place, if it is regular, does not require=
any
cause or explanation beyond the existence of the star. Every regular appear=
ance
is an actual member of the system which is the star, and its causation is
entirely internal to that system. We may express this by saying that a regu=
lar
appearance is due to the star alone, and is actually part of the star, in t=
he
sense in which a man is part of the human race.
But presently the light of the star reaches our
atmosphere. It begins to be refracted, and dimmed by mist, and its velocity=
is
slightly diminished. At last it reaches a human eye, where a complicated
process takes place, ending in a sensation which gives us our grounds for b=
elieving
in all that has gone before. Now, the irregular appearances of the star are
not, strictly speaking, members of the system which is the star, according =
to
our definition of matter. The irregular appearances, however, are not merely
irregular: they proceed according to laws which can be stated in terms of t=
he
matter through which the light has passed on its way. The sources of an
irregular appearance are therefore twofold:
(1) The object which is appearing irregularly;=
2) The intervening medium.
It should be observed that, while the concepti=
on
of a regular appearance is perfectly precise, the conception of an irregular
appearance is one capable of any degree of vagueness. When the distorting i=
nfluence
of the medium is sufficiently great, the resulting particular can no longer=
be regarded
as an appearance of an object, but must be treated on its own account. This
happens especially when the particular in question cannot be traced back to=
one
object, but is a blend of two or more. This case is normal in perception: we
see as one what the microscope or telescope reveals to be many different
objects. The notion of perception is therefore not a precise one: we percei=
ve
things more or less, but always with a very considerable amount of vagueness
and confusion.
In considering irregular appearances, there are
certain very natural mistakes which must be avoided. In order that a partic=
ular
may count as an irregular appearance of a certain object, it is not necessa=
ry
that it should bear any resemblance to the regular appearances as regard its
intrinsic qualities. All that is necessary is that it should be derivable f=
rom
the regular appearances by the laws which express the distorting influence =
of
the medium. When it is so derivable, the particular in question may be rega=
rded
as caused by the regular appearances, and therefore by the object itself,
together with the modifications resulting from the medium. In other cases, =
the
particular in question may, in the same sense, be regarded as caused by sev=
eral
objects together with the medium; in this case, it may be called a confused
appearance of several objects. If it happens to be in a brain, it may be ca=
lled
a confused perception of these objects. All actual perception is confused t=
o a
greater or less extent.
We can now interpret in terms of our theory the
distinction between those mental occurrences which are said to have an exte=
rnal
stimulus, and those which are said to be "centrally excited," i.e=
. to
have no stimulus external to the brain. When a mental occurrence can be
regarded as an appearance of an object external to the brain, however
irregular, or even as a confused appearance of several such objects, then we
may regard it as having for its stimulus the object or objects in question,=
or
their appearances at the sense-organ concerned. When, on the other hand, a
mental occurrence has not sufficient connection with objects external to the
brain to be regarded as an appearance of such objects, then its physical
causation (if any) will have to be sought in the brain. In the former case =
it
can be called a perception; in the latter it cannot be so called. But the
distinction is one of degree, not of kind. Until this is realized, no
satisfactory theory of perception, sensation, or imagination is possible.
The dualism of mind and matter, if we have been
right so far, cannot be allowed as metaphysically valid. Nevertheless, we s=
eem
to find a certain dualism, perhaps not ultimate, within the world as we obs=
erve
it. The dualism is not primarily as to the stuff of the world, but as to ca=
usal
laws. On this subject we may again quote William James. He points out that
when, as we say, we merely "imagine" things, there are no such ef=
fects
as would ensue if the things were what we call "real." He takes t=
he
case of imagining a fire.
"I make for myself an experience of blazi=
ng
fire; I place it near my body; but it does not warm me in the least. I lay a
stick upon it and the stick either burns or remains green, as I please. I c=
all
up water, and pour it on the fire, and absolutely no difference ensues. I
account for all such facts by calling this whole train of experiences unrea=
l, a
mental train. Mental fire is what won't burn real sticks; mental water is w=
hat
won't necessarily (though of course it may) put out even a mental fire.... =
With
'real' objects, on the contrary, consequences always accrue; and thus the r=
eal
experiences get sifted from the mental ones, the things from our thoughts o=
f them,
fanciful or true, and precipitated together as the stable part of the whole
experience--chaos, under the name of the physical world."*
*
"Essays in Radical Empiricism," pp. 32-3.
In this passage James speaks, by mere
inadvertence, as though the phenomena which he is describing as
"mental" had NO effects. This is, of course, not the case: they h=
ave
their effects, just as much as physical phenomena do, but their effects fol=
low
different laws. For example, dreams, as Freud has shown, are just as much
subject to laws as are the motions of the planets. But the laws are differe=
nt:
in a dream you may be transported from one place to another in a moment, or=
one
person may turn into another under your eyes. Such differences compel you t=
o distinguish
the world of dreams from the physical world.
If the two sorts of causal laws could be sharp=
ly
distinguished, we could call an occurrence "physical" when it obe=
ys
causal laws appropriate to the physical world, and "mental" when =
it
obeys causal laws appropriate to the mental world. Since the mental world a=
nd
the physical world interact, there would be a boundary between the two: the=
re
would be events which would have physical causes and mental effects, while
there would be others which would have mental causes and physical effects. =
Those
that have physical causes and mental effects we should define as "sens=
ations."
Those that have mental causes and physical effects might perhaps be identif=
ied
with what we call voluntary movements; but they do not concern us at presen=
t.
These definitions would have all the precision
that could be desired if the distinction between physical and psychological
causation were clear and sharp. As a matter of fact, however, this distinct=
ion
is, as yet, by no means sharp. It is possible that, with fuller knowledge, =
it
will be found to be no more ultimate than the distinction between the laws =
of gases
and the laws of rigid bodies. It also suffers from the fact that an event m=
ay
be an effect of several causes according to several causal laws we cannot, =
in
general, point to anything unique as THE cause of such-and-such an event. A=
nd
finally it is by no means certain that the peculiar causal laws which govern
mental events are not really physiological. The law of habit, which is one =
of
the most distinctive, may be fully explicable in terms of the peculiarities=
of
nervous tissue, and these peculiarities, in turn, may be explicable by the =
laws
of physics. It seems, therefore, that we are driven to a different kind of =
definition.
It is for this reason that it was necessary to develop the definition of
perception. With this definition, we can define a sensation as the non-mnem=
ic
elements in a perception.
When, following our definition, we try to deci=
de
what elements in our experience are of the nature of sensations, we find mo=
re
difficulty than might have been expected. Prima facie, everything is sensat=
ion
that comes to us through the senses: the sights we see, the sounds we hear,=
the
smells we smell, and so on; also such things as headache or the feeling of
muscular strain. But in actual fact so much interpretation, so much of habi=
tual
correlation, is mixed with all such experiences, that the core of pure
sensation is only to be extracted by careful investigation. To take a simple
illustration: if you go to the theatre in your own country, you seem to hear
equally well in the stalls or the dress circle; in either case you think you
miss nothing. But if you go in a foreign country where you have a fair
knowledge of the language, you will seem to have grown partially deaf, and =
you
will find it necessary to be much nearer the stage than you would need to b=
e in
your own country. The reason is that, in hearing our own language spoken, w=
e quickly
and unconsciously fill out what we really hear with inferences to what the =
man
must be saying, and we never realize that we have not heard the words we ha=
ve
merely inferred. In a foreign language, these inferences are more difficult,
and we are more dependent upon actual sensation. If we found ourselves in a
foreign world, where tables looked like cushions and cushions like tables, =
we
should similarly discover how much of what we think we see is really infere=
nce.
Every fairly familiar sensation is to us a sign of the things that usually =
go
with it, and many of these things will seem to form part of the sensation. I
remember in the early days of motor-cars being with a friend when a tyre bu=
rst with
a loud report. He thought it was a pistol, and supported his opinion by
maintaining that he had seen the flash. But of course there had been no fla=
sh.
Nowadays no one sees a flash when a tyre bursts.
In order, therefore, to arrive at what really =
is
sensation in an occurrence which, at first sight, seems to contain nothing
else, we have to pare away all that is due to habit or expectation or
interpretation. This is a matter for the psychologist, and by no means an e=
asy
matter. For our purposes, it is not important to determine what exactly is =
the sensational
core in any case; it is only important to notice that there certainly is a
sensational core, since habit, expectation and interpretation are diversely
aroused on diverse occasions, and the diversity is clearly due to differenc=
es
in what is presented to the senses. When you open your newspaper in the
morning, the actual sensations of seeing the print form a very minute part =
of
what goes on in you, but they are the starting-point of all the rest, and i=
t is
through them that the newspaper is a means of information or mis-informatio=
n.
Thus, although it may be difficult to determine what exactly is sensation in
any given experience, it is clear that there is sensation, unless, like
Leibniz, we deny all action of the outer world upon us.
Sensations are obviously the source of our knowledge of the world, including our own body. It might seem natural to re= gard a sensation as itself a cognition, and until lately I did so regard it. Whe= n, say, I see a person I know coming towards me in the street, it SEEMS as tho= ugh the mere seeing were knowledge. It is of course undeniable that knowledge c= omes THROUGH the seeing, but I think it is a mistake to regard the mere seeing itself as knowledge. If we are so to regard it, we must distinguish the see= ing from what is seen: we must say that, when we see a patch of colour of a cer= tain shape, the patch of colour is one thing and our seeing of it is another. Th= is view, however, demands the admission of the subject, or act, in the sense discussed in our first lecture. If there is a subject, it can have a relati= on to the patch of colour, namely, the sort of relation which we might call awareness. In that case the sensation, as a mental event, will consist of awareness of the colour, while the colour itself will remain wholly physica= l, and may be called the sense-datum, to distinguish it from the sensation. The subject, however, appears to be a logical fiction, like mathematical points= and instants. It is introduced, not because observation reveals it, but because= it is linguistically convenient and apparently demanded by grammar. Nominal entities of this sort may or may not exist, but there is no good ground for assuming that they do. The functions that they appear to perform can always= be performed by classes or series or other logical constructions, consisting of less dubious entities. If we are to avoid a perfectly gratuitous assumption= , we must dispense with the subject as one of the actual ingredients of the worl= d. But when we do this, the possibility of distinguishing the sensation from t= he sense-datum vanishes; at least I see no way of preserving the distinction. Accordingly the sensation that we have when we see a patch of colour simply= is that patch of colour, an actual constituent of the physical world, and part= of what physics is concerned with. A patch of colour is certainly not knowledg= e, and therefore we cannot say that pure sensation is cognitive. Through its psychological effects, it is the cause of cognitions, partly by being itsel= f a sign of things that are correlated with it, as e.g. sensations of sight and touch are correlated, and partly by giving rise to images and memories after the sensation is faded. But in itself the pure sensation is not cognitive.<= o:p>
In the first lecture we considered the view of
Brentano, that "we may define psychical phenomena by saying that they =
are
phenomena which intentionally contain an object." We saw reasons to re=
ject
this view in general; we are now concerned to show that it must be rejected=
in
the particular case of sensations. The kind of argument which formerly made=
me
accept Brentano's view in this case was exceedingly simple. When I see a pa=
tch
of colour, it seemed to me that the colour is not psychical, but physical,
while my seeing is not physical, but psychical. Hence I concluded that the
colour is something other than my seeing of the colour. This argument, to me
historically, was directed against idealism: the emphatic part of it was the
assertion that the colour is physical, not psychical. I shall not trouble y=
ou
now with the grounds for holding as against Berkeley that the patch of colo=
ur
is physical; I have set them forth before, and I see no reason to modify th=
em.
But it does not follow that the patch of colour is not also psychical, unle=
ss we
assume that the physical and the psychical cannot overlap, which I no longer
consider a valid assumption. If we admit--as I think we should--that the pa=
tch
of colour may be both physical and psychical, the reason for distinguishing=
the
sense-datum from the sensation disappears, and we may say that the patch of
colour and our sensation in seeing it are identical.
This is the view of William James, Professor
Dewey, and the American realists. Perceptions, says Professor Dewey, are not
per se cases of knowledge, but simply natural events with no more knowledge
status than (say) a shower. "Let them [the realists] try the experimen=
t of
conceiving perceptions as pure natural events, not cases of awareness or ap=
prehension,
and they will be surprised to see how little they miss."* I think he is
right in this, except in supposing that the realists will be surprised. Man=
y of
them already hold the view he is advocating, and others are very sympatheti=
c to
it. At any rate, it is the view which I shall adopt in these lectures.
*
Dewey, "Essays in Experimental Logic," pp. 253, 262.
The stuff of the world, so far as we have
experience of it, consists, on the view that I am advocating, of innumerable
transient particulars such as occur in seeing, hearing, etc., together with
images more or less resembling these, of which I shall speak shortly. If
physics is true, there are, besides the particulars that we experience, oth=
ers,
probably equally (or almost equally) transient, which make up that part of =
the material
world that does not come into the sort of contact with a living body that is
required to turn it into a sensation. But this topic belongs to the philoso=
phy
of physics, and need not concern us in our present inquiry.
Sensations are what is common to the mental and
physical worlds; they may be defined as the intersection of mind and matter.
This is by no means a new view; it is advocated, not only by the American
authors I have mentioned, but by Mach in his Analysis of Sensations, which =
was published
in 1886. The essence of sensation, according to the view I am advocating, is
its independence of past experience. It is a core in our actual experiences,
never existing in isolation except possibly in very young infants. It is not
itself knowledge, but it supplies the data for our knowledge of the physical
world, including our own bodies.
There are some who believe that our mental lif=
e is
built up out of sensations alone. This may be true; but in any case I think=
the
only ingredients required in addition to sensations are images. What images=
are,
and how they are to be defined, we have now to inquire.
The distinction between images and sensations
might seem at first sight by no means difficult. When we shut our eyes and =
call
up pictures of familiar scenes, we usually have no difficulty, so long as we
remain awake, in discriminating between what we are imagining and what is r=
eally
seen. If we imagine some piece of music that we know, we can go through it =
in
our mind from beginning to end without any discoverable tendency to suppose
that we are really hearing it. But although such cases are so clear that no
confusion seems possible, there are many others that are far more difficult,
and the definition of images is by no means an easy problem.
To begin with: we do not always know whether w=
hat
we are experiencing is a sensation or an image. The things we see in dreams
when our eyes are shut must count as images, yet while we are dreaming they
seem like sensations. Hallucinations often begin as persistent images, and =
only
gradually acquire that influence over belief that makes the patient regard =
them
as sensations. When we are listening for a faint sound--the striking of a
distant clock, or a horse's hoofs on the road--we think we hear it many tim=
es
before we really do, because expectation brings us the image, and we mistak=
e it
for sensation. The distinction between images and sensations is, therefore,=
by
no means always obvious to inspection.*
*=
On
the distinction between images and sensation, cf. Semon, "Die mnemischen
Empfindungen," pp. 19-20.
We may consider three different ways in which =
it
has been sought to distinguish images from sensations, namely:
(1) By the less degree of vividness in images;=
(2) By our absence of belief in their
"physical reality";
(3) By the fact that their causes and effects =
are
different from those of sensations.
I believe the third of these to be the only
universally applicable criterion. The other two are applicable in very many
cases, but cannot be used for purposes of definition because they are liabl=
e to
exceptions. Nevertheless, they both deserve to be carefully considered.
(1) Hume, who gives the names
"impressions" and "ideas" to what may, for present
purposes, be identified with our "sensations" and "images,&q=
uot;
speaks of impressions as "those perceptions which enter with most forc=
e and
violence" while he defines ideas as "the faint images of these (i=
.e. of
impressions) in thinking and reasoning." His immediately following obs=
ervations,
however, show the inadequacy of his criteria of "force" and
"faintness." He says:
"I believe it will not be very necessary =
to
employ many words in explaining this distinction. Every one of himself will
readily perceive the difference betwixt feeling and thinking. The common
degrees of these are easily distinguished, though it is not impossible but =
in
particular instances they may very nearly approach to each other. Thus in
sleep, in a fever, in madness, or in any very violent emotions of soul, our
ideas may approach to our impressions; as, on the other hand, it sometimes =
happens,
that our impressions are so faint and low that we cannot distinguish them f=
rom
our ideas. But notwithstanding this near resemblance in a few instances, th=
ey
are in general so very different, that no one can make a scruple to rank th=
em
under distinct heads, and assign to each a peculiar name to mark the
difference" ("Treatise of Human Nature," Part I, Section I).=
I think Hume is right in holding that they sho=
uld
be ranked under distinct heads, with a peculiar name for each. But by his o=
wn
confession in the above passage, his criterion for distinguishing them is n=
ot always
adequate. A definition is not sound if it only applies in cases where the
difference is glaring: the essential purpose of a definition is to provide a
mark which is applicable even in marginal cases--except, of course, when we=
are
dealing with a conception, like, e.g. baldness, which is one of degree and =
has
no sharp boundaries. But so far we have seen no reason to think that the
difference between sensations and images is only one of degree.
Professor Stout, in his "Manual of
Psychology," after discussing various ways of distinguishing sensations
and images, arrives at a view which is a modification of Hume's. He says (I
quote from the second edition):
"Our conclusion is that at bottom the
distinction between image and percept, as respectively faint and vivid stat=
es,
is based on a difference of quality. The percept has an aggressiveness which
does not belong to the image. It strikes the mind with varying degrees of f=
orce
or liveliness according to the varying intensity of the stimulus. This degr=
ee
of force or liveliness is part of what we ordinarily mean by the intensity =
of a
sensation. But this constituent of the intensity of sensations is absent in
mental imagery"(p. 419).
This view allows for the fact that sensations =
may
reach any degree of faintness--e.g. in the case of a just visible star or a
just audible sound--without becoming images, and that therefore mere faintn=
ess
cannot be the characteristic mark of images. After explaining the sudden sh=
ock of
a flash of lightning or a steam-whistle, Stout says that "no mere image
ever does strike the mind in this manner"(p. 417). But I believe that =
this
criterion fails in very much the same instances as those in which Hume's
criterion fails in its original form. Macbeth speaks of--
that suggestion Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair=
And make my seated heart knock at my=
ribs Against the use of nature.
The whistle of a steam-engine could hardly hav=
e a
stronger effect than this. A very intense emotion will often bring with
it--especially where some future action or some undecided issue is
involved--powerful compelling images which may determine the whole course of
life, sweeping aside all contrary solicitations to the will by their capaci=
ty
for exclusively possessing the mind. And in all cases where images, origina=
lly
recognized as such, gradually pass into hallucinations, there must be just =
that
"force or liveliness" which is supposed to be always absent from
images. The cases of dreams and fever-delirium are as hard to adjust to Pro=
fessor
Stout's modified criterion as to Hume's. I conclude therefore that the test=
of
liveliness, however applicable in ordinary instances, cannot be used to def=
ine
the differences between sensations and images.
(2) We might attempt to distinguish images from
sensations by our absence of belief in the "physical reality" of
images. When we are aware that what we are experiencing is an image, we do =
not
give it the kind of belief that we should give to a sensation: we do not th=
ink
that it has the same power of producing knowledge of the "external
world." Images are "imaginary"; in SOME sense they are
"unreal." But this difference is hard to analyse or state correct=
ly.
What we call the "unreality" of images requires interpretation it
cannot mean what would be expressed by saying "there's no such
thing." Images are just as truly part of the actual world as sensations
are. All that we really mean by calling an image "unreal" is that=
it
does not have the concomitants which it would have if it were a sensation. =
When
we call up a visual image of a chair, we do not attempt to sit in it, becau=
se
we know that, like Macbeth's dagger, it is not "sensible to feeling as=
to
sight"--i.e. it does not have the correlations with tactile sensations
which it would have if it were a visual sensation and not merely a visual
image. But this means that the so-called "unreality" of images
consists merely in their not obeying the laws of physics, and thus brings us
back to the causal distinction between images and sensations.
This view is confirmed by the fact that we only
feel images to be "unreal" when we already know them to be images.
Images cannot be defined by the FEELING of unreality, because when we false=
ly
believe an image to be a sensation, as in the case of dreams, it FEELS just=
as
real as if it were a sensation. Our feeling of unreality results from our h=
aving
already realized that we are dealing with an image, and cannot therefore be=
the
definition of what we mean by an image. As soon as an image begins to decei=
ve
us as to its status, it also deceives us as to its correlations, which are =
what
we mean by its "reality."
(3) This brings us to the third mode of
distinguishing images from sensations, namely, by their causes and effects.=
I
believe this to be the only valid ground of distinction. James, in the pass=
age
about the mental fire which won't burn real sticks, distinguishes images by
their effects, but I think the more reliable distinction is by their causes=
. Professor
Stout (loc. cit., p. 127) says: "One characteristic mark of what we ag=
ree
in calling sensation is its mode of production. It is caused by what we cal=
l a
STIMULUS. A stimulus is always some condition external to the nervous system
itself and operating upon it." I think that this is the correct view, =
and
that the distinction between images and sensations can only be made by taki=
ng
account of their causation. Sensations come through sense-organs, while ima=
ges
do not. We cannot have visual sensations in the dark, or with our eyes shut,
but we can very well have visual images under these circumstances. Accordin=
gly images
have been defined as "centrally excited sensations," i.e. sensati=
ons
which have their physiological cause in the brain only, not also in the
sense-organs and the nerves that run from the sense-organs to the brain. I
think the phrase "centrally excited sensations" assumes more than=
is
necessary, since it takes it for granted that an image must have a proximate
physiological cause. This is probably true, but it is an hypothesis, and for
our purposes an unnecessary one. It would seem to fit better with what we c=
an
immediately observe if we were to say that an image is occasioned, through
association, by a sensation or another image, in other words that it has a
mnemic cause--which does not prevent it from also having a physical cause. =
And
I think it will be found that the causation of an image always proceeds
according to mnemic laws, i.e. that it is governed by habit and past
experience. If you listen to a man playing the pianola without looking at h=
im,
you will have images of his hands on the keys as if he were playing the pia=
no;
if you suddenly look at him while you are absorbed in the music, you will
experience a shock of surprise when you notice that his hands are not touch=
ing
the notes. Your image of his hands is due to the many times that you have h=
eard
similar sounds and at the same time seen the player's hands on the piano. W=
hen
habit and past experience play this part, we are in the region of mnemic as
opposed to ordinary physical causation. And I think that, if we could regar=
d as
ultimately valid the difference between physical and mnemic causation, we c=
ould
distinguish images from sensations as having mnemic causes, though they may
also have physical causes. Sensations, on the other hand, will only have
physical causes.
However this may be, the practically effective
distinction between sensations and images is that in the causation of
sensations, but not of images, the stimulation of nerves carrying an effect
into the brain, usually from the surface of the body, plays an essential pa=
rt.
And this accounts for the fact that images and sensations cannot always be =
distinguished
by their intrinsic nature.
Images also differ from sensations as regards
their effects. Sensations, as a rule, have both physical and mental effects=
. As
you watch the train you meant to catch leaving the station, there are both =
the
successive positions of the train (physical effects) and the successive wav=
es of
fury and disappointment (mental effects). Images, on the contrary, though t=
hey
MAY produce bodily movements, do so according to mnemic laws, not according=
to
the laws of physics. All their effects, of whatever nature, follow mnemic l=
aws.
But this difference is less suitable for definition than the difference as =
to
causes.
Professor Watson, as a logical carrying-out of=
his
behaviourist theory, denies altogether that there are any observable phenom=
ena
such as images are supposed to be. He replaces them all by faint sensations,
and especially by pronunciation of words sotto voce. When we "think&qu=
ot;
of a table (say), as opposed to seeing it, what happens, according to him, =
is usually
that we are making small movements of the throat and tongue such as would l=
ead
to our uttering the word "table" if they were more pronounced. I
shall consider his view again in connection with words; for the present I am
only concerned to combat his denial of images. This denial is set forth bot=
h in
his book on "Behavior" and in an article called "Image and
Affection in Behavior" in the "Journal of Philosophy, Psychology =
and
Scientific Methods," vol. x (July, 1913). It seems to me that in this
matter he has been betrayed into denying plain facts in the interests of a
theory, namely, the supposed impossibility of introspection. I dealt with t=
he
theory in Lecture VI; for the present I wish to reinforce the view that the
facts are undeniable.
Images are of various sorts, according to the
nature of the sensations which they copy. Images of bodily movements, such =
as
we have when we imagine moving an arm or, on a smaller scale, pronouncing a
word, might possibly be explained away on Professor Watson's lines, as real=
ly consisting
in small incipient movements such as, if magnified and prolonged, would be =
the
movements we are said to be imagining. Whether this is the case or not might
even be decided experimentally. If there were a delicate instrument for
recording small movements in the mouth and throat, we might place such an
instrument in a person's mouth and then tell him to recite a poem to himsel=
f,
as far as possible only in imagination. I should not be at all surprised if=
it
were found that actual small movements take place while he is
"mentally" saying over the verses. The point is important, because
what is called "thought" consists mainly (though I think not whol=
ly)
of inner speech. If Professor Watson is right as regards inner speech, this
whole region is transferred from imagination to sensation. But since the
question is capable of experimental decision, it would be gratuitous rashne=
ss
to offer an opinion while that decision is lacking.
But visual and auditory images are much more difficult to deal with in this way, because they lack the connection with physical events in the outer world which belongs to visual and auditory sensations. Suppose, for example, that I am sitting in my room, in which th= ere is an empty arm-chair. I shut my eyes, and call up a visual image of a frie= nd sitting in the arm-chair. If I thrust my image into the world of physics, it contradicts all the usual physical laws. My friend reached the chair without coming in at the door in the usual way; subsequent inquiry will show that he was somewhere else at the moment. If regarded as a sensation, my image has = all the marks of the supernatural. My image, therefore, is regarded as an event= in me, not as having that position in the orderly happenings of the public world t= hat belongs to sensations. By saying that it is an event in me, we leave it possible that it may be PHYSIOLOGICALLY caused: its privacy may be only due= to its connection with my body. But in any case it is not a public event, like an actual person walking in at the door and sitting down in my chair. And it cannot, like inner speech, be regarded as a SMALL sensation, since it occup= ies just as large an area in my visual field as the actual sensation would do.<= o:p>
Professor Watson says: "I should throw out
imagery altogether and attempt to show that all natural thought goes on in
terms of sensori-motor processes in the larynx." This view seems to me
flatly to contradict experience. If you try to persuade any uneducated pers=
on
that she cannot call up a visual picture of a friend sitting in a chair, bu=
t can
only use words describing what such an occurrence would be like, she will
conclude that you are mad. (This statement is based upon experiment.) Galto=
n,
as every one knows, investigated visual imagery, and found that education t=
ends
to kill it: the Fellows of the Royal Society turned out to have much less o=
f it
than their wives. I see no reason to doubt his conclusion that the habit of=
abstract
pursuits makes learned men much inferior to the average in power of
visualizing, and much more exclusively occupied with words in their
"thinking." And Professor Watson is a very learned man.
I shall henceforth assume that the existence of
images is admitted, and that they are to be distinguished from sensations by
their causes, as well as, in a lesser degree, by their effects. In their
intrinsic nature, though they often differ from sensations by being more di=
m or
vague or faint, yet they do not always or universally differ from sensation=
s in
any way that can be used for defining them. Their privacy need form no bar =
to
the scientific study of them, any more than the privacy of bodily sensations
does. Bodily sensations are admitted by even the most severe critics of
introspection, although, like images, they can only be observed by one
observer. It must be admitted, however, that the laws of the appearance and
disappearance of images are little known and difficult to discover, because=
we
are not assisted, as in the case of sensations, by our knowledge of the
physical world.
There remains one very important point concern=
ing
images, which will occupy us much hereafter, and that is, their resemblance=
to
previous sensations. They are said to be "copies" of sensations,
always as regards the simple qualities that enter into them, though not alw=
ays as
regards the manner in which these are put together. It is generally believed
that we cannot imagine a shade of colour that we have never seen, or a sound
that we have never heard. On this subject Hume is the classic. He says, in =
the
definitions already quoted:
"Those perceptions, which enter with most
force and violence, we may name IMPRESSIONS; and under this name I comprehe=
nd
all our sensations, passions and emotions, as they make their first appeara=
nce
in the soul. By IDEAS I mean the faint images of these in thinking and
reasoning."
He next explains the difference between simple= and complex ideas, and explains that a complex idea may occur without any simil= ar complex impression. But as regards simple ideas, he states that "every simple idea has a simple impression, which resembles it, and every simple i= mpression a correspondent idea." He goes on to enunciate the general principle "that all our simple ideas in their first appearance are derived from simple impressions, which are correspondent to them, and which they exactly represent" ("Treatise of Human Nature," Part I, Section I).<= o:p>
It is this fact, that images resemble antecede=
nt
sensations, which enables us to call them images "of" this or tha=
t.
For the understanding of memory, and of knowledge generally, the recognizab=
le
resemblance of images and sensations is of fundamental importance.
There are difficulties in establishing Hume's
principles, and doubts as to whether it is exactly true. Indeed, he himself
signalized an exception immediately after stating his maxim. Nevertheless, =
it
is impossible to doubt that in the main simple images are copies of similar=
simple
sensations which have occurred earlier, and that the same is true of complex
images in all cases of memory as opposed to mere imagination. Our power of
acting with reference to what is sensibly absent is largely due to this
characteristic of images, although, as education advances, images tend to be
more and more replaced by words. We shall have much to say in the next two
lectures on the subject of images as copies of sensations. What has been sa=
id
now is merely by way of reminder that this is their most notable
characteristic.
I am by no means confident that the distinction
between images and sensations is ultimately valid, and I should be glad to =
be
convinced that images can be reduced to sensations of a peculiar kind. I th=
ink
it is clear, however, that, at any rate in the case of auditory and visual =
images,
they do differ from ordinary auditory and visual sensations, and therefore =
form
a recognizable class of occurrences, even if it should prove that they can =
be
regarded as a sub-class of sensations. This is all that is necessary to
validate the use of images to be made in the sequel.
Memory, which we are to consider to-day,
introduces us to knowledge in one of its forms. The analysis of knowledge w=
ill
occupy us until the end of the thirteenth lecture, and is the most difficult
part of our whole enterprise.
