Elements of Physical Biology

In the last chapter we have considered some of the reflections that suggest themselves in connection with the first fundamental proposition, namely that consciousness, as we know it in ourselves, is closely bound up with life processes and structures. A second basic proposition regarding consciousness, which will find at least provisional acceptance, is that consciousness, as known to ourselves, is of variable content, and that its content zs a function! of our past and present bodily states. The form of the functional relation? is in part known, but only in part. It is, of course, by virtue of this functional relation that consciousness plays a part in the receptor-adjustor-effector apparatus.

This leads us to the second aspect of the relation between consciousness and physical structures and events, namely, the function which consciousness fulfills in the organism, and the problem as to how it has come about that living organisms have appropriated to themselves, in the course of evolution, the property of consciousness, or, to be more precise, of that particular type of consciousness which is characteristic of them. One function of consciousness in the operation of the receptoradjustor-effector apparatus has already been considered, namely the part which it plays in elaborating further the crude data for the world-picture supplied by the special senses.

But consciousness plays an equally fundamental réle in the operation of the adjustors. It is quite evident that no amount of cold, intellectual information, pure and simple, can in itself ever 2 For a discussion of the metaphysical aspect of this functional relation the reader must be referred to the special literature. Attention is particularly directed to a paper by L. T. Troland in the Jour. Washington Academy, 1922, vol. 12, p. 141. See also H. C. Warren, Jour. Phil. Psych. and Sci. Method, pp. 20-21, footnote.

determine an action. If I am standing at a street crossing, and my senses inform me that, should I start to walk across at this moment, I should be killed by a passing car, this information in itself can have no effect one way or the other upon my action. In addition to the cold knowledge, there must be something of the nature of motive, which gives me an interest, on the one hand in the act of crossing (as for example to reach the restaurant across the street and satisfy my hunger), and on the other in avoiding collision with with the street car (the anticipatory image in my mind, of the suffering which this would cause).

In the lower organisms motivation appears to us almost wholly mechanical and fatalistic. The tropisms of a moth apparently draw it toward a light with the same mechanical inevitableness as the gears of the toy beetle constrain it to follow the table edge. The opposite extreme, the highest refinement and complexity in motivation, we observe in our own selves. In human purpose the result to be attained is first pictured in consciousness, and the thinker then proceeds by a series of acts to fulfill his preconceived aim. . . . . The typical purposive experience consists in a thought of some future occurrence followed by a series of actions which culminate in the very situation which the original idea represented.’

But what determines “the result to be attained,’ which is thus pictured in the consciousness? The matter has been well expressed by Veblen in a passage which at the same time brings out clearly the relation of the purely intellectual functions of consciousness to the emotional (motivating) functions: The ends of life, the purposes to be achieved, are assigned by man’s instinctive proclivities; but the ways and means of accomplishing those things which the instinctive proclivities make worth while are a matter of intelligence.

—e Men take thought, but the human spirit, that is to say, the racial endowment of instinctive proclivities, decides what they shall take thought of, and how, and to what effect. 3H. C. Warren, Jour. Phil. Psych. and Scientific Method, 1916, vol. 13, p. 5. Compare also F. L. Wells, Mental Adjustments, 1917, p. 11. “The free imagination of wished-for things results well for the mind through painting in more glowing colors the excellence of what is wished for, and firing the ambition to strive for it more intensely.’’ For a rather different viewpoint see B. Russell, Analysis of Mind, 1921, pp. 75-76.

Dynamic Psychology; Instinctive Drives to Action. Thus, in our analysis of the operation of the correlating apparatus, we are led to a consideration of the fundamental instincts that furnish the driving power behind the activities of the organism. The study of these instincts has been organized into a definite branch— Dynamic Psychology— of which we can here note only a few of the outstanding features. We are treading upon ground not altogether cleared, at this date, from controversial entanglements.

