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Title: Gestalt psychology
Author: Wolfgang Köhler
Release date: July 4, 2026 [eBook #79014]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: Horace Liveright, 1929
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GESTALT PSYCHOLOGY ***
GESTALT
PSYCHOLOGY
BY
DR. WOLFGANG KÖHLER
NEW YORK
HORACE LIVERIGHT
1929
Copyright, 1929, by
Horace Liveright, Inc.
First printing, April, 1929
Second printing, April, 1929
Third printing, August, 1929
Fourth printing, October, 1929
PRINTED IN THE U. S. A. BY
QUINN & BODEN COMPANY. INC.
RAHWAY, N. J.
_To_
MAX WERTHEIMER
_Preface_
I OFFER this book to the patient reader, feeling more than ever how
much I have been inferior to my task. Nothing is easier than to
criticize it. _Gestalt_ psychology, the subject matter I have tried
to present, resembles in 1928 a promising start more than a complete
achievement. At all events it would have been difficult to introduce
it adequately. To present it skillfully in a foreign language was far
beyond my linguistic ability. I have done all that I possibly could.
The greatest difficulty, however, is that only certain simple and
almost crude concepts of _gestalt_ psychology would yield to my painful
efforts to convey them through the medium of English. Under these
circumstances the optimism of my excellent publisher is responsible if
the incomplete portrait of an incomplete thing is here recommended to
public consideration.
Certain other trends in contemporary psychology are discussed in
connection with _gestalt_ psychology. The first question a foreign
psychologist has to answer in America is, of course: How do you like
behaviorism? This vigorous school has energetically drawn certain lines
beyond which a psychologist should never go. And, then, indicating the
only direction that all psychologists must take, it has left little
place open for free discussion of theory and research; in other words,
it has developed into such a fundamentalism that I felt myself forced
to clear my way for a certain liberalism to which I am accustomed in
science.
With introspectionism things are not entirely different. In this
psychological school a scheme of procedure, which is just the
opposite to my own, has become dominant. This is unfortunate. If
behaviorists should refuse to take account of this book because in
it _direct experience_ is employed and referred to without apology,
introspectionists would not treat it any better, since my use of
experience, from their point of view, is not of the right sort. I have
had to explain, then, not only how I could eat the forbidden fruit in
spite of all commandments, but also why I took the common ware from the
street and from the market-place instead of buying the standardized
and sterilized products which introspection would furnish from its
cultivated orchard. It was my aim, however, to make this discussion
productive and, in addition to criticism, the reader will find some of
our own rules of procedure expressed in these first chapters. If the
fighting spirit should be found to prevail in some paragraphs, I beg
you to remember that, as in politics, we sometimes strike at a system
though we are fond of its defenders.
Certain psychologists, both in the United States and in England,
will recognize their own ideas or, at least, find some similarities
to them, in these chapters. Instead of treating all the instances of
this convergence and agreement in detail, I only mention the theory of
“emergent evolution” and the doctrine of Professor Whitehead’s imposing
work, with all the respect which is due them both. Perhaps Professor R.
M. Ogden will allow me to call him a _gestalt_ psychologist. I have not
been able to see quite clearly to what degree there is agreement with
certain other eminent psychologists. In Professor Bentley’s well-known
book, for example, his term “organization” sometimes seems to come very
near the concept of _gestalt_. But there must be some difference, since
on the other hand, the basic doctrine of introspective psychology seems
to be preserved in a manner incompatible with _gestalt_ psychology.
Future development will undoubtedly show whether or not our views can
be brought to a full congruence.
Dr. Mortimer Adler deserves the reader’s thanks as well as my own for
the skill and tact which he displayed in the correction of my text,
which was finally revised by K. Koffka.
My thanks are due to Mrs. L. Köhler, without whose help my work would
have been all but impossible.
To Max Wertheimer I should like to dedicate something of which I could
be prouder than these ten chapters. I hope he will accept them,
however, as a testimony of my good will and of our friendship.
W. K.
Ormor, Sweden,
August 12, 1928.
_Contents_
CHAPTER PAGE
PREFACE vii
I. THE VIEWPOINT OF BEHAVIORISM 3
II. PSYCHOLOGY AS A YOUNG SCIENCE 35
III. THE VIEWPOINT OF INTROSPECTION 70
IV. DYNAMICS AS OPPOSED TO MACHINE THEORY 103
V. SENSORY ORGANIZATION 148
VI. THE PROPERTIES OF ORGANIZED WHOLES 187
VII. BEHAVIOR 224
VIII. ASSOCIATION 269
IX. REPRODUCTION 301
X. INSIGHT 349
INDEX 395
GESTALT PSYCHOLOGY
I
_The Viewpoint of Behaviorism_
THERE seems to be a single starting point for psychology, exactly
as for all the other sciences: the world as I find it, naïvely and
uncritically. The naïveté may be lost as we proceed. Problems may be
found, which were completely hidden from our eyes at first, and for
their solution it may be necessary to devise concepts which seem to
have little contact with uncritical experience; nevertheless the whole
development should begin with a naïve picture of the world. This origin
is necessary because there is no other basis from which a science can
arise. In my case, which may be taken as representative of many others
essentially similar to it, that naïve picture consists, at this moment,
of a blue lake with dark forests around it, a big, gray stone, hard
and cool, which I have chosen as a chair, a paper on which I write,
a faint noise of the wind which hardly moves the trees, and a strong
odor characteristic of boats and fishing. But there is more in this
world: somehow I now behold, though it does not become fused with the
blue lake of the present, another lake of a milder blue, and I find
myself, some years ago, looking at it from its shore in Illinois. I am
perfectly accustomed to beholding thousands of pictures of this kind
which arise some way or other when I am alone. And there is still
more in this world: my hand and fingers moving lightly over the smooth
surface of the paper; now, when I stop writing and look around again,
there is a feeling of health and vigor, but in the next moment I feel
something like a dark pressure somewhere in my interior which tends to
develop into a feeling of being hunted--I have promised to have this
manuscript ready within a few months.
Most people live in such a world permanently, which is _the world_ for
them, and hardly ever find problems or difficulties in its properties.
Crowded streets may take the place of the lake, a cushion in a sedan
that of my stone, some serious words of a business transaction may be
remembered instead of Lake Michigan, and the dark pressure may have
to do with tax-paying instead of book-writing. All these are minor
differences so long as one takes the world at its face-value, as we all
do except in those hours when science disturbs our natural attitude.
There are problems, of course, even for the most uncritical citizen of
this first-hand world. But, for the most part, they do not refer to the
nature of it; they are of a practical or an emotional sort and they
usually mean that, this world being taken for granted, we do not know
how to judge or how to behave in that actual part of it which we face
as our present situation.
Various sciences, most of all physics and biology, began centuries
ago to destroy the simple confidence with which human beings take
that naïve world as _the reality_. Though hundreds of millions still
remain undisturbed, the scientist has found it, in some respects, full
of almost contradictory properties. Fortunately he has been able to
discover another world, as it were, behind it, whose properties, highly
different from those of the everyday world of naïve people, do not seem
to be contradictory at all. No wonder therefore that now, as psychology
begins to be a science, some of its most energetic students should wish
to make it go the way of the exact sciences at once. Indeed, if other
sciences have found the naïve world of everyday reality impervious to
and unavailable for scientific method, what hope of better success can
we as psychologists have? And if the enormous and almost impossible
feat of jumping out of the world of direct, but confused, experience
into a world of clear and hard reality, has already been achieved by
physical science, it would seem wise for the psychologist to take
advantage of that great event in the history of science and begin to
construct psychology on the solid basis laid down by the physicist and
the physiologist outside the field of uncritical experience.
A few words about the history of scientific criticism will help to
define better the material or field to be given up by psychological
investigation and to indicate what shall be taken as a better object
of research. Our naïve experience consists of objects, their properties
and changes, existing quite independently of us. It does not matter to
them and their existence whether or not we see and feel and hear them;
they remain exactly as they are when we state their properties, when
we are not present or are occupied in other matters. It was a great
step when men began to ask how seeing and feeling and hearing occur,
and it was a revolution when they found that colors and noises and
smells, etc., were merely products of some of the influences exerted
on man by his surroundings. Still these surroundings seemed to subsist
in their primary characteristics and to remain “the real world,” if
only you subtracted those “secondary qualities” as purely subjective
ingredients. But finally even the “primary qualities” of naïve realism
were assimilated to the secondary as subjective. The form, weight and
movement of the objects of immediate experience were treated as colors
and sounds, i.e., as functions of the experiencing organism, as end
results of its complicated processes. And therefore we cannot hold that
these objects excite the processes, since, according to this point of
view, their very existence as parts of immediate experience is only a
consequence of these processes. So the picture of the objective and
independent _physical world_ of physical things, of physical time,
of physical movement and physical space, has to be constructed as
something different from the world-picture of direct experience.
Physical objects, which _as such_ we can neither see nor feel, exert
upon each other a great variety of physical influences, which _as such_
similarly do not occur in the world of immediate experience. There is
one physical object more interesting than all the others but in every
way as foreign to naïve experience as they are: that is my physical
body, an astounding system of electromagnetic entities. If the right
influences be exerted upon this system by other physical objects,
those processes will occur in it, the consequences of which I know
as the exterior part of the world of naïve experience, the so-called
external sensory world. But an enormous amount of physical activity
is constantly going on inside my body. We have sufficient grounds,
therefore, to assume that there are still other processes with the
occurrence of which the _inner_ side of our immediate experience is
connected: such are the feeling of strain, when I contract the muscles
of my arm, also that of hunger and fatigue, my “memory image” of Lake
Michigan, fear and hope and so on, almost _ad infinitum_.
At present we shall not consider _how_ the physicist accomplishes the
gigantic task of investigating the properties of a world which does not
appear directly in any part of immediate experience. But there can be
no doubt concerning the remarkable success of his procedure. Whereas
the world of naïve man is somewhat confused, revealing its subjective
character in any critical discussion of its properties, the world of
the physicist gives short shrift to confusion and contradiction. And
though we find ourselves surprised by the rapid changes which physical
theory undergoes in our times, we still have the feeling that progress
is made with most of these changes. Eventually there will be agreement
about all the more important properties of the physical world.
For a while psychology was supposed to be the science of the events of
direct experience, both in its external and its internal aspects, as
contrasted to physical objects and occurrences.[1] By description of
direct experience the psychologist hoped to get not only an orderly
registration of all the possible varieties of such experience, but also
a great deal of information about the functional relations among these
events. He even aimed at formulating laws governing the flow of direct
experience.
The well-known psychological school of behaviorism has leveled
against the older psychology the criticism that it was misguided
both with respect to its subject-matter and its aim. It has not been
possible, according to the behaviorist, to register the varieties
of direct experience in a convincing manner, nor has anything come
of the attempt to describe their functional relationships or to
formulate the laws of so-called “mental life.” In no respect, the
behaviorist holds, do we have the impression that there exists a real
and progressive science of direct experience, clear in its methods
and results. On the contrary, we find endless discussions of minor
and, less frequently, major items, different psychologists giving
quite different descriptions of “facts” which are supposed to be more
or less the same for both of them. Take the example of “images”! One
psychologist claims to have them in numbers, many of them almost as
lively and concrete as perceptions. Others tell us that there are no
real images at all in direct experience and that probably the first
man was deceived by words or other motor phenomena which correspond to
objects and facts not actually present in experience. If the famous
method of “introspection,” i.e., observation of direct experience,[2]
cannot give better results in such a gross investigation, what shall
we expect from it when we are confronted by questions of equal or
even greater importance which are also more subtle and intrinsically
more difficult? Unfortunately, the adherents of introspection do not
seem to trust their own procedure. At least they must have agreed
upon facing important problems as seldom as possible, since they are
occupied mainly with describing the more remote and less exciting
corners of experience, as e.g., minor nuances of sensations, or the
“glassy” appearance of certain parts of space, and so forth. If all I
have to do to develop the science of direct experience is to describe
it, why then not attack the central facts of “mental life” at once,
instead of scratching a little at the surface, or periphery, of it?
There was a time in Germany, not very long ago, when people began to
joke about psychology’s ponderous discussion of trifles. And, indeed,
it was strange to see how the description of a direct experience, what
happens, for instance, during a single comparison of two tones or
colors, could fill hundreds of pages without giving us the slightest
positive idea about how the occurrence and accuracy of such a
comparison might be explained. Even in a state of perplexity a science
can be highly interesting. But psychology, so far as it deals with
direct experience by the method of introspection, has not only been a
complete failure; it has also become boresome for all those who are not
professionally connected with it.
And the behaviorist is not slow in giving us reasons why this must
be so. The meaning of “direct experience,” through opposition to the
world of physics, becomes associated with concepts like “the mental,”
“mind” and “soul,” almost without our being aware of this association.
Thus gradually this term becomes the expression for “spiritual life”
or the name for the effects of a special mental substance, existing
independently of the facts of physics and biology. Consequently, all
the old prejudices and superstitions of religious or metaphysical
extraction slip into the concept and into the treatment of direct
experience. The psychologist loses his impartial judgment; what he has
heard about “mind,” or “soul,” and their miraculous properties since
the early days of his childhood, creeps into his statements and makes
“introspection” an ill disguised rhetoric in favor of prescientific
mythology and medieval darkness.
However, if this were the only argument against introspection, the
introspectionist might answer that if the behaviorist were right in
this point, his criticism would not apply to the description of direct
experience itself, but rather would indicate an accidental source of
defect in the method. Then, some increase of self-criticism and a
careful elimination of religious or metaphysical interests in students
of psychology might be a remedy for these defects, and a very welcome
gesture towards sober behaviorism at the same time.
But the behaviorist has other reasons for not accepting direct
experience as a field of scientific research. First of all, as a
procedure, introspection lacks the chief methodological virtue of
physical research, a position of observation external to the system
under observation; on the contrary, it is a special process _in_ this
system itself, and all chances are against its leaving the “observed”
parts of the system undisturbed. _Hinc illæ lacrimæ!_ An example of
this is the attempt to study introspectively the direct experience
of sorrow and joy; they do not remain the same, but rather tend to
disappear when the selfsame person who has or had the sorrow and the
joy must assume the attitude of introspection.
But even supposing that this difficulty might be overcome by some
scarcely imaginable improvement of the method, we still should
find it useless, the behaviorist argues, because of its miserable
and inevitable subjectivity. What is the first characteristic of
an objective statement as the result of an objective scientific
procedure? That whoever happens to be interested in it can be obliged
to understand it in one determinate meaning, if only you give him exact
definitions of the terms you are using in your statement. So we define
the atomic weight or the atomic number of an element, so analogy and
homology of morphological structures, and there is no physicist or
biologist who does not know the exact significance of those words.
If now you listen to psychologists talking, let us say, about the
“confusion” which they observe in peripheral vision, what exact meaning
can be conveyed by this word so long as it is not fixed by definition?
A real definition, however, seems to be impossible wherever one has to
do with the ultimate data of direct experience. If you are asked for
the definition of “confusion,” you may attempt to define it negatively,
say in terms of “lack of clearness.” But that does not help you very
much, since your friend will then ask what you mean by “clearness.”
You may tell him that a rather high degree of clearness is a normal
property of the central parts of a simple and orderly visual field. But
such a field might have more than one normal property and you did not
give a _differentia specifica_ in your pseudo definition, in addition
to which the words “simple” and “orderly” need definition as badly as
did “confusion” and “clearness.” In any case, you have now resorted
to the only thing which seems feasible where, as in this field of
direct experience, a true definition cannot be achieved, viz., a kind
of _demonstration_. You do not define your term, but you give your
friend a hint about what conditions are necessary in order to have
the specific kind of direct experience about which you are talking.
Supposing that he understands the words by which you describe those
conditions, there is some chance now that he may attach your undefined
term to the precise phase of his actual direct experience that your use
of the term intended. But what a crude and altogether vague procedure
this is, if you compare it with the elegant definitions of the exact
sciences!
And still we have supposed that, given the same conditions, your
friend, who cannot make statements about any direct experience
except _his own_, must find in it the same properties, objects and
occurrences, which you have found in _your_ direct experience. You
cannot, as the physicists seem to do, make your two statements about
one and the same event, neither do you make readings from one and the
same apparatus or scale. You have _two_ events in _two_ experiences.
What is your evidence for assuming that under the same conditions the
ultimate data of experience are the same for both of you? Unfortunately
you shall never know whether this is the case or not. On one hand,
color blindness and similar phenomena show conclusively that such
an identity does not exist; on the other, you have no proof of that
identity even in those cases where all the tests you might imagine
give the same description, i.e., the verbal report you both make. Your
friend may report “red” where you say “red.” Still you do not know
more than that your friend always has the _same_ quality wherever and
whenever you have your “red,” without knowing at all that he has _just
that_ quality which you call “red.” Neither does it help you to a real
identification of qualities in the two direct experiences that what he
calls “red” seems to have (more or less) the same “stimulating” value
as you find verified in your own description, because you will see at
once that he may use the same term “stimulating” in quite a different
meaning, so that he does not have the same kind of experience when he
uses it.
This is subjectivity in its extreme form. If every one has his own
direct experience and if he is forever excluded from that of all other
persons, direct experience is the private affair of each of us, and
with respect to it a common science cannot possibly be achieved.
Indeed, so little can be derived from the direct experience of one man,
concerning similar experiences in others, that, in epistemology, it has
become a truism that I shall never know whether or not there exists
any “direct experience” at all even in my best friend. Whatever I see
or hear when we talk together is a part of _my_ experience. Certainly,
what I call his attitude, or his voice, in my experience, is determined
by physical events in the muscles and in the nervous system, etc.,
of his physical body. It is not only possible but even necessary to
understand these physical events from the viewpoint of pure physics
or physiology. Consequently, there is no proof that some of these
processes in my friend are accompanied by “direct experience” in him.
The behaviorist might add to this criticism that he does not deny
the great contributions which, before his time, the older forms of
psychology have made to the advancement of this science. But he will
say that, looking upon those achievements from the present point of
view, one will easily discover a simple fact: viz., that nearly all of
them are to the credit not of introspection and description but of the
“objective experiment.” The meaning of this word may be explained as
follows: Instead of making a subject observe and describe his direct
experience in a given case, we place him in a well-defined situation
to which he has to react by certain performances. These we can state
and measure without his giving us any description of his experience.
So Weber’s law was discovered; this was the kind of experiment by
which Fechner made psychology an experimental science; memory and the
formation of habits were investigated by research of this type with
almost no introspection; and since Binet and Simon we have learned to
treat intelligence in the same manner. If we are not mistaken, even the
introspectionist gives us “descriptions” of colors and tones, pleasure
and volition, only so long as he has not found a method by which he
might transform them through objective experiments into measurable
achievements or reactions. The introspectionist himself seems to accept
the “descriptive” observation of a fellow introspectionist, according
to the measure in which the other has been able to give objective
experiments as a verification and corroboration of his descriptions.
What, then, is the use of “direct experience” and its description?
From their common criticism all behaviorists do not draw quite the
same conclusions about “direct experience.” None of them, it is true,
find direct experience a matter of interest for science, since as the
private affair of those who have such experience it is not accessible
to the objective observation undertaken by others, as it ought to
be were it a proper object of scientific research. A few members
of the school seem to go so far as to deny the existence of direct
experience altogether; they simply abominate the notion. But these
minor differences of opinion are of no importance for us, because
in the question of _method_ all behaviorists have not only the same
negative but also the same positive opinion. Their program is a simple
consequence of the foregoing argument. In his objective experiment the
psychologist has tacitly accepted the procedure of the exact sciences,
even if he has not become fully aware of the difference in principle
which separates this attitude from that of introspection. Both the
physicist and the chemist are interested in knowing how a system
which they are investigating will react when exposed to a certain
set of conditions; they also ask how the reaction will change with a
variation of those conditions. Both questions are answered by objective
observation, registration and measurement. This is exactly the form of
real experimentation in psychology, too: a subject of a certain type
(child, adult, man, woman, animal) is the system to be investigated;
certain conditions are given and objectively controlled; the most
important of these we call “the stimuli”; and a reaction occurs which
is observed quite objectively.
The only thing which psychologists need, then, is to recognize,
generally and in principle, that this form of procedure is the only
possible one, and also that it is precisely the same as that of all
other exact sciences. Behavior, i.e., the reaction of a living system,
is its only subject-matter, and behavior in no way includes any direct
experience. In the experimental work of the future, even the highest
forms of behavior will be studied and described in purely objective
terms. They _must_ be, since personal, direct experience does not occur
at a single point in the whole experiment. For some this truth is
somewhat hidden by the fact that in most of our experiments language
reactions are of a special importance. If the experimenter himself
enjoys what he calls direct experience and if this experience includes
a great many things associated with words, he will be inclined to
take the words of his subject as signs of similar direct experience
on his part. Nevertheless, the words are registered as responses
of the subject, and as such are purely objective, physical facts,
produced by certain processes in the larynx and the mouth of the
subject. Though the experimenter knows that other objective processes
(of innervation, inhibition, and so forth) will have occurred before
these sound waves are produced by the action of muscles, he will
never be able to decide, according to our analysis, whether there was
any direct experience accompanying those inner processes. Perhaps
we should discipline ourselves to a less frequent use of language
reactions in our experiments, until finally we overcome the danger of
associating language with direct experience, and introspection will
have disappeared from psychology as an exact science.
Of course, not all the reactions of the subject are observed with
equal facility in the objective manner. Sometimes even strong
stimulation will not produce any overt behavior which can be registered
externally with our present methods. But in the majority of these cases
the physiologist can give us highly valuable information about the
functioning of the autonomic part of the nervous system and about the
subsequent reactions which occur in the most important visceral organs,
including the endocrine glands. One of the main tasks of psychology
will be to develop and to adapt the physiological techniques until
these visceral reactions can be registered with perfect ease under the
conditions of behavioristic experimentation. We also have some evidence
for assuming that, in addition to the reactions just mentioned,
so-called “thinking” consists in slight innervations of the muscles
concerned in speech reactions.
* * * * *
So far I hope that I have given a fair statement of the opinions which
prevail among behaviorists. It ought to be the more correct, since I
sympathize with these opinions in several points, most of all in the
criticism of “introspection.” Indeed, much of current introspection
seems to be rather sterile and, in an odd contrast to its ambitions,
to lead research away from the more urgent problems. Whether this be
an intrinsic property of introspection or merely a consequence of some
accidental mistake usually associated with it, we shall discuss later
on.
At present, we have a simpler problem before us. In the natural
sciences, so the behaviorist tells us, methods deal with objective
reality, whereas in the treatment of direct experience--if there
is such a thing--they deal with something entirely subjective. Is
that true? Is that the real reason why natural science has won the
admiration of the world and psychology is still in an embryonic state?
I cannot admit it. It seems to me that, starting with an admirable
enthusiasm for exactness, behaviorism has been misled completely at
this point and that, consequently, the energy spent by behaviorism in
its fight against “direct experience” and “consciousness” has been
spent in the wrong direction. So, at least, the situation appears to me
because, whatever may have happened to the keen leaders of behaviorism
in their individual development, I must give the following report about
myself. It is a well-known story, but some psychologists seem to have
forgotten it.
There cannot be the slightest doubt for me that, as a child, I had
“direct experience” before I even dreamed of a world like that of
physics. Of course, I did not know that term then, which could acquire
its meaning later on only by the very fact that the world of physics
became opposed to it. There were innumerable varieties of experiences
appearing as “objective,” i.e., as existing or occurring independently
and externally. There were other experiences which belonged to me
personally and privately, and insofar were “subjective,” such
as, among others, dreadful fear upon certain occasions, and an
overwhelming, warm happiness at Christmas.
In the following chapters we shall be occupied mainly with “objective
experience.” This term, however, may be misinterpreted rather easily.
So I shall try to specify its meaning a little more. Doing so, I shall
even run the risk of repeating some arguments several times, because
this is the point where most of our difficulties arise.
The name “experience” seems to indicate that, though appearing as
“objective,” those things and events were felt by me as “being given in
my perception” and therefore as “subjective.” Certainly, they were not.
They simply _were there outside_, and at that time I had no suspicion
whatever of their being the effects of something else upon “me.” I
must go further. There was not even a question of their depending upon
my presence; upon my keeping my eyes open, and so forth. When I went
around an object it remained the same identical thing. So absolutely
“objective” were those objects and events, that there was no place left
for a more objective world. Even now, this “objectivity” is still so
strong and natural, that I am constantly tempted to attribute to the
interior of these self-same “things” all those properties which, in the
meantime, physics has taught me to attribute to objects of the physical
world. When, in these pages, I talk about “direct experience” of
the “objective” type, the word is always used in this meaning: e.g.,
a chair as something there outside, hard, stable, brown, generally
without any taint of “being perceived” by me, of being “a subjective
phenomenon.”
In some cases, it is true, the discrimination between the
“objective” and the “subjective” side of direct experience may
become dubious: as with after-images or with the prick of a needle
in my finger. That does not make the discrimination less important
in itself. In physics the discrimination of the conducting
substances from insulators remains of high value, though between
the extremes we find a great many intermediate cases. For us, the
main point is the fact that in “things” and their “movements,”
etc., an almost unsurpassable degree of “objectivity” is reached.
At the time when I began to understand physics I did not learn only
about the physical world. Another lesson was necessarily connected with
studying physics, and it was this lesson that gave the term “direct
experience” its connotation or, better, which introduced me to a manner
of thinking that made the meaning of “direct experience” clear. The
physical world could not be the same as that “objective” world which
I had had around me the whole time. Certain physical objects were
found to influence a particularly interesting physical body, viz., my
physical organism, and what has been called “objective” experience
here, was shown to depend upon subsequent and very complicated
processes in that physical organism. Though that influence, exerted by
other physical objects, starts these processes in the organism, there
is no possibility of identifying the final product, “things” and their
“changes” as I have them in immediate experience, with those physical
objects from which the influences came. If a wound is not the gun which
emitted the projectile, then the “thing” which I have before me, which
I see and feel, cannot be identical with the corresponding physical
object. This object, influencing my physical organism, produces certain
disturbances in it, _the final outcome_ of which is the “thing” before
me in direct experience.[3]
Such “things,” however, were the first items _I knew_. Therefore, a
picture of the physical world had to be _constructed_ after I once
appreciated the necessity of it. Hence it is built up by inference as
something found indirectly or mediately; and, _in contrast to it_, the
world around me, as I had it before and still have it, quite apart from
the physicist’s construction, is now called the world of direct, or
immediate, experience.
But how can I say that a “chair,” for example, is an “objective
experience” if I must admit that it depends upon certain processes in
my organism? Does not the chair become “subjective” then? It does and
it does not. At this very moment the meaning of our terms has changed.
In the last paragraphs “objective” has denoted a certain experienced
property which some parts of my direct experience, in contrast to other
experiences, possess _as such_ (exactly as they have size, color,
hardness and so forth); the term “subjective” in _this_ paragraph means
their genetic dependence upon my physical organism. “Subjectivity,” in
this latter meaning, is not itself a directly experienced property,
but a relationship which we ascribe to “objective” experiences after
we have learnt to regard them as the outcome of organic processes
and, therefore, as distinct from the physical reality external to the
physical organism. Sometimes the two connotations of the term are
confused in the most deplorable manner as though what is “subjective”
genetically ought also to be “subjective” in experience. So most
introspectionists seem to think that, properly speaking, the chair
before me must be a subjective phenomenon _in experience_, appearing
“before me” only in consequence of some illusion. And since there is
no “subjective” chair to be discovered, the behaviorist derides the
introspectionist for dwelling in a world of imaginary ghosts. The
simple truth is that some of the experiences depending upon processes
in my physical organism have the character of “objectivity,” whereas
others, depending upon other processes in the same organism, have
a “subjective” character, this contrast being something altogether
indifferent to the _genetic_ “subjectivity” of _both_ types of
processes and experiences, as depending upon the physical organism.
After this, I hope that no misunderstanding of the term “objective
experience” will be possible. When I talk about “a chair,” the chair
of my everyday life is meant and not some “subjective phenomenon” to
be observed perhaps by highly trained introspectionists, but utterly
unknown to me.
On the other hand, we have seen that we cannot identify the chair of
“objective experience” with the chair as a part of the physicist’s
world. Under these circumstances, the world of direct experience being
the first I had, and since all that I know about the physical world
being inferred later on from the properties of the experienced world,
how can I deny this experienced world which, for me, is the only basis
upon which I can continue to guess about physical realities? No one
can prevent me from thinking, if I choose, that after all the physical
world may be the more important and more essential one. But even then
I must confess that the other world has existed first and always
_for me_, and that I still can see no other way of discovering the
properties of physical reality but by observing “objective experiences”
and drawing my conclusions about the physical world from them. With
future progress of physiology I may become able to discover even the
nervous processes underlying my “observing” and “guessing” and so be
able to give a physical theory of these events. But even then, since
the world of physiology is part of the physical world and _as such_ is
not directly accessible to me, any progress whatever along this line
will depend upon my observing what I call a body or a nervous system
as parts of “direct experience.” It may be otherwise for behaviorists,
so that the physical (and physiological) world _as such_ is directly
known to them, and that for them the term “known” has nothing to do
with direct experience. But that cannot change my report about my
own case in which affairs are as I have described them. It is in the
terms of this description that I must decide whether I shall become a
behaviorist or not.
What then about the behaviorist’s statement that observation in physics
deals with objective reality whereas, in the treatment of direct
experience, it deals with something subjective?
Let me describe my own procedure when I investigate the physical
properties of a physical object. Is there any considerable amount of
H_{4}C_{2}O_{2} in a given mixture of chemical substances? I know
about these substances by the corresponding “objective experience”
before me, and I find the positive answer to the question by smelling,
i.e., in direct experience. This being a rather crude procedure, let
us consider a case of fine measurement. What is the intensity of an
electric current which, under certain conditions, must exist in a given
wire? The position of a needle on the scale of a definite apparatus
will tell me, but it will tell me in direct optical experience, the
whole apparatus being an “objective” part of my actual experience,
exactly as the wire and the given set of conditions must manifest
themselves either as parts of direct experience or by a sufficient
testimony of their existence in some part of experience which I have
learnt to regard as a sign for them. And this is true of all possible
objective statements or measurements which I shall ever be able to make
in physics. They are statements about my actual objective experiences
in these different cases. I shall never be able to make a direct
statement about a physical event _as such_. Therefore my observation of
physical facts will always remain of the same kind in principle as that
of an after-image, or of the “confusion” which I find so characteristic
of peripheral vision, or of my feeling healthy. Therefore, the
exactness of my physical observation cannot depend upon my avoidance of
“direct experience” in physics. I do not avoid it, for I cannot avoid
it. Yet the procedure _works_. _Some_ observations of direct experience
must then be an adequate basis for science.
If all the concrete statements which I can make in physical research
are observations of direct experience, there are some inevitable
consequences. How do I define my terms as a physicist? Since my
knowledge of physics consists entirely of concepts and observations
derived from or contained in direct experience, all the terms which I
use in discussing physical problems must refer either to concepts or
observations or, more probably, complicated combinations of the two--in
any case, products of my direct experience. If I try to define them,
my definitions must refer to other concepts or observations, and so
forth. A gestural denotation toward the locus of the phenomena about
which I am talking, as, for instance, a hint where to make certain
observations or have certain direct experiences, will be the ultimate
step in any process of definition I may attempt. Even the most abstract
concepts of physics, as, for example, that of entropy, can have no
meaning without a reference, indirect though it may be, to truly direct
experiences. I shall never be able to give a definition of my terms in
physics or to understand a definition given by others, which, in this
respect, differs in principle from what I may use as a definition in
psychology. Nevertheless the method of physics is successful. I never
have difficulty with definitions when I talk with physicists about
their science. Hence some definitions, or hints about cases of direct
experience, must be sufficiently safe for exact science. Therefore the
exactness of my definitions in physics cannot be the result of their
being independent of “direct experience,” for they are not independent.
But the behaviorist tells me that observation of my direct experience
is a private affair of mine, whereas in physics, two physicists
can make the same observation on the same galvanometer. I deny the
truth of this statement. If another man observes the galvanometer,
he observes something other than the galvanometer as a physical
object, since the object of his observation is the result of certain
organic processes, determined by the physical galvanometer. Again,
the galvanometer I am observing is the final result of a different
series of processes occurring in _my_ physical organism. By no means
do we “observe the same instrument” then, though physically both
series of processes are started by the same physical object. Still,
our statements about our observations seem to agree so well in a great
many cases, that we do not discuss the question very much, whether
there is an absolute philosophical proof for sufficient similarity
between my galvanometer and his. Again the procedure works. Since I,
at least, do not know about a galvanometer except through “objective
experience,” and yet almost all the statements which the other man
makes agree with my statements, the privacy of direct experience does
not disturb us at all--in physics. Again, in principle, there is no
difference here between physics and psychology. All physicists,
when working with others in such a case, are convinced naïvely that
their fellow-physicists “have a galvanometer before them,” and that
their observations refer to it. In this sense they assume that their
fellow-workers have a very definite “objective experience,” highly
similar to their own experience, and they quite naïvely understand the
words of their colleagues as statements about that experience. That,
however, is allowing private affairs in exact science. It does not seem
to disturb scientific procedure, as it does not disturb the affairs of
everyday life, wherein it is the most general and natural occurrence.
In certain cases, therefore, belief in the “direct experience” of
others must be innocent and is not a hindrance to scientific progress.
If psychology does not make rapid advancement, the reason for it cannot
be that belief as such.
There remains one consequence of the elementary fact that observation
in physics involves observation of direct experience. As a physicist,
observing my apparatus, I do not fear that my activity as an observer
has any serious or distorting influence upon the essential properties
of what I observe, if only I keep myself, as a physical system, at
a certain distance from the apparatus, as another physical system.
Now, as direct experiences both the apparatus to be observed and my
“activity” of observing depend upon processes in the same system, viz.,
my physical organism. Again the behaviorist must be wrong when he
declares that, because of the fact just mentioned, direct experience
can not be observed scientifically, since in this case of observation
in physics, the situation is similar: the material to be observed and
the process of observing belong to the same system. Thus we see that
the physicist and the psychologist are in exactly the same situation
in this respect. It does not matter at all whether I call myself a
physicist or a psychologist in observing a galvanometer. In both cases
my observation is directed towards the same “objective experience.” The
procedure works in physics. Why not in psychology? There must be some
cases in which my observation of direct experience does not disturb the
observed facts seriously.
This argument contains in itself a most remarkable limitation of the
range of its own application. It does not mean at all, that all forms
of so-called introspection are justified, even less does it mean that
_generally_ the products of so-called introspection are independent
of introspection. Here the critical position of behaviorism has
exaggerated the scope of a fair argument and unjustly applied it to
_all_ statements about direct experience, although the critical point
is thoroughly justified in a great many cases.
I have described how, as a physicist, I must deal with direct
experience. Evidently some epistemological difficulties with respect
to the objectivity of procedure in that science may be derived from
that description by a very extreme purist, as the behaviorist seems
to be. But, fortunately, those dilemmas had not yet been discovered,
when in the time of Galileo, Newton and Huyghens the first really
important steps were made in physics. Those great investigators carried
on, pragmatically naïve and happily undisturbed by a “behaviorism” of
physics which might have impeded or blocked the whole development for
the sake of “epistemological purity.” Somehow the procedure has worked
in spite of the fact that logically, perhaps, it is not possible to
certify it as absolutely objective. Sciences which wish to carry on
their researches and be productive often show a certain healthy disdain
of such scruples. It might be better for psychology, too, if, after
listening to a very wholesome critical lesson from behaviorism, it
returns to undertaking productive work with some naïveté, using all
possible means which yield results.
As a scientific attitude the Homeric assault of behaviorists against
“direct experience,” “consciousness” and so forth, appears very strange
to me. They do not generally show an undue interest in epistemological
considerations. It is just _one_ question which suddenly arouses their
interest: How can I know about the direct experience of others? I shall
never have a definite proof of the validity of such knowledge. But
physics, that is another matter! There we are safe! The behaviorist,
however, forgets that it is a truism in epistemology that I shall
never be able to “prove” conclusively the existence of an independent
physical world. As an extreme purist I might argue this point exactly
as the behaviorist disputes the assumption of direct experience in
others. Somehow it does not occur to the behaviorist to apply his
epistemological criticism to the assumption of the physical world. He
does not say: Thou shalt not work upon a physical world, the existence
of which will always remain a mere assumption. On the contrary, he
assumes its reality with all the healthy naïveté which he lacks in
psychology. The reason is, perhaps, that the achievements of physical
science are imposing and have become the ideal of behaviorism. But
to the mind of a methodological purist that cannot be taken as a
satisfactory proof of the existence of the physical world. Of course,
personally and practically I am as convinced of its existence as any
behaviorist has ever been, and I am fully aware of the fact that
sciences may and must believe and postulate, where the epistemologist,
if he likes, may doubt. But then I shall believe and postulate the
direct experience of others, as well as the existence of physical
entities, if this makes my procedure simpler and more productive. And
I feel the more justified in this attitude, since I have seen that all
work I may do in physics is founded on direct experience and that,
therefore, the enormous superiority of physics over psychology in
accomplishment, cannot follow from any differences in this respect.
At this moment I see the behaviorist smiling ironically: With all his
medieval philosophy Mr. Köhler will never make any progress against
the sound scientific basis of behaviorism. I answer that this basis
of behaviorism is as philosophical as anything could be: it is purely
epistemological. In this connection the only difference between the
behaviorist and me is one of completeness: the behaviorist sees a
single theorem of epistemology and, as an extreme purist, he dwells
exclusively on this one point, ignoring the context from which it has
been taken. I am aware of this context; it is stated in the foregoing
argument; and I find myself therefore opposed to behaviorism, or any
other one-sided and impractical purism in science.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
W. S. Hunter: _Human Behavior_. 1928.
K. Koffka: _The Growth of the Mind_. 1924. 2nd edition, 1928.
J. B. Watson: in _Psychologies of 1925_ (ed. by C. Murchison).
A. P. Weiss: _A Theoretical Basis of Human Behavior_. 1925.
II
_Psychology as a Young Science_
IN the first chapter I became slightly autobiographical in order to
show why I have found it impossible to become a behaviorist. If I am
ever to become one, some adherent of that school will have to effect
the conversion. I do not myself see the way.
So far direct experience has been shown to be the raw material of both
physics and psychology. If despite this fact the physical sciences are
so far ahead of psychology in their development, what shall be our
method of imitating their achievements?
Contemporary physics has a real advantage in the careful selection of
the experiences which play a decisive rôle in the crucial moments of
physical research. Of course, the physicist ignores all “_subjective_
experience,” as defined in the previous chapter, as far as possible,
because apparently it has nothing to do with the properties of the
physical world. All the difficulties of psychologists who try to
observe and describe subjective experience are simply avoided by the
physical sciences.
But the selection and exclusion does not stop there. If most
“objective experience” was taken as evidence of physical existences
and physical events in early investigations, a more critical view of
the situation tended to eliminate large parts of this material as
well. The process of selection has become particularly severe, since
the advancement of science has made it possible almost everywhere
to transform qualitative observation into quantitative measurement.
At the present time almost all physical measurements are made in an
extremely indirect way. We do not observe an experienced counterpart of
the physical variable in question; we observe a related but different
object the virtue of which is that it lends itself to more exact
statement and is shown, or supposed, to be in a well-known functional
relationship to the physical variable. Of all possible objective
experience nothing seems better to fulfill the requirements of the
physicist than the localization of a single line (a needle) on a scale
of other lines, especially if this localization becomes the coincidence
of the first line (needle) with one of the others (or inclusion between
two which are near to each other). The range of direct experiences
used in measurement has now reached a minimum value, indeed. It almost
seems as if the same scale and the same needle were used universally;
it tells a hundred altogether different stories about the physical
world. It means “atmospheres” or “volts,” or “ampères” or “temperature”
and so forth, as the case may be. In addition to observing a definite
coincidence, and controlling the connection of the apparatus with the
system to be investigated, the physicist has only to recognize certain
words and figures on the scale. That is all the direct experience which
enters into the procedure. There is not much opportunity for serious
blundering. Even so simple a property as physical size is not measured
directly. No physicist measures the length of an object by comparing it
with the experienced length of a standard object directly. That would
not be accurate enough. Rather he prefers the method of coinciding
lines or points. Defining physical length by this method, he measures
the length of a line by observing the coincidence of its ends with
certain points on a scale.
If now we ask ourselves whether we shall imitate the procedure of the
physical sciences in psychology, two answers are to be given to our
question, because that procedure has two aspects. In the first place,
the procedure involves making statements about physical systems by
means of objective experience. As the behavior of men and animals
is observed in our objective experience--the direct experience of
the _subjects_ not playing any rôle in the matter--such a study is
perfectly legitimate and undoubtedly will be much more extended in
the future. Though it existed before the days of behaviorism, this
school is fundamentally right in praising the advantages of objective
procedure as against prevailing introspection. Although behaviorists
have gone too far through failing to appreciate that, even in the
objective method, direct experience remains the raw material as “the
objective experience” of an observer, their error is of no practical
importance as long as the second part of their answer to our question
is proper. Unfortunately, behaviorism has here tended to take the wrong
position.
As we have seen, in present physics objective procedure is
characterized by the use of a small group of selected experiences
and, consequently, by the exclusion of the great variety of objective
experience, the exclusion being made to satisfy the requirements of
quantitative measurement. Shall we do the same thing in psychology
as a science of behavior? Evidently that will depend upon the nature
of behavior itself. It is difficult to judge about a method as such.
A method is not good or bad in itself. It is good if it is properly
adapted to the essential aspects of my problems and my material;
and it is bad if it lacks regard for those essentials or misdirects
research. Therefore, what has been shown to be an excellent procedure
in one science or for some problems may be altogether useless or
even a hindrance in another science or for other problems. In this
respect, behavior is easily seen to have distinctly different phases
and to give the psychologist different tasks correspondingly. Wherever
indirect and quantitative methods can be applied in conformity
with the task, they should be applied. Since C. P. Richter and his
collaborators at the Phipps Psychiatric Clinic have now discovered a
way in which the various drives of animals, and their temporal changes,
can be investigated by registering amounts of general or of special
activity,[4] we shall be keenly interested in the future development of
the method. It is the correct procedure in cases in which total amounts
of activity in relation to outer and inner conditions can yield us
valuable information.
But what about other cases where either our problems are not of the
quantitative type or we have no way as yet to transfer our observations
from the direct experiences with which we are concerned to a special
region, indirectly connected with the first, but better adapted to
finely accurate statement and registration? Obviously, qualitative
types of behavior are not less important than quantitative differences
of some sort. Where we know about the qualitative varieties which
occur in behavior and where, in a concrete case, we are sure about
the special type before us under observation, we may be interested
in finding ways of quantitative measurement. But the discrimination
of qualitative types must be primarily accomplished. During the
observation of a puppy under a given set of conditions, this important
question will frequently arise: whether certain behavior of the animal
represents playful activity or “serious” reaction to the situation.
Such a question does not imply “consciousness” in the puppy; it refers
to some very characteristic differences in what is being objectively
observed. The difference is one of “quality” of behavior. Again, while
observing a man in a somewhat critical situation, it may be decisive to
observe whether he talks to us in a “steady” or in a “shaky” voice. At
the present time this is necessarily a qualitative discrimination; even
should we find in the future a method to measure the steadiness of a
voice, this method would forever presuppose that in direct observation
we know what is meant by unsteadiness as a definite characteristic of
the voice.
In a similar way, we are restricted in the application of indirect
methods to many other forms of behavior. I take it that the
behaviorists hold that we can investigate the “emotional behavior”
of subjects without being involved with their “consciousness” or
“subjective experience.” Certainly, psychologists have tried to
transfer observation in this case to a region of more accurate
registration and measurement. Much work has been done to develop
pneumographic, plethysmographic, galvanographic methods, and so forth.
The result is not altogether encouraging, however; for again, our
interpretation of the curves recorded by all these apparatus depends
greatly upon simultaneous _direct_ observation; by no means do we
feel justified to draw conclusions from the curves alone. All these
procedures seem to be more problematic in themselves at the present
time than an aid for the solution of psychological problems. In most
cases it is easier to see “anger” directly in a subject’s attitude than
to state and measure, let us say, the adrenin in his blood.
Why does this difficulty beset behavioristic psychology, and not occur
in physics? The answer is simple enough: Physics is an old science and
psychology is in its infancy. Over centuries physicists have succeeded
in eliminating a great many forms of more direct and qualitative
observation, relying upon a small number of indirect and very accurate
observations as decisive in experimentation. Their success depended
on previously acquired knowledge about the physical world. Most
indirect methods and sound measurement presuppose a vast background of
knowledge. Qualitative observation, experimentation and analysis have
provided the primary knowledge which enabled the physicist to discover
where he could measure an important factor, and what physical relation
makes an indirect observation capable of indicating occurrences not
well observable directly. Oersted had to discover the deflection of
a magnet in the neighborhood of an electric current before exact
measurement of intensities of current became possible. His was a
qualitative, direct observation; indirect and quantitative procedure
was the fruit of it. Even in our days, Röntgen did not _measure_ at the
start of his investigation of X-rays. He had to discover and to analyze
their properties in qualitative experimentation first of all. Later on
his rays could become a means of measuring the constants of crystals.
Too easily do we forget the simple truth that in their origins as well
as at the opening of a new field of special investigation later on,
the natural sciences, physics, geology, biology, rely upon qualitative
statements almost completely. Certainly, the quantitative and the
accurate indirect methods are the most imposing features of exact
sciences _now_ when we review them or consider them superficially. But
we ought to be aware of the fact that in most cases this procedure is
a mere refinement and end result of the underlying free and direct
observation, without which there would not have been a basis upon
which to build the refined superstructure. In the eighteenth century
Cavendish measured the resistances of different materials by comparing
the shocks he received in his arm when conductors of those materials
were used to connect him with a battery, the other pole of which was in
his other hand! Was that improper? On the contrary, it was perfectly
sound in a young science, which was trying to find that first knowledge
of facts upon which more refined methods may afterwards be founded.
From this it follows that where we have a good quantitative problem
in psychology and an accurate method of measuring and registering, as
in the case of Richter’s excellent experiments, we can immediately
apply the quantitative and indirect procedure, as used in physics. The
problems which Galileo attacked in the seventeenth century could be
solved quantitatively at once, the qualitative experience of everyday
life having sufficiently provided the necessary basis. But for the
majority of psychological problems this is not the case. Where do
we have that first more or less qualitative knowledge of important
functional relationships in psychology which might become the basis
for indirect and exact measurement? It does not exist. Since the
development of more “exact” methods presupposes its existence, our
main task must be the gathering of that knowledge. In most cases
our preliminary advance in this direction will have to be crude and
qualitative. Whoever protests that conclusion in the name of purism
does not understand our actual situation in psychology; he sees neither
the nature of, nor the historical background prerequisite for, special
quantitative methods. If we wish to imitate the physical sciences,
we must not imitate them in their contemporary, most developed form;
we must imitate them in their historical youth, when their state of
development was comparable to our own at the present time. Otherwise
we should behave like boys who try to copy the imposing manners of
full-grown men without understanding their _raison d’être_, also
without seeing that in development one cannot jump over intermediate
and preliminary phases. A survey of the history of physics is certainly
illuminating. Let us imitate the natural sciences, but intelligently!
Behavior is enormously rich in forms and nuances. Only acknowledging
this wealth, and studying it directly as it is given in all its
fascinating varieties, shall we become able gradually to find those
forms of more quantitative, and perhaps more accurate, procedure
which may become as adequate for us as are the methods of physics in
its realm. At present, and in this broader historical perspective,
qualitative observation and analysis may be, in a sense, more exact,
i.e., adequate to our subject-matter, than much blind measurement. We
shall press forward towards more refined methods, of course; but owing
to our situation as beginners, we can go forward only through the use
of less refined methods for the time being.
If organisms were more similar to the systems investigated in
physics, a great many methods of the physicist might be introduced
in our science exactly as the physicist uses them. But the
similarity is not very considerable, practically. One of the
greatest advantages which makes the physicist’s work so much
easier, is the simplicity of his systems. And his systems are
simple because in physics the experimenter determines their main
properties himself. He prepares them, more or less. I am far from
believing that organic processes are of a supernatural kind. On
the contrary, the most startling difference between the organism
and a simple system investigated by the physicist is the enormous
number of physical and chemical processes which, depending upon
each other in the most intricate manner, occur in the organism
simultaneously. And we are utterly unable to create simple organic
systems for elementary study. An amœba is a more complicated
system than all known systems of the inorganic world. We also know
that, in studying the properties of a nerve-muscle-preparation,
we are not investigating “a part” of natural behavior; because,
physiologically, its properties are not only simpler but also
radically different in some respects from what they would be if the
same nerve and muscle were contributing to normal behavior. It is
the _whole_ organism, as some behaviorists have rightly said, the
behavior of which is our subject-matter. But in the whole organism
one can seldom follow the change of one variable alone as the
consequence of one change in outer conditions. The change of one
factor usually involves concomitant changes in a great many others
and these affect the first retroactively. Now, isolation of changes
and reduction of variables are the great artifices by which the
physicist makes exact measurement possible in his simple systems.
