Avenarius added to the difficulty of applying his theories by his use of a practically new terminology (which is certainly most striking and indispensable for some of the new views he expounded). But what stands most in the way of accepting some of his conclusions is his desire to derive his psychology from the physiology of the brain, a physiology which he evolved himself out of his inner consciousness with only a slight general acquaintance with actual biological facts. The psychological, or second part of his “Critique of Pure Experience,” was really the source from which he derived the first or physiological part, with the result that the latter appears to its readers as an account of some discovery in Atlantis. Because of these difficulties I shall give here a short account of the system of Avenarius, as I find it useful for my thesis.
An “Element” in the sense of Avenarius represents what the usual psychology terms a perception, or the content of a perception, what Schopenhauer called a presentation, what in England is called an “impression” or “idea,” the “thing,” “fact,” or “object” of ordinary language; and the word is used independently of the presence or absence of a special sense-organ stimulation—a most important and novel addition. In the sense of Avenarius, and for our purpose, it is a matter of indifference to the terminology how far what is called “analysis” takes place, the whole tree may be taken as the “element,” or each single leaf, or each hair, or (where most people would stop), the colours, sizes, weights, temperatures, resistances, and so forth. Still, the analysis may go yet further, and the colour of the leaf may be taken as merely the resultant of its quality, intensity, luminosity, and so forth, these being the elements. Or we may go still further and take modern ultimate conceptions reaching units incapable of sub-division.
In the sense of Avenarius, then, elements are such ideas as “green,” “blue,” “cold,” “warm,” “soft,” “hard,” “sweet,” “bitter,” and their “character” is the particular kind of quality with which they appear, not merely their pleasantness or unpleasantness, but also such modes of presentation as “surprising,” “expected,” “novel,” “indifferent,” “recognised,” “known,” “actual,” “doubtful,” categories which Avenarius first recognised as being psychological. For instance, what I guess, believe, or know is an “element”; the fact that I guess it, not believe it or know it, is the “character” in which it presents itself psychologically (not logically).
Now there is a stage in mental activity in which this sub-division of psychical phenomena cannot be made, which is too early for it. All “elements” at their first appearance are merged with the floating background, the whole being vaguely tinged by “character.” To follow my meaning, think of what takes place, when for the first time at a distance one sees something in the landscape, such as a shrub or a heap of wood, at the moment when one does not yet know what “it” is.
At this moment “element” and “character” are absolutely indistinguishable (they are always inseparable as Petzoldt ingeniously pointed out), so improving the original statement of Avenarius.
In a dense crowd I perceive, for instance, a face which attracts me across the swaying mass by its expression. I have no idea what the face is like, and should be quite unable to describe it or give an idea of it; but it has appealed to me in the most disturbing manner, and I find myself asking with keen curiosity, “Where have I seen that face before?”
A man may see the head of a woman for a moment, and this may make a very strong impression on him, and yet he may be unable to say exactly what he has seen, or, for instance, be able to remember the colour of her hair. The retina must be exposed to the object sufficiently long, if only a fraction of a second, for a photographic impression to be made.
If one looks at any object from a considerable distance one has at first only the vaguest impression of its outlines; and as one comes nearer and sees the details more clearly, lively sensations, at first lost in the general mass, are received. Think, for instance, of the first general impression of, say, the sphenoid bone disarticulated from a skull, or of many pictures seen a little too closely or a little too far away. I myself have a remembrance of having had strong impressions from sonatas of Beethoven before I knew anything of the musical notes. Avenarius and Petzoldt have overlooked the fact that the coming into consciousness of the elements is accompanied by a kind of secretion of characterisation.
Some of the simple experiments of physiological psychology illustrate the point to which I have been referring. If one stays in a dark room until the eye has adapted itself to the absence of light, and then for a second subjects oneself to a ray of coloured light, a sensation of illumination will be received, although it is impossible to recognise the quality of the illumination; something has been perceived, but what the something is cannot be apprehended unless the stimulation lasts a definite time.
In the same way every scientific discovery, every technical invention, every artistic creation passes through a preliminary phase of indistinctness. The process is similar to the series of impressions that would be got as a statue was gradually unwrapped from a series of swathings. The same kind of sequence occurs, although, perhaps, in a very brief space of time, when one is trying to recall a piece of music. Every thought is preceded by a kind of half-thought, a condition in which vague geometrical figures, shifting masks, a swaying and indistinct background hover in the mind. The beginning and the end of the whole process, which I may term “clarification,” are what take place when a short-sighted person proceeds to look through properly adapted lenses.
Just as this process occurs in the life of the individual (and he, indeed, may die long before it is complete), so it occurs in history. Definite scientific conceptions are preceded by anticipations. The process of clarification is spread over many generations. There were ancient and modern vague anticipations of the theory of Darwin and Lamarck, anticipations which we are now apt to overvalue. Mayer and Helmholtz had their predecessors, and Goethe and Leonardo da Vinci, perhaps two of the most many-sided intellects known to us, anticipated in a vague way many of the conclusions of modern science. The whole history of thought is a continuous “clarification,” a more and more accurate description or realisation of details. The enormous number of stages between light and darkness, the minute gradations of detail that follow each other in the development of thought can be realised best if one follows historically some complicated modern piece of knowledge, such as, for instance, the theory of elliptical functions.
The process of clarification may be reversed, and the act of forgetting is such a reversal. This may take a considerable time, and is usually noticed only by accident at some point or other of its course. The process is similar to the gradual obliteration of well-made roads, for the maintenance of which no provision has been made. The faint anticipations of a thought are very like the faint recollections of it, and the latter gradually become blurred as in the case of a neglected road over the boundaries of which animals stray, slowly obliterating it. In this connection a practical rule for memorising, discovered and applied by a friend of mine, is interesting.
It generally happens that if one wants to learn, say, a piece of music, or a section from the history of philosophy, one has to go over parts of it again and again. The problem was, how long should the intervals be between these successive attempts to commit to memory? The answer was that they should not be so long as to make it possible to take a fresh interest in the subject again, to be interested and curious about it. If the interval has produced that state of mind, then the process of clarification must begin from the beginning again. The rather popular physiological theory of Sigismund Exner as to the formation of “paths” in the nervous system may perhaps be taken as a physical parallel of the process of clarification.
According to the theory, the nerves, or rather the fibrils, make paths easy for the stimulations to travel along, if these stimulations last sufficiently long or are repeated sufficiently often. So also in the case of forgetting; what happens is that these paths or processes of the nerve-cells atrophy from disuse. Avenarius would have explained the above processes by his theory of the articulation of the fibres of the brain, but his physical doctrine was rather too crude and too simple for application to psycho-physics. None the less his conception of articulation or jointing is both convenient and appropriate in its application to the process of clarification, and I shall employ it in that connection.
The process of clarification must be traced thoroughly in order to realise its importance, but for the moment, it is important to consider only the initial stage. The distinction of Avenarius between “element” and “character,” which later on will become evident in a process of clarification, is not applicable to the very earliest moments of the process. It is necessary to coin a name for those minds to which the duality
