Part 4
Thomas A. Edison says he always rejects an easy solution of any problem and looks for something difficult. But the inventor has one great advantage over any other kind of thinker. He can test his conclusion in a tangible way. If his device works, his thinking was right; if his device doesn’t work, his thinking was wrong. But the philosopher, the scientist, the social reformer, has no such satisfactory test. His only satisfaction is the feeling that his results harmonize with all his experience. The more critical he has been in arriving at those results, the more deep and permanent will be that feeling, the more valuable will be his thoughts to himself and to the world. . . .
Even in the first chapter I intimated that logic would constitute a part of the science of thinking. I intimated, moreover, that it would constitute almost the whole of what may be called the negative side of thinking—those rules which serve to steer thought aright. Though cautionary, the advice given in this chapter is not usually given in books on logic. But though I cannot overemphasize the importance of a knowledge of logic, I cannot deal with it here. The science can receive justice only in a book devoted entirely to it.
If he has not already done so the would-be thinker should study a work on logic, for unless the present book is supplemented by some treatise on that science it cannot be regarded as complete.
In order not to confuse the reader I shall recommend only one book. In order to encourage him I shall recommend a small book, one not so deep as to be incomprehensible or repulsive to the beginner, but at the same time one which is recognized as a standard treatise:—_Elementary Lessons in Logic_, by Stanley Jevons.
IV
CONCENTRATION
What is the hardest task in the world? To think.—EMERSON.
We have been dealing with the subject of thinking. We have considered it from both a positive and negative side. But while we have devoted our attention to thinking, we have neglected the thinker. In more scientific terms, we have treated thought from the logical side; we are now to treat it from the psychological.
Few people will admit specific faults in themselves of any kind, especially if these happen to be intellectual. But almost any man is willing to confess that he cannot always “concentrate” when he wants to, in fact, that he is one of the countless victims of “mind wandering.”
Most of us imagine we know just what we mean by both these terms. But if we are to judge by most of what has been written, no two terms are more misconceived. Before trying to find the best means of concentrating, we must first find just what we mean by concentration.
In a previous chapter I said that suggestions for solutions “occurred.” I did not say how or why. To discover this we must refer to the famous psychological principle of association.
Any train of thought is made possible by previous connections of ideas in our minds. While a girl sits at her window a parade passes along a nearby street. The band is playing, and ere the tune is completed the band has gone so far that the music is no longer audible. But the tune still goes along in her mind, and she completes it herself. It suggests a dance she had been to where it was played, and this suggests that she danced the two-step to it. The two-step suggests the more modern one-step, and this leads her to compare the familiar dancing of to-day with the distant and respectful minuet.
This is an example of a random train of ideas. It is that loose “thinking” referred to in our first chapter. But even this is made possible only by the connection of ideas in our mind at some previous period. No thought can enter our minds unless it is associated in some way with the previous thought. Psychologists have traditionally classified associations into four kinds: association by succession, by contiguity, by similarity and by contrast. The example just given involves all four. Association by succession means that when two ideas or impressions of objects have entered the mind in succession, the second is likely to be suggested whenever the first is thought of. A tune consists in a succession of notes, and when the first notes are brought to mind, as by a passing band, the rest will follow—sometimes in spite of ourselves. Association by contiguity means that when two objects or ideas have been in consciousness together, one is always likely to suggest the other thereafter. This was the case with the music and the dance, or the music and the two-step. Association by similarity occurs when two ideas resemble each other in some particular. They need not have occurred together at any past time, nor after each other. The fact that they have a common element suffices to bring up one idea when the other is in mind: thus the two-step suggested the one-step. Association by contrast needs no explanation. It is exemplified when the idea of present-day dancing brings up the idea of distant dancing.
Any attempt to show _why_ the mind acts in this way, any explanation of the way in which the different kinds of association are made possible, would bring us into physiological psychology, would involve a study of the brain and the nervous system. For our purposes it is sufficient to keep in mind that such associations do take place. Without them no idea can occur. Without them thought is impossible.
The bearing of all this on concentration has yet to be made plain. We must remember that every idea has more than one associate; in fact that each idea generally has a cluster of possible associates. Instead of suggesting the minuet, the one-step may have made the fox trot or the three-step occur to the young lady. It may have made her think of a young man with whom she danced it, or the trouble she had in learning it. Each of these suggestions, in turn, would also have potential connections with a cluster of ideas. When we are thinking at random—when we are day dreaming, as in the example given—the strongest association, or the first to be aroused, is the one we dwell upon. But when we are thinking with a purpose, in a word, when we are reasoning, we reject all associations which have no bearing on our purpose, and select only those which serve it.