Since this procedure does not work in our case, since we have to
take the organism more or less as it is, any kind of observation
that gives us an expression of its total attitude and activity, of
the integrated tendencies and states which it undergoes, will be
the right observation to begin with. Such is typical behavior as
we see (or hear) it before us, changing, with the conditions we
give our subject, in innumerable phases, and much too attractive
to be already excluded for the sake of narrowing ideals, taken
prematurely from quite another field of research.
In the meantime, however, the outward aspect of physics has been too
seductive. Since experimental psychology first became a science, every
now and then a wave of blind imitation has swept it off its feet.
Fechner himself was the first to copy _adult_ physics when psychology
was an embryo. He seems to have been convinced that measuring in itself
would make a science out of psychology. We have seen the result: If
flowers are impossible without a root and a stem, measuring, which is
fruitful only as the most refined consequence of previous qualitative
observation and experimentation, necessarily becomes a dead routine
without it. Hundreds of thousands of quantitative psychophysical
experiments have been made almost in vain, because no one knew just
what he was measuring or what were the processes upon which the whole
procedure was built. In Fechner’s own day, however, psychology came
into existence as a science, not as a result of his psychophysics, but
rather casually and _in spite_ of the premature quantitative program.
The lesson seems to have been forgotten, however. Sometimes, when
viewing the admirable energy with which “intelligence” is tested
quantitatively by hundreds of able psychologists, one is almost
reminded of Fechner’s time. In this case, it is true, there seems to
be a positive result for practical purposes at least. Apparently
something like a crude total ability for certain achievements is
measured by those tests which have been invented and applied since
Binet and Simon. And since the test-scores show a rather satisfactory
correlation with certain general abilities in study or other work
of subsequent life, we have in these tests a first approach towards
a practical prognosis. Still there is a grave danger in this very
success. Do we know or do we learn by those tests what processes and
factors, which are masked by the gross scores, coöperate in the test
performance? We do not know, nor do we learn much, concerning these
factors. Figuratively speaking, a given total score may mean: degree 3
of “intelligence,” together with degree 1 of “accuracy,” with degree
4 of “ambition” and degree 3 of “quickness of fatigue,” or it may
mean “intelligence” 6, “accuracy” 2, “ambition” 1, and “quickness of
fatigue” 4,--and so forth.[5] Quite a number of different factors may
combine in various proportions in order to give the same I.Q. And that
fact matters, even for practical purposes. In the educational situation
a teacher should treat the child according to the actual nature and
strength of the various factors constituting the total I.Q. of a given
child. This is not a new criticism, of course, but it must be repeated
for the sake of science. We seem to be too well satisfied sometimes by
our testing enterprise because it is a quantitative procedure, and as
such it appeals to us as thoroughly scientific. This is superficial,
however. If we compare the nature of testing with the main traits of
our ideal, viz., the procedure of physics, we find a difference which
may be decisive. What does the physicist ask when he must face a new
field of research? In such cases his questions have been: Is light an
oscillatory process? If it is, does it oscillate in the direction of
propagation or vertically to it? Is magnetism produced by the magnetic
fields of elementary currents in molecular structures? Why does
surface tension produce _regular_ forms of liquids and liquid films?
How can the spectrum of one element contain thousands of different
lines? This is the type of question with which we find the physicist
occupied. They are his fundamental problems, in the treatment of
which quantitative work appears at definite stages as an aid toward
the solution, eventuating finally in the determination of laws, but
directed and governed throughout by those questions about the _nature_
of states and processes. What are the phenomena? Are they of one type
or another? Such are the main problems of experimental science, in the
_service_ of which we find measurement. If now we ask ourselves what
problems about the processes underlying intelligent behavior we are
solving by our tests, not very many of us will have an answer ready.
But some will answer that from now on, intelligence shall be defined
as the X which is measured by those tests and that measuring is more
scientific than grubbing among the unknown functions of the nervous
system. The fact is that we are not in the habit of asking questions
about underlying processes in psychology, questions similar to those
in which the whole interest of physicists is centered. Instead of
imitating the very kernel of physics, we assume merely the outer,
quantitative form of exact science. Think of a physicist interested
in all types of motors who would restrict his study of them to the
following tests to be applied to all the various types: measurement of
their volume, of temperature at their surface, of ionization of the
air in their neighborhood, of their actual frequency of revolution,
and of the total weight of the bodies; who would calculate from these
data an average “power-coefficient” for each of them, define “power”
by the method, never ask a question about the working process in their
interior, and remain satisfied by this quantitative procedure for
many years. I know I am exaggerating in some respects if I compare
intelligence testing with such an attitude. I do it intentionally in
order to call attention to the main point, viz., that admiration for
quantitative method leads us almost exclusively to those research tasks
which immediately afford us an opportunity for measurement. Given the
natural narrowness of human interest, the next consequence will be our
failure to see those problems which do not lend themselves immediately
to quantitative investigation, problems which may be, however, the more
essential and the more scientific, in a deeper meaning of that word.
In such problems qualitative observation and experimentation would
constitute the first step; but since in adult physics (as it appears
from without) these methods seem to be despised, we dare not undertake
these fundamental tasks. Wishing to be utterly scientific, we may
just miss those opportunities for research which, in our stage as an
immature science, would be the most scientific of all. The nature and
the actual development of our problems should decide about the methods
to be followed. What actually happens, however, is that an imposing
method blurs our view of the subject-matter. This method then begins
to decide what problems we shall see. I do not object in principle to
testing as a preliminary mode of diagnosis and prognosis. But just as
the engineer learns from the investigations of processes in physics,
even practical diagnosis in applied psychology will never go very far
without an eager interest in the inner nature of intelligent behavior.
Eventually, if all psychologists occupied with “intelligence” are
engineers in the field of testing, who shall investigate the “physics”
of intelligence, without which we shall never have a true and sensible
engineering?
Occasionally, in animal psychology, the situation has tended to
become somewhat similar to that just described. In experimentation on
animals almost the only quantitative method is statistical. We do not
measure in the proper meaning of that term, but we count positive and
negative cases at least. In order to have cases which are comparable,
and therefore may be counted, we put our animals in situations where
their behavior is restricted to a few types of reaction. These we count
and the result of our experiments is given in frequencies enumerating
these few possible alternative reactions. I do not criticize the method
as such; I have used it myself. But we should never forget that, when
used exclusively, it may make our knowledge of behavior narrower. With
a given problem in mind we exclude a great many behavior possibilities
by our choice of experimental conditions. We do not see them any
more. Some psychologists will at least observe the remaining forms of
behavior during the experiment as an aid for the interpretation of
quantitative results; but others will not, because in their opinion
what is not quantitative cannot be scientific. In this case, what is
left of the material are abstract figures. Even then the procedure may
be valuable, if the experimenter is one of those who always find new
and productive problems for experimentation. For most of us, however,
conservatism may become the consequence of such an attitude, since,
admiring figures and curves, we keep away from the true source of new
ideas and new problems in our youthful science: i.e., from a broad
outlook upon our subject-matter.
Once more I venture to defend broad and qualitative information as a
necessary supplement to quantitative work. Otherwise behavioristic
psychology might become as sterile as supposedly it is exact. Too
great an interest in present quantitative methods and in their
standardization is not a hopeful response to the fact that the
development of psychology depends upon the discovery of _new_ methods
and problems in the future, and not upon the monotonous repetition
of a few standardized methods which fit only our primitive problems.
If the reader says that behavioristic psychology does not need
this advice, I reply that Watson has been criticized because his
well-known observations on children were not made in the sanctified
form of quantitatively controlled experiments. I do not think that
those observations give quite an adequate account of autochthonous
reactions and of learning in children; but, on the other hand, they
reveal more interesting facts than we might have learnt from columns
of abstract figures. An eminent psychologist was friendly enough to
say a few approving words about my own work on intelligent behavior in
apes. Still, he added, you have missed the main point by not applying
the statistical method. To my mind this means an inability to see
the problems which I had tried to treat in a preliminary way. Those
problems concerned the characteristic forms of intelligent behavior in
a special type of animal, as influenced by various situations. What
may be valuable in those observations would disappear in an abstract
statistical treatment of the “results.” Am I right then in warning
against a one-sided glorification of quantitative procedure _as such_?
Let us apply it, but not before we know by qualitative analysis where
to find good problems for quantitative research.
A certain broadmindedness and a clear appreciation of our present
predicament would be wholesome, then, in the application of
behavioristic methods. There is more in a scientific method than
observing, experimenting and measuring. In physics, at least, observing
and measuring usually result from definite questions, and these
questions are preliminary forms of hypotheses concerning unknown
properties of nature. Observed but enigmatic aspects of nature may
be deduced and explained from assumptions about unknown parts of it.
Taken as such, however, an assumption is not what the physicist wants.
Fortunately, a concrete assumption made in order to explain certain
observations will always lead to consequences other than those facts
for which it was made. These new consequences are to be tested in
further observation and experimentation. What is the hidden basis of
electrolytical conduction? Arrhenius makes the hypothesis of molecules
being dissociated into independent ions. By their charge conduction
is explained. But from their assumed independence definite conclusions
are to be drawn about the optical properties of the electrolyte. These
are tested in new experiments. Thus, productive method contains a bold
hypothesis as essentially as it requires adequate observation, and
the growth of physics is a constant oscillation from the first to the
second and vice versa.
In behavioristic psychology we cannot complain about a lack of
unknown parts of the organic systems we study to which to apply
productive hypotheses. We know a little about the elementary effects
of stimulation upon the sense organs of our subjects; we observe their
responsive behavior when it becomes overt. But between the two terms of
the sensori-motor circuit there is more _terra incognita_ than was on
the map of Africa sixty years ago. If behavior is to be understood as
depending upon inner organization as well as outer conditions, we must
try to imagine the modes and traits of these inner processes, which are
either started from without by environmental stimulation or aroused
intra-organically by inner dynamics. For those who know the history of
physics and wish to emulate it intelligently in psychology, this task
of finding productive assumptions about the hidden parts of behavior
will probably appear the most important of all. The whole future
development of psychology depends upon it. Here all the creative force
of behaviorism ought to be concentrated in a fine emulation of physics.
Behaviorism’s critical attitude toward introspection and direct
experience is an absolutely negative feature of the movement, at a
time when _positive_ ideas are needed. If I feel a little disappointed
by the work of behaviorism, the reason is not so much a certain
innocence in its treatment of direct experience and in its imitation
of adult physics, but its astounding sterility in the development of
productive concepts about functions underlying observable behavior.
As an imitation of physics it is scarcely a satisfactory achievement
for the behaviorist to have taken the old concept of reflex action
from physiology (including the reflexes of inner secretion) and to
give us no further comprehension into the formation of new individual
behavior than is offered by his concepts of positive and negative
“conditioning.” Why should behaviorism be so utterly negativistic in
its characteristic statements? “Thou shalt not acknowledge direct
experience in science” is the first commandment and “Thou shalt not
conceive of other functions but reflexes and conditioned reflexes” is
the second. I do not see how the behaviorist can reconcile this creed
with our actual knowledge of organic processes and of behavior. Nor
do I understand why, from the standpoint of “exactness,” the organism
should be conceived as such a crude and poor affair. In its effort to
imitate the technical procedure of physics, behaviorism often shows a
stubborn narrowness; the same attitude becomes quite striking in the
exclusion of all but two types of processes from its assumptions about
the inner side of behavior. What a strange conservatism and dogmatism
in a revolutionary school! Even now, as an adult science, physics
is allowed to have at least one new idea about the atom every year.
Though _our_ science is so very young, most behaviorists do not even
dream of any possible change in the nature of their two fundamental
ideas. The truth was revealed to them in its perfection at the birth of
behavioristic psychology.
The two behavioristic concepts in question show one remarkable
property: If you compare them with various types of processes in the
inorganic world of the physicist, you will find that even simple
physical systems are by far richer in the variety of their kinds of
function than is the nervous system of man in the eyes of a radical
behaviorist. A soap-bubble does not show us reflexes, it is true;
therefore we cannot expect to find conditioned reflexes in it.
Nevertheless those functional properties which the soap-bubble does
exhibit are decidedly superior in some respects to the monotony of
reflexes and conditioned reflexes. The same thing holds for innumerable
structures in the inorganic world. Sometimes their behavior will
at once remind us of the behavior of organisms, although they lack
reflexes and conditioned reflexes. However, by the standard of
exactness as the behaviorist understands it, it would be heresy
to follow this hint. His imitation of physics excludes most of the
functional possibilities given in physics itself. In organisms there
shall be nothing but reflexes. Some members of the school even are
beginning to protest cautiously against this strange situation.
It is not probable that an observer, looking upon human and animal
behavior without prejudices, would find reflexes and conditioned
reflexes as the most natural, or as the only, types of function by
which his observations might be explained. For those, however, who are
deeply convinced that the theory of original and acquired reflexes is
the whole truth about the nervous system, there is no real incentive
for the further observation of natural behavior, since they do not feel
the need of any new information or new functional concepts. On the
other hand, the restriction of observation to counting the frequency of
the few reactions retained in standard experiments will protect those
conservative concepts; and so one narrowness keeps the other alive.
But even with a more impartial interest in all the various forms of
behavior, how shall we find more productive concepts, if the gap
between the observable stimulating environment and observable overt
responses is as large as we find it in the present stage of physiology?
Of course we shall use whatever hint may be given by nerve physiology
and endocrinology. But even the more recent discoveries about the
all or none law and the metabolism in nervous activity do not give us
just that basis which we need for our purposes. In such a situation
anything will be valuable upon which we may base a working hypothesis.
In a critical predicament even a stone or a chair may become a weapon,
though the strategist would despise it in exact warfare. There is no
serious danger in developing a working hypothesis upon a somewhat
wavering ground, since, in empirical science, such an assumption
will be tested and continually corrected in further observation and
experimentation. Either it serves as a path toward new explorations,
its consequences being verified by success, or it is shown to lead us
the wrong way. In the first case no one will have scruples about the
previous legitimation of its birth; in the second, we shall discard it
as soon as observed facts are against it, or as soon as we find it bare
of real productive power.
* * * * *
The basis upon which I propose to build a working hypothesis has
much in its favor. In some respects it is just as solid as objective
observation is in behavioristic psychology, and in others, it is
certainly not insecure enough to raise serious doubts.
In an experiment in behavioristic psychology the “direct experience”
of the subject does not play any rôle. If he has such experience I as
experimenter do not assume that it has the slightest influence upon
the course of the physiological events. My assumptions about those
events must be able to explain thoroughly the overt behavior of the
physical organism of the subject. Direct experience is not a “force”
interfering with the chain of physical causation. (The opposite
hypothesis is made by dualists. But I do not think that it, on the
other hand, is productive, or that it illuminates the innermost nature
of things.)
I cannot exclude _my own_ direct experience in observing behavior,
as I cannot avoid dealing with direct experience even when employing
the most “indirect” methods of physics. Moreover in behavioristic
psychology I have to use objective experience in a great variety of
forms which no longer are material for observation in adult physics.
If I can rely upon objective experience for my statements about the
behavior of the subject I observe objectively in a behavioristic
experiment, why should I hesitate to utilize it to develop a working
hypothesis in the following manner?
Suppose I am used as a subject in a behavioristic experiment. With me
as a subject, behavioristic research would have the same difficulty in
developing a working hypothesis about the hidden processes underlying
my behavior. But in this case I can help to build a bridge over the
“large gap” mentioned above. During much of my own behavior I have
direct experience. Now there is no doubt that this experience depends
upon some of those processes about which we wish to formulate a
working hypothesis. It is more than probable that, under these
circumstances, I may use my direct experience in order to guess
about these processes. It is granted that direct experience does not
accompany _all_ the unobservable events which produce the behavior
observable from without; hence the hypothesis I am about to offer has
a limited application. But in our crucial situation we have not much
to choose. Confident as we are of further help from physiology, we are
so utterly in the dark at present that it would be pure folly not to
profit by any help that we can get for our work.
Let me declare that I do not propose to “introspect” in the technical
meaning of the word. The same kind of simple and naïve statements about
experience which I make as an observer of other people, of animals,
of instruments and so forth, shall now be used for another purpose.
Objective experience depends upon physical events outside my organism
and upon physiological events _in_ it concurrently. As depending upon
physical events _outside_ my organism, objective experience leads
to the construction of the surrounding physical world; as depending
upon physiological events _in_ my organism, it gives me hints about
these processes. _There is no reason at all why the construction of
physiological processes directly underlying experience should be
impossible, if experience allows us the construction of a physical
world outside, which is related to it much less intimately._
Obviously, I must have some leading principle in making my inferences
from given properties of direct experience to the properties of
concomitant physiological processes. In a more special form such a
principle was established by Hering many years ago. Its content is
the following: My various experiences can be ordered systematically
according to the sorts and degrees of similarity found between them,
exactly as animals are ordered in zoölogy and plants in botany.
The processes upon which these experiences depend are not known
directly; but if I knew their properties, I should be able to order
them as systematically according to similarities as I do order the
experiences actually. It is possible to imagine a great many different
relationships between the two systematic orders, that of experiences
and that of physiological processes. But I should have ever so much
difficulty in trying to relate definite experiences to definite
processes so long as I failed to assume one specific relationship
between the two orders, viz., that of _congruence or isomorphism in
their systematic properties_. This principle is sometimes formulated
more explicitly in a number of “psychophysical axioms.”[6] Here it will
suffice to give some examples of its application.
A sound of given qualitative properties is produced in various degrees
of experienced intensity or loudness. The systematic order of all these
different experienced intensities may be represented by a straight
line, which means that, following that order, we have the impression
of moving continually in the same direction. What may correspond to
loudnesses in the underlying processes? The principle decides that
whatever the concrete nature of these processes, the physiological
fundaments of all the experienced degrees of loudness must show the
same order as these show themselves, i.e., that of a straight line.
More especially: if a definite loudness is situated between two
other loudnesses in the systematic order of experiences, the process
corresponding to the first shall be between the processes corresponding
to the two others in the order of underlying physiological events. That
gives the congruence or isomorphism between the two systems, which I
mentioned above.
At the present time the all-or-none law does not allow us to choose
“intensity of nervous activity” as a physiological correlate
of experienced degrees of loudness. But our principle could be
equally well applied if frequency or density (number) of elementary
currents were taken as the correlate of loudness.
As another example, colors in their relation to underlying processes
have been considered so thoroughly by G. E. Müller,[7] that there is no
need of repeating his theory here. In some respects his assumptions
go far beyond the principle we are discussing here, insofar as he
draws conclusions about the _retinal_ processes, whereas the principle
_as such_ applies only to the processes underlying visual experience
directly. In his hypothesis it also happens that these processes
are chemical reactions. Such a transgression of the principle is
perfectly sound, however, and shows the productive force of it. If
there is congruence between the system of color experiences and that of
underlying processes, not all kinds of physical events will appear fit
to give a system of so much variety (of so many “dimensions”) as the
system of colors is found to possess. Chemical reactions may easily be
the only type of event which can be taken into consideration here. So
the principle of systematic congruence serves to restrict the number
of those physical processes which we may draw upon in developing the
concrete hypothesis about the “large gap.”
On the other hand, we have begun to apply the principle itself in a
much more general, and at the same time much more concrete, form than
either Hering or Müller would have done. As used by these authors it is
based upon the _logical_ order in which we arrange certain experiences
after abstracting them from their context and judging about their
similarities. It attributes a congruent logical order to the underlying
processes, similarly abstracted from their dynamic context like dead
specimens in a museum. But what about the real concrete order of
experiences, which itself is experienced? At this moment I have before
me three white points on a black surface, one in the middle of the
field and the others in symmetrical positions on both sides of the
center one. This is an order again; not an abstract, logical order,
however, but a concrete, experienced order. As experienced it depends
upon physiological processes in my organism, so that some feature of
a physiological function must correspond to it. And applied to this
concrete order our principle says that correlated with the visually
experienced symmetry there is an homologous symmetry of dynamic context
in the underlying processes. Or, in the same example: one point is seen
_between_ the others, this relation being experienced exactly as the
white of the point is. Again in the underlying processes there must
be something functional which corresponds to that “between.” Applied
to the _concrete_ order our principle claims that the experienced
“between” is accompanied by a functional “between” in the concrete
dynamic context of concurrent physiological events. If the principle
is applied strictly in this manner to _all_ cases of spatial order in
experience, it will lead to the general statement that _all experienced
order in space is a true representation of a corresponding order in the
underlying dynamical context of physiological processes_.
This is a bold hypothesis. It has far-reaching consequences,
if it is taken seriously enough. Its significance will become
clearer in the following chapters where we shall also discuss some
misinterpretations which may easily arise. For the present I will
offer another application of the same principle. The temporal position
of one experience as “between” two others is frequently experienced,
in the same way that spatial “betweenness” is. Now as far as it is
experienced, time must have a functional correlate in underlying
physiological processes no less than experienced space. Again, then,
the temporal “between” is correlated with a functional “between” in
the concrete dynamic context of physiological events. And if, in this
manner, we apply the principle throughout, we will arrive at the
proposition that _experienced order in time is a true representation of
the corresponding concrete order in the underlying dynamical context_.
Both temporal and spatial orders do not exhaust the field of
application of this principle. _More_ order is experienced than
that of space and time. Certain experiences “belong together” in a
concrete manner, whereas others do not, or, at least, belong together
less intimately. And again this “belonging together” may be itself
experienced. The very moment I form this sentence of my manuscript,
a shrill, disagreeable voice begins to sing in the neighbor’s house.
The context of my sentence is something which, though extended in
time, is experienced as belonging together, whereas those sharp
notes are experienced as something foreign, as not belonging to that
context, though they are experienced _at the same time_. In this case
our principle applied formulates the proposition that _to a context,
experienced as “one thing” belonging together, there corresponds a
dynamical unit or whole in the underlying physiological processes_. In
this respect again, the order of experience is a true representation
of a corresponding functional order in the processes upon which it
depends. Perhaps it is this last application of the principle which has
the greatest importance for gestalt psychology. In this form, at least,
it becomes a radical physiological hypothesis about common sensory
experiences as well as about the more subtle and complicated processes
involved in observable behavior.
In the last case I have taken an example from outside the realm of
_objective_ experience in the more restricted meaning of this term. A
sentence I may be forming is not a part of objective experience, as
is the chair before me. Still my statement about that experience is
no less simple and obvious than were earlier ones about spatial or
temporal orders. I admit that this is not always so, however. I do
not wish to recommend the observation of _subjective_ experience for
our purposes without some limitation; as yet it looks as though only
very simple statements about one’s own _subjective_ experience can be
made with a high degree of certainty. Moreover, we have enough cases
of objective experience to provide an adequate basis for developing a
working hypothesis.
In the last paragraphs my own direct experience was taken as a basis
for constructing a general working hypothesis about the relation
between experience and unobservable constituents of behavior. The
only way in which I can bring my observations in that field of direct
experience before the scientific public is through spoken or written
language, which, as I understand it, refers to my direct experience.
However, in terms of the position already taken in this chapter, all
language as a series of physiological events is the peripheral outcome
of other purely physiological processes in my organism, particularly of
those upon which my direct experience depends. My general hypothesis
states that the concrete order of actual experience is a true
representation of the dynamic order of corresponding physiological
processes. Therefore, _if, to me, my language is an adequate “symbol”
for my own direct experience, it is an objective symbol for those
physiological processes at the same time_. We may also conclude, then,
that it does not matter very much whether I take it as a symbol for one
or the other, since in the respects in which they correspond, there is
no difference between them.
If I now go back to behavioristic psychology I have to deal with
language as one form of behavior observed in my subjects. There is no
reason now why I should not take language as a symbol, since only the
most superficial view would treat it merely as a phonetical event. The
behaviorist himself, when listening to a scientific argument, will
find himself reacting not to the phonetical properties of speech, but
to its symbolic meaning: he will react in the same way practically
to the nouns “experiment” and “_Versuch_,” to “animal” and “_Tier_,”
though in each case the first and second words are utterly different
phonetically. Why should we change that attitude when the other person
is called a “subject,” and talks during an experiment?
The language of my subject may be taken either as indicative of direct
experience in my subject or of those processes which underlie his
direct experience. If the subject says, “This book is bigger than
that,” his words may be interpreted as stating a definite direct
“comparison-experience” which he is having or the corresponding
dynamic relationship in his physiological process. Since, for my
hypothesis the same “order” is meant in both cases, the alternative
is not important. From the viewpoint of behavioristic psychology the
physiological interpretation is necessary, but the other meaning is not
excluded. This second interpretation is kept distinct from the causal
explanation of observable behavior, but if it is suggested by the words
of the subject, it can do no harm. The behavior of a chick can tell
me without words that he is able to react to one brightness in its
_relation_ to another.[8] If in the course of an experiment, a human
subject tells me that he sees one object as brighter than the other,
the scientific value of this sentence is exactly the same as that of
the chick’s behavior, whether I assume direct experience in the human
subject or not. Why then should I decline to accept language as one of
the nicest and most instructive forms of behavior? Of course, we can
obtain the same results in man as in the chick, without language, by
applying the somewhat clumsy, statistical methods of animal psychology,
and some behaviorists seem to prefer such a procedure. The only reason
I can see for this attitude is historical. Introspectionists have used
the “verbal report” in “introspection”; and I am ready to admit that
their method was something like a blind alley. But, as is usually
the case in such a situation, behaviorists have become negatively
conditioned to much more than the “harmful stimulus” alone, so that
they shy away not only from introspection but also from all things once
connected with it, and primarily from language, though it is in itself
utterly innocent.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
W. Köhler: _Die Methoden der psychologischen Forschung beim Affen_.
Abderhaldens Handbuch der biologischen Arbeitsmethoden VI, D. 1921.
III
_The Viewpoint of Introspection_
Round about the accredited and orderly facts of every science there
ever floats a sort of dust-cloud of exceptional observations.
W. James, _The Will to Believe_.
WILLIAM JAMES has well described how a vivid interest in the “irregular
phenomena” of the “dust-cloud” will often mark the beginning of a new
productive era in a science. At such times, what has been exceptional,
and a part of the dust-cloud, may suddenly become the very center
of scientific work. We shall see presently that introspection has
developed a procedure by which an orderly though artificial system of
psychology is _protected_ against a similar revolution, a procedure in
which the most interesting observations are continually exiled into the
dust-cloud.
In referring to introspection I am not considering any special school,
but all those psychologists who treat direct experience in the manner
now to be discussed.
For the most part introspectionists will agree with what has been
said about behaviorism in the first chapters; some, indeed, will have
recognized their own arguments in parts of my criticism. Wherein
lies the difference then between introspectionism and my position?
This difference, I promise, will become startlingly clear as soon as
we discuss the observation of direct experience. Since _objective_
experience is so much more legitimated by its use in physics and
behavioristic psychology, we shall first examine the treatment of it by
introspectionists, with the result that, for all practical or concrete
purposes, introspectionism will be found to be astonishingly similar to
behaviorism.
The very moment we begin to move naïvely in the field of direct
experience, protests will arise on all sides. If I say that I see a
book before me on my desk, I shall be criticized because nobody can
_see_ a “book.” Lifting the book between my fingers, I am inclined to
say that I feel the weight, external to my fingers and roughly in that
place where the book is also seen. This, a critic would remark, is an
excellent example of a typical statement by an untrained observer,
quite satisfactory, it is true, for the practical purposes of common
life, but altogether different from the kind of description given
by a trained psychologist. Even the character of being an “object,”
or “thing,” which I have tacitly attributed to the experiences I
have called “book” and “desk,” is improper in correct psychological
description. If observation is to give us simple and genuine data as
the elements of psychology, we must learn to make the all-important
distinction between _sensation_ and _perception_, between the bare
sensory material actually given to us and the host of other items
which since early childhood have become associated with it. You cannot
see a “book,” I am told, since this term involves some knowledge
about a class of objects to which this specimen belongs, and about
their use, etc., whereas in pure seeing such knowledge cannot enter.
As psychologists our task is to separate all these “meanings” from
the seen material _as such_, the manifold of simple sensations. It
may be a difficult task to effect this separation, and to behold the
net sensations which are the actual data; but the ability to do so
is precisely the special talent which transforms the layman into a
psychologist. It ought to be evident that originally, when we lift
a book, we do not have the experience of a weight external to our
fingers in space. At first there are mere sensations of touch, and
perhaps strain, in our fingers, whereas that “weight outside” has
been connected with them in a long history and through the influence
of other factors than those of pure sensation in our hand. A similar
consideration will show us easily that genuine sensory data cannot
present “objects.” “Objects” cannot exist for us before sensory
experience has become imbued with meaning. Who can deny that meaning
fundamentally determines almost all experience? Does it not finally
lead to a kind of illusion? The German noun “_Igel_” sounds to Germans
as though no other animal but a hedgehog could have this name.
“Eagle” however, which in English is acoustically the same as “_Igel_”
is in German, sounds to an American as though only an “_Adler_”[9]
could be called by this name. Here it is obvious that we have to
discriminate between a genuine sensory experience, which is the same
in both languages, and two different meanings connected with it in
different countries. Again, the symbol + _looks_ like the sign for
addition, especially if you see it between numbers; but it might as
well have been chosen as a symbol for division. If we feel at first a
disinclination to accept the last statement, the only reason for it
consists in just that sort of complexion which meaning, since we were
children in school, has given to the innocent symbol. As soon as we
realize how strong this influence is, we have to admit that probably
_nothing_ in the naïve experience of a normal adult can be free from
it. Even the most lively characteristic of an experience we may try to
describe, may be a property of that experience only in this acquired or
accidental way.
Meaning depends upon personal biography; it has a highly complicated
origin and represents a somewhat accidental trait of our material.
Therefore we must get rid of it and learn to approach actual sensations
in such a way that their qualities and laws may be discovered in their
pure form. This procedure is called “introspection.”
Probably all psychologists who are teaching at the present time have
learned this lesson thoroughly, though many perhaps implicitly and not
as a well-formulated program. Its basis seems justified; its content
seems sound scientifically. Therefore, if introspection is possible and
can lead us to actual sense data, we should be inclined to follow in
its footsteps. Direct experience as such, it is true, will not be worth
so very much under these circumstances. Of all _objective_ experience,
at most only the part cleansed and selected by introspection will
become the subject-matter of our study.
However, we should not form a definite judgment before knowing more
about the criteria for the selection of some experiences as the genuine
ones and the exclusion of those other parts of experience which are
assigned to the influence of meaning. Let us consider a few more
examples, then, which exhibit other properties than those to be found
in the cases already mentioned.
Do you see that man on the street approaching us at an even gait? Now
he is ten yards away, and presently five. What do you say about his
size at the two distances? That five yards away it was practically the
same as ten yards off? But that is impossible! A simple consideration
of geometrical optics will tell you that during the man’s approach
his height must have doubled and his breadth too, so that his total
size must have become four times the amount it was at ten yards. We
transfer the observation from the street into the laboratory. Here I
have two cardboard rectangles. The sides of the first have a length of
two and three inches, those of the second are six and nine. If now I
hold the first before you at a distance of one yard and the second at
three yards, you will admit that, optically, they must have the same
size approximately, since their linear dimensions vary exactly as do
their distances. But you tell me that the further rectangle appears
much larger to you than the nearer one? There you have it! Yours cannot
be a statement about actual sensory experience. A slight change of
conditions will make you realize that my opinion is right. Look through
the opening of this screen, which will show you the two rectangles
on a homogeneous background, but no more of their surroundings. Do
they look different now? Still a little. Then we shall be even more
cautious. I darken the room; then I turn the light on, allowing you to
make your observation through the screen, only for a small fraction
of a second, so that practically no eye-movements can occur during
that time. Now both rectangles have the same size, do they not? After
some practice you will be able, perhaps, to see them as equally
large even without the help of my screen and the short exposure, as
soon as you look upon them in the proper way--which is the method of
introspection for obtaining pure sensory experience. If you do not
accept my demonstration, you might even go so far as to believe that
the after-image of an object changes its size according to the distance
from which you “project” it upon a screen, because in untrained
observation it certainly seems to change considerably, according to
the distance of your fixation point. But that is absurd. How could it
really change, if the area of the retinal after-effect remain constant?
My second example may be regarded as a natural consequence of the
first. When dining with your friends, what forms do the plates have in
your experience, those to the left, to the right, and opposite you?
They are circular, you say, as is your own plate? Impossible again!
They must be elliptical, as you will admit after you have once thought
about their projection upon your retina; some of them must even be
very flat ellipses, and even your own plate will become an ellipse as
soon as your eye does not look down upon it vertically. It will be
worth while to apply to this case a procedure similar to the one we
used in the first example. On this plane which, as you see, is oblique
to the direction of your eye I fix a circle; on this other plane, at
right angles to the direction of your eye, I fix an ellipse, whose
shape is chosen in such a manner that from its place it is projected
upon your retina in the same form as the circle is from its oblique
plane. Though you describe the first as a circle and the second as
an ellipse, they are two almost identical ellipses in actual sensory
experience. Take this screen with two holes in it, which lets you see
both forms, but excludes, however, the data by which the angles of the
planes became known to you at first. Both forms look alike now? All
right. After a short while you will be able to see correctly without
the screen, providing you adopt the attitude of introspection. Once
more, the corresponding observation on an after-image of a given form,
“projected” upon planes of different oblique positions with respect to
your line of vision, will elucidate the case completely. Its form seems
to vary according to the positions of the plane, though the retinal
after-effect has the same form throughout. This being absurd, you
see the importance of observing genuine sensory experience by way of
introspection.
A similar paradox has been much discussed since Helmholtz wrote his
_Physiologische Optik_. Here on this desk near the window, and parallel
to it, a vertical screen is fastened. On the window side of the screen
I place a black paper on the desk, and in the shadow of the screen,
a white paper. These papers are selected in a special manner: the
dark one exposed to the direct illumination from the window reflects
the same amount of light as the white paper reflects under its low
intensity of illumination. You call the first one “black” and the
second “white”? Then again you have experiences which are not to be
trusted, because under these circumstances the images projected upon
your retina are both of them equally intense. So the sensations,
i.e., brightnesses, of both must also be the same. Moreover this can
be demonstrated. Take this piece of gray cardboard and look through
the two holes in it so that one of them is filled by a section of the
“black,” and the other by a section of the “white” paper. Now, as the
surroundings of the papers are excluded from vision, and thus you have
pure sensations before you, their approximate equality is obvious.
Again, with a little practice--most painters observe objects this
way--you will be able, without the cardboard, to destroy the illusion
of their difference--just by looking at the papers in the attitude of
introspection.
All these observations are of an illusory sort, then, the purification
of which exhibits the true sensory facts. In this and other respects
they are comparable to a great many well-known “optical illusions,”
the diagrams of which fill many pages in our textbooks. Take the
famous Müller-Lyer figures! When you observe them often and try to
pick the main line out of its surroundings, you will find the illusion
become unstable, and finally it may even disappear. It was not, then,
a true sensory fact. The same thing may be shown in another manner.
Accurately draw the two figures, one above the other. If now you fix
your attention carefully upon the two left ends of the two main lines,
you will find the one vertically above the other. Repeating the same
observation with the right ends, you find the same result. It follows
that both lines have the same length.[10] Similarly you will find
all the other illusions variable, according to the attitude of the
observer, and avoidable by practice. Therefore they cannot be classed
as genuine sensory experience.
Recently, stroboscopic movement has been investigated by some German
and American psychologists. Under appropriate conditions successive
stimulation by two lights at two points not too distant from each other
produces an experience of movement from the first to the second. But
if in making your observation in the attitude of introspection, you
find nothing but a “gray flash,” must we not be very careful, indeed,
before accepting the report of “movement”? Did not the observers of
Benussi[11] report similar experiences when their skin was touched
successively at two different points? But in their description the
movement did not usually occur upon the skin; it formed a curve through
empty space touching the skin only at those points. Evidently, such an
experience cannot belong to the world of touch alone; it is no genuine
sensory fact, then.
If all these are examples of illusions which, for psychological
purposes, have to be corrected by introspection, something must
transform pure sensory experience so that for untrained people it
assumes an illusory character. This is the case indeed, and in most of
our examples we can discover that “something” easily enough.
The man approaching us on the street does not grow larger, as for
simple optical reasons he should. The circle observed on the oblique
plane does not become an ellipse; it seems to remain a circle after
its retinal image has become a very flat ellipse. The white object
in the shadow remains white, the black paper remains black in full
light, though the first may reflect much less light than the second.
These three examples have one common property: the physical object _as
such_ remaining constant, while actual stimulation varies according
to more or less accidental conditions (of distance, of position,
of illumination), our experience agrees with the constancy of the
physical object much better than with the varying stimulation produced
by it. From this fact we draw the simple conclusion that all such
apparent constancy in experience is the product of _learning_. Since
our early childhood we have observed that a distant object is much
bigger, “really,” when we come near to it. In the same way we have
learnt that an object situated obliquely in relation to our glance
has quite another “real” form when we look at it vertically. Again in
the same manner we have observed that an object which we see under
abnormal conditions of illumination will show quite another “real”
brightness or darkness as soon as conditions become normal. As these
observations have been repeated millions of times, our knowledge of
the “real” size, the “real” form, the “real” brightness, has become so
intimately connected with what we see, that with time we seem to _see_
those constant “real” properties instead of the ever changing ones
corresponding to varying stimulation. In short, those facts, though
strange at first, are explained by _meaning_, and then completely fit
into our scientific system.
We have already seen that probably no experience escapes from the
influence of meaning. Hence we do not here introduce a new hypothesis.
If untrained people seem to “see” what from this viewpoint is a product
only of past learning, that again is an illusion, to be found generally
wherever we discover the indirect origin of the experience. Remember
the symbol +, which _looks_ like the sign for addition. Furthermore,
meaning as an after-effect of past observations must be _reproduced_
and reproduction presupposes reproducing factors in the actual
situation. Obviously, then, if we do not see the distances, the oblique
positions and the degrees of illumination, no reproduction of the
“normal” size, form and brightness will be possible. It is precisely
this which happens when the given objects are observed through holes
in a screen: since, under these conditions, the surroundings of
the objects and, with them, their _actual_ distance, position and
illumination are excluded from vision, corresponding reproductions
are made impossible. The objects must now be experienced exactly as,
in pure sensation, they have been the whole time. The same proof is
given by introspection. In our terms this procedure means an isolation
of local size, form and brightness from their context in an actual
situation. Thus it separates them from the factors determining the
reproduction of “meanings,” and under these conditions of isolation the
effect is that of pure sensation determined by the actual stimulation.
If in the case of size and form, after-images show a surprising
variation with the relative distance and position of the background,
this also is a direct consequence of our explanation. After-images are
localized upon the background. If the distance and the position of this
background operate as factors of reproduction, as in the previous case,
the same after-image will take on a great many apparently different
sizes and forms, relative to the changes of the background in distance
and position.
Finally, in terms of our explanation we can understand why, under
extreme conditions, there is no “constancy of size,” etc. Ten yards
away a man is scarcely smaller than at a distance of five yards; but
fifty yards off he looks smaller, and 1,000 yards away he usually
becomes a tiny object, indeed. During most of our life we are
interested in objects rather near to us; so we learn little about
things far off and the consequence is that with increasing distance
the relation between the true sensory experience and the meaning
changes, to the advantage of the former. In all these arguments there
is great persuasive force and cogency. Most psychologists do not for
a moment doubt the truth of the explanation in terms of “meaning.” It
also seems to correspond to a very natural tendency in human thinking.
Physicists who have never studied psychology will tend to give the same
explanation, as soon as they become acquainted with the facts we are
considering. And if you demonstrate the phenomena to a freshman, he
will give the “meaning theory” at once.
The importance of this theory is not less considerable on this account.
There is practically no field of vision which does not exhibit some
of the facts we are discussing. When we open our eyes we behold
sizes, forms and brightnesses, and, of these appearances, only a very
few will be exempted from the verdict which, from the viewpoint of
introspection, must be imposed upon them. The facts themselves are
not exceptional; only the demonstration of their surprising deviation
from what one should expect them to be is something unusual. This
demonstration is a matter of psychological, one might almost say, of
laboratory, sophistication; the facts themselves are affairs of every
moment and of everybody.
Though the extent of objective experience which shall not be trusted
thus increases in scope, we have not yet reached its limits. The
simple localization of objects manifests similar properties. Looking
at a point before me I see the objects around it in different places,
corresponding to the different places which their images occupy on my
retina. If I now fixate another point, the same objects ought to appear
in other places according to the new positions of their retinal images.
But actually the objects do not seem to have moved. Their localization
in space is again relatively independent of retinal position. Or take
the speed of seen movement: the same physical movement may be seen from
many different distances. When I am ten yards away from the moving
object, retinal speed will be one-half of what it is at a distance of
five yards. In direct experience, however, there is no appreciable
difference of speed between the two cases of movement.[12] Obviously,
the same explanation can be given here which has heretofore been
applied to the constancy of size, form and brightness. Once more we are
dealing with meaning. And ultimately we recall that first illustration,
and indeed the most general case of the illusory character of direct
experience: if we seem to perceive “objects” in our visual field, even
those “objects,” from the standpoint of introspection, must also be
products of learning: _meaning transforms sensations into “things.”_[13]
From this it follows that of all objective experience, as both layman
and psychologist enjoy it in the visual field of everyday life, very
little is left as pure and genuine sensory fact. That such is the
consequence we must accept, if we go the ways of introspectionism, will
become clearer to us now at every step.
Introspection, however, draws a much more serious conclusion from
the foregoing analysis. Not only shall all those experiences which
are supposed to be influenced by meaning not be treated as primary
sensory experiences; but, in addition, they shall be excluded from
the subject-matter of psychology. Some introspectionists may hesitate
to acknowledge explicitly such a radical principle, but in their
researches most of them proceed as though they had completely accepted
it. After they have classified a given experience as one that must
be explained by the effects of meaning, they rest satisfied, and are
no longer any more interested in it than if it were found to belong
to astronomy. This means that most objective experience is excluded
from the introspectionist’s psychology as soon as he has found it
susceptible to his explanation in terms of meaning. In the following
chapters we shall see that wherever we touch upon a somewhat unusual
and therefore interesting observation, the introspectionist will
offer us this same explanation, and we shall always be urged to
_discard_ the observation because meaning is involved. Whether the
explanation is right or wrong, we continually face in common life
the kind of first-hand objective experience which is discarded by
introspectionism. Toward it all our interests are directed. There are
millions of people who will never transform the “objects” of their
environments into “true” sensations, who will always react to sizes,
brightnesses and speeds as they find them naïvely, who will like and
dislike forms as they appear to them in their objective world without
recourse to introspection, and what are held to be the true sensory
facts will never play an appreciable rôle in their lives. As long as
the introspectionist’s attitude prevails, however, psychology will
never seriously study those experiences which form the matrix of our
whole life. Instead, it will observe and discuss the properties of
rare and unusual experiences which, though they are supposed to be
continually present beneath our naïve experiences, seem to be so well
hidden most of the time that their existence has nothing to do with
life as we actually experience it. Even the best introspectionist will
not find or state these experiences unless he assumes the special
attitude which--fortunately for him--he does not assume except in
the laboratory. The enterprise of psychological observation is thus
undertaken, removed so far from common experience, that if we should
ever learn the laws of pure sensory process, all of them together
would not lead us back to the psychological world we live in; because
this world is one of direct and naïve experience, and utterly
foreign to these laws of pure sensory process. If, therefore, the
introspectionist’s psychology does not treat the facts we have to deal
with in life, if most of these facts are exiled from his science, he
cannot complain about his own fate. It is only to be expected that such
a psychology would not satisfy people for long. If you condemn interest
in the experience of daily life and define genuine experience as a rare
something only found by artificial procedure, it is inevitable that
your professional as well as your lay audience will tell you that they
do not care for your kind of psychology. And they will not stop there.
Since you have asserted that your experience is the only genuine one,
they will interpret your procedure as the only possible scientific
approach to the problems of experience. Thus they will condemn _all_
direct experience as material of psychology, after you have given away
the greater part of it for the artefacts of sophisticated and sterile
introspection. This reaction had to come. It has come in the form of
behaviorism.
I do not feel justified in calling those artefacts _unreal_. When I
apply the introspectionist’s methods I myself can get those special
experiences which corroborate his findings. But I do not attribute
to them a rare value as though they were worth more, as though they
were more “true” than everyday experience. If that common experience
involves meaning, the experiences given by introspection depend upon
the attitude of introspecting and cannot be shown to exist without
it, as we shall see later on. Moreover, for actual life, common
experience is found to be incalculably more important than any of the
introspectionist’s “true sensations.” Let us grant for a moment that
all the facts mentioned above are what they are for us because of the
influence of meaning. Do they become less real or less significant
psychologically because of this genesis? Is a certain amount of H_{2}O
which I have before me no real chemical substance because I know that
it has been formed by the oxidation of hydrogen? Would that hydrogen
be a “true” chemical substance, but not the water? Is the water not
worth the chemist’s investigation? I do not see why an experience which
contains acquired meaning should be less interesting and important
for psychology than experiences not so composed. Take the case of the
symbol +, which every one will agree is a product of meaning. When seen
between figures it _looks_ like “plus,” i.e., _its meaning appears
localized in the visual field_. A strange fact, indeed, which may
entail some very important questions! Why should such problems not be
investigated in psychology? It is the same situation with regard to
all the other cases which are explained by meaning. Why should we lose
our interest in the problems they engender, because the fatal word
“meaning” has been uttered?
Furthermore there is positive reason why, instead, we should examine
these problems with particular attention. We have to discriminate
between two types of cases among the examples considered. One,
represented by the symbol +, is distinguished by the fact that child
psychology offers an adequate account of the growth of meaning in
this concrete case. For the second type, represented by most of the
other cases, such an account has not yet been given. It has been in
no way demonstrated that the objectivity of things, the localization
of weights, the constancy of size, form, speed, localization and
brightness, the variation of after-images, and so forth, are really
produced by the influence of meaning. It may seem extremely plausible
to most of us that such is the case, but none of the experiments and
observations I have mentioned in this connection can be regarded by
an unprejudiced psychologist as satisfactory proof. In our present
situation it is merely an hypothesis that the second group of facts
quite properly belongs together with the first class, and as an
hypothesis it is to be treated.
The customary thing to do with an hypothesis is to test it. Does
introspectionism test this hypothesis? Quite the contrary, since
all interest in the experiences which it is intended to explain, is
destroyed for the introspectionist by the explanation itself. Thus
we have before us an assumption which would never be examined at
all, if all psychologists were extreme introspectionists. If this be
strange, it becomes the more surprising when you realize that at this
point most psychologists would not listen calmly to our discussion of
“meaning theory” as an hypothesis. At first they might express only an
incredulous smile, as though they had been asked to believe something
fantastical; but if you insisted upon this point they would grow
impatient, because in their opinion you were disturbing the sound basis
of careful science by an obtrusive paradox.
When a scientific argument tends to become rather emotional it
undoubtedly prods some deep-rooted presupposition, the discussion of
which is felt to be offensive. No one enjoys the discussion of what
for him is secure beyond discussion. In the face of this exhibition
of temper, the more calmly should we realize that the attitude of
introspectionism, if taken so piously, becomes a real danger. Let us
suppose for a moment that in the cases of objectivity, size, form,
speed, localization, brightness, etc., the explanation by meaning is
incorrect. We should then immediately draw the conclusion that all the
facts in question are a part of genuine sensory experience. But these
facts would tell quite a different story about sensory experience
than that given by the introspectionists. Hence it would follow that
what we learn about “true” sensations from them has to be regarded
as distorted truth. Whether or not this be really the case, depends
therefore upon the validity of the general explanation by meaning. And
this explanation is not to be tested; it _shall_ not even be examined!
It will be obvious then that, used by the introspectionist in this
manner, _the meaning theory serves as a defensive bulwark for his quite
definite and special ideas about sensory facts_.
This makes us suspicious of the meaning theory. Introspectionists
may be so utterly convinced of it, not because independently it is
particularly attractive in itself, but because their prior firm belief
about the nature of sensory facts will not permit them to acknowledge
certain experiences. If these “irregular” experiences can be explained
away by meaning, the belief will be reassured.
In order to show that such is the case, we have only to consider the
arguments brought forward in favor of the meaning theory. They have
little indeed to do with meaning, but very much with convictions about
the world of pure sensory experience.
