The Primary World of Senses: A Vindication of Sensory Experience

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The Trimary World of Senses

The Primary

World

of Senses A VINDICATION OF SENSORY EXPERIENCE

Erwin Straus,

m.d.

Translated from the German by Jacob Needleman

THE FREE PRESS OF GLENCOE COLLIER-MACMILLAN LIMITED, LONDON

Copyright © 1963 by The Free Press of Glencoe A Division of The Macmillan Company

Printed in the United States of America

All rights in this book are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

For information, address: The Free Press of Glencoe A Division of The Macmillan Company The Crowell-Collier Publishing Company 60 Fifth Avenue, New York 11 Collier-Macmillan Canada, Ltd., Toronto, Ontario

Designed by Bernard Schleifer

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 62-15351

0NUOJ

To My Wife

Preface to the Second Edition (1956)

Over twenty years have elapsed since this book was first published—time enough to become reconciled to the idea that fate meant me to remain an author of first editions. However, when Dr. Springer, my German publisher, suggested the preparation of a second edition, I did not hesitate for long, although I had some doubts whether I could step twice into the same river. The task has proven even more difficult than I had expected. Neither a simple reprint, nor yet a complete revision would have been appropriate. The progress of neurophysiology, however remarkable in its scope, has not contributed any theoretical developments which would have led me to alter my basic conceptions. Rather, I found that I owed this book a certain piety. I recall the session of a medical society in Berlin where, some time in 1931 or 1932, I presented for the first time my critique of Pavlov’s doctrines. During the discussion, one of the professors arose, not in order to refute me, but in order to set me right. He was shaken, he said. His words conveyed the horror of a man finding the sanctuary defiled. Nowadays, one no longer expects such awe before Pavlov’s message. But criticism has mostly been confined to particulars. The principles have hardly been challenged at all. The speculations of objective psychology have simply substituted new constructs for the older physical models. The neat scheme of the telephone switchboard has yielded its place to the networks of giant computers, and to the feedback mechanisms of guided missiles. Old wine was poured into new, more splendid vessels. The gulf between the rigorous demand for technical knowlVll

viii

Preface to Second Edition

edge and the tolerant acceptance of psychological naivetes has widened even more. The hybrid terminology developed by cyber¬ netics—blending the style of fairy tales with the formulas of ultra¬ modern technology—has further contributed to the confusion. Ma¬ chines are said to receive information, to exchange data, to make decisions, and to pursue goals. Such an anthropomorphic interpreta¬ tion of the functioning of machines becomes transformed almost imperceptibly into a mechanomorphic interpretation of human and animal conduct. The very question whether any neuropsychological constructions are justifiable thus assumes increasing urgency. The answer need not wait for further discoveries. This book tries to prove that, in principle, the problem admits of an unequivocal solution. In order to contribute toward a clarification of the basic issues, I added to the text of the first edition an expanded analysis of the phenomenal content of experience. Since I wanted to preserve the original plan of the work as a whole, I inserted these additions as distinct sections. The new part, entitled “Man Thinks, Not the Brain,” found its place between Parts II and III of the first edition. To the last part of the book, now Part IV, two chapters have been added, “On Being Awake” and “The Spectrum of the Senses.” I ought also to mention such shorter additions as the “Prefatory Re¬ marks” to Chapters A and C as well as the sections “Singularity and the Possibility of Unification” and “Physics Refutes Physicalism.” In order to tighten the text I omitted some passages from the first edition. Even so, it proved impossible to avoid an occasional repetition. References to the literature in Parts I, II, and IV of this edition have been taken over unaltered from the first edition. In Part III, I was able to draw upon contemporary literature as well. I have not striven for completeness. On technical grounds alone such com¬ pleteness would not have been possible. I want to emphasize, there¬ fore, how indebted I feel in general to the work and thought of Binswanger, Buytendijk, v. Gebsattel, Merleau-Ponty, Zutt, and many others. As this manuscript was approaching completion I be¬ came acquainted with some of Husserl’s late writings, published posthumously. I was happy to find there a measure of agreement in areas of common concern. I also wish to thank Dr. Otto Guttentag, San Francisco, and Pro¬ fessor Heinrich Kluver, Chicago, for critical advice. Dr. Springer met all my requests with the greatest generosity. In the collaboration with the publisher, the geographic distance became transformed into landscape proximity. Erwin Straus

Acknowledgment

Parts of this translation were completed with the assistance of the late Dr. R. Krambach of London and Professor V. Gourevitch of Wellesley College. In this regard, the translator wishes also to ack¬ nowledge the special contribution made by Professor Bayard Morgan of Stanford University.

Contents

Preface to the Second Edition

(1956)

Acknowledgment

A. Introduction: The Dependence of Modern Psychology on Cartesian Philosophy (a) Prescientific Opinion 3 (b) Descartes’ Doctrine of Sensation 5 (c) The Sensing Subject and the Subject of Sensations (d) The Atomistic Concept of Time in Psychology 19 (e) Pavlov’s Theory of Conditioned Reflexes: A Late Offspring of Cartesian Philosophy 24

Part I

vii ix

3

12

Critique of the Doctrine of Conditioned Reflexes

A. The Relation Between Theory and Observation in Pavlov’s Work

29

B. General Presuppositions

37

(a) Metaphysical Rationalism 37 (b) The Elimination of the Phenomenal 40 1. THE SECONDARY QUALITIES 2. THE SPATIAL ORDER 3. THE DEGREE OF EXACTNESS OF THE EXPERIMENTS XI

Contents

Xll

(c) (d) (e) (f) (g) (h)

The Problem of Translation 45 Confusing the Causal with the Intentional 49 The Localization of Sensation in the Organism 51 The Separation of Sensation and Movement 54 Temporal Succession and Temporal Unity 56 The Mosaic Theory 60

C. Some Difficulties Confronting the Application of Pavlov’s Theory (a) The So-called Orientation Reflexes 63 (b) The Temporal Order of Conditioned Reflexes 64 (c) The Optimum of Reflex Formation 65 (d) Generalization and Differentiation of Conditioned Reflexes 67 (e) Trace Reflexes 70

Part II

62

Stimuli, Signs, and Signals

A. The Nature of the Signal (a) The Signal as the Middle Link in a Three-Link Situation 77 (b) The Relation to the Indifferent Situation 80 (c) The Material Constitution of the Signal 81 (d) The Relation to the Differentiated Situation 83

77

B. Resolution of the Difficulties (a) “Orientation Reflexes’’ and the Problem of the Familiar and the Unfamiliar 85 (b) The Antecedence of the Conditioned Stimulus and the Problem of the “Inbetween” 88 (c) The Optimum of Reflex Formation and the Problem of the Hiatus 89 (d) Cortical Irradiation and Concentration, and the Problem of the General and the Particular 91 (e) Trace Reflexes and the Problem of Emptiness 98

84

CONTENTS

Xlll

Part III

Man Thinks, Not the Brain

A. Surrounding Field and Surrounding World (a) The Credo of Objective Psychology 105 (b) Scientific Behavior Is an Essential Theme of Behavior Science 107

105

(c) (d) (e) (£)

The Basic Rules of Objective Psychology 112 Consequences of the Basic Rules 114 Attempts at Revising the Basic Schema 116 A Psychological Author Conversing with Himself as a Writing Psychologist 119 P(g) Motion and Action 122 (h) The Psychological Presupposition of the Statement: “Animals Learn” 134 (i) Observer and Observation 138 B. Signs Are Not Stimuli (a) A Behavioristic Theory of Speech and the Linguistic Facts 139 (b) Language Learning 145 (c) Are “Words” Equivalent Stimuli? 147 (d) The Sign Is No Substitute 148 (e) The Essence of the Sign 149 (f) The Sound As Sign 152 (g) The Psychology of Prediction 153

139

C. Stimuli Are Not Objects (a) The Observing and the Observed Brain 158 (b) Theories of Reproduction and Projection 162 (c) The Experience of Distance 164 (d) The Relationship Between an Experiencing Being and the World Is Entirely Different from the Rela¬ tionship Between an Organism and a Stimulus 166 (e) On Communication 173 (f) The Brain as Mediator Between the Physical and the Phenomenal World 179 (g) Science, a Human Creation 183

158

Contents

XIV

Part IV

Sensing and Movement Considered Historiologically

A. Preliminary Characterization of Sensing (a) Prefatory Remarks 189 (b) On Expansive and Constrictive Learning 192 (c) The World in Which the Animal Understands Us. Symbiotic Understanding 194 (d) The Alingual World 196 (e) The Primary Grasping of Expression 199

189

B. Sensing Considered as a Mode of Communication (a) Unity and Plurality of the Senses 202 (b) The Doctrine of the Immanence of Sensations (c) New Insights Articulated Within Traditional Theory 209 (d) The Synesthesias—Vital Freedom and Vital Bondage 214 (e) Singularity and the Possibility of Unification

202 206

219

C. The Relationship Between Sensing and Moving (a) Prefatory Remarks 231 (b) The Unity of Sensation and Movement 233 (c) The Reification of Motion 236 (d) The Prescientipc View and the Viewpoint of Science 238 (e) “Within” and “Without” are Phenomena of the Field of Action 241 (f) Totality and Limit 247 (g) Concerning the Now and the Here 249 (h) Movement and Motor Process 253 (i) The Atomistic Theory of Motion 254 (j) Learning Movements 256 (k) Motion and Actual Situation 260 (l) Automatic Motion 264 (m) Starting-Point and Goal 266 (n) Descartes and the Ontology of Ability 268

231

CONTENTS

XV

D. On Being Awake

272

E. Critique of Epiphenomenalism (a) The Physiology and Psychology of the Senses 1. RETURN

2.

TO

SENSORY

3.

PHYSIOLOGY FUNCTION

THE

DATA

4.

INTEGRITY

MEDIATE

HARMONIOUS

OF

THE

BETWEEN FUNCTION

THE DISCREPANCIES

5.

289 289

EXPERIENCE PHYSICS

AND

AND PROPER

PHYSICS REFUTES

PHYSICALISM

(b) The Epiphenomenalism of Gestalt Psychology 304 1. UNITY AND UNIFICATION 2. THE SINGULAR IN ITSELF AND FOR US

F. The Difference Between Sensing and Knowing

312

G. The Difference Between Sensing and Perceiving (a) Perception Requires a Universally Objective Medium 316 (b) The Space of Landscape and the Space of Geography 318 1. THE HORIZON 2. THE JOURNEY 3. THE PLAN 4. LANDSCAPE PAINTING (c) The Sounds of Nature and Music 323 (d) The Family of Nature and the Family of Man 325 (e) The Theme of Perception Is the Factual 328

316

H. Traditional Psychology of Space and Time (a) The Separation of Spatial and Temporal Data from Quality and Intensity 331 (b) The Problem of Space 334 (c) The Problem of Time 346

331

I. Sense-Certainty (a) The Primacy of Self-consciousness (b) Perceiving and Imagining 353 (c) Toward a Theory of Hallucinations

351 351 357

J. Development of the Theme Through the Phenomenon of Gliding

362

Contents K. The Spectrum of the Senses

367

L. The Spatial and Temporal Form of Sensing (a) Distance (Feme) as a Spatio-Temporal Form of Sensing 379 (b) The Leap and the Goal 386 (c) Indifferent (schicksalsloser) Space 388 (d) The Problem of Orientation 390 (e) The Contrast Between Physical (Perfective) and Psychological (Presentational) Knowledge 392

379

Notes

397

Indexes

417

The Trimary World of Senses

c?=QA.

Introduction: The Dependence of Modem Psychology on Cartesian Philosophy

(a) Prescientific Opinion THE SENSES, AEIVE AND ANIMATED, ARE ORGANS OF BOTH MEN AND

animals. Animals, we believe, do not perceive, think, or act the way man does; nor do we think them capable of recalling the past as past or of anticipating in imagination what is to come. Yet we are sure that animals see with their eyes, hear with their ears, and smell with their noses; in short, we are convinced that through their sensory ex¬ perience the environment is revealed to them. At least all those who are in daily contact with animals share this conviction. The farmer, the breeder, the hunter, and the lover of animals do not doubt that animals perceive them in manifold ways. The rider urges his horse on with a word of encouragement; he slows it down with a different tone; he lets it feel the spur or quiets it with a few friendly pats. There exists a communication between animal and man rooted in the sensory experience of the animal. A horse shying away from a piece of paper on the road may have seen something quite different from that which the rider saw, but it is obvious that it saw. We have every reason to assume that the world we live in as humans is differ¬ ent from the world of animals. Man has the gift—some people think 3

4

Introduction

the fateful gift—of rising above the sphere of sensory experience. Though he has not left it altogether behind, he is denied any return to the sphere of pure sensing. Animals, on the other hand, are wholly limited to the province of sensory experience in their environmental relations. From this contrast between human and animal behavior follows the fact that—and I wish to emphasize its particular importance at the very beginning of my investigation—sensing is not a form of cog¬ nition according to my theory of sensing. Sensing is not a first step toward a lower form of cognition as compared to the higher forms of perceiving, conceiving, and thinking; nor are sensations “sensory ele¬ ments of cognition,” mere material determined by stimuli and trans¬ formed into perceptions by the very power of attention, memory, and practice. Later on we will have to examine more thoroughly the relation between sensing, knowing, and, especially, perceiving. But before this can be done successfully, sensing as such must be correctly under¬ stood. To describe sensing, to define its essence, is the very aim of this investigation. Sensing, not sensations, is thus its theme. By the very choice of the expression sensing, by the gerundive use of the verb, I hope to clarify and to point toward a phenomenon that has almost completely eluded attention in spite of the numerous inquiries into sensation. Indeed, its obscurity is due to the very manner in which these investigations have been conducted. The doctrine of sensations is far from being empirical. From an¬ cient times until the present, sensation has been subjected to the continuous pressure of an elaborate philosophical dogmatism. Even the most extensive use of experiments could not immunize nine¬ teenth-century psychological research against the influence of the traditional doctrines. Experiments alone do not guarantee pure empiricism. Neither is the theory of sensation written in the plain unbiased language of description. The influence of philosophy is in no waylimited to science and its teachings. Philosophical thoughts, discov¬ eries, and modes of seeing have slowly spread from a small group to ever-increasing circles; they dominate—though mostly unnoticed and often distorted—the thought and language of the average man. “Plain description” is a mere answering of questions. Our questions are those of our epoch. They are prescribed to us by historic actu¬ ality; they are anticipated in the thoughts and words of the language of our age. The questions determine what will appear to be particu¬ lar and remarkable in the phenomena. Even though the answers may

DEPENDENCE OF PSYCHOLOGY ON CARTESIAN PHILOSOPHY

5

strive to arrange themselves into a system of the objectively authen¬ tic, we ourselves remain tied by our questions—especially by the implicit ones—to tradition and thus to prejudice. No one ever starts from a radical beginning. As soon as we begin to think, we continue the thoughts of former generations.

(b) Descartes’ Doctrine of Sensation The powerful, centuries-long influence of Cartesian philos¬ ophy—its methodology and metaphysics, with the well-known dis¬ tinction between two finite substances, res extensa and res cogitans —is perhaps most clearly demonstrated in the doctrine of sensa¬ tions. Contemporary psychology of sensation and perception remains dependent on Descartes—dependent in the sense that psychology has adopted decisive tenets of his philosophy without further ques¬ tion, and has thus made it impossible for psychology to investigate phenomena fundamentally and without prejudice. This historical context can be elaborated in detail. However, the discrimination between those Cartesian ideas that continue to influence science directly and immediately, and those modified by later philosophical theories and the opinions of “common sense,’’ would have to be made a topic of special inquiry, for which there is no place here. Recalling the historical connection serves only to clarify the present subject matter; it is not the main purpose of this work. Nevertheless, the recollection of it is indispensable, since the findings of psychology are even today partly determined by the methodology and ontology of Descartes. Therefore, an attempt to criticize and to evaluate these results can only succeed if at the same time the presuppositions are also examined. Let us thus recall the following statements in Descartes’ Medita¬ tions: “I am a thing that thinks, that is to say, that doubts, affirms, denies, that knows a few things, that is ignorant of many, that wills, that desires, that also imagines and perceives; although the things that I perceive and imagine are perhaps nothing at all apart from me and in themselves, I am nevertheless assured that these modes of thought that I call perceptions and imaginations, inasmuch only as they are modes of thought, certainly reside (and are met with) in me.’’1 Sensations, then, are a mode of consciousness along with true knowledge, judgment, imagination, and volition. Sensation differs

6

Introduction

from knowledge insofar as the latter is a clear and distinct, the for¬ mer a dark and confused “knowing.” Sensation is thus objectively characterized by a deficiency, by a lack of that moment that is the mark of true knowledge. Sensation to Descartes is a deficient mode of knowing. There are still other motives that contributed to the devaluation of sensations and the reduction of their value as reality. Sensations deceive; they are apt to present nonthings as things; coldness, for example, which is merely a lack of warmth, is nevertheless experi¬ enced as a specific quality. The idea of cold presents coldness as something real and positive.2 “The power of imagination which is in one ... is in no wise a necessary element in my nature or in the essence of my mind; for although I did not possess it I should doubt¬ less ever remain the same as I am now.”3 Consciousness (cogitatio), of which both sensation and cognition are modes, encompasses, according to Descartes, “everything that is in us in such a way that we observe it directly by our own effort and have an inner knowledge of it.”4 The meaning of immediacy is made clear in another paragraph of the Meditations.5 Descartes says there: “Finally, I am the same who feels, that is to say, who perceives certain things, as by the or¬ gans of sense, since in truth I see light, I hear noise, I feel heat. But it will be said that these phenomena are false and that I am dream¬ ing. Let it be so; still it is at least quite certain that it seems to me that I see light, that I hear noise and that I feel heat. That cannot be false; properly speaking it is what is in me called feeling [sentire]-, and used in this precise sense that is no other thing than thinking [>cogitare].” The statement, “it is at least quite certain,” expresses the belief that sensation as such is to be considered as a mode of con¬ sciousness in reference to the self-conscious ego, and not in relation to the object. The ego, however, in which sensations and imagina¬ tions occur, is the pure ego; it is not the psychological or phenomenal subject and certainly not man in his corporeality. To be sure, Descartes is not consistent in his conception of the ego.6 The ego has not been developed into the purely transcendental subject, but as a finite substance—as my mind, as my soul—has been identified with the empirical subject. It is indeed significant that modern psychology has embraced the Cartesian concept of the sub¬ ject in all its ambiguity. It accepts what is accidental and provisional in the Cartesian insights, as well as their essential and irrevocable aspects. Actually and immediately sensed are the ideas of those qualities

DEPENDENCE OF PSYCHOLOGY ON CARTESIAN PHILOSOPHY

7

(to wit, of colors, light, smells, tastes, sounds) that occur in conscious¬ ness. These sensations, although immanent in consciousness, give rise to the belief that we perceive certain things entirely outside of our consciousness, that is, bodies which produce these ideas in us.7 Certain experiences seem to confirm this opinion, in particular the fact “that these ideas presented themselves to me without my consent being requisite so that I could not perceive any object, how¬ ever desirous I might be, unless it were present to the organs of sense.”8 The connection of experiences makes it possible and neces¬ sary to interpret the sensed ideas in such a fashion that in them states and processes in one’s own body—like hunger or thirst—or the qualities of other things existing separately from one’s own body —are “vaguely and confusedly” perceived. Ideas perceived through the senses are more expressive and vivid than those which we pro¬ duce as our own thoughts. But in the basic mode of being there is no absolute difference between them. Experience suggests that sen¬ sations are ostensibly dependent on bodily processes. As mere ideas of colors, light, and the like, sensations to Descartes lack any intrinsic contact with physical things. This relationship is only inferred; we surmise it with a high degree of probability. Yet the relationship is justifiable only if both the material things outside and those in our bodies with which we seem to be so closely con¬ nected exist in reality. Descartes derives the final reason for this sup¬ position from a proof of the existence of God who cannot be a of consciousness—are therefore abysmally remote from the being of external things; and equally remote is the ego from the world. On many occasions Descartes expresses the opinion that mind and body are linked together in spite of the radical diversity be¬ tween the two substances. Nevertheless, at one point in his Medita¬ tions he claims “that I am not only lodged in my body like a pilot in a vessel, but that I am very closely united to it, and so to speak so intermingled with it that I seem to compose with it one whole.”9 But in another passage Descartes sets forth the belief that mind and body are unified as a composite, “like flesh and bones,” not as a gen¬ uine unit formed by nature. “For I have indeed never seen nor un¬ derstood that human bodies have consciousness. I only noticed that it is the same human creature which has consciousness and also a body.” The formulation given in the Sixth Meditation is even more emphatic: “And although possibly ... I have a body with which I am very intimately conjoined ... it is certain that ... I am entirely and absolutely distinct from my body and can exist without it/’ The

8

Introduction

formulation of pure thoughts, therefore, is not related to the func¬ tion of the brain. One particular passage in the Passions de I’ame (and it is only one among many others) specifically describes how the dependence of sensing on bodily processes is to be imagined: “Those [percep¬ tions] which we relate to the things which are without us, to wit to the objects of our senses, are caused, at least when our opinion is not false, by these objects which exciting certain movements in the or¬ gans of the external senses, excite them also in the brain by the in¬ termission of the nerves, which cause the soul to perceive them. Thus when we see the light of a torch, and hear the sound of a bell, this sound and this light are two different actions which, simply by the fact that they excite two different movements in certain of our nerves, and by these means in the brain, give two different sensations to the soul, which sensations we relate to the subject which we suppose to be their causes in such a way that we think we see the torch itself and hear the bell, and do not perceive just the movements which pro¬ ceed from them.”10 In a strictly mechanistic psychological work, called I’Homme,11 Descartes describes in elaborate detail how sensations are produced by external stimuli. There he says of visual sensations that motions caused by external objects in the sensory organs, nerves, and brain provide for the Soul (because it is so closely united with the machine of the body) the occasion of apprehending the various ideas of color and light. In strict analogy, he maintains that in respect to the other senses the mechanical movements in the sensory organs and brain provide the Soul with the occasion for the reception of sensations. The relation of the subject to sensations in this description is that of pure receptivity. This relation is the very basis of an epiphenomenalistic theory. Sensations come about against the will of the subject, they are alien to it. Sensations do not have any direct com¬ munication with the ego. Neither are they in direct communication with the woild. Only through an act of judgment performed by the will is a relationship to the external world finally established. The subject as such remains extramundane. It contemplates the ideas within the body. The subject itself is at rest, not in a state of becom¬ ing. “For although all the accidents of mind be changed, although, or instance, it thinks certain things, wills others, perceives others, etc., despite all this it does not emerge from these changes a differ¬ ent mind: the human body on the other hand becomes a different thing from the sole fact that the figure or form of any of its portions is found to be changed.”12 r

/ /

I

o/

DEPENDENCE OF PSYCHOLOGY ON CARTESIAN PHILOSOPHY

9

Sensations, then, are “occasioned” by a stimulation of the sensory organs. The contact between mind and body, between consciousness and corporeal existence, is characterized only by a complete lack of communication. Thereby we must not forget that Descartes con¬ ceives the bodies of men and animals as machines. The Passions (I, 6) contains a paragraph with the characteristic title: “How all the mem¬ bers may be moved by the object of the senses and by the animal spirits without the aid of the soul.” The doctrine of the reflexes origi¬ nated with Descartes although he did not use the term. Without knowledge of the anatomical facts, he describes the pathways of the reflexes, which in his opinion guide the animal spirits (interpreted by Descartes as minute corpuscles) from the periphery to the brain and back to the periphery. The observation of involuntary reactions to painful stimuli led Descartes to a rash generalization, the concept of reflex movement. It is a necessary postulate of his system. His physiology of the nervous system, deduced from the Principles rather than from observation, resembles in many aspects that constructed by Pavlov. It is different insofar as Descartes affirms the existence of the mind, at the same time connected with and separated from the processes in the body machine. The body is nothing more than a machine. The living body differs from the dead one, just as a watch with a wound spring differs from a watch with a broken one.13 Being alive is not a particular mode of Being. Man is a combination of mind and body. In the brain, especially in the pineal body, the mind is most closely joined with the body. Because of its inseparable attachment I recognize my body as my own; furthermore, I believe that I feel hunger in my body and pain in its parts. (The spatial relations of body and soul have been the cause of numerous misunderstandings; even today these misunder¬ standings have their aftereffects, as proved by the “problem” of socalled outward projection.) Pain makes it known to the mind that the body is not well. The body as such, is a machine. Sensations are attributed to af¬ ferent motions of the animal spirits within the body.14 These mo¬ tions, in turn, release other motions of animal spirits, producing the motions of muscles and limbs. Even if there weremo soul, everything in the body could take exactly the same course that it does now. The soul is not the life principle of the body. Motions of the spirits in the brain present something to the mind; similar motions are accom¬ panied by similar presentations. The same external causes call forth the same motions of the animal spirits in the body and through them the same impressions in the soul. The nerves react in the same way

io

Introduction

to stimulation at different levels. Sensation and motion are two dif¬ ferent processes. No inner connection exists between motion and sensation; such a relationship cannot exist, for motion belongs ex¬ clusively and entirely to the res extensa, sensation to the res cogitans. The distinction between the substances not only leads to a di¬ chotomy of mind and body. With it, the mind is radically severed from the physical world. Sensations participate in the extramundane character of the mind. Even as sensing beings we are extramundane, we consider all bodies, ours and others, as extended objects in physi¬ cal space. We need not debate here the still powerful influence of the idea of the extramundane character of the mind on the theory of the sensations and perceptions. For this theme will come up again and again, because we are going to prove that sensing must be un¬ derstood as a “sympathetic”—that is, an intramundane—experience. The interplay of body and mind remains a metaphysical riddle. With it, the nature of sensations remains enigmatic. To the follow¬ ers of Descartes, sensations have no reality, or only a reduced reality compared with mathematical knowledge. Sensations are signs for what is useful or damaging to the body. But when we interpret them as particular qualities of corporeal things it is said that we deceive ourselves. This deception has to be revealed and then corrected by mathematical science. In themselves—as cogitations, as pensees— sensations are ideas, and as ideas they are inert, static, pure quality. They are but momentary; time, however, is composed of moments. That is why sensations in the plural seem to present themselves as a quantity of independent perceptions. This interpretation opens the door to the theory of elements in psychology. In Cartesian philosophy, all the theories of sense psychology of the nineteenth and the twentieth centuries are already performed_ expressis verbis—not in such a way that we have to read into Descartes’ work only what we would like to find in it. The first step is already decisive—namely, the opinion, inseparably con¬ joined with the Cartesian metaphysics of substances, that sensation is a kind of cognition, although a cognition of a lower rank, being obscure and confused. From the basic metaphysical conception, there follows an unbroken chain of thought up to a fully-developed mechanistic physiology. As early as in the Meditations, and thus in the closest connection with the metaphysical foundation of modern science, we find the model for physiological psychology, the doctrine of the reflexes, the theorem of constancy, the law of specific sensory energies. In his later works, Descartes turned his attention much more to details

DEPENDENCE OF PSYCHOLOGY ON CARTESIAN PHILOSOPHY

II

and so we find there the models for a hypothesis of cerebral localiza¬ tion and for mechanistic theories of expression,15 of memory, and of attention. Many experimental results and observations classified in later days as empirical are, for the most part, a consequence of the fact that we look at the world through glasses ground by Descartes. In the foreword to his Principles, he compared science to a tree. Its roots are metaphysics, the trunk general physics, and the branches, the separate sciences, divided into three main groups: medicine, mechanics, and morals. Since Descartes did not limit himself to draw¬ ing an outline of metaphysics and general physics, we have an au¬ thentic interpretation of those particular scientific theories which he considered to be in agreement with his metaphysical principles. Our discussion must therefore reach the basic tenets even when deal¬ ing only with particular problems. The frequent demand for experi¬ mental verification can only mean that a strictly unbroken logical chain leads from the most general assumptions and propositions to the experimental examination of particular phenomena, so that the results of experiments will ultimately decide the right or wrong of the principles. In opposition to Descartes, sensualism teaches that all knowledge is derived from sensations that precede it in time. But it disregards completely the diverse modes of communication, and consequently the essential difference between sensing and knowing. Sensualism gains the possibility of deriving cognition from sen¬ sation only by a preceding tacit assimilation of sensing to knowing. The impact of sensualism, lasting from the beginning of modern times to the present, does not contradict, in my judgment, the thesis that the theory of sensation depends on Descartes’ metaphysics. Sen¬ sualism proves rather that the failure to distinguish between the modes of communication affects the understanding of both sensing and knowing to the same extent. In later days, indeed beginning with some of Descartes’ contem¬ porary opponents (Gassendi and Hobbes), knowing and sensing were no longer distinguished as modes of consciousness (modi cognitationis), but as psychic functions (actus cogitandi). Modern psychology holds the same view. In a situation thus changed, one would expect an attempt to define first of all the subject of sensing and the mode of communication particular to sensing. But that did not happen. Instead, psychologists were satisfied with the aforementioned assimi¬ lation of sensing to knowing. Modern psychology considers the ob¬ ject of sensing as if it were an object of knowledge; it treats the sensing subject as if it were a subject of knowledge, and finally it

Introduction

12

considers the mode of communication in sensing as wholly corre¬ sponding to that of cognition. If I should ever hope to contribute something new to this much belabored field, it will be my task to render the implicit questions of tradition explicit and to lay bare and oppose dogmatic prejudices. In order to say what sensing actually is, I will have to say what, con¬ trary to tradition, it is not.

Sensations Sensing—not sensations—is the theme of my inquiry. This thought does not yet convey much meaning in spite of its pointed wording, for the term sensation is understood in too many different ways. Some people identify sensations with physiological processes, the stimulation of the sensory organs, the sensory nerves, and areas of the brain; others interpret sensations as “a kind of knowledge in reference to objects” (Pfander) and insist on a strict separation of sensations, as something psychic, from the physiology and the object of sensations. A third group, probably the most numerous, identifies sensations with sensory data. Of all the connotations of the word sensation—and we have by no means listed all of them here—the last one appears to the majority as the most important. Sensations are presumably the result of a physiological or psychophysiological process. They are thought to be what is sensed. They are believed to have—as indicated by the grammatical form of the noun the character of finite things. Substantive categories are ap¬ plied to them. When we read, “Sensations are either simple, that is, a color, a sound, or composite, such as a rainbow,” or, “Sensations often continue after the stimuli have ceased,” when we furthermore call to mind the naive use of the plural, sensations, les sensations, we can no longer doubt that “thingness” is applied to sensations. James opposed the restriction of the sensations to the objectively complete and limited, to the “substantive parts.” He insisted that, besides the substantive parts of the stream of consciousness, the transitive parts” must also be taken into consideration. Such loosen¬ ing of the theory of sensations is, no doubt, important but does not modify the original theory. We do not believe that we have attained our goal when, following James, we distinguish substantive and tran-

DEPENDENCE OF PSYCHOLOGY ON CARTESIAN PHILOSOPHY

13

sitive parts in the stream of consciousness and place sensing in con¬ tradistinction to sensations. In passing, let me add two more comments to my so far negative characterization. The above arguments indicate my intention to sep¬ arate quite strictly sensing from perceiving. Finally, in my explora¬ tion of sensing, my attention is not directed to the physiological process, to the production of sensations. I will avoid physiological hypotheses; it seems to me that they belong perhaps at the end, but certainly not at the beginning of a psychological doctrine of sensing. The separation of sensing from knowing and perceiving, the re¬ jection of the thing-like structure of sensations, was a preliminary reference to the “how” and the “what” of sensing. But I have scarcely mentioned the “who,” the sensing subject. It is not by chance that the subject has been placed at the end. For little enough has been said by psychology about the subject of sensations. Froebes, for ex¬ ample, explains sensations as “direct sensory responses of conscious¬ ness to external stimuli, disregarding all additions by memory. . . .” The subject of sensing is turned here into pure subject, into a time¬ less subject; it is transformed into consciousness, into a soul, into an abstract ego, obviously limiting what there is of importance to be said about it. Thus, in conventional descriptions, the theme of the subject of sensations is ended even before it has really begun. The Cartesian subject is originally alone with himself. In the process of thinking, he ascertains his own being. By the process of interpreting his thoughts, he indirectly assures himself of the exist¬ ence of God and of the reality of corporeal things. The empirical subject of sensations retained the character of the pure ego; it is a timeless or a time-alienated ego. But this subject is also thought to be man among men, animal among animals, an ego in his own world. The subject of sensations enters the stage in the borrowed costume of the Cartesian subject. The misinterpretation of sensing, however, does not only ruin the theory of sensing but will also affect the psychology of thinking and the logic of knowledge.16 Some of his ideas even captivated Descartes’ opponents during the hottest period of controversy. The succeeding generation is dominated no less by hidden than by open Cartesianism. The turn¬ ing away from the everyday attitude, from the natural confidence in sensory experience and its reliability, the turn to a worldless, uncorporeal consciousness is soon considered as a matter of course. Yet, at the same time, this disembodied consciousness is called “our” con¬ sciousness. About a half century after the publication of the Meditations,

H

Introduction

Locke published his Essay Concerning Human Understanding. The title was not without polemic intention. Locke states that his pur¬ pose is to investigate the origin, the certainty, and the scope of human knowledge. He attacks Descartes’ doctrine of the innate ideas. With his sensualism and his psychologistic epistemology, he certainly belongs to the ranks of Descartes’ opponents. Nevertheless, the hu¬ man mind of which Locke speaks, or thinks he speaks, often re¬ sembles the res cogitans itself. It is from the point of view of Cartesian philosophy that Locke argues against Descartes and his doctrine. Locke adopts without further ado Descartes’ stages of certainty—from the intuitive evi¬ dence of the ego cogito to the demonstration of the existence of God, and from the insight into the veracity of God to the acceptance of an outside world as probably existing. The semantic difference, how¬ ever, indicates the change of intellectual climate. Faithful to his method, Descartes speaks—at least in the Medita¬ tions—in the singular: I, ego. This ego does not signify the man, Ren£ Descartes, the empirical, bodily person, but is to be understood as pure res cogitans. But Locke always writes “we, our mind,” even: “We have knowledge of our own existence by intuition,” although in his opinion each individual can have such knowledge only of himself. Descartes relegates the body to the realm of the res extensa. From there he apprehends a particular body as especially closely tied to himself, the res cogitans. Since Locke followed suit, accepting the viewpoint of the immanence of consciousness, he could not in¬ terpret body and corporeal existence otherwise. Yet he did not stick to this point of view, but spoke quite naively of our senses and sen¬ sory organs, to which he brought “sensations” into causative relation. I, we, us, our mind—these must, according to Locke, be understood as a phenomenologically reduced consciousness (“the mind . . . has no other object but its own ideas”). But in this same chapter he uses the expressions “I,” “we,” “us,” with reference to man and human existence. A theoretical construction replaces observation. It decides before all experience, and in contradiction to observation, what, sup¬ posedly, is found in experience. Descartes made it his task to undermine the natural confidence of daily life, to unmask it as an illusion. Our belief in the reality of the “outside world,” which we imagine we perceive immediately in our sensory experience, springs from a prejudice; one should rather say from a “post-judice.” It is, as it were, a habit we drag along from our uncritical childhood years. At that time of growth we were particularly close to our body. Because sensations impart to the body

DEPENDENCE OF PSYCHOLOGY ON CARTESIAN PHILOSOPHY

15

—with certain limitations—that which is either useful or harmful, we have become accustomed (in accordance with the importance of our corporeal existence during childhood) to experience in the sen¬ sations—as it were, immediately—the reality of a corporeal world. Descartes took pains to undermine the common certainty about the reality of the outside world. Locke, on the other hand, tried to found our belief in “a world outside of us.” Once again childhood and childhood experiences are used as explanation. “Sensations” are primarily but “ideas” which, as such, enter the stage of conscious¬ ness; among them the mind discovers some which it has not pro¬ duced itself, and which it therefore brings into causative relation to things that affect it from outside. The world is thus not experienced, but thought; it is posited in judgment. Our belief in the outside world does not originate in a childhood illusion but is gradually acquired from early days on. Locke usually takes pains to write in a simple, dry style; only seldom does he rise to any pathos, as at the beginning of the second book where he extols empiricism as a basic principle. He says, “Let us then suppose the mind to be, as we say, white paper, void of all characters, without any ideas. How is it to be furnished? Whence comes it by that vast store in which the busy and boundless fancy of man has filled it with an almost endless variety? Whence has it all the materials of reason and knowledge? To this I answer in one word: from experience.” "The emphatic reference to experience, which Locke invokes like a muse, in no way means that the author proceeds empirically, that he will turn toward experience. “Experience” is, with Locke—just as with many of his present-day successors—a dogmatic principle used in order to construct genetically the familiar experience of the world and to deduce it from the gradual acquisition of single ideas, their accumulations and combinations. Just as a house is built from single bricks, so the experience of an adult is likened to a composite of many single sensations. The doctrine of the sensory data as the basic materials of experience dependent on stimuli—the secondary qualities—as the original material of experience takes its start from Locke’s reinterpretation of the Cartesian consciousness. During the few years separating Locke’s Essay from the Meditations, the Carte¬ sian revolution of thinking had come to a standstill; it had grown torpid and rigid. Without noticing it, Locke popularized Descartes’ solipsism and prepared the ground for the acceptance of his theory of sensation through psychology and physiology in its most radical form. “I,” Descartes wrote, “am entirely and absolutely distinct from

i6

Introduction

my body and I can exist without it. I further find in myself faculties, employing modes of thinking peculiar to themselves, to wit, the fac¬ ulties of imagination and feeling without which I can easily conceive myself clearly and distinctly as a complete being.” Thus, strictly speaking, sensations can be understood only with regard to man_ that is, to that which is composed of body and mind. Sensations are an addition to pure intellect which could also exist without them. Locke, however, holds sensations to be “simple ideas,” the temporal beginning of our knowledge and the material of which knowledge is composed. Sensations belong to our mind. Because this mind is un¬ derstood as extramundane, uncorporeal consciousness, sensations, too, are taken out of the natural connection of experiencing and the corporeal bemg-in-the-world. In Descartes’ system, sensations, com¬ pared with the rationalistic standards of clarity and distinctness are vague and confused ideas. Locke’s “simple ideas” fulfill at least the demand of precision or, strictly speaking, distinctness. Nevertheless, they are degraded to ideas of secondary qualities which, being only subjective, reside in consciousness. In Locke’s own thinking we do not find any original reason for this devaluation of the sensations, still less for his high esteem of the primary qualities. His interpretation of reality takes over Descartes’ doctrine. The reality of the wor c is posited as a proposition. It is predicated, not experienced. The prelogical sphere of the immediate experience of reality is en¬ tirely neglected. The theoretical solipsism that followed from DesT uGCreS in L°cke’S interPretation a psychological ct. It has in this form continued to operate throughout the centunes Heud s doctrine of reality testing is an odd attempt to find a solution for the problem which Freud accepted from tradition as a matter of course. The Id and the “unconscious” are solipsistic con¬ ceptions, late descendants of Cartesianism. iectT!>lethea“r^ienCei-0f ??CharjaCteristicS of the transcendental subj to the real soul of the individual, it is true, had already been LTTrea/thinr^d He™°tein *e Meditations: “But I am, how¬ ever, a real thing and really exist, but what kind of thine? I have answered: a thing which thinks.”” Already in the Principles the I nm-lbeff°mn3 WG ^ finally in the treatise 1’Homme, not published until ^ Descartes’ death, there prevails an entirety different con ption coriesponding to the change of theme. There Descartes savs a the very begnrningt ■■Ces homines seront composes cTmmTnZ d un ame cl d'un corps." In the course of his transformation from the pure ego to the psychophysical person, the subject retains the charactenst.cs of the res cogitans. The empirical subject as,imf lated to the transcendental subject. J assimi-

DEPENDENCE OF PSYCHOLOGY ON CARTESIAN PHILOSOPHY

*7

“I am certain that I am a thinking thing” (Sum certus me esse rem cogitantem). With these words, the third Meditation connects with the results of the second Meditation. The res cogitans confronts the res extensa. There the attributive term is expressed by the present participle, here by the past participle. In truth, however, the being of the res cogitans is not interpreted through a process of knowing still to be accomplished, but rather through completed and finite knowledge. From the evidence of the cogito sum, and after that from the validity of mathematics and from everything which has been recognized clearly and distinctly—thus, from the accomplished knowledge—we comprehend what the being of the res cogitans is. Human knowledge is elevated above itself; it is rated one degree too high. This interpretation of human knowing that uses the perfect and complete knowledge as standard has continuously veiled the psychological problems of knowing and sensing. Whether the theory of sensations leads one to interpret this sub¬ ject as a theoretical subject or as consciousness as such; whether the subject is objectified as a receiver of stimuli; whether, according to Mach, the ego is considered lost, or, with Hume, interpreted as a bundle of perceptions; finally, whether one concedes that an “I think” accompanies consciousness in every psychic act—in all these reflections the sensing subject is not a living human being. That, of course, is the main point. From the long list of negations, we have arrived at the first positive definition. We conceive sensing as a mode of “being alive” (Lebendiges Sein). If sensing is a mode of being alive, this being alive must also be directly apprehended in sensing itself. Life as such does not manifest itself in all phenomena that can be examined in living creatures, nor does it become comprehensible in the various statements about living creatures. Living creatures have, among other attributes, weight. An architect in building a house or a bridge takes the weight of human bodies into account, and so does the engineer in construct¬ ing a car. The carrying capacity is made to meet the contemplated load. And in principle it is quite irrelevant whether one has to allow for the weight of human bodies, sacks of flour, or iron bars. For by measuring weight in kilograms—that is, by equating living beings in a certain relation to a definite amount of water of an exact degree of heat—we affirm that the living creature has not been understood in its mode of being alive. The carrying capacity, the highest per¬ missible load, can be computed as total weight from the addition of the individual weights. But a sum of weights is not a sum of human beings. By calculating the carrying capacity, one rightly disregards the fundamental biological facts of the monadic structure of the in-

i8

Introduction

dividual; one merely takes into consideration that living beings are also bodies of a certain weight.18 Such an approach to the essence of sensing cannot result in a meaningful presentation. In defining sensing as a mode of being alive we have thus indicated at the same time the purpose of our inves¬ tigation. The first stipulation sets a positive task, the solution of which should show time and again that being alive is an intrinsic character of sensing. Therefore we cannot be satisfied with paying lip service to this definition and returning afterward to the conven¬ tional interpretation of phenomena. In order to characterize sensing from the beginning as a mode of being alive I have chosen the gerundive participle sensing in contra¬ distinction to the substantive “the sensations” as our central theme. Thereby I wish to express that the very mode of experiencing which I call sensing has in itself the character of change, and thus a definite temporal structure. Perhaps I can elucidate further the semantic implications of what I mean by substituting for the rather jaded term “sensing” (Empfinden) the partly synonymous term “feeling” (spiiren). “To feel” (spiiren) has a twofold meaning: it signifies both an active and a passive awareness. Feeling (spiiren), when it means enduring, signi¬ fies precisely the temporal meaning of sensing. When someone feels (verspilrt) pain, something is done to him. He who feels (endures) pain is certainly no longer a calm observer receiving impressions with disinterested passivity. If someone feels pain, everything inside of him comes into motion. The world bursts upon him, threatening to overpower him. To sense pain means to experience the immediacy of disturbance in the relation to the world. To sense pain means therefore to sense oneself at the same time, to find oneself changed in relation to the world, or more ex¬ actly, changed in one’s somatic communication with the world. In traditional theory, the subject of sensing has been hidden in a haze of generalities or lost in transcendental remoteness. The sub¬ ject is indeed bound to disappear, for in traditional theory he is con¬ fined to mere statements which are but generalities. The sensory data are indicators of the existence of objective general data in ob¬ jective space and objective time. The subject can manifest himself as an individual only when deceived. As a matter of fact, the expression subjective has for quite some time implied the merely subjective, even deceptive. Removed from time and becoming, the subject re¬ ceives impressions indifferently and unmoved. Strictly speaking, we are saying almost too much by talking about impressions and re-

DEPENDENCE OF PSYCHOLOGY ON CARTESIAN PHILOSOPHY

J9

ception. Impressions leave only physiological traces behind while the subject remains identical with himself, unchanged. Sensations march past him in a long procession. One impression follows the other. True, they are arranged in proper order as to the one-afterthe-other of objective time; but they are as such timeless and, as many people believe, spaceless qualities. The relation of the subject to sensing is a mere “having”; the subject has sensations, but he does not sense. It is a strange world of the dead that is supposed to be the beginning and the foundation of psychic life.

(d) The Atomistic Concept of Time in Psychology If sensing is neither knowledge nor a mechanical event but a mode of being alive, it must be understood as a category of becom¬ ing. Becoming implies change and modification; all becoming is a becoming different. It implies direction and continuity. The possibility of understanding sensing as becoming is already endangered whenever we speak of experiences in the plural. The use of the plural in psychology is not limited to the doctrine of sen¬ sations. James, for instance, mentions one definition of psychology: “The description and explanation of states of consciousness as such. States of consciousness are things, like sensations, desires, emotions, acts of cognition, logical considerations, decisions, volitions, and the like.”19 This definition seems quite harmless; apparently it does not prejudice anything. But actually it forces upon psychology a method which from the very first step determines all possible results of in¬ quiry in a definite way. The effect of this definition can be felt even in special investigations, for example in the formulation of ques¬ tions for the observation of stroboscopic illusions of movement. Empirical psychology finally incorporated the categories of thing¬ ness in the space-and-time-order of physics. This process, initiated by Descartes, culminated in the creation of that time concept called atomistic. The concept of time atomism was formulated by Hume, although his conception of time had already been anticipated by Descartes. According to Hume, time is a composition of indivisible moments. “The time, as it exists, must be composed of indivisible moments.” Where we have no consecutive separated perceptions, Hume concluded, we have no experience of time. Therefore, time

20

Introduction

cannot have the characteristics of a continuum; for the discrete per¬ ceptions, the “indivisible parts” of which it is supposedly composed are themselves nontemporal. The invariant time particles, constitut¬ ing the whole of time are, as such, timeless. In them, time stands still. Sensory perceptions or impressions are, for Hume, the basic stuff of experience. Ideas correspond to impressions. Both “impressions” and “ideas” are isolated structures, strictly separated from each other. They are posited by Hume in the plural. The assumption of a plurality of impressions compels me to inquire into the function of counting and the conditions of the “computability” of objects. Even if there were no need for reflection on the function of counting, the problem of computability demands a solution. If there is a plurality of distinct impressions, I require a demonstration of what it is that separates them from each other. Material objects can be counted because they appear separated from each other in space, which separates them and encompasses them at the same time. There is nothing to be counted on a homoge¬ neous surface occupying our whole field of vision; nor can we count water in a glass. What we can count are drops of water. If we are to determine how many drops of water there are in a glass of water, the drops have to be separated by some method from each other. The water has to be dripped, for example, through a burette. But what is it that separates experiences from each other? It can¬ not be space. Then what about time? The assumption of a plurality of experiences requires that the single experiences are separated from each other by an interval of empty time. However, it is just this as¬ sumption which Hume rejects. He denies the substantiality of time as well as an experience of time independent of sensory impressions. Time is composed of “indivisible parts” which are given with the sensory impressions. In between, there is nothing and nothing is experienced. Of an “in-between,” according to Hume, we have no impressions and consequently no ideas. Time has the character of contiguity rather than continuity. Hume’s admission that he cannot really ex¬ plain the order of time because it is not given with the impressions nor produced by the subject, is at the same time an admission that he cannot present us with a principle of the separation of im¬ pressions. Hume, it is true, discusses the association of impressions, but he does not even see the need to account for the dissociation, or the sep¬ aration of experiences, which precedes all associations. The assump¬ tion of a plurality of impressions seems a foregone conclusion if we

DEPENDENCE OF PSYCHOLOGY ON CARTESIAN PHILOSOPHY

21

consider the impressions as states of other human or animal organ¬ isms. Then objective space and objective (transient) time become the principium individuationis. Thus Hume’s psychology pushes on toward a physiological psychology for which the assumption of sep¬ arated impressions is no longer problematic. But for that very reason the inner connection of experiences remains an everlasting enigma. Only that can be connected which had been previously separated. The doctrine of the separation of experiences has to precede the theory of their interconnection. The hiatus is the first problem. Even in the arguments between Gestalt psychology and the older school, this decisive question had not been tackled. Quite characteristic is the lack of interest in the problem of time and the obvious bias of Gestalt psychologists for physiological psychology. Experiencing is understood as a succession of experiences, subjected to the categories and intuitive forms in which we think about and comprehend nat¬ ural objects. The one-after-the-other of experiences is determined by their succession in objective time. The diversity of experiences seems to be determined through the diversity of the objective time-loci to which they belong. The order of one-after-the-other of experiences is substituted for the experience of the one-after-the-other.20 The doctrine of elements in psychology is not the result of in¬ adequate observations; it is the fulfillment of a methodical demand of the mathematical natural sciences. Time atomistics is founded on theology. “For all the courses of my life may be divided into an infinite number of parts, none of which is in any way dependent on the other; and thus from the fact that I was in existence a short time ago it does not follow that I must be in existence now, unless some cause at this instance, so to speak, produces me anew, that is to say conserves me. It is as a matter of fact perfectly clear and evident to all those who consider with atten¬ tion the nature of time, that in order to be conserved in each mo¬ ment in which it endures, a substance has need of the same power and action as would be necessary to produce and create it anew, sup¬ posing it did not yet exist, so that the light of nature shows us clearly that the distinction between creation and conservation is solely a distinction of the reason.”21 Time atomistics is derived from the interrelation of finite and infinite substances, from the relation of God and the world; for that very reason, time atomistics itself can serve as a link in the chain for a proof of the existence of God. The theologically founded doctrine of the atomistic structure of time best suits the needs of mathematical science. The eternally creating God renews the world from moment to moment. All created things

22

Introduction

are finite.22 If single moments exist independently from each other, then a continuum of time does not exist—nor does a becoming. Only the discontinuous can be exactly measured and counted. Further¬ more, each single moment having been created finite and limited, can be entirely understood because it can be entirely surveyed. The single occurrence is recognized as being finished and complete, as an event that has already taken place. It is not easy to determine whether, in Descartes’ theory of time, logic has determined ontology or ontology has determined logic. But it is evident that his method cannot be separated arbitrarily from his metaphysics; they remain always connected with each other. In his philosophy, the formal principles correspond to the material; in other words, his principle of evidence of clearness and distinctness determines equally his theory of knowledge and his ontology of the world.23 At the end of his Meditations, Descartes arrives at the conclusion that one need not fear “that falsity may be found in matters every day presented me by my senses.” It is true, things do not perhaps exist in exactly the way we perceive them through our senses, “because this sensory perceiving is in many cases rather dark and confused.” With regard to the goal of scientific knowledge, sensing becomes a deceptive process, but only for him who would accept knowl¬ edge conveyed by the senses for the totality or finality of experience. Only with regard to the true being, only in metaphysics, can that which the senses present be ultimately degraded to a world of ap¬ pearance, of deception, of not-being (p) 6v). If one strives for true knowledge, one must penetrate the surface of appearance and guard himself against its deception. Posterity has secularized Descartes’ metaphysics. It has abandoned the theory of substances and foregone the proof of the existence of God. It merely wants to adhere to his method of philosophizing. Em¬ pirical science does not take over the Cartesian dichotomy in its origi¬ nal but in its modified form. Its naturalistic interpretation also points back to Descartes. In his Passions Descartes has with strange naivete transferred the doctrine of substances to the objects of the “outside world.” Here he describes human beings in their plurality— their appearance in space-time existence—as composed of body and soul. The question of the seat of the soul arises. Descartes does not treat it in a casual way. He attacks the problem seriously and em¬ phatically. The transference of the metaphysical distinction to ob¬ jects of the natural world makes the question unavoidable. The shortcomings of his attempted solution to the problem are no reason

DEPENDENCE OF PSYCHOLOGY ON CARTESIAN PHILOSOPHY

23

for belittling his intention. They only reveal the difficulties inherent in such a sudden transition from metaphysics to natural science and anthropology. After this turn from metaphysics to anthropology, it was to be expected that soon an explanation of human existence in its entirety would be attempted according to the principles of mechanics. In metaphysics, consciousness still took precedence over corporeal ex¬ istence. Pure thinking and free volition were to be excepted from the subordination under corporeal being. But later philosophers no longer had any reason to respect these limitations. They contin¬ ued on the road which Descartes himself had taken in his anthropo¬ logic-physiological writings. There thinking and willing took their respective places as mere psychic functions among the others, just like sensing, imagining and remembering. If man is seen as a mere thing among things, there is no reason, and indeed no justification, to abandon a mechanical interpretation. The metaphysical depreciation of the world of the senses makes the destruction of the deceptive appearance imperative. One would truly like to get to know the real actors of this shadow play. The fleeting should gain support from the lasting, the secure. The baser being is but the refuse of the better one. Sensory qualities will there¬ fore have to be understood and explained on the basis of the true being. In Western Christianity the philosophical debasement of the world of the senses gains its full impact through religious pathos. For the world of the senses is at the same time the world of the finite, of the temporal—of the transitory world of evil. Neither knowledge nor salvation plays any part in the life of animals. The animals as well as man, insofar as he is “flesh,” live in this transitory, deceptive world. He who wants to understand the living animal in its world must stoop to and lovingly remain in this world of appearance. Although sensing is not a legitimate process of knowing, it is nevertheless a fully authorized topic for knowledge. Sensing can be called deceptive only insofar as it is considered to be antecedent of, material for, or the road toward knowing. But if one severs sensing as a mode of living experience from cognition, one is no longer justified in labeling sensing as deceptive, as confused and obscure, and as subjective. For only in the sphere of knowledge do we find the true and the false, the clear and the confused. Our attempts to understand sensory experience may fail; this shows that our knowledge of sensing—but not sensing itself—is confused and unclear. Our knowledge of sensing becomes clear and distinct only

Introduction when we learn to grasp it in the manner in which it presents itself. To understand sensing, one should not begin by despising it.

(e)

Pavlov’s Theory of Conditioned Reflexes: A Late Offspring of Cartesian Philosophy

It is not easy to free oneself from the dominance of old habits. Even though one may recognize them one does not by any means get rid of them. Unaware, one lapses again into the old habits. This is particularly true of old thinking habits, which may still secretly control us although we have openly foresworn them. Therefore I would like to inaugurate with a critique the detailed presentation of the ideas I have sketched in this introduction. I select for this purpose a modern and widely known, extremely mechanistic and atomistic physiological theory of mental life—Pavlov’s theory of conditioned reflexes. It is, notwithstanding its originality, a belated fulfillment of Cartesianism.24 Descartes had already anticipated everything in principle and much in particular. True, the nomencla¬ ture emphasizes the interest taken in the motor processes. However, a mechanistic theory of motion is impossible without a mechanistic interpretation of the sensation. The mechanism of “centrifugal” in both motor and vegetative occurrences demands for its complement the mechanism of “centripetal” processes. Pavlov has thoroughly complied with this postulate. His theory, for the most part, is indeed an atomistic theory of sensation. It is deemed superior to psychologi¬ cal experiments with human subjects in that it examines sensations by way of their motor and vegetative effects, and not through state¬ ments made by the persons tested. Although for Pavlov the sensorium and the motorium are two completely separate segments of the central nervous system, in his test arrangements he made the connection between sensations and movements the main problem of his investigations. Against his basic convictions and against his real tendency, Pavlov took a step in the direction of liberating the sensations from the isolation in which they are usually examined. The isolation of the sensations, their treatment as discrete forms, as occurrences of self-contained, pure perception—all this makes first possible the interpretation of the sensations as a preliminary stage

DEPENDENCE OF PSYCHOLOGY ON CARTESIAN PHILOSOPHY

of knowledge. The isolation is founded again in time atomistics, as can easily be seen. For sensations can be isolated only if the event of reception takes place at the moment t0 and everything else that depends on the sensation at a different time point, t1 or tx. Sensations can be isolated only if the principle of isolation is carried through completely. The often-heard remark that the isolation of sensations is but an intellectual abstraction, and that one knows very well that isolated sensations cannot be picked out from the web of experiences, is an argument that does not hold. Whether sensations can actually be isolated or not is not decisive. What is decisive is the purpose for which the abstraction has been made. But here it aims at isolation; it transforms sensation into pure reception. Sensations are no longer understood as phenomena of living being and becoming. Pavlov could not, and did not intend to, free himself from this pattern of isolation. And yet not the propositions of his theory but the results of his experiments shattered this scheme. Our criticism will have to show that the junction is not what Pavlov assumed it to be. In mak¬ ing the junction between sensorium and motorium, Pavlov has never¬ theless rendered an extraordinary service to our own inquiry, which attempts to comprehend sensing as a mode of living being.

Parti ©Q. CRITIQUE OF THE DOCTRINE OF CONDITIONED REFLEXES

A.

The Relation Between Theory and Observation in Pavlov’s Work

IN

1492,

COLUMBUS LEFT CADIZ TO REACH INDIA BY SAILING WEST-

ward. He landed on a small isle of the Americas. Twice he returned to the new world, yet until the very end he insisted that he had reached India by a western route, in spite of objections raised by his own contemporaries. History knows many inventors and discoverers who found something different from what they intended. A few among them did not recognize the true significance of their accom¬ plishments, and some, like Columbus, even misunderstood and re¬ jected it. Pavlov, with his theory of conditioned reflexes, belongs to this group. A critique of Pavlov’s theory must therefore be constructive. Criticism could easily be confined to three negative aspects. First, one might call into question the reliability of the experimental re¬ sults; next, accepting the findings, one might be content to prove Pavlov’s theory erroneous without attempting to put something bet¬ ter in its place. Finally, in order to justify such an attack, one could try to discredit Pavlov’s investigation altogether, claiming that his experiments are but artifacts of the laboratory setting, which by no means duplicate the natural life of animals and human beings, and are therefore neither relevant to psychic life nor of any merit in understanding it. I do not intend to follow such a line of purely negative criticism, 29

3°

Critique of the Doctrine of Conditioned Reflexes

for I have no reason whatsoever to doubt the accuracy of Pavlov’s observations and the adequacy of the descriptions of his experiments. On the contrary, if Pavlov reports that in a series of experiments on a certain day one of the test animals, after the third sounding of a trumpet, secreted eight drops of saliva, we may be sure that there were exactly eight drops, no more, no less. I accept Pavlov’s records without a single qualm, but I strictly divorce them from his interpretation of his experiments. My criti¬ cism will be turned against Pavlov’s theory, in spite of a full ac¬ knowledgment and acceptance of his observations. This separation of the experimental findings from the theory must, I assume, stun many of Pavlov’s followers. They believe that anyone who accepts the findings must also be in agreement with the theory. The arrangement of the tests is, in their opinion, so simple, the conditions of the experiments so transparently clear, that for them the theory' is a direct distillate from the observations. They do not see any line of demarcation between experimental findings and their interpretation. Where, therefore, could a cut be made? But these enchanted followers obviously do not realize the actual complexity of the experimental design or the many presuppositions on which Pavlov’s theory is founded. To investigate the general premises of Pavlov’s work and examine step by step the unforeseen and perplexing results of his experiments will be my next task. No doubt, among Pavlov’s many followers there are only a few who have repeated and verified his experiments or—what is even more important—read his writings in the original. The great ma¬ jority knows Pavlov only second- or third-hand, from hearsay, from popular descriptions or, under the most favorable conditions, from presentations in science classes and the abstracts in textbooks and compendia. But I am going to show later that even reference books, by definition committed to accuracy, fail at decisive points in their description of the experimental design and arrangements. The au¬ thors themselves have obviously fallen prey to the suggestive ideas of the simple pattern of the experimental arrangements; they have unintentionally reduced complex order to an assumed simplicity. The rapid dissemination of the theorems of the conditioned reflex is also due to a series of historically accidental moments which I will have to report on in passing. Let us consider the following situation. Pavlov’s work has continued for more than fifty years, but the fertility of his method seems not yet exhausted. Again and again new experimental arrangements are contrived, new observations are added, and the theory strives to conquer and subject ever new fields. When at the age of fifty Pavlov set to work on his successful observa-

THEORY AND OBSERVATION IN PAVLOV’S WORK

31

tions, he was already a scholar of renown. It was therefore his very rare good fortune, in the second half of his life, to come upon a great discovery which was for him a most decisive event. This discovery, far from being the finale and the crown of his work, opened to him a vast field of new research. He labored to develop a physiology of the cerebral hemispheres in line with the creation of an objective psychology. The execution of such a task demanded much detailed work. Pavlov and his many assistants followed up his initial observations with a series of experiments throughout the next two decades. One experiment variation followed another, often leading to new ques¬ tions and to surprising results not anticipated at the beginning of the theory. The first two decades of Pavlov’s research were a period of conquest in a new field. There was no time to pause, to reflect, or to consolidate the already-gathered evidence. This mode of ex¬ pansive research is mirrored in the style of his scientific publications. We do not have a single survey or summarizing description from this period; Pavlov and his coworkers reported on the new findings in lectures and in scattered papers. From these many publications, only a few have been translated into German and other world languages. The effect was that in non-Russian countries Pavlov’s theory became famous before it was fully known. A few instances will suffice to illustrate this situation. In the year 1901, Pavlov started his research on conditioned reflexes. In 1904 he received the Nobel Prize. The award was given in recognition of earlier accomplishments. But it was not until 1926 that a collection of his lectures was brought out in the German language, and only in 1929 was a systematic account, the Legons sur L’Activite du Cortex Cerebral, published in Paris, a translation of a book pub¬ lished in 1927 in Russian. Until then, no detailed presentation was available which would allow a thorough study and a precise exami¬ nation of the theory beyond a mere re-examination of the experi¬ mental setting. Strangely enough, this flaw helped rather than hurt the spread of Pavlov’s theory. Was not the pattern of his experiments, “The temporal coincidence of two stimuli,” lucidly simple? Were his ob¬ servations not reliable beyond doubt, and could they not very easily be repeated and varied? The theory of the functions of isolated an¬ alyzers and of the temporal connections of new pathways corre¬ sponded in its simplicity with the pattern of the experiments; it seemed directly deduced from the observations, and with it the whole theoretical interpretation of psychic life. The rapid spread of the theory favored by the intellectual climate

32

Critique of the Doctrine of Conditioned Reflexes

of that period was in no small degree due to Pavlov’s personality. His literary publications testify indeed to the passionate enthusi¬ asm of the researcher, to his unswerving belief in the metaphysi¬ cal truth of the natural sciences. His description of the experiments, the protocols which are quoted whenever they are of importance, impress us as the very testaments of complete reliability. There is above all the constant effort not to gloss over any difficulties, no¬ where to evade embarrassing questions, never to deceive or dupe the reader. All this lends a captivating authority to the dry and repeti¬ tive presentation of Pavlov, reaching far beyond any effects of cun¬ ning and cleverness. We call this influence captivating because the reader—caught by the personal straightforwardness of the author rather than by his arguments—finally comes to the conclusion that Pavlov’s theory must be as true and objective as are his observations. And it is exactly the acceptance of his theory which lends promi¬ nence to the whole doctrine. For only thus, as a definite interpreta¬ tion of the essence of life and ultimately of the essence of man, does it concern all of us. Without the theoretical interpretation, Pavlov’s findings would have been of interest only to some specialists, to the physiologist of nutrition, or to a limited group of clinicians. It is the theory which elevates the doctrine to the supreme level; the the¬ ory consecrates the findings. ' The convinced follower of Pavlov will therefore vigorously reject that separation of observation and interpretation which appears to me justified and necessary. For he will probably argue as follows: (1) there is a possibility of purely objective observations and de¬ scriptions, free from any presuppositions; (2) Pavlov’s experimental design is simple and perfectly lucid; (3) the theory directly follows, as an evident generalization from the results obtained by the experi¬ ments; (4) these results, carried through in all possible variations and verified in each case, provide ever-renewed proof of the theory. But all these assumptions, every one of them, are inconclusive. If, therefore, someone transfers Pavlov’s doctrine, as a heuristic hypothesis, to new fields of science, for instance, to psychology, pedagogy, or sociology, he acts like a man signing an insurance policy without first reading the fine print. Such a man may believe: There is nothing to it; I pay my premiums and, in case of a fire, the insur¬ ance company will pay for the damage. But when things become serious, he will be grieved to discover that the schema he thought so simple is charged with a series of additional provisions. The same holds true for the theory of conditioned reflexes. The basic phenomenon from which Pavlov started is a phenomenon well

THEORY AND OBSERVATION IN PAVLOV’S WORK

3S

known to all of us. At one time or another everyone has had the experience of having the sight of some tasty dish make his mouth water. It is quite another question whether this very familiar phe¬ nomenon can also be as easily comprehended. We must be on guard not to take for granted phenomena which we ourselves produce at ease, and without intent. They remain unproblematic only as long as we have not yet made an effort to understand them. By no means self-evident but highly problematic indeed is the very first step which Pavlov takes on the road to the exploration of observable behavior. For he divides the phenomenon of approach¬ ing into two separate and only extraneously connected processes: that of the conditioned, and that of the unconditioned, reflex. But in splitting the temporal continuum of approach into two discrete moments he has already conjured up all the questions that we will have to examine. Obviously, Pavlov himself did not recognize the matter at hand in his field of inquiry. Rather, he relied upon tradi¬ tional doctrines, confiding in them as the natural methods of ob¬ servation. All further steps of exploration are already predetermined thereby. The fission of the integral phenomenon of approaching into two essentially autonomous processes enables Pavlov to turn his full at¬ tention to the variability of the “stimuli of conditioned reflexes.” Their variability is indeed highly surprising and, in some cases, ac¬ tually amazing. For one can train some dogs to react to ellipses with a selected proportion of diameters serving as optical “signals.” How¬ ever, this possibility of turning each and every thing into a stimulus of the conditioned reflexes is entirely a function of the milieu of Pavlov’s laboratory. Only in these surroundings do Pavlov’s experi¬ ments prove successful. One must not forget that, after having been prepared for the experiments by the opening of a saliva-fistula, experimental animals are kept for the duration of the experiment in an environment com¬ pletely at variance with their natural surroundings. The laboratory is hermetically sealed off from the external world. No light gets in from the outside, no noise penetrates its walls, there are no scents; nothing happens there. The animal is a captive in an atmosphere of uniform, immutable silence. After some days allowed for adapta¬ tion, the experiments are started. The animals are tied to a frame on the table, the registering apparatuses are attached, and the dog is left all by himself in the deadly silence of the laboratory box. From an adjacent room, the experimenter observes the animals without their being aware of this situation. All “stimuli” are applied to the

34

Critique of the Doctrine of Conditioned Reflexes

animal by way of mechanical devices. Every imaginable care has been taken to exclude any changes in the laboratory room; this, in Pavlov’s terminology, means that all stimuli which the experimenter does not want to apply in this particular instance are eliminated. The Pavlovian laboratories are characterized by a complete mo¬ notony and barrenness which prevails (and must prevail) if the ex¬ periment is to succeed. In such surroundings, any sound acquires a significance quite different from that which it would have in the natural environment with its changing lights, noises, and scents, populated by humans, animals, and things in motion. But are we at all justified in speaking of significance? This, indeed, is here a decisive question. According to Pavlov, we are not entitled to use that term. To him, the so-called monotony appears as nothing but a number of individual stimuli comparatively small in relation to the objective duration of the experiment. But now it is our turn to ask: How can this interpretation of monotony be accepted? Is it permissible? What are its unexplored implications? Must we not talk about significance? Are stimuli nothing but isolated excitations of sensory organs? For the time being, I cannot yet answer these questions. I want to stress, however, that the setting of the laboratory is not an indiffer¬ ent arrangement to be evaluated in merely technical terms. These so-called preparatory requirements of the experiment present funda¬ mental problems in themselves. It is important to realize that Pavlov interprets all modifications of the situation as individual stimuli. For this, too, is an interpre¬ tation of the phenomena fraught with consequences and not at all a matter of course. The insufficient analysis and account of the milieu of the laboratory, together with an erroneous theory of ab¬ straction, lead to the “physiological” theorem of the irradiation and concentration of excitation. Also, only under the peculiar conditions of this laboratory can sleep be experimentally produced in the way Pavlov described it. It would indeed be daring to deduce from these observations a general theory of sleep. Later on, I will have to examine why Pavlov neglected the par¬ ticular conditions of his experiments upon which he based his the¬ ory. At this moment, I want to emphasize above all that the belief in a lucid pattern of the experimental design is not borne out by the facts. The simplicity is but a superficial one. It owes its sham existence to a scotoma for the actual problems, resulting in a naive anticipation of theoretical decisions. Among the great number of supplementary conditions indis-

THEORY AND OBSERVATION IN PAVLOV’S WORK

35

pensable to the successful establishment of conditioned reflexes, one needs to be mentioned here: it is the temporal relation between conditioned and unconditioned stimuli. Pavlov’s experiments have shown that the conditioned stimulus must always precede the oc¬ currence of the unconditioned response. Only then, when an optical or an acoustical signal precedes the feeding a number of times, can a conditioned reflex be formed. Pav¬ lov himself reports that many hundreds of repetitions did not pro¬ duce a conditioned reflex when the respective signals were applied during or after the feeding. But a conditioned reflex could be in¬ duced through a few applications of the same stimuli, provided that they preceded the feeding. We are confronted here with the phenom¬ enon of a definite temporal order and direction, a phenomenon to which we attribute fundamental significance. In a French treatise on psychology,1 Pieron, nevertheless, de¬ scribes the formation of a conditioned reflex as follows: “Un chien re^oit dans la bouche de la poudre de viande, qui le fait saliver. En meme temps (sic) on lui fait entendre un son de diapason, ou on projette sur lui de la lumi^re, ou encore on lui gratte la peau.” Obviously, this description is incorrect at a decisive point. A con¬ ditioned response fails to occur when the sound of a trumpet is sounded simultaneously with the feeding. It is true that Pieron is not the only one who shows little concern in this respect. Pavlov also oc¬ casionally refers to the simultaneity of the stimuli, but only after having unambiguously stated at the beginning that the conditioned stimulus has to come first. Descriptions, such as given by Pieron and others, may well lead to the unwarranted assumption that condi¬ tioned reflexes are phenomena which could be interpreted according to Gestalt principles. However, the qui-pro-quo which carelessly turns sequence into simultaneity conceals the phenomenon of direc¬ tion and approach so significant for a formulation of the problem. Pavlov’s physiology grows out of a universal atomistics; it rests upon an atomistic interpretation, as well, of such phenomena as ap¬ proach, modification, and direction. Any physiology of the human central nervous system is highly hypothetical. But Pavlov’s theory in¬ deed surpasses almost any other by the number of its unverified hy¬ potheses. Any physiology of the central nervous system must simply admit propositions already established in physics and chemistry, anatomy, and general biology, and above all in psychology. True, not every individual science can return with its questions to the very be¬ ginning. Happily, the specialist restricts himself to the work within the confines of his own field. But if one undertakes to explain soul

36

Critique of the Doctrine of Conditioned Reflexes

and mind, life and consciousness, in physiological terms, and if any¬ one gives such radical answers as does Pavlov, he must first have raised the fundamental questions. Pavlov, however, accepts with an astonishing naivet^ some concepts of physics as the universal cate¬ gories of his explanation of the world. These are concepts, it must be said, of elementary physics as it has been taught during the past cen¬ tury in high schools and presented to medical students in universi¬ ties. With such armament, Pavlov at the same time feels prepared to construct a physiology of the brain and an objective psychology. He considers these categories to be self-evident: he does not realize the problematic character of his primitive physics. This alone accounts for the fact that he could label “objective” a psychology which is based on a crude reduction of the phenomenally given, a psychology which ignores the content of experience. For “to investigate objec¬ tively” means here to think and to speak in concepts of physics. It means nothing else but to penetrate the deceptive appearance of the phenomena and to press forward to their supposedly true essence, namely, the physical mechanisms. Finally, this objective psychology claims to be a simple description of facts. Yet any description is already theory. The very language we learn dictates a definite interpretation of the world. We see the world through the medium of language, and this language is that of our parents. It is also the language of our generation; it binds us to tradi¬ tion. Not only is the scientific interpretation of the world tied to the past through scientific language and terminology. Prescientific, every¬ day interpretation shares the same tradition. In the course of cen¬ turies, everyday interpretation of the world has gradually been shaped according to current scientific interpretation. The dogmas of grandparents become the facts of current common sense. Anyone ad¬ dicted to pure description is particularly bound by the dogmatics of the past. If, during the second half of the last century, the common¬ place interpretation of the world had not already been thoroughly mechanistic, Pavlov could hardly have thought his physicalism to be such a self-evident theory, nor could he have attracted so many fol¬ lowers. Pavlov did not realize that his theory was not the beginning but the end of a long development of Western thinking. Any theory, even the most complex one, is still bound to the ver¬ nacular. Again and again, at important points, a theory uses ex¬ pressions from everyday language, thinking, and writing, without giving an account of their exact meaning. The meanings of expres¬ sions are rendered in approximations, just so far that colloquial understanding is possible. This will do in everyday life where speak-

GENERAL PRESUPPOSITIONS

37

ing primarily subserves understanding, but not comprehension, of a subject matter among men. Because scientific knowledge cannot limit itself to mere conversational understanding, because it must go be¬ yond this—indeed away from it and toward the comprehension of the subject matter—science has to develop a language of its own which cannot always be pleasing or generally “intelligible.” How easily do we understand each other when we use expressions like “new,” “suddenly,” or “in between”? How difficult it is, however, to grasp their exact meaning or to set forth the nature of an experience in which something appears as new or sudden, or which enables us to grasp the relationship “in between.” In our daily life we allude to facts generally familiar but not understood. In science we demand an intelligible elucidation of the facts; we pass from mere demonstra¬ tion to explication. We shall see how Pavlov, by a merely demon¬ strative use of certain expressions, entirely missed some very important problems. Ease of communication concealed the difficulty of comprehension. The following detailed presentation of Pavlov’s general presup¬ positions and the difficulties incurred will confirm that his theory is not, as he claims, objective and empirical, but on the contrary totally permeated by unexamined metaphysical and epistemologic assump¬ tions. Pavlov exemplifies well the thesis that those who cry loudest against philosophy are most often the victims of naive philosophical speculation.

GB.

General Presuppositions

(a) Metaphysical Rationalism THE CRITIQUE OF PAVLOV’S THEORY WILL SERVE TO DEVELOP MY

own conception of the essence of sensing by contrasting it with a highly mechanistic theory. This critique of Pavlov’s general presup-

38

Critique of the Doctrine of Conditioned Reflexes

positions is meant to be at the same time a critique of the presupposi¬ tions of any atomistic theory of sensation. Pavlov is very outspoken about these issues. However, these presuppositions are not his alone —they represent neither his personal merit nor his personal failing. Rather, they have been passed on to him from the past, by many di¬ rect and indirect ways. Our critique of the general presuppositions is, finally, a criticism of Pavlov’s naive natural philosophy and meta¬ physics. Pavlov has gained world fame not as a biologist but as a meta¬ physician. Brain-anatomical and brain-physiological discoveries have not been wanting during the last decades. Among them are some which can be considered first-rate scientific achievements. But fa¬ miliarity with the names of the authors and acquaintance with their discoveries is limited to a small circle of specialists. If Pavlov’s theory had been purely neurophysiological, one could undertake to enumer¬ ate the names of the genuinely interested experts. I repeat, then; it is Pavlov the metaphysician who is widely praised. Indeed, the recog¬ nition of Pavlov’s theory and official endorsement by the present Russian government is due to its philosophical materialism and not to any hypotheses concerning ganglion cells or nerve tracts and their connections. Pavlov would no doubt have fought tooth and nail against the “reproach” of being a nature philosopher and metaphysician. There¬ fore, before I prove my assertion indirectly by uncovering his gen¬ eral presuppositions, I wish to make quite sure that in many passages Pavlov revealed his metaphysical tendencies without any reserve. He clearly expressed that the goal of all the work in which he en¬ gaged since the turn of the century was to create a physiology of the brain, based on strictly objective observations. Physics, especially me¬ chanics and chemistry, ought to serve as the methodological pxototype and as the objective basis of this physiology. From psychology, nothing was to be expected; strict objectivity ruled out any leaning to psychology, including even the use of psychological concepts and terms. It would be a reversal of the actual relation, Pavlov held, to make a physiology of the cerebrum dependent upon psychology. As for the relationship of these two sciences, it was physiology which gave and psychology which received. By solving the problem, by com¬ pleting the physiology of the highest nervous activity, it would be possible to “explain those phenomena so obscure to us, which run their course within us.”1 Should psychic life turn out to be explicable in mechanistic terms, and should this explanation bring to completion the task of

GENERAL PRESUPPOSITIONS

39

psychology, then psychic life must be mechanical. That, indeed, is Pavlov’s opinion. At first it may appear that the rejection of psychol¬ ogy and the founding of physiology upon mechanics is to conform to methodological and epistemological considerations, but it soon be¬ comes obvious that Pavlov’s mode of research is determined by meta¬ physical assumptions. “Those manifestations of life which are termed psychic—and this holds also in the objective observation of animals —are to be distinguished from purely physiological phenomena only by their complexity. But then does it make any difference whether one distinguishes them from the simpler physiological manifestations by calling them ‘psychic’ or ‘neurally complex’?”2 Pavlov therefore does not hesitate to speak of the living substance, nor to identify the organism in its environmental relations with the physical body and in its conditions of equilibrium. From mechanical motion to tropism, from tropism to animal motion, and from animal motion to human action is but a gradual progression. It is a series of increasing com¬ plexity. “For are not the movements of a plant toward light and the searching for truth by means of mathematical analysis both phenom¬ ena belonging to one and the same order? Do they not form the extreme links of an almost infinite chain of adaptations as they arise everywhere in the living world?”3 Pavlov’s basic metaphysical view leads to two consequences. Real being is grasped by physics. Physical science has not only the merits of exactitude and objectivity, it also apprehends reality. The subjec¬ tive, the psychic, is depreciated accordingly. The results of psychol¬ ogy are not only less exact and less objective, they do not even represent reality; the psychic is a world of appearances which must be explained by physics. From the very beginning, Pavlov puts his trust in the possibility of subjecting psychic life to “engineering” by means of objective research. “Guided by the similarity or identity of various kinds of manifestations, science will sooner or later apply the accrued results of objective research to our subjective world and will thus, quite suddenly, brightly illuminate our nature which is now veiled by darkness. It will illuminate the mechanism and life-value of that which most concerns and binds man, the mechanism of his spiritual life and torments.”4 In this manner, Pavlov already described in his first publication (1903) the goal of his new investigations. Reviewing the results of twenty years of research, he exulted in strangely chiliastic prophesy: “As my work progressed, my doubts disappeared one by one—and now I am absolutely and inexorably convinced that chiefly here, on this very path, will be realized the final triumph of the human intel-

4o

Critique of the Doctrine of Conditioned Reflexes

lect over his highest and holiest problem, the triumph in the task of understanding the mechanism and laws of human nature. And only thus can arise the true, the full, and secure happiness of man. May the intellect of man celebrate one triumph after another over allencompassing nature; may it not only conquer the entire hard surface of the earth for its own human life and activity but also gain the waters with their tides, and the air space which encloses the globe; may it for its manifold ends hurl vast charges of energy from one point of the earth to another, annihilating the obstacles of space and time; this and much more. But this same human nature with this same intellect, should it be guided by undefined obscure powers dwelling within its own boundaries, can only lead itself into unfore¬ seen material losses and unspeakable suffering in wars and revolu¬ tions with all the accompanying terrors that breed bestiality and brutality among men. Only the youngest science, only it, shall rescue man from the prevailing darkness and the present outrage in the sphere of interhuman relations.”5 Thus mankind is to be saved by conditioned reflexes. Pavlov ap¬ parently does not see that he seeks to improve the present brutality of interpersonal relations by an even worse brutality, namely by that of mechanical training which would destroy humanity altogether, to¬ gether with freedom and moral responsibility. Let us hope therefore, that we are spared these wonders of training. But let us not forget either that what emerges as Pavlov’s later vision is already planned in its foundations. Man can become happy by mechanization only because he himself is nothing but a complex structure of mech¬ anisms, a thing among things: so says Pavlov.