Certain psychologists, notably Freud and his followers, have taken the view that the really fundamental drives for action can be reduced to a very few, such as hunger, the sex call, and the gregarious instinct. From these the less elementary motives are, according to this school, derived by a process of “sublimation.” In contrast with this R. 8. Woodworth regards as separate and independent sources of action those drives which are operative in the course of creative activities:

The various creative proclivities which (Freud) refers to the redirected energy of the sex instinct as their sole driving force, have in Professor Woodworth’s opinion driving forces of their own. Of sublimation he holds that when an intellectual interest, say, is made to supplant a sex impulse, the latter is not drawn into service, but resisted.® Individual Traits. Instinct of Workmanship and Self-Expression. We may well leave it to the psychologists to settle their

“McDougall in his Introduction to Social Psychology, lists twelve “simple instincts”’ as follows: Such lists as this seem rather arbitrary, and in some degree dependent on the whim of their author. Compare for example F. W. Taussig, Inventors and Money-Makers, 1915, p. 7; Irving Fisher, The Survey, March, 1919, p. 937. difference of opinion in this field. For our purposes it is enough to know that these drives to action are operative, that some ends to men are “instinctively worth while.” And if we ask: What are those ends that are instinctively worth while,—we find that a mere list of primitive instincts is at most only a very inadequate answer to our question. In their broad fundamental instincts men are, indeed, essentially alike. But that adjustment of the relative intensity of their several instinctive proclivities, which finds its material expression in the behavior-schedule, in the coefficients \ (Chapter XXV) is capable of infinite variation: What is “worth while” is after all a matter of taste, and de gustibus © non est disputandum—“people of radically different temperaments cannot come to any understanding by intellectual means,’ their vain efforts to do so lead only to mutual repugnance, for ‘‘differences of taste produce greater exasperation than differences on points of Science.”? This divergence of tastes among men, responsible as we must no doubt hold it for many bitter feuds between individuals and between nations, is not without its useful aspect. In the present state of the human race, with its divisions of labor and its specialization, there is room for all sorts and conditions of men, and this statement applies not only as regards their abilities, but also, and perhaps more particularly, as regards the channels into which each seeks by preference to divert the stream of his energies, the sphere in which he most willingly applies his abilities. Much could be said in support of the proposition that differences in temperament, rather than differences in intellectual endowment, determine the place that each man is fitted to occupy in the social scheme.

For, as Young has said, ‘“‘With the talents of an angel, a man may be a fool.’”’ It is not enough to be able, there must be a strong impulse to do. ‘Not only to know, but according to thy knowledge to do, is thy vocation,” says Fichte. A study of motivation in exceptional men, men of genius, is both instructive and inspiring. The dominat- 6 Rosa Mayreder, quoted in the The Lancet 1913, p. 1006. Compare also William James, On a Certain Blindness in Human Beings.

7 MacAuley, Critical Essays, p. 501. The contrast has been drawn particularly between introverts and extroverts “‘who find it so difficult to understand each other, and so easy to despise.’? Compare also Nature, July 21, 1923; p. 88: “In actual life the want of rapport between these types is a matter of daily observation.” ing drive in the life of such a man is undoubtedly the imperative impulse to translate into outward expression, into concrete reality, that inward image which, as Warren very aptly observes, is the first essential element in human purposive action. Creative minds have borne their own eloquent testimony:

As the sculptor must dream the statue prisoned in the marble, as the artist must dream the picture to come from the brilliant unmeaning of his palette A , 80 he who writes must have a vision of his finished work® An attribute which may be taken for granted in every artist is passionate intensity of vision. Unless vision is passionately intense, the artist will not be moved to transmitit, . . . .9 Lowell, consulted by a young author as to the royal road to good style, advises him that the first requirement is to have something that ‘will not stay unsaid.” The same intentness upon outward expression of the inner vision speaks in the words of Carlyle:

A certain inarticulate self-consciousness dwells dimly in us, which only our works can render articulate and decisively discernible. Our works are the mirror wherein the spirit first sees its natural lineaments. Hence, too, the fallacy of that impossible precept, Know thyself; till it can be translated into this partially possible one: Know what thou canst work at. Blessed is the man who has found his work: let him ask no other blessedness. Know thy work, and do it; and work at it like Hercules.