Concentration does not, as popularly supposed, mean keeping the mind fastened on one object or idea or in one place. It consists in having a problem or purpose constantly before one. It means keeping our thought moving toward one desired end.
Concentration is often regarded as intense or focused attention. But the fact is that all attention is focused attention. Psychologists are fairly well agreed that we can attend to only one thing at a time. Mind wandering, and so-called distributed attention, is really attention directed first to one thing, then to another, then to another; or first to one thing, then to another, and then back again to the original object, resting but a few moments on each idea.
Concentration may best be defined as prolonged or sustained attention. It means keeping the mind on one subject or problem for a relatively long period, or at least continually reverting to some problem whenever one’s thoughts momentarily leave it.
Having decided just what we mean by concentration, our next step is to inquire whether concentration is worth while. The reader may smile at this question or he may be shocked, according to his temperament. But if most men were so convinced that concentration is such an unquestionable virtue, they would practice it a little more. At least they would make greater efforts to practice it than they do at present.
The truth is that concentration, _per se_, is of little value. The value of concentration depends almost entirely on the subject concentrated on. Almost any one will agree that even were a man to allow his mind to dwell now on one important problem and now on another, without stopping a very appreciable time at any, he might nevertheless be improving his time far more than a man who concentrated continually on some insignificant and inconsequential question.
But of course this is not really an argument against concentration. It has no application when you concentrate on the proper subject. For if you start to concentrate on some question which you have decided is really important, you should keep at it, allowing no deviation. It may be that during the course of your thought associations will be aroused which will suggest or bear upon important problems, problems more important perhaps than the one you originally started to concentrate on. But if you immediately abandoned every problem you started to think of, whenever you came across one which you imagined was just as important, you would probably never really solve any big question.
Our attention is guided by interest. If a man merely allows his thoughts to flow at random, thinking only of those things which spontaneously arouse his interest, he may or may not attend to things worth thinking about. All will depend upon the path in which his natural interests run. But the point is that if the subject he thinks about is valuable, it will be so only by accident; whether or not his thinking is useful will depend upon mere chance. If however he consciously chooses a subject—chooses it because he believes it to be important—then his thinking will be worth while.
But there is another reason why concentration is necessary. Suppose a man started to put up a barbed wire fence, got as far as driving in all the posts, then lost interest in the fences and decided to grow potatoes in his field, plowed up the ground, lost interest in the field and neglected to plant the seeds; decided to paint his house, got the porch done, lost interest . . . That man might work as hard as any other man, but he would never get anything done. So with the mind wanderer and the concentrator. The mind wanderer thinks of a problem, loses interest, and abandons it. The concentrator sticks to it until it is solved.
Much of our mind wandering is due to the fact that we are not fully convinced of the importance of the problem being attacked, or that we regard other problems or ideas as more important. Concentration consists in devoting one’s mind to the solution of one problem. During our train of thought associations bring up new ideas or suggest problems which do not bear on the question at hand. Now when we wander, when we follow up these irrelevant ideas or suggested problems, or when we happen to glance at something or hear something and begin to think of that, we do so because of a half-conscious belief that the new idea, problem or fact needs attending to, is important. I have already pointed out that if this new idea is important it will be so only by accident. If we were consciously to ask ourselves whether any of these irrelevant problems were as important as the one we were concentrating on, or even important at all, we would find, nine times out of ten, that they were not.
Therefore before beginning to concentrate you should assure yourself that the problem you are about to attack is one worth solving, or at least devoting a certain time to. And during that time you should think only of that problem, and unhesitatingly throw out all irrelevant suggestions coming either from your course of thought or from external sights and sounds.
One qualification is necessary. Sometimes an irrelevant suggestion occurs which is nevertheless really important and worth developing. As this might be forgotten, and as it might never occur again, it would be poor counsel indeed to ask that it be thrown aside forever. The best move in such a case would be to make written note of the suggestion or problem, so that it could be referred to at some future time. Having written the idea, you will have it off your mind, and will be able to continue your line of thought without perturbation.