I do not myself believe that the analysis of
knowledge can be effected entirely by means of purely external observation,
such as behaviourists employ. I shall discuss this question in later lectur=
es.
In the present lecture I shall attempt the analysis of memory-knowledge, bo=
th
as an introduction to the problem of knowledge in general, and because memo=
ry, in
some form, is presupposed in almost all other knowledge. Sensation, we deci=
ded,
is not a form of knowledge. It might, however, have been expected that we
should begin our discussion of knowledge with PERCEPTION, i.e. with that
integral experience of things in the environment, out of which sensation is
extracted by psychological analysis. What is called perception differs from
sensation by the fact that the sensational ingredients bring up habitual
associates--images and expectations of their usual correlates--all of which=
are
subjectively indistinguishable from the sensation. The FACT of past experie=
nce
is essential in producing this filling-out of sensation, but not the
RECOLLECTION of past experience. The non-sensational elements in perception=
can
be wholly explained as the result of habit, produced by frequent correlatio=
ns.
Perception, according to our definition in Lecture VII, is no more a form of
knowledge than sensation is, except in so far as it involves expectations. =
The
purely psychological problems which it raises are not very difficult, though
they have sometimes been rendered artificially obscure by unwillingness to
admit the fallibility of the non-sensational elements of perception. On the
other hand, memory raises many difficult and very important problems, which=
it
is necessary to consider at the first possible moment.
One reason for treating memory at this early s=
tage
is that it seems to be involved in the fact that images are recognized as
"copies" of past sensible experience. In the preceding lecture I
alluded to Hume's principle "that all our simple ideas in their first
appearance are derived from simple impressions, which are correspondent to
them, and which they exactly represent." Whether or not this principle=
is
liable to exceptions, everyone would agree that is has a broad measure of t=
ruth,
though the word "exactly" might seem an overstatement, and it mig=
ht
seem more correct to say that ideas APPROXIMATELY represent impressions. Su=
ch
modifications of Hume's principle, however, do not affect the problem which=
I
wish to present for your consideration, namely: Why do we believe that imag=
es
are, sometimes or always, approximately or exactly, copies of sensations? W=
hat
sort of evidence is there? And what sort of evidence is logically possible?=
The
difficulty of this question arises through the fact that the sensation whic=
h an
image is supposed to copy is in the past when the image exists, and can the=
refore
only be known by memory, while, on the other hand, memory of past sensations
seems only possible by means of present images. How, then, are we to find a=
ny
way of comparing the present image and the past sensation? The problem is j=
ust
as acute if we say that images differ from their prototypes as if we say th=
at
they resemble them; it is the very possibility of comparison that is hard to
understand.* We think we can know that they are alike or different, but we
cannot bring them together in one experience and compare them. To deal with
this problem, we must have a theory of memory. In this way the whole status=
of
images as "copies" is bound up with the analysis of memory.
*=
How,
for example, can we obtain such knowledge as the following: "If we look at, say,=
a red
nose and perceive it, and afte=
r a
little while ekphore, its memory-image, we note immediately how unlike, in its liken=
ess,
this memory-image is to the or=
iginal
perception" (A. Wohlgemuth, "On the Feelings and their Neural Correlate =
with
an Examination of the Nature of
Pain," "Journal of Psychology," vol. viii, part iv, June, 1917).
In investigating memory-beliefs, there are cer=
tain
points which must be borne in mind. In the first place, everything constitu=
ting
a memory-belief is happening now, not in that past time to which the belief=
is
said to refer. It is not logically necessary to the existence of a
memory-belief that the event remembered should have occurred, or even that =
the
past should have existed at all. There is no logical impossibility in the
hypothesis that the world sprang into being five minutes ago, exactly as it
then was, with a population that "remembered" a wholly unreal pas=
t.
There is no logically necessary connection between events at different time=
s;
therefore nothing that is happening now or will happen in the future can
disprove the hypothesis that the world began five minutes ago. Hence the
occurrences which are CALLED knowledge of the past are logically independen=
t of
the past; they are wholly analysable into present contents, which might,
theoretically, be just what they are even if no past had existed.
I am not suggesting that the non-existence of =
the
past should be entertained as a serious hypothesis. Like all sceptical
hypotheses, it is logically tenable, but uninteresting. All that I am doing=
is
to use its logical tenability as a help in the analysis of what occurs when=
we remember.
In the second place, images without beliefs are
insufficient to constitute memory; and habits are still more insufficient. =
The behaviourist,
who attempts to make psychology a record of behaviour, has to trust his mem=
ory
in making the record. "Habit" is a concept involving the occurren=
ce
of similar events at different times; if the behaviourist feels confident t=
hat
there is such a phenomenon as habit, that can only be because he trusts his
memory, when it assures him that there have been other times. And the same
applies to images. If we are to know as it is supposed we do--that images a=
re
"copies," accurate or inaccurate, of past events, something more =
than
the mere occurrence of images must go to constitute this knowledge. For the=
ir
mere occurrence, by itself, would not suggest any connection with anything =
that
had happened before.
Can we constitute memory out of images together
with suitable beliefs? We may take it that memory-images, when they occur in
true memory, are (a) known to be copies, (b) sometimes known to be imperfect
copies (cf. footnote on previous page). How is it possible to know that a m=
emory-image
is an imperfect copy, without having a more accurate copy by which to repla=
ce
it? This would SEEM to suggest that we have a way of knowing the past which=
is
independent of images, by means of which we can criticize image-memories. B=
ut I
do not think such an inference is warranted.
What results, formally, from our knowledge of =
the
past through images of which we recognize the inaccuracy, is that such imag=
es
must have two characteristics by which we can arrange them in two series, of
which one corresponds to the more or less remote period in the past to whic=
h they
refer, and the other to our greater or less confidence in their accuracy. We
will take the second of these points first.
Our confidence or lack of confidence in the
accuracy of a memory-image must, in fundamental cases, be based upon a
characteristic of the image itself, since we cannot evoke the past bodily a=
nd
compare it with the present image. It might be suggested that vagueness is =
the
required characteristic, but I do not think this is the case. We sometimes =
have
images that are by no means peculiarly vague, which yet we do not trust--for
example, under the influence of fatigue we may see a friend's face vividly =
and
clearly, but horribly distorted. In such a case we distrust our image in sp=
ite
of its being unusually clear. I think the characteristic by which we
distinguish the images we trust is the feeling of FAMILIARITY that accompan=
ies
them. Some images, like some sensations, feel very familiar, while others f=
eel
strange. Familiarity is a feeling capable of degrees. In an image of a
well-known face, for example, some parts may feel more familiar than others;
when this happens, we have more belief in the accuracy of the familiar parts
than in that of the unfamiliar parts. I think it is by this means that we b=
ecome
critical of images, not by some imageless memory with which we compare them=
. I
shall return to the consideration of familiarity shortly.
I come now to the other characteristic which
memory-images must have in order to account for our knowledge of the past. =
They
must have some characteristic which makes us regard them as referring to mo=
re
or less remote portions of the past. That is to say if we suppose that A is=
the
event remembered, B the remembering, and t the interval of time between A a=
nd
B, there must be some characteristic of B which is capable of degrees, and
which, in accurately dated memories, varies as t varies. It may increase as=
t
increases, or diminish as t increases. The question which of these occurs is
not of any importance for the theoretic serviceability of the characteristi=
c in
question.
In actual fact, there are doubtless various
factors that concur in giving us the feeling of greater or less remoteness =
in
some remembered event. There may be a specific feeling which could be called
the feeling of "pastness," especially where immediate memory is
concerned. But apart from this, there are other marks. One of these is cont=
ext.
A recent memory has, usually, more context than a more distant one. When a =
remembered
event has a remembered context, this may occur in two ways, either (a) by
successive images in the same order as their prototypes, or (b) by remember=
ing
a whole process simultaneously, in the same way in which a present process =
may
be apprehended, through akoluthic sensations which, by fading, acquire the =
mark
of just-pastness in an increasing degree as they fade, and are thus placed =
in a
series while all sensibly present. It will be context in this second sense,
more specially, that will give us a sense of the nearness or remoteness of a
remembered event.
There is, of course, a difference between know=
ing
the temporal relation of a remembered event to the present, and knowing the
time-order of two remembered events. Very often our knowledge of the tempor=
al
relation of a remembered event to the present is inferred from its temporal=
relations
to other remembered events. It would seem that only rather recent events ca=
n be
placed at all accurately by means of feelings giving their temporal relatio=
n to
the present, but it is clear that such feelings must play an essential part=
in
the process of dating remembered events.
We may say, then, that images are regarded by =
us
as more or less accurate copies of past occurrences because they come to us
with two sorts of feelings: (1) Those that may be called feelings of
familiarity; (2) those that may be collected together as feelings giving a
sense of pastness. The first lead us to trust our memories, the second to
assign places to them in the time-order.
We have now to analyse the memory-belief, as
opposed to the characteristics of images which lead us to base memory-belie=
fs
upon them.
If we had retained the "subject" or
"act" in knowledge, the whole problem of memory would have been
comparatively simple. We could then have said that remembering is a direct
relation between the present act or subject and the past occurrence remembe=
red:
the act of remembering is present, though its object is past. But the rejec=
tion
of the subject renders some more complicated theory necessary. Remembering =
has
to be a present occurrence in some way resembling, or related to, what is r=
emembered.
And it is difficult to find any ground, except a pragmatic one, for supposi=
ng
that memory is not sheer delusion, if, as seems to be the case, there is no=
t,
apart from memory, any way of ascertaining that there really was a past
occurrence having the required relation to our present remembering. What, i=
f we
followed Meinong's terminology, we should call the "object" in
memory, i.e. the past event which we are said to be remembering, is
unpleasantly remote from the "content," i.e. the present mental
occurrence in remembering. There is an awkward gulf between the two, which
raises difficulties for the theory of knowledge. But we must not falsify
observation to avoid theoretical difficulties. For the present, therefore, =
let
us forget these problems, and try to discover what actually occurs in memor=
y.
Some points may be taken as fixed, and such as= any theory of memory must arrive at. In this case, as in most others, what may = be taken as certain in advance is rather vague. The study of any topic is like= the continued observation of an object which is approaching us along a road: wh= at is certain to begin with is the quite vague knowledge that there is SOME ob= ject on the road. If you attempt to be less vague, and to assert that the object= is an elephant, or a man, or a mad dog, you run a risk of error; but the purpo= se of continued observation is to enable you to arrive at such more precise knowledge. In like manner, in the study of memory, the certainties with whi= ch you begin are very vague, and the more precise propositions at which you tr= y to arrive are less certain than the hazy data from which you set out. Neverthe= less, in spite of the risk of error, precision is the goal at which we must aim.<= o:p>
The first of our vague but indubitable data is
that there is knowledge of the past. We do not yet know with any precision =
what
we mean by "knowledge," and we must admit that in any given insta=
nce
our memory may be at fault. Nevertheless, whatever a sceptic might urge in
theory, we cannot practically doubt that we got up this morning, that we di=
d various
things yesterday, that a great war has been taking place, and so on. How far
our knowledge of the past is due to memory, and how far to other sources, i=
s of
course a matter to be investigated, but there can be no doubt that memory f=
orms
an indispensable part of our knowledge of the past.
The second datum is that we certainly have more
capacity for knowing the past than for knowing the future. We know some thi=
ngs
about the future, for example what eclipses there will be; but this knowled=
ge
is a matter of elaborate calculation and inference, whereas some of our
knowledge of the past comes to us without effort, in the same sort of immed=
iate
way in which we acquire knowledge of occurrences in our present environment=
. We
might provisionally, though perhaps not quite correctly, define "memor=
y"
as that way of knowing about the past which has no analogue in our knowledg=
e of
the future; such a definition would at least serve to mark the problem with
which we are concerned, though some expectations may deserve to rank with
memory as regards immediacy.
A third point, perhaps not quite so certain as=
our
previous two, is that the truth of memory cannot be wholly practical, as
pragmatists wish all truth to be. It seems clear that some of the things I
remember are trivial and without any visible importance for the future, but
that my memory is true (or false) in virtue of a past event, not in virtue =
of any
future consequences of my belief. The definition of truth as the correspond=
ence
between beliefs and facts seems peculiarly evident in the case of memory, as
against not only the pragmatist definition but also the idealist definition=
by
means of coherence. These considerations, however, are taking us away from
psychology, to which we must now return.
It is important not to confuse the two forms of
memory which Bergson distinguishes in the second chapter of his "Matter
and Memory," namely the sort that consists of habit, and the sort that
consists of independent recollection. He gives the instance of learning a
lesson by heart: when I know it by heart I am said to "remember" =
it,
but this merely means that I have acquired certain habits; on the other han=
d, my
recollection of (say) the second time I read the lesson while I was learnin=
g it
is the recollection of a unique event, which occurred only once. The
recollection of a unique event cannot, so Bergson contends, be wholly
constituted by habit, and is in fact something radically different from the
memory which is habit. The recollection alone is true memory. This distinct=
ion
is vital to the understanding of memory. But it is not so easy to carry out=
in
practice as it is to draw in theory. Habit is a very intrusive feature of o=
ur
mental life, and is often present where at first sight it seems not to be.
There is, for example, a habit of remembering a unique event. When we have =
once
described the event, the words we have used easily become habitual. We may =
even
have used words to describe it to ourselves while it was happening; in that=
case,
the habit of these words may fulfil the function of Bergson's true memory,
while in reality it is nothing but habit-memory. A gramophone, by the help =
of
suitable records, might relate to us the incidents of its past; and people =
are
not so different from gramophones as they like to believe.
In spite, however, of a difficulty in
distinguishing the two forms of memory in practice, there can be no doubt t=
hat
both forms exist. I can set to work now to remember things I never remember=
ed
before, such as what I had to eat for breakfast this morning, and it can ha=
rdly
be wholly habit that enables me to do this. It is this sort of occurrence t=
hat
constitutes the essence of memory Until we have analysed what happens in su=
ch a
case as this, we have not succeeded in understanding memory.
The sort of memory with which we are here
concerned is the sort which is a form of knowledge. Whether knowledge itsel=
f is
reducible to habit is a question to which I shall return in a later lecture;
for the present I am only anxious to point out that, whatever the true anal=
ysis
of knowledge may be, knowledge of past occurrences is not proved by behavio=
ur
which is due to past experience. The fact that a man can recite a poem does=
not
show that he remembers any previous occasion on which he has recited or read
it. Similarly, the performances of animals in getting out of cages or mazes=
to
which they are accustomed do not prove that they remember having been in the
same situation before. Arguments in favour of (for example) memory in plants
are only arguments in favour of habit-memory, not of knowledge-memory. Samu=
el
Butler's arguments in favour of the view that an animal remembers something=
of the
lives of its ancestors* are, when examined, only arguments in favour of
habit-memory. Semon's two books, mentioned in an earlier lecture, do not to=
uch
knowledge-memory at all closely. They give laws according to which images of
past occurrences come into our minds, but do not discuss our belief that th=
ese
images refer to past occurrences, which is what constitutes knowledge-memor=
y.
It is this that is of interest to theory of knowledge. I shall speak of it =
as
"true" memory, to distinguish it from mere habit acquired through
past experience. Before considering true memory, it will be well to consider
two things which are on the way towards memory, namely the feeling of
familiarity and recognition.
*=
See
his "Life and Habit and Unconscious Memory."
We often feel that something in our sensible
environment is familiar, without having any definite recollection of previo=
us
occasions on which we have seen it. We have this feeling normally in places
where we have often been before--at home, or in well-known streets. Most pe=
ople
and animals find it essential to their happiness to spend a good deal of th=
eir
time in familiar surroundings, which are especially comforting when any dan=
ger
threatens. The feeling of familiarity has all sorts of degrees, down to the
stage where we dimly feel that we have seen a person before. It is by no me=
ans
always reliable; almost everybody has at some time experienced the well-kno=
wn
illusion that all that is happening now happened before at some time. There=
are
occasions when familiarity does not attach itself to any definite object, w=
hen
there is merely a vague feeling that SOMETHING is familiar. This is illustr=
ated
by Turgenev's "Smoke," where the hero is long puzzled by a haunti=
ng sense
that something in his present is recalling something in his past, and at la=
st
traces it to the smell of heliotrope. Whenever the sense of familiarity occ=
urs
without a definite object, it leads us to search the environment until we a=
re
satisfied that we have found the appropriate object, which leads us to the
judgment: "THIS is familiar." I think we may regard familiarity a=
s a
definite feeling, capable of existing without an object, but normally stand=
ing
in a specific relation to some feature of the environment, the relation bei=
ng
that which we express in words by saying that the feature in question is
familiar. The judgment that what is familiar has been experienced before is=
a
product of reflection, and is no part of the feeling of familiarity, such a=
s a horse
may be supposed to have when he returns to his stable. Thus no knowledge as=
to
the past is to be derived from the feeling of familiarity alone.
A further stage is RECOGNITION. This may be ta=
ken
in two senses, the first when a thing not merely feels familiar, but we kno=
w it
is such-and-such. We recognize our friend Jones, we know cats and dogs when=
we
see them, and so on. Here we have a definite influence of past experience, =
but
not necessarily any actual knowledge of the past. When we see a cat, we kno=
w it
is a cat because of previous cats we have seen, but we do not, as a rule,
recollect at the moment any particular occasion when we have seen a cat.
Recognition in this sense does not necessarily involve more than a habit of
association: the kind of object we are seeing at the moment is associated w=
ith
the word "cat," or with an auditory image of purring, or whatever
other characteristic we may happen to recognize in the cat of the moment. We
are, of course, in fact able to judge, when we recognize an object, that we
have seen it before, but this judgment is something over and above recognit=
ion
in this first sense, and may very probably be impossible to animals that ne=
vertheless
have the experience of recognition in this first sense of the word.
There is, however, another sense of the word, =
in
which we mean by recognition, not knowing the name of a thing or some other
property of it, but knowing that we have seen it before In this sense
recognition does involve knowledge about the Fast. This knowledge is memory=
in one
sense, though in another it is not. It does not involve a definite memory o=
f a
definite past event, but only the knowledge that something happening now is
similar to something that happened before. It differs from the sense of
familiarity by being cognitive; it is a belief or judgment, which the sense=
of
familiarity is not. I do not wish to undertake the analysis of belief at
present, since it will be the subject of the twelfth lecture; for the prese=
nt I
merely wish to emphasize the fact that recognition, in our second sense,
consists in a belief, which we may express approximately in the words:
"This has existed before."
There are, however, several points in which su=
ch
an account of recognition is inadequate. To begin with, it might seem at fi=
rst
sight more correct to define recognition as "I have seen this before&q=
uot;
than as "this has existed before." We recognize a thing (it may be
urged) as having been in our experience before, whatever that may mean; we =
do
not recognize it as merely having been in the world before. I am not sure t=
hat
there is anything substantial in this point. The definition of "my exp=
erience"
is difficult; broadly speaking, it is everything that is connected with wha=
t I
am experiencing now by certain links, of which the various forms of memory =
are
among the most important. Thus, if I recognize a thing, the occasion of its
previous existence in virtue of which I recognize it forms part of "my
experience" by DEFINITION: recognition will be one of the marks by whi=
ch
my experience is singled out from the rest of the world. Of course, the wor=
ds
"this has existed before" are a very inadequate translation of wh=
at
actually happens when we form a judgment of recognition, but that is
unavoidable: words are framed to express a level of thought which is by no
means primitive, and are quite incapable of expressing such an elementary
occurrence as recognition. I shall return to what is virtually the same
question in connection with true memory, which raises exactly similar probl=
ems.
A second point is that, when we recognize
something, it was not in fact the very same thing, but only something simil=
ar,
that we experienced on a former occasion. Suppose the object in question is=
a
friend's face. A person's face is always changing, and is not exactly the s=
ame
on any two occasions. Common sense treats it as one face with varying
expressions; but the varying expressions actually exist, each at its proper
time, while the one face is merely a logical construction. We regard two ob=
jects
as the same, for common-sense purposes, when the reaction they call for is
practically the same. Two visual appearances, to both of which it is
appropriate to say: "Hullo, Jones!" are treated as appearances of=
one
identical object, namely Jones. The name "Jones" is applicable to
both, and it is only reflection that shows us that many diverse particulars=
are
collected together to form the meaning of the name "Jones." What =
we
see on any one occasion is not the whole series of particulars that make up
Jones, but only one of them (or a few in quick succession). On another occa=
sion
we see another member of the series, but it is sufficiently similar to coun=
t as
the same from the standpoint of common sense. Accordingly, when we judge
"I have seen THIS before," we judge falsely if "this" is
taken as applying to the actual constituent of the world that we are seeing=
at
the moment. The word "this" must be interpreted vaguely so as to
include anything sufficiently like what we are seeing at the moment. Here,
again, we shall find a similar point as regards true memory; and in connect=
ion with
true memory we will consider the point again. It is sometimes suggested, by
those who favour behaviourist views, that recognition consists in behaving =
in
the same way when a stimulus is repeated as we behaved on the first occasion
when it occurred. This seems to be the exact opposite of the truth. The ess=
ence
of recognition is in the DIFFERENCE between a repeated stimulus and a new o=
ne.
On the first occasion there is no recognition; on the second occasion there=
is.
In fact, recognition is another instance of the peculiarity of causal laws =
in
psychology, namely, that the causal unit is not a single event, but two or =
more
events Habit is the great instance of this, but recognition is another. A
stimulus occurring once has a certain effect; occurring twice, it has the
further effect of recognition. Thus the phenomenon of recognition has as its
cause the two occasions when the stimulus has occurred; either alone is
insufficient. This complexity of causes in psychology might be connected wi=
th
Bergson's arguments against repetition in the mental world. It does not pro=
ve
that there are no causal laws in psychology, as Bergson suggests; but it do=
es
prove that the causal laws of psychology are Prima facie very different from
those of physics. On the possibility of explaining away the difference as d=
ue to
the peculiarities of nervous tissue I have spoken before, but this possibil=
ity
must not be forgotten if we are tempted to draw unwarranted metaphysical
deductions.
True memory, which we must now endeavour to
understand, consists of knowledge of past events, but not of all such
knowledge. Some knowledge of past events, for example what we learn through
reading history, is on a par with the knowledge we can acquire concerning t=
he
future: it is obtained by inference, not (so to speak) spontaneously. There=
is a
similar distinction in our knowledge of the present: some of it is obtained
through the senses, some in more indirect ways. I know that there are at th=
is
moment a number of people in the streets of New York, but I do not know thi=
s in
the immediate way in which I know of the people whom I see by looking out o=
f my
window. It is not easy to state precisely wherein the difference between th=
ese
two sorts of knowledge consists, but it is easy to feel the difference. For=
the
moment, I shall not stop to analyse it, but shall content myself with saying
that, in this respect, memory resembles the knowledge derived from the sens=
es. It
is immediate, not inferred, not abstract; it differs from perception mainly=
by
being referred to the past.
In regard to memory, as throughout the analysi=
s of
knowledge, there are two very distinct problems, namely (1) as to the natur=
e of
the present occurrence in knowing; (2) as to the relation of this occurrenc=
e to
what is known. When we remember, the knowing is now, while what is known is=
in
the past. Our two questions are, in the case of memory:
(1) What is the present occurrence when we
remember?
(2) What is the relation of this present
occurrence to the past event which is remembered?
Of these two questions, only the first concerns
the psychologist; the second belongs to theory of knowledge. At the same ti=
me,
if we accept the vague datum with which we began, to the effect that, in so=
me
sense, there is knowledge of the past, we shall have to find, if we can, su=
ch an
account of the present occurrence in remembering as will make it not imposs=
ible
for remembering to give us knowledge of the past. For the present, however,=
we
shall do well to forget the problems concerning theory of knowledge, and
concentrate upon the purely psychological problem of memory.
Between memory-image and sensation there is an
intermediate experience concerning the immediate past. For example, a sound
that we have just heard is present to us in a way which differs both from t=
he
sensation while we are hearing the sound and from the memory-image of somet=
hing
heard days or weeks ago. James states that it is this way of apprehending t=
he
immediate past that is "the ORIGINAL of our experience of pastness, fr=
om
whence we get the meaning of the term"("Psychology," i, p. 6=
04).
Everyone knows the experience of noticing (say) that the clock HAS BEEN
striking, when we did not notice it while it was striking. And when we hear=
a remark
spoken, we are conscious of the earlier words while the later ones are being
uttered, and this retention feels different from recollection of something
definitely past. A sensation fades gradually, passing by continuous gradati=
ons
to the status of an image. This retention of the immediate past in a condit=
ion intermediate
between sensation and image may be called "immediate memory."
Everything belonging to it is included with sensation in what is called the
"specious present." The specious present includes elements at all
stages on the journey from sensation to image. It is this fact that enables=
us
to apprehend such things as movements, or the order of the words in a spoken
sentence. Succession can occur within the specious present, of which we can=
distinguish
some parts as earlier and others as later. It is to be supposed that the
earliest parts are those that have faded most from their original force, wh=
ile
the latest parts are those that retain their full sensational character. At=
the
beginning of a stimulus we have a sensation; then a gradual transition; and=
at
the end an image. Sensations while they are fading are called
"akoluthic" sensations.* When the process of fading is completed
(which happens very quickly), we arrive at the image, which is capable of b=
eing
revived on subsequent occasions with very little change. True memory, as
opposed to "immediate memory," applies only to events sufficiently
distant to have come to an end of the period of fading. Such events, if they
are represented by anything present, can only be represented by images, not=
by
those intermediate stages, between sensations and images, which occur during
the period of fading.
*=
See
Semon, "Die mnemischen Empfindungen," chap. vi.
Immediate memory is important both because it
provides experience of succession, and because it bridges the gulf between
sensations and the images which are their copies. But it is now time to res=
ume
the consideration of true memory.
Suppose you ask me what I ate for breakfast th=
is
morning. Suppose, further, that I have not thought about my breakfast in the
meantime, and that I did not, while I was eating it, put into words what it
consisted of. In this case my recollection will be true memory, not
habit-memory. The process of remembering will consist of calling up images =
of
my breakfast, which will come to me with a feeling of belief such as distin=
guishes
memory-images from mere imagination-images. Or sometimes words may come wit=
hout
the intermediary of images; but in this case equally the feeling of belief =
is
essential.
Let us omit from our consideration, for the
present, the memories in which words replace images. These are always, I th=
ink,
really habit-memories, the memories that use images being the typical true =
memories.
Memory-images and imagination-images do not di=
ffer
in their intrinsic qualities, so far as we can discover. They differ by the
fact that the images that constitute memories, unlike those that constitute=
imagination,
are accompanied by a feeling of belief which may be expressed in the words
"this happened." The mere occurrence of images, without this feel=
ing
of belief, constitutes imagination; it is the element of belief that is the
distinctive thing in memory.*
*=
For
belief of a specific kind, cf. Dorothy Wrinch "On the Nature of Memory," "Mind,&=
quot;
January, 1920.
There are, if I am not mistaken, at least three
different kinds of belief-feeling, which we may call respectively memory,
expectation and bare assent. In what I call bare assent, there is no
time-element in the feeling of belief, though there may be in the content of
what is believed. If I believe that Caesar landed in Britain in B.C. 55, th=
e time-determination
lies, not in the feeling of belief, but in what is believed. I do not remem=
ber
the occurrence, but have the same feeling towards it as towards the
announcement of an eclipse next year. But when I have seen a flash of light=
ning
and am waiting for the thunder, I have a belief-feeling analogous to memory,
except that it refers to the future: I have an image of thunder, combined w=
ith
a feeling which may be expressed in the words: "this will happen."
So, in memory, the pastness lies, not in the content of what is believed, b=
ut
in the nature of the belief-feeling. I might have just the same images and
expect their realization; I might entertain them without any belief, as in
reading a novel; or I might entertain them together with a time-determinati=
on,
and give bare assent, as in reading history. I shall return to this subject=
in
a later lecture, when we come to the analysis of belief. For the present, I
wish to make it clear that a certain special kind of belief is the distinct=
ive
characteristic of memory.
The p=
roblem
as to whether memory can be explained as habit or association requires to be
considered afresh in connection with the causes of our remembering somethin=
g.
Let us take again the case of my being asked what I had for breakfast this
morning. In this case the question leads to my setting to work to recollect=
. It
is a little strange that the question should instruct me as to what it is t=
hat
I am to recall. This has to do with understanding words, which will be the =
topic
of the next lecture; but something must be said about it now. Our understan=
ding
of the words "breakfast this morning" is a habit, in spite of the
fact that on each fresh day they point to a different occasion. "This
morning" does not, whenever it is used, mean the same thing, as "=
John"
or "St. Paul's" does; it means a different period of time on each
different day. It follows that the habit which constitutes our understandin=
g of
the words "this morning" is not the habit of associating the words
with a fixed object, but the habit of associating them with something havin=
g a
fixed time-relation to our present. This morning has, to-day, the same
time-relation to my present that yesterday morning had yesterday. In order =
to
understand the phrase "this morning" it is necessary that we shou=
ld
have a way of feeling time-intervals, and that this feeling should give wha=
t is
constant in the meaning of the words "this morning." This
appreciation of time-intervals is, however, obviously a product of memory, =
not
a presupposition of it. It will be better, therefore, if we wish to analyse=
the
causation of memory by something not presupposing memory, to take some other
instance than that of a question about "this morning."
Let us take the case of coming into a familiar
room where something has been changed--say a new picture hung on the wall. =
We
may at first have only a sense that SOMETHING is unfamiliar, but presently =
we
shall remember, and say "that picture was not on the wall before."=
; In
order to make the case definite, we will suppose that we were only in the r=
oom on
one former occasion. In this case it seems fairly clear what happens. The o=
ther
objects in the room are associated, through the former occasion, with a bla=
nk
space of wall where now there is a picture. They call up an image of a blank
wall, which clashes with perception of the picture. The image is associated
with the belief-feeling which we found to be distinctive of memory, since it
can neither be abolished nor harmonized with perception. If the room had
remained unchanged, we might have had only the feeling of familiarity witho=
ut
the definite remembering; it is the change that drives us from the present =
to
memory of the past.
