Blackwood's Magazine/Volume 44/Issue 274/An Introduction to the Philosophy of Consciousness (Part 4)
AN INTRODUCTION TO THE PHILOSOPHY OF CONSCIOUSNESS.
Part IV. Chapter I.
To enter at length into a discussion concerning the multifarious theories that have been propounded respecting the fact of perception, would be an endless and unnecessary labour. But, as the problem we are about to be engaged with has much in common with these speculations, and as its solution has been retarded by the assumption of various false facts which have invariably been permitted to mingle with them, we must, in a few words, strike at the root of these spurious facts, and, employing a more accurate observation, we will then bring forward, purified from all irrelevant admixture, that great question of psychology—how, or in what circumstances, does Consciousness come into operation?
"Perception," says Dr Brown, "is a state of mind which is induced directly or indirectly by its external cause, as any other feeling is induced by its particular antecedent. If the external cause or object be absent, the consequent feeling, direct or indirect, which we term perception, will not be induced, precisely as any other feeling will not arise without its peculiar antecedent. The relation of cause and effect, in short, is exactly the same in perception as in all the other mental phenomena—a relation of invariable sequence of one change after another change."[1]
This doctrine, which explains the phenomena of perception by placing them under the law of causality, is maintained, we believe, in one form or another, by every philosopher who has theorised on the subject,[2] from Aristotle, down through his scholastic followers, past the occasionalists and pre-established harmonists, and onwards to Dr Brown, who is merely to be considered as one of its most explicit expounders. One and all of them assume that the great law of cause and effect is as little violated in the intercourse which takes place between the external universe and man, as it is in the catenation of the objects themselves constituting that universe. Have we, then, any fault to find with this doctrine, supported as it is by such a host of authorities; and if we have, what is it? We answer that, in our apprehension, it places Dr Brown and all the philosophers who embrace it in a very extraordinary dilemma, which we now proceed to point out.
If by "perception" Dr Brown understands "sensation," and nothing more than sensation, then we admit his statement of the fact to be correct, and his doctrine to be without a flaw. Sensation (the smell of a rose, for example) is certainly "a state" which is "induced by its external cause," namely, by the rose. This is certainly a simple and ordinary instance of sequence,—a mere illustration of the common law of cause and effect, and not a whit more extraordinary than any other exemplification of that great law. We admit, then, that here the phenomenon is correctly observed and stated, that the law of causality embraces sensation, and adequately accounts for its origin. Where, then, does our objection lie? It lies in this, that the origin of sensation is not the true and pertinent problem requiring solution, but is a most frivolous and irrelevant question. We thus, then, fix for Dr Brown and many other philosophers the first horn of our dilemma. If by "perception" they understand "sensation" merely, they no doubt hit the true facts and their true explanation, but then they entirely miss, as we shall see, the question properly at issue, and, instead of grappling with it, they explain to us that which stands in need of no explanation.
But by "perception," Dr Brown and other philosophers probably understand something more than "sensation." If so, what is the additional fact they understand by it? When we have found it, we will then fix for them the other horn of our dilemma.
When animals and young children are sentient, there is in them, as we have all along seen, nothing more than sensation. The state of being into which they are cast is simple and single. It is merely a certain effect following a certain cause. There is in it nothing whatsoever of a reflex character. A particular sensation is, in their case, given or induced by its particular external cause, and nothing more is given. Indeed, what more could we rationally expect the fragrant particles of a rose to give than the sensation of the smell of a rose? Here, then, the state into which the sentient creature is thrown begins, continues, and ends, in simple and mixed sensation, and that is all that can be said about it.
But when we ourselves are sentient, we find the state of the fact to be widely different from this. We find that our sentient condition is not, as is the case in children and animals, a monopoly of sensation, but that here a new fact is evolved, over and above the sensation, which makes the phenomenon a much more complicated and extraordinary one. This new and anomalous phenomenon which accompanies our sensations, but which is, at the same time, completely distinct from them—is the fact of our own personality—the fact and the notion denoted by the word "I." Surely no one will maintain that this realisation of self, in conjunction with our sensations, and as distinguished from the objects causing them, is the same fact as these sensations themselves. In man, then, there is the notion and the reality of himself, as well as the sensation that passes through him. In other words, he is not only sentient, like other animals, but, unlike them, he is sentient with a consciousness, or reference to self, of sensation;—two very different, and, as we have already seen, and shall see still further, mutually repugnant and antithetical states of existence.