Take the “constancy of brightness” as an example. A white paper in the
shadow appears as white, a black one in bright illumination as black,
though the white may reflect less light actually than the black. Is
there anything in this experience, in the white and the black _as
such_, which tells us directly that we have to do with an effect of
meaning? Nothing at all. The argument is of an indirect kind, viz.,
our observation in this case cannot be reduced to “pure sensation”; it
must, therefore, be a product of meaning.
First of all, one can _change_ the experience by looking at the
papers in a special manner. Therefore, it is not a true sensory
experience. A primitive conviction, then, which paradoxically both
needs and supports the meaning theory is this: _True sensory facts are
independent of changes in subjective attitude_. Evidently, however,
such a statement is not a sufficient support of the theory. If, in the
attitude of introspection, I can transform the apparent white into a
dark shade, and the apparent black into a rather bright nuance, the
opposite change will occur spontaneously as soon as I forsake that
attitude and behold the papers as other people do. From the viewpoint
of experience the “true” brightnesses, appearing during the period of
my experimental attitude, are as changeable, then, as those which I
had before and which I customarily have. Logically, I might as well
condemn the experiences found during “introspection” and refuse to call
them “true,” because they disappear whenever I return to the everyday
attitude. The introspectionist, however, is far from treating both
experiences with the same measure. He thinks that what he experiences
in his special manner is true experience, that, hidden somehow, it
ever exists behind the veil of meaning whenever he falls back into a
more naïve attitude. Thus it becomes clear that there is still another
belief which makes him prefer his special and rare experiences.
His other belief is easy to find. Why should we be surprised by all
these observations on size, form, localization, speed, brightness,
etc.? Why not take them quietly and as a matter of course? Obviously,
because under the given experimental conditions of stimulation we
expect to have experiences quite different from those which we really
have. Naturally, we say, seen size should be proportional to retinal
size, to changes in retinal form there should correspond changes in
seen form, localization in the visual field should vary with retinal
localization, seen speed with retinal speed, and seen brightness
should follow the variations of retinal intensity. While the everyday
experience of the layman contradicts these expectations in the most
shocking manner, the special attitude cultivated by introspectionism
succeeds in obtaining precisely those other experiences which,
according to the introspectionist, we ought “naturally” to have
always; or we at least _approach_ that state of affairs which our
understanding considers the appropriate one. _This_ is the fact which
makes the introspectionist prefer the special and rare experiences
found by an artificial attitude, and which also makes him believe
in a permanent, though hidden, existence of these “pure sensations”
under the opaque cover of naïve experience. It becomes apparent, then,
that the procedure and the results of introspection acquire a special
sanction through their agreement with definite presuppositions about
the relation between stimulation and sensory experience. The same
suppositions lead to the condemnation of everyday experience. No one
can understand the scientific trend of introspectionism who has not
discovered, who does not see, this decisive point. How many times, as
a student, have I read and heard that the Müller-Lyer phenomenon does
not represent a “true” sensory fact, because by analytical observation
and practice we can destroy the “illusion”! If this be taken as a
proof, obviously one kind of experience is given a _higher value_ than
another. If you ask, why? you will ultimately get no other reason than
the one already stated: that one experience agrees with the properties
of peripheral stimulation whereas the other does not. Those that do not
are discarded with the aid of the meaning theory.
A second fundamental conviction, then, underlying this theory and the
whole scientific viewpoint of introspectionism is this: _The main
properties of “true” sensory experiences follow the corresponding
properties of peripheral stimulation._
The introspectionist’s belief takes a form still more concrete. How
did he proceed in order to find the true sensory facts in the case of
brightness, for instance? He tried to isolate the white and the black
paper under observation so that they were taken out of their context as
far as possible. The same thing is done by those who try to destroy the
Müller-Lyer illusion, and similarly in all the other cases. Such an
analytical and isolating attitude will have effects similar to those
of a perforated screen, which, concealing the particular surroundings
of the objects, gives them a new _homogeneous_ environment. If now the
“illusions” disappear, this effect of isolation is explained in terms
of the exclusion of all those secondary factors, and in particular
meaning, which before had distorted the true sensory experience. But
the possibilities of pertinent explanation are not exhausted with
this. The effect produced by isolation proves at least that objective
experience in one part of the field does not develop, independently of
its neighborhood, as a function of local stimulation alone. If this be
taken as a description of facts, we may explain the facts in one of two
ways: (1) _Either_ “true” experience depends upon local stimulation
exclusively, whereas the meaning which almost always adheres to it
depends upon (is reproduced by) the properties of the environing
field; (2) _Or_ natural sensory experience _itself_ is not determined
locally; i.e., the properties of any one part of the field depend
normally upon the conditions given in the whole field, or, at least,
in a larger area of it. In _both_ cases isolation, or the introduction
of a homogeneous environment, would make local experience correspond
better to local stimulation. The introspectionist, however, does not
consider the alternative. He only seems to see that one horn of the
dilemma, according to which isolation gives the “true” sensation, and
naïve experience is a product of meaning. Again we find him partial
to an astounding degree; he _prefers_ that hypothesis (although
unwilling to regard it _as such_) which gives him local sensory facts
determined by local stimulation. In a well-known example, when our
subjects make eye-movements along the main lines of the Müller-Lyer
figures, these movements are shown to have different extents for
the two figures, corresponding to the difference of their apparent
lengths. There you have it, we are told! The illusion is not an
optical fact; it is produced by the accompanying motor phenomena, or
at least by innervation tendencies if overt movements do not occur.
This is an altogether partial statement because, supposing that the
two lines _have_ different lengths in “true” vision, nothing would
be more natural than that the eye-movements should be different
correspondingly. Only by prejudice can the fact in question be
interpreted as though it proved the indirect genesis of the Müller-Lyer
effect. It may prove instead that sensory experience is influenced
by stimulation in a larger area and that, therefore, eye-movements,
depending upon sensory experience, will also vary when surroundings are
changed.
Recapitulating the foregoing analysis, we may conclude that: _A
decisive motive in introspectionism is the belief that true sensations
are independent of subjective attitude and depend only upon local
stimulation as purely local experiences._[14] This is the only rule
which helps us to understand on what occasions the introspectionist
begins to introspect. Very seldom will you find him introspecting
where, without any technique, he obtains certain simple relations
between local stimulation and experience. But where these relations
do not seem to exist _prima vista_, you will find him taking recourse
simultaneously to the introspective procedure and to the theory of
meaning.
Here is the remarkable result of our inquiry. The whole procedure of
present introspectionism seems at first to be in full contrast to
behaviorism’s purely physiological viewpoint. If the introspectionist
is not the advocate of direct experience, who else should be able to
play that rôle? But we have found that there is some restriction upon
his enthusiasm for direct experience. A foreign judge has the chair.
He examines direct experience beforehand, convicts most of it, and
sends it away for correction by a special procedure. This judge is a
_physiologist!_ His ideas about the sensory part of the nervous system
are extremely definite. When the introspectionist mentions physiology,
he seems to talk about a helpful servant; but when we look at the
facts, the servant rules the introspectionist.
If introspectionism is much less guided by direct experience than
by definite physiological principles which decide what shall be
called “true” sensations, its viewpoint is not so very far from that
of behaviorism. And this similarity of general ideas becomes even
more striking if we compare in detail the physiological creed of
introspectionism with that of behaviorism.
The main concepts of behaviorism are those of reflex and conditioned
reflex. What is the characteristic trait of reflex action? That from
a definite receptor organ nervous excitation is conducted along a
definite path, through definite “centers” and along other definite
paths towards a definite effector organ. The _order_ of organic
reactions in their dependence upon definite stimulation is explained
by this conception: a preëxisting arrangement of more or less isolated
conductors enforces that order. It is true that behaviorists do
not suppose the anatomical arrangements to be _absolutely_ rigid
and constant. But, though a certain “irradiation” of excitation
is admitted, almost the only biological value attributed to this
plasticity consists in the fact that, if some other factor can make
the connections practically rigid, this other factor will have a
certain range of different possibilities to work upon. Hence, order of
functions is enforced fundamentally in the reflex arc, but, at a higher
level of the nervous system, connections may be built (or blocked) by
another factor. This other factor is “conditioning.”
If now we consider the definite physiological ideas which silently
determine introspectionism’s criteria for “true” sensory experience,
we find the following two: _First_, local sensation depends upon local
stimulation; it does not depend upon other processes in the nervous
system, not even upon those issuing from neighboring points in the
same sense organ. There is only one physiological assumption which
would explain such an independence of local sensation, namely isolated
conduction from one point of the sense organ toward one point of that
region the activity of which is accompanied by sensory experience.
This, however, is nothing but the first half of a reflex arc, so that
in this respect introspectionism agrees completely with behaviorism. If
experience does not seem to obey this principle universally, that is
because we have a _second_ principle: At a higher level of the nervous
system at least, connections may be built during development, which did
not exist originally at birth. A corollary of this principle is: that
certain experiences will be followed and accompanied by others, or by
reproduced material corresponding to them, in the form of “meaning.”
Though this term sounds a trifle more refined than “conditioning,” in
the physiological considerations of most introspectionists it means the
automatic formation of new conducting connections, just as conditioning
does for behaviorists. Again there is no real difference between the
one viewpoint and the other.
During their lively controversy over whether introspection, or the
objective observation of behavior, is the true procedure, it does not
occur to either party that some other theme might be more important
and urgent, namely, that concerning their common convictions as to
the basic type of nervous process underlying experience or behavior.
This assumed basis appears self-evident to both of them. And since
so much is taken for granted by both, we should not be surprised to
find the same conservatism in introspectionism which is so striking in
behaviorism.
That psychology is a very young science and that therefore its future
and its progress will probably depend upon discoveries unsuspected at
the present time, seems not to be realized by most introspectionists.
In sensory experience, at least, the essential traits of all possible
and acceptable observations are fixed for them before they begin to
observe. Consequently, they show an almost negativistic attitude
whenever an observation does not agree with that preëstablished
truth; and their experimentation tends to become a rather defensive
and critical procedure. If others point to some new observation
that does not exactly conform to the fundamental concepts mentioned
above, they are eager to quell the disturbance, and to dismiss it by
appropriate introspection and discussion. I admit that criticism of
new observations is a healthy procedure in science; yet I have known
introspectionists who spend their scientific lives in a critical
defense of what they believe to be unquestionably true. In these
circumstances one cannot expect them to have a youthful interest in
free observation and naïve discovery. If the main points are already
established, and if further observation cannot give us essentially new
hints, why should we strain our eyes in the chaos of a large world
behind which, anyway, the old truth _must_ be hidden everywhere? As
William James would say, whatever happens is a “nothing else but” for
them; it can be reduced to an old story. In this attitude again there
is no real difference between behaviorism and introspectionism, though
each defends its conservatism by different methods. But there is a
real difference between preferring to be at rest upon preëstablished
ground or preferring adventure and intellectual curiosity which
take you full-sail into the open sea of experience. If you choose
the latter, perplexity will be your usual feeling, and a glimpse
of clear-shaped coasts a rare reward on some Sunday of research.
But the next generation will have more Sundays as a result of your
exploration. Certainly, neither this nor the next generation is needed
in psychology, if we stay at home and know beforehand that no other
sites can be found in the future.
I do not see, then, why introspectionism should be preferred to
behaviorism, or vice versa. They are so much alike in their
fundamental opinions and in their general attitudes, that all their
wrangling seems like a family quarrel to the onlooker. And it is among
precisely those themes, over which they do not quarrel, that we shall
find the problems of _gestalt_ psychology. For the present, however, we
shall pursue this question: Is it true that the processes underlying
experience and behavior are determined mainly by the connections of
given nerve-paths, and that some change in the conductivity of these
connections is the secret of an individual’s development?
BIBLIOGRAPHY
M. Bentley: _The Field of Psychology_. 1924.
K. Koffka: _Gestalt Psychology_. The Psychological Bulletin. 1922.
D. Katz: _Die Erscheinungsweisen der Farben_. Ergänzungsband 7 der
Zeitschr. f. Psychol. 1911.
W. Köhler: _Uber unbemerkte Empfindungen und Urteilstäuschungen_.
Zeitschr. f. Psychol., 63. 1913.
W. Köhler: _Akustische Untersuchungen_ III. Zeitschr. f. Psychol.,
72. 1915.
IV
_Dynamics as Opposed to Machine Theory_
SOMETIMES people are conservative and right at the same time. Still it
seems highly improbable that in our very young science conservative
opinions should be right, opinions which are opposed to almost all
experience, and which have scarcely been examined, because they have
been protected by the “meaning theory.”
Some of the physiological presuppositions lurking behind introspection
are hardly convincing if they are once examined critically. In one of
our examples, apparent movement, produced by touching successively two
different points on the subject’s skin, is not admitted as a “true”
sensory fact because usually it forms a curve through empty space, only
the ends of which are felt on the skin (cf. p. 79). But why should all
the experiences which depend physiologically upon the stimulation of
a sense organ be localized in the same place where that sense organ
is localized as an experience? In vision, this is not the case; forms
or colors are not seen at the place where we feel our eyes. Neither
are sounds heard generally where we localize our ears. Behind the
introspectionist’s argument there seems to be some primitive confusion
of the peripheral processes produced by stimulation with sensory
experiences depending upon them of the physiological locus of the first
with the sensory localization of the second.
I think this case is typical because it shows that the apparent
self-evidence of the argument from physiology prevents a critical
consideration of it, whereas any examination of the case would efface
the self-evidence of the assumption. In this chapter I shall try to
show that even the main assumptions of introspective psychology and
behaviorism are by no means axiomatic, though they agree with a common
prejudice which is thousands of years old.
We have seen that those assumptions are utterly dependent upon the
explanatory force of the meaning theory. Unprotected by this theory
those assumptions would be destroyed by any observations which
contradicted them. Recent experimental work on some of the experiences
discussed as examples in the last chapter bears upon the explanation
of those experiences in terms of meaning. In order to _learn_ that
sometimes white is black and vice versa, an individual needs time and
_much_ experience, largely because he has to learn it so thoroughly
that finally the products of learning will be “projected” into his
field of vision as definite nuances of brightness instead of the
“true” ones. We should expect, then, that young or primitive subjects
would not show the “constancy of brightness” to any considerable
degree. But when the experiment was made with young chicks under very
severe conditions, they were found to possess approximately as good a
“constancy of brightness” as I do.[15] Similar experiments made on the
“constancy of size” with children (from two years up), and with young
apes, also gave positive results.[16] Though it is difficult to exclude
slight influences of meaning upon the phenomena in question, it seems
altogether unlikely, even without further work, that _in principle_
these phenomena are produced by meaning. I do not deny that objective
experience is imbued with acquired meaning in many respects. But, as
has been said before, where this influence is not demonstrated in the
history of individuals, or somehow demonstrated independently, no
indirect argument is strong enough to be accepted in lieu of such a
demonstration.
Since in these instances the meaning theory begins to relinquish the
field, a radical change in fundamental principles becomes unavoidable.
The phenomena we have here discussed, such as constancy of size, form,
localization, speed and brightness, the stroboscopic movement, the
well-known illusions and so forth, become just as decisive in our
understanding of genuine sensory experience as the so-called “normal”
cases of introspection, i.e., as the observations that at a given
distance and on a homogeneous background seen size depends mainly upon
retinal size; that (apart from contrast and other exceptions) in a
given illumination seen brightness depends upon retinal intensity, and
so on. In these cases, usually regarded as normal, size, brightness,
etc., are found to vary with the properties of local stimulation,
because conditions of surrounding stimulation are practically constant.
For the same reason, by assuming the introspective attitude, we may
find experiences corresponding to local stimulation even in those
other cases where _naïve_ experience shows the contrary, because by an
analytical attitude the influence of surrounding conditions temporarily
can be suppressed to a high degree.
But we do not suppose such isolation to be the normal state of affairs.
If in all the examples given we accept direct experience at its
face-value, our fundamental assumption about the processes underlying
experience and behavior must be opposite to the assumptions of both
introspectionists and behaviorists; i.e., instead of reacting to local
stimuli by local and mutually independent events, the organism reacts
to an actual _constellation_ of stimuli by a total process which, as a
functional whole, is its response to the whole situation. This is the
only viewpoint which can explain how to a given local stimulus there
may correspond altogether different experiences as soon as surrounding
stimulation is changed. We face this dilemma: _Either_ we take the
traditional horn, in which case direct experience and everyday behavior
are irrelevant to our psychological analysis, _or_ we trust all
kinds of experience impartially, in which case we have to accept the
suggested radical change in physiological theory.
“Total process” and “functional whole” are, however, terms which sound
rather vague, or even mystical, to most scientists. It would be well
to present our physiological assumption in more definite detail. This
may be done. And at the same time we shall obtain a more general view
of our problem if we ask ourselves just why the prevailing viewpoint
should have appeared so utterly convincing to the last generations.
The chief reason seems to be that sensory experience is in most cases
quite orderly, and that the behavior, which accompanies it, is no
less orderly. Now since the early days of European science man has
been deeply convinced that the processes of nature, if they are left
to their own “blind” play, will never produce anything like order.
Why should they? Does not the accidental intercourse of inorganic
natural forces around us produce chaos and destruction everywhere?
We have been able to formulate some of the rules according to which
isolated processes occur in nature necessarily, but where many
processes influence each other without control, no reason is apparent
why confusion and general disorder should be avoided or why the
whole complex should develop toward an orderly distribution. _Without
control_--this appears to me to be the decisive point. For as soon
as man began to restrict the possibilities of natural processes by
appropriate rigid arrangements, the same forces which apparently would
have produced chaos, destruction or disorder without control were
guided toward orderly function in the service of mankind. This has been
man’s conception of nature for thousands of years; in modern times the
engineer still enforces in the same manner the functional order in his
machines. The “blind” forces of nature are allowed to make the machines
_move_, but the _order_ of the movement is enforced by those special
arrangements which are the essential traits of the machines and the
pride of their inventors.
From this viewpoint, which prevails even in current theory, a young
science will tend to presuppose the existence of “special arrangements”
wherever the distribution of forces or processes in nature is found to
be orderly. Aristotelian astronomy is a good example. The movements of
stars in the sky maintain a remarkable order, so different from what
one would expect to occur in “free” nature, that something special
must control those celestial events. Obviously, the possibility of
a star running wild or a planet going astray must be excluded by
rigid arrangements. Therefore, in Aristotelian theory, the stars
are fixed upon those famous crystal spheres, the turning of which
forces the stars to move in their apparently regular orbits. There
are even engineers, viz., the stellar deities, who watch and control
the machinery. Three hundred years ago this conception was still
entertained in pious awe. The functional value of its crystal spheres
in the orderly sky, however, was precisely the same as that of any
rigid arrangement enforcing orderly processes in our machines. There
is a deep longing for rest and safety in man. Early in history it
was satisfied by such a primitive belief, the content of which may
appear crude, narrow and absurd to modern eyes. What was so shocking
in Galileo’s astronomical discoveries? That there was so much going
on in the sky and the astronomical order was so much less definite
than one could happily believe before! If the heavens begin to show a
lack of rigid institutions, similar to the flexibilities we observe on
this planet, who can feel secure in his most important beliefs? There
was much exceedingly human, miserable fear in the furious attacks
directed against Galileo by the Aristotelians of his time, and the
fear was evoked by the amount of change and dynamics Galileo found
in the world as the home of mankind. One may well suppose that the
excitement produced by Harvey’s discovery of the circulation of the
blood contained a similar element of fear, because the conception of
man as a rigid structure was suddenly disturbed by the idea of internal
unrest, accompanied by the possibility of its fatal cessation at any
moment.
In any case the same general motive expresses itself in the well-known
tendency of early biological thought to explain all remarkable
properties of organic life, and most of all its orderly course, by
special arrangements enforcing order. In the time of Descartes, his
so-called mechanical interpretation of organic functions may have
been bold enough; still he was absolutely conservative in assuming
without a moment’s hesitation that--apart from the influence of one
engineer, the soul--all delicate, vital processes were enforced by
special arrangements, connections and channels throughout the whole
body of man. Figuratively, the organism was for him what the sky had
been for Aristotle--full of crystal spheres. He did not know the laws
of dynamics, it is true. But though we know much more about them
since his time, the main changes in biological theory seem to have
been refinements of his type of thinking rather than discoveries of
new general concepts about organic order. Even in our own day, though
doubting the validity of that machine-conception as a satisfactory
explanation of _all_ organic order, biologists do not give us any
other clear general principle whereby to understand the orderliness of
organic function.
We shall see at once what the possibilities of alternative explanation
are, if we try to get a more concrete picture of the characteristic
trait in Aristotelian and biological machine theory.
In physical processes we find two sorts of factors determining
events at every moment. In the first class belong the actual forces
of the process itself; they represent the _dynamical_ side of it.
In the second class we have those properties of the system which
may be regarded as _constant conditions_ of its events. So, at the
present time, the elementary charge of one electron seems to be an
unchangeable condition of all physical events. In a conducting wire
the specific conductivity of its material will be regarded as such a
given condition. On the other hand, the electrostatic forces of the
current itself driving an electron along that wire are an example of a
dynamical factor. But among the constant conditions two further classes
may be discriminated. In the case of electric current it is one given
condition that all moving charges have the amount of electronic charge
or multiples of it. Another condition of the current is given by the
mode of the distribution, the connections and the spatial order of the
conducting material, i.e., a network of wires.
Immediately the fact becomes clear that, whereas in all systems of
nature, in addition to their own dynamical forces, processes depend
upon conditions of the first class, the influence of special conditions
of the second class may dominate in one case and be at a minimum in
another. When we consider the play of electrons in an atom or the
integration of atoms forming a molecule, we do not find a special
topography laid down beforehand which determines those processes.
At every moment, in addition to constant properties of the material
(first class of conditions), the actual _dynamical_ situation develops
the next event out of itself. If we wish to refer to the second
class of conditions in such a case, it would be to point out that
the topographical situation consists of physical space without any
special determining or limiting feature in it. On the other hand,
the equilibrated distribution of electric charge on the surface of a
conductor depends upon the rigidly given form of that conductor as a
limiting topographical condition; and in a steam-engine the piston
can move only one definite way, determined by the rigid walls of the
cylinder.
This leads to a classification of physical systems which is decisive
for our problem. In all of them process is to be regarded as
necessarily determined, but among the various cases we find enormous
differences in the relative influence which limiting topographical
conditions, on the one hand, and the play of actual forces, on the
other, exert upon the course of events. Wherever we have given
topographical conditions, preëstablished and not changeable by
the process itself, their existence means the exclusion of some
dynamical possibilities and the restriction of the process to only the
possibilities compatible with those conditions. Electric charges may
move through the conductor in various ways, but they are _prevented_
from leaving it, and so their final distribution depends upon its form.
Again the electric current may have one direction or the other, its
distribution may vary enormously; but, if the wires are surrounded by
isolating material, the dynamics of the current itself will remain
restricted to the interior of the wires. The most extreme case will
consist in a system where preëstablished topographical arrangements
exclude all processes except only one; and an example of this type is
given by the piston’s motion strictly confined between the walls of the
cylinder.
In this case the steam in the cylinder exerts its pressure in all
directions, but, owing to the topographical conditions, it is not
allowed to do work except in _one_ direction, in that, namely, in
which the piston is free to move for a certain distance. Consequently,
nothing but the motion as such is determined dynamically in such a
system, whereas its direction is strictly enforced by topographical
arrangement.
Now this is exactly the relation between dynamics and preëstablished
topographical conditions which we find in typical industrial machines.
The number and forms of special one-way functions which may be enforced
in such systems are enormous and varied. Still the general principle
is everywhere the same. Sometimes a little more than the minimum may
be left to dynamical determination, but at present no one would
construct mechanical systems for industrial purposes where the form and
distribution of process would be to any considerable degree a matter of
dynamics.
It is the same idea again which occurs to Aristotle when he views the
remarkable order of celestial movement. His spheres are topographical
conditions enforcing that order. And since Cartesius, neurologists have
worked with the same concepts wherever they have dealt with orderly
organic function in higher animals and in man. It is not the dynamics
of nervous processes as such which they suppose tend toward coördinated
function. Vitalists may have such a mystical idea! Rather, special
anatomical topography is the only explanation for order; and by it the
dynamics of process are compelled to produce orderly results.
Once more we return to point out that it is the same conception which
forms the common basis of both introspectionism and behaviorism, so
far as their physiological principles are concerned. Take vision, for
example. How many things may be present simultaneously in one actual
field! Still, excluding extreme peripheral regions, there does not seem
to be any confusion for the most part. One object appears separated
from all others, and the sharpness of its contours is evidence of a
high accuracy of function. But the field is not only clear as such; it
also corresponds admirably to the physical realities. Points which
are neighbors in physical space are neighbors also in the visual
field; the center of a circle in physical space appears as the middle
of a symmetrical figure in vision, and so forth. All this order is
as remarkable as it is necessary for our response to the objects
which, in the form of bodily movement, must be adjusted properly to
the physical world. The order of projected images upon the retina
is easily explained by the properties of the pupil, the lens and so
forth. But what about the processes which, streaming from here into
the brain, will eventually determine experience and behavior? Since
experience and behavior show a similar order, this order must have
been enforced or preserved throughout the entire process. Only one
kind of explanation seems, then, to be possible: In the nervous system
we have a topographical arrangement, preventing confusion and mixture
during conduction. Indeed, if from each point of the retina local
processes are conducted on definite and isolated paths toward their
final cortical termini, and if the totality of these termini somehow
reproduces the geometry of local retinal processes, then the dynamics
of the process are excluded completely from the determination of its
own direction and distribution. In terms of such a construction of the
facts we can feel secure that the most important property of vision,
i.e., its accurate order, is guaranteed by so trustworthy a factor as
preëstablished anatomical conditions.
Similar considerations would lead to similar results in the case of
touch and hearing. But what about learning and habit formation?
At the present time most psychologists would answer this question by
saying that in some parts of the nervous system, between its optical
and acoustical sectors, for instance, paths of nervous activity are
not fixed once for all in the youth of an individual. Either no paths
will be ready for conduction at first, or else from one point of the
tissue several paths will conduct processes equally well in several
directions, so that disorderly diffusion will occur. In the adult,
however, we observe a great many associations, let us say, again,
between the optical and the acoustical centers, and very seldom is
there any confusion in the play of reproductions. The thing we have
before us now is called a book, its parts pages, and so forth. It is a
serious symptom if some one does not call things by their right names.
Normally, the connection between definite visual processes and definite
acoustical and motor processes works astonishingly well. What other
explanation can be offered? Where we had at first no conducting path or
perhaps several indifferent paths, we might assume that with time one
single path has become differentiated and so much more susceptible to
excitation than all the others, that now processes must follow this one
path. This would mean that, disregarding the _genesis_ of this dominant
one-way function, the perfect order of association and reproduction is
again explained altogether in terms of the properties of topographical
conditions. Though these conditions are not supposed to exist in
the same manner in infancy, and though the changes by which they
are produced remain obscure at the present time, when once they are
established the direction and order of processes is as rigidly enforced
by them, and any influence of dynamics will be as utterly excluded, as
is the case supposedly in simple sensory conduction. As the railroad
train remains on its tracks because these determine one way of least
resistance, and as the enormous power of the engine has no influence
upon direction, so in reproduction as well as in sensory processes all
order and direction is a result of prearrangement, independently of the
actual properties and dynamical forces of the process itself.
If for the sake of order dynamics shall not take part in the
distribution of processes, and if distribution shall be merely an
effect of given topographical conditions, important consequences follow.
First of all, excluding only the somewhat obscure _genesis_ of
associations and habit, what happens in the nervous system will
depend either upon inherited machine arrangements or upon secondarily
_acquired_ arrangements. Therefore, where an actual performance is
not an instance of the learning process as such, it must be explained
either by original topographical conditions, or by past learning, i.e.,
by acquired changes in those conditions.[17] Now, this alternative is
nothing but the old dualism of nativistic and empiristic explanation.
No reader of all the famous discussions between nativists and empirists
can have a serious doubt that a nativistic explanation has always meant
the assumption of a given anatomical basis for the actual fact in
question. If such explanation did not seem to be acceptable, then only
one other possibility was left open, that of learning. These authors
never entertain the idea that some specific and orderly function
might occur without being controlled either by special arrangements
preëstablished _ad hoc_ or by arrangements acquired in learning. What
may this third alternative be? Vitalism? We shall see.
In well-established one-way streets what happens at the end of them
will mainly depend upon what has happened at the entrance. Sensory
experience will therefore consist of purely local elements of
experience, the genuine properties of which must depend upon local
stimuli exclusively. If, for the maintenance of order, the isolation
of processes in each pathway and in each final cell (of the brain)
must be absolute, then no influence of processes in other parts of the
nervous system will be able to alter sensory experience, and so it
must remain the same whatever the changes of attitude. By enumerating
the actual properties of all elements at a given time we give an
exhaustive account of the presented field. This is what has been
called the summative, or mosaic, character of sensory experience, as
it is understood from this viewpoint. Evidently, in terms of it, the
sensory field becomes “inflexible,” exactly as its physiological basis
is mainly determined by rigid topography. It also becomes “poor,”
because the variety of experiences is restricted to those indifferent
patterns of elements which we may find by varying independently the
properties of the local elements. Any organization of processes in
the field is excluded because order must be explained by functional
separation. Specific function, dynamically extended over an area of the
field, is excluded for the same reason; we have to deal with a purely
_geometrical_ pattern of _local_ processes.
How “empty” and “dead” does the organism appear in this theory!
Dynamically, it has nothing to contribute to the monotonous elementary
currents conducted compulsorily from a point of stimulation to a point
of reaction. So it becomes an indifferent stage for actors indifferent
to the stage as well as to each other. As an object of research in
dynamics it is less interesting than a molecule or a soap-bubble which
are both of them functional wholes.
If between the field of sensory processes and the effector organs
conduction is determined in the same manner as, in this theory, it is
between local stimuli and the elements of that field, a thoroughly
adequate formula for research in psychology will be: to find out what
stimuli produce what reactions in the effector organs. The statement
that stimuli, on the one hand, and reactions, on the other, are the
only points of interest in psychology, corresponds absolutely to the
picture of the organism, and especially the nervous system, as lacking
any characteristic process of its own as a whole. Since other schools
do not pretend to have new positive ideas about the functioning of
the nervous system, that seductive formula of behaviorism has found a
rather general assent as expressing the viewpoint of natural science
in psychology. Unfortunately, in its present usage, it is not only
seductive, but also ambiguous and superficial.
From the fact that in this theory dynamics is excluded from the
determination of order and distribution, one more consequence follows
immediately. Everywhere in nature dynamical events depend upon the
properties of those processes and materials which exert influences
upon one another. In a solution, containing Na_{2}SO_{4} and BaCl_{2},
BaSO_{4} will be precipitated because of certain properties of Ba,
SO_{4} and H_{2}O which, in their mutual relations, determine the
dynamics of the process. Two electric currents will produce mutual
attraction of their conductors if both have the same direction;
repulsion, on the other hand, if the direction of one current is
opposite to that of the other. The rule is general, that “relative
properties” as exemplified in these cases are decisive for dynamical
interaction. A theory, therefore, which excludes dynamics from the
determination of distribution, allowing it the production only of
elementary nervous current, will have to draw the inference that the
properties of local processes have no influence whatever upon the total
distribution in the field. A given local process will be altogether
indifferent to its neighbors, running its course uninfluenced by their
existence. All possible patterns may be produced by appropriate sets of
peripheral stimuli; no mutual forces are admitted which, in the whole
field, would produce certain definite distributions rather than others.
A similar consideration in the case of association and reproduction
will occupy us later on.
When confronted with such an unretouched picture of current assumptions
about physiological functions, most psychologists will protest. They
will declare that one should not take too literally what has been
used rather as an analogy in a preliminary endeavor to develop ideas
about the processes of the nervous system. Every one admits, moreover,
that there are cases of “irradiation” in some parts of the tissue! To
this criticism I must answer that if _all_ analogies chosen, in the
first tentative picturing of orderly nervous function, are of the same
type, using topographical arrangements as the basis of order, this
may be taken as evidence that other analogies do not occur to these
authors. Preliminary though it may be, it remains a machine-picture,
and no other has been developed, which is different in principle. As to
irradiation of current, this concept as such does not mean more than a
lack of definiteness and accuracy in the machine; it presupposes order
enforced by strict isolation as the normal case, a slight deviation
from which is the whole content of the idea. I admit that it makes
our ideas about nervous functioning a little more nebulous than they
should be according to the extreme viewpoint of machine theory; but I
deny that in this manner _order_ of distribution can be or has been
explained by any one. Granted that all conductors may “leak” a little
at certain points and that, therefore, local processes may become
interfused mutually to a certain degree, I am unable to deduce orderly
distribution or organization from such an indifferent “spreading” or
interpenetration of essentially isolated units.
Let us compare the consequences of the theory with observation.
Some relevant data have already been mentioned. Other and much more
important data will occupy us in the next chapters.
That constancy of brightness and of size cannot be explained by the
assumption of one-way conduction determining local sensory experience
in terms of local stimulation does not need further discussion, since,
because of their incompatibility with that assumption, those facts
are commonly believed to exemplify the influence of meaning. But now
that experimentation has shown that the meaning theory does not seem
to explain them either, neither the empiristic nor the nativistic
assumptions help us in these cases. So we must try to conceive a third
kind of nervous function other than the types in which processes are
strictly directed either by inherited or by acquired arrangements.
If there is a third reasonable assumption, it will be necessary to
apply it also in those other cases, such as constancy of form, speed,
localization, and so forth, which are so similar to constancy of
brightness and size, that the same explanation should obviously be
given in all these instances. Quite generally then the alternative
between empiristic and nativistic hypotheses must be misleading.
The introspective theorem that changes of attitude cannot influence
“true” sensory experience does not agree better with the facts.
It seems rather to be an arbitrary definition of “true” sensory
experience. In observation, at least, if I transform the white in
the shadow and the black in full light into two similar grays, _by
“introspection_,” there can be no more radical influence of attitude
upon sensory experience than this transformation which occurs under
constant conditions of stimulation. And the same holds wherever
introspection, destroying natural experience by an artificial
technique, finds its “true” sensations instead. Fortunately in one
part of our science at least, this seems to be the prevailing opinion.
When we analyze a clang we hear several notes appear successively
in the mass which previously we heard as a _unity_. If in this case
we agree that under constant conditions of stimulation our attitude
transforms one sensory reality into others, and that the clang heard as
one is not less real than the partial tones apparent during analysis,
we have no right to contradict similar observations in other cases.[18]
As to the statement that sensory experience is a purely local affair,
each point of a sensory field depending upon “its” local stimulus
exclusively, we must reiterate that no grounds have ever been given
for such a radical assumption. Rather it seems to be an _a priori_
belief about what _ought_ to be the nature of things, experience to the
contrary notwithstanding. As far as observation goes the properties
of local retinal stimulation do not simply determine the size, the
form, the localization and the brightness of local experience; neither
does retinal speed determine seen speed, as it probably ought to
according to the thesis that the geometry of retinal facts determines
spatial experiences. As a matter of observation, all the well-known
“illusions” may be cited as evidence of the fact that local processes
depend upon _sets_ of stimuli. To some degree this controversy will
be settled by pragmatic principles: the decision will go to that side
whose principles prove most fruitful in the further development of
psychology. In the meantime, however, we may carry on our analysis of
the polemical situation at present.
Almost all psychologists agree, in the case of one experience, upon the
fact that local sensory experience is determined by more than merely
local stimulation. This case is that of color-contrast, which most
psychologists suppose to be an effect of interaction in the nervous
system. If here the point-to-point correlation between retinal stimuli
and sensory experience is surrendered, because the determination of
local experience by conditions in a larger area is too evident, how
can we proceed hereafter as if this discovery and concession had not
been made? It took science some time before it would accept simple
observation even in this case. Helmholtz refused to do so and, of
course, he applied the meaning theory in order to save its fundamental
belief, i.e., the point-to-point determination of local sensory fact by
local stimulation. But after the first step has been made, we should
realize not only that one theory of contrast has taken the place of
another, but also that instead of applying persistently one general
principle to all sensory experience, we have begun to accept a new
one. In the future, wherever experience does not correspond to local
stimulation, we should, at least, consider the possibility that such
an experience may depend upon the total set of conditions in a larger
field, exactly as contrast does. _If_ it does, this may help us to
understand why changes of attitude affect sensory experience in some
cases. Sensory experience, which depends upon the constellation of
stimuli in a larger area, and therefore does not correspond to merely
local, inflexible units of process, may be influenced by “processes
of attitude” as well. The most important point, however, seems to be
that if we find a type of process depending upon _sets_ of stimuli
instead of single ones, this process may be that “third possibility”
we are seeking. Certainly, it would neither be like the elementary
processes of nativistic machine theory, i.e., absolutely determined by
_inherited_ arrangements, nor like the processes of empiristic theory,
upon which a similar compulsion is exerted by _acquired_ arrangements.
In the next chapters I shall try to show that other facts, much more
important than those we have considered hitherto, point exactly in the
same direction. For the sake of order in nervous function the machine
theory excludes _organization of process_ in the field. But we shall
see that organization may be regarded as a typical fact in sensory
experience. Again the theory excludes the assumption of any specific
process dynamically extended over an area of the field. But it will
not be difficult to show that there are experiences in great number
the specific properties of which belong to _extended wholes_ and do
not exist in local isolation. This means also that the real variety
of processes occurring in the sensory field is simply enormous when
compared with those essentially indifferent patterns of local elements
which may occur according to the machine theory.
If dynamics are excluded from the determination of distribution, local
process will correspond everywhere with its stimulus; the actual
properties of stimulation in their mutual relationships will play
no rôle in the whole affair, as they would undoubtedly in the case
of dynamical interaction. Reviewing our observations, however, we
find that everywhere the aspect of sensory experience depends upon
the properties of stimuli in their mutual interrelationship. This is
well known in the case of contrast and tonal fusion, but we may cite
as well all those observations which were discussed at length in the
last chapter. Constancy of brightness, for instance, depends upon the
relation of the illumination and brightness of the neighborhood to the
brightness of the field in question. That _organization_ in the field
depends upon the definite “relative properties” of local conditions,
will be shown in the next chapter.
All these facts make it probable that something is wrong with the
machine theory; they look as though they might be better understood by
dynamical theory. Sometimes the observer finds dynamical events quite
obviously occurring directly within the field. This is particularly
the case, when sudden stimulation or change of stimulation is followed
by a _development_ of process. If we cause a bright figure suddenly
to appear in the dark, this figure will have at once neither its full
size nor its “right” place. Instead it will appear with an energetic
movement of extension as well as of approach. At the moment of abrupt
disappearance, it will appear to have a movement of contraction and
recession. Obviously, such observations would be exceedingly strange if
considered in terms of machine theory. Or again, take the surprising
fact that in touch, as well as in vision and hearing, the distance
of objects and events may vary considerably if the stimuli are given
in a certain manner. In some beautiful experiments of von Frey two
distant points of the arm touched at the same time will appear to
be one-half the distance apart which they appear to be when touched
in slow succession. Scholz and Kester have both measured the mutual
“attraction” which lights as well as sounds show when presented under
adequate conditions. If the machine theory did not have its inordinate
historical prestige, no one would hesitate to take these observations
as evidence of dynamical interaction within the field. The stroboscopic
movement, which belongs to the same class of observations, has acquired
a unique importance by the fact that experimentation in this field led
Wertheimer explicitly to discard the purely summative theory of sensory
experience, not only for the problem in question but generally.[19] If
at some distance from each other two stimuli are successively projected
upon the retina of a subject, a movement will be seen, starting from
the locus of the first and ending in the region of the second. Under
favorable conditions there will not even be two “impressions.” One
“thing” will move from one place to the other--certainly a case of
dynamics which it would be difficult to understand by the theory of
isolated local processes. After the more important properties of
stroboscopic movement were investigated by Wertheimer, Koffka and
others, there was much discussion, mostly about minor points, which
almost tended to obscure the main facts. As was to be expected also,
meaning was rather liberally offered as an explanation. Nevertheless,
if conditions and the attitude of the observer are not too inadequate,
we undoubtedly _have_ movement in the visual field. Those who do not
believe direct experience, where it contradicts the supposed properties
of “true” sensation, may deduce the “reality” of that movement from
the fact that, when repeated, it produces an after-image of movement
in the opposite direction, exactly as “real” movement does. Though,
historically, Wertheimer’s investigation was the beginning of
_gestalt_ theory, in the proper meaning of that phrase, the following
considerations of sensory process will take another slant, because to
me another way seems more advisable as an introduction.[20]
There are several well-known arguments which favor the machine
theory. I have sometimes heard that it gives us a picture of
nervous function which, clear and simple in itself, is the more
easy to understand since in practical life we enforce order
everywhere in the same manner, i.e., by arrangements _ad hoc_. I
must confess that such a policy of the least scientific effort
seems to me unacceptable. The comfort and the habits of the
scientist do not count where he must deal with the properties of
his subject-matter. Furthermore, only the psychologist, neurologist
and physiologist will save time and effort by an assumption
which explains order by arrangement. They simply hand their
problem down to somebody else; wherever, in theory, a problem of
function is reduced to one of special arrangements, the science
of “morphogenesis” in its ontogenetic and phylogenetic branches
is amicably asked to solve it, i.e., to explain the origin of the
arrangements. So the avoidance of difficulties in our science
means that others have proportionally more difficulties. And,
by the way, at some point functional problems must be treated
as truly functional. If it is barely possible to understand the
ontogenesis of anatomical structure by the working of “special
arrangements” in the egg and germ, it would be ridiculous to
explain _phylogenesis_ by arrangements which bring it about.
Yet it will be said that we do have special arrangements
guaranteeing definite function in a great many organs of the body.
Nobody can deny it, and I shall admit at once that the existence
of the optic nerves as a conducting system between the eyes and
the brain may be regarded as an example. Still, in our body, there
is another conducting system in which a great many substances are
transported along with the _blood_. And here, though the conduits
are a general arrangement “for transportation,” we do _not_ have
special arrangements for carrying each part of the fluid to its
right place. What a definite part of the tissue pours into the
blood or takes away from it at a given time is not determined
by isolating conductors; everywhere it depends upon the actual
relationship between the state of the tissue in question and the
chemical properties of the blood, and yet normally we have order in
the whole affair. The example shows that the existence of “organs”
does not allow us to draw any inference about elementary processes
being kept in order entirely by machine-arrangements.
However, I may be forgetting that in physiology and pathology we
have much evidence for assuming a “projection” of retinal points
upon definite points of the _area striata_ in the brain! I am
not certain whether the facts in question prove that between
the retina and the _area striata_ conduction is completely a
point-to-point affair. But that does not matter, since at the
present time neurologists no longer believe that the _area striata_
is the terminus of optic processes and that visual experience is
concomitant with processes in _this_ area. If up to this region
conduction should be a matter of strictly isolated paths, the
functional problem we are occupied with would have to be solved in
parts beyond the _area striata_.
I shall be told that the nervous system consists of cells the
fibers of which _are_ isolated from each other. I answer that in
its gray ganglionic and nuclear fields conditions are different.
Here mutual influence is not only possible; it is necessary.
But what of the all-or-none law? Does it not prove that elementary
conduction is a matter of each single nerve fiber, occurring in
one definite manner as long as the properties of the conductor
remain the same? Experimental investigation of the all-or-none law
is not yet complete and, so far as I know, we have no evidence as
yet of its application to central fields. Supposing, however, that
it holds in brain tissue as it seems to hold in peripheral nerves,
the alternative between a strict machine theory of distribution
and dynamical conceptions would remain as open as before, because,
then, in each part of the nervous system the number of elementary
organs taking part in any actual process, i.e., the density of the
process, would have to be determined somehow, as would also the
frequency of current in each single organ. Both properties of the
process may either depend upon given local arrangements or upon
dynamical intercourse in the ganglionic tissue. As distribution
of energy is a dynamical problem in physics notwithstanding the
quantum theory, so the all-or-none law, as a sort of quantum theory
in nerve physiology, does not exclude dynamical distribution of
process.
A final argument which maintains that distribution of process by
preëstablished and isolating conductors is the only way to explain
the order of the field in its relation to the external physical
world, seems to have two parts. _First_, it presupposes that
dynamical interaction, not controlled by special arrangements
at each step, must produce chaos and confusion. We have here the
old human prejudice which, in a great many cases of dynamical
interaction, is absolutely unwarranted. _Secondly_, as to the
relation between the external physical world and the sensory field,
the theory of isolated conductors enforcing order would explain a
strict correspondence of sensory facts to _retinal stimulation_.
But in the last chapter we saw that much experience is exiled “into
the dust-cloud” of psychology by introspectionism just because it
does _not_ agree at all with the properties of stimulation. To
be sure, the constancy of size, form, brightness, localization
and speed in the sensory field corresponds fairly well with the
constant properties of _physical objects_; but this agreement is
_not_ explained by the machine theory of vision which refers to
constant relations between local _retinal stimulation_ and local
experience.
If we are not satisfied by the alternative between order enforced
by preëstablished arrangements and order determined by acquired
arrangements, what else can produce order? For the moment we restrict
our discussion to sensory processes and return to our statement (cf. p.
111) that, in physical systems, the relative influence of topographical
conditions, on the one hand, and of the play of actual forces, on the
other, may vary enormously. In typical man-made machines the rôle of
topographical conditions prevails to such an extent that the only
rôle of dynamics is to drive processes along a path laid down by
those conditions. This means that typical machines are essentially a
_special_ type of physical system and that outside the little world
of man-made machines there exists an immense world of other physical
systems, in which the direction of processes is not completely
determined by topographical arrangements.
Let us consider a drop in a current of water which moves through a
narrow pipe. Why does it move? Because, aside from inertia, pressure
is higher on one side of it than on the other. But this difference of
pressure works in one direction only, the walls of the pipe excluding
all its other effects. Now let us suppose that the pipe disappears
and that the drop (and the whole column of water in the pipe) becomes
a part of a larger volume of water. The drop will probably also move
in its new environment. But now it is exposed to forces on all sides,
and its movement will be in the direction of the _resultant_ vector
of force. Obviously this movement is no less necessary than was the
movement in the pipe, but here there is no local arrangement which can
determine a single direction as the only one possible. Therefore the
path of the drop will be determined _dynamically_ in the new case,
i.e., by resultant force at each moment. It follows that in this
situation the path which our drop takes will depend upon the dynamical
situation it encounters at each stage, and that it will change when
this situation changes. This is one simple example out of millions.
_In all of them not only movement, or process as such, but also the
direction and distribution of process is determined_ _dynamically
by interaction_. It is events of this type which are excluded almost
completely from machines, and the same type of process is practically
excluded by standard neurological and psychological theory. _Gestalt_
psychology sees no ground for its exclusion and rather proposes to give
this type of process a fundamental rôle in psychological theory.
In the pipe the drop of water moves because movement, under
differential pressure, is an approach toward equilibrium. Such is
the effect of forces at all points of all systems. When surrounded
by water, the movement of the drop will still be an illustration of
the same rule.[21] The only difference is that now the direction
of movement, according to the rule, will depend upon the actual
_dynamical_ situation. If we consider all the drops in the given volume
of water, we will find the distribution of water gradually changing
from one moment to the next. But whereas in pipes the distribution of
the movement in space depends upon the form and the spatial position of
the pipes, in the “dynamical case” it depends mainly upon the play of
actual forces. In pipes, order is produced by _exclusion_ of dynamical
interaction; whatever distribution may result in the “dynamical case”
is _produced_ by dynamics itself.
At this point our interest concentrates upon this question, whether
Aristotelians and modern theorists are right in assuming that
_anything_ may happen in dynamical interaction and that, therefore,
dynamics is to be regarded almost as a synonym for disorder. What we
see around us in inorganic nature seems to corroborate that opinion,
since the blind meeting of forces and processes usually leads to chaos
and destruction. What we have before us in these cases, however, may
be described as follows: There is a thing at rest or a process going
on uniformly; suddenly a new factor impinges upon the first thing or
process from without, and after a short while, another new influence,
again independent, is exerted from without, and so forth. Anything
indeed may happen under these circumstances, and in most cases the end
result of such fortuitous concurrence is disorder and destruction.
This, I think, is the picture most men have in mind when they refer to
dynamics, as though accidental impact were its only form!