We may generalize this instance so as to cover=
the
causes of many memories. Some present feature of the environment is associa=
ted,
through past experiences, with something now absent; this absent something
comes before us as an image, and is contrasted with present sensation. In c=
ases
of this sort, habit (or association) explains why the present feature of the
environment brings up the memory-image, but it does not explain the
memory-belief. Perhaps a more complete analysis could explain the memory-be=
lief
also on lines of association and habit, but the causes of beliefs are obscu=
re,
and we cannot investigate them yet. For the present we must content ourselv=
es
with the fact that the memory-image can be explained by habit. As regards t=
he
memory-belief, we must, at least provisionally, accept Bergson's view that =
it
cannot be brought under the head of habit, at any rate when it first occurs,
i.e. when we remember something we never remembered before.
We must now consider somewhat more closely the
content of a memory-belief. The memory-belief confers upon the memory-image
something which we may call "meaning;" it makes us feel that the
image points to an object which existed in the past. In order to deal with =
this
topic we must consider the verbal expression of the memory-belief. We might=
be
tempted to put the memory-belief into the words: "Something like this
image occurred." But such words would be very far from an accurate tra=
nslation
of the simplest kind of memory-belief. "Something like this image"=
; is
a very complicated conception. In the simplest kind of memory we are not aw=
are
of the difference between an image and the sensation which it copies, which=
may
be called its "prototype." When the image is before us, we judge =
rather
"this occurred." The image is not distinguished from the object w=
hich
existed in the past: the word "this" covers both, and enables us =
to
have a memory-belief which does not introduce the complicated notion
"something like this."
It might be objected that, if we judge "t=
his
occurred" when in fact "this" is a present image, we judge
falsely, and the memory-belief, so interpreted, becomes deceptive. This,
however, would be a mistake, produced by attempting to give to words a
precision which they do not possess when used by unsophisticated people. It=
is
true that the image is not absolutely identical with its prototype, and if =
the
word "this" meant the image to the exclusion of everything else, =
the
judgment "this occurred" would be false. But identity is a precise
conception, and no word, in ordinary speech, stands for anything precise.
Ordinary speech does not distinguish between identity and close similarity.=
A
word always applies, not only to one particular, but to a group of associat=
ed particulars,
which are not recognized as multiple in common thought or speech. Thus
primitive memory, when it judges that "this occurred," is vague, =
but
not false.
Vague identity, which is really close similari=
ty,
has been a source of many of the confusions by which philosophy has lived. =
Of a
vague subject, such as a "this," which is both an image and its
prototype, contradictory predicates are true simultaneously: this existed a=
nd
does not exist, since it is a thing remembered, but also this exists and di=
d not
exist, since it is a present image. Hence Bergson's interpenetration of the
present by the past, Hegelian continuity and identity-in-diversity, and a h=
ost
of other notions which are thought to be profound because they are obscure =
and
confused. The contradictions resulting from confounding image and prototype=
in
memory force us to precision. But when we become precise, our remembering
becomes different from that of ordinary life, and if we forget this we shal=
l go
wrong in the analysis of ordinary memory.
Vagueness and accuracy are important notions,
which it is very necessary to understand. Both are a matter of degree. All
thinking is vague to some extent, and complete accuracy is a theoretical id=
eal
not practically attainable. To understand what is meant by accuracy, it wil=
l be
well to consider first instruments of measurement, such as a balance or a
thermometer. These are said to be accurate when they give different results=
for
very slightly different stimuli.* A clinical thermometer is accurate when it
enables us to detect very slight differences in the temperature of the bloo=
d.
We may say generally that an instrument is accurate in proportion as it rea=
cts
differently to very slightly different stimuli. When a small difference of
stimulus produces a great difference of reaction, the instrument is accurat=
e;
in the contrary case it is not.
*=
This
is a necessary but not a sufficient condition. The subject of accuracy and vagueness wi=
ll be
considered again in Lecture XI=
II.
Exactly the same thing applies in defining
accuracy of thought or perception. A musician will respond differently to v=
ery
minute differences in playing which would be quite imperceptible to the ord=
inary
mortal. A negro can see the difference between one negro and another one is=
his
friend, another his enemy. But to us such different responses are impossibl=
e:
we can merely apply the word "negro" indiscriminately. Accuracy of
response in regard to any particular kind of stimulus is improved by practi=
ce.
Understanding a language is a case in point. Few Frenchmen can hear any
difference between the sounds "hall" and "hole," which
produce quite different impressions upon us. The two statements "the h=
all
is full of water" and "the hole is full of water" call for
different responses, and a hearing which cannot distinguish between them is
inaccurate or vague in this respect.
Precision and vagueness in thought, as in
perception, depend upon the degree of difference between responses to more =
or
less similar stimuli. In the case of thought, the response does not follow
immediately upon the sensational stimulus, but that makes no difference as
regards our present question. Thus to revert to memory: A memory is
"vague" when it is appropriate to many different occurrences: for
instance, "I met a man" is vague, since any man would verify it. A
memory is "precise" when the occurrences that would verify it are
narrowly circumscribed: for instance, "I met Jones" is precise as
compared to "I met a man." A memory is "accurate" when =
it
is both precise and true, i.e. in the above instance, if it was Jones I met=
. It
is precise even if it is false, provided some very definite occurrence would
have been required to make it true.
It follows from what has been said that a vague
thought has more likelihood of being true than a precise one. To try and hi=
t an
object with a vague thought is like trying to hit the bull's eye with a lum=
p of
putty: when the putty reaches the target, it flattens out all over it, and
probably covers the bull's eye along with the rest. To try and hit an object
with a precise thought is like trying to hit the bull's eye with a bullet. =
The
advantage of the precise thought is that it distinguishes between the bull's
eye and the rest of the target. For example, if the whole target is represe=
nted
by the fungus family and the bull's eye by mushrooms, a vague thought which=
can
only hit the target as a whole is not much use from a culinary point of vie=
w.
And when I merely remember that I met a man, my memory may be very inadequa=
te
to my practical requirements, since it may make a great difference whether =
I met
Brown or Jones. The memory "I met Jones" is relatively precise. I=
t is
accurate if I met Jones, inaccurate if I met Brown, but precise in either c=
ase
as against the mere recollection that I met a man.
The distinction between accuracy and precision=
is
however, not fundamental. We may omit precision from out thoughts and confi=
ne ourselves
to the distinction between accuracy and vagueness. We may then set up the
following definitions:
An instrument is "reliable" with res=
pect
to a given set of stimuli when to stimuli which are not relevantly differen=
t it
gives always responses which are not relevantly different.
An instrument is a "measure" of a se=
t of
stimuli which are serially ordered when its responses, in all cases where t=
hey
are relevantly different, are arranged in a series in the same order.
The "degree of accuracy" of an
instrument which is a reliable measurer is the ratio of the difference of
response to the difference of stimulus in cases where the difference of
stimulus is small.* That is to say, if a small difference of stimulus produ=
ces
a great difference of response, the instrument is very accurate; in the
contrary case, very inaccurate.
*
Strictly speaking, the limit of this, i.e. the derivative of the response with respect to the
stimulus.
A mental response is called "vague" =
in
proportion to its lack of accuracy, or rather precision.
These definitions will be found useful, not on=
ly
in the case of memory, but in almost all questions concerned with knowledge=
.
It should be observed that vague beliefs, so f=
ar
from being necessarily false, have a better chance of truth than precise on=
es,
though their truth is less valuable than that of precise beliefs, since the=
y do
not distinguish between occurrences which may differ in important ways.
The whole of the above discussion of vagueness=
and
accuracy was occasioned by the attempt to interpret the word "this&quo=
t;
when we judge in verbal memory that "this occurred." The word
"this," in such a judgment, is a vague word, equally applicable to
the present memory-image and to the past occurrence which is its prototype.=
A
vague word is not to be identified with a general word, though in practice =
the
distinction may often be blurred. A word is general when it is understood t=
o be
applicable to a number of different objects in virtue of some common proper=
ty.
A word is vague when it is in fact applicable to a number of different obje=
cts
because, in virtue of some common property, they have not appeared, to the
person using the word, to be distinct. I emphatically do not mean that he h=
as
judged them to be identical, but merely that he has made the same response =
to
them all and has not judged them to be different. We may compare a vague wo=
rd
to a jelly and a general word to a heap of shot. Vague words precede judgme=
nts of
identity and difference; both general and particular words are subsequent to
such judgments. The word "this" in the primitive memory-belief is=
a
vague word, not a general word; it covers both the image and its prototype
because the two are not distinguished.*
*=
On
the vague and the general cf. Ribot: "Evolution of General Ideas," Open Court Co.,=
1899,
p. 32: "The sole permissi=
ble
formula is this: Intelligence progresses from the
indefinite to the definite. If 'indefinite' is taken as synonymous with general, it may be s=
aid
that the particular does not a=
ppear
at the outset, but neither does the general in any exact sense: the vague would =
be
more appropriate. In other wor=
ds, no
sooner has the intellect progressed beyond the moment of perception and of its
immediate reproduction in memo=
ry,
than the generic image makes its appearance, i.e. a state intermediate between the
particular and the general, participating in the nature of the o=
ne and
of the other--a confused
simplification."
But we have not yet finished our analysis of t=
he
memory-belief. The tense in the belief that "this occurred" is
provided by the nature of the belief-feeling involved in memory; the word
"this," as we have seen, has a vagueness which we have tried to
describe. But we must still ask what we mean by "occurred." The i=
mage
is, in one sense, occurring now; and therefore we must find some other sens=
e in
which the past event occurred but the image does not occur.
There are two distinct questions to be asked: =
(1)
What causes us to say that a thing occurs? (2) What are we feeling when we =
say
this? As to the first question, in the crude use of the word, which is what
concerns us, memory-images would not be said to occur; they would not be
noticed in themselves, but merely used as signs of the past event. Images a=
re "merely
imaginary"; they have not, in crude thought, the sort of reality that
belongs to outside bodies. Roughly speaking, "real" things would =
be
those that can cause sensations, those that have correlations of the sort t=
hat
constitute physical objects. A thing is said to be "real" or to
"occur" when it fits into a context of such correlations. The pro=
totype
of our memory-image did fit into a physical context, while our memory-image
does not. This causes us to feel that the prototype was "real," w=
hile
the image is "imaginary."
But the answer to our second question, namely =
as
to what we are feeling when we say a thing "occurs" or is
"real," must be somewhat different. We do not, unless we are
unusually reflective, think about the presence or absence of correlations: =
we
merely have different feelings which, intellectualized, may be represented =
as
expectations of the presence or absence of correlations. A thing which
"feels real" inspires us with hopes or fears, expectations or
curiosities, which are wholly absent when a thing "feels imaginary.&qu=
ot;
The feeling of reality is a feeling akin to respect: it belongs PRIMARILY to
whatever can do things to us without our voluntary co-operation. This feeli=
ng
of reality, related to the memory-image, and referred to the past by the
specific kind of belief-feeling that is characteristic of memory, seems to =
be
what constitutes the act of remembering in its pure form.
We may now summarize our analysis of pure memo=
ry.
Memory demands (a) an image, (b) a belief in p=
ast
existence. The belief may be expressed in the words "this existed.&quo=
t;
The belief, like every other, may be analysed = into (1) the believing, (2) what is believed. The believing is a specific feelin= g or sensation or complex of sensations, different from expectation or bare asse= nt in a way that makes the belief refer to the past; the reference to the past lies in the belief-feeling, not in the content believed. There is a relation between the belief-feeling and the content, making the belief-feeling refer= to the content, and expressed by saying that the content is what is believed.<= o:p>
The content believed may or may not be express=
ed
in words. Let us take first the case when it is not. In that case, if we are
merely remembering that something of which we now have an image occurred, t=
he
content consists of (a) the image, (b) the feeling, analogous to respect, w=
hich
we translate by saying that something is "real" as opposed to
"imaginary," (c) a relation between the image and the feeling of
reality, of the sort expressed when we say that the feeling refers to the
image. This content does not contain in itself any time-determination.
The time-determination lies in the nature of t=
he
belief feeling, which is that called "remembering" or (better)
"recollecting." It is only subsequent reflection upon this refere=
nce
to the past that makes us realize the distinction between the image and the
event recollected. When we have made this distinction, we can say that the
image "means" the past event.
The content expressed in words is best represe=
nted
by the words "the existence of this," since these words do not
involve tense, which belongs to the belief-feeling, not to the content. Here
"this" is a vague term, covering the memory-image and anything ve=
ry
like it, including its prototype. "Existence" expresses the feeli=
ng
of a "reality" aroused primarily by whatever can have effects upo=
n us
without our voluntary co-operation. The word "of" in the phrase
"the existence of this" represents the relation which subsists
between the feeling of reality and the "this."
This analysis of memory is probably extremely
faulty, but I do not know how to improve it.
NOTE.-When I speak of a FEELING of belief, I u=
se
the word "feeling" in a popular sense, to cover a sensation or an
image or a complex of sensations or images or both; I use this word because=
I
do not wish to commit myself to any special analysis of the belief-feeling.=
The problem with which we shall be concerned in
this lecture is the problem of determining what is the relation called
"meaning." The word "Napoleon," we say, "means&quo=
t; a
certain person. In saying this, we are asserting a relation between the word
"Napoleon" and the person so designated. It is this relation that=
we
must now investigate.
Let us first consider what sort of object a wo=
rd
is when considered simply as a physical thing, apart from its meaning. To b=
egin
with, there are many instances of a word, namely all the different occasions
when it is employed. Thus a word is not something unique and particular, bu=
t a set
of occurrences. If we confine ourselves to spoken words, a word has two
aspects, according as we regard it from the point of view of the speaker or
from that of the hearer. From the point of view of the speaker, a single
instance of the use of a word consists of a certain set of movements in the
throat and mouth, combined with breath. From the point of view of the heare=
r, a
single instance of the use of a word consists of a certain series of sounds,
each being approximately represented by a single letter in writing, though =
in
practice a letter may represent several sounds, or several letters may
represent one sound. The connection between the spoken word and the word as=
it
reaches the hearer is causal. Let us confine ourselves to the spoken word,
which is the more important for the analysis of what is called
"thought." Then we may say that a single instance of the spoken w=
ord
consists of a series of movements, and the word consists of a whole set of =
such
series, each member of the set being very similar to each other member. Tha=
t is
to say, any two instances of the word "Napoleon" are very similar,
and each instance consists of a series of movements in the mouth.
A single word, accordingly, is by no means sim=
ple
it is a class of similar series of movements (confining ourselves still to =
the
spoken word). The degree of similarity required cannot be precisely defined=
: a
man may pronounce the word "Napoleon" so badly that it can hardly=
be determined
whether he has really pronounced it or not. The instances of a word shade o=
ff
into other movements by imperceptible degrees. And exactly analogous observ=
ations
apply to words heard or written or read. But in what has been said so far we
have not even broached the question of the DEFINITION of a word, since
"meaning" is clearly what distinguishes a word from other sets of
similar movements, and "meaning" remains to be defined.
It is natural to think of the meaning of a wor=
d as
something conventional. This, however, is only true with great limitations.=
A
new word can be added to an existing language by a mere convention, as is d=
one,
for instance, with new scientific terms. But the basis of a language is not
conventional, either from the point of view of the individual or from that =
of
the community. A child learning to speak is learning habits and associations
which are just as much determined by the environment as the habit of expect=
ing
dogs to bark and cocks to crow. The community that speaks a language has le=
arnt
it, and modified it by processes almost all of which are not deliberate, but
the results of causes operating according to more or less ascertainable law=
s.
If we trace any Indo-European language back far enough, we arrive hypotheti=
cally
(at any rate according to some authorities) at the stage when language
consisted only of the roots out of which subsequent words have grown. How t=
hese
roots acquired their meanings is not known, but a conventional origin is
clearly just as mythical as the social contract by which Hobbes and Rousseau
supposed civil government to have been established. We can hardly suppose a
parliament of hitherto speechless elders meeting together and agreeing to c=
all
a cow a cow and a wolf a wolf. The association of words with their meanings
must have grown up by some natural process, though at present the nature of=
the
process is unknown.
Spoken and written words are, of course, not t=
he
only way of conveying meaning. A large part of one of Wundt's two vast volu=
mes
on language in his "Volkerpsychologie" is concerned with
gesture-language. Ants appear to be able to communicate a certain amount of
information by means of their antennae. Probably writing itself, which we n=
ow
regard as merely a way of representing speech, was originally an independent
language, as it has remained to this day in China. Writing seems to have
consisted originally of pictures, which gradually became conventionalized,
coming in time to represent syllables, and finally letters on the telephone=
principle
of "T for Tommy." But it would seem that writing nowhere began as=
an
attempt to represent speech it began as a direct pictorial representation of
what was to be expressed. The essence of language lies, not in the use of t=
his
or that special means of communication, but in the employment of fixed
associations (however these may have originated) in order that something now
sensible--a spoken word, a picture, a gesture, or what not--may call up the
"idea" of something else. Whenever this is done, what is now sens=
ible
may be called a "sign" or "symbol," and that of which i=
t is
intended to call up the "idea" may be called its "meaning.&q=
uot;
This is a rough outline of what constitutes "meaning." But we must
fill in the outline in various ways. And, since we are concerned with what =
is
called "thought," we must pay more attention than we otherwise sh=
ould
do to the private as opposed to the social use of language. Language profou=
ndly
affects our thoughts, and it is this aspect of language that is of most
importance to us in our present inquiry. We are almost more concerned with =
the
internal speech that is never uttered than we are with the things said out =
loud
to other people.
When we ask what constitutes meaning, we are n=
ot
asking what is the meaning of this or that particular word. The word
"Napoleon" means a certain individual; but we are asking, not who=
is
the individual meant, but what is the relation of the word to the individual
which makes the one mean the other. But just as it is useful to realize the
nature of a word as part of the physical world, so it is useful to realize =
the
sort of thing that a word may mean. When we are clear both as to what a wor=
d is
in its physical aspect, and as to what sort of thing it can mean, we are in=
a
better position to discover the relation of the two which is meaning.
The things that words mean differ more than wo=
rds
do. There are different sorts of words, distinguished by the grammarians; a=
nd
there are logical distinctions, which are connected to some extent, though =
not so
closely as was formerly supposed, with the grammatical distinctions of part=
s of
speech. It is easy, however, to be misled by grammar, particularly if all t=
he
languages we know belong to one family. In some languages, according to some
authorities, the distinction of parts of speech does not exist; in many
languages it is widely different from that to which we are accustomed in the
Indo-European languages. These facts have to be borne in mind if we are to
avoid giving metaphysical importance to mere accidents of our own speech.
In considering what words mean, it is natural =
to
start with proper names, and we will again take "Napoleon" as our
instance. We commonly imagine, when we use a proper name, that we mean one
definite entity, the particular individual who was called "Napoleon.&q=
uot;
But what we know as a person is not simple. There MAY be a single simple ego
which was Napoleon, and remained strictly identical from his birth to his
death. There is no way of proving that this cannot be the case, but there i=
s also
not the slightest reason to suppose that it is the case. Napoleon as he was
empirically known consisted of a series of gradually changing appearances:
first a squalling baby, then a boy, then a slim and beautiful youth, then a=
fat
and slothful person very magnificently dressed This series of appearances, =
and
various occurrences having certain kinds of causal connections with them,
constitute Napoleon as empirically known, and therefore are Napoleon in so =
far
as he forms part of the experienced world. Napoleon is a complicated series=
of occurrences,
bound together by causal laws, not, like instances of a word, by similariti=
es.
For although a person changes gradually, and presents similar appearances on
two nearly contemporaneous occasions, it is not these similarities that
constitute the person, as appears from the "Comedy of Errors" for
example.
Thus in the case of a proper name, while the w=
ord
is a set of similar series of movements, what it means is a series of
occurrences bound together by causal laws of that special kind that makes t=
he
occurrences taken together constitute what we call one person, or one anima=
l or
thing, in case the name applies to an animal or thing instead of to a perso=
n.
Neither the word nor what it names is one of the ultimate indivisible
constituents of the world. In language there is no direct way of designating
one of the ultimate brief existents that go to make up the collections we c=
all
things or persons. If we want to speak of such existents--which hardly happ=
ens
except in philosophy--we have to do it by means of some elaborate phrase, s=
uch
as "the visual sensation which occupied the centre of my field of visi=
on
at noon on January 1, 1919." Such ultimate simples I call
"particulars." Particulars MIGHT have proper names, and no doubt
would have if language had been invented by scientifically trained observers
for purposes of philosophy and logic. But as language was invented for
practical ends, particulars have remained one and all without a name.
We are not, in practice, much concerned with t=
he
actual particulars that come into our experience in sensation; we are conce=
rned
rather with whole systems to which the particulars belong and of which they=
are
signs. What we see makes us say "Hullo, there's Jones," and the f=
act that
what we see is a sign of Jones (which is the case because it is one of the
particulars that make up Jones) is more interesting to us than the actual
particular itself. Hence we give the name "Jones" to the whole se=
t of
particulars, but do not trouble to give separate names to the separate
particulars that make up the set.
Passing on from proper names, we come next to
general names, such as "man," "cat," "triangle.&qu=
ot;
A word such as "man" means a whole class of such collections of
particulars as have proper names. The several members of the class are
assembled together in virtue of some similarity or common property. All men
resemble each other in certain important respects; hence we want a word whi=
ch
shall be equally applicable to all of them. We only give proper names to the
individuals of a species when they differ inter se in practically important
respects. In other cases we do not do this. A poker, for instance, is just a
poker; we do not call one "John" and another "Peter."
There is a large class of words, such as
"eating," "walking," "speaking," which mean a=
set
of similar occurrences. Two instances of walking have the same name because
they resemble each other, whereas two instances of Jones have the same name
because they are causally connected. In practice, however, it is difficult =
to
make any precise distinction between a word such as "walking" and=
a
general name such as "man." One instance of walking cannot be
concentrated into an instant: it is a process in time, in which there is a
causal connection between the earlier and later parts, as between the earli=
er
and later parts of Jones. Thus an instance of walking differs from an insta=
nce
of man solely by the fact that it has a shorter life. There is a notion tha=
t an
instance of walking, as compared with Jones, is unsubstantial, but this see=
ms
to be a mistake. We think that Jones walks, and that there could not be any
walking unless there were somebody like Jones to perform the walking. But i=
t is
equally true that there could be no Jones unless there were something like
walking for him to do. The notion that actions are performed by an agent is
liable to the same kind of criticism as the notion that thinking needs a
subject or ego, which we rejected in Lecture I. To say that it is Jones who=
is
walking is merely to say that the walking in question is part of the whole
series of occurrences which is Jones. There is no LOGICAL impossibility in
walking occurring as an isolated phenomenon, not forming part of any such
series as we call a "person."
We may therefore class with "eating,"
"walking," "speaking" words such as "rain,"
"sunrise," "lightning," which do not denote what would =
commonly
be called actions. These words illustrate, incidentally, how little we can
trust to the grammatical distinction of parts of speech, since the substant=
ive
"rain" and the verb "to rain" denote precisely the same
class of meteorological occurrences. The distinction between the class of
objects denoted by such a word and the class of objects denoted by a general
name such as "man," "vegetable," or "planet,"=
is
that the sort of object which is an instance of (say) "lightning"=
is
much simpler than (say) an individual man. (I am speaking of lightning as a
sensible phenomenon, not as it is described in physics.) The distinction is=
one
of degree, not of kind. But there is, from the point of view of ordinary th=
ought,
a great difference between a process which, like a flash of lightning, can =
be
wholly comprised within one specious present and a process which, like the =
life
of a man, has to be pieced together by observation and memory and the
apprehension of causal connections. We may say broadly, therefore, that a w=
ord
of the kind we have been discussing denotes a set of similar occurrences, e=
ach
(as a rule) much more brief and less complex than a person or thing. Words
themselves, as we have seen, are sets of similar occurrences of this kind. =
Thus
there is more logical affinity between a word and what it means in the case=
of words
of our present sort than in any other case.
There is no very great difference between such
words as we have just been considering and words denoting qualities, such as
"white" or "round." The chief difference is that words =
of
this latter sort do not denote processes, however brief, but static feature=
s of
the world. Snow falls, and is white; the falling is a process, the whitenes=
s is
not. Whether there is a universal, called "whiteness," or whether
white things are to be defined as those having a certain kind of similarity=
to a
standard thing, say freshly fallen snow, is a question which need not conce=
rn
us, and which I believe to be strictly insoluble. For our purposes, we may =
take
the word "white" as denoting a certain set of similar particulars=
or
collections of particulars, the similarity being in respect of a static
quality, not of a process.
From the logical point of view, a very importa=
nt
class of words are those that express relations, such as "in,"
"above," "before," "greater," and so on. The
meaning of one of these words differs very fundamentally from the meaning of
one of any of our previous classes, being more abstract and logically simpl=
er
than any of them. If our business were logic, we should have to spend much =
time
on these words. But as it is psychology that concerns us, we will merely no=
te
their special character and pass on, since the logical classification of wo=
rds is
not our main business.
We will consider next the question what is imp=
lied
by saying that a person "understands" a word, in the sense in whi=
ch
one understands a word in one's own language, but not in a language of which
one is ignorant. We may say that a person understands a word when (a) suita=
ble circumstances
make him use it, (b) the hearing of it causes suitable behaviour in him. We=
may
call these two active and passive understanding respectively. Dogs often ha=
ve
passive understanding of some words, but not active understanding, since th=
ey
cannot use words.
It is not necessary, in order that a man should
"understand" a word, that he should "know what it means,&quo=
t;
in the sense of being able to say "this word means so-and-so."
Understanding words does not consist in knowing their dictionary definition=
s,
or in being able to specify the objects to which they are appropriate. Such
understanding as this may belong to lexicographers and students, but not to
ordinary mortals in ordinary life. Understanding language is more like
understanding cricket*: it is a matter of habits, acquired in oneself and
rightly presumed in others. To say that a word has a meaning is not to say =
that
those who use the word correctly have ever thought out what the meaning is:=
the
use of the word comes first, and the meaning is to be distilled out of it by
observation and analysis. Moreover, the meaning of a word is not absolutely
definite: there is always a greater or less degree of vagueness. The meanin=
g is
an area, like a target: it may have a bull's eye, but the outlying parts of=
the
target are still more or less within the meaning, in a gradually diminishing
degree as we travel further from the bull's eye. As language grows more
precise, there is less and less of the target outside the bull's eye, and t=
he
bull's eye itself grows smaller and smaller; but the bull's eye never shrin=
ks
to a point, and there is always a doubtful region, however small, surroundi=
ng
it.**
*=
This
point of view, extended to the analysis of "thought" is urged with great force by J. B. W=
atson,
both in his "Behavior,&qu=
ot;
and in "Psychology from the Standpoint of a Behaviorist" (Lippincott. 1919),
chap. ix.
*=
* On
the understanding of words, a very admirable little book is Ribot's "Evolution of G=
eneral
Ideas," Open Court Co., 1=
899.
Ribot says (p. 131): "We learn to understand a concept as we learn to walk, dance, =
fence
or play a musical instrument: =
it is
a habit, i.e. an organized memory. General terms cover an organized, latent kno=
wledge
which is the hidden capital wi=
thout
which we should be in a state of bankruptcy, manipulating false money=
or
paper of no value. General ide=
as are
habits in the intellectual order."
A word is used "correctly" when the
average hearer will be affected by it in the way intended. This is a
psychological, not a literary, definition of "correctness." The
literary definition would substitute, for the average hearer, a person of h=
igh
education living a long time ago; the purpose of this definition is to make=
it
difficult to speak or write correctly.
The relation of a word to its meaning is of the
nature of a causal law governing our use of the word and our actions when we
hear it used. There is no more reason why a person who uses a word correctly
should be able to tell what it means than there is why a planet which is mo=
ving
correctly should know Kepler's laws.
To illustrate what is meant by
"understanding" words and sentences, let us take instances of var=
ious
situations.
Suppose you are walking in London with an
absent-minded friend, and while crossing a street you say, "Look out,
there's a motor coming." He will glance round and jump aside without t=
he
need of any "mental" intermediary. There need be no
"ideas," but only a stiffening of the muscles, followed quickly by
action. He "understands" the words, because he does the right thi=
ng.
Such "understanding" may be taken to belong to the nerves and bra=
in,
being habits which they have acquired while the language was being learnt. =
Thus
understanding in this sense may be reduced to mere physiological causal law=
s.
If you say the same thing to a Frenchman with a
slight knowledge of English he will go through some inner speech which may =
be
represented by "Que dit-il? Ah, oui, une automobile!" After this,=
the
rest follows as with the Englishman. Watson would contend that the inner sp=
eech
must be incipiently pronounced; we should argue that it MIGHT be merely ima=
ged.
But this point is not important in the present connection.
If you say the same thing to a child who does =
not
yet know the word "motor," but does know the other words you are =
using,
you produce a feeling of anxiety and doubt you will have to point and say,
"There, that's a motor." After that the child will roughly unders=
tand
the word "motor," though he may include trains and steam-rollers =
If
this is the first time the child has heard the word "motor," he m=
ay
for a long time continue to recall this scene when he hears the word.
So far we have found four ways of understanding
words:
(1) On suitable occasions you use the word
properly.
(2) When you hear it you act appropriately.
(3) You associate the word with another word (=
say
in a different language) which has the appropriate effect on behaviour.
(4) When the word is being first learnt, you m=
ay
associate it with an object, which is what it "means," or a
representative of various objects that it "means."
In the fourth case, the word acquires, through
association, some of the same causal efficacy as the object. The word
"motor" can make you leap aside, just as the motor can, but it ca=
nnot
break your bones. The effects which a word can share with its object are th=
ose
which proceed according to laws other than the general laws of physics, i.e.
those which, according to our terminology, involve vital movements as oppos=
ed to
merely mechanical movements. The effects of a word that we understand are
always mnemic phenomena in the sense explained in Lecture IV, in so far as =
they
are identical with, or similar to, the effects which the object itself might
have.