This consciousness of sensation, then, is the other fact contained in perception; and it is an inquiry into the nature and origin of this fact, and of it alone, that forms the true and proper problem of psychology when we are busied with the phenomena of perception; because it is this fact, and not the fact of sensation, which constitutes man's peculiar and distinctive characteristic, and lies as the foundation-stone of all the grander structures of his moral and intellectual being.
We now then ask:—Have Dr Brown and other philosophers entertained the problem as to the origin and import of this fact—the fact, namely, of consciousness as distinguished from the fact of sensation, passion, &c.—and have they thus grappled with the true question at issue? We answer: That if they have, then have they grossly falsified the facts of the case. For it is not the fact that the consciousness of sensation is "induced, either directly or indirectly, by its external cause," or by any cause whatsoever. Sensation, no doubt, is induced by its external cause, but consciousness is altogether exempt from the law of causality, as we shall very shortly prove by a reference to experience itself. In fine, then, the dilemma to which Dr Brown, and, we believe, all other theorists on the subject of perception, may be reduced, stands thus: Are they, primo loco, right in their facts?—then they are wrong in the question they take up. Or, secundo loco, do they hit the right question?—then they falsify, ab initio, the facts upon which its solution depends. In other words, in so far as their statement of facts is true, they take up a wrong question, inasmuch as they explain to us the origin of our sensations when they ought to be explaining to us the origin of our consciousness of sensations, or the notion of self which accompanies them. Or, again, supposing that they take up the right question; then their statement of facts is false, inasmuch as their assumption that our consciousness of sensation falls under the law of causality is totally unfounded, and may be disproved by an appeal to a stricter and more accurate observation.
The erection of this dilemma places us on a vantage-ground from which we may perceive at a glance both what we ought to avoid and what we ought to follow. On the one hand, realising the true facts, we can avoid the fate of those who expended their labour on a wrong question; and, on the other hand, hitting the right question, we can also avoid the fate of those who wrecked its solution upon false facts. We can now steer equally clear of the Scylla of an irrelevant problem, and the Charybdis of fictitious facts. Perception is, as we have seen, a synthesis of two facts, sensation, namely, and consciousness, or the realisation of self in conjunction with the sensation experienced. The former of these is possessed in common by men and by animals; but the latter is peculiar to man, and constitutes his differential quality, and is, therefore, the sole and proper fact to which our attention ought to direct itself when contemplating the phenomena of perception.
Chapter II.
We have already[3] had occasion to establish and illustrate the radical distinction between consciousness on the one hand, and sensation on the other, or any other of those "states of mind," as they are called, of which we are cognisant. We showed that consciousness is not only distinct from any of these states, but is diametrically opposed, or placed in a direct antithesis, to them all. Thus, taking for an example, as we have hitherto done, the smell of a rose, it appears that so long as the sensation occasioned by this object remains moderate, consciousness, or the realization of self in union with the feeling, comes into play without any violent effort. But, suppose the sensation is increased until we almost
"die of a rose, in aromatic pain,"
then we affirm that the natural tendency of this augmentation is to weaken or obliterate consciousness, which, at any rate, cannot now maintain its place without a much stronger exertion. We do not say that this loss of self-possession, or possession of self, always happens even when human sensations are most immoderate; but we affirm that in such circumstances there is a natural tendency in man to lose his consciousness or to have it weakened; and that when he retains it, he does so by the counteracting exercise of an unnatural, that is, of a free and moral power; and we further maintain that this tendency or law, or fact of humanity, which is fully brought to light when our sensations, emotions, &c., are rendered very violent, clearly proves that there is at bottom a vital and ceaseless repugnancy between consciousness and all these "states of mind," even in their ordinary and more moderate degrees of manifestation, although the equipoise then preserved on both sides may render it difficult for us to observe it. Had man been visited by much keener sensations, and hurried along by much stronger passions, and endowed with a much more perfect reason, the realisation of his own personality, together with the consequences it involves, would then have been a matter of much greater difficulty to him than it now is; perhaps it would have amounted to an impossibility. Even as it is, nothing can be more wonderful than that he should evolve this antagonist power in the very heart of the floods of sensation which, pouring in upon all sides, are incessantly striving to overwhelm it; and, secure in its strength, should ride, as in a lifeboat, amid all the whirlpools of blind and fatalistic passion, which make the life of every man here below a sea of roaring troubles.