This imperative impulse to materialize a mental conception is by no means the monopoly of the artist. In this bantering style Arnold Bennett says of the amateur inventors “They have glimpsed perfection; they have the gleam of perfection in their souls.” This is the goad that drives them on to unrelenting effort: the vision of their finished work. The race of contrivers and inventors does obey an inborn and irresistible impulse. Schemes and experiments begin in childhood and persist as long as life and strength hold. It matters not whether a fortune is made or pecuniary distress is chronic: there is increasing interest in new dodges, unceasing trial of new devices. . . . . And it would seem that no satisfaction from pecuniary success or worldly recognition equals the absorbed interest of trial, experiment, novel problems, happy solutions.1°

Influence of Special Attitudes. There is undoubtedy a relation between the intensity of development of the instinct of workmanship and the natural endowment, the talents of the individual. The two things do not run altogether parallel, unfortunately, as evidenced by the well-known crank type of individual, who has something of the enthusiasm of genius, but lacks judgment in directing his energies into worth while channels. There are too, men lacking the impulse to put to competent use great natural gifts that they possess. But the general rule holds that: “Special aptitudes clamor for the opportunity of asserting themselves. The tasks which are their fit occasion of self-expression are the supreme joy of the man of genius, who will suffer every earthly privation rather than brook the thwarting of his talents.”’"

It might be supposed that such exceptional development of the instinct of workmanship and self-expression as speaks in the words cited can play but a subordinate réle in a world peopled for the most part with “ordinary” individuals. But this is a misconception on several counts. How effective may be the inspiration which we can all draw from the testimony of our betters is perhaps an open question. But it must be remembered that in the shaping of the world’s events men of genius play a part proportionate to their greatness. It has been remarked that the world’s history could be written as a series of biographies of great men. The general average of excellence in a community is upheld and advanced by the exceptional few, the leaders in thought and deed.

But perhaps our chief interest in the manifestation of the instinct of workmanship and self-expression in its superlative measure, as we see it in the life and works of men of genius, lies in the fact that, after all, these men were human, even as we are; and that the trait which in them is developed to this high degree, is shared in some measure also by the rest of mankind. Here the instinct may not rise to such pitch as to be clearly felt and recognized by the individual; he may be only dimly conscious of a vague unsatisfied want when he fails to find a normal outlet for it. Psychiatrists and economists tell us that the individual thus thwarted is apt to ascribe his vague feeling of discomfort to any but the true cause, and that social unrest in our present industrial system is due in no small

measure to the want of an adequate outlet for the instinct of workmanship and self-expression. ‘“‘A human being whose instincts are balked becomes an enemy of society,” for “primitive instincts can be guided but not suppressed. If they become pent up the danger of unrestrained outbreak is great.’ And referring to the same matter Taussig remarks: It is obvious that the sum of human happiness would be greater if all commonly took direct satisfaction in the activities of earning a

living. . . . The satisfaction of instinct conduces pro tanto to happiness, the balking of it to unhappiness. . . . . Among those instincts to which it seems possible to give wide scope, without danger of satiation or remorse, is that of contrivance (workmanship). And yet the modern organization of industry smothers it in a great and probably growing proportion of men. If it is indeed true that the proportion of men so cramped in their creative efforts is growing, we have here a most regrettable condition, for the words of Emerson remain true:

In every variety of human employment . . . . there are among the numbers that do their task perfunctorily, as we say, or just to pass, as badly as they dare—there are the working men on whom the burden of the busines falls—those who love the work and love to see it rightly done, who finish their task for its own sake; and the state and the world is happy that has most of such finishers. The Industrial and the Social Problem. The instinct of workmanship thus gives rise to a twofold problem in human affairs. On the one hand, considering the modern human community in the gross, so far as the development of social conditions are or can be brought under intelligent control, it is evidently desirable to provide for the healthy satisfaction of this eminently desirable trait of human character: ‘“‘We have here too valuable and creative a tendency to allow it to be longer neglected, thwarted and dissipated.’

On the other hand each individual, if life is to bring him a good share of that satisfaction which it potentially holds for him, must order his affairs (so far as circumstance permit) with his eyes open to the demand of this instinct of workmanship. Failure to do this may rob him of his just heritage; he may find, too late, that he has sold his birthright for a mess of pottage, that, in the words of Arnold Bennett, “his existence is a vast and poisonous regret.’”’ But even if he is spared this extreme, it holds true in any case that “better self-understanding means better self-control, and a wiser ordering of one’s actions along the normal paths of happiness.’

