Part 13
In his recent treatise on psychology Professor James discusses in an interesting and suggestive way the relation of ideation to attention, maintaining that “ideational preparation ... is concerned in all attentive acts.” Attention is “anticipatory imagination” or “preperception” which prepares the mind for what it is to experience. Thus the schoolboy, listening for the clock to strike twelve, anticipates in imagination and is prepared to hear perfectly the very first sound of the striking.
It is undoubtedly true that in the form of attention we term expectant, where we are awaiting _some given impression_, there is a representing, antedating experience, which may be a preparatory preperception. But with a wrong imaging of what is to be experienced there is hindrance, as when in a dark quiet room we are led to expect sensation of light but actually receive sensation of sound. Very often, indeed, our anticipations make us unprepared for experience. Further, the experiments adduced by Professor James from Wundt and Helmholtz are in the single form of expectant attention, and we must remark that in these experiments the reagent is also experimenter, and this introduces a new attention, consciousness of consciousness, and that of a peculiar kind, which complicates an already complex consciousness. In general we may say that experimentally incited consciousness is artificial, at least as far as it feels itself as such, and for certain points like simple attention this tends to vitiate results. Self-experimentation or experiment on those conscious of it as such may mislead in certain cases, and must, so far as this element of consciousness of experiment is not allowed for. In physical science things always act naturally whether with observation or experiment, but in psychology observation, other things being equal, is more trustworthy than experiment.
In all cases of expectant or experimentally expectant attention, the attention does not, however, lie in the expectancy or in the imaging as such, but it is merely the will effort concerned in these operations. Yet as we may expect without effort, and preconceive without volition, attention is necessarily involved in neither. A perception or a preperception is an attention only as accomplished by will with effort, but only an unattention when purely involuntary. Professor James’s use of attention as preperception brings us back to the common idea of attention, as any consciousness which cognises something. This is so inbred in thought and language that it is most difficult to avoid using the term in this sense. Many psychologists like Mr. James and Mr. Sully frequently mention attention as a will phenomenon but they do not treat it under will, and they constantly return to the cognition meaning. Höffding, however, treats attention under psychology of will. Attention as the exercise of will in building up and maintaining cognitive activity, is naturally treated under cognition; but it is on the whole safer and better to discuss attention under will so as to keep it sharply distinguished from the presentation form which it vitalises. I have endeavored to hold the term strictly to this sense, yet it is not unlikely I may sometimes unwittingly countenance the common confusion, but trust the instances will be few.
When we have, then, a case of expectant attention we must distinguish the attention in the imaging from the attention in the actual cognising. It is, indeed, true for us almost invariably that cognitive strain without immediate realisation is incentive to ideating. In listening in the night in vain for a sound we hear in imagination many sounds, and we form preparatory ideas of what we are to hear. Sense-adjustments call up a train of sensations in ideal form. But it is obvious that low intelligences which have no power of expectancy or ideation do yet really attend. The very first cognitions and all early cognitions by their very newness and difficulty were attentions long before ideation was evolved. With low organisms, as cognitive power extends only to the present in time and space, immediacy of reaction is imperatively demanded, and every tension of cognitive apparatus is immediately directive of motor apparatus so that suitable motion is at once accomplished. The cognition, though dim and evanescent factor, is yet powerfully energised, and so a true attention. Always with lowest sentiencies, and often with higher, pain is suddenly realised without anticipation, followed quickly by attention as strong effort to cognise the nature and quality of the pain-giver and so to effectually get rid of pain-giver and pain.
Preliminary idea, then, cannot occur in early attentions and in late attentions it is by no means necessary. It is said that we see only what we look for, but it must be answered that seeing commonly happens without any looking for. The kindergarten child, Professor James to the contrary notwithstanding, is not confined in his seeing to merely those things which he has been told to see and whose names have been given him. A child continually asks, What is that? and is quick to discern the absolutely new and strange. He accomplishes a wide variety of attentions without ideas and gives himself almost entirely to immediate presentations.
To be sure, every one sees only what he is prepared to see, only what is made possible for him by his mental constitution as determined by his own pre-experience and the experience of his ancestors, but this does not signify ideation. Every cognising is conditioned by the past, but this does not call for a reawakening and projecting in ideal form at every instance of cognitive effort, before any real cognition is reached.
