Let us begin with the Self in its widest acceptation, and follow it up to its most delicate and subtle form, advancing from the study of the empirical, as the Germans call it, to that of the pure, Ego1.
The Empirical Self or Me.
The Empirical Self of each of us is all that he is tempted2 to call by the name of me. But it is clear that between what a man calls me and what he simply calls mine the line is difficult to draw. We feel and act about certain things that are ours very much as we feel and act about ourselves. Our fame, our children, the work of our hands, may be as dear to us as our bodies are, and arouse the same feelings and the same acts of reprisal3 if attacked. And our bodies themselves, are they simply ours, or are they us? Certainly men have been ready to disown their very bodies and to regard them as mere4 vestures, or even as prisons of clay from which they should some day be glad to escape.
We see then that we are dealing5 with a fluctuating material. The same object being sometimes treated as a part of me, at other times as simply mine, and then again as if I had nothing to do with it at all. In its widest possible sense, however, a man's Self is the sum total of all that he CAN call his, not only his body and his psychic7 powers, but his clothes and his house, his wife and children, his ancestors and friends, his reputation and works, his lands and horses, and yacht and bank-account. All these things give him the same emotions. If they wax and prosper8, he feels triumphant9; if they dwindle10 and die away, he feels cast down, - not necessarily in the same degree for each thing, but in much the same way for all. Understanding the Self in this widest sense, we may begin by dividing the history of it into three parts, relating respectively to -
Its constituents14;
The feelings and emotions they arouse, -- Self-feelings;
The actions to which they prompt, -- Self-seeking and Self-preservation.
1. The constituents of the Self may be divided into two classes, those which make up respectively -
(a) The material Self;
(b) The social Self;
(c) The spiritual Self; and
(d) The pure Ego.
(a) The body is the innermost part of the material Self in each of us; and certain parts of the body seem more intimately ours than the rest. The clothes come next. The old saying that the human person is composed of three parts - soul, body and clothes - is more than a joke. We so appropriate our clothes and identify ourselves with them that there are few of us who, if asked to choose between having a beautiful body clad in raiment perpetually shabby and unclean, and having an ugly and blemished15 form always spotlessly attired16, would not hesitate a moment before making a decisive reply.1 Next, our immediate17 family is a part of ourselves. Our father and mother, our wife and babes, are bone of our bone and flesh of our flesh. When they die, a part of our very selves is gone. If they do anything wrong, it is our shame. If they are insulted, our anger flashes forth19 as readily as if we stood in their place. Our home comes next. Its scenes are part of our life; its aspects awaken20 the tenderest feelings of affection; and we do not easily forgive the stranger who, in visiting it, finds fault with its arrangements or treats it with contempt. All these different things are the objects of instinctive22 preferences coupled with the most important practical interests of life. We all have a blind impulse to watch over our body, to deck it with clothing of an ornamental24 sort, to cherish parents, wife and babes, and to find for ourselves a home of our own which we may live in and 'improve.'
An equally instinctive impulse drives us to collect property; and the collections thus made become, with different degrees of intimacy25, parts of our empirical selves. The parts of our wealth most intimately ours are those which are saturated26 with our labor27. There are few men who would not feel personally annihilated28 if a life-long construction of their hands or brains - say an entomological collection or an extensive work in manuscript - were suddenly swept away. The miser30 feels similarly towards his gold, and although it is true that a part of our depression at the loss of possessions is due to our feeling that we must now go without certain goods that we expected the possessions to bring in their train, yet in every case there remains31, over and above this, a sense of the shrinkage of our personality, a partial conversion32 of ourselves to nothingness, which is a psychological phenomenon by itself. We are all at once assimilated to the tramps and poor devils whom we so despise, and at the same time removed farther than ever away from the happy sons of earth who lord it over land and sea and men in the full-blown lustihood that wealth and power can give, and before whom, stiffen33 ourselves as we will by appealing to anti-snobbish first principles, we cannot escape an emotion, open or sneaking34, of respect and dread35.
(b) A man's Social Self is the recognition which he gets from his mates. We are not only gregarious36 animals, liking37 to be in sight of our fellows, but we have an innate38 propensity39 to get ourselves noticed, and noticed favorably, by our kind. No more fiendish punishment could be devised, were such a thing physically40 possible, than that one should be turned loose in society and remain absolutely unnoticed by all the members thereof. If no one turned round when we entered, answered when we spoke41, or minded what we did, but if every person we met 'cut us dead,' and acted as if we were non-existing things, a kind of rage and impotent despair would ere long well up in us, from which the cruellest bodily tortures would be a relief; for these would make us feel that, however bad might be our plight42, we had not sunk to such a depth as to be unworthy of attention at all.
Properly speaking, a man has as many social selves as there are individuals who recognize him and carry an image of him in their mind. To wound any one of these his images is to wound him.2 But as the individuals who carry the images fall naturally into classes, we may practically say that he has as many different social selves as there are distinct groups of persons about whose opinion he cares. He generally shows a different side of himself to each of these different groups. Many a youth who is demure44 enough before his parents and teachers, swears and swaggers like a pirate among his 'tough' young friends. We do not show ourselves to our children as to our club-companions, to our customers as to the laborers45 we employ, to our own masters and employers as to our intimate friends. From this there results what practically is a division of the man into several selves; and this may be a discordant46 splitting, as where one is afraid to let one set of his acquaintances know him as he is elsewhere; or it may be a perfectly47 harmonious48 division of labor, as where one tender to his children is stern to the soldiers or prisoners under his command.
The most peculiar49 social self which one is apt to have is in the mind of the person one is in love with. The good or bad fortunes of this self cause the most intense elation50 and dejection - unreasonable51 enough as measured by every other standard than that of the organic feeling of the individual. To his own consciousness he is not, so long as this particular social self fails to get recognition, and when it is recognized his contentment passes all bounds.
A man's fame, good or bad, and his honor or dishonor, are names for one of his social selves. The particular social self of a man called his honor is usually the result of one of those splittings of which we have spoken. It is his image in the eyes of his own 'set,' which exalts52 or condemns53 him as he conforms or not to certain requirements that may not be made of one in another walk of life. Thus a layman54 may abandon a city infected with cholera55; but a priest or a doctor would think such an act incompatible56 with his honor. A soldier's honor requires him to fight or to die under circumstances where another man can apologize or run away with no stain upon his social self. A judge, a statesman, are in like manner debarred by the honor of their cloth from entering into pecuniary57 relations perfectly honorable to persons in private life. Nothing is commoner than to hear people discriminate58 between their different selves of this sort: "As a man I pity you, but as an official I must show you no mercy; as a politician I regard him as an ally, but as a moralist I loathe59 him;" etc., etc. What may be called 'club-opinion' is one of the very strongest forces in life.3 The thief must not steal from other thieves; the gambler must pay his gambling-debts, though he pay no other debts in the world. The code of honor of fashionable society has throughout history been full of permissions as well as of vetoes, the only reason for following either of which is that so we best serve one of our social selves. You must not lie in general, but you may lie as much as you please if asked about your relations with a lady; you must accept a challenge from an equal, but if challenged by an inferior you may laugh him to scorn: these are examples of what is meant.
(c) By the Spiritual Self, so far as it belongs to the Empirical Me, I mean a man's inner or subjective60 being, his psychic faculties61 or dispositions62, taken concretely; not the bare principle of personal Unity64, or 'pure' Ego, which remains still to be discussed. These psychic dispositions are the most enduring and intimate part of the self, that which we most verily seem to be. We take a purer self-satisfaction when we think of our ability to argue and discriminate, of our moral sensibility and conscience, of our indomitable will, than when we survey any of our other possessions. Only when these are altered is a man said to be alienatus a se.
Now this spiritual self may be considered in various ways. We may divide it into faculties, as just instanced, isolating65 them one from another, and identifying ourselves with either in turn. This is an abstract way of dealing with consciousness, in which, as it actually presents itself, a plurality of such faculties are always to be simultaneously66 found; or we may insist on a concrete view, and then the spiritual self in us will be either the entire stream of our personal consciousness, or the present 'segment' or 'section' of that stream, according as we take a broader or a narrower view - both the stream and the section being concrete existences in time, and each being a unity after its own peculiar kind. But whether we take it abstractly or concretely, our considering the spiritual self at all is a reflective process, is the result of our abandoning the outward-looking point of view, and of our having become able to think of subjectivity67 as such, to think ourselves as thinkers.
This attention to thought as such, and the identification of ourselves with it rather than with any of the objects which it reveals, is a momentous69 and in some respects a rather mysterious operation, of which we need here only say that as a matter of fact it exists; and that in everyone, at an early age, the distinction between thought as such, and what it is 'of' or 'about,' has become familiar to the mind. The deeper grounds for this discrimination may possibly be hard to find; but superficial grounds are plenty and near at hand. Almost anyone will tell us that thought is a different sort of existence from things, because many sorts of thought are of no things - e.g., pleasures, pains, and emotions; others are of non-existent things - errors and fictions; others again of existent things, but in a form that is symbolic70 and does not resemble them - abstract ideas and concepts; whilst in the thoughts that do resemble the things they are 'of' (percepts, sensations), we can feel, alongside of the thing known, the thought of it going on as an altogether separate act and operation in the mind.
Now this subjective life of ours, distinguished71 as such so clearly from the objects known by its means, may, as aforesaid, be taken by us in a concrete or in an abstract way. Of the concrete way I will say nothing just now, except that the actual 'section' of the stream will ere long, in our discussion of the nature of the principle of unity in consciousness, play a very important part. The abstract way claims our attention first. If the stream as a whole is identified with the Self far more than any outward thing, a certain portion of the stream abstracted from the rest is so identified in an altogether peculiar degree, and is felt by all men as a sort of innermost centre within the circle, of sanctuary72 within the citadel73, constituted by the subjective life as a whole. Compared with this element of the stream, the other parts, even of the subjective life, seem transient external possessions, of which each in turn can be disowned, whilst that which disowns them remains. Now, what is this self of all the other selves?
Probably all men would describe it in much the same way up to a certain point. They would call it the active element in all consciousness; saying that whatever qualities a man's feelings may possess, or whatever content his thought may include, there is a spiritual something in him which seems to go out to meet these qualities and contents, whilst they seem to come in to be received by it. It is what welcomes or rejects. It presides over the perception of sensations, and by giving or withholding74 its
assent75 it influences the movements they tend to arouse. It is the home of interest, - not the pleasant or the painful, not even pleasure or pain, as such, but that within us to which pleasure and pain, the pleasant and the painful, speak. It is the source of effort and attention, and the place from which appear to emanate76 the fiats78 of the will. A physiologist79 who should reflect upon it in his own person could hardly help, I should think, connecting it more or less vaguely80 with the process by which ideas or incoming sensations are 'reflected' or pass over into outward acts. Not necessarily that it should be this process or the mere feeling of this process, but that it should be in some close way related to this process; for it plays a part analogous81 to it in the psychic life, being a sort of junction82 at which sensory83 ideas terminate and from which motor ideas proceed, and forming a kind of link between the two. Being more incessantly85 there than any other single element of the mental life, the other elements end by seeming to accrete86 round it and to belong to it. It becomes opposed to them as the permanent is opposed to the changing and inconstant.
One may, I think, without fear of being upset by any future Galtonian circulars, believe that all men must single out from the rest of what they call themselves some central principle of which each would recognize the foregoing to be a fair general description, - accurate enough, at any rate, to denote what is meant, and keep it unconfused with other things. The moment, however, they came to closer quarters with it, trying to define more accurately87 its precise nature, we should find opinions beginning to diverge88. Some would say that it is a simple active substance, the soul, of which they are thus conscious; others, that it is nothing but a fiction, the imaginary being denoted by the pronoun I; and between these extremes of opinion all sorts of intermediaries would be found.
Later we must ourselves discuss them all, and sufficient to that day will be the evil thereof. Now, let us try to settle for ourselves as definitely as we can, just how this central nucleus89 of the Self may feel, no matter whether it be a spiritual substance or only a delusive90 word.
For this central part of the Self is felt. It may be all that Transcendentalists say it is, and all that Empiricists say it is into the bargain, but it is at any rate no mere ens rationis, cognized only in an intellectual way, and no mere summation91 of memories or mere sound of a word in our ears. It is something with which we also have direct sensible acquaintance, and which is as fully92 present at any moment of consciousness in which it is present, as in a whole lifetime of such moments. When, just now, it was called an abstraction, that did not mean that, like some general notion, it could not be presented in a particular experience. It only meant that in the stream of consciousness it never was found all alone. But when it is found, it is felt; just as the body is felt, the feeling of which is also an abstraction, because never is the body felt all alone, but always together with other things. Now can we tell more precisely93 in what the feeling of this central active self consists, - not necessarily as yet what the active self is, as a being or principle, but what we feel when we become aware of its existence?
I think I can in my own case; and as what I say will be likely to meet with opposition94 if generalized (as indeed it may be in part inapplicable to other individuals), I had better continue in the first person, leaving my description to be accepted by those to whose introspection it may commend itself as true, and confessing my inability to meet the demands of others, if others there be.
First of all, I am aware of a constant play of furtherances and hindrances96 in my thinking, of checks and releases, tendencies which run with desire, and tendencies which run the other way. Among the matters I think of, some range themselves on the side of the thought's interests, whilst others play an unfriendly part thereto. The mutual97 inconsistencies and agreements, reinforcements and obstructions98, which obtain amonst these objective matters reverberate99 backwards100 and produce what seem to be incessant84 reactions of my spontaneity upon them, welcoming or opposing, appropriating or disowning, striving with or against, saying yes or no. This palpitating inward life is, in me, that central nucleus which I just tried to describe in terms that all men might use. But when I forsake101 such general descriptions and grapple with particulars, coming to the closest possible quarters with the facts, it is difficult for me to detect in the activity any purely102 spiritual element at all. Whenever my introspective glance succeeds in turning round quickly enough to catch one of these manifestations103 of spontaneity in the act, all it can ever feel distinctly is some bodily process, for the most part taking place within the head. Omitting for a moment what is obscure in these introspective results, let me try to state those particulars which to my own consciousness seem indubitable and distinct.
In the first place, the acts of attending, assenting104, negating105, making an effort, are felt as movements of something in the head. In many cases it is possible to describe these movements quite exactly. In attending to either an idea or a sensation belonging to a particular sense-sphere, the movement is the adjustment of the sense-organ, felt as it occurs. I cannot think in visual terms, for example, without feeling a fluctuating play of pressures, convergences, divergences106, and accommodations in my eyeballs. The direction in which the object is conceived to lie determines the character of these movements, the feeling of which becomes, for my consciousness, identified with the manner in which I make myself ready to receive the visible thing. My brain appears to me as if all shot across with lines of direction, of which I have become conscious as my attention has shifted from one sense-organ to another, in passing to successive outer things, or in following trains of varying sense-ideas.
When I try to remember or reflect, the movements in question, instead of being directed towards the periphery107, seem to come from the periphery inwards and feel like a sort of withdrawal108 from the outer world. As far as I can detect, these feelings are due to an actual rolling outwards109 and upwards110 of the eyeballs, such as I believe occurs in me in sleep, and is the exact opposite of their action in fixating a physical thing. In reasoning, I find that I am apt to have a kind of vaguely localized diagram in my mind, with the various fractional objects of the thought disposed at particular points thereof; and the oscillations of my attention from one of them to another are most distinctly felt as alternations of direction in movements occurring inside the head.4
In consenting and negating, and in making a mental effort, the movements seem more complex, and I find them harder to describe. The opening and closing of the glottis play a great part in these operations, and, less distinctly, the movements of the soft palate, etc., shutting off the posterior nares of the mouth. My glottis is like a sensitive valve, intercepting111 my breath instantaneously at every mental hesitation112 or felt aversion to the objects of my thought, and as quickly opening, to let the air pass through my throat and nose, the moment the repugnance113 is overcome. The feeling of the movement of this air is, in me, one strong ingredient of the feeling of assent. The movements of the muscles of the brow and eyelids114 also respond very sensitively to every fluctuation115 in the agreeableness or disagreeableness of what comes before my mind.
In effort of any sort, contractions116 of the jaw-muscles and of those of respiration117 are added to those of the brow and glottis, and thus the feeling passes out of the head properly so called. It passes out of the head whenever the welcoming or rejecting of the object is strongly felt. Then a set of feelings pour in from many bodily parts, all 'expressive118' of my emotion, and the head-feelings proper are swallowed up in this larger mass.
In a sense, then, it may be truly said that, in one person at least, the 'Self of selves,' when carefully examined, is found to consist mainly of the collection of these peculiar motions in the head or between the head and throat. I do not for a moment say that this is all it consists of, for I fully realize how desperately119 hard is introspection in this field. But I feel quite sure that these cephalic motions are the portions of my innermost activity of which I am most distinctly aware. If the dim portions which I cannot yet define should prove to be like unto these distinct portions in me, and I like other men, it would follow that our entire feeling of spiritual activity, or what commonly passes by that name, is really a feeling of bodily activities whose exact nature is by most men overlooked.
Now, without pledging ourselves in any way to adopt this hypothesis, let us dally120 with it for a while to see to what consequences it might lead if it were true.
In the first place, the nuclear part of the Self, intermediary between ideas and overt121 acts, would be a collection of activities physiologically122 in no essential way different from the overt acts themselves. If we divide all possible physiological123 acts into adjustments and executions, the nuclear self would be the adjustments collectively considered; and the less intimate, more shifting self, so far as it was active, would be the executions. But both adjustments and executions would obey the reflex type. Both would be the result of sensorial and ideational processes discharging either into each other within the brain, or into muscles and other parts outside. The peculiarity124 of the adjustments would be that they are minimal125 reflexes, few in number, incessantly repeated, constant amid great fluctuations126 in the rest of the mind's content, and entirely127 unimportant and uninteresting except through their uses in furthering or inhibiting128 the presence of various things, and actions before consciousness. These characters would naturally keep us from introspectively paying much attention to them in detail, whilst they would at the same time make us aware of them as a coherent group of processes, strongly contrasted with all the other things consciousness contained, - even with the other constituents of the 'Self,' material, social, or spiritual, as the case might be. They are reactions, and they are primary reactions. Everything arouses them; for objects which have no other effects will for a moment contract the brow and make the glottis close. It is as if all that visited the mind had to stand an entrance-examination, and just show its face so as to be either approved or sent back. These primary reactions are like the opening or the closing of the door. In the midst of psychic change they are the permanent core of turnings-towards and trunings-from, of yieldings and arrests, which naturally seem central and interior in com- parison with the foreign matters, apropos129 to which they occur, and hold a sort of arbitrating, decisive position, quite unlike that held by any of the other constituents of the Me. It would not be surprising, then, if we were to feel them as the birthplace of conclusions and the starting point of acts, or if they came to appear as what we called a while back the 'sanctuary within the citadel' of our personal life.5
If they really were the innermost sanctuary, the ultimate one of all the selves whose being we can ever directly experience, it would follow that all that is experienced is, strictly130 considered, objective; that this Objective falls asunder131 into two contrasted parts, one realized as 'Self,' the other as 'not-Self;' and that over and above these parts there is nothing save the fact that they are known, the fact of the stream of thought being there as the indispensable subjective condition of their being experienced at all. But this condition of the experience is not one of the things experienced at the moment; this knowing is not immediately known. It is only known in subsequent reflection. Instead, then, of the stream of thought being one of con12-sciousness, "thinking its own existence along with whatever else it thinks," (as Ferrier says) it might be better called a stream of Sciousness pure and simple, thinking objects of some of which it makes what it calls a 'Me,' and only aware of its 'pure' Self in an abstract, hypothetic or conceptual way. Each 'section' of the stream would then be a bit of sciousness or knowledge of this sort, including and contemplating132 its 'me' and its 'not-me' as objects which work out their drama together, but not yet including or contemplating its own subjective being. The sciousness in question would be the Thinker, and the existence of this thinker would be given to us rather as a logical postulate133 than as that direct inner perception of spiritual activity which we naturally believe ourselves to have. 'Matter,' as something behind physical phenomena134, is a postulate of this sort. Between the postulated135 Matter and the postulated Thinker, the sheet of phenomena would then swing, some of them (the 'realities') pertaining136 more to the matter, others (the fictions, opinions, and errors) pertaining more to the Thinker. But who the Thinker would be, or how many distinct Thinkers we ought to suppose in the universe, would all be subjects for an ulterior metaphysical inquiry137.
Speculations139 like this traverse common-sense; and not only do they traverse common sense (which in philosophy is no insuperable objection) but they contradict the fundamental assumption of every philosophic140 school. Spiritualists, transcendentalists, and empiricists alike admit in us a continual direct perception of the thinking activity in the concrete. However they may otherwise disagree, they vie with each other in the cordiality of their recognition of our thoughts as the one sort of existent which skepticism cannot touch.6 I will therefore treat the last few pages as a parenthetical digression, and from now to the end of the volume revert141 to the path of common-sense again. I mean by this that I will continue to assume (as I have assumed all along, especially in the last chapter) a direct awareness142 of the process of our thinking as such, simply insisting on the fact that it is an even more inward and subtle phenomenon than most of us suppose. At the conclusion of the volume, however, I may permit myself to revert again to the doubts here provisionally mooted143, and will indulge in some metaphysical reflections suggested by them.
At present, then, the only conclusion I come to is the following: That (in some persons at least) the part of the innermost Self which is most vividly144 felt turns out to consist for the most part of a collection of cephalic movements of 'adjustments' which, for want of attention and reflection, usually fail to be perceived and classed as what they are; that over and above these there is an obscurer feeling of something more; but whether it be of fainter physiological processes, or of nothing objective at all, but rather of subjectivity as such, of thought become 'its own object,' must at present remain an open question, - like the question whether it be an indivisible active soul-substance, or the question whether it be a personification of the pronoun I, or any other of the guesses as to what its nature may be.
Farther than this we cannot as yet go clearly in our analysis of the Self's constituents. So let us proceed to the emotions of Self which they arouse.
2. Self-Feeling.
These are primarily self-complacency and self-dissatisfaction. Of what is called 'self-love,' I will treat a little farther on. Language has synonyms145 enough for both primary feelings. Thus pride, conceit146, vanity, self-esteem147, arrogance148, vainglory, on the one hand; and on the other modesty149, humility150, confusion, diffidence, shame, mortification152, contrition153, the sense of obloquy154 and personal despair. These two opposite classes of affection seem to be direct and elementary endowments of our nature. Associationists would have it that they are, on the other hand, secondary phenomena arising from a rapid computation of the sensible pleasures or pains to which our prosperous or debased personal predicament is likely to lead, the sum of the represented pleasures forming the self-satisfaction, and the sum of the represented pains forming the opposite feeling of shame. No doubt, when we are self-satisfied, we do fondly rehearse all possible rewards for our desert, and when in a fit of self-despair we forebode evil. But the mere expectation of reward is not the self-satisfaction, and the mere apprehension155 of the evil is not the self-despair, for there is a certain average tone of self-feeling which each one of us carries about with him, and which is independent of the objective reasons we may have for satisfaction or discontent. That is, a very meanly-conditioned man may abound156 in unfaltering conceit, and one whose success in life is secure and who is esteemed157 by all may remain diffident of his powers to the end.
One may say, however, that the normal provocative158 of self-feeling is one's actual success or failure, and the good or bad actual position one holds in the world. "He put in his thumb and pulled out a plum, and said what a good boy am I." A man with a broadly extended empirical Ego, with powers that have uniformly brought him success, with place and wealth and friends and fame, is not likely to be visited by the morbid159 diffidences and doubts about himself which he had when he was a boy. "Is not this great Babylon, which I have planted?"7 Whereas he who has made one blunder after another, and still lies in middle life among the failures at the foot of the hill, is liable to grow all sicklied o'er with self-distrust, and to shrink from trials with which his powers can really cope.
The emotions themselves of self-satisfaction and abasement160 are of a unique sort, each as worthy43 to be classed as a primitive161 emotional species as are, for example, rage or pain. Each has its own peculiar physiognomical expression. In self-satisfaction the extensor muscles are innervated, the eye is strong and glorious, the gait rolling and elastic162, the nostril163 dilated164, and a peculiar smile plays upon the lips. This whole complex of symptoms is seen in an exquisite165 way in lunatic asylums166, which always contain some patients who are literally168 mad with conceit, and whose fatuous169 expression and absurdly strutting170 or swaggering gait is in tragic171 contrast with their lack of any valuable personal quality. It is in these same castles of despair that we find the strongest examples of the opposite physiognomy, in good people who think they have committed 'the unpardonable sin' and are lost forever, who crouch172 and cringe and slink from noticean, d [sic] are unable to speak aloud or look us in the eye. Like fear and like anger, in similar morbid conditions, these opposite feelings of Self may be aroused with no adequate exciting cause. And in fact we ourselves know how the barometer173 of our self-esteem and confidence rises and falls from one day to another through causes that seem to be visceral and organic rather than rational, and which certainly answer to no corresponding variations in the esteem in which we are held by our friends. Of the origin of these emotions in the race, we can speak better when we have treated of -
3. Self-Seeking and Self-Preservation.
These words cover a large number of our fundamental instinctive impulses. We have those of bodily self-seeking, those of social self-seeking, and those of spiritual self-seeking.
All the ordinary useful reflex actions and movements of alimentation and defence are acts of bodily self-preservation. Fear and anger prompt to acts that are useful in the same way. Whilst if by self-seeking we mean the providing for the future as distinguished from maintaining the present, we must class both anger and fear with the hunting, the acquisitive, the home-constructing and the tool-constructing instincts, as impulses to self-seeking of the bodily kind. Really, however, these latter instincts, with amativeness, parental174 fondness, curiosity and emulation175, seek not only the development of the bodily Self, but that of the material Self in the widest possible sense of the word.
Our social self-seeking, in turn, is carried on directly through our amativeness and friendliness176, our desire to please and attract notice and admiration177, our emulation and jealousy178, our love of glory, influence, and power, and indirectly179 through whichever of the material self-seeking impulses prove serviceable as means to social ends. That the direct social self-seeking impulses are probably pure instincts is easily seen. The noteworthy thing about the desire to be 'recognized' by others is that its strength has so little to do with the worth of the recognition computed180 in sensational181 or rational terms. We are crazy to get a visiting-list which shall be large, to be able to say when any one is mentioned, "Oh! I know him well," and to be bowed to in the street by half the people we meet. Of course distinguished friends and admiring recognition are the most desirable - Thackeray somewhere asks his readers to confess whether it would not give each of them an exquisite pleasure to be met walking down Pall182 Mall with a duke on either arm. But in default of dukes and envious183 salutations almost anything will do for some of us; and there is a whole race of beings to-day whose passion is to keep their names in the newspapers, no matter under what heading, 'arrivals and departures,' 'personal paragraphs,' 'interviews,' - gossip, even scandal, will suit them if nothing better is to be had. Guiteau, Garfield's assassin, is an example of the extremity184 to which this sort of craving185 for the notoriety of print may go in a pathological case. The newspapers bounded his mental horizon; and in the poor wretch's prayer on the scaffold, one of the most heartfelt expressions was: "The newspaper press of this land has a big bill to settle with thee, O Lord!"
Not only the people but the places and things I know enlarge my Self in a sort of metaphoric186 social way. 'Ça me connaît,' as the French workman says of the implement187 he can use well. So that is comes about that persons for whose opinion we care nothing are nevertheless persons whose notice we woo; and that many a man truly great, many a woman truly fastidious in most respects, will take a deal of trouble to dazzle some insignificant188 cad whose whole personality they heartily189 despise.
Under the head of spiritual self-seeking ought to be included every impulse towards psychic progress, whether intellectual, moral, or spiritual in the narrow sense of the term. It must be admitted, however, that much that commonly passes for spiritual self-seeking in this narrow sense is only material and social self-seeking beyond the grave. In the Mohammedan desire for paradise and the Christian190 aspiration191 not to be damned in hell, the materiality of the goods sought is undisguised. In the more positive and refined view of heaven many of its goods, the fellowship of the saints and of our dead ones, and the presence of God, are but social goods of the most exalted192 kind. It is only the search of the redeemed193 inward nature, the spotlessness from sin, whether here or hereafter, that can count as spiritual self-seeking pure and undefiled.