We now avail ourselves of the assistance of this antagonism,—which has thus been established as fact by experience,—in order to displace the false fact generally, we might say universally, assumed in our current metaphysics, namely, that consciousness, or the fact and notion denoted by the word "I," comes into manifestation at the bidding, and under the influence, of the objects which induce the sensations accompanying it.
One fact admitted on all hands is, that our sensations are caused by certain objects presented to our senses; another fact assumed on all hands is, that our consciousness of sensations falls under the same law, and is likewise induced by the presence of these objects. But consciousness and sensation are each other's opposites, and exist as thesis and antithesis—therefore, according to this doctrine, we find two contradictory effects attributed at the same moment to the same cause, and referred to the same origin—just as if we were to affirm that the same object is at the same moment and in the same place the cause at once of light and of the absence of light, or that the sun at one and the same instant both ripens fruit and prevents it from ripening. To illustrate this by our former example (for a variety of illustrations adds nothing to the clearness of an exposition), let us suppose a sentient being to experience the smell of a rose. So long as this being's state is simply sentient, its sensation is absorbing, effective, and complete; but as soon as consciousness, or the realization of self, blends with this feeling, it from that moment becomes weaker and less perfect. It is no longer pure and unalloyed, and consequently its integrity is violated, and its strength in some degree impaired:—yet, according to our ordinary psychologists, the same object, namely, the rose, which induces the strength of the sensation, also brings along with it that suspension or weakening of the sensation which consciousness is. We are called upon to believe that the same cause at the same moment both produces and destroys a particular effect—a creed too contradictory and unintelligible to be easily embraced when thus plainly exposed. If a particular object induce a particular sensation, surely the suspension of that sensation, or, in other words, the consciousness which impairs it, and prevents it from being all-absorbing, cannot be induced by the same cause. And, besides, if our consciousness depended on our sensations, passions, or any other of our "states of mind," would not its light kindle, and its energy wax in proportion as these were brightened and increased? We have seen, however, that the reverse of this is the case, and that consciousness never burns more faintly than during man's most vivid paroxysms of sensation and of passion.
This argument, which is, however, rather a fact presented to us by experience than an inference, entirely disproves the dependency of man's consciousness upon the external objects which give birth to his sensations. It thus radically uproots that false fact by which man is made the creature and thrall of causality in his intercourse with the outward world, and the passive recipient of its impressions. At the same time the displacement of this false fact opens up to us a glimpse of that great truth, the view and realization of which it has hitherto obstructed—the liberty of man. In order to get a nearer and clearer prospect of this grand reality, let us extirpate still more radically the spurious fact we have been dealing with, until not a fibre of it remains to shoot forth anew into sprouts of error.
Chapter III.
The earliest speculators among mankind were, as we have before remarked, mere naturalists or physici. They looked at everything and conceived everything under the law of cause and effect. After a time, when speculation began to be directed upon man, or became what is now termed "metaphysical," this law still continued to be regarded as supreme, and the spirit of the old method was carried on into the new research. But as no instance of causality could be conceived without the existence of a thing operated on, as well as of a thing operating, they were forced to postulate something in man (either physical or hyperphysical) for the objects of external nature to act upon. Thus, in order to allow the law of causality an intelligible sphere of operation, and at the same time to lift man out of the mire of a gross materialism, they devised or assumed a certain spiritualized or attenuated substance called "mind," endowed with certain passive susceptibilities as well as with various active powers; and this hypothetical substance, together with all the false facts and foolish problems it brings along with it, has been permitted to maintain its place, almost without challenge, in all our schools of philosophy down to the present hour; so completely has psychological science in general taken the colour and imbibed the spirit of physical research.
"Ut multis nota est naturæ causa latentis!
At sua qui noscat pectora rarus adest"
It is time, however, that this substance, and the doctrines and facts taught in connexion with it, were tested in a more rigorous and critical spirit—not, indeed, upon their own account, but on account of those greater and more important truths whose places they have usurped. How, then, do we propose testing this substance? In this way. The word "mind" is exceedingly remote and ambiguous, and denotes—nobody knows what. Let us then substitute in place of it that much plainer expression which everybody makes use of, and in some degree, at least, understands—the expression "I" or "me"—and let us see how mind, with its facts and doctrines, will fare when this simple, unpretending, and unhypothetical word is employed in its place.