There are, however, other cases, much more interesting for our present
discussion. If in a basin, for instance, water is somehow distributed,
perhaps in full movement, at a given moment there is a definite
pressure at each point, and everywhere differences of pressure will
tend to alter the distribution and the direction of local drops of
water. Supposing now that the basin itself does not change and that
no outer influences accidentally impinge upon the system during its
redistribution, what will the result of continual internal interaction
be? If we try to find the answer by imagining an indefinite number
of drops, each moving under the resultant force in its immediate
proximity, and each again influencing its proximate neighbors by
that movement,--if we notice that this picture changes continually,
as the distribution, and, therefore, the actually resultant force at
each point changes in the smallest fraction of a second,--then we are
inclined to dismiss the task as beyond our efforts, and to treat the
events of this field in terms of the confusion or destruction that is
attributed to nature in the case of accidental impacts.
But in this we are wrong. We are projecting our own confusion into
the course of objective events. We become guilty of anthropomorphism.
The physicist has quite a different attitude toward the problem. By
observation, as well as by theoretical calculation, he is led to the
conclusion that, generally, undisturbed dynamical interaction will
produce a definite orderly distribution.
Let us review an example we entertained at the beginning of this
chapter. To Aristotelian theorists the striking order of astronomical
movements appeared inexplicable without the assumption of special
arrangements controlling them. Now in modern times no one believes
in those crystal spheres. But the order is there! And since the
stars did not “_learn_” to move so orderly, some factors other than
preëstablished and acquired topographical arrangements must be able to
produce and to maintain order in distribution and movement. And in the
prevalent conception of the solar system, it is continuous dynamical
interaction, without any topographical arrangements, which produced and
still maintains the order.
Other examples may be found in all parts of physics and chemistry:
when two atoms come into their sphere of mutual influence, the play
of dynamic interaction immediately begins, and, as the case may be,
depending upon their “relative properties,” they either separate again
or they form an orderly molecule,--an architectonic structure,--without
the aid of any arrangements _ad hoc_.
If we suspend a number of straight wires so that they form different
angles with each other, the whole distribution being irregular,
electric current entering the wires turns them into parallel lines.
This is an orderly result of electrodynamic interaction.
Or again, we pour oil into a liquid with which it does not mix. In
spite of the violent interaction of molecules at their common surface,
this surface remains sharply determined, not by any arrangement
enforcing this orderly distribution, but just by the play of surface
dynamics between the oil and the other liquid. If specific density
is the same for both liquids, these surface forces will change the
distribution until the oil forms a regular sphere swimming in the
other liquid.
I might go on to describe hundreds of examples. In all of them the
situation would be the same in principle. Dynamical interaction,
undisturbed by accidental impacts from without, leads to orderly
distribution, though there are no special preëstablished arrangements.
And what is the explanation of this general tendency in undisturbed
dynamics? It is simple enough. In all these systems we have one
resulting force at each point at each instant of time. All the
resultant forces together form one texture of stresses. From the
principles of physics one can deduce, therefore, that, _for the system
as a whole_, the immediate effect of all those forces will have one
definite direction. At each point the forces will produce changes
of movement or process which, when considered in their totality,
bring the system nearer to the balance of the forces themselves. The
factor of inertia may cause the real course of events to deviate from
the ideal exemplification of this principle. But where, as in most
organic systems, inert velocities not corresponding to actual forces
are destroyed by friction, the real distribution of processes will
exhibit the principle perfectly, and will finally reach a state of
stability, of rest or of stationary process. The fact that this state
will be an _orderly_ distribution has been explained by Ernst Mach as
follows: In orderly and regular distributions the totality of internal
stresses will be more balanced than in a state of disorder. Therefore,
by undisturbed interaction a system approaches order. For all details
I must refer the reader to the literature quoted at the end of this
chapter.[22]
_Dynamical self-distribution_ is the third kind of functional concept
which I propose to add to psychological theory, in addition to
distribution enforced by inherited arrangements and order determined
by acquired arrangements. More concretely and for the visual field,
my assumption is that the order and distribution in this field is in
each case the result of dynamical interaction. From this viewpoint the
processes underlying the visual field in a state of _rest_ represent
the equilibrated distribution of sensory dynamics under actually given
conditions. When not at rest, sensory dynamics will be in a state of
_developing dynamical distribution_.
Though the direction of local process in a system is not altogether
determined by local arrangement, the result of dynamical
self-distribution as a whole may still depend upon topographical
conditions (cf. pp. 112-113). Thus the electric current in a network
of wires is distributed dynamically; yet the actual distribution
as a whole depends upon the position of the electrodes and upon
the conductivities in all the conductors. Similarly, the totality
of processes in the optical part of the nervous system will depend
upon given conditions in each case. For the moment, though this will
prove to be an inexact assumption when it is examined more closely, I
shall suppose that in the interior of the optical network the general
conditions of conduction remain constant. But, then, as a set of
peripheral conditions, we have the patterns of different chemical
reactions on the retina, as they are produced in each case by actual
stimulation. Upon these varying conditions the self-distribution
of process will depend primarily. If neurologists are correct when
they assert that between the retina and the _area striata_ of both
hemispheres, conduction is a matter of isolated pathways, then the
_area striata_ will be a sort of “central retina,” in which the pattern
of retinal stimulation is copied by a pattern of central processes. In
this case _dynamical_ distribution will begin here, depending upon the
actual pattern of processes in the occipital lobes.
It will be evident that the task such a theory must face is enormously
more difficult than that of machine theory. Where arrangements are
altogether responsible for distribution, the concrete dynamical
properties of process are of little concern. If we do not know about
them, it does not matter very much. In dynamical theory, on the
contrary, the whole development of the theory requires that we know
those properties of the process. And since as yet physiology is not
very instructive concerning them, the extension of the theory depends
instead upon the assumptions which we make. Experimentation on visual
experiences will have to give us the necessary hints for making our
hypotheses, and the consequences of our hypotheses will then have to be
tested by experiments of the same sort. At the present time only the
first steps have been made in this direction, and it will take us a
long time before we feel firm ground under our feet. Let us remember,
however, that all the perplexities we may find on our way, and all
the mistakes we make in its course, are not to be referred to the
fundamental concept of self-distribution by interaction; they should be
referred to the particular assumptions concerning process, force and
interaction, which we have made.
As an example which will make our analysis more concrete, I shall
introduce one special problem. If from a given pattern, either on
the retina or on the “central retina,” processes start into the
conducting network beyond, and if their distribution is determined
dynamically, why should differences among the processes, corresponding
to differences in color, be preserved on the way? This is generally
the case: to the accurate retinal contour of the image of a letter
on a white page corresponds the sharp outline of the letter in my
visual field. If the totality of processes issuing from the area of
the letter remains detached somehow from the processes surrounding it,
we may understand, perhaps, how even in dynamical distribution the
most essential and crude geometrical properties of retinal pattern may
be sustained. But how can one set of processes remain detached from
the rest in dynamical theory? This embarrassing question certainly
could not occur for the assumption of isolated pathways. My answer
is based on the fundamental principle of the theory. If under these
circumstances one set of processes remains detached from the rest there
must be dynamical factors at work. Generally, processes corresponding
to a definitely colored area will have definite properties as a class
of processes, different from the properties of a class of surrounding
processes which corresponds to another color. They will remain
segregated in the nervous network if we suppose that in the ganglionic
fields, where they “touch” each other, their differential properties
provide _separating forces of contact_, so that they mutually exclude
each other. Take as an example the contact of oil and water. Here
interaction is so strong that the form of the surface is determined
by it; but this surface as such remains a sharp boundary and the
drop of oil remains detached from the water by those same molecular
forces which, at the time, mold the form of the drop. I shall assume,
then, that, in optical processes, contours are preserved by similar
forces of antagonistic contact, depending upon differences in the
properties on the two sides of the contour. From this viewpoint,
interaction will thus determine general distribution; it will also
have an influence upon size and form, and so forth, but it will not
generally “dissolve” processes, corresponding to a homogeneous area of
color, in the surrounding processes. This may seem a bold hypothesis.
But recent experiments have shown that this assumption is in the
right direction. It would be surprising if _all_ process differences
should act as separating surface forces of the kind just described in
the case of color, for in physics such forces exist between oil and
water, for instance, but not between water and alcohol, or a great
many other pairs of different materials. Indeed, when reëxamining the
results of older experimental investigations, Liebmann[23] proved that,
whereas very slight differences of brightness gave sharp contours,
neighboring areas of different color, even with maximal differences
of chroma _alone_, will show mutual diffusion.[24] We may conclude,
then, that mainly differences of brightness provide effective forces
of separation. Under normal conditions neighboring areas of different
chroma will almost always be different in brightness. Therefore, sharp
contours on the retina will in most cases give accurate contours in the
visual field.
Without further discussion we can draw a rather important conclusion.
We are accustomed to regard order enforced by rigid arrangements as
exceptionally secure. If, however, the order of sensory experience
be conceived as the result of sensory dynamics, this will seem to
most people like explaining the quiet life of an orderly citizen as
the outcome of many moral struggles and catastrophes. But, in this
connection, the chief point is that in those cases in which the machine
theory of visual order seems to be most convincing, dynamical theory
gives exactly the same results. As an example we may take the symmetry
of a seen circle, corresponding to the symmetry of its retinal image.
Is it necessary to explain this correspondence by insulated conductors
which maintain the geometrical properties of the retinal image all
along the line of those processes underlying visual experience? By no
means. Assuming that surface forces of separation keep the processes
of the circle distinct from the surrounding processes, the dynamical
influences exerted upon the processes of the circle will be the same in
all directions,[25] if, in the immediate neighborhood of the circle,
surrounding processes are homogeneous. Therefore, if the network has
the same conducting properties throughout that part of the nervous
system, i.e., if it is functionally “homogeneous,” there will be
not the slightest reason why the symmetry of the process should be
disturbed. In this case, dynamical theory gives the same result, then,
which until now has been rather clumsily explained by preëstablished
arrangements _ad hoc_.
Since the rôle dynamics plays is so slight in contemporary theory,
it may seem very strange to some psychologists. Hence I wish to make
the following statement expressly: _these concepts do not contain a
single thought in the direction of vitalism_. It is true that a number
of difficulties may be removed by them, difficulties which vitalism
can still raise quite properly against the claims of unqualified
“mechanistic” ideas. But, in our field of research, “mechanistic” ideas
have almost always been explanations by topographical arrangements,
and “dynamical” ideas, the type of idea prevalent in general physics,
occurred no more to the mechanist than to the vitalist.
I shall not try to develop more detailed theorems about sensory
dynamics until we become further acquainted with the main facts and
their significance. Some consequences of dynamical theory will be
obvious at once. From this viewpoint, sensory experience is allowed to
be as _fluid_ and _manifold_ as, to observation, it reveals itself.
Furthermore, as local processes are not isolated,--their existence
and their actual properties depending upon the dynamical context in
a larger area,--the visual field may prove to be _organized_. In this
case, as everywhere in physics, organization will be found to depend
upon what I have called the “relative properties” of stimulation. We
may eventually find specific properties in experience characteristic
of extended areas and not analyzable into local sensations, just as
existence exclusively as _functional wholes_ is a property of many
dynamical states in physics. The next chapters will be concerned with
the development of these matters.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
K. Koffka: _The Growth of the Mind_. 1924.
W. Köhler: _Die physischen Gestalten in Ruhe und im stationären
Zustand_. 1920.
W. Köhler: _Gestaltprobleme und Anfänge einer Gestalttheorie_. 1924.
W. Köhler: _Komplextheorie und Gestalttheorie_. Psychol. Forsch. 6.
1925.
W. Köhler: _Zur Theorie der Regulation_. Arch. f. Entwicklungsmech.
1927.
M. Wertheimer: _Untersuchungen zur Lehre von der Gestalt, I_.
Psychol. Forsch. 1. 1921.
M. Wertheimer: _Drei Abhandlungen zur Gestalttheorie_. 1925.
V
_Sensory Organization_
A DYNAMICAL distribution will be rightly regarded as a functional
whole. Take, for example, a simple electric circuit: the differences
of potential and the densities of current distribute themselves
along the conductors in such a manner that a stable or stationary
state is produced and maintained. No part of this distribution is
self-sufficient; local processes depend throughout upon the totality of
the distribution.
If a similar conception is to be applied to the processes underlying
sensory experience, we must avoid a mistake. Protesting against the
atomism which had been introduced into the treatment of sensory
experience, William James once said that, in the sensory field, local
experiences are interwoven with their neighbors in a manner which is
beyond the grasp of purely intellectual theory. He seems to think that,
in original sensory experience, there is uniform continuity and that
all cuts and boundaries are introduced later on for pragmatic reasons.
From the viewpoint of _gestalt_ psychology such a statement does
not correspond to the facts. In the last chapter we saw that,
notwithstanding the general dynamical interdependence throughout the
field, there may be boundaries in it where forces of “segregation” and
“separation” take the place of those of “coherence” operating elsewhere.
Indeed, in the visual field, for instance, we have two kinds of order.
One of them is the order with which we found the machine theory
occupied in its effort to explain how a given local process is properly
placed between its neighbors, and not confused therewith. However,
there is another order in the field which has escaped the attention of
many psychologists, though it is not less important than the first. In
most visual fields the contents of certain areas “belong together,”
so that we have circumscribed, or bounded, units before us, from
which their surroundings are excluded. If James did not admit this
organization of the field as a sensory fact, the reason for it was the
enormous power of the theory of meaning, which has been an obdurate
obstacle to our seeing important problems, more in this connection
than elsewhere. For the same reason there may be only a few readers
who will not quarrel with the next paragraphs as long as they see any
possibility of so doing.
When I look at the desk before me I find quite a number of
circumscribed units which appear detached and segregated in the field:
a piece of paper as against the surface of the desk, a pencil, an
eraser, a cigarette, and so forth. In all these cases there are two
mutually dependent conditions. The existence of a unit involves its
segregation from its surroundings. In order to satisfy myself that
I am here talking about realities, I may try to form other units
consisting of parts of those objects and parts of their environment
taken together. In some cases my attempt will be a complete failure. In
others, where, for some reason, there is greater success, the result is
so strange that it indicates by contrast what a specific reality the
original organization was.
But the reader says: Of course, you are somehow talking about
realities. Still, something may be real psychologically without
belonging to sensory experience proper. How can you forget for a moment
that a piece of paper, a pencil, a cigarette, are objects known by use!
You have handled them during many years and so you had more opportunity
than you needed for learning that they _behave_ practically as units.
This previous experience being projected into your field of vision,
why do you lay so much stress upon a simple fact which is widely known
and well explained, and which has been accounted for ever since, or
probably even before, Aristotle wrote his textbook of psychology. My
answer will be more extensive than this argument. Until we are able
to prevent such superficial applications of the meaning principle,
there can be little agreement about the most elementary problems of
_gestalt_ psychology. Who in the world would deny that a piece of
paper, a pencil, and so on, are well-known objects? That I know their
uses and their names by previous experience and that hence they are
full of “meaning,” shall also be granted without hesitation. But from
these facts there is a large step to the statement that neither the
paper nor the pencil would exist _as segregated units_ in my visual
field without that previous knowledge about their practical behavior
and use. It may be that before I had that knowledge the same things
occurred in the sensory field as units, unknown and unnamed, but still
as segregated wholes. When I see a _green_ object, I can tell the name
of the color immediately; furthermore I know that green is used as a
signal on railroad tracks and also as a symbol of hope. But I do not
believe that, therefore, the color green _as such_ must be explained
by meaning. Existing independently it has acquired several secondary
properties in my lifetime and I agree with the reader in praising all
the advantages which this kind of learning holds for all of us. In
exactly the same manner, sensory units may have acquired names and may
have become richly symbolic in the context of our knowledge, while
existing, nevertheless, as segregated units in the sensory field prior
to such accretions. Such is the conception which _gestalt_ psychology
offers to defend. It even goes so far as to hold that it is precisely
the original organization and segregation of circumscribed wholes which
make it possible for the sensory world to appear so utterly imbued
with meaning to the adult, because, in its gradual entrance into the
sensory field, meaning follows the lines drawn by natural organization.
It usually enters into segregated wholes.
If the explanation by meaning were correct, wholes should be segregated
in the field only insofar as they are recognized as definite known
objects. But this is not the case. Looking into a dark corner or
walking through mist in the evening, the reader will frequently have
found before him an unknown something, detached from its environment
as one whole, the use or the meaning of which he did not discover
until after a more detailed observation. Walking through an unknown
country at night, I have often had such an unrecognized whole in the
field for several minutes. It is evident to me, therefore, that my
knowledge about the practical behavior of things does not determine
their existence as detached units. The same argument may be restated in
a more general form. Whenever we say to ourselves or others: Now, look
here! What may that something there be, at the foot of that hill, just
to the right of the next tree, between those two houses, and so on?--we
ask about the meaning or the use of that something, demonstrating by
our very question that segregation is independent of knowledge and
meaning. As, in physics, a molecule is segregated as a functional unit,
so definite wholes seem to be dynamically detached in the sensory field.
But so fond are we of our empiristic convictions that, in this
predicament, the explanation by meaning will immediately assume another
form. Your unknown whole, seen in the mist, so the reader will say,
appears as something separate, because it is darker, for instance, than
the gray mist around. I admit that no _special_ knowledge about this
definite group of sensations, as meaning a particular object through
past experience, is needed for unifying and segregating it. But you
under-rate the wonderful achievements of previous experience if you
restrict its effects to particular cases. We have always observed that
a set of adjacent sensations, possessing almost the same quality,
different from that of the environment, “behave together,” i.e., move
and are moved, appear and disappear, at the same time. This is the case
with stones, with papers, with hats, with boots, with many animals,
with leaves. As physical objects they are bound together, so that
physically they move as units. It is only one example of the well-known
generalizing power of memory if now we treat as units and even believe
we _see_ as units _all_ groups of adjacent sensations which are more
or less homogeneously colored and sufficiently different from their
surroundings. So we must not be astonished by the fact that, in the
mist for instance, an area of darker nuance is seen as one individual
something, though we may be unable to tell its _special_ use or meaning.
I am not satisfied, however, by this form of the theory either. Units
are formed and segregated in the field in a great many cases where
this rather bold explanation does not apply. Take all units consisting
of separate parts! If we look up at the sky on a clear night, some
constellations of stars are seen immediately as belonging together
and as detached from their environment. Cassiopeia is an example, the
Dipper is another. In past ages people saw the same groups as belonging
together and at the present time children do not need instruction in
order to perceive them as units. In Fig. 1 the reader has before him
two definite groups of patches. Why not merely six patches? Or two
other groups? Or three groups of two members each? Looking passively
at the figure every one beholds those particular groups in the field,
two units being segregated, each containing three definite patches.
What about generalized meaning in these cases? No previous experience
could separate Cassiopeia from the other fixed stars around it. As far
as everyday experience goes, they all move together. And no hint at the
generalizing properties of memory will help here. We cannot possibly
assert that we have _learnt_ to see a number of separate patches,
similar to each other and different from the environment, as one thing
or one group, because they move together regularly. They are very far
from doing that. On the desk in my room are sitting five flies which
are five black dots as I see them from where I am. These dots begin
to move separately and to move in different directions. So do three
yellow leaves which a breeze lifts from the ground separately; so again
three stones which my hand moves, one after the other. My general
experience is that, at least as often as not, similar members of a
group, which are separated by the common background, are movable and
move _independently_. If, nevertheless, in this case definite groups
are formed and segregated, this happens despite our general previous
knowledge about the behavior of their members.
[Illustration: Fig. 1]
Investigating _which_ separate “patches” tend to become included in one
group, we find that, among other factors, their equality or similarity
and their common difference from other “patches,” favor their becoming
grouped together and their segregation from others. So we see that in
the case of separate members the same rule holds, without the influence
of meaning, which was said to explain unknown _continuous_ wholes
under the influence of generalized previous knowledge (cf. p. 153).
Consequently, in this latter case, the indirect genesis of groupings
through previous experience is not needed any more than it is where
separate members form groups. The grouping of separate members is
used in one of our tests for color-blindness: A rectangular field is
filled with dots at equal distances from each other. For the normal eye
certain groups of them belong together and are seen segregated from
the rest at once, and since these groups form written numbers, normal
persons will read the numbers without difficulty. The dots in question
have similar chroma and are sufficiently different from the others to
appear as one group which, as a whole, is recognized immediately. But
for those color-blind people who do not perceive the given differences
of chroma, no group will be segregated spontaneously, so that they
do not see and cannot read the numbers. In this example, the general
acquaintance with numbers is the same for both normal and color-blind
subjects. Therefore, the striking difference as to grouping depends
directly upon sensory conditions.
Groups consisting of separate members have a special interest for
theory insofar as they also prove that one unit segregated in the field
may at the same time belong to a larger unit. One dot in our last
example represents a continuous detached area; still it is a member of
a larger whole, the number, which as a larger unit is again segregated
in the whole field. There is nothing peculiar or mystical in such a
subordination, since, in physics, a molecule as a larger functional
whole contains several atoms as subordinate wholes. The atoms belong
to the molecule functionally; still they do not altogether lose their
functional individuality in that dynamical whole.
Following the casual observations of others, Wertheimer was the
first to see the fundamental importance of spontaneous grouping in
sensory fields and to demonstrate, by a great many examples, the main
principles upon which it depends. Most of his illustrations entail
the grouping of separate dots or lines, because, by using meaningless
constellations in this manner, it is easier to guard the demonstration
against disturbing arguments and criticism in terms of previous
knowledge. He has pointed out most clearly, however, that the same
principles may hold for all formation and segregation of wholes. I
do not know a better introduction to these problems than is given by
Wertheimer’s paper of 1923.[26] The reader is asked to make himself
acquainted with them by studying it. Some of the principles are easy
to understand. We have already considered one of them, which claims
that the equal and the similar tend to form units separated from what
is dissimilar to them. Where we have no differences of quality, or
other properties, among the members, relative distance will often be
decisive. In one of our examples _two_ groups (of three members each)
are formed, because among the six patches some distances are small as
compared with others, those patches, the distances separating which
are relatively small, belonging together in one group. In some cases,
perhaps the most interesting ones, it seems more natural to define the
rule of grouping not by given conditions, but by the tendency toward
certain results. As the physicist is accustomed to say that surface
tension works in the line of reduction of surface, so in the sensory
field grouping will produce certain wholes rather than others. We may
say that simple and regular wholes, or closed areas, are formed more
easily and more generally than irregular, or “broken,” and open wholes.
It becomes evident here that, in contrast to the indifferent mosaic
of sensations assumed in older theory, this order of the field shows
a strong “predilection” for certain general kinds of organization
as against others, exactly as the formation of molecules and the
working of surface forces in physics operates in certain definite
directions.[27]
Recently the nature of grouping as a sensory and elementary fact has
been demonstrated in the most convincing manner by experiments which
Hertz has made on birds (_Garrulus glandarius_).[28] A number of little
flower-pots are put upon the ground upside down. If the rather tame
bird, sitting high up on a branch, sees that the experimenter puts
some food under one of the pots, he will come down very soon, lift the
pot and take the food. This is a simple form of “delayed reaction” as
Hunter investigated it years ago. In these experiments, however, the
main point was not the _delay_ of reaction as such, but its dependence
upon the actual constitution of the field. The bird reacts without
difficulty if there is one pot only. But when there is more than one
everything depends upon whether the “right” pot in some way stands
out from the rest in the aggregate. If it is put in a regular line
with the others so that, for human vision, it becomes absorbed as one
indifferent member in a series, the bird lifts one pot or another
in a haphazard way, even if the distances between them are as large
as 25 cm. As soon, however, as, by grouping, the right pot becomes
something strikingly apart, i.e., segregated from the rest for the
human observer, the bird selects the right object at once. So in the
case of Fig. 2, in which the right pot is physically only 10 cm. apart
from a straight line of other pots, it is chosen at once. Obviously,
here, the line of other pots is a well-bound whole and the one pot a
segregated thing by itself for the bird as it is for man. Even in the
situation of Fig. 3, where the right object is 6 cm. from the next
and this 2 cm. from the last, grouping is definite enough to allow an
accurate reaction. But in the case of Fig. 4, where the right object
is 3 cm. apart from the next and this 2 cm. from the last, reactions
become a matter of chance. The bird cannot keep the right pot apart
before reacting, unless definite grouping helps him to do so. If the
grouping is very well determined for man, however, the bird will have
no difficulties at all, though the right object may be in immediate
contact with its next neighbor. In the situation of Fig. 5, 12 pots
are arranged so that they form a closed ellipse for human vision. The
right pot is put close to one of the other twelve. The human observer
will have before him one closed whole and one object outside. The bird
chooses the right one at once. This example seems to me particularly
valuable, because it shows that single objective distances as such are
not decisive, but rather the grouping which results from the _total_
constellation. How Hertz was able to demonstrate similar effects by
the application of other principles, as, for instance, differences
in size or chroma, may be better appreciated by reading the original
paper. To me these experiments seem to open an altogether new field
of research in animal psychology, providing we give up our somewhat
conservative and negativistic mood in this branch of science, and begin
to believe in the possibility of new problems. But as that negativism
has not yet disappeared completely, I should remark that, if grouping
is demonstrated in these birds as a “sensory fact,” it does not imply
“consciousness” in the animals. From our viewpoint, it is true, this
does not matter very much (cf. above Chapter II). One thing is proved,
however, that grouping occurs in sensory processes.
[Illustration: Fig. 2]
[Illustration: Fig. 3]
[Illustration: Fig. 4]
[Illustration: Fig. 5]
By further experimentation it must be possible to find out how far
birds and other animals see _continuous_ wholes, segregated in the
field, as man does; though even now it would be difficult to understand
the behavior of those birds, and their reactions to grouping, if the
pots themselves were not detached units in their field. In any case
the elementary nature of continuous wholes is demonstrated by certain
observations on the first reactions of congenitally blind persons after
they have been operated upon. Generally, the problems most interesting
to the ophthalmologist in those cases are those of visual depth and
of an original similarity between forms in vision and forms in touch.
Results have been discussed in several ways, but in most of the cases
one side of the observed facts is not given adequate attention. It is
generally true that when the patient is asked about an object, known by
touch from previous life, but given him the first time optically and
without the help of touch, there is no satisfactory answer; with a very
few exceptions the patient does not recognize those forms directly.
Still there is something very positive in his reactions: When asked
about “that something” which he has before him, _he understands the
question_. Obviously he has before him some thing as a segregated
unit, to which he refers the question and which he tries to name. At
least, if the object is a simple and compact form, the patient does not
have to _learn_ what “aggregate of sensations” he shall “treat as one
thing.” Thus elementary organization is an original sensory fact.
In Wertheimer’s paper on sensory grouping one finds the same problem
discussed in the case of wholes of a somewhat different sort. As
we experience _time_, it has some properties in common with space,
particularly with one dimension of it, namely its sagittal axis with
man as the center. Therefore, words referring to relations on this
axis are used as terms for temporal relations everywhere and in all
languages. In English we have something “before” or “behind” us in both
meanings; we look “forward” in space as in time, and death will come
“nearer” in time, as one place is nearer to me in space than another.
Perhaps, physiologically, there is a corresponding similarity between
the two, because, with respect to the organization and segregation
of extended units, we find the same general principles determining
temporal order which are known to us from the visual field in a state
of rest. By approaching my hand now and then for two-second intervals
to the opening of an organ pipe which is sounding continually, I can
lower the pitch slightly. In hearing, the effect will be a segregation
of the corresponding number of auditory units, the constant tone
appearing as general background and the somewhat different notes as
so many “patches” singled out from it. Of course, there are no such
units in the physical stimulation. Physically we have thousands of
waves of equal or different wave-length, all of them following each
other indifferently. It hardly needs to be mentioned that in the same
manner an appropriate succession of visual stimuli will be found to
result in temporal unification and segregation. The same thing is true
of touch and other senses. Again, “temporal dots” will readily form
“temporal groups” in all these cases, the groups containing the dots as
subordinate units and so forth.
It is in these _groups_ that the principles of temporal organization
are recognized most easily. With my finger I tap on the desk three
times at very short intervals and, after waiting for a second, I
repeat the tapping. People who hear this sequence for a while get
groups in time. Physically each sound is indifferent to every other;
they are independent events as the stars of Cassiopeia are practically
independent. Logically, other forms of grouping are quite possible
which do not occur, however, in the experience of an observer who
is listening calmly. Therefore, the groups, as we observe them,
represent an example of physiological or, if one likes, psychological
organization. The principle determining it in this case is relative
distance in time exactly as relative distance in space was a principle
of grouping in the simultaneously presented visual field. If all
the intervals are made equal, we still get groups when introducing
differences of intensity or quality in the series, especially when
the tapping is done according to a simple regular scheme. In temporal
sequences equality or similarity plays the same rôle as against
differences of properties, which we have found in the visual field.
[Illustration: Fig. 6]
In the most general case of sensory organization both space and time
are involved in the same experience of grouping. A simple example will
show what is meant: In a dark room we move a lamp hidden in a box, so
that one bright point is the only thing visible on the dark ground.
Let us suppose that the point moves in the following form without a
change in speed: _vide_ Fig. 6. A naïve observer will describe what he
has seen as three curious figures, or three movements (I, II, III);
perhaps he will correct himself after a while and say that there were
seven movements (1, I, 2, II, 3, III, 4). But he will not say that he
saw 53 or 16 or 29 movements! Now, as applied to the number of optical
stimuli which impinge serially upon his retinæ as quite independent
events, there is no reason why one of the larger numbers should be
less correct than three or seven. But, in experience, instead of an
indifferent series we again find a definite product of organization.
The reader will have realized already that with respect to a more
complex experience such as I may have if I see some one “nodding twice”
or “shaking his head a few times,” there is much in the experience
that is not covered by our present discussion; but, neglecting the
meaning of those particular movements, he will also realize that there
is a sensory organization of the given movements into “two” or “a few”
sub-wholes.
This seems to be an appropriate place to mention an indirect
explanation of organization and grouping, preferred by some of the
best psychologists in America. If I understand them rightly, a few
of them claim that the overt movements which we make when responding
to stimuli will produce the facts in question. Others would say that
one particular kind of experience, namely, the kinesthesis occurring
during such movements, is responsible for organization and grouping. In
order to answer certain obvious objections, the first will say that in
adults mere _tendencies_ to movement will suffice instead of the overt
movements which occurred originally. Similarly, the other hypothesis
assumes that even faint reproductions of past kinesthetic experiences
will be sufficient to explain organization of other (e.g., visual)
experiences in the adult.
In either case, whether the tendency toward movement, or kinesthetic
experience, is taken as decisive, the fundamental question will be how
these factors produce a definite organization, apparent in the visual
field, or elsewhere. As far as I can see the only answers are, in the
first case, that our overt movements are organized in exactly the
same manner physiologically which, to naïve observation, is plainly
given, for instance, in the visual field; or, in the second case, that
kinesthetic experiences, and perhaps their reproductions, exhibit
that organization. Whatever the process may be, by which organization
is supposed to be introduced into the chief sensory field, which for
most persons is that of vision, it cannot be imported without existing
beforehand in whichever region it is said to have its origin. As
long as we consider peripheral movements or sequences of kinesthetic
experiences as a series of instantaneous events which follow each
other independently and indifferently, it will hardly be possible to
use them to explain the occurrence of definite segregated wholes and
groups anywhere. Let us take the bright point moving in dark space as
an example. If we say that the observer talks about three or seven
movements in this case, because he makes or experiences three or seven
eye-movements, we are presupposing the same organization in the
temporal and spatial sequence of eye-movements, or the experiences of
them, which I personally seem to have in the visual field _as such_.
Otherwise the observer might as well report 53 or 29 or any other
number of events, for apart from organization such an enumeration would
be no more arbitrary than that of three or seven parts.
I was once told that all the observations of _gestalt_ psychology are
very old and have long been explained by the kinesthetic experiences
which occur during eye-movements. This sounds as though a hint about
the kinesthetic experiences accompanying vision were satisfactory as
an explanation of the phenomena of visual organization. But we see
that, instead of having solved the problem, we have only shifted it
from one place to another, for now we have to solve the problem of
the segregation of wholes in the temporal and spatial extension of
kinesthetic experiences.
I shall not deny that the problem of organization exists in the field
of movements and kinesthetic experiences. On the contrary, I am
convinced that the facts in either of these fields cannot be understood
rightly without taking our point of view. But why should movements and
the processes underlying kinesthetic experience be the only material
capable of being organized, or of being treated from the viewpoint of
_gestalt_ theory? If organization is physiologically possible in one
field, why not in others? In order to explain the apparent organization
of visual experience by accompanying motor experiences, one must assume
spatial as well as temporal organization of these motor phenomena. I
do not see any reason why such organization should be excluded from
optics and acoustics. If there are some more general grounds for the
exclusion, I am not yet aware of them. In the meantime we shall not
discuss the difficulties which would arise, were we to try to explain
_concrete_ particular cases of visual organization by motor phenomena,
for in the next chapter we shall again return to the question of
indirect explanations of organization.
After what has been said about organization, we cannot be surprised
to learn that serious lesions in the optical center of the brain may
produce a kind of “blindness” in persons, who at the same time are not
deprived of vision. Careful examination of such a case by Gelb and
Goldstein[29] has shown that, here, the field of vision has undergone
a radical change, organization having disappeared almost completely,
so that the field shows a more or less chaotic character. Where he
fixes his attention, the patient is able to grasp some small fraction
of a line, for instance, but he can no longer see extended wholes as
clear-cut forms. It is particularly interesting to observe that this
patient begins spontaneously to rely to a great degree upon motor
experience instead of vision. Following the fractions of contours,
which are clearer to him, with movements of the eye, he is able in
time to build up motor wholes and to recognize them. So, if his name
is written on a blackboard, he will follow the first letters and
soon guess the rest. But it is possible to exclude this procedure by
a simple trick: draw a few lines, which have the same color as the
letters, across the name. Since to the patient the name is never given
optically as one simultaneously and well-organized whole, and since
now he does not see it as one thing and the crossing lines as another
pattern apart from it, he will follow parts of a letter or parts of
the crossing lines indifferently. The result is that he cannot read
the name under these circumstances. The example shows, by the way, how
much motor function, accompanying vision, depends itself upon normal
visual organization. Organization being a matter of extended regions
of the field, wherever only local fractions may become organized to
some degree, the _control_ which organization in a large area normally
exerts upon the motor function, is made impossible, and results like
those I have just mentioned become inevitable.
But why should wholes, detached by the operations of sensory dynamics,
correspond so generally to objects, or things, in the practical meaning
of the words? Do we have to assume that a surprising harmony is
established between the laws of sensory dynamics and the area or the
limits of physical things around us? No such assumption need be made,
for there are exceptions to the correspondence of sensory organization
and physical units. Take all the cases of groups of separate members,
the constellations in the sky, the examples of dots forming definite
groups (Fig. 1) above, the instances of grouping in ornaments, the
parts of which are, in their physical nature, indifferent to each
other, i.e., without functional interrelation. In countless cases
organization is a sensory reality without there being a corresponding
physical unit. Also, continuous sensory wholes may occur in the absence
of an homologous physical unit. The reader himself at some time has
seen a strange object, perfectly unknown to him, which later on,
perhaps after some movement of his head and eyes, metamorphosed into
a single well-known thing and some part of another one, these two
together having been, at first, unified and segregated as one unknown
whole. The same example shows that sometimes to a definite physical
object there does not correspond a sensory unit, because in vision
its parts have been absorbed by surrounding areas which happen to
have qualities appropriate to this effect. This was the case in the
puzzle-pictures which years ago amused the readers of magazines. And in
the last war it became a real art to make things, guns, cars, boats,
disappear at some distance by painting upon them an irregular design,
the parts of which would form indifferent spots by intermingling with
parts of their environment. The objects themselves are destroyed as
optical realities and in their place appear meaningless patches which
do not arouse military suspicion, since similar patches are produced
constantly by the accidental properties of country and sea.
On the other hand, it is not difficult to explain why visual units in
general correspond to physical objects. The things around us are either
made by man or are products of nature. Objects of the first class are
prepared for our purposes. Therefore, we give them a form and surface,
etc., so that they are likely to be seen without difficulty. Without
knowing the principles of sensory organization in an abstract form, man
works in conformity with them, and so the physical units which are the
products of his art will appear as visual units. Furthermore, it is
not easy to create a somewhat compact object which, when placed in a
simple environment, would not fulfill the general conditions of visual
segregation. Camouflage is a difficult art.
With objects produced by nature, the situation is not altogether
different. A condition fulfilled by most natural things is the presence
of one class of surface properties in contact with another class of
surrounding surface properties. This difference is due to the fact
that the common origin of the parts of one thing will probably make
them similar, whereas in the surroundings the surface properties
will generally be of a different character. Therefore, one condition
of visual segregation is given in the case of most things. Even if
a stone lies half-embedded in the sand, which is nothing but tiny
fractions of the same kind of stone, the difference of coherence, and
therefore of “inner detail,” between the surface-elements of the stone
and those of the sand will be sufficient in most cases to make the
stone optically one thing. At least, at the boundary between a natural
object and its surroundings some discontinuity of properties almost
universally prevails. This discontinuity separates the environment from
the interior of the object by a closed outline. Since, as a rule, that
will suffice to make even a meaningless area appear as a segregated
whole in the sensory field, it will certainly have that effect where
the boundary of a physical object is concerned. If there are no such
differences and no discontinuity whatever between the object and its
surroundings, no visual unit will exist, it is true. But try to find
objects which, without fulfilling any of the conditions of sensory
segregation, are still plainly before you, because of the influence
of meaning! You will have a hard task. Our general experience shows
that wherever the conditions of visual segregation work against a
unit, it will not exist in the sensory field of a naïve observer, even
if it is well-known as such and is camouflaged only momentarily by
special circumstances. A more detailed discussion would have to treat
here the problem of visual depth and the segregation of things as
three-dimensional wholes. But, though this question is of the greatest
importance for the correspondence of physical units and sensory
segregations, I must leave it untouched for the present, because as
yet in this field experimentation as well as theory is in a rather
undeveloped state.
In the last paragraphs I have laid some stress upon the fact that
organization in a sensory field is something which originates as a
characteristic achievement of the nervous system. This emphasis has
become necessary because some psychologists have recently said that,
according to _gestalt_ psychology, “_gestalten_,” i.e., segregated
sensory wholes in this connection, exist outside the organism and
simply extend or project themselves into it. This is so absolutely
wrong that I cannot comprehend how the misunderstanding arose.[30]
But after what we have seen, it is quite another problem to ask how
far sensory organization, though being a characteristic achievement
of the nervous system, may have an objective value at the same time.
Between the physical objects around us and our eyes waves of light are
the only means of communication. These do not bring the “_gestalten_”
ready-made into the organism; rather, the segregation of wholes occurs
in the nervous system; but the result may tell more about some of the
objective properties of the world around us than the rays of light
would be able to do. We do not always learn more about an object, the
nearer we approach it. For instance, when a lens is put in the way of
the light reflected by a bright object, it would not be wise, for the
purpose of getting a clear image of the object, to bring the screen as
near as possible to the lens (and thereby the object); at a certain
distance the projection tells much more about the object than nearer
by. Similarly, sensory organization may give us a “truer” picture of
the world around us in some respects than the rays of light, though
these are the first messengers coming from the objects and sensory
organization occurs later on and farther off.
Indeed, the waves of light do not contain the slightest indication of
any organization or any “belonging together” which may exist among the
parts of the objects by which they are reflected. Each element of the
physical surface reflects light independently and, as reflectors, two
elements of the surface of a sheep, for instance, have no more to do
with each other than one of them has to do with a surface element in
the animal’s environment. In reflection, therefore, no trace is left
of those units which exist in the physical world; they are dispersed
completely into an indifferent mass of rays, all equally independent
of each other. By the refractory properties of our eye those rays,
which come from one point in the outside world, are made to converge
upon one point of the retina; also the geometrical relations of the
points on the surface of an object are reconstructed here, in large
measure. Still, each local stimulus thus achieved is an independent
affair, and rays coming from elements of the surface of one physical
object, the sheep for instance, are as indifferent to each other
as they are to stimuli from the sheep’s environment. So we have no
organization at all in retinal stimulation, no wholes, no groups, no
segregation. It cannot be asserted, in opposition, that there is one
definite area or patch on the retina as the image of the animal, for
the elements of this area are as independent of each other functionally
as any one of them is independent of an element outside the image. In
psychology much has been said about the stimulus-error which consists
in our confusing our knowledge about the physical conditions of sensory
experience with experience as such. But another mistake, which I
propose to call the _experience-error_, is not less unfortunate. It
occurs when we unintentionally attribute certain properties of sensory
experience to the actual constellation of stimuli, properties which
are so very common that we tend to apply them to whatever we are
thinking about. This is the case primarily, wherever we have not yet
learned to see the _problem_ contained in those common properties of
experience. No wonder, then, that neurologists and some psychologists
still talk about “_the_ retinal process” corresponding to an object,
as though there were something like a segregated functional unit on
the retina. Whereas as a matter of fact the whole retina is a mosaic
of indifferently related spots, and this is the case until sensory
organization begins physiologically.
Once we have realized, however, that stimulation, as such, is
completely unorganized, the enormous biological value of sensory
organization will become apparent. Since the rules governing this
organization conform to the structure of objective units, to objective
divisions, to objective “belonging together,” in very many cases the
result of their operation is a kind of reconstruction of those aspects
of the objective physical situation which are temporarily lost on the
way between the objects and the sense organ. It is true that continuous
wholes are sometimes segregated, and groups of separate members are
often formed, which do not correspond to objective physical units. But
that is not a serious deficiency when compared with the indefinitely
large number of cases in which organization is a picture of objective
facts. If all the content of the sensory field were indifferent grains
of sensory stuff, it would be a hard task to orientate ourselves in
and to react to such a world. I am not sure that even after years of
trial and error with regard to such a field, a child would _learn_
to organize it. Considering the situation impartially, we may come
to the conclusion that organization of the field, as an original
sensory fact, is much more important biologically than the properties
of local stimulation are. Color-blind people are perfectly able to
adjust to their environment although their experience has fewer
nuances of stimulation than the normal. This is so because their lack
is not a serious impediment with respect to the practically important
similarities and differences in stimulation. Differences of chroma are
usually associated with differences of brightness (cf. p. 144). That
is enough for _organization_, and since most of our behavior will be
determined by this property of the field, even a large deficit as to
qualities does not matter very much.
Organization is no less important for the procedure of science than
it is for practical life. We saw in the first chapter that, as a
physicist, sensory experience is my only primary material. But what
experience? The system I am investigating, the apparatus of research,
its scale, the needle, and so forth, are all of them segregated wholes,
or sub-units, in my sensory field. If they were not given to me in
such an order of “belonging together,” physical research would be all
but impossible. About this phase of “objective method” we do not hear
very much, when behaviorists recommend the procedure of the natural
sciences to us. But we should, since, if we consider physical research
as a series of physiological events occurring in the physicist, we are
still confronted with the problem of organization as an aspect of those
events, which is absolutely indispensable for their success.
At the same time we can understand why the formula of “stimulus and
response,” though sounding well at first, is quite misleading as long
as the term “stimulus” is used as carelessly as most behaviorists
do use it. One stimulus, when taken in the strict meaning of the
word, is not followed by one definite reaction in a great many cases
(cf. Chapters III and IV). In optics, for instance, the organism
will respond to an objective constellation of millions of stimuli
by developing, first of all, an organized field, many and perhaps
the most essential properties of which have no physical partner
among the single stimuli (cf. Chapter VI). Reactions of the effector
organs may and will begin very soon, in many cases; but, as the
eye-movements show, even the first of these reactions will depend
upon the developing organization of the field, because the laws
of optically determined eye-movements refer to the boundaries of
segregated wholes, to the situation of these wholes in the field, and
to lines, but not to “sensations” as such. Apart from eye-movements,
what is called “acting” in man will be a reaction to a well-developed
field and in most cases to some definite whole in it. If, therefore,
we say that in psychology the right formula is, _Constellation of
stimuli--Organization--Reaction to results of organization_, such
a statement fits the facts incomparably better than the usual one.
The organism is not barren functionally; it is not a box containing
conductors each with a separate function; it responds to a situation,
first, by dynamical events peculiar to it _as a system_ and, then, by
behavior which depends upon the results of that dynamical organization
and order. Suppose that somewhere in a factory HNO_{3} were produced
out of its elements and that in another part of the factory the product
of that chemical organization were used to dissolve silver,--would
you say that the silver reacts to nitrogen, hydrogen and oxygen? You
certainly would not, because what happens to the silver depends upon
that chemical organization, and it cannot be understood as a reaction
either to those elements separately or to the sum of them. If that is
so, we should also be very careful before we refer to types of behavior
as being reactions to “a stimulus” or to “some stimuli.” Even the last
expression would often be quite ambiguous, because it might mean that
the behavior in question is the consequence of several stimuli working
independently at the same time, whereas it may depend upon a product of
sensory organization.
Once I tried to convince a behaviorist that referring to “a female” as
“a stimulus” for a male bird is equivalent to completely closing one’s
eyes to the problem of _gestalt_ and organization. It was not possible.
Though (or because?) he treats sensory experience as something
without any interest for psychology, the behaviorist committed the
“experience-error” so continually and pervasively that “the female
bird” remained “a stimulus” for him. How often has “a mouse,” “a
door,” “the experimenter” and so on been called “the stimulus” in
animal psychology! Innocent though this expression may be, if it is
used as an abbreviation by those who are fully aware of the problem of
organization, it will hide this problem in a most unfortunate manner
when used by an author who is not free from the “experience-error.”
I mentioned above the great biological value of sensory organization as
a reconstruction in nervous process of objective “belonging together.”
But how can it be a reconstruction if, on the way from the objects
to the sense organ, the waves of light are an unorganized mass of
independent events? There must be something in this transmission of
rays which determines the “right” organization in most cases. We have
seen, indeed, that the relations of neighborhood, of similarity and
difference among the stimuli, though these are indifferent to each
other dynamically, are in some respects a copy of the corresponding
relations among the surface-elements of surrounding objects. Some
definite relations among the stimuli as they issue from the physical
object, and the preservation of these relations in transmission,
seems to be an essential condition for the organization of units
corresponding to objects in the outer world. But if organization
of the field depends upon the relations of stimuli as these are
distributed on the retinæ, we must draw the conclusion that sensory
organization cannot be understood by considering independent local
processes as such. Now we know that, in dynamical self-distribution,
process-in-extension exists as a functional whole. So we must assume
that sensory organization, as we have considered it in this chapter,
is a property of such a dynamical distribution, occurring under
definite conditions of stimulation. At the same time we must remember
that everywhere in physics dynamics depends upon the _relations_
between given conditions. The more probable will it appear to us that
sensory organization, as depending upon the relations of stimuli, is
to be explained as an effect of sensory dynamics within the field.
By studying organization, therefore, we may be able to discover what
particular kind of dynamical events is responsible for sensory order.
_Gestalt_ psychology is said by some critics to repeat the word “whole”
continually, to neglect the existence of parts and therefore to
sacrifice that wonderful tool of all scientific procedure, analysis.
Nothing could be a more misleading statement, as may be judged
from the fact that we found it necessary to mention _segregation_
wherever we were dealing with a unit or a definite whole. In dynamical
distribution, as we have seen, the functional “interwovenness” of
a field is altogether compatible with dynamical segregation. We may
even say that in _gestalt_ analysis we find the _genuine_ “parts”
of the field as segregated wholes and groups and, in these wholes
or groups, their genuine “parts” again as subordinate wholes and
members, whereas the so-called sensations of introspective analysis are
parts existing only in construction and theory. For this very reason
analysis as a statement about “real” parts, existing in consequence
of organization, is a perfectly legitimate and necessary procedure in
_gestalt_ psychology, probably much more valuable than any analysis
into sensations which certainly no one finds segregated in his visual
field.
One remark is needed here about another kind of analysis. I may
passively accept what I find before me as the sensory field. Then
analysis is possible in the meaning just defined. I may, however,
adopt a special attitude with regard to the field, selecting some of
its members and more or less suppressing the rest. In many cases a
change of organization will be the consequence of such an attitude,
and hence “analysis” of this sort involves a real transformation of
sensory facts in _gestalt_ psychology (cf. Chapter IV, p. 124). Of
course, an analytical attitude is not the only one by which a change
of organization may be produced. When we select certain members of
the field, we can keep them together at the same time and so favor
one special kind of “belonging together” instead of that which would
prevail without our interference. Again the change produced by our
attitude will be a real transformation.
From the viewpoint of _gestalt_ psychology a change of attitude
involves a definite physiological stress exerted upon a sensory field
by processes originating in other parts of the nervous system, and to
some degree the organization of the field may yield to it. The figure
7, for instance, is seen normally as a symmetrical form. By picking out
the lines marked “a” however and keeping them together I can almost see
the figure 7a, the lines marked “b” being repressed. In the same way
I may favor the lines marked “b” and, as it were, create the figure
7b. How concrete and real such a change is, will become apparent if we
consider the point which is the center of the figure objectively. When
we produce the figure 7a by favoring the “a,” that point is shifted to
the right, as it also is, of course, when the lines marked “b” are not
drawn at all. It is shifted to the left when we produce Fig. 7b.