But this broad external review of the facts of the life of the Self will be incomplete without some account of the
Rivalry194 and Conflict of the Different Selves.
With most objects of desire, physical nature restricts our choice to but one of many represented goods, and even so it is here. I am often confronted by the necessity of standing11 by one of my empirical selves and relinquishing195 the rest. Not that I would not, if I could, be both handsome and fat and well dressed, and a great athlete, and make a million a year, be a wit,a bon-vivant, and a lady-killer, as well as a philosopher; a philanthropist, statesman, warrior196, and African explorer, as well as a 'tone-poet' and saint. But the thing is simply impossible. The millionaire's work would run counter to the saint's; the bon-vivant and the philanthropist would trip each other up; the philosopher and the lady-killer could not well keep house in the same tenement197 of clay. Such different characters may conceivably at the outset of life be alike possible to a man. But to make any one of them actual, the rest must more or less be suppressed. So the seeker of his truest, strongest, deepest self must review the list carefully, and pick out the one on which to stake his salvation198. All other selves thereupon become unreal, but the fortunes of this self are real. Its failures are real failures, its triumphs real triumphs, carrying shame and gladness with them. This is as strong an example as there is of that selective industry of the mind on which I insisted some pages back (p. 284 ff.). Our thought, incessantly deciding, among many things of a kind, which ones for it shall be realities, here chooses one of many possible selves or characters, and forthwith reckons it no shame to fail in any of those not adopted expressly as its own.
I, who for the time have staked my all on being a psychologist, am mortified199 if others know much more psychology200 than I. But I am contented201 to wallow in the grossest ignorance of Greek. My deficiencies there give me no sense of personal humiliation202 at all. Had I 'pretensions203' to be a linguist204, it would have been just the reverse. So we have the paradox205 of a man shamed to death because he is only the second pugilist or the second oarsman in the world. That he is able to beat the whole population of the globe minus one is nothing; he has 'pitted' himself to beat that one; and as long as he doesn't do that nothing else counts. He is to his own regard as if he were not, indeed he is not.
Yonder puny206 fellow, however, whom every one can beat, suffers no chagrin207 about it, for he has long ago abandoned the attempt to 'carry that line,' as the merchants say, of self at all. With no attempt there can be no failure; with no failure no humiliation. So our self-feeling in this world depends entirely on what we back ourselves to be and do. It is determined208 by the ratio of our actualities to our supposed potentialities; a fraction of which our pretensions are the denominator and the numerator our success: thus, Self-esteem = Success / Pretensions. Such a fraction may be increased as well by diminishing the denominator as by increasing the numerator.8 To give up pretensions is as blessed a relief as to get them gratified; and where disappointment is incessant and the struggle unending, this is what men will always do. The history of evangelical theology, with its conviction of sin, its self-despair, and its abandonment of salvation by works, is the deepest of possible examples, but we meet others in every walk of life. There is the strangest lightness about the heart when one's nothingness in a particular line is once accepted in good faith. All is not bitterness in the lot of the lover sent away by the final inexorable 'No.' Many Bostonians, crede experto (and inhabitants of other cities, too, I fear), would be happier women and men to-day, if they could once for all abandon the notion of keeping up a Musical Self, and without shame let people hear them call a symphony a nuisance. How pleasant is the day when we give up striving to be young, - or slender! Thank God! we say, those illusions are gone. Everything added to the Self is a burden as well as a pride. A certain man who lost every penny during our civil war went and actually rolled in the dust, saying he had not felt so free and happy since he was born.
Once more, then, our self-feeling is in our power. As Carlyle says: "Make thy claim of wages a zero, then hast thou the world under thy feet. Well did the wisest of our time write, it is only with renunciation that life, properly speaking, can be said to begin."
Neither threats nor pleadings can move a man unless they touch some one of his potential or actual selves. Only thus can we, as a rule, get a 'purchase' on another's will. The first care of diplomatists and monarchs209 and all who wish to rule or influence is, accordingly, to find out their victim's strongest principle of self-regard, so as to make that the fulcrum210 of all appeals. But if a man has given up those things which are subject to foreign fate, and ceased to regard them as parts of himself at all, we are well-nigh powerless over him. The Stoic211 receipt for contentment was to dispossess yourself in advance of all that was out of your own power, - then fortune's shocks might rain down unfelt. Epictetus exhorts212 us, by thus narrowing and at the same time solidifying213 our Self to make it invulnerable: "I must die; well, but must I die groaning214 too? I will speak what appears to be right, and if the despot says, then I will put you to death, I will reply, 'When did I ever tell you that I was immortal215? You will do your part and I mine; it is yours to kill and mine to die intrepid216; yours to banish217, mine to depart untroubled.' How do we act in a voyage? We choose the pilot, the sailors, the hour. Afterwards comes a storm. What have I to care for? My part is performed. This matter belongs to the pilot. But the ship is sinking; what then have I to do? That which alone I can do - submit to being drowned without fear, without clamor or accusing of God, but as one who knows that what is born must likewise die."9
This Stoic fashion, though efficacious and heroic enough in its place and time, is, it must be confessed, only possible as an habitual218 mood of the soul to narrow and unsympathetic characters. It proceeds altogether by exclusion219. If I am a Stoic, the goods I cannot appropriate cease to be my goods, and the temptation lies very near to deny that they are goods at all. We find this mode of protecting the Self by exclusion and denial very common among people who are in other respects not Stoics220. All narrow people intrench their Me, they retract221 it, - from the region of what they cannot securely possess. People who don't resemble them, or who treat them with indifference222, people over whom they gain no influence, are people on whose existence, however meritorious223 it may intrinsically be, they look with chill negation224, if not with positive hate. Who will not be mine I will exclude from existence altogether; that is, as far as I can make it so, such people shall be as if they were not.10 Thus may a certain absoluteness and definiteness in the outline of my Me console me for the smallness of its content.
Sympathetic people, on the contrary, proceed by the entirely opposite way of expansion and inclusion. The outline of their self often gets uncertain enough, but for this the spread of its content more than atones225. Nil226 humani a me alienum. Let them despise this little person of mine, and treat me like a dog, I shall not negate227 them so long as I have a soul in my body. They are realities as much as I am. What positive good is in them shall be mine too, etc., etc. The magnanimity of these expansive natures is often touching228 indeed. Such persons can feel a sort of delicate rapture229 in thinking that, however sick, ill-favored, mean-conditioned, and generally forsaken230 they may be, they yet are integral parts of the whole of this brave world, have a fellow's share in the strength of the dray-horses, the happiness of the young people, the wisdom of the wise ones, and are not altogether without part or lot in the good fortunes of the Vanderbilts and the Hohenzollerns themselves. Thus either by negating or by embracing, the Ego may seek to establish itself in reality. He who, with Marcus Aurelius, can truly say, "O Universe, I wish all that thou wishest," has a self from which every trace of negativeness and obstructiveness has been removed - no wind can blow except to fill its sails.
A tolerably unanimous opinion ranges the different selves of which a man may be 'seized and possessed231,' and the consequent different orders of his self-regard, in an hierarchical scale, with the bodily Self at the bottom, the spiritual Self at the top, and the extracorporeal material selves and the various social selves between. Our merely natural self-seeking would lead us to aggrandize233 all these selves; we give up deliberately234 only those among them which we find we cannot keep. Our unselfishness is thus apt to be a 'virtue235 of necessity'; and it is not without all show of reason that cynics quote the fable236 of the fox and the grapes in describing our progress therein. But this is the moral education of the race; and if we agree in the result that on the whole the selves we can keep are the intrinsically best, we need not complain of being led to the knowledge of their superior worth in such a tortuous237 way.
Of course this is not the only way in which we learn to subordinate our lower selves to our higher. A direct ethical238 judgment239 unquestionably also plays its part, and last, not least, we apply to our own persons judgments240 originally called forth by the acts of others. It is one of the strangest laws of our nature that many things which we are well satisfied with in ourselves disgust us when seen in others. With another man's bodily 'hoggishness' hardly anyone has any sympathy; - almost as little with his cupidity242, his social vanity and eagerness, his jealousy, his despotism, and his pride. Left absolutely to myself I should probably allow all these spontaneous tendencies to luxuriate in me unchecked, and it would be long before I formed a distinct notion of the order of their subordination. But having constantly to pass judgment on my associates, I come ere long to see, as Herr Horwicz says, my own lusts243 in the mirror of the lusts of others, and to think about them in a very different way from that in which I simply feel. Of course, the moral generalities which from childhood have been instilled244 into me accelerate enormously the advent245 of this reflective judgment on myself.
So it comes to pass that, as aforesaid, men have arranged the various selves which they may seek in an hierarchical scale according to their worth. A certain amount of bodily selfishness is required as a basis for all the other selves. But too much sensuality is despised, or at best condoned246 on account of the other qualities of the individual. The wider material selves are regarded as higher than the immediate body. He is esteemed a poor creature who is unable to forego a little meat and drink and warmth and sleep for the sake of getting on in the world. The social self as a whole, again, ranks higher than the material self
as a whole. We must care more for our honor, our friends, our human ties, than for a sound skin or wealth. And the spiritual self is so supremely247 precious that, rather than lose it, a man ought to be willing to give up friends and good fame, and property, and life itself.
In each kind of self, material, social, and spiritual, men distinguish between the immediate and actual, and the remote and potential, between the narrower and the wider view, to the detriment249 of the former and advantage of the latter. One must forego a present bodily enjoyment250 for the sake of one's general health; one must abandon the dollar in the hand for the sake of the hundred dollars to come; one must make an enemy of his present interlocutor if thereby251 one makes friends of a more valued circle; one must go without learning and grace, and wit, the better to compass one's soul's salvation.
Of all these wider, more potential selves, the potential social self is the most interesting, by reason of certain apparent paradoxes252 to which it leads in conduct, and by reason of its connection with our moral and religious life. When for motives254 of honor and conscience I brave the condemnation255 of my own family, club, and 'set'; when, as a protestant, I turn catholic; as a catholic, freethinker; as a 'regular practitioner,' homoeopath, or what not, I am always inwardly strengthened in my course and steeled against the loss of my actual social self by the thought of other and better possible social judges than those whose verdict goes against me now. The ideal social self which I thus seek in appealing to their decision may be very remote: it may be represented as barely possible. I may not hope for its realization256 during my lifetime; I may even expect the future generations, which would approve me if they knew me, to know nothing about me when I am dead and gone. Yet still the emotion that beckons257 me on is indubitably the pursuit of an ideal social self, of a self that is at least worthy of approving recognition by the highest possible judging companion, if such companion there be.11 This self is the true, the intimate, the ultimate, the permanent Me which I seek. This judge is God, the Absolute Mind, the 'Great Companion.' We hear, in these days of scientific enlightenment, a great deal of discussion about the efficacy of prayer; and many reasons are given us why we should not pray, whilst others are given us why we should. But in all this very little is said of the reason why we do pray, which is simply that we cannot help praying. It seems probable that, in spite of all that 'science' may do to the contrary, men will continue to pray to the end of time, unless their mental nature changes in a manner which nothing we know should lead us to expect. The impulse to pray is a necessary consequence of the fact that whilst the innermost of the empirical selves of a man is a Self of the social sort, it yet can find its only adequate Socius in an ideal world.
All progress in the social Self is the substitution of higher tribunals for lower; this ideal tribunal is the highest; and most men, either continually or occasionally, carry a reference to it in their breast. The humblest outcast on this earth can feel himself to be real and valid258 by means of this higher recognition. And, on the other hand, for most of us, a world with no such inner refuge when the outer social self failed and dropped from us would be the abyss of horror. I say 'for most of us,' because it is probable that individuals differ a good deal in the degree in which they are haunted by this sense of an ideal spectator. It is a much more essential part of the consciousness of some men that of others. Those who have the most of it are possibly the most religious men. But I am sure that even those who say they are altogether without it deceive themselves, and really have it in some degree. Only a non-gregarious animal could be completely without it. Probably no one can make sacrifices for 'right,' without to some degree personifying the principle of right for which the sacrifice is made, and expecting thanks from it. Complete social unselfishness, in other words, can hardly exist; complete social suicide hardly occur to a man's mind. Even such texts as Job's, "Though He slay259 me yet will I trust Him," or Marcus Aurelius's, "If gods hate me and my children, there is a reason for it," can least of all be cited to prove the contrary. For beyond all doubt Job revelled260 in the thought of Jehovah's recognition of the worship after the slaying261 should have been done; and the Roman emperor felt sure the Absolute Reason would not be all indifferent to his acquiescence262 in the gods' dislike. The old test of piety263, "Are you willing to be damned for the glory of God?" was probably never answered in the affirmative except by those who felt sure in their heart of hearts that God would 'credit' them with their willingness, and set more store by them thus than if in His unfathomable scheme He had not damned them at all.
All this about the impossibility of suicide is said on the supposition of positive motives. When possessed by the emotion of fear, however, we are in a negative state of mind; that is, our desire is limited to the mere banishing264 of something, without regard to what shall take its place. In this state of mind there can unquestionably be genuine thoughts, and genuine acts, of suicide, spiritual and social, as well as bodily. Anything, anything, at such times, so as to escape and not to be! But such conditions of suicidal frenzy265 are pathological in their nature and run dead against everything that is regular in the life of the Self in man.
What Self is Loved in 'Self-Love'?
We must now try to interpret the facts of self-love and self-seeking a little more delicately from within.
A man in whom self-seeking of any sort is largely developed is said to be selfish.12 He is on the other hand called unselfish if he shows consideration for the interest of other selves than his own. Now what is the intimate nature of the selfish emotion in him? and what is the primary object of its regard? We have described him pursuing and fostering as his self first one set of things and then another: we have seen the same set of facts gain or lose interest in his eyes, leave him indifferent, or fill him either with triumph or despair according as he made pretensions to appropriate them, treated them as if they were potentially or actually parts of himself, or not. We know how little it matters to us whether some man, a man taken at large and in the abstract, prove a failure or succeed in life, - he may be hanged for aught we care, - but we know the utter momentousness266 and terribleness of the alternative when the man is the one whose name we ourselves bear. I must not be a failure, is the very loudest of the voices that clamor in each of our breasts: let fail who may, I at least must succeed. Now the first conclusion which these facts suggest is that each of us is animated267 by a direct feeling of regard for his own pure principle of individual existence, whatever that may be, taken merely as such. It appears as if all our concrete manifestations of selfishness might be the conclusions of as many syllogisms, each with this principle as the subject of its major premiss, thus: Whatever is me is precious; this is me; therefore this is precious; whatever is mine must not fail; this is mine; therefore this must not fail, etc. It appears, I say, as if this principle inoculated268 all it touched with its own intimate quality of worth; as if, previous to the touching, everything might be matter of indifference, and nothing interesting in its own right; as if my regard for my own body even were an interest not simply in this body, but in this body only so far as it is mine.
But what is this abstract numerical principle of identity, this 'Number One' within me, for which, according to proverbial philosophy, I am supposed to keep so constant a 'lookout'? Is it the inner nucleus of my spiritual self, that collection of obscurely felt 'adjustments,' plus perhaps that still more obscurely perceived subjectivity as such, of which we recently spoke? Or is it perhaps the concrete stream of my thought in its entirety, or some one section of the same? Or may it be the indivisible Soul-Substance, in which, according to the orthodox tradition, my faculties inhere? Or, finally, can it be the mere pronoun I? Surely it is none of these things, that self for which I feel such hot regard. Though all of them together were put within me, I should still be cold, and fail to exhibit anything worthy of the name of selfishness or of devotion to 'Number One.' To have a self that I can care for, nature must first present me with some object interesting enough to make me instinctively270 wish to appropriate it for its own sake, and out of it to manufacture one of those material, social, or spiritual selves, which we have already passed in review. We shall find that all the facts of rivalry and substitution that have so struck us, all the shiftings and expansions and contractions of the sphere of what shall be considered me and mine, are but results of the fact that certain things appeal to primitive and instinctive impulses of our nature, and that we follow their destinies with an excitement that owes nothing to a reflective source. These objects our consciousness treats as the primordial271 constituents of its Me. Whatever other objects, whether by association with the fate of these, or in any other way, come to be followed with the same sort of interest, form our remoter and more secondary self. The words ME, then, and SELF, so far as they arouse feeling and connote emotional worth, are OBJECTIVE designations, meaning ALL THE THINGSwhich have the power to produce in a stream of consciousness excitement of a certain peculiar sort. Let us try to justify272 this proposition in detail.
The most palpable selfishness of a man is his bodily selfishness; and his most palpable self is the body to which that selfishness relates. Now I say that he identifies himself with this body because he loves it, and that he does not love it because he finds it to be identified with himself. Reverting273 to natural history-psychology will help us to see the truth of this. In the chapter on Instincts we shall learn that every creature has a certain selective interest in certain portions of the world, and that this interest is as often connate as acquired. Our interest in things means the attention and emotion which the thought of them will excite, and the actions which their presence will evoke274. Thus every species is particularly interested in its own prey275 or food, its own enemies, its own sexual mates, and its own young. These things fascinate by their intrinsic power to do so; they are cared for for their own sakes.
Well, it stands not in the least otherwise with our bodies. They too are percepts in our objective field - they are simply the most interesting percepts there. What happens to them excites in us emotions and tendencies to action more energetic and habitual than any which are excited by other portions of the 'field.' What my comrades call my bodily selfishness or self-love, is nothing but the sum of all the outer acts which this interest in my body spontaneously draws from me. My 'selfishness' is here but a descriptive name for grouping together the outward symptoms which I show. When I am led by self-love to keep my seat whilst ladies stand, or to grab something first and cut out my neighbor, what I really love is the comfortable seat, is the thing itself which I grab. I love them primarily, as the mother loves her babe, or a generous man an heroic deed. Wherever, as here, self-seeking is the outcome of simple instinctive propensity, it is but a name for certain reflex acts. Something rivets276 my attention fatally, and fatally provokes the 'selfish' response. Could an automaton278 be so skilfully279 constructed as to ape these acts, it would be called selfish as properly as I. It is true that I am no automaton, but a thinker. But my thoughts, like my acts, are here concerned only with the outward things. They need neither know nor care for any pure principle within. In fact the more utterly280 'selfish' I am in this primitive way, the more blindly absorbed my thought will be in the objects and impulses of my lusts, and the more devoid281 of any inward looking glance. A baby, whose consciousness of the pure Ego, of himself as a thinker, is not usually supposed developed, is, in this way, as some German has said, 'der vollendeteste Egoist.' His corporeal232 person, and what ministers to its needs, are the only self he can possibly be said to love. His so-called self-love is but a name for his insensibility to all but this one set of things. It may be that he needs a pure principle of subjectivity, a soul or pure Ego (he certainly needs a stream of thought) to make him sensible at all to anything, to make him discriminate and love uberhaupt, - how that may be, we shall see ere long; but this pure Ego, which would then be the condition of his loving, need no more be the object of his love than it need be the object of his thought. If his interests were altruistic282 and all his acts suicidal, still he would need a principle of consciousness just as he does now. Such a principle cannot then be the principle of his bodily selfishness any more than it is the principle of any other tendency he may show.
So much for the bodily self-love. But my social self-love, my interest in the images other men have framed of me, is also an interest in a set of objects external to my thought. These thoughts in other men's minds are out of my mind and 'ejective' to me. They come and go, and grow and dwindle, and I am puffed283 up with pride, or blush with shame, at the result, just as at my success or failure in the pursuit of a material thing. So that here again, just as in the former case, the pure principle seems out of the game as an object of regard, and present only as the general form or condition under which the regard and the thinking go on in me at all.
But, it will immediately be objected, this is giving a mutilated account of the facts. Those images of me in the minds of other men are, it is true, things outside of me, whose changes I perceive just as I perceive any other outward change. But the pride and shame which I feel are not concerned merely with those changes. I feel as if something else had changed too, when I perceived my image in your mind to have changed for the worse, something in me to which that image belongs, and which a moment ago I felt inside of me, big and strong and lusty, but now weak, contracted, and collapsed284. Is not this latter change the change I feel the shame about? Is not the condition of this thing inside of me the proper object of my egoistic concern, of my self-regard? And is it not, after all, my pure Ego, my bare numerical principle of distinction from other men, and no empirical part of me at all?
No, it is no such pure principle, it is simply my total empirical selfhood again, my historic Me, a collection of objective facts, to which the depreciated287 image in your mind 'belongs.' In what capacity is it that I claim and demand a respectful greeting from you instead of this expression of disdain288? It is not as being a bare I that I claim it; it is as being an I who has always been treated with respect, who belongs to a certain family and 'set,' who has certain powers, possessions, and public functions, sensibilities, duties, and purposes, and merits and deserts. All this is what your disdain negates289 and contradicts; this is 'the thing inside of me' whose changed treatment I feel the shame about; this is what was lusty, and now, in consequence of your conduct, is collapsed; and this certainly is an empirical objective thing. Indeed, the thing that is felt modified and changed for the worse during my feeling of shame is often more concrete even than this, - it is simply my bodily person, in which your conduct immediately and without any reflection at all on my part works those muscular, glandular290, and vascular291 changes which together make up the 'expression' of shame. In this instinctive, reflex sort of shame, the body is just as much the entire vehicle of the self-feeling as, in the coarser cases which we first took up, it was the vehicle of the self-seeking. As, in simple 'hoggishness,' a succulent morsel292 gives rise, by the reflex mechanism293, to behavior which the bystanders find 'greedy,' and consider to flow from a certain sort of 'self-regard;' so here your disdain gives rise, by a mechanism quite as reflex and immediate, to another sort of behavior, which the bystanders call 'shame-faced' and which they consider due to another kind of self-regard. But in both cases there may be no particular self regarded at all by the mind; and the name self-regard may be only a descriptive title imposed from without the reflex acts themselves, and the feelings that immediately result from their discharge.
After the bodily and social selves come the spiritual. But which of my spiritual selves do I really care for? My Soul-substance? my 'transcendental Ego, or Thinker'? my pronoun I? my subjectivity as such? my nucleus of cephalic adjustments? or my more phenomenal and perishable294 powers, my loves and hates, willingnesses and sensibilities, and the like? Surely the latter. But they, relatively295 to the central principle, whatever it may be, are external and objective. They come and go, and it remains - "so shakes the magnet, and so stands the pole." It may indeed have to be there for them to be loved, but being there is not identical with being loved itself.
To sum up, then, we see no reason to suppose that self-love' is primarily, or secondarily, or ever, love for one's mere principle of conscious identity. It is always love for something which, as compared with that principle, is superficial, transient, liable to be taken up or dropped at will.
And zoological psychology again comes to the aid of our understanding and shows us that this must needs be so. In fact, in answering the question what things it is that a man loves in his self-love, we have implicitly296 answered the farther question, of why he loves them.
Unless his consciousness were something more than cognitive297, unless it experienced a partiality for certain of the objects, which, in succession, occupy its ken21, it could not long maintain itself in existence; for, by an inscrutable necessity, each human mind's appearance on this earth is conditioned upon the integrity of the body with which it belongs, upon the treatment which that body gets from others, and upon the spiritual dispositions which use it as their tool, and lead it either towards longevity298 or to destruction. Its own body, then, first of all, its friends next, and finally its spiritual dispositions, MUST be the supremely interesting OBJECTS for each human mind. Each mind, to begin with, must have a certain minimum of selfishness in the shape of instincts of bodily self-seeking in order to exist. This minimum must be there as a basis for all farther conscious acts, whether of self-negation or of a selfishness more subtle still. All minds must have come, by the way of survival of the fittest, if by no director path, to take an intense interest in the bodies to which they are yoked299, altogether apart from any interest in the pure Ego which they also possess.
And similarly with the images of their person in the minds of others. I should not be extant now had I not become sensitive to looks of approval or disapproval300 on the faces among which my life is cast. Looks of contempt cast on other persons need affect me in no such peculiar way. Were my mental life dependent exclusively on some other person's welfare, either directly or in an indirect way, then natural selection would unquestionably have brought it about that I should be as sensitive to the social vicissitudes301 of that other person as I now am to my own. Instead of being egoistic I should be spontaneously altruistic, then. But in this case, only partially302 realized in actual human conditions, though the self I empirically love would have changed, my pure Ego or Thinker would have to remain just what it is now.
My spiritual powers, again, must interest me more than those of other people, and for the same reason. I should not be here at all unless I had cultivated them and kept them from decay. And the same law which made me once care for them makes me care for them still.
My own body and what ministers to its needs are thus the primitive object, instinctively determined, of my egoistic interests. Other objects may become interesting derivatively303 through association with any of these things, either as means or as habitual concomitants; and so in a thousand ways the primitive sphere of the egoistic emotions may enlarge and change its boundaries.
This sort of interest is really the meaning of the word 'my.' Whatever has it is eo ipso a part of me. My child, my friend dies, and where he goes I feel that part of myself now is and evermore shall be:
"For this losing is true dying;
This is lordly man's down-lying;
This his slow but sure reclining,
Star by star his world resigning."
The fact remains, however, that certain special sorts of thing tend primordially304 to possess this interest, and form the natural me. But all these things are objects, properly so called, to the subject which does the thinking.13 And this latter fact upsets at once the dictum of the old-fashioned sensationalist psychology, that altruistic passions and interests are contradictory305 to the nature of things, and that if they appear anywhere to exist, it must be as secondary products, resolvable at bottom into cases of selfishness, taught by experience a hypocritical disguise. If the zoological and evolutionary306 point of view is the true one, there is no reason why any object whatever might not arouse passion and interest as primitively307 and instinctively as any other, whether connected or not with the interests of the me. The phenomenon of passion is in origin and essence the same, whatever be the target upon which it is discharged; and what the target actually happens to be is solely308 a question of fact. I might conceivably be as much fascinated, and as primitively so, by the care of my neighbor's body as by the care of my own. The only check to such exuberant309 altruistic interests is natural selection, which would weed out such as were very harmful to the individual or to his tribe. Many such interests, however, remain unweeded out - the interest in the opposite sex, for example, which seems in mankind stronger than is called for by its utilitarian310 need; and alongside of them remain interests, like that in alcoholic311 intoxication312, or in musical sounds, which, for aught we can see, are without any utility whatever. The sympathetic instincts and the egoistic ones are thus co-ordinate. They arise, so far as we can tell, on the same psychologic level. The only difference between them is, that the instincts called egoistic form much the larger mass.
The only author whom I know to have discussed the question whether the 'pure Ego,' per se, can be an object of regard, is Herr Horwicz, in his extremely able and acute Psychologische Analysen. He too says that all self-regard is regard for certain objective things. He disposes so well of one kind of objection that I must conclude by quoting a part of his own words:
First, the objection:
"The fact is indubitable that one's own children always pass for the prettiest and brightest, the wine from one's own cellar for the best - at least for its price, - one's own house and horses for the finest. With what tender admiration do we con over our own little deed of benevolence313! our own frailties314 and misdemeanors, how ready we are to acquit315 ourselves for them, when we notice them at all, on the ground of 'extenuating316 circumstances'! How much more really comic are our own jokes than those of others, which, unlike ours, will not bear being repeated ten or twelve times over! How eloquent317, striking, powerful, our own speeches are! How appropriate our own address! In short, how much more intelligent, soulful, better, is everything about us than in anyone else. The sad chapter of artists' and authors' conceit and vanity belongs here.
"The prevalence of this obvious preference which we feel for everything of our own is indeed striking. Does it not look as if our dear Ego must first lend its color and flavor to anything in order to make it please us? . . . Is it not the simplest explanation for all these phenomena, so consistent among themselves, to suppose that the Ego, the self, which forms the origin and centre of our thinking life, is at the same time the original and central object of our life of feeling, and the ground both of whatever special ideas and of whatever special feelings ensue?"
Herr Horwicz goes on to refer to what we have already noticed, that various things which disgust us in others do not disgust us at all in ourselves.
"To most of us even the bodily warmth of another, for example the chair warm from another's sitting, is felt unpleasantly, whereas there is nothing disagreeable in the warmth of the chair in which we have been sitting ourselves."
