Analysis of The Mind Index

THE ANALYSIS OF MIND

BY BERTRAND RUSSELL

1921

MUIRHEAD LIBRARY OF PHILOSOPHY

An admirable statement of the aims of the Library 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 heads:

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

course 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 that 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," Albee'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.

"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 scope 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 pressing

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, would regard that as the sole, or even the main, object

of philosophy. As Professor 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 harmonize two different

tendencies, one in psychology, the other in physics, with both of

which I find myself in sympathy, although at first sight they

might seem inconsistent. On the one hand, many psychologists,

especially those of the behaviourist school, tend to adopt what

is essentially a materialistic position, as a matter of method if

not of metaphysics. They make psychology increasingly dependent

on physiology and external observation, and tend to think of

matter as something much more solid and indubitable than mind.

Meanwhile the physicists, especially Einstein and other exponents

of the theory of relativity, have been making "matter" less and

less material. Their world consists of "events," from which

"matter" is derived by a logical construction. Whoever reads, for

example, Professor Eddington's "Space, Time and Gravitation"

(Cambridge University Press, 1920), will see that an

old-fashioned materialism can receive no support 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 science 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,

according 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 several 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 published

in the Athenaeum.

There are a few allusions to China in this book, 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," when I

wanted illustrations of unfamiliar things.

Peking, January 1921.

CONTENTS

I.   Recent Criticisms of "Consciousness" II. Instinct and Habit

III. Desire and Feeling IV. Influence of Past History on Present

Occurrences in Living      Organisms V.   Psychological and

Physical Causal Laws VI. Introspection VII. The Definition of

Perception VIII.Sensations and Images IX. Memory X.   Words and

Meaning XI. General Ideas and Thought XII. Belief XIII.Truth and

Falsehood XIV. Emotions and Will XV. Characteristics of Mental

Phenomena

THE ANALYSIS OF MIND

LECTURE I. RECENT CRITICISMS OF "CONSCIOUSNESS"

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 as 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 mental 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 theory will be mainly

derived from previous authors. There are two sorts of reasons,

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 popular philosophy than

the distinction between mind and matter. Those who are not

professional metaphysicians are willing to confess that they do

not know what mind actually is, or how matter is constituted; but

they remain convinced that 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 maintained often

that matter is a mere fiction imagined by mind, and sometimes

that mind is a mere property of a certain kind of matter. Those

who maintain that mind is the reality and matter an evil dream

are called "idealists"--a word 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

stuff of which they are compounded lies in a sense between the

two, in a sense above them both, like a common ancestor. As

regards matter, I have set forth my reasons 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 the necessity of such theories

as those which I shall be advocating. Accordingly 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 "Mysticism 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. Most 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 aware 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 to 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 that 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, traffic 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

sensation 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 donkey bray, you not only hear a

noise, but realize that it comes from a donkey. When 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 called "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 him; 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 BELIEF, by which I mean

that way of being conscious which may be either true or false. We

say that a man is "conscious of looking a fool," by which we mean

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 is, 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 and 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 mental phenomena

naively, just as they would physical phenomena. This school of

psychologists tends not to emphasize the object. On the other

hand, there are 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 knowledge, 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 of a great

deal of interesting work. He says (p. 115):

* "Psychologie vom empirischen Standpunkte," vol. i, 1874. (The

second volume was never published.)

"Every psychical phenomenon is characterized 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 towards 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 each 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 exclusively peculiar to

psychical phenomena. No physical phenomenon shows anything

similar. 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 throw on the problem of knowledge. Until

very lately I believed, as he did, that mental 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 knowledge. I shall try to make my reasons for this rejection

clear as we proceed. It must 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 itself either against an analytic scrutiny or against

a host of facts in psycho-analysis and animal psychology. I do

not wish to minimize the problems. I will merely observe, in

mitigation of our prospective labours, that thinking, 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 know that, in the mental world at least,

there are vast countries still very imperfectly explored.