[Illustration: Fig. 7]
[Illustration: Fig. 7a]
[Illustration: Fig. 7b]
[Illustration: Fig. 8]
In some cases sensory organization seems to change without any
influence being exerted upon it from without, simply because processes
which remain the same for some time in the same part of the nervous
system tend to alter conditions in that part and to block their own
path. We know that the same thing occurs in electrolytical cells in
which the current polarizes the electrodes and thereby creates forces
opposed to itself. In Fig. 8 we are confronted by a pattern formed
by three narrow sectors. Looking at the center of it, most persons
will suddenly see another pattern after a while. In the new shape
those lines, which belong together in the first pattern as contours
of one arm, belong to separate arms and vice versa. The organization
is changed. By appropriate experimentation, making our subject fixate
the center for a long while, we can reduce the time for either shape
to a minimum value, so that the alternations follow each other very
quickly.[31] If now the figure is turned around a little, so that the
arms have another position, the figure becomes as stable again as it
was at first, and only after some time the alternation will quicken,
as in the first position. In my judgment, this fact may be taken as
evidence for assuming that a local effect of organized processes itself
produces the alternations of organization.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
W. Köhler: _Die physischen Gestalten_, etc. 1920.
W. Köhler: _Komplextheorie und Gestalttheorie_. Psychol. Forsch. 6,
1925.
W. Köhler: in _Psychologies of 1925_ (ed. by C. Murchison).
W. Köhler: _Bemerkungen zur Gestalttheorie_. Psychol. Forsch, 11,
1928.
M. Wertheimer: _Untersuchungen zur Lehre von der Gestalt, II_.
Psychol. Forsch. 4. 1923.
VI
_The Properties of Organized Wholes_
THE dawn of the _gestalt_ problem in modern psychology was not the
idea of dynamical self-distribution as opposed to order enforced by
arrangement; nor did it begin with the discovery that segregated wholes
represent highly important sensory phenomena. The starting point was
the observation that sensory fields are replete with qualities and
properties which one neglects if one takes “sensations” as their sole
content and which, indeed, may have a mysterious aspect when first
viewed in this way. It was von Ehrenfels who, preceded by some casual
observations of Mach, directed the attention of psychologists toward
the fact that a great many, and perhaps the more important, properties
of sensory fields do not fit into the scheme of concepts which is
centered around the idea of “sensation.”
If it is natural for a “sensation” independently to fill its local
place in the field, determined by one local stimulus alone, the
characteristic and surprising feature in those other qualities (which
are usually neglected) is their existence only as properties of
somewhat extended regions. From this fact it seems to follow that
those qualities of von Ehrenfels cannot be determined by single local
stimuli; their existence, then, depends upon several stimuli having a
specific effect in a certain _area as such_.
As an example we may take a glass of water in which soap is dissolved.
The aspect of such a liquid is called “trübe” in German, which in
English means something like “dim” or “turbid.” Now look at it
through a little hole made in a piece of cardboard and you will see
the hole filled with a certain hue of gray (perhaps a little bluish
or reddish), but the quality of “dimness” or “turbidness” will have
disappeared. It is the property of a more extended field and depends
upon more than local uniform stimulation. Exactly the same is true of
the dimness or diffusedness which appears as a quality of things seen
in a dark corner. Again no local impression, “isolated” artificially,
shows any dimness, but the extended area does so in a striking manner.
“Clearness” and “definiteness” as qualities of a field or of parts of
it, have the same supralocal character. I may also mention the property
of a surface which we perceive by touch as “rough” (the German “rauh”).
There is no character like “roughness” in purely local experience
of touch. And further we see that von Ehrenfels’ peculiar qualities
occur in temporal extension as well as in space in that the German
word “rauh” is used for certain acoustical phenomena, as it is for
“rough” surfaces. When listening to rather rapid beats or to the “R”
of human speech we get that peculiar sensory quality, which seems to be
intrinsically similar to the “roughness” of a surface. Again, as this
quality depends upon rapid beats, if stimulation is shortened below
a certain limit, it disappears, whereas other acoustical qualities
will subsist. In passing we may remark that in most cases words like
“homogeneity” and “continuity,” whether applied to optical or to other
experiences, mean properties of extended sensory fields.
From a functional point of view, these observations are less surprising
than was the general opinion at the time of von Ehrenfels’ discovery.
The processes directly underlying our experience of a color will be
a certain chemical reaction, i.e., certain molecules are built up or
destroyed. Now the chemist may analyze such a reaction, but there is
a natural limit to his analysis, because at least one whole specimen
of each atom or molecule taking part in the reaction, and the whole
dynamical event thus comprised, must be included. Beyond that limit
what is called “this specific reaction” will lose its meaning for the
chemist and, therefore, for psychophysical theory which associates one
definite color with one definite kind of reaction. Therefore, even
before parting with the theory of “local sensations” we are obliged to
accept dynamical realities existing only in somewhat extended areas of
space. If that is so in chemistry, the same fact should not frighten
us when we face it in direct experience.
According to the theory of dynamical self-distribution color as a
quality is dependent upon chemical reactions in a brain-field, although
the production of local chemical reactions in a certain distribution
is only one side of the total process. There is much more that is
characteristically spatial and dynamically real in such a coherent
distribution than in the mosaic of local sensation-processes which are
the “dynamical realities” of machine theory.
From the new viewpoint the Ehrenfels-qualities, corresponding to more
extended dynamical realities than color, would be physiologically
produced at the same time as color, since each is a phase of the
same total “process-in-distribution.”[32] In machine theory there
must be “sensations” first of all, if upon this basis something
else shall be founded as a secondary product. It would have been a
superhuman achievement for von Ehrenfels to have gone so far as to
sacrifice at once the machine theory and its sensations. To him his
peculiar qualities remained new bits of experience simply added to the
sensations, and in the school of Graz (v. Meinong, Witasek, Benussi)
there was much discussion about the _fundierte Inhalte_ (qualities
founded upon the basis of sensation) as the product of intellectual
faculties working upon the sensations. So, with regard to the
fundamental concepts applied to the sensory field, not much was changed.
An enormous number of the new qualities discovered for psychological
theory by von Ehrenfels are properties of those segregated wholes
which were discussed in the last chapter. “Simple,” “complicated,”
“regular,” “harmonious,” are words which _may_ have a meaning when
applied to an experience occupying a point in space and time, though
in most cases they refer to products of organization. But when we
call something “symmetrical” this something is certainly a segregated
whole. Similarly, “slender,” “round,” “angular,” “clumsy,” “graceful”
are specific properties of definite wholes. And from these there is
only one step to the more particular “form-qualities” given in the
characteristic aspect of a circle, a triangle, a pear, an oak-tree,
and so forth, all of them existing exclusively in their corresponding
wholes. In German the word “gestalt” may be used as a synonym for
“form,” or perhaps “shape.” So von Ehrenfels, taking the case of
specific shape as the most important and evident among his qualities,
applied the name of “gestaltqualitäten” to all of them. Therefore
it will be clear that not only the different forms or shapes of
objects and figures are included, but also qualities like “regular.”
Furthermore, we have seen that there are temporal _gestaltqualitäten_
as well as spatial ones, since the definition applies to the specific
properties of a melody, to its “major” or “minor” character, for
instance, in the same way it does to the “angularity” of a figure.
Finally, seen movement as a whole may have a _gestaltqualität_ which is
temporal and spatial at the same time. This is the case in the aspect
of a definite form of dancing and in the characteristic movements of
animals, such as “jumping” or “creeping.”
At this point a general remark about terminology may be useful. For von
Ehrenfels the new characteristic properties themselves were objects
of outstanding importance; he was more interested in them than in
those segregated parts of the field which exhibit the best examples
of _gestaltqualitäten_ as their properties. In the German language
however--at least since the time of Goethe, and especially in his own
papers on natural science--the noun “gestalt” has two meanings: besides
the connotation of “shape” or “form” as a _property_ of things, it
has the meaning of a concrete individual and characteristic entity,
existing as something detached and _having_ a shape or form as one
of its attributes. Following this tradition, in _gestalt theorie_
the word “gestalt” means any segregated whole, and the consideration
of _gestaltqualitäten_ has become a more special side of the
_gestaltproblem_, the prevailing idea being that the same general type
of dynamical process which leads to the formation and segregation of
extended wholes will also explain their specific properties.[33] Here
the main stress is laid upon a characteristic type of process. This,
indeed, is the most general concept of _gestalttheorie_: wherever a
process dynamically distributes and regulates itself, determined by
the actual situation in a whole field, this process is said to follow
principles of _gestalttheorie_. In all cases of this type the process
will have some characteristic which exists in an extended area only,
so that a consideration of local points or local factors as such
will not give us full insight into the nature of the process. From
this viewpoint, even the segregation of circumscribed wholes becomes
one more or less particular, though highly important, case among the
various possibilities which are included in the most general idea of
self-distribution and self-regulation, and in consequence the concept
of _gestalt_ may be applied far beyond the limits of sensory fields.
According to the most general definition of _gestalt_, the processes
of learning, of reproduction, of striving, of emotional attitude, of
thinking, acting, and so forth, may be included as subject matter
of _gestalttheorie_ insofar as they do not consist of independent
elements, but are determined in a situation as a whole. Quite apart
from psychology the same will be true of ontogenetic development,
and other biological events, wherever they show the definite marks of
self-distribution and self-regulation. And this extension of the term
does not mean vagueness, as many seem to believe. If prior to detailed
investigation the general use of concepts belonging to machine and
mosaic theory has prevailed for such a long time and so widely, it
cannot be forbidden to discuss the opposite principle of dynamical
order and regulation, which certainly is less known among psychologists
though equally well established by physical theory. By no means do we
believe, however, that any problem is really solved by the application
of the general principle _as such_. On the contrary, when the principle
seems to apply the concrete task of research is just beginning because
we want to know the manner in which each special kind of process
regulates itself under the conditions of each particular case.[34]
If in the treatment even of sensory fields the real solution remains a
task for the future, at least the first step may be made at once. Here,
as everywhere, it will consist in the recognition of the reality and
the concreteness of the problem. No one fails to see that there is a
problem in visual depth as a property determined by conditions on the
two retinæ, or--more generally--by stimulation on a two-dimensional
surface. To see the real problem in the case of “form,” as a property
of segregated wholes, seems to be much more difficult. The reason
is the same as in the case of segregated wholes themselves (cf. pp.
175-177). When we consider retinal stimulation, for instance, our
thinking operates with ready-made wholes which already have definite
forms as we know them from perception. So we say innocently that “the
form” of our pencil or of a circle is projected upon the retina. These
words contain the experience-error. There is no factor in retinal
stimulation which might pick out of the geometrical distribution of
_all_ local stimuli that circumscribed whole which will appear in the
form of our pencil or of a circle, only after such a segregated whole
has become a functional reality. On the retina we have the indifferent
mosaic of millions of local stimuli, and nothing else. By arbitrary
geometrical thinking, we may select and combine certain retinal spots;
thus we may imaginatively impose all possible forms upon the retina,
including, if we like, those of the pencil and of the circle. We must
not forget, however, that this is mere play when compared with retinal
reality and that the form of these objects is at this moment not more
really there physiologically than that of an angel or of an Arabic
letter.
Some concrete examples will show us what is meant by “concrete, real
form” better than any amount of general discussion. Sometimes we look
upon the map of a country the general form of which we have seen
thousands of times on other maps. But what we really see remains a
foreign and completely unknown figure for a long while, until finally
something happens in our field of vision and the known form suddenly
appears, the unknown figure disappearing completely at the same time.
Excellent cases for this observation are the charts of ship captains,
whereon the sea and its bordering regions are represented as land
and the coast are on common maps. Now, the general contour of the
land is the same on the maritime chart as it is on the usual map;
the geometrical line separating land and water “is projected” upon
the retina as always.[35] Notwithstanding that fact, when looking at
such a map of the Mediterranean I may fail completely to see Italy;
instead I see some “funny” figures (corresponding to the Adriatic and
so forth) which are new to me but nevertheless “have a concrete form”
in my visual field, whereas on the usual map it is the peninsula that
“has a concrete form.” So “to have form” as a concrete property is a
peculiar feature distinguishing certain areas of our actual visual
field from others which have no form. In our example, so long as the
Mediterranean “has form,” the area corresponding to Italy is formless
and vice versa. One is tempted to say that even a form existing on
the retina does not necessarily determine a corresponding form in
vision. But we have to insist upon the fact that _no_ form at all is
given on the retina as a functional reality, neither that of Italy
nor that of the Mediterranean. There is only a certain geometrical
constellation of different local stimuli. Whether the physiological
process starting from the retina under these conditions will lead to a
simple “line” as real form, or to the form of the peninsula with the
contour as its border, or to that of the Mediterranean, the contour
now being its boundary-line, whether it will produce any other or _no_
form whatsoever, all this cannot be deduced from the constellation
of retinal stimuli before we know by visual experience what area is
segregated, and distinguished as having _real_ visual form.
As a second example the following variation of Fig. 8 (or Fig. 8
itself) may be taken: Fig. 9. With exactly the same constellation of
stimuli we may have two different forms, either a cross consisting
of four slender arms or a cross (like that of an order) containing
four large sectors. So long as we _really_ have the first one, i.e.,
as existing in vision, the other will be absorbed in the general
surroundings, which optically have _no real form_ at the time. When the
second form becomes a visual reality, the first disappears.[36] The
observer will remark that the oblique lines are boundary-lines of the
_real form_ in both cases. They belong to the slender cross as _its_
contours, in the first case, and to the large cross, in the second.
[Illustration: Fig. 9]
Simple observations of this kind were first made by Rubin,[37] who
has given us a great many examples. That only definite special parts
of the field have “real form” (as their most characteristic property)
was shown conclusively by the fact that subjects who had seen _one_
definite form at the first presentation of such an “ambiguous” pattern,
did not recognize the pattern, if later on, at the second presentation,
the other form happened to be seen. This second form had not existed
as a visual reality when, previously, the first one was experienced;
so the second one was something completely new when seen in the later
presentation. Again, when one of the two crosses (Fig. 9) is “real,”
one does not see other forms which are quite as real (or _unreal_)
geometrically on the retina. So one does not see the form 9a or 9b or
9c.
[Illustration: Fig. 9a, Fig. 9b, Fig. 9c]
In the case of Fig. 10 two unknown forms will be seen as a group
through which a horizontal line is laid. When I tell the reader that
the number 4 is before him in the field, he will undoubtedly find it;
but if he is not influenced by theoretical prejudices, he will confess
that the form of the 4 did not exist as a visual reality at first and
that, if it began to exist later on, that meant a transformation of
visual reality.
[Illustration: Fig. 10]
In the last example it will be obvious that the reality of a form
depends upon the existence of a definite whole which, when segregated
as such, _has_ that real form, others, which would correspond to other
wholes, being excluded from visual existence. So when we first look
at Fig. 10 we have a definite organization, consisting of two unknown
wholes with the horizontal line running through them. Consequently one
part of the geometrical constellation of the 4 is absorbed by the
whole on the left side, a second fraction by the angular whole to the
right and the rest by the horizontal. And the destruction of the 4 as
a whole also destroys its form. When after instruction, the observer
really gets the 4 as a form in his visual field, a corresponding
whole is produced at the same time. We formulate the general theorem
that real form depends upon the segregation of corresponding wholes.
This statement is confirmed by all observations of puzzle pictures,
of camouflaged objects, and so forth. The existence of visual form
presupposes the existence of wholes which, then, have a real form as
their specific property. The reader will be able to convince himself
that even the reality of partial forms depends upon the existence of
corresponding sub-wholes.
The _objects_ around us are, in most cases, very stable wholes;
therefore, we regularly see them with their definite forms, excepting
in those rare instances in which the wholes and their real forms are
disguised by chance conditions or by intentional camouflage. This is
the reason why we so easily fail to see the problem of form and why we
remain satisfied by “the form given objectively in retinal projection.”
There is, however, no visual form in the world to which our last
considerations do not apply. Wherever we have “real form” in the visual
field, we must assume a specific property of functional process in
that area. But the processes do not have this special property in all
parts of the field. If you walk along a street between high houses on
a bright day, the sky is seen above you surrounded by darker contours
of houses and towers. Do you see that bright area as a form? Generally
not; it has no form, it is indifferent “background,” though on your
retinæ there does exist a homogeneous area surrounded by contours.
These contours remain borders of the houses; the houses have forms,
but the sky has not. If you wish to see a certain area of the sky as a
definite visual form, look at it through a little hole cut into a box
which you then put over your head. If the hole is cut like the letter H
you will see an area of the sky in the corresponding form as a bright
figure on a black ground. And now _this ground_ has no visual form.
Who wishes to judge about the problems of _gestalt_ theory ought to be
well acquainted with these observations and with the consequences to be
deduced therefrom. Exactly as we may either have color in a definite
part of our visual field, or mere brightness of a certain nuance, so
a definite area may have a certain form or it may be formless, i.e.,
merely extended.
Since “real form” presupposes a segregated whole, the existence of
“form” depends upon factors of stimulation similar to those upon which
the segregation and organization of wholes depend. Again, definite
relations in the total constellation of retinal stimuli are found
to be decisive for the existence of real form. But no abstract
consideration of all the logical relations that might possibly obtain
among local stimuli would make us able to forecast where or when a
specific form will be seen. As for the existence of segregated wholes,
i.e., organization, certain _special_ relations again are important and
others indifferent; which are the important ones can only be discovered
by the observation of real forms appearing under a given set of
conditions.
Since for some time to come it will be impossible to observe
physiologically the inner dynamics of optical processes, we cannot
do more at present than draw conclusions from the properties of the
visual field in comparison with given retinal constellations. In the
course of this attempt we find that “form,” wherever it exists, is a
_supra_local property of that part of the field; so the property of
the underlying process must be a supralocal phase of it. We find also
that “form” is a property exclusively of segregated wholes; so, with
or after the organization of these wholes, that special supralocal
property of physiological process must develop which is the basis of
“real form” in direct experience. As it is an attribute of detached
wholes, this phase of the process exists only in definite areas, which
are determined by certain relations of stimulation. These relations
must be decisive _dynamically_ for “form,” as they are for “wholes”
which have “form” as their most important visual property. Evidently,
one cannot understand “form” from the viewpoint of mosaic theory;
dynamical self-distribution with its functional coherence and structure
of process is the only principle known at present, which may give us an
explanation of “form” in the future.[38]
I shall not try to demonstrate with the same care the concrete reality
of definite forms in _time_. What has been said would have to be
repeated more or less in the case of melodies, of rhythms, of seen
movements and so forth. The “form” of a musical _motif_ begins at a
definite point and ends at another; then another _motif_ may follow.
But there is no real form extended from the second tone of the first
figure to the third of the second figure; and between the two figures
there is what is called a “dead” interval (corresponding, as “empty”
time, to the mere extension or ground outside a visual form). Again
when in the dark room a bright spot in motion describes the path of
Fig. 6, we see certain definite forms of movement, 1 → 2, 3 → 4, 5
→ 6, for example. We do not see other forms, such as, for instance,
a form corresponding to a fraction of 1 → 2, the horizontal, and a
fraction of II, taken together. Real form coincides with the wholes and
sub-wholes segregated in this case as in that of melodies and rhythms.
In passing we may remark that the behavior of others is continually
seen in _forms_ of events which correspond to the natural grouping of
what we see or hear of them.
As form is a property of segregated wholes, what has been said against
the explanation “by meaning,” or other indirect explanations, in the
case of segregated wholes, will be more or less to the point with
respect to their forms, though, probably, for most readers this is yet
a rather critical issue. Therefore, the problem shall be treated once
more in the following paragraphs.
[Illustration: Fig. 11]
1. What is the effect of our past experience of certain definite
forms upon visual experience in subsequent life? Drawings like Fig.
11 and Fig. 12 contain a great many geometrical lines the outline
of which, when given alone, would make us see other forms than those
which we see naïvely. Thus, in both of them the outline of Fig. 13
is present geometrically. If now we have a large number of drawings,
seen naïvely in a certain way, and besides them certain other figures
geometrically contained in the first, will training or repeated
experience with regard to the latter change the way we see the first,
so that the learned forms become “real” when the larger drawings are
shown? Gottschaldt has recently made such experiments.[39] Since past
experience is supposed to have its effects upon form independently
of our knowledge about the presence of corresponding outlines, i.e.,
automatically, the subjects were not told to analyze or to look for
the “learned” forms. The larger drawings were given them simply for
description. Under these circumstances, with three previous exposures
of the smaller forms, the training had no effect upon subsequent
perception of form in more than 90 per cent. of the cases. When the
number of previous exposures of the smaller forms was increased to 520
with new subjects, the result was still the same, the drawings being
seen unchanged by the training in 95 per cent. of the trials. Not even
the few cases, which showed a positive result, can be explained by
the mere fact of previous training, because all those subjects, who
occasionally saw the “learned” forms in the larger drawings, had some
suspicion about the aim of the experiment and asked the experimenter
whether they should look for the “learned” forms in the larger
drawings. Though they were not instructed to do so, of course they
went into the test with an attitude of definite expectation. So the
few positive results do not prove an automatic after-effect of past
experience upon forms seen subsequently, since, apart from training as
such, there was this other factor of expectation.
[Illustration: Fig. 12]
[Illustration: Fig. 13]
Gottschaldt’s larger drawings were “difficult,” i.e., of a highly
stable organization. In some of them, in spite of strong efforts, I
cannot really _see_ the smaller form, even when I know about its
geometrical presence and position. However, if any one criticizes this
“difficulty,” by his own argument he recognizes the reality of stable
visual form as something stronger in such cases than a very large
amount of previous experience. Furthermore, the larger drawing (Fig.
12) cannot be said to have its stable organization in consequence
of much experience in previous life outside the laboratory. What we
naïvely see there is not better known from previous experience than the
small figure 13. After these results, whoever defends the automatic
influence of past experience upon our seeing definite forms, will
have incumbent upon him the task of supporting his theory by other
experiments. If such an influence exists, it must be restricted to
rather special cases.
2. Where “form” _exists_ originally, it acquires a meaning very
easily. But here a whole with its form is given first and then the
meaning “creeps into it.” That meaning automatically produces a form
where beforehand there is none, has not been shown experimentally in
a single case, as far as I know. It may be that in a very _unstable_
constellation, in which a certain form can be seen or organized, past
experience of such a form will tend to produce it really, whereas
without that previous experience, this would not happen. Even in this
case, however, we should still have to explain what factors produced
that form in previous life. It is only assumed, then, that conditions
were more favorable, and the question remains open whether they were
not favorable for its originating directly. In any case, even granting
that previous experience of a certain form favors its appearance in the
future, we ought to realize that such an occurrence will be limited to
definite cases, namely those in which the actual constellation does
not tend decidedly toward other more stable wholes and forms. The
number 4, for instance, is certainly a well-known form; but when Fig.
10 is shown to hundreds of people without any special instruction or
warning, only a few of them will see the 4 and mention it in their
description of the figure. If any one protests that we have never seen
the 4 in such an environment before, he misses the point, because
no explanation in terms of previous experience is needed when 4 is
given upon a homogeneous ground, as it usually is. If past experience
has an influence, it is exactly in such a case as that of Fig. 10,
in which its influence ought to be effective. And after all, it is
not the “unusual” environment as such which prevents our seeing the
4 immediately. In the following figure (14) the 4 _is_ seen at once,
though in my judgment the environment is not less unusual than in the
first case. Why, then, is it seen now? Because the relation between the
added lines and the geometrical parts of the 4 is not such that these
parts are absorbed in the formation of other wholes. But this is a
principle of original organization. So we may say that any influence
of past experience upon the organization of forms in the future depends
upon the degree and the stability of sensory organization in the actual
case. I shall give a few more examples which show the absorption or
destruction of a well-known form by actual organization into other less
known forms.
[Illustration: Fig. 14]
[Illustration: Fig. 15]
Look at Fig. 15 before you read the next lines. No one would use the
name of letter E in describing it as long as he is a naïve observer,
though the well-known E is present geometrically, and the form really
seen is less known. Fig. 16 may be beheld as an ornament for months
before one first finds two H’s in it. Similarly the letter K is
hidden in Fig. 17. If the reader is already a little sophisticated, he
would be wise to show these figures to some of his more naïve friends,
for five seconds perhaps, asking them only to give a spontaneous
description of them. I do not think the enormous experience we all have
with respect to these letters will produce any considerable effect upon
the result, as long as the subjects do not begin to look for hidden
forms. If they do, of course, the result will be produced by actual
attitude apart from previous experience. When we give our subjects a
hint about the camouflaged form, we create in them what the physicist
might call a “_special vector_,” favoring that concrete form. But when
our subject, adopting an indifferent attitude, looks unaided at some of
the unknown figures, this vector does not exist, despite a great deal
of “past experience.” Without it, the hidden forms do not appear.
[Illustration: Fig. 16]
[Illustration: Fig. 17]
3. Again, some psychologists will go so far as to derive all form in
the visual field from tactual or motor experience. Our answer in this
case is once more simple enough: Real form is a concrete property of
certain things. If its history is to be traced to other than visual
experiences, we must have concrete real form in those other regions
in which it has its origin. Nothing can be imported from other fields
into vision without having originally occurred in these other fields.
So the whole problem would only be shifted from one sensory field to
another, and the explanation would have to assume original forms in the
latter. This reasoning applies also to our sensations of eye-movements.
If visual form shall be derived from them, real form must be a property
of some of these kinesthetic experiences. Therefore, such an hypothesis
does not seem to be a scientific gain, and we may as well acknowledge
the problem of visual form _as such_.
4. I find a decisive argument against explanations of form in terms
of past experience, in the following consideration. No doubt, parts
of the visual field can reproduce past experiences associated with
them in previous life. But when we ask what factors are the main
reproductive properties in these cases, we see that in 99 out of 100
cases _reproduction depends upon the form of a segregated whole in the
field_. Take the concrete real form away, so that reproduction can
be aroused by only the color or the place or, perhaps, the size of an
area, and you will realize that for the most part, without form, visual
realities are not specific enough to reproduce definite experiences.
When we talk about the automatic influence of past experience upon
actual vision, we are tempted to extend this idea to the creation of
definite “form” by reproduction. But then we forget that there is not
much reproduction without form itself as a reproductive factor, and
that, from the viewpoint of such an hypothesis, form _as such_ must
be strictly excluded from the sensory field and, therefore, from the
reproductive features of the situation, supposedly being present in the
field _only by way of_ the reproduction of past experience. The curious
result is that we presuppose “form,” erroneously and unawares, in order
to get form reproduced from past experience! A naïve observer does not
see the 4 in our example, although it is such a well-known figure. Why?
Past experience cannot work if there is no specific factor present
which might reproduce that definite part of past experience under the
circumstances of the case. In our example the ever so well-known 4 will
not be reproduced, as, in other examples, countless other well-known
forms are not reproduced either, there being nothing in the actual
optical processes which might effect that definite reproduction. I
suspect that a great many explanations in terms of meaning and past
experience fail completely to realize this side of the question.
It is easy to say: This, of course, is so because in earlier life
certain things have happened. But the time has come for more concrete
thinking in this field. Reproduction does play a highly important rôle
in mental life and in behavior. It can play it only if the sensory
world is sufficiently endowed with concrete properties in those areas
which are said to reproduce our previous experience. If it is not,
because we regard it as a mosaic of sensations, by what factors can a
definite reproduction be determined? “Transposing” shows that a form
will remain the same independently of the color, the place and the size
of its area. If, now, a definite form is said to appear in the field
by reproduction, I do not see what characteristic of the mosaic can
possibly determine the right reproduction, since we cannot rely upon
color, place and size for it.
In order to show that “form” can never be explained by the existence
of “sensations,” von Ehrenfels laid great stress upon this very
fact--mentioned previously by Mach--that a form can be “transposed,”
i.e., will remain the same as a visual property, after its brightness,
color, size and place are changed. Of course, when shifted too far
toward the periphery of the field, a form will change its character
more or less, but, excepting this case, the possibilities of
transposing a form are very numerous. Again in this respect temporal
form behaves like spatial form, since a melody may be rendered in
different keys and still remain the same, so far as its musical form
is concerned. Indeed, nothing can show better than these facts that
the specific supralocal organization of the processes underlying form
as a sensory experience must be a physiological reality, certainly as
much as are the processes underlying chroma as a quality of sensory
experience. Since, in the case of vision, we can change not only
chroma, but brightness, localization and size of a form, without
disturbing the form itself, the usual categories of quality, intensity,
position, extension do not help us when real form is to be explained.
There is only one thing we cannot change too much without influencing
form itself, viz., that special set of relations of stimulation which
seem to be decisive for the segregation of a definite whole and for
the specific dynamical structure underlying form.[40] We do not
normally _experience_ these relations in the sensory field. But in the
determination of self-distribution of process, in the segregation and
“formation” of wholes, they must become almost all-important somewhere
between the retinæ and the psychophysical field.
Up to the present time there has been a tendency to regard the
remarkable properties of wholes, especially the possibility of
transposing their translocal properties, as the achievement of
“higher” processes. From the viewpoint of _gestalt_ theory sensory
organization is as natural and primitive a fact as any other side
of sensory dynamics. If, for von Ehrenfels and the _Grazer Schule_,
_Gestaltqualitäten_ and form are treated as a superstructure built upon
the foundation of sensations, this assumption would fail to account
for the evident rôle of _gestalt_ in such biological processes as
ontogenesis. In psychology, too, the influence of _gestalt_ has been
demonstrated by Hertz (cf. Chapter V) in very primitive behavior,
in which no one would assume the operation of “higher” processes.
Lashley seems to have been the first to find that an animal, trained
to react positively to one of two “stimuli,” will shift his reaction
spontaneously when he finds himself before two other stimuli of the
same class, the new reaction being directed to that stimulus which
plays the same rôle in the new pair as a whole, which another specific
stimulus played in the pair used during the learning process. I wonder
why these experiments failed to exert their due share of influence
upon current theoretical formulations. Without knowing Lashley’s work
I have repeated the same experiments on apes and chicks, with special
care to exclude all possibilities of indirect explanation. There is no
doubt, now, that a chick, trained with two grays, I and II (II being
darker than I), always to choose II, will, after a while, when II and
the new (darker) gray III are given, in the majority of the trials
not choose II but the unknown nuance III. The same experiments were
performed on apes with size, and also with different hues of color.
Several investigators have been able to confirm these experiments. We
may conclude that animals react to such pairs as to wholes, either side
of which has a definite character depending upon its “position” in the
whole. So II is “the dark side” of the first pair; then, in the new
pair, III assumes this rôle, and since the animal has learned to choose
the dark side of the pair rather than a more or less definite gray, it
tends to avoid the specific gray of the learning period and to choose
the new gray after the transposition. Again it does not matter at all
in such a case, whether or not we assume that the chick has direct
experience. The difference between choice depending upon a more or less
definite intensity of light and reaction depending upon one definite
side of a structure, is the same for either assumption. Once more the
formula of “stimulus and response” becomes altogether misleading, since
it neglects the fact that between the stimuli and reaction there is the
organization of definite wholes with specific properties, upon which
the reaction so obviously depends.
In order to prove that dynamical self-distribution will explain
“transposition,” we have to show that “transposition” is possible in
self-balanced physical systems. Nothing can be easier! First of all,
if under certain conditions all forces of a dynamical distribution
are in equilibrium with regard to each other, it is evident that the
equilibrium is not disturbed if the intensity of all those forces
decreases or increases in the same proportion. _All_ forces being
reduced to one-half of their first value or increased to three times
that amount, they will balance each other as before. The supralocal
dynamical structure is largely independent of absolute intensities.
Now let the dynamical structure be the self-distribution of current
in an electrolyte, depending upon the total form of the electrolytic
conductor. Again the intensity of current has no influence upon its
distribution. Also, if instead of ions like Na and Cl, K and Br or
any others carry the electric charges, the distribution of current
will not be changed. Or, take as an example the electromotive
phenomena developed when two solutions (I and II) of different ionic
concentration are in contact. Those phenomena, existing only in the
pair of solutions as a whole, depend upon the _relation_ of the ionic
concentrations, the absolute concentrations being indifferent. If, in
a definite case, the solution II with a concentration of 1/20 n is the
electropositive side of the pair, as against I with a concentration,
say, of 1/4 n, in a new pair with the concentrations 1/20 n (II) and
1/100 n (III) the new solution III becomes the electropositive side.
To be “the electropositive side” of such a physical system is no less
a _gestalt property_ in a definite electrochemical whole than to be
“the dark side” is a _gestalt property_ in a sensory pair.
In some respects form is the most important property which a whole
may have; the introduction of it as a specific reality will help us
to understand certain of the properties which occur only in wholes.
In Figs. 8 and 9 we observed a change of form, now one cross or star
being present as a form, and then the other. But something else
changes at the same time. When we see the slender cross, the area of
this cross has a character of solidity and coherence; we may even
say that this slender cross has the substantiality of a “thing,”
whereas the environment appears as comparatively “empty” and “loose.”
Exactly the contrary is true when the other cross dominates the
field; the large cross becomes “solid” and “substantial,” whereas the
narrow angles have become “loose” and “empty,” like the environment.
Because an area becomes “solid” when appearing as “form” or “figure,”
Rubin, who was the first to describe the difference, has called the
“solid” quality the “figure” character, whereas to the “looseness”
of the environment he gave the name of “ground” character. This term
“ground,” or “background,” is the more appropriate since we find the
“figure” protruding a little, as if in three-dimensional space, and the
environment localized behind it, so that the solid “figure” appears
as something apart, behind which the “ground” seems to extend without
interruption like a simple homogeneous plane. The sky above the houses
(cf. p. 202) has the character of ground.
I do not think we ever find that character of “solidity” where we
do not have a segregated whole. That character, then, is a typical
property of segregated wholes and belongs to von Ehrenfels’ qualities.
Some psychologists will try to derive this character from touch or
other previous experiences which we have had with things, in the
practical meaning of the word. We find that all visual things, which
as such are clearly perceived in the field of vision, have the same
character of “solidity.” But as it appears as a visible quality, it
may be such a quality _originally_; it may even belong, independently
of other experiences, to the primary constituents of the meaning of
the term “thing” in common life. Whether the empiristic explanation is
justified or whether this quality is founded directly upon the specific
dynamics of seen form, will be decided by further research. As yet
it has been shown that, functionally, “figure” and “ground” behave
differently. Constancy of color has been shown to be more striking for
“figure” than for “ground” (Rubin); the limen for a patch of color
projected upon the “figure” was found to be higher than upon “ground”
of the same objective intensity (Gelb and Granit); after-images are
more vivid when observed upon a “figure” than they are upon “ground”
(Frank).
* * * * *
After all these considerations the reader will be prepared to accept
some statements as concrete which, in consequence of their more general
character, he, without that preparation, might be tempted to despise
as “mere philosophy.” If in our experiment on animals “the dark side”
is something which, as such, exists only in a definite whole, the
same thing is implied in a great many terms which we are continually
using as trivial words in common life. We do not realize generally
that all their meanings presuppose definite wholes in which something
plays that rôle to which the words apply, as “the dark side” applies
to the rôle one gray plays in a pair of grays. I give the following
few examples, selected from a large store: The German “Rand” (English
“brink” or “edge”) is such a word; again “Anfang” (beginning), “Ende”
and “Schluss” (“end” and “close”), “Stück” and “Teil” (“piece” and
“part”), “Rest” (“rest” or “remnant”); and even “Loch” (“hole”) and
“Störung” (“disturbance”), which presuppose a definite experienced
whole, with respect to which an area may appear as a “hole,” or some
factor as a “disturbance.” Intentionally I do not restrict my examples
to those cases in which the words apply to sensory facts. There is
not the slightest reason why I should do so. And the reader will
easily understand that talking about a “disturbing” factor in the case
of “thinking” presupposes a definite dynamical whole, as it does in
sensory experience. There is no meaning in the word without it. Whoever
is slightly acquainted with musical theory will recognize at once that
a tone cannot have the character of the “tonic” without belonging to
a larger musical whole, in which it plays a definite rôle; of course,
the same is true of the leading-tone, which has its strong dynamical
properties in the definite key of a sequence of tones, and not
independently.
Obviously we must have similar cases in the world of adjectives and
verbs. Indeed, “hohl” (“hollow”) and “offen” (“open”), “complete” and
“incomplete” belong in the same group, as terms referring necessarily
to specific wholes. Finally, in the realm of activities and events we
might give a long list in which there ought to be included: “starting”
or “beginning,” “ending” and “finishing” or “closing,” “desisting” and
“interrupting,” also “proceeding” and “continuing,” even “deviating,”
“bending,” “retarding” and so forth. If we try to find out what we
mean when we use terms like “hesitating” or “deviating” with reference
to the activities of others or to heard music or to our own stream
of thought, we shall find that their meaning depends upon extended
dynamical structures, the change of which is described by those words.
They may be applied to sensory experience, but their essential meaning
remains the same in other fields of experience, because the principal
aspects of _gestalt_ are found in all of them. To say that they are
imported into these other fields from the region of sensory experience,
in a merely analogical way, would be no more than another vicious
circle of the kind described above (cf. pp. 212-214).
BIBLIOGRAPHY
W. Köhler: Psychol. Forschung 4. 1924.
W. Köhler: _Die physischen Gestalten_. 1920.
E. Rubin: _Visuell wahrgenommene Figuren_. 1921.
W. Sander: _Bericht ü. d. 9. Kongress f. exper. Psychologie_. 1927.
M. Wertheimer: Psychol. Forschung 4. 1924.
VII
_Behavior_
IT will be difficult to understand this and the next chapters unless
we first solve a problem which presents serious difficulties to some
psychologists.
When I referred to “objective experience” in an earlier discussion
I laid great stress upon the fact that things, their movements and
changes, are given as _outside_ or _before_ us. At the same time
“objective experience” is regarded as depending upon processes in a
certain field of the brain. How then can it appear before us? About
the facts there can be no doubt. Under certain conditions a sound may
be localized in my head, it is true; but that tree over there is seen
as something far off and the window, though much nearer, is still
_outside_, beyond any possibility of doubt. Functionally, however,
their existence, as is the case of all the other surrounding objects,
is a matter of processes in my brain, and therefore _in_ me. So much
can be proved by the simplest physiological considerations.
Let us attack this problem from the physiological side at once. For
simplicity’s sake we shall proceed at first as though the visual field
were the only objective experience we have.
One thing is immediately obvious. Though we usually have many objects
before us, their totality appears as ordered in one visual space, so
that any one of them has definite spatial relations to all the others.
This statement is rather superficial, because it neglects the actual
grouping and “belonging together” of some objects rather than others;
but for our present purposes it will be sufficient. The pencil is
nearer to that book than to the lamp, the knife is between the book and
the fountain-pen, and so forth.
As all properties of the field depend upon physiological processes in
the brain or certain of their properties, so the relative position
of experienced objects will depend upon a definite order of the
processes which are their physiological basis; the mere geometrical
localization of the processes in the brain cannot be the correlate of
seen spatial order. I take it for granted that whatever is experienced
has a _dynamical_ basis physiologically, i.e., depends upon physical
states and events. Process-in-extension, coherent functionally and
self-maintaining dynamically, is supposed to contain those dynamical
relations between “segregated wholes,” which, in experience, appear as
positions of objects in mutual relation and order. Of course, these
dynamical relations, underlying experienced spatial order, exist in
an aggregate of cells and fibers, which are extended in physical
space. But only the dynamical relations count for our problem, not the
geometrical distances and areas as such, through which that dynamical
order extends. Still we may safely assume not only that, where two
objects touch each other in visual experience, the _dynamical contact_
of the corresponding processes is immediate and direct, but that the
two processes take place in two _neighboring areas_ of the brain.
Again, if two objects are experienced as separated from each other in
visual space, some process, _not_ corresponding to the objects, will
mediate _dynamically_ between them; and at the same time the area of
the first will not be in geometrical contact with the area of the
second. We shall not go further. The _geometrical_ distribution of
processes in the brain will _not_ be an adequate picture of visual
order in all respects. Only with respect to those crudest properties
of visual space, neighborhood and distance in general, will the
underlying dynamical order of processes be extended homologously in
brain-space.[41] But no more need be assumed in order to picture in
imagination what follows, and to discuss our problem in simple terms.
We must not forget, however, that, if in the next paragraph relative
localization in visual space is connected with relative position of
processes in the brain, this is meant as an abbreviation for the
_dynamical_ relations of process-in-extension.
In visual experience the pencil there is external to that book and
at a certain distance from it. We know now, at least in a general
scheme, what is the physiological basis of this separation. Our next
task will consist in applying that scheme consistently. My hand is
in the same visual field as an experienced object. Evidently, as
this new segregated whole is external to the pencil and the book in
visual experience, the process, corresponding to it in the brain,
must be external to the processes corresponding to the pencil and to
the book, dynamically and, as we have seen, geometrically. There is
not the slightest reason why the hand, as a visual object, should be
treated in a manner different from the pencil or the book, or the
spatial relation between the hand and pencil or the book different
from the spatial relation between the latter. Beside my hand I have
other parts of myself in the visual field: my arm, for instance, very
often my feet, my chest and, though in peripheral vision, the tip of
my nose. They are visual experiences, exactly as are the pencil and
the book. Therefore, in my brain as a _physical_ system there must
be processes corresponding to these experienced bodily members, as
there are processes underlying those objective experiences which I do
not reckon among the parts of what I call my body. And the processes
underlying the seen book, the seen pencil and all the other surrounding
seen objects will be external to the processes which underlie the
experiences of arm, feet, chest and nose, for the same reason that the
processes corresponding to those seen objects are external to each
other.
Here we have, in principle at least, the solution of our problem. To
some extent my body, to which common speech frequently refers as “I,”
is a group of visual experiences just as other things are. As these are
seen external to each other, so “I” am experienced external to all of
them in vision. If I find no difficulty in their appearing separately
in different parts of the field, and if their mutual localization can
be understood by the dynamo-geometrical relations of the processes
underlying them, I am simply obliged to apply the same idea to
myself as a visual experience in the same field and to the processes
underlying this experience. No new hypothesis is needed to explain why
“I” am external to those objects and they external to me. If there were
a paradox in their relative localization with regard to “me,” the same
paradox ought to be found in their mutual localization. I have only
to become aware of the fact that, as a visual experience, this “I”
depends upon processes in a definite circumscribed part of my brain as
a physical system, no less than do any other objects in the field.
Following this consideration, it becomes an almost impossible idea
that things should be experienced as being “in me.” The pencil might
be experienced _in_ the book just as well! Everybody is accustomed to
discriminate sharply between the thing as a _physical object_ and as
the _experienced whole_, corresponding to it, which appears in the
visual field. If we could only accustom ourselves also to make the same
distinction as radically and consistently in the case of our body! In
one meaning this body is a physical organism, certain processes of
which underlie _all_ experience. At the same time “my body” or “myself”
is a particular one among all other sensory experiences, and, as such,
it is also represented by definite particular processes in a definite
part of the brain at a given moment. Dynamo-geometrical relations in
the brain-field mean spatial relations in visual experience. In this
respect, other visual things are evidently outside or external to the
special thing called “my body.” But, you say, all these processes
are _in_ the brain, i.e., _in me_, after all! That does not matter
for our problem, because experience depends upon the processes of a
definite field, and experienced space depends upon the totality of
dynamo-geometrical relations _in_ it; the only meaning which “in” and
“outside” have in experience is determined by this dynamical context,
and to the _physical_ place which this context has in the physical
world, in the physical body, and more particularly in the physical
skull, _there does not correspond any experience at all_. All the
possible spatial relations we can have in sensory experience are
restricted to the inner dynamical properties and relations of that
field; the anatomical relation between this field and its surroundings,
which do not contain “psychophysical” processes, is an affair of
the physical world which does not occur in my sensory experience.
Therefore, “things” are “before” and “around” me, as far as experience
is concerned. If somebody expects that “things” or “I” or both should
be localized in my brain, he does not see that in the first half of
this sentence he is talking about direct experiences whereas in the
second half “my brain” is a concept referring to physical existence. So
he confuses experienced space with the space of the physicist, which
no one experiences directly, and he expects to see certain particular
parts of _experienced_ space localized in relation to parts of
_physical_ space, which is altogether impossible.
This is also the reason why every one is so astonished when he is
first told that things, colors, etc., which he experiences as being
external and distant, depend upon events occurring in himself! Of
course, this is correct if meant physiologically, so that “himself” is
the physiological organism, not experienced directly. It is far from
correct and evident for some one who does not discriminate between the
physical organism and “himself” as one particular whole in experience,
because for the most part, distant things and colors do not appear
as depending upon that particular experience, “himself,” at all.
Why should they? In experience a tree depends upon “myself” just as
much or as little as in the brain the particular and local process
corresponding to “myself” determines that corresponding to the tree.
Such an influence will sometimes occur and will then be experienced,
too, but in general the “tree” and “I” will not depend upon each other
more than any other segregated wholes depend upon each other when,
dynamically, they are distant from each other.
Perhaps all this is too well known to be discussed here. But four years
ago a distinguished psychiatrist formulated this as the most difficult
problem to be found in all the relations of “mind” and “body”: that
things appear as being outside of us, whereas we should expect them to
be in our interior!
As yet we have taken “ourselves” and “things” exclusively as visual
experiences. But the situation remains the same if we consider other
experiences as well. Things, their properties, events and so on, may
be experienced by touch instead of visually; things are warm or cold,
they smell, are heavy, audible and so forth. But all these experiences
are somehow localized in experienced space, either in a well-defined
or in a more confused manner. All of them appear as localized more or
less in relation to visual experiences. So a voice is heard as outside
the window; this room, given visually, seems to have or contain the
smell of a cigarette, and the cold surface of the safety-razor in my
hand is felt where the thing is seen. Two different explanations may
be given for the fact that all sensory experiences appear in one and
the same space.[42] _Either_ the reason is the same as for the special
case of binocular vision in which, notwithstanding the duality of
peripheral sense organs, one single visual space contains all visual
experience. What has occurred here may have happened with respect
to _all_ sensory experiences as depending upon a large number of
different sense organs: in phylogenesis, and also in early individual
life, for dynamical reasons which we do not have to discuss here, the
distribution of sensory processes in the brain may have developed in
such a direction that, now, all of them occur in one psychophysical
field and that, therefore, corresponding to their dynamo-geometrical
relations, all sensory experience appears in one experienced space.
_Or_ the relative localization of experiences furnished by different
sense organs may have been _learned_ by all of us in early childhood,
so that in consequence of that learning a sound, for instance,
would seem to issue from a place in the same space in which we see
objects. In any case, whether we accept the more “nativistic” or the
“empiristic” explanation, all sensory experiences are now given to us
in one space, the same space in which we have visual objects around
us and, in one region of which, parts of “ourselves.” Some of the
non-visual experiences are localized outside, as sounds are almost
universally, and also weights; but other non-visual experiences appear
_inside_ that region of the visual field which we call ourselves, as,
for instance, the feeling of “coldness” and all kinesthesis. In the
interior of this region we find eventually a great many experiences the
origin of which may be a matter of much discussion, but which certainly
are localized there somewhat diffusedly, as our feeling “tired,”
“nervous,” “healthy,” even “happy” and so forth, i.e., the more or less
“subjective” experiences. From what we have said about the separation
of visual experiences as belonging partially to ourselves and partially
to our surroundings, it will be obvious that the same thing is true of
all other experiences except certain particular experiences which are
always localized in our interior. All this is not more astounding than
is the external localization of visual things outside our body, itself
a particular visual thing.[43]
After these preliminary remarks we are prepared for the treatment of
an old problem: How does it come to pass that we ascribe to others
experiences similar to those we have ourselves? We continually seem
to do that, not only in general, but in particular; we attribute to
others definite particular experiences at a definite time. To begin
with, I shall not discuss the question, whether such attribution can
be legitimated in psychology as a science. But in common life something
like sympathetic attribution seems to be a most frequent occurrence,
and may be regarded as fundamental for social psychology. What is its
nature, and what are its modes of occurrence? A certain paradox is
connected with the problem: sometimes other people seem to judge my
subjective experience more soundly from without than I am able to do
it myself “from within.” What shall I say, for instance, in order to
describe to others what I feel as a lack of inner determination or
as hesitation in a certain situation? But others say that they “see”
that hesitation most clearly on my face, and I am inclined to believe
them, since I know that characteristic expression very well from my
observation of others. I think it was Nietzsche who occasionally
said that somehow the “you” is earlier than the “I.” This seems to
apply most of all to our knowledge of “character” and “personality,”
since it is extremely difficult to get a definite picture of our own
character from our subjective experiences, whereas the main traits of
the character of others may sometimes be strikingly apparent in their
attitude.