After some further remarks, he replies to these facts and reasonings as follows:
"We may with confidence affirm that our own possessions in most cases please us better [not because they are ours], but simply because we know them better, 'realize' them more intimately, feel them more deeply. We learn to appreciate what is ours in all its details and shadings, whilst the goods of others appear to us in coarse outlines and rude averages. Here are some examples: A piece of music which one plays one's self is heard and understood better than when it is played by another. We get more exactly all the details, penetrate318 more deeply into the musical thought. We may meanwhile perceive perfectly well that the other person is the better performer, and yet nevertheless - at times get more enjoyment from our own playing because it brings the melody and harmony so much nearer home to us. This case may almost be taken as typical for the other cases of self-love. On close examination, we shall almost always find that a great part of our feeling about what is ours is due to the fact that we live closer to our own things, and so feel them more thoroughly319 and deeply. As a friend of mine was about to marry, he often bored me by the repeated and minute way in which he would discuss the details of his new household arrangements. I wondered that so intellectual a man should be so deeply interested in things of so external a nature. But as I entered, a few years later, the same condition myself, these matters acquired for me an entirely different interest, and it became my turn to turn them over and talk of them unceasingly . . . . The reason was simply this, that in the first instance I understood nothing of these things and their importance for domestic comfort, whilst in the latter case they came home to me with irresistible320 urgency, and vividly took possession of my fancy. So it is with many a one who mocks at decorations and titles, until he gains one himself. And this is also surely the reason why one's own portrait or reflection in the mirror is so peculiarly interesting a thing to contemplate321 . . . not on account of any absolute 'c'est moi,' but just as with the music played by ourselves. What greets our eyes is what we know best, most deeply understand; because we ourselves have felt it and lived through it. We know what has ploughed these furrows322, deepened these shadows, blanched323 this hair; and other faces may be handsomer, but none can speak to us or interest us like this."14
Moreover, this author goes on to show that our own things are fuller for us than those of others because of the memories they awaken and the practical hopes and expectations they arouse. This alone would emphasize them, apart from any value derived324 from their belonging to ourselves. We may conclude with him, then, that an original central self-feeling can never explain the passionate325 warmth of our self-regarding emotions, which must, on the contrary, be addressed directly to special things less abstract and empty of content. To these things the name of 'self' may be given, or to our conduct towards them the name of 'selfishness,' but neither in the self nor the selfishness does the pure Thinker play the 'title-rôle.'
Only one more point connected with our self-regard need be mentioned. We have spoken of it so far as active instinct or emotion. It remains to speak of it as cold intellectual self-estimation. We may weigh our own Me in the balance of praise and blame as easily as we weigh other people, - though with difficulty quite as fairly. The just man is the one who can weigh himself impartially326. Impartial327 weighing presupposes a rare faculty328 of abstraction from the vividness with which, as Herr Horwicz has pointed329 out, things known as intimately as our own possessions and performances appeal to our imagination; and an equally rare power of vividly representing the affairs of others. But, granting these rare powers, there is no reason why a man should not pass judgment on himself quite as objectively and well as on anyone else. No matter how he feels about himself, unduly330 elated or unduly depressed331, he may still truly know his own worth by measuring it by the outward standard he applies to other men, and counteract332 the injustice333 of the feeling he cannot wholly escape. This self-measuring process has nothing to do with the instinctive self-regard we have hitherto been dealing with. Being merely one application of intellectual comparison, it need no longer detain us here. Please note again, however, how the pure Ego appears merely as the vehicle in which the estimation is carried on, the objects estimated being all of them facts of an empirical sort,15 one's body, one's credit, one's fame, one's intellectual ability, one's goodness, or whatever the case may be.
The empirical life of Self is divided, as below, into
Material. |
Social. |
Spiritual. |
|
Self-Seeking. |
Bodily Appetites and Instincts Love of Adornment334, Foppery, Acquisitiveness, Constructiveness336 Love of Home, etc. |
Desire to please, be noticed, admired, etc. Sociability337, Emulation, Envy, Love, Pursuit of Honor, Ambition, etc. |
Intellectual, Moral and Reli - gious Aspiration, Conscientiousness339 |
Self-Estimation |
Personal Vanity, Modesty, etc. Pride of Wealth, Fear of Poverty |
Social and Family Pride, Vainglory, Snobbery340, Humility, Shame, etc. |
Sense of Moral or Mental Superiority, Purity, etc. Sense of Inferiority or of Guilt341 |
Having summed up in the above table the principal results of the chapter thus far, I have said all that need be said of the constituents of the phenomenal self, and of the nature of self-regard. Our decks are consequently cleared for the struggle with that pure principle of personal identity which has met us all along our preliminary exposition, but which we have always shied from and treated as a difficulty to be postponed342. Ever since Hume's time, it has been justly regarded as the most puzzling puzzle with which psychology has to deal; and whatever view one may espouse343, one has to hold his position against heavy odds344. If, with the Spiritualists, one contend for a substantial soul, or transcendental principle of unity, one can give no positive account of what that may be. And if, with the Humians, one deny such a principle and say that the stream of passing thoughts is all, one runs against the entire common-sense of mankind, of which the belief in a distinct principle of selfhood seems an integral part. Whatever solution be adopted in the pages to come, we may as well make up our minds in advance that it will fail to satisfy the majority of those to whom it is addressed. The best way of approaching the matter will be to take up first -
The Sense of Personal Identity.
In the last chapter it was stated in as radical345 a way as possible that the thoughts which we actually know to exist do not fly about loose, but seem each to belong to some one thinker and not to another. Each thought, out of a multitude of other thoughts of which it may think, is able to distinguish those which belong to its own Ego from those which do not. The former have a warmth and intimacy about them of which the latter are completely devoid, being merely conceived, in a cold and foreign fashion, and not appearing as blood-relatives, bringing their greetings to us from out of the past.
Now this consciousness of personal sameness may be treated either as a subjective phenomenon or as an objective deliverance, as a feeling, or as a truth. We may explain how one bit of thought can come to judge other bits to belong to the same Ego with itself; or we may criticise346 its judgment and decide how far it may tally277 with the nature of things.
As a mere subjective phenomenon the judgment presents no difficulty or mystery peculiar to itself. It belongs to the great class of judgments of sameness; and there is nothing more remarkable347 in making a judgment of sameness in the first person than in the second or the third. The intellectual operations seem essentially348 alike, whether I say 'I am the same,' or whether I say 'the pen is the same, as yesterday.' It is as easy to think this as to think the opposite and say 'neither I nor the pen is the same.'
This sort of bringing of things together into the object of a single judgment is of course essential to all thinking. The things are conjoined in the thought, whatever may be the relation in which they appear to the thought. The thinking them is thinking them together, even if only with the result of judging that they do not belong together. This sort of subjective synthesis, essential to knowledge as such (whenever it has a complex object), must not be confounded with objective synthesis or union instead of difference or disconnection, known among the things.16 The subjective synthesis is involved in thought's mere existence. Even a really disconnected world could only be known to be such by having its parts temporarily united in the Object of some pulse of consciousness.17
The sense of personal identity is not, then, this mere synthetic349 form essential to all thought. It is the sense of a sameness perceived by thought and predicated of things thought-about. These things are a present self and a self of yesterday. The thought not only thinks them both, but thinks that they are identical. The psychologist, looking on and playing the critic, might prove the thought wrong, and show there was no real identity, - there might have been no yesterday, or, at any rate, no self of yesterday; or, if there were, the sameness predicated might not obtain, or might be predicated on insufficient350 grounds. In either case the personal identity would not exist as a fact; but it would exist as a feeling all the same; the consciousness of it by the thought would be there, and the psychologist would still have to analyze351 that, and show where its illusoriness lay. Let us now be the psychologist and see whether it be right or wrong when it says, I am the same self that I was yesterday.
We may immediately call it right and intelligible352 so far as it posits353 a past time with past thoughts or selves contained therein - these were data which we assumed at the outset of the book. Right also and intelligible so far as it thinks of a present self - that present self we have just studied in its various forms. The only question for us is as to what the consciousness may mean when it calls the present self the same with one of the past selves which it has in mind.
We spoke a moment since of warmth and intimacy. This leads us to the answer sought. For, whatever the thought we are criticising may think about its present self, that self comes to its acquaintance, or is actually felt, with warmth and intimacy. Of course this is the case with the bodily part of it; we feel the whole cubic mass of our body all the while, it gives us an unceasing sense of personal existence. Equally do we feel the inner 'nucleus of the spiritual self,' either in the shape of yon faint physiological adjustments, or (adopting the universal psychological belief), in that of the pure activity of our thought taking place as such. Our remoter spiritual, material, and social selves, so far as they are realized, come also with a glow and a warmth; for the thought of them infallibly brings some degree of organic emotion in the shape of quickened heart-beats, oppressed breathing, or some other alteration354, even though it be a slight one, in the general bodily tone. The character of 'warmth,' then, in the present self, reduces itself to either of two things, - something in the feeling which we have of the thought itself, as thinking, or else the feeling of the body's actual existence at the moment, - or finally to both. We cannot realize our present self without simultaneously feeling one or other of these two things. Any other fact which brings these two things with it into consciousness will be thought with a warmth and an intimacy like those which cling to the present self.
Any distinct self which fulfills355 this condition will be thought with such warmth and intimacy. But which distant selves do fulfil the condition, when represented?
Obviously those, and only those, which fulfilled it when they were alive. Them we shall imagine with the animal warmth upon them, to them may possibly cling the aroma356, the echo of the thinking taken in the act. And by a natural consequence, we shall assimilate them to each other and to the warm and intimate self we now feel within us as we think, and separate them as a collection from whatever selves have not this mark, much as out of a herd357 of cattle let loose for the winter on some wide western prairie the owner picks out and sorts together when the time for the round-up comes in the spring, all the beasts on which he finds his own particular brand.
The various members of the collection thus set apart are felt to belong with each other whenever they are thought at all. The animal warmth, etc., is their herd-mark, the brand from which they can never more escape. It runs through them all like a thread through a chaplet and makes them into a whole, which we treat as a unit, no matter how much in other ways the parts may differ inter23 se. Add to this character the farther one that the distant selves appear to our thought as having for hours of time been continuous with each other, and the most recent ones of them continuous with the Self of the present moment, melting into it by slow degrees; and we get a still stronger bond of union. As we think we see an identical bodily thing when, in spite of changes of structure, it exists continuously before our eyes, or when, however interrupted its presence, its quality returns unchanged; so here we think we experience an identical Self when it appears to us in an analogous way. Continuity makes us unite what dissimilarity might otherwise separate; similarity makes us unite what discontinuity might hold apart. And thus it is, finally, that Peter, awakening358 in the same bed with Paul, and recalling what both had in mind before they went to sleep, reidentifies and appropriates the 'warm' ideas as his, and is never tempted to confuse them with those cold and pale-appearing ones which he ascribes to Paul. As well might he confound Paul's body, which he only sees, with his own body, which he sees but also feels. Each of us when he awakens359 says, Here's the same old self again, just as he says, Here's the same old bed, the same old room, the same old world.
The sense of our own personal identity, then, is exactly like any one of our other perceptions of sameness among phenomena. It is a conclusion grounded either on the resemblance in a fundamental respect, or on the continuity before the mind, of the phenomena compared.
And it must not be taken to mean more than these grounds warrant, or treated as a sort of metaphysical or absolute Unity in which all differences are overwhelmed. The past and present selves compared are the same just so far as they are the same, and no farther. A uniform feeling of 'warmth,' of bodily existence (or an equally uniform feeling of pure psychic energy?) pervades361 them all; and this is what gives them a generic362 unity, and makes them the same in kind. But this generic unity coexists with generic differences just as real as the unity. And if from the one point of view they are one self, from others they are as truly not one but many selves. And similarly of the attribute of continuity; it gives its own kind of unity to the self - that of mere connectedness, or unbrokenness, a perfectly definite phenomenal thing - but it gives not a jot363 or tittle more. And this unbrokenness in the stream of selves, like the unbrokenness in an exhibition of 'dissolving views,' in no wise implies any farther unity or contradicts any amount of plurality in other respects.
And accordingly we find that, where the resemblance and the continuity are no longer felt, the sense of personal identity goes too. We hear from our parents various anecdotes364 about our infant years, but we do not appropriate them as we do our own memories. Those breaches365 of decorum awaken no blush, those bright sayings no self-complacency. That child is a foreign creature with which our present self is no more identified in feeling than it is with some stranger's living child to-day. Why? Partly because great time-gaps break up all these early years - we cannot ascend366 to them by continuous memories; and partly because no representation of how the child felt comes up with the stories. We know what he said and did; but no sentiment of his little body, of his emotions, of his psychic strivings as they felt to him, comes up to contribute an element of warmth and intimacy to the narrative367 we hear, and the main bond of union with our present self thus disappears. It is the same with certain of our dimly-recollected369 experiences. We hardly know whether to appropriate them or to disown them as fancies, or things read or heard and not lived through. Their animal heat has evaporated; the feelings that accompanied them are so lacking in the recall, or so different from those we now enjoy, that no judgment of identity can be decisively cast.
Resemblance among the parts of a continuum of feelings (especially bodily feelings) experienced along with things widely different in all other regards, thus constitutes the real and verifiable 'personal identity' which we feel. There is no other identity than this in the 'stream' of subjective consciousness which we described in the last chapter. Its parts differ, but under all their differences they are knit in these two ways; and if either way of knitting disappears, the sense of unity departs. If a man wakes up some fine day unable to recall any of his past experiences, so that he has to learn his biography afresh, or if he only recalls the facts of it in a cold abstract way as things that he is sure once happened; or if, without this loss of memory, his bodily and spiritual habits all change during the night, each organ giving a different tone, and the act of thought becoming aware of itself in a different way; he feels, and he says, that he is a changed person. He disowns his former me, gives himself a new name, identifies his present life with nothing from out of the older time. Such cases are not rare in mental pathology; but, as we still have some reasoning to do, we had better give no concrete account of them until the end of the chapter.
This description of personal identity will be recognized by the instructed reader as the ordinary doctrine370 professed371 by the empirical school. Associationists in England and France, Herbartians in Germany, all describe the Self as an aggregate373 of which each part, as to its being, is a separate fact. So far so good, then; thus much is true whatever farther things may be true; and it is to the imperishable glory of Hume and Herbart and their successors to have taken so much of the meaning of personal identity out of the clouds and made of the Self an empirical and verifiable thing.
But in leaving the matter here, and saying that this sum of passing things is all, these writers have neglected certain more subtle aspects of the Unity of Consciousness, to which we next must turn.
Our recent simile374 of the herd of cattle will help us. It will be remembered that the beasts were brought together into one herd because their owner found on each of them his brand. The 'owner' symbolized375 here that 'section' of consciousness, or pulse of thought, which we have all along represented as the vehicle of the judgment of identity; and the 'brand' symbolizes376 the characters of warmth and continuity, by reason of which the judgment is made. There is found a self-brand, just as there is found a herd-brand. Each brand, so far, is the mark, or cause of our knowing, that certain things belong-together. But if the brand is the ratio cognoscendi of the belonging, the belonging, in the case of the herd, is in turn the ratio existendi of the brand. No beast would be so branded unless he belonged to the owner of the herd. They are not his because they are branded; they are branded because they are his. So that it seems as if our description of the belonging-together of the various selves, as a belonging-together which is merely represented, in a later pulse of thought, had knocked the bottom out of the matter, and omitted the most characteristic one of all the features found in the herd - a feature which common-sense finds in the phenomenon of personal identity as well, and for our omission378 of which she will hold us to a strict account. For common-sense insists that the unity of all the selves is not a mere appearance of similarity or continuity, ascertained380 after the fact. She is sure that it involves a real belonging to a real Owner, to a pure spiritual entity269 of some kind. Relation to this entity is what makes the self's constituents stick together as they do for thought. The individual beasts do not stick together, for all that they wear the same brand. Each wanders with whatever accidental mates it finds. The herd's unity is only potential, its centre ideal, like the 'centre of gravity' in physics, until the herdsman or owner comes. He furnishes a real centre of accretion381 to which the beasts are driven and by which they are held. The beasts stick together by sticking severally to him. Just so, common-sense insists, there must be a real proprietor382 in the case of the selves, or else their actual accretion into a 'personal consciousness' would never have taken place.
To the usual empiricist explanation of personal consciousness this is a formidable reproof383, because all the individual thoughts and feelings which have succeeded each other 'up to date' are represented by ordinary Associationism as in some inscrutable way 'integrating' or gumming themselves together on their own account, and thus fusing into a stream. All the incomprehensibilities which in Chapter VI we saw to attach to the idea of things fusing without a medium apply to the empiricist description of personal identity.
But in our own account the medium is fully assigned, the herdsman is there, in the shape of something not among the things collected, but superior to them all, namely, the real, present onlooking384, remembering, 'judging thought' or identifying 'section' of the stream. This is what collects, - 'owns' some of the past facts which it surveys, and disowns the rest, - and so makes a unity that is actualized and anchored and does not merely float in the blue air of possibility. And the reality of such pulses of thought, with their function of knowing, it will be remembered that we did not seek to deduce or explain, but simply assumed them as the ultimate kind of fact that the psychologist must admit to exist.
But this assumption, though it yields much, still does not yield all that common-sense demands. The unity into which the Thought - as I shall for a time proceed to call, with a capital T, the present mental state - binds385 the individual past facts with each other and with itself, does not exist until the Thought is there. It is as if wild cattle were lassoed by a newly-created settler and then owned for the first time. But the essence of the matter to common-sense is that the past thoughts never were wild cattle, they were always owned. The Thought does not capture them, but as soon as it comes into existence it finds them already its own. How is this possible unless the Thought have a substantial identity with a former owner, - not a mere continuity or a resemblance, as in our account, but a real unity? Common-sense in fact would drive us to admit what we may for the moment call an Arch-Ego, dominating the entire stream of thought and all the selves that may be represented in it, as the ever self-same and changeless principle implied in their union. The 'Soul' of Metaphysics and the 'Transcendental Ego' of the Kantian Philosophy, are, as we shall soon see, but attempts to satisfy this urgent demand of common-sense. But, for a time at least, we can still express without any such hypotheses that appearance of never-lapsing386 ownership for which common-sense contends.
For how would it be if the Thought, the present judging Thought, instead of being in any way substantially or transcendentally identical with the former owner of the past self, merely inherited his 'title,' and thus stood as his legal representative now? It would then, if its birth coincided exactly with the death of another owner, find the past self already its own as soon as it found it at all, and the past self would thus never be wild, but always owned, by a title that never lapsed285. We can imagine a long succession of herdsmen coming rapidly into possession of the same cattle by transmission of an original title by bequest387. May not the 'title' of a collective self be passed from one Thought to another in some analogous way?
It is a patent fact of consciousness that a transmission like this actually occurs. Each pulse of cognitive consciousness, each Thought, dies away and is replaced by another. The other, among the things it knows, knows its own predecessor388, and finding it 'warm,' in the way we have described, greets it, saying: "Thou art mine, and part of the same self with me." Each later Thought, knowing and including thus the Thoughts which went before, is the final receptacle - and appropriating them is the final owner - of all that they contain and own. Each Thought is thus born an owner, and dies owned, transmitting whatever it realized as its Self to its own later proprietor. As Kant says, it is as if elastic balls were to have not only motion but knowledge of it, and a first ball were to transmit both its motion and its consciousness to a second, which took both up into its consciousness and passed them to a third, until the last ball held all that the other balls had held, and realized it as its own. It is this trick which the nascent389 thought has of immediately taking up the expiring thought and 'adopting' it, which is the foundation of the appropriation390 of most of the remoter constituents of the self. Who owns the last self owns the self before the last, for what possesses the possessor possesses the possessed.
It is impossible to discover any verifiable features in personal identity, which this sketch391 does not contain, impossible to imagine how any transcendent non-phenomenal sort of an Arch-Ego, were he there, could shape matters to any other result, or be known in time by any other fruit, than just this production of a stream of consciousness each 'section' of which should know, and knowing, hug to itself and adopt, all those that went before, - thus standing as the representative of the entire past stream; and which should similarly adopt the objects already adopted by any portion of this spiritual stream. Such standing-as-representative, and such adopting, are perfectly clear phenomenal relations. The Thought which, whilst it knows another Thought and the Object of that Other, appropriates the Other and the Object which the Other appropriated, is still a perfectly distinct phenomenon form that Other; it may hardly resemble it; it may be far removed from it in space and time.
The only point that is obscure is the act of appropriation itself. Already in enumerating392 the constituents of the self and their rivalry, I had to use the word appropriate. And the quick-witted reader probably noticed at the time, in hearing how one constituent13 was let drop and disowned and another one held fast to and espoused393, that the phrase was meaningless unless the constituents were objects in the hands of something else. A thing cannot appropriate itself; it is itself; and still less can it disown itself. There must be an agent of the appropriating and disowning; but that agent we have already named. It is the Thought to whom the various 'constituents' are known. That Thought is a vehicle of choice as well as of cognition; and among the choices it makes are these appropriations394, or repudiations, of its 'own.' But the Thought never is an object in its own hands, it never appropriates or disowns itself. It appropriates to itself, it is the actual focus of accretion, the hook from which the chain of past selves dangles395, planted firmly in the Present, which alone passes for real, and thus keeping the chain from being a purely ideal thing. Anon the hook itself will drop into the past with all it carries, and then be treated as an object and appropriated by a new Thought in the new present which will serve as living hook in turn. The present moment of consciousness is thus, as Mr. Hodgson says, the darkest in the whole series. It may feel its own immediate existence - we have all along admitted the possibility of this, hard as it is by direct introspection to ascertain379 the fact - but nothing can be known about it till it be dead and gone. Its appropriations are therefore less to itself than to the most intimately felt part of its present Object, the body, and the central adjustments, which accompany the act of thinking, in the head. These are the real nucleus of our personal identity, and it is their actual existence, realized as a solid present fact, which makes us say 'as sure as I exist, those past facts were part of myself.' They are the kernel396 to which the represented parts of the Self are assimilated, accreted397, and knit on; and even were Thought entirely unconscious of itself in the act of thinking, these 'warm' parts of its present object would be a firm basis on which the consciousness of personal identity would rest.18 Such consciousness, then, as a psychologic fact, can be fully described without supposing any other agent than a succession of perishing thoughts, endowed with the functions of appropriation and rejection398, and of which some can know and appropriate or reject objects already known, appropriated, or rejected by the rest.
To illustrate399 by diagram, let A, B, and C stand for three successive thoughts, each with its object inside of it.
If B's object be A, and C's object be B; then A, B, and C would stand for three pulses in a consciousness of personal identity. Each pulse would be something different from the others; but B would know and adopt A, and C would know and adopt A and B. Three successive states of the same brain, on which each experience in passing leaves its mark, might very well engender400 thoughts differing from each other in just such a way as this.
The passing Thought then seems to be the Thinker; and though there may be another non-phenomenal Thinker behind that, so far we do not seem to need him to express the facts. But we cannot definitively402 make up our mind about him until we have heard the reasons that have historically been used to prove his reality.
The Pure Self or Inner Principle of Personal Unity.
To a brief survey of the theories of the Ego let us then next proceed. They are three in number, as follows:
1) The Spiritualist theory;
2) The Associationist theory;
3) The Transcendentalist theory.
The Theory of the Soul.
In Chapter VI we were led ourselves to the spiritualist theory of the 'Soul,' as a means of escape from the unintelligibilities of mind-stuff 'integrating' with itself, and from the physiological improbability of a material monad, with thought attached to it, in the brain. But at the end of the chapter we said we should examine the 'Soul' critically in a later place, to see whether it had any other advantages as a theory over the simple phenomenal notion of a stream of thought accompanying a stream of cerebral403 activity, by a law yet unexplained.
The theory of the Soul is the theory of popular philosophy and of scholasticism, which is only popular philosophy made systematic405. It declares that the principle of individuality within us must be substantial, for psychic phenomena are activities, and there can be no activity without a concrete agent. This substantial agent cannot be the brain but must be something immaterial; for its activity, thought, is both immaterial, and takes cognizance of immaterial things, and of material things in general and intelligible, as well as in particular and sensible ways, - all which powers are incompatible with the nature of matter, of which the brain is composed. Thought moreover is simple, whilst the activities of the brain are compounded of the elementary activities of each of its parts. Furthermore, thought is spontaneous or free, whilst all material activity is determined ab extra; and the will can turn itself against all corporeal goods and appetites, which would be impossible were it a corporeal function. For these objective reasons the principle of psychic life must be both immaterial and simple as well as substantial, must be what is called a Soul. The same consequence follows from subjective reasons. Our consciousness of personal identity assures us of our essential simplicity406: the owner of the various constituents of the self, as we have seen them, the hypothetical Arch-Ego whom we provisionally conceived as possible, is a real entity of whose existence self-consciousness makes us directly aware. No material agent could thus turn round and grasp itself - material activities always grasp something else than the agent. And if a brain could grasp itself and be self-conscious, it would be conscious of itself as a brain and not as something of an altogether different kind. The Soul then exists as a simple spiritual substance in which the various psychic faculties, operations, and affections inhere.
If we ask what a Substance is, the only answer is that it is a self-existent being, or one which needs no other subject in which to inhere. At bottom its only positive determination is Being, and this is something whose meaning we all realize even though we find it hard to explain. The Soul is moreover an individual being, and if we ask what that is, we are told to look in upon our Self, and we shall learn by direct intuition better than through any abstract reply. Our direct perception of our own inward being is in fact by many deemed to be the original prototype out of which our notion of simple active substance in general is fashioned. The consequences of the simplicity and substantiality of the Soul are its incorruptibility and natural immortality407 - nothing but God's direct fiat77 can annihilate29 it - and its responsibility at all times for whatever it may have ever done.
This substantialist view of the soul was essentially the view of Plato and of Aristotle. It received its completely formal elaboration in the middle ages. It was believed in by Hobbes, Descartes, Locke, Leibnitz, Wolf, Berkeley, and is no defended by the entire modern dualistic or spiritualistic or common-sense school. Kant held to it while denying its fruitfulness as a premise408 for deducing consequences verifiable here below. Kant's successors, the absolute idealists, profess372 to have discarded it, - how that may be we shall inquire ere long. Let us make up our minds what to think of it ourselves.
It is at all events needless for expressing the actual subjective phenomena of consciousness as they appear. We have formulated409 them all without its aid, by the supposition of a stream of thoughts, each substantially different from the rest, but cognitive of the rest and 'appropriative' of each other's content. At least, if I have not already succeeded in making this plausible410 to the reader, I am hopeless of convincing him by anything I could add now. The unity, the identity, the individuality, and the immateriality that appear in the psychic life are thus accounted for as phenomenal and temporal facts exclusively, and with no need of reference to any more simple or substantial agent than the present Thought or 'section' of the stream. We have seen it to be single and unique in the sense of having no separable parts (above, p. 239 ff.) - perhaps that is the only kind of simplicity meant to be predicated of the soul. The present Thought also has being, - at least all believers in the Soul believe so - and if there be no other Being in which it 'inheres,' it ought itself to be a 'substance'. If this kind of simplicity and substantiality were all that is predicated of the Soul, then it might appear that we had been talking of the soul all along, without knowing it, when we treated the present Thought as an agent, an owner, and the like. But the Thought is a perishing and not an immortal or incorruptible thing. Its successors may continuously succeed to it, resemble it, and appropriate it, but they are not it, whereas the Soul-Substance is supposed to be a fixed411 unchanging thing. By the Soul is always meant something behind the present Thought, another kind of substance, existing on a non-phenomenal plane.