So far, all the uses of words that we have
considered can be accounted for on the lines of behaviourism.
But so far we have only considered what may be
called the "demonstrative" use of language, to point out some fea=
ture
in the present environment. This is only one of the ways in which language =
may
be used. There are also its narrative and imaginative uses, as in history a=
nd
novels. Let us take as an instance the telling of some remembered event.
We spoke a moment ago of a child who hears the
word "motor" for the first time when crossing a street along whic=
h a
motor-car is approaching. On a later occasion, we will suppose, the child
remembers the incident and relates it to someone else. In this case, both t=
he active
and passive understanding of words is different from what it is when words =
are
used demonstratively. The child is not seeing a motor, but only remembering
one; the hearer does not look round in expectation of seeing a motor coming,
but "understands" that a motor came at some earlier time. The who=
le
of this occurrence is much more difficult to account for on behaviourist li=
nes.
It is clear that, in so far as the child is genuinely remembering, he has a
picture of the past occurrence, and his words are chosen so as to describe =
the
picture; and in so far as the hearer is genuinely apprehending what is said,
the hearer is acquiring a picture more or less like that of the child. It is
true that this process may be telescoped through the operation of the
word-habit. The child may not genuinely remember the incident, but only have
the habit of the appropriate words, as in the case of a poem which we know =
by
heart, though we cannot remember learning it. And the hearer also may only =
pay
attention to the words, and not call up any corresponding picture. But it i=
s,
nevertheless, the possibility of a memory-image in the child and an imagina=
tion-image
in the hearer that makes the essence of the narrative "meaning" of
the words. In so far as this is absent, the words are mere counters, capabl=
e of
meaning, but not at the moment possessing it.
Yet this might perhaps be regarded as somethin=
g of
an overstatement. The words alone, without the use of images, may cause
appropriate emotions and appropriate behaviour. The words have been used in=
an
environment which produced certain emotions; by a telescoped process, the w=
ords
alone are now capable of producing similar emotions. On these lines it migh=
t be
sought to show that images are unnecessary. I do not believe, however, that=
we
could account on these lines for the entirely different response produced b=
y a
narrative and by a description of present facts. Images, as contrasted with
sensations, are the response expected during a narrative; it is understood =
that
present action is not called for. Thus it seems that we must maintain our
distinction words used demonstratively describe and are intended to lead to
sensations, while the same words used in narrative describe and are only
intended to lead to images.
We have thus, in addition to our four previous
ways in which words can mean, two new ways, namely the way of memory and the
way of imagination. That is to say:
(5) Words may be used to describe or recall a
memory-image: to describe it when it already exists, or to recall it when t=
he
words exist as a habit and are known to be descriptive of some past experie=
nce.
(6) Words may be used to describe or create an
imagination-image: to describe it, for example, in the case of a poet or
novelist, or to create it in the ordinary case for giving information-thoug=
h,
in the latter case, it is intended that the imagination-image, when created=
, shall
be accompanied by belief that something of the sort occurred.
These two ways of using words, including their
occurrence in inner speech, may be spoken of together as the use of words in
"thinking." If we are right, the use of words in thinking depends=
, at
least in its origin, upon images, and cannot be fully dealt with on
behaviourist lines. And this is really the most essential function of words,
namely that, originally through their connection with images, they bring us=
into
touch with what is remote in time or space. When they operate without the
medium of images, this seems to be a telescoped process. Thus the problem of
the meaning of words is brought into connection with the problem of the mea=
ning
of images.
To understand the function that words perform =
in
what is called "thinking," we must understand both the causes and=
the
effects of their occurrence. The causes of the occurrence of words require
somewhat different treatment according as the object designated by the word=
is sensibly
present or absent. When the object is present, it may itself be taken as the
cause of the word, through association. But when it is absent there is more
difficulty in obtaining a behaviourist theory of the occurrence of the word.
The language-habit consists not merely in the use of words demonstratively,=
but
also in their use to express narrative or desire. Professor Watson, in his
account of the acquisition of the language-habit, pays very little attentio=
n to
the use of words in narrative and desire. He says ("Behavior," pp=
. 329-330):
"The stimulus (object) to which the child
often responds, a box, e.g. by movements such as opening and closing and
putting objects into it, may serve to illustrate our argument. The nurse,
observing that the child reacts with his hands, feet, etc., to the box, beg=
ins
to say 'box' when the child is handed the box, 'open box' when the child op=
ens
it, 'close box' when he closes it, and 'put doll in box' when that act is
executed. This is repeated over and over again. In the process of time it c=
omes
about that without any other stimulus than that of the box which originally
called out the bodily habits, he begins to say 'box' when he sees it, 'open
box' when he opens it, etc. The visible box now becomes a stimulus capable =
of
releasing either the bodily habits or the word-habit, i.e. development has
brought about two things: (1) a series of functional connections among arcs
which run from visual receptor to muscles of throat, and (2) a series of
already earlier connected arcs which run from the same receptor to the bodi=
ly
muscles.... The object meets the child's vision. He runs to it and tries to
reach it and says 'box.'... Finally the word is uttered without the movemen=
t of
going towards the box being executed.... Habits are formed of going to the =
box
when the arms are full of toys. The child has been taught to deposit them
there. When his arms are laden with toys and no box is there, the word-habit
arises and he calls 'box'; it is handed to him, and he opens it and deposits
the toys therein. This roughly marks what we would call the genesis of a tr=
ue
language-habit."(pp. 329-330).*
*=
Just
the same account of language is given in Professor Watson's more recent book (reference
above).
We need not linger over what is said in the ab=
ove
passage as to the use of the word "box" in the presence of the bo=
x.
But as to its use in the absence of the box, there is only one brief senten=
ce,
namely: "When his arms are laden with toys and no box is there, the
word-habit arises and he calls 'box.'" This is inadequate as it stands,
since the habit has been to use the word when the box is present, and we ha=
ve
to explain its extension to cases in which the box is absent.
Having admitted images, we may say that the wo=
rd
"box," in the absence of the box, is caused by an image of the bo=
x.
This may or may not be true--in fact, it is true in some cases but not in
others. Even, however, if it were true in all cases, it would only slightly
shift our problem: we should now have to ask what causes an image of the bo=
x to
arise. We might be inclined to say that desire for the box is the cause. But
when this view is investigated, it is found that it compels us to suppose t=
hat
the box can be desired without the child's having either an image of the bo=
x or
the word "box." This will require a theory of desire which may be,
and I think is, in the main true, but which removes desire from among things
that actually occur, and makes it merely a convenient fiction, like force in
mechanics.* With such a view, desire is no longer a true cause, but merely a
short way of describing certain processes.
*=
See
Lecture III, above.
In order to explain the occurrence of either t=
he
word or the image in the absence of the box, we have to assume that there is
something, either in the environment or in our own sensations, which has
frequently occurred at about the same time as the word "box." One=
of
the laws which distinguish psychology (or nerve-physiology?) from physics is
the law that, when two things have frequently existed in close temporal con=
tiguity,
either comes in time to cause the other.* This is the basis both of habit a=
nd
of association. Thus, in our case, the arms full of toys have frequently be=
en
followed quickly by the box, and the box in turn by the word "box.&quo=
t;
The box itself is subject to physical laws, and does not tend to be caused =
by
the arms full of toys, however often it may in the past have followed
them--always provided that, in the case in question, its physical position =
is
such that voluntary movements cannot lead to it. But the word "box&quo=
t;
and the image of the box are subject to the law of habit; hence it is possi=
ble
for either to be caused by the arms full of toys. And we may lay it down
generally that, whenever we use a word, either aloud or in inner speech, th=
ere
is some sensation or image (either of which may be itself a word) which has
frequently occurred at about the same time as the word, and now, through ha=
bit,
causes the word. It follows that the law of habit is adequate to account for
the use of words in the absence of their objects; moreover, it would be
adequate even without introducing images. Although, therefore, images seem
undeniable, we cannot derive an additional argument in their favour from the
use of words, which could, theoretically, be explained without introducing
images.
*=
For a
more exact statement of this law, with the limitations suggested by experiment,=
see
A. Wohlgemuth, "On Memory=
and
the Direction of Associations," "British Journal of Psychology," vol. v, part iv
(March, 1913).
When we understand a word, there is a reciproc=
al
association between it and the images of what it "means." Images =
may
cause us to use words which mean them, and these words, heard or read, may =
in
turn cause the appropriate images. Thus speech is a means of producing in o=
ur
hearers the images which are in us. Also, by a telescoped process, words co=
me
in time to produce directly the effects which would have been produced by t=
he
images with which they were associated. The general law of telescoped proce=
sses
is that, if A causes B and B causes C, it will happen in time that A will c=
ause
C directly, without the intermediary of B. This is a characteristic of
psychological and neural causation. In virtue of this law, the effects of
images upon our actions come to be produced by words, even when the words do
not call up appropriate images. The more familiar we are with words, the mo=
re
our "thinking" goes on in words instead of images. We may, for
example, be able to describe a person's appearance correctly without having=
at
any time had any image of him, provided, when we saw him, we thought of wor=
ds
which fitted him; the words alone may remain with us as a habit, and enable=
us
to speak as if we could recall a visual image of the man. In this and other
ways the understanding of a word often comes to be quite free from imagery;=
but
in first learning the use of language it would seem that imagery always pla=
ys a
very important part.
Images as well as words may be said to have
"meaning"; indeed, the meaning of images seems more primitive than
the meaning of words. What we call (say) an image of St. Paul's may be said=
to
"mean" St. Paul's. But it is not at all easy to say exactly what
constitutes the meaning of an image. A memory-image of a particular occurre=
nce,
when accompanied by a memory-belief, may be said to mean the occurrence of
which it is an image. But most actual images do not have this degree of
definiteness. If we call up an image of a dog, we are very likely to have a
vague image, which is not representative of some one special dog, but of do=
gs in
general. When we call up an image of a friend's face, we are not likely to
reproduce the expression he had on some one particular occasion, but rather=
a
compromise expression derived from many occasions. And there is hardly any
limit to the vagueness of which images are capable. In such cases, the mean=
ing
of the image, if defined by relation to the prototype, is vague: there is n=
ot
one definite prototype, but a number, none of which is copied exactly.*
*=
Cf.
Semon, Mnemische Empfindungen, chap. xvi, especially pp. 301-308.
There is, however, another way of approaching =
the
meaning of images, namely through their causal efficacy. What is called an
image "of" some definite object, say St. Paul's, has some of the
effects which the object would have. This applies especially to the effects
that depend upon association. The emotional effects, also, are often simila=
r: images
may stimulate desire almost as strongly as do the objects they represent. A=
nd
conversely desire may cause images*: a hungry man will have images of food,=
and
so on. In all these ways the causal laws concerning images are connected wi=
th
the causal laws concerning the objects which the images "mean." An
image may thus come to fulfil the function of a general idea. The vague ima=
ge
of a dog, which we spoke of a moment ago, will have effects which are only
connected with dogs in general, not the more special effects which would be
produced by some dogs but not by others. Berkeley and Hume, in their attack=
on
general ideas, do not allow for the vagueness of images: they assume that e=
very
image has the definiteness that a physical object would have This is not the
case, and a vague image may well have a meaning which is general.
*=
This
phrase is in need of interpretation, as appears from the analysis of desire. But the read=
er can
easily supply the interpretati=
on for
himself.
In order to define the "meaning" of =
an
image, we have to take account both of its resemblance to one or more proto=
types,
and of its causal efficacy. If there were such a thing as a pure
imagination-image, without any prototype whatever, it would be destitute of
meaning. But according to Hume's principle, the simple elements in an image=
, at
least, are derived from prototypes-except possibly in very rare exceptional
cases. Often, in such instances as our image of a friend's face or of a
nondescript dog, an image is not derived from one prototype, but from many;
when this happens, the image is vague, and blurs the features in which the
various prototypes differ. To arrive at the meaning of the image in such a
case, we observe that there are certain respects, notably associations, in
which the effects of images resemble those of their prototypes. If we find,=
in
a given case, that our vague image, say, of a nondescript dog, has those
associative effects which all dogs would have, but not those belonging to a=
ny special
dog or kind of dog, we may say that our image means "dog" in gene=
ral.
If it has all the associations appropriate to spaniels but no others, we sh=
all
say it means "spaniel"; while if it has all the associations
appropriate to one particular dog, it will mean that dog, however vague it =
may
be as a picture. The meaning of an image, according to this analysis, is co=
nstituted
by a combination of likeness and associations. It is not a sharp or definite
conception, and in many cases it will be impossible to decide with any
certainty what an image means. I think this lies in the nature of things, a=
nd
not in defective analysis.
We may give somewhat more precision to the abo=
ve
account of the meaning of images, and extend it to meaning in general. We f=
ind
sometimes that, IN MNEMIC CAUSATION, an image or word, as stimulus, has the
same effect (or very nearly the same effect) as would belong to some object,
say, a certain dog. In that case we say that the image or word means that o=
bject.
In other cases the mnemic effects are not all those of one object, but only
those shared by objects of a certain kind, e.g. by all dogs. In this case t=
he
meaning of the image or word is general: it means the whole kind. Generality
and particularity are a matter of degree. If two particulars differ
sufficiently little, their mnemic effects will be the same; therefore no im=
age
or word can mean the one as opposed to the other; this sets a bound to the
particularity of meaning. On the other hand, the mnemic effects of a number=
of
sufficiently dissimilar objects will have nothing discoverable in common; h=
ence
a word which aims at complete generality, such as "entity" for
example, will have to be devoid of mnemic effects, and therefore of meaning=
. In
practice, this is not the case: such words have VERBAL associations, the
learning of which constitutes the study of metaphysics.
The meaning of a word, unlike that of an image=
, is
wholly constituted by mnemic causal laws, and not in any degree by likeness
(except in exceptional cases). The word "dog" bears no resemblanc=
e to
a dog, but its effects, like those of an image of a dog, resemble the effec=
ts
of an actual dog in certain respects. It is much easier to say definitely w=
hat
a word means than what an image means, since words, however they originated,
have been framed in later times for the purpose of having meaning, and men =
have
been engaged for ages in giving increased precision to the meanings of word=
s.
But although it is easier to say what a word means than what an image means,
the relation which constitutes meaning is much the same in both cases. A wo=
rd,
like an image, has the same associations as its meaning has. In addition to=
other
associations, it is associated with images of its meaning, so that the word
tends to call up the image and the image tends to call up the word., But th=
is
association is not essential to the intelligent use of words. If a word has=
the
right associations with other objects, we shall be able to use it correctly,
and understand its use by others, even if it evokes no image. The theoretic=
al
understanding of words involves only the power of associating them correctly
with other words; the practical understanding involves associations with ot=
her
bodily movements.
The use of words is, of course, primarily soci=
al,
for the purpose of suggesting to others ideas which we entertain or at least
wish them to entertain. But the aspect of words that specially concerns us =
is
their power of promoting our own thought. Almost all higher intellectual ac=
tivity
is a matter of words, to the nearly total exclusion of everything else. The
advantages of words for purposes of thought are so great that I should never
end if I were to enumerate them. But a few of them deserve to be mentioned.=
In the first place, there is no difficulty in
producing a word, whereas an image cannot always be brought into existence =
at
will, and when it comes it often contains much irrelevant detail. In the se=
cond
place, much of our thinking is concerned with abstract matters which do not=
readily
lend themselves to imagery, and are apt to be falsely conceived if we insist
upon finding images that may be supposed to represent them. The word is alw=
ays
concrete and sensible, however abstract its meaning may be, and thus by the
help of words we are able to dwell on abstractions in a way which would
otherwise be impossible. In the third place, two instances of the same word=
are
so similar that neither has
associations not capable of being shared by the
other. Two instances of the word "dog" are much more alike than (=
say)
a pug and a great dane; hence the word "dog" makes it much easier=
to
think about dogs in general. When a number of objects have a common property
which is important but not obvious, the invention of a name for the common =
property
helps us to remember it and to think of the whole set of objects that posse=
ss
it. But it is unnecessary to prolong the catalogue of the uses of language =
in
thought.
At the same time, it is possible to conduct
rudimentary thought by means of images, and it is important, sometimes, to
check purely verbal thought by reference to what it means. In philosophy
especially the tyranny of traditional words is dangerous, and we have to be=
on
our guard against assuming that grammar is the key to metaphysics, or that =
the
structure of a sentence corresponds at all accurately with the structure of=
the
fact that it asserts. Sayce maintained that all European philosophy since
Aristotle has been dominated by the fact that the philosophers spoke
Indo-European languages, and therefore supposed the world, like the sentenc=
es
they were used to, necessarily divisible into subjects and predicates. When=
we
come to the consideration of truth and falsehood, we shall see how necessar=
y it
is to avoid assuming too close a parallelism between facts and the sentences
which assert them. Against such errors, the only safeguard is to be able, o=
nce
in a way, to discard words for a moment and contemplate facts more directly
through images. Most serious advances in philosophic thought result from so=
me such
comparatively direct contemplation of facts. But the outcome has to be
expressed in words if it is to be communicable. Those who have a relatively
direct vision of facts are often incapable of translating their vision into
words, while those who possess the words have usually lost the vision. It is
partly for this reason that the highest philosophical capacity is so rare: =
it
requires a combination of vision with abstract words which is hard to achie=
ve,
and too quickly lost in the few who have for a moment achieved it.
It is said to be one of the merits of the human
mind that it is capable of framing abstract ideas, and of conducting
nonsensational thought. In this it is supposed to differ from the mind of
animals. From Plato onward the "idea" has played a great part in =
the
systems of idealizing philosophers. The "idea" has been, in their
hands, always something noble and abstract, the apprehension and use of whi=
ch
by man confers upon him a quite special dignity.
The thing we have to consider to-day is this:
seeing that there certainly are words of which the meaning is abstract, and
seeing that we can use these words intelligently, what must be assumed or
inferred, or what can be discovered by observation, in the way of mental
content to account for the intelligent use of abstract words?
Taken as a problem in logic, the answer is, of
course, that absolutely nothing in the way of abstract mental content is
inferable from the mere fact that we can use intelligently words of which t=
he
meaning is abstract. It is clear that a sufficiently ingenious person could=
manufacture
a machine moved by olfactory stimuli which, whenever a dog appeared in its
neighbourhood, would say, "There is a dog," and when a cat appear=
ed
would throw stones at it. The act of saying "There is a dog," and=
the
act of throwing stones, would in such a case be equally mechanical. Correct
speech does not of itself afford any better evidence of mental content than=
the
performance of any other set of biologically useful movements, such as thos=
e of
flight or combat. All that is inferable from language is that two instances=
of
a universal, even when they differ very greatly, may cause the utterance of=
two
instances of the same word which only differ very slightly. As we saw in th=
e preceding
lecture, the word "dog" is useful, partly, because two
instances of this word are much more similar t=
han
(say) a pug and a great dane. The use of words is thus a method of substitu=
ting
for two particulars which differ widely, in spite of being instances of the
same universal, two other particulars which differ very little, and which a=
re
also instances of a universal, namely the name of the previous universal. T=
hus,
so far as logic is concerned, we are entirely free to adopt any theory as to
general ideas which empirical observation may recommend.
Berkeley and Hume made a vigorous onslaught on
"abstract ideas." They meant by an idea approximately what we sho=
uld
call an image. Locke having maintained that he could form an idea of triang=
le
in general, without deciding what sort of triangle it was to be, Berkeley
contended that this was impossible. He says:
"Whether others, have this wonderful facu=
lty
of abstracting their ideas, they best can tell: for myself, I dare be confi=
dent
I have it not. I find, indeed, I have indeed a faculty of imagining, or
representing to myself, the ideas of those particular things I have perceiv=
ed,
and of variously compounding and dividing them. I can imagine a man with tw=
o heads,
or the upper parts of a man joined to the body of a horse. I can consider t=
he
hand, the eye, the nose, each by itself abstracted or separated from the re=
st
of the body. But, then, whatever hand or eye I imagine, it must have some
particular shape and colour. Likewise the idea of a man that I frame to mys=
elf
must be either of a white, or a black, or a tawny, a straight, or a crooked=
, a
tall, or a low, or a middle-sized man. I cannot by any effort of thought
conceive the abstract idea above described. And it is equally impossible fo=
r me
to form the abstract idea of motion distinct from the body moving, and whic=
h is
neither swift nor slow, curvilinear nor rectilinear; and the like may be sa=
id
of all other abstract general ideas whatsoever. To be plain, I own myself a=
ble
to abstract in one sense, as when I consider some particular parts of quali=
ties
separated from others, with which, though they are united in some object, y=
et
it is possible they may really exist without them. But I deny that I can
abstract from one another, or conceive separately, those qualities which it=
is
impossible should exist so separated; or that I can frame a general notion,=
by abstracting
from particulars in the manner aforesaid--which last are the two proper
acceptations of ABSTRACTION. And there is ground to think most men will
acknowledge themselves to be in my case. The generality of men which are si=
mple
and illiterate never pretend to ABSTRACT NOTIONS. It is said they are diffi=
cult
and not to be attained without pains and study; we may therefore reasonably
conclude that, if such there be, they are confined only to the learned.
"I proceed to examine what can be alleged=
in
defence of the doctrine of abstraction, and try if I can discover what it is
that inclines the men of speculation to embrace an opinion so remote from
common sense as that seems to be. There has been a late excellent and
deservedly esteemed philosopher who, no doubt, has given it very much
countenance, by seeming to think the having abstract general ideas is what =
puts
the widest difference in point of understanding betwixt man and beast. 'The
having of general ideas,' saith he, 'is that which puts a perfect distincti=
on betwixt
man and brutes, and is an excellency which the faculties of brutes do by no
means attain unto. For, it is evident we observe no footsteps in them of ma=
king
use of general signs for universal ideas; from which we have reason to imag=
ine
that they have not the faculty of abstracting, or making general ideas, sin=
ce
they have no use of words or any other general signs.' And a little after: =
'Therefore,
I think, we may suppose that it is in this that the species of brutes are
discriminated from men, and it is that proper difference wherein they are
wholly separated, and which at last widens to so wide a distance. For, if t=
hey
have any ideas at all, and are not bare machines (as some would have them),=
we
cannot deny them to have some reason. It seems as evident to me that they d=
o,
some of them, in certain instances reason as that they have sense; but it is
only in particular ideas, just as they receive them from their senses. They=
are
the best of them tied up within those narrow bounds, and have not (as I thi=
nk)
the faculty to enlarge them by any kind of abstraction.* ("Essay on Hu=
man Understanding,"
Bk. II, chap. xi, paragraphs 10 and 11.) I readily agree with this learned
author, that the faculties of brutes can by no means attain to abstraction.
But, then, if this be made the distinguishing property of that sort of anim=
als,
I fear a great many of those that pass for men must be reckoned into their
number. The reason that is here assigned why we have no grounds to think br=
utes
have abstract general ideas is, that we observe in them no use of words or =
any
other general signs; which is built on this supposition-that the making use=
of
words implies the having general ideas. From which it follows that men who =
use language
are able to abstract or generalize their ideas. That this is the sense and
arguing of the author will further appear by his answering the question he =
in
another place puts: 'Since all things that exist are only particulars, how =
come
we by general terms?' His answer is: 'Words become general by being made the
signs of general ideas.' ("Essay on Human Understanding," Bk. III,
chap. III, paragraph 6.) But it seems that a word becomes general by being =
made
the sign, not of an abstract general idea, but of several particular ideas,=
any
one of which it indifferently suggests to the mind. For example, when it is
said 'the change of motion is proportional to the impressed force,' or that=
'whatever
has extension is divisible,' these propositions are to be understood of mot=
ion
and extension in general; and nevertheless it will not follow that they sug=
gest
to my thoughts an idea of motion without a body moved, or any determinate
direction and velocity, or that I must conceive an abstract general idea of
extension, which is neither line, surface, nor solid, neither great nor sma=
ll,
black, white, nor red, nor of any other determinate colour. It is only impl=
ied
that whatever particular motion I consider, whether it be swift or slow, pe=
rpendicular,
horizontal, or oblique, or in whatever object, the axiom concerning it holds
equally true. As does the other of every particular extension, it matters n=
ot
whether line, surface, or solid, whether of this or that magnitude or figur=
e.
"By observing how ideas become general, we
may the better judge how words are made so. And here it is to be noted that=
I
do not deny absolutely there are general ideas, but only that there are any
ABSTRACT general ideas; for, in the passages we have quoted wherein there i=
s mention
of general ideas, it is always supposed that they are formed by abstraction,
after the manner set forth in sections 8 and 9. Now, if we will annex a mea=
ning
to our words, and speak only of what we can conceive, I believe we shall
acknowledge that an idea which, considered in itself, is particular, becomes
general by being made to represent or stand for all other particular ideas =
of
the same sort. To make this plain by an example, suppose a geometrician is
demonstrating the method of cutting a line in two equal parts. He draws, for
instance, a black line of an inch in length: this, which in itself is a
particular line, is nevertheless with regard to its signification general,
since, as it is there used, it represents all particular lines whatsoever; =
so
that what is demonstrated of it is demonstrated of all lines, or, in other =
words,
of a line in general. And, as THAT PARTICULAR LINE becomes general by being
made a sign, so the NAME 'line,' which taken absolutely is particular, by b=
eing
a sign is made general. And as the former owes its generality not to its be=
ing
the sign of an abstract or general line, but of all particular right lines =
that
may possibly exist, so the latter must be thought to derive its generality =
from
the same cause, namely, the various particular lines which it indifferently
denotes." *
*
Introduction to "A Treatise concerning the Principles of Human Knowledge," paragraphs 10=
, 11,
and 12.
Berkeley's view in the above passage, which is
essentially the same as Hume's, does not wholly agree with modern psycholog=
y,
although it comes nearer to agreement than does the view of those who belie=
ve
that there are in the mind single contents which can be called abstract ide=
as.
The way in which Berkeley's view is inadequate is chiefly in the fact that =
images
are as a rule not of one definite prototype, but of a number of related sim=
ilar
prototypes. On this subject Semon has written well. In "Die Mneme,&quo=
t;
pp. 217 ff., discussing the effect of repeated similar stimuli in producing=
and
modifying our images, he says: "We choose a case of mnemic excitement
whose existence we can perceive for ourselves by introspection, and seek to
ekphore the bodily picture of our nearest relation in his absence, and have
thus a pure mnemic excitement before us. At first it may seem to us that a
determinate quite concrete picture becomes manifest in us, but just when we=
are
concerned with a person with whom we are in constant contact, we shall find
that the ekphored picture has something so to speak generalized. It is
something like those American photographs which seek to display what is gen=
eral
about a type by combining a great number of photographs of different heads =
over
each other on one plate. In our opinion, the generalizations happen by the
homophonic working of different pictures of the same face which we have come
across in the most different conditions and situations, once pale, once
reddened, once cheerful, once earnest, once in this light, and once in that=
. As
soon as we do not let the whole series of repetitions resound in us uniform=
ly,
but give our attention to one particular moment out of the many... this
particular mnemic stimulus at once overbalances its simultaneously roused
predecessors and successors, and we perceive the face in question with conc=
rete
definiteness in that particular situation." A little later he says:
"The result is--at least in man, but probably also in the higher
animals--the development of a sort of PHYSIOLOGICAL abstraction. Mnemic
homophony gives us, without the addition of other processes of thought, a
picture of our friend X which is in a certain sense abstract, not the concr=
ete
in any one situation, but X cut loose from any particular point of time. If=
the
circle of ekphored engrams is drawn even more widely, abstract pictures of a
higher order appear: for instance, a white man or a negro. In my opinion, t=
he
first form of abstract concepts in general is based upon such abstract
pictures. The physiological abstraction which takes place in the above
described manner is a predecessor of purely logical abstraction. It is by no
means a monopoly of the human race, but shows itself in various ways also a=
mong
the more highly organized animals." The same subject is treated in more
detail in Chapter xvi of "Die mnemischen Empfindungen," but what =
is
said there adds nothing vital to what is contained in the above quotations.=
It is necessary, however, to distinguish betwe=
en
the vague and the general. So long as we are content with Semon's composite
image, we MAY get no farther than the vague. The question whether this image
takes us to the general or not depends, I think, upon the question whether,=
in addition
to the generalized image, we have also particular images of some of the
instances out of which it is compounded. Suppose, for example, that on a nu=
mber
of occasions you had seen one negro, and that you did not know whether this=
one
was the same or different on the different occasions. Suppose that in the e=
nd
you had an abstract memory-image of the different appearances presented by =
the
negro on different occasions, but no memory-image of any one of the single =
appearances.
In that case your image would be vague. If, on the other hand, you have, in
addition to the generalized image, particular images of the several
appearances, sufficiently clear to be recognized as different, and as insta=
nces
of the generalized picture, you will then not feel the generalized picture =
to
be adequate to any one particular appearance, and you will be able to make =
it
function as a general idea rather than a vague idea. If this view is correc=
t,
no new general content needs to be added to the generalized image. What nee=
ds
to be added is particular images compared and contrasted with the generaliz=
ed image.
So far as I can judge by introspection, this does occur in practice. Take f=
or
example Semon's instance of a friend's face. Unless we make some special ef=
fort
of recollection, the face is likely to come before us with an average
expression, very blurred and vague, but we can at will recall how our friend
looked on some special occasion when he was pleased or angry or unhappy, an=
d this
enables us to realize the generalized character of the vague image.
There is, however, another way of distinguishi=
ng
between the vague, the particular and the general, and this is not by their
content, but by the reaction which they produce. A word, for example, may be
said to be vague when it is applicable to a number of different individuals,
but to each as individuals; the name Smith, for example, is vague: it is al=
ways
meant to apply to one man, but there are many men to each of whom it applie=
s.*
The word "man," on the other hand, is general. We say, "This=
is
Smith," but we do not say "This is man," but "This is a
man." Thus we may say that a word embodies a vague idea when its effec=
ts
are appropriate to an individual, but are the same for various similar indi=
viduals,
while a word embodies a general idea when its effects are different from th=
ose
appropriate to individuals. In what this difference consists it is, however,
not easy to say. I am inclined to think that it consists merely in the
knowledge that no one individual is represented, so that what distinguishes=
a
general idea from a vague idea is merely the presence of a certain accompan=
ying
belief. If this view is correct, a general idea differs from a vague one in=
a
way analogous to that in which a memory-image differs from an
imagination-image. There also we found that the difference consists merely =
of
the fact that a memory-image is accompanied by a belief, in this case as to=
the
past.