Elimination of the Phenomenal 1. The Secondary Qualities. Wherever one opens Pavlov’s sum¬ mary of his work, one finds him speaking of dogs again and again. The dogs are often described with quite a bit of wit, presented as in¬ dividuals with their own names. We learn of their temperament. We hear that they are frightened or shy, aggressive or friendly. We find, in addition, descriptions of how one blows a trumpet in front of the animals or flashes a sign before them, how they are subjected to pain, and how they are fed. The casual reader might easily think that Pavlov is concerned with dogs who hear tones and noises, see colors, figures, and lights, who sniff scents and feel pain. But that is not the case. Pavlov, it is

GENERAL PRESUPPOSITIONS

41

true, speaks of a dog who hears, but what he actually means is an organ of Corti excited by sound waves. He speaks of a dog who sees this or that, but what he really means is a retina which is excited by light. He speaks also of “pain-sensations located in the skin” of the animals, but here he means the receptors of sensory nerves which are excited mechanically or by warming, cooling, or faradization. Nor is eating considered an action of the animal. Eating is a sum total of reflex motions, released by the chemical and mechanical con¬ tacts of the mucous membranes of the mouth with certain substances. The action of eating is composed of individual, separate muscular contractions and of the secretions of the salivary glands. To speak of reactions of dogs to colors and sounds, of seeing and hearing, of eating and other activities, is for Pavlov merely a make¬ shift device by which he can make himself understood more quickly. In reality, the whole phenomenal world is to be done away with once and for all—such is the demand of objective psychology. The world we live in, which appears to us full of color and sound, is nothing but a somehow ordered interpenetration of countless physical processes. Objective psychology understands the world as a sum total of individual occurrences, processes which take place around the animal, some of which affect the so-called sense organs. The nervous system of the animal is a complicated aggregate: in its sensory part a group of cells and conductors sensitive to light, sound, and pressure. Indeed, the whole dog is nothing but a biological ap¬ paratus, which again reminds us that Pavlov, like Freud, expected that, one day in the future, physics and chemistry would provide a complete explanation of all the processes of psychic life. Pavlov does not doubt that, instead of “seeing,” one could—in¬ deed must—say, “excitation of the retina.” For if one equates seeing with the excitation of the retina, then the left side of this equation— or, actually, nonequation—expresses the subjective, provisional, de¬ ceptive, while the right side expresses the objective, the final, true, and real. And who would not, had he the choice, choose the betterl Pavlov completely disregards the fact that the distinction between experiencing and physiological process is most ambiguously and in¬ adequately expressed by the distinction between the subjective and the objective. Nor does he realize that, before eliminating the phe¬ nomenal and reinterpreting and replacing it by mechanical proc¬ esses, one must at least examine the structure of the phenomenal and of the cf>aiveo0r

Sg.

From the ear E runs a centripetal excitation 1 to the acoustic center A; from there a centrifugal excitation 2 moves to the subcortical “feeding center” F. At almost the same moment a centripetal im-

GENERAL PRESUPPOSITIONS

55

pulse 3 arrives there which has been released through the mechan¬ ical or chemical stimulation of the mucous membranes of the mouth M caused by the intake of food. From the “feeding center” there consequently runs an impulse 4 to the salivary glands Sg and the masticatory muscles. The processes MF, FSg belong together by “na¬ ture”; they constitute an unconditioned reflex. The impulse AF is in¬ duced by F’s own excitation, for the excitation moves, strangely enough, from the sensory field A to the “feeding center” F only when the latter has already been excited. One excitation, it seems, has been attracted by another excitation. Because of frequent repetition of the coupled stimuli, a synaptic link has been established which thereafter enables an excitation arriving at A presently to proceed to F immediately. There it excites the inert center F and produces the process 4: FSg. Originally the conditioned reflex consists of four parts, two cen¬ tripetal and two centrifugal processes. In the fully established reflex, one part has been omitted, and the completed conditioned reflex is made up of three separate parts—not related to each other by na¬ ture in their functions. If one were to claim that it is, after all, the same excitation which runs from E to A and continues from A to F and finally from F to Sg so that there must be some inner connec¬ tion, one would be deceived by a poor simile. The term “path” sug¬ gests something running on these paths like a railroad car runs on its tracks. But it need not be stated that an excitation is not some material movable thing traveling from E to A, turning there to F and finally arriving at Sg. Nevertheless, when reading Pavlov’s writ¬ ings one often gains the impression that he does not think of or¬ ganic structures which are stimulated, but rather takes excitations to be oddly material phenomena. Pavlov’s theory comes thus even closer to the Cartesian physiology and its mechanics of the animal spirits. In many modern buildings, we find escalators which do not move continuously. They are set in motion by the user himself without his actual purposive action. Approaching the staircase the passenger interrupts an invisible light beam. Thereby, the electrical conduc¬ tivity is altered in a machine part sensitive to light. A current is automatically closed, a motor starts, and the escalator is put into motion. All these events, beginning with the passenger moving toward the escalator and ending with the release of the machinery, although intelligently connected by a pre-arranged plan, have nothing to do with each other.13 No more intimate connection, according to Pav-

56

Critique of the Doctrine of Conditioned Reflexes

lov, exists between the hearing of sound and the secretion of saliva, that is, the processes 1 and 4 of the conditioned reflex.

(g) Temporal Succession and Temporal Unity I will use an additional example to test the validity of Pavlov’s chronological presuppositions. Let us assume we are listen¬ ing to a piece of music reproduced on a pianola. While the hammers of the clavichord are set in motion as required by the instruction of the composition, the processes serving the mechanical reproduction of sounds are so many independent events. When the notes of the second bar are played, those of the first bar have irretrievably gone. Each note has its particular place in objective time. The event A excludes the events B and C.14 When B occurs, A has already hap¬ pened, and C has not yet come about. While the sounds are produced one after the other and reach our ear one after the other, we nevertheless hear this one-after-the-other as a unified sequence. This unity is not the product of a blending of the notes, nor does it consist of a series of neighborhood rela¬ tions connecting each tone with the preceding and the following one. The unity extends over the whole. It does not originate through a combination of the sound actually present with that which just faded. Nor is it created with the help of memory out of the temporal flux as something static, comparable to the score. We apprehend the unity already while listening; it is not constructed in retrospect. Even an unmusical person is capable of noticing an untimely end of the piece, caused accidentally by some fault in the mech¬ anism. We hear the unity already in anticipation of what is to come. From the physical point of view, a sudden break in a melody is equal to the end at the presumedly correct place, but not so for our listening. We notice the incompleteness, that is, we experience the unity as a whole unfolding in time. In order words, we organize our experience as becoming beings. Attending a concert, we do not listen enraptured for half an hour to tones which sound one after the other to finally acknowledge after the last chord has died down: “This, now, has been a symphony.” No, we hear the symphony al¬ ready from the very beginning, the first bar as a unity striving for completion. It is in the same way that we understand a spoken or

GENERAL PRESUPPOSITIONS

57

printed sentence from the first word as a whole in the process of being completed (an accomplishment deranged in certain forms of dyslexia). We can comprehend them as a growing whole if in any given time interval we experience the particular data as something incomplete (unganz). Such apprehension is possible only because we, as living, becoming, beings experience ourselves in a state of becoming. I consider music to be the best example for the unfolding of a unity in the sequence of one-after-the-other, because music is more closely tied to the material sound than the meaning of a sentence to the material nature of the word. The meaning of a sentence can be detached from the words insofar as different words, words of am other language, can replace the words used originally. The content of a speech can be “epitomized” and reported. Music, on the other hand, demands a definite, not reversible, succession of sounds; it demands rhythmic and dynamic precision. It can be neither sum¬ marized nor reported. Nevertheless, music can be recorded and re¬ produced. While the mechanism runs off and we hear the opus, we grasp its unity and its intrinsic value. The mechanism is there, but so is the unity and the intrinsic value of the work. The question is whether this unity can be ex¬ plained by the one-after-the-other of the mechanism. We know how Pavlov and the objective psychologists deal with this question. They maintain that an explanation is possible and that they are able to give it. I reject the explanation of objective psychology as inade¬ quate, and I intend to prove its failure by the very findings of ob¬ jective psychology. Let us therefore leave the sphere of pure sound and proceed to the zoo where we hear the hoarse roar of hungry animals waiting to be fed. Anyone who has watched the feeding of these beasts of prey will recall how they become restless long before the fixed time, how this restlessness increases when the keeper comes closer with the meat cart, how the animals one after the other stand up and wildly reach through the bars with their claws for the pieces of meat, which are dangled before them on a fork. Should we ask children watching the scene why the animals were so restless a short time ago, they may well answer that the animals had been hungry and were waiting for the feeding, that the smell and the creaking of the meat cart made them aware that feeding time was near. Should we now continue to ask, “Why did the lion draw himself to full length and put his claws through the bars?” the children would probably fall into suspicious silence, confronted with such a silly question. But then, these are

58

Critique of the Doctrine of Conditioned Reflexes

children who have not yet heard of objective psychology and who do not know that this question is by no means silly but indeed very difficult to answer; in fact, so difficult that not even grownups have an answer to it. A minute ago the children smiled at the man with the silly question, and now it is the psychologist’s turn to smile at the children’s naive reply: “Waiting,” “Approaching”; for these are anthropomorphic expressions which exact science cannot admit to its vocabulary. The noise of the cart wheels does not come closer. At a given moment—we will call it tx—acoustic waves reach the ear of an ani¬ mal and finally stimulate the acoustic center, an excitation which transmitted to the motor region causes at a given moment t2 contrac¬ tions of several muscles. In everyday parlance, we describe such a complex of muscle contractions as a “jumping about” and interpret it as a sign of psychic restlessness. The objective psychologist, how¬ ever, ought not to maintain seriously that hunting animals look for, chase, and capture game. Such is the nature of its nervous system that the excitation of the nervus olfactorius so influences the motor apparatus of the animal that it is turned in the direction of the olfac¬ tory stream and the animal body is moved from places of lesser den¬ sity to places of greater density and intensity of scents until it finally falls upon the prey. One can no longer speak of scenting, chasing, expecting. All movements are mechanical processes of motion re¬ leased by preceding sensory excitations. The explanation of the behavior which caught our particular attention, which was the moment when the lion reared up and reached for the prey, has to follow the same line. Here, too, the objective psychologist must not speak of an animal grasping and reaching for food. Nothing of the sort is to be found in objective psychology. When a piece of meat was offered to the lion, the light beams hitting its retina caused an optical excitation, which through synaptic connections with centrifugal pathways produced a contrac¬ tion of the erectors of the trunk. Consecutive optical impressions caused the forelegs to be stretched forward through the bars and to make contact with the meat. In this manner, objective psychology, that is, mechanicallyoriented physiology, has tried since Descartes to explain regulated motion, or the moving of oneself. But if the mechanistic theory is wrong, and wrong in principle, what principles are to replace those used by objective psychology so that we may arrive at a better and truer understanding of the phenomena? Naive common opinion holds, just as did the children, that the

GENERAL PRESUPPOSITIONS

59

animals expect the arrival of food. Objective psychology, allowing only for a succession of single moments, rejects this commonplace opinion. I dispute the correctness of the time-atomistic way of think¬ ing and draw again near to everyday opinion. I maintain that the turning of one’s attention, and aiming, grasping, approaching, are phenomena which do not come about by a combination of single processes and that they can therefore not be explained by such an aggregate. Because we hold these afore-mentioned phenomena to be basic phenomena for a being which in sensing and moving is di¬ rected toward its world, there arises the need to discuss the spatial and temporal order appertaining to sensing and moving. To demonstrate how profoundly the physical and the physiolog¬ ical order of space and time differs from the one we are looking for here, we need only to point out: 1. In the process of approaching, the point toward which I am directed becomes meaningful and effective as a goal as long as I have not yet reached it. Whatever it may be, it could not constitute a goal were it not for the fact of my “not yet being there.” This “not yet” is attributed to the goal even when it has already come in sight. This phenomenon of “not yet” appears only in the basic context of the changeability of becoming. Thus the space-time order and ar¬ ticulation characteristic of a sensing and moving being differs radically from that order of space and time in which physics and physiology conceive corporeal events. 2. In the psychology of the nineteenth century, the problem of so-called outward projection has been thoroughly discussed. The reasons which might cause the soul “to project in an interpretive fashion and objectivate” the excitations and sensations which arise in the organism (Lotze) have been pondered over. The same ques¬ tion must be asked, in an even more pointed form, with reference to temporality. Suppose that I am reaching for a piece of paper which lies at a short distance in front of me. I reach for the paper. That means that I have seen this white something and that I am still seeing it. But as a scientist I know that, when I see something, light beams reflected from the visible object have already reached my retina and made an “impression” on my nervous system, for it is an axiom of the theory of reflexes that the centripetal process pre¬ cedes in time the muscular movement, which in our case produces the effect of reaching. Thus I am quasi-reaching into the past. The same condition obviously prevails in all voluntary movements. This proposition, however, is paradoxical. Strictly speaking, it contradicts everyday experience. The question of whether this paradox can be

6o

Critique of the Doctrine of Conditioned Reflexes

solved and the method which might be used to solve it will have to be examined. But that the problem arises proves that the space-time order of physics may not be immediately transferred to psychology. It furthermore proves that the true space-time form of psychic life is still a subject to be explored, and that finally the problem of the relation between the two orders has to be discussed.

(h) The Mosaic Theory Until now we have dealt with presuppositions which were either not recognized by Pavlov and had first to be unearthed or, although of a highly problematic nature, were considered by him to be self-evident. In the following paragraph, we will discuss some of his ideas regarding the structure and function of the nervous system as they are explicitly formulated in Pavlov’s publications. Pavlov depicts the nervous system of the mammals and of man as composed of a great number of elementary formations which ascend from the periphery to the central organ and from there descend again to the periphery. The anatomic units are at the same time physiological units; they are in their centripetal part “an¬ alyzers.” Each analyzer is tuned to one specific, physically-defined excitation.15 Corresponding to the anatomic and physiological or¬ ganization of the analyzers, the centers have the structure of a “mosaic.” Numerous paths lead from the terminals of the analy¬ zers to the origin of the centrifugal fibers. These pathways are partly determined by nature; in addition, there exist numerous other tracts which will be opened by use, in a definite temporary organization, to the varying demands of the traffic. The pathways, firmly estab¬ lished by nature, are those of the unconditioned reflexes. The con¬ ditioned reflexes come about by the temporary connection of variable pathways. Pavlov describes the pattern like a kind of switch box which is regulated mainly in the sensory terminals. He emphasizes “that the centre point of the nervous activities must be looked for in the very receptive part of the central stage.”16 “The centrifugal part of the reflex-tracts, however, as can easily be imagined, is merely a performing part; the same muscles may be used for a thousand different purposes, each time decided by the activity of the receptor apparatus; the latter determines the combination into which the cells of this or that motor nerve have to enter.” The cerebral hemis¬ pheres enact “an analysis and a synthesis of the impulses flowing to-

GENERAL PRESUPPOSITIONS

6l

wards them.” “The cerebral cortex breaks down the whole com¬ plexity of the outer world into extraordinarily fine fragments, and reunites them again into new complexes, connecting them by condi¬ tioned temporary tracts to this or that unconditioned activity, be it a motor, a secretory, a vasomotor or a sexual one, etc.” The model for this conception of the nervous system has been furnished by technology, that is, the system of a telephone network with its central station, its isolated lines, and the manifold possi¬ bilities of single connections. Let me stress again that Pavlov con¬ siders the stimulus to be physically determined. The same physical stimulus is supposed to be always answered by the same physiological reaction. How far this principle of constancy can be upheld, and to what extent it has been disproved by the results of sense psychology, has been thoroughly stated by Kohler long ago. Pavlov, however, took little notice of objections founded on principles. Stubbornly clinging to his mechanistic hypothesis, he disregarded everything that psychology had ascertained by its observations on human beings. There are good reasons to separate animal psychology from human psychology and to avoid rash generalizations and transferences from one department into the other. On the other hand, one cannot sim¬ ply ignore sense psychology and form one’s own arbitrary hypotheses about the function of the nervous system. After all, nobody would think of racing the Twentieth Century Limited in a stagecoach. Pavlov labels and interprets the conditioned reflex as a signal; in my opinion, quite correctly. But he assumes that this signal is made up of two parts. I stress this fact at the end of this chapter because I am going to discuss in the following chapter the threefold organ¬ ization of the signal. The signal resulting from the connection of two processes—conditioned and unconditioned reflex—is, according to Pavlov, something new. This, too, we will have to bear in mind. My critique of the general presuppositions has been extensive. But the blame for the copiousness of its argument should not be laid entirely at my door. It is, rather, caused by the extraordinary claim of Pavlov’s doctrine to offer a complete and final explanation of the psychic and intellectual life of man and animal. Weighed against this claim, the critique of the presuppositions is barely sufficient and in no way exhaustive. With an incarnate empiricist, criticism of the presuppositions will find no favor anyhow, whether it be long and explicit or if it contents itself with brief outlines. Against any examination of the presuppositions, the empiricist will emphasize the experiments, their conclusiveness, and their usefulness. But of what value are Pavlov’s

62

Critique of the Doctrine of Conditioned Reflexes

many thousand experiments in themselves detached from their the¬ ory? Who, in all the world, cares about whether or not a dog lost a few drops of saliva after hearing the sound of a trumpet? I repeat, therefore: Only the theoretical interpretation bestows meaning and value upon the experiments. Therefore, it is not superfluous but indeed essential to investigate whether the theory is compatible with the principles of scientific understanding and the basic facts of psychological knowledge. I have tried to do that very thing in this chapter. In doing so, I grew very doubtful as to whether the fun¬ daments of Pavlov’s theory were strong enough to support the whole edifice. I will still have to investigate whether the theory adapts it¬ self easily and smoothly to the observations, or whether makeshifts are necessary again and again in order to make the theory fit the findings.

C.

Some Difficulties

Confronting the Application of Pavlov’s Theory ONE SPEAKS OF DIFFICULTIES MET IN THE CONSTRUCTION OF A

theory when within its sphere of jurisdiction phenomena are ob¬ served which the theory fails to explain without supplementary hypotheses. Each ad hoc invented hypothesis diminishes the value of a theory, even if such additions can he brought into accord with the initial proposition. Yet, a theorist may by his own observations be forced to assumptions which no longer tally with his axioms. Such is the case with the theory of the conditioned reflexes. Pavlov’s re¬ search has brought to light findings which strictly contradict his original presuppositions. Nevertheless, the findings are facts, and as

DIFFICULTIES IN THE APPLICATION OF PAVLOV’S THEORY

63

such, they require a complete, unequivocal theory. If Pavlov’s origi¬ nal theory does not do justice to his findings, it must be replaced by a different one. On the following pages, I will discuss some of the difficulties which challenge Pavlov’s theory. I do not claim to offer a critique complete in every item. Insofar as we can show the inade¬ quacy of the theory in significant examples, there is no need to go into all details.

Orientation The difficulties manifest themselves from the very beginning of the experiments, for it turns out that the dogs must not be sub¬ jected to training as soon as they have been brought into the labora¬ tory. If this rule is not observed, frequent repetition is of no avail; no conditioned reflex comes about. The animals must first get used to the laboratory and feel at ease in the unaccustomed surroundings. The objective psychologist will not simply acknowledge this fact, for the animal organism is supposed to be an apparatus, not essen¬ tially different from a machine built by the hand of man. But are there any machines which have to adjust themselves to new sur¬ roundings?1 Pavlov tries to explain the need for acclimatization through the mechanistic concepts of reflexology. The formation of conditioned reflexes is inhibited by disturbing stimuli. In the ani¬ mals which have just been brought into the laboratory, orientation reflexes have become effective. Orientation reflexes are reflexes of a most peculiar kind. They are also called “what-is-that” reflexes. But are reflexes which ask ques¬ tions—reflexes which try to orient themselves—reflexes at all? Is questioning itself compatible with the principle of reflex? Pavlov would perhaps reply that the designation of a “what-isthat” reflex was used only as a joke. But are not all jokes ultimately meant very seriously? In our context, too, the interrogative form does not appear accidentally. Orientation reflexes are unconditioned reflexes. Which stimulus corresponds to them? The answer is: “The new” is the stimulus of the orientation reflexes. If so, we have to ask, is “the new” a legiti¬ mate concept of physics? Since only actual, single processes occur in the physical world, there cannot be anything new. The concept of the “new” is not a physical, but an historical notion. It refers to the

64

Critique of the Doctrine of Conditioned Reflexes

individual life history of a becoming being; it refers to experiences and not to events. The orientation reflexes manifest another strange quality not compatible with the original concept of a reflex. They become ex¬ tinct, although they are unconditioned reflexes. Most surprisingly they become extinct through the repetition of the stimuli. To explain these phenomena, Pavlov, even at the beginning of his investigations, is forced to introduce the concept of inhibition. Inhibition supposedly rests on excitation of a partial system of the nerve machine, which either prevents the functioning of other par¬ tial systems or stops those which are already active. For the orienta¬ tion reflexes disturb the formation of the conditioned reflexes. The function of conditioned reflexes in dogs whose training has already been concluded can in a similar way again be arrested; for instance, by the pressure of a filled bladder or by the sight of another dog which has been brought into the laboratory. Pavlov does not take into consideration at all that a difference of reactions may depend on disparity between the parts of behavior and the total behavior, on a modification of the basic situation which provides a specific physiognomy and validity to each aspect of be¬ havior. The animal in a new or familiar environment, the animal tired and satiated with food, or the animal alert and hungry, the animal alone in a room or in the company of its own kind: all these variations are not regarded as changes in the basic situation. It is the same machine on which, according to outside influences, now this and now that partial system is set going. Strangely enough, the American school of psychology, founded by Watson, which in its es¬ sential aspects is in general agreement with Pavlov’s doctrine, has taken the name of behavior psychology, although according to its basic concepts there cannot be any question of spontaneous behavior.2

(b) The Temporal Order of Conditioned Reflexes In following the procedure of the experiments, we become acquainted with a condition applying generally to the formation of the conditioned reflex. It is the requirement of temporal precedence of the stimulus of the conditioned reflexes, already mentioned in our introduction. This fact, simply ignored or overlooked by many authors, was observed and described by Pavlov, who also tried to

DIFFICULTIES IN THE APPLICATION OF PAVLOV’S THEORY

65

explain it. He believes a cortical excitation, that is, that of the con¬ ditioned reflex, can only be linked to a subcortical center which is in a state of excitation. But this assumption does not explain why the connection fails to arise when the stimulus of the conditioned reflex is given simultaneously with that of the unconditioned reflex or is followed by it. Why has the stimulus of the conditioned reflex to precede? We cannot command nature what to do and what not to do. But we are amazed when we are confronted by phenomena which are not in conformity with the anticipated basic laws of nature. The condi¬ tioned reflex depends on the connection of a powerful, uncondi¬ tioned process with a weaker, less stable “conditioned” one. If the more powerful process is to attract the weaker process, the weaker must—according to the findings—have started some time before the more powerful process begins to function. The unconditioned reflex would therefore already have developed its effect before the effect actually occurred. Perhaps the connection can come about only at the moment of the beginning of the subcortical excitation? The precedence of the stimulus of the conditioned reflex would then be a kind of guarantee that this conditioned reflex coincides with the just-released unconditioned excitation. But this interpretation of the process cannot be correct. For it is necessary that the conditioned stimulus (as I will call it briefly) takes place a perceptible amount of time before the start of the unconditioned one. Indeed, the whole operation is still more complicated. The conditioned stimulus need not even last until the unconditioned occurs. Between them—for ex¬ ample, some sound serving as stimulus for the conditioned reflex and the feeding—a more or less extended interval may elapse. It is there¬ fore sufficient that the conditioned stimulus has occurred when the unconditioned one begins. Translated into the language of time atomistics, this means that an effect precedes an event which has not yet happened or one which has already ceased to be. The theory of the reflexes, therefore, cannot give a sufficient explanation for one of the most basic facts of its own observations.

(c)

The Optimum of Reflex Formation

There is no unequivocal relation betrveen the conditioned reflex and the intensity of the conditioning stimulus. The position of the optimum varies markedly in the different sensory areas. Thus,

66

Critique of the Doctrine of Conditioned Reflexes

temperatures of 0 and 50 centigrade, for example, are favorable foi the development of the conditioned reflexes—more favorable, in any case, than temperatures of 5 and 45 centigrade. But in training an animal to react to acoustic stimuli, one will discover that loud noises are less suitable than soft ones. In regard to pain stimuli, also, the less intensive are favorable, the more intensive ones unfavorable for the training. In addition to intensity, the number of repetitions of the pre¬ paratory tests necessary for the complete development of the con¬ ditioned reflexes claims interest. I have already mentioned that, although the test might have been repeated a hundred times, a con¬ ditioned reflex will not come about if the conditioning stimuli are offered after the feeding. On the other hand, a few repetitions will do, that is, if the same stimulus is applied at the right time, say shortly before the beginning of the feeding. As a rule, about twenty repetitions are sufficient for a simple training. Sometimes one single experience may result in the formation of a conditioned reflex. The number of the repetitions depends partly on what else is happening between the individual periods of train¬ ing. Let us assume that a conditioned stimulus has been offered a hundred times during the training with “reinforcement,” and let us compare this procedure with the result of a training where 100 stim¬ ulations with reinforcement are interspersed by 100 stimuli without reinforcement. We will find that, in the first case, many fewer repe¬ titions are needed. By a further variation of the experiments, we apply the stimulus A with reinforcement a hundred times, but in addition we feed a hundred times after the stimuli B, C, and D. Such a test arrangement produces still another result which deviates from the previous ones. If the desired connection comes about purely mechanically, then the three different test arrangements should actually lead to the same result. For in each one the same factor, 100 stimuli with rein¬ forcement, has been used. At first glance it is difficult to understand why its effect should be weakened either when a stimulation with¬ out reinforcement is used, or when a feeding is followed by other stimuli. To illustrate the difficulty with which we are confronted here, let us compare the supposed mechanisms of the training with a dif¬ ferent but simple mechanical process: two places, A and B, are to be connected by a ditch which requires a hundred shovels full of earth to be dug. This would correspond to our first experiment. The second experiment, where a hundred stimuli with reinforcement

DIFFICULTIES IN THE APPLICATION OF PAVLOV’S THEORY

67

alternate with a hundred stimuli without reinforcement, would correspond to a case in which a shovel of earth is thrown up one hundred times, but in between the spade will be merely inserted a hundred times. The mere digging in of the spade will not prejudice the excavation with one hundred full shovels. Nor need one dig more than one hundred shovels full for the distance A B if another ditch is dug at the same time from A to C. Once again, Pavlov used the concept of “inhibition” to explain the difference in results. But how can the mere omission of feeding, the so-called lack of reinforcement, inhibit the processes of stimula¬ tion with feeding? Pavlov claims that an inner inhibition must be assumed, and that it can only be inferred from the total result. Let me briefly draw attention to the fact that the actual condi¬ tion of the test animal is not without consequence in the formation of the conditioned reflex. The dogs must not be too satiated or too hungry. That they must not be too satiated is easily understandable in view of Pavlov’s presuppositions—but what about hunger? It should increase the excitability of the “feeding-center.” And, as we have learned, those very excitations supposedly bring about the con¬ nection between the conditioned and the unconditioned process. Finally, the kind of unconditioned reflex used also affects the success or failure of the training. The same conditioned stimuli can be favorable in one case and unfavorable in another. Painful faradi¬ zations may, for example, produce conditioned reflexes if they are followed up by feeding, but they are not suitable if subsequently an acid is poured into the mouth of an animal. According to Ischlondsky, a follower of Pavlov, the excitation is thought in the first case to be diverted from the defense center to the feeding center, because the feeding center is stronger than the defense center. In contrast, the acid center is supposed to be weaker than the defense center, so that in this arrangement the training proves a failure. More drastic examples of ad hoc, invented hypotheses can scarcely be imagined.3

Generalization Differentiation of Conditioned Reflexes There is another group of amazing phenomena which are de¬ scribed as generalization and differentiation of stimuli, and which are physiologically interpreted as an irradiation and concentration

68

Critique of the Doctrine of Conditioned Reflexes

of excitation processes. The observation is as follows: A clog has been trained to react to a certain note, say C. If the reflex has been well established and stabilized, a strange occurrence will be observed. It is no longer necessary to sound the note C; almost any other note will do. Quite similarly, a conditioned reflex can be brought about by touching any spots on the skin after the animal has been condi¬ tioned to react to a stimulus applied to just one specific spot of the skin. If a particular ellipse has been made the signal of the condi¬ tioned reflex, the animal may be offered ellipses of quite different diameters. It will always react in the same way. Pavlov calls this ex¬ tension of the readiness to react, generalization. As long as the original schema of the experiment remains un¬ changed, the results will not change either. Even if during the pre¬ paratory tests the feeding is for a hundred or a thousand repetitions always preceded by, and only by, the sounding of the note C, later on the animal will nevertheless react to all notes of the whole scale. The reaction will change only when the arrangement has been basic¬ ally modified. If the C has always been followed by reinforcement, while, following A and D, reinforcement has been omitted several times, then secretion of saliva fails to appear after the sound of the A, the D, or any other tone, while it will still be obtained by the sound C. This differentiation, as Pavlov calls it, can gradually be carried very far. It is, however, of importance to start the differenti¬ ation with stimuli which are separated by large intervals. The result will be doubtful, if at the beginning of the differentiation the A and the B next to it have been chosen. Progress will be rapid, however, with most of the dogs if after the A the F sharp (or any other of the much higher or much lower notes) has been sounded. If the differ¬ entiation is to be continued until the test animals have learned to differentiate closely adjoining stimuli—for example, two sounds separated by a half tone—the differentiation with greater intervals has first to be sufficiently established by frequent repetitions. Pavlov explains the phenomena of generalization and differentia¬ tion by the assumption of an irradiation and concentration of the excitation in the cortical area. He believes that at the start of the tests—when in spite of the sole utilization of the note C a condi¬ tioned reflex could be obtained by any of the other notes—the cere¬ bral excitation produced by the note C has been spread over the whole acoustic area. The excitation wave would therefore not only be transmitted from this location—that is, from the analyzer tuned to the C—to the subcortex, but also on any other tract. All the paths

DIFFICULTIES IN THE APPLICATION OF PAVLOV’S THEORY

69

leading from the acoustic field to the “feeding center’’ would be simultaneously activated during the first stage of the training. In the second stage, however, when only the C is “reinforced,” but feeding no longer follows the sounding of other notes, the ex¬ citation is gradually concentrated on the starting point, thanks to inner inhibition. The excitation no longer flows from the cortical analyzer of the A or the F sharp to the subcortex. The road over A or F sharp has been barred; the excitation remains concentrated on the C and only from there can it reach the feeding center. Against this “physiological” theory, a series of serious objections must be raised: 1. The hypothesis of the irradiation contradicts Pavlov’s own presuppositions concerning the specific tuning of the analyzers to particular single stimuli. 2. The hypothesis of irradiation is at variance with every experi¬ ence of sense physiology, for it practically claims that, while hearing the note C we subliminally hear all the other notes at the same time, or that with the excitation of one area of the skin all the other areas are also excited, and this in a specific way with their respective local signs. The hypothesis of irradiation could only be advanced by ob¬ jective psychology because it completely ignores the phenomenal given. 3. Strangely enough, the differentiation succeeds just when the reflexes have been stabilized; that is, just when the “contacts” have been firmly closed. Paradoxically, differentiation meets with better success the firmer the paths have been established by frequent repe¬ titions. 4. The differentiation must begin with stimuli which are as dis¬ tinct as possible from each other. This makes necessary the addi¬ tional assumption that the excitation loses more and more of its intensity when spreading over the area of the analyzers. For then the analyzers placed at the greatest distance from the center of the excitation would have the weakest contacts. Consequently, the re¬ spective paths could be inactivated much more easily. If this assump¬ tion were correct, differentiation should be more easily accomplished, as long as the connections are on the whole still loose at the start of the training. But we have seen that just the opposite is true. 5. Differentiation of symmetric areas of the skin, situated close to each other but not represented in the same cerebral hemisphere, should therefore be more successful than the differentiation of two homolateral areas. For what is decisive is the distance between the analyzers in the brain and not the distance between the receptors

7°

Critique of the Doctrine of Conditioned Reflexes

of the skin. This assumption has not been verified by the tests, as far as I can make out. 6. Pavlov calculates for the conditioned reflex a conduction ve¬ locity of the nervous excitation which is very much smaller than anything else known or assumed in neurophysiology.

(e)

Trace Reflexes The difficulties I have discussed so far are minor ones in com¬

parison with those I will now subject to a critical inspection. We know that in the conventional experiment, the conditioned stimulus must precede the unconditioned one by about three to five seconds; furthermore, it must still continue at the start of the feed¬ ing. However, this pattern, as mentioned before, permits some very strange variations. By a gradual delay of the feeding, one can obtain a “retarded” conditioned reflex effect. The retardation may be ex¬ tended to half a minute and even to five minutes after the beginning of the conditioned reflex. This is astonishing, indeed, because now time functions as a determining factor of the conditioned reflex. But comparisons with mechanical time-regulated apparatuses are bound to fail. For there is neither a distance to be travelled (as in the case of a fuse) nor a particular combination of positions, for example, an arrangement of wheels which has to be reached (as with an alarm clock), nor is there any substance which is gradually used up or has to be added gradually. All comparisons with technical apparatuses which serve to produce a definite result at a predetermined moment —all explanations according to the principle of delayed release— are inadequate. But I will not bother at this stage about the theo¬ retical interpretation, for I have not yet mentioned all the peculiar experiments belonging to this group. Besides the “retarded” condi¬ tioned reflex, we have to consider the “trace reflexes.” While in the case of the retarded conditioned reflex, the stimulus, for example, the ticking of a metronome, continues until the feed¬ ing begins, an animal can also be trained in such a way that its se¬ cretion of saliva begins only when or after the conditioned stimulus has been stopped. A conditioned reflex might be produced at the cessation of a trumpet sound. But it is true that an additional condi¬ tion must be fulfilled: the sound must suddenly break off, it must not gradually die away. A combination of the feeding with the gradually fading or the just faded sound does not produce a conditioned reflex.

DIFFICULTIES IN THE APPLICATION

OF PAVLOV’S THEORY

71

It is possible, on the other hand—and this is the strangest part of it —to interpolate a pause and to postpone the feeding. If an animal or a human being is regularly fed some time after the termination of the conditioned stimuli, the conditioned reaction will also occur only after a pause. With children it is possible to retard the condi¬ tioned reaction up to ten minutes. Why are these phenomena called “trace reflexes”? Because Pav¬ lov assumes that, in these cases, the connection between the feeding center and the excitation of the cortical cells is not established by the conditioned stimulus itself, but between the feeding reflex and the trace which the conditioned stimulus leaves in the cerebral cells. After the cessation of stimulation, the excitation in the brain cells is supposed to continue and to diminish gradually. One moment of this slow fading of the excitation is supposed to coincide with the beginning of the “feeding reflex.” This is a strange hypothesis. The traces are supposed to be operative for over ten minutes. But what is good for one stimulus is good for the other. If the exci¬ tation has such an extended “after effect,” the same must be true for the innumerable other stimuli which affect the analyzers in the course of minutes. How is it possible that by a few repeated stim¬ ulations order can be brought to this tangled maze of excitations and traces of excitations, an order which the conditioned reflexes them¬ selves indicate? And how, above all, is a conditioned reflex to come about by a single excitation, as it has been observed in work with children? Furthermore, is the hypothesis of trace reflexes compatible with the general principles of physiology? Obviously it does not bother about the threshold laws. Finally, this hypothesis will have to be sup¬ plemented by the assumption that an excitation remains existent as such while diminishing in intensity. A trace reflex cannot be con¬ nected with the recovery phase of an excited cell. The excitation would have to continue like a dent in a rubber ball which, while slowly levelling and flattening out again, remains, as it were, this dent. The hypothesis of the trace reflex strictly contradicts the tenets of physiology as to stimulus, excitation, and recovery. It remains unintelligible how the long after effects could be brought into har¬ mony with the stipulated rapid adaptation to the continuous influx of new stimuli. In spite of all the biased assumptions, the hypothesis of the trace reflexes does not even explain all the phenomena in question. For it has been found that the “trace reflexes” are free from any of the specificity so characteristic for the common condi-

72

Critique of the Doctrine of Conditioned Reflexes

tioned reflex. “If, e.g., with a dog, a reflex has been formed on the traces of skin-excitation, saliva secretion does not only occur after a stimulation of the skin, but also with other stimuli of all sorts, e.g., those of sounds, noises, smells, etc.”4 According to Pavlov’s theory, not only the whole tactile area of the brain must have been excited by the stimulation of the skin at one particular spot. This effect will also irradiate all over the acous¬ tic, olfactory, and optic analyzers. In other words, when feeling pain at one particular spot of the body, one, so to say, not only feels pain everywhere but one also smells, sees, and hears it. Indeed, the trace of the after effect of an excitation in one sense area would have to correspond exactly to the after effects and the decrease of inten¬ sity in other areas. That the thresholds of the stimulation and the discriminative thresholds differ in the various sense areas, that the energy quantities necessary for the excitation of sight, of smell, of taste, and the like, vary according to the organs of sense—all these facts have been disregarded. It is truly amazing to notice how ob¬ jective psychology passes by these objective, measurable data of physiology. In any case, what is one to say of these final consequences of Pavlov’s doctrine? When I suggested that this theory leads itself ad absurdum, I was thinking particularly of this very hypothesis of the trace reflex. For a theory which commences with the assumption of a specific tuning of the analyzers and ends at the opposite pole by ascertaining their complete unspecificity, cancels itself out. In Pavlov’s school, one experiment follows the other. Instead of pausing for an examination of the strength of the theoretical foundation, all good is expected to come from ever-new test arrange¬ ments. Instead of clarifying the decisive problems, the continued experimentation leads only to greater confusion. The theorist is often accused of boundless speculation. In Pavlov’s case, we may—with no less justification—speak of boundless experimentation. In his attempt to interpret the phenomena discovered in his ex¬ periments, Pavlov is finally confronted with insurmountable diffi¬ culties. Do we have to charge these shortcomings entirely to Pavlov, or rather to the fact that the limits of physiological theory have been reached? If we keep to the phenomenally comprehensible, we may say that a dog, secreting saliva after the abrupt discontinuation of a noise, does not react to the sound or its trace, but to the silence fol¬ lowing the noise and contrasting with it. As the “unspecificity” of the “trace reflex” demonstrates, silence is an intermodal phenome¬ non which we call darkness in the optical sphere, silence in the

DIFFICULTIES

IN THE APPLICATION OF PAVLOV’S THEORY

73

acoustical sphere, and emptiness in other sense areas. Now, can physiology somehow explain or comprehend at all, by its own efforts, the phenomenon of the void? Let me close the chapter with this question which I will try to answer later on.

Part II e^L STIMULI, SIGNS, AND SIGNALS

IN THE PRECEDING CHAPTER, I CONSIDERED SOME OF THE DIFFICUL-

ties encountered by Pavlov’s theory. I did not try to pursue critically, nor in every direction, Pavlov’s extensively ramifying exposition. Rather, I attempted to point out a few embarrassing problems just enough to explode the legend that his theory is perfectly consistent throughout, and that his experimental results are in per¬ fect harmony with it. The elucidation of these difficulties was also to lead to a formulation of the problems which could further our own positive intentions. The phenomena observed by Pavlov exist, and they remain unshaken even if his own explanation of them col¬ lapses. But on collapse of his theory, it becomes a matter of utmost urgency to ask: How must sensory experience be constituted so that the so-called “conditioned reflexes” are possible?

Nature (a)

The Signal as the Middle Link in a ThreedLink Situation AT THE

OPENING OF

PAVLOV’S

MONOGRAPH,

CONDITIONED

RE-

flexes are designated as signals. Indeed, as one considers the entire manifestation of the conditioned reflex, this designation appears justified and appropriate. We know that the conditioned stimuli— colors, sounds, or whatever—must precede the feeding. They put the animal into a state which can be interpreted as preparatory to tak¬ ing food. They seem to announce the arrival of food. In short, they signal an occurrence important for the animal. 77

Stimuli, Signs, and Signals

78

According to Pavlov, we would have to say that the conditioned stimuli seem to signalize the approach of prey and food. Otherwise, we would be describing physiological occurrences in analogy with human experience. Actually, Pavlov claims the signals are nothing but reflexes. (“Le signal est un reflexe.”)1 Thus, the reflex is not a signal, but the signal is a reflex. The entire theory of the conditioned reflex attempts to explain how the stimuli for a conditioned reflex ultimately simulate the function of signals. It suffices to recall here that the signal, that is, the fully-developed conditioned reflex, is, according to Pavlov, the result of two originally separate processes. The amalgamation of the two parts of a conditioned reflex succeeds, as we saw earlier, by eliminating one constituent of the uncondi¬ tioned reflex. It is important that there be two parts, no more and no less. The formula for the signal could, according to Pavlov, be symbolized in the following manner: cR

uR,

Does this interpretation correspond to the nature of a signal? Let us suppose that a dog with well-developed reflexes has been placed on the laboratory table for new experiments. The experi¬ menter has gone to the observation room adjacent. He would like to begin his experiments. But to his surprise, none of the previously tried and effective stimuli works. He may ring a bell, start a metro¬ nome oscillating, create light ellipses, or by means of various me¬ chanical contrivances scratch the ordinarily docile and patient animal on various parts of its body. All of this is to no avail—all stimuli fail. Why? What has happened? The explanation is perfectly simple. What has happened—surely I may make this assumption—is that, unnoticed, a cat has found its way into the laboratory. The experimenter is unaware of its pres¬ ence, but the dog has smelled and seen it, and reacts to the scent of the animal with anxiety and rage. All the bell ringing, the light flashing, the scratching, are of no concern to him. But I am again anthropomorphizing animal behavior. So, in order not to offend the principles of objective psychology, I shall have to be satisfied with saying that, in the new situation created by the intrusion of the cat, all well-developed conditioned reflexes fail to operate. Although all this was but an experiment of my imagination, for which no exact records are available, it suffices as an example that will make clear an essential aspect of the signal. Whether a signal is effective or not depends on the situation in which it occurs or, more

THE NATURE OF THE SIGNAL

79

Precisely, on the situation which precedes it. For the moment the signal rings out, or appears—that is to say, the moment it appears effective the situation is changed. The signal changes the situation which preceded it. I therefore preface any further clarification with this proposition: The signal is the middle link of a three-link relationship. It marks the transition from an indifferent situation to a differentiated one. It stands between the two. If any sensory datum is to function as a signal, it must satisfy the condition of being a “transition,” and that of being “in be¬ tween”; it must indicate the direction from a neutral to a differenti¬ ated situation. We must now discuss how these conditions can be met in particular cases. ^ ^ The formula for a signal is thus not, as Pavlov puts it, cR uR but ought rather to be written as I—>S—*D, where I stands for the indifferent, and D for the differentiated situation. In addition, it must be stated here that the process can also occur in the opposite direction: D—»S->I. In that case, the signal marks the transition from a tense to a relaxed situation. The trumpet sig¬ nal from Fidelio may serve as an example here. The sound of the trumpet announces the turning point of the action; the dramatic tension, having reached its climax, finds its resolution. This reversal of direction does not change the essential struc¬ ture of the signal. In both cases, I-»S-»D, as well as D-»S-»I, it is characterized by its triadic structure. It marks a transition stage; it stands between two situations, one neutral, the other differentiated, and it points in a specific direction. In accordance with Pavlov’s par¬ ticular experiments, I shall consider mainly the form I-^S^D and only occasionally take account of the reversal D—>S->I. In a daily round of activities, the pattern I—>S-^D is also by far the more common. Still, frequency does not decide what is essential and what is not.2 To use an even more striking example from a field outside of Pavlov’s experimental design, let us examine train signals, or better still, road signs. The train signals stand between two stretches of the track, between the stretch just traveled and the stretch yet to be traveled. They separate these two stretches, marking as a hiatus the transition from an indifferent situation to a differentiated one. As for road signs, they announce hazards on the road ahead: curves, intersections, merging traffic, railroad crossings, and the like. The signal stands in relation to both a preceding and a subse¬ quent situation. In its structure and in its effect, it is tied to the

8o

Stimuli, Signs, and Signals

structure of the preceding and the subsequent situation. Thus, re¬ gardless of whether we are dealing with a situation of the pattern or with one of the pattern D-»S-»I, the S remains depend¬ ent upon both the D and the I. The indifferent as well as the differ¬ entiated situation determine whatever can be used as a signal. Since, in the main, we want to take our bearings by the pattern j_>S-»D, let us first consider the signal in its relation to the indif¬ ferent situation.

(b) The Relation to the Indifferent Situation By setting myself the task of examining the relationship be¬ tween the signal and the indifferent situation, I have already over¬ shot my aim. Indeed, once I have called a situation neutral, I have already pointed to the essential aspect of the preceding situation, and thus to the relationship between the signal and that situation. I still have to prove that the situation must, in fact, be indifferent. Let us, therefore, pretend we do not yet know anything about the nature of the signal or of its triadic structure. Furthermore, let us pretend that we do not as yet know anything about the fact that the signal marks a transition, that it announces a change from an indifferent situation to a differentiated one, or vice versa. In order to gain access to an understanding of the function of the signal, let us examine a situation in which a properly practiced signal has failed to function. Let us suppose that the engineer of a train, who for many years has conscientiously performed his job, has gone through a stop signal and has caused a serious train wreck. The subsequent investigation revealed that during the fatal trip, shortly before the train had reached the signal, a pipe had sprung a leak and the en¬ gineer’s platform had been flooded by steam. Both engineer and stoker, in their fright and confusion, tried at first to repair the leak and thus overlooked the signal. For a signal to be effective, the situation must be neutral. It must release me. Neutrality is not, however, a fixed, objective property of the environment acting upon the organism in various ways. Neu¬ trality is to be understood only as an attitude of the living being toward its environment. If my example had been about an old, de¬ crepit machine, frequently given to springing leaks, or if the same damage had occurred on previous occasions, if the makeshift repairs had repeatedly broken down and been patched up again, then the

THE NATURE OF THE SIGNAL

81

same “stimuli” would have had an entirely different effect, precisely because they would have had an entirely different significance. A situation becomes neutral when the immediate environment arouses no concern. An environment void of importance is some¬ thing that also exists, and in such an environment, too, “stimuli” are active. There is a certain danger that the terms insignificant and mean¬ ingless, as used in this context, might be misunderstood, because everyday language is not very rigorous in discriminating among the various synonyms for meaninglessness, and it is especially careless in using the adjectives meaningless, significant, and insignificant. That much should be clear that in this context the term “indiffer¬ ent” does not qualify a situation in general, nor in the average. A situation may be important for one person and trivial for another one. It may be important for me today and passe tomorrow. The triad I-S-D is not one of mere sequence; their temporal relation is that of historical or biographical time. The indifferent situation is not static; it is directed to future possibilities.

(c)

The Material Constitution of the Signal

The signal marks the transition from a neutral to a differen¬ tiated situation. It terminates the neutral situation, and yet it does not belong to the differentiated situation. It announces the differen¬ tiated situation, and yet it no longer belongs to the neutral situation. The signal is closely related to both the differentiated and the neu¬ tral situation, yet it is neither of these. It is a strange hybrid. Its hybrid nature must also determine the various aspects of its material constitution. Let us examine this assumption: The signal is supposed to terminate a neutral situation. It must therefore be separable from it, and it must be clearly distinguishable from everything that hap¬ pens in the neutral situation. At the same time, the signal may not be differentiated since, if it were, it would invite some confrontation with the situation, be it to linger and relish, or to fight and flee. The driver of a vehicle is required to heed signals, and to heed them as nothing but signals. He is not supposed to be tempted or captivated by them, any more than he should be frightened or threatened by them. Signals, therefore, must be conspicuous without being “stim¬ ulating,” and they must warn without alarming; they must be both neutral and noticeable. Within the realm of human existence, signals

82

Stimuli, Signs, and Signals

can easily be constructed and made to serve a useful purpose by con¬ vention. By designing them in a particular form, we make sure that they will never occur in the neutral situation, but that they will stand out from it. It is perfectly easy to construct them in such a way that they are neither stimulating nor alarming. For a signal to be effective, it must be learned. In the human realm, practice through speech, explanation, and agreement is not difficult. The novice is told that only if he sees this particular sign may he do this or that. The signal marks the transition from I to D; to do so effectively, it must actually occur only there and always there. Indeed, the signal regulates the manifold possibilities of tran¬ sition from a neutral to a differentiated situation. It announces the approach of the differentiated situation. But it can function ade¬ quately only if all approaches to a differentiated situation of a par¬ ticular kind are blocked, to be opened up only by the signal in question. The signal thus has the character of being in between, of only, and of always. It is in conformity with these requirements that signals are both constructed and explained. We cannot make agreement with animals. Nor can we construct signals which they would notice without being captivated, tempted, or frightened. Nor yet can we, under normal conditions, construct signals artificially. If we make them conspicuous in order to distin¬ guish them from the neutral situation, they will tempt or frighten the animal, thus bringing about a differentiated situation. If, on the other hand, we choose from the natural environment of the animal just any everyday object which neither tempts nor frightens, then we do not make a signal which is sufficiently distinct from the neutral situation. Yet Pavlov has shown us that one can train animals for signals. He has shown that artificial structures comparable to human signals, as well as stimuli as they are found in the everyday environment of animals, can function as signals. How is this possible? What are the conditions for training? If our interpretation of the signal is correct, it must be confirmed by Pavlov’s experiments and, conversely, it must help to resolve the difficulties encountered in Pavlov’s experi¬ ments. Materially, the signal used to train animals must also satisfy the condition of marking a transition from I to D. This actually proves to be the case. In order to train an animal successfully to re¬ spond to specific artificial signals, it is necessary to start out by re¬ moving it from its natural environment. Its freedom of movement must be severely restricted. In contrast to a freely roaming creature, or even to a wild dog that provides for its own food by searching in

THE NATURE OF THE SIGNAL 83

many places and in many ways, a dog strapped into Pavlov’s condi¬ tioning apparatus is barred from any access to the differentiated sit¬ uations of feeding, except for the one or two ways allowed by the experimenter. Thus, the experimental arrangement itself imposes from the outset a constriction of the situation such as is required by a well-functioning signal. The factor “only” is provided by the experimental setting. Stimuli that are perfectly standard in the animal’s natural en¬ vironment are first carefully eliminated from the laboratory. Subse¬ quently, they are reintroduced. But this time they are allowed to appear only at the moment preceding the feeding. In this way, the precedents of the experiment create a neutral sit¬ uation. By a kind of impoverishment, the environment is so restricted that ordinary processes and common stimuli may eventually as¬ sume abnormal prominence. Finally, by restricting the animal’s free¬ dom of movement to a bare minimum, the experimental setup also sensitizes the dog to every detail of the transition to the differenti¬ ated situation. The radical transformation of the natural environ¬ ment into the artificial milieu of the experimental box makes the animal susceptible even to artifacts, that is, stimuli totally foreign to its natural environment. The material constitution of conditioned reflexes also fulfills the essential requirements of a true signal. I shall have the oppor¬ tunity to demonstrate this in detail in Section B, below.

(d) The Relation to the Differentiated Situation Signals exist because all of us, animal as well as human, find ourselves in situations and these situations can change from neutral to differentiated or vice-versa, because in each situation we are in transition, and because we experience change. To experience change does not mean that one complex of stimuli has been replaced by another. To experience change means that, with or without a change of stimuli, the relationship between the self and the world is modi¬ fied in its significance. A signal is neither a mere addition nor a sub¬ stitution of stimuli for those actually present. When the signal appears, the situation changes from neutral to differentiated. Because

Stimuli, Signs, and Signals

84

the signal stands “in between,” its appearance evokes a state of ten¬ sion which may become oppressive and even unbearable if the dif¬ ferentiated situation is delayed for too long. If, for any reason, it fails altogether to occur, this unresolved tension may engender a disagreeable aftertaste, a feeling of emptiness, or even of irritation and anger. Because the S stands between the I and the D, not just any stim¬ ulus will serve as a signal. It also follows that a stimulus suitable as a signal in the sequence I—>S—may fall in the sequence D—»S—»I. Indeed, experiments in the training of animals clearly show that a stimulus which easily becomes a signal when the differentiated situa¬ tion results in fulfillment of a need remains ineffective when the differentiated situation is dangerous or painful. Obviously, the material constitution of the signal must be closely related to the properties and to the material constitution of the ante¬ cedent as well as of the subsequent situation. All three relationships —S and I, S and D, I and D—must be taken into account.

GB.

Resolution

oj the Difficulties

ONCE THE SIGNAL IS UNDERSTOOD, ALL THE DIFFICULTIES OF PAV-

lov’s theory suddenly vanish. Phenomena which at first completely surprised us and the experimenter will at once cease to be disturbing and strange. Whereas at first we were astonished to realize that the stimuli of the conditioned reflexes must precede those of the uncon¬ ditioned reflexes in time, we are now in a position to understand why this is so, and also why it could not be otherwise. Even if we really do succeed in removing all the obstacles which forced Pavlov into ever new detours, we will still be far from our own goal. We will merely have reached the point from which we get the first clear view of the ascent proper. New and ever more dif¬ ficult problems will arise. The customary interpretation of sensation and of the motion of animals and man will prove inadequate. Fun-

RESOLUTION OF THE DIFFICULTIES

85

damental questions concerning these matters will have to be raised anew, and in a radically different manner than heretofore.

(a)

“ Orientation Reflexes” and the Problem of the Familiar and the Unfamiliar

We saw that the training of a dog should not be undertaken immediately after it is brought into the laboratory. If this rule is not observed, the training will prove a failure because no condition¬ ing takes place. Only after the animals have spent some time in the new environment can experiments be expected to be successful. There is no need to repeat all the difficulties which Pavlov encoun¬ tered at this point, how he sought to solve these problems by the assumption of “orientation reflexes,” and what objections can be raised against such a hypothesis. However, if it is true that in Pavlov’s experiments the animals are actually trained to respond to signals—in other words, that they learn to make a transition from an indifferent to a differentiated situation—then we should not be surprised that a situation must become familiar and thereby neutral before it can be distinguished from a differentiated situation, and hence before a signal can be inserted between the two. But, it may be asked, does the expression that the situation “becomes neutral” mean something quite differ¬ ent from Pavlov’s terms, “appearance and disappearance of orienta¬ tion reflexes”? The answer to this question is that the concept of orientation does not fit into the reflex system. Man and animal in orientating themselves reach out beyond the present and strive for fulfillment and completion of a situation at first experienced as incomplete and partial. All this is unintelligible if viewed in terms of the reflex the¬ ory. The very notion of orientation has no legitimate place within the framework of Pavlov’s theory. The “new” which supposedly arouses the orientation reflex has a temporal structure completely foreign to the reflex theory and to its conception of time. Indeed, time, for the reflex theory, consists of a succession of points along a scale. Each event has its discrete place. Therefore, no event can be “new.” If there were new events in the order of time as it is conceived by the reflex theory, there would also have to be old events, or even repeated events. This is

86

Stimuli, Signs, and Signals

nonsense, since each event takes place once only, and does so pre¬ cisely at its given time. To an observer, something can appear new or old, known or unknown, differentiated or neutral. To him, an event may appear for the first time, or after many repetitions. In itself, however, an event is only this unique occurrence. We do not ques¬ tion that things may be either new or old, known or unknown, dif¬ ferentiated or neutral. But one can only speak of old and new with reference to historical time. Objective psychology is committed to an atomistic conception of time wherein each event must always be viewed as wholly self-con¬ tained. These isolated segments can never be brought into any real relationship with one another—hence, they cannot be brought into a temporal relationship either. Orientation implies some familiarity; familiarity implies recog¬ nition. A new dimension of time must then be acknowledged. Things are familiar or unfamiliar within a temporal horizon. The one temporal structure cannot be deduced from the other. If something appears as familiar to me, I apprehend it both as ac¬ tually present and as having occurred before. A situation is supposed to be this individual event, present and unique, and yet it is sup¬ posed to have a generic character. This generic character cannot be arrived at by an abstraction from the particular. Does it not, rather, point to a more basic stratum of experience? We must draw a sharp distinction between these two kinds of questions: (1) Those that inquire into the circumstances which de¬ termine in a given case whether something is experienced as known or as unknown, as differentiated or as neutral; and (2) those that inquire into how it is at all possible to experience something as known or as unknown, as new or as old. In terms of objective time, the experience of something as known is no more enigmatic than that of something as unknown, nor is the experience of the alien and the novel any easier to understand than the experience of the fa¬ miliar and the traditional. Its place on the scale of objective time cannot determine whether an event assumes the character of the novel, the unknown, the alien. Something is novel and alien only in its relationship to the familiar and to the known. We always find ourselves in situations which are either familiar or foreign, precisely because experience consists in the incessant con¬ frontation of the self with the world. The confrontation of the self with the world is originally very general. The relation between the world and the self is not the result of putting together single, dis¬ crete events by a process of abstraction. Rather, the relationship

RESOLUTION OF THE DIFFICULTIES

87

constitutes the ground for all discrete experiences. Experiences as such can, in turn, only be understood as so many constrictions, con¬ solidations, and definitions of this totality. The transition from the alien to the familiar is also a transition from a vague, undefined generality to one that is determinate. In every new experience, we are first of all confronted afresh by this perfectly general relation¬ ship. At first blush every moment is undefined and unknown. The circumstances determine whether or not it will reveal itself as one known and familiar. An example may help to clarify what I have been saying. Let us remain entirely within the realm of Pavlov’s experiments. Let us imagine a situation in which a dog is brought into the laboratory for the first time, and is strapped into the experimental set-up for, let us say, half an hour, from 4:00 to 4:30. During this time, the physical environment remains completely unaltered. The claim is thus perfectly justified that at 4 o’clock, at 4:05, and at 4:30 the same physical stimuli act upon the dog’s organism. Indeed, they are alike in kind but they differ in their temporal manifestation. Throughout the entire experiment, things happen which are alike and yet are evidently not the same. The physical events at the beginning of the half hour have long since ceased when the later events occur. Their sameness does not eliminate their radical and very real difference. This difference is due to their separation in time. Actually, what happened at the beginning was what it was, regardless of any sub¬ sequent changes. It is therefore not legitimate to speak of discrete occurrences as being the same or different, old or new, known or unknown. Every occurrence is what it is, and in itself it is neither old nor new, known nor unknown, same nor different. Yet we humans do experience changing situations as the same or as different, as old or as new, as alien or as familiar. As Pavlov’s experiments show, and as we know from many other observations, animals, too, find themselves now in familiar, now in alien situa¬ tions. Thus, both human and animal experience must be consti¬ tuted in a fundamentally different way from physical occurrences. All attempts at explaining familiarity by means of a mechanistic theory of memory, a theory of “fusion” of present contents with “res¬ idues of earlier ideas,” must fail. All these attempts simply treat discrete processes as identical, totally disregarding their radical dif¬ ferences. Much effort is spent in explaining familiarity and familiar¬ ity alone, while it is overlooked that the unknown, the alien, the new, raise as many problems as the known, the familiar, the old. With our analysis of the signal, Pavlov’s first difficulty is no longer

,

Stimuli, Signs and Signals

88

perplexing. However, other and more important problems emerge which can only now be grasped and formulated.

The Antecedence of the Conditioned Stimulus and the Problem of the “Inbetween” If, as we found, the signal stands between two situations, it must obviously precede the differentiated situation, and therefore the conditioned stimulus must precede the unconditioned stimulus. We need not cast about for tortuous physiological theories, nor need we explain how an occurrence could be manifest before having started, or after having ended. But once again new and more difficult questions arise. We ought not be misled into believing that we know what is meant by something being “in between,” just because the ex¬ pression is familiar and readily understood in everyday language. Is the relationship designated by the adverb between only a spe¬ cial case of the general relationship next to} In everyday language, we speak of something being “inbetween,” either in space or in time. But is inbetween a purely spatial relationship? Let us suppose a place B lies between A and C. Does this merely mean that “B is next to A and to C,” or that “A, B, and C are points along a straight line”? If we are satisfied with such a definition, A, B, and C should be interchangeable, and it would be equally proper to say that C lies between A and B, or that B lies between A and C. Clearly, to speak of A, B, and C as points along a straight line is no more satisfactory for an understanding of what is meant by “be¬ tween” than is the definition of B as located next to A and C. To be “between” means something else. Given three stationary objects, I can see at one glance that one of them is located between the other two. But if I want to assure myself of B’s position between A and C, I must take A as my point of departure, set out in the direc¬ tion of B, and go on in that direction beyond B itself, up to C. Fi¬ nally, having reached the end point C, I must turn back towards the starting point A. It is only by such a process of exploration that the self-contained frame around B becomes evident. And now we must ask: Is such an orientation really spatial? Is di¬ rection itself really an exclusively spatial phenomenon? Were we not

RESOLUTION OF THE DIFFICULTIES

89

compelled to enlist the aid of time in determining what is meant by inbetween ’? If this applies even to an apparently pure spatial defi¬ nition of the “inbetween,”1 what about such configurations as we encountered in studying the signal? The signal stands inbetween a neutral and differentiated situation. It announces the approach of a differentiated situation. It must, therefore, be possible to experience advancing toward something. An experience is not confined within a moment. The experienced present is open towards an indeterminate future. What is “not yet” already reaches into the present. To understand what “to be inbetween” means, what is involved in approaching something, or what a signal is, is impossible within a framework of exclusively objective time and space. And as a conse¬ quence, it is impossible to understand the entire world of sensing and moving within such a framework. We must, rather, first explore the spatial and temporal forms of sensing and moving.

(c)

The Optimum of Reflex Formation and the Problem of the Hiatus

I encountered a third difficulty in trying to account for the pe¬ culiarities of experimental reflex formation. The relative position of the optimum along the scale of stimulus intensities varies surpris¬ ingly from one sense modality to the next. It is also far from selfevident why the number of trials required for successful conditioning varies so widely under different circumstances. Further, it was pointed out how conditioning depends on the state of the animals. Finally, the relationship of the signal stimulus to the situation fol¬ lowing it was indicated. To summarize briefly, I found that a stim¬ ulus may function adequately as a signal in one setting while failing completely in another. For instance, a moderately painful stimulus will be effective when followed by agreeable food but remains in¬ effective when followed by such unpleasant “food” as acid. A signal announces the transition from a neutral to a differenti¬ ated situation. It must, therefore, be manifestly distinct from the neutral situation without, however, becoming different in itself. The laboratory situation makes it possible to isolate the experi¬ mental animals from some stimuli that are natural to their environment, such as sounds, for example. Other stimuli, such as temperature, can, of course, never be completely eliminated. If

9«

Stimuli, Signs, and Signals

temperature is to serve as a signal, it is necessary to employ grada¬ tions of hot and cold which are clearly distinct from a comfortable and therefore neutral temperature. In the light of this, we can easily understand that 0° C acts more effectively than 5° C, and that 50 C is better suited for experimental purposes than 45° C. With sound it is different. With some care, it is possible to achieve deathly silence in the laboratory. Then even the faintest noise will, by contrast, alter the situation. Under such conditions, a soft, gentle sound serves better as a signal than a loud noise which would only create a disturbing, differentiated situation. It could not announce the transition to still another differentiated situation. This is in keeping with the experience that the experimental ani¬ mals must neither be very hungry nor completely sated. They should be just a little hungry. Under these conditions they search, and are oriented to go from the neutral towards the approaching differenti¬ ated situation. The starved animal, on the other hand, is already in a differentiated situation. The commonly used stimuli for condition¬ ing reflexes do not sufficiently contrast with this situation to function effectively as signals. A signal indicates the transition from a neutral to a differentiated situation. It is, therefore, in-between. But this is not by itself suffi¬ cient to make it a good signal. A good signal is, furthermore, charac¬ terized by the “only” and the “always.” Only when the signal appears does a differentiated situation follow, and the differentiated situation always follows when the signal appears. It is, therefore, not surpris¬ ing that very few trials are required for conditioning when the signal stimulus is regularly followed by feeding (reinforcement), and when the feeding only follows the signal stimulus. If, on the other hand, after application of the conditioned stimulus the animal is sometimes fed and sometimes not, or if the stimulus is varied, conditioning will require many more repetitions. It is entirely unnecessary to resort to the hypothesis of complicated inhibitions in order to explain these occurrences. A wild animal in search of food must put up with many things and suffer many pains. A slight pain, such as is caused by a small gal¬ vanic current, can therefore still be taken as a signal for feeding. An animal conditioned to electric shocks may gradually come to accept even somewhat stronger currents as signals, if they are signals for feeding. If, however, the first unpleasantness of the current is fol¬ lowed by merely another unpleasantness, viz. the exposure to acid, then the faradic stimulation ceases to act as a transition to a differen¬ tiated situation; instead, it becomes itself a differentiated situation

RESOLUTION OF THE DIFFICULTIES

91

from which the animal seeks to escape. An hiatus separates this situa¬ tion from the next one, in which the painful stimulation has been stopped. The animal flees from the unpleasant situation, looking backwards, so to speak, while in a true signal situation it looks for¬ ward toward what is approaching. This is why extremely painful stimuli cannot act as signals for feeding. The manner in which the flow of experiences is organized, where the superficial and where the deep hiatuses occur, in short, what makes up one integral experience, depends upon the situation of the animal both at the beginning and at the end of the experiments.

(d) Cortical Irradiation and Concentration, and the Problem of the General and the Particular Pavlov named the phenomena now to be considered “generali¬ zation” and “differentiation” of conditioned stimuli. These names indicate that Pavlov himself recognized the problem of the general and the particular which arises at this point. In keeping with his point of view, he seeks for a physiological explanation, and he be¬ lieves he has found it in the hypothesis of irradiation and concentra¬ tion of neural excitation. He considers it self-evident that every sound, in fact every stimulus whatsoever, can only act as this single, specific stimulus. The sound “a” is nothing but itself; it is certainly not sound as such. Yet the experiments show, on the contrary, that an animal does not react to a single, specific sound only. Pavlov in¬ terprets the animal’s general response to sound as such as a reaction to a multitude of single sounds, physiologically due to a spreading of the excitation from the first specific analyser over the whole acous¬ tic field. The general is only an illusion. Such an illusion occurs be¬ cause the same response follows any number of distinctly different stimuli. If an animal conditioned to the sound a, also salivates in re¬ sponse to c or g, it does not, according to Pavlov, react to sound as such. The peculiar structure and function of the CNS is supposed to be the cause of like responses to different stimuli. The conditioning for a did not simply set up a path between the cortical focus corre¬ sponding to a and the subcortical feeding center. Rather, by a spread¬ ing of the stimulus to the other analysers in the acoustical field.

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connections with the cells corresponding respectively to c, to g, and other sounds are supposed to have been formed. The cells and the paths remain distinct. Despite the fact that the same common re¬ sponse is elicited by varying stimuli, each of these stimuli is always supposed to be nothing but this single, individual, and specific stim¬ ulus. And how could it be otherwise? Does not a have a definite wave length and frequency which differ entirely from the wave length and the frequency of c, and which in turn differ entirely from those of g? Surely, then, one cannot seriously speak of sound as such. Sound as such would have to be of a wave length simultaneously equal to those of a, c and g. There can be no experience of sound as such: it is only an illusion. If, to such an argument, we countered with the observation that we actually do distinguish sensations according to their modality, that we do experience sounds, however different from one another they may be, as belonging together, and as distinct from all colored things, however different from one another they may be, Pavlov would presumably acknowledge these facts. But he would not ac¬ knowledge them as valid objections. He would explain the distinc¬ tion between sensory modalities, between sounds and colors, as a feat of abstraction and of attention. If he were to do this—although I can¬ not cite a specific passage in which he does—he would remain en¬ tirely within the mainstream of the tradition founded by Locke, Berkeley, and Hume. The nominalist doctrine assumes that primary data are always single, individual, and particular. Its intention is therefore to show how, from this individual and singular, we arrive at the general. The procedure seems simple and clear. Mental experience corresponds to processes in the organism. The organism is one particular thing among other things. Certain events set off certain processes in the organism which are accompanied by consciousness. Precisely in the same way as these inner and outer events are said to be singular, sen¬ sations are viewed as so many single and particular data. But neither the prescientific nor the scientific interpretation of the world can in any way ascertain how the world must appear in original experience. Just how the world appears to us as becoming beings is the real psy¬ chological problem. Let us consider the following situation: A young man who has been raised in some quiet locale in the country comes to a big city where for the first time in his life he sees a Chinese. Certainly he will see this Chinese as singular, yet he does not see his very peculiarity; rather, he sees him as a man of peculiar and strange countenance. I

RESOLUTION OF THE DIFFICULTIES

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say that he sees a human being and already the very term human being points to something general. But this strange looking man, however different, is not simply indeterminate. Rather, his being dif¬ ferent is sufficiently determinate to allow recognizing a second Chi¬ nese for what he is—namely, another member of the same species. Nobody will believe that our friend has to chance upon ten, twenty, or thirty other Chinese before he could acquire a general idea of a Chinese. In fact, just the opposite is true. Only if he had the oppor¬ tunity of meeting many Chinese within a short time would he notice the differences among them. In the beginning, they all look alike to him. If three months later he again meets the first Chinese, every¬ thing will be as on the first occasion, except that now his acquaint¬ ance will have become particularized. He actually then descends to the particular from the general, from the one to the many. In the en¬ counter, he is confronted by the Chinese as this singular individual, but the individuation is determined solely by the situation of the encounter. Every moment of experience differs from every other mo¬ ment as this particular and singular moment. But what we meet in such an encounter is still not something particular just because it be¬ longs to the individual moment. If it is indeed true, as this first example seems to indicate, that the general, not the particular, is first experienced, and that we only reach the particular by successive dif¬ ferentiations of the general, then the moment can only be a qualifica¬ tion of an encompassing relationship between the world and the self, which is fulfilled in an historical continuum of becoming. The rela¬ tionship between the world and the self is itself general, or, more correctly, wholly encompassing. The single moments stand in the same relation to it as does the particular to the general. Thus, the later would always be related to the earlier as the particular is to the general. The way in which children learn to speak is a striking example. To a child, every female is at first “mommy” and every male “daddy.” A little later it distinguishes the mother from the aunts and the father from the uncles. The word “bow-wow” is at first used by the child to designate all kinds of animals, living and artificial. It is only in the course of time that it learns to distinguish and to name the dif¬ ferent species, and within the species individual creatures. Language develops from the general to the particular, and in so doing it follows the general course of development which we in our development take. It is not the word which makes possible our thinking in general concepts; the word, rather, is itself general because the thing it signi¬ fies is general.

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For millennia, men have learned how to speak in exactly the same way, from one generation to the next. Thus we find at the beginning of Aristotle’s Physics: “Children, too, at first call all men father and all women mother. Later, they distinguish between each single per¬ son.”2 Nobody teaches children to call all men daddy, all women mommy, and many-legged moving things bow-wow. They would not even understand such teaching. Each finds the same road on his own as he makes his first attempts at speaking. We regard this uniform development as an expression of an essential law of mental develop¬ ment. Aristotle cites this observation as an example for the claim that at first the more composite is clearer and better known to us and that its elements and principles only subsequently become manifest to us. We should therefore proceed from the general to the particular. “For it is the whole that is best known to sense-perception, and the general is a kind of whole. . . . We must advance from that which is better known and clearer to us, towards that which is clearer and more knowable by nature.”3 The adult, as long as he learns by experience, proceeds exactly as does the infant. An experienced doctor has not derived his general idea of illness from the knowledge of a thousand cases but, on the contrary, he has organized the general phenomenon of being ill into many diseases, and the diseases into many different developments. Any expertness, whether it is a matter of scientific experience or of everyday practice, of artistic skill or of competence in a trade, of achievement in sports or of gastronomic pleasures, is arrived at in the same manner: the road always leads from the general to the par¬ ticular. Thus far, the general and the particular were understood in my considerations exclusively in their relationship to us, in accordance with the distinction drawn by ancient science between the relation¬ ship of things in themselves in contrast to their relationship to us. This “initially better known to us” is a theme—if not the funda¬ mental theme—of psychology. The temptation is strong to conceive of the general and the par¬ ticular as they might be thought of by an “intellectual archetype” whose mode of being remains obscure. But regardless of whether I think in terms of the particular, the many singulars, or of the gen¬ eral—the one in many—as a thinking being I have already relin¬ quished my primary relationship to the world. The general, which in the course of life confronts us directly, is not general because it is thought general, but because the relationship between the self and its world is general.4

RESOLUTION OF THE DIFFICULTIES

95

This is also why our experience of the general does not depend on language. It does not derive first of all from discursive thought, but already occurs in the realm of sensing; it is not alien to animal experience. Before we return to Pavlov’s observations, some things must be clarified more fully. The opinion that the primary given is but an in¬ dividually perceptible entity—something singular and particular— requires careful scrutiny. Indeed, if the primary given were but singular and individual, then each moment would evidently have to be self-contained and independent, strictly separated from every other moment. There would be no internal connection between single moments. They would be, and they would forever remain, separate from each other, like so many pearls on a necklace. The pearls are joined by a bond that is entirely extrinsic to them. Simi¬ larly, strictly distinct moments are united in an extrinsic relationship by means of physiological processes in the organism. In all this, the singular experience always remains solitary. Impressions follow one another in an objective time sequence, where each has its particular place. According to this view, there can be no essential difference be¬ tween a man’s first cry and his last sigh. The beginning is not a real beginning, the end not a real end, and the middle is therefore also not a real middle. Nor is transition a real becoming; each moment is singular, occupying its place within time. We need only to recall once again Hume’s statement that the I (ego) is merely a “bundle of ideas,” and his rigorously developed doctrine of the atomism of time, to realize that this theory of the general and the particular and this conception of time must be interlaced. Basic to them is the elimina¬ tion of any concept of becoming. If, however, the relationship of the self to the world is general, if the self itself is in the process of becoming, if each moment is merely a constriction of that process, an alteration in continuous becoming, then the single moments must be entwined in an intrinsic context. I assumed in an earlier example that a young man on his first en¬ counter with a Chinese was immediately aware of his strange counte¬ nance, strange to be sure, but only in relation to the accustomed and the familiar. In comparison with the accustomed, with the past, the appearance of a Chinese, met for the first time, is peculiar. He is strange solely in contrast to what he is not. But this is true of every moment of experience. As the present moment, it is different from all moments that are past: it is this particular moment. But this particu¬ lar moment itself is soon past, distinct from another new moment. With respect to the past, it is a particular moment, whereas with re¬ spect to the future it is general. Each moment is a modification of a

96

Stimuli, Signs, and Signals

continuum, a transition from the definite past to the as yet indefinite future.5 This Janus-head character is part of each impression, because it is the experience of a subject in the process of becoming. Each moment is set off as a figure against a temporal background. This background has its own peculiar structure: It is what no longer is and what is not yet. In primary experience, each moment is given to us as distinct from what is no more, and what is not yet. Pavlov’s hypothesis of generalization and differentiation has re¬ quired a lengthy discussion. It would perhaps not have been neces¬ sary to go to these lengths in order to understand Pavlov’s experiments. But I did not want to break up an integrated considera¬ tion, and Pavlov’s experiments provided a welcome opportunity for the above reflections. I maintain that animals, too, experience the general—for exam¬ ple, sound. They have this experience not because they think in gen¬ eral terms, but because the relationship of an experiencing being to the world is a general relationship, whereas the singular moment is merely a constriction of this relationship. The content of each mo¬ ment is determined in part by that from which it is distinct, that is, by what it no longer is, as well as by what it is to be. How, otherwise, could animals experience signals, which are midway between an un¬ differentiated and a differentiated situation and which announce the transition from the one to the other? And now let us examine somewhat more closely the experiments in which generalization and differentiation occur. The natural environment of dogs is filled with sounds and noises of various kinds. In Pavlov s laboratory, all sounds and noises are, from the very beginning, totally absent. If, perchance, a noise does enter the laboratory, or if acoustic stimuli are deliberately intro¬ duced, each sound or noise stands out sharply against the preceding silence. Through this contrast they gain in significance. Thus, one of the essential conditions for the formation of signals is fulfilled. In the scheduled environment of the laboratory, every sound is first of all sound as such in contrast to the preceding silence. Moreover, a free-roaming animal can find its food in many differ¬ ent ways. In Pavlov s laboratory, too, the feeding could be coupled with many different kinds of stimuli. But in experiments proper feeding always follows one particular stimulus, such as a particular sound produced by a particular instrument. Thus the laboratory en¬ vironment of the animal, in comparison with its natural environ¬ ment, is decidedly restricted and impoverished. This restriction starts

RESOLUTION OF THE DIFFICULTIES

97

before the conditioning and it continues throughout the training in the laboratory. If, after being fully conditioned to one tone the ani¬ mal, nevertheless, reacts to a large number of different sounds, it does react to sound as such, but only because the transition to the differ¬ entiated situation proceeds by way of acoustic rather than optical or tactile stimuli. The response to sound as such has been achieved, de¬ spite the general nature of the animal’s reaction, by means of restric¬ tion and particularization. I have elsewhere illustrated6 this process of restriction with the following example: “Here is a meadow which could be approached from all directions. One fine day its owner puts a fence around his land and leaves only a small opening through which from now on all must pass who want to enter the meadow. At the open spot nothing has been changed by the construction of the fence. Nor has a new relationship been established between the fenced-in area and its environment. Indeed, it used to be possible to approach the meadow from the open spot, as well as from any place along the fence. The open spot is the only one which has remained unchanged. It has become distinct solely because the rest of the bor¬ der-line to which it belongs has been closed off for the remainder of its length. The formation of a signal proceeds in a completely analo¬ gous manner.” We know that conditioning can reach the point where the animal eventually reacts to but one specific sound. The animal has learned how to distinguish. The specificity of the signal arises from a con¬ stantly narrowing constriction. There is actually no contrast between the two processes which Pavlov distinguishes as generalizing and dif¬ ferentiating. The response to “sound as such” is due to a process of constriction and exclusion, as much as is the later response to a single sound. Both the generalization and the differentiation of Pavlov are possible only by virtue of the relationship between general and par¬ ticular which prevails in all sensing. If, then, there is no such thing as generalization and differentia-, tion in the Pavlovian sense, there need be no irradiation and concen¬ tration of stimulation within the nervous system either. These processes were, after all, only hypothesized in order to explain gen¬ eralization and differentiation. From a false interpretation of these phenomena, a false physiological theory of nervous functions was de¬ veloped. Pavlov thought that psychology could only be derivative from an objective physiology. But regardless of who is right in the interpreta¬ tion of the phenomena just described, the physiology of the CNS must always depend on the psychological interpretation of the phe-

Stimuli, Signs, and Signals

98

nomena. One could only speak of irradiation and concentration if generalization and differentiation in the sense assumed by Pavlov really existed. But in order to prove or disprove this, an understand¬ ing of the basic forms of experience is required. Thus, a particular physiological hypothesis must be based on a general psychological theory. The involved path to the principles is required not only for a refutation of the above suppositions; acceptance and refutation alike require testing of the general psychological presuppositions. Experi¬ ments can prove or even render probable the validity of a hypothesis only after its possible relevance has already been determined. But such a question may have to be settled in an entirely different man¬ ner than might be supposed by a fanatical experimenter.