In fact, many, if not the most of our attentions, are merely intensifyings of some present cognition, of some cognitive psychosis which has simply come or happened. Take the instance of attention to marginal retinal images, this certainly does not always imply preperception, the forming of an idea of what we are to see, though in the cases mentioned by Professor James it may. For example, I was writing the above seated with my profile to the window when I became suddenly aware, through the physiological agency of a marginal image, of a moving object to my right. This perception of bare undefined object was spontaneous, a pure given; I exercised no will in attaining it, and so the state of cognition was not an attention. However, by attending, by intensifying the cognition by will effort, I perceive that the indefinite object is a man walking on the sidewalk, who is of a certain height, clothed in a certain way, etc. I do not trace the least ideation in the whole process, the slight attending as act of will did not imply any anterior or posterior idea or representation. The reason for the will act was the intrinsic interest of movement, and this intrinsic interest arises in the fact that moving objects have had for all life a special pleasure-pain significance, the moving object is the most dangerous, and so motion perceived has become ingrained in mind as a special stimulant of attention. This habit of attentiveness to things in motion survives and continues for cases where it is of no use and even of harm; thus, in the present instance, it diverts me from my work. It is obvious that attention often occurs in the same way for other senses without preliminary idea.
On the whole we must conclude that attention is a much abused term, and it is to be hoped that psychologists will for the future keep to the definite and best use of the term; namely, to denote cognitive effort in all its degrees and modes.
HIRAM M. STANLEY.
IS MONISM ARBITRARY?
In Vol. II, No. 3, of _The Monist_, a very kind criticism appeared from the pen of Mr. Francis C. Russell of the doctrine of a double-faced unity of mind and matter. It was said that this doctrine is very far from inducing that final satisfaction which we rightly expect of a competent theory, and the critic propounded as a possible explanation of mental phenomena the postulate of a conservation of spirit. He calls spirit the elementary basis of consciousness considered as a quality. Spirit would be the subjectivity of nature, the elements of feeling, or as Professor Morgan calls it metakinesis; and consciousness would originate in the same way as electricity, i. e., by rending spirit asunder into positive and negative spirit so as to produce a tension. This would account for the appearance and disappearance of consciousness in that spiritual “dynamo” which is called the nervous system.
This proposition seems to be highly acceptable because it stands upon the principle of a conservation of substance and attempts to represent the phenomenon of consciousness as due to a transformation. But does it for that reason remove the difficulties of the doctrine of a double-faced unity of nature, which, as Mr. Russell says, “is open to the charge of being arbitrary and brings no access of insight”? Is not perhaps the term double-faced unity (which is none of my invention, and which I have been careful to avoid) a misleading and unsatisfactory term? Why should nature be double-faced? Why are feeling and motion the only two attributes of natural phenomena? Is this not arbitrary? Could nature not be just as well a treble or quadruple-faced unity. Nature might possess, as Spinoza actually declares, infinite attributes of which these two only, viz. extension and thought, i. e. motion and feeling, happen to be known to us.
It is this apparent arbitrariness which bars our insight and deprives us of the satisfaction that ought to attend the real solution of a problem. But let us avoid the term double-faced unity; let us speak of the subjectivity and the objectivity of nature, and the clouds will disappear.
The doctrine of a double-faced unity has been criticised as dualism, and the proposition that nature consists of two radically different attributes—exactly of two, not more and not less—must most decidedly appear as dualism. But is it dualistic to say that every subject appears to its objects not as a subject but as an object among other objects? Certainly not.
The relativity of the terms subject and object affords us the key to a comprehension of the situation. This world of ours is a world of relations. The phenomena of nature exhibit an unceasing activity; they consist of constant changes, and every change, every motion, has a whence and a whither. Every transformation is a series of events among which any prior one is called cause and any subsequent one effect.
If we regard feeling and motion as two attributes of nature, we are actually on the brink of dualism, and we shall understand how Spinoza, in order to escape from dualism and arrive at a monistic view, assumed without any plausible argument the existence of an infinite number of attributes. This assumption however is of no avail, for the problem would arise: How is it that we know only two of all these infinite attributes? Why do we not know any other? and why are we unable to form even a dim notion of any other? If they exist why do they exhibit no effects upon us? Perhaps because we ourselves and this world of ours consist only of two! And if they exhibit no effects upon us and upon our world, can they be said to exist at all? Might we not, in that case, consider them as non-existent and count the two known attributes alone as actual realities? Thus the dualism would remain; and Spinoza’s monism is only apparent.