When we brought in the Soul at the end of the Chapter VI, as an entity which the various brain-processes were supposed to affect simultaneously, and which responded to their combined influence by single pulses of its thought, it was to escape integrated mind-stuff on the one hand, and an improbable cerebral monad on the other. But when (as now, after all we have been through since that earlier passage) we take the two formulations, first of a brain to whose processes pulses of thought simply correspond, and second, of one to whose processes pulses of thought in a Soul correspond, and compare them together, we see that at bottom the second formulation is only a more roundabout way than the first, of expressing the same bald fact. That bald fact is that when the brain acts, a thought occurs. The spiritualistic formulation says that the brain-processes knock the thought, so to speak, out of a Soul which stands there to receive their influence. The simpler formulation says that the thought simply comes. But what positive meaning has the Soul, when scrutinized412, but the ground of possibility of the thought? And what is the 'knocking' but the determining of the possibility to actuality? And what is this after all but giving a sort of concreted form to one's belief that the coming of the thought, when the brain-processes occur, has some sort of ground in the nature of things? If the world Soul be understood merely to express that claim, it is a good word to use. But if it be held to do more, to gratify the claim, - for instance, to connect rationally the thought which comes, with the processes which occur, and to mediate18 intelligibly413 between their two disparate natures, - then it is an illusory term. It is, in fact, with the word Soul as with the word Substance in general. To say that phenomena inhere in a Substance is at bottom only to record one's protest against the notion that the bare existence of the phenomena is the total truth. A phenomenon would not itself be, we insist, unless there were something more than the phenomenon. To the more we give the provisional name of Substance. So, in the present instance, we ought certainly to admit that there is more than the bare fact of coexistence of a passing thought with a passing brain-state. But we do not answer the question 'What is that more?' when we say that it is a 'Soul' which the brain-state affects. This kind of more explains nothing; and when we are once trying metaphysical explanations we are foolish not to go as far as we can. For my own part I confess that the moment I become metaphysical and try to define the more, I find the notion of some sort of an anima mundi thinking in all of us to be a more promising414 hypothesis, in spite of all its difficulties, than that of a lot of absolutely individual souls. Meanwhile, as psychologists, we need not be metaphysical at all. The phenomena are enough, the passing Thought itself is the only verifiable thinker, and its empirical connection with the brain-process is the ultimate known law.
To the other arguments which would prove the need of a soul, we may also turn a deaf ear. The argument from free-will can convince only those who believe in free-will; and even they will have to admit that spontaneity is just as possible, to say the least, in a temporary spiritual agent like our 'Thought' as in a permanent one like the supposed Soul. The same is true of the argument from the kinds of things cognized. Even if the brain could not cognize universals, immaterials, or its 'Self,' still the 'Thought' which we have relied upon in our account is not the brain, closely as it seems connected with it; and after all, if the brain could cognize at all, one does not well see why it might not cognize one sort of thing as well as another. The great difficulty is in seeing how a thing can cognize anything. This difficulty is not in the least removed by giving to the thing that cognizes the name of Soul. The Spiritualists do not deduce any of the properties of the mental life from otherwise known properties of the soul. They simply find various characters ready-made in the mental life, and these they clap into the Soul, saying, "Lo! behold415 the source from whence they flow!" The merely verbal character of this 'explanation' is obvious. The Soul invoked416, far from making the phenomena more intelligible, can only be made intelligible itself by borrowing their form, - it must be represented, if at all, as a transcendent stream of consciousness duplicating the one we know.
Altogether, the Soul is an outbirth of that sort of philosophizing whose great maxim417, according to Dr. Hodgson, is: "Whatever you are totally ignorant of, assert to be the explanation of everything else."
Locke and Kant, whilst still believing in the soul, began the work of undermining the notion that we know anything about it. Most modern writers of the mitigated418, spiritualistic, or dualistic philosophy - the Scotch419 school, as it is often called among us - are forward to proclaim this ignorance, and to attend exclusively to the verifiable phenomena of self-consciousness, as we have laid them down. Dr. Wayland, for example, begins his Elements of Intellectual Philosophy with the phrase "Of the essence of Mind we know nothing," and goes on: "All that we are able to affirm of it is that it is something which perceives, reflects, remembers, imagines, and wills; but what that something is which exerts these energies we know not. It is only as we are conscious of the action of these energies that we are conscious of the existence of mind. It is only by the exertion420 of its own powers that the mind becomes cognizant of their existence. The cognizance of its powers, however, gives us no knowledge of that essence of which they are predicated. In these respects our knowledge of mind is precisely analogous to our knowledge of matter." This analogy of our two ignorances is a favorite remark in the Scotch school. It is but a step to lump them together into a single ignorance, that of the 'Unknowable' to which any one fond of superfluities in philosophy may accord the hospitality of his belief, if it so please him, but which any one else may as freely ignore and reject.
The Soul-theory is, then, a complete superfluity, so far as accounting421 for the actually verified facts of conscious experience goes. So far, no one can be compelled to subscribe422 to it for definite scientific reasons. The case would rest here, and the reader be left free to make his choice, were it not for other demands of a more practical kind.
The first of these is Immortality, for which the simplicity and substantiality of the Soul seem to offer a solid guarantee. A 'stream' of thought, for aught that we see to be contained in its essence, may come to a full stop at any moment; but a simple substance is incorruptible and will, by its own inertia423, persist in Being so long as the Creator does not by a direct miracle snuff it out. Unquestionably this is the stronghold of the spiritualistic belief, - as indeed the popular touchstone for all philosophies is the question, "What is their bearing on a future life?"
The Soul, however, when closely scrutinized, guarantees no immortality of a sort we care for. The enjoyment of the atom-like simplicity of their substance in soecula soeculorum would not to most people seem a consummation devoutly424 to be wished. The substance must give rise to a stream of consciousness continuous with the present stream, in order to arouse our hope, but of this the mere persistence425 of the substance per se offers no guarantee. Moreover, in the general advance of our moral ideas, there has come to be something ridiculous in the way our forefathers426 had of grounding their hopes of immortality on the simplicity of their substance. The demand for immortality is nowadays essentially teleological427. We believe ourselves immortal because we believe ourselves fit for immortality. A 'substance, ought surely to perish, we think, if not worthy to survive, and an insubstantial 'stream' to prolong itself, provided it be worthy, if the nature of Things is organized in the rational way in which we trust it is. Substance or no substance, soul or 'stream,' what Lotze says of immortality is about all that human wisdom can say:
"We have no other principle for deciding it than this general idealistic belief: that every created thing will continue whose continuance belongs to the meaning of the world, and so long as it does so belong; whilst every one will pass away whose reality is justified428 only in a transitory phase of the world's course. That this principle admits of no further application in human hands need hardly be said. We surely know not the merits which may give to one being a claim on eternity429, nor the defects which would cut others off."19
A second alleged430 necessity for a soul-substance is our forensic431 responsibility before God. Locke caused an uproar432 when he said that the unity of consciousness made a man the same person, whether supported by the same substance or no, and that God would not, in the great day, make a person answer for what he remembered nothing of. It was supposed scandalous that our forgetfulness might thus deprive God of the chance of certain retributions, which otherwise would have enhanced his 'glory.' This is certainly a good speculative433 ground for retaining the Soul - at least for those who demand a plenitude of retribution. The mere stream of consciousness, with its lapses434 of memory, cannot possibly be as 'responsible' as a soul which is at the judgment day all that it ever was. To modern readers, however, who are less insatiate for retribution than their grandfathers, this argument will hardly be as convincing as it seems once to have been.
One great use of the Soul has always been to account for, and at the same time to guarantee, the closed individuality of each personal consciousness. The thoughts of one soul must unite into one self, it was supposed, and must be eternally insulated from those of every other soul. But we have already begun to see that, although unity is the rule of each man's consciousness, yet in some individuals, at least, thoughts may split away from the others and form separate selves. As for insulation435, it would be rash, in view of the phenomena of thought-transference, mesmeric influence and spirit-control, which are being alleged nowadays on better authority than ever before, to be too sure about that point either. The definitively closed nature of our personal consciousness is probably an average statistical436 resultant of many conditions, but not an elementary force or fact; so that, if one wishes to preserve the Soul, the less he draws his arguments from that quarter the better. So long as our self, on the whole, makes itself good and practically maintains itself as a closed individual, why, as Lotze says, is not that enough? And why is the being-an-individual in some inaccessible437 metaphysical way so much prouder an achievement?20
My final conclusion, then, about the substantial Soul is that it explains nothing and guarantees nothing. Its successive thoughts are the only intelligible and verifiable things about it, and definitely to ascertain the correlations438 of these with brain-processes is as much as psychology can empirically do. From the metaphysical point of view, it is true that one may claim that the correlations have a rational ground; and if the word Soul could be taken to mean merely some such vague problematic ground, it would be unobjectionable. But the trouble is that it professes439 to give the ground in positive terms of a very dubiously440 credible441 sort. I therefore feel entirely free to discard the word Soul from the rest of this book. If I ever use it, it will be in the vaguest and most popular way. The reader who finds any comfort in the idea of the Soul, is, however, perfectly free to continue to believe in it; for our reasonings have not established the non-existence of the Soul; they have only proved its superfluity for scientific purposes.
The next theory of the pure Self to which we pass is
The Associationist Theory.
Locke paved the way for it by the hypothesis he suggested of the same substance having two successive consciousnesses, or of the same consciousness being supported by more than one substance. He made his readers feel that the important unity of the Self was its verifiable and felt unity, and that a metaphysical or absolute unity would be insignificant, so long as a consciousness of diversity might be there.
Hume showed how great the consciousness of diversity actually was. In the famous chapter on Personal Identity, in his Treatise442 on Human Nature, he writes as follows:
"There are some philosophers who imagine we are every moment intimately conscious of what we call our SELF; that we feel its existence and its continuance in existence, and are certain, beyond the evidence of a demonstration443, both of its perfect identity and simplicity. . . . Unluckily all these positive assertions are contrary to that very experience which is pleaded for them, nor have we any idea of Self, after the manner it is here explained. . . . It must be some one impression that gives rise to every real idea. . . . If any impression gives rise to the idea of Self, that impression must continue invariably the same through the whole course of our lives, since self is supposed to exist after that manner. But there is no impression constant and invariable. Pain and pleasure, grief and joy, passions and sensations succeed each other, and never all exist at the same time. . . . For my part, when I enter most intimately into what I call myself, I always stumble on some particular perception or other of heat or cold, light or shade, love or hatred445, pain or pleasure. I never can catch myself at any time without a perception, and never can observe anything but the perception. When my perceptions are removed for any time, as by sound sleep, so long am I insensible of myself, and may truly be said not to exist. And were all my perceptions removed by death, and could I neither think, nor feel, nor see, nor love, nor hate after the dissolution of my body, I should be entirely annihilated, nor do I conceive what is farther requisite446 to make me a perfect non-entity. If anyone, upon serious and unprejudiced reflection, thinks he has a different notion of himself, I must confess I can reason no longer with him. All I can allow him is, that he may be in the right as well as I, and that we are essentially different in this particular. He may, perhaps, perceive something simple and continued which he calls himself; though I am certain there is no such principle in me.
"But setting aside some metaphysicians of this kind, I may venture to affirm of the rest of mankind that they are nothing but a bundle or collection of different perceptions, which succeeded each other with an inconceivable rapidity, and are in a perceptual flux447 and movement. Our eyes cannot turn in their sockets448 without varying our perceptions. Our thought is still more variable than our sight; and all our other senses and faculties contribute to this change; nor is there any single power of the soul which remains unalterably the same, perhaps for one moment. The mind is a kind of theatre, where several perceptions successively make their appearance; pass, repass, glide449 away and mingle450 in an infinite variety of postures451 and situations. There is properly no simplicity in it at one time, nor identity in different; whatever natural propension we may have to imagine that simplicity and identity. The comparison of the theatre must not mislead us. They are the successive perceptions only, that constitute the mind; nor have we the most distant notion of the place where these scenes are represented, nor of the material of which it is composed."
But Hume, after doing this good piece of introspective work, proceeds to pour out the child with the bath, and to fly to as great an extreme as the substantialist philosophers. As they say the Self is nothing but Unity, unity abstract and absolute, so Hume says it is nothing but Diversity, diversity abstract and absolute; whereas in truth it is that mixture of unity and diversity which we ourselves have already found so easy to pick apart. We found among the objects of the stream certain feelings that hardly changed, that stood out warm and vivid in the past just as the present feeling does now; and we found the present feeling to be the centre of accretion to which, de proche en proche, these other feelings are, by the judging Thought, felt to cling. Hume says nothing of the judging Thought; and he denies this thread of resemblance, this core of sameness running through the ingredients of the Self, to exist even as a phenomenal thing. To him there is no tertium quid between pure unity and pure separateness. A succession of ideas "connected by a close relation affords to an accurate view as perfect a notion of diversity as if there was no manner of relation" at all.
"All our distinct perceptions are distinct existences, and the mind never perceives any real connection among distinct existences. Did our perceptions either inhere in something simple or individual, or did the mind perceive some real connection among them, there would be no difficulty in the case. For my part, I must plead the privilege of a sceptic and confess that this difficulty is too hard for my understanding. I pretend not, however, to pronounce it insuperable. Others, perhaps, . . . may discover some hypothesis that will reconcile these contradictions."21
Hume is at bottom as much of a metaphysician as Thomas Aquinas. No wonder he can discover no 'hypothesis.' The unity of the parts of the stream is just as 'real' a connection as their diversity is a real separation; both connection and separation are ways in which the past thoughts appear to the present Thought; - unlike each other in respect of date and certain qualities - this is the separation; alike in other qualities, and continuous in time - this is the connection. In demanding a more 'real' connection than this obvious and verifiable likeness452 and continuity, Hume seeks 'the world behind the looking-glass,' and gives a striking example of that Absolutism which is the great disease of philosophic Thought.
The chain of distinct existences into which Hume thus chopped up our 'stream' was adopted by all of his successors as a complete inventory453 of the facts. The associationist Philosophy was founded. Somehow, out of 'ideas,' each separate, each ignorant of its mates, but sticking together and calling each other up according to certain laws, all the higher forms of consciousness were to be explained, and among them the consciousness of our personal identity. The task was a hard one, in which what we called the psychologist's fallacy (p. 196 ff.) bore the brunt of the work. Two ideas, one of 'A,' succeeded by another of 'B,' were transmuted454 into a third idea of 'A after B.' An idea from last year returning now was taken to be an idea of last year; two similar ideas stood for an idea of similarity, and the like; palpable confusions, in which certain facts about the ideas, possible only to an outside knower of them, were put into the place of the ideas' own proper and limited deliverance and content. Out of such recurrences455 and resemblances in a series of discrete457 ideas and feelings a knowledge was somehow supposed to be engendered458 in each feeling that it was recurrent and resembling, and that it helped to form a series to whose unity the name I came to be joined. In the same way, substantially, Herbart,22 in Germany, tried to show how a conflict of ideas would fuse into a manner of representing itself for which I was the consecrated459 name.23
The defect of all these attempts is that the conclusion pretended to follow from certain premises460 is by no means rationally involved in the premises. A feeling of any kind, if it simply returns, ought to be nothing else than what it was at first. If memory of previous existence and all sorts of other cognitive functions are attributed to it when it returns, it is no longer the same, but a wholly different feeling, and ought to be so described. We have so described it with the greatest explicitness462. We have said that feelings never do return. We have not pretended to explain this; we have recorded it as an empirically ascertained law, analogous to certain laws of brain-physiology; and, seeking to define the way in which new feelings do differ from the old, we have found them to be cognizant and appropriative of the old, whereas the old were always cognizant and appropriative of something else. Once more, this account pretended to be nothing more than a complete description of the facts. It explained them no more than the associationist account explains them. But the latter both assumes to explain them and in the same breath falsifies them, and for each reason stands condemned463.
It is but just to say that the associationist writers as a rule seem to have a lurking464 bad conscience about the Self; and that although they are explicit461 enough about what it is, namely, a train of feelings or thoughts, they are very shy about openly tackling the problem of how it comes to be aware of itself. Neither Bain nor Spencer, for example, directly touch this problem. As a rule, associationist writers keep talking about 'the mind' and about what 'we' do; and so, smuggling465 in surreptitiously what they ought avowedly466 to have postulated in the form of a present 'judging Thought,' they either trade upon their reader's lack of discernment or are undiscerning themselves.
Mr. D. G. Thompson is the only associationist writer I know who perfectly escapes this confusion, and postulates467 openly what he needs. "All states of consciousness," he says, "imply and postulate a subject Ego, whose substance is unknown and unknowable, to which [why not say by which?] states of consciousness are referred as attributes, but which in the process of reference becomes objectified and becomes itself an attribute of a subject Ego which lies still beyond, and which ever eludes469 cognition though ever postulated for cognition.'24 This is exactly our judging and remembering present 'Thought,' described in less simple terms.
After Mr. Thompson, M. Taine and the two Mills deserve credit for seeking to be as clear as they can. Taine tells us in the first volume of his 'Intelligence' what the Ego is, - a continuous web of conscious events no more really distinct from each other25 than rhomboids, triangles, and squares marked with chalk on a plank470 are really distinct, for the plank itself is one. In the second volume he says all these parts have a common character embedded471 in them, that of being internal [this is our character of 'warmness,' otherwise named]. This character is abstracted and isolated472 by a mental fiction, and is what we are conscious of as our self - 'this stable within is what each of us calls I or me.' Obviously M. Taine forgets to tell us what this 'each of us' is, which suddenly starts up and performs the abstraction and 'calls' its product I or me. The character does not abstract itself. Taine means by 'each of us' merely the present 'judging Thought' with its memory and tendency to appropriate, but he does not name it distinctly enough, and lapses into the fiction that the entire series of thoughts, the entire 'plank,' is the reflecting psychologist.
James Mill, after defining Memory as a train of associated ideas beginning with that of my past self and ending with that of my present self, defines my Self as a train of ideas of which Memory declares the first to be continuously connected with the last. The successive associated ideas 'run, as it were, into a single point of consciousness.'26 John Mill, annotating473 this account, says:
"The phenomenon of Self and that of Memory are merely two sides of the same fact, or two different modes of viewing the same fact. We may, as psychologists, set out from either of them, and refer the other to it. . . . But it is hardly allowable to do both. At least it must be said that by doing so we explain neither. We only show that the two things are essentially the same; that my memory of having ascended474 Skiddaw on a given day, and my consciousness of being the same person who ascended Skiddaw on that day, are two modes of stating the same fact: a fact which psychology has as yet failed to resolve into anything more elementary. In analyzing475 the complex phenomena of consciousness, we must come to something ultimate; and we seem to have reached two elements which have a good prima facie claim to that title. There is, first, . . . the difference between a fact and the Thought of that fact: a distinction which we are able to cognize in the past, and which then constitutes Memory, and in the future, when it constitutes Expectation; but in neither case can we give any account of it except that it exists. . . . Secondly476, in addition to this, and setting out from the belief . . . that the idea I now have was derived from a previous sensation . . . there is the further conviction that this sensation . . . was my own; that it happened to my self. In other words, I am aware of a long and uninterrupted succession of past feelings, going back as far as memory reaches, and terminating with the sensations I have at the present moment, all of which are connected by an inexplicable477 tie, that distinguishes them not only from any succession or combination in mere thought, but also from the parallel succession of feelings which I believe, on satisfactory evidence, to have happened to each of the other beings, shaped like myself, whom I perceive around me. This succession of feelings, which I call my memory of the past, is that by which I distinguish my Self. Myself is the person who had that series of feelings, and I know nothing of myself, by direct knowledge, except that I had them. But there is a bond of some sort among all the parts of the series, which makes me say that they were feelings of a person who was the same person throughout [according to us this is their 'warmth' and resemblance to the 'central spiritual self' now actually felt] and a different person from those who had any of the parallel successions of feelings; and this bond, to me, constitutes my Ego. Here I think the question must rest, until some psychologist succeeds better than anyone else has done, in showing a mode in which the analysis can be carried further."27
The reader must judge of our own success in carrying the analysis farther. The various distinctions we have made are all part of an endeavor so to do. John Mill himself, in a later-written passage, so far from advancing in the line of analysis, seems to fall back upon something perilously478 near to the Soul. He says:
"The fact of recognizing a sensation, . . . remembering that it has been felt before, is the simplest and most elementary fact of memory: and the inexplicable tie . . . which connects the present consciousness with the past one of which it reminds me, is as near as I think we can get to a positive conception of Self. That there is something real in this tie, real as the sensations themselves, and not a mere product of the laws of thought without any fact corresponding to it, I hold to be indubitable . . . This original element, . . . to which we cannot give any name but its own peculiar one, without implying some false or ungrounded theory, is the Ego, or Self. As such I ascribe a reality to the Ego - to my own mind - different from that real existence as a Permanent Possibility, which is the only reality I acknowledge in Matter. . . . We are forced to apprehend479 every part of the series as linked with the other parts by something in common which is not the feelings themselves, any more than the succession of the feelings is the feelings themselves; and as that which is the same in the first as in the second, in the second as in the third, in the third as in the fourth, and so on, must be the same in the first and in the fiftieth, this common element is a permanent element. But beyond this we can affirm nothing of it except the states of consciousness themselves. The feelings or consciousnesses which belong or have belonged to it, and its possibilities of having more, are the only facts there are to be asserted of Self - the only positive attributes, except permanence, which we can ascribe to it."28
Mr. Mill's habitual method of philosophizing was to affirm boldly some general doctrine derived from his father, and then make so many concessions480 of detail to its enemies as practically to abandon it altogether.29 In this place the concessions amount, so far as they are intelligible, to the admission of something very like the Soul. This 'inexplicable tie' which connects the feelings, this 'something in common' by which they are linked and which is not the passing feelings themselves, but something 'permanent,' of which we can 'affirm nothing' save its attributes and its permanence, what is it but metaphysical Substance come again to life? Much as one must respect the fairness of Mill's temper, quite as much must one regret his failure of acumen481 at this point. At bottom he makes the same blunder as Hume: the sensations per se, he thinks, have no 'tie.' The tie of resemblance and continuity which the remembering Thought finds among them is not a 'real tie' but 'a mere product of the laws of thought;' and the fact that the present Thought 'appropriates' them is also no real tie. But whereas Hume was contended to say that there might after all be no 'real tie,' Mill, unwilling482 to admit this possibility, is driven, like any scholastic404, to place it in a non-phenomenal world.
John Mill's concessions may be regarded as the definitive401 bankruptcy483 of the associationist description of the consciousness of self, starting, as it does, with the best intentions, and dimly conscious of the path, but 'perplexed484 in the extreme' at last with the inadequacy485 of those 'simple feelings,' non-cognitive, non-transcendent of themselves, which were the only baggage it was willing to take along. One must beg memory, knowledge on the part of the feelings of something outside themselves. That granted, every other true thing follows naturally, and it is hard to go astray. The knowledge the present feeling has of the past
ones is a real tie between them, so is their resemblance; so is their continuity; so is the one's 'appropriation' of the other: all are real ties, realized in the judging Thought of every moment, the only place where disconnections could be realized, did they exist. Hume and Mill both imply that a disconnection can be realized there, whilst a tie cannot. But the ties and the disconnections are exactly on a par6, in this matter of self-consciousness. The way in which the present Thought appropriates the past is a real way, so long as no other owner appropriates it in a more real way, and so long as the Thought has no grounds for repudiating486 it stronger than those which lead to its appropriation. But no other owner ever does in point of fact present himself for my past; and the grounds which I perceive for appropriating it - - viz., continuity and resemblance with the present - outweigh487 those I perceive for disowning it - - viz., distance in time. My present Thought stands thus in the plenitude of ownership of the train of my past selves, is owner not only de facto, but de jure, the most real owner there can be, and all without the supposition of any 'inexplicable tie,' but in a perfectly verifiable and phenomenal way.
Turn we now to what we may call
The Transcendentalist Theory.
which owes its origin to Kant. Kant's own statements are too lengthy488 and obscure for verbatim quotation489 here, so I must give their substance only. Kant starts, as I understand him, from a view of the Object essentially like our own description of it on p. 275 ff., that is, it is a system of things, qualities or facts in relation. "Object is that in the knowledge (Begriff) of which the Manifold of a given Perception is connected."30 But whereas we simple begged the vehicle of this connected knowledge in the shape of what we call the present Thought, or section of the Stream of Consciousness (which we declared to be the ultimate fact for psychology), Kant denies this to be an ultimate fact and insists on analyzing it into a large number of distinct, though equally essential, elements. The 'Manifoldness' of the Object is due to Sensibility, which per se is chaotic490, and the unity is due to the synthetic handling which this Manifold receives from the higher faculties of Intuition, Apprehension, Imagination, Understanding, and Apperception. It is the one essential spontaneity of the Understanding which, under these different names, brings unity into the manifold of sense.
"The Understanding is, in fact, nothing more than the faculty of binding491 together a priori, and of bringing the Manifold of given ideas under the unity of Apperception, which consequently is the supreme248 principle of all human knowledge" ( § 16).
The material connected must be given by lower faculties to the Understanding, for the latter is not an intuitive faculty, but by nature 'empty.' And the bringing of this material 'under the unity of Apperception' is explained by Kant to mean the thinking it always so that, whatever its other determinations be, it may be known as thought by me.31 Though this consciousness, that I think it, need not be at every moment explicitly492 realized, it is always capable of being realized. For if an object incapable493 of being combined with the idea of a thinker were there, how could it be known, how related to other objects, how form part of 'experience' at all?
The awareness that I think is therefore implied in all experience. No connected consciousness of anything without that of Self as its presupposition and 'transcendental' condition! All things, then, so far as they are intelligible at all, are so through combination with pure consciousness of Self, and apart from this, at least potential, combination nothing is knowable to us at all.
But this self, whose consciousness Kant thus established deductively as a conditio sine quâ non of experience, is in the same breath denied by him to have any positive attributes. Although Kant's name for it - the 'original transcendental synthetic Unity of Apperception' - is so long, our consciousness about it is, according to him, short enough. Self-consciousness of this 'transcendental' sort tells us, 'not how we appear, not how we inwardly are, but only that we are' ( § 25). At the basis of our knowledge of our selves there lies only "the simple and utterly empty idea: I; of which we cannot even say we have a notion, but only a consciousness which accompanies all notions. In this I, or he or it (the thing) which thinks, nothing more is represented than the bare transcendental Subject of the knowledge = x, which is only recognized by the thoughts which are its predicates, and of which, taken by itself, we cannot form the least conception" (ibid. 'Paralogisms'). The pure Ego of all apperception is thus for Kant not the soul, but only that 'Subject' which is the necessary correlate of the Object in all knowledge. There is a soul, Kant thinks, but this mere ego-form of our consciousness tells us nothing about it, neither whether it be substantial, nor whether it be immaterial, nor whether it be simple, nor whether it be permanent. These declarations on Kant's part of the utter barrenness of the consciousness of the pure Self, and of the consequent impossibility of any deductive or 'rational' psychology, are what, more than anything else, earned for him the title of the 'all-destroyer.' The only self we know anything positive about, he thinks, is the empirical me, not the pure I; the self which is an object among other objects and the 'constituents' of which we ourselves have seen, and recognized to be phenomenal things appearing in the form of space as well as time.
This, for our purposes, is a sufficient account of the 'transcendental' Ego.
Those purposes go no farther than to ascertain whether anything in Kant's conception ought to make us give up our own, of a remembering and appropriating Thought incessantly renewed. In many respects Kant's meaning is obscure, but it will not be necessary for us to squeeze the texts in order to make sure what it actually and historically was. If we can define clearly two or three things which it may possibly have been, that will help us just as much to clear our own ideas.
On the whole, a defensible interpretation494 of Kant's view would take somewhat the following shape. Like ourselves he believes in a Reality outside the mind of which he writes, but the critic who vouches495 for that reality does so on grounds of faith, for it is not a verifiable phenomenal thing. Neither is it manifold. The 'Manifold' which the intellectual functions combine is a mental manifold altogether, which thus stands between the Ego of Apperception and the outer Reality, but still stands inside the mind. In the function of knowing there is a multiplicity to be connected, and Kant brings this multiplicity inside the mind. The Reality becomes a mere empty locus496, or unknowable, the so-called Noumenon; the manifold phenomenon is in the mind. We, on the contrary, put the Multiplicity with the Reality outside, and leave the mind simple. Both of us deal with the same elements - thought and object - the only question is in which of them the multiplicity shall be lodged497. Wherever it is lodged it must be 'synthetized' when it comes to be thought. And that particular way of lodging498 it will be the better, which, in addition to describing the facts naturally, makes the 'mystery of synthesis' least hard to understand.