"External objects take effect upon mind, and perception is the result." This doctrine lies at the very threshold of our ordinary metaphysics, and forms the foundation-stone upon which their whole superstructure is erected. But is it true? Let us come to a more distinct understanding of it by changing it into the following statement, and we shall see what gross though deep-lurking falsities are brought to light by the alteration. Let us say "external objects take effect upon me, and perception is the result." We now then ask, To what period of our life is this proposition meant to have reference? Does the philosopher of "mind" answer that it may be applied to us during any period, from first to last, of our existence? Then we tell him, in return, that, in that case, the doctrine is certainly false, for it is not the fact that things take effect upon "me" at the birth or during the earlier years of that particular Being which afterwards becomes "I,"—there being at that time no "me" at all in the case—no "me" for things to take effect upon,—as was proved in the preceding problem, where it was shown that no man is born conscious, or, in other words, that no man is born "I." It is true that things take effect, from the very first, upon that particular Being which, after a time and after a certain process, becomes "I." But this particular Being was not "I" at its birth, or until a considerable time after it had elapsed, and, therefore, the proposition, "things take effect upon me," is seen to be untrue when applied to one period of human life at least, and thus the ego, or that which, in the case of each individual man, is "I;" or, in other words, his true Being, is liberated from the control of the law of causality, during the earlier stages at least of his existence, in the most conclusive and effectual way possible—namely, by showing that at that time this "I" has no manner of existence or manifestation whatsoever.
Does the philosopher of mind, giving up this point, maintain that the proposition quoted has, at any rate, a true and intelligible application to us in our grown or advanced condition? Then we tell him that, in that case, the affirmation, or dogma, is altogether premature, because, before it can be admitted, he is bound to explain to us how the particular Being given and contemplated, which was not "I" or "me" at first, became converted into "me." Before any subsequent averment connected with this "me" can be listened to, it is, first of all, incumbent upon him, we say, to point out to us how this conversion is brought about—to explain to us the origin and significance of this "I"—the circumstances out of which it arose, for, as we have already said, the particular Being which now appropriates it was certainly not sent into the world a born or ready-made "I."
Suppose, then, that the metaphysician should say that this Being becomes "I" under the law of causality, and beneath the action of the external objects which produce impressions upon it,—then we would like to know how it happened that these outward objects, which induced the human Being's sensations at the very first, did not cause him to become "I" then. When he was first born he was just as sensitive as he ever was afterwards,—no doubt more so,—but for long his sensations continued pure and unalloyed. After a time, however, they were found to be combined with the notion and reality of self—a new notion and reality altogether. The human Being has now become ego; from a thing he has become a person. But what new circumstances were there in his sensations, or their exciting causes, by which they brought about this new fact and phasis of existence? The metaphysician cannot answer us. He must admit that the sensations and their causes remain, after the manifestation of the ego, precisely what they were before it came into existence, and, therefore, that they can never account for its origin.
But we have already, in the preceding chapter, disproved still more effectually the fact that the ego comes into existence in consequence of the influence of external objects. We there showed that consciousness not only does not manifest itself in obedience to their action, but that it actually tends to be suppressed and obliterated thereby. Now consciousness is the very essence and origin of the ego—consciousness creates the ego—without consciousness no man would be" I." Therefore the ego is also exempt from the influence of outward objects, and manifests itself, and maintains its place, not in consequence, but in spite of them. Consciousness develops and preserves itself by refusing to take part or identify itself with the sensation, passion, or whatever it may be that is striving to enslave the man; and the ego, which is but the more personal and vital expression of consciousness, exists merely by refusing to imbibe the impressions of external things. Thus, so far is it from being true that outward objects take effect upon me, that "I," in truth, only am by resisting and refusing to be impressed by their action.
When an effect or impression is produced on any substance, whether it be motion, as in the case of a struck billiard ball, or sensation, as in the case of animals and men, the substance impressed is either conscious of the impression, as is the case with men, or unconscious of it, as is the case with animals and billiard-balls. If it be unconscious of the impression, then, being filled and monopolized by the same, it never rises above it, but, yielding to its influence, it becomes altogether the slave of the law of causality, or of the force that is working on it. But if this substance be conscious of the impression made upon it, then it is absolutely necessary, in the eye of reason, that a portion of this being should stand aloof from the impression—should be exempt from the action of the object causing it—in short, should resist, repel, and deny it in the exercise of a free activity; otherwise, like animals and inferior things, being completely absorbed and monopolized by the influence present to it, it would no more be able to become conscious of it than a leaf can comprehend the gale in which it is drifting along, or the tiger the passion which impels him to slake his burning heart in blood. It is obvious that the point in man at which he becomes aware of his impressions must be free from these impressions, and must stand out of their sphere, otherwise it would be swallowed up by them, and nothing save the impressions would remain. But man is not made up of mere impressions—passions, sensations, "states of mind," or whatever they may be. He is not engulfed and borne along in their vortices. There is a point from which he looks down upon them all, and knows himself to be free. He stands within a circle more impregnable than enchanter's ring—a circle which, however much they may assault it, they cannot overpass; and this point or circle of freedom—this true life of humanity, is that which, in the case of each man, is "I."