The same objection cannot be made if we remain conscious of the fact that feelings are as much abstracts as motions. Subjectivity and objectivity are correlative terms. There is as little a duality in the idea, that subjects presuppose objects as that effects presuppose causes. There are not causes in the world which are nothing but causes, nor are there effects which are nothing but effects. Take for instance an historical event. Was Cæsar’s death a cause or an effect? Plainly, this depends upon the view we take. As the sequence of the wounds which Cæsar received from his assassins it was an effect; as the beginning of the civil war consequent thereupon it was a cause. If I look at you, you are the object and I am the subject. If you look at me, it is the reverse. Thus the relation of a certain thing to its surroundings makes of it a subject, while the surroundings are its objects.
Subject and object being correlatives, we can very well understand why there are no “subjects in themselves”; every subject is at the same time an object in the objective world. We can further understand, why every subjectivity except our own withdraws itself from direct observation. We can observe the movements of organisms like ourselves and judge by way of analogy that they feel pain or enjoy pleasure. We see their motions which betray certain feelings, but we can never see the feelings themselves; and even supposing that we could enter into the brain of a man and that the whole mechanism of brain-action were laid open to our inspection in its minutest details, we should see motions, combinations and separations, integrations and disintegrations, we should see the oxydation of the gray substance, which would appear as a great turmoil and excitement, but we should see (as Leibnitz says) no thoughts, no perceptions, no feelings. That it cannot be otherwise is obvious when we consider that our objects will always present to us the character of objectivity.
But suppose We were an atom of oxygen and entered into the process of brain-action as an active factor, our subjectivity would soon become absorbed and welded into a higher unity with the subjectivity of the other atoms. We should then, as a part of that brain’s consciousness, feel these feelings, perceptions, and thoughts; we should, then, _be_ the subject which we could not see and which we were searching for in vain in the world of objectivity.
This conception of the correlation of subjectivity and objectivity does not only convincingly explain the unity of feeling and motion, it does not only establish a satisfactory monism, it throws light also on some other of the questions that puzzle us. How is it that we do not feel our brain-motions to be brain-motions? We feel our feelings only; and when feeling our feelings we do not so much feel _that_ we feel as _what_ we feel. In other words, we feel the contents of our feelings; we feel their import, their meaning; we are aware of their significance; our consciousness is conscious of the object, the presence of which is indicated by this special feeling. Our attention is concentrated upon the messages conveyed by and contained in the different feelings.
These messages of certain feelings are the interpretations given either to certain sense-impressions or they are the thought-symbols representing some abstracts, representing certain features of sense-impressions.
How little we feel our brain-motions when we think, can be learned from the fact that some nations place the seat of thinking in the heart, others in the stomach or even the bowels, while even so great a naturalist as Aristotle regarded the brain as cold and insensible; he made the observation that man is in possession of the relatively largest brain, but he understood its function so little that he thought it served to cool the warmth rising from the heart.
It is strange that every subjective feeling so long as it remains within itself can neither be localised nor determined. We know nothing whatever of the brain-motion that thinks a certain idea. We can fairly assume that every idea is in its objective existence a peculiar kind of brain motion taking place in a particular part of the brain, but we are not conscious of the brain-motion as a special and localised motion. We are quite unable to tell the difference that we must suppose to exist between the forms of the brain-structures or combinations of brain-structures and their motions when we think say for instances of virtue and of vice. We are conscious only of the idea and not of their objective correlates.
Whatever we know of our body, we know only through sensation; i. e., by the same means by which we know of other things. Our body is to us, and is represented with the assistance of the senses, as an object in the objective world. As such it is localised and all its relations and activities are determined. Whatever subjective feeling we have concerning any state of ourselves, remains indistinct until with the help of the senses it is made an object to our observation. Who has not as yet made the experience that he was unable to localise a toothache. The pain itself gives no information either as to its nature and cause or as to the seat of the suffering. The pain itself is purely subjective. All the objective facts have to be localised with the assistance of the senses. The suspected regions must be made the object of experiments and if any irritation of a certain spot increases the ache, it will be assumed to be the seat of the pain. And even then how often is a patient mistaken not only almost always as to the nature but often also as to the seat of the pain.
These facts appear strange, but they cease to be strange, when we consider that the nature of subjectivity is feeling. Subjectivity can as little become directly conscious of its own objectivity as an eye can look at itself. However, an eye can look at its image in the mirror. So the complex of subjective existence, which is through the interaction of an organism united in what we call a soul, can and does turn the channels of its own senses back upon itself and thus forms an opinion concerning its own objectivity. Man’s knowledge of his own objective existence is not due to any internal and direct perception of self, but solely to the same experience through which he receives information concerning the rest of the world.