Well, Kant's way of describing the facts is mythological499. The notion of our thought being this sort of an elaborate internal machine-shop stands condemned by all we said in favor of its simplicity on pages 276 ff. Our Thought is not composed of parts, however so composed its objects may be. There is no originally chaotic manifold in it to be reduced to order. There is something almost shocking in the notion of so chaste500 a function carrying this Kantian hurlyburly in her womb. If we are to have a dualism of Thought and Reality at all, the multiplicity should be lodged in the latter and not in the former member of the couple of related terms. The parts and the relations surely belong less to the knower than to what is known.
But even were all the mythology501 true, the process of synthesis would in no whit502 be explained by calling the inside of the mind its seat. No mystery would be made lighter503 by such means. It is just as much a puzzle how the 'Ego' can employ the productive Imagination to make the Understanding use the categories to combine the data which Recognition, Association, and Apprehension receive from sensible Intuition, as how the Thought can combine the objective facts. Phrase it as one may, the difficulty is always the same: the Many known by the One. Or does one seriously think he understands better how the knower 'connects' its objects, when one calls the former a transcendental Ego and the latter a 'Manifold of Intuition' than when one calls them Thought and Things respectively? Knowing must have a vehicle. Call the vehicle Ego, or call it Thought, Psychosis, Soul, Intelligence, Consciousness, Mind, Reason, Feeling, - what you like - it must know. The best grammatical subject for the verb know would, if possible, be one from whose other properties the knowing could be deduced. And if there be no such subject, the best one would be that with the fewest ambiguities504 and the least pretentious505 name. By Kant's confession506, the transcendental Ego has no properties, and from it nothing can be deduced. Its name is pretentious, and, as we shall presently see, has its meaning ambiguously mixed up with that of the substantial soul. So on every possible account we are excused from using it instead of our own term of the present passing 'Thought,' as the principle by which the Many is simultaneously known.
The ambiguity507 referred to in the meaning of the transcendental Ego is as to whether Kant signified by it an Agent, and by the Experience it helps to constitute, an operation; or whether the experience is an event produced in an unassigned way, and the Ego a mere indwelling element therein contained. If an operation be meant, then Ego and Manifold must both be existent prior to that collision which results in the experience of one by the other. If a mere analysis is meant, there is no such prior existence, and the elements only are in so far as they are in union. Now Kant's tone and language are everywhere the very words of one who is talking of operations and the agents by which they are performed.32 And yet there is reason to think that at bottom he may have had nothing of the sort in mind.33 In this uncertainty508 we need again do no more than decide what to think of his transcendental Ego if it be an agent.
Well, if it be so, Transcendentalism is only Substantialism grown shame-faced, and the Ego only a 'cheap and nasty' edition of the soul. All our reasons for preferring the 'Thought' to the 'Soul' apply with redoubled force when the Soul is shrunk to this estate. The Soul truly explained nothing; the 'syntheses,' which she performed, were simply taken ready-made and clapped on to her as expressions of her nature taken after the fact; but at least she had some semblance360 of nobility and outlook. She was called active; might select; was responsible, and permanent in her way. The Ego is simply nothing: as ineffectual and windy an abortion509 as Philosophy can show. It would indeed by one of Reason's tragedies if the good Kant, with all his honesty and strenuous510 pains, should have deemed this conception an important outbirth of his thought.
But we have seen that Kant deemed it of next to no importance at all. It was reserved for his Fichtean and Hegelian successors to call it the first Principle of Philosophy, to spell its name in capitals and pronounce it with adoration511, to act, in short, as if they were going up in a balloon, whenever the notion of it crossed their mind. Here again, however, I am uncertain of the facts of history, and know that I may not read my authors aright. The whole lesson of Kantian and post-Kantian speculation138 is, it seems to me, the lesson of simplicity. With Kant, complication both of thought and statement was an inborn512 infirmity, enhanced
by the musty academicism of his Königsberg existence. With Hegel is was a raging fever. Terribly, therefore, do the sour grapes which these fathers of philosophy have eaten set our teeth on edge. We have in England and America, however, a contemporary continuation of Hegelism from which, fortunately, somewhat simpler deliverances come; and, unable to find any definite psychology in what Hegel, Rosenkranz, or Erdmann tells us of the Ego, I turn to Caird and Green.
The great difference, practically, between these authors and Kant is their complete abstraction from the onlooking Psychologist and from the Reality he thinks he knows; or rather it is the absorption of both of these outlying terms into the proper topic of Psychology, viz., the mental experience of the mind under observation. The Reality coalesces513 with the connected Manifold, the Psychologist with the Ego, knowing becomes 'connecting,' and there results no longer a finite or criticisable, but an 'absolute' Experience, of which the Object and the Subject are always the same. Our finite 'Thought' is virtually and potentially this eternal (or rather this 'timeless'), absolute Ego, and only provisionally and speciously514 the limited thing which it seems primâ facie to be. The later 'sections' of our 'Stream,' which come and appropriate the earlier ones, are those earlier ones, just as in substantialism the Soul is throughout all time the same.34 This 'solipsistic' character of an Experience conceived as absolute really annihilates515 psychology as a distinct body of science.
Psychology is a natural science, an account of particularly finite streams of thought, coexisting and succeeding in time. It is of course conceivable (though far from clearly so) that in the last metaphysical resort all these streams of thought may be thought by one universal All-thinker. But in this metaphysical notion there is no profit for psychology; for grant that one Thinker does think in all of us, still what He thinks in me and what in you can never be deduced from the bare idea of Him. The idea of Him seems even to exert a positively516 paralyzing effect on the mind. The existence of finite thoughts is suppressed altogether. Thought's characteristics, as Professor Green says, are
"not to be sought in the incidents of individual lives which last but for a day. . . . No knowledge, nor any mental act involved in knowledge, can properly be called a 'phenomenon of consciousness.' . . . For a phenomenon is a sensible event, related in the way of antecedence517 or consequence to other sensible events, but the consciousness which constitutes a knowledge . . . is not an event so related nor made up of such events."
Again, if
"we examine the constituents of any perceived object, . . . we shall find alike that it is only for consciousness that they can exist, and that the consciousness for which they thus exist cannot be merely a series of phenomena or a succession of states. . . . It then becomes clear that there is a function of consciousness, as exercised in the most rudimentary experience [namely, the function of synthesis] which is incompatible with the definition of consciousness as any sort of succession of any sort of phenomena."35
Were we to follow these remarks, we should have to abandon our notion of the 'Thought' (perennially renewed in time, but always cognitive thereof), and to espouse instead of it an entity copied from thought in all essential respects, but differing from it in being 'out of time.' What psychology can gain by this barter518 would be hard to divine. Moreover this resemblance of the timeless Ego to the Soul is completed by other resemblances still. The monism of the post-Kantian idealists seems always lapsing into a regular old-fashioned spiritualistic dualism. They incessantly talk as if, like the Soul, their All-thinker were an Agent, operating on detached materials of sense. This may come from the accidental fact that the English writings of the school have been more polemic519 than constructive335, and that a reader may often take for a positive profession a statement ad hominem meant as part of a reduction to the absurd, or mistake the analysis of a bit of knowledge into elements for a dramatic myth about its creation. But I think the matter has profounder roots. Professor Green constantly talks of the 'activity' of Self as a 'condition' of knowledge taking place. Facts are said to become incorporated with other facts only through the 'action of a combining self-consciousness upon data of sensation.'
"Every object we perceive . . . requires, in order to its presentation, the action of a principle of consciousness, not itself subject to conditions of time, upon successive appearances, such action as may hold the appearances together, without fusion151, in an apprehended520 fact."36
It is needless to repeat that the connection of things in our knowledge is in no whit explained by making it the deed of an agent whose essence is self-identity and who is out of time. The agency of phenomenal thought coming and going in time is just as easy to understand. And when it is furthermore said that the agent that combines is the same 'self-distinguishing subject' which 'in another mode of its activity' presents the manifold object to itself, the unintelligibilities become quite paroxysmal, and we are forced to confess that the entire school of thought in question, in spite of occasional glimpses of something more refined, still dwells habitually521 in that mythological stage of thought where phenomena are explained as results of dramas enacted522 by entities523 which but reduplicate the characters of the phenomena themselves. The self must not only know its object, - that is too bald and dead a relation to be written down and left in its static state. The knowing must be painted as a 'famous victory' in which the object's distinctness is in some way 'overcome.'
"The self exists as one self only as it opposes itself, as object, to itself as subject, and immediately denies and transcends524 that opposition. Only because it is such a concrete unity, which has in itself a resolved contradiction, can the intelligence cope with all the manifoldness and division of the mighty525 universe, and hope to master its secrets. As the lightning sleeps in the dew-drop, so in the simple and transparent526 unity of self-consciousness there is held in equilibrium527 that vital antagonism528 of opposites which . . . seems to rend529 the world asunder. The intelligence is able to understand the world, or, in other words, to break down the barrier itself and things and find itself in them, just because its own existence is implicitly the solution of all the division and conflict of things."37
This dynamic (I had almost written dynamitic) way of representing knowledge has the merit of not being tame. To turn from it to our own psychological formulation is like turning from the fireworks, trap-doors, and transformations530 of the pantomime into the insipidity532 of the midnight, where
"ghastly through the drizzling533 rain,
On the bald street breaks the blank day!"38
And yet turn we must, with the confession that our 'Thought' - a cognitive phenomenal event in time - is, if it exist at all, itself the only Thinker which the facts require. The only service that transcendental egoism has done to psychology has been by its protests against Hume's 'bundle'-theory of mind. But this service has been ill-performed; for the Egoists themselves, let them say what they will, believe in the bundle, and in their own system merely tie it up, with their special transcendental string, invented for that use alone. Besides, they talk as if, with this miraculous534 tying or 'relating,' the Ego's duties were done. Of its far more important duty of choosing some of the things it ties and appropriating them, to the exclusion of the rest, they tell us never a word. To sum up, then, my own opinion of the transcendentalist school, it is (whatever ulterior metaphysical truth it may divine) a school in which psychology at least has naught535 to learn, and whose deliverances about the Ego in particular in no wise oblige us to revise our own formulation of the Stream of Thought.39
With this, all possible rival formulations have been discussed. The literature of the Self is large, but all its authors may be classed as radical or mitigated representatives of the three schools we have named, substantialism, associationism, or transcendentalism. Our own opinion must be classed apart, although it incorporates essential elements from all three schools. There need never have been a quarrel between associationism and its rivals if the former had admitted the indecomposable unity of every pulse of thought, and the latter been willing to allow that 'perishing' pulses of thought might recollect368 and know.
We may sum up by saying that personality implies the incessant presence of two elements, and objective person, known by a passing subjective Thought and recognized as continuing in time. Hereafter let us see the words ME and I for the empirical person and the judging Thought.
Certain vicissitudes in the me demand our notice.
In the first place, although its changes are gradual, they become in time great. The central part of the me is the feeling of the body and of the adjustments in the head; and in the feeling of the body should be included that of the general emotional tones and tendencies, for at bottom these are but the habits in which organic activities and sensibilities run. Well, from infancy536 to old age, this assemblage of feelings, most constant of all, is yet a prey to slow mutation537. Our powers, bodily and mental, change at least as fast.40 Our possessions notoriously are perishable facts.
The identity which the I discovers, as it surveys this long procession, can only be a relative identity, that of a slow shifting in which there is always some common ingredient retained.41 The commonest element of all, the most uniform, is the possession of the same memories. However different the man may be from the youth, both look back on the same childhood, and call it their own.
Thus the identity found by the I in its me is only a loosely construed538 thing, an identity 'on the whole,' just like that which any outside observer might find in the same assemblage of facts. We often say of a man 'he is so changed one would not know him'; and so does a man, less often, speak of himself. These changes in the me, recognized by the I, or by outside observers, may be grave or slight. They deserve some notice here.
The Mutations of the Self.
may be divided into two main classes:
1. Alterations539 of memory; and
2. Alterations in the present bodily and spiritual selves.
1. Alterations of memory are either losses or false recollections. In either case the me is changed. Should a man be punished for what he did in his childhood and no longer remembers? Should he be punished for crimes enacted in post-epileptic unconsciousness, somnambulism, or in any involuntarily induced state of which no recollection is retained? Law, in accord with common-sense, says: "No; he is not the same person forensically540 now which he was then." These losses of memory are a normal incident of extreme old age, and the person's me shrinks in the ratio of the facts that have disappeared.
In dreams we forget our waking experiences; they are as if they were not. And the converse541 is also true. As a rule, no memory is retained during the waking state of what has happened during mesmeric trance, although when again entranced the person may remember it distinctly, and may then forget facts belonging to the waking state. We thus have, within the bounds of healthy mental life, an approach to an alteration of me's.
False memories are by no means rare occurrences in most of us, and, whenever they occur, they distort the consciousness of the me. Most people, probably, are in doubt about certain matters ascribed to their past. They may have seen them, may have said them, done them, or they may only have dreamed or imagined they did so. The content of a dream will oftentimes insert itself into the stream of real life in a most perplexing way. The most frequent source of false memory is the accounts we give to others of our experiences. Such accounts we almost always make both more simple and more interesting than the truth. We quote what we should have said or done, rather than what we really said or did; and in the first telling we may be fully aware of the distinction. But ere long the fiction expels the reality from memory and reigns542 in its stead alone. This is one great source of the fallibility of testimony543 meant to be quite honest. Especially where the marvellous is concerned, the story takes a tilt544 that way, and the memory follows the story. Dr. Carpenter quotes from Miss Cobbe the following, as in instance of a very common sort:
"It happened once to the Writer to hear a most scrupulously545 conscientious338 friend narrate546 an incident of table-turning, to which she appended an assurance that the table rapped when nobody was within a yard of it. The writer being confounded by this latter fact, the lady, though fully satisfied of the accuracy of her statement, promised to look at the note she had made ten years previously547 of the transaction. The note was examined, and was found to contain the distinct statement that the table rapped when the hands of six persons rested on it! The lady's memory as to all other points proved to be strictly correct; and in this point she had erred468 in entire good faith."42
It is next to impossible to get a story of this sort accurate in all its details, although it is the inessential details that suffer most change.43 Dickens and Balzac were said to have constantly mingled548 their fictions with their real experiences. Every one must have known some specimen549 of our mortal dust so intoxicated550 with the thought of his own person and the sound of his own voice as never to be able even to think the truth when his autobiography551 was in question. Amiable552, harmless, radiant J. V.! mayst thou ne'er wake to the difference between thy real and thy fondly-imagined self!44
2. When we pass beyond alterations of memory to abnormal alterations in the present self we have still graver disturbances553. These alterations are of three main types, from the descriptive point of view. But certain cases unite features of two or more types; and our knowledge of the elements and causes of these changes of personality is so slight that the division into types must not be regarded as having any profound significance. The types are:
(1) Insane delusions554;
(2) Alternating selves;
(3) Mediumships or possessions.
1) In insanity555 we often have delusions projected into the past, which are melancholic556 or sanguine557 according to the character of the disease. But the worst alterations of the self come from present perversions558 of sensibility and impulse which leave the past undisturbed, but induce the patient to think that the present me is an altogether new personage. Something of this sort happens normally in the rapid expansion of the whole character, intellectual as well as volitional559, which takes place after the time of puberty. The pathological cases are curious enough to merit longer notice.
The basis of our personality, as M. Ribot says, is that feeling of our vitality560 which, because it is so perpetually present, remains in the background of our consciousness.
"It is the basis because, always present, always acting561, without peace or rest, it knows neither sleep nor fainting, and lasts as long as life itself, of which it is one form. It serves as a support to that self-conscious me which memory constitutes, it is the medium of association among its other parts. . . . Suppose now that it were possible at once to change our body and put another into its place: skeleton, vessels562, viscera, muscles, skin, everything made new, except the nervous system with its stored-up memory of the past. There can be no doubt that in such a case the afflux of unaccustomed vital sensations would produce the gravest disorders563. Between the old sense of existence engraved565 on the nervous system, and the new one acting with all the intensity567 of its reality and novelty, there would be irreconcilable568 contradiction."45
With the beginnings of cerebral disease there often happens something quite comparable to this:
"Masses of new sensation, hitherto foreign to the individual, impulses and ideas of the same inexperienced kind, for example terrors, representations of enacted crime, of enemies pursuing one, etc. At the outset, these stand in contrast with the old familiar me, as a strange, often astonishing and abhorrent569 thou.46 Often their invasion into the former circle of feelings is felt as if the old self were being taken possession of by a dark overpowering might, and the fact of such 'possession' is described in fantastic images. Always this doubleness, this struggle of the old self against the new discordant forms of experience, is accompanied with painful mental conflict, with passion, with violent emotional excitement. This is in great part the reason for the common experience, that the first stage in the immense majority of cases of mental disease is an emotional alteration particularly of a melancholic sort. If now the brain-affection, which is the immediate cause of the new abnormal train of ideas, be not relieved, the latter becomes confirmed. It may gradually contract associations with the trains of ideas which characterized the old self, or portions of the latter may be extinguished and lost in the progress of the cerebral malady570, so that little by little the opposition of the two conscious me's abates571, and the emotional storms are calmed. But by that time the old me itself has been falsified and turned into another by those associations, by that reception into itself of the abnormal elements of feeling and of will. The patient may again be quiet, and his thought sometimes logically correct, but in it the morbid erroneous ideas are always present, with the adhesions they have contracted, as uncontrollable premises, and the man is no longer the same, but a really new person, his old self transformed."47
But the patient himself rarely continues to describe the change in just these terms unless new bodily sensations in him or the loss of old ones play a predominant part. Mere perversions of sight and hearing, or even of impulse, soon cease to be felt as contradictions of the unity of the me.
What the particular perversions of the bodily sensibility may be, which give rise to there contradictions, is for the most part impossible for a sound-minded person to conceive. One patient has another self that repeats all his thoughts for him. Others, among whom are some of the first characters in history, have familiar daemons who speak with them, and are replied to. In another someone 'makes' his thoughts for him. Another has two bodies, lying in different beds. Some patients feel as if they had lost parts of their bodies, teeth, brain, stomach, etc. In some it is made of wood, glass, butter, etc. In some it does not exist any longer, or is dead, or is a foreign object quite separate from the speaker's self. Occasionally, parts of the body lose their connection for consciousness with the rest, and are treated as belonging to another person and moved by a hostile will. Thus the right hand may fight with the left as with an enemy.48 Or the cries of the patient himself are assigned to another person with whom the patient expresses sympathy. The literature of insanity is filled with narratives572 of such illusions as these. M. Taine quotes from a patient of Dr. Krishaber an account of sufferings, from which it will be seen how completely aloof573 from what is normal a man's experience may suddenly become:
"After the first or second day it was for some weeks impossible to observe or analyze myself. The suffering - angina pectoris - was too overwhelming. It was not till the first days of January that I could give an account to myself of what I experienced. . . . Here is the first thing of which I retain a clear rememberance. I was alone, and already a prey to permanent visual trouble, when I was suddenly seized with a visual trouble infinitely574 more pronounced. Objects grew small and receded575 to infinite distances - men and things together. I was myself immeasurably far away. I looked about me with terror and astonishment576; the world was escaping from me. . . . I remarked at the same time that my voice was extremely far away from me, that it sounded no longer as if mine. I struck the ground with my foot, and perceived its resistance; but this resistance seemed illusory - not that the soil was soft, but that the weight of my body was reduced to almost nothing. . . . I had the feeling of being without weight. ." In addition to being so distant, "objects appeared to me flat. When I spoke with anyone, I saw him like an image cut out of paper with no relief. . . . This sensation lasted intermittently577 for two years. . . . Constantly it seemed as if my legs did not belong to me. It was almost as bad with my arms. As for my head, it seemed no longer to exist. . . . I appeared to myself to act automatically, by an impulsion foreign to myself. . . . There was inside of me a new being, and another part of myself, the old being, which took no interest in the new-comer. I distinctly remember saying to myself that the sufferings of this new being were to me indifferent. I was never really dupe of these illusions, but my mind grew often tired of incessantly correcting the new impressions, and I let myself go an lived the unhappy life of this new entity. I had an ardent578 desire to see my old world again, to get back to my old self. This desire kept me from killing579 myself. . . . I was another, and I hated, I despised this other; he was perfectly odious580 to me; it was certainly another who had taken my form and assumed my functions."49
In cases similar to this, it is as certain that the I is unaltered as that the me is changed. That is to say, the present Thought of the patient is cognitive of both the old me and the new, so long as its memory holds good. Only, within that objective sphere which formerly581 lent itself so simply to the judgment of recognition and of egoistic appropriation, strange perplexities have arisen. The present and the past both seen therein will not unite. Where is my old me? What is this new one? Are they the same? Or have I two? Such questions, answered by whatever theory the patient is able to conjure582 up as plausible, form the beginning of his insane life.50
A case with which I am acquainted through Dr. C. J. Fisher of Tewksbury has possibly its origin in this way. The woman, Bridget F.,
"has been many years insane, and always speaks of her supposed self as 'the rat,' asking me to 'bury the little rat,' etc. Her real self she speaks of in the third person as 'the good woman,' saying, 'The good woman knew Dr. F. and used to work for him,' etc. Sometimes she sadly asks: 'Do you think the good woman will ever come back?' She works at needlework, knitting, laundry, etc., and shows her work, saying, 'Isn't that good for only a rat?' She has, during periods of depression, hid herself under buildings, and crawled into holes and under boxes. 'She was only a rat, and wants to die,' she would say when we found her."
2. The phenomenon of altering personality in its simplest phases seems based on lapses of memory. Any man becomes, as we say, inconsistent with himself if he forgets his engagements, pledges, knowledges, and habits; and it is merely a question of degree at what point we shall say that his personality is changed. In the pathological cases known as those of double or alternate personality the lapse286 of memory is abrupt583, and is usually preceded by a period of unconsciousness or syncope lasting584 a variable length of time. In the hypnotic trance we can easily produce an alteration of the personality, either by telling the subject to forget all that has happened to him since such or such a date, in which case he becomes (it may be) a child again, or by telling him he is another altogether imaginary personage, in which case all facts about himself seem for the time being to lapse from out his mind, and he throws himself into the new character with a vivacity585 proportionate to the amount of histrionic imagination which he possesses.51 But in the pathological cases the transformation531 is spontaneous. The most famous case, perhaps, on record is that of Fèlida X., reported by Dr. Azam of Bordeaux.52 At the age of fourteen this woman began to pass into a 'secondary' state characterized by a change in her general disposition63 and character, as if certain 'inhibitions,' previously existing, were suddenly removed. During the secondary state she remembered the first state, but on emerging from it into the first state she remembered nothing of the second. At the age of forty-four the duration of the secondary state (which was on the whole superior in quality to the original state) had gained upon the latter so much as to occupy most of her time. During it she remembers the events belonging to the original state, but her complete oblivion of the secondary state when the original state recurs586 is often very distressing588 to her, as, for example, when the transition takes place in a carriage on her way to a funeral, and she hasn't the least idea which one of her friends may be dead. She actually became pregnant during one of her early secondary states, and during her first state had no knowledge of how it had come to pass. Her distress587 at these blanks of memory is sometimes intense and once drove her to attempt suicide.
To take another example, Dr. Rieger gives an account53 of an epileptic man who for seventeen years had passed his life alternately free, in prisons, or in asylums, his character being orderly enough in the normal state, but alternating with periods, during which he would leave his home for several weeks, leading the life of a thief and vagabond, being sent to jail, having epileptic fits and excitement, being accused of malingering, etc., etc., and with never a memory of the abnormal conditions which were to blame for all his wretchedness.
"I have never got from anyone," says Dr. Rieger, "so singular an impression as from this man, of whom it could not be said that he had any properly conscious past at all. . . . It is really impossible to think one's self into such a state of mind. His last larceny589 had been performed in Nürnberg, he knew nothing of it, and saw himself before the court and then in the hospital, but without in the least understanding the reason why. That he had epileptic attacks, he knew. But it was impossible to convince him that for hours together he raved566 and acted in an abnormal way."
Another remarkable case is that of Mary Reynolds, lately republished again by Dr. Weir590 Mitchell.54 This dull and melancholy591 young woman, inhabiting the Pennsylvania wilderness592 in 1811,
"was found one morning, long after her habitual time for rising, in a profound sleep from which it was impossible to arouse her. After eighteen or twenty hours of sleeping she awakened593, but in a state of unnatural594 consciousness. Memory had fled. To all intents and purposes she was as a being for the first time ushered595 into the world. 'All of the past that remained to her was the faculty of pronouncing a few words, and this seems to have been as purely instinctive as the wailings of an infant; for at first the words which she uttered were connected with no ideas in her mind.' Until she was taught their significance they were unmeaning sounds.
"'Her eyes were virtually for the first time opened upon the world. Old things had passed away; all things had become new.' Her parents, brothers, sisters, friends, were not recognized or acknowledged as such by her. She had never seen them before, - never known them, - was not aware that such persons had been. Now for the first time she was introduced to their company and acquaintance. To the scenes by which she was surrounded she was a perfect stranger. The house, the fields, the forest, the hills, the vales, the streams, - all were novelties. The beauties of the landscape were all unexplored.
"She had not the slightest consciousness that she had ever existed previous to the moment in which she awoke from that mysterious slumber596. 'In a word, she was an infant, just born, yet born in a state of maturity597, with a capacity for relishing598 the rich, sublime599, luxuriant wonders of created nature.'
"The first lesson in her education was to teach her by what ties she was bound to those by whom she was surrounded, and the duties devolving upon her accordingly. This she was very slow to learn, and, 'indeed, never did learn, or, at least, never would acknowledge the ties of consanguinity600, or scarcely those of friendship. She considered those she had once known as for the most part strangers and enemies, among whom she was, by some remarkable and unaccountable means, transplanted, though from what region or state of existence was a problem unsolved.'
"The next lesson was to re-teach her the arts of reading and writing. She was apt enough, and made such rapid progress in both that in a few weeks she had readily re-learned to read and write. In copying her name which her brother had written for her as a first lesson, she took her pen in a very awkward manner and began to copy from right to left in the Hebrew mode, as though she had been transplanted from an Eastern soil . . . .
"The next thing that is noteworthy is the change which took place in her disposition. Instead of being melancholy she was now cheerful to extremity. Instead of being reserved she was buoyant and social. Formerly taciturn and retiring, she was now merry and jocose601. Her disposition was totally and absolutely changed. While she was, in this second state, extravagantly602 found of company, she was much more enamoured of nature's works, as exhibited in the forests, hills, vales, and water-courses. She used to start in the morning, either on foot or horseback, and ramble603 until nightfall over the whole country; nor was she at all particular whether she were on a path or in the trackless forest. Her predilection604 for this manner of life may have been occasioned by the restraint necessarily imposed upon her by her friends, which caused her to consider them her enemies and not companions, and she was glad to keep out of their way.
"She knew no fear, and as bears and panthers were numerous in the woods, and rattlesnakes and copperheads abounded605 everywhere, her friends told her of the danger to which she exposed herself, but it produced no other effect than to draw forth a contemptuous laugh, as she said, 'I know you only want to frighten me and keep me at home, but you miss it, for I often see your bears and I am perfectly convinced that they are nothing more than black hogs606.'
"One evening, after her return from her daily excursion, she told the following incident: 'As I was riding to-day along a narrow path a great black hog241 came out of the woods and stopped before me. I never saw such an impudent607 black hog before. It stood up on its hind95 feet and grinned and gnashed its teeth at me. I could not make the horse go on. I told him he was a fool to be frightened at a hog, and tried to whip him past, but he would not go an wanted to turn back. I told the hog to get out of the way, but he did not mind me. "Well," said I, "if you won't for words, I'll try blows;" so I got off and took a stick, and walked up toward it. When I got pretty close by, it got down on all fours and walked away slowly and sullenly608, stopping every few steps and looking back and grinning and growling609. Then I got on my horse and rode on.'. . .