This view disposes of a question which has been ever regarded as forming the opprobrium of metaphysics. We allude to the problem respecting the mode and nature of the intercourse which takes place between the external universe and man—or, as metaphysicians say, "Mind." This question is now given up—not because it has been solved—not because it is regarded as too contemptible and irrelevant to be entertained by speculative philosophy, but (pro pudor!) because it is considered insoluble, inscrutable, and beyond the limits of the human faculties. Oh, ye metaphysicians! ye blind leaders of the blind! How long will ye be of seeing and understanding that there is no communication at all between man in his true Being and the universe that surrounds him—or, that if there be any, it is the communication of non-communication? Know ye not that ye are what ye are only on account of the antagonism between you and it—that ye perceive things only by resisting their impressions, by denying them, not in word only, but also in vital deed: that your refusal to be acted upon by them constitutes your very personality and your very perception of them; that this perception arises not in consequence of the union, but in consequence of the disunion between yourselves and matter; and, in fine, that your consciousness, even in its simplest acts, so far from being in harmony and keeping with the constitution of nature, is the commencement of that grand disruption between yourselves and the world, which perhaps ye will know more about before ye die?
Of all difficult entails to be broken through, the most difficult is the entail of false facts and erroneous opinions. If, however, the foregoing observations be attended to, we trust we have done something to cut off speculators yet unborn from their inheritances of error. Of all the false facts involved in the "science of the human mind," the greatest is this, that, starting from the assumption of "mind" as a given substance, we are thereby led to believe that the ego or central and peculiar point of humanity comes into the world ready-made. In opposition to this belief, the true fact is that the ego does not thus come into the world, but that the being which is now "I" was not "I" at first, but became "I" after a time and after a process, which it is the business of the philosopher to explain. Various other fictitious facts spring out of this tap-root of error. Thus, if we start from mind as a given substance, we, of course, are compelled to make this, in the first instance, passive, and only active through a species of reaction. But the ego is never passive. Its being is pure act. To hold it passive is to hold it annihilated. It is for ever acting against the fatalistic forces of nature. Its free and antagonist power shows itself equally to the eye of reflection in our simplest perceptive as in our highest moral acts. It lives, and has a being, only in so far as it refuses to bow under the yoke of causality; and whenever it bends beneath that yoke, its life and all its results are gone.[4]
One word to those who imagine that the ego is merely a variety of expression signifying nothing more than the proper name of the person employing it. There cannot be a greater philosophical error than to conceive that the non-manifestation of the ego is merely a verbal or logical defect, and that the reality of it may exist in a being, where the notion of it is wanting. Yet this appears to us to be one of the commonest errors in psychology. Metaphysicians, undisciplined by reflection, when contemplating the condition of a young child, and observing its various sensitive, passionate, or rational states, are prone, in the exercise of an unwarranted imagination, also to invest it with a personality—with consciousness—in short, with that which, in their own case, they call "I," transferring over upon it this notion and reality which exist only for them. For the child all this while does not think itself "I," and therefore it does not in reality become "I." It never can become "I" through their thinking. The "I" they think for it is a spurious and non-existent "I." To become "I" in reality, it must think itself "I," which it has not yet done. But what do we mean precisely by saying that the notion of "I" creates the reality of "I"? This we can best explain by a digression into the history of philosophy, and by rescuing a once famous dogma from the undeserved contempt into which it has generally fallen.
Chapter IV.
The Cartesian philosophy is said to commence by inculcating a species of wide and deep-searching scepticism; and its fundamental and favourite tenet is that cogito ergo sum, which is now so universally decried. But abandoning altogether its written dogmas and formulas, let us only return upon them after we have looked forth for ourselves into the realities of things.