It has been suggested that a great aid to concentration is writing one’s thoughts. It must be admitted that this certainly helps one to keep much closer to a subject. Ordinarily we wander without being aware of it, and bring our minds back to a subject only after sudden intermittent realizations that we have gone astray. When we write our thoughts, however, we doubly secure ourselves against mind wandering. All writing requires a certain effort, and this alone is sufficient to keep most of us from writing irrelevant thoughts, or anything not directly bearing upon the subject in hand. When we write, too, we capture our thoughts in tangible symbols; we make them less elusive than in their original form. Finally, we keep our entire past train of thought in view. Like an oarsman, who cannot look ahead, but guides himself by the objects he is constantly leaving further behind, we keep to our original course of thought by a survey of the ideas already written.
In spite of these great advantages, writing has certain serious handicaps as a practical method for concentrating. First among these is its slowness. Thoughts flash through our minds much faster than we can write them. We either lose many ideas by the wayside, or fail to go as far in our subject as we otherwise would. Another disadvantage is that we are forced to give part of our attention to the physical act of writing, and thus cannot concentrate entirely on our subject.
There are two methods of writing comparatively free of at least one of these handicaps. Both shorthand and typewriting, if mastered to any degree, are much faster than ordinary writing. This is especially true, of course, of shorthand. But even with a good stenographer shorthand has serious defects. Unless one is quite expert it requires even more attention than longhand, and at that is often unable to keep pace with thought. Typewriting requires almost no attention from a touch operator, but it too is open to the charge of slowness, coming in this respect about midway between short and longhand.
But to those so unfortunate as not to know either shorthand or typewriting the necessity for still another method is evident. Indeed, even those acquainted with these two arts cannot always use them. If every time we were to think we had to have with us a typewriter, or even a pencil and note-book, we would not engage in any too much reflection.
Fortunately there is one method superior to any yet named, which requires no study before its application, and no paraphernalia during it. It consists in simply talking your thoughts as you think them. One who has not tried this can have no idea of its effect. It possesses almost all the advantages of writing. You cannot wander without realizing the fact immediately. It makes your thinking much less vague than if you thought silently, increases your vocabulary, always keeps pace with your ideas, and requires practically no attention.
It may be objected that silent thinking itself is put in unspoken words. But this is not true. Part of silent thinking consists of unspoken words, but part of it consists of images, concepts and attitudes which pass through our minds and which we do not take the trouble to name. In silent thinking, too, there are also what appear to be occasional dead stops. All these processes drift into each other indefinably and are unrecognizable. When we talk we realize whether our images or concepts are vague or definite by our ability to name them, and we realize when our thought comes to a “dead stop” by the fact that we miss the sound of our own voice.
Another practice can be used with talking. The degree of concentration we give to any subject depends upon the degree of natural interest we take in it. Mind wandering comes because we are also interested in other subjects. No matter how slight our interest in a thing, we would always concentrate on it if we were interested in nothing else. To secure sustained attention, then, we should (1) stimulate or increase interest in problems we want to concentrate on, (2) decrease or remove temporarily any interest in the things we do not want to think about. Men often complain that noises distract their attention. While not impossible, it is inconvenient and unpleasant to shut off our ears. But men are far more distracted by sights than they are by sounds. And they never think of merely shutting their eyes. The next time you attempt to concentrate—silently or by talking—try shutting your eyes and see whether or not you are helped.
Talking has one disadvantage—it cannot always be used. To practice it, you must either lock yourself up in your room, or sit alone in a forest or field, or walk along unfrequented streets and by-ways. You can by no means allow any one to hear or see you talking to yourself. If you are caught doing this some asinine idiot is sure to mistake you for one.
We are brought back again, then, to the necessity of occasionally thinking in silence. There is one other reason why we shall sometimes need to do this. Thoughts of certain kinds are so elusive that to attempt to articulate them is to scare them away, as a fish is scared by the slightest ripple. When these thoughts are in embryo, even the infinitesimal attention required for talking cannot be spared. But later, as they take more definite and coherent form, they can and should be put into words, for otherwise they will be incommunicable and useless.
No definite rule can be laid down, however, as to what should be spoken and what thought of silently. This depends to a large extent upon the individual thinker. Some will probably find that talking helps them in almost all their thinking, others that it is often an actual hindrance. The same is true of closing one’s eyes. If you do not know which is better for you, find out by experiment.
At those times when you suddenly catch yourself wandering, it would be a good plan to stop occasionally and trace back your train of thought to the point where it left its original direction. In this way you would get some valuable insight into the _how_ and _why_ of mind wandering; you would be helped in recognizing its appearance sooner the next time it occurred.