*
"Smith" would only be a quite satisfactory representation of vague words if we failed to
discriminate between different
people called Smith.
It should also be said that our images even of
quite particular occurrences have always a greater or a less degree of
vagueness. That is to say, the occurrence might have varied within certain
limits without causing our image to vary recognizably. To arrive at the gen=
eral
it is necessary that we should be able to contrast it with a number of rela=
tively
precise images or words for particular occurrences; so long as all our imag=
es
and words are vague, we cannot arrive at the contrast by which the general =
is
defined. This is the justification for the view which I quoted on p. 184 fr=
om
Ribot (op. cit., p. 32), viz. that intelligence progresses from the indefin=
ite
to the definite, and that the vague appears earlier than either the particu=
lar
or the general.
I think the view which I have been advocating,=
to
the effect that a general idea is distinguished from a vague one by the
presence of a judgment, is also that intended by Ribot when he says (op. ci=
t.,
p. 92): "The generic image is never, the concept is always, a judgment=
. We
know that for logicians (formerly at any rate) the concept is the simple and
primitive element; next comes the judgment, uniting two or several concepts;
then ratiocination, combining two or several judgments. For the psychologis=
ts,
on the contrary, affirmation is the fundamental act; the concept is the res=
ult
of judgment (explicit or implicit), of similarities with exclusion of
differences."
A great deal of work professing to be experime=
ntal
has been done in recent years on the psychology of thought. A good summary =
of
such work up to the year agog is contained in Titchener's "Lectures on=
the
Experimental Psychology of the Thought Processes" (1909). Three articl=
es in
the "Archiv fur die gesammte Psychologie" by Watt,* Messer** and =
Buhler***
contain a great deal of the material amassed by the methods which Titchener
calls experimental.
*=
Henry
J. Watt, "Experimentelle Beitrage zu einer Theorie des Denkens," vol. iv (1905) pp.
289-436.
**
August Messer, "Experimentell-psychologische Untersuchu gen uber das Denken," vol. iii
(1906), pp. 1-224.
*=
**
Karl Buhler, "Uber Gedanken," vol. ix (1907), pp. 297-365.
For my part I am unable to attach as much
importance to this work as many psychologists do. The method employed appea=
rs
to me hardly to fulfil the conditions of scientific experiment. Broadly
speaking, what is done is, that a set of questions are asked of various peo=
ple,
their answers are recorded, and likewise their own accounts, based upon int=
rospection,
of the processes of thought which led them to give those answers. Much too =
much
reliance seems to me to be placed upon the correctness of their introspecti=
on.
On introspection as a method I have spoken earlier (Lecture VI). I am not
prepared, like Professor Watson, to reject it wholly, but I do consider tha=
t it
is exceedingly fallible and quite peculiarly liable to falsification in
accordance with preconceived theory. It is like depending upon the report o=
f a shortsighted
person as to whom he sees coming along the road at a moment when he is firm=
ly
convinced that Jones is sure to come. If everybody were shortsighted and
obsessed with beliefs as to what was going to be visible, we might have to =
make
the best of such testimony, but we should need to correct its errors by tak=
ing
care to collect the simultaneous evidence of people with the most divergent
expectations. There is no evidence that this was done in the experiments in
question, nor indeed that the influence of theory in falsifying the
introspection was at all adequately recognized. I feel convinced that if
Professor Watson had been one of the subjects of the questionnaires, he wou=
ld
have given answers totally different from those recorded in the articles in=
question.
Titchener quotes an opinion of Wundt on these investigations, which appears=
to
me thoroughly justified. "These experiments," he says, "are =
not
experiments at all in the sense of a scientific methodology; they are
counterfeit experiments, that seem methodical simply because they are
ordinarily performed in a psychological laboratory, and involve the
co-operation of two persons, who purport to be experimenter and observer. In
reality, they are as unmethodical as possible; they possess none of the spe=
cial
features by which we distinguish the introspections of experimental psychol=
ogy
from the casual introspections of everyday life."* Titchener, of cours=
e,
dissents from this opinion, but I cannot see that his reasons for dissent a=
re
adequate. My doubts are only increased by the fact that Buhler at any rate =
used
trained psychologists as his subjects. A trained psychologist is, of course,
supposed to have acquired the habit of observation, but he is at least equa=
lly
likely to have acquired a habit of seeing what his theories require. We may
take Buhler's "Uber Gedanken" to illustrate the kind of results
arrived at by such methods. Buhler says (p. 303): "We ask ourselves the
general question: 'WHAT DO WE EXPERIENCE WHEN WE THINK?' Then we do not at =
all attempt
a preliminary determination of the concept 'thought,' but choose for analys=
is
only such processes as everyone would describe as processes of thought.&quo=
t;
The most important thing in thinking, he says, is "awareness that...&q=
uot;
(Bewusstheit dass), which he calls a thought. It is, he says, thoughts in t=
his
sense that are essential to thinking. Thinking, he maintains, does not need
language or sensuous presentations. "I assert rather that in principle
every object can be thought (meant) distinctly, without any help from sensu=
ous
presentation (Anschauungshilfen). Every individual shade of blue colour on =
the picture
that hangs in my room I can think with complete distinctness unsensuously
(unanschaulich), provided it is possible that the object should be given to=
me
in another manner than by the help of sensations. How that is possible we s=
hall
see later." What he calls a thought (Gedanke) cannot be reduced, accor=
ding
to him, to other psychic occurrences. He maintains that thoughts consist for
the most part of known rules (p. 342). It is clearly essential to the inter=
est
of this theory that the thought or rule alluded to by Buhler should not nee=
d to
be expressed in words, for if it is expressed in words it is immediately ca=
pable
of being dealt with on the lines with which the behaviourists have familiar=
ized
us. It is clear also that the supposed absence of words rests solely upon t=
he
introspective testimony of the persons experimented upon. I cannot think th=
at
there is sufficient certainty of their reliability in this negative observa=
tion
to make us accept a difficult and revolutionary view of thought, merely bec=
ause
they have failed to observe the presence of words or their equivalent in th=
eir thinking.
I think it far more likely, especially in view of the fact that the persons
concerned were highly educated, that we are concerned with telescoped
processes, in which habit has caused a great many intermediate terms to be
elided or to be passed over so quickly as to escape observation.
*
Titchener, op. cit., p. 79.
I am inclined to think that similar remarks ap=
ply
to the general idea of "imageless thinking," concerning which the=
re
has been much controversy. The advocates of imageless thinking are not
contending merely that there can be thinking which is purely verbal; they a=
re
contending that there can be thinking which proceeds neither in words nor in
images. My own feeling is that they have rashly assumed the presence of
thinking in cases where habit has rendered thinking unnecessary. When Thorn=
dike
experimented with animals in cages, he found that the associations establis=
hed
were between a sensory stimulus and a bodily movement (not the idea of it),
without the need of supposing any non-physiological intermediary (op. cit.,=
p.
100 ff.). The same thing, it seems to me, applies to ourselves. A certain
sensory situation produces in us a certain bodily movement. Sometimes this
movement consists in uttering words. Prejudice leads us to suppose that bet=
ween
the sensory stimulus and the utterance of the words a process of thought mu=
st
have intervened, but there seems no good reason for such a supposition. Any=
habitual
action, such as eating or dressing, may be performed on the appropriate
occasion, without any need of thought, and the same seems to be true of a
painfully large proportion of our talk. What applies to uttered speech appl=
ies
of course equally to the internal speech which is not uttered. I remain,
therefore, entirely unconvinced that there is any such phenomenon as thinki=
ng
which consists neither of images nor of words, or that "ideas" ha=
ve
to be added to sensations and images as part of the material out of which
mental phenomena are built.
The question of the nature of our consciousnes=
s of
the universal is much affected by our view as to the general nature of the
relation of consciousness to its object. If we adopt the view of Brentano,
according to which all mental content has essential reference to an object,=
it is
then natural to suppose that there is some peculiar kind of mental content =
of
which the object is a universal, as oppose to a particular. According to th=
is
view, a particular cat can be PERceived or imagined, while the universal
"cat" is CONceived. But this whole manner of viewing our dealings
with universals has to be abandoned when the relation of a mental occurrenc=
e to
its "object" is regarded as merely indirect and causal, which is =
the
view that we have adopted. The mental content is, of course, always particu=
lar,
and the question as to what it "means" (in case it means anything=
) is
one which cannot be settled by merely examining the intrinsic character of =
the
mental content, but only by knowing its causal connections in the case of t=
he
person concerned. To say that a certain thought "means" a univers=
al as
opposed to either a vague or a particular, is to say something exceedingly
complex. A horse will behave in a certain manner whenever he smells a bear,
even if the smell is derived from a bearskin. That is to say, any environme=
nt containing
an instance of the universal "smell of a bear" produces closely
similar behaviour in the horse, but we do not say that the horse is conscio=
us
of this universal. There is equally little reason to regard a man as consci=
ous
of the same universal, because under the same circumstances he can react by
saying, "I smell a bear." This reaction, like that of the horse, =
is
merely closely similar on different occasions where the environment affords
instances of the same universal. Words of which the logical meaning is
universal can therefore be employed correctly, without anything that could =
be
called consciousness of universals. Such consciousness in the only sense in
which it can be said to exist is a matter of reflective judgment consisting=
in
the observation of similarities and differences. A universal never appears =
before
the mind as a single object in the sort of way in which something perceived
appears. I THINK a logical argument could be produced to show that universa=
ls
are part of the structure of the world, but they are an inferred part, not a
part of our data. What exists in us consists of various factors, some open =
to
external observation, others only visible to introspection. The factors ope=
n to
external observation are primarily habits, having the peculiarity that very=
similar
reactions are produced by stimuli which are in many respects very different
from each other. Of this the reaction of the horse to the smell of the bear=
is
an instance, and so is the reaction of the man who says "bear" un=
der
the same circumstances. The verbal reaction is, of course, the most importa=
nt from
the point of view of what may be called knowledge of universals. A man who =
can
always use the word "dog" when he sees a dog may be said, in a
certain sense, to know the meaning of the word "dog," and IN THAT=
SENSE
to have knowledge of the universal "dog." But there is, of course=
, a
further stage reached by the logician in which he not merely reacts with the
word "dog," but sets to work to discover what it is in the enviro=
nment
that causes in him this almost identical reaction on different occasions. T=
his
further stage consists in knowledge of similarities and differences:
similarities which are necessary to the applicability of the word
"dog," and differences which are compatible with it. Our knowledg=
e of
these similarities and differences is never exhaustive, and therefore our
knowledge of the meaning of a universal is never complete.
In addition to external observable habits
(including the habit of words), there is also the generic image produced by=
the
superposition, or, in Semon's phrase, homophony, of a number of similar
perceptions. This image is vague so long as the multiplicity of its prototy=
pes
is not recognized, but becomes universal when it exists alongside of the mo=
re specific
images of its instances, and is knowingly contrasted with them. In this cas=
e we
find again, as we found when we were discussing words in general in the
preceding lecture, that images are not logically necessary in order to acco=
unt
for observable behaviour, i.e. in this case intelligent speech. Intelligent
speech could exist as a motor habit, without any accompaniment of images, a=
nd
this conclusion applies to words of which the meaning is universal, just as
much as to words of which the meaning is relatively particular. If this
conclusion is valid, it follows that behaviourist psychology, which eschews
introspective data, is capable of being an independent science, and of
accounting for all that part of the behaviour of other people which is comm=
only
regarded as evidence that they think. It must be admitted that this conclus=
ion
considerably weakens the reliance which can be placed upon introspective da=
ta.
They must be accepted simply on account of the fact that we seem to perceive
them, not on account of their supposed necessity for explaining the data of
external observation.
This, at any rate, is the conclusion to which =
we
are forced, so long as, with the behaviourists, we accept common-sense view=
s of
the physical world. But if, as I have urged, the physical world itself, as
known, is infected through and through with subjectivity, if, as the theory=
of
relativity suggests, the physical universe contains the diversity of points=
of
view which we have been accustomed to regard as distinctively psychological,
then we are brought back by this different road to the necessity for trusti=
ng
observations which are in an important sense private. And it is the privacy=
of
introspective data which causes much of the behaviourists' objection to the=
m.
This is an example of the difficulty of
constructing an adequate philosophy of any one science without taking accou=
nt
of other sciences. The behaviourist philosophy of psychology, though in many
respects admirable from the point of view of method, appears to me to fail =
in the
last analysis because it is based upon an inadequate philosophy of physics.=
In
spite, therefore, of the fact that the evidence for images, whether generic=
or
particular, is merely introspective, I cannot admit that images should be
rejected, or that we should minimize their function in our knowledge of wha=
t is
remote in time or space.
Belief, which is our subject to-day, is the
central problem in the analysis of mind. Believing seems the most
"mental" thing we do, the thing most remote from what is done by =
mere
matter. The whole intellectual life consists of beliefs, and of the passage
from one belief to another by what is called "reasoning." Beliefs
give knowledge and error; they are the vehicles of truth and falsehood.
Psychology, theory of knowledge and metaphysics revolve about belief, and on
the view we take of belief our philosophical outlook largely depends.
Before embarking upon the detailed analysis of
belief, we shall do well to note certain requisites which any theory must
fulfil.
(1) Just as words are characterized by meaning=
, so
beliefs are characterized by truth or falsehood. And just as meaning consis=
ts
in relation to the object meant, so truth and falsehood consist in relation=
to
something that lies outside the belief. You may believe that such-and-such a
horse will win the Derby. The time comes, and your horse wins or does not w=
in;
according to the outcome, your belief was true or false. You may believe th=
at
six times nine is fifty-six; in this case also there is a fact which makes =
your
belief false. You may believe that America was discovered in 1492, or that =
it
was discovered in 1066. In the one case your belief is true, in the other
false; in either case its truth or falsehood depends upon the actions of
Columbus, not upon anything present or under your control. What makes a bel=
ief
true or false I call a "fact." The particular fact that makes a g=
iven
belief true or false I call its "objective,"* and the relation of=
the
belief to its objective I call the "reference" or the "objec=
tive
reference" of the belief. Thus, if I believe that Columbus crossed the
Atlantic in 1492, the "objective" of my belief is Columbus's actu=
al
voyage, and the "reference" of my belief is the relation between =
my
belief and the voyage--that relation, namely, in virtue of which the voyage
makes my belief true (or, in another case, false). "Reference" of
beliefs differs from "meaning" of words in various ways, but
especially in the fact that it is of two kinds, "true" reference =
and
"false" reference. The truth or falsehood of a belief does not de=
pend
upon anything intrinsic to the belief, but upon the nature of its relation =
to
its objective. The intrinsic nature of belief can be treated without refere=
nce
to what makes it true or false. In the remainder of the present lecture I s=
hall
ignore truth and falsehood, which will be the subject of Lecture XIII. It is
the intrinsic nature of belief that will concern us to-day.
*=
This
terminology is suggested by Meinong, but is not exactly the same as his.
(2) We must distinguish between believing and =
what
is believed. I may believe that Columbus crossed the Atlantic, that all Cre=
tans
are liars, that two and two are four, or that nine times six is fifty-six; =
in all
these cases the believing is just the same, and only the contents believed =
are
different. I may remember my breakfast this morning, my lecture last week, =
or
my first sight of New York. In all these cases the feeling of memory-belief=
is
just the same, and only what is remembered differs. Exactly similar remarks
apply to expectations. Bare assent, memory and expectation are forms of bel=
ief;
all three are different from what is believed, and each has a constant
character which is independent of what is believed.
In Lecture I we criticized the analysis of a p=
resentation
into act, content and object. But our analysis of belief contains three ver=
y similar
elements, namely the believing, what is believed and the objective. The
objections to the act (in the case of presentations) are not valid against =
the
believing in the case of beliefs, because the believing is an actual
experienced feeling, not something postulated, like the act. But it is
necessary first to complete our preliminary requisites, and then to examine=
the
content of a belief. After that, we shall be in a position to return to the
question as to what constitutes believing.
(3) What is believed, and the believing, must =
both
consist of present occurrences in the believer, no matter what may be the
objective of the belief. Suppose I believe, for example, "that Caesar
crossed the Rubicon." The objective of my belief is an event which
happened long ago, which I never saw and do not remember. This event itself=
is
not in my mind when I believe that it happened. It is not correct to say th=
at I
am believing the actual event; what I am believing is something now in my m=
ind,
something related to the event (in a way which we shall investigate in Lect=
ure
XIII), but obviously not to be confounded with the event, since the event is
not occurring now but the believing is. What a man is believing at a given
moment is wholly determinate if we know the contents of his mind at that
moment; but Caesar's crossing of the Rubicon was an historical physical eve=
nt,
which is distinct from the present contents of every present mind. What is
believed, however true it may be, is not the actual fact that makes the bel=
ief
true, but a present event related to the fact. This present event, which is
what is believed, I shall call the "content" of the belief. We ha=
ve
already had occasion to notice the distinction between content and objectiv=
e in
the case of memory-beliefs, where the content is "this occurred" =
and
the objective is the past event.
(4) Between content and objective there is
sometimes a very wide gulf, for example in the case of "Caesar crossed=
the
Rubicon." This gulf may, when it is first perceived, give us a feeling
that we cannot really "know" anything about the outer world. All =
we
can "know," it may be said, is what is now in our thoughts. If Ca=
esar
and the Rubicon cannot be bodily in our thoughts, it might seem as though we
must remain cut off from knowledge of them. I shall not now deal at length =
with
this feeling, since it is necessary first to define "knowing," wh=
ich
cannot be done yet. But I will say, as a preliminary answer, that the feeli=
ng assumes
an ideal of knowing which I believe to be quite mistaken. It assumes, if it=
is
thought out, something like the mystic unity of knower and known. These two=
are
often said to be combined into a unity by the fact of cognition; hence when
this unity is plainly absent, it may seem as if there were no genuine
cognition. For my part, I think such theories and feelings wholly mistaken:=
I
believe knowing to be a very external and complicated relation, incapable of
exact definition, dependent upon causal laws, and involving no more unity t=
han
there is between a signpost and the town to which it points. I shall return=
to this
question on a later occasion; for the moment these provisional remarks must
suffice.
(5) The objective reference of a belief is
connected with the fact that all or some of the constituents of its content
have meaning. If I say "Caesar conquered Gaul," a person who knows
the meaning of the three words composing my statement knows as much as can =
be
known about the nature of the objective which would make my statement true.=
It
is clear that the objective reference of a belief is, in general, in some w=
ay derivative
from the meanings of the words or images that occur in its content. There a=
re,
however, certain complications which must be borne in mind. In the first pl=
ace,
it might be contended that a memory-image acquires meaning only through the
memory-belief, which would seem, at least in the case of memory, to make be=
lief
more primitive than the meaning of images. In the second place, it is a very
singular thing that meaning, which is single, should generate objective
reference, which is dual, namely true and false. This is one of the facts w=
hich
any theory of belief must explain if it is to be satisfactory.
It is now time to leave these preliminary
requisites, and attempt the analysis of the contents of beliefs.
The first thing to notice about what is believ=
ed,
i.e. about the content of a belief, is that it is always complex: We believe
that a certain thing has a certain property, or a certain relation to somet=
hing
else, or that it occurred or will occur (in the sense discussed at the end =
of Lecture
IX); or we may believe that all the members of a certain class have a certa=
in
property, or that a certain property sometimes occurs among the members of a
class; or we may believe that if one thing happens, another will happen (for
example, "if it rains I shall bring my umbrella"), or we may beli=
eve
that something does not happen, or did not or will not happen (for example,
"it won't rain"); or that one of two things must happen (for exam=
ple,
"either you withdraw your accusation, or I shall bring a libel
action"). The catalogue of the sorts of things we may believe is infin=
ite,
but all of them are complex.
Language sometimes conceals the complexity of a
belief. We say that a person believes in God, and it might seem as if God
formed the whole content of the belief. But what is really believed is that=
God
exists, which is very far from being simple. Similarly, when a person has a=
memory-image
with a memory-belief, the belief is "this occurred," in the sense
explained in Lecture IX; and "this occurred" is not simple. In li=
ke
manner all cases where the content of a belief seems simple at first sight =
will
be found, on examination, to confirm the view that the content is always
complex.
The content of a belief involves not merely a
plurality of constituents, but definite relations between them; it is not
determinate when its constituents alone are given. For example, "Plato
preceded Aristotle" and "Aristotle preceded Plato" are both
contents which may be believed, but, although they consist of exactly the s=
ame
constituents, they are different, and even incompatible.
The content of a belief may consist of words o=
nly,
or of images only, or of a mixture of the two, or of either or both together
with one or more sensations. It must contain at least one constituent which=
is
a word or an image, and it may or may not contain one or more sensations as=
constituents.
Some examples will make these various possibilities clear.
We may take first recognition, in either of the
forms "this is of such-and-such a kind" or "this has occurred
before." In either case, present sensation is a constituent. For examp=
le,
you hear a noise, and you say to yourself "tram." Here the noise =
and
the word "tram" are both constituents of your belief; there is al=
so a
relation between them, expressed by "is" in the proposition
"that is a tram." As soon as your act of recognition is completed=
by
the occurrence of the word "tram," your actions are affected: you
hurry if you want the tram, or cease to hurry if you want a bus. In this ca=
se
the content of your belief is a sensation (the noise) and a word
("tram") related in a way which may be called predication.
The same noise may bring into your mind the vi=
sual
image of a tram, instead of the word "tram." In this case your be=
lief
consists of a sensation and an image suitable related. Beliefs of this class
are what are called "judgments of perception." As we saw in Lectu=
re
VIII, the images associated with a sensation often come with such spontanei=
ty and
force that the unsophisticated do not distinguish them from the sensation; =
it
is only the psychologist or the skilled observer who is aware of the large
mnemic element that is added to sensation to make perception. It may be
objected that what is added consists merely of images without belief. This =
is
no doubt sometimes the case, but is certainly sometimes not the case. That
belief always occurs in perception as opposed to sensation it is not necess=
ary
for us to maintain; it is enough for our purposes to note that it sometimes=
occurs,
and that when it does, the content of our belief consists of a sensation an=
d an
image suitably related.
In a PURE memory-belief only images occur. But=
a
mixture of words and images is very common in memory. You have an image of =
the
past occurrence, and you say to yourself: "Yes, that's how it was.&quo=
t;
Here the image and the words together make up the content of the belief. An=
d when
the remembering of an incident has become a habit, it may be purely verbal,=
and
the memory-belief may consist of words alone.
The more complicated forms of belief tend to
consist only of words. Often images of various kinds accompany them, but th=
ey
are apt to be irrelevant, and to form no part of what is actually believed.=
For
example, in thinking of the Solar System, you are likely to have vague imag=
es
of pictures you have seen of the earth surrounded by clouds, Saturn and his
rings, the sun during an eclipse, and so on; but none of these form part of
your belief that the planets revolve round the sun in elliptical orbits. The
only images that form an actual part of such beliefs are, as a rule, images=
of
words. And images of words, for the reasons considered in Lecture VIII, can=
not
be distinguished with any certainty from sensations, when, as is often, if =
not
usually, the case, they are kinaesthetic images of pronouncing the words.
It is impossible for a belief to consist of
sensations alone, except when, as in the case of words, the sensations have
associations which make them signs possessed of meaning. The reason is that
objective reference is of the essence of belief, and objective reference is=
derived
from meaning. When I speak of a belief consisting partly of sensations and
partly of words, I do not mean to deny that the words, when they are not me=
re
images, are sensational, but that they occur as signs, not (so to speak) in
their own right. To revert to the noise of the tram, when you hear it and s=
ay
"tram," the noise and the word are both sensations (if you actual=
ly
pronounce the word), but the noise is part of the fact which makes your bel=
ief
true, whereas the word is not part of this fact. It is the MEANING of the w=
ord
"tram," not the actual word, that forms part of the fact which is=
the
objective of your belief. Thus the word occurs in the belief as a symbol, in
virtue of its meaning, whereas the noise enters into both the belief and it=
s objective.
It is this that distinguishes the occurrence of words as symbols from the o=
ccurrence
of sensations in their own right: the objective contains the sensations that
occur in their own right, but contains only the meanings of the words that
occur as symbols.
For the sake of simplicity, we may ignore the
cases in which sensations in their own right form part of the content of a
belief, and confine ourselves to images and words. We may also omit the cas=
es
in which both images and words occur in the content of a belief. Thus we be=
come
confined to two cases: (a) when the content consists wholly of images, (b) =
when
it consists wholly of words. The case of mixed images and words has no spec=
ial
importance, and its omission will do no harm.
Let us take in illustration a case of memory.
Suppose you are thinking of some familiar room. You may call up an image of=
it,
and in your image the window may be to the left of the door. Without any
intrusion of words, you may believe in the correctness of your image. You t=
hen
have a belief, consisting wholly of images, which becomes, when put into wo=
rds,
"the window is to the left of the door." You may yourself use the=
se words
and proceed to believe them. You thus pass from an image-content to the
corresponding word-content. The content is different in the two cases, but =
its
objective reference is the same. This shows the relation of image-beliefs to
word-beliefs in a very simple case. In more elaborate cases the relation
becomes much less simple.
It may be said that even in this very simple c=
ase
the objective reference of the word-content is not quite the same as that of
the image-content, that images have a wealth of concrete features which are=
lost
when words are substituted, that the window in the image is not a mere wind=
ow
in the abstract, but a window of a certain shape and size, not merely to th=
e left
of the door, but a certain distance to the left, and so on. In reply, it ma=
y be
admitted at once that there is, as a rule, a certain amount of truth in the
objection. But two points may be urged to minimize its force. First, images=
do
not, as a rule, have that wealth of concrete detail that would make it
IMPOSSIBLE to express them fully in words. They are vague and fragmentary: a
finite number of words, though perhaps a large number, would exhaust at lea=
st
their SIGNIFICANT features. For--and this is our second point--images enter=
into
the content of a belief through the fact that they are capable of meaning, =
and
their meaning does not, as a rule, have as much complexity as they have: so=
me
of their characteristics are usually devoid of meaning. Thus it may well be
possible to extract in words all that has meaning in an image-content; in t=
hat
case the word-content and the image-content will have exactly the same
objective reference.
The content of a belief, when expressed in wor=
ds,
is the same thing (or very nearly the same thing) as what in logic is calle=
d a
"proposition." A proposition is a series of words (or sometimes a
single word) expressing the kind of thing that can be asserted or denied.
"That all men are mortal," "that Columbus discovered America=
,"
"that Charles I died in his bed," "that all philosophers are
wise," are propositions. Not any series of words is a proposition, but
only such series of words as have "meaning," or, in our phraseolo=
gy,
"objective reference." Given the meanings of separate words, and =
the
rules of syntax, the meaning of a proposition is determinate. This is the
reason why we can understand a sentence we never heard before. You probably
never heard before the proposition "that the inhabitants of the Andaman
Islands habitually eat stewed hippopotamus for dinner," but there is no
difficulty in understanding the proposition. The question of the relation
between the meaning of a sentence and the meanings of the separate words is=
difficult,
and I shall not pursue it now; I brought it up solely as being illustrative=
of
the nature of propositions.
We may extend the term "proposition"=
so
as to cover the image-contents of beliefs consisting of images. Thus, in the
case of remembering a room in which the window is to the left of the door, =
when
we believe the image-content the proposition will consist of the image of t=
he
window on the left together with the image of the door on the right. We wil=
l distinguish
propositions of this kind as "image-propositions" and proposition=
s in
words as "word-propositions." We may identify propositions in gen=
eral
with the contents of actual and possible beliefs, and we may say that it is
propositions that are true or false. In logic we are concerned with
propositions rather than beliefs, since logic is not interested in what peo=
ple
do in fact believe, but only in the conditions which determine the truth or
falsehood of possible beliefs. Whenever possible, except when actual beliefs
are in question, it is generally a simplification to deal with propositions=
.
It would seem that image-propositions are more
primitive than word-propositions, and may well ante-date language. There is=
no
reason why memory-images, accompanied by that very simple belief-feeling wh=
ich we
decided to be the essence of memory, should not have occurred before langua=
ge
arose; indeed, it would be rash to assert positively that memory of this so=
rt
does not occur among the higher animals. Our more elementary beliefs, notab=
ly
those that are added to sensation to make perception, often remain at the l=
evel
of images. For example, most of the visual objects in our neighbourhood rou=
se
tactile images: we have a different feeling in looking at a sofa from what =
we
have in looking at a block of marble, and the difference consists chiefly in
different stimulation of our tactile imagination. It may be said that the
tactile images are merely present, without any accompanying belief; but I t=
hink
this view, though sometimes correct, derives its plausibility as a general
proposition from our thinking of explicit conscious belief only. Most of our
beliefs, like most of our wishes, are "unconscious," in the sense
that we have never told ourselves that we have them. Such beliefs display
themselves when the expectations that they arouse fail in any way. For exam=
ple,
if someone puts tea (without milk) into a glass, and you drink it under the
impression that it is going to be beer; or if you walk on what appears to b=
e a
tiled floor, and it turns out to be a soft carpet made to look like tiles. =
The
shock of surprise on an occasion of this kind makes us aware of the
expectations that habitually enter into our perceptions; and such expectati=
ons
must be classed as beliefs, in spite of the fact that we do not normally ta=
ke
note of them or put them into words. I remember once watching a cock pigeon
running over and over again to the edge of a looking-glass to try to wreak
vengeance on the particularly obnoxious bird whom he expected to find there,
judging by what he saw in the glass. He must have experienced each time the=
sort
of surprise on finding nothing, which is calculated to lead in time to the
adoption of Berkeley's theory that objects of sense are only in the mind. H=
is
expectation, though not expressed in words, deserved, I think, to be called=
a
belief.