When a man sees and thinks a mountain, it is obvious that his thought does not create the mountain. Here, then, the thought and the reality are not identical; nor does the one grow out of the other. The two can be separated, and, in point of fact, stand apart, and are quite distinct. In this case, then, it requires some degree of faith to believe that the notion and the reality correspond. It is evident that there is a sort of flaw between them which nothing but the cement of Faith can solder; a gap which no scientific ingenuity has ever been able to bridge;—in short, that here there is a chink in the armour of reason which scepticism may take advantage of, if it chooses; for the reality of the mountain being independent of the notion of the mountain—the notion may also be independent of the reality, and, for anything that can be shown to the contrary, may have been induced by some other cause. In short, the notion, even when the mountain appears present before us, may possibly exist without any corresponding reality, for it clearly does not create that reality.
In looking out, then, for a sure and certain foundation for science, we must not build upon any tenet in which a distinction between our thought and its corresponding reality is set forth (as, for example, upon any proposition expressing the real existence of an external world), for here scepticism might assail us—possibly with success; but we must seek for some subject of experience, between the notion of which and the reality of which there is no flaw, distinction, or interval whatsoever. We must seek for some instance in which the thought of a certain reality actually creates that reality; and if we can find such an instance, we shall then possess an inconcussum quid which will resist for ever all the assaults of scepticism.
But no instance of this kind is to be found, as we have seen, by attaching our thoughts to the objects of the universe around us. Our thinking them does not make them realities. If they are realities, they are not so in consequence of our thoughts; and if they are not realities, unreal they will remain in spite of our thoughts. Let us turn from the universe, then, and look to ourselves. "I." Now here is an instance in which there is no distinction or sundering between the notion and the reality. The two are coincident and identical—or rather, we should say, the one (that is, the notion "I ") creates and enforces the other (that is, the reality "I "); or, at any rate, this appears to be the best way of logically exhibiting the two. Between the notion and the reality in this case scepticism can find no conceivable entrance for the minutest point of its spear. Let any man consult his own experience whether, the notion "I" being given, the reality "I" must not also necessarily be present; and also whether, the reality being present, the notion must not also accompany it. Let him try to destroy or maintain the one without also destroying or maintaining the other, and see whether he can succeed. Succeed he easily may in the case of any other notion and reality. The word mountain, for instance, denotes both a notion and a reality. But the notion may exist perfectly well without the reality, and the reality without the notion. The notion "I," however, cannot exist without the reality "I," and the reality cannot exist without the notion I," as any one may satisfy himself by the slightest reflection.
Here, then, we have found the instance we were seeking for. What is the notion "I"? It is consciousness or the notion of self. What is the reality "I?" It is simply "I." Connect the two together in a genesis which makes the one arise out of the other, and you have the famous fundamental position of the Cartesian philosophy, cogito ergo sum—a formula which is worthy of respect, for this reason, if for no other, that by it the attention of psychologists was first distinctly directed to the only known instance in which a notion and a reality are identical and coincident—in which a thought is the same as a thing.
But, by means of the dogma, cogito ergo sum, was it not the design of Descartes to prove his own existence? Take our word for it, no such miserable intention ever entered into his head. His great object, in the first place, was emphatically to signalize the very singular and altogether anomalous phenomenon we have spoken of, namely, the identity in man of thought and reality, and then to found upon this point as on a rock which no conceivable scepticism could shake; and, in the second place, he attempted to point out the genesis of the ego, in so far as it admitted of logical exposition. Cogito ergo sum—I am conscious, therefore I am—that is—consciousness—or the notion of "I," takes place in a particular Being—and the reality of "I" is the immediate result. The ergo here does not denote a mere logical inference from the fact of consciousness, but it points to a genetic or creative power in that act.
"Consciousness created you—that is to say, you created yourself—did you?"—we may here imagine an opponent of Descartes to interpose.
"No," replies Descartes; "I did not create myself, in so far as my mere existence is concerned. But, in so far as I am an ego, or an existence as a self, I certainly did create myself. By becoming conscious, I, in one sense, actually created myself."
"But," says the other, "must you not have existed before you could become conscious, and in order to become conscious."
"Certainly," answers Descartes, "some sort of being must have existed before my consciousness, but it was only after consciousness that that being became I."
"Do you then cease to be whenever you cease to be conscious?"