I do not think that the language of others is our main or most
trustworthy cue, in the sense that the content of it might be taken as
a description of their experience. People do not talk sincerely about
their subjective experiences, and we ascribe to them pomposity or
modesty, friendliness or coldness, without their telling us a single
word about such traits. In a foreign country, we appreciate to a great
extent that others are “provocative” or “kind,” though we may be
absolutely unable to understand their language. Where we do understand
their words, their _manner_ of talking is often a better cue, and we
trust it more than the content of their talk. Also, a certain kind of
silence can occasionally tell us more about others than any number of
words could reveal in the same situation. Furthermore, the behavior of
apes, for instance, shows the unprejudiced observer that they usually
“understand” each other very well, though they do not use language,
in the usual meaning of that word. For these reasons, our discussion
will deal with a fundamental aspect of our problem, even if we exclude
language from it as communication by the meaning of words and sentences.
The answer which philosophers have given to the question raised, is
very well known. Since I cannot directly perceive the experiences of
another, the only evidence available is his body or, more particularly,
the changes and events which I observe as occurring on its surface,
or issuing therefrom. These, however, have nothing to do with the
non-apparent direct experiences of other persons, apart from the
simple rule of concomitant variation in accordance with which definite
direct experiences unobservable to others are usually accompanied
by definite bodily events which are observable by others. Originally
I learned this rule for myself alone, by observing that definite
experiences were accompanied by definite movements or changes in _my_
own body. This observation, made millions of times very early in my
life, induces me to draw an inference by analogy wherever afterwards I
observe the same bodily events in others. From the fact that the Earth
is inhabited by organisms the inference is sometimes drawn that there
also are organisms on another planet, similar to the Earth, as Mars is,
for instance. In the same manner we are said to infer that behind the
several bodily reactions or “expressions,” which we observe in others,
there are occurring unobservably definite experiences similar to those
we have experienced in ourselves when we have observed ourselves
undergoing the same bodily changes. Evidently such an inference
cannot be worth very much, as the parallel astronomical case shows.
Furthermore, the whole theory seems to be an arbitrary construction,
since no one explicitly draws such inferences by analogy in common
life, though he may “understand” his fellow men to a considerable
degree.
Therefore, a modification of that hypothesis is proposed by
psychologists. The basis of it remains the same: In millions of
cases we have had experiences when we could observe bodily reactions
in ourselves at the same time. The constant repetition of these
simultaneous occurrences has built up associations between them, so
that in the future the mere observation of certain bodily events will
forcefully reproduce the idea of the associated definite experiences.
But we may go further: instead of “free” ideas we very often get an
“assimilation” of the reproduced material by the reproducing material.
So the symbol + looks like “adding,” a coffin appears imbued with
the gloominess of death, and the flag with the special value of our
country. In the same way, by an enormous force of association, the
bodily changes of others appear as imbued with those experiences which
have so repeatedly accompanied those changes in ourselves. This is the
reason why we seem to _see_ friendliness in other people’s faces or to
_hear_ anger in a certain animal cry.
Evidently we are dealing once more with a special application of the
meaning theory. I do not believe it to be in principle a solution of
the problem. First of all, from its viewpoint we should be utterly
unable to understand any behavior in others except that which we know
because of its extremely frequent occurrence in ourselves. But this
logical consequence of the theory is not quite corroborated by the
facts, for sometimes I understand others as being highly different from
me. The characteristic manliness of Douglas Fairbanks is something
which impresses me very much, though unfortunately I shall never be
able to achieve it myself. On the other hand, a certain kind of envy,
mean and hideous to the highest degree, is plainly visible to me in
certain definite facial expressions of others. But I am happy to state
that it does not occur among my own subjective experiences. Again, some
psychologists are right in protesting that the theory does not work in
the most important of all cases, which is that of facial expression.
We do see changes in the “expression” of other people’s faces; but we
usually do not see our own face. No one usually looks into the mirror
when he is angry. We may “feel” some contractions of our face when
we are angry, but since the angry face of others is given to us in
_visual_ experience, there does not seem to be a reproducing factor
here which might have been associated with our subjective experiences
in previous life. Finally, a chimpanzee reacts very quickly and
adequately to the friendly or the angry attitude of another chimpanzee.
Shall we assume that he projects into the other’s face the reproduction
of his own subjective experiences? This seems to be a rather bold
assumption!
Let us consider for a moment what is implicitly presupposed in this
hypothesis, as in that of the “inference by analogy.” Why should our
“understanding” of others be such an indirect procedure? Obviously,
because we are convinced that “the mental life” of others is something
radically different from and even incomparable with the bodily events
which we can observe in their behavior. Nothing but an external
correlation seems to exist, and to be possible here, between the facts
of two different worlds. If that is so, we should expect that, in spite
of assimilation, it must be extremely easy to analyze the product.
Where things are combined, the natures of which are so different as to
make them incomparable, the slightest effort toward analysis should
separate them at once. But if in a friendly-looking face we try to
separate the mere bodily configuration and the friendliness, we find
the task rather difficult, as long as we look at the whole face and do
not analyze the face itself as a mosaic of colored spots.
This makes us wonder for a moment why philosophers and some
psychologists should suppose that the facts of behavior, which we
can observe in others, should be _toto genere_ different from the
experiences which these others may have. But the reason is obvious
enough. The “stuff” and the “events” which occur in the “bodily”
world, on the one hand, and in the “conscious” world, on the other,
are believed to have incomparable properties since Descartes. This is
philosophy. And we may perceive at once that, in this connection at
least, it is bad philosophy. For this reason: in the introduction to
this chapter we saw that the noun “body” is dangerously ambiguous.
It may either mean a physical organism which, as such, cannot be
experienced directly any more than the physical structure of an atom,
or it may mean an experienced “thing,” as a segregated visual whole.
Now, if we talk about the “bodily events” and so forth, as the only
material we can have and observe in order to understand others,
the meaning of the word “bodily” can refer only to the experienced
thing and its changes as sensory experiences, since the physical
body of another does not occur _as such_ in any part of our direct
experience. It is as remote and distinct from our sensory experience
as is the “consciousness” of others. Therefore, when we discuss how we
“understand” other people, we have to decide first of all, whether or
not our sensory experience of others as _experienced_ “bodies” contains
a more direct cue for that understanding. Of course, our sensory
experience of others depends ultimately upon stimulation issuing from
their physical bodies. But in the fifth chapter we found that our
sensory experience will sometimes give us more valuable hints about
the realities in which we are interested than the physical events
themselves, which constitute the stimuli for that experience, are able
to give. So, though in the genetic series our sensory experience of
others is more remote from their “mental life” than are the physical
events issuing from the surface of their bodies, we may find something
valuable in the former which we cannot find in the latter. The most
interesting question is whether our sensory experience of the behavior
of others can give us a hint about those events in them which in
ourselves we call _subjective_ experiences. We would regard it as such
a hint if we could discover a similarity between our sensory experience
of the behavior of others and those subjective experiences. Suppose
that there were such a similarity, we could then dispense with the
indirect approach through inferences by analogy, or through association
and assimilation, since theory has approached the subjective experience
of others indirectly only because it had assumed as a prior dogma that
there could not be any similarity at all between the events of the
“bodily world” and of “mental life.”
I will proceed cautiously. In its efforts to assort experiences into
separate classes, psychology has introduced certain rigid distinctions
and barriers among the several classes which, first of all, we shall
try to remove.
One of these barriers, built by Helmholtz, is that between the
qualities of the different senses, as though they were incomparable. I
contend that they are comparable in more than one case. “Brightness,”
for instance, is an attribute of some auditory as well as of visual
experiences. We may go a little farther and say that in the “coolness”
of an object which we touch there is a certain affinity to brightness,
whereas in “warmth” there is something similar to dark nuances. In the
preceding chapter I mentioned the fact that the German word “rauh”
is used for certain auditory experiences as well as for a definite
character of touched surfaces. Again, the German poet Morgenstern
states that
_Die Möwen sehen alle aus, als ob sie Emma hiessen._
(All seagulls look as though their name were Emma.)
To the German at least, because of his pronunciation of the name, its
sound seems to contain something similar to the aspect of the birds.
But we may construct another example. If, looking at these two figures
(18 and 19), the reader is asked to choose which he would rather call
“takete” or “maluma,” he will probably be able to decide with ease.[44]
[Illustration: Fig. 18]
[Illustration: Fig. 19]
I take it for granted, then, that there are some similarities between
the experiences we have through different sense organs. In passing we
may remark that in primitive languages one finds much evidence for
assuming that the names of things and events often originate according
to this similarity between their properties in vision or touch, and
certain sounds or acoustical wholes.[45] In modern languages, it is
true, most of these names have lost much of this character.
For our main problem it is interesting to know what names are given to
subjective experiences. First of all, most of us will agree with the
statement that, if peripheral vision is “confused” in comparison with
foveal vision, in this respect almost all subjective experience is
more similar to peripheral than to foveal vision. And if the reader
agrees with me here, he has admitted that in one point, at least,
subjective experiences may be compared with objective experiences.
Recently Klages has collected a large number of words which we apply
to subjective experiences and all of which have at the same time a
meaning in the realm of objective experience.[46] Here a few instances
must suffice. Something arouses a “bitter” feeling in us. In German one
talks about being in a “soft” mood (_“weiche” Stimmung_). “Sweet” love
seems to occur in all countries, also “bright” joy or “dark” grief, and
not only in my country is wrath called “hot.”
More dynamically, one talks about a tense expectation, this subjective
experience being compared with what we feel when we touch a taut
string. A certain kind of thinking is called “straight,” and every
one knows immediately what is meant by it. We may have “rest” or
“restlessness” in a visual field, but we apply the same terms to
something similar in our subjective experience. When one feels nervous
one might use “flickery” as an appropriate word for his subjective
state, it being similar to visual flicker, for instance. Again, we
feel “attracted” towards something or inclined to “reject” the idea
of it; our spirits are “high” or “low,” and so forth. The reader will
be able to fill out the list by dozens of other terms which, as these
few examples, are used both for objective and subjective experiences
without creating difficulties of understanding in communication. Some
psychologists may refuse to draw any conclusions from such verbal
hints. They will say that here we have to do with mere analogies. I
cannot accept this as an argument, however, because what else is an
analogy but some kind of similarity? Language does not use the words
generally applied to sensory experiences in a haphazard way as terms
for subjective experiences. If one of these terms is applied to just
one class of subjective states or experiences, and not to others, and
a second of these terms is applied exclusively to a second class, and
so on, there must be some principle which regulates this definite
extension of meaning. Furthermore, there must be something at the basis
of the correct _understanding_ of this kind of verbal practice, when
a _new_ application and transfer of meaning is suddenly invented by
some one trying to describe his subjective state in a lively manner. I
contend that this _something_ is a certain degree of similarity between
definite experiences of the “inner” and “outer” world.
Though I realize that there is some truth in the James-Lange theory
of emotional experiences, I do not wish to make my statements seem to
depend upon this theory. Of course, if the so-called emotional aspect
of subjective experience _is_ sensory experience issuing from our
muscles, viscera, and so forth, it will be a truism that emotional
experiences are “similar” to certain “sensory” experiences, since
they are declared even to be identical by that hypothesis. But we
may recognize a similarity without accepting the identity. From this
viewpoint, maintaining a certain cautiousness toward the James-Lange
theory, we may find a similarity even between subjective experiences
and those of vision or hearing, so that, in this respect, our theory
would be more general than that of James and Lange.
With this preparation we can approach the problem, whether our
objective experience of the behavior of others is capable of showing us
something essentially similar to their “mental life”--a question which
has a reasonable meaning if understood in terms of the last paragraphs.
I shall discuss a few concrete cases in which unprejudiced observation
seems to give a clear answer.
Two scientists in Poland are talking about the difference of their
theories. I can observe their behavior as it develops before me in my
visual and acoustical experience but, since they talk in a foreign
language, I cannot understand their words. For a while the aspect
of the scene is calm, both visually and acoustically. But suddenly
the man to the left, as though “struck” by some of his colleague’s
words, makes but a slight receding movement of the head and, from this
moment, the quality of his voice and the expression of his face show a
certain character of hardness. To this change there seems to correspond
immediately a transformation of the other’s behavior, insofar as, from
now on, the man to the right becomes a picture of what the musician
calls “crescendo,” both as I see and as I hear him. Soon the first
person also becomes increasingly dynamic, and the whole scene is
approaching an extreme state of agitation, when presently I see the
man to the right looking at a placard on the wall and smiling. He says
a few words to the other, who also looks in that direction, a certain
brightness appearing on his face at the same time; and from this moment
their conversation resumes its initial smoothness and placid quality.
These scientists happen to know the German language. So, when the
discussion is over, the man to the left tells me that a short while
after the conversation started some unexpected words of his friend
appeared to him as a personal offense or insult, and that he could
not avoid having a bitter feeling as a result of it. The friend, on
the other hand, reports that, beginning rather abruptly, the man to
the left manifested such a closed and hard appearance, as though to
indicate that he would never surrender his position or be open to
persuasion, and that as a result he felt anger continually rising and
increasing within himself. The first, the man to the left, reports that
a similar wave of irritation occurred in himself after a while; and
both of them tell me that the placard on the wall reads “Keep smiling”
in their language, and that, almost at once after becoming aware of it,
they felt much more relaxed and calm.
Is it really possible to deny that in such a case my objective
experience pictures some essential traits of what the others experience
subjectively? I see the two scientists as one visual group, the members
of which are directed towards each other in all their attitudes.
Similarly, each of them feels that he is attacking the other or
defending his own opinions against an attack directed toward them.
Again, the sudden receding movement of one of them pictures very well
the felt increase of social distance which followed from something like
an offense. Neither will deny that, from this moment, there began an
emotional crescendo, which found an adequate expression in the visual
and acoustical crescendo of my sensory experience of the total scene.
Finally, I could see the return to calmness, resulting from their
looking at the placard for a moment. And this calmness itself, as seen
and heard by me, is similar to what both tell me about their subjective
state at that time.
But the lesson which this example teaches seems extremely general
to me. It seems to teach that all forms of dynamical development
occurring in subjective experiences may be expressed by similar forms
of objective experiences in the sensory field of an observer. Quite
generally the inner processes, whether emotional or intellectual, show
types of development which may be given names, usually applied to
musical events, such as: _crescendo_ and _diminuendo_, _accelerando_
and _ritardando_. As these qualities occur in the world of auditory
experiences, they are found in the visual world too, and so they can
express _similar_ dynamical traits of inner life in directly observable
behavior. Who has not found himself occasionally walking faster when
thinking about the disagreeable attitude of an adversary! Again,
to the increasing inner tempo and dynamical level there corresponds
a _crescendo_ and _accelerando_ in visible movement. Of course, the
same inner development may express itself acoustically, as in the
_accelerando_ and _reforzando_ of speech. Or look at your friend on
different mornings. Sometimes his movements will be even and calm,
sometimes his whole visible surface, his face and his fingers, will be
unstable and restless. He does not need to tell you in the first case
that he is well and at rest, nor in the second that he feels restless
subjectively, because both states are apparent directly in your
objective experience. In the same way, hesitation and lack of inner
determination become visible in a form obviously similar to them as
subjective experiences, as _ritardando_ of visible or audible behavior,
or as slight, disorderly, starting movements in different directions,
not organized into one whole. As long as human beings behave naturally,
any _sudden_ change of inner direction, any sudden event in their
subjective life, will appear as a sudden event on their visible surface
or in their speech-melody. In a moment of _sudden_ fright, human beings
_jump_ back, or start. When some one experiences that flash by which a
new idea or the solution of a problem comes to him, he will suddenly
interrupt his walking or abruptly strike his head. Here both his inner
experience and his outer aspect will exhibit the same interruption
of continuity. For similar reasons the activity of a man, as it is
seen by us, will often show an organization which corresponds to the
organization of his doing and planning, as experienced subjectively.
Actions which flow from one determining source appear as one stream of
visible events in most cases. Where a new “idea” leads to new action
in subjective experience, the observer will see one stream of visible
development ceasing and another one starting independently. If one
action consists of relatively segregated members, subjectively, the
same “articulation” will frequently prevail in visible behavior. So
with regard to dynamical structure, not only the so-called expressive
movements but also the practical behavior of human beings is a good
picture of their inner life, in a great many cases. The reader who
may have lost the feeling here that I am discussing concrete things
should review an earlier chapter in which, among other examples, the
organization of seen movement was considered. In my book _The Mentality
of Apes_ the description of animal behavior includes a great many
instances of this type.
It will be convenient, however, to treat in detail a few examples
which are of a somewhat different kind. In objective as well as in
subjective experience we find states to which the names of “tension”
and “direction” may be applied. If my attention is attracted by a
strange object, a snake for instance, I feel directed toward it and
at the same time a feeling of tension is experienced. A friend, even
if he has not recognized the snake, will see me and especially my
face and eyes directed toward it; in the tension of my face he will
have a visual picture of my inner tension, as in its direction he has
a direct picture of the direction which I experience. It cannot be
said in objection that vision will not apprise him in any way of my
“connection” with the object, since there is nothing in space between
my eyes and the snake, which might be a “stimulus” for his seeing that
connection. Such an argument seems to forget what has been said about
grouping in visual space. As soon as my eyes are seen looking in a
definite direction--and in this respect our eyes are astonishingly
expressive--a segregated whole or object, which in the field of an
observer is situated in that line of direction, may become immediately
connected with my gaze and my whole person. This case of grouping is
not more problematic than all the others we have discussed. We may at
once add the case in which the direction of attitude is the opposite,
i.e., away from something. Again, grouping may become so striking that
no one can see such a movement or reaction without referring it to a
definite object, from which it is averted, exactly as the event is felt
subjectively by the person whom we are observing. As an example, I give
the following statements, taken from a famous experiment, literally:
“He started to reach for the head of the animal with the forefinger of
his left hand but withdrew it suddenly before contact.”
(Wool is presented to a child in a paper package).... “He then began
to play with the paper, avoiding contact with the wool itself.” Both
statements occur in Dr. Watson’s description of his experiments with
children.[47] In the first, the movement of a finger is compellingly
seen as _directed toward the animal_, though “objective” methods of
observation, as Dr. Watson understands the term, would not find the
slightest connection in space between the finger and the animal, and
though, therefore, his description seems to imply an almost purposive
psychology. In the second statement, the same observation applies
to the words “avoiding contact with the wool.” “Avoid” is a term
which may surprise us in a description governed by the ideal of the
natural sciences and the fear of so-called “purpose.” However that
may be, the example shows that, in visual experience, the tendency
toward grouping and directed reference is so strong that even the most
radical behaviorist cannot resist it. Therefore, if I “avoid contact”
with a definite object or if I “reach for” another, these facts of my
experience must be excellently pictured in the organized field which an
observer of my behavior himself beholds as his _objective_ experience.
In the last few examples it is the spatial, more than the temporal,
side of visible behavior which resembles the inner experiences of
a person. This is also the case, where a state of inner depression
expresses itself in a drooping carriage of the body as a visual
whole, similar to the posture of the normal person in a period of
extreme fatigue or sorrow, but even more decidedly in the attitude
characteristic of certain insane patients. Just the contrary is seen
in those patients who enjoy a supranormal euphoria or “elevation.”
Usually, their body as a visual thing will show most clearly a
corresponding erectness, and in one case, which Dr. Janet described
admirably at the last International Congress, the patient began to walk
on tiptoe.
Most readers will be well acquainted with the next case which, by
the way, is particularly interesting for social psychology. A man in
a leading position, but perhaps a little too good-hearted for his
office, treats his inferiors as friends. When he sometimes finds
himself obliged to censure one of them severely, and to make him feel
that friendly relations are over, such a man becomes a most suggestive
object of observation. If he has not already trained himself on
previous occasions, he will have the greatest difficulty in uttering
those decisive words which will show the other quite openly and
definitely that the superior has radically changed his mind. In spite
of the best intentions provided by a feeling of duty, those words will
not be uttered, but in their place others which do not go to the
center of the affair. They come near to it; the other man may guess
the whole truth from them if he is sensitive enough, but they leave
something like a screen around the main point. Viewed from without the
official’s activity is a picture of his inner perturbation. The stress
of firm intention is in him, but social factors prevent his behaving
entirely according to his intentions. Consequently you may see him
walking up and down before the other, as a magnetic needle swings in
the field of force. He himself feels the strain and the obligation to
act directly, but also feels that he is constantly “deflected.” When
he stops, his eyes are worth observing. All the inner direction and
difficulties of a person become visible more easily in the sensitive
play of the eyes than elsewhere, particularly under the pressure of
“social forces.” Of course, it is rather easy to say nice things (which
one does not believe) to another man, while looking into his eyes
steadily. Social forces are not opposed to that; on the contrary, they
operate precisely in that direction. But try to look into another’s
eyes, i.e., toward what we experience for some reason as the center of
the other man’s personality, and then tell him what obligates you to
be less friendly toward him, and, as it were, to reject him socially!
For some persons this is an extremely onerous task. So the man in our
example may well intend to look into the other’s eyes; but his own
eyes will either stop short somewhere, at the mouth or the nose, for
instance, or when they reach the full glance of the other man, they
will be deflected very soon as though by an irresistible force. Just
as this man feels his intentions bending around and his words avoiding
the socially decisive step, his visible behavior appears to us as
persistently deflected from the main direction, which is toward the
other, and especially from the visible center of his personality, i.e.,
his eyes.
This may suffice as a description of cases in which the similarity
of the objective and the subjective experiences of the same behavior
seems to me obvious. The reader will find a great many other examples,
as soon as he begins to observe other people from this point of view.
If that similarity is not a familiar fact to the psychologist, the
reason may be the analytical tendency of our science. Indeed, when
we think of other people’s appearance in terms of local nuances of
brightness, chroma, and so forth, we feel inclined to deny the idea of
such similarity. But as soon as we look upon behavior more naïvely and
are not afraid to recognize grouping, and a great many qualities of the
von Ehrenfels type, as realities in sensory experience, the similarity
becomes obvious in thousands of cases.
Our problem has a genetical side also. Why should behavior in the
objective experience of an observer be similar to what is being
experienced subjectively by the individual under observation? The
answer is rather simple in the case of temporal and dynamical
traits of behavior. A pianist while playing a sonata is living in a
dynamical stream, the organization of which is very clear to him.
In his experience he ends one “phrase” now and at a definite moment
begins the next one. He starts a _crescendo_ as the Ehrenfels-quality
of one musical development and a _ritardando_ as that of another.
Whatever the laws of motor innervation may be, the impulses which
are conducted to his muscles follow the organization of the scheme
he “has in mind.” The final results are sound waves, and these are
not dynamically organized, because in the air one wave is independent
of the previous waves and so forth. But something remains which is
sufficient for organization in those who listen. Where he intends a
_crescendo_ as an Ehrenfels-quality, the product of his playing will
be a series of waves of increasing intensity. In those who listen
this series will produce an acoustical whole which again has the same
Ehrenfels-quality of “swelling.” Where, in his experience, he ends a
“phrase” and afterwards starts a new one, the relations of the waves
as to temporal distance, intensity, and so forth, will be such that
in the acoustical organization experienced by the audience one whole
ends and a new one begins at corresponding moments. In some respects
the situation is the same as in the case of physical objects that
appear as segregated wholes in visual experience. Though among the
light-waves reflected by the surfaces of objects, and consequently
among the stimuli projected upon the retina, there is no organization,
the relations between the stimuli are so well preserved that, in the
nervous system, organization, which depends upon those relations, will
generally build up “adequate” wholes. As in this case, organization
comes nearer the objective facts in some essential points than the
indifferent mosaic of stimuli does, so in our example, acoustical
organization will correspond to something in the pianist which does not
exist _as such_ in the sound waves between him and his audience. Once
more the mediating properties of the stimuli are their relationships.
If we assume that the pianist has experiences similar to our own,
the knowledge implicit in our acoustical organization goes beyond
the knowledge implicit in our having visual objects as segregated
wholes. For the organization which we experience will correspond not
only to the organization of his nervous processes, but also to the
organization of his musical “intentions,” as he _experiences_ them. In
order to understand this, we must remember the concluding remarks of
the second chapter. If the pianist intends a musical phrase as a whole,
shall we assume that the processes corresponding to that experienced
development-as-a-whole are also one whole functionally, or shall we
assume the contrary? Where, for his experience, the phrase ends and
after a discontinuity a new one begins, shall we suppose that the
corresponding processes of his brain are functionally continuous or
shall we assume that the physiological organization is discontinuous,
and hence similar to that of his experiences? _Gestalt_ psychology
assumes the similarity of organization in both cases; it makes
this hypothesis quite generally and in all respects. And from this
viewpoint the genesis of communication between the experiences of one
man and those of another becomes simple enough. The experiences of
the first, the pianist, are a picture of the corresponding processes
in his brain, so far as organization is concerned. Innervation of
the pianist’s muscles occurs as something like a projection of that
picture upon his muscles. The sound-waves which he produces are not
organized, but the relations between them somehow correspond to and
represent that previous organization. In a similar nervous system a
new organization is built up depending upon those relations existing
among the acoustical stimuli. To some degree it will be similar to
that which exists or has just existed in the nervous system of the
pianist. Therefore the experience corresponding to these processes
will be correspondingly similar to the organization of the experience
in the pianist. As in this example, the similarity between the inner
experiences of one man and the sensory experience of another may be
explained wherever we find such a correspondence existing with respect
to temporal organization and dynamics.
It will not be necessary to repeat the argument in the case of
“direction,” of “tension,” of “lack of determination,” and so forth.
Even where we do not have full insight into the reasons _why_ the
peripheral overt behavior of a human organism pictures the organization
of its experiences, or better that of the corresponding processes in
his brain, we have to admit that this connection very often exists.
The temporal and other relations of the stimuli which are produced
by such activity in one organism are just the right ones, then, to
determine the appropriate organization and similar Ehrenfels-qualities
in other organisms receptive to those stimuli. A man who makes a great
effort to find a name which he cannot immediately remember will, very
probably, contract his face. The face thus contracted produces just the
constellation of stimuli which, in the objective experience of another,
will determine the character of “tension” as an Ehrenfels-quality
of that face as a visual whole. We have also seen how the almost
inevitable visual grouping of a man with those objects towards which he
is directed, will complete the picture so that, in this respect too, we
see something similar to what is going on “in” that man.
At this point the reader may protest that, after all, our understanding
of other people remains an indirect affair. Though, in our objective
experience, the other may exhibit properties similar sometimes to his
inner experiences, our objective experience remains something different
numerically from those inner experiences of another. The first gives
us what we call “bodily events” in direct objective experience,
whereas the second will never become an objective experience of ours.
Therefore, in one point at least, we do not seem to be better off than
other theorists! Something like a concluding step in our analysis seems
to be needed if we are to use our objective experiences as a basis for
guessing about similar inner processes in others.
Indeed, the discussion has proceeded to this point as though in
this final step the old and the new idea would become identical
compulsively, the only difference being the acknowledgment of a much
better basis for this last step in the new theory. It is now time,
however, to change this aspect of the problem. It has to be changed
in the direction of agreement with what is sound and justified in
behaviorism.
If I recollect the incidents of a day which has been particularly
filled with social contacts and the continual necessity of
understanding other people, I have to confess that I have scarcely, if
ever, had an “image,” or anything like it, of the inner experiences
of those other people! To speak the truth: I have never even thought
of the possibility of having one. I intentionally summon such an
“image” now, in the hope of producing and “having” what, from the usual
viewpoint, should always be the kernel of social understanding. But
the resulting product is very poor and decidedly unusual. It becomes
quite obvious by such a test that generally social understanding does
_not_ depend upon that procedure. What else happens then? The answer is
simple, though it will surprise some of my readers.
In my objective experience of my neighbor’s anger there is no “dualism”
between the “movements of his body” and his “inner experiences.” Even
for the scientist this dualism does not exist, so long as he remains
naïve and does not theorize too much. To ask for the _final step_ from
certain of our objective experiences, viz., the behavior of others,
to the inference of their inner life, is nothing but the introduction
of a sophisticated, scientific and philosophical classification into
a field which, to the unprejudiced observer, does not require such a
treatment. Philosophy, in trying to build up a picture of the world,
may be compelled, perhaps, to make a distinction between “mind” and
“body.” But that does not mean that our objective experience of others
must appear to us as something insufficient and limited, _behind_ which
an altogether different kind of event occurs. This is not necessary
because objective experience as such contains _all_ the material needed
for understanding others, at least in all those cases which we have
treated here. When I refer to the calmness of another man standing
before me in everyday life, I refer to his visible appearance, which is
not something “merely” visible to me, but contains all the “calmness”
I am interested in _without any further idea about something additional
such as, for instance, his “consciousness_.” If he becomes more and
more excited, according to my eyes and ears, this _crescendo_ is not
an indifferent sensory fact. In its dynamical properties it _contains_
what I call the man’s excitement, and I do not think of the man as a
locus of events belonging to an essentially different world. At least,
before I begin to philosophize, I do not do so. In the same way, when
I refer to other men’s “hesitation,” “restlessness,” “determination,”
“depression,” “avoiding,” “reaching for,” and also their “joy,” “fear,”
“anger,” “embarrassment” and so forth, I am usually far from inferring
“inner experiences” in them, by making “a last step” from my sensory
experiences into quite another field. On the contrary, what I denote by
those terms _remains_ entirely in sensory space. Though the terms may
also be applied to _my_ inner experiences, which often are strikingly
similar to those objective experiences, they do not usually refer to
the inner experiences of others when used in an everyday description of
their conduct.
May I ask the reader to make an experiment before criticizing these
statements? It is easy enough to produce embarrassment in some one.
If the reader tries it and if he becomes convinced that he has
been successful, he should ask himself whether what he calls the
embarrassment of the other is not present to him in sensory space. He
should also ask whether or not he imagines something out of another
world, i.e., the subjectively experienced embarrassment of the other,
when he “understands” that man’s behavior, as we understand each other
in daily life. Sometimes, it is true, we experience the other man’s
attitude as something issuing from “his interior.” But what is here
called “his interior” is a part of the same sensory space in which his
visible face is seen. Even such a description does not refer to events
in a world apart; it means an event in the self-same world in which we
see the other “looking at a definite object,” for instance. If in my
objective experience the other man is a segregated whole and if to this
whole there corresponds a functional whole of processes in my brain,
we have no right to expect that the dynamics of that functional whole
should be restricted to its boundary in all cases, the interior of it
remaining altogether empty. So we may well understand the fact that
sometimes a dynamical attitude seems to issue from another person’s
“interior.”
The conclusion of this discussion is that the “numerical difference”
between fear as experienced subjectively and fear as experienced
objectively by an observer, shall not be denied. But we have to
add immediately that this theoretical difference does not play an
appreciable rôle in common life, because here, from the viewpoint
of a naïve observer, the frightened behavior, as it is experienced
objectively, _is the_ fear of the other. Similarly, to this observer
the pencil before him _is the_ pencil, though in a moment of
theoretical consideration he may realize that, in addition to it, there
exists a pencil as an unexperienced physical object.
I mention one more consequence of this theory or, as one should better
say, of this description: All physical events or states which send
similar constellations of stimuli to our eyes and ears, as issue from
the physical body of another person, will look or sound “emotional,”
“restless,” “directed towards something,” “determined,” and so forth,
just as a living person does. No one can hear naïvely the rumbling
_crescendo_ of thunder without thus understanding it as “menacing.”
Different types of weather are experienced in the same manner, i.e.,
as calm or restless or friendly, and so forth.[48] No one thinks
of imagining the subjective experiences of the weather in such a
case. What surrounds us in sensory space, we describe as restless or
menacing or friendly, because these are the dynamical attributes or
Ehrenfels-qualities which characterize the sensory experiences in
question.
I wish to state expressly, however, that sometimes the problem of
“understanding” seems to present difficulties which cannot be solved
in this way. Wherever the objective experience which we have of
another person does not appear as similar to those inner experiences
which he probably has, a new situation is before us. One might say,
for instance, that, from the viewpoint of our theory, laughing as seen
and heard by others is not an appropriate expression of that group of
subjective states which are usually accompanied by laughing. Whether
in such cases the theory of association and assimilation, or any
other indirect explanation, may be accepted as a supplement, I shall
not try to decide here. Suppose that such a supplement should become
necessary; the facts described in this chapter would be an excellent
basis for it, because where understanding has already occurred as
something direct and obvious, this core of experiences might well tend
to complete itself in the form of meaning acquired indirectly. On the
other hand, we do not claim that what is going on within a person will
_always_ be evident in his sensory appearance. A theory that would
pretend so much could not possibly be right. Most persons begin to
conceal themselves to some degree early in life. A well-trained actor
or pianist does not “look” his stage fright at all; he does not “sound”
it either. To be sure, sometimes, calmness acquired as a social form
will become transparent in consequence of some slight but treacherous
nuance of effort in it. Real embarrassment, as, for instance, in the
example considered above (pp. 253-255), is a thing which few people
can conceal altogether. By no means can we deny, however, that
innumerable passing events and traits of inner life remain hidden in
social contact, because suppression of peripheral “projection” has
become a facile automatism in adults. Moreover, I shall concede without
hesitation that, on the way from organized processes in one person
through the transmission by waves of light or sound to new organization
in a second person, much may be lost or distorted. The theory gives
us neither an altogether new nor an altogether perfect key to another
person’s inner life; it tries only to describe so far as it can that
kind of understanding which is the common property and practice of
mankind.
A special relevant task consists in considering what further effects
those sensory experiences may have, which, possessing the qualities
of calmness or restlessness, of tension or relaxation, and so forth,
appear to us both in our fellow men and the weather. In our nervous
system, the processes underlying those experiences do not remain
isolated, the psychophysical field is larger, and other parts of it are
very apt to develop processes which we experience as subjective. We
have seen that these have much in common with the processes underlying
our objective experience of the behavior of others. Therefore, a rather
direct influence seems to be possible. Social contagion particularly,
but also fear, as an effect of menacing objective experience, or
haughtiness as a consequence of the humbleness of others, experienced
objectively, must be considered from the new viewpoint.
These are problems which we may leave to a future time when the
simpler facts described in this chapter will have found more general
acknowledgment. One word more shall be said, however, about the
application of the new viewpoint to scientific method. In this respect
one might be inclined to say that such an understanding of others
is all right for the purposes of common life, but not for those of
science. It ought to be excluded, therefore, from behavioristic
studies as something which originates in our sensory processes as a
very indirect and complicated result of stimulation. We have seen,
however, that even such a radical behaviorist as Dr. Watson does not
keep himself free from its use, because too little would be left
of the qualitative observation and description of behavior, if he
should try seriously to exclude even the slightest trace of that
“understanding.” Take the example of the physicist! If he would exclude
from objective observation whatever exists for him as a product of
sensory organization only, he could neither rely upon the sensory
segregation of _objects_, including his apparatus, nor upon their
_form_ as a visual experience, since it does not exist without the
“indirect and complicated” processes of sensory organization. It is
obvious that such an extreme procedure would make his scientific
task an impossible affair. Quite the same is true of behavioristic
psychology. At least as preliminary material the sensory experiences
which we have considered in this chapter have to be used, wherever they
occur as striking and evident in behavior as objective experience. With
naïve confidence the physicist did likewise to a great extent, before
he could develop the present methods of his science which restrict the
use of sensory experience to certain special and very reliable cases.
In our young science it will be convenient to follow his example with
caution, as we proposed in the second chapter. But I wish to lay some
stress upon the necessary caution. Only those should be allowed to
apply this method in objective psychology who know how to discriminate
between the apparent data of objective experience and the mere play of
untrained and prejudiced imagination.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Buytendijk und Plessner: _Philosophischer Anzeiger_. 1925.
E. von Hornbostel: _Festschrift Meinhof_.
L. Klages: _Vom Wesen des Bewusstseins_. 1921.
W. Köhler: _Die Methoden der psychologischen Forschung beim Affen_
(Cf. Chapter II).
Usnadze: Psychol. Forsch., 5. 1924.
VIII
_Association_
WITHOUT the observation of direct experience we should be in great
danger of constructing an artificially simplified system of psychology,
as is that of current behaviorism. On the other hand, it seems
absolutely impossible to me to develop psychology as a science of
direct experience or of “consciousness.” For the development of that
science the field of actual experience alone is inadequate, especially
when compared with the totality of those processes in the nervous
system, a few of which are at each moment accompanied by experience,
but _all_ of which seem to be more or less interdependent. How can one
pretend to construct an adequate theory of psychological events using
experience alone, if the processes underlying experience are merely
a dynamical province of a much larger functional whole? It is almost
impossible to deny this fact nowadays. Therefore, we cannot hope to
understand experience itself exclusively from its own aspect, any more
than one could hope to learn and understand the game of chess through
watching only the moves in one corner of the board the whole time.
In this latter case the observer of the game would soon become aware
of the fact that something important was going on beyond the narrow
field of his observation, that evidently the moves in it referred
to something beyond, since they even seemed to come from there and
to disappear again into the unseen. Exactly the same is true of
experience. When reading or talking about things which are not present,
we do not usually develop adequate “images” of them. Sometimes scarcely
anything at all seems to be experienced of those absent things. When
asked about my profession I answer that I am a psychologist. But all
the _actual_ experience connected with this word is a certain feeling
of familiarity, of being sure about it, and of a certain direction
in which I might start at once in order to furnish more concrete and
detailed data. This “readiness for transition” in a definite direction,
the mark of which is not given explicitly in actual experience, has
been described excellently by William James. It is one of the most
frequent and common things to be found in experience. And its most
conspicuous character consists in its being _experienced as_ pointing
beyond the actual field of experience towards something particular
and ready outside. So experience tells us about its own functional
incompleteness. Nor should we be too much astonished by the fact;
nothing else can be expected if, of a larger functional whole, only
a restricted field has experience as a correlate; to the dynamical
dependence of this field upon definite physiological states beyond
itself corresponds the felt definite direction in experience. Though
not experienced actually, those physiological states “beyond” seem to
be definite enough; for in general our reading and talking go the right
way, sufficiently determined by those “states beyond.”
Perhaps the simplest example of this is “successive comparison,” in its
different forms. After a few years of traveling I meet a friend, and
my first idea is “How old he looks!” That does not at all mean that he
looks particularly old on an absolute scale. I see older-looking men
every day. Nor does it mean that I reproduce an image of him, as I knew
him before, and now compare the two. Nevertheless, what is meant refers
to the past and represents an extreme form of what occurs in most cases
of successive comparison. If five seconds after a first noise I hear a
second one, similar but sufficiently louder, I am able to judge about
the relation of their intensities without any difficulty, though I do
_not_ reproduce the first at the moment of the second. (Personally, I
am not able to experience even a somewhat inadequate “image” of one
noise when I hear a second one which is slightly different.) In this
point all observers at present seem to agree.
But how do we judge about the relation, if only one of the noises is
actually experienced? We may answer that we do not experience the
second noise as something isolated and discrete, but that, when it
occurs, it seems to come with a definite direction “from something
in the past.”[49] Even if we take this for granted, however, our
problem is not yet solved. Our judgments are usually rather accurate.
Hence, what is left of the past, i.e., of the first sound, which now
determines the direction with which the second noise appears, must be a
fairly definite representative of the first noise. On the other hand,
this _trace_ of the first sound is an effect not comparable to that
process which, five seconds before, was accompanied by our experience
of the first sound. If it were still of the same kind, it should be
accompanied by a similar experience throughout, which it certainly
is not. Hence, the only possibility seems to be that a physiological
product of that first process remains after that process itself has
ceased, that such a product represents sufficiently well that process
by which it was produced, and that the definite direction with which
the second noise appears depends upon the “level” of that product in
its relation to the intensity of the second noise.
The concentration of those molecules which have taken part in the
first process may be considered as a product of that process, left
behind as its trace, with corresponding properties. There are other
hypotheses. But no theory will be competent which does not assume
some trace corresponding more or less to the actual properties of the
first process. Some years ago I developed a more detailed theory of
successive comparison, primarily concerned with the way in which the
trace of a first sound determines the direction with which the second
sound appears.[50] I concluded that by experimentation on successive
comparison we are able to find out what happens to the trace of the
first process after this process itself has ceased. The final result of
these considerations was that such a trace is preserved for a long time
and that, probably, it is identical with what has to be assumed as the
physiological basis of enduring memory and of reproduction.
In some degree all sound theories of memory, of habit, and so forth,
will be hypotheses about physiological traces. Furthermore, each of
these theories will have to assume that the properties of the traces
correspond more or less to those of the processes by which they were
produced. Otherwise we should not be able to explain the accuracy of
reproduction which in a great many cases is very high. In _gestalt_
psychology we state at once the assumption that, as far as the original
process (and the experience which may have accompanied it) has been
organized in a definite manner, its trace must have similar properties
of organization, in general. Take the examples given in Chapter VI
where the concept of “real form” was considered. If certain segregated
wholes with definite forms are experienced in our field of vision, the
aspect of one of them later on may reproduce other experiences which
had been present at the same time. But if, for some reason, instead of
that particular organization, grouping and form, we experience other
wholes with their real forms, no reproduction will occur, though the
same, or almost the same, stimuli may be given us. So the number 4 will
reproduce its name when written in a certain environment (cf. p. 209),
but when Fig. 10 is shown to an unprejudiced subject, this name will
not occur at all. On the other hand, if the subject has once found the
4 in that figure, which means that 4 has now become a segregated whole,
he will consequently find it again easily, and reproduce the name.
From this it follows that the traces of past experiences are neither
an indifferent continuum nor a mosaic of independent points; rather
they must be pictures of past organization. As such they take part in
processes of reproduction.
This same property of the traces may be deduced from recognition.
When Rubin induced his subjects at the first presentation to see
certain pictures in a definite distribution of figure and ground,
they recognized them very well if, afterwards, the same organization
was favored by the conditions of the experiment. If, however, in the
second presentation what had been figure before became ground, and
vice versa, the subjects found unknown forms in the field, i.e.,
failed to recognize, though the constellation of stimuli was the same
throughout. Here again the traces are shown to correspond entirely to
past organization, and not to the aggregate of past stimuli. We may go
a little further: In most cases of reproduction the reproduced material
itself appears as organized. This is true not only of “images,” but
also of motor “melodies” with which we are well acquainted, as Michotte
and van der Veldt have shown most vividly in a recent book.[51]
Readers who have visual images will easily find that their image of a
definite individual tree is detached from the dim environment, as a
figure-whole possessing a real form. Of course, in “free imagination”
and in dreaming the field given us may be very different from any
sensory experience we have ever had before. Nevertheless, even the
oddest creations of dreaming will remain figures, groups or events,
which, whether very definite in shape or not, exhibit all the essential
properties of organization.
So decisive will organization be in a tremendous number of cases that
we may change the stimuli in the most radical manner and still get the
same recognition or the same reproduction, if only the essential traits
of the organization in question remain the same. A melody is recognized
in a key which may not contain a single tone of its first presentation.
Or again, some days after we have heard it the first time we find
ourselves humming it spontaneously in a changed key. Here all the
factors excepting organization seem to be indifferent for reproduction.
I hardly need mention the fact that an unknown figure seen to-day
in red color somewhat to the left of the point of fixation and in a
definite size, will be recognized without difficulty if to-morrow it
appears as green or yellow, somewhat to the right and in quite another
size.[52] Evidently, then, recognition and reproduction deal with the
organization of past events as much or rather more than with local
effects of stimulation, which are assumed as the parts of past events
in mosaic theory. We shall come back to this point later on.
From this viewpoint some facts can be explained which would remain
perplexing if we did not recognize the reality of organization. When
we experiment on delayed reaction in animals we find that some of them
are able to choose the right object, let us say among three equal
ones before them, after a delay of many seconds or even some minutes;
though at the time when the delay is over and we release the animal,
the right object does not exhibit any peculiar traits, as it did before
the delay. If, during the delay, the animal remains directed towards
the right object, his correct choice is not very astonishing. A real
problem arises in the case in which the animal moves freely in his
cage during the delay and still assumes the right direction after we
release it. It has been said that in such a case the animal’s reaction
depends upon some internal cue. This is true insofar as there would
be no reason at all for the right reaction after the delay without
some after-effect of previous stimulation (for instance, the aspect
of food) which at that time made one object a particular thing. That
after-effect is undoubtedly an internal cue. But when, after the
delay and after accidental movements of the animal, the internal cue
works the right way, there must be some characteristic of the right
object by which it can be discriminated. This something cannot be
discovered when we examine each object by itself, because in exact
experimentation they all have the same properties. Still there is
some difference between them, and this difference is the rôle which
each object plays in the group. One is the left end, one the right
end, and one the middle or interior part of the group. If, with that
after-effect as an internal cue, the animal reacts after the delay, the
only property (of the right object) which can make the animal refer its
cue to the right object is _the place of that object in the group of
three objects_.[53] The particular stimulus (the food, for instance,
or a light, as in Hunter’s famous experiments) which was given at the
beginning of the delay has operated as a distinguishing mark of one
definite and well characterized member of the group (let us say, of
the first to the right in a single case). Therefore, after the delay,
the group, and that definite rôle which just one member of it plays
in sensory process, is able to work upon the cue and to produce the
right reaction. In this sense delayed reaction to one among several
objects, having identical properties as isolated objects, involves
the principles of organization and cannot be understood without them.
This becomes even more obvious, perhaps, when we consider the multiple
choice method which Yerkes has used with so much success. There it is
evidently the definite rôle of one object in a group which has become
connected with a definite reaction and consequently will reproduce that
reaction whatever may be the position of the group.
The main interest of experimental psychology has not been directed
toward the nature of the traces which are left in the nervous system
after the original processes have faded away. When we say that the
traces of organized processes must be organized themselves, we do not
seem to have mentioned the most important feature of memory, habit
and so forth, namely, that those traces are _connected_ in the manner
which is generally called their “association” and which leads to the
reproduction of the second when the first is activated by a repetition
of its process. That there are traces is one basic factor of habit,
etc. But if two processes, A and B, have occurred frequently together,
reactivation of the trace of A is said to reactivate B in consequence
of a curious bond between them created by those past events. This is
the second basic factor of habit, and almost all the classical research
on memory has dealt with the formation of that bond and its career
in the course of time. There is almost no other phase of our science
of which we are prouder than this, because here methods have been
developed and laws have been found which may almost be compared with
those of the natural sciences.
In some respects this pride seems fully justified to me, though at the
present time we have begun to realize that we have used those excellent
methods to investigate inconsiderately a special type of memory and
habit and that we should not apply the results obtained to everyday
memory and habit. There is one problem, however, which was not made an
object of those experiments because it did not seem at first to be a
problem. Indeed, it was presupposed as a fact that the mere repetition
of two processes, A and B, having occurred frequently together, would
create that curious bond, the association, between them. This concept
of association shall be discussed in the following paragraphs.
The law of association just mentioned has been considered particularly
satisfactory, due to the purely mechanical character of its content,
which does not in the least imply mystical forces or anything else
foreign to the ideals of natural science. I must confess, however,
that just from the viewpoint of natural science the law of contiguity
appears rather strange to me. A and B happen to occur together and,
whatever the nature of A and B may be, the bond is produced between
them! I do not know a single law or rule in physics or chemistry which
might be compared in this respect with the concept of association. I
repeat what was said in Chapter IV: Wherever an A and B have anything
to do with each other in physics, the effect is found to depend upon
the properties of A and B in their relations to each other. This is the
case in astronomy where acceleration depends upon the masses of A and
B. It is the case in electrostatics where the occurrence of attraction
or repulsion depends upon the nature of electric charges. In chemistry
we find the violent reaction or indifference of atoms determined by
the relation of their properties in the given case. But there is not a
single example of an effect produced by the interaction of two things
or processes quite independently of their properties. Nevertheless this
is the character of the classical law of association, as we find it
stated in most textbooks.
At this point we return to that trait of mosaic theory which we have
found so characteristic of its treatment of sensory processes. If the
distribution and direction of events in the central nervous system
are determined dynamically by interaction in the field, they must
depend upon “the relative properties” of those processes which exert
influences upon each other. This is excluded in principle by the mosaic
theory of the sensory field. Sensation processes are assumed to be
indifferent to each other in general, so that, with regard to them,
any pattern may exist equally well in the field. Exactly the same
assumption of discrete bits of process, altogether indifferent to each
other, underlies the classical concept of association for, without even
mentioning the actual properties of A and B in their relations to each
other, it states that _any_ A and _any_ B may acquire that neutral
bond, if it is supposed only that they occur together a number of times.