"Thus it continued for five weeks, when one morning, after a protracted610 sleep, she awoke and was herself again. She recognized the parental, the brotherly, and sisterly ties as though nothing had happened, and immediately went about the performance of duties incumbent611 upon her, and which she had planned five weeks previously. Great was her surprise at the change which one night (as she supposed) had produced. Nature bore a different aspect. Not a trace was left in her mind of the giddy scenes through which she had passed. Her ramblings through the forest, her tricks and humor, all were faded from her memory, and not a shadow left behind. Her parents saw their child; her brothers and sisters saw their sister. She now had all the knowledge that she had possessed in her first state previous to the change, still fresh and in as vigorous exercise as though no change had been. But any new acquisitions she had made, and any new ideas she had obtained, were lost to her now - yet not lost, but laid up out of sight in safe-keeping for future use. Of course her natural disposition returned; her melancholy was deepened by the information of what had occurred. All went on in the old-fashioned way, and it was fondly hoped that the mysterious occurrences of those five weeks would never be repeated, but these anticipations612 were not to be realized. After the lapse of a few weeks she fell into a profound sleep, and awoke in her second state, taking up her new life again precisely where she had left it when she before passed from that state. She was not now a daughter or a sister. All the knowledge she possessed was that acquired during the few weeks of her former period of second consciousness. She knew nothing of the intervening time. Two periods widely separated were brought into contact. She thought it was but one night.
"In this state she came to understand perfectly the facts of her case, not from memory, but from information. Yet her buoyancy of spirits was so great that no depression was produced. On the contrary, it added to her cheerfulness, and was made the foundation, as was everything else, of mirth.
"These alternations from one state to another continued at intervals613 of varying length for fifteen or sixteen years, but finally ceased when she attained614 the age of thirty-five or thirty-six, leaving her permanently615 in her second state. In this she remained without change for the last quarter of a century of her life."
The emotional opposition of the two states seems, however, to have become gradually effaced616 in Mary Reynolds:
"The change from a gay, hysterical617, mischievous618 woman, fond of jests and subject to absurd beliefs or delusive convictions, to one retaining the joyousness619 and love of society, but sobered down to levels of practical usefulness, was gradual. The most of the twenty-five years which followed she was as different from her melancholy, morbid self as from the hilarious620 condition of the early years of her second state. Some of her family spoke of it as her third state. She is described as becoming rational, industrious621, and very cheerful, yet reasonably serious; possessed of a well-balanced temperament622, and not having the slightest indication of an injured or disturbed mind. For some years she taught school, and in that capacity was both useful and acceptable, being a general favorite with old and young.
"During these last twenty-five years she lived in the same house with the Rev68. Dr. John Reynolds, her nephew, part of that
time keeping house for him, showing a sound judgment and a thorough acquaintance with the duties of her position.
"Dr. Reynolds, who is still living in Meadville," says Dr. Mitchell, "and who has most kindly623 placed the facts at my disposal, states in his letter to me of January 4, 1888, that at a later period of her life she said she did sometimes seem to have a dim, dreamy idea of a shadowy past, which she could not fully grasp, and could not be certain whether it originated in a partially restored memory or in the statements of the events by others during her abnormal state.
"Miss Reynolds died in January, 1854, at the age of sixty-one. On the morning of the day of her death she rose in her usual health, at her breakfast, and superintended household duties. While thus employed she suddenly raised her hands to her head and exclaimed: 'Oh! I wonder what is the matter with my head!' and immediately fell to the floor. When carried to a sofa she gasped624 once or twice and died."
In such cases as the preceding, in which the secondary character is superior to the first, there seems reason to think that the first one is the morbid one. The word inhibition describes its dulness and melancholy. Félida X.'s original character was dull and melancholy in comparison with that which she later acquired, and the change may be regarded as the removal of inhibitions which had maintained themselves from earlier years. Such inhibitions we all know temporarily, when we can not recollect or in some other way command our mental resources. The systematized amnesias (losses of memory) of hypnotic subjects ordered to forget all nouns, or all verbs, or a particular letter of the alphabet, or all that is relative to a certain person, are inhibitions of the sort on a more extensive scale. They sometimes occur spontaneously as symptoms of disease.55 Now M. Pierre Janet has shown that such inhibitions when they bear on a certain class of sensations (making the subject anaesthetic thereto) and also on the memory of such sensations, are the basis of changes of personality. The anaesthetic and 'amnesic626' hysteric is one person; but when you restore her inhibited627 sensibilities and memories by plunging628 her into the hypnotic trance - in other words, when
you rescue them from their 'dissociated' and split-off condition, and make them rejoin the other sensibilities and memories - she is a different person. As said above (p. 203), the hypnotic trance is one method of restoring sensibility in hysterics. But one day when the hysteric anaesthetic named Lucie was already in the hypnotic trance, M. Janet for a certain reason continued to make passes over her for a full half-hour as if she were not already asleep. The result was to throw her into a sort of syncope from which, after half an hour, she revived in a second somnambulic condition entirely unlike that which had characterized her thitherto - different sensibilities, a different memory, a different person, in short. In the waking state the poor young woman was anaesthetic all over, nearly deaf, and with a badly contracted field of vision. Bad as it was, however, sight was her best sense, and she used it as a guide in all her movements. With her eyes bandaged she became entirely helpless, and like other persons of a similar sort whose cases have been recorded, she almost immediately fell asleep in consequence of the withdrawal of her last sensorial stimulus629. M. Janet calls this waking or primary (one can hardly in such a connection say 'normal') state by the name of Lucie 1. In Lucie 2, her first sort of hypnotic trance, the anaesthesias were diminished but not removed. In the deeper trance, 'Lucie 3,' brought about as just described, no trace of them remained. Her sensibility became perfect, and instead of being an extreme example of the 'visual' type, she was transformed into what in Prof. Charcot's terminology630 is known as a motor. That is to say, that whereas when awake she had thought in visual terms exclusively, and could imagine things only by remembering how they looked, now in this deeper trance her thoughts and memories seemed to M. Janet to be largely composed of images of movement and of touch.
Having discovered this deeper trance and change of personality in Lucie, M. Janet naturally became eager to find it in his other subjects. He found it in Rose, in Marie, and in Léonie; and his brother, Dr. Jules Janet, who was interne at the Salpétrière Hospital, found it in the celebrated631 subject Wit . . . . whose trances had been studied for years by the various doctors of that institution without any of them having happened to awaken this very peculiar individuality.56
With the return of all the sensibilities in the deeper trance, these subjects turned, as it were, into normal persons. Their memories in particular grew more extensive, and hereupon M. Janet spins a theoretic generalization632. When a certain kind of sensation, he says, is abolished in an hysteric patient, there is also abolished along with it all recollection of past sensations of that kind. If, for example, hearing be the anaesthetic sense, the patient becomes unable even to imagine sounds and voices, and has to speak (when speech is till possible) by means of motor or articulatory cues. If the motor sense be abolished, the patient must will the movements of his limbs by first defining them to his mind in visual terms, and must innervate his voice by premonitory ideas of the way in which the words are going to sound. The practical consequences of this law would be great, for all experiences belonging to a sphere of sensibility which afterwards became anaesthetic, as, for example, touch, would have been stored away and remembered in tactile633 terms, and be incontinently forgotten as soon as the cutaneous and muscular sensibility should come to be cut out in the course of disease. Memory of them would be restored again, on the other hand, as soon as the sense of touch came back. Now, in the hysteric subjects on whom M. Janet experimented, touch did come back in the state of trance. The result was that all sorts of memories, absent in the ordinary condition, came back too, and they could then go back and explain the origin of many otherwise inexplicable things in their life. One stage in the great convulsive crisis of hystero-epilepsy, for example, is what French writers call the phase des attitudes passionelles, in which the patient, without speaking or giving any account of herself, will go through the outward movements of fear, anger, or some other emotional state of mind. Usually this phase is, with each patient, a thing so stereotyped634 as to seem automatic, and doubts have even been expressed as to whether any consciousness exists whilst it lasts. When, however, the patient Lucie's tactile sensibility came back in the deeper trance, she explained the origin of her hysteric crisis in a great fright which she had had when a child, on a day when certain men, hid behind the curtains, had jumped out upon her; she told how she went through this scene again in all her crises; she told of her sleep-walking fits through the house when a child, and how for several months she had been shut in a dark room because of a disorder564 of the eyes. All these were things of which she recollected nothing when awake, because they were records of experiences mainly of motion and of touch.
But M. Janet's subject Léonie is interesting, and shows best how with the sensibilities and motor impulses the memories and character will change.
"This woman, whose life sounds more like an improbable romance than a genuine history, has had attacks of natural somnambulism since the age of three years. She has been hypnotized constantly by all sorts of persons from the age of sixteen upwards, and she is now forty-five. Whilst her normal life developed in one way in the midst of her poor country surroundings, her second life was passed in drawing-rooms and doctors' offices, and naturally took an entirely different direction. Today, when in her normal state, this poor peasant woman is a serious and rather sad person, calm and slow, very mild with every one, and extremely timid: to look at her one would never suspect the personage which she contains. But hardly is she put to sleep hypnotically when a metamorphosis occurs. Her face is no longer the same. She keeps her eyes closed, it is true, but the acuteness of her other senses supplies their place. She is gay, noisy, restless, sometimes insupportably so. She remains good-natured, but has acquired a singular tendency to irony635 and sharp jesting. Nothing is more curious than to hear her after a sitting when she has received a visit from strangers who wished to see her asleep. She gives a word-portrait of them, apes their manners, pretends to know their little ridiculous aspects and passions, and for each invents a romance. To this character must be added the possession of an enormous number of recollections, whose existence she does not even suspect when awake, for her amnesia625 is then complete. . . . She refuses the name of Léonie and takes that of Léontine (Léonie 2) to which her first magnetizers had accustomed her. 'That good woman is not myself,' she says, 'she is too stupid!' To herself, Léontine or Léonie 2, she attributes all the sensations and all the actions, is a word all the conscious experiences which she has undergone in somnambulism, and knits them together to make the history of her already long life. To Léonie 1 (as M. Janet calls the waking woman] on the other hand, she exclusively ascribes the events lived through in waking hours. I was at first struck by an important exception to the rule, and was disposed to think that there might be something arbitrary in this partition of her recollections. In the normal state Léonie has a husband and children; but Léonie 2, the somnambulist, whilst acknowledging the children as her own, attributes the husband to 'the other.' This choice, was perhaps explicable, but it followed no rule. It was not till later that I learned that her magnetizers in early days, as audacious as certain hypnotizers of recent date, had somnambulized her for her first accouchements, and that she had lapsed into that state spontaneously in the later ones. Léonie 2 was thus quite right in ascribing to herself the children - it was she who had had them, and the rule that her first trance-state forms a different personality was not broken. But it is the same with her second or deepest state of trance. When after the renewed passes, syncope, etc., she reaches the condition which I have called Léonie 3, she is another person still. Serious and grave, instead of being a restless child, she speaks slowly and moves but little. Again she separates herself from the waking Léonie 1. 'A good but rather stupid woman,' she says, 'and not me.' And she also separates herself from Léonie 2: 'How can you see anything of me in that crazy creature?' she says. 'Fortunately I am nothing for her.'"
Léonie 1 knows only of herself; Léonie 2 of herself and of Léonie 1; Léonie 3 knows of herself and of both the others. Léonie 1 has a visual consciousness; Léonie 2 has one both visual and auditory; in Léonie 3 it is at once visual, auditory, and tactile. Prof. Janet thought at first that he was Léonie 3's discoverer. But she told him that she had been frequently in that condition before. A former magnetizer had hit upon her just as M. Janet had, in seeking by means of passes to deepen the sleep of Léonie 2.
"This resurrection of a somnambulic personage who had been extinct for twenty years is curious enough; and in speaking to Léonie 3, I naturally now adopt the name of Léonore which was given her by her first master."
The most carefully studies case of multiple personality is that of the hysteric youth Louis V. about whom MM. Bourru and Burot have written a book.57 The symptoms are too intricate to be reproduced here with detail. Suffice it that Louis V. had led an irregular life, in the army, in hospitals, and in houses of correction, and had had numerous hysteric anaesthesias, paralyses, and contractures attacking him differently at different times and when he lived at different places. At eighteen, at an agricultural House of Correction he was bitten by a viper636, which brought on a convulsive crisis and left both of his legs paralyzed for three years. During this condition he was gentle, moral, and industrious. But suddenly at last, after a long convulsive seizure637, his paralysis638 disappeared, and with it his memory for all the time during which it had endured. His character also changed: he became quarrelsome, gluttonous639, impolite, stealing his comrades' wine, and money from an attendant, and finally escaped from the establishment and fought furiously when he was overtaken and caught. Later, when he first fell under the observation of the authors, his right side was half paralyzed and insensible, and his character intolerable; the application of metals transferred the paralysis to the left side, abolished his recollections of the other condition, and carried him psychically640 back to the hospital of Bicêtre where he had been treated for a similar physical condition. His character, opinions, education, all underwent a concomitant transformation. He was no longer the personage of the moment before. It appeared ere long that any present nervous disorder in him could be temporarily removed by metals, magnets, electric or other baths, etc.; and that any past disorder could be brought back by hypnotic suggestion. He also went through a rapid spontaneous repetition of his series of past disorders after each of the convulsive attacks which occurred in him at intervals. It was observed that each physical state in which he found himself, excluded certain memories and brought with it a definite modification641 of character.
"The law of these changes," say the authors, "is quite clear. There exist precise, constant, and necessary relations between the bodily and the mental state, such that it is impossible to modify the one without modifying the other in a parallel fashion."58
The case of this proteiform individual would seem, then, nicely to corroborate642 M. P. Janet's law that anaesthesias and gaps in memory go together. Coupling Janet's law with Locke's that changes of memory bring changes of personality, we should have an apparent explanation of some cases at least of alternate personality. But mere anaesthesia does not sufficiently643 explain the changes of disposition, which are probably due to modifications644 in the perviousness of motor and associative paths, co-ordinate with those of the sensorial paths rather than consecutive645 upon them. And indeed a glance at other cases than M. Janet's own, suffices to show us that sensibility and memory are not coupled in any invariable way.59 M. Janet's law, true of his own cases, does not seem to hold good in all.
Of course it is mere guesswork to speculate on what may be the cause of the amnesias which lie at the bottom of changes in the Self. Changes of blood-supply have naturally been invoked. Alternate action of the two hemispheres was long ago proposed by Dr. Wigan in his book on the Duality of the Mind. I shall revert to this explanation after considering the third class of alterations of the Self, those, namely, which I have called 'possessions.'
I have myself become quite recently acquainted with the subject of a case of alternate personality of the 'ambulatory' sort, who has given me permission to name him in these pages.60
The Rev. Ansel Bourne, of Greene, R. I., was brought up to the trade of a carpenter; but, in consequence of a sudden temporary loss of sight and hearing under very peculiar circumstances, he became converted from Atheism646 to Christianity just before his thirtieth year, and has since that time for the most part lived the life of an itinerant647 preacher. He has been subject to headaches and temporary fits of depression of spirits during most of his life, and has had a few fits of unconsciousness lasting an hour or less. He also has a region of somewhat diminished cutaneous sensibility on the left thigh648. Otherwise his health is good, and his muscular strength and endurance excellent. He is of a firm and self-reliant disposition, a man whose yea is yea and his nay649, nay; and his character for uprightness is such in the community that no person who knows him will for a moment admit the possibility of his case not being perfectly genuine.
On January 17, 1887, he drew 551 dollars from a bank in Providence650 with which to pay for a certain lot of land in Greene, paid certain bills, and got into a Pawtucket horse-car. This is the last incident which he remembers. He did not return home that day, and nothing was heard of him for two months. He was published in the papers as missing, and foul651 play being suspected, the police sought in vain his whereabouts. On the morning of March 14th, however, at Norristown, Pennsylvania, a man calling himself A. J. Brown, who had rented a small shop six weeks previously stocked it with stationery652, confectionery, fruit and small articles, and carried on his quiet trade without seeming to any one unnatural or eccentric, woke up in a fright and called in the people of the house to tell him where he was. He said that his name was Ansel Bourne, that he was entirely ignorant of Norristown, that he knew nothing of shop-keeping, and that the last thing he remembered - it seemed only yesterday - was drawing the money from the bank, etc., in Providence. He would not believe that two months had elapsed. The people of the house thought him insane; and so, at first, did Dr. Louis H. Read, whom they called in to see him. But on telegraphing to Providence, confirmatory messages came, and presently his nephew, Mr. Andrew Harris, arrived upon the scene, made everything straight, and took him home. He was very weak, having lost apparently653 over twenty pounds of flesh during his escapade, and had such a horror of the idea of the candy-store that he refused to set foot in it again.
The first two weeks of the period remained unaccounted for, as he had no memory, after he had once resumed his normal personality, of any part of the time, and no one who knew him seems to have seen him after he left home. The remarkable part of the change is, of course, the peculiar occupation which the so-called Brown indulged in. Mr. Bourne has never in his life had the slightest contract with trade. 'Brown' was described by the neighbors as taciturn, orderly in his habits, and in no way queer. He went to Philadelphia several times; replenished654 his stock; cooked for himself in the back shop, where he also slept; went regularly to church; and once at a prayer-meeting made what was considered by the hearers a good address, in the course of which he related an incident which he had witnessed in his natural state of Bourne.
This was all that was known of the case up to June 1890, when I induced Mr. Bourne to submit to hypnotism, so as to see whether, in the hypnotic trance, his 'Brown' memory would not come back. It did so with surprising readiness; so much so indeed that it proved quite impossible to make him whilst in the hypnosis remember any of the facts of his normal life. He had heard of Ansel Bourne, but "didn't know as he had ever met the man." When confronted with Mrs. Bourne he said that he had "never seen the woman before," etc. On the other hand, he told of his peregrinations during the lost fortnight,61 and gave all sorts of details about the Norristown episode. The whole thing was prosaic655 enough; and the Brown-personality seems to be nothing but a rather shrunken, dejected, and amnesic extract of Mr. Bourne himself. He gives no motive253 for the wandering except that there was 'trouble back there' and he 'wanted rest.' During the trance he looks old, the corners of his mouth are drawn656 down, his voice is slow and weak, and he sits screening his eyes and trying vainly to remember what lay before and after the two months of the Brown experience. "I'm all hedged in," he says: "I can't get out at either end. I don't know what set me down in that Pawtucket horse-car, and I don't know how I ever left that store, or what became of it." His eyes are practically normal, and all his sensibilities (save for tardier657 response) about the same in hypnosis as in waking. I had hoped by suggestion, etc., to run the two personalities658 into one, and make the memories continuous, but no artifice659 would avail to accomplish this, and Mr. Bourne's skull660 to-day still covers two distinct personal selves.
The case (whether it contain an epileptic element or not) should apparently be classed as one of spontaneous hypnotic trance, persisting for two months. The peculiarity of it is that nothing else like it ever occurred in the man's life, and that no eccentricity661 of character came out. In most similar cases, the attacks recur456, and the sensibilities and conduct markedly change.62
3. In 'mediumships' or 'possessions' the invasion and the passing away of the secondary state are both relatively abrupt, and the duration of the state is usually short - i.e., from a few minutes to a few hours. Whenever the secondary state is well developed no memory for aught that happened during it remains after the primary consciousness comes back. The subject during the secondary consciousness speaks, writes, or acts as if animated by a foreign person, and often names this foreign person and gives his history. In old times the foreign 'control' was usually a demon444, and is so now in communities which favor that belief. With us he gives himself out at the worst for an Indian or other grotesquely662 speaking but harmless personage. Usually he purports664 to be the spirit of a dead person known or unknown to those present, and the subject is then what we call a 'medium.' Mediumistic possession in all its grades seems to form a perfectly natural special type of alternate personality, and the susceptibility to it in some form is by no means an uncommon665 gift, in persons who have no other obvious nervous anomaly. The phenomena are very intricate, and are only just beginning to be studied in a proper scientific way. The lowest phase of mediumship is automatic writing, and the lowest grade of that is where the Subject knows what words are coming, but feels impelled666 to write them as if from without. Then comes writing unconsciously, even whilst engaged in reading or talk. Inspirational speaking, playing on musical instruments, etc., also belong to the relatively lower phases of possession, in which the normal self is not excluded from conscious participation667 in the performance, though their initiative seems to come from elsewhere. In the highest phase the trance is complete, the voice, language, and everything are changed, and there is no after-memory whatever until the next trance comes. One curious thing about trance-utterances is their generic similarity in different individuals. The 'control' here in America is either a grotesque663, slangy, and flippant personage ('Indian' controls, calling the ladies 'squaws,' the men 'braves,' the house a 'wigwam,' etc., etc., are excessively common); or, if he ventures on higher intellectual flights, he abounds668 in a curiously669 vague optimistic philosophy-and-water, in which phrases about spirit, harmony, beauty, law, progression, development, etc., keep recurring670. It seems exactly as if one author composed more than half of the trance-messages, no matter by whom they are uttered. Whether all sub-conscious selves are peculiarly susceptible671 to a certain stratum672 of the Zeitgeist, and get their inspiration from it, I know not; but this is obviously the case with the secondary selves which become 'developed' in spiritualist circles. There the beginnings of the medium trance are indistinguishable from effects of hypnotic suggestion. The subject assumes the role of a medium simply because opinion expects it of him under the conditions which are present; and carries it out with a feebleness or a vivacity proportionate to his histrionic gifts. But the odd thing is that persons unexposed to spiritualist traditions will so often act in the same way when they become entranced, speak in the name of the departed, go through the motions of their several death-agonies, send messages about their happy home in the summer-land, and describe the ailments673 of those present. I have no theory to publish of these cases, several of which I have personally seen.
As an example of the automatic writing performances I will quote from an account of his own case kindly furnished me by Mr. Sidney Dean of Warren, R. I., member of Congress from Connecticut from 1855 to 1859, who has been all his life a robust674 and active journalist, author, and man of affairs. He has for many years been a writing subject, and has a large collection of manuscript automatically produced.
"Some of it," he writes us, "is in hieroglyph675, or strange compounded arbitrary characters; each series possessing a seeming unity in general design or character, followed by what purports to be a translation or rendering676 into mother English. I never attempted the seemingly impossible feat377 of copying the characters. They were cut with the precision of a graver's tool, and generally with a single rapid stroke of the pencil. Many languages, some obsolete677 and passed from history, and professedly given. To see them would satisfy you that no one could copy them except by tracing.
"These, however, are but a small part of the phenomena. The 'automatic' has given place to the impressional, and when the work is in progress I am in the normal condition, and seemingly two minds, intelligences, persons, are practically engaged. The writing is in my own hand but the dictation not of my own mind and will, but that of another, upon subjects of which I can have no knowledge and hardly a theory; and I, myself, consciously criticise the thought, fact, mode of expressing it, etc., while the hand is recording678 the subject-matter and even the words impressed to be written. If I refuse to write the sentence, or even the word, the impression instantly ceases, and my willingness must be mentally expressed before the work is resumed, and it is resumed at the point of cessation, even if it should be in the middle of a sentence. Sentences are commenced without knowledge of mine as to their subject or ending. In fact, I have never known in advance the subject of disquisition.
"There is in progress now, at uncertain times, not subject to my will, a series of twenty-four chapters upon the scientific features of life, moral, spiritual, eternal. Seven have already been written in the manner indicated. These were preceded by twenty-four chapters relating generally to the life beyond material death, its characteristics, etc. Each chapter is signed by the name of some person who has lived on earth, - some with whom I have been personally acquainted, others known in history. . . . I know nothing of the alleged authorship of any chapter until it is completed and the name impressed and appended. . . . I am interested not only in the reputed authorship, - of which I have nothing corroborative679, - but in the philosophy taught, of which I was in ignorance until these chapters appeared. From my standpoint of life - which has been that of biblical orthodoxy - the philosophy is new, seems to be reasonable, and is logically put. I confess to an inability to successfully controvert680 it to my own satisfaction.
"It is an intelligent ego who writes, or else the influence assumes individuality, which practically makes of the influence a personality. It is not myself; of that I am conscious at every step of the process. I have also traversed the whole field of the claims of 'unconscious cerebration,' so called, so far as I am competent to critically examine it, and it fails, as a theory, in numberless points, when applied681 to this strange work through me. It would be far more reasonable and satisfactory for me to accept the silly hypothesis of re-incarnation, - the old doctrine of metempsychosis, - as taught by some spiritualists to-day, and to believe that I lived a former life here, and that once in a while it dominates my intellectual powers, and writes chapters upon the philosophy of life, or opens a post-office for spirits to drop their effusions, and have them put into English script. No; the easiest and most natural solution to me is to admit the claim made, i.e., that it is a decarnated intelligence who writes. But who? that is the question. The names of scholars and thinkers who once lived are affixed682 to the most ungrammatical and weakest of bosh. . .
"It seems reasonable to me - upon the hypothesis that it is a person using another's mind or brain - that there must be more or less of that other's style or tone incorporated in the message, and that to the unseen personality, i.e., the power which impresses, the thought, the fact, or the philosophy, and not the style or tone, belongs. For instance, while the influence is impressing my brain with the greatest force and rapidity, so that my pencil fairly flies over the paper to record the thoughts, I am conscious that, in many cases, the vehicle of the thought, i.e., the language, is very natural and familiar to me, as if, somehow, my personality as a writer was getting mixed up with the message. And, again, the style, language, everything, is entirely foreign to my own style."
I am myself persuaded by abundant acquaintance with the trances of one medium that the 'control' may be altogether different from any possible waking self of the person. In the case I have in mind, if professes to be a certain departed French doctor; and is, I am convinced, acquainted with facts about the circumstances, and the living and dead relatives and acquaintances, of numberless sitters whom the medium never met before, and of whom she has never heard the names. I record my bare opinion here unsupported by the evidence, not, of course, in order to convert anyone to my view, but because I am persuaded that a serious study of these trance-phenomena is one of the greatest needs of psychology, and think that my personal confession may possibly draw a reader or two into a field which the soidisant 'scientist' usually refuses to explore.
Many persons have found evidence conclusive683 to their minds that in some cases the control is really the departed spirit whom it pretends to be. The phenomena shade off so gradually into cases where this is obviously absurd, that the presumption684 (quite apart from a priori 'scientific' prejudice) is great against its being true. The case of Lurancy Vennum is perhaps as extreme a case of 'possession' of the modern sort as one can find.63 Lurancy was a young girl of fourteen, living with her parents at Watseka, Ill., who (after various distressing hysterical disorders and spontaneous trances, during which she was possessed by departed spirits of a more or less grotesque sort) finally declared herself to be animated by the spirit of Mary Roff (a neighbor's daughter, who had died in an insane asylum167 twelve years before) and insisted on being sent 'home' to Mr. Roff's house. After a week of 'homesickness' and importunity685 on her part, her parents agreed, and the Roffs, who pitied her, and who were spiritualists into the bargain, took her in. Once there, she seems to have convinced the family that their dead Mary had exchanged habitations with Lurancy. Lurancy was said to be temporarily in heaven, and Mary's spirit now controlled her organism, and lived again in her former earthly home.
"The girl, now in her new home, seemed perfectly happy and content, knowing every person and everything that Mary knew when in her original body, twelve to twenty-five years ago, recognizing and calling by name those who were friends and neighbors of the family from 1852 to 1865, when Mary died, calling attention to scores, yes, hundreds of incidents that transpired686 during her natural life. During all the period of her sojourn687 at Mr. Roff's she had no knowledge of, and did not recognize, any of Mr. Vennum's family, their friends or neighbors, yet Mr. and Mrs. Vennum and their children visited her and Mr. Roff's people, she being introduced to them as to any strangers. After frequent visits, and hearing them often and favorably spoken of, she learned to love them as acquaintances, and visited them with Mrs. Roff three times. From day to day she appeared natural, easy, affable, and industrious, attending diligently688 and faithfully to her household duties, assisting in the general work of the family as a faithful, prudent689 daughter might be supposed to do, singing, reading, or conversing690 as opportunity offered, upon all matters of private or general interest to the family."