To this question Descartes answers both yes and no. "As an existing being; says he, "fulfilling many purposes of creation, I certainly do not cease to exist when I cease to be conscious; but as an 'I' (ego), I certainly am no more the moment consciousness leaves me. Consciousness made me from a thing, a self; that is, it lifted me up from existing merely for others, and taught me to exist also for myself. My being as an ego depends upon, and results from my consciousness, and therefore, as soon as my consciousness is taken away, my existence as an ego or self vanishes. The being heretofore called 'I' still exists, but not as 'I.' It lives only for others—not for itself—not as a self at all, either in thought or in deed."
Chapter V.
But though we have seen that consciousness is the genesis or origin of the ego, and that without the former the latter has no existence, we have yet to throw somewhat more light on consciousness itself, and the circumstances in which it arises.
Let thyself float back, oh reader! as far as thou canst in obscure memory into thy golden days of infancy, when the light of thy young life, rising out of unknown depths, scattered away death from before its path, beyond the very limits of thought; even as the sun beats off the darkness of night into regions lying out of the visible boundaries of space. In those days thy light was single and without reflection. Thou wert one with nature, and, blending with her bosom, thou didst drink in inspiration from her thousand breasts. Thy consciousness was faint in the extreme; for as yet thou hadst but slightly awakened to thyself; and thy sensations and desires were nearly all-absorbing. Carry thyself back still farther into days yet more "dark with excess of light," and thou shalt behold, through the visionary mists, an earlier time, when thy consciousness was altogether null—a time when the discrimination of thy sensations into subject and object, which seems so ordinary and inevitable a process to thee now, had not taken place, but when thyself and nature were enveloped and fused together in a glowing and indiscriminate synthesis. In these days thy state was indeed blessed, but it was the blessedness of bondage. The earth flattered thee, and the smiling heavens flattered thee into forgetfulness. Thou wert nature's favourite, but at the same time her fettered slave.
But thy destiny was to be free;—to free thyself—to break asunder the chains of nature—to oppose thy will and thy strength to the universe, both without thee and within thee—to tread earth and the passions of earth beneath thy feet; and thy first step towards this great consummation was to dissolve the strong, primary, and natural synthesis of sensation. In the course of time, then, that which was originally one in the great unity of nature, became two beneath the first exercise of a reflective analysis. Thy sensation was now divided into subject and object; that is, thyself and the universe around thee. Now, for the first time, wert thou "I."
Wouldst thou re-examine thy sensation as it exists in its primary synthetic state?—then look at it—what is it but a pure unmixed sensation—a sensation, and nothing more? Wouldst thou behold it—in thy own secondary analysis of it?—then, lo! how a new element, altogether transcending mere sensation, is presented to thee—the element or act of negation; that is, as we shall show, of freedom.
Sensation in man is found to be, first of all, a unity—and at this time there is no ego or non-ego at all in the case; but afterwards it becomes a duality, and then there is an ego and a non-ego. But, in the latter case, it is obvious that very different circumstances are connected with sensation, and very different elements are found along with it, than are found in it when it is a unity: there is, for instance, the fact of negation, the non which is interposed between the subject and the object—and there are also, of course, any other facts into which this one may resolve itself.
Moreover, it is evident that, but for this act of negation or division, there would be no ego, or non-ego. Take away this element, and the sensation is restored to its first unity, in which these, being undiscriminated, were virtually non-existent. For it is obvious that, unless a man discriminates himself as "I" from other things, he does not exist as "I." The ego and the non-ego, then, only are by being discriminated, or by the one of them being denied (not in thought or word only, but in a primary and vital act) of the other. But consciousness also is the discrimination between the ego and the non-ego; or, in other words, consciousness resolves itself, in its clearest form, into an act of negation.
In order, then, to throw the strongest light we can on consciousness, we must ascertain the value and import, and, if possible, the origin of this act of negation—this fundamental energy and vital condition upon which the peculiar being of humanity depends. And, first of all, we must beg the reader (a point we have had occasion to press upon him before) to banish from his mind the notion that this negation is a mere logical power, or form, consisting of a thought and a word. Let him endeavour to realize such a conception of it as will exhibit it to him as a vital and energetic deed by which he brings himself into existence—not indeed as a Being—but as that which he calls "I." Let him consider that, unless this deed of negation were practised by him, he himself would not be here—a particular Being would, indeed, be here; but it is only by denying or distinguishing itself from other things that that being becomes a self—himself. Unless this discrimination took place, the Being would remain lost and swallowed up in the identity or uniformity of the universe. It would be only for others, not for itself. Self, in its case, would not emerge.