P. C.
A REPLY TO A CRITIC.
WITH A DISCUSSION OF NECESSARY TRUTHS.
_To the Editor of The Monist_:
I hope it is not a breach of etiquette to ask you to forward to your reviewer the following remarks in reply to his criticism of my work (_The Foundations of Geometry_, reviewed in Vol. II, No. 1, of _The Monist_). If he is good enough to review my second book also, I think they will clear up some misunderstandings.
Your reviewer commences with some general remarks, against which I have nothing to say. He then proceeds to consider my “requirements for a logical definition.” Here he seems to find a difficulty—which may be due to my not having expressed myself clearly. If so I hope he will read what I say on the same subject in my _Essay on Reasoning_, which I cannot believe he will find “indefinite” or not well “issuable.” But indeed I cannot see where his difficulty comes in with my old statement of the case. I state perfectly clearly that requirements (3) and (4) are not _logically_ necessary for a definition, but are only required if that definition is intended to give a _particular meaning_ to the word. He tries to reduce my argument _ad absurdum_ by giving a definition of “troft.” But so far from being absurd his definition is perfectly good. According to it “troft” would include in its denotation all our percepts and concepts. When however he goes on to say “... These significant names must be so used that the intellectual sensibility shall be excited to perceive that which is intended to be defined,” I differ from him entirely. This is only required for a _description_, not for a _definition_ (see _Essay on Reasoning_, p. 53).
Your reviewer’s only solid objection to my “requirements” seems to be that the fourth includes all the rest. This is only true if the term proposed for definition has an import which has already been determined; but even in such a case it is better to consider the requirements separately, as I have given them. For the force of objections under the different headings varies enormously. An objection under heading (1), if established, would be fatal to any definition whatever. One under heading (2) so far from being fatal would only be a suggestion for the improvement of the definition. Objections under either of the headings (3) and (4) would only be to the effect that the term as defined meant something different from what it was desired that it should mean. It is however convenient to consider (3) and (4) separately as it would generally be possible to decide (3) at once, whereas if a doubt were raised under heading (4) it might lead to a prolonged discussion before it could be laid. I do not however pretend that the “requirements” are laid down in my _Foundations of Geometry_ in the best possible form. Indeed I have altered the form in my second essay. There is moreover one requirement for a logical definition which is not included in my heading (1) in the _Foundations of Geometry_, though it is included in (4). This defect is remedied in the _Essay on Reasoning_ (p. 55). It is curious that your reviewer should have missed this point, as it is the very one on which he attacks my definition of “direction.” It is that the assertions in a definition must not be _independent_ of the meaning of the term defined. If they were, the assertion would be equally true (or false) whatever meaning the term might have. The _import_ of the term would therefore be unlimited. In the case of explicit definitions a similar error is called _circulus in definiendo_.
When your reviewer goes on to attack my definition of “direction” why does he change his front all at once, and disregard all the considerations he has just been discussing? Why does he not apply my, or his own, requirements for a definition to the case in point? The criticism he actually does put forward will not bear a moment’s investigation. If my definition is “circular,” the assertion must be equally true whatever meaning is ascribed to the term. Well, then, let us try the effect of giving to it the meaning we ordinarily ascribe to “cheese.” Is it equally true that “a cheese may be conceived to be indicated by naming two points, as the cheese from one to the other”? Clearly not. But not only does this one assertion out of my definition exclude the import of “cheese” from the meaning of “direction,” but, more particularly, it distinguishes between the “three distinct but closely associated notions” which your reviewer quite rightly says “become confused in thought and expression unless the most solicitous care is taken to distinguish them.” This is exactly the care which I _have_ taken, by framing my definition.
I need not say much about the rest of the criticism. Your reviewer’s remarks on my definition of “angle” are simply due to the fact that he has not read the definition carefully, and probably has not read the note on the top of page 36 at all. It may make it clearer to him if I point out that if “we imagine a northeast-southwest line cutting an east-west line,” we imagine _four_ different directions and therefore (4⋅3)/(1⋅2) = 6 angles. Two of these are the straight angles between the opposite directions of each of the two lines. The other four are what Euclid calls “the angles between the lines.” As an angle, according to my definition, has no local habitation in space, it is, _prima facie_, meaningless to talk of the “right hand upper angle.” But if this is only an abbreviation for “the angle between the directions upwards and to the right,” then “the right hand upper angle” means the same as it would in Euclid.