I come now to the question what constitutes
believing, as opposed to the content believed.
To begin with, there are various different
attitudes that may be taken towards the same content. Let us suppose, for t=
he
sake of argument, that you have a visual image of your breakfast-table. You=
may
expect it while you are dressing in the morning; remember it as you go to y=
our
work; feel doubt as to its correctness when questioned as to your powers of=
visualizing;
merely entertain the image, without connecting it with anything external, w=
hen
you are going to sleep; desire it if you are hungry, or feel aversion for i=
t if
you are ill. Suppose, for the sake of definiteness, that the content is
"an egg for breakfast." Then you have the following attitudes &qu=
ot;I
expect there will be an egg for breakfast"; "I remember there was=
an
egg for breakfast"; "Was there an egg for breakfast?" "=
An
egg for breakfast: well, what of it?" "I hope there will be an egg
for breakfast"; "I am afraid there will be an egg for breakfast a=
nd
it is sure to be bad." I do not suggest that this is a list of all
possible attitudes on the subject; I say only that they are different
attitudes, all concerned with the one content "an egg for breakfast.&q=
uot;
These attitudes are not all equally ultimate.
Those that involve desire and aversion have occupied us in Lecture III. For=
the
present, we are only concerned with such as are cognitive. In speaking of
memory, we distinguished three kinds of belief directed towards the same co=
ntent,
namely memory, expectation and bare assent without any time-determination in
the belief-feeling. But before developing this view, we must examine two ot=
her
theories which might be held concerning belief, and which, in some ways, wo=
uld
be more in harmony with a behaviourist outlook than the theory I wish to
advocate.
(1) The first theory to be examined is the view
that the differentia of belief consists in its causal efficacy I do not wis=
h to
make any author responsible for this theory: I wish merely to develop it
hypothetically so that we may judge of its tenability.
We defined the meaning of an image or word by
causal efficacy, namely by associations: an image or word acquires meaning,=
we
said, through having the same associations as what it means.
We propose hypothetically to define
"belief" by a different kind of causal efficacy, namely efficacy =
in
causing voluntary movements. (Voluntary movements are defined as those vital
movements which are distinguished from reflex movements as involving the hi=
gher
nervous centres. I do not like to distinguish them by means of such notions=
as "consciousness"
or "will," because I do not think these notions, in any definable
sense, are always applicable. Moreover, the purpose of the theory we are
examining is to be, as far as possible, physiological and behaviourist, and
this purpose is not achieved if we introduce such a conception as
"consciousness" or "will." Nevertheless, it is necessar=
y for
our purpose to find some way of distinguishing between voluntary and reflex
movements, since the results would be too paradoxical, if we were to say th=
at
reflex movements also involve beliefs.) According to this definition, a con=
tent
is said to be "believed" when it causes us to move. The images
aroused are the same if you say to me, "Suppose there were an escaped
tiger coming along the street," and if you say to me, "There is an
escaped tiger coming along the street." But my actions will be very
different in the two cases: in the first, I shall remain calm; in the secon=
d,
it is possible that I may not. It is suggested, by the theory we are
considering, that this difference of effects constitutes what is meant by
saying that in the second case I believe the proposition suggested, while in
the first case I do not. According to this view, images or words are
"believed" when they cause bodily movements.
I do not think this theory is adequate, but I
think it is suggestive of truth, and not so easily refutable as it might ap=
pear
to be at first sight.
It might be objected to the theory that many
things which we certainly believe do not call for any bodily movements. I
believe that Great Britain is an island, that whales are mammals, that Char=
les
I was executed, and so on; and at first sight it seems obvious that such be=
liefs,
as a rule, do not call for any action on my part. But when we investigate t=
he
matter more closely, it becomes more doubtful. To begin with, we must
distinguish belief as a mere DISPOSITION from actual active belief. We spea=
k as
if we always believed that Charles I was executed, but that only means that=
we
are always ready to believe it when the subject comes up. The phenomenon we=
are
concerned to analyse is the active belief, not the permanent disposition. N=
ow,
what are the occasions when, we actively believe that Charles I was execute=
d? Primarily:
examinations, when we perform the bodily movement of writing it down;
conversation, when we assert it to display our historical erudition; and
political discourses, when we are engaged in showing what Soviet government
leads to. In all these cases bodily movements (writing or speaking) result =
from
our belief.
But there remains the belief which merely occu=
rs
in "thinking." One may set to work to recall some piece of history
one has been reading, and what one recalls is believed, although it probably
does not cause any bodily movement whatever. It is true that what we believe
always MAY influence action. Suppose I am invited to become King of Georgia=
: I
find the prospect attractive, and go to Cook's to buy a third-class ticket =
to my
new realm. At the last moment I remember Charles I and all the other monarc=
hs
who have come to a bad end; I change my mind, and walk out without completi=
ng
the transaction. But such incidents are rare, and cannot constitute the who=
le
of my belief that Charles I was executed. The conclusion seems to be that,
although a belief always MAY influence action if it becomes relevant to a
practical issue, it often exists actively (not as a mere disposition) witho=
ut
producing any voluntary movement whatever. If this is true, we cannot define
belief by the effect on voluntary movements.
There is another, more theoretical, ground for rejecting the view we are examining. It is clear that a proposition can be either believed or merely considered, and that the content is the same in b= oth cases. We can expect an egg for breakfast, or merely entertain the supposit= ion that there may be an egg for breakfast. A moment ago I considered the possibilit= y of being invited to become King of Georgia, but I do not believe that this will happen. Now, it seems clear that, since believing and considering have different effects if one produces bodily movements while the other does not, there must be some intrinsic difference between believing and considering*;= for if they were precisely similar, their effects also would be precisely simil= ar. We have seen that the difference between believing a given proposition and merely considering it does not lie in the content; therefore there must be,= in one case or in both, something additional to the content which distinguishes the occurrence of a belief from the occurrence of a mere consideration of t= he same content. So far as the theoretical argument goes, this additional elem= ent may exist only in belief, or only in consideration, or there may be one sor= t of additional element in the case of belief, and another in the case of consideration. This brings us to the second view which we have to examine.<= o:p>
*=
Cf.
Brentano, "Psychologie vom empirischen Standpunkte," p. 268 (criticizing Bain, "The
Emotions and the Will").
(1) The theory which we have now to consider
regards belief as belonging to every idea which is entertained, except in so
far as some positive counteracting force interferes. In this view belief is=
not
a positive phenomenon, though doubt and disbelief are so. What we call beli=
ef, according
to this hypothesis, involves only the appropriate content, which will have =
the
effects characteristic of belief unless something else operating simultaneo=
usly
inhibits them. James (Psychology, vol. ii, p. 288) quotes with approval, th=
ough
inaccurately, a passage from Spinoza embodying this view:
"Let us conceive a boy imagining to himse=
lf a
horse, and taking note of nothing else. As this imagination involves the
existence of the horse, AND THE BOY HAS NO PERCEPTION WHICH ANNULS ITS EXIS=
TENCE
[James's italics], he will necessarily contemplate the horse as present, nor
will he be able to doubt of its existence, however little certain of it he =
may
be. I deny that a man in so far as he imagines [percipit] affirms nothing. =
For
what is it to imagine a winged horse but to affirm that the horse [that hor=
se,
namely] has wings? For if the mind had nothing before it but the winged hor=
se,
it would contemplate the same as present, would have no cause to doubt of i=
ts
existence, nor any power of dissenting from its existence, unless the
imagination of the winged horse were joined to an idea which contradicted
[tollit] its existence" ("Ethics," vol. ii, p. 49, Scholium)=
.
To this doctrine James entirely assents, addin=
g in
italics:
"ANY OBJECT WHICH REMAINS UNCONTRADICTED =
IS
IPSO FACTO BELIEVED AND POSITED AS ABSOLUTE REALITY."
If this view is correct, it follows (though Ja=
mes
does not draw the inference) that there is no need of any specific feeling
called "belief," and that the mere existence of images yields all
that is required. The state of mind in which we merely consider a propositi=
on, without
believing or disbelieving it, will then appear as a sophisticated product, =
the
result of some rival force adding to the image-proposition a positive feeli=
ng
which may be called suspense or non-belief--a feeling which may be compared=
to
that of a man about to run a race waiting for the signal. Such a man, though
not moving, is in a very different condition from that of a man quietly at =
rest
And so the man who is considering a proposition without believing it will b=
e in
a state of tension, restraining the natural tendency to act upon the propos=
ition
which he would display if nothing interfered. In this view belief primarily
consists merely in the existence of the appropriate images without any
counteracting forces.
There is a great deal to be said in favour of =
this
view, and I have some hesitation in regarding it as inadequate. It fits
admirably with the phenomena of dreams and hallucinatory images, and it is =
recommended
by the way in which it accords with mental development. Doubt, suspense of
judgment and disbelief all seem later and more complex than a wholly unrefl=
ecting
assent. Belief as a positive phenomenon, if it exists, may be regarded, in =
this
view, as a product of doubt, a decision after debate, an acceptance, not me=
rely
of THIS, but of THIS-RATHER-THAN-THAT. It is not difficult to suppose that a
dog has images (possible olfactory) of his absent master, or of the rabbit =
that
he dreams of hunting. But it is very difficult to suppose that he can enter=
tain
mere imagination-images to which no assent is given.
I think it must be conceded that a mere image,
without the addition of any positive feeling that could be called
"belief," is apt to have a certain dynamic power, and in this sen=
se
an uncombated image has the force of a belief. But although this may be tru=
e,
it accounts only for some of the simplest phenomena in the region of belief=
. It
will not, for example, explain memory. Nor can it explain beliefs which do =
not
issue in any proximate action, such as those of mathematics. I conclude, th=
erefore,
that there must be belief-feelings of the same order as those of doubt or
disbelief, although phenomena closely analogous to those of belief can be
produced by mere uncontradicted images.
(3) I come now to the view of belief which I w=
ish
to advocate. It seems to me that there are at least three kinds of belief,
namely memory, expectation and bare assent. Each of these I regard as
constituted by a certain feeling or complex of sensations, attached to the
content believed. We may illustrate by an example. Suppose I am believing, =
by
means of images, not words, that it will rain. We have here two interrelated
elements, namely the content and the expectation. The content consists of
images of (say) the visual appearance of rain, the feeling of wetness, the
patter of drops, interrelated, roughly, as the sensations would be if it we=
re
raining. Thus the content is a complex fact composed of images. Exactly the
same content may enter into the memory "it was raining" or the as=
sent
"rain occurs." The difference of these cases from each other and =
from
expectation does not lie in the content. The difference lies in the nature =
of
the belief-feeling. I, personally, do not profess to be able to analyse the
sensations constituting respectively memory, expectation and assent; but I =
am not
prepared to say that they cannot be analysed. There may be other belief-fee=
lings,
for example in disjunction and implication; also a disbelief-feeling.
It is not enough that the content and the
belief-feeling should coexist: it is necessary that there should be a speci=
fic
relation between them, of the sort expressed by saying that the content is =
what
is believed. If this were not obvious, it could be made plain by an argumen=
t.
If the mere co-existence of the content and the belief-feeling sufficed, wh=
enever
we were having (say) a memory-feeling we should be remembering any proposit=
ion
which came into our minds at the same time. But this is not the case, since=
we
may simultaneously remember one proposition and merely consider another.
We may sum up our analysis, in the case of bare
assent to a proposition not expressed in words, as follows: (a) We have a
proposition, consisting of interrelated images, and possibly partly of
sensations; (b) we have the feeling of assent, which is presumably a comple=
x sensation
demanding analysis; (c) we have a relation, actually subsisting, between the
assent and the proposition, such as is expressed by saying that the proposi=
tion
in question is what is assented to. For other forms of belief-feeling or of
content, we have only to make the necessary substitutions in this analysis.=
If we are right in our analysis of belief, the=
use
of words in expressing beliefs is apt to be misleading. There is no way of =
distinguishing,
in words, between a memory and an assent to a proposition about the past:
"I ate my breakfast" and "Caesar conquered Gaul" have t=
he
same verbal form, though (assuming that I remember my breakfast) they expre=
ss
occurrences which are psychologically very different. In the one case, what
happens is that I remember the content "eating my breakfast"; in =
the
other case, I assent to the content "Caesar's conquest of Gaul
occurred." In the latter case, but not in the former, the pastness is =
part
of the content believed. Exactly similar remarks apply to the difference
between expectation, such as we have when waiting for the thunder after a f=
lash
of lightning, and assent to a proposition about the future, such as we have=
in
all the usual cases of inferential knowledge as to what will occur. I think
this difficulty in the verbal expression of the temporal aspects of beliefs=
is
one among the causes which have hampered philosophy in the consideration of
time.
The view of belief which I have been advocating
contains little that is novel except the distinction of kinds of
belief-feeling--such as memory and expectation. Thus James says: "Ever=
yone
knows the difference between imagining a thing and believing in its existen=
ce,
between supposing a proposition and acquiescing in its truth...IN ITS INNER
NATURE, BELIEF, OR THE SENSE OF REALITY, IS A SORT OF FEELING MORE ALLIED TO
THE EMOTIONS THAN TO ANYTHING ELSE" ("Psychology," vol. ii, =
p.
283. James's italics). He proceeds to point out that drunkenness, and, still
more, nitrous-oxide intoxication, will heighten the sense of belief: in the=
latter
case, he says, a man's very soul may sweat with conviction, and he be all t=
he
time utterly unable to say what he is convinced of. It would seem that, in =
such
cases, the feeling of belief exists unattached, without its usual relation =
to a
content believed, just as the feeling of familiarity may sometimes occur
without being related to any definite familiar object. The feeling of belie=
f, when
it occurs in this separated heightened form, generally leads us to look for=
a
content to which to attach it. Much of what passes for revelation or mystic
insight probably comes in this way: the belief-feeling, in abnormal strengt=
h,
attaches itself, more or less accidentally, to some content which we happen=
to think
of at the appropriate moment. But this is only a speculation, upon which I =
do
not wish to lay too much stress.
The definition of truth and falsehood, which is
our topic to-day, lies strictly outside our general subject, namely the
analysis of mind. From the psychological standpoint, there may be different
kinds of belief, and different degrees of certainty, but there cannot be any
purely psychological means of distinguishing between true and false beliefs=
. A
belief is rendered true or false by relation to a fact, which may lie outsi=
de
the experience of the person entertaining the belief. Truth and falsehood,
except in the case of beliefs about our own minds, depend upon the relation=
s of
mental occurrences to outside things, and thus take us beyond the analysis =
of
mental occurrences as they are in themselves. Nevertheless, we can hardly a=
void
the consideration of truth and falsehood. We wish to believe that our belie=
fs,
sometimes at least, yield KNOWLEDGE, and a belief does not yield knowledge
unless it is true. The question whether our minds are instruments of knowle=
dge,
and, if so, in what sense, is so vital that any suggested analysis of mind =
must
be examined in relation to this question. To ignore this question would be =
like
describing a chronometer without regard to its accuracy as a time-keeper, o=
r a
thermometer without mentioning the fact that it measures temperature.
Many difficult questions arise in connection w=
ith
knowledge. It is difficult to define knowledge, difficult to decide whether=
we
have any knowledge, and difficult, even if it is conceded that we sometimes
have knowledge to discover whether we can ever know that we have knowledge =
in
this or that particular case. I shall divide the discussion into four parts=
:
I. We may regard knowledge, from a behaviourist
standpoint, as exhibited in a certain kind of response to the environment. =
This
response must have some characteristics which it shares with those of
scientific instruments, but must also have others that are peculiar to
knowledge. We shall find that this point of view is important, but not
exhaustive of the nature of knowledge.
II. We may hold that the beliefs that constitu=
te
knowledge are distinguished from such as are erroneous or uncertain by
properties which are intrinsic either to single beliefs or to systems of
beliefs, being in either case discoverable without reference to outside fac=
t. Views
of this kind have been widely held among philosophers, but we shall find no
reason to accept them.
III. We believe that some beliefs are true, and
some false. This raises the problem of VERIFIABILITY: are there any
circumstances which can justifiably give us an unusual degree of certainty =
that
such and such a belief is true? It is obvious that there are circumstances
which in fact cause a certainty of this sort, and we wish to learn what we =
can
from examining these circumstances.
IV. Finally, there is the formal problem of
defining truth and falsehood, and deriving the objective reference of a
proposition from the meanings of its component words.
We will consider these four problems in
succession.
I. We may regard a human being as an instrumen=
t,
which makes various responses to various stimuli. If we observe these respo=
nses
from outside, we shall regard them as showing knowledge when they display t=
wo
characteristics, ACCURACY and APPROPRIATENESS. These two are quite distinct,
and even sometimes incompatible. If I am being pursued by a tiger, accuracy=
is
furthered by turning round to look at him, but appropriateness by running a=
way
without making any search for further knowledge of the beast. I shall retur=
n to
the question of appropriateness later; for the present it is accuracy that I
wish to consider.
When we are viewing a man from the outside, it=
is
not his beliefs, but his bodily movements, that we can observe. His knowled=
ge
must be inferred from his bodily movements, and especially from what he say=
s and
writes. For the present we may ignore beliefs, and regard a man's knowledge=
as
actually consisting in what he says and does. That is to say, we will
construct, as far as possible, a purely behaviouristic account of truth and
falsehood.
If you ask a boy "What is twice two?"
and the boy says "four," you take that as prima facie evidence th=
at
the boy knows what twice two is. But if you go on to ask what is twice thre=
e,
twice four, twice five, and so on, and the boy always answers "four,&q=
uot;
you come to the conclusion that he knows nothing about it. Exactly similar
remarks apply to scientific instruments. I know a certain weather-cock which
has the pessimistic habit of always pointing to the north-east. If you were=
to
see it first on a cold March day, you would think it an excellent weather-c=
ock;
but with the first warm day of spring your confidence would be shaken. The =
boy
and the weather-cock have the same defect: they do not vary their response =
when
the stimulus is varied. A good instrument, or a person with much knowledge,
will give different responses to stimuli which differ in relevant ways. Thi=
s is
the first point in defining accuracy of response.
We will now assume another boy, who also, when=
you
first question him, asserts that twice two is four. But with this boy, inst=
ead
of asking him different questions, you make a practice of asking him the sa=
me
question every day at breakfast. You find that he says five, or six, or sev=
en,
or any other number at random, and you conclude that he also does not know =
what
twice two is, though by good luck he answered right the first time. This bo=
y is
like a weather-cock which, instead of being stuck fast, is always going rou=
nd
and round, changing without any change of wind. This boy and weather-cock h=
ave
the opposite defect to that of the previous pair: they give different respo=
nses
to stimuli which do not differ in any relevant way.
In connection with vagueness in memory, we alr=
eady
had occasion to consider the definition of accuracy. Omitting some of the
niceties of our previous discussion, we may say that an instrument is ACCUR=
ATE
when it avoids the defects of the two boys and weather-cocks, that is to sa=
y, when--
(a) It gives different responses to stimuli wh=
ich
differ in relevant ways;
(b) It gives the same response to stimuli whic=
h do
not differ in relevant ways.
What are relevant ways depends upon the nature=
and
purpose of the instrument. In the case of a weather-cock, the direction of =
the
wind is relevant, but not its strength; in the case of the boy, the meaning=
of the
words of your question is relevant, but not the loudness of your voice, or
whether you are his father or his schoolmaster If, however, you were a boy =
of
his own age, that would be relevant, and the appropriate response would be
different.
It is clear that knowledge is displayed by acc=
uracy
of response to certain kinds of stimuli, e.g. examinations. Can we say,
conversely, that it consists wholly of such accuracy of response? I do not
think we can; but we can go a certain distance in this direction. For this =
purpose
we must define more carefully the kind of accuracy and the kind of response
that may be expected where there is knowledge.
From our present point of view, it is difficul=
t to
exclude perception from knowledge; at any rate, knowledge is displayed by
actions based upon perception. A bird flying among trees avoids bumping into
their branches; its avoidance is a response to visual sensations. This resp=
onse
has the characteristic of accuracy, in the main, and leads us to say that t=
he
bird "knows," by sight, what objects are in its neighbourhood. Fo=
r a
behaviourist, this must certainly count as knowledge, however it may be vie=
wed
by analytic psychology. In this case, what is known, roughly, is the stimul=
us;
but in more advanced knowledge the stimulus and what is known become differ=
ent.
For example, you look in your calendar and find that Easter will be early n=
ext
year. Here the stimulus is the calendar, whereas the response concerns the =
future.
Even this can be paralleled among instruments: the behaviour of the baromet=
er
has a present stimulus but foretells the future, so that the barometer migh=
t be
said, in a sense, to know the future. However that may be, the point I am
emphasizing as regards knowledge is that what is known may be quite differe=
nt
from the stimulus, and no part of the cause of the knowledge-response. It is
only in sense-knowledge that the stimulus and what is known are, with
qualifications, identifiable. In knowledge of the future, it is obvious that
they are totally distinct, since otherwise the response would precede the
stimulus. In abstract knowledge also they are distinct, since abstract facts
have no date. In knowledge of the past there are complications, which we mu=
st briefly
examine.
Every form of memory will be, from our present
point of view, in one sense a delayed response. But this phrase does not qu=
ite
clearly express what is meant. If you light a fuse and connect it with a he=
ap
of dynamite, the explosion of the dynamite may be spoken of, in a sense, as=
a
delayed response to your lighting of the fuse. But that only means that it =
is a
somewhat late portion of a continuous process of which the earlier parts ha=
ve
less emotional interest. This is not the case with habit. A display of habit
has two sorts of causes: (a) the past occurrences which generated the habit=
, (b)
the present occurrence which brings it into play. When you drop a weight on
your toe, and say what you do say, the habit has been caused by imitation of
your undesirable associates, whereas it is brought into play by the droppin=
g of
the weight. The great bulk of our knowledge is a habit in this sense: whene=
ver
I am asked when I was born, I reply correctly by mere habit. It would hardl=
y be
correct to say that getting born was the stimulus, and that my reply is a
delayed response But in cases of memory this way of speaking would have an
element of truth. In an habitual memory, the event remembered was clearly an
essential part of the stimulus to the formation of the habit. The present
stimulus which brings the habit into play produces a different response from
that which it would produce if the habit did not exist. Therefore the habit
enters into the causation of the response, and so do, at one remove, the ca=
uses
of the habit. It follows that an event remembered is an essential part of t=
he
causes of our remembering.
In spite, however, of the fact that what is kn=
own
is SOMETIMES an indispensable part of the cause of the knowledge, this
circumstance is, I think, irrelevant to the general question with which we =
are
concerned, namely What sort of response to what sort of stimulus can be
regarded as displaying knowledge? There is one characteristic which the
response must have, namely, it must consist of voluntary movements. The nee=
d of
this characteristic is connected with the characteristic of APPROPRIATENESS=
, which
I do not wish to consider as yet. For the present I wish only to obtain a
clearer idea of the sort of ACCURACY that a knowledge-response must have. I=
t is
clear from many instances that accuracy, in other cases, may be purely
mechanical. The most complete form of accuracy consists in giving correct
answers to questions, an achievement in which calculating machines far surp=
ass
human beings. In asking a question of a calculating machine, you must use i=
ts
language: you must not address it in English, any more than you would addre=
ss an
Englishman in Chinese. But if you address it in the language it understands=
, it
will tell you what is 34521 times 19987, without a moment's hesitation or a
hint of inaccuracy. We do not say the machine KNOWS the answer, because it =
has
no purpose of its own in giving the answer: it does not wish to impress you
with its cleverness, or feel proud of being such a good machine. But as far=
as
mere accuracy goes, the machine leaves nothing to be desired.
Accuracy of response is a perfectly clear noti=
on
in the case of answers to questions, but in other cases it is much more
obscure. We may say generally that an object whether animate or inanimate, =
is
"sensitive" to a certain feature of the environment if it behaves
differently according to the presence or absence of that feature. Thus iron=
is
sensitive to anything magnetic. But sensitiveness does not constitute
knowledge, and knowledge of a fact which is not sensible is not sensitivene=
ss
to that fact, as we have seen in distinguishing the fact known from the sti=
mulus.
As soon as we pass beyond the simple case of question and answer, the
definition of knowledge by means of behaviour demands the consideration of
purpose. A carrier pigeon flies home, and so we say it "knows" the
way. But if it merely flew to some place at random, we should not say that =
it
"knew" the way to that place, any more than a stone rolling down =
hill
knows the way to the valley.
On the features which distinguish knowledge fr=
om
accuracy of response in general, not much can be said from a behaviourist p=
oint
of view without referring to purpose. But the necessity of SOMETHING besides
accuracy of response may be brought out by the following consideration: Sup=
pose
two persons, of whom one believed whatever the other disbelieved, and
disbelieved whatever the other believed. So far as accuracy and sensitivene=
ss
of response alone are concerned, there would be nothing to choose between t=
hese
two persons. A thermometer which went down for warm weather and up for cold
might be just as accurate as the usual kind; and a person who always believ=
es
falsely is just as sensitive an instrument as a person who always believes
truly. The observable and practical difference between them would be that t=
he
one who always believed falsely would quickly come to a bad end. This
illustrates once more that accuracy of response to stimulus does not alone =
show
knowledge, but must be reinforced by appropriateness, i.e. suitability for
realizing one's purpose. This applies even in the apparently simple case of
answering questions: if the purpose of the answers is to deceive, their
falsehood, not their truth, will be evidence of knowledge. The proportion o=
f the
combination of appropriateness with accuracy in the definition of knowledge=
is
difficult; it seems that both enter in, but that appropriateness is only
required as regards the general type of response, not as regards each
individual instance.
II. I have so far assumed as unquestionable the
view that the truth or falsehood of a belief consists in a relation to a
certain fact, namely the objective of the belief. This view has, however, b=
een
often questioned. Philosophers have sought some intrinsic criterion by whic=
h true
and false beliefs could be distinguished.* I am afraid their chief reason f=
or this
search has been the wish to feel more certainty than seems otherwise possib=
le
as to what is true and what is false. If we could discover the truth of a
belief by examining its intrinsic characteristics, or those of some collect=
ion
of beliefs of which it forms part, the pursuit of truth, it is thought, wou=
ld
be a less arduous business than it otherwise appears to be. But the attempts
which have been made in this direction are not encouraging. I will take two=
criteria
which have been suggested, namely, (1) self-evidence, (2) mutual coherence.=
If
we can show that these are inadequate, we may feel fairly certain that no
intrinsic criterion hitherto suggested will suffice to distinguish true from
false beliefs.
*=
The
view that such a criterion exists is generally held by those whose views are in any degree
derived from Hegel. It may be
illustrated by the following passage from Lossky, "The Intuitive Basis of
Knowledge" (Macmillan, 1919), p. 268: "Strictly speaking, a false
judgment is not a judgment at =
all.
The predicate does not follow from the subject S alone, but from the subject plus a c=
ertain
addition C, WHICH IN NO SENSE
BELONGS TO THE CONTENT OF THE JUDGMENT. What takes place may be a process of
association of ideas, of imagi=
ning,
or the like, but is not a process of judging. An experienced psychologist will be abl=
e by
careful observation to detect =
that
in this process there is wanting just the specific element of the objective
dependence of the predicate up=
on the
subject which is characteristic of a judgment. It must be admitted, howev=
er,
that an exceptional power of
observation is needed in order to distinguish, by means of introspection, mere combina=
tion
of ideas from judgments."=
(1)
Self-evidence.--Some of our beliefs seem to be peculiarly indubitable. One
might instance the belief that two and two are four, that two things cannot=
be
in the same place at the same time, nor one thing in two places, or that a =
particular
buttercup that we are seeing is yellow. The suggestion we are to examine is
that such: beliefs have some recognizable quality which secures their truth,
and the truth of whatever is deduced from them according to self-evident
principles of inference. This theory is set forth, for example, by Meinong =
in
his book, "Ueber die Erfahrungsgrundlagen unseres Wissens."
If this theory is to be logically tenable,
self-evidence must not consist merely in the fact that we believe a
proposition. We believe that our beliefs are sometimes erroneous, and we wi=
sh
to be able to select a certain class of beliefs which are never erroneous. =
If
we are to do this, it must be by some mark which belongs only to certain be=
liefs,
not to all; and among those to which it belongs there must be none that are
mutually inconsistent. If, for example, two propositions p and q were
self-evident, and it were also self-evident that p and q could not both be
true, that would condemn self-evidence as a guarantee of truth. Again,
self-evidence must not be the same thing as the absence of doubt or the
presence of complete certainty. If we are completely certain of a propositi=
on,
we do not seek a ground to support our belief. If self-evidence is alleged =
as a
ground of belief, that implies that doubt has crept in, and that our
self-evident proposition has not wholly resisted the assaults of scepticism=
. To
say that any given person believes some things so firmly that he cannot be =
made
to doubt them is no doubt true. Such beliefs he will be willing to use as
premisses in reasoning, and to him personally they will seem to have as much
evidence as any belief can need. But among the propositions which one man f=
inds
indubitable there will be some that another man finds it quite possible to
doubt. It used to seem self-evident that there could not be men at the
Antipodes, because they would fall off, or at best grow giddy from standing=
on
their heads. But New Zealanders find the falsehood of this proposition
self-evident. Therefore, if self-evidence is a guarantee of truth, our
ancestors must have been mistaken in thinking their beliefs about the Antip=
odes
self-evident. Meinong meets this difficulty by saying that some beliefs are
falsely thought to be self-evident, but in the case of others it is self-ev=
ident
that they are self-evident, and these are wholly reliable. Even this, howev=
er,
does not remove the practical risk of error, since we may mistakenly believ=
e it
self-evident that a certain belief is self-evident. To remove all risk of
error, we shall need an endless series of more and more complicated
self-evident beliefs, which cannot possibly be realized in practice. It wou=
ld
seem, therefore, that self-evidence is useless as a practical criterion for=
insuring
truth.
The same result follows from examining instanc=
es.
If we take the four instances mentioned at the beginning of this discussion=
, we
shall find that three of them are logical, while the fourth is a judgment o=
f perception.