Am I, then, to say that "I" have been endowed by some other Being with this power of sundering myself, during sensation, from the objects causing it—am I to say that this capability has been given "me?" Given me! Why, I was not "I" until after this power was exerted; how then could it have been given "me"? There was no "me" to give it to. I became "I" only by exercising it; and after it had been exerted, what would be the advantage of supposing it given to me then,—I having it already? If, then, I suppose this power given to "me" before it is exerted, I suppose it given to that which does not as yet exist to receive it; and if I suppose it given to me after it is exerted—after I have become "I," I make myself the receiver of a very superfluous and unnecessary gift.
But suppose it should be said that this power, though not, properly speaking, given to "me," is yet given to that particular Being which afterwards, in consequence of exercising it, becomes "I," then we answer, that in this case it is altogether a mistake to suppose that this particular Being exercises the power. The power is, truly speaking, exercised by the Being which infused it, and which itself here becomes "I;" while the particular Being supposed to become "I" in consequence of the endowment, remains precisely what it was, and does not, by any conceivability, become "I." One Being may, indeed, divide and sunder another Being from other objects; but this does not make the latter Being "I." In order to become "I" it must sunder itself from other things by its own act. Finally, this act of negation, or, in other words, consciousness, is either derived or underived. If it is derived, then it is the consciousness of the Being from whom it is derived, and not mine. But I am supposing it, and it is admitted to be, mine, and not another Being's, therefore it must be underived; that is to say, self-originated and free.
A particular Being becomes "I" in consequence of exercising this act of negation. But this act must be that Being's own; otherwise, supposing it to be the act of another Being, it would be that other Being which would become I, and not the particular Being spoken of. But it was this particular Being, and no other, which was supposed to become I, and therefore the act by which it became so must have been its own; that is, it must have been an act of pure and absolute freedom.
In this self-originated act there is no passivity. Now every pure and underived act, of course, implies and involves the presence of will of the agent. If the act were evolved without his will it would be the act of another Being. In this act of negation, then, or, in other words, in perception and consciousness, Will has place. Thus, though man is a sentient and passionate creature, without his will, he is not a conscious, or percipient being, not an ego, even in the slightest degree, without the concurrence and energy of his volition. Thus early does human will come into play—thus profoundly down in the lowest foundations of the ego is its presence and operation to be found.
It is curious to observe how completely these views, in which we identify perception with a primary act of negation, are borne out by certain philological coincidences, which are, assuredly, not accidental, but based upon deeper reflection than we well know how to fathom. Thus, in Greek, there is the verb, εω, I am: then, anterior to this, in the order of thought, there is νο-εω. (primary meaning), I am—with a negation. (Secondary meaning) I perceive; showing how sensible the founders of the Greek language were, that all perception is ultimately founded on negation and identical with it; that an act of negation is, in fact, the very condition upon which perception depends, Our own word "know" also clearly betokens this—it is nothing but "no," and knowledge, from lowest to highest, is merely the constant alleging "no" of things, or, in other words, a continual process of denying them, first of ourselves, and then of one another:—of course we mean not only in word, but also in thought and in deed. Besides γινωσκω in Greek, there is, in Latin, nosco, or nonsco—all words denoting knowledge, and all carrying negative signs upon their very fronts.
- ↑ Physiology of the Mind.—P. 125-6.
- ↑ We are aware that Dr Brown and others have endeavoured to teach the doctrine of causation as a simple relation of antecedence and consequence, emptying our notion of cause of the idea of efficiency, that is, of the element which constitutes its very essence. But, unlike Hume, who adopted the same views, and never swerved from them, but carried them forth into all their consequences, they never remain consistent with themselves for ten consecutive pages. They keep constantly resuming the idea they profess to have abjured; as, for instance, in their admission with respect to the efficiency or power of the Divine will. Therefore, their doctrine, whatever it may be, does not in any degree affect the line of argument followed out in the text, addressed though that argument is to those who entertain the common notion of causation, as, no doubt, Dr Brown himself in reality did, however different a one he may have professed.
- ↑ Vol. XLIII., p. 445
- ↑ The false facts of metaphysics" ought to form no inconsiderable chapter in the history of philosophy. Those specified are but a few of them; but they are all that we have room for at present. To state, almost in one word, the fundamental error we have noticed in the text, we should say, that the whole perversion and falsity of the philosophy of man are owing to our commencing with a substance, "mind,"—and not with an act—the act or fact of consciousness.