The view expressed by Brentano has been held very generally, and

developed by many writers. Among these we may take as an example

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 consciousness; 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 think 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 object 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 imaginary, like a golden mountain; or it may even be

something self-contradictory, like a round square. But in all

these cases, so he contends, the content exists when 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 that you are

thinking of St. Paul's. Then, according to Meinong, we have to

distinguish three elements which are necessarily combined in

constituting the one thought. First, there is the act of

thinking, which would be just the same whatever you were thinking

about. Then there is what makes the character of the thought 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 the 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 object: 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 believe it to be

mistaken, is very useful as affording a schema in terms of which

other theories can be stated. In the remainder of the present

lecture I shall state 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 into 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-blooded soul. It is supposed that thoughts

cannot just come and go, but need a person 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 ingredient in the single thought: he is rather constituted by

relations of the thoughts 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 moment 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 the act in thinking

is not empirically discoverable, or logically deducible from what

we can observe.

The next point of criticism concerns the relation of content and

object. The reference of thoughts to objects is not, I believe,

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 went to St. Paul's, or what you would feel if you touched

its walls; it is further connected with what other people see and

feel, with services and the Dean and Chapter and Sir Christopher

Wren. These things are not mere thoughts of yours, 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 imagination 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

such 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 cannot

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 head

when you think the thought, while the object is usually something

in the outer 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 state 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 thoughts, 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 and 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 thoughts,

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 difficulty 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 me no valid grounds for regarding what we see and hear as not

part of the physical world.

Realists, on the other hand, as a rule, suppress 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 skeleton 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

realists, as it does to me, to be faulty. They argue that, if we

cannot know the physical 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

knowledge we are in direct contact with objects, which may be,

and usually are, outside 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

world 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 alone. Their

difficulties are different, but neither seems tenable all

through. Take, for the sake of definiteness, the remembering of a

past event. The remembering 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 hand, we try to

constitute memory without the act, we are driven to a content,

since we must have something that happens NOW, as opposed to the

event which happened in the past. Thus, when we reject the act,

which I think we must, we are driven to a theory of memory which

is more akin to idealism. These arguments, however, do not apply

to sensation. It is especially sensation, I think, which is

considered by those realists who retain only the object.* Their

views, which are chiefly 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 fundamental importance in the present

connection. (Translation of fifth German edition, Open Court Co.,

1914. First German edition, 1886.)

William James's view was first set forth in an essay called "Does

'consciousness' 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 personal form and

activity--these passing over to the content--and becomes a bare

Bewusstheit 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 disappearing 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 philosophy"(p. 2).

* "Journal of Philosophy, Psychology and Scientific Methods,"

vol. i, 1904. Reprinted in "Essays in Radical Empiricism"

(Longmans, Green & Co., 1912), pp. 1-38, to which references in

what follows refer.

He explains 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 word stands

for an entity, but to insist most emphatically that it does stand

for a function. There is, I mean, no aboriginal stuff or quality

of being, contrasted 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 which the world is

built up is not of two sorts, one matter and the other mind, but

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 material 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

particular 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 becomes the

object known"(p. 4).

After mentioning the duality of subject and object, which is

supposed to constitute consciousness, he proceeds in italics:

"EXPERIENCE, I BELIEVE, HAS NO SUCH INNER DUPLICITY; AND THE

SEPARATION 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 paint as it appears

in a paint-shop and as it appears in a picture: in the one case

it is just "saleable matter," while in the other it "performs a

spiritual function. Just so, I maintain (he continues), does a

given undivided 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 same 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 group 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 stream of

thinking (which I recognize emphatically as a phenomenon) is only

a careless 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 accompany 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 points 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 anything that could be called "experience." This word has been

dropped by the American realists, among whom we may mention

specially Professor R. B. Perry 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; they 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 must be substantialized, they

are all strictly of one substance, for which perhaps 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 appear in subsequent

lectures--is that James is right in rejecting consciousness as 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 regards sensations: what is

heard or seen belongs equally to psychology and to physics. But I

should say that images belong only to the mental world, while

those occurrences (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 is a psychological law. Sensations are subject to

both kinds of laws, and are therefore truly "neutral" in Holt's

sense. But entities subject only 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 which Brentano assigns to them and which

constitutes the essence of "consciousness" as ordinarily

understood. But it is now time to pass 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 whole, 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 that 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 science. Psychology as a science, they

say, is only concerned with BEHAVIOUR, i.e. with 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 thought. True, we talk a great deal, and imagine that

in so doing we are showing that 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 chapter on