(e)

Trace Reflexes and the Problem of Emptiness

The last difficulty which I discussed was that of the trace re¬ flexes. It was learned that a dog can be so conditioned as to salivate some time after the sudden cessation of a sound. It was further learned that an animal so conditioned will also salivate when stimuli never used before, stimuli in a different modality from that in which the animal had been conditioned, are made to stop suddenly. I re¬ jected Pavlov’s explanation. How can I now explain these phe¬ nomena? In some musical compositions, very effective use is made of the full pause. In the midst of a symphonic movement all instruments suddenly become silent. The effect of this silence on the listener is, by contrast, most dramatic. But is this effect based solely on the sud¬ den cessation of acoustic stimuli? Can we unhesitatingly use the word sudden in regard to this cessation? Do we not thus confuse physi¬ ological with psychological consideration? Is suddenness not intrin¬ sically related to expectation? Even if the state of expectation has its basis in physiological processes, these processes are certainly not iden¬ tical with the processes of acoustic stimulation. I hold that the animals in Pavlov’s experiments respond to si¬ lence, and that silence becomes a signal for them. Although contrast is necessary in order to bring out silence, the effects are those of the silence proper. The undifferentiated situation is created by the pre¬ ceding uniformly enduring stimulus against which the silence is set

RESOLUTION OF THE DIFFICULTIES

99

off as announcing a transition stage. According to my conception of the signal, there is no essential difference between a silence which in¬ terrupts a noise and a noise which interrupts a silence. Only when preceded by a silence does a sound readily become a signal. We are not faced with any new problem if in the series I-S-D the silence oc¬ curs as I instead of S. Animals are supposed to respond to silence. But from the phys¬ ical standpoint, silence is nothing, or at least a lack, a mere absence of sound waves. Physiologically, only a state of rest of the sensory organ could correspond to this nothingness. How can nothing cause something? Yet experiments show that silence causes something. They show even more: Silence is an intermodal phenomenon. Silence is but a mode of emptiness for the sense of hearing. Once the animal has grasped emptiness in one sensory modality as a signal of expecta¬ tion, it also reacts to emptiness in other modalities. If this were so, nothing would cause something, and would even, while being noth¬ ing, be transferable from one sensory modality to another. Are these assumptions not too bold, or altogether foolish? One is here actually faced with a most significant decision. Either one admits that animals cannot possibly react to silence because si¬ lence is nothing—and nothing cannot cause something—or one must abandon the physical point of view and the notion of equating ex¬ perience in all its particulars with processes in the organism. This means giving up the theory of epiphenomenalism. So far I have refrained from speaking about hearing silence. Nor do I now wish to claim that silence is heard in the same way as are sounds and noises. But no matter whether I hear a painful silence, or one that is pleasing, in terms of experience, this silence belongs to auditory phenomena even if it remains cognitively empty. A musical example will illustrate the way in which silence can be perceived. Beethoven’s violin concerto begins with four drum beats. In the score, we find four quarter notes, so that the entire measure is considered filled up with sound. The four beats, which are heard as four distinct beats can, however, also be interpreted physically and physiologically as crescendos and decrescendos. But later on, when the strings take up the theme, four one-eighth beats, separated by eighth intervals, are noted in the score. The bar is no longer wholly filled with sound. Sound alternates with silence. In music, each tone has its precisely determined place in time, its precise beginning and end. We hear both the onset of a tone and its cessation. The tone is limited in time. But any boundary also separates two things. Against what, then, in my example, is each tone set off? I would say it is set off

lOO

Stimuli, Signs, and Signals

against the silences, and that silence properly belongs to the auditory realm. Only if silence itself is part of the audible can we hear the four beats with their onset and their cessation, that is, only then do we ac¬ tually hear the tone in its temporal structure, as this structure is indicated by written musical notation. If, on the other hand, one argued that silence does not belong within the realm of the audible, one would have to concede that we do not really hear the onset and the cessation of a tone—in other words, that we do not perceive its development in time. The boundary which circumscribes the tem¬ poral structure of the tone would then not separate sound from si¬ lence, sound and pause, or sound and no sound. We could hear only the tone, not its beginning or its end. Beginning and end would be boundaries separating a consciousness with sound content from one without such content. While we thought we heard four beats follow¬ ing each other in quick succession, we actually would have ascer¬ tained the following: “Now I heard something, now I did not, now again, now again not,” and so on. The boundary would thus run be¬ tween sound and visual impression, or between sound and thought. This is a strange assumption, entirely at odds with the fact that sound and rhythm, as well as sound and temporal structure, are closely re¬ lated, just as it is at odds with the very structure of music. For only if we hear sounds in their temporal sequence, only if we actually hear their onset and their cessation—and that means only if we can hear silence—can there be music. And, since there is music, I believe it admissible to conclude that we perceive silence as an auditory phenomenon.7 I would have to face many difficulties had I to decide whether to designate silence as a negative phenomenon. In any event, I would immediately enter an essential qualification and caution against the conclusion that emptiness and silence are nothingness. Indeed, si¬ lence is perceived, and emptiness is experienced. This paradox is familiar to us in everyday life. We meet it with every negation, not only in a negative judgment properly speaking but even more strikingly in every denial of a wish or of a request. The other person, hearing only the “no,” hears the words, under¬ stands them, and the “no” works its effect. Yet silence is not like the emphatic and harsh “no”: It is more like the image of the omitted reply. Answers and silence exist only in the actuality of conversation. Answers are sentences—sometimes just single words and gestures—but not all sentences are answers If one utters the word “four” all by itself, it has little meaning; but it does have a meaning in answer to the question, “How much is two times

RESOLUTION OF THE DIFFICULTIES

lOl

two?” It becomes the answer to a particular question only within the historical context of a conversation. In conversation alone do we find statement and counterstatement, question and answer. Conversation arises in a community of speakers based on reciprocity, and is prior to any given statement by one of them. While the speakers talk about something, they also converse with one another. Every genuine question, seeking for an instructive answer, arises from a sense of want, of incompleteness. The ques¬ tioner turns to the other person in the expectation of completion. There is a reciprocal relationship of fulfillment between a question and an answer. The question looks forward to the answer, the an¬ swer looks back to the question, because that is the relationship in which the two speakers stand to one another. Some questions may re¬ main unanswered, but this need not stop the conversation. The place for the answer is there; it merely remains unfilled. It is because the conversation continues, even when there is no answer, that the lack of completion is experienced as silence. Silence and not speaking are not one and the same thing, except from a physical standpoint. Nor is silence and the lack of sound waves one and the same thing. Silence is experienced as emptiness because, within the context of our primary relationship to the world, we ask questions which remain unanswered. All sensory impressions are answers to questions; they are not simply there in the way in which the physiological processes underlying them are. We receive sensory impressions insofar as we orient ourselves within our primary relationship with the world by questing, seeking, expecting. Here, too, we may be left without answers. We then experience silence, or any of the other manifestations of emptiness. We have learned from Pavlov’s experiments that animals also re¬ spond to emptiness. We must conclude from this that they sense the world about them, to which—anticipating a response—they are di¬ rected in searching. If this is so, we must further conclude that the phenomena which Pavlov called conditioned reflexes cannot really be reflexes at all. It does not explain phenomena to speak of them as the supposed epiphenomena of hypostatized physiological processes. And it adds to the confusion to resort to a theory of isomorphism in order to account for the relationship between experience and physi¬ ological processes. We do not reject such a theory because it has not yet been proven, but because we consider it basically impossible. Reflexes occur in an organism. The phenomena which are ex¬ plained as conditioned reflexes, however, are not to be interpreted as simply occurring within an organism, but must be understood as

102

Stimuli, Signs, and Signals

ways in which living beings relate to the world. Pavlov’s basic mis¬ take, which he inherited from Cartesian philosophy by way of natu¬ ral science, is the view that it is possible to explain any relationship to the world as a process in the organism, that a situation can be ex¬ plained as a situs, and that the process of becoming can be under¬ stood as an objective time sequence. Our interpretation is supported by the fact that, despite the great amount of research in the field of conditioned reflexes, no adequate proof has been adduced for conditioned tendon reflexes. The forma¬ tion of conditioned reflexes is successful if—as in feeding or in hurt¬ ing—the relationship to the world has been altered. Conditioning is unsuccessful, on the other hand, in the case of those reflexes which— like tendon phenomena—are actually nothing but processes within the individual organism. We therefore come to the conclusion that animals are indeed ca¬ pable of experiencing signals, that is, approach, the phenomenon of the in-between, and the other features which we have described as characteristic of the signal. We are thus confronted by the funda¬ mental question: How must sensation be constituted for such expe¬ riences to become real?

Part III e=£L MAN THINKS, NOT THE BRAIN

A.

Surrounding Field

and Surrounding World (a) The Credo of Objective Psychology PAVLOV, HAVING WORKED UNTIRINGLY RIGHT UP TO THE END OF

his life, died in 1936, crowned with glory. Pavlov is dead, but his work lives on. In the old world, as in the new world, and on both sides of the Iron Curtain, scholars take great pains to expand upon and to propagate the doctrine of the conditioned reflexes. The num¬ ber of the disciples, followers, and apostles is legion. True, changes have been made; new experiments have led to new observations and new observations have necessitated additional hypotheses. As is usu¬ ally the case, separate groups have been formed after leaving the orthodox fold. Above all, among neurophysiologists, probably only a few are still determined to defend seriously Pavlov’s speculations about the structure and activity of the brain. But this did not do any damage to Pavlov’s basic conceptions. One has endeavored to replace the defective parts by a better construction, to reinforce the founda¬ tions of the shaky building, and to strengthen logically and epistemo¬ logically the theory of objective psychology. It would lead much too far afield to record the opinions of all the schools, which are often in conflict with one another, to weigh their arguments, and to define one’s own attitude with respect to all the details of historical development since Pavlov’s death. It is of greater importance to attempt a fundamental critique. This task is made easier because, in spite of all differences, objective psychologists—to 105

io6

Man Thinks, Not the Brain

give them their collective name—agree on one fundamental prin¬ ciple. At the Hixon Symposium of 1948, a conference of a small number of outstanding psychologists, physiologists, and psychiatrists, Lashley (as speaker for this group) formulated an “article of common faith’’ upon which, he thought, all the participants could agree. This “ar¬ ticle” states that all phenomena of behavior and mind will ultimately become describable in terms of the mathematical and physical sciences.1 No objection was raised. This was scarcely to be expected, even if the article of faith had been intended to be put to the vote before a great international forum. Had some of the opponents, such as Sher¬ rington 2 or Eccles 3 spoken, they would have been voted down by a compact majority. Descartes would have been no stranger at such a meeting. He could have pointed out that he had advanced the same postulate centuries ago, although he had limited it to animal be¬ havior and to the human body. By adding “and of mind” to the words “of behavior” the conference had modified and radicalized his opinion on a decisive point.4 My interpretation of the behavior of animals in the Pavlovian ex¬ periments brings me in opposition to both Descartes and Lashley. The believers in Lashley’s article of faith, which may be called the credo of objective psychology in the broadest sense, are found in very different groups, both radical and moderate. Their changing in¬ terpretation of the common faith can be brought under the following scheme of categorical statements: (1) There is no consciousness. (2) There might be consciousness, but there is no proof of its existence or its mode of operation. (3) The question of whether there is a consciousness or not is irrelevant, for it cannot be explored by scientific, that is, objective methods. (4) There is consciousness. However, because all consciousness is only an at¬ tendant phenomenon of brain processes, the task of the explora¬ tion of its laws is reduced to the clarification of the physiological processes on which it is based. (5) There exists an immediate experi¬ ence, but it cannot become an object of research. (6) Whether or not there is consciousness and whether it plays a particular role in con¬ trolling behavior are obsolete questions, superseded by the facts. Our predecessors tried to prove that behavior and nervous functions are completely correlated, and that the former is caused entirely by the latter. They have tried to relate perceiving, remembering, learn¬ ing, thinking, and acting to brain activities, and to understand the brain itself as a machine. All that was, at best, theoretical interpreta-

SURROUNDING FIELD AND SURROUNDING WORLD

107

tion, but never cogent proof. We, today, have advanced, for we have discovered a practical and peremptory demonstration. We have suc¬ ceeded in building machines that think and plan, that discover errors and correct mistakes. Descartes’ idea that animals could be compared with automatons is no longer a speculative hypothesis, for today we are capable of constructing automatons which compete with man. We no longer have to establish the fact that brains are machines, for we have machines that are brains. In this scheme, the formulation of which is adapted to examples in modern publications with adequate exactness, the subject in ques¬ tion is consciousness, not the experiencing being. The scheme follows colloquial usage; it makes clear that the Cartesian division of body and soul still continues and keeps even those under its spell who re¬ ject it. For what is contested is the very fact that there exists con¬ sciousness as an autonomous essence, as a kind of substance which can affect bodily processes. Psychophysical parallelism and the doc¬ trine of the psychophysical reciprocal effect are both descendants of Cartesianism. Instead of consciousness, we intend to speak here of the experiencing being. The objective significance of this change in terminology, what is gained by it, and the new problems arising from it will become evident as we proceed in our discussion.

Scientific Behavior Is an Essential Theme of Behavior Science A discussion with objective psychologists can be productive and a resolution of differences becomes possible only if, to begin with, both parties meet on some common ground. Such common ground is not difficult to find. In all of our discussions, arguments, and disputes we must start from the assumption that there is some¬ thing that we call psychology, more generally, that there exists some¬ thing we call science. However, if we are to interpret knowledge and science as such, whether logically, epistemologically, or anthropologi¬ cally, we first take them as actually given. Knowledge and science are realities in the sphere of human behavior. For this very reason, they become a theme of psychology itself. It is true they are not its sole subject but they are a pressing one. The science of psychology must be capable of presenting the psychological potentiality of science. In

io8

Man Thinks, Not the Brain

other fields of science, it may be taken for granted that man can see, hear, perceive, observe, experiment, measure, and demonstrate, that he can formulate his findings in words, communicate past events, and predict and verify future ones. In other fields, the scholar may devote himself exclusively to the facts he sees and perceives; but in psychology the sight of the visible and the perception of the per¬ ceptible is the very problem. A psychology whose principles render its adherents fundamentally incapable of comprehending the nature of perception and communication, as well as of understanding the possibility of proof and prediction, would be incapable of giving an account of the act of observing. Such a psychology would have failed in its proper task. The demand that psychology must be capable of reverting to the behavior of the observer will hardly find favor amongst the objective psychologists. In addition to those who, without bothering much about all such problems, rush to the laboratories in order to begin with concrete detailed research, there are a few who explicitly define their attitude towards the problem of psychology in science. They re¬ ject such a proposal. Without hesitation, the problem is thrust aside, not merely as unimportant or superfluous, but as unsolvable. The possibility of observation and description, they claim, must be taken as given in psychology in the same way as in physics. But why? It is part of immediate experience. “Immediate experience”: these words sound as if they signified pure, genuine, and therefore absolutely certain experience. But that is not the meaning. Immedi¬ ate experience is so immediate that it really cannot be experienced at all. The older psychologists still assumed, it is said, that immediate experience could be directly observed and analyzed by a kind of inner sense. The objective psychologists do not share this opinion. Immediate experience, they like to say, is the matrix of all sciences. It is accessible only with the help of physics or physiology. It can. Boring5 writes, quoting Wundt, be inferred again only inductively by reconstruction. But nothing is said as to the basis on which this reconstruction is to come about. Further treatment of the problem is relegated to philosophy. The psychologist has no other choice but to take the immediate experience and everything connected with it for granted and he, as Spence has it, “then proceeds to his task of describing the events oc¬ curring in it and discovering and formulating the nature of the rela¬ tionships holding among them.”6 Another author7 counsels the psychologists in almost identical words that, like the physicists, “they

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must now take immediate experience for granted and then proceed to develop maps, rules and equations for finding one’s way about.” This interpretation of immediate experience seems partly to follow the philosophical tradition of sensualism, for the original elements of experiencing are no longer accessible to us, as Locke has already pointed out. We are always too late. We can only reconstruct imme¬ diate experience in its original form. Objective psychology, to be sure, deviates from Locke by skipping everyday experience and leaps at a bound into science, physics, and psychology. Many ques¬ tions are thus left unanswered. We never learn on what basis the reconstruction can take place, what is to become of the experience of all those human beings who are not natural scientists, or how prescientific knowledge finds its rationale in science. We have every rea¬ son to doubt that starting at once with the drafting of the “maps” is good advice, or that it will work at all. The first thing a cartographer does is to look around in this our world, and it is in this world that he designs the pattern of a map using exact measurements and bas¬ ing his procedures on intricate methodical deliberations. The result is a map which has to be perceived in its material form so that its ab¬ stract significance may be grasped. We can sketch into our map men, animals, and vehicles, and depict their movements. But it is an ab¬ surd idea to assume that the task of the psychologist is solely con¬ cerned with those kinds of artifacts without regard for their creator and the conditions of their creation. The leap from immediate expe¬ rience into science would indeed be unavoidable if the boundaries of immediate experience had to be extended so far that they included the whole of daily existence. Actually, objective psychology favors this interpretation. In addition to the interpretation of immediate experience just discussed, we are suddenly confronted with a second one hardly compatible with the first one: Immediate experience is the personal experience of an empirical person, namely, of the sci¬ entist. Atoms and electrons, we are taught, are systematic construc¬ tions which the physicist infers from his immediate experience. “The data of all sciences have the same origin—namely the immediate ex¬ perience of an observing person, of the scientist himself. That is to say, immediate experience, the initial matrix out of which all sci¬ ences develop, is no longer considered a matter of concern for the scientist qua scientist. He simply takes it for granted and then pro¬ ceeds to his task of describing the events occurring in it.”8 The physicist observes and describes, so it seems, not the events in nature or in his laboratory, but in his immediate experience. In these speculations the scientist appears as a deus ex machine. Sud-

no

Man Thinks, Not the Brain

denly he stands there—around him as around the “mothers” in Goethe’s Faust—neither space nor time. Thrust into nothingness, he deduces atoms and electrons as physical constructions from his im¬ mediate experience. “Scientific empiricism holds to the position that all sciences, including psychology, deal with the same events, namely the experiences or perceptions of the scientist himself.”9 Now we are confronted with still another complication. The subject is here the scientist, that is, an empirical person encountered as a being in this world who perceives, observes, and describes. In the act of perceiving, he discovers the world for himself. His experiencing and perceiving are, however, interpreted as experiences and perceptions as though they were things which occur in immediate experience. The per¬ ceived object and the perceiving of the object are, as it were, con¬ tracted into one. The sunrise would thus not be conceived as the phenomenon of the rising sun in the universe on the horizon of the observer, but as an event in the immediate experience of the physi¬ cist. The question of how he himself can exist as a flesh and blood human being becomes increasingly urgent, but no answer is offered. The physicist constructs physics out of his immediate experience. In his descriptions he uses human language, but there are no human listeners around him. To whom do his descriptions mean anything? Is he not condemned to grotesque soliloquies? “The behavior-scien¬ tist who claims to study such perceptual behavior in his subjects is thus asked” say Bergmann and Spence,10 “to start uncritically from his own perceptions. ... In the schema outlined by the scientific empiricist, the experiences of the observing scientist do indeed have a privileged, even unique position.” Suddenly, now, the fronts have been completely changed. The physicist, like the psychologist, de¬ scribes events, each in his personal and immediate experience. A straight road leads from here to the theory of introspective solipsism. The original intention to prove theoretically the methodical postu¬ lates of objectivity and public verifiability has failed. Therefore, the demand that all scientific concepts, psychological ones included, must be defined from a physicalistic basis appears quite unfounded. But these claims were thought to be axiomatically certain, long be¬ fore one tried subsequently to prove them. When the behaviorists united in a common front with the logical positivists and the adher¬ ents of operationalism, those postulates had already been set up as inviolate dogmas.11 They also held in common the principle of physicalism and the conviction that physics is the science, and therefore that scientific psychology has to accept the methods of physics_ex¬ periment and measurement. Thus, psychological research is limited to the “objectively” observable and measurable.

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The interpretation of immediate experience as an inaccessible, hidden foundation of science served a good purpose. If its reasoning was legitimate, objective psychology was no longer obliged to con¬ cern itself with the world of man and man in his world. It could im¬ mediately turn its attention to observation in the sense of the observed and forget the observer and the observing. But in the long run, the strain of repression proved to be too strong. As we have seen, the observing and describing psychologist must at least ac¬ knowledge his own disqualification. For the sake of the dogma, how¬ ever, he insists just the same on the exclusive use of “objective” methods in describing the behavior of all other human beings and animals. This leads to a peculiar ambiguity, to a psychological Averroism. “The empiricist scientist should realize that his behavior, symbolic or otherwise, does not lie on the same methodological level as the responses of his subjects. ... In studying his subjects, includ¬ ing their symbolic responses (object language), the behavior scien¬ tist himself uses a different language (pragmatic metalanguage) .”12 Translated into plain English, this precept means that the person being tested can never become a partner of the observer. S and O do not speak a common language, thus excluding from psychological research the very province of communication and mutual understanding. What is left, at the most, is but a small part of the whole of all possible psychology. The objective psychologist himself can hardly believe seriously in his knowledge. He talks with other people, he attends congresses, he gives lectures and is pleased by the applause of his audience, or angered if someone contradicts him; he has a family, wife, and children whom he does not treat as machines according to the rules of his trade. Through his science he has not gained a single insight for his own use. On the contrary, were he to take his own teaching seriously, he would condemn himself to complete autism. Radical programs are easily formulated; to carry them through true to principle is quite a different story. A psychology which de¬ mands proofs for consciousness and is unable to find them—(as if the possibility of proving were not sufficient proof), a psychology which demands objective observation and takes the observation as given— such a psychology can obviously not even take the first step without trespassing on forbidden ground. As a matter of fact, objective psychology cannot exist without a black market furnished with contra¬ band from the psychology of living experience. For by its observa¬ tions, descriptions, and communications it belongs to the human world. The scholar acts and talks, he is pleased or he suffers, he is a man like all other men. While stating his case, he belongs to a world

Man Thinks, Not the Brain

112

the existence of which he denies in his statements. But his state¬ ments make sense only if a locus for his statements is given. Objective psychology demands the radical reduction of original experience. That is easier said than done. The paradoxical behavior of the objective psychologist who denies what he presupposes pre¬ vents an exact phenomenological analysis of the everyday world in which he, as researcher, moves about. This defect, in turn, promotes the naive use of psychological concepts of experience in the frame¬ work of seemingly radical reduction. The objective psychologist speaks of stimulus and response, but he often treats this relation as if it were a relation of an experiencing being to his world. Radical renunciation of the familiar attitude and the strict application of psychological reduction is, even for the most convinced supporter of objective psychology, an extremely difficult task, one left unsolved by the acknowledgement of the principle. Let us, therefore, examine how far the understanding of objective psychology reaches insofar as it strictly adheres to its basic rules, and insofar as it rejects every¬ thing that might contradict its own principles. Four closely con¬ nected themes are generated: (1) The basic rules, according to which objective psychology must proceed, have to be defined. (2) It must be determined to what extent, if any, objective psychology remains true to its basic rules in pursuing its program. (3) Furthermore, it will have to be decided whether a form of behavior such as “learning”—a favorite theme of objective psychology—fits into the rigid framework of its principles of interpretation. (4) The last and most important task is to give an answer to the question: How far does the self-understanding of ob¬ jective psychology go? Can it comprehend the behavior of the ob¬ server?

The Basic Rules of Psychology 1. Objective psychology’s range of interpretation is severely restricted in its possibility of interpretation by physicalism, which compels it to reduce all human and animal behavior to motor processes in an organism. And the movement of an organism in its en¬ vironment is taken first, perhaps, as the paradigm. Objective psychol¬ ogy cannot stop here. It must forge ahead to reduce this relation to

SURROUNDING FIELD AND SURROUNDING WORLD

“3

motor processes in an organism, for it will reach its goal only if it is capable of explaining how—according to generally established cor¬ relations—a unique organism, influenced by present and affected by past stimuli, moves about or is actually moved. Thus, Skinner says: “By behavior, then, I mean simply the movement of an organism or of its parts in a frame of reference provided by the organism itself or by various external objects or fields of force.”13 Tolman, like many others, calls behavior a conditional variable. Environmental stimuli and physiological needs, or extero- and intero-ceptive stimuli, are the initial independent variables; they set behavior going. The resulting behavior is then steered by other variables. Tolman’s formula: B = f (S, P, H, T, A) is a quasi-mathematical expression for the functional relation of the behavior B to stimuli (S), physiological needs (P), and other factors. Clark Hull, Mowrer, and other neobehaviorists have, like Tolman and Spence, elaborated on the reflex patterns of Watson and Pavlov, and have presented them in diagrams and formulas that look like physical equations. All these additions do not contest the first principle that the behavior of men and animals must be reduced to “molar and molecular” motor processes in the organism. 2. Motor processes in the organism are single occurrences, tied to their loci in space and time. Changes at any point x of the system are characterized by the term dx/dt as used in physics. Even the excitations continuing in a reverberating circuit are—regardless of the permanence of the total motion in the activated system—single excitation processes, recurring periodically in the different sectors of the system. That is, they are likewise processes limited to their actual positions in time. While the observer of this “static motion” may see a constant form, the individual parts of reverberating cir¬ cuits are in continually changing phases, just as the form of a water¬ fall remains the same, although from moment to moment new masses of water rush down over the rocks. Repetition is an historical cate¬ gory. Physical occurrences as such are always single events; they can¬ not step twice into the stream of time. Each one has its own number in time’s register. 3. The direction of processes in the organism is from the stimulus to the reaction, from the afferent to the efferent pole, regardless of whether inner or outside excitations, exteroceptive or interoceptive stimuli, are concerned. The direction of motion, designated by the formula S^R (stimulus = response) is maintained even if the end of the motor effect acts again upon the beginning, or the original position. According to objective psychology, the circle of configura-

ii4

Man Thinks, Not the Brain

tion (Gestaltkreis) has to be broken into a succession of processes which can be expressed by the schema: S—>R; R—»S: Sp Sx—>Ri; Ri—>SX: S2; S2-*R2, etc. The behavior conditioned by the motor discharges follows the stimuli in time. It is not focused upon them, because it lacks the reciprocal relationship. The muscular jerk fol¬ lowing the stimuli is not goal directed, it is determined by the past— an empty thrust. Every action is sensomotor reaction, or sham action. Experimenting, too, is affected by this “paralysis.” 4. Within the organism, individual excitations can be united to larger units in accordance with the principle of contiguity (merely synchronicity or merely temporal succession) or according to the principle of causality (one-sided or reciprocal modification). Several afferent impulses act on a common efferent terminal path. 5. The apparently meaningful adjustment of the organism to the particularity of an actual situation has to be understood as an after effect of similar situations to which it has been exposed in the past. Adaptation is the result of a temporary or lasting change of the organism, the result of so-called “learning.” 6. The space-time relation between the independent and de¬ pendent variables are to be determined in conformity with the physi¬ cal concepts of space and time.

(d) Consequences of the Basic Rules From these basic rules, there follows a series of consequences which are of great importance for psychology. 1. Searching for, and fleeing from, must not be conceived as aimdirected motions. Objective psychology cannot, as such, acknowledge acts which anticipate future motions in the sense of the “at-towards” or the “away-from.” The behavior of the stimulus-directed organism is a continuous succession of situations in the physically-defined surrounding field. The organism passes through a close series of pres¬ ences. Its time horizon does not go beyond the actual time differen¬ tial, its space horizon is reached at the immediate borderline of the encircling field. Popular opinion regards attacking and defending, searching and fleeing, as highly characteristic modes of behavior involving move¬ ments, whose significance is unmistakable. According to its basic laws, objective psychology must apprehend them as continuous al¬ terations of distances, as decreases or increases. An experiencing be-

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ing can move towards visible, distant objects. An organism, driven and steered by stimuli, has no relationship to distance. We can ap¬ proach an object but not a stimulus. 2. In order to be able to search or to flee, the organism would have to be capable of finding its bearing in its field of action. Orien¬ tation demands a position from which space in its full range can be comprehensively surveyed so that we can determine our own po¬ sition in relation to the environment. It is the position and attitude of being face to face with the things in the world. An organism in the sense of objective psychology, is a highly complex piece of mat¬ ter, a body amongst other bodies, which exchanges energy with its immediate surroundings. It is, like any other physical structure, fitted into the general order of space-time events. By itself it cannot determine its “where”; it cannot grasp the topography apportioned to it. 3. The organism which is guided by stimuli has a certain rela¬ tionship to the encircling field, but it has no relation to the world. It cannot—in the original sense of the expression—have an attitude toward anything, neither toward the environment as a whole, nor toward particular objects or localities. 4. Avenues can only be discovered in a landscape presenting it¬ self to awareness. Lost in the impenetrable fog of incomprehension, no avenues are available for the organism pushed along the spacetime line (expressed in the formula dx/dt). Since there are no ave¬ nues for the organism, neither direct ones nor detours, there cannot be any signposts. Signs, like stopsigns and arrows, mark a road, but only insofar as the road presents itself as capable of being marked, that is insofar as it is an open or hidden connection of readily pass¬ able tracts. 5. Because the organism has no relation to its environment nor to objects, it cannot act. Its physical motion lacks the meaning of intentional movement. Its clash with objects does not signify an effort to change them, the absorption of substances from the environ¬ ment does not mean making them a real part of oneself, nor does the utterance of sounds mean expressing oneself. In the machine, which follows the S->R schema, the afferent stimulus, it is true, is linked to the efferent one. But the stimulus knows nothing of the motorium and the motor effects, the muscle knows nothing of the stimuli it receives or of the muscles it directs, and the organism has no knowl¬ edge of its environment. 6. The organism cannot discriminate. To be sure, it can respond to different stimuli with different reactions, but different reactions

Man Thinks, Not the Brain

do not discriminate or grasp the meaning of discrimination itself. Wood reacts differently to water and to fire, although it cannot be said to discriminate between water and fire. Gunpowder reacts in a different way to fire than it does to sand, but the fire does not dis¬ criminate between gunpowder and sand. We, the observers, can discriminate between the modes of behavior by comparing the sep¬ arate processes. We make comparisons between our present and the long bygone past; we compare New York with Berlin without mov¬ ing a stone from its place. Comparison is a transcendent relation which brings together the elements of comparison in relation to a common third element, yet leaves them as separate entities. The organism cannot discriminate because it cannot compare. Stimuli and excitations either coincide as several separate processes or they combine and are modified in different ways. In the first case, the possibility of a unifying combination is lacking; in the latter, the separate entities necessary to make a comparison possible have been lost. In both cases a tertium comparationis is lacking. 7. The organisms ordered into their surrounding fields have no common environment. They cannot influence each other or com¬ municate with each other. They are elements in a heap, rather than partners in a group.

Attempts at Revising the Basic Schema Many attempts have been made to strip off the straitjacket, to break through the narrow formula, or to widen it. These attempts failed—they had to fail—for the basic thesis precludes any compro¬ mises. Inconsistency and contradiction provide the only way out. Thus, the question of purpose arises in Tolman’s writings. He stresses the ability of the organism to react appropriately14 to proc¬ esses in the environment, but he cannot refrain from establishing aims and choice of means as those factors which as “intervening variables”15 within the organism are supposed to loosen the rigid mechanism of stimulus and reaction. Purposes and aims, however, cannot be quantified and itemized together with stimuli and other causal agents in a common account; they cannot be located in the same psychological field. The time structure of the stimulus-reaction schema excludes any consideration of anticipating tendencies. Yet, letters are patient. S, P, H, F, A can be bracketed together, even though S denotes external stimuli, P physiological needs, H heredity.

SURROUNDING FIELD AND SURROUNDING WORLD

“7

A age or maturity, and T preceding training. And the formula, fur¬ ther elaborated with reference to the “intervening variables,” B = fx (la, lb, Ic, Id . . . H, T, A), also looks imposing on paper. The in¬ trinsic difficulties become manifest only if the disparate terms of this so-called equation are to be reduced to a common denominator. Tolman uses the letters Ia-Id as symbols for such variables as “de¬ mands,” discriminanda, manipulanda, and “means-end fields,” ex¬ pressions so vague and ambiguous that they easily short circuit heterogeneous view's. The word manipulanda, for example, will surely have to be applied to objects, which demand a certain mode of manipulating, of handling. A typewriter with its keyboard might perhaps serve as an example for a manipulandum in the human sphere. The manipulanda, however, are supposed not to be objects “outside,” but rather factors which are interposed between the stimulus and reaction and which intervene in the moved organism. Such a factor can neither understand nor comply with an order, it cannot direct itself towards objects, it cannot act, it cannot aim, nor can it use any means for any purpose. In Tolman’s equation, the “in¬ tervening variables” are designed and meant as physiological factors, but they are treated as if they were experiencing persons. Hull,16 more consistent than Tolman in the application of the principles, defines goals as objects which terminate tensions of needs. “Subjective” definitions are thought to be superfluous. According to Hull and Mowrer, satisfaction can be understood and measured as tension reduction, if not directly, at least indirectly as a hypothetical factor which, operative within the organism mediating between the exactly measurable stimuli and reactions, balances the account. In order to eliminate any subjective misinterpretation, Hull prefers in his psychological equations to designate by letters such factors which he postulates as a basis for his measurements. A sentimentalist might shudder at these formulas. He will certainly doubt whether they could represent all the misery of mankind or its slender happiness. But that is not their purpose; such things are done by writers of belles lettres. The task of a psychologist demands much more so¬ briety. It is the undaunted revealing of the laws, according to which the position of an organism shifts from X to Y in a given time. But why all this great display of endeavor, time, intellectual energy, if, in the end, it produces only answers to trivial and indifferent ques¬ tions? Such an objection hardly alarms the positivist. We are not striving for empty knowledge, he says. Science finds its justification in its practice. As Tolman has it, “The ultimate interest of psychol¬ ogy is solely the prediction and control of behaviour.”

1x8

Man Thinks, Not the Brain

In former times, the value of paper money was guaranteed. It could be exchanged for gold. Such a promise was to strengthen the confidence in notes. In a similar way, psychological formulas are today accepted as promissory notes in the hope that the psychological factors denoted by letters can be exchanged, one day, for the pure gold of psychological concepts. Opinions differ as to when this will come about. Some, like B. F. Skinner, feel this day is still in the remote future. They advise one to content oneself with the psycho¬ logical phenomena and their correlations; one should, as it were, treat man and animal as “empty organisms”—an expression used to convey the provisional abandonment of any recourse to physiology. At the other extreme, we meet scholars like Hebb who believe that the knowledge of physiological events we command today is already sufficient to form the basis of psychology. Hebb’s attitude to the problem of thinking and knowing is a characteristic example. He sees in these phenomena the last essen¬ tial obstacle obstructing the completion of a mechanistic psychology. He surmises that here, too, a solution can be found if “thought” is introduced as a factor into the motor process as “some sort of process that is not fully controlled by environmental stimulation and yet closely cooperates with that stimulation.”17 There is no reason why thoughts should not be called factors which determine behavior, that is, the behavior of thinking beings. But that is not the meaning of Hebb’s suggestion. He aims at changing thoughts into factors which direct the motions of an organism together with, or in addi¬ tion to, other factors, as, let us say, atmospheric pressure and the oxygen content of the blood, or the optical stimuli and the 17-ketosteroicls. Every meaning conceived in thinking, even as abstract an idea as the ratio of the circumference to the radius of a circle ex¬ pressed by the number pi, is transformed into a mere ens rationis (Gedankending). Thinking and that which is thought, fuse and be¬ come the thought which, as a factor or as a chain of factors, takes part in determining the motion of the body. It is the physiology of the brain which will disclose the true and ultimate explanation of thinking. Hebb presumes thinking to be a certain form of transmis¬ sion of an excitation from the sensory to the motor cerebral cortex. If Hebb were right, his own thoughts would be nothing but trans¬ missions of excitations from the sensory to the motor cortex of his brain. How such single events within their temporal and local limits could be able to present themselves and communicate themselves remains quite unintelligible. A transmission of excitations can hardly be aware of itself. Inadvertently, Hebb and all those who share his

SURROUNDING FIELD AND SURROUNDING WORLD

n9

view claim for themselves an exceptional position. Their theory must not be applied to themselves. Here, however, it is not possible to withdraw into the inaccessible sphere of immediate experience. The contradiction shows up when the application of the doctrine to a common generally accessible experience is attenrpted; to a book, its author, and his theorems.

(f)

A Psychological Author Conversing with Himself as a Writing Psychologist

Hebb, the author, and Hebb, the mechanistic psychologist, live in two different worlds. The author writes a book in which he sets down his thoughts and opinions. He gives expression to the theme which the title of the book announced. For months he is busy with the composition of his manuscript. He plans, devises, alters, until after much toil the work is ready for the printer. What he has to say he draws from his knowledge acquired during years of learn¬ ing, extended by his own observations, and increased by the reading of the books of other scholars. The author sends the completed man¬ uscript to a publisher to be printed, that is, for reproduction and publication. With his book he addresses a community of readers whose understanding, agreement or criticism he looks forward to. The psychologist says to the author: How can you be so naive? You really know better than that. Not a single word of what you have said is true. Your thoughts are transmissions of excitations in your brain. How could you possibly express them? Such excitations con¬ trol your motor behavior together with the traces of former stimuli, which, as you know only too well, you have to comprehend as your learning, your observation, and your reading. This whole stimulus constellation causes a reaction, commonly called “writing.” It is described in scientific terms, however, as a molar reaction of muscles. The irregular marks produced by the writing hand on paper operate immediately as actual stimuli which, in turn, have an effect on the so-called writing movements. During the months when you say you worked on the manuscript, stimuli and reactions succeeded each other in great number. You cannot maintain in all seriousness that such a steadily progressing chain of stimuli and reactions can cir¬ culate around a single object—the manuscript—or around a theme! In the chain of stimuli and reactions, each event has its unique po-

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sition in time. There is nothing but a succession where every mo¬ ment excludes every other moment. The movements of the muscles which put the letter “H” on paper are already gone when the “E” follows, and so on, all the way through the length of the manuscript. You object that it was really you who composed the manuscript and it was you who revised it again and again until it almost came up to your expectations. But you cannot maintain that you are capable of working at a theme, of planning, of remedying faults, and correct¬ ing errors. These so-called errors have the same relationship to the mechanical process of cause and effect as the so-called truths. You should be the last to indulge in such eccentric ideas. You cannot work on an object, for your relationship to the object is none other than to receive stimuli and to have motor reactions. You cannot plan, for your nervous system has no knowledge of time, of possi¬ bilities, of projects. Everything in your organism is strictly deter¬ mined by the past. You cannot be ahead of yourself, you cannot direct yourself towards objects, or consider modifications of an object. Your eye is a receptor of stimuli—nothing else. The other things you said about the relations with a publisher, about print and re¬ production, are indeed inexcusable relapses into animistic and mentalistic conceptions. For it is exactly the great merit of our doctrine that we have done away with all these superstitions. To be able to negotiate with a publisher you would have to perceive and under¬ stand him as another person, and for that purpose you would have to conceive yourself as a person, namely as one using the pronoun “I ” But after having so successfully reduced psychology to processes in an organism, it became evident to us that: “All one can know about another’s feelings and awareness is an inference from what he does—from his muscular contraction and glandular secretions. ... If one is to be consistent, there is no room here for a mysterious agent that is defined as not physical and yet produces physical effects. . . . Mind’’ can only be regarded, for scientific purposes, as the activity of the brain, and this should be mystery enough for anyone. . . ,”18 To be completely consistent, you should also interpret your own feelings and awareness as activities of the brain. Then hearing and seeing become mere electrical and chemical processes in the nerve cells. The other, the fellow man, is but an unscientific term for certain stimulus combinations. If you get rid of your mentalism, it will become clear that you exist in complete isolation as an or¬ ganism. You are locked up within yourself, completely alone, yet you do not understand your solitude. Thoughts are transmissions, factors which adapt your organism to stimulus constellations, and therefore

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it is sheer absurdity to talk of communicating your thoughts to a reader. For the sake of argument let us assume you have knowledge of other organisms—though, to be sure, I do not know how—and they of you; all they could perceive of you would be “muscle con¬ tractions” and “gland secretions.” Your feelings and perceptions are hidden from them. What is foolishly called communication is but the relation of cause and effect between two organisms. The proc¬ esses in your brain cannot be transferred to another brain. Even if it were the case that there were excitations in one nervous system which caused reactions which then acted as stimuli on a second brain and produced in both systems similar afferent excitations, such a concurrence could never even be noted. The psychologist will probably never succeed in convincing the author, for then he would not have written his book at all. Because he has written it, it is rather strange that the author allowed the psychologist to put a word in. The explanation for this ambivalent behavior may be as follows: Many objective psychologists are vio¬ lently repelled by everything they call animistic or mentalistic. With the same intensity, on the other hand, they are fascinated by the idea of physiological mechanisms. The mentalistic seems to them deceptive, spookish, unreal—a metaphysical abomination. Over and against such principles, mechanism radiates as the true being, ab¬ sorbing their total interest. They fail to see that in the order of experience they confuse the immediately accessible with the deduced, the primary with the secondary. They fail to grasp that mechanism cannot understand itself, that the knowing individual transcends that which is known, that to a certain extent, man must be more powerful than his work, the maker more powerful than his product. They fail to understand that in all their interpretations they are inescapably caught up in the sphere of saying, meaning, and know¬ ing. Thus, they see neither reason nor need to meditate on the strangeness of their own behavior and their own actions. They talk quite ingeniously about predictions and controls without investi¬ gating the psychological conditions under which predictions and controls are possible, whether they fit at all into their own system. They think, act, and talk as if stimuli were directly accessible, meas¬ urable and easily manipulatable. Objects perceived in sensory experi¬ ence like a colored bottle, a ringing bell, or a food dish are held to be stimuli. The fundamental difference between the relationship of an experiencing being to the world of objects and of an organism to stimuli is ignored.

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(g) Motion and Action This fatal error has been forced upon objective psychology, to be sure, by its own methods. It went into battle with the greatest optimism. Inspired by the belief in the irresistible power of the simple mechanism, it was certain it would be able eventually to move mountains, although it was quite willing to be content to start with molehills. The formula, “stimulus-reaction” seems very simple and clear in principle. Actually, however, it narrows freedom of thought to an extreme degree. Objective psychology has made its task very difficult for itself. Its theoretical views deviate so far from everyday notions that a strict and conscientious fulfillment of its demands requires quite exceptional effort. It requires an unrelenting intel¬ lectual asceticism. Only the closest attention will prevent a relapse into familiar thought habits. Objective psychology has prescribed a rigorous regimen for itself; it has a salt-free diet in which even the smallest grain of attic salt is prohibited. Extreme dietetic pre¬ scriptions cannot be endured for long—sooner or later the moment comes when the patient can stand it no longer and then secretly tastes the forbidden fruits. How can anybody observe human beings or animals in nature or during an experiment without viewing them as seeking and flee¬ ing, on the way to this or that goal, oriented in relation to their environment by discerning and acting, expressing themselves and communicating? Animals in a maze, animals which learn to find their way and to distinguish the signs on the paths, have been the theme of innumerable experiments. In reports of these experiments, we frequently hear of environment, of ways and round-about ways of differentiating and learning, but we hear also of stimuli and muscle movements. What does that really mean? Are the basic rules respected, or are modes of observations, the “scientific,” the “objec¬ tive,” and the ’’introspective” way of thinking used alternatively? One would have to know how the following expressions are to be understood in accordance with the basic rules: Environment, way, seeking, and avoiding. On perusing the literature of objective psychology, it is surpris¬ ing that the essential distinction between “encircling field” and “en¬ vironment” is missing. It might be the case that this difference has not been taken into consideration. It might even be that the ex¬ pression “environment” is used, but what is actually meant is the

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surrounding field understood as a region, out of which or traveling through which, stimuli meet an organism at its particular location. It might be that the encircling field is meant in the first place in rather a vague way, but in the execution of the program it is dis¬ placed by the meanings which the word “environment” evokes. The words environment and world around us enforce the asso¬ ciation of ideas in which animal or man appear as if they were capable of behaving in a definite way towards their environment. But behavior is not supposed to be understood as a meaningful be¬ havior directed to the environment, but only as a consequence of motions in the physically-defined space. The psychologist’s behavior in his experiments with and observation of animals is, it is true, directed toward his environment, but he is not inclined to grant the same possibilities to the organism. Whether the psychologist op¬ erating under such presuppositions can ultimately comprehend his own behavior is precisely the question. The positivist longs for the day when he will be able to predict and direct human behavior like a billiard player the billiard balls. He dreams that he might one day, with unfailing mastery, assume the role of the player in a far more grandiose game. He must reserve for himself an exceptional position in this future world puppet show. He is the director, all the other players are the controlled and di¬ rected puppets. His own behavior cannot again become the theme of psychology. For then, prediction and control would have to be predictable and controllable, and all our efforts would only lead to a regressus ad infinitum. Since the objective psychologist is capable of observing the behavior of the player, he is compelled to make two contradictory statements: He asserts that, insofar as he the psycholo¬ gist is involved, qua psychologist, the possibility of prediction and control has to be accepted as given. In the same breath, he maintains that prediction and control are to be explained scientifically insofar as the player’s behavior is in question. To my way of thinking, the behavior of the player and that of the billiard ball are entirely differ¬ ent modes of behavior. We define the behavior of the player as be¬ havior towards the environment; the behavior of the ball as a being moved in a surrounding field. In order to be able to play, the billiard player must comprehend the spatial structure of the billiard table as a whole as well as in its parts. Furthermore, he must comprehend the position of his ball in relation to the other balls on the board. Table and ball are avail¬ able to him as objects. In his experiment, that is, the game, he looks upon the table as invariant, upon the balls as variables. By a little

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exertion on his part, their position can be altered within the frame¬ work of the system without its destruction. Variable, therefore, sig¬ nifies that the actual position realizes only one of many possibilities, that other constellations can be brought about in the future. The player must also know about himself, his actions, (not the motions of his muscles) when manipulating his instrument, that is, the billiard cue. He calculates his shot by anticipating a determinate effect. His action is thus more than a motor reaction to stimuli, it is an action in relation to visible and tangible variable objects. The billiard ball, strictly speaking, is moved. It moves according to the energy, the direction, and the point of application of the cue together with the influences it sustains from the immediately adjoining fragments of the table at any given time. In surveying the whole, the player chooses one of the possible routes for the course of his ball; often, instead of a straight route, a well-calculated, round-about way. The ball moves under the particular physical conditions of the actually chosen course. The player has a relation to distance, the ball has not. Just as a page in a book borders only on the preceding and the following one, just as a drop in the water swims next to and together with other drops, thus the ball is enclosed in, and limited to, its surround¬ ing field. Without any telepathic gifts, it is influenced only by the immediate surrounding field and reacts upon this very field. This limitation remains in force even when a particle is understood as a part in a physical field, and man and animals as parts in a psycho¬ logical one. Lewin19 formulates this as “one of the basic statements of psycho¬ logical field theory . . . that any behavior or any other change in a psychological field depends only upon the psychological field at the given time.” Spence20 quoting Lewin adds: “I find it difficult to be¬ lieve that any present-day psychologist believes that other conditions than those of the present moment determine the behavior at this moment.” Behavior, he says, is not a function of past and future situations. Spence perhaps misjudges the views of his contemporary psychologists; there may be some who would not hesitate to claim that an animal, leaping at its prey, that a man, reaching for some¬ thing, that an orator, starting a sentence with the intention of com¬ pleting it, are bent towards something which is still in the future. Perhaps there are a few who believe that the personal space-time order cannot be reduced to a physical one. In any case, Spence21 can only speak for those psychologists who put living beings reduced to an organism on a par with the billiard ball and its behavior. Those

SURROUNDING FIELD AND SURROUNDING WORLD

!25

who try to reduce behavior to a series of presences should be the first to limit the organism to the surrounding field, for in the con¬ tinuity of space-time points there are no leaps. There are no possi¬ bilities of being directed toward remote objects or of sustaining their influences. In consequence, the organism, as understood by the “con¬ temporary psychologists,” can receive stimuli, but it has no relation to objects. Objectivity reveals itself in the sensory horizon only in the re¬ lationship to distance, organized as near and far, and here and there. An experiencing being can apprehend in the position of the vis-a-vis the relationship of the parts to each other and to the whole; he can direct himself towards the objects. The nervous system of an or¬ ganism, fixed in its position in the totality of the space-time line of the occurrence, cannot grasp this occurrence, just as a point cannot grasp the line of which it is a part. Occurrence in its particularity can be determined in the whole of the space and time order, the position of a point in space can be determined only in perspective, in the vis-a-vis. Only from such a position can the billiard player hit the ball towards a goal. Distance, vis-a-vis, perspective, and ob¬ jectivity are but different moments in the relation of experiencing beings to their world. They alone render possible both the simplest modes of behavior of animals and the most sublime knowledge of man. Billiards served as an example for the preliminary characteriza¬ tion of the contrast between a relation to the environment and behavior in the surrounding field. However, psychologists do not ex¬ periment with billiard balls, but with men and animals. What can a rat in a maze be compared with? With the billiard player or with the billiard ball? In my opinion, it corresponds to the behavior of the player. According to the teachings of objective psychology, how¬ ever, the way it moves corresponds to that of the ball. Objective psychology says roughly: A rat is made in an infinitely more com¬ plicated way than a billiard ball; therefore its performance is much better. Not only is a guidable engine built into the rat’s body, not only does it produce its own fuel, but the steering is automatic and still variable in a high degree. The actual stimuli and the after ef¬ fect produce temporary or lasting alterations in the nervous system. In consequence, under certain additional conditions, reward and punishment, the nervous system of the animal is modified in a unique way. The animal thus altered will behave differently on repetition of the original stimulus constellation than it did at first. The animal has learned! A billiard ball comes to rest in its course

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wherever the propelling forces have taken it. Whether the ball will hit the two other balls depends on the skill of the player and not on the “experience” of the ball. Hit by a bungler it will miss the goal—which is not the goal it has chosen itself—even if this very ball belonged to a master who had performed wonders with it in the past. The ball does not learn. The rat, however, does! That ani¬ mals learn to find their way was an accepted fact learnt from daily experience long before any experiments were made. The problem is, how is the learning accomplished? We believe that only experiencing beings who can conduct themselves in relation to their environment are able to learn. Objective psychology thinks otherwise. Relationships which are clear enough to permit experiments, for instance, the behavior of an animal in a maze, searching for food, guided by pathmarkers in contact with the food, become thoroughly confused if one seriously tries to present them as a series of stimuli and reactions. In order to explain behavior, objective psychology needs an organizing principle. The task is twofold. Stimuli and re¬ actions have to be joined by connecting links in such a way that the organism adapts itself to the situation; in other words, the surround¬ ing field and environment must be united somehow, since it is not to be assumed that the organism orients itself towards the environment on the basis of visual anticipation. The adaptation can, accord¬ ing to the teachings of objective psychology, take place only after¬ wards. The collision with the objects scattered in the surrounding field is supposed to lead, retroactively, to a selection within the chaos of a crowd of stimuli. Some of the contacts between organism and surrounding field lead to a reduction of tension (satisfaction, gratifi¬ cation), others to increase of tension (pain). By virtue of the plas¬ ticity of the nervous system (synapse formation, engrams, excitation areas, “feedbacks,” etc.), the organism is adjusted to the repetition of one sort of contacts and to the avoidance of others. Ordered be¬ havior is thus always the result of past experiences. It would be more accurate to speak of events befalling an organism (Widerfahrnisse), since it is never actively directed towards actual situations. The or¬ ganism, or more exactly its nervous system, has been modified by the influence of former occurrences in such a way that the behavior of the organism appears to meet the demands of the environment. From the given presuppositions, it may be seen that adaptation is by neces¬ sity always an adaptation to individual situations. Now we are again confronted by the problem of generalization which gave Pavlov so much trouble. Learning to find one’s way is an often-repeated theme of psycho¬ logical experiments. It is important to understand what such a

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process means in the sense of objective psychology, and above all what it ought not to mean and which meanings have to be excluded. It certainly does not mean that the environment has become more intelligible to the animal while it was learning. In our everyday life, we assume that someone knows his way about better in a town be¬ cause he learned to build up out of the single impressions of streets and places a picture of the entire street plan. In this totality, each street has its determinable position. This enables the man who knows, having learned, how to find his way from any starting point to any given point. His horizon has been widened by learning; he has gained more freedom of movement. The rat in the maze, on the contrary, has lost its freedom of movement. The after effects of past excitations restrict it to one definite route. Within the visible horizon, we grasp the area as a whole as well as in parts, we understand the relationship of one part to the preced¬ ing and adjacent ones; we distinguish a road from trackless country by appraising the terrain for our purpose. We apprehend further¬ more our own position in relation to the environment, we set our feet and adjust our steps in accordance with the constantly changing character of the environment. The organism—in the context of ob¬ jective psychology—has no relation to its environment. It grasps neither the topography, nor its own position; neither its “where,” nor its “from where,” and “where to.” Let us assume someone is waiting for a bus. At the very moment when the vehicle arrives and stops, he must put his foot on just the right place on the footboard, not anywhere short of or next to it in empty space. This is not difficult for anyone who grasps the dynamic unity of what is occurring and who can adapt his own behavior ac¬ cordingly. The situation is quite different for an organism, which without any understanding of the actual circumstances is directed solely by the accumulated neural traces, however they may be in¬ terpreted. If we as seeing beings cross a spacious square, then the same area appears to us in changing perspectives. Each step is a phase, the con¬ tinuation of a preceding one and the preparation for the following one on the route. Crossing the terrain connects the two opposite sides with each other. On this very route, we can return to our starting point. In our experience we cross the same place, regardless of the inversion of the stimuli. That which on the way out was the termi¬ nal, is now the starting point on the same road. That, which in going there presented itself on the right, now on the way back becomes visible on the left, although in a changed perspective. The pattern of the stimulus-reaction doctrine demands different

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interpretations. For want of a better expression one might perhaps say the organism is moved, as it were, through a “dark” space, dark to be understood as being without quality, i.e. without any reference to visibility.22 Now, an animal body equipped with photo-receptors moves in this dark space. The receptors do not see, they react to light-energies which flow through space. There is no vis-a-vis of eye and object. Influenced by the light the retina, as it functions, changes. It has no relation to the topography of the environment. In the proc¬ ess of walking the seeing individual experiences step by step phases of a motor action which combine one with the other and supplement each other mutually. The seeing individual as the uniting center brings together the multiplicity of the presented impressions in the sense of a traversed route. With the transition from experience to stimulus, from environment to surrounding field there disappears the possibility of orientation in the topography of the area. It has to be replaced by the topography of the retina which does not change during the locomotion; the distribution and the organization of the light-receptive elements is determined once and for all. A sequence of sensory states takes the place of spatial orientation. The connec¬ tion existing in the visible situation has been broken, it has been cut up into unrelated fragments. The changing stimuli are discon¬ tinuous in spite of their rapid sequence, and so are the motor-effects which follow them. The afferent excitations unleash muscle-actions, single steps one after the other, but they do not unite to form to a continuous process of walking along the road. The “seeing walker” follows the pathway which extends before him. He advances into the space of action which lies in front of him open to his future. Such an organization and temporal structuration of space does not exist for the photo-receptor. It is of the utmost importance to recall the difference of the time-relations. If as seeing persons—from the psychological point of view—we turn toward something, toward a possible goal, then—from a physiological point of view—some stim¬ uli coming from there have already reached the retina and excited it. The reactions of an organ in the stimulus-reaction pattern are determined exclusively by the past. As far as the retina and its ex¬ citation are concerned, there does not exist any zone of future hap¬ penings, there are no passable roads ahead. One has to be on one’s guard against thinking of the retina as an organ that sees, and one will also have to avoid imagining stimuli as objects and ascribing to them an object’s stability and constancy. Optical stimulations follow each other in close succession. Their intervals are determined by the restitution capacity of the

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retina, its power to respond to optical excitations in the shortest time, to neutralize at once the condition just sustained, and to make itself sensitive once again for subsequent stimuli. The retina tries to expunge again each impression as quickly as possible. Each and every small part of the retina is bombarded by salvos of stimuli. These numerous excitation states follow each other in intervals of milli-seconds, without any inner connection. For the principle of ac¬ tual excitability is, as demonstrated by the after images, the prompt suppression of the preceding excitation state. It is always the entire retina which changes from one state to another. In this succession of excitations, the visible continuity of a road has been lost in the discontinuity of the stimuli. Where there is no road, neither can there be road signs. The observer perceives the signs used in the training experiments, for example, the triangle or the circle, as objects in the same way as he comprehends objectively the whole maze and its possible path com¬ binations. But insofar as he belongs to the school of objective psy¬ chology, he does not hesitate to call stimuli all that which appears objective to himself with reference to the test animals. He fails to accomplish the necessary radical shift from the conceptual system of objects to that of stimuli. The observer puts up two distinguishable signs on the path which he can see. These signs differ for him in a characteristic way from each other. He is capable of using and appreciating them as sign posts. In the vast confusion of stimuli which cannot be ordered into the unity of a pathway, even triangles or circles are not punctuation marks to guide the understanding. They are, rather, stimuli which occur without particular distinction in the midst of many others within the conglomeration of excitations. The observer restricts his attention to two variables visible to him. These selected “stimuli” have no privileged position for the nervous system of the test animal. Indeed, if the rat were capable of distinguishing between several routes, if it knew it was on its way to the feeding-trough or to an electrified grill then the circles and triangles would have a par¬ ticular signal value. This, however, cannot occur in the discontinuity of the stimuli. Here, no path can be comprehended as a unity which could serve as the background for the road sign. Objective psychology has tested its main hypotheses by experi¬ ments and, so it believes, found them confirmed. Not made for their own sake, experiments serve to discover general laws which are also valid outside the laboratory. The basic idea of the psychological experiment is to isolate the many factors which in their interplay

13°

Man Thinks, Not the Brain

determine behavior, and then to study each one separately, as it were, in a pure culture. It is left to the art of the experimenter to contrive models which make it possible to imitate natural conditions, to limit them without disturbing them. Two provisions are necessary for any experiment: the central test conditions and also the marginal conditions which, acting as a screen, shield the experiment against the influence of undesired factors at the moment. A particular danger for the psychological experiment is that, unnoticed, the marginal conditions jeopardize the value of the entire test. The experiment becomes artificial. The results refer no longer to single factors which in their essence act universally, but to particular modes of behavior belonging exclusively to the artificial conditions of the test. In the laboratory, a rat can be trained to react to insignificant signs like triangles and circles. It can be guided by them to find its way to its food. Everything seems to be in the best of order—the guiding hypothesis has been proved and proved splendidly. The adaptation to the actual situation “has been learned”; it is a specific accomplishment. It demonstrates the after effect of past experience. A number of repetitions had been necessary to direct the organism by means of the retroactive effect of reward and punishment. But outside of the laboratory this does not hold true. Observa¬ tions of animals which are permitted to move about in complete or comparative freedom lead to quite different results. Such everyday experiences, it is true, lack the glory of a scientific apparatus, but still they are not less reliable. At least, they often fulfill the criteria of repetition, prediction, and control of behavior. When we meet a team of mules somewhere in the mountains, we may assume quite confidently that this small caravan will have reached its destination in a few hours. The animals follow the long, narrow path, their movements always in keeping with the constantly changing condi¬ tions of the terrain. The mule driver takes for granted the perform¬ ance of his animals. He assumes that they can see and in seeing they apprehend the peculiarity of the road and behave accordingly. Yet, he is only a simple man. The scientist looks deeper, that is why he is puzzled. His customary explanations fail. The animals sin against his theory! The steering apparatus of these machines must react intelligibly to an indiscernible multitude of variable factors. The innumerable constantly changing stimulus constellations during the long journey have to steer the motorium with exactness every mo¬ ment, and this with such precision that the four hooves are set down exactly at the right spot. They must not miss by an iota, or the ani¬ mal will fall into the yawning abyss. The animals do not distinguish

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between triangles and circles—they distinguish between steep and flat, stone and soil, bridge and water. They do not even confine them¬ selves to these gross differentiations, but actually attain a grasp of the finer details. According to theory, a suitable motor reaction should have been connected with which each of the many thousand stimulus constellations in repeated trials under the influence of pun¬ ishment and reward. But tomorrow our good mule will trot along with the same reliability on a different road never used before. It did not have much of a chance to “learn by experience,” for one wrong step, one punishment could mean the end of its plodding. To have recourse to equivalent stimuli does not help, for the animal does not answer similar stimuli with equal reactions, but adapts itself to the ever-changing specific situations with exactly corresponding specific actions. The same road is furthermore not always the iden¬ tical road. Sunshine and rain, morning and evening, heat and cold, all modify the stimulus constellations from day to day. The animals walk along as prescribed or permitted by the integrative mechan¬ isms of their nervous system. But they do not walk mechanically, they do not repeat the motor processes in a rigid form from one time to the next. At the head of the team, in the middle, at the end, or even trotting by themselves, each time they adjust their step differently but always in accordance with the specific situation. Maybe the driver is right after all. The animals grasp the environ¬ ment, they comprehend their own “where” and “where to,” they have a sense of direction—in short, they move as living beings in their environment. Marginal conditions confine an experiment to definite limita¬ tions. There is a beginning and an end. In an experiment, one can distinguish the period of learning and the period in which learning has taken place. The experimenter decides on the goal—usually un¬ known to the test person or the test animal. He then finds out what preparations will be necessary to reach the goal. But in nature, things are different. There, the piece of music does not end with the con¬ cluding chord which the experimenter has entered in his score. In nature, each goal is not only an ending, it is at the same time the beginning of a new period. Thus we burden the theory of learning with a further problem. Let us assume someone is learning to drive an automobile. At the driving school, he has to take a certain curve repeatedly until certain “neural tracts start to function promptly.” Later on, when the driver encounters the same or a similar situation, it is assumed that those engrams are activated and cause corresponding motor

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reactions. Suppose the pupil has become a professional driver. Day in and day out he travels the highway which is naturally no less sub¬ ject to change than the mountain path of our mules. With every mile the driver adds new stimulus traces to his nervous system. But just how could the stimulus traces function appropriately in a situa¬ tion, how could a blind mechanism lead to continuously meaningful results? The stimulus constellations not only vary, in a certain sense they contradict each other. With a change in the weather, in the light, in the thousand hazards of traffic, the same street changes from moment to moment. One has therefore to raise the question: Must not the driver’s reactions become increasingly dull with “increasing experience” instead of gaining in precision? The hypothesis of a network of neutral fibres which respond to similar stimuli with uni¬ form combinations does not help much. The more similarities these tracts absorb, the more gross are the omissions of reaction which depend on them. But the driver of the car cannot be content with approximate reactions—his actions must, at every moment, corre¬ spond to the changing situation with absolute exactitude. The objective psychologist likes to poke fun at the mysticism of his “mentalistic” colleagues. But it is certainly, if not a mystery, in any case a profound enigma, how an organism should manage to bring together and at the suitable time appropriate stimuli and re¬ actions. It is conceivable that a being which can grasp the archi¬ tectonic structure of a staircase adjusts his total behavior to the spatial structure seen. On the other hand, it is hardly conceivable that excitations of the retina can cause muscle fibrilles to contract in such a way that the body is dispatched up and down the stairs unharmed. It is conceivable that a child learns to imitate sounds he has heard. But it is hardly conceivable that—and why—acoustic stimuli should affect the entire musculature which takes part in sound formation in such a way that a configuration similar to the sound of the stimulus escapes the lips of the stimulated organism. It is conceivable that a driver can keep his car on the road which he sees in front of him, but it is hardly conceivable that optical stimuli could have the same effect, while at the same time it is as¬ serted that the physiological pathways which are the basis of the learning process come about under the influence of reward and pun¬ ishment. If that were the case, the driver would scarcely have a chance of ever learning his job. The temporal position of the so-called re-enforcement is doubt¬ ful. That a rat quickly learns the route to its food is not surprising as long as we regard it as an experiencing being. But this simple situation looks quite different when we translate the event into the

SURROUNDING FIELD AND SURROUNDING WORLD

*33

terminology of stimulus and reaction. Satisfaction or pain is sup¬ posed to influence the function of the synapses retroactively. How does that come about? At the moment the animal comes into contact with the food, the “stimulus” chosen for the experiment, for ex¬ ample, the triangle sign, has long since faded away. The reward could therefore only reactivate the excitation traces corresponding to the road-sign triangle retroactively. This stands in opposition to the assertion that satiation reduces existing tensions. It actually in¬ activates all traces and synapses and silences the whole harmony of the hemispheres.23 That obviously cannot be the case for the selected stimulus. The joy of having found the food is supposed to link retroactively the synapses between the afferent trace “triangle” and the pathway of the motorium which at a certain point of the way had caused the rat to turn, let us say, to the left. If, on later runs, the sign of the triangle affects the receptors of the rat again, it will once more be directed towards the correct way “to the left.” But even this is not yet the end of the matter. The rat, which has learned to react to the sign of the triangle, has already made up its mind, even before entering on the last part of the path, to use the alley or trap door marked by the triangle, which leads to the food. The most remarkable thing, however— remarkable from the point of view of the basic hypothesis—is that the rat turns promptly to the right instead of to the left whenever it.is put into the maze in such a fashion that it approaches the way marked triangle from the opposite direction. The total number of stimuli which reach an animal sniffing about in the maze is extraordinarily large, many times larger than the number of objects visible to the observer. If we estimate the cortical optic excitation time as no less than 0.05-0.1 seconds, then the rat which has been running about in the maze for only a minute will have experienced the considerable number of approximately one thousand “stimuli.” This quantity includes many different things, such as stimuli which lead the animal to a wrong track as well as the few which lead him to the right one. How, then, does it come to the correct one? If the repetitions necessary for learning are extremely large, if during the training only one stimulus is kept constant and all the others were modified, one could imagine the effect to be to some extent comparable with the principle of the “steady drops.” But the relatively small number of repetitions required for learning contradicts this explanation too. The objective psycholo¬ gists do not pay sufficient attention to the problem because they forget and neglect all other stimuli which affect the organism in favor of the two signs, triangle and circle, of importance to them.

4 34

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Man Thinks Not the Brain

Ich will von Atreus Soehnen, von Cadmus will ich singen, doch meine Saiten toenen nur Liebe im Erklingen. (Of Atreus’ sons I sing, of Cadmus I will tell, but from my lyre’s string it’s love which casts its spell.) This is a verse in one of Schubert’s lieder. Of stimuli and reactions, of Pavlov the objective psychologist wants to sing, but unnoticed— and thus without complaint—his strings resound of phenomena and of things. Objective psychology wants to explain the behavior of animals as motion in the surrounding field. But without noticing it, it slips into a different interpretation and substitutes for the sur¬ rounding field the world around; for the organism which reacts to stimuli, an acting being.24 Objective psychology overestimates the conclusive evidence of the experiments and the efficiency of its theory, because it has—unawares —sacrificed it. Its consistent application leads to absurdity. In any case, the objective psychologist must reserve for himself an excep¬ tional position, and to what extent this is done will become clear when I explain the statement “animals learn” in all of its psycho¬ logical consequences.

(h) The Psychological Presupposition of the Statement: “Animals Learn” The proposition, “animals learn” is a statement about the behavior of animals. At the same time it refers to the behavior of the observer who formulates this proposition. The observer implic¬ itly asserts and claims the following points about himself: 1. I can see. I, here, in my seeing can grasp objects over there. I, in my seeing, stand in relationship to the other. 2. I can express myself linguistically about what I have seen. 3. I can observe, for example, how rats behave in a maze. The “simple” observation: Rat A 18 has run through alley 7 is, however, not at all a simple optical registration comparable to some recording of an event on film. The observation is not a copy. It gains its full meaning only by contrasting the actual route—the only process the apparatus registers—with potential routes. The actual

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becomes comprehensible as the actual only by reason of other po¬ tentialities. 4. By the sentence, “animals learn” the observer furthermore says about himself: In the maze which I see as static, I discover a series of routes. Mentally, I break up the total impression into parts which go to make up several meaningful unified tracts. These tracts or routes stand out from a tractless environment; although themselves at rest, they present possibilities of moving from place to place, from a start to a finish. Roads have a beginning and an end and are there¬ fore seen as space-time extensions in the static field of the maze. 5. The rat moves on such paths; its action requires time. Now I see it; no, I saw it at the beginning of its course, and now I see it in ever-changing aspects, there and there and there, until it has reached its goal. I summarize this whole temporal sequence in the unity of proposition and meaning: The rat runs from A over B to C, so that in spite of the transitory and changing impression the running ani¬ mal appears as one and the same object. Summarizing all phases, I speak of one motion. 6. The observer says about himself furthermore: I can compare and distinguish. If I state the rat has learned to react to a triangle sign, I mean, with regard to myself, that I observed that the rat behaved during its tenth run differently from the preceding nine attempts. I compare, I summarize, I distinguish the present behavior from the former. I notice that the rat has changed its behavior. It proceeded from a state S to a state T; and it is I who noticed this change. Both states are present to my mind, therefore I can dis¬ tinguish by comparing. As soon as the rat has learned the correct route, it has suffered a change of state: the original state S has now vanished. But not for me. How else could I speak of “learning,” whereby I do refer to the transition from S to T and thus to the preceding state? By the fact of comparing them, I bring together the two modes of behavior as potentialities. The state S is still at my disposal, but not at the disposal of the rat. 7. I differentiate between triangle and circle, and by that I really mean differentiate. The differentiations which objective psychology ascribes to the rat are not of the same order. Assuming that the rat turns at the signal “circle” into an alley leading to the right and at the signal “triangle” into one, leading to the left, the objective psy¬ chologist then assumes that two different and convenient apparatuses have been formed in the rat organism. The stimulus “triangle” is connected with the routes turning to the left, the stimulus “circle”

iB6

,

Man Thinks Not the Brain

with effectors turning to the right. Each particular stimulus is fol¬ lowed by one single specific reaction which is quite independent of the other and has nothing to do with it. Discrimination, objective psychologists assume, is actually a separating, a spatial dividing, in the way a sieve separates large and small pebbles without differen¬ tiating between them. Pebbles of the proper dimension will pass through the meshes without coming into contact with them at all. At the end of the sifting, the heap of pebbles which at the begin¬ ning was a pile of stones of different sizes is separated into two groups. The large ones lie on the one side, the small ones on the other side of the sieve. Each group has been assigned a particular place in space. We grasp the difference in size, however, by combin¬ ing in our mind the groups which are spatially separated and by comparing them and differentiating between them with regard to their size. Objective psychology stresses the significance of discrim¬ ination as a fundamental process in the field of psychology. But it overlooks the fact that different reactions by no means imply dis¬ crimination without further ado. If different reacting and discrimi¬ nating had the same meaning, one would have to say that a slot machine which accepts a dime but rejects two nickels discriminates, while the salesman next door who accepts both as legal tender does not discriminate. All contrivances built by man discriminate by spacial separation. Their discrimination is thus actually only a process of separating. Men and animals can also react differently without differentiating. We may completely surrender to one reac¬ tion and then to quite a different one, like a little child, who changes from tears to laughter without even grasping the difference in his behavior. Even when we are capable of discriminating, we often can¬ not give an account of the difference. When we are awake we dis¬ tinguish between being awake and dreaming. But that does not en¬ able us to explain the difference between the two states. And so it is in many other instances. Let us return to our problem of observing the discriminatory power of an animal in a maze. If we ourselves responded to the signal “triangle” with a specific reaction A and to the signal “circle” with a completely separate reaction B, as the animal is supposed to do, with such coordination of A to triangle and of B to circle, we would not be in the position at all to discern how the rat has be¬ haved in one case and how in the other. It is not sufficient that we react differently. We must ourselves grasp the difference between triangularity and circularity, both as variations of the general theme —the enclosed surface. 8. By the statement, “animals learn,” I mean that I have noted

SURROUNDING FIELD AND SURROUNDING WORLD

J37

a progress in their behavior. Not only have I compared the indi¬ vidual trial runs as they follow each other, I have also compared all of them to a standard. This standard is that of adaptation or pur¬ posiveness. Animals which have learned something behave with more purpose, although they are not supposed to know anything about purposiveness. But I, observing the learning of animals, refer by necessity to purposiveness. I observe, for instance, that the rat at the first run turned into seven side roads or dead ends, while at the tenth trial it ran without a mistake—if I may use this expression. Although it did not run in a straight line, it ran straight away to the goal—its food trough. 9. In my experiments dealing with the problem of the learning of animals, I count the number of runs of an animal necessary for the learning; I compare its performance to those of other animals under equal experimental conditions or under certain variations of the experiment. In short, in my statement, “animals learn” I refer to the possibility of repetition. Objective psychology assumes that the learning rat or, more correctly, its nervous system, changes at every repetition of the experiment. It never enters the arena as the same rat. In a certain sense, that is true for the observer as well. Seen from his standpoint, those are events which he encountered for the first, the second, the tenth time. The first view of New York harbor is different from the second as well, as from all subsequent arrivals. Each impression has its specific place in the totality of historical experience. Counting and comparing experiments must take place in historical time and are only later projected upon the neutral time of the chronometer. When we repeat an experiment under the same conditions, we believe, of course, that we encounter or realize the same pattern, regardless of the fact that the physiological event is always another one. Repetition is an historical phenomenon. To be capable of repeating an experiment I must at the first at¬ tempt have already divorced the pattern of the proceedings from the actual happening. I must be able to abstract the general, time¬ less structure from the unrepeatable actual event. We never arrive at abstractions by way of repetitions and comparisons. The abstrac¬ tion of the pattern which occurred only once in the transcient past enables us to repeat and to compare temporarily separated events. Repetition, therefore, does not comprise events as they take place, it regards these events in a particular way and demands that the ob¬ server also grasp his own behavior in a certain way. The “simple description” based on repeated observations of events in nature is thus not the expression of a direct reproduction of simple psychic processes. It is the result of complicated operations.

i38

(i)

Man Thinks, Not the Brain

Observer and Observation

The statement, “animals learn,” meagre and vague as a state¬ ment concerning the behavior of animals, is, however, with regard to that of the observer, weighty and instructive. Observation, we have seen, is not a copy of the observed; neither is observation iden¬ tical with the observed. An observation can be correct, exact, and pertinent. The observed is nothing of the kind. An observation, as is the case in psychiatry, can itself be clear and distinct, while the observed, the patient, is confused and dazed. In such a case, the observer judges the observed against certain standards and confirms a deficiency. Neither is the observation identical with the observer. He may be untrained or prejudiced, he can deceive himself, err, lie. Nevertheless, regardless of whether an observer observes well or badly, the observation is in each case his observation; he reports what he has seen with his own eyes. He must be affected in a definite way by the observed object. Oblivious of that, he does not report directly about himself, but about the observed event. We understand obser¬ vations as statements of an observer about an event which is ob¬ servable and has been observed by him. And that is precisely the way the observer understands himself. He distinguishes the observation (for example, an eclipse of the sun) from the observed, the eclipsed sun, and from the process of observing. While the observed and the observing are events which happen but once, the observation as a statement can be repeated and communicated. It is the transcrip¬ tion of a single event into a different medium—that of meanings. The observer of an eclipse of the sun describes not his ephemeral experience nor the space which he has seen in its perspective, but how he constructs it in his mind. In his observation, the observer presents conceptually that which is observed by him in the observed. It is in this respect that he also knows and must know about himself. In objective psychology, we frequently hear that, in principle, psychology cannot make any statements about observing, and this is because one observer would have to observe the other. That would lead to an infinite regress. But if an observer could only see the other’s movements, he would be in no position to determine whether the other is observing or whatever else he is doing. Thus, for example, in an essay by Skinner dealing with a critique of language in which he compares the scientific with colloquial lan¬ guage we read, the expression “to try” is to be rejected because it implies the relation of a given behavior to past or future events.

SIGNS ARE NOT STIMULI

Against the expression “to go,” on the other hand, he has no ob¬ jection. The expression “to look towards” is permissible, but the words “to see” must not be used because seeing has a broader mean¬ ing than just turning one’s eyes to a source of light, or it means more than the “simple reception of stimuli.”25 The objective psychologist overlooks the fact that what is good for the observed animal must also be good for the observer, and vice versa—what is not right for the observer can not be right for the observed organism. However, in the practice of science, nobody respects such limitations dictated by theory. The objective psychol¬ ogist communicates his observations like every other researcher, and he himself collects information from the observations of others. These observations, as statements about things, point to the living experience of the observer. In speaking he communicates his obser¬ vations; he not only makes statements about the object, he also ap¬ praises his own behavior with regard to it. He knows himself as a knowing being. Because observing represents a knowing experienced relation, objective psychology must not admit that there is an ob¬ server, that is, someone who directs himself to things and who can grasp them in their facticity with regard to their potentialities. If it did that, it would then upset the table on which it has arranged its principles.

GB.

Signs Arc Not Stimuli O

A Behavioristic The the Linguistic Facts OBJECTIVE PSYCHOLOGY CANNOT IGNORE THE RELATIONSHIP OF

science and speech. Insofar as it wishes to give an account of its own behavior, science finds itself confronted with an extremely difficult task.

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As the law of falling bodies is a statement about the motion of bodies but does not move itself, as Boyle’s law is a statement about chemical reactions but does not itself react chemically, just so, one might think, psychological laws are statements about behavior-— that is, in the language of objective psychology, statements about the relations of stimuli and responses—but they themselves cannot be simple responses to stimuli. This is an inference which objective psychology can neither reject nor accept. It cannot reject it because, interpreted as reactions to stimuli, the formulated laws would be unrepeatable processes in some organism, at best “verbalizations” of such processes. Reactions of this kind could point to nothing else, could mean or signify nothing else. Yet objective psychology cannot accept the statement either, for that would make it renounce juris¬ diction over a wide area of human behavior. Objective psychology cannot admit that meaning could be separated from speaking, a statement separated from the act of stating. Laws, it protests, are spoken by one person and heard by another. Laws as sentences, sen¬ tences as words, words as articulated sounds, must be produced. Without bothering much about the sense in which sentences are articulated sounds, objective psychology discovers the possibility of subordinating speech to its basic rules. Hearing is the reception of a certain group of acoustic stimuli, speaking is a motor behavior in which the muscles of breathing, larynx, palate, lips, and tongue participate. Is not speech justly called lingua? Speaking and hear¬ ing together constitute speech. If we comprehend speech in its es¬ sential aspects as speaking and hearing, it should fit very well into the pattern of stimulus and response. The shift of the speech center from the brain to the larynx is often a rough affair. As a result of their anti-intellectualism, some intellectuals have been forced into extreme positions. Since speaking and hearing as concrete processes occurring in individual organisms are restricted to the spot they occupy in space and time, the articu¬ lation theory of speech can be most readily harmonized with its expressive function, less well with its communicative, but not at all with its representational function. It is clear that, at the moment when speech is equated with the concrete acts of reacting to noises and the producing of sounds, everything which is not fully absorbed in the actual process, such as the general meaning of expressions and sentences, must prove burdensome, even irritating. The single word yields more willingly to being placed into a relationship with a stimulus. Hence, interest has been centered on the single word. The sentence, the verb, and the tenses, the modes, the negation—

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all these items of grammar are hardly mentioned. Speech seems to consist of one-word sentences, exclamations, or commands such as would be suitable for communication with horses, dogs, or parrots. In a discussion of the problems of a theory of science (Science of Science),1 S. S. Stevens concerns himself with the relationship of science and speech. Stevens is of the opinion that the science of science is identical with a study of the language of natural science. “Science manufactures sentences,” he says, “and we as curious mor¬ tals ask: ‘What is a sentence and how is it made?’ The complete answer to this question is the Science of Science.” It may not be in¬ appropriate to allow Stevens, as a prominent representative of be¬ havioristic speech psychology, to state his own case in a few short but characteristic arguments: It is proposed that in our study of the science-maker, we begin with the products of his activity—his finished propositions—rather than with his

“experiences” or any other phase of his earlier behavior. This is a sensible place to begin. If we were to study the manufacture of any product, such as automobiles, we should probably find it useful first to ascertain what an automobile is and then to discover the conditions under which it came into being. Science manufactures sentences, and we, as curious mortals, ask: What is a sentence and how is it made? The complete answer to this ques¬ tion is the Science of Science. Does it not appear that the Science of Science must go directly to Psy¬ chology for an answer to many of its problems? Is it not also plain that a behavioristic psychology is the only one that can be of much help in this enterprise? A sign has semantical significance when an organism will react to it as it would to the object which the sign supplants. The psychologist works out the laws under which different stimuli evoke equivalent reac¬ tions. Signs, as stimuli, can be combined and utilized extensively in the control and direction of behavior, both individual and social. The entire activity of the scientist as a sign-using organism constitutes, therefore, a type of behavior for which behavioristics seek the laws. If there is a sense in which psychology is the propaedeutic science, it is undoubtedly in its ability to study the behavior, qua behavior, of the science-makers.2

Speech, then, consists of words which supplant an object. They are signs for things, for absent things, as is often said. The hearer reacts to the word-stimulus just as he originally reacted to the object, or as he would react to the object if it were present. (A sign has semantic significance when an organism will react to it as it would to the object which the sign supplants.) Words can therefore also be considered as equivalent stimuli. They serve to control the be¬ havior of individuals and groups.