It seems to me that, even at the present time and before any
experimental research has been specially directed upon this question,
we may say confidently that, in this point at least, the concept of
association is opposed to a large number of well-known facts. In order
to corroborate this claim, we have only to gather statements scattered
in papers, the authors of which have worked with the classical methods
and the classical nonsense syllables, which their subjects had to
commit to their memories.
We see at once that in a series of these syllables the A and B
(i.e., two syllables following each other) cannot remain altogether
indifferent to each other, since by a simple experiment we can prove
that A and B are not even indifferent to F and G and H and so forth
(i.e., to members remote in the series). When a subject is told to
write down six syllables which we read to him quickly, he is usually
able to comply. But if, instead of six, we give him a series of twelve
syllables, the result is that on the average less than six are written
down. This argues a mutual disturbance which indicates that even
syllables rather distant in time are not indifferent to each other.
If after some repetitions we test the subject, giving him single
syllables and instructing him to name the following one in each case,
our procedure is based upon the assumption that there are a number
of independent associations and reproductions, the results admitting
a statistical treatment. This does not seem to be altogether correct
insofar as it neglects a more general interdependence. It may be
neglected whenever this interdependence is the same statistically in
all the series and when the problems under investigation are the usual
ones. However, as soon as the nature of association itself becomes a
problem, we must be more careful.
In a more striking manner the same warning may be deduced from what
happens to a series of syllables during learning. The subjects read
them in a definite and rhythmical distribution which, usually, consists
of larger wholes, containing sub-units. At the same time the reading
will assume the character of a melody, the pitch of the voice going
up and down, following that grouping exactly.[54] Evidently, a process
of organization occurs during learning and most of all during the
first readings of the series. If that be so, the syllables ought to
acquire a definite “flavor” which belongs to them insofar as they have
a particular place in the larger whole. This consequence is verified
perfectly in those cases in which, after learning a series as a whole,
the subjects are shown the same syllables in another sequence. In the
new order _they look or sound new or strange_. A similar implication
is to be found in the highly important concept of “association with
place,” which means that a syllable is learnt as having a definite
place, not absolutely but with respect to the whole series in which
it occurs. Objectively, the rôle of organization is most convincingly
proved if, after learning the whole series completely so that it is
repeated as a whole without hesitation, the subjects are shown single
syllables in order to reproduce the following one in each case. It has
been found by Nagel that scarcely one-third of the reproductions was
achieved under these circumstances.[55] When given alone, a syllable is
obviously not the same thing as it is in the stream of the organized
series.
Nonsense syllables were chosen by Ebbinghaus and his successors
as the best material for investigating associations, because they
wished to keep their experiments free from the older, already-formed
associations which, if “meaningful” material were employed, would
influence the results in an uncontrolled manner. Furthermore, nonsense
syllables seemed to be a more uniform material than any other. It
would be altogether unjust if we should deny the value of the great
impulse which psychology received from that method. It seems, however,
that the early investigators used this method in a somewhat one-sided
manner. The most valuable observations, perhaps, were made after the
one-sidedness of the original point of view was discovered.
Some psychologists have criticized the method of Ebbinghaus in that it
does not at all investigate automatic associations, whereas the results
of the method are formulated as though that were the case. Indeed, if
the mere neighborhood of the syllables is supposed to produce their
association, most experiments using this material are far from testing
such a pure association, since the subject does not simply receive a
succession of syllables, but rather _is asked to learn them_. If he
follows this instruction, some factor takes part in what is built up
during learning, and this factor is not even mentioned when the results
are formulated in terms of automatic associations. Undoubtedly, here
is a flaw in the scientific procedure. The mistake is a grave one for
it has been shown that without that factor the learning of series of
nonsense syllables would be almost impossible.[56]
But what are the subjects doing when they try to learn a series
intentionally? No one is better authorized to give an answer to
this question than G. E. Müller, who has spent a large part of his
scientific life studying the rules of association and reproduction. His
answer is: “A series of figures, consonants, syllables and so forth,
is learned essentially by our combining the members of the series
in an attitude of synthesis, so that they become solid groups.”[57]
We have seen in an earlier chapter that by a corresponding attitude
one may favor definite forms of grouping, and that the products of
this procedure may be just as real as any spontaneous organization
is. Following the statement of Müller, we may say, therefore, that
intentional learning essentially means intentional organizing.
Though such an attitude seems to be almost necessary in the case of
nonsense material and, most of all, of syllables, it is not needed
evidently where the material has other properties. Time and again we
find ourselves reproducing events from our past experience, where
the incentive to reproduction has certainly not been _intentionally_
combined with what we are now able to reproduce. If that be so, we
must draw the conclusion that the nonsense material used in classical
investigations may be excellent in some respects from the viewpoint of
exactness, but that it cannot teach us the whole truth about so-called
associations. These are not formed in the same manner when, instead
of the classical material, we have to deal with the more natural
experiences of everyday life.
If now we ask ourselves, whether _all_ our experiences outside the
laboratory associate themselves spontaneously, so that the evocation of
one may reproduce its neighbors, we must confess that this is not the
case. We may hear a telephone number dozens of times together with a
name and still remain unable to reproduce it when the name occurs later
on. In this case conditions seem to be similar to those present in the
case of nonsense syllables. The name and the number are as indifferent
to each other as are those syllables usually. Thus the suspicion
arises that we may have spontaneous association where organization
is spontaneous, and that intentional combining is needed where the
material in itself is but slightly organized.
This assumption is corroborated by the well-known fact that meaningful
nouns form associations much more easily than nonsense material. In
this case, of course, the nouns appear as imbued with their meanings
by a process of learning accomplished in our childhood. When as
adult subjects we learn a series of nouns we find these meanings
ready-made, and obviously now it is these _meanings_ which are so
easily associated. But why should they be? At the present time most
psychologists will answer that this is a consequence of their having
been previously associated, so that the actual process of learning
has only to strengthen some particular bond between the meanings of a
pair of nouns which existed a long time before. But at this point the
difference between _gestalt_ psychology and associationism becomes
striking. Let somebody read the following pairs of nouns a few times,
with an attentive attitude: lake-sugar, boot-plate, girl-kangaroo,
pencil-gasoline, palace-bicycle, railroad-elephant, book-toothpaste.
Learning will be considerably easier here than if the same number
of nonsense syllables were given. Can one really say that between
lake and sugar, palace and bicycle, and so forth, there are old
associations which just need some slight exercise and which thereupon
facilitate the learning? It seems to me that we cannot, mainly because
the same words have occurred thousands of times in other much more
regular connections, which ought absolutely to inhibit the _assumed_
associations in this particular case. But there is another explanation.
When I read those words I may imagine as a (very strange) picture, how
a lump of sugar might dissolve in a lake, how a boot might rest on a
plate, how a girl might feed a kangaroo, and so forth. If this happens
during reading I shall have experienced some well organized though
quite unusual wholes, and it may be that here learning is so easy,
because _organizing_ is so much easier in this case than in that of
indifferent nonsense syllables. In order to exclude the possibility
of frequent similar combinations in the past, I have chosen strange
pairs of nouns, the meanings of which may be organized into larger
wholes (pictures), but do not do so quite spontaneously. It seems to
me that those combinations and sequences which become even more easily
associated in everyday life are simply cases of strong spontaneous
organization.
We may say, then, that in one respect nonsense syllables constitute the
worst material which might be chosen for discovering essentially what
association is. As they do not spontaneously form well-characterized
organizations, the nature of spontaneous association will not become
apparent to the psychologist who uses them. Furthermore, as the series
of syllables are built up in a haphazard manner, one cannot even
examine the way in which learning depends upon what may be called the
structure of a series. Even though it be composed of nonsense material
throughout, a series may be constructed in a great many different
ways. Syllables may be chosen which fit together phonetically in a
very characteristic way, or the contrary may be done. Some pairs may
be constructed according to one principle, some according to another.
The whole series may exhibit an extraordinarily striking principle of
structure or it may be an indifferent series, as are the usual ones.
All these variations of material ought to be examined in order to see
whether or not organization is the essential fact underlying so-called
association. From the trend of the foregoing discussion, we should be
inclined to say that it is.
As a last argument in favor of this thesis we may mention the fact
that, sometime after learning a series of members by combining them
into pairs, for instance, the subjects will be able to reproduce the
second members of these pairs rather easily, if the first members are
given them as stimuli to reproduction, whereas, on the other hand, the
number of right reproductions will be small if we present the second
members of pairs and ask for the following serial items which are the
first members of the next successive pairs or groups. If we suppose
that during learning the members of the whole series objectively formed
a uniform sequence as to spatial and temporal intervals, this result
makes it evident that the old rule of association is superficial
and that the conditions of association are ambiguous as long as we
do not take into account the organization of the material. We get
strong association only in those parts of a series where organization
is also strong. It is true that neighborhood or proximity in space
and time is a factor of great importance in association. But it does
not seem to operate directly. In an earlier chapter we saw that the
factor of neighborhood is one of the conditions upon which depend
grouping and the segregation of wholes. From what we have just
stated it would follow, then, _that neighborhood in space and time
influences association only insofar as it determines organization_.
Since this condition is just one among a great many others determining
organization, and since organization seems to be the really decisive
condition of association, the rule of association has to be
reformulated accordingly.
I repeat. Where organization is naturally strong we have spontaneous
association; where there is practically no organization association
does not occur until some organization is created intentionally.
Also, after being associated, the members of a series have definite
properties which depend upon their position in the surrounding whole,
as tones do in an organized melody. And finally, if in a series we
determine those sequences which are the _solid_ groups in the total
series, and if, then, we also determine where association is strongest
we shall find that both coincide.
After these preliminaries we can discuss the nature of that particular
bond which is said to originate between the traces of two processes
when these processes are associated. The prevailing opinion is that
during learning the nerve fibers uniting the place of one process with
that of the other acquire an increased conductivity, because with each
repetition some particular current of nervous energy is assumed to pass
from one to the other. In consequence of this change of conductivity,
whenever the process corresponding to the first trace activates this
trace the current spreads along those fibers to the second trace, and
reactivates it also. With this hypothesis one may understand, perhaps,
why after some repetitions the current should flow in that particular
direction and thereby increase its conductivity; but we do not at all
see why it should flow in just that direction on the _first_ occasion.
And this is a serious difficulty, particularly in those cases where
after one single experience we find the association well established.
One can scarcely avoid the inference that in this case the processes
underlying the experience _as such_ contain all that is implied in the
concept of association, at once and originally, no special bond being
necessary for it.
We do not know what happens in reproduction. The only thing we seem
compelled to assume is some physiological communication between the
traces of two processes, A and B, so that an event activated in A will
spread to B and not to other traces, with the processes of which it had
nothing whatever to do in the past. Now, two hypotheses are possible:
If we believe A and B to be two processes indifferent to each other,
which accidentally occur near to each other in space and time, then
some special bond, some change of conductivity in fibers between them
may be needed as a basis of the association. In full contrast to this
older view, however, we may make quite a different assumption: Whenever
we “associate” A and B we experience them, not as two indifferent
things, but as members of one organized group. This certainly may be
taken for granted, after the foregoing analysis. In this case the
process underlying the experience cannot consist of two indifferent
parts, one belonging to A and one to B. It must be one functional
whole in which A and B possess only a _relative_ independence. If that
be so, there will not be two separate traces left behind after the
process itself has faded, but _one_ trace of the functional whole,
with the after-effects of A and B in it as local regions of that
single trace. In this way A and B, or their after-effects, would be
as well connected in the single trace of the whole organized process
as they might ever be by means of the special bond which united them,
according to the older point of view. If such a bond determined “the
spreading of nervous activity” from A to B, the segregated trace of one
process-in-extension might well do precisely the same. Unfortunately,
in neither case do we know as yet what are the functional properties
of that “spreading” and what sort of nervous communication would
be capable of determining its course in the observed manner of
reproduction.
It will be convenient to give our assumption a somewhat radical
formulation so that it will be easier to distinguish it from the
usual one. From our viewpoint, association is given up as a special
and independent theoretical concept. It is not more than a name for
the fact that organized processes leave a trace picturing their
organization and that in consequence of it reproductions are possible.
I do not deny that repetition will make the association stronger, but
as long as the process remains the same, repetition does not involve
a change in a special bond; it means that the whole trace of the
organized process becomes more enduring and stable. Nor shall I deny
that sometimes, as in the case of nonsense material, some special
attitude is needed for producing an association. But, as we have seen
before, such an attitude consists in favoring definite organizations.
When these are experienced, the processes corresponding to them will
also be organized, and so will their traces. The only problem which
is new in such a case is that of “intentional” organization. But this
problem shall be treated quite apart from association.
* * * * *
Some psychologists will be inclined to say that it does not matter very
much whether we accept one theory of association or the other, since
we are not able to look into the brain to decide which one is right.
This indicates a complete misunderstanding, however, of the value of a
hypothesis. If there is anything concrete in a hypothesis, it must be
possible to deduce concrete consequences from it, and to examine them
in further experimentation. It is easy enough to do that in this case.
In the old rule about association nothing was said about the properties
of the A and B which are associated because, in principle, association
was believed to be an indifferent bond between processes indifferent
to each other and to the bond. Organization, however, is not at all
an aggregation of indifferent material. On the contrary, in sensory
experience we have found organization to depend most decidedly upon
“the relative properties” of stimulation. Therefore, if association
is a consequence of organization, it must also depend upon the
mutually relative properties of what is or shall be associated. In
some degree this is verified by what we have reported above. But much
more has to be done in the way of varying the nature of the material
according to the principles of _gestalt_ theory, so that we may see
more definitely whether, other circumstances remaining the same, an
association will be the stronger, the better organized is the group
or the whole, according to those principles. As yet we do not seem to
have any experiments planned specially and deliberately in order to
answer this question. As we know a great deal about the conditions
upon which sensory organization depends, the path is laid and it will
be the more interesting to follow in this direction since we should
be able to deduce from all the rules known in the field of sensory
organization, corresponding rules for association. Of course, we
cannot hope to find all the properties of association in this manner,
because the rules of sensory experience are in no way instructive with
respect to the formation of _traces_ as such; nor can we from those
rules deduce the career of a trace in the course of time, and under the
influence of other processes and traces which develop after it in the
same region of the nervous system. On the other hand, when once the
identification of association with the traces of functional wholes is
verified sufficiently, further discoveries with regard to association
may give us hints about properties of organization itself which, for
some reason, we may fail to detect directly in sensory experience.
A second consequence of our hypothesis, which ought to be examined
experimentally for the sake of that hypothesis, may have practical
value as well. This consequence belongs to animal psychology. We have
seen that nonsense syllables do not usually associate spontaneously
because they do not form well-organized groups unless we combine
them. In some cases series of them have been read passively hundreds
of times without an appreciable effect in learning. But, as we have
seen, the same subjects “have a good memory” in everyday life and
can reproduce thousands of events which they have never intended to
commit to their memories. This reminds one of a strange contrast
which all animal psychologists have observed between animal learning,
as it occurs during experimentation in the laboratory, and habit
formation as it develops in the same animals outside the laboratory.
I do not think that the concrete reason for this difference is
contained in the reference to the “natural” circumstances present
in the latter situation but not in the former. What does the term
“natural” mean here? I suggest that it may mean “favorable” with
respect to association in a very particular way, i.e., with respect to
organization.
Indeed, it would seem in this connection that a great many experiments,
most of all those on sensory discrimination, proceed in the wrong
way, because, blinded by that old concept of association as a binding
together of two indifferent things largely by many repetitions, we do
not take account of organization at all when we are constructing the
experimental situation. For instance, on the rear walls of two alleys
we fix two objects which we wish the animal to learn to discriminate.
On the floor, in no connection whatever with those objects, we put
the wires for punishment in the case of a wrong choice, in such a way
that an electric shock applied at this point will be more foreign to
the wrong object even, perhaps, than one syllable is to the next in
experimentation on human association. On the other hand, the animal
will be fed after a right choice somewhere behind the scene, i.e., in
a situation just as separate from the right object as the shock is
from the wrong one. A young behaviorist once asked me whether, apart
from vague concepts, _gestalt_ theory had anything new and concrete
to offer science upon which it might work. It seems to me that if we
had nothing to give behaviorism except our criticism of this method and
some suggestions toward a better one, it would be quite sufficient. In
man learning seems to depend upon organization. It is highly improbable
that the same rule should not apply to habit formation in animals.
Therefore, when we investigate sensory discrimination in animals,
instead of separating those “stimuli” from each other, the coöperation
of which most probably determines learning, we ought to make that
coöperation as easy as we can. Some years ago I proposed the following
procedure: If the wrong object made a sudden movement against the
animal, whenever the latter made the wrong choice, we should certainly
have a situation much more similar to the animal’s learning in common
life, and a more efficient one, because then the negative stimulus
would immediately imbue itself with “negativity.”[58] It is quite
possible that a variation of procedure in this direction would save the
experimenter much time. In addition to this practical reason, however,
it seems to me a sound law of experimentation that conditions should be
varied in _all_ respects. If behaviorists are interested in finding the
conditions and the nature of learning, they may have great success some
day if they vary the conditions of habit formation according to the
principles of organization.
These remarks apply to the formation of so-called conditioned reflexes
in the same way that they do to older methods used to study learning.
From the viewpoint of machine theory it sounds a little nicer if we
talk about conditioned reflexes instead of associations. I do not
find, however, that the first concept is clearer than the second. One
might even say that what we call a conditioned reflex now is just one
special case of a certain type of association, because it is evident
that the “stimulus,” which is to be artificially connected with a
reflex, cannot be made to produce that reflex except by first becoming
“connected” with an _adequate_ “stimulus” which naturally produces that
reflex. This means an association of two sensory processes however.
The association may become so strong that _via_ the mere trace of
the adequate sensory process the new one will eventually arouse the
reflex. But since that association is the thing to be “learned,”
before a conditioned reflex can occur, and since the association
of two processes is a direct effect of their organization into one
whole, the same consequences have to be deduced here as in human
association and in the old form of animal discrimination experiments.
As yet no one seems to have examined the question whether a change
in the presentation of the “artificial stimulus,” in its relation
to the natural one, exerts an influence upon the building up of the
conditioned reflex. A bell rings and food is shown or given, but
no attention is paid to those experimental conditions upon which
organization would depend. That is not at all astonishing since the
old concept of “connecting two separate processes by learning” still
prevails. On the other hand, animal psychology has an opportunity here
to test the value of two assumptions at the same time, namely, that
conditioning is practically the same thing as associating two sensory
processes, and that associating depends upon organization.
When seen from the viewpoint we have reached in this chapter, certain
earlier discussions will assume a somewhat surprising aspect. Our
conclusion is that association depends upon organization because
association is just an after-effect of an organized process. Now, when
we first introduced the concept of organization, we were hampered at
every step by those empiristic hypotheses which sought to explain
by the influence of meaning or other affiliated factors whatever
experiences did not fit into the scheme of mosaic or machine theory.
In many of those cases I hope that I have shown that, fundamentally,
the experiences in question cannot be derived from previous learning
in any form; and that, therefore, organization has to be accepted
as an original aspect of our experiences. Now we may go further and
make the statement that, on the contrary, wherever the influences of
past experience can really be discovered in actual experience, this
secondary effect itself is a consequence of past organization, because,
generally, meaning will accompany an actual experience or be contained
in it by a process of reproduction, and this reproduction will be based
upon the trace of a larger organized whole. Consequently, if we try
to reduce organization in principle to associated meanings, we must
explain actual organization by the traces of previous organization
in a larger area. If our theory is right, the whole procedure would
mean a vicious circle, for organization would be the more fundamental
functional concept, and association or meaning would be ideas
depending upon it. So much concerning the question of principle. I
repeat, however, that very often our actual experiences _are_ really
and thoroughly imbued with meaning. In these cases it should be
acknowledged as a fact that the after-effects of previous organization
determine the properties of actual experience. We may talk about an
association under these circumstances if we keep in mind that even here
it is the concept of organization which remains decisive functionally.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
M. Bentley: _The Field of Psychology_. 1924.
K. Koffka: _The Growth of the Mind_. 1924.
Michotte and van der Veldt: _L’Apprentissage du mouvement et
l’automatisme_. 1928.
R. M. Ogden: _Psychology and Education_. 1926.
O. Selz: _Die Gesetze des geordneten Denkverlaufs_. 1913.
IX
_Reproduction_
PSYCHOLOGY knows three main topics which are to be investigated in
the field of memory and habit: (1) learning and those processes the
traces of which make reproduction and recognition possible, (2) the
career of these traces in the time between their formation and recall,
and (3) the processes of reproduction and recognition themselves.
In some degree reproduction or recognition will be needed in the
investigation of _all_ these problems, to give us evidence of either
the laws of learning, or those of retention, or those of recall itself.
Nevertheless, in the first case we can keep conditions constant with
respect to retention, and also with respect to the circumstances of
reproduction, while the conditions of learning are varied; in the
second case, the conditions of learning and those of reproduction will
remain constant, those of the interval between learning and recall
being varied; and in the last case, we vary only the circumstances of
reproduction or recognition. So we are able practically to separate
the three classes of problems. In this chapter our attention will be
directed mainly to questions of retention and recall, though we shall
also have to treat one highly important feature which may as well be
regarded as belonging to the topic of learning and the formation of
traces.
In the sixth chapter I mentioned certain experiments in which, after
learning to choose one side of a pair, for instance the darker of two
grays, animals had to react to a new pair, consisting of the “right”
object of the learning period and a new object, which had more or less
the same relation to the “right” object as this had had to the “wrong”
object during learning. The result was that in the majority of the
trials the animals chose that side which, in the new pair, played the
same rôle which the right object had played during learning. This means
that they chose the _new_ object which, in our example, was now “the
dark side of the pair.”
This result is not quite general, however. It depends upon what
interval of time elapses between the training with the old pair and
the first trials with the new one. Occasionally, after the learning
period, a chick was given the new pair in between choices on the old
one; and this procedure was repeated until the single trials with the
new pair, each of them distributed between trials with the old one,
could be regarded as numerous enough. It was found that, under these
circumstances, the animal chose the “right” object of the learning
period quite as often as the new object, which would now be the right
side _in the pair_. Obviously, this must be explained in the following
manner: When the chick reacts to the group before him, the chick
sees[59] it as a pair in which either gray plays a definite rôle as
the dark or the bright side of it; but at the same time the first is
seen as a more or less definite dark gray and the second as a bright
one. Both ways of seeing them are altogether compatible with each other
as long as the pair is not “transposed.” If during learning the chick
reacts to the right object as one side of the pair and also as a more
or less definite gray, there must be two products of training which
will become opposed to each other as soon as we introduce the new pair,
because now the first product of learning will favor the choice of one
object, and the second the choice of the other. Let us suppose, now,
that these different effects of learning do not fade equally fast with
time; an increase of the interval between trials with the old pair
and trials with the new one will favor those reactions which depend
upon the more enduring product of training. From our experiment it
follows, then, that the habit depending upon the pair as a whole is
more enduring than the habit depending upon the nuance _as such_, since
the pair as a whole is relatively less decisive when the animal reacts
to the new pair immediately after some trials with the old one. But the
two habits are alike with the exception only that one of them depends
upon the _organization_ of a trace whereas the other depends upon the
trace of a certain nuance of brightness. Hence, in the course of time,
the traces of organization remain much more stable than do the traces
of a more or less definite gray. This may be a more general fact. It
has been remarked by several psychologists that we are frequently able
to remember the general structure of something at a time when we cannot
get the more particular content of it at all. It would be worth while
to test this statement by appropriate experimentation, particularly
since we might get some insight thereby into the nature of so-called
“concepts.” In the case of the chick it was very easy to examine the
hypothesis by having the same animal react to the new pair once more,
after some minutes had elapsed since his last trials with the old one.
The result was that the “relative” reactions predominated.
There is much to discover in this field. At the beginning of the
last chapter we noticed one way of studying the career of traces by
investigating successive comparison. Here we have a second way. A
third one, somewhat similar to the second, is also to be found in
certain observations on animals. I shall treat it as an example of
what new problems _gestalt_ psychology raises in a concrete case. When
Yarbrough[60] investigated delayed reaction in cats he found them
able to react correctly after no more than four seconds if they had to
choose between three objects, whereas in the case of two objects the
delay could be increased to more than four times that amount. Why is
the result so much greater in the second case? An explanation may be
derived from the examination of a human subject in a similar, though
more difficult, task. If I have 25 objects, all of which have the same
properties, before me in a semicircle, they play very different rôles
in the semicircle as a whole; the rôle of two of them is particularly
well defined and characteristic, namely, that of the first to the left
and that of the first to the right side, which are the “ends” of the
whole; in some degree, but much less, a third one will be characterized
as a special member of the group, i.e., the central one. The rest will
be more or less like an indifferent filling. Suppose now that the
experimenter points to one of the objects, and that, after a delay in
which I do not fixate that object carefully, I am told to go toward it;
my reaction will always be correct if one of those three objects had
been pointed to. However, as long as I do not mark the right object
in an indirect way by counting at the first presentation, in order to
find it again by counting after the delay, wrong reactions will occur
rather often when the designated object has an indifferent position.
Thus I may choose the sixteenth instead of the seventeenth, or the
eighth instead of the ninth, rather easily, and, if the delay is
increased or my attitude is slightly dreamy at the first presentation,
such errors may become rather frequent. Of course, this is the same
dependence of delayed reaction upon the more or less specific position
of a member in a group, which was demonstrated by Hertz in certain
birds (cf. pp. 158-162), so that we may apply the same idea to the
case of a cat which must choose between three objects after a delay.
If the cue which the cat has acquired before the delay refers to the
first object (for instance, at the left), the cue will be connected
with a very definite place in the whole group; and the same will be
true if the third object (the first to the right) becomes connected
with the cue. If, however, the second object is connected with the cue
before the delay, this cue will refer to a place which, for the cat,
is much less definitely characterized in the group. At the time when
that object is marked out (by a light, for instance) among the others,
its rôle in the whole may be sufficiently clear for some moments;
but chances are that after some time the cue will lose its rather
unstable localization, the whole becoming just an undifferentiated
stretch, only the ends of which remain well-characterized places.
Consequently, the animal will react correctly less often when, instead
of two objects, the experiment is made with three. The cat might begin
to react more correctly again, perhaps, if the experimenter gave the
three objects another distribution in space so that all of them
would have well-characterized locations. The reader will be inclined
to say that such an explanation appears somewhat artificial to him,
since, with three objects, the probability of error is increased
anyhow and the cue cannot be fixed so easily in a more complicated
situation. This objection should be examined by introducing that
change of conditions to which I have just alluded. From the viewpoint
of organization, “complication” is not simply a matter of number, but
also of distribution in space. If, therefore, the three objects are
distributed in a way which characterizes each one equally well, we may
be able to decide whether or not we should accept the explanation in
terms of mere increase of number. There is one result in Yarbrough’s
experiments which makes me more inclined toward the other hypothesis:
If mere number, as against lack of definite rôle in the group, were
the decisive condition producing failure, the false reactions of the
animals should be distributed in a haphazard manner among the three
objects. But this is not the case. After a long delay (beyond 4
seconds) _some of the cats did not go to the second object at all_. All
their reactions were directed toward the first or the third object!
This is just what we should expect in terms of our explanation, whereas
one cannot understand it at all without taking account of organization.
We may say, then, with some confidence that in cats the traces of past
events undergo a rapid transformation which destroys the minor or less
stable characteristics of groups as wholes, so that subsequent behavior
depends upon a more simplified organization than existed in the traces
at first.
A somewhat similar observation was made by Mr. Tinklepaugh and me when,
using another method, we performed some experiments on delayed reaction
with a monkey. A very large square on the ground was covered with sand
some inches high. Before the animal certain marks were made on the
sand, as, for instance, a hill of the same material or, in another
experiment, a straight line which we drew on the surface with a finger.
After this preparation, food was buried in the sand in a place which,
for the human subject, was characterized at once as having a rather
definite position _near_ the mark. We wished to see whether the animal
would use the mark in fixing the place of the food because, without a
mark in the homogeneous sand, his previous reactions to buried food had
not been very clear. The monkey who had observed those preparations
was not released from his place until some time had elapsed. When
allowed to approach the sand he would go _to the mark_ at once and
search for the food _in it_. As far as I can remember now, he never
searched _near_, i.e., around the mark. Though further observations
would be desirable, one explanation seems probable at once: As in the
last case where delayed reaction was investigated in cats, the reaction
of the animal depends upon a trace and upon the actual organization
of the field. This field is well organized, the hill or the line
forming an outstanding feature in it. The localization of the place
of the hidden food, however, is much less definite. Therefore, we may
assume that a simplification occurs in this case similar to the one
which determines the reactions of the cats in Yarbrough’s experiments
with three objects. The trace which remains in the monkey will be
transformed during the delay to the disadvantage of its less defined
regions and the result will be that the monkey’s cue is absorbed by the
outstanding mark just as, after some delay, the cats react only to the
well-characterized parts of the situation. It may be that the method
used by us in this preliminary way will be developed some day into a
more accurate instrument for investigating the career of traces in
animals.[61]
Traces are not rigid, then; there are definite dynamical tendencies in
them; and in animals the traces may be transformed more easily than
in man. That being the case, the study of delayed reaction in animals
becomes highly important for general psychology because it may show
us the working of those tendencies in a measure which could not be
observed in man.
There can be no doubt that, in principle, we find similar changes in
man also. Koffka and Wulf[62] have observed these changes by making
their subjects draw figures which they had seen previously for a few
seconds, first after a delay of some minutes and then after days or
even weeks. The figures had not simply lost details at the time of
graphic reproduction. The changes were much more interesting since they
showed two opposite directions: In reproduction the figures were either
more regular than the original ones or some traits which might be taken
as characteristic of their organization were considerably exaggerated
in the drawings. The authors give the explanation that, during the
first presentation, the figures could be seen in somewhat different
kinds of organization. If this organization was a rather simple and
regular form, the change of the trace would be in the direction of
increased regularity; if, however, some articulation, irregularity or
lack of symmetry was seen as the main characteristic of the figure,
the transformation would enhance this property. Therefore, in both
cases the change seemed to produce an approach toward something like an
extreme type or the ideal of the first organization.
In all these cases behavior depending upon the actual properties of
the traces is used as an indicator of their changes. Still there
are other cases where the traces can be shown to be practically
unchanged, although reproduction is difficult or even impossible under
the circumstances in question. In the last chapter we mentioned some
examples of this kind. Now we have to treat others which will show us
that the possibilities of reproduction are much more restricted than
one might expect.
If association as a basis for reproduction is just another expression
of the fact that the traces of functional wholes are themselves
detached wholes, one might somewhat rashly deduce from this theory
that, after a trace is formed, any group of stimuli which represents
a considerable fraction of the original constellation of stimuli
will reproduce those parts of the original process the stimuli for
which are not actually given. However, this would mean a complete
misunderstanding of _gestalt_ theory, because from what we have seen
in the sixth chapter, it follows that between the properties of an
organized whole and the actual constellation of stimuli, let us say
on the retina, there does not exist a correspondence as to parts, as
though one region of the organized whole separately depended upon some
definite fraction of that constellation, a second one upon another and
so forth. On the contrary, upon a large group of stimuli and their
“relative properties” depends the organized process as a whole in a
manner which cannot be analyzed into independent local or partial
effects of stimulation. Therefore, in general, if an organized process
has left its trace in the nervous system, some fraction of the original
group of stimuli will not determine a partial process which occurred
in that functional whole, but something different and new, a picture
of which is not contained in the trace of that whole. Consequently
this new process will not be able to reproduce anything on the basis
of that trace; just as some other group of stimuli which we might
choose in an altogether arbitrary manner would determine a new process
and consequently would be foreign to that trace. For instance, Fig.
20 will not reproduce the missing lines of an H normally, though,
geometrically, that figure is the larger part of an H. Neither will
Fig. 21 reproduce the missing lines of an R, and so forth, because,
when we have seen an H or an R, we have never had the given figures
as real experiences. There is nothing in the traces of an H and an
R, which might correspond to the processes of Figs. 20 and 21, and
reproduction does not occur. We shall conclude, then, that reproduction
will be restricted to those cases where the process intended as the
excitant of reproduction is sufficiently similar to a partial process
of the original whole. This will be the case if the process intended
as an excitant corresponds to a natural member or sub-whole of the
original organization, because under these circumstances the trace
of that sub-whole, though not identical with the exciting process,
will be similar to it, at least. If this similarity is marked enough,
reproduction will occur under favorable conditions. So U. S. will
reproduce an A. rather easily, and the stars the rest of the American
flag, because here we give as an excitant what was present in the
original organization as a _relatively_ independent region. This is
the chief requirement. If we draw a profile from the nose downwards
to the chin, this line does not correspond to a complete sub-whole of
a face. Nevertheless, since the influences exerted upon that outline
by the organization of a complete profile are not so very strong, the
process determined by that line will be sufficiently similar to the
corresponding process in the whole profile and to the corresponding
trace, so that reproduction can occur.
[Illustration: Fig. 20]
[Illustration: Fig. 21]
Even so, we find reproduction much more difficult than is supposed in
current empiristic theories. It seems to be restricted to a rather
narrow path between a Scylla and a Charybdis. Association is necessary
for reproduction, and association means a sufficient degree of
organization. Reproduction, however, presupposes a certain degree of
similarity between an actual process as an excitant and some region
of the organized trace. The more a region is absorbed by a larger
organization, the less will corresponding stimulation be able to effect
reproduction. We have already described the narrow path that any
possible reproduction must take between these limiting conditions.
To demonstrate the foregoing contentions I made the following
experiment: The subjects are shown simultaneously pairs of figures
for a short time. After a while parts of those drawings are presented
to them with the instruction to reproduce the missing lines. Now, in
a case like that of Fig. 22, for instance, either the vertical at
the left was presented or Fig. 23, which represents _geometrically
a_ much larger part of the original. With the first as an excitant,
however, we get many more correct reproductions than with the second.
Of course! The “larger part” is something which in the first exposure
did not occur as a real form. Even the first vertical to the left has
now lost its reproducing power, because in the original pair it had
been segregated as something apart, whereas now it has become the left
limiting end of a regular series of parallels.
[Illustration: Fig. 22]
[Illustration: Fig. 23]
If this last point proves that a trace does not respond by reproduction
if the organization of the excitant becomes foreign by being embedded
in a somewhat different environment, reproduction will be even much
more restricted than we should have previously supposed. Evidently,
in problems of memory and habit, not only the organization given at
the time of first “association” will be decisive for reproduction,
but organization existing in the _actual_ field will be equally
important in determining or preventing reproduction. When given in a
certain environment a certain process may be an excellent incentive
to reproduction on the basis of some trace existing in the nervous
system. But it will not occur regularly again in just that environment
which was given when the trace was formed. Hence the chances are that,
quite apart from the rather crude obstacles considered above, even a
slight change of the surrounding field may make an excitant unable to
reproduce what has been “well connected” with it in the past. That
this is true can be deduced from Nagel’s experiments (cf. above p.
283). In a well-learned series of nonsense syllables each member,
though embedded in the whole series, would certainly seem to be a
thing by itself. But if one of them is given alone as an incentive to
reproduction, this change of environment is sufficient in the majority
of cases to make reproduction impossible.
The same influence of actual organization upon reproduction has
been demonstrated in a rather surprising form by Shepard and
Fogelsonger.[63] These psychologists made their subjects learn pairs of
syllables. Some of these pairs had identical second members. (Between
the first occurrence of such a syllable and its repetition in another
pair there was an interval of 25 minutes.) At the time of testing the
product of learning, the first syllable of a pair was given as the
excitant of reproduction; but where two syllables had been followed by
the same second member at different times, both were given together
as incentives to reproduction of their common partner. If it were not
for organization one should expect that, both excitants working in the
same direction, the syllable associated with them would be more easily
reproduced than a syllable for which there was only one excitant.
But the contrary was observed; it seemed as though some inhibition
were in the way of reproduction when it was aroused by two excitants.
The disturbance was particularly striking when both syllables were
presented simultaneously, but it also existed when they were given in
rapid succession. The explanation seems to be that during learning
the subjects had always had a single first syllable together with its
partner, and that when, in the critical cases of reproduction, two
syllables appeared before them, both would look so foreign at first
in this new grouping that neither could immediately reproduce the
common partner. This explanation has been confirmed by observation. The
subjects reported that reproduction became possible through an attitude
of analysis which would sufficiently isolate one of the syllables.
Furthermore, from this explanation it follows that any extraneous
syllable, one which never appeared in the learning series, would have
the same effect when presented together with the first member of a
learned pair. The authors have found this to be the case, in fact. Thus
the explanation seems to be quite verified. Our conclusion is that even
a very slight alteration of circumstances, if only it influences the
organization of the excitants, or incentives, will make reproduction
difficult or impossible.
A similar result was obtained by Frings in his work on inhibitions,[64]
though his problem refers to learning more than to reproduction. In
the classical experiments it had been shown that, if a syllable A
has become associated with a syllable B, the same A can not be as
easily associated with a third syllable C as could any indifferent
syllable. Also, after A has become associated with C as well as with
B, when A is used as an excitant of reproduction, the competition of
the two different tendencies to reproduction will have an inhibiting
effect. Frings was able to show that under certain circumstances these
inhibitions may completely disappear. His subjects were made to learn
series of syllables, the instruction being that the syllables should
be read and memorized as groups of the anapest rhythm in which, after
two less accentuated members, the third one follows with the main
accent. In such a group the first two members will form a sub-whole.
When after a while the product of learning is tested, these two members
are given as an excitant, and the last one is to be reproduced. If
now, in a given case, a group like (ac)d occurs in one series and a
group like (bc)e in another series, we should expect the association
between c and e to be inhibited, because c was first followed by d,
and later followed by e. Similarly, _after_ associating (bc)e as
well as (ac)d, in spite of that inhibition, the subjects should have
difficulty in reproducing e, if bc is given, or d, if ac is given. From
the viewpoint of organization, however, we must realize that in (ac)d
the syllable c is a member of the sub-whole (ac), whereas in (bc)e it
is a member in a different sub-whole (bc), and that therefore c is
not quite the same thing in both cases. We might also say that in the
first case not c, but rather the sub-whole (ac), has been associated
with d; and again that in the other case (bc), not c, becomes or has
become associated with e. Considering this, we should predict that
there will be inhibition neither in learning nor in reproduction.
Experimentation has confirmed this view. Wherever c figured as a member
of two different sub-wholes, no inhibition occurred. It is particularly
interesting, however, that inhibition occurred immediately if a subject
had been very fatigued at the time of learning, and therefore had not
been able to grasp the syllables in rhythmic complexes, according to
the instructions.
Though the reader will have already noticed that, in consequence of
varying organization, experimental findings may differ considerably
from what ought to occur according to the classical laws of association
and reproduction, the most radical restriction of these rules remains
to be considered. We cannot proceed, however, without first discussing
a certain more general topic.
* * * * *
In one of the preceding chapters we laid some stress on the point
that our “self” occurs as an experienced whole in the same field
which contains our experiences of surrounding objects and events.
Consequently, that field of our brain, as a physical system which is
the locus of the processes underlying objective experience, will also
contain processes corresponding to the experience of the “self.” In
many respects, the processes belonging to this particular whole are
different from those corresponding to “outside” experiences, though,
with regard to dynamical interrelation, the processes corresponding to
the “self” prove to be true members of the total field. Two examples
will suffice to corroborate this point.
If a certain thing moves objectively in the visual field, I shall,
under the usual conditions, see that thing as moving. But we know
many instances in which, _objectively_, one thing being in motion and
another at rest, the first remains at rest while the second moves.
This is not an “accidental illusion,” moreover. It depends upon
definite circumstances and necessarily prevails whenever these are
present. Every one has occasionally seen the moon in rapid motion
when clouds were passing it in the opposite direction. When a point
on the window of a moving railroad carriage is fixated, the objects
outside at once begin to glide in the opposite direction. We may say,
then, that any change of spatial relations in a part of the field
may have dynamical effects upon those parts of the whole field which
objectively are not moved. With regard to the spatial relation of the
“external” environment and the “self,” precisely the same observation
is frequently made, as we all know. If our environment is, objectively,
turned around us with appropriate speed, the result in experience will
be that we feel ourselves turning around in the opposite direction.
Michotte and Gatti have recently shown that the same effect may be
produced by moving two handles toward one side, the subject’s hands
being turned passively with the handles: once more the body (as an
experience) seems to turn in the opposite direction. We may draw the
conclusion that under adequate conditions a change of spatial relations
between the processes underlying our objective experience and those
corresponding to the experience of our own self, will have dynamical
effects upon the latter processes, just as the processes corresponding
to the experience of moving clouds exert a dynamical influence upon the
processes underlying our experience of the moon. It becomes obvious,
therefore, that we must include the self in the dynamical interrelation
of the whole field.
As a second example, I refer to the fact that just as things or spots
frequently appear before me as grouped in a definite manner, the self
is very often experienced as a member of such a group. Of course, if I
put my hands on a desk before me and another person does the same on
the opposite side of the desk, I have two pairs of hands before me as
visual groups. But the whole self may enter a group just as easily: If
somebody accompanies me along a street and, ahead of _us_ another pair
is walking, I feel (and partially see) myself as a member of one of two
groups.
Until now the reader may have restricted the concept of organization
more or less to the region of external experiences. From the last
examples it seems to follow that organization is an affair involving
the whole field and that the “self” is included as the most
interesting member of this larger organization. At first one may feel
opposed to this treatment of the “self” because, in a great many
respects, it remains something particular and apart. During all the
radical changes which the outside field undergoes in the course of time
the “self” under normal conditions does not lose its identity. At the
same time, and notwithstanding that identity, inner experiences will
generally be felt as much more lively and dynamical than the average
objective experiences. Although these differences may exert an enormous
influence upon the actual organization of the whole field, nevertheless
they do not place the self beyond organization _as such_. Sometimes
they confer upon the self a central position in the field. But for a
great many persons not even this is permanently the case, especially
since objective experience contains other _persons_ in social life, who
may occasionally become the center of our total field instead of the
“self.”
With this remark, however, we have gone far beyond the discussions
of the previous chapters. We have enlarged our view of dynamics as
determining the field and its changes.
In objective experience grouping may be “static” as, for instance,
in the case of indifferent patches, a group of which would seem to
correspond to a state of equilibrium in the nervous system. On the
other hand, we have seen that nothing is more likely to determine
grouping and organization in general than the direction of attitude
and of visible behavior. Even a behaviorist like Watson describes the
behavior of a child as being directed to or away from an object. In
some situations a barking dog will be experienced by any observer as
barking _at_ something definite in his surroundings. If, therefore,
we apply the term “dynamical” here in a more special meaning, we may
say, perhaps, that the most compulsory organization which can occur in
experience is a dynamical event or attitude, consisting of one member
from which it issues, and another one toward which it is directed.
Sometimes, as in the case of “avoiding” or “yielding,” it would be a
better description to say that one member exhibits an attitude directed
_away_ from the second member of such a whole. In both cases the type
of organization remains the same, the main feature being the bipolar
structure and the dynamical directedness of the whole.
This type of dynamical structure occurs not only in merely objective
experience but also between the experienced self and parts of the
experienced environment. We may even say that, apart from drowsiness
and similar states of low vitality, the organization of the total field
will almost always have just that bipolar character, the self being
directed to something else or away from it. The reader will remember
our discussion of visual organization. Some diagrams were presented
as examples of it. Organization was considered as a property of the
visual field. This account, however, was not a complete description of
the total field, since it included neither the self as a member of the
field nor that particular attitude of so-called attention or interest
which, as it were, was a direction in the field from the self to the
diagrams. All psychologists know that, normally, this direction will
coincide with that of fixation. It becomes particularly striking,
however, if, while fixating a given point, we “direct ourselves”
successively toward the other objects to be seen in the vicinity of
that point.
Obviously, bipolar organization varies in more respects than in
direction and in the type of external object. All the nuances of
emotional attitude toward objects and events are phases of it. When
we like or dislike, when we hate or admire something, that bipolarity
_as such_ remains the same. Sometimes, the direction is opposite: an
explosion occurs in our neighborhood and we feel ourself frightened
away; when confronted with a particularly imposing or overbearing man,
we may also feel thrown back.
Bipolar organization reminds one of those cases in physics in which
either lines of force, or a process with a definite direction, develops
between two parts of a field, depending upon the actual properties of
those parts in their relation to each other. In _gestalt_ theory the
varieties of directed attitude are not considered as the operation of
preëxisting drives or instincts, but rather as the effects of actual
situations. In this connection, however, the term “situation” has to be
used with some care. Evidently it is not only the external situation
which in a great many cases has to be considered, but the internal
situation of the organism as well. This is so well known through recent
studies on hunger, sexual behavior, and so forth, that I scarcely need
mention the fact. Even after the adult has developed well-established
preferences and forms of conduct in relation to these internal forces
the corresponding attitudes will not appear unless the inner situation
of the organism requires it. This does not mean that the intensity of
those forces is independent of the external situation. But we may say,
at least, that without any appropriate objects the internal situation
will often produce very strong effects corresponding to it, whereas, on
the other hand, when complete “saturation” is reached, even the most
adequate object will not produce a corresponding attitude.
If we compare bipolar organization with a field of force or a stress
existing between regions of different potential, these words may
contain more than a superficial analogy. What we experience as our
“self” depends first of all upon the inner situation of our organism
as a physiological system. We may also say that the particular
processes underlying the experience of our “self” are determined by
the ever-changing activities of the organism. Perhaps it is not too
bold an hypothesis to suggest that, according to the actual nature of
those processes, in the first place, and the properties of processes
underlying objective experience, in the second place, something like
a field of force or stress originates between them. Since, in terms
of our general principle, the organization of experience is a picture
of underlying physiological organization, we can hardly find a more
fitting assumption. In some cases, however, the directed attitude of
the self toward external experience does not seem to depend upon the
inner situation of the organism, as much as it does in the case of
hunger and sex. After being alone for some weeks most persons will
feel an all but insuperable “drive” toward social contact, even with
strangers. It is difficult to understand, at the present time, how this
directed attitude should depend upon the physiological situation of the
organism as, for instance, hunger depends upon it. Nevertheless, for
the most part, this attitude is quite similar to the need for food,
and I do not hesitate to interpret it as a stress in the field between
the self and those particular surrounding processes which are the
physiological correlate of our experience of other persons.
The play of all these stresses, their origins, the strain exerted by
them upon different parts of the total field, the changes which may
be the consequence of that strain, and the cessation of stresses and
strains which follows certain of those changes--this is the major
study of psychology, as it is the major content of our life.[65] As
yet experimental psychology has little information for us on this
theme, and in these chapters we have not given it its due place,
either. The reason for this neglect is my wish to introduce the concept
of dynamical organization by applying it to simpler problems. Since
we have become acquainted with the concept in the realm of sensory
experience we may now extend its use to the total field--and even
beyond it. It is expedient, however, to return to sensory organization
time and again so that a feeling of continuity and scientific prudence
may accompany us on our way.
For instance, if the reader should feel a break between what has been
discussed in previous chapters and our present statements, let him
consider the following point with me. In the sensory field segregation
and grouping have been regarded as products of dynamical intercourse.
If directed attitude, as occurring between the self and the
environment, is to be regarded as belonging to the same general class
of physiological dynamics, we can expect it to have similar effects.
This is the case, indeed, for, in the total field including the self,
we find grouping dependent upon those directed attitudes. If in
discussion two scientists argue against a third one, the field of each
of them is organized according to this particular social situation
and the direction of attitudes in it. They are not simply “three” men;
they are a group of two, with one man external to, or rather opposed
to, it. At the same time another grouping might be more natural from
the viewpoint of purely _visual_ organization, because, spatially, the
third man may be nearer to one of his opponents than this opponent
is to the second opponent. Nevertheless, if in the middle of the
discussion one of the three happened to perceive this other, visual
grouping, for some reason, he would realize that what he had previously
experienced as the organization of his field was quite as real as now
the new grouping is. Grouping based upon social forces is much more
interesting than purely visual organization, however, because their
members experience definitely directed attitudes which do not generally
appear in the same lively manner when a number of things are seen as
two groups solely for optical reasons. The reader will easily find
similar examples in his daily life. Four people sitting symmetrically
at a desk may experience themselves in several kinds of grouping. When
they are playing bridge, however, two groups, consisting of two members
sitting opposite in space, will immediately originate in the field of
each of the four. A great many problems of social psychology, some of
them much more important and serious than these, will acquire a new
aspect as soon as we consider them in such a concrete manner. For the
present our examples must suffice as a demonstration of the fact that
directed attitudes influence organization and grouping quite as much as
visual factors do. Therefore we are justified in applying the concept
of organization to the total field including the self and the stresses
occurring between it and its environment.