"thought processes" you come instead upon a chapter on "The

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 York, 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

animals "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, and that it

"remembers" its master, because it looks sad in his absence, but

wags its tail and barks when he returns. That the dog behaves in

this way 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 seen 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 can be no

prevision of those ends. The first time a bird builds a nest, we

can hardly 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 because it foresees and

desires the result of its actions.*

* An interesting discussion of the question whether instinctive

actions, when first performed, 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 "consciousness." It has seemed to the behaviourists that

similar methods can be applied to human behaviour, without

assuming anything not open to external observation. Let us give a

crude illustration, too crude for the authors in question, but

capable 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" what six times nine is, the other does not.

But all that we can observe is a certain language-habit. The one

child has acquired the habit of saying "six times 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. There is obviously an observable fact called "knowing"

such-and-such a thing; examinations are experiments for

discovering such facts. But all that 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 successful 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 inference that other people have something nonphysical called

"mind" or "thought" is therefore unwarranted.

So far, there is nothing particularly repugnant 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. This, however, the behaviourist denies.

He maintains that our knowledge of ourselves 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 can 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 most

characteristic of mind. Human beings are constantly engaged in

achieving some 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, good 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 does is determined--or so it

seems--by the end he has in view, by what lies in front 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 pertinacity 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 behaviour 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 desire.

It is matter of common observation that "so-and-so does not know

his own 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 motives

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." 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

fundamental difference.

The belief that a motive is normally conscious makes it easier to

be mistaken as to our own motives than as to other people'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 interpretation 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 towards 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 abandon 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 convenient

fiction for describing shortly certain laws of behaviour. A

hungry animal is 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 experience can show

what will have this sedative effect, and it is easy to make

mistakes. 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. This 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 are unduly narrow; no doubt the wishes they

emphasize exist, but others, e.g. for 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 that 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 of the subconscious, far too much weight is given to the

point of awareness or not awareness of our conscious processes.

As a matter of fact, we find entirely identical phenomena, that

is, identical in every respect but one-that of awareness 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 definition of "consciousness"

imperative. For nay part, I cannot see 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 patient 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

order 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 about 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 while to read a

little book by Dr. Bernard Hart on "The Psychology of Insanity."*

On this question of the mental as opposed to the physiological

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 insanity] 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 the brain, and that insanity may therefore be properly

attacked from the standpoint 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 forth 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 caused by defects in the brain. There is no

inconsistency in this If, as we maintain, mind and matter are

neither of them the actual stuff of reality, but different

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 mental cause, is merely one to be decided by

trial. Metaphysicians have argued endlessly as to the interaction

of mind and matter. The followers of Descartes held that mind and

matter are so different as to make any action of the one on the

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-physical 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 state 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 except in metaphysical theory.* For us, there is no

necessity to make any such assumption, which is very difficult to

harmonize with obvious facts. I receive 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 American realists call "neutral" entities, which

have neither the hardness and indestructibility of matter, nor

the reference to objects which is supposed to characterize mind.

* 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 might 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 knowledge, 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 like 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 yet 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, to be tested empirically without any preconceptions.

It may be true, or it may not. So far, that is all we can say.

Returning from this digression to our main topic, namely, the

criticism of "consciousness," we observe that Freud and 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 its 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 for its being

unconscious. Thus "the unconscious" becomes a sort of underground

prisoner, living in a dungeon, breaking in at long intervals upon

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 and dreadful occasions when he

shouts so loud that every one hears him and there 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 picturesque as this. I

believe an "unconscious" desire is merely a causal law of our

behaviour,* namely, that we remain restlessly active until a

certain state 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 habit 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 it. On the

contrary, we shall suppose that, although Freudian "repression"

undoubtedly occurs and is important, it is not the usual 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." Both 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

appeared in "The Scientific Monthly" in November, 1916. Two

quotations will serve 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 this mysterious censor stands at the trapdoor lying

between the conscious and the unconscious. Many of us do not

believe in a world of the unconscious (a few of us even have

grave doubts about the usefulness of the term consciousness),

hence we try to explain censorship along ordinary biological

lines. We believe that one group of habits can 'down' another

group of habits--or instincts. In this case our ordinary system

of habits--those which we call expressive of our 'real selves'--

inhibit 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 some impulses which

is involved in acquiring the habits of a civilized adult, he

continues:

"It is among these frustrated impulses that 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 particular reason for applying the term

'wish' to such tendencies"(p. 485).