Whenever a person is left alone for a short time, with no one to talk to and no “reading matter”; when for instance, he is standing at a station waiting for his train, or sitting at a restaurant table waiting for his order, or hanging on a subway strap when he has forgotten to buy a newspaper, his “thoughts” tend to run along the tracks they have habitually taken. If a young man usually allows a popular tune to float through his head, that will be most likely to happen; if he usually thinks of that young lady, he will most likely think of her then; if he has often imagined himself as some great political orator making a speech amid the plaudits of the multitude, he is likely to see a mental picture of himself swinging his arms, waving flags and gulping water.
The only way a man can put a stop to such pleasant but uneducative roamings, is to snap off his train of day dreaming the first moment he becomes aware of it, and to address his mind to some useful serious subject. His thoughts will be almost sure to leak away again. They may do this as often as fifteen times in half an hour. But the second he becomes aware of it he should dam up the stream and send his thoughts along the channel he has laid out for them. If he has never done this he will find the effort great. But if he merely resolves now that the next time his mind wanders he will stop it in this manner, his resolve will tend to make itself felt. If he succeeds in following this practice once it will be much easier a second time. Every time he does this it will become increasingly easy, until he will have arrived at the point where his control over his thoughts will be almost absolute. Not only will it be increasingly easy for him to turn his mind to serious subjects. It will become constantly more pleasurable. Frivolous and petty trains of thought will become more and more intolerable.
This whole idea of forcing our thought has been questioned by no less a thinker than Herbert Spencer. Let us hear what he has to say regarding his own practice:
“It has never been my way to set before myself a problem and puzzle out an answer. The conclusions at which I have from time to time arrived, have not been arrived at as solutions of questions raised; but have been arrived at unawares—each as the ultimate outcome of a body of thoughts which slowly grew from a germ. Some direct observation, or some fact met with in reading, would dwell with me: apparently because I had a sense of its significance. It was not that there arose a distinct consciousness of its general meaning; but rather that there was a kind of instinctive interest in those facts which have general meanings. For example, the detailed structure of this or that species of mammal, though I might willingly read about it, would leave little impression; but when I met with the statement that, almost without exception, mammals, even as unlike as the whale and the giraffe, have seven cervical vertebræ, this would strike me and be remembered as suggestive. Apt as I thus was to lay hold of cardinal truths, it would happen occasionally that one, most likely brought to mind by an illustration, and gaining from the illustration fresh distinctiveness, would be contemplated by me for a while, and its bearings observed. A week afterwards, possibly, the matter would be remembered; and with further thought about it, might occur a recognition of some wider application than I had before perceived: new instances being aggregated with those already noted. Again after an interval, perhaps of a month, perhaps of half a year, something would remind me of that which I had before remarked; and mentally running over the facts might be followed by some further extension of the idea. When accumulation of instances had given body to a generalization, reflexion would reduce the vague conception at first framed to a more definite conception; and perhaps difficulties or anomalies passed over for a while, but eventually forcing themselves on attention, might cause a needful qualification and a truer shaping of the thought. Eventually the growing generalization, thus far inductive, might take a deductive form: being all at once recognized as a necessary consequence of some physical principle—some established law. And thus, little by little, in unobtrusive ways, without conscious intention or appreciable effort, there would grow up a coherent and organized theory. Habitually the process was one of slow unforced development, often extending over years; and the thinking done went on in this gradual, almost spontaneous way, without strain. . . .”[6]
But compare this method with that of John Stuart Mill; who speaks of “the mental habit to which I attribute all that I have ever done, or ever shall do, in speculation; that of never abandoning a puzzle, but again and again returning to it until it was cleared up; never allowing obscure corners of a subject to remain unexplored because they did not appear important; never thinking that I perfectly understood any part of a subject until I understood the whole.”[7] Mill’s method was, in short, “that of conscious and vehement effort directed towards the end he had in view. He solved his problems by laborious application and study.”[8]
William Minto writes of Adam Smith: “His intellectual proceedings were calm, patient, and regular: he mastered a subject slowly and circumspectly, and carried his principles with steady tenacity through multitudes of details that would have checked many men of greater mental vigor unendowed with the same invincible persistence.”
With such thinkers differing so markedly in their methods, the ordinary man is left bewildered. He may indeed decide that effort or no effort makes little difference. Let us, however, look to the psychology of the question, and see whether we can find any guiding principle.