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That words should be signs for absent things is a highly plausible idea. Strange that men have taken so long to hit upon it. One would almost think that a ninth grader could have put Herder and Hum¬ boldt, Head and Pierre Marie, on the right track. Upon repeated reflection, however, it is just the excessive simplicity that perplexes us. If the assertion were correct, then mute existence must be just as rich as, indeed richer than, the verbal world. Words as substitute stimuli could at best evoke the same reactions as the objects sup¬ planted by them. Accordingly, speech would open up no new rela¬ tionships which were not already given in direct contact with the things themselves. Perhaps it will occur to someone at this point that he recently read something about “light years’’; he may ask with wonder what object this sign supplants, and how he formerly reacted to the origi¬ nal object itself. If the answer is lacking, he may consider simpler words. He will remind himself that he need not go so very far away from the earth. The difficulties do not wait for the extreme case to show themselves. How about the word “today”? What and where are the objects to which the word “today” and the so closely associ¬ ated words “tomorrow” and “yesterday” refer? Does the logical af¬ finity of these words have an acoustic kinship of stimuli? Clearly, all designations of time belong in a group of words which cannot be fitted into the pattern. The stimulus theory of speech, by restricting an organism to present circumstances, excludes the understanding of all time words in the authentic sense. And yet one can tell little children stories which begin, “Once upon a time.” Temporal expressions cannot claim a unique position. Similar difficulties arise for all other classes of words. Every figure, for ex¬ ample, three-hundred sixty-five, defines a number precisely, admit¬ tedly only by renouncing any visualization. Our ability to take in at a glance the exact number of a certain quantity of objects does not in general extend beyond the realm of digits. Beyond this limit, nothing remains but the impression of an indefinite quantity. We can grasp “much” and “very much,” but not “how much.” Only lan¬ guage makes it at all possible to assemble, to define, and so to ar¬ range multitudes that there can be no doubt of the position of a figure in the sequence of figures. Far from functioning as substitute for something which would be accessible to our contemplation in any case, speech opens up to us regions which are closed to our direct observation. The complete dissociation from visualization gives to the Arabic numerals their superiority over the Roman fig¬ ures, still chained to visual appearances. Objective psychology, which

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143

puts such great stress on measurement, should make it a point to clear up the relationship of numerals and quantities in accordance with its theory of speech. Every word in a short sentence, like “The year has 365 days,” confronts the sign theory of speech with further problems which, as can be shown, are insoluble. They include the sign function of word forms, word classes, word order, the parts and the unity of the sen¬ tence, the predication, the modes, and so on, down to such details as word endings. In the word “days,” for example, the ending “s” designates the plural. “S” is a sound, hence a single stimulus in the stimuli pattern of days. The word ending has a wonderful power; by modifying the body of the word, varying the word stem, it desig¬ nates instead of a single object a plurality comprised into a unity. We may well wonder how the stimulus “s” could modify our reac¬ tions in a corresponding way. The behavioristic linguists should be able to tell us how the stimuli “day” and “days” are related to the original objects, and how our reaction to the stimulus “day” differs from that of “days.” We should also consider whether the reaction to the ending “s,” occurring so frequently, is always the same, whether, for example, we react to the “s” in “shoes” as to the “s” in “days,” and finally how this reaction differs from that to the final “s” in “father’s,” “yours,” or “says.” With all this, we have not yet reached the end of the chapter on plural endings. Besides the end¬ ing “s” as plural formation, there are other types of plural, as in “mice,” “geese,” “men,” and there are words which are alike in sin¬ gular and plural, such as “sheep” and “deer,” not to mention the plural endings taken over from Latin (“genera,” “stimuli,” “theses”) and other languages. What an abundance of possibilities for using the shifting speech forms to test the stimulus theory! If one took the behavioristic theory literally, one would soon come up against complete absurdities. Of the words “I love you,” “I” and “you” and “love” would each be a sign for something ab¬ sent. That would, of course, apply to every conversation in which “I” speak with “you.” But not only that; in a conversation, the sense of pronouns changes constantly, depending on who is speak¬ ing. The confusion which must ensue, according to the theory, is unimaginable. The sentence, “I will call for you this evening,” is correctly understood by every normal person, although the recalled “stimulus complex” and the activated “memory trace,” according to the behavioristic theory, must produce the opposite reaction. In con¬ versation, we understand the other person to be our partner, who in speaking to us expresses himself about something. We do not dream

144

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of snatching his words as stimuli detached from the speaker and re¬ acting to them as the diaphragm of a microphone reacts to sound waves. Words no more substitute for stimuli than do our reactions to these “stimuli” coincide with the reaction to their originals. The word “sun” does not dazzle us, warm us, nor light us. Our reaction to the report of an earthquake in Algiers or in any other 1 emote spot on the globe is certainly not that of the unfortunates immedi¬ ately affected. However, the reaction to the word is not always the weaker one; there are life situations in which the full weight of the facts is revealed only by words. In general, no definite single reaction is linked with a definite single stimulus. We react to the same word, as also to the same object or state of things in quite different ways depending on the particular context. It is claimed that, in its simplest form, a sign designates that which is pointed to at a given moment. Yet the gesture of the point¬ ing finger has an extreme range of meaning. It can mean brown, smooth, old, impractical, square, fourlegged, uncomfortable, furni¬ ture, chair, etc. It takes speech to select the single aspect from the complexity of the object and give it prominence. Whatever is meant by the word, it does not designate this single object, as it appears to me here in this fleeting moment. The sun, as spoken of in every¬ day life, by science, poetry, and religion, is the sun “which shines on the just and the unjust.” The nominative names its name: “the sun” as object, which persists in a thousand phenomena. It is the hypokeimenon, the grammatical subject about which something is stated. Speech describes it, defines it, presents it in its manifold re¬ lationships, and says not only that it is but what and how it is. All this cannot really escape anyone who will take a little time to scrutinize the elements and figures of language. No laboratory is needed, no protracted experiments, no case studies. How does it come about that a group of practiced observers, first-class experi¬ menters, excellent statisticians, lean to a speech theory in which not only one or the other datum is overlooked, but the phenomena evi¬ dent to everyone are forcibly pushed out of sight? One can hardly be content with the fact that every dogma demands sooner or later a sacrificium intellectus. The error is so crass that one is less inclined to ask about the reasons for the delusion than for its motives. The scientists have not been the first to hold this view. In their misological theories they work out a thesis taken over from philos¬ ophers and poets of the late nineteenth century. In one of his earliest writings, Bergson3 attacks speech as a destructive power. “The word

SIGNS ARE NOT STIMULI

145

with its firm, definite outlines, the brutal word . . . annihilates or at least conceals the frail and fleeting impressions of the individual consciousness.” Bergson’s attack was a defense. He thought he must protect “the depth-strata of the ego’s,” innermost life in its irrational immediacy, against the ratio, against “conventional logic.” But it did not stop there. To the archangel in Anatole France’s The Revolt of the An¬ gels, human speech sounds like the cries of wild beasts in primeval forests distorted by presumptuous man-apes. The attack upon speech is only a phase in the universal battle of modern man against him¬ self. Watson and the behaviorists have mustered the courage to say in blunt words what many others before and beside them shrank from saying. This is a merit, but not an uncontested one. Deluded by passionate partisanship for a materialistic anthropology, they have not considered it worth the trouble to reconcile their dogmas with experience.

Language Learning The questions of children show that the word is general and designates an object in its generality. When they wish to know the name of a thing, they do not ask what this single object is called, nor how the individual adult calls it; they ask what it is. As is well known, too, children do not ask for the names of absent things, but are eager to learn the name of that which happens to be in their sight. The bad thing about this—from the standpoint of the behavior¬ ists—is that a child or a human being learns to speak at all. As a theory of mute hearing, behavioristic speech psychology might get along somehow. But men not only hear, but speak. In talking, they themselves produce, remarkably enough, stimuli which resemble the word stimuli they hear, that is, stimuli which function as equivalents for absent things. Their own production of the stimuli takes place with great frequency in the presence of those very objects. It is hard to understand why man should indulge in this strange amusement. Words, it appears, are the great comforters. I am hungry and have nothing to eat, I say “bread” and react to the proxy stimulus as to the thing itself. For words, of course, present to me absent things as present. Hence, properly speaking, I cannot utter my wish verbally. I only need to utter the word and—presto, I have

146

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not the thing, to be sure, but my reaction to it. Well, this is evidently nonsense, but a nonsense which is a necessary consequence of the theory. Objective psychology is at pains to explain how speaking is learned. This explanation must fit into the general theory of learn¬ ing; it must be mindful of showing how the demonstrated word, the acoustic stimulus, leaps across, as it were, and becomes a motor reac¬ tion, a flatus vocis. Supposedly, the language learning of children takes place after the fashion of a conditioned reflex. Watson was the first to narrate the process. It has been repeated after him with all kinds of varia¬ tions, down to the present day. What happens is said to be approxi¬ mately the following: Here is a box of candy. Every time the box is brought out and opened, the mother says, “candy.” At the right age, the child, after some repetitions, takes over the expression and at sight of the box says himself, “candy.” No doubt, this may often be the way it happens, and to this extent the behaviorists are right. But completely mistaken, indeed preposterous, is their claim that this process corresponds to the pattern of the conditioned reflex. The un¬ conditioned reflex in this case is the box and its sweet contents. We could speak of a conditioned reflex if upon the conditioned stimulus —first the sight of the box, later the word “candy”—the child’s mouth watered. But with the acquired words, something quite differ¬ ent has happened. At the sight of the unconditioned stimulus, the child itself produces the conditioned stimulus. A corresponding case would be that of a dog trained in ellipses by Pavlov, which, when its food rattled down into its dish, would itself draw an ellipse. The behavioristic misinterpretation of language learning belongs among the “self-delusions necessary to life.” It releases the researcher from taking notice of the failure of his theory. He may continue to believe that he has successfully applied his reflex theory to verbal behavior, whereas actually he has interpreted reflex behavior as equivalent to experiences. The child learns word formation by imitation. He produces ar¬ ticulated sounds which resemble the model. The prespoken and the postspoken word, or the heard and the spoken word, are both objective for the child. His own speech production is not a motor reaction to a stimulus, but the formation of one product which re¬ sembles or is supposed to resemble another. The child is not occu¬ pied with stimuli but with objects. Only as an object can the articu¬ lated sound, the phoneme, be referred to another thing and function as a sign for something else. The word is a sign of a special kind.

SIGNS ARE NOT STIMULI

HI

It designates a thing with its name. The name is part of the object, it names it as that which it is. The word does not supplant the point¬ ing finger; the finger must come to the aid of the word in order to indicate that, among the many things which by their essence are trees, that particular tree is meant. The word is the bearer of mean¬ ing, hence the description of a thing which we have before our eyes can contribute to a better understanding. It emphasizes the mean¬ ings and presents them in their manifold relationships. Because the child grasps words according to their sense and their significance, something unknown can be described, something new narrated to him, as to all beings endowed with speech, and he can break through the horizon of the This, the Now and the Here—and learn.

(c)

Are “Words” Equivalent Stimuli?

It is inevitable that the behavioristic speech psychologist, by the very fact that he speaks, contradicts himself. There is an irrecon¬ cilable conflict between his saying something and what he says. The theory maintains that the word is a substitute stimulus, or, as it is also called, an equivalent stimulus. This expression is taken over from animal psychology and designates phenomena similar to those which Pavlov described under the heading of Generalization. What is meant is that a definite mode of reaction is not affected by certain alterations in the stimulus pattern (“Stimuli may be equivalent in the sense that they call forth the same reaction’’).4 A bright square on a dark ground and a dark square on a bright ground are a simple example of a pair of equivalent stimuli. But the difference may be much more striking. “Even very marked alterations of the stimuli can leave the response unaltered.”4 Word and object would have to be grouped into this special category of equivalent stimuli. The organism which responds to equivalent stimuli with the same reaction does not make a distinction. It reacts to the stimulus A (bright square) precisely as to stimulus B (dark square), and to the articulated sound precisely as it originally reacted to the object. Equivalent stimuli can be interchanged without an alteration of the reactions: a stimulus B can replace a stimulus A. The difference of the stimuli remains concealed from the organism, one would think, on the basis of an intermodal blindness. This, at least, seems to be Stevens’ opinion. Kliiver himself is much more cautious in the interpretation of his observations of equivalent stimuli, reported pro-

148

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visionally as an experimental method. If Stevens were right, some¬ thing would become a sign by the very fact that it is not distin¬ guished from what it designates. The difference, however, cannot escape the speech psychologist. He compares and distinguishes the two “stimuli” (the word-sound and the object manifesting itself) and the two reactions as well. The semanticist concerns himself, as Stevens emphasizes, with the relation of signs and objects; hence, he must be able to distinguish one from the other and to relate one to the other. Whereas he himself sees objects, hears articulated sounds, and re¬ lates them to each other, he interprets the behavior of other persons as sequence of two separate but similar reactions to disparate stimu¬ lations. If the psychologist should simply react to the word signs as he reacted at some other time to the object stimuli, he could not speak about them—he could not speak at all. The behavioristic speech psychologist must claim for himself an exceptional position. His own theory must not be applied with regard to himself. This double interpretation rests upon the unpardonable confusion of stimulus and object, motor reaction and action, surrounding field and environment. It leads to a complete misconception of the es¬ sence of the sign.

(d) The Sign Is No Substitute We have heard that the word functions as a sign insofar as the reaction to the articulated sound, supposedly, resembles the re¬ action to the object. The word stimulus is supposed to supplant the object stimulus, but substitute functions and sign functions are of a wholly different nature. Margarine is a substitute for butter, not a sign for it. A false bank note can supplant a genuine one, but the falsification is not a sign of the original, a lie is not a sign of the truth. As little as the substitute is a sign, just as little is the sign a substitute. The letter A designates the sound A, it does not supplant it. The death’s head sign on medicine bottles indicates the danger, it does not supplant it. The street sign designates the street; the word “peace” designates the much-desired state, it does not supplant it. (With its emotional appeal, the slogan functions at times as if the word could take the place of the thing.) Original and substitute are interchangeable, sign and the desig¬ nate are not. Margarine, which in bad times drove butter from the table, can itself be once more replaced by butter when money is

SIGNS ARE NOT STIMULI

149

more abundant. A false bank note, which was to be smuggled in as substitute for a genuine one, must itself be replaced by a genuine one if the deception is discovered in time. Such reversibility does not exist between sign and designate. The word “bread” designates the food, but this does not designate the word. The sign points to the designate, announces it, presents its meaning symbolically. The sign is in the service of the designate; this relation is not reversible. Equal reactions to sign and designate, far from establishing the sign function, would bring about its disappearance. The relation of sign and designate can only be grasped in a synopsis of two objects. I must be able to direct myself to something, must grasp it objectively, in order to understand it as a sign for another objective configura¬ tion: the small cloud yonder as sign of the approaching storm.

(e)

The Essence of the Sign

The relation of sign and designate is, to be sure, an objective one, but immersed in an egocentric evaluation. To me, the cloud is a mere sign of an approaching storm because I care little or nothing about a cloud as such, whereas the storm is the thing itself. In the story of Thumbling, the birds eat the crumbs which were to serve Thumbling as road signs. To him the road was important, to the birds the crumbs. The relation of sign and designate is that of a ranking order and a value hierarchy, an axiological sequence. The cloud is a sign because it precedes the storm. That which is to func¬ tion as a sign must not only be lower in rank and value, it must be closer and more accessible to me than the designate. The order is: first the sign, then the designate. The vicious dog lying before the sign, “Beware of the dog” renders impotent, so to speak, the sign which was to give warning of him. The Babinski reflex is a sign of a disturbance of the pyramidal tract, but the latter is not a sign of the former. Sign and designate are members of such a relation as exists only for experiencing beings who, in encountering the world, find its unity broken up into a plurality and articulated, and who can distinguish objects from each other and rejoin what has been separated, relating the one to the other beyond dividing spaces and times. The semeiotic relations owe their existence to the circum¬ stance that we, as individuals and in groups, experience the world egocentrically, from our standpoint. The world does not unfold in a mere juxtaposition and sequence; the whole is for us organized, ar-

15°

Man Thinks, Not the Brain

ticulated, and accentuated by our preferences and aversions, our needs and interests, our bodily subjection to place and time, our historic limitation. These make one thing near to us, the other re¬ mote, and allow one to function as sign of the other. The sign and the designated, therefore, cannot exchange their roles within a single semantic relationship. The semeiotic role be¬ longs to a three-cornered relation, if one may put it so. The rank order of the sign and the designated, their values, nearness, and accessibility are established by grace of the experiencing subject, in much the same way as what we call the “given” in a mathematical demonstration is more evident to us than what follows from it, even though mathematically one is not prior to the other. Only because in this world one thing is to us less important, closer, and more accessible than another can it function for us as a sign of the other. Its only purpose is to point beyond itself toward something else, to be in its own nullity a sign for the other. This opens up in detail a wide range of subjective interpretation. The semeiotic reference is inseparable from our egocentricity, from the bodily subjection of our existence. The choice which makes a sign of any particular thing is largely left to us, but not completely. In particular, we can¬ not arbitrarily alter the relations of spatial and temporal nearness. Natural signs must be discovered, artificial ones are controlled by convention. Such sequences as cloud and storm, ground surface and ground depth, are unalterably fixed. The geologist looks at that part of the earth’s epidermis which is accessible to him for signs of treas¬ ures concealed in the depths. To reverse such relations belongs in the province of games or of silly nonsense, for example, the social game “charades,” in which the point is to guess a sentence from the pantomimic representation of words or syllables. But it can in¬ deed happen that a man entrenched or buried or hidden in the depths will search for signs which will reveal to him what is happen¬ ing on the surface. Things take place more freely and arbitrarily in the realm of our preferences and aversions. Here, sign and designate can exchange roles, not, to be sure, within a single semeiotic relationship. How¬ ever, what was a sign in one relationship can become the thing itself in another, and what was a designate there can serve here as a sign. We agree to meet at the Lincoln monument. In this agreement, first the word designates the object. Later, however, the thing so desig¬ nated (the monument) becomes the sign for the place of the ren¬ dezvous. The word, the articulated sound, is a sign for meanings. But in writing the word becomes the designate, the letters designate the

SIGNS ARE NOT STIMULI

*5X

sound. We ask, how does one spell this or that word, that is, what graphic signs shall we set down for the sound complex. For the hard of hearing, the phonetic shape becomes an object. His first question is not what the other meant, but what he said. In analogous fashion, the student of acting is focused upon the correct pronunciation; to him the phonema is the object whose production he therefore prac¬ tices, with profit, even by means of senseless sound material. Objects such as a bouquet or a wrist watch become as gifts a sign of our friendly disposition (wherefore that which exceeds necessity mostly serves as a suitable gift). A book is a complicated system of graphic signs. For the bibliophile, however, a rare first edition becomes the thing itself. He will take care not to profane his treasures by their use. The book serves no longer for communication, for reading; it has ceased to function as a sign work. More rapid and common is the conversion of the newspaper from printed page to wrapper and fuel. But if a newspaper should fall into our hands in which the battle of Jena or Waterloo, the birth of Mozart or the beheading of Louis XVI are reported, we should probably treat that issue with proper respect and elevate it to the nobility of “the thing itself.” Artificial signs are given their place in historic happenings by their reference to human interests. The “extra” which men snatched out of each other’s hands yesterday lies thickly on the street today as refuse. A theater ticket with yesterday’s date is a worthless piece of paper. A bank note for a thousand dollars, offering to pay Con¬ federate currency, once having purchasing power, has lost all its value. It is good for nothing now. The sign gets its significance from the designate. Detached from this connection, it becomes nothing but material. As such, however, it need not be worthless. In a tavern brawl, the tin sign displaying a pleasant pipe tobacco can become a welcome and dangerous weapon. Boards on which advertisements of beer, cosmetics, etc., were painted, can serve in case of need as barricades or fuel. A sign can be formed only in some sort of material. Some sub¬ stances are excellently suited to the manufacture of signs because of their plasticity, proximity, or accessibility. But no object whatever, taken out of its triangular semantic relationship, is per se a sign, whether natural or artificial. The little storm cloud is a meteorologi¬ cal formation which originates under certain physical conditions. We interpret it as a sign of the coming storm. Animated, loud con¬ versations in an unfamiliar language sound like a din, an empty chattering. The physical objects or processes employed as signs are in themselves not different from any other single object or process;

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they signify nothing else, they point to nothing else, they mean noth¬ ing else. The push button by which an electric circuit can be closed signalizes nothing, as little as the bell set in motion by the current. The noise thus produced is a signal only for an experiencing being, who can hear the ring as an announcement of something else. The wail of a siren, which in inland towns generally means trouble on the highway, is not infrequently used to signalize the end of a factory work shift. Among neurophysiologists, the exponents of cybernetics revel in the designation of stimuli as signals, communications, or messages. This seemingly gives them conversely the right to equate messages, communications, or signals with certain electrophysiological processes. It is understandable that a telephone engineer speaks of how many messages his system can transmit. That is a convenient way of speaking; the true engineer will not forget that his system only transmits messages when, in a conversation at both ends of the line, a human ear—or better, a hearing person—receives the sound and understands it as a message. The engineer may draw in experimen¬ tal subjects to determine certain physical characteristics or working coefficients, just as a technician will whistle or sing into a loud¬ speaker to find out “whether it is working.” The sensible engineer will not confuse the means of transmission of his message with the message. Quite certainly, the physiologist or the psychologist should guard against such a confusion. If he wants to have experience ex¬ plained by the mechanics of the nervous system, such an ambiguity of terms is not inexpedient. At one moment cyberneticists say that the nervous system receives messages, in the next they are already claiming the same for their calculating machines and other ap¬ paratus. At present, however, we still have reason to believe that the letter carrier delivers letters, not love and kisses. To the crow that perches on top of a road marker, the sign on the post does not say “To Akron”; it gives him no information. The signal device is for him something on which he can perch and rest, but it is not a signal and not a sign.

The Sound The articulated sound satisfies to an eminent degree the con¬ ditions imposed by the nature of the sign. By means of our breath, it is at our disposal without effort and available at any moment. With a few sounds we designate the heaviest burdens, the furthest dis-

SIGNS ARE NOT STIMULI

153

tances, the greatest velocities, “the entire world,” and can therefore in a certain manner deal with that which we cannot grasp directly. The speech sound is an ideal material for artificial signs. In its tran¬ sitory and fleeting character, it is predestined, empty as it is, to serve as a sign for something else. As an articulated sound, it shows itself as a product, a planned product; different from the cry, which is an immediate utterance and therefore, as actors know, not easy to reproduce. The articulated sound, a formation shaped and yet per se empty, is no goal in itself, no final product, but shows itself to be the means and mediator of utterance. It is between thing and not-thing, fleeting, perishable, and yet actual, like sound in general. In its evanescence, it serves the actuality of the utterance, in its sound form it serves a timeless meaning. The articulated sound allows many shapes with many variations; each of these, thanks to the capacity of the human voice and the human ear, capable of great precision and definiteness. As something shaped, the articulated sound can be re¬ peated indefinitely. From the perishability of its material, the fu¬ gitiveness of sounding on and sounding off, the sound gestalt stands out as what is authentic and essential. It transcends the temporally fleeting sound. As a gestalt, the articulated sound becomes a sign of shaped things, of that essence of things which is withdrawn from all immediate appearance. The word, penetrating and ordering phe¬ nomena, calls this What by its name.

(g) The Psychology of Prediction Physicalism has narrowed the frontiers of psychology, posi¬ tivism has blocked them still more rigorously. It considers prediction the goal of scientific endeavor and a criterion of scientific knowledge. If it is the ultimate motive of psychology to predict and to control behavior, then psychology will not waste time with idle questions. It will confine itself to repeatable and measurable events without any misgivings of making a grave sacrifice. In principle all behavior must become comprehensible by application of the same method. In practice, the number and hence the lack of clarity of variables may have a disturbing effect. If S,P,J,A,I would have been known, one could have predicted that a certain actor from Stratford on Avon would write a soliloquy starting with the words: “To be, or not to be.” Because each action is a reaction, this phrase would, on princi¬ ple, have to be as predictable as the angle by which a rat traverses an

15i

Man Thinks, Not the Brain

inclined plane if the angle of inclination is given according to the lim 55 ° formula: © = Kxlog sin ——20°'5 Possibility of prediction seems to be invested in the object. Psychology is interested in indi¬ vidual predictions. It accepts the possibility of predicting “simply” as given. Predictions do not come about by themselves. They are made in both every day life and in science. They characterize a form of human behavior. The faculty of predicting is a psychological prob¬ lem which precedes all particular predictions. The apparent facility of prediction leads us to overlook its complex structure. Can pre¬ diction as a mode of human behavior be fitted into the system of objective psychology? Can it be understood, and how could it be understood as reaction to stimuli? In a prediction, something is stated about future events. Time it¬ self becomes the very theme. Many temporal aspects are superim¬ posed in a very complicated way. Stimuli and reactions take place in time. Bound to their particular time points, they are, however, not capable of grasping time as such; they do not expect anything and they do not remember anything. In predicting, the speaker refers to the future and that from his own present. He makes historical time his frame of reference. Present and future are personal time defini¬ tions. Seen from this, my, our present, an event to come is a future one; tomorrow, in a week or in a year, it will belong to the past, re¬ lated again to our actual present. Predictions are a specific mode of dictions. The linguistic expres¬ sions in which predictions are uttered belong to the present, insofar as they are spoken and heard. But they indicate the future. The futurum unfolds its grammatical meaning in the present; as a rule, the present is not expressly alluded to. The action of speaking and hearing marks with sufficient lucidity the present tense from which the future is implied. Statements about the future thus appear in a two-fold time aspect. The utterance itself is made in the present tense, in relation to which another event is predicted as a future event. The saying and the said do not belong to the same moment in time. Time as historical time is the necessary system of reference of predictions, but it does not remain the only one. In many predic¬ tions, especially in those of natural science, temporal relations like “sooner-later” or, “at the same time,” the lengths of time and veloci¬ ties, become objects of prediction. The astronomer predicts the day of an eclipse of the sun which will last for such and such a time. He

SIGNS ARE NOT STIMULI

155

speaks of a “length of time” which, it is assumed, can be measured as the same length of time any time—today, tomorrow, and yesterday. Predictions like these are by no means the sole privilege of astronom¬ ers and physicists. They may be found in any cookery recipe. The direction, “heat moderately for half an hour” tells the housewife: if you proceed in such a way, the result will be such-and-such. The pre¬ ceptor and the housewife are both convinced that half an hour can always be told by the clock. The experienced housewife will not stick slavishly to the direction. She will, according to circumstances, add or subtract a little; but half an hour remains half an hour, exactly the same length of time for all times. It has to be so. How else could one mentally reverse the direction of time? The housewife knows that the dinner has to be on the table at seven o’clock; she calculates backward from this hour to find out when she will have to put the food on the stove so that it is ready “in time.” In such daily routines, the arrow of time is easily reversed, but the length of time remains the same, although beginning and end are by no means interchange¬ able. In everyday life, predictions of this kind are as numerous as bacteria on the skin. Each electric switch is actually an objectified promise, turn me on and you will have light; or a prediction, the turning of the switch will close the contact and make the bulb glow. In all these predictions, time relations are comprehended in their timeless validity. Because certain temporal relations exist at all, the events which depend on them are expected to react always in such a manner and not otherwise. Therefore they must also occur in the future, generally or at a definite date. In predicting, time relations are intellectually grasped; they are comprehended in their timeless validity. The “at any time” must be understood as being indifferent to any particularities of historical or world time (which as the stream of time encloses everything and is thus also historical time). Therefore, the expression “timeless” is not unjustified, indeed, it is—considered more closely—unavoid¬ able. We speak of half an hour and mean by it a length of time as a unit. In the course of half an hour we experience ourselves moving from one moment to the next, in their successive order. We are always tied to a single spot of the time space, in the same way as we are either in the morning, noon, or the evening of the day. We are always in a transition state, and we have never got, so to speak, the whole unit of time all at once. With the words and concept “an hour” or “a day” we mean a certain length of time, but the concept “an hour,” “a day,” “a year,” does not last an hour, a day, a year. It does not last at all. In the actuality of our existence we mean,

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Man Thinks, Not the Brain

at this moment, a length of time in its extension and in the suc¬ cession of its moments; but we combine this from—and after— each other into a conceptual unit which itself cannot be temporal. For then it would only be a moment in the stream of time. We live in the time limited to the particular moment "now," and yet, by ex¬ periencing it, we transcend the moment. We think in time, and yet, while thinking, we can make time as duration, as past, and future, the theme of our thoughts. Positivism does not showr enough interest in the problem of the possibility of predicting, and shows too much respect for the fact of prediction. But not everywhere, where predictions are made, it is a question of science; for that would make betting at the races, stockmarket speculations, or playing card games a scientific activity. All normal human relationships justify predictions and depend on their execution. Thus the positivist does not mean prediction generally, although he often speaks of predictions without any qualification. What he actually means are correct, cogently correct predictions of the kind astronomers make and can make as long as the covenant proclaimed in Genesis VIII, 22 remains in power. Because prediction is a form of telling, it claims validity like any other statement. Predictions predict that an event is going to happen with more or less probability. The field of prediction is wide and numerous are those active in it. Besides the astronomer, there is the astrologer; and medical, political, and commercial prognosticators are joined by prophets and seers. Their knowledge is not always based on the evaluation of a great amount of statistics. Cassandra could read in the “Book of Fate”; she foresaw the future in the womb of the present. That type of prediction, in which objec¬ tive psychology is exclusively interested, requires verification. Predictions await confirmation. They not only maintain that it is possible to predict today how at any future time tilings will or must behave, they also tacitly imply that at that time, the speaker him¬ self or a listener will be able to compare the predicted with the ac¬ tual situation. Prediction thus counts on the possibility of repetition —viz—of the very memory of the prediction. It can only be fulfilled, its assertion can only be examined, if the claim uttered today can be repeated in its wording, in its meaning, in its relation to the given circumstances. The words in which a prediction is made fade away while they are spoken. It is not the physiological process which is repeated, but its pattern. A later -witness must be able to confirm retrospectively the correctness of the prediction. Joseph interpreted Pharaoh’s dream. For the verification of his prediction after the

SIGNS ARE NOT STIMULI

157

seven fat and the seven lean years, someone would have to remember what Joseph had said and that he had once said it. Comparison of the now present with the bygone is required. Presupposed is the in¬ variability of the divulged, of the significance of the statement made before, which can only be checked if the space-time structure on which the basis for all events are founded can be reconstructed with¬ out change; if the right angle of which Euclid spoke corresponds to the angle we see and draw today. Before Schliemann set out to excavate Troy, he checked Homer’s narration. He read the Iliad like an historical document. He trusted its wording. He literally followed the hints and directions given by Homer. Success vindicated him. It was as if Homer had predicted: “When someone discovers a hill in the vast plain extending from the Ida mountains to the sea, a hill not very high above the plain near where the waters rush down from the heights of the Ida, he stands on the soil of Illium.” To test this prediction, it was necessary to understand the letters, the words, and the verses, their meaning and their relation to the facts, and so recognize the landscape which Homer had depicted in the invariant geographical space. A man who has just put Stratton glasses on his nose is not qualified to re-ex¬ amine predictions. The caterpillar cannot make predictions to the butterfly because each of them lives in different surrounding worlds, and the one world cannot be translated into the other. Predictions must be written in readable handwriting. The system of co-ordinates in which predictions are to be reconstructed in detail must be rec¬ ognized as being invariant itself, although the actual acts of measur¬ ing and computing are different, separated in time, occurring only once. Thought and language comprise an abundance of relations within the one word “prediction,” and thus provide us with an extremely practical tool indeed. In everyday life we grasp the meaning of the word “prediction” in an approximation which suffices for our im¬ mediate purpose. The scientist, however, has the task of unfolding anew the content which has been condensed in a single word into its original meaning. If that is done, it will at once become apparent that predicting cannot be fitted into the scheme of stimulus and reaction, together with all the brain processes interacting between them, regardless of whether one interprets the functioning of the nervous system in accordance with Pavlov or with Lorente de No, or whether one speaks of elements and associations, or of configura¬ tions and fields.

Man Thinks, Not the Brain

158

Q.

Stimuli Arc Not Objects

(a) The Observing and the Observed Brain TO STATE IT BRIEFLY AND PRECISELY: IT IS MAN WHO CAN MAKE

predictions, not the brain. It is man who thinks, not the brain. Men and animals hear and see, but not the retina or the Corti’s organs. Ex¬ perience is not a basically superfluous addition to a nervous system which would function just as well without consciousness. Experi¬ encing beings stand in a unique relationship to the world, and they can fulfill their existence only in such a relationship. Any physiologist asked whether the eye—the eye as an isolated organ—as “receptor” sees, or whether seeing is located in the eye, will answer in the negative, or reject this question as senseless. But, when we ascend from the periphery to the cerebral cortex, the an¬ swer might become rather uncertain. The optic impression is sup¬ posed to correspond in some way to the stimulus-conditioned process in the calcarina, run parallel to it, or be isomorphous. Nobody as¬ sumes that man can think without a brain, but many are inclined to believe that the brain could think without man—the brain, of course, in connection with the spinal cord, the peripheral nervous system, and the sensory organs. The proposition, “The brain thinks without the man,” certainly sounds absurd. But such a statement merely overstates the hidden meaning of the sentence: “Mind can only be regarded for scientific purposes as the activity of the brain.”1 Its meaning, no doubt, is that the performances of the brain can be completely represented and measured by its effect on electrical ap¬ paratus and chemical reagents. Should anyone wish, he may add to the otherwise complete physiological account the dispensable as¬ sumption of some data of consciousness coordinated with the actual cerebral events. Spinoza’s doctrine that the order and connection of ideas is iden-

STIMULI ARE NOT OBJECTS

!59

tical with the order and connection of things provided a way out. But separated from Spinoza’s metaphysics, the dogma of parallelism becomes completely unintelligible. It remains, however, practically useful on the condition that the order and association of ideas is totally subordinated and adapted to the objects. The ideas them¬ selves must be objectified, and at the same time one must avoid pre¬ senting experience in its full extent. Some good, or rather some evil, spirit should warn objective psychology not to put its explanations to a thorough test, viz., not to apply its principles to itself. The very moment the observer is introduced as a nervous system into the field of observation, the building tumbles down. Let us put it to the test! Let us assume Lashley’s prediction has come true: Neurophysiology has succeeded in “describing all phenomena of be¬ havior and mind in the concepts of mathematical and physical sciences.” We may assume that at first the basic task could be solved only in approximation. Many details are still to be worked out, the experiments must be carried on, the laboratories are as busy as ever. In one of them, we meet Dr. X—he is studying the brain of a test animal under certain experimental conditions. Although Dr. X is all by himself in the lab, two brains are involved in his experiments; that of the test animal and that of the experimenter. According to the theory of objective psychology, both these brains must be con¬ sidered from the same point of view. While Dr. X turns his undi¬ vided attention to the brain of the animal which he observes, we must concern ourselves with both, the observed and the observing brain. Dr. X observes, experiments, and takes notes. His behavior should be explained in accordance with the basic presuppositions as a process in the brain of the observer. But is that possible? How is it possible? t Just now, for instance, Dr. X is jotting down his observations. All statements are statements about something—in our case, they are statements about the brain of the test animal—however, these notes must first of all be understood as motor reactions controlled by the brain of the observer. Its relations to the object under ob¬ servation are of a strictly causal nature. Stimuli arising from the object have caused some reactions in the nervous system of the ob¬ server. These processes which occur in the observer’s body do not, of course, refer to anything else. Yet Dr. X., the observer, does not speak of himself, he describes the behavior of the animal. Neverthe¬ less, he reports his observations. Observers may be exchangeable, but one cannot do without an observer. Language expresses this fact in the so simple and yet so mysterious relation, “I see something.” The

i6o

Man Thinks, Not the Brain

objective psychologist, too, succumbs to the convention of speech. He uses without hesitation expressions like: “I saw, I noticed, it is evident, I assume, in my opinion.” Such a lack of precise expression was permissible at a time when Lashley’s prediction was not yet ful¬ filled. But now the situation has changed. Dr. X, in order to be con¬ sistent, must use a more complicated, but also more pertinent term of expression. He has to avoid phrases like, “I saw, I noticed, I ob¬ served.” He will say: “My brain was excited in such and such a way”!2 But when about to write this down. Dr. X will stop like Faustus at the translation of the word logos and will try to find a better translation. “My brain,” he must not say; it should be rather, “the brain X has been excited.” Dr. X knows perfectly well that he himself is just a body among other bodies. Words like, mine, yours, his, he, us,—in short, all possessive pronouns—have no legiti¬ mate place in the world of natural science. From now on all phe¬ nomena of behavior and mind have to be defined by mathematical and physical concepts. “Each and every phenomenon” includes the activity of the observer. That which until recently had been under¬ stood as observing, that is, a polynominal relationship, where one had to distinguish between the observer, the observed object, and the observation, this act of observing is now disclosed as a series of processes in the brain of the observer. Formerly, we would have not hesitated to say that Dr. X observed the brain of a test animal. But now we ought only to say: a brain, belonging to an organism X, has been excited by light waves which were reflected from the surface of an animal brain and other nearby objects. With the same right and the same result, we could have chosen as our example any other observation. The choice of a neuro¬ physiological observer suggested itself as the most appropriate and, because of the duplication of the two brains, as the most illustrative example. How and where we introduced the observer, whether we equipped him with a microscope or a telescope, or let him make his observations with the naked eye, is in principle quite irrelevant, be¬ cause in the scheme of objective psychology not the source of the light, not the starting point of the light stimulus is important, but the point of impact on the retina. While distances separate the see¬ ing man from visible things, such relations do not exist for the brain, as understood by physiology. As long as we were prejudiced by the everyday thinking and usage of language, and we took words like “I see this and that” literally; we were convinced that daylight il¬ luminates the environment for a seeing being, that an experiencing being by seeing was in contact with things. As laymen, we even

thought thing', showed themselves just as they were, that we could turn to visible things and gras;, them in their particularity in a cer¬ tain way. But sci on a; tells in to relinquish such ideas. Instead of an observer v.ho turns towards things as a seeing faring, we have to deal with a brain v/hieh receives stimuli I he brain is a physiol aggregate like others in the continuum of electromagnetic arid gravitational fields. J he spate in -which it funetions is to be thought of as an order completely devoid of qualities; neither transparent, nor bright, nor dark, but only -without quality. In sueh a space, there exist exclu¬ sively continuous relations of the next to each-other. I here is no contact over a distance between the observing arid the observed brain, as it appears in observation. The observer’s brain is eri¬ ca sed .n his skull; aJl cerebral processes take place in this room. In their totality they can be characterized by the formula ftx,y,z,t), where x,y,z, represent Cartesian coordinates arid t represents time. Stimuli, wherever they come from, influence processes of the order (x,y,z,t). The brain of the test animal, however, had the differing coordinates q,r,s. The observer had been talking about the brain of the test animal, that is, of processes f . V. hat made him talk so, on the other hand, were processes f (x,y,z,t). 'I he mechanically vrorkirig brain and the organism steered by it have no surrounding world to -which they might react. Light does not shine for the or¬ ganism, sound does not sound for it.. It cannot even grasp or measure spatial or temporal distances. The organism is restricted to the seg¬ ment of space which it occupies at this moment. The processes f (x,y,z,t) do not represent the group f Lpr,s,t;; they do not, in fact, represent anything at all. They do not signify anything else and they point to nothing else. but the observer is turned toward the brain of the test animal, toward an object, to something besides himself. Observation relates to the other. The astronomer talks of the sun arid the stars, the ge¬ ologist of rocks and minerals, the historian of Luther or Napoleon; none of them talks of himself. But the astronomer could not speak of stars unless he observed them, the geologist would have nothing to say about minerals unless he had seen rocks and mountains, the historian could not report anything about Luther arid Napoleon had he riot studied the documents about them. 7 he basic condition for any observation is, therefore, that the observer has been affected bv the very thing which he observes, but affected in such a way that the other .•: l to him as the other. \\ hile obser'.ing, I com¬ prehend an object as an object for me. In the living experience of seeing, 1 comprehend the object both as the other and myself, al-

162

Man Thinks, Not the Brain

though not in the same way. To see, therefore, is more than to re¬ ceive optical impressions of an image in the mind. In grasping an object as such, in the relation I-the other, I-the world, I experi¬ ence a spatial relation which itself cannot be spatially represented.

(b) Theories of Reproduction and Projection Fascinated by the object we are, in everyday life, inclined to forget the seeing because of the visible. The idea forces itself upon our mind no less today than in the days of Democritus—that a man who sees, perceives in his eye or in his brain, in his soul or in his mind, an image of the object. The reproduction comes about, ap¬ parently, in three phases. The first is physical: the projection of the object on the retina; the second is physiological: the conduction of the excitation, of a signal, as one says, from the retina to the cerebral cortex; the third is psychological: the appearance of an image in consciousness, isomorphous with the cortical motion and the physical form. There are three objections to this opinion: (1) The theory of re¬ production should be understood merely metaphorically. Pictures, like exposed films or a canvas covered with paint, are physical objects just like the originals. A framed “picture” has a certain weight; it can be carried about or sent to somebody, it is an article of commerce like other goods. The original and its reproduction are both visible things (Seh-Dinge). The colored canvas becomes a picture only in¬ sofar as the observer comprehends and understands one of the two visible objects as a reproduction. If, in our consciousness, visible ob¬ jects were given at first as images which, after being shifted to the “outside” by some mysterious process would be interpreted as real objects, there would be images of a first, a second, and a third order. Of the images, immanent in consciousness, one would be projected “outward” as a “real” object, the other as a “real” picture, and the third one would remain stored in the archives of the mind. But things present themselves as bodily things to us in our corporeality. The things and we are of the same order. They and we are partners in the events of the world. I experience the visible object as the other thing. I and it are both comprised in the one act of seeing. (2) Hence, the second objection follows. The hypothesis reduces the original content of experience to an appearance of images in the consciousness which, only through experience, are comprehended as

STIMULI ARE NOT OBJECTS

163

an object. Or, it reduces that content to sensory material animated by a forming act, or to intentional objects of consciousness. The in¬ terpreted phenomena are supposedly present to the consciousness, but they do not appear as the other, together with which and facing which I experience myself as an empirical being. The images are ob¬ jects for a consciousness, they are not the other for a corporeal expe¬ riencing being. In theory, the impressions are primarily given and original; actually, however, they are hypothetically inferred and de¬ duced. The sensualistic postulate has no foundation in everyday ex¬ perience; it is mere construction. If it is to fulfill its explanatory purpose, the impressions must be constructed in such a way that from them the world of things can be reconstructed as it confronts us in our experience. In theory, the impressions come first; in practice, however, the things come first. Their structure gives the instruction for the theoretical construction of the impressions. The problem seems solved when impressions can be looked at, as if they copy the things in their changing combinations and configurations. Subse¬ quently, these reproductions are interpreted as the original ideas, not in the sense of Plato’s Eidos, but understood, as the only contents be¬ longing directly to the individual consciousness. In theory, things are impressions projected outwards; in practice, impressions are things projected inwards. The physiology of the sensations retains the pat¬ tern and consolidates it (by movement in two directions). It follows the course of events from the object to the impression and from the impression interpreted as sensation immanent to consciousness, back to the object. In either case, the things remain the prototypes. Ac¬ cordingly, seeing is narrowed down to the presence of optical impres¬ sions, hearing to that of acoustic ones in solipsistic awareness and isolation. Since things function as a model, the characteristic of singularity is, as a matter of course, transferred from the things to the conceptions. How things stand before us here and now as these particular objects determines the interpretation of experience. Con¬ ception of an individual thing becomes a singular conception, ex¬ perience of the singular moment becomes a singular experience, observation of simple events becomes a simple observation. The objectified conceptions behave in the same fashion as individual things affect each other, as they determine reciprocally their place; they maintain their position as “substantive parts” in the stream of consciousness—they collide, they hinder, and further each other, they combine and absorb affective charges. Their relation to each other is explained, from Herbart to Freud, in analogy to mechanics, by physiological or psychic mechanisms.

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(3) This interpretation of experiencing calls for an explanation: How are the contents of consciousness transferred to the “outside?” Physiology has recourse to the hypothesis of an outward projection, although it uses it with an uneasy mind. It cannot deny that outward projection can hardly be understood as a physiological process. No¬ body will seriously maintain that brain processes are transposed to the outside. And yet, the articles of faith call for exactly this suppo¬ sition. Or else an activity would have to be attributed to conscious¬ ness which transcends the strict parallelism. There is only one way out—to suspend the basic supposition and to accept the outward projection as a “mental” process. But even that does not help much. The metaphor of an outward projection may be sufficient to distract our intellectual curiosity and to appease our doubts, but its narcotic effects will not last long. After recovery, we must ask: What is really meant by this simile; what is the nature of the physical process underlying such a comparison? The word “projection” appears in many different contexts. Math¬ ematics, optics, and ballistics use it. However, the projectile of a gun is not translocated to the outside. After the discharge, it reaches an¬ other far-removed location. Light from a projection lamp hits the screen and is reflected to the viewer. The projected slide, on the other hand, does not change its place, but modifies only—being more or less transparent—the traversing light. Neither would a mental image which, as the saying goes, was projected outward due to acquired ex¬ periences or unconscious inference, actually change its position. It is not on the outside—not even virtually—for the object remains, now as ever, present, the image remains in spite of the projection “in our mind.” Thus it would have to be “within” and “without” at the same time.

The Experience of Distance3 Such contradictions are unavoidable whenever one tries to lo¬ calize consciousness and to deduce from the physical space spatial relations like the vis-a-vis, remoteness, and distance—relations which are intrinsic to experiencing. Therefore it is entirely incorrect and very confusing to speak of distance receptors. Light which strikes the retina affects the spot of impact in the same way as the light which produces a photochemical effect on a photographic film. Distance and receptor are concepts which exclude each other. As a receptor of

STIMULI ARE NOT OBJECTS

165

physical energy, the retina has no relation to distance. Where the light which causes its excitation came from, whether from far away, from Sirius, or from an object close by, has no bearing on the rela¬ tionship of the organ to the stimulus. Light excites the retina by im¬ mediate contact without telling it anything of its past. Distance is not an attributive determination of single locations in space. It is a universal, but at the same time personal relation. The remote “there” is in relation to my “here.” I am in the center, and so is everybody else; each is the center of his world, of the landscape which opens before him. This experienced spatial relationship can¬ not be built from geometrical, physical, or physiological space ele¬ ments. This fact has been amply proved by the arguments between the nativists and the empirics. Measured against the logical order of the geometrical space, the phenomenon of distance is paradoxical. The structure of the experienced space does not conform to that of conceptual space. The discrepancy is more than a mere geometrically determinable distortion which might be corrected eventually. The particularity of the “there” arises from the fact that I can grasp it “here”; to be more exact, that I can grasp it from here as a different spot. Stepping outside to glance at the street crossing near by, I see it “there” in some distance away, but it is “here” that I see it—I see it from “here.” If I actually want to reach the crossing, I have to enter the distance which opens before me while I am walking. I have to move “there” in my corporeality, I have to traverse the distance bit by bit, step by step, until through the continuous changing of places, I reach the spot “there.” As a body I am limited to one location at any given time; as a seeing being, however, I can reach out beyond myself, and although I leave the distant spots in their spatial sep¬ arateness, I can comprehend them as the one distance.4 The physicist tells us that light reflected from the street crossing over there has struck the eye here. Light has been carried from a location A to a different location B; it wandered, just as we, our¬ selves, must wander through the visible distance. When it falls on us here at B, it is no longer at A from where it came. A and B are separated both spatially and temporally. “Here” and “there,” how¬ ever, in their visibility, are joined in time. “Here” and “there” are grasped as an undivided relation and are not composed of one “here” and many “there.” The physiologist who knows that the optical excitation takes place in the eye tries to get from, the “here” to the “there” again; he would like to shift the location B back to that of A. That is physically impossible. It would mean that one and the same event takes place at two different locations. No physiologi-

i66

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cal explanation can explain away the physical paradox that we here see something at its place there. Being separated is side by side with the logical fundamental order of space. In experiencing, however, the being separated is gathered together, united and yet left as being separated. The third dimension, depth, creates no particular additional problem. The side by side of points on a plane projected onto another plane like letters of an original sheet onto a carbon could never be compre¬ hended as a side by side. Only in the centering, which gathers to¬ gether the side by side and yet leaves it as such, a plane become visible in its expansion. The seeing of the spatial and the spatial order of things seen cannot be brought to coincide with each other. Therefore it will not do to add theoretically to the physiological excitation an accompanying mental process in order to comprehend the behavior toward the environment. If experiences ran parallel to neural processes and were isomorphic with them, they would have to share their space-time characteristics. The relationship of an ex¬ periencing being to the world transcends by far that of an organism to stimuli.

(d) The Relationship Between an Experienc¬ ing Being and the World Is Entirely Different from the Relationship Between an Organism and a Stimulus In the credo of objective psychology, the difference between the two relations is acknowledged, but only with reservation: de facto, not de jure. It is expected that, in the future, the relations of an experiencing being to the world can be reduced to those of an organism to stimuli. We will not, however, be content with a banker’s draft payable in the indefinite future. The question whether that expectation is justified or illusory can be decided already today. We have only to analyze what becomes of an observation when the objec¬ tive psychologist is measured by his own standard. The basic rule has to be applied to him as well; observing, like any other form of behavior, must be understood as a reaction to stimuli. The observer in the laboratory in accordance with his theory cannot claim any

STIMULI ARE NOT OBJECTS

167

prerogative; he must be regarded exactly like his test persons and his test animals, an organism which reacts to stimuli in a surrounding field. On the doorstep of the laboratory he must dismiss the old Adam. The naive views of everyday life lose their significance in the proceedings and the verdict of exact science. There in everyday life we meet human beings who can turn toward objects in their sur¬ roundings. Here in the laboratory we encounter only organisms, surrounding fields, stimuli, and reactions. Let us once again assume that a researcher in his laboratory is busily engaged in an experiment, no matter what kind of an experi¬ ment. To stay within the scope of our discipline, we will choose a psycho-pharmacological experiment: The experimenter is investigat¬ ing a group of test persons’ reactions to color stimuli under the in¬ fluence of certain drugs. There is an experimenter E, a test person (subject) S, and an object O; that is, a tinted paper with exact physically-defined characteristics. O

--

s

Figure I. O Object, 5 Subject, E Experimenter

These tinted sheets, we assume, are presented in a tachistoscope. But details do not matter. The experimenter is certainly convinced that he can see both the apparatus and the test person S in the test area before him, and that he can observe the effect of the changing color stimuli on the test person. He is convinced that the colors which he sees are also accessible to S in a certain way, just as a phy¬ sician administering a Rorschach test has no doubts that the patient looks at the same card which he has handed to him. Figure I illus¬ trates the pattern of the situation. Strictly speaking, the comparison is not quite perfect. For the relationship of the tinted paper to S is interpreted by the psychological observer as that of stimuli to an

Man Thinks, Not the Brain

i68

organism, while he tacitly makes the mental reservation that both S and paper are visible objects for himself. How will the pattern change now if we consider the experimenter also as an organism, as a nervous system with receptors and effectors, and, for the time being, see his relationship to the colored objects as the relation between stimuli and his, the experimenter’s receptors? The change is dramatic, indeed, as demonstrated in the pattern of Figure II.

O ^

Stimulus B

Figure II. O Object, S Subject, E Experimenter, St, St' Stimuli

E is no longer turned towards an object. Instead, light stimuli move from O to the nervous systems of E and S. The object which seemed to present itself to the experimenter and test person in the first situation as the same visible object, is now dissolved into two separate groups of stimuli, St and St1, stimulus A and stimulus B, respectively. Stimuli are physical agents, light or sound, etc., insofar as they have produced an excitation in a receptor. Optical stimulus is but the quantity of light, the pencil of light which reached and excited the retina of an organism. One ought not say, therefore, at least not without qualification, that stimuli are physical agents. Light as such is not a stimulus. It becomes a stimulus only after it has excited an organism. But if one carelessly calls a light a stimulus, one is also apt to say that light is a visible object; the stimulus has become object. The arrows stimulus A and stimulus B directed from the light source to the receptors E and S, indicate that each of the two organisms is struck and excited by separate and therefore different and limited

STIMULI ARE NOT OBJECTS

169

quantities of light. S is excited by stimulus A and by stimulus A alone; E is excited by stimulus B and by stimulus B alone. One could interrupt the beam of light R-^ stimulus A^S without chang¬ ing the other process Rx—► stimulus B^E. Although we together with other people can see the same visible object, none of us can participate in the stimuli of the other person. Stimuli are, like all physical things, limited to their position in space. There is as little participation in stimuli as when one tries to participate in the same breath of air or the same bite of food. The observer regarded the objects taken for stimuli as things which existed separate from him in space and independent of him. Because they were something other, not absorbed in his own or¬ ganism, those things were capable of affecting other objects. Every observation of events refers to the relation between things which pre¬ sent themselves in front of us and separated from us. The relation¬ ship between stimulus and the nervous system is something quite different. Not the tree, not the house over there, not the sky and the stars above us are stimuli. Stimulus is the light which reflected from the tree, from the house, and from the stars, all that which has opti¬ cally excited my retina. The pattern, therefore, needs a further modification (cf. Figure III). S

s.

—->0-m

O St1

E

Figure

III. O Object,

5

Subject, E Experimenter, St, St1 Stimuli

In our second example, E and S seemed still connected by the arrows stimulus A and stimulus B with St and St1. Such a connection in fact does not exist. Two pencils of light become stimuli only at the moment of their arrival when they affect the actual receptors, that is, at the end and not at the start of their journey. Thus, the two nervous systems S and E are in no way brought into any sort of

170

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contact by the stimuli A and B. The stimulus A, after having been absorbed by the organism S, and the stimulus B by the organism E, both of them, but each separately, cause motor processes which be¬ long, each group, to a separated, relatively closed system. In the two brains, E and S, processes take effect which are independent of each other and directed towards the particular effectors; the two brains have no contact with each other. The stimulus A produces a muscu¬ lar reaction M in S, the stimulus B produces a muscular reaction N in E, independent of and different from M. M and N have nothing to do with each other, neither do they refer, in reverse, to the stimu¬ lus sources R and The observer is turned towards visible objects. Stimuli, on the other hand, enter into the organism and there they set other excitations into motion which always lead further away from the sources of the stimuli. It may happen that the muscular reactions, produced by a stimulus, act again upon the source of the stimulus. That merely means that additional kinesthetic or tacticle stimuli may lead to further motor effects. Physical energy becomes a stimulus only at the very moment when it has affected an organism. The physical agent which has be¬ come a stimulus does no longer exist separated, nor separable from the excited organism; it has been received into it. That is why we call a sense organ a receptor. Hence, it follows that we cannot approach stimuli. We cannot control or avert them, nor can we act toward them. The observer can manipulate the tachistoscope, he can ex¬ change one color chart for another, for he acts as an experiencing being. He can arrange his action in such a way that, by laying hold of the visible objects, he can produce changes. For example, he can re¬ place a green slide with a red one. Such a possibility is not inherent in the relationship: stimulus nervous system. If in the tachistoscope a red slide is followed by a green one, that means in terms of stimula¬ tion that a stimulus B has been replaced by a different stimulus Bt. While in the organism E the stimulus B produced the motor reaction N, stimulus Bx is followed by reaction Nx. These two processes take their course independently from each other. B-N does not appear in the organism E as a variation of Bi-N^ comparable to the exchange of variable factors contrived by the observer. The observer in his relation to visible objects can experiment; the nervous system E in its relation to stimuli can do no such thing. The observer observes the behavior of S, dependent on the proc¬ esses in the subject’s environment. Both however, the test person to¬ gether with his environment are parts of the observer’s environment. The tachistoscope with its colored slides are present, both in the

STIMULI ARE NOT OBJECTS

environment of E and S. Because S is a fellow creature, one should expect the observer to apply the same standard to the test person and himself. But that he does not do. He interprets the relationship E-» object as a process of seeing. The synonymous relationship S—> object he considers, on the other hand, as a relationship of stimulus and organism, as St->S. The same area of the adjacent space, there¬ fore, is understood now as the surrounding world and now as the surrounding held, the same thing is interpreted first as an object and then as a stimulus. If the objective psychologist were consistent in accordance with his theory, he would have to re-interpret his own relation to his en¬ tire environment as a relationship of stimuli and organism. For this purpose it will not suffice merely to translate the relationship E—>0 into that of the stimuli B—>E; the relationship of the observer to the test person must be reduced as well in the same manner. The pattern now presents itself as follows. S

'T'

Figure

IV. O Object, S Subject, E Experimenter, St, St1 Stimuli

The relation O—> stimulus A->S is not at all accessible to the ob¬ server. He does not “see” S as an object; light reflected from the sur¬ face of the body S, after having passed through a small interval, reaches receptor E as stimulus C. The pattern has to be modified again as shown in figure V. The stimuli B and C reach the organism E and produce in it (being a relatively closed system) centripetal changes and finally the motor reactions NrNx. The actually observed relation O—>S has dis-

Man Thinks, Not the Brain

172

appeared. It cannot even analogically be replaced by the relation stimulus B—> stimulus C^E. The observer noticed how a variation of the object, interpreted as a variation of St, caused variations in the behavior of S. The relation St—^stimulus A—»S is thought of as a causal relation. Between stimulus B and stimulus C however, no causal connection exists, if we consider the processes in their physical and physiological context. Stimulus B, directed towards E has never reached the organism S and thus could not produce in it any varia¬ tion of behavior. S is not influenced by B, E is not affected by A. The relation of E to S is reduced to the optical beam S—> stimulus C—»E. The nervous system E is excited by the stimuli B and C one after the other or in any simultaneous combination. These excita¬ tions are continued in the motor discharges NrNx in temporal se¬ quence. The organism E has no comprehension of what is happening to it. Under the influence of stimulus B it is transformed into the state X, under the influence of stimulus C into the state Y. No epiphenomenalistic theory can overcome this difficulty. But we see again the inadequacy of a theory which tries to explain how data, origi¬ nally belonging to the brain and then to consciousness, are subse¬ quently transferred to the "outside world.”

O

St

S

St1

Figure

V. O Object, S Subject, E Experimenter, St, St1 Stimuli

Stimulus B and stimulus C meet in the organism E, but they are quite unrelated to each other. If “data of consciousness” were to ac¬ company cortical excitations in such a way that their relation were to correspond to that of the excitations, we should also be capable of detecting again such relationship among the objects of the outside world, for “what is within is without.” Conscious or unconscious in¬ ference supposedly makes us believe that certain impressions are brought about by external causes. On the basis of causal deductions.

STIMULI ARE NOT OBJECTS

*73

we are said to coordinate the object O with the impression which accompanied stimulus B, while object S is seen as accompanying stimulus C. But then we establish a second causal relation, viz, that between O and S. This relation, however, has no foundation in the original impressions, indeed, the “projected” relation O-S contra¬ dicts the original relation of stimuli B and C and all those excita¬ tions and configurations attached to them. No isomorphism holds brain event and experiences together.

(e)

On Communication

Observers are interchangeable. This phrase is often used with the mental reservation that the observers themselves are actually mere instruments registering the other measuring apparatus. Ob¬ servers, so it seems, can be exchanged like any other parts of machin¬ ery. One observer can be put in as replacement for an other, he can carry on with the notes and controls where his predecessor left off. As in public conveyances, one driver relieves the other driver at a certain time of day at predetermined stops, in the same way, one ob¬ server leaves the drivers seat to his successor. Though they might pass each other without a word or greeting, they have to conform to the same plan, to the same time table. They must know their routes and how to operate the machine. Observers are not switched on and off. They switch themselves on. The relief of guards, drivers, and observers presupposes the possibility of communication and of the common understanding of the matter in hand. That is why two or more observers can share in one task; that is why there are co¬ workers, superiors and subalterns, teacher and pupils, lecturers and audience. Like any other human being, the psychologist meets with such conditions in his daily experience. As an objective psychologist, he is duty bound to explain them in accordance with his basic rules. He has no choice but to explain social behavior within the framework of the stimulus-response schema as interaction between two or more bodies and their brains. To our hypothetical experiment, a second observer is therefore admitted,—and we present thus the simplest possible case of com¬ munication. We assume observer E has invited a friend F to his laboratory. He wants to show him some of his cases. Both observe together the progress of some experiments and they discuss their

»74

Man Thinks, Not the Brain

observations during the procedure and afterwards. Without much stretching of our imagination, we can force such “social” behavior into the pattern stimulus-reaction. In our diagrams No. 2 and No. 3, we will have to enter our visit¬ ing friend as a third organism, F.

S

Figure VI. O Object, 5 Subject, E Experimenter, F Friend, St, St1, St* Stimuli

Figure VII. O Object, S Subject, E Experimenter, F Friend, St, St1, Ste Stimuli

Both E and F appear side by side as two separated bodies existing as relatively closed biophysical systems. To each of them belongs a nervous system, a brain which functions enclosed in the cranium of E and F, respectively, mediating between stimulus and reaction.

STIMULI ARE NOT OBJECTS

m

Optic stimuli, symbolized by arrowpoints, act upon receptor E and separately upon F. F is not reached by the stimuli exciting E; E is not reached by those affecting F. The light rays S->E and S~*F do not interfere with each other. They are as different as the beams of light which from the stage of a theatre reach a spectator in the lower stalls from those which reach to the spectator in the gallery. The same is true of the stimuli St^E and St2^>F and all the other conditions we have discussed so far. Seemingly new is the reciprocal interrelation of E and F. It is only seemingly new, because basically it does not make any difference after all whether the light exciting the receptor E emanates from O, S, or F. The optic excitations run either parallel or they combine. In each case, they merely cause in the affected organism an altered con¬ stellation in the calcarina and in the other cortical fields. They rep¬ resent to E the other observer just as little as they have represented O or S. The observers discuss the observed. The visitor tells E his opin¬ ion and E replies to it. Both communicate something to each other. Transferred into the pattern stimulus-response, it means that optic excitations—actual ones combined with the residues of former ones —produce in F a motor reaction of the muscles of articulation. Sound waves are produced which affect both E and F as additional stimuli.

Figure VIII. E Experimenter, F Friend

As expressed in the stimulus-response scheme, the answer of E is also a mere motor reaction of his muscles of articulation caused by a combination of optic stimuli (O-f S+F) which arrive simultane¬ ously with the acoustic stimuli from F. Excitations of the acoustic central fields associate with those of the optic fields. To associate

176

Man Thinks, Not the Brain

means here merely a succession or synchronization of the two com¬ plexes of excitation. Sound and optic impressions never blend.

Figure IX. E Experimenter, F Friend

We ourselves, of course, understand that this man, whom we see there before us, expresses his opinion about something; that it is he who talks to us. This bond, a belonging together in the side by side of the impressions must not be comprehended as a mere temporal association. How it is to be understood will become clear only in the progress of our analysis of sensory experience. Here we can take leave of this problem. It has become thoroughly evident that observers are exchangeable because they can communi¬ cate, but that organisms and their nervous systems are not exchange¬ able. Stimuli are not communicable and we cannot participate in them. Between brains there is neither communion nor communica¬ tion, but among human beings, between human beings and animals, and between animals there is communication; there the relations of the towards-each-other and with-one-another exist. Some people may think that I have overstated my argument and that I therefore worried about imaginary problems. No doubt, they say, it is quite correct, the eyes of the two observers are not struck by the same light rays; the ears of the man in the stalls and the ears of the man in the balcony are not stimulated by the same air particles. Still, the rhythm of the vibrations affecting each of them is the same; the two observers are affected by equal stimuli. My objec¬ tion against that opinion is that equality characterizes a relation be¬ tween different thing;s. The equality of A and B becomes apparent only through comparison, by placing A by the side of B; the compari¬ son does not eliminate the separateness and difference of A and B, it presupposes them and leaves them in existence. Comparison pre-

STIMULI ARE NOT OBJECTS

177

supposes that the experiencing being has access to the two parts of tire comparison. But the organism E does not come into contact at all with the stimuli which affect F. Thus, any reference to the equal¬ ity of stimuli does not contribute to the solution of our problem at all; on the contrary, it complicates out situation. How can we make a statement at all about the presumable equality of stimuli? What justifies such assumption? We cannot participate in the stimuli which affect the other. They are not accessible to us. No doubt about this! But even if we jump the fences erected by objective psychology and push on to the realm of living experience, the solution of the problem is not immediately at hand. We said that we cannot participate in stimuli; but do we fare better with what we see? Let us assume that two friends are walking together. One of them watches some event which escapes the other, who is absorbed in his thoughts. One of them sees something which the other did not see. The acts of seeing are also different; each person sees for himself. I cannot participate in the seeing of my neighbor. Each person hears for himself, yet the audible and the heard are something potentially common to everyone. Each person sees for himself, but the visible is a something experienced in common. Attending a play at the theatre everyone sees for himself: nevertheless, all in the audience see the same play together. Together we look at an X-ray film in the lecture room. Each person sees it for himself, but each sees it from a differ¬ ent angle. Seeing it from opposite sides of the hall, the perspectives are by no means identical. Yet, in spite of the particularity of our seeing, all of us are directed towards the same object. Neither the stimuli are the same nor the acts of seeing through which each on his own directs himself toward something jointly visible to all. Seated at a table facing each other, we certainly have two very different views, and yet we both see together the same table, and each of us can from a different place cooperate so that one can help the other in recipro¬ cal efforts. While operating, the surgeon and his assistant see the body of the patient in different perspectives, but each of them from his place is directed towards the same body. We cannot share in the seeing, but we can participate in the visible which appears to us as a part of an encompassing other in different space-time perspectives. Through these perspectives (“adumbrations,” in the sense of Husserl), we aim at the “what” which, as such, will never become completely manifest. To this “what” (something), language fixes names which can be identified and repeated—names which thus designate something identical, the object, the “what” of which ex-

178

Man Thinks, Not the Brain

plains itself in the very multifariousness of the cases and the multiplicitly of the predicates. Language has no name for the perspectives changing from moment to moment. It names the permanent order revealed to us in the very change of the standpoints and the moments. In seeing, the other becomes visible to us as the one world in which we find ourselves facing the other, and yet belonging at the same time in our corporeality as parts to the world; therefore we can encounter the others. Everybody experiences the world in par¬ ticular aspects which are exclusively his own; the world, however visible in fragmentary individual aspects, remains across all its changes the same to me. In this world I can exchange my position with others. Communication is not a direct, immediate relation be¬ tween two persons; but mediated through reference to the other which remains the same for me and for you. We meet in the world and not in empty space. Observers are interchangeable, because each of them can direct himself to the other as the one world which en¬ compasses everything. Community, mutual understanding, and communication are con¬ nections between living beings founded on the relations of the together-with and the towards-each-other, which do not eliminate the monadic autonomy of the partners, their duality or plurality. True, we know of fusions in physics, of combinations in chemistry, of unions in biology. But in fertilization the sperm cell and ovum join into the unit of a new organism. The duality which did not disap¬ pear even in the erotic experience vanishes in fertilization. Com¬ munion demands distance which continues even during the most perfect forms of togetherness, of nearness, of the “we.” There is no communion between bodies, neither is there any communion between one consciousness and an other consciousness. All doctrines of the immanence of consciousness miscarry because of the problem of communion and mutual understanding. Its hidden or expressed, its empiric or transcendental solipsism, separates me who contrives the world in my consciousness from my creation. The other one remains an object for me. No empathy can make him my partner. 7 Communion exists for us as creatures. Because we as living, corporeal beings find ourselves opposite to the world and yet en¬ compassed by the world as creatures and parts, we can meet other beings which, in a meaningful synkinesis, prove themselves partners. The encompassing other which becomes visible to us in seeing, makes possible the communion between us; it mediates between Me and You.

STIMULI ARE NOT OBJECTS

(f)

179

The Brain as Mediator Between the Physical and the Phenomenal World

In comparing the relations between organism and stimuli with those between observer and objects, I have confined my reflec¬ tions to the plain, indeed, to the simplest performances which we execute everyday without much ado. This limitation to the prelimi¬ naries of experimentation has the advantage of covering with the simple and the everyday acts the indispensable ones as well. Their familiarity often simulates a foregone conclusion, their noiselessness, a lack of content. But if one takes the trouble to scrutinize more carefully these apparently simple acts, one will soon discover that it is impossible to reduce man’s behavior towards his environment to a relationship between nervous system and stimulus. And yet, this negative result does not relieve me of the task of expressing my point of view as to the relationship between experiencing and stimulus. Although the functions of the brain, understood as physical and chemical, as anatomic and physiological processes, do not explain experiencing nor mirror its content, the behavior of man and animal, nevertheless, depends on the integrity of their bodily existence. Since a relationship between experience and stimulus cannot be denied, the question arises how it can be understood. The answer is not difficult; actually, it is self-evident. We speak of a stimulus in the singular or of stimuli in the plural as if stimuli seem to correspond to a countable quantity of peripheral excitations, eventually coordinated with a countable quantity of data of con¬ sciousness. However, such presentation makes use of an abbreviated and roughly summarized figure of speech.5 For this very reason it is misleading. To the single stimuli, it seems, correspond isolated im¬ pressions. Optical stimuli, for example, elicit a series of visual im¬ pressions, causing the seeing as well as the content of the seen. Again and again we succumb to the suggestive influence of the concept of thingness, although we know very well that stimuli rouse the organ¬ ism only to its own activity, although we know also that causal rela¬ tions are limited to particular events, and although we understand the stimulus as a limited event, as physical energy affecting a sensory organ by a certain quantity and configuration. To the optical stimu¬ lus in its limitation corresponds a merely limited sight, namely, of that which I grasp now, here, while seeing. The stimulus does not

i8o

Man Thinks, Not the Brain

produce the seeing, it actualizes and at the same time limits it to the actual. Seeing transcends the here, the now, the thus seen. We grasp the single impression as a single one, thereby comprehending it in its limitation. Each “here” is an “only here”; each “now” is an “only now.” Borderlines become evident only when actually or virtually crossed. The single views present themselves as segments of the continuum of the world encounter. Furthermore, we do not experi¬ ence data of consciousness, nor simply intentional objects, but things which are objects for us. While seeing, we experience ourselves to¬ gether with and facing things. Finally, we experience the seen as an actualization of our potentialities, as a realization of our anticipa¬ tions. While seeing, we behave receptively but not passively. There¬ fore, we experience also the forms of emptiness like the darkness in their sensory fullness as a positive giveness and not as a mere “non¬ existence” of stimuli. In darkness we cannot see anything, but we see the darkness itself. In it, the other presents itself, veiled and hidden, and yet present in its concealment. Seeing is more than the reflection of stimuli sparks flashing in rapid sequence. In it, we are turned toward the world in expectation. The relationship of stimulus to experience, thus, would not be too hard to understand—provided we do admit that the body, affected by the stimulus, is the body of an experiencing being. Objective psychology contests the right of such an assumption. According to objective psychology, the world which appears in experience is afflicted with a defect, the defect of the secondary qual¬ ity. It is unreal, deceptive, a phantasmagoria. It cannot claim sover¬ eignty, nor can it demand that its rights and its individuality are respected. The phenomena are but epiphenomenological shadows of the actual happening. Such phantoms present, at the most, the shadow-casting object in its outline, and that very frequently in gross and grotesque distortions. All the phantoms taken together do not create an autonomous sphere of being which could be sensibly in¬ vestigated as a specific field of observation. All that can be done is to gather from the shadow the outline of the shadow-casting object, and to reconstruct its true form from its distortions. The task of psychol¬ ogy is, accordingly, to trace the shadows back to their origin, and, expressed the other way around, to make use of the phenomena in order to understand through them the actual happenings; namely, the cerebral processes. The logical, as well as the ontological aim, is the ascertainment of the neural functions. The order and the synop¬ sis of the phenomena is only a means to the end of describing the

STIMULI ARE NOT OBJECTS

181

brain in its activity by physical and chemical concepts. This kind of research goes back towards the elements and expects to find the decisive clarification in the knowledge of elementary occurrences. In going upwards, this research considers the brain as a part of the organism, and the nervous system as the organ which has to provide the correlation of the other parts, the transmission of the excitations. In this theory, the phenomenal world has been eliminated com¬ pletely. The observation moves entirely on the physical plane. One must measure and compare the “input” and the “output,” in order to understand how the brain works as a mediator between stimulus and reaction. But what happens when the brain is seen as a mediator between the physical and the experienced world, not as an organ of transmission but of transformation? On the way down to the elements, only a part of the total task can be solved. The deeper we descend, the more difficult will be the way back. We cannot reconstruct the structure of the organ from the elementary processes. Muscle fibrils form the pectoralis, but they also form the biceps and the triceps. It is the muscles in their anatomic unity, as they are named individually, which in unison move the organism in its environment. Microscopic structures may teach us something about the possibilities of contraction generally, but they do not teach anything about the actual occurrence in the united organism. The brain controls the movement of the limbs and of the body as a whole by transforming microscopic happenings into macro¬ scopic processes and actions. Its role is that of a “globalisator.” The system of reference of microscopic analysis is the physical space and the physical time. Of course, the organism must be capable of being represented in the physical space-time system, but it cannot be de¬ duced from it. Buildings and bridges, too, must be physically pos¬ sible, else they would not exist; but physics as such cannot deduce their existence solely from its principles. The design which gives them reality belongs to the macroscopic world, like all human ex¬ perience, perception, thought, and action. If one acknowledges the macroscopic world of qualities and of encompassing structures in their particularity, one must, of necessity, also accept the bi ain as mediator between microscopic and macroscopic world, between the physical event and the mental phenomenon. The brain is an organ in the original meaning of the word. The Greeks called the limbs of the body organs, that is, tools. The meta¬ phoric use of the word has a profound meaning. The tools invented by man are composita; they have two essentially different but at the

182

Man Thinks, Not the Brain

same time indispensable parts: the handle or haft and the actual working part. The handle is adapted to the conditions of the bodily existence of man, the working part of the tool to the conditions of physical processes. Both together in their polarity constitute the tool. The tool thus mediates between man and the natural occurrence. The eye or the nervous system as a whole mediates in a similar sense between physical happenings and the world which appears to the experiencing being. By uniting the atomic happening it creates the great stable orders in which animal and man can find their bearings and act in it. The nervous system transforms the physical energies, so that from the wild dances of the photons there emerges the order¬ liness of the visible world. Only in such a world of phenomena does observation become possible. Only in the transparency of space illuminated by light for a seeing being can far-near things be perceived in their order of sideby-side and togetherness. Only within the transparent horizon can places be determined in the multiplicity of simultaneously visible things. In other words, only in the realm of the phenomenal world does measuring become possible. The visible world open to the see¬ ing being contains potentialities which the sighted things as such lack in their interrelation. On a yardstick, the notches marked 0 and 100 are physically separated from each other by the immense num¬ ber of particles which actually constitute the stick. The reliability of the ruler rests on the condition that these notches cannot change their position in relation to each other, that they are separated by the unbridgeable gulf of the materially occupied, intervening space. But we, the seeing beings, grasp their distance and observe them as borderlines of a continuous length which connects them. We see them as two radically different points in the totality and unity of space; we understand their duality and separateness, but at the same time also their interrelation and linkage. Distance, light, and the light space are not epiphenomena of the neural substrate whose essential characteristics are reflected and duplicated in them like in a mirror. If they are but secondary quali¬ ties, well, then the secondary qualities are those by which and by which alone the primary qualities become accessible to us. The “ob¬ jective” theory demands that we deduce the world of experience from nature as comprehended by mathematical physics. Physics is proclaimed to be the basic science of psychology. The fact is that we as human beings construct physics in our world of daily experience (Husserl’s Lebenswelt). Even if it were true that the structure of the

STIMULI ARE NOT OBJECTS

183

universe as conceived by physics were the actual and primary world, for us it is the secondary and mediated one.

(g) Science, a Human Creation Any discussion of the “neurophysical foundations of human behavior” rests like any natural science on the possibility of a com¬ parison between the natural world and a physiologically interpreted nature. The discussion does not procede at once, as one might con¬ jecture, from a description of behavior to an analysis of the activity of the brain. It is preceded by the everyday observation that the be¬ havior of man and animal depends on the wholesomeness of a cer¬ tain organ, namely, the brain. The brain is mentioned twice in this relation, but in two different configurations: first, as a thing in the everyday world, known to the anatomist, the pathologist, the sur¬ geon, but also to the hunter and the butcher—the “encephalon”—an object of a definite form, consistency, and weight, enclosed in the skull, visible, and touchable, although only under certain circum¬ stances. To this thing, to the brain as to a part of an organism, certain biological and psychological functions are attributed, perform¬ ances like seeing or the integration of walking, which the living organism accomplishes as a whole in the perceptual world, related to experienced space and experienced time. The same thing is inter¬ preted, secondly, as part of the physical world, after having been virtually dissected on the basis of microscopic examination—per¬ formed in everyday experience—into its elementary histological parts. It is considered as a machine brought into relation to the space-time system of physics. The physiologist tries to detect the un¬ known mode of functioning of this machine, of the physiological brain, by comparing its performance with other machines and in¬ struments for measuring whose physical behavior is sufficiently known. The activity of the physiologist himself remains bound to the natural world of experience; there he sees the brain whose microscopic structure the microscope rendered macroscopically per¬ spicuous; there he checks the measuring instruments visible to him, having connected them in some way with the visible brain by, for example, such convenient palpable things as electrodes. The two brains bear the same relationship to each other as do the two desks —the one we encounter in our daily life and the other we interpret

184

Man Thinks, Not the Brain

as a physical configuration—which Eddington6 has described so vividly. Everything would be in the best order, theoretically, if the physi¬ ologist limited his interpretations to the drawing of a parallel be¬ tween the physical brain in its relation to the physical surrounding field and the visible brain in relation to its visible surrounding world, the way the neurosurgeon acts when applying his visible and palpable knife to the brain visible to him, but making his incision in such a fashion that his action agrees with the directions dictated by physiology. The researcher, on the other hand, trying to explain human behavior from neurophysiological principles, oversteps the bounds methodically drawn by the comparison. He is not content to relate the events in the physiological brain to the “natural brain” and then to the vegetative and muscular integration of the organism. He undertakes to explain all human behavior. This claim must in¬ clude also the behavior of the observer himself. What has been stated about the physiological brain must apply also in its space-time particularity and limitation to the brain of the observer or anyone else in his stead; and in reverse order, all human achievements in the natural world of observing and understanding are expected to be within the range of the physiological brain. Yet, the comparison of the brain as part of the natural world with the brain as part of the physical world is in need of a mediator. The visible and seen brain does not compare itself with the physiological brain or vice-versa. The comparison becomes possible only because the observer as one and the same person can turn in perception toward the visible world and in conceptual construction toward the physical world. The physicist admits the mediation. He restricts himself to the comparison between the natural-visible world which is grasped in perceiving and observing and the mathematically constructed world. The comparison exclusively extends to these two terms: The per¬ ceived and the thought (das Gedachte). The comparing observer, himself, is not included in the comparison; he has no place in the observed. The possibility of comparison is taken for granted. The personal union between the person observing in the natural world and the man who constructs in it the physical world is not called into question. It remains outside the investigation. The objective psychologist sees it quite differently. He has set out to express human behavior in concepts of natural science. But he deserts his scientific principles half way. He does not compare the observed with the physically constructed, he rather compares the observer with the observed, the constructor with the constructed, and maintains that

STIMULI ARE NOT OBJECTS

185

there is no essential difference between the seeing being and that which is seen, between the machine and its builder. Thereby the comparison has been tacitly extended to three brains. To the visible and the physiologic-physically constructed brain is added an “ob¬ serving” brain. Now it is no longer asserted that the spatially visible world can be reduced to the mathematically constructed world, but that the observing can be reduced to the observed. From such a postulate which has nothing to do with the physicists’ axiom, fol¬ lows a series of absurd consequences. What has been said of the brain as the neurophysiological basis of behavior of man and animal, is supposed to be true also of the observer, as if his own brain and the brain which he observes and interprets in a physiological way were in principle exchangeable. The relation of an organ to the whole of a living organism, the relation of an experiencing being to his environment, the relation of the ob¬ server to the observed; the possessive relation, mine, my body, my brain—all these relations are passed over as unessential. If such pro¬ cedure were justifiable, the distinction between the observer and the observed, between my brain and a brain could be disregarded. Everything I or someone else may state about the visible macroscopic and the microscopic-physical brain and about their mutual relations could be performed by this brain machine alone. It would not need a mediator between the visible and the physical world; it could make this comparison by itself. The machine-brain—thus is the assump¬ tion—can compare itself with the “observable” brain, that is, with something which is not accessible to it whatsoever. The first link in the neurophysiologist’s train of thought was the assumption that the phenomenal world is nothing but an epiphenomenal shadow of the actual cerebral happening. In the substrate of receptors, tracts, ganglion cells, fibrillae, there was nothing to be found of the phenomenal world. It was, strictly speaking, an incom¬ prehensible addition to the neural happenings which both physiolo¬ gist and psychologist tried to lay bare. Incomprehensible as it may be, the phenomenal world, nevertheless, does exist, were it only as mere “subjective” data for an observer. Actually it is and remains the originally “given,” the riverbank from which the physiologist tried to throw a bridge to the other bank of physical realities which were thought to be immune against the virus of the phenomenal. There, everything was solid physical events. But then the brain transposed in such a fashion to the physical sphere is expected to be able to return to the shores it has left behind, and to have access to the phenomena; else it could not compare and, in comparing, under-

186

Man Thinks, Not the Brain

take the psychophysical reduction. Now it is no longer an observer who, thanks to the function of his brain, makes the comparison, but it is the brain in the skull of an observer which accomplishes this feat. Consequently, this brain, understood as a machine, must be capable of perceiving another brain as a brain, and must be able to distinguish the other brain from itself; it will have to know itself. Although it is but an aggregate of stimulus conductors and excita¬ tion circuits, it would have to be capable of participating in the visible world of colors and sounds. Furthermore, the surrounding field and the surrounding world have to be accessible to this brain. The observer reached his conclusions in a roundabout way; within the world visible to him he related the behavior of an organ¬ ism to events in its environment, at the same time he established a connection between its brain and a registering machinery in a realm interpreted in forms of physics. In order to state anything about the functions of the brain, he had to take into consideration the events in the environment of the brain, he had to extend his attention far beyond the boundaries of the brain and its mechanisms. He had to be in the position to apprehend the “stimuli” which affected the brain, independently of the brain and long before they ever affected it. He had to grasp the registering machines in the change of their positions in their potential and actual modifications. His statements refer to a brain as part of his environment and simultaneously to the happenings in the physical brain dependent upon the events in its surrounding field. All this is expected to be accomplished by a brain itself, namely, the observer’s brain. A brain, although limited in its functions to the actual space-time differential, is nevertheless expec¬ ted to grasp the space and time systems in the totality of their numerical order—a condition indispensable for all measurements. Without doubt, the brain machine which is supposed to explain animal and human behavior has secretly been equipped with gifts of observation and knowledge; it has become anthropomorphisecl.