The so-called Mary whilst at the Roffs' would sometimes 'go back to heaven,' and leave the body in a 'quiet trance,' i.e., without the original personality of Lurancy returning. After eight or nine weeks however, the memory and manner of Lurancy would sometimes partially, but not entirely, return for a few minutes. Once Lurancy seems to have taken full possession for a short time. At last, after some fourteen weeks, comformably to the prophecy which 'Mary' had made when she first assumed 'control,' she departed definitively and the Lurancy-consciousness came back for good. Mr. Roff writes:
"She wanted me to take her home, which I did. She called me Mr. Roff, and talked with me as a young girl would, not being acquainted. I asked her how things appeared to her - if they seemed natural. She said it seemed like a dream to her. She met her parents and brothers in a very affectionate manner, hugging and kissing each one in tears of gladness. She clasped her arms around her father's neck a long time, fairly smothering691 him with kisses. I saw her father just now (eleven o'clock). He says she has been perfectly natural, and seems entirely well."
Lurancy's mother writes, a couple of months later, that she was
"perfectly and entirely well and natural. For two or three weeks after her return home, she seemed a little strange to what she had been before she was taken sick last summer, but only, perhaps, the natural change that had taken place with the girl, and except it seemed to her as though she had been dreaming or sleeping, etc. Lurancy has been smarter, more intelligent, more industrious, more womanly, and more polite than before. We give the credit of her complete cure and restoration to her family, to Dr. E. W. Stevens, and Mr. and Mrs. Roff, by their obtaining her removal to Mr. Roff's, where her cure was perfected. We firmly believe that, had she remained at home, she would have died, or we would have been obliged to send her to the insane asylum; and if so, that she would have died there; and further, that I could not have lived a short time with the care and trouble devolving on me. Several of the relatives of Lurancy, including ourselves, now believe she was cured by spirit power, and that Mary Roff controlled the girl."
Eight years later, Lurancy was reported to be married and a mother, and in good health. She had apparently outgrown692 the mediumistic phase of her existence.64
On the condition of the sensibility during these invasions, few observations have been made. I have found the hands of two automatic writers anaesthetic during the act. In two others I have found this not to be the case. Automatic writing is usually preceded by shooting pains along the arm-nerves and irregular contractions of the arm-muscles. I have found one medium's tongue and lips apparently insensible to pin-pricks during her (speaking) trance.
If we speculate on the brain-condition during all these different perversions of personality, we see that it must be supposed capable of successively changing all its modes of action, and abandoning the use for the time being of whole sets of well organized association-paths. In no other way can we explain the loss of memory in passing from one alternating condition to another. And not only this, but we must admit that organized systems of paths can be thrown out of gear with others, so that the processes in one system give rise to one consciousness, and those of another system to another simultaneously existing consciousness. Thus only can we understand the facts of automatic writing, etc., whilst the patient is out of trance, and the false anaesthesias and amnesias of the hysteric type. But just what sort of dissociation the phrase 'thrown out of gear' may stand for, we cannot even conjecture693; only I think we ought not to talk of the doubling of the self as if it consisted in the failure to combine on the part of certain systems of ideas which usually do so. It is better to talk of objects usually combined, and which are now divided between the two 'selves,' in the hysteric and automatic cases in question. Each of the selves is due to a system of cerebral paths acting by itself. If the brain acted normally, and the dissociated systems came together again, we should get a new affection of consciousness in the form of a third 'Self' different from the other two, but knowing their objects together, as the result. - After all I have said in the last chapter, this hardly needs further remark.
Some peculiarities694 in the lower automatic performances suggest that the systems thrown out of gear with each other are contained one in the right and the other in the left hemisphere. The subjects, e.g., often write backwards, or they transpose letters, or they write mirror-script. All these are symptoms of agraphic disease. The left hand, if left to its natural impulse, will in most people write mirror-script more easily than natural script. Mr. F. W. H. Myers has laid stress on these analogies.65 He has also called attention to the usual inferior moral tone of ordinary planchette writing. On Hughlings Jackson's principles, the left hemisphere, being the more evolved organ, at ordinary times inhibits695 the activity of the right one; but Mr. Myers suggests that during the automatic performances the usual inhibition may be removed and the right hemisphere set free to act all by itself. This is very likely to some extent to be the case. But the crude explanation of 'two' selves by 'two' hemispheres is of course far from Mr. Myers's thought. The selves may be more than two, and the brain-systems severally used for each must be conceived as interpenetrating each other in very minute ways.
Summary.
To sum up now this long chapter. The consciousness of Self involves a stream of thought, each part of which as 'I' can 1) remember those which went before, and know the things they knew; and 2) emphasize and care paramountly696 for certain ones among them as 'me,' and appropriate to these the rest. The nucleus of the 'me' is always the bodily existence felt to be present at the time. Whatever remembered-past-feelings resemble this present feeling are deemed to belong to the same me with it. Whatever other things are perceived to be associated with this feeling are deemed to form part of that me's experience; and of them certain ones (which fluctuate more or less) are reckoned to be themselves constituents of the me in a larger sense, - such are the clothes, the material possessions, the friends, the honors and esteem which the person receives or may receive. This me is an empirical aggregate of things objectively known. The I which knows them cannot itself be an aggregate, neither for psychological purposes need it be considered to be an unchanging metaphysical entity like the Soul, or a principle like the pure Ego, viewed as 'out of time.' It is a Thought, at each moment different from that of the last moment, but appropriative of the latter, together with all that the latter called its own. All the experiential facts find their place in this description, unencumbered with any hypothesis save that of the existence of passing thoughts or states of mind. The same brain may subserve many conscious selves, either alternate or coexisting; but by what modifications in its action, or whether ultra-cerebral conditions may intervene, are questions which cannot now be answered.
If anyone urge that I assign no reason why the successive passing thoughts should inherit each other's possessions, or why they and the brain-states should be functions (in the mathematical sense) of each other, I reply that the reason, if there be any, must lie where all real reasons lie, in the total sense or meaning of the world. If there be such a meaning, or any approach to it (as we are bound to trust there is), it alone can make clear to us why such finite human streams of thought are called into existence in such functional697 dependence698 upon brains. This is as much as to say that the special natural science of psychology must stop with the mere functional formula. If the passing thought be the directly verifiable existent which no school has hitherto doubted it to be, then that thought is itself the thinker, and psychology need not look beyond. The only pathway that I can discover for bringing in a more transcendental thinker would be to deny that we have any direct knowledge of the thought as such. The latter's existence would then be reduced to a postulate, an assertion that there must be a knower correlative to all this known; and the problem who that knower is would have become a metaphysical problem. With the question once stated in these terms, the spiritualist and transcendentalist solutions must be considered as prima facie on a par with our own psychological one, and discussed impartially. But that carries us beyond the psychological or naturalistic point of view.
点击收听单词发音
1 ego | |
n.自我,自己,自尊 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
2 tempted | |
v.怂恿(某人)干不正当的事;冒…的险(tempt的过去分词) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
3 reprisal | |
n.报复,报仇,报复性劫掠 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
4 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
5 dealing | |
n.经商方法,待人态度 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
6 par | |
n.标准,票面价值,平均数量;adj.票面的,平常的,标准的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
7 psychic | |
n.对超自然力敏感的人;adj.有超自然力的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
8 prosper | |
v.成功,兴隆,昌盛;使成功,使昌隆,繁荣 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
9 triumphant | |
adj.胜利的,成功的;狂欢的,喜悦的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
10 dwindle | |
v.逐渐变小(或减少) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
11 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
12 con | |
n.反对的观点,反对者,反对票,肺病;vt.精读,学习,默记;adv.反对地,从反面;adj.欺诈的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
13 constituent | |
n.选民;成分,组分;adj.组成的,构成的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
14 constituents | |
n.选民( constituent的名词复数 );成分;构成部分;要素 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
15 blemished | |
v.有损…的完美,玷污( blemish的过去式 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
16 attired | |
adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服,使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
17 immediate | |
adj.立即的;直接的,最接近的;紧靠的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
18 mediate | |
vi.调解,斡旋;vt.经调解解决;经斡旋促成 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
19 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
20 awaken | |
vi.醒,觉醒;vt.唤醒,使觉醒,唤起,激起 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
21 ken | |
n.视野,知识领域 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
22 instinctive | |
adj.(出于)本能的;直觉的;(出于)天性的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
23 inter | |
v.埋葬 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
24 ornamental | |
adj.装饰的;作装饰用的;n.装饰品;观赏植物 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
25 intimacy | |
n.熟悉,亲密,密切关系,亲昵的言行 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
26 saturated | |
a.饱和的,充满的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
27 labor | |
n.劳动,努力,工作,劳工;分娩;vi.劳动,努力,苦干;vt.详细分析;麻烦 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
28 annihilated | |
v.(彻底)消灭( annihilate的过去式和过去分词 );使无效;废止;彻底击溃 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
29 annihilate | |
v.使无效;毁灭;取消 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
30 miser | |
n.守财奴,吝啬鬼 (adj.miserly) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
31 remains | |
n.剩余物,残留物;遗体,遗迹 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
32 conversion | |
n.转化,转换,转变 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
33 stiffen | |
v.(使)硬,(使)变挺,(使)变僵硬 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
34 sneaking | |
a.秘密的,不公开的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
35 dread | |
vt.担忧,忧虑;惧怕,不敢;n.担忧,畏惧 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
36 gregarious | |
adj.群居的,喜好群居的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
37 liking | |
n.爱好;嗜好;喜欢 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
38 innate | |
adj.天生的,固有的,天赋的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
39 propensity | |
n.倾向;习性 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
40 physically | |
adj.物质上,体格上,身体上,按自然规律 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
41 spoke | |
n.(车轮的)辐条;轮辐;破坏某人的计划;阻挠某人的行动 v.讲,谈(speak的过去式);说;演说;从某种观点来说 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
42 plight | |
n.困境,境况,誓约,艰难;vt.宣誓,保证,约定 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
43 worthy | |
adj.(of)值得的,配得上的;有价值的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
44 demure | |
adj.严肃的;端庄的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
45 laborers | |
n.体力劳动者,工人( laborer的名词复数 );(熟练工人的)辅助工 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
46 discordant | |
adj.不调和的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
47 perfectly | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
48 harmonious | |
adj.和睦的,调和的,和谐的,协调的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
49 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
50 elation | |
n.兴高采烈,洋洋得意 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
51 unreasonable | |
adj.不讲道理的,不合情理的,过度的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
52 exalts | |
赞扬( exalt的第三人称单数 ); 歌颂; 提升; 提拔 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
53 condemns | |
v.(通常因道义上的原因而)谴责( condemn的第三人称单数 );宣判;宣布…不能使用;迫使…陷于不幸的境地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
54 layman | |
n.俗人,门外汉,凡人 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
55 cholera | |
n.霍乱 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
56 incompatible | |
adj.不相容的,不协调的,不相配的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
57 pecuniary | |
adj.金钱的;金钱上的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
58 discriminate | |
v.区别,辨别,区分;有区别地对待 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
59 loathe | |
v.厌恶,嫌恶 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
60 subjective | |
a.主观(上)的,个人的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
61 faculties | |
n.能力( faculty的名词复数 );全体教职员;技巧;院 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
62 dispositions | |
安排( disposition的名词复数 ); 倾向; (财产、金钱的)处置; 气质 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
63 disposition | |
n.性情,性格;意向,倾向;排列,部署 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
64 unity | |
n.团结,联合,统一;和睦,协调 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
65 isolating | |
adj.孤立的,绝缘的v.使隔离( isolate的现在分词 );将…剔出(以便看清和单独处理);使(某物质、细胞等)分离;使离析 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
66 simultaneously | |
adv.同时发生地,同时进行地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
67 subjectivity | |
n.主观性(主观主义) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
68 rev | |
v.发动机旋转,加快速度 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
69 momentous | |
adj.重要的,重大的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
70 symbolic | |
adj.象征性的,符号的,象征主义的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
71 distinguished | |
adj.卓越的,杰出的,著名的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
72 sanctuary | |
n.圣所,圣堂,寺庙;禁猎区,保护区 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
73 citadel | |
n.城堡;堡垒;避难所 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
74 withholding | |
扣缴税款 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
75 assent | |
v.批准,认可;n.批准,认可 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
76 emanate | |
v.发自,来自,出自 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
77 fiat | |
n.命令,法令,批准;vt.批准,颁布 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
78 fiats | |
n.命令,许可( fiat的名词复数 );菲亚特汽车(意大利品牌) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
79 physiologist | |
n.生理学家 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
80 vaguely | |
adv.含糊地,暖昧地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
81 analogous | |
adj.相似的;类似的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
82 junction | |
n.连接,接合;交叉点,接合处,枢纽站 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
83 sensory | |
adj.知觉的,感觉的,知觉器官的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
84 incessant | |
adj.不停的,连续的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
85 incessantly | |
ad.不停地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
86 accrete | |
v.共生,附着,增加;adj.共生的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
87 accurately | |
adv.准确地,精确地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
88 diverge | |
v.分叉,分歧,离题,使...岔开,使转向 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
89 nucleus | |
n.核,核心,原子核 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
90 delusive | |
adj.欺骗的,妄想的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
91 summation | |
n.总和;最后辩论 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
92 fully | |
adv.完全地,全部地,彻底地;充分地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
93 precisely | |
adv.恰好,正好,精确地,细致地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
94 opposition | |
n.反对,敌对 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
95 hind | |
adj.后面的,后部的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
96 hindrances | |
阻碍者( hindrance的名词复数 ); 障碍物; 受到妨碍的状态 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
97 mutual | |
adj.相互的,彼此的;共同的,共有的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
98 obstructions | |
n.障碍物( obstruction的名词复数 );阻碍物;阻碍;阻挠 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
99 reverberate | |
v.使回响,使反响 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
100 backwards | |
adv.往回地,向原处,倒,相反,前后倒置地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
101 forsake | |
vt.遗弃,抛弃;舍弃,放弃 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
102 purely | |
adv.纯粹地,完全地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
103 manifestations | |
n.表示,显示(manifestation的复数形式) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
104 assenting | |
同意,赞成( assent的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
105 negating | |
v.取消( negate的现在分词 );使无效;否定;否认 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
106 divergences | |
n.分叉( divergence的名词复数 );分歧;背离;离题 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
107 periphery | |
n.(圆体的)外面;周围 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
108 withdrawal | |
n.取回,提款;撤退,撤军;收回,撤销 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
109 outwards | |
adj.外面的,公开的,向外的;adv.向外;n.外形 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
110 upwards | |
adv.向上,在更高处...以上 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
111 intercepting | |
截取(技术),截接 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
112 hesitation | |
n.犹豫,踌躇 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
113 repugnance | |
n.嫌恶 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
114 eyelids | |
n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 );眼睛也不眨一下;不露声色;面不改色 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
115 fluctuation | |
n.(物价的)波动,涨落;周期性变动;脉动 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
116 contractions | |
n.收缩( contraction的名词复数 );缩减;缩略词;(分娩时)子宫收缩 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
117 respiration | |
n.呼吸作用;一次呼吸;植物光合作用 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
118 expressive | |
adj.表现的,表达…的,富于表情的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
119 desperately | |
adv.极度渴望地,绝望地,孤注一掷地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
120 dally | |
v.荒废(时日),调情 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
121 overt | |
adj.公开的,明显的,公然的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
122 physiologically | |
ad.生理上,在生理学上 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
123 physiological | |
adj.生理学的,生理学上的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
124 peculiarity | |
n.独特性,特色;特殊的东西;怪癖 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
125 minimal | |
adj.尽可能少的,最小的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
126 fluctuations | |
波动,涨落,起伏( fluctuation的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
127 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
128 inhibiting | |
抑制作用的,约束的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
129 apropos | |
adv.恰好地;adj.恰当的;关于 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
130 strictly | |
adv.严厉地,严格地;严密地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
131 asunder | |
adj.分离的,化为碎片 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
132 contemplating | |
深思,细想,仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 ); 注视,凝视; 考虑接受(发生某事的可能性); 深思熟虑,沉思,苦思冥想 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
133 postulate | |
n.假定,基本条件;vt.要求,假定 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
134 phenomena | |
n.现象 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
135 postulated | |
v.假定,假设( postulate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
136 pertaining | |
与…有关系的,附属…的,为…固有的(to) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
137 inquiry | |
n.打听,询问,调查,查问 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
138 speculation | |
n.思索,沉思;猜测;投机 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
139 speculations | |
n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 );思考;投机活动;推断 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
140 philosophic | |
adj.哲学的,贤明的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
141 revert | |
v.恢复,复归,回到 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
142 awareness | |
n.意识,觉悟,懂事,明智 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
143 mooted | |
adj.未决定的,有争议的,有疑问的v.提出…供讨论( moot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
144 vividly | |
adv.清楚地,鲜明地,生动地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
145 synonyms | |
同义词( synonym的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
146 conceit | |
n.自负,自高自大 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
147 esteem | |
n.尊敬,尊重;vt.尊重,敬重;把…看作 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
148 arrogance | |
n.傲慢,自大 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
149 modesty | |
n.谦逊,虚心,端庄,稳重,羞怯,朴素 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
150 humility | |
n.谦逊,谦恭 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
151 fusion | |
n.溶化;熔解;熔化状态,熔和;熔接 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
152 mortification | |
n.耻辱,屈辱 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
153 contrition | |
n.悔罪,痛悔 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
154 obloquy | |
n.斥责,大骂 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
155 apprehension | |
n.理解,领悟;逮捕,拘捕;忧虑 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
156 abound | |
vi.大量存在;(in,with)充满,富于 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
157 esteemed | |
adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 );敬重;认为;以为 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
158 provocative | |
adj.挑衅的,煽动的,刺激的,挑逗的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
159 morbid | |
adj.病的;致病的;病态的;可怕的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
160 abasement | |
n.滥用 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
161 primitive | |
adj.原始的;简单的;n.原(始)人,原始事物 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
162 elastic | |
n.橡皮圈,松紧带;adj.有弹性的;灵活的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
163 nostril | |
n.鼻孔 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
164 dilated | |
adj.加宽的,扩大的v.(使某物)扩大,膨胀,张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
165 exquisite | |
adj.精美的;敏锐的;剧烈的,感觉强烈的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
166 asylums | |
n.避难所( asylum的名词复数 );庇护;政治避难;精神病院 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
167 asylum | |
n.避难所,庇护所,避难 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
168 literally | |
adv.照字面意义,逐字地;确实 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
169 fatuous | |
adj.愚昧的;昏庸的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
170 strutting | |
加固,支撑物 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
171 tragic | |
adj.悲剧的,悲剧性的,悲惨的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
172 crouch | |
v.蹲伏,蜷缩,低头弯腰;n.蹲伏 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
173 barometer | |
n.气压表,睛雨表,反应指标 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
174 parental | |
adj.父母的;父的;母的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
175 emulation | |
n.竞争;仿效 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
176 friendliness | |
n.友谊,亲切,亲密 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
177 admiration | |
n.钦佩,赞美,羡慕 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
178 jealousy | |
n.妒忌,嫉妒,猜忌 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
179 indirectly | |
adv.间接地,不直接了当地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
180 computed | |
adj.[医]计算的,使用计算机的v.计算,估算( compute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
181 sensational | |
adj.使人感动的,非常好的,轰动的,耸人听闻的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
182 pall | |
v.覆盖,使平淡无味;n.柩衣,棺罩;棺材;帷幕 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
183 envious | |
adj.嫉妒的,羡慕的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
184 extremity | |
n.末端,尽头;尽力;终极;极度 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
185 craving | |
n.渴望,热望 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
186 metaphoric | |
adj. 使用隐喻的;比喻的;比喻意义的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
187 implement | |
n.(pl.)工具,器具;vt.实行,实施,执行 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
188 insignificant | |
adj.无关紧要的,可忽略的,无意义的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
189 heartily | |
adv.衷心地,诚恳地,十分,很 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
190 Christian | |
adj.基督教徒的;n.基督教徒 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
191 aspiration | |
n.志向,志趣抱负;渴望;(语)送气音;吸出 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
192 exalted | |
adj.(地位等)高的,崇高的;尊贵的,高尚的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
193 redeemed | |
adj. 可赎回的,可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
194 rivalry | |
n.竞争,竞赛,对抗 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
195 relinquishing | |
交出,让给( relinquish的现在分词 ); 放弃 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
196 warrior | |
n.勇士,武士,斗士 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
197 tenement | |
n.公寓;房屋 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
198 salvation | |
n.(尤指基督)救世,超度,拯救,解困 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
199 mortified | |
v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 );伤害(人的感情);克制;抑制(肉体、情感等) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
200 psychology | |
n.心理,心理学,心理状态 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
201 contented | |
adj.满意的,安心的,知足的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
202 humiliation | |
n.羞辱 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
203 pretensions | |
自称( pretension的名词复数 ); 自命不凡; 要求; 权力 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
204 linguist | |
n.语言学家;精通数种外国语言者 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
205 paradox | |
n.似乎矛盾却正确的说法;自相矛盾的人(物) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
206 puny | |
adj.微不足道的,弱小的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
207 chagrin | |
n.懊恼;气愤;委屈 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
208 determined | |
adj.坚定的;有决心的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
209 monarchs | |
君主,帝王( monarch的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
210 fulcrum | |
n.杠杆支点 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
211 stoic | |
n.坚忍克己之人,禁欲主义者 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
212 exhorts | |
n.劝勉者,告诫者,提倡者( exhort的名词复数 )v.劝告,劝说( exhort的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
213 solidifying | |
(使)成为固体,(使)变硬,(使)变得坚固( solidify的现在分词 ); 使团结一致; 充实,巩固; 具体化 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
214 groaning | |
adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
215 immortal | |
adj.不朽的;永生的,不死的;神的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
216 intrepid | |
adj.无畏的,刚毅的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
217 banish | |
vt.放逐,驱逐;消除,排除 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
218 habitual | |
adj.习惯性的;通常的,惯常的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
219 exclusion | |
n.拒绝,排除,排斥,远足,远途旅行 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
220 stoics | |
禁欲主义者,恬淡寡欲的人,不以苦乐为意的人( stoic的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
221 retract | |
vt.缩回,撤回收回,取消 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
222 indifference | |
n.不感兴趣,不关心,冷淡,不在乎 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
223 meritorious | |
adj.值得赞赏的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
224 negation | |
n.否定;否认 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
225 atones | |
v.补偿,赎(罪)( atone的第三人称单数 );补偿,弥补,赎回 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
226 nil | |
n.无,全无,零 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
227 negate | |
vt.否定,否认;取消,使无效 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
228 touching | |
adj.动人的,使人感伤的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
229 rapture | |
n.狂喜;全神贯注;着迷;v.使狂喜 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
230 Forsaken | |
adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
231 possessed | |
adj.疯狂的;拥有的,占有的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
232 corporeal | |
adj.肉体的,身体的;物质的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
233 aggrandize | |
v.增大,扩张,吹捧 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
234 deliberately | |
adv.审慎地;蓄意地;故意地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
235 virtue | |
n.德行,美德;贞操;优点;功效,效力 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
236 fable | |
n.寓言;童话;神话 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
237 tortuous | |
adj.弯弯曲曲的,蜿蜒的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
238 ethical | |
adj.伦理的,道德的,合乎道德的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
239 judgment | |
n.审判;判断力,识别力,看法,意见 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
240 judgments | |
判断( judgment的名词复数 ); 鉴定; 评价; 审判 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
241 hog | |
n.猪;馋嘴贪吃的人;vt.把…占为己有,独占 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
242 cupidity | |
n.贪心,贪财 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
243 lusts | |
贪求(lust的第三人称单数形式) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
244 instilled | |
v.逐渐使某人获得(某种可取的品质),逐步灌输( instill的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
245 advent | |
n.(重要事件等的)到来,来临 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
246 condoned | |
v.容忍,宽恕,原谅( condone的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
247 supremely | |
adv.无上地,崇高地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
248 supreme | |
adj.极度的,最重要的;至高的,最高的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
249 detriment | |
n.损害;损害物,造成损害的根源 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
250 enjoyment | |
n.乐趣;享有;享用 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
251 thereby | |
adv.因此,从而 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
252 paradoxes | |
n.似非而是的隽语,看似矛盾而实际却可能正确的说法( paradox的名词复数 );用于语言文学中的上述隽语;有矛盾特点的人[事物,情况] | |
参考例句: |
|
|
253 motive | |
n.动机,目的;adv.发动的,运动的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
254 motives | |
n.动机,目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
255 condemnation | |
n.谴责; 定罪 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
256 realization | |
n.实现;认识到,深刻了解 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
257 beckons | |
v.(用头或手的动作)示意,召唤( beckon的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
258 valid | |
adj.有确实根据的;有效的;正当的,合法的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
259 slay | |
v.杀死,宰杀,杀戮 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
260 revelled | |
v.作乐( revel的过去式和过去分词 );狂欢;着迷;陶醉 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
261 slaying | |
杀戮。 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
262 acquiescence | |
n.默许;顺从 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
263 piety | |
n.虔诚,虔敬 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
264 banishing | |
v.放逐,驱逐( banish的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
265 frenzy | |
n.疯狂,狂热,极度的激动 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
266 momentousness | |
n.重大,重要性 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
267 animated | |
adj.生气勃勃的,活跃的,愉快的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
268 inoculated | |
v.给…做预防注射( inoculate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
269 entity | |
n.实体,独立存在体,实际存在物 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
270 instinctively | |
adv.本能地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
271 primordial | |
adj.原始的;最初的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
272 justify | |
vt.证明…正当(或有理),为…辩护 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
273 reverting | |
恢复( revert的现在分词 ); 重提; 回到…上; 归还 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
274 evoke | |
vt.唤起,引起,使人想起 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
275 prey | |
n.被掠食者,牺牲者,掠食;v.捕食,掠夺,折磨 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
276 rivets | |
铆钉( rivet的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
277 tally | |
n.计数器,记分,一致,测量;vt.计算,记录,使一致;vi.计算,记分,一致 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
278 automaton | |
n.自动机器,机器人 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
279 skilfully | |
adv. (美skillfully)熟练地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
280 utterly | |
adv.完全地,绝对地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
281 devoid | |
adj.全无的,缺乏的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
282 altruistic | |
adj.无私的,为他人着想的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
283 puffed | |
adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 );喷着汽(或烟)移动;吹嘘;吹捧 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
284 collapsed | |
adj.倒塌的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
285 lapsed | |
adj.流失的,堕落的v.退步( lapse的过去式和过去分词 );陷入;倒退;丧失 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
286 lapse | |
n.过失,流逝,失效,抛弃信仰,间隔;vi.堕落,停止,失效,流逝;vt.使失效 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
287 depreciated | |
v.贬值,跌价,减价( depreciate的过去式和过去分词 );贬低,蔑视,轻视 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
288 disdain | |
n.鄙视,轻视;v.轻视,鄙视,不屑 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
289 negates | |
v.取消( negate的第三人称单数 );使无效;否定;否认 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
290 glandular | |
adj.腺体的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
291 vascular | |
adj.血管的,脉管的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
292 morsel | |
n.一口,一点点 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
293 mechanism | |
n.机械装置;机构,结构 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
294 perishable | |
adj.(尤指食物)易腐的,易坏的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
295 relatively | |
adv.比较...地,相对地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
296 implicitly | |
adv. 含蓄地, 暗中地, 毫不保留地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
297 cognitive | |
adj.认知的,认识的,有感知的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
298 longevity | |
n.长命;长寿 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
299 yoked | |
结合(yoke的过去式形式) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
300 disapproval | |
n.反对,不赞成 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
301 vicissitudes | |
n.变迁,世事变化;变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 );盛衰兴废 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
302 partially | |
adv.部分地,从某些方面讲 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
303 derivatively | |
adv.衍生地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
304 primordially | |
adv.原始地,最初地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