One of the merits of the general analysis of mind which we shall

be concerned with in the following lectures is that it removes

the atmosphere of mystery from the phenomena brought to light by

the psycho-analysts. Mystery is delightful, but unscientific,

since it depends upon ignorance. Man has developed out of the

animals, and there is no serious gap between him and 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" can be found. It is therefore natural to suppose

that, what ever may be the correct definition of "consciousness,"

"consciousness" is not the 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.

LECTURE II. INSTINCT AND HABIT

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 either in structure or in behaviour. From this fact it

is a highly probable inference that there is also nowhere a very

wide mental gap. It is, of course, POSSIBLE that there may be, at

certain stages in evolution, elements which are entirely new from

the standpoint of analysis, though in their nascent form they

have little 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, and 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 may 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 similar 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 lightly 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

second leads us to attempt a levelling down of our own

intelligence to something not 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 principle of

continuity.

It is clear that the question turns upon another, 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 beings, 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 Lecture VI; I shall therefore content myself

now with a statement of the conclusions to be arrived at.

We know a great many things concerning ourselves 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

dreams we have when we are asleep, and a host of other

occurrences which we only know 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 become

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 familiar that it is difficult to

realize how little we really know about them. We see 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 certainty. 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 applied 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 directly 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. Accordingly, if we begin our

study of psychology by external observation, we must not begin by

assuming such things as desires and beliefs, but only such things

as external observation can reveal, which will be characteristics

of the movements and physiological processes of animals. Some

animals, for example, always run 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 light, 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,

12):

"If I hear the conductor calling 'all aboard' 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

movements. 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 the body from too sudden a

shock. If a cinder enter my eye, its lids close forcibly 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 it result from the pedestrian

education of childhood may be doubtful; it is, at any rate, 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. Actions 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 other 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

modified by conscious intelligence.

"An outside observer, unable to perceive the accompanying

consciousness, might be wholly at a loss to discriminate between

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 APPROPRIATENESS characterizes

them all alike. "

There is one movement, among those that James mentions at first,

which is not subsequently classified, namely, the stumbling. 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 matter were involved. For example, if

you fall over a cliff, you move under the influence of

gravitation, and your centre of gravity describes just as correct

a parabola as if you were already dead. Mechanical movements have

not the characteristic 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 ticket that he cannot remember the name of his destination.

Appropriateness is a complicated and merely approximate idea, and

for the present we shall do well 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 movements.

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 centres in the brain than those that

are reflex. But he cannot discover anything as to the presence or

absence of "will" or "consciousness," for these things can only

be seen from within, if at all. For the present, we wish 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 distinguish "vital" from mechanical

movements by the fact that vital movements depend for their

causation upon the special properties of the nervous system,

while mechanical movements depend only upon the properties which

animal bodies 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 possible. 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 may 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 ready 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 determine 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 equations 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 may 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 produced in this way are vital movements, while

mechanical movements are those in which 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 analogous 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 mechanical movements, and study only the properties of the

remainder.