Part IV

SENSING

AND MOVEMENT CONSIDERED HISTORIOLOGICALLY

A..

Preliminary

Characterization of Sensing (a)

Prefatory Remarks DESCARTES THOUGHT THAT HE HAD SUCCEEDED IN FINDING AN

Archimedian point outside the world of man. He assumed that the method of radical doubt made it possible for him to set himself apart from that world to the extent that he could construe and com¬ prehend the material world through exclusively mathematical de¬ ductions. Into this realm of res extensa, he exiled the bodies of man and animal, including that body he knew as most closely related to himself: his own. In this leap, Descartes, the man, transformed himself into a res cogitans. In his flight from terra to Archimedia, he left his own body here on earth. The compositum man was thus split irrevocably into two parts, and only one of them arrived at that Archimedian isle. Thither it brought with it an earthly remnant, the sensations, which were supposed to owe their very being to the substantial uniting of the res cogitans and the res extensa, and in which this union was manifest. Descartes had no choice but to assign the sensations to both substances—to the thinking ego as confused thoughts and to the res extensa as motor processes. The sensations which had to mediate between body and soul were themselves so radically split that Descartes, in speaking of sensation, had said “perhaps that which I have in sensation does not exist apart from me.”1 The separation was inevitably driven to the point that sensations had to 189

190

Sensing and Movement Considered Historiologically

be shown to be mere appearances. Though the abrogation of qualities and substantial forms and with it the dichotomy of the sensations into worldless qualities and qualityless motions opened the door to mathematical physics, the understanding of human existence just as imperatively demanded their reunion. “To divert the mind from the senses” is one of Descartes’ direc¬ tives to those who seek certainty. He demands a turning away from the customary trust in sensory experience. Indeed, even more: By arguing that an evil demon might conceivably have created both the world and ourselves, he requires that we doubt sensory experience to the radical extent of comporting ourselves as though it did not even exist. “I will now shut my eyes, stop my ears, and turn myself away from all my senses. I will even efface from my thoughts all the images of corporeal things, or at least (for that is hardly possible) esteem them as vain and false.”1 Descartes’ goal is to develop mathematical physics, that is, to know the world. This he does not do by looking at the world, but rather by turning away from it and looking within himself. “I shall converse only with myself and, looking deeper within, I shall try to gain a better and more trustworthy knowledge of myself.” Descartes tries to ground an autonomous human science and science of man in consciousness of self. Gilson2 has convincingly pointed out that Descartes had already conceived and worked out his physics long before his metaphysics. It was not only concern with external circum¬ stances which made him publish his principle works in reverse order (the metaphysics appearing first). Cartesian physics demanded as its foundation a nature stripped not only of God but also of man. Only in his metaphysics, with its radical division of finite substances and its elevation of the infinite substances, could Descartes obtain the ontological basis which his physics demanded. At the same time, with the allegedly absolute certainty of the cogito sum he insulated himself against the claims of theology, traditional philosophy, and scepticism. But at what price? Man and animal were separated by an unbridgeable abyss; man was no longer a citizen of that world which he strived to understand. He became one who looks upon this world as though from without, and no longer with human eyes. That con¬ sciousness of self, one’s own within into which Descartes tries to see, is the 7 of a worldless, bodyless being. Descartes’ incision thus runs right through human existence itself. Descartes’ difficulties in reconciling his anthropology and his theory of sensations and passions with his metaphysics are merely an

PRELIMINARY CHARACTERIZATION OF SENSING

9*

*

expression of failure actually to dissociate himself from the human world. He did not reach his Archimedian point. He tried to construe man through the rationality of the Cartesian ego, but all he proved was that he, Rene Descartes, essayed his metaphysics and physics in his, in our world. In doubting, Descartes sought to purify himself of everything doubtful, especially the deceptions of the senses, until the doubting itself remained as the only indubitable. This dubito he interpreted at once as pure cogitatio, in which the mediator believes he discovers himself as res cogitans. But is it not just the human being which re¬ veals itself in doubting, in a doubting based on grounds of one par¬ ticular sort or another? The reason for doubting is the possibility of deception together with those insights which spring from the bond¬ age and limitedness of human existence. Bound to the Now and Here, we can conceptually transcend the narrowness of these limits, and by bringing this Now and Here into an all-embracing frame of reference, we can comprehend our own existence. Both of these, our bondage and the possibility of overcoming it, are the necessary con¬ ditions of doubt. Doubt does not imply the being of a res cogitans, but rather of a strictly human being, for, from beginning to end, it never leaves its starting point. Knowledge in both its everyday and scientific form remains grounded in human existence. It is man who, in his world, builds science. The human world, as it reveals itself to us in our sensory experience, must be such that in it knowledge is possible. In its statements and propositions, science breaks through the horizon of everyday experience. Extraordinary forms of space, un¬ imaginable velocities, the infinitely large and the infinitely small, light years and atomic nuclei are concepts which, though not always understandable, are yet familiar to us. The scientist, however, who uses such concepts, remains as speaker and observer, confined to our everyday world. He measures radioactivity, counts cosmic rays, but he does it with the help of instruments lighting up before his eyes, ticking next to his ears in countable intervals. In complete contrast to Descartes’ directive to distrust the senses, the scientist acts with naive confidence in his sensory experience. We have called the con¬ tents of sensory experience, upon which rests the practical behavior of men among each other, and among animals and things, the “axi¬ oms of everyday life.”3 A further examination of the presuppositions of the everyday world which are taken as self-evident and are there¬ fore unspoken, will pave the way to an understanding of sensing.

192

Sensing and Movement Considered Historiologically

(b) On Expansive and Constrictive Learning . . . the storms have ceased; The gently smiling Zephyros Calms now the bluish mirror of the waves. And even now the swallow, friend of children, Bearing clay and blades of grass in his beak, Sings and builds again its chambers on the roof.4 Thus fly the swallows still. They build their nests now just as they did in the times of Marcus Agentarius, Homer, and in all times. They mate and they nest, they hatch and train their young, they leave and return, today as then. Millennia have not changed the pattern of their existence; every generation repeats the same pro¬ cedures. Animals do not learn, although the individual animal does. But how different is this learning from all genuine human learn¬ ing, be it that of an individual or generation. It is true that the generations of man, one after another, complete the same circle as well. We know of no change in man’s natural propensities since the time of Homer. But notwithstanding the sameness of these propensi¬ ties, no generation begins in the same place as that generation which preceded it. Each generation effects a change upon its world and leaves behind a good or evil legacy of new, self-made possessions. Animals create no new world, they follow the beaten path and stay within their natural environment. There are two kinds of learning: an expansive, gnostic learning and a constrictive, pathic learning. The former rests on the power of the mind to reflect, to negate creatively and thus make it possible for man to transcend the limits of his simple existence. Man learns inso¬ far as he ceases to react directly. He can learn because he, as part of the whole, as the encompassed, can think the encompassing. However, the individual animal which learns never ceases to react directly. The learning of the animal (by which is not meant the gradual maturation and manifestation of individual functions such as running, swimming, flying, etc.) concerns the acquiring of habits, a process which corresponds to that of ageing. The forming of habits is a passing from the possible to the actual, a loss of “prospective po¬ tencies” (Driesch). Habit makes faster and more precise reaction pos¬ sible. It is useful in normal cases; that is, in cases of exact repetition of circumstances, and harmful in every unusual case, where precisely the monotony, narrowness, and thus the inadequacy of the accus-

PRELIMINARY CHARACTERIZATION OF SENSING

193

tomed reaction becomes evident. Each habit is bought at the cost of other potentialities. If we are accustomed to certain traffic regulations, it is not hard for us to imagine a diametrically opposed set of regulations in com¬ plete detail. But how great are the pains of actual re-orientation? Changing habits is, as a rule, even more difficult than acquiring them, the breaking of habits is usually done only at the cost of a most painful confusion. Adults who learn a new language in a foreign country have a hard time and they sometimes feel that, rather than learning a new language, they are unlearning their own. A habit excludes kindred habits because all habituation is based on a process of constrictive, pathic learning. It is not we who control our fully-developed habits; they control us. We do not develop them, we find them ingrown in us. In the forming of habits, we are a kind of plastic material which itself is modified in the process of habit formation. When the process of habit formation is completed, the earlier condition has ceased to exist: we cannot, at least not immedi¬ ately, restore it. We have exchanged one particular mode of being for another. One can accustom oneself only to a particular order. The acquisi¬ tion of a habit is a transition from less to more determinate be¬ havior. We have already indicated that such a process is based on a process of constriction. Here, however, the determination of that which is determinable is not effected by means of language or com¬ mon consent. Signals are not symbolic signs for an animal, nor are they indications of something present at hand. They are, over a par¬ ticular stretch of time, experienced in immediate sensory intuition. All moments that are part of the formation of a signal must be no¬ ticed by the animal. To notice means that the world here announces itself, presses in upon us. All such individual announcements are always, however, only determinations of something that is more generally determinable, the nature of which it is the purpose of our investigation to understand. I am asking: What must be the nature of a being which, by the pathic process of accustomization, can be brought to react to signals; which, therefore, in its relation to the world, can experience “ap¬ proach” and the phenomenon of the “in between,” which can “direct itself toward something”? This question arises out of our critique of Pavlovian experimentation. Pavlov’s experiments with condi¬ tioned reflexes take place within that sphere of animal experience characterized by sensation and motion. Thus I have, in a rough way, already answered the question as to

94

i

Sensing and Movement Considered Historiologically

what kind of being can experience approach, direction, and the “in between:’’ a sensing and self-moving being.

(c)

The World in Which the Animal Understands Us. Symbiotic Understanding

It is in the world of sensing that we encounter animals; this is the world shared by man and animal. In it, we understand the animal and, even more important, the animal understands us. Let us take the following simple case: I whistle for my dog. He hears me and then he listens to me and follows me, at least most of the time. Instead of whistling, I might have called him with the same result. I could have called him by name or commanded him to “come here,’’ and if he were slow in coming, I could have emphasized my command by the threatening exclamation “will you come here!” until it finally suited him to come. In such a case, what does the animal understand? How does he understand a human being? Cer¬ tainly he understands the call or the whistling as an utterance, the man as an uttering being, and the utterances as directives. It is equally certain that he does not understand the language as such, that is, as words carrying a general meaning.5 Instead of the cus¬ tomary words, others could have been used; indeed, any meaningless sounds belonging to no language at all might have sufficed as long as the tone of voice were the right one, expressing a command, an allurement, a threat. The individual lingual utterances which I direct to my dog produce the desired effect only because he obeys me in general. The way a dog understands his master is no more than a mere articulated form of animal understanding in general. Animal understanding is a symbiotic understanding. All individ¬ ual processes of this understanding are only determinate aspects of symbiotic behavior. Animal understanding is a following and a flee¬ ing, an understanding of the alluring and the frightening. The primary stage of sensory experiencing is that of separating and uniting, whose cardinal form—the intake of nourishment and procreation—is served through sensing. The sensing being lives in the world and is, as a part of this world, bent on uniting itself with or separating itself from other parts. All separating and uniting is im-

PRELIMINARY CHARACTERIZATION OF SENSING

195

manently moved Being; better, a being-in-motion. Motion and sensa¬ tion exhibit, therefore, an intimate interrelationship which I shall have to describe and make understood. The theory of sensation can¬ not be dealt with apart from the theory of motion. Whenever the processes of motion and that of sensation are considered apart from each odier, this interrelationship is disturbed and cannot be restored simply by reuniting the separate parts. No subsequent combining or re-assembling of motion and sensation can restore this inner relation¬ ship. What it means to say that processes distinct in their manifesta¬ tions as are sensation and motion are intimately interconnected will be examined after the most important characteristics of sensing have been uncovered. Growth and maturation are processes in the organism which re¬ quire that certain substances be taken in and metabolized. For ani¬ mals, however, as distinguished from plants, ingestion and excretion refer to a relationship to the world which can be described as uniting and separating; or, more accurately, as uniting oneself with, and separating oneself from. This relationship to the world which is ex¬ pressed as the uniting and separating of oneself, and its realization in the opening and closing of oneself to the other, is the primary ex¬ perience of animal life. What we know of the higher forms of animal life is gleaned from that world in which we and the animals have a mutual understanding; as to the lower forms, we draw our con¬ clusions by way of analogies. We have said that the understanding of the animal is a symbiotic understanding. The animal understands utterances, but not as indi¬ vidual signs of other objects; rather, these utterances are understood only in the immediate context of the animal’s own action and directedness. The animal, insofar as it is awake, is always at the point of uniting and separating. Its understanding is an entering into or turning away from a communal directedness. It does not compre¬ hend the other objectively as something in and for itself—that, in¬ deed, would be a kind of cognition. Insofar as it experiences the world, it experiences it as a world which shows itself as either agree¬ able or recalcitrant. To the animal, everything—colors, smells, sounds, the forms and kinds of motion—is a manifested utterance, and only such utterances does it experience. The world reveals itself to the animal only insofar as the world’s individual parts are (in accordance with the dispositions of the animal’s species) taken as utterance, action, allurement, or threat. Man’s original understanding of communicated expressions is also just such an immediate grasping that is completely bound to

ig6

Sensing and Movement Considered Historiologically

his own action and direction. In our intercourse with others, there are innumerable instances of reacting without knowing what we are reacting to; indeed, without even knowing that we are reacting. We are not aware of such reaction because of the fact that it is and re¬ mains tied to the immediacy of our own particular acts in progress. Our ability to provide, when and where we will, an articulated ac¬ count of our understanding of another’s behavior is grossly inade¬ quate when contrasted with the richness, surety, and scope of our actual reactions. The immediate grasping of expressions by and among human beings which grows out of an alleged communion never becomes a knowing. There can therefore be no objection to asserting that ani¬ mals understand man, other animals and “things” of the world in general, as that which expresses itself.

(d) The Alingual World The world animals live in and in which, in their way, they understand man, is a world without speech. To be sure, one can speak to animals, but what they react to is the tone, the type of sound, rather than the word. Man can substitute linguistic utterances with written communi¬ cation. An animal, however, has no proper use for written or printed pages, and communication with it is necessarily bound to the sub¬ stance of the linguistic sound. An alingual community is limited to the present. Among human beings, also, oral communication can¬ not be fully rendered or replaced by the written word. Conversation contains more than mere content; it contains something which can¬ not accurately be expressed in writing. A mother can threaten to punish her child with the words, “The fun will begin when I get you home.” Or someone can say to an¬ other, “Oh, my, but I’ve heard some lovely things about you.” In both cases, the speaker means just the opposite of what the words actually signify, and the listener knows it too. He understands it from the tone in which the words are spoken. The contrast between the true meaning that is disclosed by the tone of voice and the lit¬ eral meaning of the words simply emphasizes the seriousness of the threat. On the other hand, a look, a glance, a vibration of the voice may suggest that things are not so bad after all, or that one does not really mean what is said. In any case, the listener relies more on the sound and the gesture than on the literal meaning of the

PRELIMINARY CHARACTERIZATION OF SENSING

words. In conversation, it is tonality which makes the music. In con¬ versation, and especially in everyday conversation, there are added to the actual conceptual material some ingredients of prelinguistic understanding. All the elementary esthetics of the senses stand under its control. Nobody can avoid it as long as he remains within a part¬ nership. Such a partnership is, however, of the most general and transitory kind; it changes from moment to moment. The tone in a conversation obtains its effect only in the particular place and the particular, momentary Now in which it is voiced. It cannot be trans¬ posed from its particular place, and is effective only in an actual, extant community of conversants. The animal is confined during his whole life to such an actuality. Man can abolish the partnership insofar as he observes it, which is not to say that he first accomplishes this detachment from community and then observes it. Both are part of the metamorphosis of communication with the world which takes place when sensing becomes cognitive knowing. The knower steps out of that fleeting, transitory community; indeed, he must do so if he is in fact to be able to know and speak. Overwhelming emotion enforces silence, but he who soberly and cooly observes removes himself from such powerful emotions as terror, anxiety, or ecstacy. With his upright posture and gait, man has freed himself from the immediate contact with the earth that is shared by all species of animals. His unfettered mode of walking is not to be compared to any sort of animal motion, whether it be that of the quadrupeds of that of animals which swim, fly, or crawl. The snail is like a plant —bound, as it were, to the soil; every inch it traverses must be cov¬ ered with its whole body. Man, however, often suffers in his free¬ dom. He longs for the joy of living from moment to moment and craves the ability to absorb himself in the alingual world. But man is barred from paradise; for him, only an artificial para¬ dise is possible. We never can completely attain to the alingual world, and to do so would be to renounce that world which is au¬ thentically human. Even our moments of most vital and vivid en¬ joyment contain occasions for reflection and negation. Our descrip¬ tion of this alingual world must, therefore, necessarily follow the via negativa; whenever we try to speak of the world-without-speech, we are forced to use negations. Sensing is not ruled by the “I think” which, according to Kant, must accompany all apperception. In sensing, nothing is apperceived. The sensing being, the animal, does not confront its world as a thinking being, but is, rather, related to it simply in uniting and separating. Sensing contains no moments of judging and is thus not to be verified by propositions and judgments. It is possible, indeed,

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Sensing and Movement Considered Historiologically

to have judgments which compare two perceptions, but none which so refer to two phases of sensing. Sensing changes from moment to moment, depending on the instinctual drives and moods of the sensing individual and depending, also, on the changes in what appears out there. The alingual world of sensing is a world without signs, proclamatory signs being only an apparent exception. By means of them, sensing directs itself through to that which has already announced itself as close by. What there entices, entices as itself, and what fright¬ ens, frightens as itself. Allure and fright do not arise in a world of neutral givens under the influence of former experiences of pleas¬ ure and pain. The alluring and the frightening are not mnemonic signs affixed to indifferent qualities. Light, color, sound, smell, mov¬ ing shapes entice or frighten directly in their immediate appearance. When we are frightened by a loud crashing, our fright is not the result of former experiences of danger and threat. The sudden alarm is in itself frightening. That which terrifies or allures can do so even over and against what experience has taught us. We cannot resist its power; we are not presented with a choice. Reflection is reduced to silence before the immediate force of the uncanny, the terrifying, or the powerfully seductive. The alingual world is dominated by sensing in its unbroken directness; but also by its narrowness. In¬ stincts, too, may lead into error, and the alingual world of sensing is also an imperfect world. The alingual resists the efforts of self-understanding. What has been preformed and prethought by language cloaks that which is experienced without language as soon as we attempt to understand our experience or even try to express its content. Indeed, it takes a most unusual experience, one far removed from our ordinary kind even to draw our attention to that which we experience in this alin¬ gual world. Should someone, however, attempt to describe what he has experienced, say, under the influence of hashish or mescaline, he lacks the proper words, he begins to stammer or makes use of such odd expressions or similes which seem borrowed from lyric poetry that the sceptic can immediately challenge the genuineness of the experience or the accuracy of the description. Because he does not recognize the genuineness of such an experience, the sceptic mis¬ interprets the description as an artistic product and as ad hoc stylizations that have arisen under strange influences. Yet it is just here, as it is so often in pathological cases, that something is revealed which is common to all experience, but which is concealed from normal intellection.

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The phobic patient, without the aid of such toxins, experiences the power of the alingual. Neither reflection nor design will protect him from these forces, and the more he resists, the more unavoidable and terrible will be his defeat. The longer he resists, the more dis¬ jointed the fixed order of things becomes. Everything grows confused and disintegrated. The reports of patients who experience such things are, however, usually confined to an account of the circum¬ stances which provoked the anxiety. We learn that the patient could not bear to sit in the middle of a row at the theater, or that he could not tolerate the canopy over his box, or that he cannot sit in the cabin of his sailboat, and that he could not stay under the protective covering during a storm, but that he felt much better as soon as the cover was lifted enough to let in a few rays of light. But he can say nothing of the actual experiential content of such episodes; as their victim, he can find no words to fit them. He thus has no defense against the reproaches of the healthy ones who watch his abnormal behavior. The healthy person judges, according to the order of our perceptual world, whether or not an experience of fear is justified. And in that perceptual order only that which has a name actually exists. He finds it ridiculous that someone cannot sit in the middle of a row, but is perfectly comfortable, like anyone else, on the aisle; he finds it just as foolish that someone should be terrified by a drawn cover only to find relief when it is lifted just a little. It would be for the victim to speak and give a name to the unutterable so that the healthy person could understand him.6 But just like the healthy person, the victim is bound to a language which is related to the common, perceptual world, and he can therefore find no words which would both do justice to his feelings and be intelligible to the other. The conflict ends unresolved. The unutterable remains such even to him who suffers under it. That which makes itself known through expression is, as such, present in a mode quite dif¬ ferent from a thing presenting itself in its attributes.7 In the state¬ ments, “this table is round’’ and “this man is angry,” the word “is” does not have the same meaning.

(e) The Primary Grasping of Expression It would perhaps be better to speak in this context not of understanding, but rather of grasping an expression. Such grasping of an expression is to understanding the expression what sensing is

200

Sensing and Movement Considered Historiologically

to perception. Understanding is a kind of cognition. But at the level of this grasping of expressions, nothing is cognitively known. What the animal understands does not become for it an independent object as does the object which is cognitively known to man. The ani¬ mal forms with the object, in unmediated communication, a com¬ munity of mutual directedness so firm that it guides and dominates the animal. The knower, on the other hand, masters his knowing and, through it, the object. We can move in only one direction, and the direction taken ex¬ cludes all others. But, in knowing, a plurality of directions is simul¬ taneously surveyed. When we grasp an expression, a communion is established which seizes and changes us, which holds and confines us; while in knowing, it is we who seize the world, who appropriate it and detach ourselves from the particular, attaining the full scope of an horizon which, ultimately, we transcend. At this stage of the discussion, I must therefore not formulate the problem in a way that treats expression as if it were “the mani¬ festation of a psychic inwardness by a vital outwardness which though ontologically foreign to it, yet somehow corresponds to it and represents it.”8 With such a premise, one would have to assume as given in the process of understanding an expression the subsis¬ tence of another being, an X, within whom certain experiences take place which must necessarily remain hidden because they are essen¬ tially private. But there are also supposed to be movements, so-called expressive movements, by which we are able, at least to a degree, to gain knowledge of the psychic processes within the other. The problem of expression would thus have to be split into two main issues. The first would be the problem as to the relation be¬ tween the expressive movements and the inward processes; the sec¬ ond would be that of the possibility and reliability of understanding these relationships—the problem, namely, of the observer appre¬ hending the significatory reference of expressive movements. When put in this manner, the problem is obviously posed incor¬ rectly, for we do not apprehend the hidden interior of an alien or¬ ganism by means of expressive movements serving as signs of psychic processes. In grasping an expression, we are already communicating. As self-directing beings we “understand” the other, at this level, from our own perspective and direction. We do not apprehend the other as objectively standing over and against us and think of him as sim¬ ilarly confronting the world; but rather we “understand” each other together in the world. We originally grasp the world, not as sep¬ arately existing, but in its activity. In sensory communication, we

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direct ourselves to the world and the world directs itself toward us. The states of mind which we immediately grasp are not isolated, worldless states; they all have a communicative meaning. That is why, in a person who is estranged from the world or in some way inaccessible to the world, we can apprehend only that he is thinking, but not, unless he speaks, what he is thinking. The states of mind hidden within are not interior states; they are in communication with the world, and not thoughts about the world. Therefore, in the primary grasping of expressions, only that thing is apprehended which is literally of direct concern to him who apprehends. Much of the phenomena of expression which the observer can understand remains, at this stage, completely hidden. Sensing is, therefore, a sympathetic experiencing. It is directed to the physiognomic characteristics of the alluring and the fright¬ ening. And its characteristics are those of the “with” in its unfold¬ ing, of the “towards” and the “away from.” By pointing to that which is sympathetic in it, I am by no means interpreting sensing in a sentimental way as an expression of some universal harmony. The concept of the sympathetic is the more comprehensive, encom¬ passing both the separating and the uniting, fleeing and following, fear and enticement—that is, encompassing the sym- and the anti¬ pathic alike. Symbiotic understanding can, in particular cases, de¬ velop only when the possibilities of both fleeing and following are left open. A caged bird which cannot retreat from those who ap¬ proach it will require a long time to understand the friendly attitude of the people in its environment. It becomes “touchy” or, like many captive animals, irritable and ornery. Following is truly following only if it is possible for the animal also to flee. A turning toward arises only out of the reversal of a turning away. Any external cur¬ tailment of these polar relationships prevents or destroys symbiotic understanding. Sensing gives us the world in a perspective; it be¬ comes, as it were, our own. Which is to say that, in sensing, we have an environment, but not yet the world.9 Sensing is not knowing. The appearances are not mentally trans¬ formed into things with fixed properties which can be found at vari¬ ous times at various homogenous and thus interchangeable spatial points. Sensing never ceases to be existence with a perspective.10 The sensing being never gains a foothold outside the world of appear¬ ance. Every such being is what it is only at its particular place and time. What threatens here need not, indeed cannot, threaten over there. This particularity affects the individual’s entire situation. Sens¬ ing has its own particular spatio-temporal structure which I have

202

Sensing and Movement Considered Historiologically

yet to spell out. But we can be sure that it cannot be that of objec¬ tive, metric space, nor that of objective, metric time, independent of space. The sensing being experiences himself as a part of the world in which he is placed. He does not, however, experience himself in the same way in which we see him as we encounter him in the world. For each of us he is another being, one among many. But for him¬ self he is never simply a part among other parts. He can leave one part alone and apprehend another. He is one, and the rest are the multitude of others; each Here has many Theres. We are a part of the world, but we are also related to the whole of the world; we are in the world and at the same time we stand over and against the world. It is for this reason alone that there is a path leading from sensing to knowing; and that is why there exists the possibility of relinquishing perspective. Perspective is a bridge which leads from the many to the just-so-many, which leads to a plurality that can be surveyed and organized as a totality.

B. Considered

6

Communication Plurality SENSING IS A SYMPATHETIC EXPERIENCE. IN SENSING, WE EXPERI-

ence ourselves in and with our world. This “with” is not a conjoin¬ ing of a piece of experience “world” and another piece of experience “self.” The unitary phenomenon of sensing is always an unfolding toward the poles of world and self. Sensing is bound to its world in a way that must be sharply differentiated from the manner in which knowing stands over against its world. We therefore must refrain

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from making the subject of sensing into a consciousness, a conscious¬ ness which contains the individual sensations within it and which unites them in a process of thought, or which fastens together the separate sensations with the cement of custom and habit, a conscious¬ ness, finally, which by thinking sets itself apart from that which it has brought together. How can that which is within appear outside? How can things which are inherently separate and isolated be united? And even if we could make such a uniting of individual sense impressions sound plausible, how are we to conceive of the bringing together of different regions of sensory impressions, or, fi¬ nally, the bringing together of sensing and moving? The completely separated allows of no uniting just as the thoroughly united admits of no separation. The differentiated must contain in it the poten¬ tiality of union; the principle of separation is fundamentally iden¬ tical with the principle of union. If, on the other hand, we consider individual sense impressions simply as modifications and specific limitations of the relation of self to world, and if we think of the particular modalities of sense as various modes of communication1 between self and world, then, and only then, is the problem of uniting the separated freed from in¬ superable difficulty. In separating the modalities of sense as it has, psychology has followed physiology too closely. But if we want to examine the con¬ tent of our experience, then we must rid ourselves of all narrow limitations and not allow ourselves to be uncritically guided by the results of physics and physiology. These two sciences can teach us nothing of the actual contents of our experiencing. Separating the senses according to their “specific sense energies’’ and arranging them as modes of communication cannot be recon¬ ciled. Seeing is to be separated physiologically from hearing accord¬ ing to the disparity of the stimuli (electro-magnetic vibrations or sound waves), according to the difference between the perceptual organs (the eye and the ear), and also according to the diversity of the modal data (color and sound). This differentiation is a radical one in physiological and subsequent psychological considerations. It is true that physiology studies the activity of the organs that belong to a unitary organism, but it must, while still holding on to the idea of unity of the organism, give its attention to the particular indi¬ vidual functions as such. It cannot concretely hold to the notion of organismic unity which we are considering: the inner connection between seeing and hearing. The radical separation of functions is apparent in the way text-

204

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books of physiology present the functions of seeing and hearing. Such a separation makes possible the specialization we meet in prac¬ tical medicine. There we find eye doctors and ear doctors. The for¬ mer investigate the condition and function of the eye and examines it as to its functional efficiency and its capability as a builder of the perceptual world. The same is true of the ear doctor who examines that organ and the function of hearing. Occasionally, such a special¬ ist may entertain doubt as to the completeness of his examination, in which case he sends his patient to another kind of specialist to sup¬ plement his findings. Such a referral officially sanctions the extrinsic relationship between functions. The eye and the ear have as little inherent interconnection as do sound and light considered as physi¬ cal agents, and color and sound considered as distinct modalities; and thus the amazement when faced with the synesthesias! Disregarding such radical differences, psychology, however, rec¬ ognizes a uniting of the individual sense impressions. When the sen¬ sory organs are excited, the mind is said to have impressions of sound, or color or extension or smells or pain—and to have them in the same way. Seeing and hearing are differentiated only in respect to the differences inherent in that which is sensed. That is, to see is to have color and brightness, to hear is to have sound and noises. In both cases, the having is the same. But when we, on the other hand, differentiate seeing and hear¬ ing as modes of communication, we mean to say that this having is also modified. We are saying that seeing and hearing differ not only with respect to the physical stimuli, functional organs, and kinds of objects sensed, but much more essentially in regard to the specific manner in which the self is linked to its world. When de¬ scribing experiences, we are well advised to disregard a priori no¬ tions as to the nature of the participating organs. In the process of experiencing, seeing and hearing, the seen and the heard differenti¬ ate themselves quite effectively without requiring any knowledge on our part as to the construction or function of the sense organs—just as our physical movement is independent of any knowledge we may have of the muscles and their functions. We move by means of our musculature and we sense by means of our sense-organs.2 When theory dissolves the community of self and world, the self is removed to a place outside the world and remains there alone and by itself; likewise, when sensing is theoretically deprived of its inherent communicative content, and when sensations are thought of as the pure, atomistically structured material of detached sense data, then any true union of the separated becomes impossible. The world of the senses loses its stability and crumbles into so many

SENSING CONSIDERED AS A MODE OF COMMUNICATION

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separate particles like a tablet dissolving in a glass of water. And only imagination and thought can, after the fact, bring about a re¬ union of the fragmented material. If that theory were correct which claims that “only in thinking are the heterogeneous individual sense data brought together into a whole,” and that the sensory world “acquires its own being only by virtue of the judgment,”3 then we would be left with only two alternatives: either to understand ani¬ mals as reflex automatons, or to confer upon them the power to think and judge. Both assumptions are equally unsatisfactory. If the sensory world, if animal experience is to have any mean¬ ing, we must choose an entirely different point of departure. We must abandon the assumption of isolated individual sense-data as well as the notion of sensing as a mere “having” and the view of the self as an isolated ego. As individual data, color and sound and visual and tactile sensations remain forever separated. In his An Essay towards a New Theory of Vision, Berkeley pro¬ ceeds from the supposition that distances as such are not visible, that distances cannot be perceived by means of the optic sense. The actual objects of visual perception are for him neither outside the mind nor images of objects outside the mind. To create the illusion that dis¬ tances as such are visible, one needs the mediation of the sense of touch. But “the objects of sight and those of touch are two distinct things.”4 “How comes it to pass that a set of ideas, altogether differ¬ ent from tangible ideas, should nevertheless suggest them to us, there being no necessary connection between them? To which the proper answer is, that this is done in virtue of an arbitrary connection, in¬ stituted by the Author of nature.”5 These are classical formulations. Indeed, if sight and touch are, as processes of sensing, the same, and different only in regard to the sensed object, then there must exist a radical and literally unbridge¬ able gulf between them, the only connection possible being one that is external and arbitrary. If, however, seeing and touching differ as modalities of sensing, and if the object of seeing belongs to a differ¬ ent mode of communication between self and world than that of touching, then the bringing together of such different objects in the sphere of sensation (and thus in the ambit of animal experience) is no longer an unsolvable riddle. As objects of perception, color and sound are strictly differentiated from each other. But in the seeing of colors and in the hearing of sounds, these being different modes of sympathetic communication between self and world, color and sound are united. “Light, sound, etc. are modifications, individual instances of the species called ‘sense’ ”6 (Novalis). Seeing and hearing, understood as modes of communication, are

206

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not radically disparate. The principle of unity of this multiplicity does not have to be imported from an external source, because in this case that which is differentiated manifests itself as it appears, as a differentiation of something unitary. The question is thus no longer directed to the possibility of a uniting, but rather to the circum¬ stances which in a particular case occasion this, and not another, bringing together. I have elsewhere discussed the problem of the multiplicity of the senses.7 There I tried to show that to each sense there corresponds a definite, specific mode of communication between self and world, a notion which I spelled out with respect to seeing and hearing and with respect to the existential mode of color and sound, the pathic element in seeing and hearing, and, finally, with regard to the inter¬ relationship of modes of communication and types of motion. The conclusion reached was that space, as such, and distances, as such, are not perceived via the senses as constant givens, but that, at any given time, various forms of spatiality correspond to the individual senses. Of color, for example, it can be said that it always appears to us as over and against us, out there, limited to a particular place, de¬ limiting and dividing space into sections, manifesting itself as nextto or behind-one-another. Sound, on the other hand, seems to have an existence all of its own; it comes to us, reaches and holds us, floats past us, fills space and hurries through it, and divides itself according to a temporal succession into parts that are after another. “While sound moves toward us, color remains fixed to its place, it demands that the experiencing subject turn to it, that he look at it and actively master it.” All such elements belong not to the object as such, nor, indeed, to the subject alone, but, rather, belong to the perspectival aspect of sensory experience, to that communication be¬ tween self and world that is lived through in sensory experience.

The Doctrine of Immanence Sensations Three questions must carefully be distinguished: (1) the prob¬ lem as to the content of sensory impressions; (2) that of their value for knowledge, and (3) that of their mode of being. At the moment, it is the first problem which concerns me. I am now considering sens-

SENSING CONSIDERED AS A MODE OF COMMUNICATION

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ing without regard to either physics or physiology. I am not asking whether or not the senses transmit a true image of the world, nor am I inquiring after the specific conditions of sensing; what interests me is solely and exclusively the content of sensing itself. Pain caused by a knife wound, for instance, will scarcely be able to give us any knowledge of the spatial configuration of the knife. Pain cannot help us in the construction of either space, as such, or of things extended in space. This does not mean, however, that pain lacks its own spatial characterization simply because it does not have access to definite, reproducable and recognizable spatial data. The tendency to understand sensing from the point of view of knowing must lead to the grossest misinterpretation of sensing as it is in itself. If pain is approached only as a cognitive function, that is, in respect to the knowledge it gives us of the physical world, then sensations of pain can easily be viewed as merely subjective data, un¬ trustworthy and locatable only “in” consciousness. The problem we are treating here is important enough for us to locate it once more at its source. I refer again, therefore, to a passage from Descartes, for it was with Descartes that all these questions were traditionally for¬ mulated for modern science. In the fragment, “Traite de la lumi^re,”8 Descartes begins with the question as to the difference between our sensations and the things which evoke them. He says, “With the aim in mind of inquiring into the problems of light, I first refer to the fact that there is a difference between the sensation we have of it. That is, the idea which is formed in our imagination through the mediation of our eyes,—and that in the object which calls forth this sensation, that is, that in the flame or the sun which is given the name light. Although it is generally assumed that the ideas formed in our minds completely resemble the objects they are derived from, I see no reason at all why we should believe that this is actually so.” Descartes then provides some examples to substantiate what he has said. He points out that there is not the slightest resemblance between words and the things they represent, nor between the sound of words and the sound-waves which evoke in us the impression of sound.

A man opens his mouth, moves his tongue, expels some breath. In all these actions I cannot find anything that is not totally at variance with the ideas of sound, which they force us to imagine. [The strongest support for his argument, Descartes believes, is provided by the “fact” that similar condi¬ tions prevail in the tactile area.] The sense of touch is among all our senses the one usually considered as the least deceptive and most reliable. If,

208

Sensing and Movement Considered Historiologically

therefore, I can now show that through the sense of touch we also receive images which in no way resemble the objects which evoke them, then it should not seem strange if I say the same of the sense of sight. At any event, everyone knows that the ideas of tickling and pain which we form in our minds when external objects touch us bear no resemblance whatever to these objects. Move a feather lightly over the lips of a child who is falling asleep and he will feel that he is being tickled. Do you believe that the idea of tickling which he forms suggests to him anything about this feather? A soldier returns from a skirmish. During the heat of battle he may have been wounded without noticing it. But now, as he begins to grow calmer, he feels the pain and believes he has been wounded. The field-doctor is called, the soldier’s gear and clothing are removed, and it is discovered that what he has been feeling was only a buckle or a strap which slipped below his weapons and irritated his skin by its pressure. If, from the pres¬ sure of the strap, he had been able to form an image of the strap, there would have been no need for the field-doctor to tell him what he had actually felt.

Although sensations do not resemble the things which touch us, although they are only signs of the existence of external objects, they can, nevertheless, be directional signs—that is, signs by which the other, the world, discloses itself. For it seems that it is just in sensa¬ tions of pain that we feel the world attacking and invading us. Al¬ though we do not, in pain, “clearly and distinctly know” the world in its particulars, the world does appear to us as immediately dis¬ cernible, though, to be sure, not as objective, universal data. When we suffer pain, the world presses upon us and overwhelms us. In pain, too, we experience the world from a perspective, as related to us. And pain, like all modes of sensing, is a sympathetic experienc¬ ing: In pain we experience ourselves with and in the world. We call pain piercing, stabbing, cutting, splitting, cracking. By such verbal characterizations, we try to articulate the sense of what is happening, namely, its direction, its becoming, its being-with in uniting and separating. But for Descartes, sensations are not directional signs; in them the other, the world itself, does not disclose itself. Thus he says in Principles I, 46: “When, for instance, someone feels a severe pain, then the knowledge that he has this pain may be very clear, but, for all that, not at all distinct. For he usually confuses such knowledge with the false judgment of the nature of the pain, assuming as he does that something exists in the part affected which is similar to the sensation of pain of which he is alone clearly conscious.”9 Neither Descartes nor Berkeley after him ever made it clear what

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this being-in of sensations or thoughts was supposed to mean. For obviously, the sensation is not the mind itself, but rather something else instead, which the mind becomes aware of when thinking. Sen¬ sations must be something different from thoughts, for otherwise they could not, even through the mediation of other thoughts, be signs of external things. Indeed, even this otherness is not adequately explained. Why are pure sensations usually confused with a false judgment as to the similarity between the sensations and the struc¬ ture of external objects? Descartes, to be sure, does discuss the ques¬ tion as to whether sensations always deceive, and he comes to the conclusion, by referring to the perfection of God, that the senses do not deceive us in every respect. Our present problem, however, is not that of the veracity of sensations, but rather the question as to imma¬ nent structure of sensing. We are asking whether or not in sensing something other is experienced together with ourselves.

(c)

New Insights Articulated Within Traditional

What we have called communication has been well recognized by modern psychology. Katz refers to it in his discussion of total in¬ sistence and Werner deals with it in his series of investigations con¬ cerning sensing. But in neither case is sensing treated explicitly as a mode of communication. Both authors try to fit their findings into a traditional theory of sensation, an attempt which can only come to grief. In his book The World of Color, Katz10 shows that the impres¬ sion of illumination intensity is relatively independent of the degree of clearness of the surface structure of colored things. As to the question of what conditions do, in fact, determine the impression of illumination, he finds “that under ordinary circumstances a visual field whose illumination is approximately uniform possesses for all intensities of illumination a total insistence; that it is this total insistence which determines the particular illumination intensity which we perceive; and that upon this total insistence the quality and pronouncedness of the colors in the visual field depend.” This notion of insistence itself is characterized in the following way: “By the insistence of a color we usually understand the strength with which it bores its way into consciousness. I contend that the visual

210

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field as a whole also has the capacity to besiege consciousness with different degrees of forcefulness.” Anyone having difficulty obtaining a clear experience of total insistence is advised by Katz to make the observation easier by look¬ ing through a glass which disturbs accommodation in such a way as to make everything appear in dispersion circles. Such a glass prevents sharp contours or specific areas from standing out clearly. The greater the uniformity with which we apprehend the individual parts of the visual field, the more readily we achieve the impression of total insistence. This experimental procedure effects a change in the normal field of vision which can be compared to the diversity of impressions in the sphere of protopathic and epicritic sensibility. The elimination of cutaneous sensibility and its clearly pronounced localization signs makes the quality of insistence more distinct; in the same way, insistence in the field of vision becomes more easily apprehended when the contours are blurred. But insistence does not arise just at the moment when the contours dissolve. Just as with pain, something is experienced even if it is not clearly ordered with respect to its multiplicity and its boundaries, so insistence is experi¬ enced even when the epicritic sensibility is preserved. It is character¬ istic of Katz that, when he describes insistence, the verb is used in its predicative sense. He speaks of the power with which a color bores into consciousness, or the ability of the visual field as a whole to be¬ siege consciousness. In such cases, he seems to be touching upon the notion of modes of communication. For what kind of consciousness is it that can be besieged? and what kind of consciousness can have certain contents bored into it? This experiencing consciousness can only be one which is communicating and which does not have sensa¬ tions in the way it has knowledge, nor so judges these sensations. Later on in his discussion, it becomes clear that Katz is too closely tied to tradition and that he wants insistence to be understood as an objective datum. Experimental psychology which works with experimental subjects who make statements and judgments about the structure of the world as they comprehend it cognitively must be inclined to think of communication in objectified concepts. But insistence is neither a purely objective, nor a purely subjective datum. The experimental method is misleading in that it tends to sunder the sympathetic com¬ munication of sensing; it interprets sensing as an objective datum, as Katz does, or interprets it as subjective in the sense of somatic condition, a view which was still shared by H. Werner in his first publication.11 In his later writings,12 Werner, it is true, differenti-

SENSING CONSIDERED AS A MODE OF COMMUNICATION

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ates between processes of sensing due to objective intention and phenomena of feeling. Werner separates sensation from perception. The phenomena of sensing are taken to be purely subjective experiences which belong to a well-defined, vital-somatic sphere. Indeed, Werner’s experi¬ mental subjects describe their experiences in these experiments as a receding of what has been objectively precise. They speak of the vanishing of that distance between the subject and the sensed object which characterizes perception. Color and sound appear as condi¬ tions in the experiencing subject. “One is oneself color and sound.” But is it permissible to call this process in which somatic conditions become more insistent subjective? Is it not that in such a case the body is becoming the experienced object? Or, rather, is it not that in such a case objective precision retreats, but not objectivity itself? For the experimental subject, when he says “one is oneself color and sound,” can mean nothing else than that he has felt a change in the communication between self and world in which the precision and contours of objectivity grow hazy. It is inconceivable that the subject means the communication between self and world has been cut off, that it has fallen away and that it is only the self which remains. The expansion and extension of oneself when hearing a low-pitched sound, and the strained attention with which one hears a high-pitched sound, are not only somatic-dynamic, are not merely corporally conditioned sensing. For what would self-extension and self¬ expansion be without an experienced relation to the world? In such circumstances, not only do the outlines of objects grow blurred but also the boundaries separating the self and world; nevertheless, com¬ munication between self and world still remains, as Werner also emphasizes. Sensing must not, therefore, be interpreted as a bundle of singular sensory experiences which sometimes appear in the im¬ mediate sensory communication of self and world, although this occurs only under the exceptional conditions of the experimental laboratory, conditions quite alien to everyday life. The theoretical limitation of sensing to particular and uncommon experiences is in any case unacceptable as far as animal experience is concerned. For then one would have to infer either that animals exist only in their corporality, that they themselves “are always color and sound”; or one would have to concede that they not only sense but also per¬ ceive; that is, know, recognize. Sensing, understood as a mode of communication, knows of no such limitation to isolated, artificially induced experiences. Whether the world withdraws from us in sharply defined objectivity, or whether it moves toward us (or, one

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could also say, we toward it) in a relaxing of its boundaries, both the precise and the vaguer forms of objectivity are modifications of communication, are modes of sensing. The experimental subject who must describe and judge his experiences will find that under certain experimental conditions objectivity will be more distinctly evident, while under other conditions the same will be true of bodily manifestations. Which does not mean that in one case the bodily reaction is missing or that in the other the objective is missing. The alteration between fixing and relaxing contours and the cor¬ responding alternation of bodily experience indicates that we not only experience the world from our perspective but that we also ex¬ perience ourselves, from the standpoint of the world, in different perspectives. If the contours in a visual field are rendered less pro¬ nounced by our looking through a suitable glass, then there is an increase of total insistence. An increase of total insistence means that it becomes more easily apprehended by an experimental subject who is engaged in observing and judging his experiences. It does not mean that at just this moment total insistence grows coarser and stronger and is therefore more easily observable. Foerster,13 working with patients suffering from injuries to the peripheral nerves, has interpreted his findings in a manner analagous to that of Katz: “A pressure of certain intensity which, under normal conditions in the intact perceptive-epicritic system, causes only a sensation of pressure without any appreciable feeling-tone ac¬ companying it, may, under certain conditions in a disconnected epicritic system, cause fearful pain.” Something similar can be ob¬ served when a cutaneous nerve is injured. ‘‘Ordinarily a pressure on a limb or passing a hand over the limb will produce not only depth sensations but also purely cutaneous surface sensations.” “It is most instructive to observe that, when a nerve in the skin, such as the cutaneus antibrachi lateralis or the neruus digitalis volaris proprius is inactivated, then by stroking the anaesthetic cutaneous area, one produces a sensation which outlasts the irritating or even painful sensation described above. And one can sometimes momentarily silence these sensations by taking a cotton pad and stroking the nor¬ mal sensitive skin in the immediate neighborhood of the anaesthetic area on the fore-arm or by stroking the normally sensing half of the finger.” Foerster assumes that, next to the affective system of depth sensibility, there exists an anatomically and physiologically distinct perceptive-epicritic system of depth sensibility; and in addition, a system of exclusively cutaneous surface sensations. An isolated stimulation of the perceptive-epicritic system produces—according

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to Foerster’s observations of himself—a “completely affectless sensa¬ tion.” In normal cases, the epicritic system and also the cutaneous sensibility are supposed to inhibit the affective system. Whenever the perceptive systems are interrupted and disconnected, “the cessa¬ tion of the inhibiting factor asserts itself in an increased activity of the affective system.” The concept of inhibition is here meant in a purely physiological sense. The one system affects the other. The sudden change which can be caused by lightly touching a normally sensitive area would not, therefore, depend on a transformation of the total impression, nor on an alteration of communication. But this interpretation demands an additional presupposition: that something like purely affectless sensations occur. Such completely affectless sensations are, however, nothing but the atomistic sensory data which I have spoken of in my critique of Berkeley. If one substi¬ tutes the phrase “an indifferent sensation” for “completely affectless sensations,” I would, from my standpoint, have nothing to say against Foerster’s self-observations, for an indifferent sensation is not one in which the intensity of affect is zero. Indifferent sensations of gentle touching, of soft, passive, moving are still sensation, still com¬ munication. If sensing is a communication of self and world, then the self is in some way affected by every sensation. Self-observation, however, is preceded by an essential transformation of the original, sympathetic experiencing. It transforms the genuine content of sens¬ ing by objectifying and sundering sympathetic communication. A comparison of Foerster’s and Katz’ observations shows, on the other hand, that we are concerned here with a general phenomenon which cannot be thought of as directly corresponding to the structure and function of sensory systems. I must reject the assumption that affec¬ tive experiences and experiences without affect, entirely lacking in insistence, exist side by side. Both the advance and the retreat of objectivity depend on a modification of the mode of communication, a modification in the relation of self to world. Total insistence, the transition from epicritic to protopathic im¬ pressions, can easily be demonstrated in other sensory areas, such as the acoustic, even without the use of apparatus. The insistence of sounds increases when we feel ill at ease in our surroundings and it decreases when we begin to feel more at home in them. Entering a crowded hall, we may be assailed by a loud, confused din of voices. The less at home we feel in the crowd, the more distressing the noise is to us. But we have only to meet someone we know, with whom we like to talk, for the situation instantly to change. The noise of the voices recedes and “gives way” to our own conversation. But as soon

214

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as the conversation ends, the old confusion starts its work again; the hubbub of voices becomes more insistent again. A hermit who shuts himself off from the world becomes sensitive to every sound that reaches him. The sensitivity to noise exhibited by many sick persons is an expression of a disturbed communication with the world and not a sign that the acoustic nerves are functioning differently. My rejection of Foerster’s physiological interpretation of the phenomena is not, however, an objection to the proposition that several anatomically and physiologically independent systems are engaged in the manifestation of these phenomena. My position is not an objection, provided that the theory of epiphenomenalism, a doctrine tacitly accepted by Foerster, is false.14 If, on the other hand, it is correct to assume the reciprocal influence of anatomically and physiologically separated systems, that is, truly separated sense or¬ gans, then the phenomena described by Foerster are synesthesias and, indeed, of such a kind that regularly manifest themselves after certain types of injuries. The synesthesias are therefore, in this case, not bound to some form of abnormal disposition or some kind of mental illness. But even if they were, even if the synesthesias were only observable under pathological conditions, which, indeed, is not at all the case, they would nevertheless present an important prob¬ lem for the psychology of sensing. Under such circumstances, we would still have to ask and answer the question as to the unity of the senses.

The Synesthesias—Vital Freedom

H. Werner emphasized the great importance of the synes¬ thesias for the theory of sensation and instigated a series of experi¬ ments which has greatly increased our empirical knowledge of these phenomena.15 Simply from the way it has been described, this phenomenon of intersensory effects would seem interpretable only as the articulation of a unity. Indeed, Kloos, for one, believes that the synesthesias result from judgment and that they are only a special kind of symbolic expression. And P. v. Schiller, who has con¬ tributed much valuable experimental data on this matter, gives an interpretation in which the unity of the phenomena is actually

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abandoned. He assumes that physiological excitations, brought about by disturbing stimuli in the acoustic or tactual sector, affect—chem¬ ically or electrically—the optic sector, thereby causing a modifica¬ tion of the optical impressions. Synesthesias would thereby be based on an “induced” electro-chemical modification in a heteromodal sector. The inner connection is thus, by this theory, changed again into an outward one: the process in one sensory center evokes a similar process in another sensory center. But since two separate sense organs and two separate processes are involved, one can actually no longer speak of an intersensory effect, a synesthesia. In any case, the cosensing is never experienced as such; it is deduced by the observer’s analysis. The observer establishes that acoustic stimuli are accompanied by modifications of optical impressions, al¬ though the optical stimulus constellation has not changed. If this theory were true, it would be more appropriate to speak of com¬ panion sensations (Nebenempfindungeri) rather than of synesthesia (Mitempfndungen). The synesthesias acquire the character of a sensory illusion. Schiller’s hypothesis resembles the explanation offered by Szekely,16 who assumes that the intermodal perception of brightness depends on a process common to all sensory functions. The intensi¬ ties of brightness are, Szekely assumes, correlated to the oscillation frequencies of stimuli. Thus, Szekely goes even further than Schiller in that he seeks to co-ordinate the component processes which are supposed to correspond to the experienced impression of brightness, to external stimuli. But how could frequencies of oscillation in the optical, acoustic, tactile, and olfactory sphere correspond? The pos¬ sibility of drawing an intermodal equation of brightness does not prove that the brightness of a smell, or the brightness of an optical or acoustic impression are equal and could be isolated within the total phenomenon the same way the hypostatized partial process is isolated from the total process. A bright (clear, ringing, distinct) sound, a bright (brilliant) color, and a bright (sharp or pleasant) smell, do not have the same brightness. We deal, rather, with bright¬ ness peculiar to smell, sight, and hearing. But these brightnesses, al¬ though specific and distinct with regard to their sensory areas, can be related to each other. Brightness is akin to spaciousness. An illumination of a certain intensity produces a harsh effect in a narrow room, whereas in a spacious room it appears bright. Brightness is not a purely objective datum. With the intermodal phenomena of brightness we experience the world as related to us; in the phenomena which appear as inter-

216

Sensing and Movement Considered Historiologically

modal a factor common to all modes of communication manifests itself. Our vital freedom in our relation to the world can in the vari¬ ous modalities, in a similar manner, be bound or released. All that is bright, all that is spacious, fresh, lively (in musical language, allegro), all, in a word, that is winged, soaring, sets us free, releases us. Bright, crisp fragrances are fleeting; brightness increases proportionally as that which is bright becomes more fleeting, more rarified. But that which is filthy, that which clings and sticks to us, cramps our vital freedom. A spring zephyr opens the whole wide world for us; but a violent storm catching us in its midst, pinning us to the ground, has not the spaciousness or brightness of a gentle wind. Clarity (Helle) is not the same as brightness (Helligkeit). Clarity has an optimum; its growth does not parallel the increase of bright¬ ness. Morning is clearer than noon, even though the sun is at its highest in the noontime. We could ask any number of experimental subjects which seems more pleasingly clear to them: the cool hours of a summer night, or the blazing heat of a summer afternoon. They would all, I think, call the former clearer in spite of the fact that night is also dark. A modification of communication in one of the senses modifies communication as such. That is, it modifies the other sense areas as well. Together with such modification of communica¬ tion goes a modification of objective content. From the experiments of Schiller it is, indeed, understandable why synesthesia is not easily noticed in everyday, “normal” situations. For synesthesia to be no¬ ticed, the normal mode of communication must be varied in a par¬ ticular sensory area. With such a modification, the aspect of things is also changed; every change of style is a modification of communi¬ cation. The reports of subjects under the influence of mescaline enable us directly to read off the interrelation of modes of communication and the configuration of the objective. The subjects report how the change in communication is perceived in the modification of object impressions, how the change in communication transcends the indi¬ vidual senses; they speak of the verbal character of sensations, of the alteration in the manner in which the self relates to the intelli¬ gible objectivity of the world. Spatial forms change in ways difficult to describe; but at the same time, the subject experiences a marked change in his own body. Temporal forms seem radically different. Within this altered time sense, the subject’s own becoming appears as transformed. And with it is altered the nearness and distance of things and their insistence and stability. Social communication is also changed. Physiognomies alter their shapes, many things seem to

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“lose their reality”; in other cases, the subject feels that he is some¬ how denuded and feels ashamed of it.17 Passing a certain point dur¬ ing the course of the intoxication, the subject can no longer stand apart from the “reality of his impressions”; insight, criticism, judg¬ ment, knowledge can no longer hold their own against the immedi¬ ate insistence of the modified mode of communication. Almost all subjects report a genuine experience of cosensing. We find in the protocols testimonies of many kinds of synesthesias that the subjects occasionally are not at all sure which one of their senses it was that gave them certain impressions. A physician describes the experience of such an intoxication: “You think you’re hearing noises and seeing faces and everything is one; I no longer know if I am seeing or hearing. The following two passages illustrate the relation that exists between the experience of one’s own freedom, bondage, and activity, and the experience of objective impressions: I asked Dr. B. to hand me the coffee machine and while I was grinding the coffee, I observed the following: I held the tower-like coffee machine somewhere in the middle with my left hand and with my right started turning the handle against a strong resistance. Then I noticed how the tower above my hand constantly bent in the direction in which I was pull¬ ing the handle. If I moved the handle toward me, the tower rose toward me; if I moved my hand to the right, the tower inclined to the right, etc. The tower seemed to be made of rubber and was therefore capable of bending in any direction. So much so, indeed, that I could barely believe that it was made of metal. This happened, however, only when I had to overcome the resistence of grinding. The tower did not seem to change its form as long as I turned the handle to the left and the machine ran empty and without resistence. Now a picture of Naples was shown to me. I saw its colors, saw crowds thronging in the city streets, saw the sea surging, the water heaving, saw, in a word, a living picture before me so plastic and true to nature that I could not but think I was really on the beach at Naples. I was completely taken by its beauty and for a moment I thought I saw Vesuvius rising in the distance. How I possibly could have seen all that, I don’t know: I was in the cellar of my own house, and yet there was Naples, real and present to me. It must have been obvious from the way I spoke how glowingly drunk I was to see it all. But the instant I—how shall I put it, it sounds so stUpid_got hold of my will power, at that instant everything became nor¬ mal; but whenever I let go of myself, I saw things again.

As long as he remains passive, the world with all its rich content presses in upon the subject. But when he himself turns actively

2i8

Sensing and Movement Considered Historiologically

toward the world, then the apparitions disappear. Drugs that act like mescalin, such as hashish, cocaine, and also alcohol, are properly called sympathy toxins: they modify the sympathetic relation be¬ tween self and world; they alter the nature of the self’s relation to objects and men. Psychotic hallucinations are also shaped in ac¬ cordance with a fundamental change in communication. Here, too, objective configurations in hallucinations depend on modifications of the sympathetic functions. Of the many manifestations of psychosis, the phenomenon of de¬ personalization might be chosen to illustrate our conception of the mode of communication of sensing. Here the most familiar surround¬ ings exist merely as a world of pure perception; it is as though all sympathetic communication has been suspended. The patient, for example, knows that he has walked this particular street a thousand times and that that particular building is his own house, but this knowledge is of no help to him. He finds it difficult to express what he experiences or to describe it to another, and the healthy person is hardly able to follow what the patient tries to communicate. The difficulties of both the former and the latter have the same origin: the attempt is repeatedly made to describe as a transforma¬ tion of the object and with objective expressions, that which itself arises from a modification of communication. The psychotic cannot find the right words and the healthy listener knows nothing of the things referred to, for he himself has no cause to seek clarification of the phenomenon of communication. Because normal communica¬ tion was treated as “a matter of course,” it has not been dealt with as a specific theme in psychology, and this was one of the reasons why sensing was looked upon as a mode of cognition. Depressive patients not infrequently report the impression of floating while walking; they speak of the ground beneath them los¬ ing its firmness, that it rocks beneath their feet, or that they are standing on a slant and have the uneasy feeling that they are sliding off and falling down. But co-ordination, sensibility, and motility show no evidence of impairment in such cases. Although these pa¬ tients, as seen by the objective observer, can stand straight, and walk properly, they cannot free themselves of the impression of hovering, sinking, and gliding. The ground is firm only for him who has a firm stance upon it, who has a firm hold upon himself and who can, in a well-defined manner, limit himself as over and against his world. In sensing we do not grasp the properties of things. The situation is, rather, that objectification shapes itself in a variety of ways along

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with the alternating change of communication between self and world.

The unity of the senses is a specific and unusual kind of unity. In everyday life we take it for granted, but in our scientific delibera¬ tions the unity appears strange and puzzling. We put our feet on the ground fully confident that the visible ground will support our foot¬ steps, and we do not really question the possibility of such a union. We would, indeed, be most surprised if a visible object withdrew phantom-like from our grasp. That which can be seen and touched, that which can be touched and tasted, sound and sight, sight and smell, belong together. Thus we listen to the words of a speaker, breathe the fragrance of a flower, smell and taste, feel and chew the morsel in our mouth. Children and animals are as unquestioning toward things as are adults. Science breaks in upon the naive trust of everyday life and—assuming, in its own naivete, that the singular is the most basic—begins to question as to the ways and means by which the several impressions of an individual sense and the mani¬ fold impressions of the separate senses are brought together, and in what way they are one after the union has been effected. Science observes that the stimuli are not united: light-waves and substances that give off odors remain and act independently. Likewise for the sensory nerves and their “specific energies,” and likewise for the cortical fields. Even the heterogeneous impressions themselves do not merge, do not coincide; they remain separate within their union. Color remains color, hardness remains hardness. Their unity does not efface their distinctiveness. By differentiating quality from mo¬ dality, Helmholtz pointed to the gap which separates one modality from another, color from sound and sound from smell. Their dispar¬ ity is easily noticed, but their togetherness is hard to understand. Experience is customarily praised as the great teacher, and repe¬ tition is supposed to be its wondrous instrument by which the basic¬ ally separate is united. Pavlov tells of the number of repetitions required in his experiments before an unconditioned reaction became coupled to a conditioned stimulus; Ebbinghaus counted the number of repetitions necessary for impressing a series of nonsense syllables

220

Sensing and Movement Considered Historiologically

on the memory. From the beginning, neither saw any reason to doubt the unifying power of repetition, practice, and habit. Give me enough time for repetition—this might have been the modern Archi¬ medean motto—and I will tie anything together with anything else. But reality did not correspond to expectation. There were cases where countless repetitions failed and other cases where very few and sometimes not even one repetition were necessary. Sometimes habits already present seemed to promote additional learning, some¬ times they hindered it. Inhibition was introduced as a factor which would equalize the endangered balance. But even that wasn’t enough to sustain the assumption that repetition and practice could unite unlimited kinds and numbers of individual impressions or stimuli. Mere temporal contiguity fared no better than contiguity of im¬ pressions. In such a parataxis of simultaneity, the members of the relation are supposed to be interchangeable. But the impressions in different modalities cannot be arbitrarily combined. We grip the visible, but we do not touch sounds. We smell the fragrance of a rose, but we do not see smells. We taste bread, but we do not touch the taste. We feel the warmth of a bath, but we do not see the warmth. No matter how frequent it may be, repetition will not allow us to co-ordinate the tactile and kinesthetic impressions of sitting before a desk with the optical impressions of the surface of the desk. Simultaneity and seriality of events are, in any case, conditions for separating as well as for bringing together. That which is or ought to be differentiated must be first brought together in one field of attention. Things which are originally separate cannot be unified. They offer no points of attack, no openings where the other can be at¬ tached. The individual, the physical, physiological, or psychological atom is a closed entity, as inaccessible as the autistic psychotic who neither lets others come to him, nor reaches out to them. The isola¬ tion of the originally separate cannot be sublated. Only that which is originally plastic, that is, incomplete, capable of development, has the power to articulate itself and take shape. Sperm and egg cells are capable of uniting only after they have discharged half of their chromosomes. The vexing problem of uniting the separated was a familiar one to the ancient atomists. They taught that the atom—eternal, un¬ created, indestructible—cannot undergo change nor produce changes in other atoms. In their inalterability atoms are excluded from any community. And yet it is the atoms in their groupings and co¬ herence with one another which are supposed to bring about the

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formations of the larger and, for us, visible and tangible bodies. The ancients sought the solution to these problems in the hypothesis of diversified atoms. In addition to small atoms with fine, round, smooth surfaces, there were supposed to be larger atoms with coarse, angular surfaces. Differing in size, weight, and form, they were said to whirl and interlock in the vortex of motion. Lucretius,18 follow¬ ing Epicurus, even pictured some groups of atoms as equipped with hooks. They cling together thus as they move together, and with perceptible strength resist any separation. And yet each atom, even when grouped with others, remains a separate individual, solida simplicitate. But the hooks of the atoms act like unsaturated valences. Because of their form, atoms are not purely elementary substances; they are, in a sense, not even completely closed and separated; they are incomplete and thus capable of combining with other atoms. But these assumptions contradict the basic thesis of atomism. This atomic theory itself, has, so it seems, a “catch” of its own somewhere. It does not allow itself a “smooth,” noncontradictory formulation. It gratifies the desire of reason to descend to the eternal, uncreated, and indestructible elements of the universe. But reason’s joy in this proves fleeting. For no sooner does it attain to its goal than it in¬ stantly encounters the disturbing issue of the possibility of atomic combination. The unification of the separated obviously requires a mediation, a medium which is not given with the atoms themselves but which encompasses them as a common denominator. Democritus and Epicurus assigned this function of binding together to the vacuum. The atoms, either as such or by their own power, are moved (we might speak of this as an atomism of motion), but since they are next to and together with each other in empty space, they can collide with each other and affect each other. The notion of empty space, as a non-being which also is, a non-being of which nothing definite can be predicated except that as empty space it encompasses the atoms without affecting them: this self-contradictory notion of the vacuum makes it possible both to accept and at the same time reject media¬ tion between atoms. Ancient atomism was an admirable attempt to master conceptu¬ ally the universe in the totality of its appearances, and to explain the world by means of a single material principle. This attempt of the atomists, their problem and their solutions, are for us of more than merely historical interest; for, remote as the problem may seem, it is actually quite close to us. We need only substitute the notion of an empty consciousness, Locke’s “white paper,” for concept of the vacuum; Hume’s “impressions” for the atoms; and the “synapses” of

222

Sensing and Movement Considered Historiologically

the neurons for the hooks on the atoms, and we find ourselves right in the present and facing the same problem: How to explain the unity of that which is originally separate. In the theory of synaptic pathways put forth by associational psychology, the hypothesis of the togetherness of individual impressions is explained by means of temporal contiguity. Simultaneity and sequence of excitations are hypostatized in the synapses. All associational theories expend much effort to explain how the end result of unification is accomplished. Rarely is the possibility ever considered that a dissociation has pre¬ ceded the association. The point of departure seems to need no further explication. The notion of the singular is taken as selfevident. But what, actually, is an individual impression? What is meant when a single individual object is spoken of, and what is the relation between a single object and a single impression? These questions would seem to be easily and unequivocally answerable. There some¬ one, an individual man, sits in his study, surrounded by a number of individual objects. As he looks about him, he obtains individual impressions which correspond to the individual objects. But let us think of him as having occupied the same room yesterday. The same objects were also there yesterday. Yesterday’s impressions cannot have been the same as today’s, for otherwise he could not be seeing the room again. Accordingly, the same object can be represented by many different individual impressions; that is, there is no coinci¬ dence between the singularity of the impression and the individu¬ ality of the object. But if the mental impression were, in a strict sense, individual, how could it—or its image in memory—be attached to today’s impression? In seeing again, I experience the present im¬ pression in its actuality, otherwise it would not be a seeing again; but at the same time I bring today’s impression into agreement with yesterday’s, otherwise it would not be a seeing again. Obviously yes¬ terday’s impression must be such that it can admit a point of attach¬ ment with today’s impression. It is singular, but not isolated. Two or more impressions can be compared to a third, and in this respect they are not isolated. An isolated, singular impression cannot com¬ pare itself with another one; in its singularity, it is excluded from any other impression. But, then, may we legitimately call something singular which can be repeated? Is it permissible to speak at all of singular impressions, in the plural? Only what is individual can be singular: an impression and nothing further: a red spot, an interrupted sound, a stitch of a needle. But now we are slipping back into an old habit and count-

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ing off a series of impressions. So let us try very earnestly to limit ourselves to one individual impression. Our example is a red spot. This spot must not be taken as standing against a background, for then something else along with it would be given. An impression which fulfills all the conditions of being isolated must not appear with borders of any kind. It must fill the horizon, unlimitedly. But even that is not sufficient. The filled horizon is in fact a visual field, and not a “field” of sound or smell. As an isolated individual, the impression must not betray the possibility that other impressions or other kinds of impressions are also present. I see a red spot, but on no account can I be aware that it is an optical impression. The prop¬ erty of belonging to a class of objects cannot be given with the iso¬ lated individual without abrogating its singularity. The singular im¬ pression may be “red” and affect me as such, but that it is red and not blue or green must be as concealed from me as if it were infra¬ red. A singular impression would no longer be such if I were to grasp what and how it is. I may not even perceive that it is, at this moment, for in such a case it belongs to one of many moments and could disappear or come again. To preserve singularity, time also must be surrendered. This, now, must be the last concession that can be made, for what is there remaining? I have the experience of an individual impression whose particular nature is hidden from me. What else could be taken away? Two things: I must not perceive the individual as an isolated individual, for then I have already trans¬ cended singularity; and I must not be aware that something is ap¬ pearing to me, for that would bring in time, continuum in general, and with it the possibility of the other. The singular impression, however, should be nothing but a singular impression, occupying consciousness in a single atomistic particle of time. Such singular impressions are like bats darting through empty ruins. Watson was not sacrificing much when he chased Hume’s bats from the halls of objective psychology. The singular impression is either everything or nothing. There can be no consciousness of it; from it, the singular, no generalized abstractions can be made, and no repetition of it is possible. If it could be repeated, it would not be singular. The impression of something singular cannot be a singular impression, as little as the impression of something small is a small impression, or the impression of two objects is a double im¬ pression. In a singular impression, that is, one limited and confined, to itself, the singular cannot be perceived as the singular, for even this presupposes a relation to something other. The singular as the singular is part of a relation, whereas the proposed singular impres-

224

Sensing and Movement Considered Historiologically

sion is supposed to be free of all relations to anything other than it. The conviction—for it is much more a conviction than an as¬ sumption—that the singular is a primitive given, would not be so widespread if it were not so plausible, if it were not encouraged by everyday experience. Let us turn once more to our point of departure. Is there some¬ thing wrong in my seeing that house over there as an individual house? Should it be sold, this individual piece of real estate changes hands. Yes, but such thinking confuses singularity writh particularity; this house is, as a house, a member of a class. It is this house standing there as a part, a sector of the whole world, which becomes accessible to me in the continuum of my experience. We reach the singular by descending from the whole to the part, phase, moment. The singular, thus understood, is synonymous with the individual that is singled out from its original association. But the atomistic theories try to build the whole from its singular elements. The parts are viewed as a plurality of autonomous components which precede the whole. The singular, thus understood, is the isolated; and in this sense, it is neither intuite nor comprehensible. For, as such, the isolated is set apart from the universe. The singular as the isolated is a phantom of thought, and not its object. In Euclid’s textbook, the point is defined as something having no extension. Spatial extension is thus already presupposed. The mathematical definition of the concept of a point is reached by a derivation from the totality of space. The determination of an indi¬ vidual point is fixed by the specification of its geometrical location, that is, as an intersection, a participation in two spatial forms. Its singularity is established by its uniqueness. The point so determined is singular only in the logical relation of ideal mathematical forms. The situation, however, is quite different when a single concrete physical object is to be determined in its singularity. Objects are singular as parts of a world. I discover them in the discursiveness of my experience, in my acts of encountering the world.19 In order to ascertain how individuals can be united, and to deter¬ mine the role which repetition can and does play, we must first purge the expression “singularity” of its ambiguity. We must decide whether it will mean for us the single, the isolated, the only, the individual, the particular, or all of them together. The role to be assigned to repetition as a means of binding, indeed the very inter¬ pretation of repetition, will depend on the way we understand the concept of singularity. And this, in turn, will determine the sense in which the resulting unity is to be understood.

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Repetition presupposes what it ought to explain. The repeated processes which are counted are, like all physiological and physical occurrences, individual events. The individual heartbeat is not a repetition of the preceding one, just as the turn of a wheel is not a repetition of the preceding turn, nor the stroke of a hammer that of the previous stroke. Repetition implies, rather, that among a series of occurrences one resembles the other and that they take place according to an ascertainable schema. The schema does not actually unite the processes. Each single process, regardless of any repetition, remains how and what it was. Music, for example, makes consider¬ able use of repetition; and though individual rhythms, themes or whole passages are repeated, in each case the notes written in the score must be produced anew. A passage which is successfully played the first time may be incorrectly performed the second time. Both passages are played, but the hearing of the second is a second hear¬ ing only to the degree that the same sound formation is perceivable to the historical sense of player and listener. An inexperienced listener may altogether miss the fact of repetition. Repetition—not¬ withstanding the uniformity of natural process—is not a physical phenomenon. At the end of a passage where the score indicates a rep¬ etition, the player turns again to the beginning. But at the same time, his playing goes forward. The notes played in the repetition are not second notes and the movements of the player are not second move¬ ments. What is repeated are the sounds as such, defined in their relation to other sounds. The duplicated words of the child’s lan¬ guage, the ma-ma, pa-pa, wee-wee, express the fact that a certain sound formation (ma, pa, wee) is intended and thus a product which as such is repeatable and which only as such can be doubled. From one impression which as a singular one would completely fill a single moment, there is no path leading to another; habit cannot bind to¬ gether things which are primarily separated. Experience does not teach the connection between sequence and simultaneity in general, but rather helps us to perceive distinct orders in the pre-established framework of such possibilities. Experience does not teach sequence, but it does teach us that a particular A is followed by a particular B. It teaches us to define A and B, to differentiate them from each other and to recognize them as so defined. What is tied together is the particularity of one process and that of another. And therefore what is apprehended is that a process of form A and a process of form B stand in the relation A-B. The forms of A and B and the relation A-B are repeatable, but the processes themselves are not. According to the theory that stresses practice

226

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(and repetition), we can attain to singular connections only by way of singular impressions. The temporal forms of simultaneity and sequence could themselves emerge only in connection with singular groups of impressions. Time would thus be perforated. Temporal sequence is not, however, apprehended only by means of a regular recurrence of processes; all processes evidence such a relation. Se¬ quence and simultaneity are universal and not modes of order de¬ rived from the singular. We discover not only that A is followed by a B or C; we notice that they not only manifest themselves one after the other but also belong to each other. The first member of a series, A, is preceded by other events. In experience, impressions never cease following each other. Let A be the beginning of a new series, separated from that which preceded it, Z, by a hiatus. Z is an end, A a beginning. A line, a border, can be drawn between both Z and A. Such a border is a boundary of meaning which is determined by a context of meaning that decides what belongs together with what. There are such things as upbeats and echoes: the former we combine with what is yet to come and the latter we combine with what has preceded. Thunder follows lightning and footsteps on the stairs announce that a visitor will soon appear. In the former case, an acoustic impression follows an optical impression, and in the latter case, the reverse is true. Both are manifestations of a meaning structure differently articu¬ lated in each case. The seventeen syllables of a perfect dactyllic hexameter follow each other in a steady sequence, one after the other. But we order them into six groups, each containing one long and two short syllables: the long syllable carries the accent. Accent is the tool with which we divide a uniform sequence into unities which are both related to and separated from each other. Uniting and sepa¬ rating are two aspects of the same function. Poetic metrics merely formulate a possibility which has already been anticipated by every¬ day language with its words and accents, sequences of words and in¬ tonations. Language, however, is only one mode of bringing together that which belongs together in pure sequence and simultaneity. The formation of unities and configurations brings together those components which are better, that is, more meaningfully con¬ joined. The ambiguity of an oracular pronouncement such as Ibis redibis numquam in armis morieris stems from the fact that the parts of the sentence may be grouped in different ways. That is, the pro¬ nouncement can be understood as Ibis redibis, numquam in armis morieris, or as Ibis, redibis numquam, in armis morieris. Combining the word numquam with redibis separates it from the rest of the sen-

SENSING CONSIDERED AS A MODE OF COMMUNICATION

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tence, whereas separating it from redibis unites it with the rest of the sentence. Separation and combination reciprocally condition each other; the reasons for separation are just as important as those of combination. The articulating inner order of a configuration holds its parts together without radically isolating the whole. Words are combined into the unity of a sentence and grammar defines the rules of the completeness of a sentence. But the structural wholeness of a sentence becomes itself a part again the moment the sentence is joined with others in a paragraph. Paragraphs, in their turn, com¬ bine to make up a chapter and, finally, a “whole” book. The discur¬ siveness of conceptual thinking proceeding, as it does, from one determination to another, from premise to conclusion, is only one form of the general discursiveness of experience. They complement each other as parts of a whole, just as individual footsteps and the constantly appearing visual patterns are joined into the unity of a walk and a way. The physiological interpretation of repetition is, on the other hand, a causal interpretation. Physiology seeks to explain how two primally separate processes are gradually brought into a relation of temporal dependence. We hear the talk of smoothing the pathways, the formation of synapses, reinforcing conditioned reflexes. It is claimed that an organism under the repeated influence of the same constellation of stimuli is modified in a way that corresponds to that constellation. The organism learns by repetition; it learns: That means that stimulus processes which in the beginning were separated are now brought into a functional connection. The repetition effects a real unification of the separated—at least it seems so. The phrase, “smoothing the pathways” (outmoded now more in respect to its wording than its meaning) is a variation of the old saying, “The water wears the stones.” The idea of water steadily dripping gives us the image of a series of single drops of water each one of which washes away one particle of the stone. One drop after another strikes the stone, but no two meet the same conditions in the stone. Each predecessor effects and leaves behind an altered situation. The steady fall of drops does its work the same way that we do ours when we hammer, saw, or sew—piece by piece, step by step. And so the frequency and number of physiological operations improves, per¬ haps, the functioning of existing contacts by decreasing resistence. “Repetition” does not create new combinatory relations. It is true that the purely temporal order in sequence and simul¬ taneity connects physiological excitations to each other, but it pre¬ serves them, nevertheless, as separate entities. If impressions were

228

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ordered in a manner strictly analogous to physiological excitations, then either one would follow the other like a railroad car follows the locomotive without ever catching up with it—it being coupled to the locomotive, but also separated from it—or, the two excitations would run next to each other on two neuron paths like two trains on parallel tracks. That certain events are actually next to each other or follow after each other is only a condition for our apprehension of their simul¬ taneity or sequence. When we speak of the simultaneity of two events, A and B, or of the sequence of C and D, we relate these proc¬ esses to each other, we bind them together. It is we who comprehend the temporal relationships, whereas one process “knows nothing’’ of the other. Even “bad” configurations, the fact that things which do not belong together come after each other, are also experienced as a sequence. In the nervous system, many processes take place simultane¬ ously and many follow each other. Even if repetition—understood physiologically—had effected a regular combination, the connec¬ tion as such would in no way have been explained. Reflex process and reflex concept have different temporal structures. In the course taken by a reflex, afferent and efferent impulses are temporarily sepa¬ rate processes brought together in the interconnectedness of the or¬ ganism. The coming-after is a coming-from, as written or printed word signs are arranged next to each other. The reader grasps this static spatial order by running his eyes along the lines and combin¬ ing them into the unit of a sentence. In reading, words become parts of a sentence, referring forward and backward and complementing each other. We combine that which is temporally and spatially sep¬ arate by assigning to the individual its place in an encompassing whole. In playing a melody, one note has already faded away when the next note is sounded. A “not yet” and a “no longer” separate the one from the other. The individual note, limited to itself, does not reach over to the other; it is we who transcend the limiting boun¬ daries of the notes, something which lies in our power because the notes, the individuals appear to us as not whole. In describing a thing, we often enumerate its attributes one after the other. The ball there is round and gray and smooth and cool and light and elastic. The “and” conjunction seems to express a simple and chance apposition of attributes. In such an attitude, moreover, we do not clearly separate modalities from qualities. Round signifies one particular spatial configuration among many, gray one color among many possible colors. That the ball has this color and not another is, in any case, accidental. It could have been green, red, or

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yellow; it could have been heavy, rough, and inelastic and still be a ball. But the “and” which connects gray, smooth, and elastic ex¬ presses something much more important. It points out that one and the same thing has more than one attribute, that it has many aspects, being colorful, smooth, and light. The “and” therewith indicates a particular character of each aspect, the “what” which manifests itself in a special way in each of the aspects, but in none of them completely. In the theatre, as every where else, there are good and bad places. All of the audience, it is true, watch the same play, hear the same dialogue, but up there in the second balcony even sharp youthful eyes do not see as well as those in the front rows of the orchestra. We say that this or that seat enables one to see well or poorly, but in so saying we do not seriously mean to describe the faculty of seeing. Even good eyes see poorly under certain conditions. But what, actually, is it that, according to circumstances or situ¬ ation, can be seen well or poorly? The answer, in fact, is given with the question. It is the what which, in the situationally conditioned view, adequately or poorly displays itself, unveils or hides itself. This what is always given via a perspective and is therefore to a certain degree always distorted or dismembered. Even the best seats do not offer a perfect view. The “what” appears always in a partial view; the orthoscopic is only one among many possible visual orientations; it, too, is not perfect and does not, therefore, give a perfect represen¬ tation of the “what.” We all, to be sure, see the same play, but no two of us have the same view in either the objective or subjective sense of the word. That which “comes into my view” has only a limited, particular validity. It is valid only as considered from my standpoint or point of view, in which the “what” of the thing pre¬ sents itself in a perspective, the likes of which are found on picture postcards. We are and must remain bound to a perspective; still, through it we are directed to a “what.” Through all changes of per¬ spective we see the rectangular form of the table, the circular shape of the plate. In conversing we hear the same words, that is, the same articulated sounds, though they be pronounced in a thousand differ¬ ent intonations, pitches, and dialects. And even so, we do not fail to notice differences. We recognize and identify many people by their voices, yet we still speak to them in the same language. We see the snow as white despite variations in illumination. Which white, which blue could claim, then, to be the white, the blue? The “what” that manifests itself through all perspectives binds the changing points of view together in the constancies of color, size, form, and

230

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spatial order. In our everyday attitudes, we are so completely focused on the “what” that we, as it were, fail to see the trees, the perspec¬ tives, for the wood, the “what.” In the history of European painting, we learn of the discovery of perspective. Many kinds of factors contributed to this discovery. The main reason that it stayed concealed for so long was the natural orientation toward the “what” of things. The old masters struggled to obtain a point of view. Perspective had to be discovered; it could be discovered and can be rediscovered at any time. It is, at the same time, the veil by which the essential conceals itself. The veil func¬ tions as such only because of the “what” which it conceals, but the veil nevertheless allows itself to be detected as such. Just as we at¬ tempt to see behind the veil, so we try to penetrate the perspectival view of things, their adumbrations (Husserl’s Abschattung), in order to apprehend the “what.” We discover the same person dressed in many kinds of garments. In conversation, we perceive the varying phonetic forms of words, but our interest is centered in the meaning of the conversation, the meaning of the words; although not, to be sure, at the expense of our failing to perceive nuances of articulation. The slightest variation in inflection, a subtle shift of accent gives us pause and turns our attention from the communicated meaning to the communicated sound. Perspective is, in fact, never really hidden from us, it is simply unimportant to us. We can recognize the same rectangle from many positions without failing to notice that we are seeing the same rectangle from varying perspectives. When I walk around a desk, I see the same object without completely forgetting that I am looking at it from different angles. The “what” that ties the perspectives of a thing together, is not completely unveiled in any of them. It does not enter the different perspectives as the same constellation; as, as it were, an element. The unity of the senses cannot be explained physiologically; it can only be psychologically understood. Only the incomplete (UnGanze) can be united, is capable and in need of being complemented. Each modality gives us only a partial aspect of the world. Sensory impressions can be combined into a unity which is more than that of simple conjunction because the senses are modes of communication. In each modality, I am, in the unity of my existence, in contact with the world in varying modes. The I-world relation is one; the forms of this relation are many. For that reason I can appropriate any one of them in only a partial aspect. As incomplete (un-ganz), the modali¬ ties complement each other and become a genuine being-together (Miteinander). It is the same object which I can see and touch; I hold

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the pencil, not the yellow; I touch the visible thing, not the color. The other is that which is common to all the senses, but each sense perceives it in a particular way. This does not mean that the individ¬ ual sense does the perceiving, but rather that the experiencing sub¬ ject is, by way of each sense, directed to the same “what.” This “what,” therefore, never completely and never immediately reveals itself. It is only through a mediating process that we can grasp it. We can never take hold of it in its completeness.