The proposition that two and two are four follows by purely logical deducti=
on
from definitions: that means that its truth results, not from the propertie=
s of
objects, but from the meanings of symbols. Now symbols, in mathematics, mean
what we choose; thus the feeling of self-evidence, in this case, seems
explicable by the fact that the whole matter is within our control. I do not
wish to assert that this is the whole truth about mathematical propositions,
for the question is complicated, and I do not know what the whole truth is.=
But
I do wish to suggest that the feeling of self-evidence in mathematical
propositions has to do with the fact that they are concerned with the meani=
ngs
of symbols, not with properties of the world such as external observation m=
ight
reveal.
Similar considerations apply to the impossibil=
ity
of a thing being in two places at once, or of two things being in one place=
at
the same time. These impossibilities result logically, if I am not mistaken,
from the definitions of one thing and one place. That is to say, they are n=
ot laws
of physics, but only part of the intellectual apparatus which we have
manufactured for manipulating physics. Their self-evidence, if this is so, =
lies
merely in the fact that they represent our decision as to the use of words,=
not
a property of physical objects.
Judgments of perception, such as "this
buttercup is yellow," are in a quite different position from judgments=
of
logic, and their self-evidence must have a different explanation. In order =
to
arrive at the nucleus of such a judgment, we will eliminate, as far as
possible, the use of words which take us beyond the present fact, such as &=
quot;buttercup"
and "yellow." The simplest kind of judgment underlying the percep=
tion
that a buttercup is yellow would seem to be the perception of similarity in=
two
colours seen simultaneously. Suppose we are seeing two buttercups, and we
perceive that their colours are similar. This similarity is a physical fact,
not a matter of symbols or words; and it certainly seems to be indubitable =
in a
way that many judgments are not.
The first thing to observe, in regard to such
judgments, is that as they stand they are vague. The word "similar&quo=
t;
is a vague word, since there are degrees of similarity, and no one can say
where similarity ends and dissimilarity begins. It is unlikely that our two
buttercups have EXACTLY the same colour, and if we judged that they had we
should have passed altogether outside the region of self-evidence. To make =
our proposition
more precise, let us suppose that we are also seeing a red rose at the same
time. Then we may judge that the colours of the buttercups are more similar=
to
each other than to the colour of the rose. This judgment seems more
complicated, but has certainly gained in precision. Even now, however, it f=
alls
short of complete precision, since similarity is not prima facie measurable,
and it would require much discussion to decide what we mean by greater or l=
ess
similarity. To this process of the pursuit of precision there is strictly no
limit.
The next thing to observe (although I do not
personally doubt that most of our judgments of perception are true) is that=
it
is very difficult to define any class of such judgments which can be known,=
by
its intrinsic quality, to be always exempt from error. Most of our judgment=
s of
perception involve correlations, as when we judge that a certain noise is t=
hat
of a passing cart. Such judgments are all obviously liable to error, since
there is no correlation of which we have a right to be certain that it is
invariable. Other judgments of perception are derived from recognition, as =
when
we say "this is a buttercup," or even merely "this is
yellow." All such judgments entail some risk of error, though sometimes
perhaps a very small one; some flowers that look like buttercups are marigo=
lds,
and colours that some would call yellow others might call orange. Our
subjective certainty is usually a result of habit, and may lead us astray in
circumstances which are unusual in ways of which we are unaware.
For such reasons, no form of self-evidence see=
ms
to afford an absolute criterion of truth. Nevertheless, it is perhaps true =
that
judgments having a high degree of subjective certainty are more apt to be t=
rue than
other judgments. But if this be the case, it is a result to be demonstrated,
not a premiss from which to start in defining truth and falsehood. As an
initial guarantee, therefore, neither self-evidence nor subjective certainty
can be accepted as adequate.
(2) Coherence.--Coherence as the definition of
truth is advocated by idealists, particularly by those who in the main foll=
ow
Hegel. It is set forth ably in Mr. Joachim's book, "The Nature of
Truth" (Oxford, 1906). According to this view, any set of propositions
other than the whole of truth can be condemned on purely logical grounds, as
internally inconsistent; a single proposition, if it is what we should
ordinarily call false, contradicts itself irremediably, while if it is what=
we should
ordinarily call true, it has implications which compel us to admit other
propositions, which in turn lead to others, and so on, until we find oursel=
ves
committed to the whole of truth. One might illustrate by a very simple exam=
ple:
if I say "so-and-so is a married man," that is not a self-subsist=
ent
proposition. We cannot logically conceive of a universe in which this
proposition constituted the whole of truth. There must be also someone who =
is a
married woman, and who is married to the particular man in question. The vi=
ew
we are considering regards everything that can be said about any one object=
as
relative in the same sort of way as "so-and-so is a married man."=
But
everything, according to this view, is relative, not to one or two other
things, but to all other things, so that from one bit of truth the whole ca=
n be
inferred.
The fundamental objection to this view is logi=
cal,
and consists in a criticism of its doctrine as to relations. I shall omit t=
his
line of argument, which I have developed elsewhere.* For the moment I will =
content
myself with saying that the powers of logic seem to me very much less than =
this
theory supposes. If it were taken seriously, its advocates ought to profess
that any one truth is logically inferable from any other, and that, for
example, the fact that Caesar conquered Gaul, if adequately considered, wou=
ld
enable us to discover what the weather will be to-morrow. No such claim is =
put
forward in practice, and the necessity of empirical observation is not deni=
ed;
but according to the theory it ought to be.
*=
In
the article on "The Monistic Theory of Truth" in "Philosophical Essays"
(Longmans, 1910), reprinted from the "Proceedings of the Aristotelian
Society," 1906-7.
Another objection is that no endeavour is made=
to
show that we cannot form a consistent whole composed partly or wholly of fa=
lse
propositions, as in a novel. Leibniz's conception of many possible worlds s=
eems
to accord much better with modern logic and with the practical empiricism w=
hich
is now universal. The attempt to deduce the world by pure thought is
attractive, and in former times was largely supposed capable of success. But
nowadays most men admit that beliefs must be tested by observation, and not
merely by the fact that they harmonize with other beliefs. A consistent
fairy-tale is a different thing from truth, however elaborate it may be. Bu=
t to
pursue this topic would lead us into difficult technicalities; I shall
therefore assume, without further argument, that coherence is not sufficien=
t as
a definition of truth.
III. Many difficult problems arise as regards =
the
verifiability of beliefs. We believe various things, and while we believe t=
hem
we think we know them. But it sometimes turns out that we were mistaken, or=
at any
rate we come to think we were. We must be mistaken either in our previous
opinion or in our subsequent recantation; therefore our beliefs are not all
correct, and there are cases of belief which are not cases of knowledge. The
question of verifiability is in essence this: can we discover any set of
beliefs which are never mistaken or any test which, when applicable, will
always enable us to discriminate between true and false beliefs? Put thus
broadly and abstractly, the answer must be negative. There is no way hither=
to
discovered of wholly eliminating the risk of error, and no infallible
criterion. If we believe we have found a criterion, this belief itself may =
be
mistaken; we should be begging the question if we tried to test the criteri=
on
by applying the criterion to itself.
But although the notion of an absolute criteri=
on
is chimerical, there may be relative criteria, which increase the probabili=
ty
of truth. Common sense and science hold that there are. Let us see what they
have to say.
One of the plainest cases of verification, per=
haps
ultimately the only case, consists in the happening of something expected. =
You
go to the station believing that there will be a train at a certain time; y=
ou find
the train, you get into it, and it starts at the expected time This constit=
utes
verification, and is a perfectly definite experience. It is, in a sense, the
converse of memory instead of having first sensations and then images accom=
panied
by belief, we have first images accompanied by belief and then sensations.
Apart from differences as to the time-order and the accompanying feelings, =
the
relation between image and sensation is closely similar in the two cases of
memory and expectation; it is a relation of similarity, with difference as =
to
causal efficacy--broadly, the image has the psychological but not the physi=
cal effects
that the sensation would have. When an image accompanied by an
expectation-belief is thus succeeded by a sensation which is the "mean=
ing"
of the image, we say that the expectation-belief has been verified. The
experience of verification in this sense is exceedingly familiar; it happens
every time that accustomed activities have results that are not surprising,=
in
eating and walking and talking and all our daily pursuits.
But although the experience in question is com=
mon,
it is not wholly easy to give a theoretical account of it. How do we know t=
hat
the sensation resembles the previous image? Does the image persist in prese=
nce
of the sensation, so that we can compare the two? And even if SOME image do=
es persist,
how do we know that it is the previous image unchanged? It does not seem as=
if
this line of inquiry offered much hope of a successful issue. It is better,=
I
think, to take a more external and causal view of the relation of expectati=
on
to expected occurrence. If the occurrence, when it comes, gives us the feel=
ing
of expectedness, and if the expectation, beforehand, enabled us to act in a=
way
which proves appropriate to the occurrence, that must be held to constitute=
the
maximum of verification. We have first an expectation, then a sensation with
the feeling of expectedness related to memory of the expectation. This whole
experience, when it occurs, may be defined as verification, and as constitu=
ting
the truth of the expectation. Appropriate action, during the period of
expectation, may be regarded as additional verification, but is not essenti=
al.
The whole process may be illustrated by looking up a familiar quotation,
finding it in the expected words, and in the expected part of the book. In =
this
case we can strengthen the verification by writing down beforehand the words
which we expect to find.
I think all verification is ultimately of the
above sort. We verify a scientific hypothesis indirectly, by deducing
consequences as to the future, which subsequent experience confirms. If
somebody were to doubt whether Caesar had crossed the Rubicon, verification
could only be obtained from the future. We could proceed to display manuscr=
ipts
to our historical sceptic, in which it was said that Caesar had behaved in =
this
way. We could advance arguments, verifiable by future experience, to prove =
the
antiquity of the manuscript from its texture, colour, etc. We could find
inscriptions agreeing with the historian on other points, and tending to sh=
ow
his general accuracy. The causal laws which our arguments would assume coul=
d be
verified by the future occurrence of events inferred by means of them. The
existence and persistence of causal laws, it is true, must be regarded as a
fortunate accident, and how long it will continue we cannot tell. Meanwhile
verification remains often practically possible. And since it is sometimes
possible, we can gradually discover what kinds of beliefs tend to be verifi=
ed
by experience, and what kinds tend to be falsified; to the former kinds we =
give
an increased degree of assent, to the latter kinds a diminished degree. The
process is not absolute or infallible, but it has been found capable of sif=
ting
beliefs and building up science. It affords no theoretical refutation of the
sceptic, whose position must remain logically unassailable; but if complete
scepticism is rejected, it gives the practical method by which the system of
our beliefs grows gradually towards the unattainable ideal of impeccable
knowledge.
IV. I come now to the purely formal definition=
of
the truth or falsehood of a belief. For this definition it is necessary fir=
st
of all to consider the derivation of the objective reference of a propositi=
on
from the meanings of its component words or images.
Just as a word has meaning, so a proposition h=
as
an objective reference. The objective reference of a proposition is a funct=
ion
(in the mathematical sense) of the meanings of its component words. But the=
objective
reference differs from the meaning of a word through the duality of truth a=
nd
falsehood. You may believe the proposition "to-day is Tuesday" bo=
th
when, in fact, to-day is Tuesday, and when to-day is not Tuesday. If to-day=
is
not Tuesday, this fact is the objective of your belief that to-day is Tuesd=
ay.
But obviously the relation of your belief to the fact is different in this =
case
from what it is in the case when to-day is Tuesday. We may say, metaphorica=
lly,
that when to-day is Tuesday, your belief that it is Tuesday points TOWARDS =
the
fact, whereas when to-day is not Tuesday your belief points AWAY FROM the f=
act.
Thus the objective reference of a belief is not determined by the fact alon=
e, but
by the direction of the belief towards or away from the fact.* If, on a
Tuesday, one man believes that it is Tuesday while another believes that it=
is
not Tuesday, their beliefs have the same objective, namely the fact that it=
is
Tuesday but the true belief points towards the fact while the false one poi=
nts
away from it. Thus, in order to define the reference of a proposition we ha=
ve
to take account not only of the objective, but also of the direction of
pointing, towards the objective in the case of a true proposition and away =
from
it in the case of a false one.
*=
I owe
this way of looking at the matter to my friend Ludwig Wittgenstein.
This mode of stating the nature of the objecti=
ve
reference of a proposition is necessitated by the circumstance that there a=
re
true and false propositions, but not true and false facts. If to-day is
Tuesday, there is not a false objective "to-day is not Tuesday,"
which could be the objective of the false belief "to-day is not
Tuesday." This is the reason why two beliefs which are each other's co=
ntradictories
have the same objective. There is, however, a practical inconvenience, name=
ly that
we cannot determine the objective reference of a proposition, according to =
this
definition, unless we know whether the proposition is true or false. To avo=
id
this inconvenience, it is better to adopt a slightly different phraseology,=
and
say: The "meaning" of the proposition "to-day is Tuesday&quo=
t;
consists in pointing to the fact "to-day is Tuesday" if that is a
fact, or away from the fact "to-day is not Tuesday" if that is a
fact. The "meaning" of the proposition "to-day is not
Tuesday" will be exactly the opposite. By this hypothetical form we are
able to speak of the meaning of a proposition without knowing whether it is
true or false. According to this definition, we know the meaning of a
proposition when we know what would make it true and what would make it fal=
se,
even if we do not know whether it is in fact true or false.
The meaning of a proposition is derivative from
the meanings of its constituent words. Propositions occur in pairs,
distinguished (in simple cases) by the absence or presence of the word
"not." Two such propositions have the same objective, but opposite
meanings: when one is true, the other is false, and when one is false, the
other is true.
The purely formal definition of truth and
falsehood offers little difficulty. What is required is a formal expression=
of
the fact that a proposition is true when it points towards its objective, a=
nd
false when it points away from it, In very simple cases we can give a very
simple account of this: we can say that true propositions actually resemble=
their
objectives in a way in which false propositions do not. But for this purpos=
e it
is necessary to revert to image-propositions instead of word-propositions. =
Let
us take again the illustration of a memory-image of a familiar room, and le=
t us
suppose that in the image the window is to the left of the door. If in fact=
the
window is to the left of the door, there is a correspondence between the im=
age
and the objective; there is the same relation between the window and the do=
or
as between the images of them. The image-memory consists of the image of the
window to the left of the image of the door. When this is true, the very sa=
me relation
relates the terms of the objective (namely the window and the door) as rela=
tes
the images which mean them. In this case the correspondence which constitut=
es
truth is very simple.
In the case we have just been considering the
objective consists of two parts with a certain relation (that of
left-to-right), and the proposition consists of images of these parts with =
the
very same relation. The same proposition, if it were false, would have a le=
ss simple
formal relation to its objective. If the image-proposition consists of an i=
mage
of the window to the left of an image of the door, while in fact the window=
is
not to the left of the door, the proposition does not result from the objec=
tive
by the mere substitution of images for their prototypes. Thus in this unusu=
ally
simple case we can say that a true proposition "corresponds" to i=
ts
objective in a formal sense in which a false proposition does not. Perhaps =
it
may be possible to modify this notion of formal correspondence in such a wa=
y as
to be more widely applicable, but if so, the modifications required will be=
by
no means slight. The reasons for this must now be considered.
To begin with, the simple type of corresponden=
ce
we have been exhibiting can hardly occur when words are substituted for ima=
ges,
because, in word-propositions, relations are usually expressed by words, wh=
ich
are not themselves relations. Take such a proposition as "Socrates pre=
cedes
Plato." Here the word "precedes" is just as solid as the wor=
ds "Socrates"
and "Plato"; it MEANS a relation, but is not a relation. Thus the=
objective
which makes our proposition true consists of TWO terms with a relation betw=
een
them, whereas our proposition consists of THREE terms with a relation of or=
der
between them. Of course, it would be perfectly possible, theoretically, to
indicate a few chosen relations, not by words, but by relations between the
other words. "Socrates-Plato" might be used to mean "Socrates
precedes Plato"; "Plato-Socrates" might be used to mean
"Plato was born before Socrates and died after him"; and so on. B=
ut
the possibilities of such a method would be very limited. For aught I know,
there may be languages that use it, but they are not among the languages wi=
th
which I am acquainted. And in any case, in view of the multiplicity of
relations that we wish to express, no language could advance far without wo=
rds
for relations. But as soon as we have words for relations, word-propositions
have necessarily more terms than the facts to which they refer, and cannot
therefore correspond so simply with their objectives as some image-proposit=
ions
can.
The consideration of negative propositions and
negative facts introduces further complications. An image-proposition is
necessarily positive: we can image the window to the left of the door, or to
the right of the door, but we can form no image of the bare negative "=
the
window not to the left of the door." We can DISBELIEVE the
image-proposition expressed by "the window to the left of the door,&qu=
ot;
and our disbelief will be true if the window is not to the left of the door.
But we can form no image of the fact that the window is not to the left of =
the
door. Attempts have often been made to deny such negative facts, but, for
reasons which I have given elsewhere,* I believe these attempts to be mista=
ken,
and I shall assume that there are negative facts.
*
"Monist," January, 1919, p. 42 ff.
Word-propositions, like image-propositions, are
always positive facts. The fact that Socrates precedes Plato is symbolized =
in
English by the fact that the word "precedes" occurs between the w=
ords
"Socrates" and "Plato." But we cannot symbolize the fact
that Plato does not precede Socrates by not putting the word
"precedes" between "Plato" and "Socrates." A
negative fact is not sensible, and language, being intended for communicati=
on,
has to be sensible. Therefore we symbolize the fact that Plato does not pre=
cede
Socrates by putting the words "does not precede" between
"Plato" and "Socrates." We thus obtain a series of words
which is just as positive a fact as the series "Socrates precedes Plat=
o."
The propositions asserting negative facts are themselves positive facts; th=
ey
are merely different positive facts from those asserting positive facts.
We have thus, as regards the opposition of
positive and negative, three different sorts of duality, according as we are
dealing with facts, image-propositions, or word-propositions. We have, name=
ly:
(1) Positive and negative facts;
(2) Image-propositions, which may be believed =
or
disbelieved, but do not allow any duality of content corresponding to posit=
ive
and negative facts;
(3) Word-propositions, which are always positi=
ve
facts, but are of two kinds: one verified by a positive objective, the othe=
r by
a negative objective.
Owing to these complications, the simplest typ=
e of
correspondence is impossible when either negative facts or negative
propositions are involved.
Even when we confine ourselves to relations
between two terms which are both imaged, it may be impossible to form an
image-proposition in which the relation of the terms is represented by the =
same
relation of the images. Suppose we say "Caesar was 2,000 years before
Foch," we express a certain temporal relation between Caesar and Foch;=
but
we cannot allow 2,000 years to elapse between our image of Caesar and our i=
mage
of Foch. This is perhaps not a fair example, since "2,000 years
before" is not a direct relation. But take a case where the relation is
direct, say, "the sun is brighter than the moon." We can form vis=
ual
images of sunshine and moonshine, and it may happen that our image of the s=
unshine
is the brighter of the two, but this is by no means either necessary or suf=
ficient.
The act of comparison, implied in our judgment, is something more than the =
mere
coexistence of two images, one of which is in fact brighter than the other.=
It
would take us too far from our main topic if we were to go into the question
what actually occurs when we make this judgment. Enough has been said to sh=
ow
that the correspondence between the belief and its objective is more
complicated in this case than in that of the window to the left of the door,
and this was all that had to be proved.
In spite of these complications, the general
nature of the formal correspondence which makes truth is clear from our
instances. In the case of the simpler kind of propositions, namely those th=
at I
call "atomic" propositions, where there is only one word expressi=
ng a
relation, the objective which would verify our proposition, assuming that t=
he
word "not" is absent, is obtained by replacing each word by what =
it
means, the word meaning a relation being replaced by this relation among the
meanings of the other words. For example, if the proposition is "Socra=
tes
precedes Plato," the objective which verifies it results from replacing
the word "Socrates" by Socrates, the word "Plato" by Pl=
ato,
and the word "precedes" by the relation of preceding between Socr=
ates
and Plato. If the result of this process is a fact, the proposition is true=
; if
not, it is false. When our proposition is "Socrates does not precede
Plato," the conditions of truth and falsehood are exactly reversed. Mo=
re
complicated propositions can be dealt with on the same lines. In fact, the
purely formal question, which has occupied us in this last section, offers =
no
very formidable difficulties.
I do not believe that the above formal theory =
is
untrue, but I do believe that it is inadequate. It does not, for example, t=
hrow
any light upon our preference for true beliefs rather than false ones. This=
preference
is only explicable by taking account of the causal efficacy of beliefs, and=
of
the greater appropriateness of the responses resulting from true beliefs. B=
ut
appropriateness depends upon purpose, and purpose thus becomes a vital part=
of
theory of knowledge.
On the two subjects of the present lecture I h=
ave
nothing original to say, and I am treating them only in order to complete t=
he
discussion of my main thesis, namely that all psychic phenomena are built up
out of sensations and images alone.
Emotions are traditionally regarded by psychol=
ogists
as a separate class of mental occurrences: I am, of course, not concerned to
deny the obvious fact that they have characteristics which make a special i=
nvestigation
of them necessary. What I am concerned with is the analysis of emotions. It=
is
clear that an emotion is essentially complex, and we have to inquire whethe=
r it
ever contains any non-physiological material not reducible to sensations and
images and their relations.
Although what specially concerns us is the
analysis of emotions, we shall find that the more important topic is the
physiological causation of emotions. This is a subject upon which much valu=
able
and exceedingly interesting work has been done, whereas the bare analysis of
emotions has proved somewhat barren. In view of the fact that we have defin=
ed perceptions,
sensations, and images by their physiological causation, it is evident that=
our
problem of the analysis of the emotions is bound up with the problem of the=
ir
physiological causation.
Modern views on the causation of emotions begin
with what is called the James-Lange theory. James states this view in the
following terms ("Psychology," vol. ii, p. 449):
"Our natural way of thinking about these
coarser emotions, grief, fear, rage, love, is that the mental perception of
some fact excites the mental affection called the emotion, and that this la=
tter
state of mind gives rise to the bodily expression. My theory, on the contra=
ry,
is that THE BODILY CHANGES FOLLOW DIRECTLY THE PERCEPTION OF THE EXCITING F=
ACT,
AND THAT OUR FEELING OF THE SAME CHANGES AS THEY OCCUR IS THE EMOTION (Jame=
s's
italics). Common sense says: we lose our fortune, are sorry and weep; we me=
et a
bear, are frightened and run; we are insulted by a rival, are angry and str=
ike.
The hypothesis here to be defended says that this order of sequence is
incorrect, that the one mental state is not immediately induced by the othe=
r,
that the bodily manifestations must first be interposed between, and that t=
he
more rational statement is that we feel sorry because we cry, angry because=
we
strike, afraid because we tremble, and not that we cry, strike, or tremble,
because we are sorry, angry, or fearful, as the case may be. Without the bo=
dily
states following on the perception, the latter would be purely cognitive in
form, pale, colourless, destitute of emotional warmth."
Round this hypothesis a very voluminous litera=
ture
has grown up. The history of its victory over earlier criticism, and its
difficulties with the modern experimental work of Sherrington and Cannon, is
well told by James R. Angell in an article called "A Reconsideration of
James's Theory of Emotion in the Light of Recent Criticisms."* In this
article Angell defends James's theory and to me--though I speak with diffid=
ence
on a question as to which I have little competence--it appears that his def=
ence
is on the whole successful.
*
"Psychological Review," 1916.
Sherrington, by experiments on dogs, showed th=
at
many of the usual marks of emotion were present in their behaviour even whe=
n,
by severing the spinal cord in the lower cervical region, the viscera were =
cut
off from all communication with the brain, except that existing through cer=
tain
cranial nerves. He mentions the various signs which "contributed to in=
dicate
the existence of an emotion as lively as the animal had ever shown us before
the spinal operation had been made."* He infers that the physiological
condition of the viscera cannot be the cause of the emotion displayed under
such circumstances, and concludes: "We are forced back toward the
likelihood that the visceral expression of emotion is SECONDARY to the cere=
bral
action occurring with the psychical state.... We may with James accept visc=
eral
and organic sensations and the memories and associations of them as
contributory to primitive emotion, but we must regard them as re-enforcing
rather than as initiating the psychosis."*
*
Quoted by Angell, loc. cit.
Angell
suggests that the display of emotion in such cases may be due to past
experience, generating habits which would require only the stimulation of
cerebral reflex arcs. Rage and some forms of fear, however, may, he thinks,
gain expression without the brain. Rage and fear have been especially studi=
ed
by Cannon, whose work is of the greatest importance. His results are given =
in
his book, "Bodily Changes in Pain, Hunger, Fear and Rage" (D.
Appleton and Co., 1916).
The most interesting part of Cannon's book
consists in the investigation of the effects produced by secretion of adren=
in.
Adrenin is a substance secreted into the blood by the adrenal glands. These=
are
among the ductless glands, the functions of which, both in physiology and i=
n connection
with the emotions, have only come to be known during recent years. Cannon f=
ound
that pain, fear and rage occurred in circumstances which affected the suppl=
y of
adrenin, and that an artificial injection of adrenin could, for example,
produce all the symptoms of fear. He studied the effects of adrenin on vari=
ous
parts of the body; he found that it causes the pupils to dilate, hairs to s=
tand
erect, blood vessels to be constricted, and so on. These effects were still
produced if the parts in question were removed from the body and kept alive=
artificially.*
*
Cannon's work is not unconnected with that of Mosso, who maintains, as the result of much exp=
erimental
work, that "the seat of t=
he
emotions lies in the sympathetic nervous system." An account of the work=
of
both these men will be found in
Goddard's "Psychology of the Normal and Sub-normal" (Kegan Paul, 1919), chap. vii and Ap=
pendix.
Cannon's chief argument against James is, if I
understand him rightly, that similar affections of the viscera may accompany
dissimilar emotions, especially fear and rage. Various different emotions m=
ake us
cry, and therefore it cannot be true to say, as James does, that we "f=
eel
sorry because we cry," since sometimes we cry when we feel glad. This
argument, however, is by no means conclusive against James, because it cann=
ot
be shown that there are no visceral differences for different emotions, and=
indeed
it is unlikely that this is the case.
As Angell says (loc. cit.): "Fear and joy=
may
both cause cardiac palpitation, but in one case we find high tonus of the
skeletal muscles, in the other case relaxation and the general sense of
weakness."
Angell's conclusion, after discussing the
experiments of Sherrington and Cannon, is: "I would therefore submit t=
hat,
so far as concerns the critical suggestions by these two psychologists, Jam=
es's
essential contentions are not materially affected." If it were necessa=
ry
for me to take sides on this question, I should agree with this conclusion;=
but
I think my thesis as to the analysis of emotion can be maintained without c=
oming
to a probably premature conclusion upon the doubtful parts of the physiolog=
ical
problem.
According to our definitions, if James is righ=
t,
an emotion may be regarded as involving a confused perception of the viscera
concerned in its causation, while if Cannon and Sherrington are right, an
emotion involves a confused perception of its external stimulus. This follo=
ws from
what was said in Lecture VII. We there defined a perception as an appearanc=
e,
however irregular, of one or more objects external to the brain. And in ord=
er
to be an appearance of one or more objects, it is only necessary that the
occurrence in question should be connected with them by a continuous chain,=
and
should vary when they are varied sufficiently. Thus the question whether a
mental occurrence can be called a perception turns upon the question whether
anything can be inferred from it as to its causes outside the brain: if such
inference is possible, the occurrence in question will come within our
definition of a perception. And in that case, according to the definition i=
n Lecture
VIII, its non-mnemic elements will be sensations. Accordingly, whether emot=
ions
are caused by changes in the viscera or by sensible objects, they contain
elements which are sensations according to our definition.
An emotion in its entirety is, of course,
something much more complex than a perception. An emotion is essentially a
process, and it will be only what one may call a cross-section of the emoti=
on
that will be a perception, of a bodily condition according to James, or (in
certain cases) of an external object according to his opponents. An emotion=
in its
entirety contains dynamic elements, such as motor impulses, desires, pleasu=
res
and pains. Desires and pleasures and pains, according to the theory adopted=
in
Lecture III, are characteristics of processes, not separate ingredients. An
emotion--rage, for example--will be a certain kind of process, consisting of
perceptions and (in general) bodily movements. The desires and pleasures and
pains involved are properties of this process, not separate items in the st=
uff
of which the emotion is composed. The dynamic elements in an emotion, if we=
are
right in our analysis, contain, from our point of view, no ingredients beyo=
nd
those contained in the processes considered in Lecture III. The ingredients=
of
an emotion are only sensations and images and bodily movements succeeding e=
ach
other according to a certain pattern. With this conclusion we may leave the
emotions and pass to the consideration of the will.
The first thing to be defined when we are deal=
ing
with Will is a VOLUNTARY MOVEMENT. We have already defined vital movements,=
and
we have maintained that, from a behaviourist standpoint, it is impossible t=
o distinguish
which among such movements are reflex and which voluntary. Nevertheless, th=
ere
certainly is a distinction. When we decide in the morning that it is time to
get up, our consequent movement is voluntary. The beating of the heart, on =
the
other hand, is involuntary: we can neither cause it nor prevent it by any
decision of our own, except indirectly, as e.g. by drugs. Breathing is
intermediate between the two: we normally breathe without the help of the w=
ill,
but we can alter or stop our breathing if we choose.
James ("Psychology," chap. xxvi)
maintains that the only distinctive characteristic of a voluntary act is th=
at
it involves an idea of the movement to be performed, made up of memory-imag=
es
of the kinaesthetic sensations which we had when the same movement occurred=
on
some former occasion. He points out that, on this view, no movement can be =
made
voluntarily unless it has previously occurred involuntarily.*
*
"Psychology," Vol. ii, pp. 492-3.
I see no reason to doubt the correctness of th=
is
view. We shall say, then, that movements which are accompanied by kinaesthe=
tic
sensations tend to be caused by the images of those sensations, and when so
caused are called VOLUNTARY.