305 contradictory | |
adj.反驳的,反对的,抗辩的;n.正反对,矛盾对立 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
306 evolutionary | |
adj.进化的;演化的,演变的;[生]进化论的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
307 primitively | |
最初地,自学而成地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
308 solely | |
adv.仅仅,唯一地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
309 exuberant | |
adj.充满活力的;(植物)繁茂的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
310 utilitarian | |
adj.实用的,功利的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
311 alcoholic | |
adj.(含)酒精的,由酒精引起的;n.酗酒者 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
312 intoxication | |
n.wild excitement;drunkenness;poisoning | |
参考例句: |
|
|
313 benevolence | |
n.慈悲,捐助 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
314 frailties | |
n.脆弱( frailty的名词复数 );虚弱;(性格或行为上的)弱点;缺点 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
315 acquit | |
vt.宣判无罪;(oneself)使(自己)表现出 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
316 extenuating | |
adj.使减轻的,情有可原的v.(用偏袒的辩解或借口)减轻( extenuate的现在分词 );低估,藐视 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
317 eloquent | |
adj.雄辩的,口才流利的;明白显示出的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
318 penetrate | |
v.透(渗)入;刺入,刺穿;洞察,了解 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
319 thoroughly | |
adv.完全地,彻底地,十足地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
320 irresistible | |
adj.非常诱人的,无法拒绝的,无法抗拒的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
321 contemplate | |
vt.盘算,计议;周密考虑;注视,凝视 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
322 furrows | |
n.犁沟( furrow的名词复数 );(脸上的)皱纹v.犁田,开沟( furrow的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
323 blanched | |
v.使变白( blanch的过去式 );使(植物)不见阳光而变白;酸洗(金属)使有光泽;用沸水烫(杏仁等)以便去皮 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
324 derived | |
vi.起源;由来;衍生;导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 );(从…中)得到获得;源于;(从…中)提取 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
325 passionate | |
adj.热情的,热烈的,激昂的,易动情的,易怒的,性情暴躁的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
326 impartially | |
adv.公平地,无私地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
327 impartial | |
adj.(in,to)公正的,无偏见的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
328 faculty | |
n.才能;学院,系;(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
329 pointed | |
adj.尖的,直截了当的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
330 unduly | |
adv.过度地,不适当地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
331 depressed | |
adj.沮丧的,抑郁的,不景气的,萧条的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
332 counteract | |
vt.对…起反作用,对抗,抵消 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
333 injustice | |
n.非正义,不公正,不公平,侵犯(别人的)权利 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
334 adornment | |
n.装饰;装饰品 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
335 constructive | |
adj.建设的,建设性的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
336 constructiveness | |
组织,构造 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
337 sociability | |
n.好交际,社交性,善于交际 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
338 conscientious | |
adj.审慎正直的,认真的,本着良心的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
339 conscientiousness | |
责任心 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
340 snobbery | |
n. 充绅士气派, 俗不可耐的性格 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
341 guilt | |
n.犯罪;内疚;过失,罪责 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
342 postponed | |
vt.& vi.延期,缓办,(使)延迟vt.把…放在次要地位;[语]把…放在后面(或句尾)vi.(疟疾等)延缓发作(或复发) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
343 espouse | |
v.支持,赞成,嫁娶 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
344 odds | |
n.让步,机率,可能性,比率;胜败优劣之别 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
345 radical | |
n.激进份子,原子团,根号;adj.根本的,激进的,彻底的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
346 criticise | |
v.批评,评论;非难 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
347 remarkable | |
adj.显著的,异常的,非凡的,值得注意的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
348 essentially | |
adv.本质上,实质上,基本上 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
349 synthetic | |
adj.合成的,人工的;综合的;n.人工制品 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
350 insufficient | |
adj.(for,of)不足的,不够的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
351 analyze | |
vt.分析,解析 (=analyse) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
352 intelligible | |
adj.可理解的,明白易懂的,清楚的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
353 posits | |
v.假定,设想,假设( posit的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
354 alteration | |
n.变更,改变;蚀变 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
355 fulfills | |
v.履行(诺言等)( fulfill的第三人称单数 );执行(命令等);达到(目的);使结束 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
356 aroma | |
n.香气,芬芳,芳香 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
357 herd | |
n.兽群,牧群;vt.使集中,把…赶在一起 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
358 awakening | |
n.觉醒,醒悟 adj.觉醒中的;唤醒的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
359 awakens | |
v.(使)醒( awaken的第三人称单数 );(使)觉醒;弄醒;(使)意识到 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
360 semblance | |
n.外貌,外表 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
361 pervades | |
v.遍及,弥漫( pervade的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
362 generic | |
adj.一般的,普通的,共有的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
363 jot | |
n.少量;vi.草草记下;vt.匆匆写下 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
364 anecdotes | |
n.掌故,趣闻,轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
365 breaches | |
破坏( breach的名词复数 ); 破裂; 缺口; 违背 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
366 ascend | |
vi.渐渐上升,升高;vt.攀登,登上 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
367 narrative | |
n.叙述,故事;adj.叙事的,故事体的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
368 recollect | |
v.回忆,想起,记起,忆起,记得 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
369 recollected | |
adj.冷静的;镇定的;被回忆起的;沉思默想的v.记起,想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
370 doctrine | |
n.教义;主义;学说 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
371 professed | |
公开声称的,伪称的,已立誓信教的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
372 profess | |
v.声称,冒称,以...为业,正式接受入教,表明信仰 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
373 aggregate | |
adj.总计的,集合的;n.总数;v.合计;集合 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
374 simile | |
n.直喻,明喻 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
375 symbolized | |
v.象征,作为…的象征( symbolize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
376 symbolizes | |
v.象征,作为…的象征( symbolize的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
377 feat | |
n.功绩;武艺,技艺;adj.灵巧的,漂亮的,合适的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
378 omission | |
n.省略,删节;遗漏或省略的事物,冗长 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
379 ascertain | |
vt.发现,确定,查明,弄清 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
380 ascertained | |
v.弄清,确定,查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
381 accretion | |
n.自然的增长,增加物 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
382 proprietor | |
n.所有人;业主;经营者 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
383 reproof | |
n.斥责,责备 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
384 onlooking | |
n.目击,旁观adj.旁观的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
385 binds | |
v.约束( bind的第三人称单数 );装订;捆绑;(用长布条)缠绕 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
386 lapsing | |
v.退步( lapse的现在分词 );陷入;倒退;丧失 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
387 bequest | |
n.遗赠;遗产,遗物 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
388 predecessor | |
n.前辈,前任 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
389 nascent | |
adj.初生的,发生中的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
390 appropriation | |
n.拨款,批准支出 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
391 sketch | |
n.草图;梗概;素描;v.素描;概述 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
392 enumerating | |
v.列举,枚举,数( enumerate的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
393 espoused | |
v.(决定)支持,拥护(目标、主张等)( espouse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
394 appropriations | |
n.挪用(appropriation的复数形式) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
395 dangles | |
悬吊着( dangle的第三人称单数 ); 摆动不定; 用某事物诱惑…; 吊胃口 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
396 kernel | |
n.(果实的)核,仁;(问题)的中心,核心 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
397 accreted | |
v.共生( accrete的过去式和过去分词 );合生;使依附;使连接 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
398 rejection | |
n.拒绝,被拒,抛弃,被弃 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
399 illustrate | |
v.举例说明,阐明;图解,加插图 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
400 engender | |
v.产生,引起 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
401 definitive | |
adj.确切的,权威性的;最后的,决定性的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
402 definitively | |
adv.决定性地,最后地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
403 cerebral | |
adj.脑的,大脑的;有智力的,理智型的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
404 scholastic | |
adj.学校的,学院的,学术上的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
405 systematic | |
adj.有系统的,有计划的,有方法的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
406 simplicity | |
n.简单,简易;朴素;直率,单纯 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
407 immortality | |
n.不死,不朽 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
408 premise | |
n.前提;v.提论,预述 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
409 formulated | |
v.构想出( formulate的过去式和过去分词 );规划;确切地阐述;用公式表示 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
410 plausible | |
adj.似真实的,似乎有理的,似乎可信的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
411 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
412 scrutinized | |
v.仔细检查,详审( scrutinize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
413 intelligibly | |
adv.可理解地,明了地,清晰地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
414 promising | |
adj.有希望的,有前途的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
415 behold | |
v.看,注视,看到 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
416 invoked | |
v.援引( invoke的过去式和过去分词 );行使(权利等);祈求救助;恳求 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
417 maxim | |
n.格言,箴言 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
418 mitigated | |
v.减轻,缓和( mitigate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
419 scotch | |
n.伤口,刻痕;苏格兰威士忌酒;v.粉碎,消灭,阻止;adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
420 exertion | |
n.尽力,努力 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
421 accounting | |
n.会计,会计学,借贷对照表 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
422 subscribe | |
vi.(to)订阅,订购;同意;vt.捐助,赞助 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
423 inertia | |
adj.惰性,惯性,懒惰,迟钝 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
424 devoutly | |
adv.虔诚地,虔敬地,衷心地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
425 persistence | |
n.坚持,持续,存留 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
426 forefathers | |
n.祖先,先人;祖先,祖宗( forefather的名词复数 );列祖列宗;前人 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
427 teleological | |
adj.目的论的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
428 justified | |
a.正当的,有理的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
429 eternity | |
n.不朽,来世;永恒,无穷 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
430 alleged | |
a.被指控的,嫌疑的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
431 forensic | |
adj.法庭的,雄辩的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
432 uproar | |
n.骚动,喧嚣,鼎沸 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
433 speculative | |
adj.思索性的,暝想性的,推理的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
434 lapses | |
n.失误,过失( lapse的名词复数 );小毛病;行为失检;偏离正道v.退步( lapse的第三人称单数 );陷入;倒退;丧失 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
435 insulation | |
n.隔离;绝缘;隔热 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
436 statistical | |
adj.统计的,统计学的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
437 inaccessible | |
adj.达不到的,难接近的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
438 correlations | |
相互的关系( correlation的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
439 professes | |
声称( profess的第三人称单数 ); 宣称; 公开表明; 信奉 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
440 dubiously | |
adv.可疑地,怀疑地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
441 credible | |
adj.可信任的,可靠的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
442 treatise | |
n.专著;(专题)论文 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
443 demonstration | |
n.表明,示范,论证,示威 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
444 demon | |
n.魔鬼,恶魔 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
445 hatred | |
n.憎恶,憎恨,仇恨 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
446 requisite | |
adj.需要的,必不可少的;n.必需品 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
447 flux | |
n.流动;不断的改变 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
448 sockets | |
n.套接字,使应用程序能够读写与收发通讯协定(protocol)与资料的程序( Socket的名词复数 );孔( socket的名词复数 );(电器上的)插口;托座;凹穴 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
449 glide | |
n./v.溜,滑行;(时间)消逝 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
450 mingle | |
vt.使混合,使相混;vi.混合起来;相交往 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
451 postures | |
姿势( posture的名词复数 ); 看法; 态度; 立场 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
452 likeness | |
n.相像,相似(之处) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
453 inventory | |
n.详细目录,存货清单 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
454 transmuted | |
v.使变形,使变质,把…变成…( transmute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
455 recurrences | |
n.复发,反复,重现( recurrence的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
456 recur | |
vi.复发,重现,再发生 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
457 discrete | |
adj.个别的,分离的,不连续的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
458 engendered | |
v.产生(某形势或状况),造成,引起( engender的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
459 consecrated | |
adj.神圣的,被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣,给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 );奉献 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
460 premises | |
n.建筑物,房屋 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
461 explicit | |
adj.详述的,明确的;坦率的;显然的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
462 explicitness | |
参考例句: |
|
|
463 condemned | |
adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
464 lurking | |
潜在 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
465 smuggling | |
n.走私 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
466 avowedly | |
adv.公然地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
467 postulates | |
v.假定,假设( postulate的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
468 erred | |
犯错误,做错事( err的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
469 eludes | |
v.(尤指机敏地)避开( elude的第三人称单数 );逃避;躲避;使达不到 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
470 plank | |
n.板条,木板,政策要点,政纲条目 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
471 embedded | |
a.扎牢的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
472 isolated | |
adj.与世隔绝的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
473 annotating | |
v.注解,注释( annotate的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
474 ascended | |
v.上升,攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
475 analyzing | |
v.分析;分析( analyze的现在分词 );分解;解释;对…进行心理分析n.分析 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
476 secondly | |
adv.第二,其次 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
477 inexplicable | |
adj.无法解释的,难理解的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
478 perilously | |
adv.充满危险地,危机四伏地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
479 apprehend | |
vt.理解,领悟,逮捕,拘捕,忧虑 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
480 concessions | |
n.(尤指由政府或雇主给予的)特许权( concession的名词复数 );承认;减价;(在某地的)特许经营权 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
481 acumen | |
n.敏锐,聪明 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
482 unwilling | |
adj.不情愿的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
483 bankruptcy | |
n.破产;无偿付能力 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
484 perplexed | |
adj.不知所措的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
485 inadequacy | |
n.无法胜任,信心不足 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
486 repudiating | |
v.(正式地)否认( repudiate的现在分词 );拒绝接受;拒绝与…往来;拒不履行(法律义务) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
487 outweigh | |
vt.比...更重,...更重要 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
488 lengthy | |
adj.漫长的,冗长的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
489 quotation | |
n.引文,引语,语录;报价,牌价,行情 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
490 chaotic | |
adj.混沌的,一片混乱的,一团糟的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
491 binding | |
有约束力的,有效的,应遵守的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
492 explicitly | |
ad.明确地,显然地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
493 incapable | |
adj.无能力的,不能做某事的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
494 interpretation | |
n.解释,说明,描述;艺术处理 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
495 vouches | |
v.保证( vouch的第三人称单数 );担保;确定;确定地说 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
496 locus | |
n.中心 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
497 lodged | |
v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 );暂住;埋入;(权利、权威等)归属 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
498 lodging | |
n.寄宿,住所;(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
499 mythological | |
adj.神话的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
500 chaste | |
adj.贞洁的;有道德的;善良的;简朴的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
501 mythology | |
n.神话,神话学,神话集 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
502 whit | |
n.一点,丝毫 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
503 lighter | |
n.打火机,点火器;驳船;v.用驳船运送;light的比较级 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
504 ambiguities | |
n.歧义( ambiguity的名词复数 );意义不明确;模棱两可的意思;模棱两可的话 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
505 pretentious | |
adj.自命不凡的,自负的,炫耀的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
506 confession | |
n.自白,供认,承认 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
507 ambiguity | |
n.模棱两可;意义不明确 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
508 uncertainty | |
n.易变,靠不住,不确知,不确定的事物 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
509 abortion | |
n.流产,堕胎 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
510 strenuous | |
adj.奋发的,使劲的;紧张的;热烈的,狂热的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
511 adoration | |
n.爱慕,崇拜 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
512 inborn | |
adj.天生的,生来的,先天的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
513 coalesces | |
v.联合,合并( coalesce的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
514 speciously | |
adv.似是而非地;外观好看地,像是真实地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
515 annihilates | |
n.(彻底)消灭( annihilate的名词复数 );使无效;废止;彻底击溃v.(彻底)消灭( annihilate的第三人称单数 );使无效;废止;彻底击溃 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
516 positively | |
adv.明确地,断然,坚决地;实在,确实 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
517 antecedence | |
n.居先,优先 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
518 barter | |
n.物物交换,以货易货,实物交易 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
519 polemic | |
n.争论,论战 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
520 apprehended | |
逮捕,拘押( apprehend的过去式和过去分词 ); 理解 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
521 habitually | |
ad.习惯地,通常地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
522 enacted | |
制定(法律),通过(法案)( enact的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
523 entities | |
实体对像; 实体,独立存在体,实际存在物( entity的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
524 transcends | |
超出或超越(经验、信念、描写能力等)的范围( transcend的第三人称单数 ); 优于或胜过… | |
参考例句: |
|
|
525 mighty | |
adj.强有力的;巨大的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
526 transparent | |
adj.明显的,无疑的;透明的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
527 equilibrium | |
n.平衡,均衡,相称,均势,平静 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
528 antagonism | |
n.对抗,敌对,对立 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
529 rend | |
vt.把…撕开,割裂;把…揪下来,强行夺取 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
530 transformations | |
n.变化( transformation的名词复数 );转换;转换;变换 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
531 transformation | |
n.变化;改造;转变 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
532 insipidity | |
n.枯燥无味,清淡,无精神;无生气状 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
533 drizzling | |
下蒙蒙细雨,下毛毛雨( drizzle的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
534 miraculous | |
adj.像奇迹一样的,不可思议的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
535 naught | |
n.无,零 [=nought] | |
参考例句: |
|
|
536 infancy | |
n.婴儿期;幼年期;初期 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
537 mutation | |
n.变化,变异,转变 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
538 construed | |
v.解释(陈述、行为等)( construe的过去式和过去分词 );翻译,作句法分析 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
539 alterations | |
n.改动( alteration的名词复数 );更改;变化;改变 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
540 forensically | |
adv.forensic(法庭的,法庭用的;法医的;公开辩论的,论争的)的变形 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
541 converse | |
vi.谈话,谈天,闲聊;adv.相反的,相反 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
542 reigns | |
n.君主的统治( reign的名词复数 );君主统治时期;任期;当政期 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
543 testimony | |
n.证词;见证,证明 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
544 tilt | |
v.(使)倾侧;(使)倾斜;n.倾侧;倾斜 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
545 scrupulously | |
adv.一丝不苟地;小心翼翼地,多顾虑地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
546 narrate | |
v.讲,叙述 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
547 previously | |
adv.以前,先前(地) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
548 mingled | |
混合,混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 ); 混进,与…交往[联系] | |
参考例句: |
|
|
549 specimen | |
n.样本,标本 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
550 intoxicated | |
喝醉的,极其兴奋的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
551 autobiography | |
n.自传 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
552 amiable | |
adj.和蔼可亲的,友善的,亲切的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
553 disturbances | |
n.骚乱( disturbance的名词复数 );打扰;困扰;障碍 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
554 delusions | |
n.欺骗( delusion的名词复数 );谬见;错觉;妄想 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
555 insanity | |
n.疯狂,精神错乱;极端的愚蠢,荒唐 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
556 melancholic | |
忧郁症患者 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
557 sanguine | |
adj.充满希望的,乐观的,血红色的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
558 perversions | |
n.歪曲( perversion的名词复数 );变坏;变态心理 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
559 volitional | |
adj.意志的,凭意志的,有意志的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
560 vitality | |
n.活力,生命力,效力 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
561 acting | |
n.演戏,行为,假装;adj.代理的,临时的,演出用的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
562 vessels | |
n.血管( vessel的名词复数 );船;容器;(具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的)人 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
563 disorders | |
n.混乱( disorder的名词复数 );凌乱;骚乱;(身心、机能)失调 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
564 disorder | |
n.紊乱,混乱;骚动,骚乱;疾病,失调 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
565 engraved | |
v.在(硬物)上雕刻(字,画等)( engrave的过去式和过去分词 );将某事物深深印在(记忆或头脑中) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
566 raved | |
v.胡言乱语( rave的过去式和过去分词 );愤怒地说;咆哮;痴心地说 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
567 intensity | |
n.强烈,剧烈;强度;烈度 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
568 irreconcilable | |
adj.(指人)难和解的,势不两立的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
569 abhorrent | |
adj.可恶的,可恨的,讨厌的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
570 malady | |
n.病,疾病(通常做比喻) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
571 abates | |
减少( abate的第三人称单数 ); 减去; 降价; 撤消(诉讼) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
572 narratives | |
记叙文( narrative的名词复数 ); 故事; 叙述; 叙述部分 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
573 aloof | |
adj.远离的;冷淡的,漠不关心的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
574 infinitely | |
adv.无限地,无穷地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
575 receded | |
v.逐渐远离( recede的过去式和过去分词 );向后倾斜;自原处后退或避开别人的注视;尤指问题 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
576 astonishment | |
n.惊奇,惊异 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
577 intermittently | |
adv.间歇地;断断续续 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
578 ardent | |
adj.热情的,热烈的,强烈的,烈性的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
579 killing | |
n.巨额利润;突然赚大钱,发大财 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
580 odious | |
adj.可憎的,讨厌的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
581 formerly | |
adv.从前,以前 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
582 conjure | |
v.恳求,祈求;变魔术,变戏法 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
583 abrupt | |
adj.突然的,意外的;唐突的,鲁莽的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
584 lasting | |
adj.永久的,永恒的;vbl.持续,维持 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
585 vivacity | |
n.快活,活泼,精神充沛 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
586 recurs | |
再发生,复发( recur的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
587 distress | |
n.苦恼,痛苦,不舒适;不幸;vt.使悲痛 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
588 distressing | |
a.使人痛苦的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
589 larceny | |
n.盗窃(罪) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
590 weir | |
n.堰堤,拦河坝 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
591 melancholy | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
592 wilderness | |
n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等,荒漠 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
593 awakened | |
v.(使)醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 );(使)觉醒;弄醒;(使)意识到 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
594 unnatural | |
adj.不自然的;反常的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
595 ushered | |
v.引,领,陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
596 slumber | |
n.睡眠,沉睡状态 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
597 maturity | |
n.成熟;完成;(支票、债券等)到期 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
598 relishing | |
v.欣赏( relish的现在分词 );从…获得乐趣;渴望 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
599 sublime | |
adj.崇高的,伟大的;极度的,不顾后果的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
600 consanguinity | |
n.血缘;亲族 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
601 jocose | |
adj.开玩笑的,滑稽的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
602 extravagantly | |
adv.挥霍无度地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
603 ramble | |
v.漫步,漫谈,漫游;n.漫步,闲谈,蔓延 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
604 predilection | |
n.偏好 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
605 abounded | |
v.大量存在,充满,富于( abound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
606 hogs | |
n.(尤指喂肥供食用的)猪( hog的名词复数 );(供食用的)阉公猪;彻底地做某事;自私的或贪婪的人 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
607 impudent | |
adj.鲁莽的,卑鄙的,厚颜无耻的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
608 sullenly | |
不高兴地,绷着脸,忧郁地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
609 growling | |
n.吠声, 咆哮声 v.怒吠, 咆哮, 吼 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
610 protracted | |
adj.拖延的;延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
611 incumbent | |
adj.成为责任的,有义务的;现任的,在职的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
612 anticipations | |
预期( anticipation的名词复数 ); 预测; (信托财产收益的)预支; 预期的事物 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
613 intervals | |
n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 );间隔时间;[数学]区间;(戏剧、电影或音乐会的)幕间休息 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
614 attained | |
(通常经过努力)实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 ); 达到; 获得; 达到(某年龄、水平、状况) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
615 permanently | |
adv.永恒地,永久地,固定不变地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
616 effaced | |
v.擦掉( efface的过去式和过去分词 );抹去;超越;使黯然失色 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
617 hysterical | |
adj.情绪异常激动的,歇斯底里般的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
618 mischievous | |
adj.调皮的,恶作剧的,有害的,伤人的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
619 joyousness | |
快乐,使人喜悦 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
620 hilarious | |
adj.充满笑声的,欢闹的;[反]depressed | |
参考例句: |
|
|
621 industrious | |
adj.勤劳的,刻苦的,奋发的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
622 temperament | |
n.气质,性格,性情 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
623 kindly | |
adj.和蔼的,温和的,爽快的;adv.温和地,亲切地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
624 gasped | |
v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 );喘息;倒抽气;很想要 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
625 amnesia | |
n.健忘症,健忘 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
626 amnesic | |
遗忘的; 失去记忆的; 失去存储的; 引起遗忘的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
627 inhibited | |
a.拘谨的,拘束的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
628 plunging | |
adj.跳进的,突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 );暴跌;骤降;突降 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
629 stimulus | |
n.刺激,刺激物,促进因素,引起兴奋的事物 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
630 terminology | |
n.术语;专有名词 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
631 celebrated | |
adj.有名的,声誉卓著的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
632 generalization | |
n.普遍性,一般性,概括 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
633 tactile | |
adj.触觉的,有触觉的,能触知的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
634 stereotyped | |
adj.(指形象、思想、人物等)模式化的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
635 irony | |
n.反语,冷嘲;具有讽刺意味的事,嘲弄 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
636 viper | |
n.毒蛇;危险的人 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
637 seizure | |
n.没收;占有;抵押 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
638 paralysis | |
n.麻痹(症);瘫痪(症) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
639 gluttonous | |
adj.贪吃的,贪婪的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
640 psychically | |
adv.精神上 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
641 modification | |
n.修改,改进,缓和,减轻 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
642 corroborate | |
v.支持,证实,确定 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
643 sufficiently | |
adv.足够地,充分地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
644 modifications | |
n.缓和( modification的名词复数 );限制;更改;改变 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
645 consecutive | |
adj.连续的,联贯的,始终一贯的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
646 atheism | |
n.无神论,不信神 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
647 itinerant | |
adj.巡回的;流动的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
648 thigh | |
n.大腿;股骨 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
649 nay | |
adv.不;n.反对票,投反对票者 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
650 providence | |
n.深谋远虑,天道,天意;远见;节约;上帝 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
651 foul | |
adj.污秽的;邪恶的;v.弄脏;妨害;犯规;n.犯规 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
652 stationery | |
n.文具;(配套的)信笺信封 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
653 apparently | |
adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
654 replenished | |
补充( replenish的过去式和过去分词 ); 重新装满 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
655 prosaic | |
adj.单调的,无趣的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
656 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
657 tardier | |
adj.行动缓慢的( tardy的比较级 );缓缓移动的;晚的;迟的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
658 personalities | |
n. 诽谤,(对某人容貌、性格等所进行的)人身攻击; 人身攻击;人格, 个性, 名人( personality的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
659 artifice | |
n.妙计,高明的手段;狡诈,诡计 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
660 skull | |
n.头骨;颅骨 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
661 eccentricity | |
n.古怪,反常,怪癖 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
662 grotesquely | |
adv. 奇异地,荒诞地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
663 grotesque | |
adj.怪诞的,丑陋的;n.怪诞的图案,怪人(物) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
664 purports | |
v.声称是…,(装得)像是…的样子( purport的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
665 uncommon | |
adj.罕见的,非凡的,不平常的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
666 impelled | |
v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
667 participation | |
n.参与,参加,分享 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
668 abounds | |
v.大量存在,充满,富于( abound的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
669 curiously | |
adv.有求知欲地;好问地;奇特地 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
670 recurring | |
adj.往复的,再次发生的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
671 susceptible | |
adj.过敏的,敏感的;易动感情的,易受感动的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
672 stratum | |
n.地层,社会阶层 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
673 ailments | |
疾病(尤指慢性病),不适( ailment的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
674 robust | |
adj.强壮的,强健的,粗野的,需要体力的,浓的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
675 hieroglyph | |
n.象形文字, 图画文字 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
676 rendering | |
n.表现,描写 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
677 obsolete | |
adj.已废弃的,过时的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
678 recording | |
n.录音,记录 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
679 corroborative | |
adj.确证(性)的,确凿的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
680 controvert | |
v.否定;否认 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
681 applied | |
adj.应用的;v.应用,适用 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
682 affixed | |
adj.[医]附着的,附着的v.附加( affix的过去式和过去分词 );粘贴;加以;盖(印章) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
683 conclusive | |
adj.最后的,结论的;确凿的,消除怀疑的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
684 presumption | |
n.推测,可能性,冒昧,放肆,[法律]推定 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
685 importunity | |
n.硬要,强求 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
686 transpired | |
(事实,秘密等)被人知道( transpire的过去式和过去分词 ); 泄露; 显露; 发生 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
687 sojourn | |
v./n.旅居,寄居;逗留 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
688 diligently | |
ad.industriously;carefully | |
参考例句: |
|
|
689 prudent | |
adj.谨慎的,有远见的,精打细算的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
690 conversing | |
v.交谈,谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句: |
|
|
691 smothering | |
(使)窒息, (使)透不过气( smother的现在分词 ); 覆盖; 忍住; 抑制 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
692 outgrown | |
长[发展] 得超过(某物)的范围( outgrow的过去分词 ); 长[发展]得不能再要(某物); 长得比…快; 生长速度超过 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
693 conjecture | |
n./v.推测,猜测 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
694 peculiarities | |
n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
695 inhibits | |
阻止,抑制( inhibit的第三人称单数 ); 使拘束,使尴尬 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
696 paramountly | |
最高的,至上的; 最重要的,主要的; 卓越的; 有最高权力的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
697 functional | |
adj.为实用而设计的,具备功能的,起作用的 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
698 dependence | |
n.依靠,依赖;信任,信赖;隶属 | |
参考例句: |
|
|
欢迎访问英文小说网 |