The Relationship Between Sensing and Moving

(a) Prefatory Remarks THE PLANTS ROOTED IN THE SOIL NEED NOT, CANNOT CARE FOR

themselves. Stationary as they are, they are helplessly at the mercy of the elements. The soil, in which chance has scattered the seed, the sun and the rain, the weather in its inconstancy—all are decisive for their survival or destruction. They cannot escape drought, flee from storms, nor run from fire. Because of this, the mighty oak never at¬ tains the power possessed by the tiniest bird nesting in its branches. Its realm is limited to that piece of earth filled by its roots; it cannot reach out to its neighbor. But to the animal, the whole wide world is open. Animals are rootless, nourishment does not flow to them, mother Earth has unbound them. Freed from the bondage of vege¬ tative existence, they must care for themselves. They must, they can, help themselves. The mobility of animals fully corresponds to their nonhomogeneous space, a space filled with a varied distribution of goods. If everything necessary for sustenance were uniformly distributed, then

232

Sensing and Movement Considered Historiologically

mobility in such a homogeneous space would be without purpose. The respiration of terrestrial animals, corresponding to the ubiquity of atmospheric oxygen, is no locomotion, and, indeed, despite the striated muscular structure, is only in a limited sense active move¬ ment. Human and animal mobility is relative to terrestrial space, that is, space in which there is found food and drink, kindred mem¬ bers of the species and sexual partners, dangers and protection in varying distribution. The space of animal movement is not simply and only a field of gravity, but a field of action with zoomorphic con¬ figuration. It is divided into value regions, into sections which pre¬ sent themselves as hospitable and friendly or inhospitable and hostile. Good quarters and bad are to be found not only in the cities of man. The surrounding world of the various species are divided into regions of the alluring and frightening, of the desirable and the repugnant. Animal movement is primarily goal directed. It is search or flight, attack or defense, not a mere traversing from one point in a field to the next. The environment (Umwelt) of the animal is charged with appetitive vectors. It is not arranged in a system with measurable co-ordinates intersecting at an arbitrary zero point, but, rather, physiognomically determined by a center which is the specific here of the animal’s present place and which is directed according to value toward plurality of theres. In all forms of animal motion, locomotion, in attack and defense, uttering and listening, incorporation and expelling, in begetting, in play, in productive movement, the total motorium is engaged, al¬ though in alternating distribution of components. It is not the quad¬ riceps which flees, but the animal as a whole which is in motion and directed toward its environment. There exists for each animal, ac¬ cording to its species, an intimate connection between specific forms of motion and specific modalities. But it is not the retina which di¬ rects the attack; it is the animal which moves itself in its visible sur¬ rounding world. It is not stimuli which make the muscles contract, it is the objects within the sensory horizon which determine the direc¬ tions of movement. By means of their musculature, man and animal move themselves in a manner prescribed to them by the total organization of their structural form. The forward direction of human movement is de¬ termined as much by the anatomy of the trunk and limbs as it is by motor and sensory organization. Macroscopic configuration and nat¬ ural size are decisive. Microbiological investigations teach us of the relation between histological elements and a physical or chemical field. A thirsty deer seeks drinking water; a few molecules of H20 are

THE RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN

SENSING AND MOVING

233

of no use to him. The animal moves in a macroscopically scaled en¬ vironment. The army of millions of muscle fibers acts like so many tactical groupings set into motion according to the rapidly changing total situation. In the functional circuit of muscle cells the dissimilative, the actual phase of action, is promptly adjusted to external processes. The assimilatory phase of restitution runs its course in its own slow rhythm under hormonal, vegetative control. The restitu¬ tion takes place in an inner milieu which has been insulated against the fluctuations and instabilities of the “external world.” Thus the motions of the muscles take place within the organism as well, but only insofar as they are in the body of a living creature which, as a sensing being, is oriented to the total space of the environing world and is relating itself to it.

Sensation and Movement Just as sight, hearing, touch, and taste are interrelated, so is sensing as such bound in an inner connection to vital, living move¬ ment. The music and the movements of a march, the music and the movements of a dance are intermodally united. There are no particu¬ lar kinds of association which tie motion to sound and rhythm, mo¬ tion quite immediately follows music. Long before the youngster is taught conventional dance steps, he dances in rings, hops to the hop¬ ping movement of a polka, is drawn by the music of a march into the ranks of the marching columns. The dance as an art form is possible only as a specific shaping of this general, antecedently existing unity of sense impressions and movement. The motions of a dance may be as artistic as you please, but that which is artistic, invented, and teachable in it is always only a particular instance of that universal which is the nonartistic, uninvented, and unlearned original unity of music and movement. It is important to understand properly the universality and gen¬ erality of this connection. The unity of sensing and moving becomes obvious in the phenomenon of the dance, but it is a unity not lim¬ ited only to this particular case. It encompasses all sensing and all animated movement, just as the unity of the senses is not limited to the exceptional case of synesthesia. Empirical psychology has, in the particular phenomenon of the synesthesias, rediscovered the problem of the unity of the senses. But it has allowed these phenomena to remain in their particularity with

234

Sensing and Movement Considered Historiologically

the consequence that what is sought are particular explanations. A theory, however, which reduces intermodal phenomena to particular physiological partial processes is barred from grasping the unity of the senses as it manifests itself in all other sensory processes and phe¬ nomena. If the senses stand in an inner connectedness only to the ex¬ tent that there are similar partial processes, then we must conclude that the senses are as different and divergent as are the different physiological processes which underlie various sensory impressions. The general aspects of this problem have been brought to issue by philosophy. Unfortunately philosophy has not considered the unity of the senses as a unity of the modalities of sensation, but has rather interpreted it as a bringing together of sensory impressions.1 Thus, philosophical inquiry has also stopped just at the borders of the problem. How could the problem of movement and the inter¬ relationship of sensing and movement emerge in a line of thought which treats the experiencing subject as a knowing, universal, and extramundane subject? The recognition of a phenomenon like spon¬ taneous motion fundamental for both animal and human existence is almost entirely eliminated from philosophical reflections.2 However, the moment we do away with the gap between the self and its world and no longer consider sensing merely as a preliminary to knowing, the moment we cease viewing the subject from the per¬ spective of the completed and perfected, then sensing reveals itself as belonging necessarily with movement. If the sensing subject is viewed as a being who experiences the world by uniting and separat¬ ing, then sensing cannot be taken as standing by itself and as separated from motion. For, as uniting and separating, sensing and movement belong in the same context. The alluring and frightening is alluring and frightening only for a being which can direct itself, which can approach or retreat, for a being, in short, which can

move. In everyday speech, we use expressions like “charming” or “frightening,” “tempting,” or “threatening” to denote properties in the same way that we speak of color or weight or size in describing a thing. But if we assert that a thing has this or that color, weighs so many pounds, or is of a particular size, we are designating properties which refer to the thing itself (the ding-an-sich in the sense of our everyday orientation, that is, as it is independent of the observer’s standpoint). Color, size, and weight are understood as nonperspec¬ tive, objective properties; thus they are the ones used by the law to describe a criminal so that everyone may recognize him as the man being hunted.

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235

But a thing can be alluring only to a being which can draw near to it, or whom the alluring thing may approach, a being who can either open or close itself to the object. The alluring constitutes it¬ self only within the possibility of approach and withdrawal, of self¬ opening and self-closing. It is not the physiological functions of the sense organs which make a being into a sensing being, but rather this possibility of a drawing near, which belongs neither to sensation alone nor to motion alone. For me here, at this spot, the alluring is there, but it is alluring only insofar as I have the possibility of get¬ ting there and in some way uniting with it. And it is alluring only as long as I have not yet brought about this union. I sense the alluring now, but in the mode of not-yet-being-one-with-it, that is, within the possibility of changing, drawing near, and uniting. All objects of sensing have a characteristic temporal horizon. They refer beyond the present to the future. The alluring and the frightening, and thus the act of drawing near, can only be experi¬ enced by a being which experiences itself as a being which becomes, which changes. Those attributes of objects which constitute the orig¬ inal theme of sensing exist only for a being which can change itself. In cases where all movement is hindered, in shackling, it is true that the execution of movements is prohibited, but the power to move nevertheless remains. This is why a man chained to a wall and in an angry rage seems comical. The effect of the comical stems from the contrast of the threat of violence and the actual physical restraint which makes realization of the threat impossible. The widespread tendency to tease caged animals arises from the pleasure of witness¬ ing this contrast between impotence and wildly threatening power. All such cases are examples of uniting and separating, of drawing near, and the process of change and becoming. In this respect, the possibility of motion precedes the act of moving. To repeat: Only a being whose structure affords it the possibility of movement can be a sensing being.3 No one seriously doubts that some such interrelationship exists. Indeed, this fact is taken so much for granted that the nature of this interrelationship rarely is investigated. Psychology cannot really be reproached for not having recognized the problem of the relation be¬ tween sensing and locomotion. But it has stopped short at an expla¬ nation which allows only an external relationship, a control of “movement” by “sensation,” a regulation of the motorium by the sensorium. From the point of view of physiology, the processes of sensing and moving, remain, of course, separated. The measurable duration of reflexes indicates that two temporally distinct processes

236

Sensing and Movement Considered Historiologically

must be involved. And in any case, physiological investigations can only proceed analytically. The postulate of organismic unity does not arise from physiological observations as such; it is presupposed and stems basically from the knowledge that the object of physiology is an “animated” organism. The organism is a unity only in its com¬ portment toward its world, that is, as an animal’s body or a man’s body, but not as an isolated organism acted on and reacting to cer¬ tain processes. Insofar, now, as psychology aligns itself with physiol¬ ogy and interprets sensations merely as contents of consciousness accompanying afferent processes and treats all motion as muscle per¬ formance, then the inner connection between sensing and movement will never be understood. The interrelatedness of sensorium and motorium can never be more than a merely external connection, and even if the closest kind of mutual dependence be demonstrable, it is still taken as an external relationship. The question as to the unity of sensing and moving is a purely psychological question. Just as the unity of the senses does not depend on the similarity of the sensations themselves, but rather re¬ fers to the community of seeing and hearing as variations in the communication between self and world, so the unity of sensation and motion is not to be sought in a partial equation of the processes of sensation and motion, but rather in the unity of sensing and moving. It is not the processes in the organism which constitute a unity, but rather the modes of being-in-the-world which we distinguish as sens¬ ing and moving in a living being. In order to understand sensing, we have to understand animated movement first.

(c)

The Reification of Motion

Physiological psychology attempted to derive all forms of mo¬ tion from reflex motion. The formation of connections between reflexes, the “participation of consciousness” are supposed to lead to a heightening and integration of reflex activity to the extent that instinctive, automatic motion and, finally, voluntary movement, emerge out of them. According to this view, the subject of reflex and voluntary movement are the same. A fundamental error! The subject of reflex motion is the muscle or the sensomotorium; the subject of spontaneous motion is the animal or the man. A muscle is set in mo¬ tion, but a man moves. Because the subjects of mechanical and spon¬ taneous motion are not the same, it makes no sense to construct a

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progressively complex continuum of motions leading from reflex ac¬ tion to voluntary movement. The conception of motion of mathematical physics must not be uncritically adopted by biology and psychology. The Cartesian the¬ ory of motion which, until today has in many respects remained au¬ thoritative for cinematics, is not as clear and distinct as Descartes thought it to be; and it certainly provides no solution fitting for the psychological problems of motion.4 From the concepts of space, matter, corporeality and motion, Des¬ cartes deduced the “laws of nature”: the law of the conservation of the quantity of motion, the law of inertia, and the law of motion in a straight line. The psychologist who intends to build his theory of mo¬ tion on the propositions which physics makes about motion must not forget that structure of space, matter and motion for which these propositions are valid. The impressive accomplishments of theoreti¬ cal physics, the cumulative verification which practice gives to its tenets, only too easily mask the problematic nature of its fundamen¬ tals. To be sure, developments of the last decades have forced physics to re-examine these fundamental premises. The physicist himself warns against uncritically applying the tenets of his science to other sciences. The hope of subjecting all other intellectual disci¬ plines to the principles of classical physics has not been realized: “The reason is that the basic concepts underlying any particular sys¬ tem of laws allow that only very strictly defined questions make sense, questions which thereby exclude application to equally defined issues in other systems. In the exact natural sciences, the transition from an established area of investigation to a new sphere of experi¬ ence can never be smooth to the degree that already ascertained laws can simply and immediately be applied anew. Rather, a really new sphere of experience always leads to a new system of scientific con¬ cepts and laws no less capable of rational analysis, but basically dif¬ ferent from previous concepts and laws. For this reason modern physics differs from classical physics in its relation to those provinces of science which are not part of its own field of investigation.”5 Had nineteenth-century psychology not so extensively subordi¬ nated itself to mathematical natural science, it would never have tried to explain voluntary motion as an aggregate of reflex move¬ ment and other heterogeneous pieces. The question as to the subject of motion would have sufficed to establish the preliminary frame¬ work.6 The reality of reflex motion need not be doubted in order to save the phenomenon of spontaneous motion. With the former, we speak of processes in the organism whose subject of movement is the

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senso-motorium, in the latter, we mean a relation to the world whose subject is the living being, animal or man.

The Prescientific View Viewpoint Prescientific experience underscores the difference between living motion and the movement of dead things. A football in a game does not move in the same way as the player does; this everyone sees and knows. The difference between the being of a living creature and a dead thing is manifested in the dissimilarity of their move¬ ment. In our everyday life, the absence or presence of spontaneous movement is the most important criterion for differentiating in par¬ ticular cases between the living and the nonliving. But how is spon¬ taneous motion itself to be distinguished from mechanical motion? What are the universal trademarks of living movement? Prescientific experience cannot give a very precise answer to this question. Of course, most people confronted with a specific case would decide cor¬ rectly, but they would hardly know how to articulate the grounds for this, rather than the other choice. Perhaps they would refer to the contraries of activity and passivity; the ball is thrown, but the player throws the ball, sets it in motion. Further, the goal directedness of spontaneous motion, its spontaneity and appropriateness to the situ¬ ation would be quite easily noted. But the contrast, in particular cases, between the certainty of the decision and the inadequate knowledge of the grounds of the decision still exist. An explanation of this contrast should no longer embarrass us. In everyday life, the individual does not decide such issues as an objective observer. His decision is biased, not objective. From his communication with things, he establishes whether something moves with him, who moves himself, or not. He judges the kind of partnership without re¬ flecting on the manner of his own motion. Prescientific experience thus presents a problem to science, and it might be hoped that science will close the gaps detected therein. But such expectations soon come to grief. It appears as though the prob¬ lem of motion is essentially the same for mechanics, physiology, and psychology. And psychology especially seems to think its problem solved when, accepting the physiological analyses of motor perform-

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ances, it considers them as accompanied by kinesthetic sensations and images. Psychology thereby sets itself again in strict opposition to prescientific experience which thinks of locomotion, living motion, not in terms of muscle function, but as “moving with,” co-operat¬ ing with us who ourselves do move. We certainly experience our own movement not as muscular action, but as conduct in relation to the world. A psychology which makes its theory of motion dependent on physiology necessarily loses sight of the genuine psychological prob¬ lem of motion as such. Cartesian philosophy has already anticipated this position: “It is, however, quite clear that these (the abilities to change place and shape), as far as they exist, must dwell within a corporal, i.e., ex¬ tended substance and not in a thinking substance. For, the clear and distinct idea of this contains some sort of extension, but no intellec¬ tion whatsoever.”7 All motion including animated motion is, accord¬ ing to Descartes, to be understood as purely corporal, as obeying the laws of general mechanics. Descartes himself has, in more than one place, tried to give a mechanistic physiology of bodily movement. His explanation, which reduces muscular action itself to the motions of “animal spirits,” does not, to be sure, correspond in detail with the views of modern physiology. But the principle of explaining all liv¬ ing movement as motor processes remains the same. The question arises whether it is in fact at all permissible to ex¬ plain spontaneous movement as the execution of isolated movements or whether, when physiology has completed its task, there still re¬ mains a particularly psychological problem of motion. Physiology of motion assumes all movements to be processes within the organism. May phenomena of motion such as dancing be therewith under¬ stood? Would a knowledge of all individual muscular actions occur¬ ring during a dance provide an explanation of the phenomenon of dancing? And, indeed, is a dance a peculiar combination of processes in an organism, or is it not to be understood first of all as the relation of a living being to the world? But we can marshal forth even simpler examples in support of our position; suppose, for example, I lift my arm in a vertical position and point at the ceiling. Physiology teaches that in such a case the delta muscle and the musculus serratus anticus are the main agonists. But what has the contraction of both these muscles to do with the raising of the arm considered as a relation to the world? If spontaneous animal movement were really identical with physiological process, then such apparently spontaneous acting would be nothing but the awareness of having moved. For all I could

240

Sensing and Movement Considered Historiologically

do in this particular case is to establish the fact that an arm, which I call mine, moved, that its position in space has been changed. Human and animal motion is, according to traditional psychol¬ ogy, an extremely complex configuration. Its most important compo¬ nent is the motor process. This takes place, indeed, in the organism, but has the effect that the body’s situation in space is changed. Such change of spatial position is registered by the sensations of the senses of sight and touch. But these two alone, together with the motor process, do not suffice to create the experience of active motion. It is, in fact, quite clear that if no relation to the world is involved, but rather, only the organization of impressions of varying origin, im¬ pressions, moreover, which are always mere accompaniments of phys¬ iological processes—then, if this is so, perception of the body’s changed spatial position in no way indicates whether this movement is the result of external forces or processes in the organism. Motor processes are, of course, indisputably accompanied by kinesthetic sen¬ sations. But this ensemble, motor process-kinesthetic sensations, vis¬ ual sensations, can it alone call forth the impression of voluntary self-movement? Certainly not. For if in kinesthetic sensations the inner motor processes are somehow noticed, it is only these inner happenings of which we are aware, not external events. The sensa¬ tions of tension which, in walking, are called forth by the function of the pelvic muscles can never convey the impression of forward move¬ ment. The optical and tactile sensations which, indeed, also arise from within the organism and from within regulate the motor proc¬ ess, could, when “projected outward’’ never form a meaningful or¬ ganization with the kinesthetic sensations. The “without” and “within” remain separated; physiological psychology is not in a posi¬ tion to explain how we get the illusory impression that we are moving spontaneously. If, now, we added to all this the idea of a goal which is supposed to precede and call forth these motor proc¬ esses, then the situation grows even more confused. For the notion of a goal implies a goal as something anticipated in the future; but a goal intended in the future can have no causal efficacy; only the present image of the goal understood as physiological process, could cause the physiological process of motor discharge. Nevertheless we must not forget that it is not imagination as such which is effective, but the imagining of a goal. This whole confusion of inner sensa¬ tions which represent something external, external sensations regu¬ lating inner processes, images which intend something in the future but which are effective in the present, can no longer be remedied by merely patchwork additions. The whole theoretical conception is

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unsound. It appears plausible only as long as the meaning of its propositions are not rigorously examined, so that unnoticed so many of the forbidden pre-scientific notions as are needed can be silently included to fill the gaps and veil the paradoxes.

(e)

“Within” and “Without” Are Phenomena of the Field of Action

To reach a better understanding we must rid ourselves of a series of prejudices. First, we must attack the problem of “within” and “without.” In a previous chapter I have already alluded to Lotze’s formulation of the problem. Lotze, assiduously keeping the issues separate, maintains “that originally all sensations are present in consciousness only with their qualitative content and intend neither external nor, in contrast, internal phenomena.”8 But before and after him, the immanence of sensations in consciousness has all too easily been understood as a spatial property of sensations, as a being-in “within” consciousness, or even in the nervous system. Espe¬ cially physiological psychology, compelled by its basic epiphenomenalism, has understood the issue in such a way, as though the connectedness of sensations to organs lying within the body makes the sensations themselves internal phenomena. The content of the sensations are supposed to reflect the “being-within.”9 The polar antithesis of within and without is such that the within and the without are treated as independent, separable ele¬ ments. The within can exist even if there be no without. All sensa¬ tions are supposed to be derived from processes within the organism and capable of being completely reduced to such inner processes. As light rays touch and excite the retina, sensations would have to spread like a thin veil over the retina. The conditions for the forma¬ tion of sensations would have to be locatable in their content, the relation between sensation and its object would have to correspond to the relation between stimulus and reaction, and the sensations would at least have to resemble the processes in the sensory nerves. Thus we come to the optical sensations which possess only two-di¬ mensional extension, space without depth, “within” without “with¬ out.” In such a separation the within and without are thought of as ob¬ jective, general, spatial relations. But is such an assumption correct?

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Two chairs stand next to each other; would anyone claim that either stands to the other as outside of it? Or are two sheep in a flock reciprocally in the relation of within and without? Or two balls of fire? If they are two of a kind, then they are interchangeable and the relation must be reciprocal. If one ball is outside, then the other must be also. The relationship is thus not completely objectifiable. But perhaps I have been clumsy in my choice of examples. Perhaps they are not legitimate cases for representing the within-without re¬ lationship. Be that as it may, one would have to admit that one chair cannot be in the other, nor one sheep in another, nor one ball of fire in another. But must it not therefore be true of what is not “within” that it is “without”? How do we distinguish the relationship of being next-to from that of within-without? We might imagine the following: We have two experimental sub¬ jects; each of them has served as an object in the other’s psychologi¬ cal experiment. And now A says of B that he has seen B as being without and B says the same thing of A. Whom shall the experi¬ menter say is right? This example, too, shows that without and within are not purely objectifiable relations. But again we have made the same kind of mistake as in the preceding examples. We have ex¬ amined the relation of within-without with respect to two persons, but within and without is obviously not a relation that exists be¬ tween two persons, two living creatures, two things, or two partial spaces. Is it perhaps the relation of an encompassing to and encom¬ passed space? Let us try that. There is a car. We seat ourself in it and shut the door behind us. Now we are inside it. The space which the walls of the car encompass is “within” and the space which encompasses the car is “without.” Let us pursue our experiment further, let us allow the car to move forward a few yards. We are then still in our “within,” but the neigh¬ boring space is now our “without.” Yet we never think of calling the newly reached place “outside” as long as we remain in the car. Within and without are thus not purely spatial relations. No matter how far we drive, be it to the ends of the earth, or, were it possible to traverse the whole of finite or infinite outer space, we would always be within and the specific surroundings would be without. The relation of within and without is thus not a mere neighborhood relation, it is a relation to the totality of the world. But then, within and without are not purely physical relations. In our flying automobile we might surmise that the relation of within and without, though not purely spatial, is the relation of a thing to the totality of the spatial universe. Let us check this opinion

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further. We allow our automobile to land again on earth; since it is a pleasant summer day, we put our convertible top down. Now even in this open car we are still “within,” otherwise a sudden collision could not have the power of hurling us out. And the map next to us on the seat, is it within? And what of the air which rushes past us when we drive, the air which is pulled briefly into the car and then is just as quickly forced out? But we must be careful and avoid discussing two issues at the same time. For, with the last question, we were trying to determine whether the shape of the container is decisive for the “within,” while at the same time questioning whether with a given container being “within” has the same sense as applied to all things and living crea¬ tures. We stop the car, and while we are stopped a winged insect flits quickly past us. Was it within? We start moving again, this time at top speed; a wasp is drawn in because it cannot resist the strength of the air currents; is it within now? Does, then, within and without have something to do with action, with self-movement and the ability of self-movement? If that were so, then, strictly speaking, one could not say of dead things that they are in a space, say, or in a room. The space enclosed by the walls of a room becomes an inner space only for a being which in its totality relates itself to the totality of the world and who encounters the limits of the possibilities of its ac¬ tion; the boundaries of the room are that which cuts a man off from the totality of his world. Because he has the possibility of stepping beyond these boundaries, the walls and the door become limits. Be¬ cause he has the power of relating himself, as an individual, to the totality of the world, then the limits themselves must be pervasive and many sided. The boundaries are relative to the action system of the bound person. Man, whose forms of movement do not include floating up¬ ward, is “within” in an open car as well; he is also “within” when trapped in a deep ditch whose slippery walls he cannot climb. The container need not be shut on every side; it need only be such that, with respect to the action system of the confined person, all directions of possible action are limited. The relation of within and without hold not only for him who is locked in but also for him who is shut out. I can be locked in a prison; but in my study I can shut out the noises, inquisitiveness, and obtrusiveness of the world. A summer porch renders good service if, while open to one side, it keeps away rain and wind, glaring sun, and dust. I am “within,” while these must remain “without.”

244

Sensing and Movement Considered Historiologically

But I myself can also be “without,” outside, as, for instance, when I notice, on returning home, that I have forgotten my key and can¬ not get into my house. The same kind of thing can happen with a closet or a trunk; whatever the closet or the trunk contains is, for me, “inside,” within, because I cannot get to it. Within and without are separated by a limit of possible action. Such relations are always rela¬ tive to a being which, as a becoming entity, relates itself to the to¬ tality of the world. It behaves as a becoming entity only insofar as it relates itself to that which is possible for it. Because we are used to thinking of houses and rooms as places to live, closets and trunks as useful objects, because, in our daily life, we thus immediately see such things in their relation to human inhabit¬ ants and their needs, we are apt to understand the within and with¬ out as a spatial-corporal property. But the relation of within and without is not a spatial phenome¬ non, it is a phenomenon of the scope of action. It is articulated as being-locked-in, being-shut-out, and secluding oneself. My point is jokingly made in the following problem: A young man living on the ground floor of an apartment is exchanging some words with his girl friend who is standing outside. As she is about to leave, he leans out the window to kiss her goodbye. He bends so far forward that the whole upper part of his body is leaning across the window ledge. Question: Is the young man at this moment inside or outside? Some will say that he is inside because his feet are inside, that the issue depends, literally, on the standpoint. Others would think the head more important and hesitantly conclude that the young man is outside. Both parties are wrong; the problem, or, rather, the pseudo-prob¬ lem, arises because within and without are regarded not as phenom¬ ena of the field of action, but as elements peculiar to a location as such. If, however, within-without is a relation which exists only for a being which as a becoming entity relates itself to the totality of the world, then within and without cannot be attached to sensations after the event. For only as sensing and moving beings do man and animal so relate themselves to the world; only as sensing and moving are they able to extend themselves in a plurality of directions, a plu¬ rality of directions with its horizons and also its limits. Within-with¬ out is essentially a limiting and apportioning of the relation of the self to the world. Just as there is no such thing as a “within” or “without” in and for itself, so there can be no self as such or world as such with fixed borderlines between them delimiting the within and

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the without. The borderline does not hue precisely to the surface of the organism’s body as that which separates that body from its en¬ vironment. (Neither does it separate the givens of the inner from those of the outer senses.) Thus sensation is not at all within the or¬ ganism. True, eminently true, that seeing has something to do with processes in the optic nerves; this does not justify saying of either the seeing or the processes that they are “within.” The processes in the optic nerves are processes in the optic nerve, and nothing else. To understand them as purely physiological or even mechanical is to say that they take place in the optic nerve and to give their location. But, in themselves, these processes are not within, except for the ob¬ server who is “outside” and has no entry into the skull of the ob¬ served. Sensations are not inside him who senses. The bodily interior is experienced as within only under certain circumstances, particularly in illness, fatigue, or collapse.10 If, suddenly, I am no longer indiffer¬ ent to my body, if I suddenly give my attention to its functions and processes, then my body as a whole is objectified, becomes to me an Other, a part of the outside world. And though I may also be able to feel the inner processes, I am myself excluded, indeed I may even go to another person for his opinion and advice about what is happen¬ ing in my body. Thus, visceral sensations are not inside and visual sensations outside. At just that point when in sickness and in pain I experience my objectified body, it becomes to me something external, something from which I myself am excluded. So much so, indeed, that I can decide to sacrifice a finger, an arm, or an appendix in order to save myself. At the same time, my body becomes for me a prison where I am locked in as I might be in a room or a cell. Because the body has become an object for me, the border between the within and the without can be so drawn that it separates the organism from its surroundings; I am, in my body, tied to the sickbed. The body is the mediator between the self and the world. It be¬ longs fully neither to the “inner” nor to the “outer.” Though to be sure I feel pain in my body, I do so with a peculiar ambiguity. I suffer it in my body, and yet I myself am excluded from the hurting organ, I feel the break-down and with it I am cut off from the world. Here, too, the mediating character of the body reveals itself. It is clear to see that within and without represent an articulation of the relation of self to world. The separation of within from without refers to my world, it does not separate the world from the self, nor things from things, nor space from space. Therefore, to speak of within and without in reference to the

246

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self’s relation to its world is not to speak of spatial relations. The re¬ lation of inner and outer, self and world, is not the relation of two spaces known as the bodily interior and exterior. Man’s first utter¬ ance, the infant’s cry, is not a bringing into the outside of something that had been inside; crying is expression; by means of a bodily hap¬ pening, the tiny being expresses himself as an entity. In crying, too, all sorts of processes go on in the organism. And yet crying is not a process in the organism. The cry renders a momentary relation of a self to the world explicit; it does not shift something from the inside to the outside. Nor is sensing to be understood as such a shifting. Like crying, sensing renders explicit the particular and momentarily defined relation of self and world. But sensing brings neither some¬ thing from inside to the outside, nor something that is outside to the inside. Sensory nerves are in a place, neural processes occur in a place; but sensing is not subject to such topography. He who sees sensing as a process in the organism and who thinks he must be able to rediscover the details of the process in the content of sensing, forgets that he investigates sensations in another organism before he has investigated sensing itself. He forgets that it is only by virtue of his own sensing that the separation of within and without has become possible for him. The nineteenth-century theory of sensation took that which is an individual being’s orientation to the world and gave it a universal, spatial reinterpretation. The within was made into a separable spatial property attributable to the investigated object (the sensory nerve). A determination which had meaning only for the sensing subject in his relation to the world was looked on as part and parcel of the individual sensation itself, and sensation was seen as a func¬ tion of the sensory nerves. Because of an insufficiently analyzed con¬ cept of sensing, the nerve was assigned a false regional determination which then by the principle of the translation is transferred to the sensation. The original, that which is translated, is never seen by the translator. He comes to know it only via a retranslation in a foreign language, the language of physiology. And the translations themselves are not carried out with philological rigor or fidelity. The original seems, rather, to be so well known that no one thinks it necessary to check once more against the original text. And yet for a long time now we have known the original only via corrupt and distorted trans¬ lations. Let us try once again to formulate it with all possible precision: The observer is himself a sensing and perceiving subject. As a sensing subject, he has a world and is aware of himself in his world. It is or-

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ganized into a within and a without which serve as the particular boundary lines of his relation to the world. The within and without are relative to the sensing individual and his total relation to the world. This relation is divided into a being-within (being enclosed), a being-without (being excluded) and a being secluded. In his world, the observer encounters other things and other or¬ ganisms; as someone endowed with sensing, he is aware that they are alive; this he knows from the community of speaking and the community of sensing and moving. He does not learn it by studying anatomy and physiology. The knowledge that belongs to sensing must occur where sensing itself takes place. But the theory of sensation never attempted to know sensing as it is in itself. It skipped its own proper subject mat¬ ter and immediately proceeded by a detour toward a physiology of sensation (though, of course, it never recognized it as a detour). Directed by the principle of deficiency, it recognized that sensing was a function of the sensory nerves. Excluded from the “within” of the alien organism and its experience, it took the relation of within, which has meaning only relative to an observer, and interpreted it as something objective and universal. It interpreted the field of action as a purely geometrical phenomenon. It finally convinced itself that the individual originally experiences himself within the boundaries of the surface of his body.

(f)

Totality and Limit

A thing as such has no boundaries; in it, the thing, is only a sum of neighborhood relations. The surface of a metal ball is not its boundary; it could have boundaries, limits, only as a unity which re¬ lated itself, as a totality, to the world. Men and animals can experi¬ ence limits for, as beings which sense and move, they relate to the world in its totality. Such a relation cannot be localized in a particu¬ lar region of space, for it is not the kind of a relation which can be represented by spatial proximities. As long as we take sensing to be merely a function of the body and thus make it participate in the body’s particularity and spatial structure, we will never grasp the problem of totality orientation, and the phenomenal content of sens¬ ing will be barred from us. Psychology is not simply an adjunct of physiology. The animal is not simply a physiological apparatus out¬ fitted with the luxurious accessory of experience. Animation implies

248

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a radical transformation, it implies an orientation, a relating to the world. The animal, man, is in such a relation; in sensing I have more than a merely sensory quality; in sensing I have myself, myself and the other, the world. Individual sensations are limits of the totality relation; as these particular limits, they are implicitly related to the totality. The content of sensing can not be exhausted by merely enu¬ merating all the individual object data which are apprehended by sensing. The totality relation as such cannot be graphically represented by one picture, just as little as can becoming in general, which, as a be¬ coming different, has a “not” as its correlate. It is the individual sen¬ sations which can be graphically represented, as indeed, can the content of sensations with respect to their quality, intensity, and ob¬ jective spatio-temporal order and also—at least hypothetically—the structure and function of the corresponding organs. The same holds true of motions. Individual motions, both simple and complex, can be represented graphically as can the organism’s change of posture and location and, again, at least hypothetically, the cells, nerves, muscles, sinews and joints with regard to their structure and function in the motor apparatus. But the sum of sensations can never add up to sensing, nor can the sum of particular motions add up to locomo¬ tion. Both sensing and locomotion are understandable only as a totality relation, only, that is, as experience. A logical interpretation of sensations leads us to physics and physiology. To proceed the opposite way is not feasible. For from in¬ dividual sensations and individual motions we cannot reach an understanding of sensing and locomotion. A totality relation is not derivable from specific processes and cannot be represented as the sum of such processes. As long as psychology does not recognize the totality relation, it will remain a physiological psychology which seeks to comprehend experience with alien and inadequate categories. Such a psychology cannot let anything in experience stand which cannot first be under¬ stood by an inverted psychophysics as a neural process. A nerve and a muscle does not stand in a totality relation. The nervus opticus and the musculus trapezius are pieces, parts, members of an object-organic structure in which all processes are individual processes. But sensing is not made up of sensations, nor is locomotion made up of individual motions. The sensing individual always finds his totality relation to the world delimited in different ways in par¬ ticular sensations. The individual’s totality relation to the world is always realized in individual movements; he hits on one direction

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among many possible directions and comes upon a new delimitation always within the totality relation. This relation can be one, and can remain one amid changing experiences only if in experience it is one world which presents its several aspects and varying boundaries to the individual. The unity of the self is intimately bound to the unity of its world. The self which persists amid the fluctuations of experi¬ ence is a self in a state of becoming. For a becoming self, each of its moments is for it only a particular delimitation of its totality. The totality relation is one of the potentialities. It is actualized and specifically articulated in individual and specific sensations. In moving himself, the individual presses beyond his present limita¬ tions to find himself enclosed by new boundaries; he passes from one Now to another Now, from Here to another Here. Here and Now belong to every sensation and every movement. The Here and the Now are the expression of the actualization, delimitation, and specificity of the totality relation.

(g)

Concerning the Now and the Here

The question as to the genesis of our conceptions of space and time is academically (that is, from the standpoint of physiological psychology) a reasonable one. Even the empiricist thesis which claims that sensations are in themselves primarily spaceless and timeless givens of pure quality and intensity can be a matter for thoughtful discussion. But he who denies that to every act of sensing and mov¬ ing there corresponds a Here and a Now is implicitly denying that there is such a thing as sensing and locomotion at all. How could we speak of an animal moving itself if we did not understand his motion as tending in a direction, as a motion which leads from a Here to a There, from a Now to a Then? And how else could the Here and Now be given if not in sensing? And so, the question could be put thus: If the Here and the Now do not belong to sensing, to what sphere of experience do they belong? In the question as to the genesis of conceptions of space and time, space and time are meant as the contents of a consciousness directed toward objects. The question is whether spatial and temporal data are received, that is, apprehended in sensations in the same way as are purely sensory qualities. Space and time stand over against the subject just as do red and blue. The thinking or sensing subject ap¬ prehends spatial and temporal data as something other than himself.

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Sensing and Movement Considered Historiologically

The subject establishes facts about objective, spatial relations, places, locations, and extensions, and similarly establishes facts about objec¬ tive temporal relations, moments, duration, and change. In the dis¬ pute between the nativists and empiricists, the issue was, of course, the nature of Space and Time, that is, objective, universal space, and objective, universal time. But the Here and Now are neither universal nor objective. Every Here is my Here and every Now my Now. Only within the self-world relation can they reveal themselves as this relation’s articulated de¬ limitations. Here and Now are neither determinable from within the world alone nor the self alone. A Here or a Now can exist only for me in my world, but both are particular delimitations of the to¬ tality of my self-world relation. It is in the Here and Now that the totality of the self-world rela¬ tion is revealed in its particular and detailed delimitation. Every Now is followed by another Now, and this by a third. Of no single one of these can it be said that this is the Now, but, rather, for all mo¬ ments it can be said, regardless of their content, that they are “now.”11 Thus the term “now” paradoxically points to no general, objective moment as such, but to each moment as mine. In a marvel¬ ous epitomization, language brings together in this one expression, “now,” the fact that the immediate sensory experience of a self-world relation which is mine is a total relation, but one which is essentially specific and particular. It is only all these elements put together which defines the Now. The Now is not separable from its content; indeed, it clings to its content. It points to the specific delimitation of the totality which is of its essence. The Now belongs to no specified content, yet it also be¬ longs to every content. It belongs to none, in that the contents as such may—statistically—be taken with respect to their timeless “What”; but it belongs to each content insofar as each is a transi¬ tion, a becoming different. The Now is separated from the Not-yetnow and from the No-longer-now; the Now is actually a point in time. The fleetingness of the temporal, the transition from the Notyet through the Now to the No-longer, belongs to the essence of the Now. The Now refers to the Not-now of the past and the future. In the Now, I experience my self-world relation and my self as that which becomes. By clinging to its content in every transition, by al¬ lowing all contents to exist in the full arbitrariness of a Now, the Now indicates each moment as only a moment of one totality rela¬ tion, as its particular delimitation. What does it mean when I call out “now!” and again “now!” to someone in order to bring some-

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thing which is only momentarily visible to his attention? To what do I address myself?—to the community of our experience. As a “we,” we have a common Now. By abruptly and vehemently crying “Now!” I am saying “only now.” Every Now is an Only-now, for now it is no longer Now. But the Only is a restricting determination. If the Now is defined as an Only-now, it is done with regard to the specific, at hand delimitation of the totality. I reach a limit as a limit only if I can reach beyond it, penetrate beyond it. Thus, one of the essential properties of sensations is that they are limits which I can overreach in all directions. The con¬ tinuum of my becoming and the spatio-temporal structure of my world are grounded in the totality-relation. In all that offers itself to my senses, I am up against a particular limit, not a termination, of the world. As specific and therefore as setting up limits beyond which I direct myself (both are inseparably founded in the totality rela¬ tion), phenomena reveal themselves as resistant. Resistance, friction, does not exist merely as a quality of something physically tangible and touched; resistance exists only for a prior directedness toward totality; but such a directedness toward totality means that what re¬ sists is already overcome. That which resists stands between me and that larger something toward which I am antecedently directed. Re¬ sistant limitations enclose, surround, or exclude me. A resistant limi¬ tation has something behind it which it keeps from me, or something inside it which I cannot get at. Every limit has two sides to it. The reverse side of things is also an original given, but only as based on the totality relation, by virtue of which that which is seen and touched appears as something which limits and to which there there¬ fore corresponds an “in front of” and “in back of.” These observations will almost certainly be thought of as pica¬ yune. Of course, it will be said, if you really want to stretch a point or two you might see such things as having something to do with sens¬ ing, but to say that they are primal, essential aspects of sensing—no, out of the question! Are you trying to tell us that all this about total¬ ity and particularity, that all this about the Now and many-sided di¬ rectedness, limitation, and resistance, within and without, that all this is supposed to be true of sensing and movement in animals as well? I answer that it is just the way animals behave which offers us the most useful examples. How are we to understand a hen scratching at the ground, a bird picking up a seed, or any other animal trying in its way to get to the inner part, the kernel of a fruit? How are we to understand the fact that a wild rabbit digs a hole in the ground, or that a dog reacts

252

Sensing and Movement Considered Historiologically

to an obstacle by jumping over it or, perhaps, running around it to get to the other side? Must it not be so that resistance, limitation, and that which lies behind or within are here antecedently given? It is not hard to entice a dog to dig any place we wish. There at the place that we show him and make “tasty” for him, he imme¬ diately turns up the soil, buries his snout as deeply as possible in it, ferrets and digs, digs and ferrets. Now let us assume that physiology has analysed the process of the digging movements in all their de¬ tails, that it has taken stance and position into account, as well as equilibrium and center of gravity and knows all there is for physi¬ ology to know of these things—that it has complete knowledge of the activity of the agonists, antagonists, and synergists, the braking and alteration of individual movements, the movements guided by the kinesthetic sensations and external tactile stimuli, and, further, that it has exact information about the exchange of metabolic mate¬ rials, the expenditure of energy and the performance of work, about fatigue, about the co-ordination of motions by the CNS, its vegeta¬ tive steering, tonus, current of action and chronaxy; assume, in short, that it has answered every possible question which lies within its scope to ask. From this entire well of knowledge, we could still draw not one single answer to the question of self-movement and of dig¬ ging as one of its particular forms. It is possible for us to entice the animal to dig, although we do not, thereby, at the outset call forth olfactory stimuli by virtue of which the motorial mechanism is set in motion. Nor do we apply tactile stimuli to the paws or induce any sensations of smell or sound as such, that is, sensations as sense-physiology traditionally defines them. When the dog is enticed to dig, it is not that he is made aware of goals, but that he is shown a direction appropriate to him. He turns in a definite direction against the resistance of the soil toward the inner part of the earth. This directedness toward the interior of the earth, against a resistance and beyond a manifested limit which conceals that interior, cannot be explained by particular sensations and phases of motor activity. The unity of sensation and movement is grounded in the totality relation. The animal confronts resistance only insofar as it directs itself, and confronts a limit only insofar as it penetrates beyond the limit. No mere series of motions yields direc¬ tion and no series of received sensory contents yields resistance and limit. Without the animal-world totality relation, the turning to one present direction among many possible could not take place, nor could the momentary, ever-changing limit manifest it as such. The physiology of motion and the psychology of moving have different objects of study.

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(h) Movement and Motor Process The task of the physiology of motion is the analysis of motor processes. It investigates the processes which bring an organism of a particular species from a given starting point to a given end posi¬ tion. This basic orientation remains unchanged whether that which is investigated be simple or complex, unique or repeated motions or whether the starting and end positions are separated by many or few interphases. Neither does it matter if the individual processes, which the analysis must ascertain, are viewed as individual or as partial processes of a constellated movement. It will always be the case that the beginning and end positions will be understood as loci and situs in a field of gravity, and the processes as processes in an organism. The stimuli which activate the movements, just as the sen¬ sations which are necessary to control their execution, will be looked on as centripetal processes in the organism. Mutually conditioning centripetal and centrifugal processes are the two groups of events whose interaction physiology views as effecting co-ordinated move¬ ment. Just as the contents of sensations are not a replica of the processes in the sensory organs, so the meaning and content of movement are not coincident with motor processes. The principle of psychophysi¬ cal conversion holds as little for movement as it does for sensing. Self-movement is not consciousness’ after-image of events in the motoring process; in other words, movement is not a psychic epiphenomenon of physical processes. Not even the subtlest analysis of muscle performance, therefore, can reveal the nature of movement. Science could not simply bypass the problem of spontaneous mo¬ tion posed by prescientific experience. It had to take a position and one, indeed, already prescribed by its presuppositions. Were there actually a difference between mechanical and animal motion, then, in accordance with these presuppositions, forms of motor processes would have to be designated as corresponding to self-movement. Bain’s “psychomotor” theory was a characteristic example of this kind of attitude. He put forth the question as to whether there was such a thing as spontaneous or autochtonous motion. His opinion was that, in certain cases, organs of motion could be activated by themselves without antecedent sensory or sense excitations. Bain thus obviously assumed that spontaneous motion was a specific kind of motor process, a particular way in which the organ of movement functioned.

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He thereby radically misconceived spontaneous motion as the uncaused movement of parts. He tried to give spontaneous motion its due, but his method doomed him to failure. Individual muscles or limbs can never move by themselves. But since the physiology of motion must always concern itself with centers, pathways, and muscles, the question of spontaneous motion does not even belong in its province. The reason we deny that a muscle can move by itself is not based on physiological exploration of the actual processes of innervation which have shown this notion to be false. Even if we knew nothing of the functional interconnection of the action of striated skeletal muscles and innervation, even if the movement of muscles always followed “automatically,” our contention would still be valid. Neither a muscle nor a limb, nor any single part, nor the whole organism itself can, from the point of view of physiology, move “itself.” For then muscles, limbs, or the organism would have to be viewed by physiology as a self. No matter how motor processes are classified or ordered, the question as to spontaneous motion and the meaning of this question cannot be handled by physiology. It lies beyond its sphere. Autochthonous motion is not, as Bain thought, the action of a motor organ taking place in the absence of previous sensory stimuli; it is not uncaused motion. On the contrary, we speak of self-motion just because the surrounding world is opened to the experiencing being, because the other lies before him as a possible goal. As an experiencing being, he is not merely in relation to the surrounding field, his changes of place occur not merely because of antecedent conditions—causae efficientes. As an experiencing being, he stands in a relation to an environment in which possible goals are marked off as parts of a whole. His freedom of motion is not an uncaused or groundless process; it is the expression of a relationship to a totality which transcends the partial connections of physical proc¬ esses.

Atomistic

Motion

James, following Bain’s suggestion, distinguishes voluntary movement from automatic and reflex movement. With such a group¬ ing of types of movement, that is, of motor processes, essentially all that follows is already determined. It remains only to ascertain

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whether voluntary motion contains something of this spontaneity which is presumed by prescientific experience. James begins his pres¬ entation of “voluntary action” with the statement: “Desire, wish, will, are states of mind which everyone knows, and which no defini¬ tion can make plainer.”12 This, after a few asides, comes to: “. . . so that we may start with the proposition that the only direct outward effects of our will are bodily movements. The mechanism of produc¬ tion of these voluntary movements is what befalls us to study now.” An analysis of the mechanism of the production of voluntary move¬ ments is to be the task of the psychology of the will. The plural form “movements” tells us already what is involved; namely, individual movements in their execution. From this, it immediately follows that voluntary movements are secondary functions. “The movements, to the study of which we now address ourselves, being desired and in¬ tended beforehand, are of course done with full prevision of what they are to be. It follows from this that voluntary movements must be secondary, not primary functions of our organism.”13 It thus appears to be a simple matter to show that voluntary mo¬ tion is actually founded in past experience and thereby based on repetition and ultimately in a causal process, the knowledge of which reveals the alleged self-movement as illusory. In this regard, it must be remembered that James is replacing a phenomenological study of self-movement, will, and power with an analysis of the execution of individual movements. The problem of the practice and learning of movements is confused with that of self-movement. For it already seems to be established that voluntary movement can be nothing else but an intended repetition of movements that were originally of the reflex type. For James and all who followed him, voluntary movement and therefore locomotion is only a repetition, under certain modified circumstances, of motions which are originally reflex motions. Re¬ flex motion as such comes from a discharge of motor nerve cells. The phrase “motoric discharge” indicates that the motion is under¬ stood as causally effected; the agents are some kind of centripetal excitations resulting from external stimuli or arising in the organ¬ ism itself. Reflex motions are supposed to become voluntary, in that images take the place of the original excitations. These are the images of sensations which originally accompanied the reflex motion and which have been freely associated with it. When such images are again awakened into consciousness, they thus effect a motor discharge in place of the original centripetal excitations.

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It is no doubt true that a prerequisite for the carrying out of a particular motion is a certain foreknowledge usually gained from experience, but it is important to remember that this is so only for a motion, that is, a particular motion. If I wish to leave a room, I must first go to the door, open it, and cross the threshold. All of this, I must, however, know about beforehand. I must know that the room has an outside, that the door is a passage way. I must know how the door is to be opened, how to move it on its hinges, turn the knob, and so on. But does this explain the phenomenon of willed self¬ movement? To execute a particular voluntary action, one must be generally able to execute voluntary action; to will something, one must be gen¬ erally able to will. To move in a particular way, one must be generally capable of motion. Particular determinations of these capac¬ ities are based, as a rule, on experience. But such a determinate form of self-movement is possible only because motion as such is deter¬ minable; and this, in turn, is possible because to every experience there belongs a particular experience of limit and direction. In its particular limitedness and directedness toward totality, experience can be determined and delimited. It is this relation of the particular situation to the totality which affords the possibility of ordering and organization, of determined measure and defined limit.

(j) Learning Movements Voluntary motion is not simply the repetition of a chance movement. If it were, such a thing as expertise would not be pos¬ sible: dexterity, sports, musical instruments could not be learned. The learning of movements follows an inner systematics. It involves a gradual differentiation of movements and sensory data, a dividing up of the sensory field, the formation of constants, the focused or¬ ganization of individual movements within this region, something which in its turn furthers a differentiation of movements and an assimilative grasp of their extent. The unmusical do not learn to sing or to play the piano no matter how much they practice. The realm of tonality is closed to them and that is why they cannot attain a sense for the unfolding, direction, and countereffect (stopping) of their movements, directed to a musical production. He who would learn the violin must have an ear. The sound as acoustic form and as esthetic quality directs the action of both hands.

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It determines the measure, direction, speed, variation, and strength of the movements. Only that student will make progress to whom the possibilities of musical configurations are constantly revealed in all their richness, and who simultaneously gets the feel of graded levels of movement. The filigree of movement is learned; it is not at all correct to say that the individual movements are learned. What is learned is a new mode of movement; the student learns to move within a field whose dimensions are smaller than those of everyday movement. His movements never are made as individual movements, but in sequence, change, and transition. They are correctly executed if and insofar as they are oriented to particular changes and counter¬ effect. Gradations, stopping, variations of direction, and transitions must all be learned; that is, they are all determined by the acoustical. To speak of individual movements (in the plural) conceals the fact that no single movement starts by itself. We are never at the starting point; the starting point of a movement is always the end point of a preceding movement. All movements occur in transition and change —the caesura is the problem. It is not individual movements which are learned via the principle of “trial and error,” but rather the articulation of self-movement and the movement of the limbs in re¬ lation to the visible, audible, and tangible objects in their spatial arrangement. The discernment of directions, change, transition, measure, and limitation is the theme of the learning of movement. When we ac¬ quire some kind of dexterity in our employment or sport, we pro¬ duce a kind of frame of reference as we advance from one level of equilibrium to the next, a framework in which self-movement takes the form of quasi-individual movement. We obtain a starting posi¬ tion and an end position. Both positions are made fully discernible, set off as such against the total process, transposed from the pathic to the gnostic sphere, and therewith become, in fact, perceivable and repeatable. This is followed by the learning of both positions in all their nuances. Then follows a similar learning in all nuances of the transition from the beginning to the end position. And finally the framework itself is disposed of. In the beginning, we had to take a position before executing the movement. The complete mastery of a movement demands, however, that it be capable of execution from any point of departure and with regard to any final stage. In learn¬ ing movement, almost all technical requirements are, as a rule, “un¬ natural motions.” They are not oriented directly to the goal but, rather, their execution (for example, the backhand stroke in tennis) requires preparation (learning how to raise the arm) which, by means

«

25

Sensing and Movement Considered Historiologically

of counterdirection and indirection, leads to the movement itself. It can be said that the acquisition of dexterity rests upon the denial of the actual situation, the interruption of primary communication, and the objectification of one’s own body. We learn to handle our body in the way we learn to play an instrument. The learning is completed whenever the framework is disposed of and the new mode of motion with all its preparatory motions, counterdirections, and detours have been incorporated into the primary communication. If James had been right when he said that a particular motion which once occurs involuntarily by chance or reflex can later be pro¬ duced voluntarily, then one learning the violin could as well be started with a Beethoven concerto as with the mere stroking of the empty strings. But each such skill must be learned systematically. There is thus such a thing as progress from that which is easy to that which is more difficult. Why do we call the mere bowing of a string easier than the playing of a musical piece? What is the criterion ac¬ cording to which we differentiate easy and difficult movements? This differentiation does not refer to individual movements as such, but to ordered sequences of movements with their gradations and meas¬ urings, seriality and variations. The learning of movement is not based on the repetition of chance motoric discharges associated with kinesthetic images, which in turn can activate these very discharges. What is learned is a new order of self-motion, something which is possible only because self-motion contains within it direction and limit and contains, therefore, the possibility of determinable meas¬ ure. If the elements of direction and progress were not contained in individual experience as such, then such a thing as improvement through practise would not be possible. Individual sensations of position could never yield knowledge about position, for a position is only as related to neighbor positions; as related, therefore, to space, body space, limb space, etc. Just as the perception of space cannot be made up of nonspatial data, so the sensation of position cannot be made up of individual sensations which are not already specifi¬ cally positional, that is, those which contain relations of proximity and limit and which are not transitional positions of directed move¬ ment.14 A motion is learned as one variation of moving. If I have learned how to comport myself when leaving a room, this particular mode of motion does not tell me anything about the phenomenon of selfmotion in its actuality, that is, that now I stand up, now go to the door, now open it and now cross the threshold. It is just this aspect of self-motion, that I direct myself, now direct myself from here to

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259

there, that remains outside understanding at this moment. That I have gone through this door 2000 times neither makes it under¬ standable that I now am really about to do it nor that I can do it at all, that I have the ability to move at all. James derives the ability to move oneself from the fact of having been in motion. Self-motion is replaced by a (indeterminate and general) motor process in an (indeterminate and general) organism; the Now is replaced by the temporal point t in its indeterminate generality, and the Here and There by arbitrary spatial location. In other words: the actuality of self-motion is completely bypassed; it is not shown to be related to lived space and time, but only to (objective) Space and (objec¬ tive) Time. We come back now to our simple example: I am in a room, sit¬ ting at a table and now set about to leave the room. I go to the door. For me, the door is manifestly there, not here. I go to it, leaving my place, in order to be there. We have composed these preceding state¬ ments out of the simplest and commonest of words. One almost blushes to write a sentence like, “Now I am here and then I will be there.” And yet with these words “now,” “here,” “then,” “there,” what is phenomenally most essential about self-motion is already expressed. The understanding of animal and human motion depends on a proper phenomenological analysis of just these concepts: here, there, now, then. For physics, the location of a stationary or mobile body is acci¬ dental, and arbitrary, and is denoted in full generality and inter¬ changeability as point A or point B, similarly, the moment of motion, is noted as the temporal point t0 or tx. But for man and animal mov¬ ing now from here to there, time and place are essential in their specificity. The attempt to understand voluntary motion as repro¬ duced individual motions necessitates the dissociation of the Here and Now from self-motion and requires that a bridge be found that leads from lived time and space to the objective spatio-temporal structure of physics. While I believe I am walking and seem to be moving myself, I am really simply being pushed by kinesthetic images. I am a mobile power machine simultaneously steered and propelled by kinesthetic images. The union of two such different functions in one machine part is a very strange, but nonetheless necessary, consequence of the premise of this theory. It is only by means of this union that motion becomes general with regard to space and time and is completely dissociated from life history.

260

Sensing and Movement Considered Historiologically

(k) Motion and Actual Situation In man-made machines, steering and propulsion are separate and independent. Someone, the engineer of a locomotive, the driver of a car, is needed to do the steering. As soon as the steam enters the cylinder, the machinery begins to move; the rails, the signals, above all, the engineer, see to it that it moves the right way. To keep it going in the right direction, the machine must constantly be at¬ tended to as regards position, direction, and speed. To ascertain the cause of a traffic accident, an historical reconstruction of the mo¬ ment must be attempted. How the driver at the moment of collision and in the preceding moments drove the vehicle becomes the per¬ tinent question. The steering mechanism as part of the machine pro¬ vides the possibility for on-the-spot action, but the vehicle does not steer itself. The physiological psychology of motion, however, seeks to unite steering and propulsion. Ebbinhaus once said of kinesthetic sensations: “Kinesthetic im¬ ages tend to call forth those very movements from which they origi¬ nated; the very thought of how one feels during a particular movement, if that thought is sufficiently vivid, evokes the movement itself.”15 If kinesthetic images generally tended to call forth move¬ ments, then these movements would no longer be bound to the Here and Now, but would rather occur simply at that time or place where the images, for one reason or another, obtained sufficient vividness. The tendency to call forth movements is but a doubtful characteristic of questionable images; in the same way one could claim that a coin has the tendency, when dropped in the slot, to set the juke-box ma¬ chinery in motion. The expression, “tendency” cannot actually be meant in a strict sense. Images, and particularly images of sensations, do not have tendencies; if they did they would not be images, but acting persons. Tendencies are spoken of only insofar as the power of the images is sometimes not really sufficient to call forth a move¬ ment, and because, therefore, other images or other movements work against it. Thus the coin dropped into the jukebox may fail to do its work, if, for example, a slug or wooden nickel had previously been inserted and was now jamming the slot. As long as the passages are free, the movements in the organism are supposed to proceed just as in the automatic machine. The motor processes are supposed to be set in motion at that precise, objective point of time when the kinesthetic images have been awakened and have obtained the neces-

THE RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN SENSING AND MOVING

26l

sary vividness. After that happens, regardless when or where it hap¬ pens, the movements runs on with the same mechanical meaning¬ lessness.16 If, while sitting at the table with guests, I should have the misfortune to experience a vivid kinesthetic image of walking, then, to the surprise of one and all, I would rise and silently but irre¬ sistibly walk to the door and vanish from sight. That I don’t do such a thing, I owe, as a rule, to the happy circumstance that the conver¬ sation and presence of the guests, the sparkling wine and glasses, the atmosphere and sight of the food, awake in me the vivid image of sitting—and thus my body remains seated. Kinesthetic images are supposed to explain not only our move¬ ment but also the fact that we seem to move voluntarily, that is, in ways appropriate to the situation. But still, this meaningful adapta¬ tion to the situation is explained as a causal process, as a mechanical repetition: that is, it is, as such, explained away. Suitable kinesthetic images are re-awakened by external stimuli and then cause the ap¬ propriate motion to be run off.17 According to the doctrine of “trial and error,” things are acounted for thusly: While pacing around in my room, I chance to come to the door and find myself looking outside. The optical sen¬ sations thus provided call forth in me a feeling of pleasure. These pleasure-laden optical sensations each time awaken in me kinesthetic images of walking. And so I go to the door; five times I bump my left leg (which hurts); five times I bump my right leg (which also hurts); in the meantime, I managed to reach the door five times without banging my leg against the furniture. The pleasure-laden optical sensations are linked there not with the pain-laden kin¬ esthetic images of bumping my left and right leg, but with the kin¬ esthetic image of the middle way, the proper way. Whenever I see the door now, this group of kinesthetic images are awakened, and the motion-producing tendency causes my walking. A series of past linkages builds up a player-piano roll that is set now in motion by some means or other and spins off mechanically and senselessly re¬ gardless of the actual present situation. “One can will only what one has essentially already done, i.e. done reflexively and which is thus learned and tied to other associations,” says Ebbinghaus. What ap¬ pears as goal is supposed to have originally been the cause of a move¬ ment or the motor sensation. Through the mediation of images it remains a cause; the willed motion is repetition, the running forth of a mechanism winded up in the past. Such a theory runs aground at the first serious attempt to follow it through. It actually makes no more sense, now, that I walk to the

262

Sensing and Movement Considered Historiologically

right of the table instead of to the left, as is my custom, or that to avoid an obstacle which has “never been there,” I change my direc¬ tion, shorten or lengthen my stride, or jump over the obstacle. A road in the city or in the country that is walked a thousand times will always require a step by step adaptation. If this adapta¬ tion would always have to be learned from experience, then we could walk correctly only when we were repeating movements, and on the simplest path we would fall to the ground, never to rise again. The actual, particular adaptation of individual steps is possible only because in motion we are directed toward a limit against a resist¬ ance, and because self-motion contains in it the possibility of self¬ limitation and of articulated organization. It is only individual movements joined together with a sensation or group of sensations that can be explained by a basically atomistic conception. Such a conception can acknowledge only a very rigid schema of motion. Such a theory contradicts the simplest facts of experience, facts which show that we do not learn movements, but that we learn how to move in our surrounding world. This, however, presupposes a prior interrelation of sensing and locomotion.18 The rigid schema meets neither the demands of learning movements, nor, as Bethe has shown, of learning substitute movements, nor the adap¬ tation of all movements, to the actual situation. Thus we learn not movements, but, rather, particular modes of moving.19 We learn transition, and certain changes of direction; and, indeed, not particular ones, but an entire sequence of them. We call a movement clumsy which is not tuned to actual or possible transi¬ tion, but which unexpectedly encounters resistance and which thus comes to an end, rather than simply meeting a boundary or limit;. graceful, however, are those movements which carry their measure and delimitation within them and which allow beginnings and ends to appear as transitions. Falling is the reverse side of living movement. In falling, the con¬ trast between living and mechanical motion is immediately appar¬ ent. A crippled man still knows how to move; his motor system alone is disturbed. A mountain climber missing his footing and falling into an abyss has, in his fall, not lost the potentiality of motor proc¬ ess, but in the falling itself this motor pxocess has been altered. The fall lasts until the falling body hits the ground, until the movement of falling is ended from without. But living movement comes to its end. It attains to a boundary. The law of inertia presupposes a homogeneity of spatial locations. Spontaneous movement proceeds

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from a Here to a There and it presupposes the heterogeneity of spatial locations. The swimmer who dives from the board into the water is, in a sense, comparable to the mountain climber who falls. The motion, however, of the diver does not come to an end, but reaches its limit at which point it undergoes a transition into another movement. Falling, as such, fills the spectator with terror, and not simply be¬ cause of a foreknowledge of probable consequences. The “mechan¬ ized” movements of a group of practicing acrobats or dancers may still be quite charming. But listening to a huckster constantly re¬ peating the same words with the same intonation may become quite unnerving. It is with fear and horror that we perceive the falling away from human to mechanical existence. In vertigo, the perception of space is changed even before the fall. The spatial continuum seems rent asunder. Nothing links the Here to the There. Indeed, there exists no real Here and There any more. Depth, and also height and breadth, become the absolute Other. And even thus is that place transformed where the vertiginous man stands. It is no longer a fixed Here. In vertigo, a man loses his stance, he cannot go forward or backward, he cannot proceed fur¬ ther, and he cannot stop. Phobic patients tell us that they are not affected by well-grounded fears of any terrible consequences. For them, even on the most rigidly secured platform of a steel observa¬ tion tower, even in a canyon casting their glance upward, or in a street when they are confronted by open spaces, are they subject to attacks of anxiety. The limitless or boundless is that which, without any reflection on his part, appears to the phobic when he confronts spaciousness. In this limitlessness, there are no more fixed and de¬ fined locations; no Here, from which a path leads to There. There is no longer a path, and at the same time the possibility of self¬ movement is suspended.20 I have said that graceful motion carries within itself its measure and its limitation, but that is not entirely correct. For the move¬ ments are not isolated, they are referred to the surrounding world. Learning to move means learning distributions, caesuras, and this means selecting one direction from all possible directions; that is, proceeding from provisional indeterminateness to a determined di¬ rection, switching from the former to the latter. Learning to move thus means entering into the ordered structure of sensations, into that which reveals itself in sensing, into the ordering of movement and the possible co-ordination of moving and sensing.21 Such a co¬ ordination is in no way an after-the-fact integration of separate ele-

264

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merits. Individual co-ordination is factually accomplished because the movements can be determined from the very beginning. Direction, limit, and measure belong neither to sensing nor to movement alone. They are moments of neither the centripetal nor centrifugal side of the reflex-arc. The psychology of movement is therefore not derivable from the physiology of motion. This does not mean that the psychology of movement can divorce itself entirely from a material substrate; on the contrary, psychology grasps the organism only in its fully concrete and monadic structure, while physiology attains to its proper object only by disregarding this monadic structure. The psychology of movement must make itself in¬ dependent of physiological conceptualizations.

(1)

Automatic Motion

The entanglement of the problem of self-movement with that of voluntary action would make it appear that this issue can right¬ fully be discussed only within the context of the voluntary. If scien¬ tific thought has shown voluntary action to be nothing but motor processes caused by images, then the prescientific view that animal and human movement is a sui generis phenomenon has been irre¬ vocably reduced ad absurdum. If voluntary motion were causally explanable, how much more so would be automatic motion in all of its forms. The schema of the reflex arc would suffice to explain every motion. But now if voluntary motion is characterized by the setting of goals, decision, planning, execution, knowledge of starting point, path, and goal, all of which are missing in automatic motion, is the latter, then, no longer to be considered as an aspect of locomotion? If it is not directed to a specific goal, does that mean it has no goal at all; if it is not directed toward a specific goal, does that mean it is not directed at all? Example: A puppy is frolicking in the street. Suddenly an automobile comes speeding toward it and the dog jumps away. He jumps away so clumsily and “heedlessly” that he runs right into a tree which, unlike the driver, does not dodge him. A movement is to be understood as automatic insofar as it is adapted to a situation, but not determined by previous experience. Thus, to satisfy these conditions we have allowed our dog to be a puppy, who has no experience, and especially no unpleasant ex¬ perience, with speeding cars. In this case, “automatic” means that

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the threat of the approaching car was not clearly grasped as a danger —a danger, that is, in regard to the possible consequences of being run over; it means further that the jump to the side of the street was not a plan that grew out of survey of the spatial order of the approaching car, the dog’s position, and the objects in his immedi¬ ate environment. Granted all this, is, then, the movement of the dog nothing other than a process occurring in various groups of muscles, one caused by an optical stimulation? Is it the dog which jumps or is it the muscles which move—with the wondrous result that the dog is suddenly removed from the path of the approaching car? Such a tack would be hard to defend. For the movements of an animal, the paths it takes, are completely different depending on its position at the particular instant it becomes aware of danger. In physiological terms, it moves when it has been affected by optical or acoustical stimuli. We would further have to assume that the various combina¬ tions of optical stimuli and the processes they effect in the optical sector bring about equally varied individual motor discharge pat¬ terns, and that they bring into function particular groups of muscles which, though utterly unrelated to the animal’s bodily situation at the moment in question, nevertheless have the remarkable effect of removing the animal from the zone of danger. And these difficulties are compounded when we consider that the animal is supposed to behave quite differently when it initiates its own swift movements directed to a goal, or when it is in the automobile cheerfully eyeing the passing scene, even though similar processes are taking place in the optic sector. Thus, automatic reactions in the animal are not called forth simply by certain kinds of optical stimuli but are also conditioned by the structure of its particular bodily spatial situa¬ tion. The notion of the relativity of motion does not apply here. Automatic motion, though not determined by experience, nor the mental grasping of facts and purposeful planning, is, nevertheless, still meaningful, directed movement. In this particular case, the ani¬ mal moves to avoid an approaching danger. The direction of its mo¬ tion is determined by the direction of the approaching object. The motion has the meaning of avoiding; that is, of moving away from a Here to some unspecified There. It is an undetermined movement only insofar as the animal is not directed to any particular, specific goal or place where it wishes to be, but is, rather, directed to the general goal of safety. The animal shuns danger by moving from the sphere of danger to that of safety. The place at which he sees the car coming is not simply some neutral place. Up until the last minute it was a peace-

266

Sensing and Movement Considered Historiologically

ful area, but now it becomes dangerous; it has changed its character as a place to stay. The animal flees the area which has grown dan¬ gerous. The approaching car changes the character of the area. But it is not the car which makes the place an area, a location. The very fact of being somewhere implies changeability. We are here always in transit and transition. Even in a peaceful location, the animal is always directed toward potential danger. It is, as it were, always in flight. For many animals, this is literally true in an ontic sense. The ceaselessly active eyes and nostrils, the constant readiness to leap and run, is the most striking manifestation of this being-in-transition, this endless transcience of place. Being somewhere is changeable in a twofold sense. The place can change and the animal can change, or leave the place. Being somewhere is always directed to a There, a somewhere else, even at the times we are most tempted to linger. Automatic movement is thus not a single movement with an absolute beginning and an absolute end. It is a change of direction related to a prior directedness. It is not a change of place within a homogeneous space, but a change of being somewhere in a qualita¬ tively diversified action space. It is not a movement from A to B, but from Here to There. It thus bears all the characteristics of selfmotion.

Every spontaneous motion is the movement of a living crea¬ ture, which finds itself located at some particular place, which is somewhere. The form the movement takes depends not on the type of stimulus, but rather on this prior location. To understand move¬ ment, it is therefore necessary to attend to both starting-point and goal. Remarkably enough, psychological analysis of movement, par¬ ticularly when it limits itself to what it takes to be voluntary action, concerns itself almost exclusively with the goal of the movement. The starting point appears to be irrelevant. We hear much of goal perceptions, but rarely, if ever, of starting-point perceptions. Let us assume we are vacationing in the mountains. One fine day, we decide to climb a mountain. We want to climb a mountain. This we can do only because we are now here in the valley. But what would happen if, for some reason, the idea of climbing rises up in me after I reached the top of the mountain? Would I start again and begin climbing further? Ideas and images which are “deep within

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us” or which are “far removed in kind” can have the effect ascribed to them only from a determined location, a particular starting-point. We can desire, wish, or long for only that which we are not already, or which we do not already have. That is why there are no such things as autonomous goal images. I can certainly imagine some¬ thing as my goal, but the imagined goal does not enter into the imagination itself there to be fused together with it as a goal image. A goal image, as such, would then, paradoxically, have to have its own imagined content as something foreign to it. A sophistical train of argument could then conclude—as has actually been done—that we cannot long for or strive for anything. “Because you can only desire that which you do not have or that which you are not, that which in no way belongs to you, you cannot at all desire, strive, wish or will to move yourself toward a goal.” In this argument, the “not” of the “not having” is understood as a categorical negation. The mountain peak which allures me, the goal which I strive for are, however, already with me; they already, in a sense, belong to me, in the form, namely, of the not yet. The “not” in the “not yet having” of the desired object negates the actuality, but affirms precisely the potentiality, of union. The problem of self-motion thus lies within the context of the basic phenomenon of change, of becoming. Only he who as a be¬ coming being experiences the possibility of becoming other can move himself or will to move himself. I can only will to climb the moun¬ tain when I am in the valley. Seen from my present location, the mountain top is a possible goal, because this present location can be changed. The top of the mountain is the location, the being some¬ where, which I have not yet attained. Insofar as I move myself there, I leave the present location. I can only get there if I am no longer here. Thus is expressed the fact that the location where I now find myself is only contingent, that is, that I am, at every moment and in every place, incomplete. (Just as distance in general is, so is the rela¬ tion of Here-There not a purely spatial relation.) The Here, from which all locomotion proceeds, is an articulated determination of the field of action. A Here can exist only for a mobile being. In every motion, and particularly in locomotion, gravity must be overcome, though never completely. In going against gravity, we are always in a relation to the There and remain always held here. The Here is movement held back (verhaltene); it is where I stay (am stayed, Aufent-halt), my station (Haltepunkt or Haltestelle). Spontaneous motion is change, a passage from Here to There, from starting-point to goal. Only a being which in a state of becom-

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ing lives in transition from Here to There can move itself. Because moments of time are limitations of his totality, the individual (man and animal) always experiences himself in transition. And because in the individual moment we are incomplete, we are in need of ex¬ pansion, we can change, we can proceed in the continuum of becom¬ ing from one moment to the next, from one place to the next. This incompleteness is, however, understood from the perspective of the notion of completeness and totality. Each moment manifests only an instance, a particularization of this totality.

(n) Descartes and the Ontology of Ability I may briefly formulate the preceding as follows: I can move because I can move. This is not meant to be an empty tautology. The first part of the proposition refers mainly to the real process of movement, but the second part expresses that this real process is pos¬ sible only because I am a being which has the ability to move himself. Thus, the analysis of spontaneous motion refers us to the ontology of ability. The rejection or acknowledgment of spontaneous motion hinges on ontological considerations and brings us, thereby, back to our argument with Descartes. Descartes scoffs at Aristotle’s theory of motion. Who, he asks, can really understand the Aristotelean definition of motion (motus est actus entis in potentia prout in potentia est), over which the schools have argued so?22 As against this, Descartes cites the clarity, distinct¬ ness, and consistency of his own theory. “Motion is the transfer of one part of matter or one body from the vicinity of those bodies, in immediate contact with it and which are regarded as stationary, into the vicinity of others.’’23 Motion is thus a relative change of location. The location of a body (locus externus) is determined by its situation in reference to other bodies. Whether in motion or at rest, a body remains what it is, a piece of extended matter, measureably long, wide, and deep. An event, in the true sense of the word, a change, is barred by the Cartesian theory of movement. Such events are foreign not only to individual bodies; in the total system itself, nothing really happens. For, since matter and extension, extension and space, are all identical, and since an empty space cannot exist, each move¬ ment must turn in a circle and return to itself.24 God, whose almighty power created matter along with the motion and rest of its parts, helps now to maintain just as much motion and rest as he invested

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in the world at the creation.25 A change in the quantity of motion would be contrary to the essence of God. To the theological orientation which keeps motion from mean¬ ing change, is added the orientation of metaphysical rationalism. It is extension and only extension which is the substantial attribute of material things; it is their spatial being which is real. Time, on the other hand, is merely a numerus motus, a mode of contemplation. Extended things are created, finished, timeless; nonhistorical things. The assumption that the quantity of motion remains constant, ex¬ cludes all history, all becoming and change from the world. Descartes’ theory of nature, although it is a pure theory of motion —density, mass, weight are taken to be not properties of things, but only products of the reciprocal relation of their motions—26 becomes a mathematics of motion. The problem of motion as Aristotle saw it remains foreign to Descartes. If every human body is a thing like other things, though it stands in a particularly close relation with a soul, then any biology which would deal with individuals, and especially any psychology which studies a self in relation to the world, is impossible. Descartes was able to substantiate the theory of reflexes by ex¬ plaining how all limbs are moved by objects of the senses (objects des sens) and how all animated spirits are moved without the aid of the soul.27 The movements of muscles and limbs were completely pas¬ sive; what is really movable and moving are the animal spirits. It must be remembered that the animal spirits are to be thought of as the finest of material bodies; they partake of the material principle and have no direct connection with the soul. Descartes minutely de¬ scribes the formation of the animal spirits and their motion in the nerves, which he interprets as a system of ducts. The effect of the ob¬ jects is to stimulate a certain motion of the animal spirits toward the brain, a stimulus which leads ultimately to the centers of the pineal gland. There, additional groups of animal spirits are set in motion by this first motion, and these motions are directed to the muscles. They penetrate the muscles, fill them, make them more dense, and effect a change in them; the muscles are shortened,28 the limbs are moved. The movements of animals spirits obey the natural laws of motion. The organism never moves as a whole, there are only move¬ ments of parts. The bodily machine is so constructed that the muscles always work together in groups of agonists and antagonists, thus bringing about the appropriate motions and countermotions. Descartes tries to explain the formation of individual bodies, their procreation and embryonic development, in accordance with the

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same principles of mechanics.29 The formation of the organs of motion and their functions are similarly described. The circle has come full sweep. Mental and corporal events are separated, and at the same time the sensations are set off as cogitationes from the motions as processes in the body aggregate. For every moving being, the proposition holds true that in its movement it is directed from here to there. Only a being which in its temporal existence is incomplete can will, strive, or move itself. The being incomplete in the particularity of the actual moment is the ontological ground of the possibility of a transition from a Here to a There, from one particularity to another. This being incom¬ plete indeed makes spontaneous motion possible, that is, it makes possible the searching of an animal and the questioning of man. Cartesian metaphysics, however, excludes this incompleteness, for the mode of being of the res cogitans does not admit this incompleteness, while that of the res extensa does not admit completeness. Further: Here and There are qualitatively different locations. But Descartes assumes that God has so made the world that in the beginning it consisted of absolutely equal parts and that these parts were moved in the same way and with the same speed.30 In a world so structured, there can be no such thing as qualitatively different locations. Such a world is “one” only as a summation of adjacent parts, that is, additively; there exists no interrelation, no inner rela¬ tion of the parts. Consequently, there can exist no direction and no goal; all that is conceivable is a causal relation between moments. There are indeed mathematically ascertainable laws of nature, but no true order of the world.31 Cartesian metaphysics denies as unreal a perspectival determina¬ tion of the Here and There existing side by side with a mathematics of location. For not only is motion a happening in space and there¬ fore part of the res extensa but also the extramundane mind is look¬ ing in “from the outside” at space, and cannot really differentiate between a Here and a There. Spontaneous motion is mere appear¬ ance, because perspective is unreal. Descartes grants only one exception: Voluntary motion. It de¬ pends exclusively on the soul’s freedom of will. “Simply from the fact that we have the will to walk it follows that our legs move and that we walk (Passions I, 18).” “All actions of the soul consist in this that solely because it desires something, it causes the little gland to which it is closely united to move in the way necessary to produce the effect which relates to this desire (Passions I, 43).” “When we desire to walk or move our body in some special way, this desire causes the

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gland to thrust the spirit towards the muscles which serve to bring about this result (Passions I, 43).” Only voluntary motion, then, is taken as a special kind of motion and separated from purely bodily motor processes, a distinction which is still made even today. Three characteristics of Descartes’ theory of the will may now be cited: (1) Volition remains phenomenologically completely un¬ clarified. The subtitle of Principles I reads: Libertatem arbitrii esse per se notam. (2) The freedom of the human will (according to the fourth Meditation) is supposed to be uncurtailed by any limits. Only God’s power of execution is infinitely greater. (3) Individual voli¬ tions arise from the power of the will (nos volontes, writes Descartes in Passions I, 18). These are to be thought of as unique and isolated, that is, as strictly time atomistic; they have no connection to the life history, and in each case work as a Deus ex machina with respect to bodily events. Voluntary and reflex motion are different only with respect to their causes. In both, the actual motor processes are the same—a movement of animal spirits directed from the pineal gland to the muscles. Both kinds of motion are caused by a motion of the pineal gland itself. In reflex motion, the cause of the pineal gland’s motion is an antecedent motion of the animal spirits which is brought about by an external influence on the sensory organs. In voluntary motion, the pineal gland is moved by the will; how this happens remains a mystery. That spontaneous motion which we notice in others and in ourselves is a secondary quality like color and sound and, like these, subject to reduction. The phantasma of spontaneous motion must be reduced to the real processes, the motions of the animals spirits. Our directedness towards our surrounding world, our self-directing and self-motion are mere semblance. What is also mere semblance is that phenomenal order to which we believe our movements are related. Every spontaneous movement is, indeed, directed towards the depth of space. But depth is only to be understood from the point of view of time. In mathematical physics, time no longer has the meaning of temporality. Physics does not approach nature as a be¬ coming, and therefore time co-ordinates can be included as a fourth dimension in Minkowski’s space-time union and treated as an addi¬ tion to the spatial co-ordinates. But spontaneous motion is the mo¬ tion of a becoming being. Thus, in order to understand sensation and spontaneous motion, it will be necessary to rediscover the tem¬ porality of time.32

272

Sensing and Movement Considered Historiologically

CD.