Die eigenartigen Ziige der Organismen sind als provisorische Leitfiden aufzufassen.—E. Mach. We have had occasion to note that “behavior” very similar, in certain characteristics, to that of living organisms can be secured in a purely mechanical structure, such as that of the toy beetle. This raises the question why nature should have resorted to consciousness as a means for bringing about those reactions so characteristic of the living organism. The most obvious answer that suggests itself is that, for some reason beyond our present ken, the conscious organism is simpler than any purely mechanical structure that could be built to perform even approximately the same diversity of tasks with the same degree of effectiveness. But certain difficulties arise if we accept (as is commonly done) the plausible hypothesis that to every state of consciousness there corresponds a definite state of the material structure of the conscious organism.

The Problem of Psycho-physical Parallelism. There is first of all the classical problem of psycho-physical parallelism. If the events in the physical world are wholly determinate, and if every conscious experience is in turn determined point by point by the physical substratum of the organism, what can be the utility of consciousness? For on this supposition my willing to perform a certain act is a mere incidental accompaniment of the physical circumstances that inevitably must bring about the object of my act. To quote H. C. Warren:!

In denying directive selection to forethought we reduce consciousness to the réle of an epiphenomenon. If purposive thought is not effective in producing mental or muscular activity, of what value is consciousness in the universe? Is it anything more than a spectator of the physical changes which constitute real activity and form the basis of history? Professor Warren finds the answer to this question in the “doubleaspect”’ theory of consciousness.”

The objection (stated in the preceding paragraph) may hold against the traditional parallelistic world-view, but it loses force if we adopt the doubleaspect standpoint. According to this interpretation our thoughts and purposes are only our way of experiencing what an independent observer might perceive as physiological activity. One set of occurrences is as ‘‘real’’ as the other. So, for example, my feeling of “hunger,” would appear to a suitably equipped outside observer as a contraction of my stomach, the presence in it of an accumulation of certain digestive fluids; a particular disposition of the molecules of certain nerves and certain portions of the brain, ete.

Physical Analogies. Such dual aspect of a phenomenon is known to us also outside of the particular case of consciousness. So, for example, the magnetic force (intensity) at a certain point is one aspect of the same phenomenon which could also be described by a statement of the position of the molecules of the permanent magnet, say, to which the field is due. The “problem” of psycho-physical parallelism is probably due to an inadequate statement of the case. Itis probably, in this sense, of the nature of a pseudo-problem. To say that a necessary condition for the writing of these words is the willing of the author to write them, and to say that a necessary condition for the writing of them is a certain state and configuration of the material of his brain, these two statements are probably merely two ways of saying the same thing. A state of consciousness can be described either in terms of its “contents,” or in terms of the disposition of the molecules, ete. of the brain, just as a magnetic field might be described either in terms of an intensity chart or in terms of the position of a number of magnets.

But, evidently, the double-aspect conception of consciousness helps us not at all to recognize, in the intervention of consciousness, any plausible reason for simplification of mechanisms to be gained by this means. For fruitful suggestions we must look elsewhere, and it is in this difficulty that the theory of consciousness sketched in Chapter XXIX gives promise of assistance. For on the one hand the appearance upon the field of action of molecules in the ‘‘opened-up”’ state furnishes a whole range of states of matter that do not play a significant réle in the operation of ordinary mechanism. With this extra material the conscious mechanisms may conceivably accomplish what the mechanic, working with matter in its ordinary states, is powerless to do without complications of structure altogether prohibitive. Again, our conception of the physics of conscious matter reveals to our view an interplay of forces, to effect purposive adjustment, within the molecule; whereas the mechanic, in his constructions, must bring contending forces to bear and to produce their resultants through separate material members, gross masses. Here, then, may be found the opportunity for that economy of parts which is characteristic of living, conscious mechanisms.*

In some such manner as this it seems possible to account with reasonable plausibility at least for the fact that in the evolution of the animal type of organism, the type equipped with a correlating apparatus, consciousness has been seized upon as an effective means to secure adaptive behavior. Origin of Consciousness. One question remains as yet unanswered. Whence did the organisms derive this consciousness? Where and how did consciousness come into being: In a living organism? Then was the organism unconscious prior to the event? Or else, did conscioushess arise outside the organism? Then consciousness would not be tied inseparably to life.