Volition, in the emphatic sense, involves
something more than voluntary movement. The sort of case I am thinking of is
decision after deliberation. Voluntary movements are a part of this, but not
the whole. There is, in addition to them, a judgment: "This is what I
shall do"; there is also a sensation of tension during doubt, followed=
by
a different sensation at the moment of deciding. I see no reason whatever to
suppose that there is any specifically new ingredient; sensations and image=
s,
with their relations and causal laws, yield all that seems to be wanted for=
the
analysis of the will, together with the fact that kinaesthetic images tend =
to
cause the movements with which they are connected. Conflict of desires is of
course essential in the causation of the emphatic kind of will: there will =
be
for a time kinaesthetic images of incompatible movements, followed by the
exclusive image of the movement which is said to be willed. Thus will seems=
to
add no new irreducible ingredient to the analysis of the mind.
<=
span
style=3D'font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:16.0pt;line-height:115%;mso-fa=
reast-font-family:
Calibri'>LECTURE XV. CHARACTERISTICS OF MENTAL PHENOMENA<=
span
class=3DHeading1Char>
At the end of our journey it is time to return=
to
the question from which we set out, namely: What is it that characterizes m=
ind
as opposed to matter? Or, to state the same question in other terms: How is=
psychology
to be distinguished from physics? The answer provisionally suggested at the
outset of our inquiry was that psychology and physics are distinguished by =
the
nature of their causal laws, not by their subject matter. At the same time =
we
held that there is a certain subject matter, namely images, to which only
psychological causal laws are applicable; this subject matter, therefore, we
assigned exclusively to psychology. But we found no way of defining images =
except
through their causation; in their intrinsic character they appeared to have=
no universal
mark by which they could be distinguished from sensations.
In this last lecture I propose to pass in revi=
ew
various suggested methods of distinguishing mind from matter. I shall then
briefly sketch the nature of that fundamental science which I believe to be=
the
true metaphysic, in which mind and matter alike are seen to be constructed =
out
of a neutral stuff, whose causal laws have no such duality as that of psych=
ology,
but form the basis upon which both physics and psychology are built.
In search for the definition of "mental
phenomena," let us begin with "consciousness," which is often
thought to be the essence of mind. In the first lecture I gave various argu=
ments
against the view that consciousness is fundamental, but I did not attempt to
say what consciousness is. We must find a definition of it, if we are to fe=
el secure
in deciding that it is not fundamental. It is for the sake of the proof tha=
t it
is not fundamental that we must now endeavour to decide what it is.
"Consciousness," by those who regard=
it
as fundamental, is taken to be a character diffused throughout our mental l=
ife,
distinct from sensations and images, memories, beliefs and desires, but pre=
sent
in all of them.* Dr. Henry Head, in an article which I quoted in Lecture II=
I, distinguishing
sensations from purely physiological occurrences, says: "Sensation, in=
the
strict sense of the term, demands the existence of consciousness." This
statement, at first sight, is one to which we feel inclined to assent, but I
believe we are mistaken if we do so. Sensation is the sort of thing of whic=
h we
MAY be conscious, but not a thing of which we MUST be conscious. We have be=
en
led, in the course of our inquiry, to admit unconscious beliefs and unconsc=
ious
desires. There is, so far as I can see, no class of mental or other occurre=
nces
of which we are always conscious whenever they happen.
*=
Cf.
Lecture VI.
The first thing to notice is that consciousnes=
s must
be of something. In view of this, I should define "consciousness"=
in
terms of that relation of an image of a word to an object which we defined,=
in
Lecture XI, as "meaning." When a sensation is followed by an image
which is a "copy" of it, I think it may be said that the existenc=
e of
the image constitutes consciousness of the sensation, provided it is
accompanied by that sort of belief which, when we reflect upon it, makes us
feel that the image is a "sign" of something other than itself. T=
his
is the sort of belief which, in the case of memory, we expressed in the wor=
ds
"this occurred"; or which, in the case of a judgment of perceptio=
n,
makes us believe in qualities correlated with present sensations, as e.g.,
tactile and visual qualities are correlated. The addition of some element of
belief seems required, since mere imagination does not involve consciousnes=
s of
anything, and there can be no consciousness which is not of something. If
images alone constituted consciousness of their prototypes, such imaginatio=
n-images
as in fact have prototypes would involve consciousness of them; since this =
is
not the case, an element of belief must be added to the images in defining
consciousness. The belief must be of that sort that constitutes objective
reference, past or present. An image, together with a belief of this sort
concerning it, constitutes, according to our definition, consciousness of t=
he
prototype of the image.
But when we pass from consciousness of sensati=
ons
to consciousness of objects of perception, certain further points arise whi=
ch
demand an addition to our definition. A judgment of perception, we may say,=
consists
of a core of sensation, together with associated images, with belief in the
present existence of an object to which sensation and images are referred i=
n a
way which is difficult to analyse. Perhaps we might say that the belief is =
not
fundamentally in any PRESENT existence, but is of the nature of an expectat=
ion:
for example, when we see an object, we expect certain sensations to result =
if we
proceed to touch it. Perception, then, will consist of a present sensation
together with expectations of future sensations. (This, of course, is a
reflective analysis, not an account of the way perception appears to unchec=
ked introspection.)
But all such expectations are liable to be erroneous, since they are based =
upon
correlations which are usual but not invariable. Any such correlation may
mislead us in a particular case, for example, if we try to touch a reflecti=
on
in a looking-glass under the impression that it is "real." Since
memory is fallible, a similar difficulty arises as regards consciousness of
past objects. It would seem odd to say that we can be "conscious"=
of
a thing which does not or did not exist. The only way to avoid this awkward=
ness
is to add to our definition the proviso that the beliefs involved in
consciousness must be TRUE.
In the second place, the question arises as to
whether we can be conscious of images. If we apply our definition to this c=
ase,
it seems to demand images of images. In order, for example, to be conscious=
of an
image of a cat, we shall require, according to the letter of the definition=
, an
image which is a copy of our image of the cat, and has this image for its
prototype. Now, it hardly seems probable, as a matter of observation, that
there are images of images, as opposed to images of sensations. We may meet
this difficulty in two ways, either by boldly denying consciousness of imag=
es,
or by finding a sense in which, by means of a different accompanying belief=
, an
image, instead of meaning its prototype, can mean another image of the same
prototype.
The first alternative, which denies consciousn=
ess
of images, has already been discussed when we were dealing with Introspecti=
on
in Lecture VI. We then decided that there must be, in some sense, conscious=
ness
of images. We are therefore left with the second suggested way of dealing w=
ith knowledge
of images. According to this second hypothesis, there may be two images of =
the
same prototype, such that one of them means the other, instead of meaning t=
he
prototype. It will be remembered that we defined meaning by association a w=
ord
or image means an object, we said, when it has the same associations as the
object. But this definition must not be interpreted too absolutely: a word =
or
image will not have ALL the same associations as the object which it means.=
The
word "cat" may be associated with the word "mat," but it
would not happen except by accident that a cat would be associated with a m=
at.
And in like manner an image may have certain associations which its prototy=
pe
will not have, e.g. an association with the word "image." When th=
ese
associations are active, an image means an image, instead of meaning its
prototype. If I have had images of a given prototype many times, I can mean=
one
of these, as opposed to the rest, by recollecting the time and place or any=
other
distinctive association of that one occasion. This happens, for example, wh=
en a
place recalls to us some thought we previously had in that place, so that we
remember a thought as opposed to the occurrence to which it referred. Thus =
we
may say that we think of an image A when we have a similar image B associat=
ed
with recollections of circumstances connected with A, but not with its
prototype or with other images of the same prototype. In this way we become
aware of images without the need of any new store of mental contents, merel=
y by
the help of new associations. This theory, so far as I can see, solves the
problems of introspective knowledge, without requiring heroic measures such=
as
those proposed by Knight Dunlap, whose views we discussed in Lecture VI.
According to what we have been saying, sensati=
on
itself is not an instance of consciousness, though the immediate memory by
which it is apt to be succeeded is so. A sensation which is remembered beco=
mes
an object of consciousness as soon as it begins to be remembered, which will
normally be almost immediately after its occurrence (if at all); but while =
it
exists it is not an object of consciousness. If, however, it is part of a
perception, say of some familiar person, we may say that the person perceiv=
ed
is an object of consciousness. For in this case the sensation is a SIGN of =
the
perceived object in much the same way in which a memory-image is a sign of a
remembered object. The essential practical function of
"consciousness" and "thought" is that they enable us to=
act
with reference to what is distant in time or space, even though it is not at
present stimulating our senses. This reference to absent objects is possible
through association and habit. Actual sensations, in themselves, are not ca=
ses
of consciousness, because they do not bring in this reference to what is
absent. But their connection with consciousness is very close, both through
immediate memory, and through the correlations which turn sensations into
perceptions.
Enough has, I hope, been said to show that
consciousness is far too complex and accidental to be taken as the fundamen=
tal
characteristic of mind. We have seen that belief and images both enter into=
it.
Belief itself, as we saw in an earlier lecture, is complex. Therefore, if a=
ny definition
of mind is suggested by our analysis of consciousness, images are what would
naturally suggest themselves. But since we found that images can only be de=
fined
causally, we cannot deal with this suggestion, except in connection with the
difference between physical and psychological causal laws.
I come next to those characteristics of mental
phenomena which arise out of mnemic causation. The possibility of action wi=
th
reference to what is not sensibly present is one of the things that might be
held to characterize mind. Let us take first a very elementary example. Sup=
pose
you are in a familiar room at night, and suddenly the light goes out. You w=
ill
be able to find your way to the door without much difficulty by means of the
picture of the room which you have in your mind. In this case visual images
serve, somewhat imperfectly it is true, the purpose which visual sensations
would otherwise serve. The stimulus to the production of visual images is t=
he
desire to get out of the room, which, according to what we found in Lecture
III, consists essentially of present sensations and motor impulses caused by
them. Again, words heard or read enable you to act with reference to the
matters about which they give information; here, again, a present sensible
stimulus, in virtue of habits formed in the past, enables you to act in a
manner appropriate to an object which is not sensibly present. The whole
essence of the practical efficiency of "thought" consists in
sensitiveness to signs: the sensible presence of A, which is a sign of the
present or future existence of B, enables us to act in a manner appropriate=
to
B. Of this, words are the supreme example, since their effects as signs are=
prodigious,
while their intrinsic interest as sensible occurrences on their own account=
is
usually very slight. The operation of signs may or may not be accompanied by
consciousness. If a sensible stimulus A calls up an image of B, and we then=
act
with reference to B, we have what may be called consciousness of B. But hab=
it
may enable us to act in a manner appropriate to B as soon as A appears, wit=
hout
ever having an image of B. In that case, although A operates as a sign, it
operates without the help of consciousness. Broadly speaking, a very famili=
ar
sign tends to operate directly in this manner, and the intervention of
consciousness marks an imperfectly established habit.
The power of acquiring experience, which
characterizes men and animals, is an example of the general law that, in mn=
emic
causation, the causal unit is not one event at one time, but two or more ev=
ents
at two or more times.& A burnt child fears the fire, that is to say, the
neighbourhood of fire has a different effect upon a child which has had the
sensations of burning than upon one which has not. More correctly, the obse=
rved
effect, when a child which has been burnt is put near a fire, has for its
cause, not merely the neighbourhood of the fire, but this together with the
previous burning. The general formula, when an animal has acquired experien=
ce
through some event A, is that, when B occurs at some future time, the anima=
l to
which A has happened acts differently from an animal which A has not happen=
ed.
Thus A and B together, not either separately, must be regarded as the cause=
of
the animal's behaviour, unless we take account of the effect which A has ha=
d in
altering the animal's nervous tissue, which is a matter not patent to exter=
nal observation
except under very special circumstances. With this possibility, we are brou=
ght
back to causal laws, and to the suggestion that many things which seem
essentially mental are really neural. Perhaps it is the nerves that acquire
experience rather than the mind. If so, the possibility of acquiring experi=
ence
cannot be used to define mind.*
*=
Cf.
Lecture IV.
Very similar considerations apply to memory, if
taken as the essence of mind. A recollection is aroused by something which =
is
happening now, but is different from the effect which the present occurrence
would have produced if the recollected event had not occurred. This may be =
accounted
for by the physical effect of the past event on the brain, making it a
different instrument from that which would have resulted from a different e=
xperience.
The causal peculiarities of memory may, therefore, have a physiological
explanation. With every special class of mental phenomena this possibility
meets us afresh. If psychology is to be a separate science at all, we must =
seek
a wider ground for its separateness than any that we have been considering
hitherto.
We have found that "consciousness" is
too narrow to characterize mental phenomena, and that mnemic causation is t=
oo
wide. I come now to a characteristic which, though difficult to define, com=
es
much nearer to what we require, namely subjectivity.
Subjectivity, as a characteristic of mental
phenomena, was considered in Lecture VII, in connection with the definition=
of
perception. We there decided that those particulars which constitute the ph=
ysical
world can be collected into sets in two ways, one of which makes a bundle of
all those particulars that are appearances of a given thing from different =
places,
while the other makes a bundle of all those particulars which are appearanc=
es
of different things from a given place. A bundle of this latter sort, at a
given time, is called a "perspective"; taken throughout a period =
of
time, it is called a "biography." Subjectivity is the characteris=
tic
of perspectives and biographies, the characteristic of giving the view of t=
he
world from a certain place. We saw in Lecture VII that this characteristic
involves none of the other characteristics that are commonly associated with
mental phenomena, such as consciousness, experience and memory. We found in=
fact
that it is exhibited by a photographic plate, and, strictly speaking, by an=
y particular
taken in conjunction with those which have the same "passive" pla=
ce
in the sense defined in Lecture VII. The particulars forming one perspective
are connected together primarily by simultaneity; those forming one biograp=
hy,
primarily by the existence of direct time-relations between them. To these =
are
to be added relations derivable from the laws of perspective. In all this we
are clearly not in the region of psychology, as commonly understood; yet we=
are
also hardly in the region of physics. And the definition of perspectives and
biographies, though it does not yet yield anything that would be commonly
called "mental," is presupposed in mental phenomena, for example =
in
mnemic causation: the causal unit in mnemic causation, which gives rise to
Semon's engram, is the whole of one perspective--not of any perspective, bu=
t of
a perspective in a place where there is nervous tissue, or at any rate livi=
ng
tissue of some sort. Perception also, as we saw, can only be defined in ter=
ms
of perspectives. Thus the conception of subjectivity, i.e. of the
"passive" place of a particular, though not alone sufficient to
define mind, is clearly an essential element in the definition.
I have maintained throughout these lectures th=
at
the data of psychology do not differ in, their intrinsic character from the
data of physics. I have maintained that sensations are data for psychology =
and physics
equally, while images, which may be in some sense exclusively psychological
data, can only be distinguished from sensations by their correlations, not =
by
what they are in themselves. It is now necessary, however, to examine the
notion of a "datum," and to obtain, if possible, a definition of =
this
notion.
The notion of "data" is familiar
throughout science, and is usually treated by men of science as though it w=
ere
perfectly clear. Psychologists, on the other hand, find great difficulty in=
the
conception. "Data" are naturally defined in terms of theory of kn=
owledge:
they are those propositions of which the truth is known without demonstrati=
on,
so that they may be used as premisses in proving other propositions. Furthe=
r,
when a proposition which is a datum asserts the existence of something, we =
say
that the something is a datum, as well as the proposition asserting its
existence. Thus those objects of whose existence we become certain through
perception are said to be data.
There is some difficulty in connecting this
epistemological definition of "data" with our psychological analy=
sis
of knowledge; but until such a connection has been effected, we have no rig=
ht
to use the conception "data."
It is clear, in the first place, that there ca=
n be
no datum apart from a belief. A sensation which merely comes and goes is no=
t a
datum; it only becomes a datum when it is remembered. Similarly, in percept=
ion,
we do not have a datum unless we have a JUDGMENT of perception. In the sens=
e in
which objects (as opposed to propositions) are data, it would seem natural =
to
say that those objects of which we are conscious are data. But consciousnes=
s,
as we have seen, is a complex notion, involving beliefs, as well as mnemic
phenomena such as are required for perception and memory. It follows that no
datum is theoretically indubitable, since no belief is infallible; it follo=
ws
also that every datum has a greater or less degree of vagueness, since ther=
e is
always some vagueness in memory and the meaning of images.
Data are not those things of which our
consciousness is earliest in time. At every period of life, after we have
become capable of thought, some of our beliefs are obtained by inference, w=
hile
others are not. A belief may pass from either of these classes into the oth=
er,
and may therefore become, or cease to be, a belief giving a datum. When, in
what follows, I speak of data, I do not mean the things of which we feel su=
re before
scientific study begins, but the things which, when a science is well advan=
ced,
appear as affording grounds for other parts of the science, without themsel=
ves
being believed on any ground except observation. I assume, that is to say, a
trained observer, with an analytic attention, knowing the sort of thing to =
look
for, and the sort of thing that will be important. What he observes is, at =
the
stage of science which he has reached, a datum for his science. It is just =
as sophisticated
and elaborate as the theories which he bases upon it, since only trained ha=
bits
and much practice enable a man to make the kind of observation that will be
scientifically illuminating. Nevertheless, when once it has been observed,
belief in it is not based on inference and reasoning, but merely upon its
having been seen. In this way its logical status differs from that of the
theories which are proved by its means.
In any science other than psychology the datum=
is
primarily a perception, in which only the sensational core is ultimately an=
d theoretically
a datum, though some such accretions as turn the sensation into a perception
are practically unavoidable. But if we postulate an ideal observer, he will=
be
able to isolate the sensation, and treat this alone as datum. There is,
therefore, an important sense in which we may say that, if we analyse as mu=
ch
as we ought, our data, outside psychology, consist of sensations, which inc=
lude
within themselves certain spatial and temporal relations.
Applying this remark to physiology, we see that
the nerves and brain as physical objects are not truly data; they are to be
replaced, in the ideal structure of science, by the sensations through which
the physiologist is said to perceive them. The passage from these sensation=
s to
nerves and brain as physical objects belongs really to the initial stage in=
the
theory of physics, and ought to be placed in the reasoned part, not in the =
part
supposed to be observed. To say we see the nerves is like saying we hear the
nightingale; both are convenient but inaccurate expressions. We hear a sound
which we believe to be causally connected with the nightingale, and we see a
sight which we believe to be causally connected with a nerve. But in each c=
ase
it is only the sensation that ought, in strictness, to be called a datum. N=
ow, sensations
are certainly among the data of psychology. Therefore all the data of the
physical sciences are also psychological data. It remains to inquire whether
all the data of psychology are also data of physical science, and especiall=
y of
physiology.
If we have been right in our analysis of mind,=
the
ultimate data of psychology are only sensations and images and their relati=
ons.
Beliefs, desires, volitions, and so on, appeared to us to be complex phenom=
ena consisting
of sensations and images variously interrelated. Thus (apart from certain
relations) the occurrences which seem most distinctively mental, and furthe=
st
removed from physics, are, like physical objects, constructed or inferred, =
not
part of the original stock of data in the perfected science. From both ends,
therefore, the difference between physical and psychological data is
diminished. Is there ultimately no difference, or do images remain as
irreducibly and exclusively psychological? In view of the causal definition=
of
the difference between images and sensations, this brings us to a new quest=
ion,
namely: Are the causal laws of psychology different from those of any other=
science,
or are they really physiological?
Certain ambiguities must be removed before this
question can be adequately discussed.
First, there is the distinction between rough
approximate laws and such as appear to be precise and general. I shall retu=
rn
to the former presently; it is the latter that I wish to discuss now.
Matter, as defined at the end of Lecture V, is=
a
logical fiction, invented because it gives a convenient way of stating caus=
al
laws. Except in cases of perfect regularity in appearances (of which we can=
have
no experience), the actual appearances of a piece of matter are not members=
of
that ideal system of regular appearances which is defined as being the matt=
er
in question. But the matter is, after all, inferred from its appearances, w=
hich
are used to VERIFY physical laws. Thus, in so far as physics is an empirical
and verifiable science, it must assume or prove that the inference from
appearances to matter is, in general, legitimate, and it must be able to te=
ll
us, more or less, what appearances to expect. It is through this question of
verifiability and empirical applicability to experience that we are led to a
theory of matter such as I advocate. From the consideration of this questio=
n it
results that physics, in so far as it is an empirical science, not a logical
phantasy, is concerned with particulars of just the same sort as those which
psychology considers under the name of sensations. The causal laws of physi=
cs,
so interpreted, differ from those of psychology only by the fact that they
connect a particular with other appearances in the same piece of matter, ra=
ther
than with other appearances in the same perspective. That is to say, they g=
roup
together particulars having the same "active" place, while psycho=
logy
groups together those having the same "passive" place. Some
particulars, such as images, have no "active" place, and therefore
belong exclusively to psychology.
We can now understand the distinction between
physics and psychology. The nerves and brain are matter: our visual sensati=
ons
when we look at them may be, and I think are, members of the system
constituting irregular appearances of this matter, but are not the whole of=
the
system. Psychology is concerned, inter alia, with our sensations when we se=
e a
piece of matter, as opposed to the matter which we see. Assuming, as we mus=
t,
that our sensations have physical causes, their causal laws are nevertheless
radically different from the laws of physics, since the consideration of a
single sensation requires the breaking up of the group of which it is a mem=
ber.
When a sensation is used to verify physics, it is used merely as a sign of a
certain material phenomenon, i.e. of a group of particulars of which it is a
member. But when it is studied by psychology, it is taken away from that gr=
oup
and put into quite a different context, where it causes images or voluntary=
movements.
It is primarily this different grouping that is characteristic of psycholog=
y as
opposed to all the physical sciences, including physiology; a secondary dif=
ference
is that images, which belong to psychology, are not easily to be included a=
mong
the aspects which constitute a physical thing or piece of matter.
There remains, however, an important question,
namely: Are mental events causally dependent upon physical events in a sens=
e in
which the converse dependence does not hold? Before we can discuss the answ=
er
to this question, we must first be clear as to what our question means.
When, given A, it is possible to infer B, but
given B, it is not possible to infer A, we say that B is dependent upon A i=
n a
sense in which A is not dependent upon B. Stated in logical terms, this amo=
unts
to saying that, when we know a many-one relation of A to B, B is dependent =
upon
A in respect of this relation. If the relation is a causal law, we say that=
B
is causally dependent upon A. The illustration that chiefly concerns us is =
the
system of appearances of a physical object. We can, broadly speaking, infer
distant appearances from near ones, but not vice versa. All men look alike =
when
they are a mile away, hence when we see a man a mile off we cannot tell wha=
t he
will look like when he is only a yard away. But when we see him a yard away=
, we
can tell what he will look like a mile away. Thus the nearer view gives us =
more
valuable information, and the distant view is causally dependent upon it in=
a
sense in which it is not causally dependent upon the distant view.
It is this greater causal potency of the near
appearance that leads physics to state its causal laws in terms of that sys=
tem
of regular appearances to which the nearest appearances increasingly
approximate, and that makes it value information derived from the microscop=
e or
telescope. It is clear that our sensations, considered as irregular appeara=
nces
of physical objects, share the causal dependence belonging to comparatively
distant appearances; therefore in our sensational life we are in causal
dependence upon physical laws.
This, however, is not the most important or
interesting part of our question. It is the causation of images that is the
vital problem. We have seen that they are subject to mnenic causation, and =
that
mnenic causation may be reducible to ordinary physical causation in nervous=
tissue.
This is the question upon which our attitude must turn towards what may be
called materialism. One sense of materialism is the view that all mental
phenomena are causally dependent upon physical phenomena in the above-defin=
ed
sense of causal dependence. Whether this is the case or not, I do not profe=
ss
to know. The question seems to me the same as the question whether mnemic
causation is ultimate, which we considered without deciding in Lecture IV. =
But
I think the bulk of the evidence points to the materialistic answer as the =
more
probable.
In considering the causal laws of psychology, =
the
distinction between rough generalizations and exact laws is important. There
are many rough generalizations in psychology, not only of the sort by which=
we govern
our ordinary behaviour to each other, but also of a more nearly scientific =
kind.
Habit and association belong among such laws. I will give an illustration of
the kind of law that can be obtained. Suppose a person has frequently
experienced A and B in close temporal contiguity, an association will be
established, so that A, or an image of A, tends to cause an image of B. The
question arises: will the association work in either direction, or only from
the one which has occurred earlier to the one which has occurred later? In =
an
article by Mr. Wohlgemuth, called "The Direction of Associations"
("British Journal of Psychology," vol. v, part iv, March, 1913), =
it
is claimed to be proved by experiment that, in so far as motor memory (i.e.
memory of movements) is concerned, association works only from earlier to
later, while in visual and auditory memory this is not the case, but the la=
ter
of two neighbouring experiences may recall the earlier as well as the earli=
er
the later. It is suggested that motor memory is physiological, while visual=
and
auditory memory are more truly psychological. But that is not the point whi=
ch
concerns us in the illustration. The point which concerns us is that a law =
of
association, established by purely psychological observation, is a purely
psychological law, and may serve as a sample of what is possible in the way=
of
discovering such laws. It is, however, still no more than a rough
generalization, a statistical average. It cannot tell us what will result f=
rom
a given cause on a given occasion. It is a law of tendency, not a precise a=
nd
invariable law such as those of physics aim at being.
If we wish to pass from the law of habit, stat=
ed
as a tendency or average, to something more precise and invariable, we seem
driven to the nervous system. We can more or less guess how an occurrence
produces a change in the brain, and how its repetition gradually produces
something analogous to the channel of a river, along which currents flow mo=
re easily
than in neighbouring paths. We can perceive that in this way, if we had more
knowledge, the tendency to habit through repetition might be replaced by a
precise account of the effect of each occurrence in bringing about a
modification of the sort from which habit would ultimately result. It is su=
ch
considerations that make students of psychophysiology materialistic in their
methods, whatever they may be in their metaphysics. There are, of course,
exceptions, such as Professor J. S. Haldane,* who maintains that it is
theoretically impossible to obtain physiological explanations of psychical
phenomena, or physical explanations of physiological phenomena. But I think=
the
bulk of expert opinion, in practice, is on the other side.
*=
See
his book, "The New Physiology and Other Addresses" (Charles Griffin & Co., 1919).
The question whether it is possible to obtain
precise causal laws in which the causes are psychological, not material, is=
one
of detailed investigation. I have done what I could to make clear the natur=
e of
the question, but I do not believe that it is possible as yet to answer it =
with
any confidence. It seems to be by no means an insoluble question, and we may
hope that science will be able to produce sufficient grounds for regarding =
one
answer as much more probable than the other. But for the moment I do not see
how we can come to a decision.
I think, however, on grounds of the theory of
matter explained in Lectures V and VII, that an ultimate scientific account=
of
what goes on in the world, if it were ascertainable, would resemble psychol=
ogy
rather than physics in what we found to be the decisive difference between =
them.
I think, that is to say, that such an account would not be content to speak,
even formally, as though matter, which is a logical fiction, were the ultim=
ate
reality. I think that, if our scientific knowledge were adequate to the tas=
k,
which it neither is nor is likely to become, it would exhibit the laws of
correlation of the particulars constituting a momentary condition of a mate=
rial
unit, and would state the causal laws* of the world in terms of these
particulars, not in terms of matter. Causal laws so stated would, I believe=
, be
applicable to psychology and physics equally; the science in which they were
stated would succeed in achieving what metaphysics has vainly attempted, na=
mely
a unified account of what really happens, wholly true even if not the whole=
of
truth, and free from all convenient fictions or unwarrantable assumptions of
metaphysical entities. A causal law applicable to particulars would count a=
s a
law of physics if it could be stated in terms of those fictitious systems of
regular appearances which are matter; if this were not the case, it would c=
ount
as a law of psychology if one of the particulars were a sensation or an ima=
ge,
i.e. were subject to mnemic causation. I believe that the realization of th=
e complexity
of a material unit, and its analysis into constituents analogous to sensati=
ons,
is of the utmost importance to philosophy, and vital for any understanding =
of
the relations between mind and matter, between our perceptions and the world
which they perceive. It is in this direction, I am convinced, that we must =
look
for the solution of many ancient perplexities.
*=
In a
perfected science, causal laws will take the form of differential equations--or of
finite-difference equations, i=
f the
theory of quanta should prove correct.
It is probable that the whole science of mental
occurrences, especially where its initial definitions are concerned, could =
be
simplified by the development of the fundamental unifying science in which =
the
causal laws of particulars are sought, rather than the causal laws of those
systems of particulars that constitute the material units of physics. This =
fundamental
science would cause physics to become derivative, in the sort of way in whi=
ch
theories of the constitution of the atom make chemistry derivative from
physics; it would also cause psychology to appear less singular and isolated
among sciences. If we are right in this, it is a wrong philosophy of matter
which has caused many of the difficulties in the philosophy of
mind--difficulties which a right philosophy of matter would cause to disapp=
ear.
The conclusions at which we have arrived may be
summed up as follows:
I. Physics and psychology are not distinguishe=
d by
their material. Mind and matter alike are logical constructions; the partic=
ulars
out of which they are constructed, or from which they are inferred, have
various relations, some of which are studied by physics, others by psycholo=
gy. Broadly
speaking, physics group particulars by their active places, psychology by t=
heir
passive places.
II. The two most essential characteristics of =
the
causal laws which would naturally be called psychological are SUBJECTIVITY =
and
MNEMIC CAUSATION; these are not unconnected, since the causal unit in mnemi=
c causation
is the group of particulars having a given passive place at a given time, a=
nd
it is by this manner of grouping that subjectivity is defined.
III. Habit, memory and thought are all
developments of mnemic causation. It is probable, though not certain, that
mnemic causation is derivative from ordinary physical causation in nervous =
(and
other) tissue.
IV. Consciousness is a complex and far from
universal characteristic of mental phenomena.
V. Mind is a matter of degree, chiefly exempli=
fied
in number and complexity of habits.
VI. All our data, both in physics and psycholo=
gy,
are subject to psychological causal laws; but physical causal laws, at leas=
t in
traditional physics, can only be stated in terms of matter, which is both
inferred and constructed, never a datum. In this respect psychology is near=
er
to what actually exists.