On Being Awake

IT IS IN THE STATE OF BEING AWAKE THAT MAN AND ANIMAL

perform the labors necessary for their existence. In this phenomenon of being awake, if anywhere, the unity of sensations and movements is demonstrable. And yet my intention in this chapter puts me in an embarrassing situation. There is, to be sure, no lack of theories of the dream and interpretations of dreams, but what do we know about being awake? in practice, everything; in theory, nothing. Augustine’s well-known remark about the problem of time holds also for being awake.1 A court procedure, for example, is an affair involving men who are awake. When a wide-awake witness reports what he saw in broad daylight with open eyes, it is completely taken for granted, of course, that he is not reporting something he has dreamt, so much so that it is not even worth mentioning in the court. And just as obviously, the judge and everyone else attending the legal proceedings are pre¬ sumed to be awake. No one deems it necessary there to inquire as to what is meant by this being awake. Legal texts, which attempt to define derangements and clouding of consciousness contain no defi¬ nition of being awake. We all know that sleep breaks in upon the hours of our waking life and that sleep brings dreams. We are all also convinced that we not only know of this difference in a gen¬ eral way, but that we can easily and with absolute certainty differen¬ tiate between dreaming and the state of being awake. That, in any case, is our belief as far as daily practice is con¬ cerned. Of course, many theorists do not agree in this with the man in the street. Descartes, in the opening pages of his Meditations, claims that it is not possible for him to say, with absolute certainty, whether, at that moment he is awake or dreaming. Hobbes main¬ tains that the phenomena (appearances, fancies) which he assumes accompany physiological processes, are the same, dreaming or wak¬ ing. Freud calls the dream a “completely valid psychic experience.” Such claims arise under the pressure of methodological or systematic considerations. In demonstrating the primacy of self-consciousness.

ON BEING AWAKE

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Descartes’ aim is to degrade all sensory experience that is dependent on the body. It is exactly the opposite aim, namely, the demonstra¬ tion of the exclusive reality of bodily processes, that leads Hobbes to deny the difference between waking impressions and dream im¬ ages and to embrace both in the concept of appearance. As for Freud, the dream’s connection to the unconscious gives it at least equal rank with waking thought. In their efforts to dissolve, in one sense or another, the boundaries between dreaming and waking, all three writers take as their theme those very differences between dreaming and waking which they are contesting. They presuppose as a given that which they later, on reflection, deny, like Sigmund, the hero of Calderon’s drama. Descartes, who claims he is not sure if he is awake or dreaming, manifestly contradicts himself in that as an awake meditator, he addresses his claims to an awake reader as well. In the same way, Hobbes and Freud speak about dreams only when they are awake. The via regia of dream interpretation is a road travers¬ able only by those who are awake—indeed, doubly awake, in that they must attend to both the manifest content and the latent mean¬ ing of the dream. The science of dreams, like every other science, is an accomplishment of men who are awake. He who describes and explains sleeping and dreaming has and must have already understood the waking state itself in a certain way. At the same time, we all find it so difficult to put this practical understanding of ours into precise words. As beings who are awake, we have much more to say about sleep and dreaming than about be¬ ing awake itself. We know that in sleep the sensory contacts with the environment are loosened and restricted, that the motor ap¬ paratus is disconnected, and that the dreamer cannot communicate with others and is locked in his own private world. These insights are concealed from the dreamer. He does not see what goes on about him, but still he has dream visions; he remains in his bed, but still his dreams are full of actions which take him to distant places; he holds no intercourse with us in a common world, but still he talks to the persons in his dream. The dreamer does not know that he dreams, that he is the creator of his dream and that it is he who puts the words in the mouths of the actors in the dream.2 Himself power¬ less, he is a prisoner of his own creation. Only on waking does the dream, which held me, the dreamer, become a dream which I, who am awake, have dreamt. While I slept, it was not my dream, but rather I was a part of the dream world which I could not recognize as mine. Night after night we are possessed again by dream reality, we learn nothing from our waking experience; the dream does not

274

Sensing and Movement Considered Historiologically

use it, at least not consistently, and not without radical distortion. Only when we are awake can we save ourselves from the phantasma¬ goria which inundate us in the dream. Only in awakeness is the possibility of existence as my existence constituted or realized. Any discussion of dreams is therefore subject to certain methodo¬ logical doubts. We speak of a dream when we are awake, but always have difficulties recalling the dreams with exactness. We are never completely sure that we have reproduced the dream just as we dreamt it. In fact, we are sure that we can never actually reproduce the dream with complete fidelity, for insofar as we have apprehended it as a dream, we have already effected a fundamental distortion. Just as the form and content of our waking life is distorted in dreams, so dreams which are brought to the waking light of day change and disintegrate like so many other things that are excavated. And now it is set into type and stored at the printing house of waking life; that is, the dream is retyped and translated. But this is hardly an obstacle to our present investigation, concerning as it does not the dream, but awakeness. Thus, when we are awake we differentiate between dreaming and waking and we know that we are awake; in sleep, we dream that we are awake, but we do not know that we dream. The manifest dream, which here is our only concern insofar as it is contrapunctal to waking experience, is therefore characterized by a lack—the in¬ ability of the dreamer to differentiate. The significance which Freud ascribes to the dream when he speaks of it as a “completely valid psychic phenomenon” is possible only because of his evaluation of the unconscious as the ontological basis of human existence, and because of his interpretation of the dream as a distorted, but never¬ theless intelligible expression of the unconscious. The language of the dream, unintelligible in itself, can be understood a posteriori with the aid of dream interpretation. All these theories of Freud are insights gained by reflecting on the dream in the state of awake¬ ness. The dreamer himself does not understand the dream while he sleeps; he must interpret it or have it interpreted after he awakes. The latent dream thoughts remain concealed from him. Though the sleeper indeed produces his dream, he does not experience their production. He does not dream of the factors which contribute to the formation of the dream. In the dream, shapes and forms blend together which in waking life we would clearly differentiate. The dreamer not only fails to differentiate particulars such as red as against green, Miller as against Smith, Boston as against Bombay, he lacks also the fundamental sense of differentiating waking life from dreaming, that is, the basic form

ON BEING AWAKE

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in which all further differentiations take place. Insofar as in the dream red blends with green, Miller with Smith and Boston with Bombay, their differences have no meaning. A plurality of persons and things or places appear as “condensed” into one form, one ob¬ ject, or one place. In his discussion of the dream work, Freud pro¬ ceeds from the assumption that the mechanism of condensation brings “separated elements” into new unities. “Such a composite figure resembles A. in appearance, but is dressed like B., pursues some occupation which recalls C., and yet all the time you know that it is really D.” Because of condensation, the manifest dream is always poorer in content than the latent dream. “Now and again condensation may be lacking, but it is present as a rule and is often carried to a very high degree. It never works in the opposite manner. . . .”3 For Freud, the dream is endowed with additional functions, additional to those which we can perform in waking life. Freud as¬ sumes that the “elements,” understood as individual persons, things, or places, are the original givens. If this is so, then, indeed, their amalgamation stands in need of an explanation. But every act of establishing differences and every complete determination of an ob¬ ject in its particularity demands a certain effort. The “elements” are not simply given, they are rather determined and established by means of an act of differentiation. In that manifestation of dreams described by the term “condensation,” what is revealed is the uni¬ versal failure of differentiation. All those examples by which Freud illustrates the mechanism of condensation can be just as easily, and just as well (if not better), understood as a failure of differentiation, as dedifferentiation. To these “failings” in the dream, one could add a long list of other shortcomings. There are, for example, all those “deficiencies” connected with sleep itself, such as the loosening of sensory contacts, the inactivation of the motorium, the interruption of communica¬ tion, the suspension of historical continuity, the disintegration of spatial and temporal ordering, the vagueness of identity. For sleep as such, of course, such things as the interruption of sensory contacts and the inactivation of the motorium are appropriate and do not represent deficiencies or shortcomings. But here it is dreaming as it is opposed to awakeness which we are trying to understand and this justifies our speaking of deficiencies and failings. For, while someone who is awake can either look at something or shut his eyes, can either move or rest, communicate or keep silent, he who sleeps and dreams is limited to one of each of these alternatives. He is poorer in poten¬ tialities. In this framework, we have judged the dreamer by standards

276

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alien to him. The dreamer does not experience himself in the way we have pictured him, for we have approached the dreamer and his dream from without. But for ourselves as awake, we cannot see from without; our understanding of awakeness must be immanent. It may appear to be completely unreflective and naive; and yet in order to have surveyed the dream world from this watchtower and to have appraised its particular differentiation from our own standpoint, it must be so that as awake, we have understood ourselves in a certain manner. All the deficiencies which we, as awake, discover in the man¬ ifest dream, refer back to the immanent structure of the world and our experience in it which we have when awake. Awake, we distinguish between dreaming and awakeness; dream¬ ing, we do not. One could now content oneself with having ascer¬ tained this fact and then seek a physiological explanation of it. One could be satisfied with the thought that along with the transition from sleep to waking, with the re-adjustment of the sensorium, of the threshold, and of the tonus, that along with these the ability to differentiate is also given. But this gives us nothing in the way of an inner understanding. It is, furthermore, not true that in waking life we can and do merely differentiate among particulars; when awake, we differentiate not only within awakeness, but also between awake¬ ness and dreaming. Awakeness is the physiological condition of dis¬ cernment, but it is also the theme and object of discernment. The physiological conditions of awakeness are never directly and imme¬ diately experienced. They do their work, we know not how. What the sophisticated thinker tells us of these things is a hypothesis for¬ mulated within the naive acceptance of his being awake. Because of physiological conditions, we find ourselves awake in the daylight world; in this day world we can direct our attention to such problems as the physiology of awakeness and sleep. Awake, we observe other living creatures, men and animals; awake, we establish a waking and sleeping mode orientation in consonance with our personal experi¬ ence with these creatures, an experience based on phasic vacillations in communication with them. Insofar as we interpret the ways in which sleeping and waking are expressed as symptoms of physical processes, to that degree we make sleeping and waking dependent upon cerebral and metabolic processes in the organism. No matter how exact and complete our knowledge of neurophysicological proc¬ esses may become, it will never be able to explain awakeness nor comprehend its content. The awakening of consciousness with the steady alternation of night and day is a physiological problem; the consciousness of being awake, however, is a theme for psychology to

ON BEING AWAKE

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which physiology can contribute nothing. The structure of awakeness is and remains the first given. It alone is for us immediately accessible, familiar and certain. If, in a moment of scepticism, we question it, our doubt itself takes place within this waking life and within the horizon of its possibilities. For the awake man, the order of waking experience is obviously so patently distinct that he has no trouble contrasting it with other modes of existing. When we differentiate waking from dreaming, it is ourselves we are knowing. We know that we are awake and we there¬ with know the possibility of another way of being. When I wake up, I discover that I have dreamed during the night just past. The pri¬ mary differentiation is thus not made between dreaming and waking as such; I differentiate between my awakeness and my dreaming, or, to be exact, between my waking and my having dreamt. The dreams of others are accessible to me only indirectly in their and my com¬ mon awakeness. The differentiation between dream and awakeness is thus life-historical. It implies that I grasp the uniqueness of my present and with it the limits of this present. I experience my present as my being so in this moment, and at the same time as a not being this-or-that. In discerning awakeness and dreaming, I grasp the ordered tem¬ porality of my existence. I notice that at every moment I am going from one phase to the next; I apprehend myself as becoming. Awak¬ ening and awake, a man knows of himself and of his yesterday and today, that is, he apprehends the continuity of his vital existence which persists through sleeping and dreaming into the present. And yet we differentiate between awakeness and dreaming not in the way we differentiate between red and green. We apprehend the experi¬ ences of dreaming and waking as belonging to different regions. While awake, I recall my dream in order to separate it at the same time from all other recollections of my waking experience. I recall what I did yesterday. Such data and encounters are ordered by me into the framework of my waking life. They all belong in the con¬ tinuous text of my life history; not so my dreams. Though they are remembered in a state of awakeness, they are differentiated from all that actually happened and also from all that could have happened. Remembering, too, takes place from the standpoint of the present. Only as conscious also of the actual present moment and of its actu¬ ality, can I apprehend the past as such from the standpoint of the present. But doesn’t the dreamer also have memories? Are not all the con¬ tents of the manifest dream memories—transformed and distorted,

278

Sensing and Movement Considered Historiologically

perhaps, but still memories? Of course! But with one difference: In the dream, memories are not experienced as memories, but as pres¬ ences. The dreamer floats in a sea of memories, but for him they are not memories. Whenever they do emerge, and whatever the forces may be which bring them to dream consciousness, they appear as presences, immediately to be replaced by other presences. But that does not mean they are timeless; many things happen in a dream and one event is followed by another, but the temporal order disin¬ tegrates. Time dissolves not into atoms, but into more and more discontinuous moments—into time without duration. Moments no longer stand in a manifestly meaningful context; their sequence lacks an inner necessity of continuity or consistency. That is prob¬ ably why dream impressions are predominantly optical. Some frag¬ ments of the stabile, persistent visible world may still remain in the disintegration. But acoustic impressions which require the sequence of time to form a whole cannot, as fragmentary presences, be used by the dream to make up an encompassing, meaningful unity. That which is experienced in the dream, dream scenes and dream actions, still have a certain kind of definition—otherwise no experi¬ ence of them at all would be possible—but these determinations are vague, unfirm. They are not delimited and defined with respect to a possible contrary. Thus, dream images do not resist the most extrava¬ gant transfiguration. There is no unity of place, time, and action. The scenes and the actors undergo the most astonishing metamor¬ phoses without at all shocking the dreamer. Dream images are with¬ out substance, without subjectum. The dreamer experiences only the particular “being thus’’ of the particular dream landscape without being able to actualize the possibility of its being different. He ap¬ prehends only adumbrations (Abschattungen) without the ability to penetrate into the “what” which systematically holds these adumbra¬ tions together. All these deficiencies of the dream point to that which properly belongs to awakeness. In our waking life, one day is linked to the previous day and prepares for the coming day. Days come and go within the context of our life history. But the dreams of one night are not the continuation of previous nights. At night we do not pick up the thread of the dream which ended that morning upon awaken¬ ing, while at the beginning of a new day we do pick up the thread of our life history. “Sleep is a hollow shell, throw it away,” the fairies whisper to Faust. Whatever life-historical meaning the interpretation of a dream may ascribe to it, the manifest dream is still anacolouthic. The so-called repetition dream is distinguished by the fact that the

ON BEING AWAKE

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dreamer, regardless of how often it occurs, always experiences it as present or actual and as a new occurrence, that is, as in fact unprece¬ dented, not as a repetition. Only in the continuity of waking life can we return to the same spot as the same person. When the life history of a seventy-year-old man is narrated, we do not think of it as composed of 25,000 individual day fragments which fragments are separated from each other by the same number of nights. We understand this waking life as an integrated, organic process of change which proceeds via a chain of nights and days. Though the biological alternation of waking and sleeping proceeds in some kind of sine curve, the way in which the days which make up life history are linked to each other is like the semi-arches of a Roman aqueduct carrying a river bed above them. Nights and sleep are sub¬ ordinated to the continuity of the days. Thus it is that a single call or light or touch can suffice to bring sleeping and dreaming to a halt. Only in fairy tales can the reverse take place with similar means and can people be sent into sleep with a magic word, breath, or glance. In the sober world of day, it is not so easy to induce sleep in those who are awake as it is to awaken those who sleep. Such things as alarm clocks which serve as stimuli to awaken us differ from sopo¬ rifics like sleeping pills which serve as a means to induce sleep. The continuity which binds together the days “above” the nights also binds, in each day, one hour to another and sets the particular mo¬ ment within the horizon of the day, week, or year. In waking life, we are bound to the continuity of our Now and Here. From the Here we can attain to the next There, from the Now to the next Then; we cannot omit or leap over anything. Having fun (Kurzweil) combats boredom (Langweile), but it, too, is incorporated into the continuity of time. How well we know that we cannot shorten a time of wait¬ ing; the pendulum must swing out all the seconds and minutes. Continuity and repetition require a firm, abiding constant to which we can return in the flux of the momentary. It is only such a firm, ordered structure which allows differentiations to be established and secured. A location can be determined and rediscovered only in an invariant system. The null point in a co-ordinate system may be selected arbitrarily, but thereafter it must be able to be adhered to. It is fixed within a space invariant with respect to the observer and an area therefore in which individual places may be securely identi¬ fied and located. Here arbitrariness comes to an end. Arbitrary is the choice of the A note on a piano as the basic tone for the tuning of the orchestra’s instruments. But an orchestra can play symphonically only if all the instruments are tuned to the same tone and if it can

280

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stay so tuned. Differentiation and determination demand an invari¬ ant as a basis upon which such discernments can be carried out. The infernal noise which early gramophones produced when the needle failed in the middle of a record is a crude example of a vacillating, constantly changing pitch in which no intervals could be maintained because of the shifting of the initial tone. Technical conditions, how¬ ever, are not the only ones which must be fulfilled if clear differentia¬ tion is to be possible; the listener himself must be in a position to ascertain an invariance in the temporal process of his perceiving, i.e., in the constant variation of impressions. This fixed order is not disclosed merely by after-the-fact reflection (Nach-denken). In that very moment when we awake from sleep and open our eyes, we are “there again” in a world with a firmly struc¬ tured order of space and time, confronted by unambiguously deter¬ mined or determinable things which we can relate to ourselves in our actions. Our actions and reactions stand in a clearly-defined relation¬ ship. Even the unforeseen appears within the field of the anticipated. One quick look reveals the things around me, firm and steady, stable and ordered. And thus they remain there before me and for me. Espe¬ cially if we cannot immediately find our bearings upon awakening, the question of “where” instantly arises. The location of our exist¬ ence, although it might be undetermined, is grasped as determinable. The permanent, durable order cannot be composed of individual sensations, for neither change nor duration can be found in the par¬ ticular, it cannot be learned from experience, since it is that which makes experience possible; it cannot arise in a judgment, for it is the presupposition of judgment. We must distinguish between the awak¬ ening of consciousness and the consciousness of being awake. This rather pointed formulation is incomplete and therefore perhaps mis¬ leading. What wakes up is a man, and not a consciousness which in some way or other has knowledge of the world and the body which belongs to it. In awakening, I experience myself in my bodily exist¬ ence. Awake, I say “Last night I slept well.” This statement is, for all practical purposes, neither devious nor ambiguous. Yet it still must be understood more carefully and precisely. I, the speaker, I, who am now awake, have slept. But I have not slept as someone who is awake. I notice, rather, that my life extends through the zone of sleep and that it passes through the phase of sleep as mere bodily existence. I discover the possibility of my worldless and motionless existence. But this is a discovery which I make from the perspective of my waking present in all its relatedness to world and power of movement. Awake, I apprehend myself in my bodily existence as a being which

ON BEING AWAKE

28l

senses and is capable of acting, as opposed to a mere nonconscious existence. The corporeality of my existence is an integral part of the total experience of being awake. The particular role it plays is now to be made clear. At the beginning of his Meditations,4 Descartes, still seeking a basis for his method of radical doubt, maintains “. . . that awakeness and sleep possess no sure signs by which we may distinguish be¬ tween them.” But by the end of the Meditations, he has reached the point of “.. . setting aside as ridiculous all the exaggerated doubts of these past days.” ‘‘That is especially so,” Descartes says, “in regard to that very general uncertainty about sleep, which I could not distin¬ guish from waking life. For now I find in them a very notable differ¬ ence, in that our memory can never bind and join our dreams together with the course of our lives, as it habitually joins together what happens to us when we are awake. And so, in effect, if someone suddenly appeared to me when I was awake and disappeared in the same way, as (do the images that I see) in my sleep, so that I could not determine where he came from or where he went, it would not be without reason that I would consider it a ghost or a phantom pro¬ duced in my brain, rather than truly a man. But when I perceive ob¬ jects in such a way that I distinctly recognize both the place from which they come and the place where they are, as well as the time when they appear to me; and when, without any hiatus, I can relate my perception with all the rest of my life, I am entirely certain that I perceive them wakefully and not in sleep.” The decisive criterion is the unity, the connectedness, and the orderly linking together of the phenomena. The important thing here, however, is not the actual establishment of this connectedness, but, rather, the possibility and the need for it. In the dream, things are disconnected without the dreamer feeling a lack of orderly struc¬ ture or event. In waking life, however, even if a person is perplexed and confused, he is oriented toward discovering this order. He is perplexed because the anticipated answer has not yet been found. We do not owe the experience of being awake to a judgment, we are, rather, able to judge because we are awake. The possibility of order¬ ing precedes the fact of order. Descartes’ line of argument is unconvincing. Since the irregu¬ larity of appearances and disappearances does not, in the first in¬ stance, lead him to conclude that he is sleeping, but only that something must be wrong with the observational situation, then the regularity of visible events in the other instance can not lead him to the certainty that he is awake. An experience such as the one Des-

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cartes describes is no longer odd to television audiences. For in this country it happens often enough that in the middle of the most exciting part of a drama the actors suddenly disappear and just as sud¬ denly reappear again, while in the meantime a nattilly dressed gentle¬ man glibly advises us of the virtues of the sponsor’s splendid product. The observer is not in the slightest bit confused. When awake we can watch a play and without any trouble delimit within “real space” the space of a stage in which often enough things “have something fishy about them.” In waking life we differentiate between the natural order of events and the artistic order of the theater which yields its own rules of play. Descartes had referred to viewing and to visible ob¬ jects. Had he, however, selected for his example hearing and noises which come and go discontinuously without ascertainable related¬ ness, then he might have reasoned that being awake makes logical operations possible—not that being awake can be deduced by means of logical chains of thought. In the hushed silence of a dark night we are quite capable of experiencing our awakeness. The stability of our waking world is not based upon judgment; it is prelogical. The radi¬ cal swing over from the benumbedness of the dream to the clarity of awakeness takes place in the transition from sleeping to awakening, namely, in the readiness for sensory experience and movement. We therefore have every reason to believe that already in this sphere awakeness manifests itself and understands itself. In Descartes’ dichotomy, thinking was ascribed to the res cogitans and motion to the res extensa. Motion and corporeality were sep¬ arated from experiencing. Despite all the criticism which has been levelled against them, these Cartesian ideas have exercised a decisive influence up to the present day. The problem of movement has been almost entirely surrendered over to physics and physiology. Yet, cor¬ poreality and mobility are the conditions not only of the primary sensory apprehension of the world but also of its secondary, scientific interpretation. The permanence of the earth, of a house, or of a forest is manifest only within change of time, and can only appear as such to a being which in the sequence of its movements is directed to the abidingly visible. Rest and motion, duration and temporal flux are experi¬ enced in reciprocal relation. Just as motion can be determined only with respect to rest, so that which is at rest reveals itself only in con¬ trast to that which moves. The abiding and persistent is revealed to us who persist within change; that which confronts me as permanent can be apprehended only in a changing alternation of impressions. Only in contraposition to my becoming and moving self can I ap¬ prehend the other, which confronts me as persistent.

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The permanent, durable order can manifest itself to me only as the other which I can approach or from which I can withdraw. It is in my becoming and mobility that the world in its continuity be¬ comes visible. I can change my standpoint with respect to that which remains at rest; the other remains unchanged as I change my location from Here to There. A rigid coupling, on the other hand, would mean the disappearance of free mobility, the otherness of confronted things and of sensory experience in general. Only as a mobile being free to comport myself over and against the other am I able to see the being-at-rest of visible things and their articulated substantiality (Selbigkeit); I am able to move only insofar as I am over against the sensed other. The morsel of food which we bring from the plate to the mouth ceases to be an object when we swallow it. Anatomy and physiology teach us, as we know, that this morsel is pushed further along by peristaltic action in the intestine. But this knowl¬ edge never becomes immediate experience; it remains hidden from us just as—both before and after Harvey—the circulation of the blood in our veins remained unavailable to direct experiencing. What we experience of the food we have swallowed is a state of well¬ being or its opposite; we feel either satisfied or sated, comfortable or gorged. Peristalsis is not a movement we ourselves perform. Moving ourselves: This we can do only if we stand in a relation to the other which we experience by our senses and which we can know only as mobile beings. After waking we are ready to get up. This getting up is a rising against gravity. In rising to an erect position, and in the free move¬ ment upon the ground that supports us, the objects appear. Erect and capable of movement, we can confront the other. Within the framework of the other, confronting it, I come to experience myself and that which is genuinely mine—my body. In my bodilyness, I find myself in the center of the world which unfolds itself in the dimen¬ sions of near and distant. Distances and distance as such, the so-called depth dimensions of physiological optics, are relative to a potentially mobile being which, proceeding outward from its own center in an alternation of standpoints traversing space, first attains to the tan¬ gibly close and then, proceeding further, to the more remote. We see —as against the physical motion of light—the visible spatial field ar¬ ranged in regions which are closer or more remote in relation to us as mobile beings. Every man experiences the world from his own standpoint to which he is tied by his own corporeality and its corresponding gravi¬ tational pull. Thus, circumstance demands a certain order and con¬ sequence in our experience and action. In thought I can set myself

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beyond all time and space; in phantasy I can mount the legendary Pegasus and be carried far away. But in the sensory experience of the waking present we remain pedestrians who, restrained by the gravity of our bodily existence, are able to move only step by step—“pedan¬ tically.” Whether we be light hearted and high of spirit or tired and oppressed, our vital moods are linked to gravity, to the burden that we carry lightly or groaningly drag along. Things, too, confront us in their weight and weightiness. Not without reason has dreaming been compared to phantasy. But with all their similarities, there remains the fundamental differ¬ ence that the dreamer is submerged in his dream world, while in phantasy we are the master of our creation, no matter how enraptur¬ ing our daydreams may be. Though far removed from the present in our phantasy, we nevertheless remain near to reality. At any moment a Wagner can knock at Faust’s door and call him back to this earth from the heavens or hells of his phantasies. In phantasy, sunk in memory, lost in thought, I am still always I in the persistence of my bodily existence. The “there” in which, according to Heidegger’s phrase, our being is thrown is our corporeality and its correspond¬ ingly structured world. This is the reality from which I remove my¬ self in phantasy and reverie; this is the reality against whose background phantasy and memory, even when they include myself, stand out. Bodily, sensory experience is the continuum from which all experiencing proceeds and to which it all returns. In this sense and to this degree, sensualism is correct. And thus, too, everyday life is correct when it understands as “real” that which confronts us_be it merely an apparition—in the continuity of our bodily sensory ex¬ istence and experience between life and death. Why does the dreamer lose power over his dreams?5 Why is it that he does not appropriate to himself his dream phantasies, but is, rather, possessed by them? Why does the dream world become reality for him? The answer to these questions is no longer very difficult. Dreams come in sleep; the sleeper has lain down to rest. He has, in fact, not withdrawn his interest from the world; rather, in lying down and sleeping he gives himself completely to the world. He gives up his stance which “opposes” and confronts the world. Thus, he can no longer freely relate to the world and therefore no longer delimit and claim that which is his own. By the bondage of him who dreams, we measure the freedom of him who is awake. The illusions in dreams are not failures of judgment; the dreamer does not con¬ fuse mine and thine. The deceptions of the dream arise from and correspond to the mode of the dreamer’s condition; sleeping. Only in

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waking life can the original, nonconceptual, and nonobjective ex¬ perience of “mine” be constituted. The Mine differentiates itself from the not mine in its relation to that which opposes;—opposes within the continuity of the relation I-other realized in my mobility. Insofar as the dreamer switches off the unity of sensomotorium, sen¬ sory awareness, and mobility; insofar as he interrupts the continuity of bodily being-in-the-world and its being-opposed, to this degree he thereby suspends as experienceable that reality in contrast to which dreams might possibly appear to the dreamer as “mere” dreams. Only in contrast to primal sensory reality can thoughts be experi¬ enced as thoughts, images as images, and dreams as dreams. The dream world overpowers the dreamer; it appears as real to him, not in contrast to the unreal, but because of the lack of the possibility of such contrast, a lack of possibility of such being-other. Even under such conditions experience still in a certain way preserves the polar¬ ity of I-other. This polarity is, to be sure, singularly modified. In dreams we find ourselves active in a certain way; but we are not the doer of these deeds; our actions have no source in an historical con¬ tinuity and no predetermined goal. They are not actions genuinely projected by us. Correspondingly, our dream antagonists, strictly speaking, are not strange persons; their good and evil intentions are familiar to us without their having expressed them or communicated them to us. Only when sight and that which is seen are separable from each other, when the thing seen maintains itself through various acts of seeing—only then can a relation between the act of seeing and ob¬ ject of sight be grasped. The changing of standpoints while con¬ fronting something which persists reveals for me the possibility of differentiating my act of seeing from what I see, of separating real from unreal, insight from illusion, truth from semblance. Awake, we can dwell on a matter, repeat something, or return to the point of departure. But in dreams we canot effect such a division. The other, over and against which I first win my stance and which thereby can manifest itself as a persistent object, does not here come into its own. The dream lacks thus the possibility of a differentiation between reality and semblance. This possibility is realized only in awakeness. In the prelingual and prelogical sphere of waking, sensory experi¬ ence, the first step toward linguistic explication and logical modi has been taken. Here is the source of all later separations of appearances from their modes of appearing. Awakeness is a primitive fact. It is the foundation upon which is erected the human world, in the praxis of life as in theoretical in-

286

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sight, in its interhuman intercourse as in its individual and com¬ mon history. Sensory experience opens the world to us and sets us in its order. In this situation and out of it, we begin to think and move in our thinking beyond the primal situation, without, however, ever abandoning it completely. The second step could never take place at all were it not already anticipated in the first. The world as it is re¬ vealed in prescientific and scientific interpretation is not wholly alien to purely sensory awareness, for in it all potentialities of interpreta¬ tion are already intimated. In the fixed order of space which becomes visible when we awake, we can determine places and locations and relate them to one another. We can draw borders in these spatial configurations and discover the equality of distance by the reversibility of sight direc¬ tion. It remains constant when we approach and when we withdraw from an object. As position changes, the objects’ size, proportions, and structure are preserved. We can distinguish parts of the object, separate these parts, delimit them, and determine their relation to each other. It is in the world experienced in awakeness that geome¬ try, the identifiable determination of lengths and angles, is pos¬ sible. It is not that simply being awake makes us mathematicians, but in the world we experience when awake and in our relation to it geometry can be constituted. Awakeness, physiologically understood, is a condition of mathematics, because mathematics is an interpreta¬ tion of the world which is accessible to us in waking life, a world intimately bound up with the emancipation of the act of seeing from that which is seen. This emancipation can be realized only by a being which moves. Awakeness is the beginning of all experience, but not in the sense of a tabula rasa. The “white paper’’ upon which, in Locke’s simile, sensations are entered one after the other, supposedly has no struc¬ ture of its own and no fiber. Locke used the metaphor of the “white paper” to indicate the complete emptiness of mind, an emptiness gradually filled with ideas. If awakeness as the ground of all experi¬ ence is to be compared to a blank sheet of paper, it would surely have to be a ruled paper which, by the arrangement of its lines, regu¬ lates and prescribes the entries made on it. The basic relation of awakeness allows of the experience of the singular, but the experi¬ ence of the singular is, as we have shown, not a single experience. Awakeness is without plural; it is at both the beginning and the end of every experience. But, as in daylight we perceive the illuminated objects and not the light itself, so in the waking state our interest is stimulated and bound by the many individual things. Awakeness

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itself remains the unnoticed and hidden foundation. The remarkable obscurity of the structure of awakeness—concealed in its obviousness and evidence—in conjunction with the marked interest in the singu¬ lar has led, especially in doctrines of the school of sensualism, to a misconstruction of sensory experience. Let me once more quote Locke. After having rejected the assump¬ tion of innate ideas, he starts his investigation with the somewhat awkward, but truly characteristic remark: “Every man being con¬ scious to himself that he thinks and that which his mind is applied about whilst thinking, being the ideas that are there, it is past doubt that men have in their mind several ideas; such as those expressed by the words: whiteness, hardness, sweetness, thinking, motion, man, elephant, army, drunkenness, and others.”6 The men Locke speaks of are, of course, awake. They are his awake fellow men with whom he can converse about their own and his experiences. But this stand¬ point is not firmly maintained. The people we meet in everyday life are interpreted by Locke as souls. Both ways of looking at people run parallel in Locke and lead to an inextricable entanglement. Sometimes he speaks of human beings, and sometimes of the mind and the soul without ever making clear to himself or to the reader how he reaches these abstractions and how those noncorporeal minds and disembodied souls can traffic with other incorporeal souls or have knowledge of them. Like Locke, many others obstinately hold to the assumption that individual “external” processes call forth individual impressions in consciousness. Indeed, such a presupposition makes it appear that “neither the property of being spontaneous, nor that of being passively encountered sets a bona fide sense impression apart from a sudden pain, dreams, hallucinations, and optical illusions.”6 Locke spoke of whiteness, hardness, elephants, and drunkenness. Margenau speaks of sensory impression, dreams, hallucinations, pains. The difference is not significant. Both speak of sleep and awakeness without questioning after their own awakeness, the evi¬ dence of which is presupposed by all other evidence. Locke puts the question as to “whether the soul thinks all the time.” He discourses on sleeping, dreaming, awakeness. But it never occurs to him to treat awakeness itself and the possibility of differentiating one’s own awakeness from dreaming as a theme for investigation. The psycho¬ logical problem, the immanent structure of awakeness, completely escapes his attention. Had it been otherwise, his proposition as to the beginning of all experience would have had to read, “Every awake man being conscious to himself of his awakeness ...” Then, at least, he would not have been able to pursue the path he took, for

288

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in awakeness we do not find ideas in our mind; we find, rather, our¬ selves in our bodily existence in the world. Sensory experience cannot be made up of primally singular worldless data; it cannot be mere matter upon which thinking subse¬ quently performs its functions in the way, for instance, that the stomach acts upon the food which flows to it through the esophagus. Awakening is a basic fact of awakeness and should be considered as a part of a whole as should the factistic differentiation between awakening and having dreamt. It is a fortunate fact, for the alterna¬ tion of awakeness and sleeping makes it possible better to grasp the brightness of awakeness by contrasting it to the darkness of night. The characteristics of awakeness which have been ascertained are: the ability to differentiate, the ordered sequentiality of impres¬ sions, the relation to bodiliness, mobility, and gravity, the experience of my-ness, the separation of appearance and that which appears. To these now, is added a word about the “sociology” of awake¬ ness. The dreamer is alone in his dream world; in sleep he cannot communicate to others nor can they communicate to him. Communi¬ cation is possible only in the state of awakeness. So much goes with¬ out saying, and yet we still have a right and a good reason to wonder. If there were degrees of “self-evident” truth, then the incapacity of the dreamer to communicate might be called “more self-evident” than the fact of a community between awake human beings. This is rather remarkable; for, the evidence of a deficiency presupposes a complete understanding of the positive condition. Although the fact that those who sleep do not communicate with one another is taken for granted, the possibility of communication in general seems to stand in need of explanation. “The knowledge of the alien ego” is felt to be a mystery as is indicated by the various attempts theoreti¬ cally to account for it by notions of sympathy, analogical deduction, telesthesia. Insofar as the possibility of mutual understanding is not itself contested, investigations have always been limited to communi¬ cation in awakeness. But why is communication bound up with awakeness? What is the relation of being-with-another to awakeness? We know it is the dreamer who dreams his dreams. No other can enter his dream world, nor he enter another’s. The relation of sleepers to one another is reciprocally negative, that of those who are awake reciprocally positive. However, the relation of those who sleep to those who are awake is unilaterally negative or unilaterally posi¬ tive. The sleeper cannot relate to one who is awake, but the converse is possible. He who is awake can watch over the sleeper and protect him or he can assault him and destroy him. Thieves come in the night. As long as the sleeper does not rouse he is powerless at the

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mercy of the awake criminal. Only when he awakes from sleep, “comes back” and has power again over himself, can he recompense the other with good or evil, take measure of him, approach him, or withdraw from him. All communication, lingual included, is based in the being-with-another of mobility, of meeting and fleeing in a common surrounding world. The theories of the apprehension of an alter ego take no note of the power relationship of communication. They visualize the knower and the known opposing each other like two bodies stamped out of an environing totality. The knower discovers certain properties in the cogitatum which supposedly lead him to assume the presence of an other ego. Thus, one erroneously speaks of knowing an alien ego, another mind. But communication is not the product of a knowing process. We can, to be sure, relate to the other in the manner of an observer, but in primal and basic communication I am not a knower and the other is not the object of my knowledge. He is not a thing singled out from a neutral background as an object of special inter¬ est. I discover the other, my fellow man or fellow creature, as a partner in my waking motor intentions, as a being which can come near me or withdraw from me.

£>.

Critique of

Epiphenomcnalism

(a) The Physiology and Psychology of the Senses THE DIVORCE OF LIVING MOVEMENT FROM MOTOR PROCESS AND

sensing from the process of sensation demands a rejection of epiphenomenalism. For this separation can stand up only if epiphenome-

290

Sensing and Movement Considered Historiologically

nalism be false. Physiological psychology is based on comparison; but the principle of this comparison is of an unusual sort. Physiological psychology compares psychic experience with physiological process. What renders such a comparison possible? What, indeed, is the gen¬ eral connecting link between psychic experience and physiological process? Do we have here a tertium comparationis as we do in trans¬ lating one language into another? In translation, the same thought is expressed in different lan¬ guages.1 Yet does the claim that experience is not only dependent upon organic events but precisely analagous to the processes in the sense organs have any verifiable meaning? Is it at all possible that the proponents of the doctrine of epiphenomenalism and their oppo¬ nents could ever meet in a meaningful discussion in which one side might be convinced by the strength of the other’s argument? What will the epiphenomenalists bring forth in defense of their position? How will their opponents answer them? Before I argue about the analogy between experience and physiological process, I ought first to attempt to clarify the preliminary issues. 1. Return to the Integrity of the Experience. The sensory organs are demonstrated to every medical student in his preclinical courses. He learns that this particular configuration here is the optical nerve and that tissue there the acoustic nerve. And he unquestioningly ac¬ cepts what he is taught. But how has science itself arrived at this knowledge? What experience justifies it in designating an organ as a sensory organ? For, indeed, on these experiences and their roots de¬ pends our understanding of the manner in which psychic events are linked to bodily processes. In this case, the very nomenclature con¬ tains within it a complex theory. We can facilitate the answer to all these general questions by turning first to a different, but relevant problem. We ask: How does the “pathological” anatomist recognize a histological specimen as a section of diseased tissue? Pathological anatomy per se cannot recognize an organ as in itself healthy or sick. That there is such a thing as sickness and that there exist many diseases is something pathological anatomy knew quite before it ever prepared its first slide. In order to give its findings a meaningful interpretation, it had also to know, prior to its proper work, that the corpse it examined belonged to a living creature which lived under such and such conditions and died in this or that way. Without hesitation, we speak of diseases in the plural. Our origi¬ nal experience does not, however, contain the catalogue of x diseases

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which modern medicine presents. Our original experience is not of diseases in the plural, but of sickness, suffering, dying, and death. Hense, the unquenchable hope for a panacea which would be “equal” to all modes of disease, that is, all diseases. Suffering, the experience of bodily suffering in oneself and in other men and ani¬ mals, is the primary experience from which medicine is derived. Dis-ease, the experience of being not at ease, leads to the discovery of the “diseases.” The objectification of suffering comes about in two quite differ¬ ent ways: as an expression of suffering and as a symptom of disease. Of the two, the understanding of the expression is primary, a prescientific understanding of being sick. The knowledge of diseases and their symptoms, however, has been slowly developed over the course of centuries by medical research. Whenever such research comes to certain conclusions, then the symptom becomes more im¬ portant for diagnosis than the expression. Originally, however, and even today in correct medical practice, the expression is also essen¬ tial. Objectification by the ascertainment of symptoms and by means of the microscope and histological staining becomes meaningful only when seen in the context of the living being. The individual func¬ tions of the organism and their abberations are understandable only in relation to the integrity of the organism as a full, vital totality. In a like manner, we grasp the individual functions and powers of the psyche only in relation to unimpaired experiencing. Without eyes we cannot see; that is a truism. But in its negative form, it quite rigorously demonstrates the manner in which we arrive at the knowl¬ edge of individual functions and it shows us the limitations of such knowledge. Expressed positively, the proposition says: Only with eyes can we see. But it would be a complete misunderstanding of what we thereby know were we to derive from this negative statement the positive proposition that we see with the eyes, or, even worse, that visual sensations are in the eyes.2 An insignificant, spatially limited injury of the medulla oblon¬ gata or a dislocation of the pulmonary artery suffices to bring the life of an organism to an end. We may therefore quite rightly say that without the medulla oblongata or without an open pulmonary artery we canot live. But no one would therefore be inclined to localize life in the medulla oblongata or in the lumen of the pulmonary artery. Yet it seems to be less objectionable to localize sensations in particu¬ lar parts of the nervous system or to localize consciousness in the brain stem. The unity of the living being differentiates itself into many partial functions. Thus, we can only reconstruct the organism

292

Sensing and Movement Considered Historiologically

and its unity; we can dissect the organism, but we cannot manufac¬ ture it. 2. Sensory Data Mediate Between Physics and Physiology.3 Physi¬ ology of the senses makes use of the differentiations, limitations and disturbances of sensing in order to reveal the physiological processes in the sensory organs. Sensory data serve as indicators for the detec¬ tion of the relation that exists between stimulus and reaction. Sen¬ sory data are the “middle men”; they serve our efforts to know by mediating between physical and physiological processes. On the one hand they are taken as signs which refer to physical events, and on the other hand, as indicators of the functioning of particular organs. Certain failures of sensing first reveal themselves in connection with more or less severe disturbances of particular organs. From such ex¬ perience, we deduce that—in a positive sense—the sequentiality of certain sensations indicates the intact functioning of certain organs. Physiological research in this area remains dependent on an analysis of sensing;4 and such analysis must, for the most part, be carried out independently of the sense physiology, and, indeed, logically precedes it (even though, practically, such analysis has been enormously strengthened by the physiology of the senses). Sensations, neverthe¬ less, remain a mediator between physical and physiological events. The physiology of the senses investigates the functions of sensory organs as processes which take place in bodily structures and which are caused by physical processes according to the threshold of the stimuli. Sensory data—color, brightness, spatial order, and the rest, serve as signs for physical occurrences. These same data are also noticed by the experimental subject; by announcing that he now sees something and by reporting what he sees, he also informs us of the functioning of the organ. Since the observations of the experi¬ menter and the subject seem to be directed to the same data, it may be said that these data function merely as indicators, that they make possible a direct disclosure of the causal relation between physical and physiological events. A closer examination, however, gives us cause to doubt whether the sensory impressions of the two persons are strictly comparable, rather than essentially differing as to their content and in their methodological significance. For whereas the experimental subject is instructed to relate his impressions of what appears to him with as little bias as possible, the experimenter will not limit himself to momentary givens. The subject says: “Now I see a red, circular spot on a yellow background,” and the experimenter translates this state¬ ment to fit in with the purpose of his experiment. In place of the “I,”

CRITIQUE OF EPIPHENOMENALISM

293

he puts an “it,” namely, the organ (in this case, the eye) in place of see he puts “is stimulated”; in place of the “now,” the point in¬ stant t. What remains of the experience of seeing is thus only that which is seen, the objective result of the seeing. It is this result alone which is made use of by physiology in order circumspectly to ascer¬ tain the functioning of the organ considered as independent of ex¬ ternal events. A criterion for the performance of an organ appears to be merely its ability to provide contact with the known objective world. Experimental subjects and experimenters speak two different languages at one and the same time. A translation here is possible, however, not a philologically exact one, but a translation in which the original meaning of the statement made undergoes an essential modification. For the experimenter, the other is both the subject of an experiment with whom he speaks and who understands and can answer his questions; but at the same time, he is also considered merely as an organism affected by physically defined stimuli. This observational ambiguity, which exists whether what is observed is a sick or healthy other or, indeed, one’s own self, has decisively influ¬ enced the growth of theory. Objective psychology has, by its methods, tried to escape this ambiguity. But, as we have seen, it does not succeed. The experimenter thus goes beyond the reports of the experimen¬ tal subject and, by drawing on the totality of scientific knowledge, he constructs a general, objective order, which he directly relates to the physical events and also to the functions of the sensory organs. The functioning of the sensory organs thus becomes ascertainable by means of measurable physical and chemical processes. There exists a causal connection between processes like action currents, chemical transformations, and the physical event. Now, however, we are no longer speaking of seeing and hearing, nor, indeed, may we do so. 3. Harmonious Function and Proper Function. But such a limita¬ tion applied to sense-physiological research will satisfy no one. One glance into the rich literature of the physiology of the senses shows that the issue always involves seeing and hearing in the most authen¬ tic sense. This brings us to a group of investigations which must be strictly and carefully separated from the preceding ones. We meet with such articulation of functions everywhere in the science of physiology. Take, for example, muscle function as the object of observation: We may first of all think of all those processes which come into play with the contraction and performance of work by the muscles. But by muscle function, we may also mean the pulling effect of a muscle.

294

Sensing and Movement Considered Historiologically

for example, the delta muscle upon the humerous. Ungerer,5 follow¬ ing Driesch, has distinguished between the former group of functions as proper and the latter as harmonious functions. The harmonious functions are effects of the excited organ upon other parts of the organism or upon the organism as a whole. The contraction of the muscle, its excitation and proper function depend upon certain chemical transformations. Analytical studies of proper functions of an isolated muscle do not pertain to the locomotion of limbs of body. It becomes manifest only when harmonious functions are studied. And to that end, the muscles must be viewed as functioning in the organism. Only from the perspective of the concept of organism is it possible to understand harmonious function. The most precise knowledge of the chemical-colloidal processes in the functioning muscle cannot compensate for the radical change of standpoint re¬ quired in relating muscle function to the organism. Muscles, activated in their proper function, move the limbs with respect to other parts of the skeleton; they adduce, abduce, or rotate (e.g., the humerous in the shoulder joints). By means of these move¬ ments of the limbs, we move in our environment. Harmonious func¬ tions must therefore be subdivided into a first and second order. The frame of reference of proper function is the surrounding biochemical field; that of harmonious function of the first order is the skeleton, and the frame of reference of harmonious function of the second order is the environment of the organism. In the first instance (proper function) we speak of the motion of the muscular elements (e.g., contraction), in the second, we speak of the motion of individ¬ ual muscles in their anatomical connection. Only in the third case do we refer to locomotion, self-movement. Disturbances of the proper function—depending on their extent—result in disturbances in harmonious function of the first order which latter, however, can often be vastly compensated by concatenated performance of harmonious functions of the second order. The so-called proprio¬ ceptive sensations are co-ordinated with the first order harmonious function; the exteroceptive serve the second order harmonious func¬ tion. The term “motion” has different meanings when applied to proper function and to harmonious functions. To avoid con¬ fusion, it would be more expedient to use three different words, say “motion,” “action,” and “movement.” Such a terminological clarifi¬ cation would make it easier to distinguish the three observational standpoints. But even after such a distinction, it would still be neces¬ sary to explicate their logical-conceptual and contentual relation¬ ship. It is fallacious to assume that a complete analysis of the proper

CRITIQUE OF EPIPHENOMENALISM

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function of the elements brings us at the same time to a solution of the problems of harmonious functions.6 Sense impressions, too, are to be understood only as harmonious functions. Just as the muscle reveals its significance as an organ of movement only in the organism, so the sense organ is as such under¬ standable only in the context of a living person. Conversation and the ability to understand communicated expressions are the real source of our knowledge of sense physiology. Experiments with animals are indispensable for the physiologist, but without conversing with the experimental subject who is able to tell us of his experiences and report his impressions; without the soliloquy of the researcher living in his sensory world, without all this, sense physiology could never have begun. In his text on experimental psychology, Froebes7 wrote, It is true that in the course of time the child also learns new movements of an artificial kind like speaking and writing which are not given instinctually and which vary according to environment. How is the acquisition of such new movements possible? . . . The following schema may illustrate the process: A certain movement is often initiated by the cerebrum (reflectorial). This produces an excitation ME in the motor region from which flows the movement into the muscles. This movement is then noticed (visu¬ ally, kinaesthetically, etc.) i.e. it kindles a perception of the movement, an image of it. This perception contains, as always, a neural parallel-process, the sensory excitation SE. There is consequently formed an association be¬ tween ME and SE (which follow each other). Although with lesser inten¬ sity, this association works also in a retrograde manner; that is, if later on the movement image emerges again (as a perception of someone else performing the movement, or as an idea), the probability exists that the motor excitation will be awakened and the movement itself thereby evoked.

It would surely be wrong to call the author of such a comprehen¬ sive text to task for a stylistic error. Nevertheless, the whole context indicates, as it must always, that the direction of the error is ordained by certain motives. Movement is treated by Froebes as an inde¬ pendent, reified given. The movement appears as a kind of fluid material which flows from the brain to the muscle. What Froebes probably had in mind was the proper function of the muscle, and movement is understood as an excitation of histological elements. But we are also told that the cerebrum initiates a certain movement. Presumably what is meant by this formulation is the movement of a muscle in the

296

Sensing and Movement Considered Historiologically

anatomical sense, that is, its first order harmonious function. Froebes, however, actually describes a group of new “movements of an artifi¬ cial kind like speaking and writing,” i.e., movements in the sense of manual skills and actions. The movement which flows into the muscle Froebes says elicits a perception of movement. This is said to be an image of the kin¬ esthetic, proprioceptive excitation, and at the same time a visual movement image of the act of writing, be it one’s own or that of another person performing this action. The perception of the move¬ ment is finally localized as a sensory excitation in a neural parallel process.8 According to Froebes, presentation of the learning of man¬ ual skills must lead to a progressive rigidity of the motor act. In fact, however, motor processes always become more free with the “know how” of a manual skill. He who has learned how to write finds little difficulty substituting a blackboard for the usual sheet of paper. Without any hesitation, a transition is made from the horizontal to the vertical position, from black on white to white on black, from the accustomed size of the written letters to a ten- or twenty-fold magnification. And whereas writing on paper called movements in the carpometacarpal joint into play, writing on a blackboard re¬ quires the movement of the shoulder joint and its muscles. There is no simple correspondence between the patterns determining a motor action in the visible environment and the kinesthetic and motor processes which guide the actions in the organism. How could the process of a muscle contraction be taken as the image of the resulting movement of a limb? To turn one’s head to the right, the left sterno cleido mastoideus must be innervated. Is there any analogy between this muscular contraction and the turn¬ ing of the head? To get from the desk to the door of my study, I need walk only a few steps. But how manifold are the movements of the muscles which must be set in action during this short walk? How, then, could an analogy between motor process and spontaneous movement be established? The same holds true for sensing. There are sensing beings, how¬ ever sensations by themselves do not exist. Seeing is located neither in the eye nor in the retina, nor in the optic nerve, the geniculate body, the optical radiation, nor in the calcarina; the brain does not see. 4. The Discrepancies. Physiological processes do not exactly corre¬ spond to physical events. “Exact subjectivism” in sense-physiology9 was able to draw from these discrepancies far-reaching conclu¬ sions as to the proper function of the sense organs. The “discrep-

CRITIQUE OF EPIPHENOMENALISM

297

ancies” apparently are limited to lesser deviations of the phenomenal order with respect to the “objective” order. Actually, the discrepancy between physiological process and sensory experience is much more radical. All processes in the sense organs are conceived of in universal objective time and universal objective space. In experience, they ap¬ pear here and now, in the subjective, individually lived time. Such a monadic ordering can not be derived from the universality of the physical order. The organ cannot see; the organ cannot say “I”; the organ, considered in isolation, has nothing to do with the Here and Now. The investigation of “simple” processes of seeing suggests that the discrepancies nevertheless admit of a relationship between function and experience whereby the process of “forming images” would need but minor correction. A simple discrepancy of this sort is the devi¬ ation of the apparent from the actual vertical when the glance is directed into the distance, but under conditions of monocular fixa¬ tion. “We infer from this,” says Tschermak10—“assuming the forma¬ tion of a meridionally correct, that is, undistorted, image—we infer to a corresponding deviation of the vertically sensed elements from the plumb line.” This inference is very characteristic. The rod, hav¬ ing been placed in the apparent vertical, is for the purpose of the interpretation of the function in question taken not as it appears, i.e., vertical, rather the phenomenal order is replaced by an objective and universal order, and then from this order it is referred back to the “function.” But such attempts to explain discrepancies must fail as soon as the observation turns from the artificial conditions of the laboratory to those closer to everyday life. Then one discovers, for instance in the visual field, that the subjective angle of vision is determined “by the particular subjective standard in the visual field which varies ac¬ cording to time and region.” “Decisive for the overall criterion is not objective distance, but the idea of the distance, or ‘seen distance’ (Sehferne), the object we have focused on awakens in us as the main theme of attention.”11 But what does the appeal to attention mean in such a context? Apparently, nothing else but the confession that a purely physiologi¬ cal explanation does not suffice. The use, therefore, of the expression “subjective” is not entirely innocuous. Because the “specific energy” of the senses takes part in determining the content of sensations, one speaks of a subjectivity of sensations. “Subjective” means, then, something bodily conditioned. The subject of exact subjectivism is thus not the experiencing /, but

298

Sensing and Movement Considered Historiologically

the organ which receives the stimuli. The subject is seen from with¬ out; it is another part of the objective world. Physiological psychology fails to see that the way we understand both physical and physiological processes is of a qualitatively differ¬ ent order from the way we understand, and must understand, experiencing. The essential elements of this difference between these two orders can be seen in the following set of antitheses: Sequence of events Process Sequence of locationally and temporally limited processes Sequence of moments Objective time Objective space Separateness of space and time The point instant of the present and its extension Objective situs Vector Differences between the excited organs Motor process Isolated organism Stimulus-receptor ?

Becoming Experiencing Totality-relation of self to world Continuum of change Experienced time Experienced space Distance; spatio-temporal unity Temporal horizon Perspective Direction Differences between modes of communication Self-movement Original being-with of self and world Living subject Nothingness

Objective psychology, too, realizes that experience and physio¬ logical processes are not entirely the same. But it is so dominated by the idea of coupling experience to process that it is forced to replace the order of becoming by the order of events. That, however, is not possible. The dissimilarity of these two orders must be recognized and acknowledged—which means asserting the right to investigate sensing and self-movement in terms of their own content independ¬ ently of the results yielded by physiology. Between the physiology and the psychology of the senses there exists merely a correlation12; there exists no word-for-word translation from the one sphere to the other. 5. Physics Refutes Physicalism. The physicist’s observations begin

CRITIQUE OF EPIPHENOMENALISM

299

and end within the field of human action. In it and from it he de¬ velops the mathematical and physical conception of space. The per¬ sonal relation of the observer to his environment differs in principle from the spatio-temporal relations of things observed. If the ob¬ server’s original relations to space and time corresponded to those in which the observed objects and their ultimate hypostatizations, such as atoms and electrons, are conceived, defined, and measured, he could never devise a science of physics. Is it not, then, self-evident that physics as a science of physical events must go beyond that which it defines and determines? The definer encompasses the de¬ fined. Every statement about the position, velocity, and directional motion of a body presupposes that the observer himself commands the spatial totality within which a determined or determinable loca¬ tion (a particular position) is at issue. From the multiplicity of all possible locations, the physicist seeks to establish the actual position. Whether he succeeds in this, whether the physical and technical con¬ ditions allow it or not, whether an unambiguous determination is possible or merely a probability statement—all that does not change the actual state of affairs here. The observational space, thought of as invariant, is, for the ob¬ server, peculiarly transparent. No surfaces obstruct his view into its depths. Physically unburdened, he is able to move in any direction he pleases within the spatial totality determined by his co-ordinates. To be able to determine the actual position, motion, direction, and velocity of a body, he must first of all master the order of all the pos¬ sible positions. No body—either a single particle or a complex struc¬ ture—can determine its position by itself. For it does not command a spatial totality, but is bound to one position: That sought by the observer. It does not command a plurality of possibilities, for to do that it would have to be able to reach beyond itself to a place where it is not. A physical body cannot determine the distance of its posi¬ tion with respect to other locations. The observer, on the other hand, separated by a distance from other bodies, measures the distance by bringing the separated locations into a relationship that spans the intervening space. Every school boy knows that the earth turns on its axis every 24 hours, and that it takes a year to complete its orbit around the sun. Should the young astronomer be slightly more advanced in his edu¬ cation, he will be inclined to look disdainfully upon the ideas of Ptolemy. And yet, the odds are that he himself would propose a geocentric system if he attempted to bring forth a new astronomy. According to all appearances, it is the earth which is at rest and the

3°°

Sensing and Movement Considered Historiologically

sun which rises and sets. We do not perceive the movement of the earth because we cannot contrast it with a fixed system of co-ordi¬ nates. We do not, to be sure, notice the movement of the earth, but that it is at rest is nevertheless transparently clear to us. How is this possible? How is it that the earth appears to us as being at rest? We know: Motion is relative to a (relatively) moving or (relatively) stationary point in space. Movement is understood as the change of position with reference to another body. All uniform systems moving toward each other in a straight line are therefore equivalent from a physical point of view; the natural laws take the same form in these systems. No observer can claim that it is his system which is station¬ ary and the other’s which is moving. This aspect of the special theory of relativity, which represents an amplification of the Galilean or Newtonian principle of relativity, has been extended in the general theory of relativity to cover any and all systems. The relativity and interchangeability among systems does not, however, pertain to the acts of measuring within a system itself; it does not apply to the psychological basis of the observation of movements. All measurements are made within one system. Depending on the state of motion of the individual observer’s system, measurements will yield different, although “translatable,” results. But all observ¬ ers, regardless of their different systems of motion, are nevertheless equal with respect to their mode of observing. For all their percep¬ tions take place within their systems’ states of rest and motion and all observers in distinguishing motion from rest confer a natural precedence upon rest, quite in the way that Aristotle did with respect to all things, not just animals and men. This basic experience of rest and motion corresponds to the psychophysical organization of man, to his own mobility and the exertion necessary for the transition from rest to motion. The precedence of the state of rest in original experience is the expression of a power relation. We experience our own movement not as change of position relative to spatial order taken as stationary; we rather experience our own movement as action in the face of the gravitational force of the earth upon which we move. This earth appears to us in itself unvaryingly immobile. Terrestrial space manifests itself as an absolute space within which things take, maintain, or exchange absolute positions, which is to say that these things may all be found either at rest or in motion. Subse¬ quent reflection may reveal weakness in this original experience of “container space,” but it cannot brush this experience aside, as little as the analysis of light can brush aside impressions of color. Criti¬ cism tries to correct the egocentric and anthropomorphic character

CRITIQUE OF EPIPHENOMENALISM

3° I

of the original experience, but the critic himself remains a human being, a human critic with human experience. And human experi¬ ence is the presupposition of his subsequent corrections. In his job of measuring, the observer distinguishes movement from rest and invariance. By reading off pointer positions, he ob¬ serves the scale as being invariant and the oscillating needle as in motion. For good reasons, it does not occur to him to reverse this relation. The movement of the pointer is relative to the invariant scale, but the scale’s state of rest is not relative to the pointer. The scale can be seen as being at rest without the pointer; the pointer itself may be in a state of rest. The scale is not at rest with respect to the pointer, but relative to the observer. Physics may understand rest as a special case of motion, but the physicist cannot see rest as motion of zero quantity. A stationary frame of reference is necessary for discerning a mobile pointer, but a stationary scale may be mani¬ fest to us without the movement of a pointer. Changes of position are relative and reciprocal. For the observer, rest and movement are at the same time relative and not reciprocal. The observer estab¬ lishes a pointer reading; that is, he sees the scale at rest and with it a pointer’s change of position. The invariant scale represents for him a systematic order of possibilities; the movement of the pointer indi¬ cates the actual event and the pointer’s position before the scale indi¬ cates that event’s degree and measure. While the pointer is limited to -its own motion, the observer succeeds in simultaneously appre¬ hending the invariant body, the immobile dial, and the motion of the pointer. Thus he can comprehend them in their contrasts and thus determine motion in the extent of these contrasts. The physical body in motion, on the other hand, cannot transcend itself by appre¬ hending that which is at rest as such. Establishing the fact that some¬ thing is moving transcends the movement itself. Movement takes place in time. A body in motion changes its position from moment to moment. We are accustomed to speak of a motion comprising its beginning, middle, and end, but at the same time understanding it in its temporal direction. But a body in mo¬ tion always finds itself somewhere in the transition from A to X, via B, C, D. It has left the point of departure and finds itself now at B, now at C, etc. We preserve in a certain sense the positions the body traverses and describe them as the path of motion— for example, the parabola described by a projectile. We record the history of a motion, and understand it not as static, but as a temporal sequence. When determining position, we reach beyond, we transcend the indi¬ vidual point. A cinematic strip of photographs splits movement into

3°2

Sensing and Movement Considered Historiologically

a series of phases. Each individual picture reproduces only one mo¬ ment of the whole movement. If observation of movement were to be strictly parallel and synchronous with it, so that at each moment the preceding position vanished, we could never recognize motion as such. As a physical being, the observer moves in his observation with the observed object. Galileo is said to have observed uniformity in the oscillations of the Florentine cathedral’s chandeliers by the throb¬ bing of his own pulse. Physics since then has reached ever increasing precision in measuring time points and in refining its temporal scale of measurement. It descended from the scale of the seasons, the months and days, to minutes and seconds. It counts radar impulses and light-wave rhythms instead of the rhythms of breathing and the beating of the heart. But, with the respect to the situation of the observer, nothing in principle has changed. Living, sensing, thinking within time, we establish temporal points, extensions and measure¬ ments. The observer who moves along with the event would never be in a position to establish temporal points or to measure extentions of time. For all measurements of velocity, the postulate holds true that a body uninfluenced by other forces will traverse equal distances in equal time intervals. The observed body has moved, it has reached a different location. But the observer holds beginning and end to¬ gether. He measures a day either in the morning, afternoon, or night; he calculates the duration of a year any day of the year; he himself, limited to a part, measures the whole. By the position of the hands on a clock, we read the time. The position of the hands as such means nothing, even if the clock is “running” and the hand moving steadily and uniformly. The posi¬ tion of the hands becomes significant only in its relation to the dial. But the dial does not move. Stationary, the dial represents the whole course of a day. In one comprehensive glance, we ascertain from the dial the temporal extension of a day: twelve hours marked in con¬ secutive order on the dial as possible stadia of the course of a day. The actual position of the hands indicates which of the many possi¬ bilities is at the moment actualized. It answers the question, put especially clearly in French, quelle heure est-il? Only as within the total order of the day does the answer, “two o’clock” or “six o’clock” makes sense. The motion of the hands has no relation to the dial before which they move. The hands of a good clock move with the same tempo with or without the dial. A clock shows the time, but only to us human beings who are capable of simultaneously grasping both possibility and actuality, change and invariance, part and whole.

CRITIQUE OF EPIPHENOMENALISM

3°3

The physicist tries to purify his science of all anthropomorphic additives. He works to rid his conceptual world of all those “occult” qualities which we, because of our own bodily experience, are in¬ clined to attribute to the objects of nature. This effort leads ulti¬ mately to the question of how far conceptual understanding is itself anthropomorphic. The equations, through which physics expresses the laws of nature, represent general form of particular occurrences. Natural laws are not active agencies; they postulate the dimensions by which natural processes take their particular course. They encom¬ pass and reach beyond the particular processes and render them comprehensible. We hear of stars whose distances are expressed in light years. Such distance is described in terms of the time it takes light to travel and is expressed in such a way as though the begin¬ ning and end of traversed space could be compressed together. The light year is treated as a unit. The same applies to the speed of light when we say it travels 186,000 miles per second, and applies, in gen¬ eral, whenever we understand any spatial or temporal determination as a unity. By the expressions “one hour,” “one day,” “one year,” we transcend the actuality of the moment and comprehend in one glance the sequence of the moments that we live through “in the course” of such stretches of time (or, expressed less anthropomorphically, which follow each other in the course of such stretches of time.) We combine these moments into these unities of year, day, and hour, and yet we understand them, at the same time, as exten¬ sions. Physically, we cannot force together the beginning and the end of a year, as little as we cannot force together the boundary marks of a yard stick which are separated from each other by all that lies be¬ tween them. In measured space, distance is at the same time elim¬ inated and preserved. And thus it becomes possible to prepare time tables and to predict how long a process will take. It is, in other words, possible to operate with spatial and temporal units and to examine how the measurement unit of an hour unfolds into physi¬ cal duration. All measurements and explanation of physics begin in the natural world of sensory experience. Whether we lose ourselves in astronomi¬ cal or submicroscopic dimensions, the starting point for both is given in the everyday relation of the observer to his environment. Niels Bohr computed that an electron rotates around the nucleus 1016 times per second. Because the birth of a proton lasts 10-10 seconds, the exact position of an electron can be determined only with the probability of 1:106. No matter how far such notions are from our powers of imagination, they are still an extension of the basic experi¬ ences of everyday life. In going beyond such things as “natural” pro-

Sensing and Movement Considered Historiologically

3°4

portions and sizes, we still retain the basic conditions of observation. Even the observations of microphysics take place in our macroscopic world and are bound to its conditions and possibilities. In his discus¬ sion of the uncertainty principle, Heisenberg matter-of-factly refers to an instrument of measuring, the microscope, which, phenomenally at rest, is visible and accessible to the observer. In complete and thorough physicalistic explanation, all visible phenomena are interpreted as and relativized into motor processes. Statements about positions of absolute rest lose their meaning, as do all determinations of absolute location. Both pointer and scale turn into complex arrangements of moved molecules. The same thing happens to the observer, and to this the physiologist gives assent. In such a re-ordering, neither rest nor motion can be grasped: Rest can¬ not because all particles are in motion, and motion cannot because it manifests itself only in relation to something at rest. The moving particles are constantly changing their positions in space. They are limited to one particular location and one particular place in the time differential, a place whose position can be determined only within a spatio-temporal system encompassing the multiplicity of all locations. The visible and measurable relation of motionless and moving things is embedded in the psychological relationship existing between an invariant world space and a mobile and constantly be¬ coming observer. The position of a point can be determined only as the intersection of two lines, those lines being only in a plane, and the plane only in the volume of space. Does it not, therefore, follow that man, moving in space and comprehending space points and spatial extensions, commands one more dimension than that which he is to determine?

Epiphenomenalism Gestalt 1. Unity and Unification. Despite its opposition to Pavlov, gestalt psychology adheres to the doctrines of epiphenomenalism. We must therefore see whether this attempt has been more successful than previous ones. Koehler puts forth the proposition that the concrete order of given experiences is a true reproduction of a dynamicfunctional order of the appropriate cerebral processes.13 This work¬ ing hypothesis is developed by means of specific examples. It is thus

CRITIQUE OF EPIPHENOMENALISM

305

maintained that the visible-spatial “in between” corresponds to a functional interjacence in the concrete dynamic context of the appro¬ priate physiological processes, and that the same holds true even for the temporal “in between.”14 Indeed, Koehler goes so far as to say, “As we saw, the statements of a subject may be taken as indicative either of his experience or of the processes which underlie these ex¬ periences. If the subject says ‘This book is bigger than that other one,’ his words may be interpreted as referring to a ‘comparisonexperience’ of his, but also as representative of a corresponding func¬ tional relationship between appropriate physiological processes.” What is not taken into consideration is the radical change in the mode of attitude that takes place when I first speak with the subject as a person who understands me in his answers and then consider him as an organism. What, for example, of so simple a sentence as “I shall come to¬ morrow”? What corresponds physiologically to the future tense, in the sense of an exact reproduction? For this is the issue here. And what of the sentence, “Tomorrow I shall not come”? What is the state of affairs with negations in general? And then what of conditional and subjective forms, “I would have come had I not had so high a fever”? And what, further, are we to think of errors, lies, and hypoc¬ risy? Certainly, physiological process is neither hypocritical, menda¬ cious, nor sentimental. The modi of thought are obviously more multifarious than the categories into which physiological processes are thought to fall, and the same holds true with respect to temporal forms. Physiological processes take place in time points t0, tx, t2; they are thought of in the objective time of (physical) event to which be¬ longs neither past nor future, nor, as well, negation and questioning. Is it possible for a physiological process to ask a question? Is the “propositional primacy,” according to which we understand a se¬ quence of words as a completed speech, comprehensible in a physio¬ logical analogy? Gestalt psychology, as presented by Koehler, would have to an¬ swer affirmatively to these questions. It is, in fact, this very epiphenomenalistic hypothesis together with the hypothesis of temporal “atoms”—both of these hypotheses are inseparable from the other— which compels the development of gestalt psychophysiology. Koehler, too, does not hesitate to speak of experiences as a plurality of psychic processes. Precisely because consciousness is taken as a mere accom¬ paniment of physiological processes (which alone are thought of as independent), Koehler must assume that the unity of experience “corresponds to a dynamically connected unity or totality in the basic

3°6

Sensing and Movement Considered Historiologically

underlying physiological processes.”15 But the very attempts to illus¬ trate these theses by individual concrete examples reveals that their presuppositions are incorrect. As to the process of retinal excitation, there is said to be neither organization, limit, grouping, nor selection involved.16 An objective constellation in which many thousands of local stimuli can be dis¬ tinguished is answered by the organism as it sees by the development of an organized field.17 Among the numerous examples illustrating this sensory dynamics, Koehler introduces the patterns used in examining color sense: “A rectangular field is filled with dots which lie at approximately equal distances from one another. For normal vision several of these dots form a group, and are as such a group, segregated from the rest. Since the group has the shape of a written number, it can be read without any difficulty. The dots in question have the same color, and differ in this respect from the others. This is the reason why they unite in a group, the characteristic shape of which is immediately recognized.”18 The organizing principle according to which, in this case, a group is formed, is supposed to be the tendency to form uni¬ ties of equal and similar parts. Here we must ask two questions: Is this hypothesis of the forma¬ tion of sensory groups sufficiently based on experience? And if so, has the psychological problem of seeing unities found its solution— its physiological solution? In answering the first question, we need merely think of a con¬ verse arrangement of the color table. In Koehler’s case, let us say that the number “12” has been formed by spots of a certain color, say light red. The forming of a unit is supposed to rest on uniformity of coloring. But what happens if we allow the background spots to make up entirely of this same light red, while the “12” is now composed of spots which are all of different colors and none of which are of this light red? Will we not also be capable of seeing and reading the number 12? If the forming of groups results from sameness of parts, then it cannot be accomplished in the same fashion by multi-colored spots. On a uniform background, we would be able to see only a gap and the contour of the “12”; but, in fact, what we do see is the figure 12 formed by differently colored spots. But let us assume that the hypothesis of the formation of ordered wholes from similar parts holds true. In that case, spots of the same color would be more firmly connected than spots of varying color, that is, the relation of one part to a neighboring part would be sometimes firmer and sometimes looser. This would mean relations

CRITIQUE OF EPIPHENOMENALISM

3°7

of apposition; the result would not be a unity in which one part stands in relation to the whole. It seems to me that Koehler’s presen¬ tation confuses unity with union. In union, the relative autonomy of parts is limited; unity, on the other hand, is a uniting of parts which, in this unity, preserve their relative autonomy. If unity, and not union, is the issue at hand, then the parts would have to enter into a real relation to the whole and the whole would have to exist in a physical or physiological sense. And this is actually the view of the gestalt psychologist, a position which rests on a re¬ markably teleogocial interpretation of physical processes. Thus Koehler says,19 “If the inner dynamics of a system are not impinged upon by accidental outside factors, it will lead to a distribution of ‘maximum order,’ even though no specific arrangements are given, ad hoc, from the beginning.” “If a number of straight wires are sus¬ pended in an irregular distribution, in which they point in different directions, an electric current which enters the wires will immedi¬ ately give them parallel directions. This is certainly an orderly re¬ sult of electro-dynamic interaction.” And a further example: “Or assume that oil is poured into a liquid with which it does not mix. In spite of the violent interaction of molecules at the common sur¬ face of the fluids, the boundary remains sharply defined. Obviously, this orderly distribution is not enforced by any rigid constraints; rather, it results precisely from the dynamic factors which operate in the boundary region between the oil and the other fluid. If the specific density of both liquids is the same, the surface forces will change the shape of the oil until a perfect sphere is formed which swims in the other liquid.” Elsewhere he says that conservatism in neurology and psychology silently presupposes “that in the dynamic ‘self-distribution’ of processes anything can happen and that there¬ fore what we call the dynamic case must be considered as the most extreme case of disorder. Many examples taken from inorganic nature seem at first to support this view, insofar as a blind col¬ lision of forces and processes usually leads indeed to chaos and destruction.”20 Are, however, disorder and chaos physical concepts? Is not a volcanic eruption a physical process just as much as is the gentle fire in the hearth? Are the unarranged wires of physics less desirable than those which are parallel? Is the distribution of molecules in steam physically poorer than in water, or ice? The oil droplet separates itself in sharp contours from water, but the same water dissolves the beautiful form of a crystal. Are not both physical processes? Is one really to believe that physics prefers certain orderings in a field

3°8

Sensing and Movement Considered Historiologically

which is more favorable to the emergence of simpler, more regular wholes and well-defined regions?21 Would that not mean misunder¬ standing a principle of reason as an effective physical factor? The sounds of a foreign language may be a phonetic chaos for us. But as we learn this language, this chaos begins to exhibit more and more order. That, indeed, we can assimilate purely phonetic signs is unde¬ niable. We learn the principles of articulating this language and are then also in a position to distinguish between words as phonetic con¬ figurations which are unfamiliar to us and whose meanings we do not yet know. Upon what is such learning based? Upon a transforma¬ tion of sensory dynamics? Has the particular, the one unity, changed, or has our faculty for particularization, our ability to distinguish details? To agree with Koehler is to understand the seeing of order (in a psychological sense) as based upon an ordered seeing (in a physiological sense), and the seeing of disorder as based upon a dis¬ ordered seeing. Disorder is the poorer and order the better form of what we call order. Disorder and order will have different worth for an observer who prefers order. But physics knows nothing of such evaluation. In physics, both order and disorder are simply phenomena—as Koehler himself shows in his experiment with electrically charged wires. He who loves order differentiates order from disorder according to cer¬ tain self-acknowledged principles. It is one thing to observe some¬ thing unorganized. It is another to see it as disorderly, as disorder. The latter presupposes that the observer measures and judges that which is unorganized with an (unseen) criterion of order. Similarly, there is a great difference between someone’s (man or animal) react¬ ing in varying ways to varying configurations, and “seeing” these con¬ figurations as themselves varying. Confusing union with unity, seeing order with ordered seeing, the individual processes of physics with individualization in the process of mental becoming—these confusions are the results, or, if you will, the presuppositions of epiphenomenalism in gestalt psy¬ chology. It is an epiphenomenalism which corresponds to that of Descartes, but is even more radical. If gestalt psychology and its doc¬ trine of closed wholes is right, then the structure of consciousness must also be atomistic. For such whole structures are strictly separate entities. If they are thus locked in, then the accompanying conscious impressions must also be locked in. The movement which was out to overcome atomism ends by being even more radically atomistic. The moderate and limited epiphenomenalism of Descartes has lost much and gained nothing in this process of expansion. Here, too, sensing is subordinated to thinking; here, too, we are confronted with a

CRITIQUE OF EPIPHENOMENALISM

3°9

time-atomistic isolation of experiences; here, too, is only the mere having of impressions. Nowhere is mention made of a finite subject in communication with his world. 2. The Singular in Itself and for Us.22 It appears as if gestalt psy¬ chology were overlooking the problem of the unique something, of the singular. The one something is considered as “given” as a datum. But a “something” is not simply present to us as such; we must al¬ ways first appropriate it for ourselves as one thing. All that is re¬ ceived with the senses as something must already have been separated and delimited and given shape one way or another in order for it at all to be a something for us. To experience something is to separate and divide—the figure from the background, this moment with all its content from the one just past. Wertheimer’s23 investigations of stroboscopic movement illusions have played a decisive role in the history of gestalt psychology; they are still meaningful today and have been verified, varied, and sup¬ plemented from many sides. The structure of the experiment is well known. By means of an appropriate apparatus, an experimental subject is presented with two discrete individual stimuli (lines, points) one following the other at different positions “of rest.” How the experimenter knows they are individual stimuli and what he understands by “at rest” is not at the outset made clear. In any case, under “optimal conditions” (i.e., during a certain stretch of time and with a certain relationship between interval and exposure times), it comes about that the subject no longer sees individual lines or points, but rather the motion of a line or a point. The impression of this apparent motion corresponds throughout with the impression caused by the actual movement of corresponding objects. The description of this experiment does not seem to prejudice anything. And yet, the problem of the singular is already interpreted here in a predetermined way. If a line is flashed suddenly flashed in front of an experimental subject, he sees not only a line; his experience rather is an experience of seeing the beginning of a process; he sees a point flashed, and it now depends again on certain temporal conditions as to when this process is experienced as ended. To see the point as one point appearing in this part of space de¬ mands the ability to take in at a glance the beginning and end of this process, and it demands that the caesuras of the processes be ap¬ prehended. Seeing the point as a point depends on whether this process is grasped as a concluded process. But even if the experiment ended with the exposure of one point, this point would not have been perceived as a motionless solitary point, but as a point which

3i°

Sensing and Movement Considered Historiologically

lights up and then disappears. The tests in fact have actually shown that a very briefly exposed figure comes on, for the subject, with an “extending motion” and disappears with a “contracting motion.”24 “Singular” and “at rest” are the objects in the Wertheimer experi¬ ment when placed in an objective world which the experimenter conceptually understands and interprets. The subject himself experi¬ ences every change as a happening. For us in our becoming and experiencing, those moments are very strictly defined which evidence a point as one point. Von Ehrenfels (1890) singled out transposability as an essential moment in musical configurations. Transposed into a different key, a simple melody will be recognized, even when none of the notes in the second playing is the same as in the first. We thus grasp a whole, the Gestalt of the melody better than the individual parts of the whole. But we must ask again: What is the meaning of the singular in such a context? what does it mean to hear a tone as a singular note and, further, as this particular note? It is doubtless quite difficult to appre¬ hend a particular note as this particular c, e, or g. The rarity of per¬ fect pitch testifies to this. To hear a tone as this particular note requires definition via a progressive process of separating. When we hear a tone all by itself—not yet as being of a certain pitch in a musical scale—it means we have already separated the acoustic from the optic, etc., and, within the realm of the acoustic, have separated the musical sound from noise; in addition, we single the tone out as emerging from and disappearing into silence. But to hear an indi¬ vidual note as “the” c, or “the” e, or “the” g of the C-major chord, we have to distinguish it from all other notes. Whenever it is offered as a single tone, we will therefore have to separate it from all the other tones which are not actually heard with it; we will have to hear it as the note c of a mute scale. To hear a single note as such necessitates a much greater effort in the process of differentiating and separating. For the very reason that it appears to us as singular, the single note presents—purely quantitatively—to our discrimina¬ tion much less in the way of possibilities than a triad or a melody. The process of discriminating by apprehending Gestalten leads from the general to the particular. The good Gestalten are the gen¬ eral ones. The circle, for example, is more general than other geo¬ metrical forms—not because it occurs more frequently in nature, but because it has less variables than the other figures and can conse¬ quently be more easily apprehended. It thus makes the smallest de¬ mands on the power of discernment. Attempts at transposition do not meet with equal success for any and all Gestalten, for these sim¬ plest melodies are better than the most intricate themes. The so-

CRITIQUE OF EPIPHENOMENALISM

311

called tendency toward simplicity of form is no indication of a physiological Gestalt process; this tendency rather points to our own tendency to grasp forms and to discriminate in the direction of the general to the particular. The world for us is not composed of singu¬ lar impressions and singular moments; the self-world relation perme¬ ates the entire duration of our individual existence. We therefore arrive descending to individual moments as instantiations of this relation. It is always the case that, whenever we apprehend some¬ thing, we already have that something as delimited, as well or poorly formed. Faced with that which is undefined, we arrive at determinables by instantiations of the general. General Gestalten are what we meet first on this downward path; the singular is the last—the fully-determined particular. One more word now concerning the physiological-gestalt hypothe¬ sis. In biology, the formation of Gestalten is understood as meta¬ morphosis. Maturation is the emergence of a more differentiated configuration from one less differentiated, healing is the act of making-whole-again a dis-figured configuration (Gestalt). We remain always in the sphere of the morphic (Gestalthaften), the already shaped; nowhere do we meet with the purely amorphous (Ungestaltetes). The biological theme is the alteration of form, not the bring¬ ing forth of forms, transformation as opposed to formation. Now let us assume that in the area striata or in some other sen¬ sory field there exists a tendency to bring forth Gestalten, a forma¬ tive tendency. We then must ask: WTat kind of forms? We cannot say of a sensory field, as we can of a seed, that within it is the ten¬ dency to bring forth forms. If I see a black cross on a white back¬ ground, then there exists a sensory dynamic for this formation. If I see a red circle on a yellow background, then another sensory dynamic for this formation must be assumed—and so on, ad infini¬ tum in the endless alternation of forms and configurations which we apprehend in the course of a day. Sensory fields seem to have a kind of passionate sympathy for everything morphic; they are always ready to take shape. But this would mean that they themselves are totally without form, utterly amorphous. The richer and more mani¬ fold a creature’s seeing of configurations is assumed to be, the more uncertain, the poorer would the particular form of the sensory field have to be A fullness in the formation of configuration demands a sensory field which is in itself amorphous. Formation would thus be a bringing forth of the formed out of the unformed; it would not be metamorphosis. But are we justified in speaking of an amorphous sensory field? A formative tendency could then exist only it the sensory field were a formed unity which transforms itself.