The next point is to distinguish between movements that are

instinctive and movements that are acquired by experience. This

distinction also is to some extent one of degree. Professor Lloyd

Morgan gives 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." *

* "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 group

of animals" makes it impossible to judge what is instinctive in

the behaviour 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 to be called

instinctive; instances of harmful instincts will be given

shortly. The 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

different at different periods of its growth, and this fact may

cause changes of behaviour which are not due to learning. The

maturing and seasonal fluctuation of the sex-instinct affords a

good illustration. When the sex-instinct first 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 exposes us to the need of

comparison which 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 previous 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 mature

gradually, and while they are immature an animal may act in a

fumbling manner 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 the 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

evidence 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

opportunity 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 example:

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 third 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 ceases to

make any wrong turnings. It is by essentially similar processes

that we learn 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. 262-3) 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

alone sufficient, but it seems not unlikely that it is partly

correct. Suppose, for 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 attempts. Thus the tendency to repeat a

previous performance (which is easily explicable 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 animal 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

more firmly connected with the situation, so that, when it

recurs, they will be more likely 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 occur. The greater the satisfaction or discomfort, the

greater the strengthening or weakening of the bond.

"The Law of Exercise is that: Any response 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 that 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 and 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 thought instinct less important

in the life of man than in that of animals. This, however, would

be a mistake. Learning is only possible when instinct supplies

the driving-force. The animals in cages, which gradually learn to

get out, perform random movements at first, which are purely

instinctive. But for these random 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 clear 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 is a thoroughly efficient method when there

is fish in the larder, and it is often successfully practised by

children. But in later life it is found that merely going to the

larder does not cause fish to be there; after a series of random

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 priori 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 complex, through language; but at bottom

language does not alter the essential character of learning, or

of the part played by instinct in promoting learning. Language,

however, is a subject upon which I do not wish to speak until a

later lecture.

* "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 incapable of

modification. This is a complete delusion. Instinct, as a rule,

is very rough and ready, able to achieve its result under

ordinary circumstances, but easily 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,

"Psychology," ii, 396). Bergson, quoting Fabre, has made play

with the supposed extraordinary accuracy of the solitary wasp

Ammophila, which lays its eggs in a caterpillar. 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 EACH 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 stings is

NOT CONSTANT, that sometimes the caterpillar is NOT PARALYZED,

and sometimes it is KILLED OUTRIGHT, and that THE DIFFERENT

CIRCUMSTANCES DO NOT APPARENTLY 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 one as a sample:

"The larva of the Lomechusa beetle eats the 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 only 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 system of

nursing" (loc. cit., p. 106).

Semon ("Die Mneme," pp. 207-9) gives a good illustration of an

instinct growing wiser through experience. He relates 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 indefinitely. 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 this 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 objects.

All the above characteristics of instinct can be established by

purely external observation, except the fact that instinct does

not require prevision. This, though not strictly capable of being

PROVED by observation, is irresistibly suggested by the most

obvious phenomena. Who can believe, for example, that a new-born

baby is aware of the necessity of food for preserving life? Or

that insects, in laying eggs, are concerned for the preservation

of 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 important to understand the fundamental

position of instinct in prompting both animal and human

behaviour.

LECTURE III. DESIRE AND FEELING

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 something 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 hope 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 content, 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,

with a specific feeling related to it, namely, that specific

feeling which we call "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 against 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 out to be easier to abandon it wholly and

look at the matter in a totally different way.

The first set of facts to be adduced against the common sense

view of desire are those studied by psycho-analysis. In all human

beings, but most markedly in those suffering from hysteria and

certain forms of insanity, we find what are called "unconscious"

desires, which are commonly regarded as showing self-deception.

Most psycho-analysts pay little attention to the analysis of

desire, being interested in discovering by observation what it is

that people desire, rather than in discovering what actually

constitutes desire. I think the strangeness of what they report

would be greatly diminished if it were expressed in the language

of a behaviourist theory of desire, rather than in the language

of every-day beliefs. The general description of the sort of

phenomena that bear on our present question is as follows: A

person states that his desires are so-and-so, and that it is

these desires that inspire his 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 ends 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 regions of instinct, the further they travel

from anything resembling conscious desire, and the less possible

it becomes to believe that only positive self-deception 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, but to demand a re-statement of what constitutes

desire, exhibiting it as a causal 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 observe,

however, that his actions are such as are likely to achieve a

quite different end B, and that B is the sort of end that often

seems to be aimed at by animals 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 means to B. For example, we have an impulse to inflict

pain upon those whom we hate; 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 than 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 due to "self-deception," but

this explanation is often mythical. Most people, in thinking

about punishment, have had no more need

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