312

Sensing and Movement Considered Historiologically

The physiological-gestalt hypothesis leads to a dilemma: Either sensory fields possess their own form, in which case the potentiality of transformation would be limited and the richness of forms actually seen and heard becomes incomprehensible, or the sensory fields are in themselves amorphous, in which case the physiological-gestalt hypothesis eventually contradicts everything which Gestalt psychol¬ ogy itself claims and presupposes concerning the relation of wholes and parts. These contradictions, like all the a priori aspects of epiphenomenalism arise from the misguided desire to understand the moments of psychic becoming as processes in objective time and to derive the former from the latter. The world picture of the child and of primitive man is con¬ structed from an all too unquestioning interpretation of sympathetic forms as objective forms. But how do we know that the stars we see together in Cassiopeia do not “in reality” belong together? How do the gestalt psychologists and the physicists know this? How can such a first impression possibly be corrected if thought and memory are rooted in gestalt processes which, as such, are separated from each other? Which gestalt process is the right one? The first which is subsequently corrected, or the one which does the correcting? And why the latter? What, speaking epiphenomenologically, is the mean¬ ing of truth, basis, and proof? How is discursive thought possible? And what of error and decision?

Between SENSING IS TO KNOWING AS A CRY IS TO WORDS. A CRY REACHES

only him who hears it, here and now; but words abide, they can reach everyone when and where ever they may be. In sensing, every-

THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN SENSING AND KNOWING

3*3

thing is for me; it is, at all, only as it is for me. But knowing seeks the “in itself” of things. Neither epistemological warnings nor meta¬ physical doubts can check him who seeks knowledge; whether or not he attains his goal is not the issue here. Our interest is in the knower and not in his knowledge and its limitations. When I speak straight¬ forwardly and wish to be understood, my words should convey the same meaning, the one I seek to express, to all who hear me. After 2000 years, we still hear the words of Plato and wish to understand them as he spoke and meant them. Interpretations of the texts have varied over the course of centuries, but every generation strives to ascertain their true and exact meaning, of which there can be only one. As interpretations change, so do praise and criticism. The doc¬ trines of Plato have been examined and re-examined, and the question has always been directed to their truth: does he reveal to us the being of the world and things in the way that they really are? That there could be only one truth because there was only one world, was a notion to which most gave their assent. The career of human knowledge is not the history of a changing, shifting multi¬ plicity of truths, but the history of the disguises and misapprehen¬ sions of the one truth. Each people and each period is, in its own way, limited in its knowledge; it is not the truth which belongs only to the individual, it is misconception which is historically deter¬ mined. But despite failures, doubts, and total scepticism, each epoch has tried anew to answer the question of truth. Because knowledge seeks things as they are, or, what comes to the same thing, because the truth is only one, it must be the same for all. Knowledge is universally valid because it is only one. The word which names things and describes facts is itself merely something graspable by the senses: a sound formation. It becomes a word only as a bearer of one meaning which abides for all times. We unhesitat¬ ingly begin the reading of a Platonic dialogue fully expecting to understand the text. We thus expect that the meaning of the words and sentences will have remained the same from the time of their origin until today, notwithstanding the march of events since the fourth century b.c. The meaning of words is also assumed to be con¬ stant regardless whether they are shouted, whispered, spoken, or writ¬ ten. All variations in sensory appearance of words ought not to change their meaning. Because the truth is one, there can be a plural¬ ity of language which in spite of their difference does not exclude the possibility of mutual understanding. Translation from one lan¬ guage to another is possible because there exists but one truth, one body of knowledge and one meaning of the various words. Learning

3*4

Sensing and Movement Considered Historiologically

a foreign language means learning to understand words and sen¬ tences as meaningful signs. Words can be repeated today, yesterday, or tomorrow, by me, you, or others, and their meaning remains the same. The fact that there is such a thing as translation from one language to another is not any more remarkable than the fact of verbal understanding between any two human beings. The word, spoken and heard, written and read, vanishes with the moment that brought it. But its meaning remains, detached from that moment, indifferent as to when, where, and by whom the word was spoken. That which is spoken of need not be timeless and ever¬ lasting. For we are speaking of the word itself which as spoken is temporal and fleeting although its meaning is timeless and abiding. Knowledge of the transitory is itself abiding. Knowledge is timelessly valid even though the knower and the known themselves be transi¬ tory. That we read Plato proves that knowledge outlasts the ephem¬ eral knower. All of history is such a proof. In knowing, man reaches beyond his own self. Knowledge seeks to grasp things as they are in themselves. As¬ sume that for a moment things were as such unveiled and visible as they really are in themselves. Even then we would not have a total, a perfect view of them, for everything seen is subject to the moment of seeing. And therefore the assumption that things could reveal themselves to our view as they really are makes no sense. The dis¬ solution of perspectival distortion, temporal as well as spatial, re¬ quires that I as knower detach myself from my self. The universal truth of knowledge implies not only that knowledge be the same for one, two, or three persons, it must also be the same for me today, to¬ morrow, and yesterday. As the word is indifferent to its moment of birth, so knowledge—my knowledge as well—is indifferent to the moment of my knowing. Only if knowledge remains the same regard¬ less of when I know, is it really knowledge at all. Knowledge and language (all thought is bound to language, but words become words and sentences only as expressing thought) en¬ dure in something with which they identify themselves, something repeatable, general. Words must be separable from the act of speak¬ ing, thought from the process of thinking—though not, of course, practically. Words must be spoken, ideas must be thought. But they become pure words and pure words only when they become indiffer¬ ent to the moment of speaking and thinking. Only then are things no longer there for me, as they ever are in sensing. For sensing gives me the world for me, now, at a particular unique time, unrepeatable, bound to my actions and my circumstances. To know, to attain to

THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN SENSING AND KNOWING

3!5

things as they are in themselves, I must break through this perspectival net. I must gain distance, dissolve the Now, become identifiable with a universal order; that is, I must step forth, as it were, from the center into which I am placed and become a stranger to myself. All thinking and knowing, and, indeed, all speaking, is reflexive from the start. That man can do this; that, as a being gifted with language he must do this; that, in short, he so relates himself to himself, is the marvel and the essence of human existence. In order to turn back to myself, I must first have turned away from myself. All knowledge begins with a negation, an existential negation which we term the awakening of mind. It lasts from the child’s first questions as to the names of things up to the last question. Only by questioning do we obtain answers. The question puts into words that something has become questionable to ourselves. Ques¬ tions are a sign of awakening and a means of waking. Questions dis¬ turb and questioners are a nuisance. They disturb the well-being of immediate sensory existence, the comfort of moving along old tracks. All knowledge, from the least to the greatest, begins with a negation, with a dissolution and disruption of traditional forms. There are no great men who have not been revolutionaries, who have not broken with tradition, have not questioned what was handed down to them, and have not had the strength and the courage to live in aloneness. Otherwise, everything would be but repetition and imitation, other¬ wise there would be only the talented and the virtuoso. The great man is a disturber of the peace, he upsets the world’s sleep, and the world resists this awakening. And thus he is certain to be misunder¬ stood and misjudged, maligned, and persecuted. Any knowledge, once acquired, can be repeated at will, thanks to its universality. The thinking of Copernicus has penetrated to school¬ boys and no longer disturbs anyone. Knowledge, which seeks to know things as they are in themselves, becomes a tool of everyday life, present to us from moment to moment. Knowledge, which once sought to reveal what is hidden now, also veils and hides what is. The word can serve understanding, but it may also be merely the means to make oneself understood. Language can become chatter, stammering, and can express confused sentiments. The word can lead to reflection (Besinnung), but it can also drive us to insensibility (Besinnungslosigkeit); it can be the vehicle of revelation, but also the whip of the demagogue. The mind can fall prey to the drive of instinct and be sacrificed to it. Language and knowledge are a legacy ever to be newly acquired by the denial and negation of mere co¬ operation and conformity, by turning away from existence in the perspective of the moment.

316

Sensing and Movement Considered Historiologically

Q.

The Difference

Between Sensing and Perceiving (a) Perception Requires a Universally Objective Medium what Augustine said of time:

si nemo a me quaerat, scio, si

quarenti explicare velim, nescio, is true of all knowledge. It signifies the transition from mere performance to reflection, and also the transition from sensing to perceiving. Si nemo a me quaerat—this is the mode of immediate sensory existence; scio is an ironical expres¬ sion for knowledge which does not yet know itself and is thus not true knowledge. Si quaerenti explicare velim is the question someone asks of me, or which I ask of myself, a question which breaks into naively lived experience and turns it back upon itself. The obvious becomes problematic. Only now, after turning from naivete to reflec¬ tion do we encounter the problematic and experience our own ignorance: nescio. The first step of knowledge is the awareness of not knowing.

A certain neighborhood may be quite familiar to us, we walk around in it with great assurance, we think we know the place. Any¬ thing that changes is noticed by us, felt as a disturbance, even before we are aware what it is that changed. The unpleasant feeling of a disturbed order brings us to inquire as to what it is that has actually changed. Perhaps we succeed in finding out what the change con¬ sists of, and for the first time we really notice what kind of thing it was that now has changed. In our minds we reconstruct the way it looked before and compare it with its present state. We ascertain

THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN SENSING AND PERCEIVING

3*7

the irregularity in its context; we notice a thing as changeable and adjust our behavior to its changed conditions. “He looks like a cow standing before a new barn door” is a Ger¬ man saying depicting the dumbfounding bewilderment that occurs in new situations. We can set at ease a frightened animal by talking to it, by the sympathetic means of expression; we can help a fright¬ ened person by explaining the new situation so that he can orient himself again. In the latter case, however, the word is more than a means of expression, it is a vehicle of meaning. The order to which man adjusts himself with the help of lingual explanations can thus no longer be compared to the way an animal grasps expressions. In this case, language fosters order. But in other instances, the word—i.e., questions—disturbs familiar structures. We see a thing a thousand times and yet have not really seen it. A question forces us to look at it properly for the first time. The first seeing was a sensing, a participation in expression; the second seeing, however, is a percep¬ tion. Questions force us into a new order of understanding. We are asked about “something” and wish to answer what and how that something is. We speak now of things or of a thing, we speak of its properties, its possible modifications. We speak of one thing which we see at this moment in front of us, or which we visualize in its par¬ ticular place. We speak of one single thing, but we distinguish it with general words. This thing has these and those particular attri¬ butes. But a thing is something general. It is only by the use of uni¬ versal that I can meaningfully answer the questioner and describe a thing as it is for me, for him, and for everyone. In sensory seeing the thing is for me, for me here and now in a passing moment. But after the step to the world of perception, this being-there-for-me is appre¬ hended as a moment in a universal, general chain of events. Like all knowledge, perception requires a universal medium. The world of perception is a world of things with fixed and inalter¬ able properties in universal objective space and universal objective time. This space is not originally given: rather, the space of the sensory world stands to that of perception as the landscape to geography. But to be illuminating such a comparison needs to be spelled out, be¬ cause influenced by the art of painting we are inclined to think of a landscape as something already delineated.1 Indeed, our whole in¬ vestigation is somewhat burdened by the possibility of objectifying expressive characters, a possibility which, in part, causes us to inter¬ pret sensing as a kind of knowing. The difficulties involved in ob¬ taining knowledge of sensing are the same, in principle, as those

3l8

Sensing and Movement Considered Historiologically

involved in grasping that which becomes in its becoming. In this case knowledge reaches beyond itself and must burst its own forms. Fixed and static concepts must be abandoned. Formulating knowledge of becoming leads to the edge of paradox, as is classically evidenced in the Aristotelean definition of change (kinesis). Its necessarily para¬ doxical formulation calls forth violent opposition from the mathe¬ matically inclined natural philosopher who (therewith) renounces the knowledge of becoming.2 Expression is thus objectifiable. And afterwards, the moments of an expression appear as properties of men, animals, scenes, and ob¬ jects. The lovely, gloomy, threatening, are, in descriptions, placed immediately beside the large, blue, and straight. But once objectified, the expression becomes capable of representation. The good carica¬ turist very well knows how, by changing a few lines, he can trans¬ figure the expression of a face. That is, he has general knowledge and commands the means to depict expression. But it is not only in artis¬ tic representation that we have at our disposal the means to repre¬ sent expression, we have it also with respect to ourselves, in that we can affect our own expression. If we do this, we live in repetition. Everything inauthentic belongs to the intellectual sphere and is linked to the possibility of objectification, the general, that which can be repeated. That is why the inauthentic is joined by the mirror and the echo, the spectator and the listener. Animals cannot lie, can¬ not be inauthentic. But neither can they be truthful in the sense of a man who returns to himself from out of repetition and the general.

(b)

The Space of Landscape and the Space of Geography

Bearing in mind the danger of misunderstanding expression as something already objectified, our comparison holds rather pre¬ cisely: sensory space stands to perceptual space as landscape to geography. Perceptual space is geographical space. The structure of geographical space is in no way identical with that of physical space. We need merely cite the concept of non-intuitable space of modem physics. But geographical space has, nevertheless, an affinity to physi¬ cal space, which indicates that geographical space is the space of the human perceptual world. For in our everyday life we live between pure physics and pure landscape.

THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN SENSING AND PERCEIVING

3!9

1. The Horizon. In a landscape we are enclosed by a horizon; no matter how far we go, the horizon constantly goes with us. Geographi¬ cal space has no horizon. When we seek to orient ourselves some¬ where, or ask directions of someone, or even use a map, then we establish our here in a place of horizonless space. In a landscape we always get to one place from another place; each location is determined only by its relation to the neighboring place within the circle of visibility. But geographical space is closed and is therefore in its entire structure transparent. Every place in such a space is determined by its position with respect to the whole and ultimately by its relation to the null-point of the co-ordinate system by which this space obtains its order. Geographical space is systematized. This is true of all geographical systems in the same way, be it even the geographical space of primitive man or of the farmer whose home is in a remote valley.3 The null-point of a co-ordinate system is arbitrarily established, but thenceforth it is absolute. It is universal, and my position is al¬ ways determined as a position in this system. I no longer stand in the midpoint of a spatial system, as I do in a landscape encircled by a horizon. In twilight, darkness, or fog I am still in the landscape. My present location is still determined by the next adjacent location; I can still move. But I no longer know where I am, I can no longer determine my position in a panoramic whole. Geography can no longer be developed from the landscape; we are off the path; as human beings, we feel “lost” (forlorn-verloren). “A man is lost” has therefore also the metaphoric sense: he has fallen from the syste¬ matically co-ordinated context of social space, he has, in a sociologi¬ cal sense, no longer a place. 2. The Journey. Geographical space is systematized and closed. In such space locations can be found and defined by construction, and gaps, and intervening spaces bridged. What this means practi¬ cally is that I can travel, I can take a trip from Frankfurt to Rome. I can choose Rome as my goal even though it does not lie within the visible horizon. When I go from Frankfurt to Rome I travel from one geographically determined point to another geographically de¬ termined point. An elephant never journeys from Bombay to Rome and if he does, he does so unintentionally and without knowing it. There is no reason to marvel at the migration of birds unless we be¬ lieve that the world of animals and that of men are basically differ¬ ent, unless we believe that animals live in the landscape and men in geographical space. We marvel at the migrating stork which flies south to the Nile only to find his way back to the rooftop from

320

Sensing and Movement Considered Historiologically

whence he came, because in this flight he reaches a goal which was not visible within his horizon, and because he behaves as though he understood geography. We thus speak, half jokingly and half in earnest, of the journey of migratory birds; for the source of our wonder is that they make a journey although they do not know how to. A journey is a human affair. The modern forms of traveling in which intervening spaces are, as it were, skipped over or even slept through, strikingly illustrate the systematically closed and con¬ structed character of the geographical space in which we live as human beings. Before the advent of the railroad, geographical con¬ nections evolved, for the traveler, from the change in landscape. True, today the traveler also goes from place to place. But now we can get on a French train in the morning, and then, after twelve hours on the train (which is, really being nowhere), we can get out in Rome. The old form of traveling provided for a more and better balanced relationship between landscape and geography. It was thus much easier to write artful travel books.4 We, on the other hand, get on our train or airplane at a certain geographical location and leave it at a different, far removed one. After which, having been to this degree estranged from the landscape, we try with all our might to submerge ourselves in it and vitally experience it, something which, however, takes place not without a good deal of affectation and chatter. 3. The Plan. As a rule, our journeys are planned and an itiner¬ ary mapped out. But what, actually, has such a program to do with landscape, even a program which assures us the most possible “sce¬ nic” views in the shortest possible time? There are no plans or pro¬ grams for experiencing landscape. On a trip where one is forced to use one’s time to the best advantage the landscape can be a nuisance; for instance, a cloudburst may delay the trip and cause one to miss a connection. And should a member of a guided tour, enthralled by the landscape, wish to linger, the guide will tell him that he is dis¬ rupting and threatening the whole program. When starting a journey we expect the train to leave on time and arrive on the minute. What minute? That objective, precisely meas¬ ured minute on the timetable. Our perceptual world with its stable and moveable things, its geographical, closed, systematic space, its objective time, is ruled by the plan, the measurement, the clock. We live by the clock and the more it masters us, the farther from us is the landscape. The hour does not strike for those who are either happy or unhappy. Their time is that of the landscape, just as the space within the meanest little hut is the space of the landscape.

THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN SENSING AND PERCEIVING

321

The frequency-figures of trains and planes illustrate the degree to which modern man is removed from the landscape. He has not en¬ tirely lost it, but he is estranged from it. The human perceptual world lies between landscape and physics. And this has always been so of necessity—in the past as in the present, in earlier periods as in later ones. It would be a misinterpretation of the human world to understand it as pure landscape. Because it borders on both, because it lies between them, it remains ambiguous in itself and not only for the observer. Suspended between these contraries, it is in a state of extremely labile equilibrium, ever threatened by excessive vacilla¬ tion toward one side or the other. Rarely does man in this world of his keep to the middle path and the true mean. The more modern life is dominated by technology, the greater grows the yearning for the landscape, the more forced is the effort to regain it, to regain it— oddly enough—by means of this very technology. The map belongs to geography; but it is not only the geographer who uses it. In everyday life we use maps of cities, street plans. When moving to a new house or apartment we map out a plan of the avail¬ able space and with the various rooms sketched out, we draw the possible positions of our furniture. The furniture has its place in the rooms, the rooms their place in the house, the house in the city’s street, the city in our country, and the country in the whole of geography.5 Why these observations? We are trying to understand perceiving via an analysis of the per¬ ceptual world. Our task is to show that even in everyday life man’s world differs fundamentally from that of the animal. We have tried to sketch out the lower limits of human existence, and have thus not considered man as thinking his most sublime thoughts, but rather in his traffic with everyday things. Thus we speak of clothing, railroads, timetables, maps. 4. Landscape Painting. In the landscape I am somewhere. Land¬ scape painting does not, however, depict particular places or regions, but rather gives us a “Landscape with Windmill,” a “Landscape with Cows,” etc. Of course, there are also paintings of particular places, individual mountains; but such paintings of certain towns and places are pictorial views, portraits, as it were, but not land¬ scapes. Only rarely has an artist succeeded in painting as a landscape a particular town which could easily be recognized from the paint¬ ing. Some Venetian paintings of the eighteenth century (Guardi) be¬ long to this rare class, as does, above all, the view of the city of Delft by Vermeer (which hangs in the Mauritshuis in The Hague).

322

Sensing and Movement Considered Historiologically

The landscape is a “good” theme for European painting. It is the discovery of what is “with us” and comes after the paintings of the divine and human. Just as with words—which, according to their character, are vehicles of certain conceptual meanings—we can ex¬ press the indefinite, the timeless, negation, and dissolution, graphic art is similarly capable of apprehending the “being lost” of the land¬ scape. Landscape painting does not depict what we see, i.e., what we notice when looking at a place, but—the paradox is unavoidable— it makes visible the invisible, although it be as something far re¬ moved. Great landscapes all have a visionary character. Such vision is of the invisible becoming visible. This becoming-visible can be de¬ picted in our human perceptual world—which means, presented as universal, communicated. But that which can be presented to vision belongs, at the same time, not to this perceptual world; it transcends its borders both downwards and upwards. Landscape is invisible, because the more we absorb it, the more we lose ourselves in it. To be fully in the landscape we must sacrifice, as far as possible, all temporal, spatial and objective precision. Such a sacrifice, however, affects not only the objective but ourselves as well. In the landscape we cease to be historical beings, i.e., beings objectifiable to themselves. We are dreaming in broad daylight with our eyes wide open. We are beyond the reach of both the objective world and ourselves. Just the opposite way lies waking, self-reflection, perception. At night the landscape comes alive again, with a thousand chang¬ ing faces: The moon shines bright:—In such a night as this. When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees, And they did make no noise,—

Such is that countenance of night of which Lorenzo6 says further: How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! Here we will sit, and let the sounds of music Creep in our ears; soft stillness, and the night, Become the touches of sweet harmony.

Still another face of night is articulated in Goethe’s poem “Willkommen und Abschied”: Evening slowly came upon the earth And night hung upon the mountains;

THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN SENSING AND PERCEIVING

323

There the oak towered in the mist Like a shrouded giant; and there The black and hundred eyes of darkness Gleamed amid the foliage. The moon from its cloudy hill Looked wanly down through the mist. I could hear the muted sound of wings Around my head. To terrify me The night brought out a thousand monsters.

The night is mild and gentle for him who is taken by it; terrible, fearful, and ghostly for him who resists it and seeks to see it and comprehend it. Ghosts are the messengers of the landscape in geo¬ graphical space.

(c)

The Sounds of Nature and Music

The contrast between geography and landscape, which is here indicated, has been described elsewhere7 by me as the difference be¬ tween optical and acoustical space as opposed to the space of the dance and of directed movement. Binswanger has enlarged upon this contrast with the notions of tuned (gestimmt) and oriented space.8 All these are variations on the same theme. In music a theme is presented and pursued by variations. We cannot express the theme itself directly, we can only represent it by means of its variations: it is from the variations that one identifies the theme. We proceed in the same way when investigating the style of an historical epoch. All the forms of life of a time, the Renais¬ sance, Baroque, etc., are known as variations of a theme. That they are variations of one theme, expressions of a basic relation of man to the world, gives them, in spite of all their material differences, a unity of style. We can but inadequately express the theme in itself; we have the multifariousness of the phenomena before our eyes which, however, we grasp as the manifold aspect of a unity and not as the repetition of one and the same thing. The efforts of psychiatry to ascertain a few basic disorders from among the fullness of symptoms meet with the same difficulties. Here again is the problem of style, with respect to the individual and the pathological. But efforts to single out and represent these basic dis¬ orders as such are probably doomed to failure. We will have to re-

324

Sensing and Movement Considered Historiologically

sign ourselves to ascertaining the theme by means of its ever chang¬ ing variations. I should like to carry out briefly another variation of what is for the moment our theme, a variation with respect to music itself. Music, as a creation of great masters, is human music, i.e., it, too, lies between the extremes of mathematical physics and landscape. The relations to these two extremes are so apparent as hardly to need de¬ tailed elaboration. A musical work of art is as far removed from mere sounds of nature (such as the songs of birds or the music¬ making of gypsies) as it is from physics and mathematics; or, we might also say, as close to. For music lies in the middle between both extremes; to all the arts it is in this respect most exactly central. The singing of birds glides from one tone to the next; their songs have no beginning or end; they are melodic, but without melody. To appre¬ hend a melody, the horizon of the acoustic moment must be burst asunder. The gypsy, like the bird, knows only surrender to the indi¬ vidual tone; a sometimes stormy, sometimes tarrying progression from one resting point to the next, a rhapsodic outpouring and an intoxicated dilatoriness. The gypsy makes, but does not create, his music. The gypsy violin “sobs” because his music is still natural sound and not language. His music-making is dionysiac; his slow relishing of individual sounds and moods is drunkenness. It is surely no accident that these makers of music are nomads, without a home, at home everywhere, that they live in the landscape, not in geogra¬ phy—at least as far as human beings are capable at all to reach out totally toward the landscape from the middle position, which, as human beings, is essentially theirs. The score of a Bach fugue cannot be understood in the complete absence of mathematics; nor can it be understood with mathematics alone. Classical music is strict, strictly exact in measurement and laws. Because it lies in the middle between both extremes, it is pos¬ sible for it to degenerate into either the rigidity of exact schematism or the dissolution of rhapsodic arbitrariness. The listener, too, may be carried away into dreams of landscape; or he can become an at¬ tentive listener who understands the language of music and who perceives its manifest expression. Let us once more recall the intoxicated addict. They all long for the space of landscape; they find their fulfillment in the dionysiac lingering by their dreams, intoxications, ecstasies, by turning from the bright waking world of the day to the night, to sleep, and to that music of which the gypsy is the master. The tavern is the sympa¬ thetic landscape space of the drinker and his center of life.

THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN SENSING AND PERCEIVING

325

(d) The Family of Nature and the Family of Man The map is an essential part of geography. In the constant and invariant space represented by the map we transitory and mo¬ bile human beings determine our locations. And thusly our origin gives structure to us transitory beings in a manner quite analogous to our family. The human family is a persistent, unitary structure. There exist, in the human family, relationships to the dead, to the ancestors. In animal families, there is only a direct relation of one animal to another, just as in landscape only a wandering from place to place is possible. These direct sympathetic links are themselves bound to biological processes. When the hen’s mother-impulse van¬ ishes, she will, in searching for food, attack those very chicks which yesterday she so lovingly attended. The animal has a descent deter¬ mined by the breeder; but it only has such a lineage, it thereby is not in a family in the way a man, because of his descent, is a member of a family. In the phenomenon of the “mother-tie” we encounter a tendency which works against the transition from the natural to the human family. This tendency may be furthered by the mother, the child, or both of them together. Not a few women experience the growing up of their children, the development of the suckling into the infant, as a painful separation, a first loss. Such rituals as the confirmation signify the final detachment from the natural family and the entering into human family. In most cases it is also the occasion for the child to cast off his children’s garments and to dress, for the first time, like an adult. This is particularly true for all ceremonies where the adolescent is admitted into the circle of the adults. Actually, it is only of an adult that a portrait can be painted. The way he looks out of the picture at the viewer, and the way he has presented himself to the artist, point to his awareness of having be¬ come a man and having integrated into a human family. Mythologi¬ cal figures can be presented as nudes. But portraits are of historical figures, and clothing essentially belongs to historical man as that which separates him from the state of nature. It is this separation from nature that makes possible such aesthetic creations as portraits

326

Sensing and Movement Considered Historiologically

or busts which we do not perceive as a mutilation, even though trunk and limbs may be missing. Children can be painted at play, and the painter depicts them as natural, innocent creatures. There exists a wonderful drawing of a young girl by Leonardo; she is presented in half-profile, the head bowed, eyes lowered and turned away from the viewer. Only a knowing or divine human being can be rendered in a portrait; so too can a child sundered from nature by sickness or early sorrow. The Christ child of the Sistine Madonna looks into the world with more than child-like gravity. Velasquez Infantas are given serious, child-like expressions, and yet these little princesses in their gala dresses are no longer happy children. The ceremonious garments of adults separate these children, sooner than others, from the family of nature. As individuals or in groups they stand alone; they are not shown at the hand of their mother. They carry their splendor with pride, and yet it is a burden. They, too, are marked by destiny. The paintings of the Infantas are portraits, but they are more than that: they are representations of humanity destined to sunder its ties with landscape and the family of nature, to enter as an individual and alone into the family of man, into historical ex¬ istence and sapience. The animal family is based on immediate, instinctual sympathies. It lasts only as long as these sympathies remain effective and it deteri¬ orates with their disintegration. The human family, on the other hand, endures. By means of the family the individual stands in rela¬ tion to history. Thus the expression, “the history of a family.” The history of a family is, properly understood, not reports of forefathers who lived and died in times past and who are buried in oblivion; the family is a becoming, enduring history. It is, as in all history, of the past, insofar as it—as the actualized—defies all passing away. The family of man is the creation of man, arising out of objectifica¬ tion and the power to stipulate (Setzung), and it is to such a degree subject to law (Satzung) that “natural sons” and “natural daugh¬ ters” can be excluded from the family as illegitimate, children of other parents can be taken in and adopted, and blood relatives can be cast aside and disinherited. Because that which has become is closer to imperishable being than that which is still becoming, we encounter the aged with respect and many of us venerate their an¬ cestors and are proud of their origins. What has become takes prece¬ dence over what is becoming. Acknowledgment of legitimacy as well as rebellion against the heir who bases all his claims on his legitimate origins will never cease. As an enduring, total, and complete crea¬ tion, the family claims the individual just as in music the individual note is bound by the laws of harmony. The family has its laws, and

THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN SENSING AND PERCEIVING

327

as long as it lasts it demands of the individual that he subordinate and sacrifice his momentary inclinations and moods. The family is the primary home of the conflict between duty and inclination. In landscape space, all struggle and quarrel, all persecution and flight grew out of immediate, momentary impulses. As such, they emerge as particular contrasts of sympathetic relations.9 Only in the world of man do we find conflict, renunciation, spiritual sacrifice, defiant rebellion, and heroic self-assertion. Animals may take pleasure in attacking, may enjoy the chase, may be reckless, but only man can be heroic in his resolution of the conflicts with universal law which he, as an individual, experiences. In so doing, he becomes a tragic figure, whether he, like Coriolanus, sacrifices his passions for the sake of the law, or, like Romeo and Juliet, he sacrifices himself for his passions, or whether, like Macbeth or Wallenstein, he tries to make his will and his law the universal, general law. It matters little if the law is carried out with admirable dispassion or if it is slyly evaded. Asceticism is not a late invention of tired souls detached from the world. The ascetic attitude grows with man as a human being. Is not the fate of the drinker clear enough in this respect? All efforts to step forever within the boundaries of the landscape ultimately fail; there is always the awakening—an awakening, however, which is not a return to the bright, fresh day; but, rather, a painful process of sobering in a grey, colorless, empty world. Boys who proudly set great store on their ability to endure pain, cold, and exertions of all sorts discover the ascetic attitude each for themselves without direc¬ tions and instructions.10 They are still living in the world of the child, close to the landscape, but because they are human beings, be¬ cause they are to become men, because they are “children of the spirit,” they already turn in play away from existence in the land¬ scape. This turning away itself is still playful; it is a rehearsal of things to come. It serves the spirit without knowing that it does so. Whether we compare landscape space with geographical space, or natural sounds with those of music, or the family of nature with the family of man, we make the same discovery. The degree of corre¬ spondence among three forms so apparently disparate as geography, music, and family, is cogent evidence that the human perceptual world radically differs from the world of animal sensation. Man gets into and to his world by sundering the horizon of sensing; by means, that is, of a negation. Not a faint, theoretical negation, but an exis¬ tential negation, a leap to a higher plane. Man breaks through the horizon only to find himself enclosed again by another. He cannot stay completely in the landscape, but neither can he ever completely leave it. The negation is not an annihilation; the landscape does not

328

Sensing and Movement Considered Historiologically

perish when the horizon is broken through; what has been negated remains as something continually to be negated. The breakthrough does not take place once and then never again. It is a task to be ful¬ filled from moment to moment. In times of happiness, we may some¬ times find a chance to gain again a footing in the landscape. These are happy hours as long as we do not notice that they too are transi¬ tory and will be consumed by time; happy hours they are and, like everything fortunate, a rare gift. They cannot be forced. The return to the landscape is not to be effected by conscious efforts to suspend the negation, the horizonal breakthrough. For I must have per¬ formed the negation before I can decide to suspend it. A double negation is equivalent with affirmation only in thought, but here it does not allow us to slide back into the naive, untrammelled exist¬ ence in the landscape. No path leads back to it, one can only lose oneself in the precipitous reaches of free-floating ideals. The melancholic knows what it means to lose contact with the landscape. We have the landscape by developing in and with it. The depressive, frozen in unmoving time, is alienated from the land¬ scape, he looks at the world, as if it were, in a bird’s eye view; he sees it from above like a map; he hovers over the ground. There a man pursues his work, there a woman cooks a meal at her stove: all that seems to him a puppet show, the only difference being that the pathologically depressive looks upon these doings without the smiles and superiority of an adult looking at a doll’s kitchen. On the contrary, the depressive is filled with an agonizing yearning for the small and the common, a yearning even after bodily pain which might restore to him the feeling of this world. Loss of home, loss of the landscape: This is what we clinically term depersonalization. The depressive teaches us that the landscape is not totally lacking in the perceptual world and that we can also measure the gap that separates perception from sensation.

The Theme

Factual

It is of my perceptions that I can and wish to communicate. Thus, perceptions must be objectifiable and their representation reproducable. Perception is directed toward the determinable; it is the determination of that which is determinable. In addition, percep¬ tion demands a general, objective, systematically arranged and struc¬ tured medium amenable to the rule of mathematics. This perceptual medium is universal, objective space (mistakenly called simply

THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN SENSING AND PERCEIVING

329

space), and universal, objective time (mistakenly called simply time).

It is in this objective spatio-temporal system that the world of things is constituted. In it, I also determine my own place, my own histori¬ cal time. I can report what I perceived, e.g., when testifying as a witness. Thus, perceptions must be capable of being remembered. I must be able to relocate a spot in geographical space once I have really taken note of it. Or I must be able to represent an object to myself again and again in memory; I must be capable of finding my place again, of rediscovering myself at the same locus. Perception is truly perception only as a clear and distinct self-aware apprehension. Only as such is it objectifiable, representable, communicable, and reproductable. When I speak to another of my perceptions, I reproduce them also for myself. Perceptions are bound essentially to this possibility of being reproduced, repeated; they come into being only via the transcendance of perspectival links with the particularity of a standpoint, via a bursting of horizons. Perception is a reflexive process; if I want to unbind myself from perspective, I must be aware of it as such, and aware of myself from the point of view of geographical space. We arrive at perception by what we may call a process of estab¬ lishing (durch Festellungen). A witness who testifies under oath to the truth of his statements is expected to report the events as they happened as truly and exactly as possible. The factual is the theme of perceiving. The factum is that which is made in an objective, sub¬ jective, and temporal sense. Facta subsist in the perfect tense; they are that which has happened and are so understood. Perception thus is a facera facta; to see (in the sense of perceiving) is to have already seen. Perceiving, and not sensing, is a knowing; it is the first step toward cognition; insofar as perception is sensory perception, it is a determination of sensory impressions. During the process of deter¬ mining, and before it is completed, the immediacy of sensory recep¬ tion is surrendered. A simple perception, expressed in the sentence, “This is an oak tree,” establishes something and emphasizes it. It makes the bare Here of sensing into a particular here. Of course, such reference is possible only in the immediate present, but insofar as I refer, I am already standing opposite to something, the some¬ thing becomes a determinable object and I myself become the speaker of a universal language. By referring to something, we inter¬ rupt the horizon of sensory experience.11 The perceptual “here” is an indefinite, general expression; for is there anything in the per¬ ceived world that could not be spoken of as “that which is ‘here’ ”? But this indefinite, general expression can be defined. Singled out as

33

Sensing and Movement Considered Historiologically

a particular “here,” it becomes a location in geographical space. Such a determination is a fleeting bit of knowledge which under¬ stands itself as capable of being repeated. But we need not rest satisfied at this point. A more precise investi¬ gation would enable us to determine our oak tree as a tree standing at this particular spot, distinguished from other oak trees by these or those particular attributes. We might count the trees and select the eleventh or twenty-fourth tree of the row. By co-ordinating indi¬ vidual trees with individually distinguishable numbers of the series of numbers, we thereby determine a tree as this tree. Individual rail¬ road cars are rendered identifiable in the same way. Whatever par¬ ticular method we choose in determining an oak tree as this oak tree, we attain our goal only by making clear what it is that distin¬ guishes this oak tree from others. Although when perceiving an oak tree our eyes do not leave it for an instant, yet by determining it as this particular oak tree we are at the same time transcending the per¬ ceptual impression. Perception is not a mere summary and reproduc¬ tion of the impressions of the sensory world. Neither is it the result of processes of comparison and discrimination. Such comparison and determination is possible only because of an essentially prior breach in the horizon of sensory experience. The contrast between perceiving and sensing is not to be under¬ stood as a change of functions. In the attempt to indicate this con¬ trast by reference to particular phenomena, we distinguish between seeing and viewing, between a complicit and an observational glance, between the lover’s caress and diagnostic palpating. Physi¬ cian and patient confront each other in the perceptual world, not in the existential sphere of the landscape, the sphere of sympathetic interrelations. For the physician, the body of a patient is an object, and touching this object with his hand assists him in establishing a diagnosis, an established observation which can be repeated and communicated. This modification of communication is necessary for medical practice; it also makes it possible for the patient to offer and surrender his naked body to the physician. The radical nature of this change in communication is most clearly evident in surgery. Unlike an enraged victim who blindly stabs the hated other, the surgeon works with the intention to help the other, and with his exact knowledge of anatomic conditions he performs the painful in¬ cision into the living tissue.12 In this shifting of the mode of com¬ munication, what changes is not only the structure of the object and manner in which the experiencing subject relates to it—the person himself, the experiencer, undergoes a change when passing from

TRADITIONAL PSYCHOLOGY OF SPACE AND TIME

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sensing to perceiving. The question, therefore, as to the constitution of the perceptual world cannot be settled along with the problem of the origin of perceptual Gestalten. Both the supporters of the atomistic-synthetic theory and those of the antisynthetic-holistic approach13 disagree only in their account of the different kinds of psychological functions which supposedly co-operate in the forming of Gestalten. The experiencing subject and his modes of being-inthe-world are not even made a topic for discussion. The subject re¬ mains unchanged in his relation to the object; he remains a thinking subject. If, however, we do not interpret man from the standpoint of completed cognition, but, rather, see him as gaining insight, that is, as a becoming being who is never complete, only then will we be at all able to understand sensing and moving, remembering and erring; only then will it be possible clearly to differentiate perceiving and sensing. To do this, we must recognize that a change in communica¬ tion implies a change in the subject. The subject does not remain a substance immutable amid the changes of its accidents, sensa¬ tions, perceptions, pure thought, volitions.

Ji.

Traditional Psychology of Space and Time

(a) The Separation of Spatial and Temporal Data from Quality and Intensity PERCEIVING AND SENSING ARE TWO DIFFERENT MODES OF COM-

munication with the world. If sensing is treated as a lesser kind of knowing, then certain far-reaching misunderstandings will inevita-

332

Sensing and Movement Considered Historiologically

bly follow. The subject of sensing is, depending on particular cir¬ cumstances, taken to be either a theoretical or even transcendental subject, or a recipient of stimuli, or a mere phantom, a bundle of representations. In any case, it ceases to be a living subject. Placed outside its world, it is looking from some undeterminable place down upon this world. And what of the object} If sensing is but a step on the way to knowing, then its object can be but a foreshadowing of the subject of cognition. And so, in the course of history, sensations have first been interpreted as dark and confused forms of knowledge needing the light of reason and, indeed, being capable of receiving that light. In later times, sensations were taken to be impressions ordered by means of associations; or sensory material was supposed to be organ¬ ized by forms of intuition or categories; or, further, sensations were taken to be stimuli ordered by physiological processes according to natural laws. The sensations, always appearing in the plural, were supposed to be, altogether, an unorganized material which, without resistance and without essential change, was to yield to an ordering principle external to it. Empirical psychology habitually tends to define sensations in some such manner as this: “In general it can be stated that sensation is not a psychic reality, but something which has been achieved by abstraction, whereby certain aspects of the immediate given data have been neglected. Although psychology cannot manage without this marginal concept of sensations, the true facts should never be overlooked when this concept is employed.”1 Through the power of attention, memory, and training, the original sensory data are sup¬ posed to be transformed into perceptions. After the reception a selec¬ tion, reformation, and organization of these data takes place, the final result differing decidedly from effects of mere sensory stimuli. Whatever sensation contributes to perception is, as a rule, so thor¬ oughly absorbed that it can only be reconstructed by means of ab¬ stractions and is, in any case, only on rare occasions observable purely and directly. Although sensation must submit to certain transformations, the fact that it can be recovered by abstraction proves that, though hidden, it is still contained in perception. And thus the terms “sensation” and “perception” are often used promis¬ cuously, sensation becoming a limiting instance of perception. The interpretation of sensing as a form of knowing has destroyed interest in sensing as a mode of experience in its own right. Scientific inquiry is never directed to sensing itself. The theory of sensations contains two parts, the first dealing with what is sensed, and the sec-

TRADITIONAL PSYCHOLOGY OF SPACE AND TIME

333

ond with the conditions which produce sensation. A great many psychological investigations of sensing are really—as the setup of t eir experiments proves—concerned with the way perceptual objects appear under especially complex and specially constructed circumstances. Such a path, once taken, leads psychology to ascribe what is ele¬ mentary in the phenomenon to sensing, either as that which is tem¬ porally prior and thus original and as yet undistorted, or as that which is simple, uncompounded. “It is impossible,” wrote James, rigorously to define a sensation; and in the actual life of conscious¬ ness sensations, properly so called, and perceptions merge into each other by insensible degrees. All we can say is that what we mean by sensations are First things in the way of consciousness. They are the immediate results upon consciousness of nerve-currents as they enter the brain, and before they have awakened any suggestions or associ¬ ations with past experience. But it is obvious that any such immedi¬ ate sensations can only be realized in the earliest days of life. They are all but impossible to adults with memories and stores of associa¬ tions acquired.” And in a later passage he says: “Sensation, thus considered, differs from perception only in the extreme simplicity of its object or content. Its object, being a simple quality, is sensibly homogeneous; and its function is that of mere acquaintance with this homogeneous seeming fact.”2 The elementary presents itself here in two forms: As that which is at the beginning and as a homo¬ geneous quality. We arrive at the object of sensations by a progres¬ sive, spatial division of the perceived object. This process of division is carried on until only qualities remain—colors, sounds, smells— and nothing else. (To be exact, we should rather say qualities of a certain intensity. But this does not significantly change anything.) The method of dealing with the perception corresponds with the possibilities offered by the category of the thing, without prior con¬ sideration as to whether this method is suited to the phenomenon of sensing. Since the elementary sensory qualities had been blended by means of attention, training, and memory, into a finished percep¬ tual object, the original parts cannot be rediscovered without spe¬ cial effort. To withstand the montage process, the sensations must be inflexible, rigid, and in themselves unchangeable. They are endowed with the temporal properties of that which is finished, completed, and already evolved. As such, they are lifted out of the process of living and becoming. They are assimilated into the timeless charac¬ ter of mathematical knowledge. If synthesizing functions—regardless of what sort—are to make

334

Sensing and Movement Considered Historiologically

use of sensations as their raw material, it becomes necessary that the sensations be pure qualities apart from any spatial and temporal configuration. This assumption, which is supposed to help us to an empirically founded knowledge (Mach) of the constitution of experi¬ ence, is itself far removed from the empirical. It is but the conse¬ quence of the unexamined presupposition that sensation is a lower form of knowledge. The separation of sense qualities from space and time does not significantly hinder investigations into the physiology of the senses. Because the qualities function in these investigations merely as a mediator, as signs for spatio-temporal processes “without” and at the same time as signs for spatio-temporal processes within the sense organs, their own spatio-temporal structure is of no significance. If, however, the issue at hand is not sensations assigned to an extramundane subject, but rather a sensing subject living in the world, then the spatio-temporal forms of sensing must be considered.

(b) The Problem of Space The historical development of the problem has given rise to two complementary sets of questions. First, do all sensory impressions have a primary spatial character, or is this character limited to par¬ ticular sensations, and if so, which ones? Next, how is space per¬ ceived, what characteristics do spatial sensations possess, and how are they connected with particularly sensory qualities? How to explain “that different sense organs mediate a homogeneous impression”?3 And, finally, how does the perception of surface and depth come about; how does it develop? Observation that seeks to isolate does not stop at the separation of the qualities from space and time; it also completely separates “the perception of space” from “the perception of time.” This latter, however, is really an orphan among problems. Experimental psychol¬ ogy has neglected the problems of time in spite of the role that used to be played by the “personal equation.” Time has become a minor theme, scarcely attracting the interest of investigators. Following the course of history, we will for now all have to bear with this separation. The general opinion is that impressions of space are found pri¬ marily in three sensory spheres; the optical, the cutaneous, and the kinesthetic.4

TRADITIONAL PSYCHOLOGY OF SPACE AND TIME

335

But not all researchers go that far. Some would limit spatiality, as an original datum, to one particular sensory sphere. The argument here is whether we arrive to a consciousness of space on the basis of what is given by the sense of touch or only by means of what is given in the sense of sight.5 In his analysis of perception, Berkeley tried to demonstrate “that the ideas of space, outness, and things placed at a distance are not, strictly speaking, the object of sight; they are not otherwise perceived by the eye than by the ear.”6 In order resoundingly to impress his view upon the reader, Berkeley presents a thought experiment. He asks his reader to take into our thought the case of one born blind, and afterwards, when grown up, made to see.”7 In the last chapter of his rebuttal “Theory of Vision or Visual language etc.,” published in 1732, he refers to a publication about the results of an operation by which a person born blind later gains his sight.8 Berkeley finds in this report a belated verification of his views; “Thus by fact and experiment, these points of the theory which seem the most remote from common apprehension were not a little confirmed, many years after I had been led into the discovery of them by reasoning.” V. Senden bases his findings on the same material, namely, on observations of operations performed on persons born blind. A thor¬ ough investigation of the experience collected in literature during the two hundred years since the publication of Berkeley’s paper leads this same author, however, to results completely opposed to those of Berkeley. According to Senden, these reports contain nothing that would justify the assumption of “tactual space.” “They have, rather, un¬ equivocally indicated that the congenitally blind lack all that which would have to be shown as given in order to speak of a tactile ap¬ prehension of space.”9 In his concluding remarks, he says again: “Our view, then, is that those born blind do not come to an aware¬ ness of space by means of tactile perceptions alone, but that such an awareness is much more closely linked with optical perception.”10 “To be born blind is actually to have stood outside spatial reality.” Senden cites the reflections of Wittmann,11 the observations of Gold¬ stein and Gelb,12 on cases of brain damage, and the self-observations of Ahlmann.13 We will have to bypass Senden’s interesting account of the post-operative recovery of visual space. Here, too, he finds corroboration of his views about the environmental structure of those born blind. What concerns us here is the assumption that a sensory sphere like that of the tactile sense may be denied any original spa¬ tial quality. The congenitally blind person has no awareness of space,

33g

Sensing and Movement Considered Historiologically

and before the operation does not acquire any conception of space ‘‘either from local signals from the skin, nor by kinesthetic sensations accompanying usage of the limbs, nor by the corresponding muscle sensations.”14 The congenitally blind builds his world in time, he senses himself as a dynamic center of action. In linguistic exchanges with those who can see, he creates schemata of things and verbal con¬ cepts. His time schemata are the product of temporally successive acts of attention and contain nothing spatial. His concepts of space are obtained solely by means of the intellect and have no sensory basis. “The logical apperceptive order of things acquired from tac¬ tile impressions with the help of the intellect thus cannot be com¬ pared to the spatial order of visual space. A tactile space is, there¬ fore, psychologically inadmissable.” A detailed examination of the analysis upon which Senden bases his conclusions reveals that his arguments rest on presuppositions which I have tried to reject as prejudices. We find, for example, the prejudice of time atomism, of psychophysical correspondence, of the extramundaneity of the observer—all these linked with the prejudice that sensory data are experienced as processes in us, or even within our organism. The prejudice involving pluralism and temporal atomism is ex¬ pressed in the supposition that individual impressions (in the plural) are brought together by the consciousness of time. “Only time gives to the blind the possibility of a qualitative, total judgment of objects or extensions, and this because it allows him to experience the way in which individual impressions of the past, present, and future be¬ long together. Things which are not given to his perception as spa¬ tially simultaneous must be apperceptively brought together within a temporal context which replaces the missing spatial context. A spatial line must therefore be replaced by a succession in time and the blind person must therefore have an outspoken awareness of time in order properly to grasp the togetherness of contiguous im¬ pressions.”15 “When the preliminary terminal point of such a suc¬ cession is reached, either the process is reversed or the succession is, if possible, prolonged for a few passages, which are analysed in the usual manner and recollectively added on to the existing schema. He (the blind person) has no spatial conception as to the length of the path, but in addition to time he notices the number of manifold impressions as well as the extent of his own fatigue.—The schema thus arises from this knowledge of the relatedness of impressions in time based on a plurality of imprint-processes; what is involved is consciousness of the reciprocal relations between the individually

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received contents of perceptions in time.”16 But how can individual impressions be combined if they are not experienced as parts of a series, i.e., precisely not as individual entities? If they are experienced as members of a series, then the individual impression is but the limit of becoming in the encounter with the world. How can the touched object, how can the person (whose vision is intact) with whom the blind man speaks, be there, indeed, how can the blind man himself be there, if the individual impressions are only temporally ordered? Obviously, the pluralistic presupposition must be com¬ plemented and supported by the notion of extramundaneity if one is to hold the view that the congenitally blind have no conception of space. A self which experiences something by touching it and which does not at the same time experience itself—such a non¬ corporal, extramundane self can, indeed, experience “only” and “merely” qualities. Despite all contrasts, we find, therefore, that this view agrees in the main with Berkeley’s position. Berkeley ex¬ plains how someone born blind can tactually acquire the idea of “above” and “below” before eyesight is restored. “But if we suppose him on a sudden to receive his sight, and that he behold a man standing before him, it is evident in that case he would neither judge the man he sees to be erect nor inverted; for he never having known those terms applied to any other save tangible things, or which ex¬ isted in the space without him, and what he sees neither being tan¬ gible nor perceived as existing without, he could not know that in propriety of language they were applicable to it.”17 The stabile, extramundane self looks out upon sensory data and yet, at the same time, has them within itself. The “ostensible space consciousness of the blind (is) nothing but a knowledge of the pos¬ sibility of being able to seize an object with the hand by moving the arm in a certain way, characterized by a particular muscular sensation.”18 But how can an object be seized nonspatially? Is not the graspable object something other than the person who seizes it? How else could we differentiate between the acts of seizing and things being seized? Time alone cannot enable us to do so. Time gives us the nonseparated, the simultaneous. Obviously, Senden as¬ sumes that muscle sensations are perceived as objects; the sensing person is confronted in an intentional experience by the muscle sensation, and at the same time he experiences them as processes in his own body. Following Wardrop, Senden tells us of a boy who “busied himself for hours picking from the bed of a nearby river round pebbles of about the same weight and with a smooth surface. He arranged these

338

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pebbles in a circle at the water’s edge and set himself in the middle of the circle.”19 v. Senden explains this behavior by assuming that, as a small child, the boy probably learned the “tactile sequence of ‘circle from within’ while looking around on the floor for a lost toy. He may have brought his hands together before and behind and experienced this double-sided motion of his arms as a strange movement, and thereafter retained it in memory.”20 “This structurally very charac¬ teristic sequence, repeatedly perceived and imitated with his own arms in free dynamic movements, was able to be employed on differ¬ ent material—such as the pebbles on the river bank; what he himself had performed as a conscious action in this circular form is noth¬ ing more than the slow, successive arrangement of the pebbles in a sequence which provided for his steadily controlling arms the same muscle sensations as the familiar tactile sequence ‘circle from with¬ out.’ ”21 Even if we assume the searching about on the floor to be a non-spatial action, how can the same series of muscle sensations be comprehended now as “circle from within” and then as “circle from without” without any reference to space? Albertotti reported of a congenitally blind subject: “When I took his hand and let his fingers follow the contours of a small cardboard disk that was familiar to him, he suddenly noted that ‘one of the disks had spots on it, but the other one did not.’—From that mo¬ ment on he was no longer satisfied with just secretly touching the objects and immediately withdrawing his hands. Instead he handled them thoroughly and the notion of a spot became, for him, syn¬ onymous with rectangularity, while a lack of spots represented some¬ thing round. Thus a spoon was round and a fork angular.”22 To this report Senden adds the explanation: “What he calls ‘spots’ is the tactile impression of an edge which arises when the pressure upon his finger is no longer divided among a greater number of Meissner tactile bodies as the finger moves along the edge, but rather, when the pressure is increased with a sort of a sting at one point on the fingertip. In addition the edge becomes distinguishable for him by the sudden interruption of a regular, monotonous sequence so that his finger meets, as it were, a void; now the finger must seek its pres¬ sure in a new dynamic direction of attack given by a different edge. All of this is a purely qualitative tactile experience and the edge is, within the tactile sequence, a very marked turning point. Such interruption is also quite desirable to the blind person; he is pleased that there is more to the touched object that might even be of prac¬ tical value for him. But if now he makes use of spatial expressions

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of our visible space, these impressions have for him a quite different meaning than what is intended in our everyday language. What for us are indications of form are for him utterly non-spatial differences of purely tactile sensations (such as differences in dynamic move¬ ments); these are differences in sequential continuity and in the ar¬ rangement of impressions.”23 The edges have a pricking effect upon the finger. But the blind person takes them as a structural aspect of the object. The palpable turning point belongs—no matter in what fashion it is perceived—to the object, just as the regular monotonous tactile sequence gives rise to the impression of a smooth edge. But the monotonous sequence can only be experienced when the indi¬ vidual impressions present themselves as links in a chain—that is, when they no longer present themselves as singular impressions. The principle of this sequence, however, is the uniform progression in one direction. It is therefore, a spatio-temporal principle. Albertotti’s patient pricks himself on the edge. The angular is thus for him not merely a purely qualitative tactile experience. The spots are for him a property of the disk. What kind of a property, we must ask, if not a spatial property? What, finally, are, in fact, differences in dy¬ namic movement and what, in general, are motions without refer¬ ence to space? Even Senden’s earlier examples of the more or less planned way in which the blind move, how, for example, they search for some¬ thing about themselves or how they stretch out their arms to grasp hold of something even though they are supposed to lack a space consciousness,—even these examples are problematic. Movement without space! And now a fifth prejudice is added to the four noted above: The separation of locomotion from sensing. The blind do not move themselves, even when walking. Their movement is mere motor process. The motions they carry out are ‘‘merely changes in the ten¬ sion relationships of the body’s musculature.” For the blind, walking is “the customary purely forward motion, a kind of dynamic equi¬ librium in which both sides of the body find themselves equally tensed, but in which the whole bodily tonus is directed ‘forward.’ ” The blind person knows “that he will reach the sought object after a certain number of steps if he moves with this characteristic bodily attitude.”24 This knowledge is supposed to be a substitute for the “predetermined forward direction of a man who sees.” In the museum of Naples, there hangs a painting by Breughel called “The Blind Ones.” One after another in a long file, their hands on a rod, they approach from a narrow strip of land. Their coming is a stumbling, tripping, falling. It is the horror of human

34»

Sensing and Movement Considered Historiologically

beings in their blindness which Breughel has captured in this paint¬ ing, “Man in his blindness.” Breughel depicts the blind man who, lost in space, stumbles from one unknown to another. He is lost in space, but he is still in space. Have a blind man walk an unfamiliar, uneven road leading now up and now downhill. Will he then experience merely “his legs in rhythmic motion?” Is his walking nothing but such rhythmic motion and the tension of the upper part of his body? Doesn’t the blind man, like any one else, move the position of his foot from one place to another? And again we will have to inquire into the possibility of a person differentiating between one place and another. For isn’t the blind person moving from here to there? Indeed, isn’t each sep¬ arate step, each act of putting the foot down on the ground an ex¬ perience in and of space? Everyone has probably had the experience of coming down a dark staircase and, thinking he has already reached the last step when in fact there is still one more left, has stepped into the void. This stepping into emptiness gives us a clearer picture of what we experience with every step in regular walking. We put our foot down and, supporting ourselves, direct ourselves toward the firm ground which offers resistance to our step and which carries us. When our steps are firm and secure we experience direction and counter-direction. The step into the void and the accompanying sense of something missing indicates that we expect resistance at a certain place, and that our step is aimed and gauged accordingly. The place where we intend to step has a particular relation to the place where we now find ourselves on the stairs. It lies deeper, deeper in a particular relation to us. All this—direction and counterdirec¬ tion, goal and measure, the otherness of and the relation between the places we walk—cannot be non-spatial. If the tactile sensations of the blind are without spatial charac¬ ter, then they are such through and through and in general, for those who can see, as well. As capable of seeing we would, it is true, be in space, but our moving and our touching could only be thought of as in space in some way or other. And how this could be accom¬ plished in spite of an original lack of spatial characteristics of the tactile is difficult to understand. We would be in space, but the tac¬ tile impression would be within us and articulated only with regard to time. Suppose we are holding something, we enclose (umgreifen) the handle of a knife with our fist, we take a piece of paper between thumb and forefinger: Is this “between” simply a sum of tactile sen¬ sations in the tips of the thumb and forefinger and sensations of muscle contraction in the palmar muscle and the muscle of the fore-

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arm? Are thumb and forefinger not directed against each other in the opposition of the thumb? The pressure and intensity with which we enclose something is determined by the possibility of its slipping from our hand. But this is something quite different from a sum of tactile and kinesthetic sensations and innervations. If sensing is subordinated to knowing, consciousness of space, of which Berkeley and Senden speak will ultimately be considered as consciousness of space as such, that is, Euclidean—or nearly Euclidean—space. “The logical-apperceptive order of things obtained, with the help of the intellect, from the sense of touch, cannot, therefore, be compared to the spatial order of visible space. Psychology thus cannot recognize such a thing as a ‘tactile space.’ ”25 The spatial order of things in visual space—that is the (only) space whose character is the theme of inquiry. But is this hypostasization of spatial forms by (Euclidean) space justified? True, visual space has a clarity, a relation between adjacency and simultaneity which sets it apart from tactile space and which allows a transition from this visual space to Euclidean or geographical space. If space is understood as being rationally surveyable and systematically closed as it is understood in mathematics, then, and only then, might it perhaps be justified to deny the blind consciousness of space. In the act of touching, only one limited piece is seized; the hori¬ zon is empty, the undetermined-determinable. Just as with each of our senses we communicate with the world in a different way, so to each sense there belongs a different mode of emptiness. Darkness fills space, it is visible as darkness and conceals both the near and the distant, just as both are revealed by brightness. The emptiness of the world of touch is the undetermined-determinable of the There. In touching, I grasp only one piece, but as such, as a piece. In touch¬ ing the edge of the back of a chair, I successively feel it piece by piece, moment by moment, by moving along the back. The momen¬ tary is part of every tactile impression, “moment” in the sense of both time and motion. Each moment is but one moment; it is ex¬ perienced in the transition of what is not yet to that which is no longer. In the world of touch, there is no closed, realized horizon; there are only moments—and thus the urge to move from one mo¬ ment to the next. Tactile motion thus becomes the expression of a restless and endless, never entirely realized approach. If we no longer insist on speaking of a subject which has sensa¬ tions, but, rather, consider the human being who senses and by sensing experiences himself with and in the world, then we can no longer maintain that there may be sensory impressions which lack

342

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spatial characteristics. With the spoken word we address, we call the other. Do we not try to be audible to the other, and don’t we ourselves hear the other and ourselves? Must not such mutual aware¬ ness be spatial? An unbiased examination of conversation, of the ways and means of understanding among men and animals, does not lead to the notion of the primary nonspatiality of sounds. No one would want seriously to claim that a child who in the first years of his life experiences the acoustic utterances of others and himself arrives at his primitive and still prelinguistic mode of communica¬ tion on the basis of a long chain of reasoning. Such a notion would then be equally true of animals, such as the rooster who with his loud crowing greets the morning and replies to other roosters, or the hen who calls her chicks, or the chicks who follow this call. We can not, to be sure, demonstrate the Pythagorean theorem in this world of sound, in these spatial forms. But this lack of mathematical preci¬ sion is no argument against the original spatial character of sound, nor against that of the other sensory impressions. It would only pro¬ vide for such an argument if the spatial was synonymous with geo¬ graphical, or mathematical space. From these “self-evident” premises, the other problem—how we arrive at the experience of space—has been approached. No matter how fiercely the nativists and empiricists opposed each other on the problem of the conception of space, they agreed completely about the basic issues. The question was always how the subject arrives at the perception of (true) Space; they never asked how the individual experiences himself in space.26 From the physiological point of view, the hypothesis of the extramundaneity of the subject seems at first to be a foreign notion. But the formation of concepts in physiologi¬ cal psychology is so dominated by the subordination of sensing to knowing that even there this notion of the extramundane subject has been kept alive. In addition to these two groups, the radical empiricists and the out-and-out nativists, who, as regards the optical and tactile sense, at least assume a certain, though primitive and incomplete concep¬ tion of space which takes it as thoroughly original and unmediated by other kinds of conscious experience,”27 there exists a group “in between” which considers plane vision original and primaryfand depth vision as mediated by experience.28 This distinction of the primacy of the plane and the later acqui¬ sition of depth was doubtless determined by geometrical abstrac¬ tion. To be sure, we can think of the plane as a pure two-dimensional form. But can we actually see a plane as such—without any depth?

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The hypothesis of an original vision limited to the perception of the plane could be established only with the presupposition that in spa¬ tial perception objective data are received in an extramundane consciousness. But extramundaneity itself is not sufficient to explain the hy¬ pothesis of an original apprehension of space limited to plane vision. It requires the additional assumption of psychophysical correspond¬ ence. Because external objects are projected on the surface of the retina, and because the content of experience is supposed to corre¬ spond to anatomic-physiological processes, the inference is made that spatial vision must originally be two-dimensional. In one of the graphs in the Discourse on Man, Descartes describes how the exci¬ tations of the two retinas are transmitted through the optic nerves and finally united in the epiphysis where they are observed by the soul. Now, whether one places the soul—regardless of its extramun¬ daneity—in the epiphysis, or relegates it to the retina or the genicu¬ late bodies or the optical cortex, or, somewhat more cautiously, renounces all attempts to localize the soul, there still at bottom per¬ sists the idea that the soul in sensing and perceiving only senses and perceives something, but not that we experience ourselves in and with the world. Insofar as we perceive, imagine, and know “true” space, we go beyond the relation in which we have the world for ourselves. Only in knowledge do I determine my “Here” in a gen¬ eral fashion as a location in true space; only in knowledge do I tran¬ scend perspective. Even the nativists who, like Hering, assume an original conscious¬ ness of spatial depth have stopped at this point. The seeing person recognizes the relative position in which the things seen stand to one another, their location before or behind the focal plane (Kernfiaeche). He sees into a three-dimensional space. Depth is exclusively understood as the distance things have from him. Actually depth is not experienced as a unidirectional distance, as merely the distance of the things from the seeing person, but also as the distance of the person from the things he sees. Direction in depth has a two-fold significance. If A is the person seeing and B is the seen object, then an arrow points not only from A to B, but also from B to A. I can move toward an object, but the object can move toward me as well. In both cases, the distance is shortened. In personal experience, however, my approaching the object is not at all the same as its approaching me. The difference is not merely based on a difference in optical impressions or a combination of optical impressions and motor sensations. For I can approach an

344

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object while resting in a vehicle, or I can experience the movement of a vehicle towards me as an approach even while I am, at the same time, walking toward it. Nor can the directional significance be explained by establishing the object’s change of position, the differ¬ ence between its relation to its surroundings and to myself. Two peo¬ ple can run toward each other or toward an object, such as a pole or a ball flying in the air; in such a case, both movements are distinctly opposed to each other as regards their directional significance: the one person toward the other and the other toward him. When speed¬ ily running toward an object, we seek to avoid a collision by stop¬ ping short in front of it. But if something rushes toward us we try to avoid it by moving sidewards or backwards. Let us assume a pedes¬ trian has stepped from the sidewalk into the street at the very mo¬ ment that a car is turning the corner and coming toward him. What will our threatened pedestrian do? Presumably, he will jump back to the sidewalk without thinking twice. And what takes place when someone spontaneously ducks away from a blow? What happens is just this movement of the head and the upper torso sidewards or backwards. The simplest and most common kind of process to be sure—but one fraught with mystery for “objective” psychology. He who jumps out of the way of a sudden threat: Where does he jump to? Where—by this I mean, into what space? Is it perhaps an imagined, or even a remembered space? In that case, the imagined, remembered, and perceived space would have to be continuous in their connection with one another; but imagined space is, as ima¬ gined, not present, nor is remembered space present. I can, to be sure, wherever I may be in the city, reflect on how I may get from where I am standing to this or that street; in so doing, I mentally order my present position into geographical space, and from this context I determine the direction I will have to take within the visible horizon. The leap backwards, on the other hand, is not pre¬ ceded by any geographical orientation; we can observe such move¬ ments of flight even with animals and very young animals at that. The direction of their flight movement is determined by the direc¬ tion from which the threat comes. This is remarkable in that the leap to safety continues the visible direction into the unseen. If approaching could be understood merely as decrease of depth values, then the continuation beyond the seen would not be possible in primary experience. But since step¬ ping aside or backwards is a daily occurrence in the life of men and animals, there can be no doubt that, in sensing, space reaches to the side and to the rear. It reaches, in a word, beyond what is seen, nor

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can we doubt that the direction of movement transcends the visible and points beyond into the unseen. This is where we jump when we jump backwards. There must thus also be possible a forward di¬ rection beyond the visible object; what is seen, in other words, cir¬ cumscribes space, but space has depth which reaches beyond the seen into the unseen. The primary content of sensing cannot, there¬ fore, be correlated with individual stimuli as though it were a kind of copy. What is sensed is “more" than that which can be represented by a summation or structured order of sensations. The sensations are only particular or transitory limits of sensing; they are accomplish¬ ments which the sensing subject, as a becoming being, has left be¬ hind. Depth impressions, arranged serially in such a way that the depth values constantly decrease cannot produce the experience of ap¬ proach—neither my approach to something nor its approach to me —unless I experience myself in space with the very first impression, unless in the depth of space I see the object in that first impression as being before me and myself as being before it. Because depth im¬ pressions have a dual directional significance, the objects hold a cer¬ tain distance (sind abstaendig), and even before I move I am near them. Because I experience myself as a sensing being in space, I can move in space; because I am near the object, I can approach it. The experience of depth is relative to a movable being. The space of sensing corresponds to the basic form of primary experience as ex¬ perience of becoming. Depth is not a purely spatial moment at all. Looking straight ahead at the wall of a house over there, I can compare the width of the windows relative to each other. Such deter¬ minations may be highly inaccurate, but they are still objective; the measuring standard is obtained from the spatial plane itself and remains completely within the sphere of spatial extension. I com¬ pare spatial extensions among themselves in their appearance as such. But I can also establish the place where I now stand and meas¬ ure the distance from this spot to the wall of the house, a distance which turns out to be, say, 25 yards. In such a measurement, I appre¬ hend nothing concerning the phenomenon of spatial depth. The dis¬ tance between two positions in space is expressed by the scale of linear measurement. In depth, I have things as they are for myself, from my point of view only. The “for myself" is part of the content of the experience of depth; it does not arise in reflection as does, for example, the notion that the wallpaper there may be blue only “as far as I can see,” but not “in itself.” Visual space does not become subjective space because of discrepancies; it is not a distorted picture

346

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of the order of objective space. It is subjective, because in this space I experience myself here and things there. Direction is inseparable from depth. To be sure, if I measure the width of the plane of the house across the street, then direction is irrelevant, but in that case what interests me is only something which is and can be seen. In such measuring, I become a perceiver and as such I am no longer involved in perspective. I express the results of my measuring with sentences in which no mention is made of the act of seeing. Such abstraction occurs every day and requires no strict scientific atten¬ tion. As perceivers, we constantly perform such abstractions; we speak among ourselves of our perceptions, but not of perceiving and sensing. Psychology simply seems all too rigidly bound up in these abstractions. It becomes very difficult for it to free itself from them, something which it must do if it wishes to make sensing the object of its study. For then the theme becomes the seeing of the seen and the hearing of that which is heard. And what is spoken of must also be the subject who sees and hears and not alone that which is seen and heard. In seeing, I am directed toward visible things. In physiology and psychology the main directions in visual space are mentioned with¬ out hesitation. But wouldn’t this be just the place to do a little hesi¬ tating—and reflecting on the matter? For what is a direction? Are these main directions something like Cartesian co-ordinates in a sub¬ jective space? Directions and straight lines are obviously not the same, but in what lies their difference? Is not direction a spatiotemporal phenomenon?29 In that case, original visual space that is arranged according to main directions would no longer be a purely spatial structure! And it would therefore be incorrect not only to isolate spatial and temporal data from the qualities and intensities of sensing, but equally incorrect to isolate space from time at all in the way it is usually done.

Since it is not that a sensing being has sensations, but rather that in sensing experiences himself and the world in the process of becoming, temporality is an immanent part of the content of sensing. The temporal moment of becoming and becoming-with (Mitwerden) is inseparable from it. This is not to say that sensations of time (com¬ municable in judgments) are components of all sensations. Unfortu-

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nately, traditional theories of sensation have, for the most part, dealt in this fashion with the problem of time. What are sensations of time? One answer has it: We are “able, by means of direct intuition, to compare the positional and longitudinal differences in a temporal sequence. In other words, we perceive that an event A takes place at an earlier moment than event B; that a walk took longer than the reading of a page in a book” (Froebes). Or: “The impressions of our senses are always given in the form of a temporal event and not only when we are observing actual processes (i.e., when noticing that sensations begin, end, or change), but also when we notice that a state persists uniformly without change” (Kries). Both answers thus agree in enumerating objective data—succession, the relation of early to late, the location in temporal sequence, beginning and end, persistence and change—as the content of time sensations. But when a tone is sounded, its beginning is present; when it ceases, its ceasing is present; when it persists, its persisting is present. All these objective temporal moments are present in sensing. This being-present, this “now” of the beginning and ending, of duration and change, of rest and motion, is a temporal moment into which all others can enter. The present is the temporal moment which properly belongs to sensing. True, experimental psychology also deals with the present, the "now.” But its understanding of this notion is so different from ours that we must, in this regard, carefully distinguish between two op¬ posing conceptions. “A consciousness of temporal extension, a consciousness of earlier and later, could not arise,” says Lipps, “if we experienced in each mathematical moment only that which actually enters our life dur¬ ing this moment, without including what has been experienced in the preceding moments and still persists in us in the present. It could not, that is, arise if the later were not attached to and combined with the earlier in a simultaneous whole.” Three points in this theory of time are important for us. It limits temporal experience to the experience of earlier-later; the best way it can explain past¬ ness is with the theory of temporal signs; the future is closed to it. And, finally, it takes its departure—as though this went without saying—from the experience of the moment. The “now” is the mo¬ ment, the dimensionless temporal point to which one attains by pro¬ gressive division of the temporal sequence found in thought. James thus quite consistently says, “To realize an hour we must count: Now! Now! Now!—indefinitely. Each ‘now’ is the feeling of a

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separate bit of time. . . We have to count that which is countable. If we examine this “now” more carefully, we find that though the word “now” is used, it is not seriously meant. For this “now” refers not to the immediate temporal experience of becoming, the tran¬ sition from the future to the past via the present; it is, rather, a “bit of time,” it is correlated with “the experiences of the moment” which in themselves are timeless and singular. This point-like Now has no relation to the Not-now, to temporal becoming. It is understood as static; it refers to a content or object which, within the most nar¬ row limits of objective time, corresponds with the individual physi¬ ological process. The image of time is supposed to come from a construction placed upon the temporal signs attached to the single momentary experiences. The genetic theory of time, developed by Lipps, was not, it is true, shared by all the psychologists of his day, even though it was a necessary consequence of the premises of the psychology of that period. Still, the supporters of the genetic theory as well as those from the nativistic school came to the same result. Both groups approached time not as a central problem of psychology, but as a peripheral subject to be perfunctorily treated somewhere in their textbooks in, perhaps, an appendix or a footnote. Benussi defines the task of the psychology of time in the follow¬ ing manner: “The psychology of time must inquire into the condi¬ tions by which the means of apprehending time, i.e., time-images, are of such a kind that the objects thereby made accessible are or are not adequate to the objects actually at hand; it must discover which inner events make possible the different relations between subjective, ap¬ prehended, and objective, actual time.”30 Despite such thematic lim¬ itation, the atomistic approach to time was bound to encounter difficulties as soon as an attempt was made to understand the notion of temporal extensions and sequences, movements, melodies, sentences, and polysyllabic words. In 1897, W. Stern introduced the concept of “presence time.” In the discussions following the introduction of this concept, it soon became apparent that, although the problem had been stated, it had not been solved. That this concept did not funda¬ mentally further the psychology of time is evident from the efforts to determine objectively the duration of “presence time” and to re¬ duce the comprehension of the passage of time to particular kinds of cerebral processes.31 The objective-temporal point was replaced by the objective-tem¬ poral extension which is viewed, in retrospect, toward the past. The lived experience of the future is still left out of account—a charac-

TRADITIONAL PSYCHOLOGY OF SPACE AND TIME

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teristic and unavoidable shortcoming of this psychology of time. For, the awareness of time is taken as a kind of knowledge. That, however, which is truly known has the character of the timelessly valid or has the temporal form of the completed past (the perfection) when what is known are objective processes. The verification of facts situates them in objective time, in which they acquire a definite lo¬ cation and extension. Objective time is, as realized time, always past; it appears with that frozen rigidity by which Bergson characterized measured time. All knowing is a having recognized; in comparison with original experience and temporality, it has the character of the finished, of that which has already been and which has left origi¬ nal temporality behind it. As such, a concept comprises identical temporal elements. What Benussi calls the object of a psychology of time actually belongs, so to say, to the realm of temporal rela¬ tions—duration, change, pause, rhythm, etc. But because these re¬ lations are for him already verified, i.e., objective and completed temporal relations, he is barred from understanding the actual ex¬ perience of time and thus also the experience of the present and the Now. This psychology of time begins at a point where the original experience of lived time turns into a having-experienced. Original temporality, the experience of being present, is not accessible to ex¬ periments which involve verifiable behavior of experimental sub¬ jects. Nothing of original temporality is contained in the judgments offered by these experimental subjects; the reconstruction of original temporality cannot succeed because no way leads back from such knowledge to the living experience. The works of Mach, James, and Lipps have become part of his¬ tory. Many years have passed since their deaths. They represent the psychology of the turn of the century. But the rigidity of their psy¬ chology seems only very slowly to be loosening its hold. In its experi¬ ments, in its close connection with physiology, psychology is again and again thrust back to objective time. And thus it stubbornly and often angrily resists the introduction of new ideas about the experi¬ ence of time, unless they are at once re-interpreted and therefore mis¬ understood along more customary objectifying lines.32 Such persistence within tradition is not surprising. Objective space and objective time (or, simply. Space and Time), geographical space and time measured by the clock, are great creations of human thought. He who condemns objective space and objective time con¬ demns himself. With these objectifying concepts we come, perhaps, closer to truth than we do in the full intensity of sensory certainty.

35°

Sensing and Movement Considered Historiologically

In hallucinations, or under the influence of mescaline, a man indeed experiences his spatial impressions with the full power of sensory certainty. Yet who would want to claim that what is thus experi¬ enced is space and time in their true form? But psychology’s theme is sensory certainty. For that reason, it cannot content itself with accepting objective space and objective time as data and, proceed¬ ing from such presuppositions, inquire into the sensations of space and time. If all temporal experience limited itself to substantiating a temporal order, then that which is given in the moment would not have the character of the present, the Now. The Now is not an objective datum, not part of the given. That which is present is always an other. Now it is a duration, now a change, now rest and now motion, now a beginning, and now an ending. The “Now” always signifies something definite, and yet it¬ self cannot be genuinely defined regarding its own temporal nature by means of this content. The Now sets off a point in the objective seriality of time, but can not itself be identified by this point. For the point in time which just now was, is no longer. I can, it is true, establish the duration of a process by clock measurement and I can likewise establish that the beginning of a process was at a certain moment, dating it by the day, hour, minute, and second. But I will obtain an objective, general, and communicable datum only by co¬ ordinating myself and my lived experience with world time, with that time which can be symbolically represented by a line and quan¬ tified. The Now of the present is thus related to objective time, but does not itself belong to it. The Now is always my Now. In sensory experience, everyone lives from the perspective of his Now and Here. At my Now and only at my Now does the living present become past and a new living present grows out of the future. It is just for this reason, that in sensing we live in our own Now, that sensing is not a form of knowing. For the objectivity of knowl¬ edge implies that what is known can be apprehended conceptually, separated off and communicated. What is known holds true: It claims to be the same today, tomorrow, in the future, and in the past. Cognition can be repeated because it is indifferent to temporal events. But the Now cannot be repeated. The universality of knowl¬ edge requires that it be repeatable for me as well. Therefore, to have knowledge, I must be able to dissociate myself from the co-existence (Mitsein) of my sensory experience. A being which lives exclusively within the sphere of sensory experience can neither know nor re¬ member.

SENSE-CERTAINTY

351