* * * * *
With the concept of the total field in mind we return to the discussion
of association and reproduction.
First of all, we realize that it is incorrect to treat the problems
of learning and memory as though they referred only to sensory
experience. What is called an “association” has been found to be the
trace of organized processes. If now we see that in the total field,
including the self and its attitudes, we have as much organization
as in mere sensory experience, one consequence will be that all the
actual total fields which occur in the course of a lifetime may leave
organized traces. Obviously we can remember our attitudes as well as
those experiences toward which they were directed; and reproduction may
proceed from an attitude toward its object, or vice versa, just as one
objective experience may remind us of another.
But something more important seems to follow from our concept of the
total field. The following experience is common: I have a task which,
perhaps, I do not like, but which is urgent. In the course of the
day I find myself occupied by a great many other things. I talk with
friends, read a book, and so forth. But time and again something like
a dark pressure appears somewhere in the field and, if I examine it,
it will be found to issue from that task. Here we have a persistent
tendency toward reproduction, or reappearance in the actual field,
and this perseveration seems to depend upon the particular nature of
the trace in question. It is in connection with this experience that
we can understand certain important experiments made by Lewin and
Zeigarnik.[66]
The subject is given a number of little tasks, one after the other,
as, for instance, to copy some lines from a book; to continue an
ornament, the principle of which is given in a sample; to solve a
simple mathematical problem; to find twelve towns, the names of which
begin with the letter L; and so forth. In some cases the subject is
allowed to finish his work, in others the experimenter interrupts him
before he has fully accomplished it. After a series of twenty-two
tasks, one-half of which is finished, the subject is asked what tasks
were given to him. In most cases the report is very characteristic. The
first tasks which the subject recalls are those which were interrupted,
and the total number of this class which is recalled is much larger
than that of the other. When 32 subjects were examined in this way, 26
recalled more interrupted tasks than finished ones; in 16 subjects
the superiority of the former was more than 60 per cent., and in the
average of all subjects the superiority was 90 per cent.[67] Care
was taken to eliminate the influence of particular properties of the
different tasks; all tasks were interrupted exactly as often as they
were finished in the case of different subjects. Of 22 tasks, 17 were
more frequently recalled after interruption than after completion. When
the same experiment was repeated with 47 students, the superiority of
recall for interrupted work was again 90 per cent., in the average; in
a third experiment with 45 children, it was 110 per cent.
The most plausible explanation points to the fact that, when solving
a task, the subject is in a state of stress which usually will
not disappear until the solution is accomplished. If the work is
interrupted before the solution, the trace of this situation contains
that stress. Moreover, just as during the work the stress may be
considered as the force which keeps the work going, it seems to have a
somewhat similar tendency in the trace. Since recall would be the first
step toward finishing the task, we cannot be surprised by the result
of this interesting investigation.[68] If this explanation is correct,
several consequences may be deduced from it. I shall not mention
more than one. Under normal conditions we do not expect the stress in
a trace to be preserved indefinitely. It is altogether more probable
that it should disappear with time. Indeed, when recall was examined
after a delay of 24 hours, the superiority of the interrupted tasks had
considerably decreased.
The experiments of Lewin and Zeigarnik refer to recall as depending
upon the properties of the original situation. A much more difficult
problem which we have to discuss is concerned with how far reproduction
depends upon the actual total field in which something might operate
as an excitant of reproduction. In this connection, almost all
experiments on memory should be subjected to serious criticism. Just
as we are not investigating automatic associations in experiments in
which our subjects are instructed to _learn_ nonsense material, we
are not examining spontaneous reproduction in experiments in which we
give our subjects one nonsense syllable out of the learned series,
and then ask them to reproduce the next one. In this case, again, the
procedure does not fit the meaning of the rule of association and
reproduction. Were we to follow this rule more accurately, we should
give the first syllable unexpectedly in some situation and wait for
an automatic reproduction of the second. The usual experiment differs
absolutely from such a procedure for obvious reasons. If a subject can
be directed in several ways toward a part of his actual field, he can
also assume very definite attitudes toward something which lies beyond
that field, and primarily toward something in the past. We know this
attitude very well from instances in which we try to remember the name
of an author or of a place. We are certain that such an attitude has an
influence upon reproduction. But although the law of association does
not mention this condition, the classical investigation of that law
quite generally and rather innocently introduces precisely this special
condition. Therefore we are not justified in applying the results of
that experimental work either to the concept of automatic recall or to
reproduction as it may occur spontaneously under other conditions in
the total field.
Some time ago almost all psychologists would have said that automatic
reproduction in consequence of previous association is the prime
motor of mental life and of behavior. Here caution seems to be highly
advisable. As yet experimental evidence is strictly opposed to such
a view, since it shows that reproduction will not occur unless very
special conditions are fulfilled. The most important work in this field
has been done by Lewin.[69] Among his experiments there is one in which
the problem is examined directly. He made his subjects learn pairs
of syllables either in the usual manner or by some new procedure,
which I shall not describe here. After a large number of repetitions,
distributed over several days, the subject was given single syllables
with the instruction to read them and then to wait passively. If under
these circumstances some of the learned syllables are presented among
others, one should expect the second members of the learned pairs to
be reproduced automatically. In general, however, this was not the
case. Even when the instruction was changed to “Tell me the first thing
occurring to you after reading each syllable!”, the result remained
negative, with a few exceptions. It is interesting to examine those
cases where the reproduction of the associated syllable did occur.
Obviously the subject’s attitude is not well defined by the instruction
to wait passively. After some “waiting” a particular attitude will
almost always be assumed unintentionally. If a syllable appears as a
familiar one to the subject, for instance, his attitude may become one
of identifying and examining the learned material. However, as soon as
he begins to be directed to the old context, in consequence of this
attitude, reproduction will occur. Of course, such reproduction cannot
be called automatic, since it depends upon a special attitude of the
subject.
It does not suffice as a basis for reproduction for the subject to
be directed _somehow_ to the presented syllable itself. In these
experiments he had to be directed to it as _to a member of a known
pair or series_; otherwise, there was no reproduction. In everyday life
we may observe the same fact whenever we like. Certainly, well-known
objects are sufficiently associated with their names. Nevertheless when
we walk along a street, we are successively directed to a great many
things. But we are far from reproducing their names. If you say that
objects are associated with a great many things besides their names,
and that these diverse associations inhibit each other, you admit
by this very argument that almost no associations lead normally to
appropriate reproductions. When will they do so? If, as a psychologist,
you have just stated that you did not reproduce the names of the car,
the tower, the door, the window when you noticed them, in keeping with
your normal attitude in walking along the street, this statement itself
will very probably change your attitude. During the next minute you
will probably assume the attitude of naming, and whatever you look at
will at once reproduce its name. Therefore, the mutual inhibition of
several associations does not seem to be the main factor that prevents
reproduction. As soon as your attitude coincides with the direction
of existing associations, reproduction occurs at once and without any
appreciable effect of inhibition.
It may be a wholesome occupation for a psychologist to make more
observations along this line. If he does, it will seem altogether
strange to him that our science should have regarded automatic
reproduction as the main motor of mental life and behavior for so
long. We may congratulate ourselves on the fact that, in this case,
unprejudiced experience is strictly opposed to theory. At any given
moment in our normal lives we find ourselves occupied with some work,
some problem, the subject-matter of some conversation, and so forth.
Under these circumstances the total field is well organized; dynamical
relationships between the self and its objects form one functional
whole, the development of which we call our “working,” our “solving”
the problem, our “expressing” our own opinion, and so on. I admit
that this is a somewhat optimistic description of life. If I return
to this manuscript after an interruption of a week my “working” at
first does not quite correspond to the description given. At one
moment a faint noise will suffice to give me a direction irrelevant
to the task, at another something else will affect me similarly. If,
even then, I am occupied with a given thing at a given moment, a great
many “deflections” of attitude will occur in the course of time until
finally the work itself begins to be the development of one functional
whole. What about reproduction during such a happy period of work? All
the words and concepts occurring in the work itself are associated with
other words, concepts and situations which have nothing whatever to
do with the development of the work in question. These associations
belong to very different epochs and interests in my life. If each of
them automatically led to the appropriate reproduction, the field would
become a chaos of incoherent stuff in a few moments, instead of one
identical whole transforming itself in an orderly manner toward the
solution of my one actual task. Excluding states of insanity, that
evidently does not happen. Even if my attitude is deflected a few
times before I become completely absorbed in the work, I am somehow so
well directed toward my real task that “distractions” remain precisely
what this term means, and instantly, in spite of them, my attitude
is bent back to the main task. Automatic reproduction might account
for some distractions and disturbances, just as do noises and other
foreign experiences, but it cannot explain the normal continuity and
persistency of our working, thinking and doing. On the contrary, if
there are automatic and independent reproductions, they must be factors
of little weight in comparison to the stresses and dynamical tendencies
existing in an actual situation. Some of us, it is true, would be
inclined to explain the order and continuity of actual work entirely
by the force of associations. Originally, they would say, there was
indeed a chaos of ever-changing attitudes and reproductions. But in
the development from childhood to adult life, some of our attitudes,
experiences, and so forth, have become so well associated that, now,
continuous currents of them will predominate over a great many
disturbances and reproductions of lesser importance. I cannot accept
this theory, however. If my writing in English about a problem I have
very seldom discussed even in my own language could be pictured as the
reproduction of thousands of well-established associations, I might
agree with the theory. Unfortunately, no such current of associations
is ready-made in me which would produce what I have to write in these
very pages. Nevertheless, I persist in writing about one subject-matter
and, I hope, coherently. Therefore, when comparing the relative
importance of automatic reproductions with the stresses of the actually
developing organization of the field in such a case, the balance will
undoubtedly be in favor of the latter. Habit has been enormously
overrated in the theoretical treatment of life.
In some of Lewin’s experiments this has been demonstrated quite
convincingly.[70] I shall describe them in a simplified manner. To
begin with, his subjects had to learn pairs of nonsense syllables.
Afterwards they were shown certain other syllables serially, the
instruction being that in each syllable the first letter should be
put in the place of the last and vice versa; whereupon they had
to pronounce the result. The time required for this operation was
measured. The reader will notice that here we have the situation I
was just describing. The subject is working on a definite task. If,
among the second series of syllables, the first one of a _learned_
pair is given, automatic reproduction should either bring about a
wrong reaction or, at least, inhibit the right one so that, in such a
case, the time of reaction would be increased. On the other hand, if
a syllable presented for reaction is the first member of a _learned_
pair and if the syllable to be formed by the subject is identical with
the second member of that learned pair, previous association should
facilitate the reaction, and the time of reaction should be decreased.
To the author’s surprise nothing of the kind was observed. There were
no wrong reactions caused by reproduction on the basis of previous
association. Where reproduction should have inhibited the subject’s
response, the time of reaction was usually not raised above the
average; where reproduction should have accelerated it, the time was
the same as in the case of “neutral” or control syllables.[71] It is
obvious then that, under these circumstances, the dynamical development
of the total field will follow its own ways or laws, practically
independent of the strong associations which some of its parts may have
acquired in the past.
Recently Dr. Lewin told me that this fact might be explained, partially
at least, in terms of a principle which I discussed at the beginning of
this chapter. If A has been associated with B, A will not reproduce
B, if the properties of A are changed. We know that such a change will
occur when, the stimuli corresponding to A being given, A becomes
part of a new organization. If during learning a syllable A is read
naturally, it is taken simply as a whole. However, if the subject later
obeys the instruction to interchange the first and the last letters
of the syllable A, he will view the syllable in terms of this task.
Consequently, it will appear in a new organization, the first and the
last letters being seen as outstanding members of the syllable, or
whatever else may be changed by its entrance into a new total field.
This might suffice to make A unable to reproduce B. The explanation
seems to be corroborated by the observation that in most cases the
subjects did not even notice the presentation of _known_ syllables
among the new ones. In any case, it is advisable to make similar
experiments using other material, the properties of which would be more
characteristic and less likely to be changed in a new total field.
Neither Dr. Lewin nor I yet feel convinced that an adequate theory
of the whole matter has been formulated. In some of his experiments
the subject’s attitude towards the syllables was practically the same
during learning as it was during the subsequent testing, but it did not
lead to reproduction either, so long as other circumstances remained as
I have described them. If objects normally do not effect the automatic
reproduction of their names (cf. above pp. 333-335), it would be a
bold assumption to make in every case that reproduction did not occur
because the properties of the objects had been altered too much by our
actual attitude.
In certain very interesting experiments Lewin has finally succeeded
in creating reproductions or inhibitions on the basis of previous
associations, _against_ the task given by the experimental instruction.
This was achieved by arranging the whole situation in a special manner.
If, in the case of certain syllables, reproduction will effect the
same result as would the procedure strictly corresponding to the
instructions, and if, then, the subject is seduced into relying upon
reproduction as the easier way, his attitude may unintentionally become
completely one of reproducing. The total field having now acquired this
direction temporarily, the next syllable will tend to reproduce its
partner, though in this case _reproduction_ may be absolutely wrong
with respect to the experimental task. Both erroneous reproduction
and inhibition of the correct performance were demonstrated by Lewin
in these neat experiments. This would almost seem to show that
reproductive tendencies cannot influence a given total field before the
actual attitude has been transformed into one of reproducing.
Still I hesitate to adhere to such a radical assumption. I take it
as definitely established that psychology has gone much too far in
admitting the free play of independent and automatic reproductions.
But shall we suppose that during our whole lifetime no reproduction
will occur without our attitudinal direction being one of reproducing?
It may be so. Until much more is known about the matter through further
experimentation, however, we should hold our judgment _in suspenso_.
Moreover, if actual attitude should be shown to be all but decisive
for the reproduction issuing from a part of the field, another equally
important problem will become that of the genesis and change of
attitudes themselves. Certainly, attitudes do arise, they persist, they
change and disappear, for many reasons. And we may safely say that the
problem of reproduction is here again. We do not know very much about
the reproduction of attitudes _as such_. But the possibility of this
kind of reproduction, even in the simplest and most “classical” form,
cannot be denied in our present state of knowledge.
In no case shall we be inclined to give our discussion of reproduction
an exaggerated meaning. Current theories of habit, association
and reproduction, it is true, do not realize how very special the
conditions are which must be fulfilled before a well-organized
situation is seriously influenced by “foreign” reproductions. It is
also true that we are just beginning to see the most important problems
in this field. Again it is fortunately true that reproduction will not
occur in millions of cases in which we should have predicted it from
the viewpoint of the rather superficial classical theories. But, after
all, enough remains of reproduction which must be taken into account.
If, in writing these pages, I am not continually deflected from my
task by a great many accidental reproductions, on the other hand, I
could not write a single word if I had no reproductions at all. English
words are continually though hesitantly arising from somewhere--by
reproduction. In writing, my hand moves across the paper in forms much
more easily reproduced. There is no question about the occurrence and
the _value_ of reproduction in almost every moment of our life. The
problem is merely to explain why, excluding instances of occasional
error, of stupidly repeated habit, and so forth, reproduction should be
restricted mainly to those cases _in which it has a value with respect
to the actual total field and its dynamical development as a functional
whole_.[72]
* * * * *
This is a chapter of criticism and of open problems. I cannot avoid
adding one more question which has not yet found adequate attention in
all quarters, though von Kries pointed it out thirty years ago.
Suppose A and B have become associated; how does a process A (or A^1,
very similar to A), bring about the reproduction of B? In addition to
the problems discussed in the preceding pages, here is a question
of great difficulty. In some textbooks, it is true, reproduction is
explained easily enough on the basis of machine theory. The process
A has been conducted along a definite path in the nervous system;
similarly, and at practically the same moment, B has been conducted
along another path. Between the central terminal nuclei of both paths,
it is assumed that fibers become specially conductive, in consequence
of those simultaneous processes in the central nuclei of paths A and B.
From this viewpoint reproduction will occur later on when a new process
A (or A^1) is conducted along the same path to the same final station
which, now, is especially well connected with the terminal nucleus of
path B. Taking the line of least resistance, the process will spread
to the place of B and reactivate it. Every one knows figures like
this (Fig. 24) which, neglecting some minor complications and giving
simple lines instead of neurones, contains the whole functional scheme
involved in that idea. Obviously, this is purely a machine theory, in
which reproduction does not depend upon the properties of associated
processes. If A reproduces B, this is the case because, once and for
all, the process A is conducted along one definite path to a nucleus
of termination from which one set of conductive mechanisms--in the
direction of B’s nucleus--has previously been made more pervious and
permeable than _any_ others.
Fig. 24
The nature of this scheme makes it unfit to explain real reproduction,
for two reasons:
(1) If a process X, altogether different from A, should happen to
be conducted along A’s path to its final nucleus, it would take the
line of least resistance from there, spread to the nucleus of B and
reproduce it, though X has never occurred together with B a single
time. You object, claiming that this scheme was to be applied only to
such processes as had occurred simultaneously before? But in the scheme
itself such a restriction is not mentioned; in any case we cannot
deduce from the scheme why it should be so. Therefore, the scheme will
not explain one essential condition of reproduction.
(2) If the process A should happen to start from quite another point
of the receptor organ along another path, it will not be conducted
to that cerebral cells which have been especially connected with the
cerebral nucleus of B. Consequently there is no reason why it should
spread to B rather than to any other cells. This means that, in such
a case, A will not reproduce B, though it is associated with it. If,
under experimental conditions, however, a process A, starting from one
region of the retina, has been associated with another process B, a
process A (or A^1) projected upon quite another part of the retina,
will reproduce B without great difficulty. So much has been shown by E.
Becher.[73]
If you object that between the new path of A and the cerebral area of B
there _may_ also be some highly conductive path, you introduce chance
conditions instead of an explanation by definite acquired machine
arrangements, i.e., you give up your claim to precise explanation.
Moreover, if coming from this new point of origin A should happen to
find such readily conductive paths to B, the same might conceivably be
true of all possible processes D, E, F and so forth, which, therefore,
should “reproduce” B at any time without previous association.
The weakness of the whole scheme is, then, that it makes reproduction
depend upon _the specific location of paths and nuclei_ in each
particular case, as though such simple location were a true
representative of definite process. Only if this were so, might a
theory of reproduction become a purely topographical matter. In the
optic sector of the nervous system, at least, a given process may be
conducted in one bundle of fibers at one time, and another process may
be conducted in the same bundle shortly afterwards. Furthermore, the
same process may be conducted in certain fibers now, and in other
fibers later on. Therefore, the necessary requirement for making the
machine theory of reproduction possible is not fulfilled in the case of
our most important sense organ. In the optical system the correlation
between the different kinds of process and the different localities
in which they may occur is very near to zero. This should destroy all
hope of treating reproduction exclusively in terms of topographical
conditions.
I shall admit at once that, in this respect, we are as yet no better
off with the hypothesis about association which was proposed in the
last chapter. It is similar to the old view insofar as it assumes a
physiological trace of (AB) and insofar as, in each case, this trace
must have some _place_ in the nervous system. If, then, the process A
enters the nervous system from a different point of origin and along
another path, how does it arrive at the specific locus of that trace?
One feels inclined to give a dynamical explanation. The similarity
between A and its trace might work _as though_ A were attracted to the
trace. I shall not venture an explanation here, however, for a very
simple reason. The problem is formulated as if automatic reproduction
were the simplest and most common event in the world. But we have seen
that it probably is not. Perhaps, when we learn a little more about the
concrete rules and conditions of reproduction _as such_, we shall be
better able to treat its physiological basis.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
E. Becher: _Gehirn und Seele_. 1911.
J. von Kries: _Die materiellen Grundlagen der
Bewusstseinserscheinungen_. 1901.
K. Lewin: Psychol. Forsch. 1 and 2. 1921, 1922.
K. Lewin: _Vorsatz, Wille und Bedürfnis_. 1926.
W. Poppelreuter: Zeitschr. f. Psychol. 61. 1912.
X
_Insight_
IF habit and reproduction are not to be regarded as the main motors
of so-called mental life, what shall we say are the real ones? To
this question there is one answer, not well formulated but implicitly
accepted, which we may call the layman’s belief. It is the layman’s
belief that, in general, he himself directly feels _why_ at one time
he has one attitude, and later on another; also that, for the most
part, he knows and understands directly _why_ he is inclined to do
one thing in a certain particular situation and _why_ a definitely
different thing under subsequent different conditions. In his view,
then, he is experiencing directly and truly much of that dynamical
context, the development of which constitutes mental life. Opposed to
this belief and altogether foreign to it, we have the view of most
learned psychologists at the present time. From their viewpoint, one is
inclined to do one thing now and then another, because, in the first
instance, certain nerve paths are most available and, in the second
instance, certain other paths are most open. Fortunate those people in
whom the most permeable nerve paths in practise are usually the right
and appropriate ones! From the psychologist’s point of view it would
be a pure mystery if a person’s behavior should ever be determined, as
the layman believes, directly by the concrete properties of the actual
situation. The layman’s belief is in full agreement with everyday
experience; the learned view harmonizes with what we suppose to be the
viewpoint of natural science. I shall confess at once that I choose the
layman’s belief whole-heartedly. In the treatment of sensory process
_gestalt_ psychology prefers the data of naïve description to the
findings of prejudiced introspection. Following this line, the theory
of the sensory field has begun to have a much more intimate contact
with the natural sciences than it ever had when it imitated a self-made
ideal of these disciplines. Similarly if, with regard to the total
field, we adopt the view of common experience, what is _called_ the
viewpoint of natural science will soon be given up, in place of which
we shall substitute the theory of dynamics. At the start of our present
discussion, therefore, the obvious, almost the vulgar, will have to be
said. It is not our fault that, to a deplorable degree, the obvious
has disappeared from learned psychology, so that we have to rediscover
it. Later in the course of this analysis the obvious aspects of common
experience will be found to express certain fundamental properties of
physical dynamics in the nervous system. This is exactly the contrary
of the prevailing opinion.
We have attacked the atomistic theory of sensory experience. After
things and the self, events and groups, have been recognized as natural
parts of the field and its development, the worst mistake which might
occur would consist in our falling back upon atomism at this higher
level. It was once the psychologist’s primary aim to look for all
possible sensations, to collect and to order them in something like a
museum. After they were thus gathered and arrayed as independent bits
of experience, the sensory field had consequently to be regarded as
a mosaic of indifferent spots. We would face the same danger in this
present treatment if, after discussing a certain type of segregated
whole in one chapter, and another type in a later chapter, the self
in one chapter, and attitudes in another, we should again seem to be
opening a museum to the public. The ways of real life do not coincide
with those of classification, and if, by abstraction, we unite the
members of one class, we very probably cut the live bonds of dynamical
reality at the same time. Perhaps, the most interesting forms of
dynamical context occur between members of altogether different
classes. It is instructive to see hundreds of hearts together in a
collection; but, in operation, a heart has much more to do with a
lung than with another heart. We should not learn very much about
their specific coöperation in a classifying museum. In a similar way,
when we treat sensory wholes as one class, selves as a second and
attitudes as a third, we might easily be misled into the view that out
of some sensory objects, some self and some attitudes, actual total
fields might be composed _ad libitum_. It is evident to any one that
such an assumption would be altogether childish, there being certain
_correlations_ between the objects, the selves and their attitudes
occurring in one common field. Even from the viewpoint of traditional
psychology, it would be so. However, we cannot be satisfied with this
statement because, generally, much more than mere correlation will
occur between the most essential parts of a given total field. Just
this surplus is the obvious aspect of every one’s life to which we
have alluded and it is forgotten in at least one-half of scientific
psychology.
One attitude in which I sometimes find myself is admiration. But I
am never simply “admiring.” My admiration always is “of” something;
it does not occur as something by itself and indifferently. Nor is
there the slightest doubt about what its object is at a given moment.
In the concert-hall, yesterday at 9 o’clock, it was that _alto_
voice, singing calmly, confidently and seriously, toward which my
admiration was directed,--not the nose of my neighbor, not the back
of the conductor, none of the thousands of other objects and events
before me. How is that? Admiration is a directed attitude; the voice
is heard as singing at a definite place. Do I state that the direction
of the first goes to the place in question and stops there, as a long
stick might be fastened between me and that place, and end there? Do
I notice something like that and say, then: “Oh, I guess this curious
attitude of mine somehow has something to do with that singing!”? I
certainly do not. As my attitude arises, it is experienced as being the
natural outcome of what characterizes the singing voice. So long as the
attitude persists, it is felt as being founded upon the properties of
that performance. No indirect criteria, no coefficients of correlation
are needed, then, to teach me about some probable connection here,
because this actual attitude _is experienced as depending directly upon
something definite_.
Some weeks ago I saw my little child smiling for the first time, and
I was charmed. How did I know that my attitude was concerned with
that smile? If the total field were a mosaic of states, events and
things, some of them directed and some not, but all of them distributed
indifferently in consequence of some hidden mechanism, I could not
guess their mutual connection except by the indirect procedure of
scientific induction: a change here would be followed by a change
there; elimination of this part would be accompanied by disappearance
of that other part. Empirical rules of concomitant variation, and so
forth, would be all I could find out about the connections existing
between the several parts. In my case, the frequent concomitance of
the smile on the child’s face with that other bit of experience, my
being charmed, would have made me assume that probably there was some
connection between the two. How far have we gone in psychology that
it is possible, or even seems advisable, to carry on such discussion
seriously! One side of my child’s face is a little darker because of a
shadow. Before the sufficient number of experiences have occurred, I
might as well refer my being charmed to that shadow!
After a long walk, on a hot summer day, I drink a glass of fresh
beer. There is the cool touch and a characteristic taste in my mouth;
there is also great pleasure. Did I have to learn gradually that
the second refers to the first? That it has nothing to do with the
spider that I see on the wall, or the size of that chair? I did _not_
learn it. I am no more sure of my enjoyment as such, and of touch and
taste by themselves, than I am of enjoying just this touch and taste.
Enjoyment is felt as the adequate attitude _belonging to_ those actual
experiences, or as their natural result. Between the attitude and its
sensory basis we experience what in German is called _ihr sachlicher
Zusammenhang_.[74]
The same is true in a great many cases which differ from the last ones
only insofar as the attitude has a “negative” character.
For two weeks I have been busy arranging a carefully adjusted set
of instruments for experimentation. This morning I found them
completely out of order. Whoever may be guilty, I am angry. If, now,
I should say that here is the window, there the desk, in one corner
the instruments out of order, in another a chair, and near the door
myself in an attitude of anger, would that be an adequate description
of the total situation? It would not. I am sure that the door has no
connection whatever with my attitude; for I know that, on discovering
the unfortunate change, I was angry _about the alteration_. Again, the
attitude is felt as _founded upon_ something definite, its character
being the natural and direct consequence of that something’s properties.
One beautiful night in Tenerife, when I was working calmly at my desk,
I was suddenly frightened as I have never before been frightened. The
house was rattling and shaking violently--my first experience of an
earthquake! There was no doubt whatever about my being frightened _by_
that sudden rattling and shaking. Once more the attitude--if fright may
be called an attitude--_was felt as obviously and naturally produced
by that new experience_. We do not gradually learn that unexpected
events of a strongly dynamical type will be accompanied by fright, as
though _a priori_ any other experiences, a friendly face or the smell
of a rose, might be accompanied by fright just as well. Fright is
_experienced as_ jumping at us right out of the very nature of certain
definite events.
After sitting for half an hour in a restaurant, full of smoke and of
talk all around me, I feel “nervous” and ready to go. My “nervousness”
_refers to_ those properties of my environment. I know this, not only
because in past experience I may have discovered the rule that under
such conditions I shall feel uneasy after a time. I experience myself
directly as disturbed and confused _by_ those surroundings. I might
say also that I feel myself _necessarily growing “nervous” under the
pressure of_ sticky air and loud, disorderly noise. Actually these
conditions can only produce that one effect upon me. That is how I feel
them.
Last but not least, I was very much depressed two days ago. At the
same time I could not hit upon an adequate presentation of what I
conceived to be the subject-matter of this chapter. Were there two
separate facts, then, the probable connection of which I might have
stated by some indirect method? No need to! When I was trying to solve
my problem, I felt my depression _as based upon_ my failure directly.
Just such a feeling had to grow out of such a situation because of its
properties.
If, in all these examples, I feel how my own attitude is determined
by the nature of something before me, in other instances something
before me will be experienced quite as naturally as growing out of my
attitude.
When I look at Fig. 1 without any special effort, I have two groups
of dots before me. But if, for some reason, I become interested in
oblique lines, the figure will be transformed into three oblique pairs
of dots, for instance, each of which runs like an oblique line from a
lower dot to the right to a dot higher up to the left. Suppose that
the transformation really occurs; it grows out of my attitude quite as
naturally as my anger develops out of a definite event. When I scratch
my head or hum a tune simultaneously, I do not feel the slightest
connection of these activities with the described transformation
of Fig. 1. But the transformation is _felt as depending upon_ that
particular attitude directly.
What was the name of that town on the Santa Fé Railroad? There it
comes! When I am searching for a name, searching does not occur as
one thing apart; nor does the gap of the forgotten name occur as an
isolated item among other things--a headache, the noise of the wind,
the lamp before me, and so forth. Searching is experienced as directed
toward that definite name, hidden as yet, but now, at last, yielding
to the stress of my attitude. As it appears, its coming is felt as
_being achieved by_ just this little stress of mine. I ask again, Did
I learn gradually through numerous experiences that in this particular
situation such an attitude will be _followed_ by a name so that now
I may venture to guess about their mutual relation? Without previous
training, would that noise outdoors be connected with the given
attitude as well?
I hold my arm horizontally for a while. Very soon the arm will not
remain in that position unless I exert a special effort. In my total
field there is, besides this effort, the blue sky, a lark’s song,
the aspect of the lifted arm, a smell of moist ground. There is also
a curious feeling in the lifted arm, growing more intense as the
minutes go by, and, with this feeling, something like a downward
pull in the arm. Geometrically, as it were, or logically, my actual
experiences allow a large number of different combinations into pairs.
My effort may be combined with the lark’s song, the smell, the color
of the lifted hand, and the blue of the sky. But my effort is not an
isolated something, equally indifferent to all parts of the field. It
is experienced as keeping the arm horizontal _against that downward
pull_. The nature of the pull is felt as requiring just such an
effort in compensation, and the nature of the effort is experienced
as compensating just this pull. If some one tries to describe the
situation in terms of indifferent data, each of which has a place,
some of which have a direction (but independently of each other), some
occurring at one time, and some at another, and all of them having
hundreds of mutual “relations” as to place, distance, succession or
simultaneity, intensity and so on,--he will not even touch what
psychologically is the main feature of the situation.
In discussing a somewhat similar case David Hume emphatically defended
the opposite view. I do not know how my arm is lifted, he said, when I
wish to raise it. There can be no more than mere succession in time,
since I do not know the nature of the physiological mechanism that
effects the raising. What a strange argument! And how much opposed to
what Hume had promised to furnish as an analysis of pure experience.
When we talk about “the arm” in this connection, we have to deal with
an experienced thing, not with a physical object and its movements in
physical space. Whatever the nature of peripheral innervation may be
in Hume’s case, we are dealing with a definite “wish” and a definite
experienced movement of our arm. The problem is whether this particular
wish is naturally experienced as being as foreign or indifferent to the
arm’s felt movement as it is to the seen color of that cloud or the
brown of the skin. In haste the great philosopher seems to have skipped
over a dangerous point here, unintentionally making use of a simple
logical trick, by which, however, he saved his theory for almost two
centuries.
In order to make the import of these paragraphs more circumscribed, I
shall consider an objection.
One might say after all that those experiences of “depending upon,”
“being the natural outcome of,” “being based upon” or of “sustaining
against” do not prove that a _necessary_ connection exists in the
field. I greatly enjoyed the overture to _Tristan und Isolde_ twenty
years ago and, at that time, I might have given exactly the same
description of my enjoyment as the direct and evident outgrowth of just
that piece of music. What has become of my attitude toward the piece?
I am tired of it. At present, I should be rather inclined to find
aversion the only possible and natural outcome of hearing the overture.
Nor would I doubt for a moment what this aversion refers to or is based
upon. The answer to this objection will consist in our saying that all
this is absolutely true, but that it does not really constitute an
objection. With exactly the same physical situation, or sequence of
sound-waves, the same person will feel “pleasure” _growing out of_ his
sensory experience to-day, and be altogether disgusted by it only a few
days later on. A simple way to achieve that alteration experimentally
would be to give our subject the same sequence of sounds three hundred
times each day.[75] But we have no right to say that after more than a
thousand repetitions the same melodies will be experienced as having
quite the same properties they had to begin with. They have changed,
no doubt; they have become a musical commonplace, sounding empty and
stale. Keep away from these melodies for a few years! Then you may find
something more similar to their original nature again, and if, then,
you enjoy them once more, your enjoyment will be felt to grow out of
them as obviously as when you first listened to them. An attitude is
felt as being the natural outcome of actual experience; the objection
stated above misinterprets this definition, as though it meant a
constant connection between a set of _stimuli_ and the attitude.
For still another reason, music which I enjoyed twenty years ago
may not please me to-day, even without the unfortunate influence of
frequent repetition. What I call my self has changed its properties
considerably in the meantime. Why, then, should the music produce
the same effects upon this changed self? Once more I must point out
that our feeling of something naturally depending upon something else
does not refer to a correlation, or a highly constant “togetherness”
_as such_, stated in terms of the external observation of a great
many cases. It refers rather to an evident dynamical dependence as
experienced _hic et nunc_ in one actual case. As this flower before me
is certainly red, though if I should become color-blind later on, it
would be gray, so such a dependence in the total field is real now,
independently of what the future will make of it.
From this consideration we may learn something more. The way in which a
piece of music affects me now, in contrast to the attitude it produced
twenty years ago, has been determined by some change of my self. I
should hesitate very much to assert that _this_ change of my self was
experienced as the only possible outgrowth of definite conditions,
quite as evidently and directly as, at a given time, my attitude toward
the piece of music is felt to grow out of its actual properties with
natural necessity. Therefore, I did not experience the _way_ in which
one attitude instead of another has become the natural outcome of my
listening to that piece. Certain conditions must have gradually changed
_outside_ the field of my experience; the change in my attitude must
somehow depend upon that change of conditions. But I have never felt
the former change being brought about by the latter change.
It is an old rule in science that nothing makes certain positive
statements more worthy of credit than their author’s frank
acknowledgment of negative cases and his attempt to emphasize the
contrast himself. I shall be the last to deny that in hundreds of cases
we are very far from experiencing how one state of affairs is brought
about by others. Let a subject observe a continuous movement for a
while and then fixate a face or a pattern. His surprise when he sees
the after-image of that movement for the first time in his life will
be sufficient as a proof here that the experience of the after-effect
is necessarily brought about by certain conditions without the subject
being aware of any natural bond between them. Probably, here, the main
conditions remain entirely outside the field of direct experience.
Again, after fixating the center of Fig. 8 for a while, many subjects
will be greatly surprised when suddenly another, quite different,
shape appears before them. We do not directly feel _why_ just this
transformation should occur after continuous fixation. We feel it
so little that once a physicist, who had been shown such a figure
consisting of bright lines in an otherwise dark room, afterwards asked
me how, from my position twelve yards off, I had been able to put
another figure in the place of the first, so quickly and surprisingly!
He did not even suspect that something in his own organism was
producing the transformation.
Eventually there cannot be a doubt that even certain emotional
attitudes may occur without our feeling their _raison d’être_ directly.
As sometimes we suddenly feel that we have caught a cold without
knowing where and when, thus some morning we may feel the way an
ominous cloud looks, i.e., with a silent anger which does not seem to
have an obvious basis in the present field of our experience. Such a
cloud of anger, it is often true, will easily find something upon which
to discharge itself, and, then, that external something will appear as
an adequate object of the anger. Before that time, we cannot do more
than _guess_ about the hidden first cause of our angry mood. It may be
some unknown climatological condition working upon our organism, or it
may be disturbed digestion. However, we do not directly “feel” any of
these causes. This example may be regarded as particularly interesting,
since it seems to teach us two different lessons: It corroborates the
view that, as well as instances in which dynamical context _as such_ is
experienced directly and actually, there are other instances in which
effects are conspicuous in experience, although experience is blind and
deaf as to their determination. The second lesson is that both sorts
of determination may be united in one single event, because when, in
the attitude of a threatening cloud, we discover something upon which
to release the tension, that something will appear and probably _be_
appropriate to the production of an angry reaction. But that we should
react so vehemently will be the result of those hidden conditions
which had transformed us into an ominous cloud before there was this
opportunity for “justified” anger.
I do not see, however, that the fact of hidden determination as
observed in some cases is an argument against experienced determination
in others. In the case of cholera and plague, germs are found to be the
decisive condition of disease. In diabetes this is not the case. Who
would deduce an argument against bacteriology from such a “negative”
case? Therefore we may accept the same duplicity in our case, too.
But is it not evident that, in spite of our examples, so-called
“experienced determination,” in a great many instances, may be a simple
product of learning? When, in my mail, the address on one envelope is
in a certain handwriting, I feel happy over the discovery; whereas with
the finding of some other handwritings, just the contrary is true. We
may neglect the graphological and esthetic sides of our reaction, since
we know that it is chiefly our acquaintance with the writers which
makes one handwriting very pleasant and the other disagreeable. In
either case we seem to feel that our attitude is “the natural outcome”
of the aspect of the handwriting. Nevertheless, our reaction seems to
be one which we have had to learn. The same words and letters would
not be felt as “being the natural basis of our reaction,” if we had
not become “conditioned” to them. What, then, about that mysterious
feeling of natural determination? The answer is simple enough. Those
words and letters have become imbued with all the friendly experiences
we have had with one person or with all the animosity connected with
another. As these persons themselves, when present, directly arouse
the corresponding attitude, their handwritings do so now; not because
this _attitude_ has become gradually “connected” with the handwriting,
but because, saturated with the specific character of those past
experiences, the handwriting represents a _natural_ basis for just
this attitude, indeed. There is no reason why this determination of
attitude by the now apparent properties of something before us, should
not occur and be felt directly.
With respect to this question another remark will be to the point.
When I am thirsty, I am inclined to think of refreshing drinks.
What I am thus directed to is brought into my actual experience by
reproduction. That does not matter very much in our present problem.
However reproduction may have occurred, once the so-called “idea” of
the drink is in the actual field, it is felt to be the natural basis of
longing _for_ it, and the craving is experienced as being determined
directly by just that sort of “idea” in the present state of the self.
The mere circumstance that something has come into our actual field
by reproduction does not at all decide what kind of context it may
be experienced in when it is there. It will be wise to remember that
well, because the overwhelming importance of learning, of habit, of
reproduction, has been so constantly emphasized in psychology, that we
will almost stop thinking and considering any further problems with
respect to a situation in which _some_ influence or participation of
past events and of reproduction has been shown. But even if all “parts”
of a given situation should be found to owe their actual presence to
reproduction, there would still be one problem before us: In what
degree do they belong dynamically to each other here and now, in the
manner we are discussing in this chapter?
We have come back to what has been called above the layman’s belief.
Without knowing anything about the fundamental weight of his conviction
he takes it as the simplest matter in the world, that he has such a
feeling now “because of” a certain aspect of his actual situation, and
that he feels the “because,” too; also, that he lifts his arm with an
effort felt as “directed against” a heavy weight and “in spite” of it.
I agree with the layman. In the organization of the total field and
in thousands of cases, we do experience the live dynamical context
determining one state this way and that change another way. Moreover,
we feel where they come from and where they go to, in those instances.
Above all, we may experience _why_, issuing from just such an event,
thing or attitude, a given effect should be just the one we find
growing out of it.
Surprisingly enough, in modern science and most of all in psychology,
there is a tendency not only to neglect this simple truth, but even
to persecute it, as though it could not be acknowledged from the
scientific viewpoint. David Hume has been thought of as the father
of all the energetic fight against it. But probably in this great
figure of history we should rather see the exponent, the most eminent
representative and the best enunciator of an intellectual current which
took its origin in Greece or even before, thousands of years ago,
arising from some deep need of mankind for clearness.[76]
There is one sort of clearness and simplicity into which our statements
and the layman’s belief do not fit very well. That ideal of clarity
would be achieved, if the world could be conceived as an enormous
number of equal and unequal pieces, related indifferently as neighbors
in space and successors in time. That this is a true picture of
_experience_, at least, is silently presupposed at the very outset in
Hume’s famous work, so that he does not prove subsequently more than
he has already implicitly treated as a settled affair. Since we have
noticed that, in a great many cases, we really do not at all feel _how_
something is determined by something else, he had no difficulty in
gathering examples appropriate to his point of view; and since he did
not see the other cases, or disposed of them as quickly and incorrectly
as I have described above, he seemed to have demonstrated the truth of
his view beyond all argumentation.
Being neighbors and following each other, indifferent bits of
experience will show all possible mutual relations as to space and
time, which, however, do not prevent them from being an indifferent
aggregate. In addition, there will be an indefinite number of other
relations referring to quality, intensity, and so forth. These,
however, would also form an indifferent network throughout experience,
merely visible to something like a logical eye, but unreal from the
viewpoint of experience itself. Laws about natural coexistence and
sequence of events? No direct grasp of them is possible in such a world
_à la Hume_! He is said to have been the greatest empiricist of them
all. But if he constructs such a world, the plan of which is determined
by his need for a special type of intellectual clarity, he might quite
as justifiably be called a rationalist.
In his _radical empiricism_ William James laid great stress upon
the fact that “the relations between things, conjunctive as well as
disjunctive, are just as much matters of direct particular experience,
neither more so nor less so, than the things themselves.”[77] This view
is an obstacle in our way rather than an aid; neither do we receive any
help from James, when he, though attacking atomism in the treatment
of experience, clearly fails to recognize natural segregations in the
sensory field (Chap. V). “Relations” might be found indifferently
between all parts, fractions, or bits of the field, if we search for
them. In this respect, and unless more is said, relations will be
entirely unfit to make us understand why some definite and particular
attitude is experienced as arising “because of” some definite and
particular event or thing in the field. The field is by no means
experienced as being everywhere full of those dynamical bonds. There
are _relations_, nevertheless, between that same attitude and all the
rest of the field.
In some places, it is true, James attacks our problem from another
side, as when he writes about our “sustaining a felt purpose against
felt obstacles, and overcoming or being overcome”;[78] also where in
his description “the experiencer feels the tendency, the obstacle, the
will, the strain, the triumph, or the passive giving up, just as he
feels the time, the space, the swiftness or intensity, the movement,
the weight and color, the pain and pleasure, the complexity, or
whatever remaining characters the situation may involve.”[79] This is
something quite unlike an indifferent network of relations throughout
the field. The stress is not placed precisely where I have tried to
place it, largely because for James “activity” _as such_ was of chief
importance, whereas our description centers around the experience
of a great many different attitudes as they arise naturally out of
the properties of an event before us, or vice versa. Still there is
some agreement, at least, about our experiencing directly certain
determinations in the total field.[80]
A great deal of purely sensory organization may be called “silent”
because, though we experience the _result_ of it as segregated wholes
with specific properties, we do not usually feel _how_ this result is
dynamically brought about and maintained. In this respect the total
field is different; it tells us more about its innermost nature. Here,
not only the result is experienced, but also very much of its “why” and
“how” is felt in just the actual context. Wherever this is the case
we apply the term _insight_. When I used this term in my treatment
of intelligent behavior in apes, I ran the risk of an unfortunate
misinterpretation. Since that behavior comprised extraordinarily
conspicuous accomplishments which we did not expect to find in
animals, insight would be readily misinterpreted as some special and
supranatural faculty producing admirable and otherwise inexplicable
results. As I used and intended the term, nothing of that sort should
be implied in it. To avoid a similar misunderstanding this time, I
have introduced the concept here in application to very common and
simple facts. It does not mean more than our experience of definite
determination in a context, an event or a development of the total
field; and in the actual cases there need be nothing like an invention,
or a new intelligent achievement, or so forth. A total field would
be experienced _without_ insight, if all its several states, wholes,
attitudes, etc., were simply given as a pattern, in which none was felt
directly to depend upon any other and none to determine any other.
I have repeated several times that, from the viewpoint of common and
unsophisticated experience, nothing can be more obvious than just that
direct determination. So much so, that in natural life scarcely a
single actual total field would be said to lack that characteristic.
With respect to this conviction of the layman we have not added more
than truisms, indeed. Among learned psychologists, however, there will
only be a minority at present who, fully realizing the theoretical
importance of this point, are quite ready to accept it. There is a
second group, much larger than the first, comprising psychologists,
who time and again will talk in a manner involving, presupposing and
implying insight as a characteristic of their subjects’ or their own
experience. This is done, however, without their being aware of it,
and consequently one does not find trace of it in the list of their
theoretical concepts. To participate, practically, in the naïve and
sound procedure of the layman is not the same thing as to realize what
one is doing from a theoretical viewpoint. The less so, since the
well-established and socially acknowledged concepts of experimental
psychology belong almost completely to the theoretical world of Hume.
In a third and last group of psychologists all those scientists may
be counted, to whom the creed of Hume or the scientific epoch of
the nineteenth century seems to be _the_ final stage of theoretical
advance, any essential change or development thereof being forbidden.
What has been described in the last paragraphs is mysticism in their
eyes. They would probably find no difficulty in asserting that,
riding in a bus, we might refer actual anger to the friendly face
of a beautiful girl before us just as well as to the man who has at
that moment chosen our feet as a basis for the considerable weight of
his whole body. Or, more correctly, they would not acknowledge _any_
experience of natural reference at all, since what “connections” there
are, are all due to indirect learning or conditioning. Consequently,
they never mean an actual “reference to”; they mean merely a “coming
together” or a “following each other.” There is no doubt that true
behaviorists belong to this third class. But usually they decline to
enlist in any of the parties; because our problem still seems to remain
entirely in the field of direct experience, of which they refuse to
take any account.
The problem can be readily transformed, however, into a matter of brain
physiology. At the very outset (Chap. II) it was proposed to use direct
experience as an indicator of those physiological processes which,
occurring between the realm of outer conditions and the overt behavior
of the organism, are not directly observable at the present time.
In that field of the brain the processes of which underlie our
experienced field, the context of states and events was said to
be a true picture of direct experience. To the actual order of the
experienced field there corresponds the actual order of nervous
processes, in each case. When one thing appears as a segregated whole
in experience, a corresponding, detached whole exists in nervous
process, and so forth. Mere continuity and consistency of theory
has obliged us to acknowledge then, that, in some part of the same
physiological field those processes must occur which, whether they
be sensory or not, underlie the self, its actual states, properties
and attitudes. As in experience I am surrounded by the things and
events of my environment, so the processes corresponding to my self
will be in the midst of a corresponding environment, consisting of
sensory processes and so forth, in the brain field. If, now, there is
experience not only of things and events, of my states and attitudes,
all occurring indifferently by themselves, but also of _this actual
attitude being the direct outcome of that feature of the environment_,
or of _this state in my surroundings being determined by that actual
attitude of mine_, there seems to be only one way to conceive the
underlying physiological context. Where, in dynamical determination,
the properties of one part of a field depend directly upon the
actual nature of some other particular part, those properties do not
exist indifferently as such; they originate and they are maintained
by the stress of just those particular forces which issue from the
determining part, according to its actual nature. Assuming that the
same is true in the brain field which is true in a physical field, the
properties of the actual physiological self[81] will change and may be
kept changed a while, under the stress of some particular process in
the same field, corresponding to an essential thing or event in the
experienced environment. The changed state of the self does not exist
independently; it is produced and maintained by something definite,
the actual nature of which expresses itself in just this dynamical
influence. If, therefore, this particular dynamical context is taken
to be the physiological fact underlying our experience of direct
determination of attitude, no mystery remains in our description of
common experience.
To make this point more clear, the situation in one of our concrete
examples could be thus stated. When, on a hot day I enjoy a cool drink,
my enjoyment is felt to refer to, or to be based upon, the properties
of the drink and my thirst, but not to the spider on the wall, nor
to the size of a chair, nor to thousands of other things. In the
brain-field, more particularly in that part of it which corresponds to
the self, there is a special process B, felt as thirst in experience.
Now when I begin to drink, another process A, corresponding to
experienced coolness and taste, develops in the same region of the
brain-field (experienced interior of the mouth) where until now there
was only the process of “thirst.” In terms of the theory of insight and
of direct physiological determination, A begins at once to exert an
influence upon B, the influence depending upon the concrete properties
of A and those of the actually existing state B. The change, which is
produced, is felt as pleasure (and, concomitantly, decreasing thirst).
And this change I assume to be determined by A no less directly than
is the rising temperature of a black surface determined by the rays of
light falling upon it or the “attitude” of a dwindling fire by a fresh
supply of oxygen. From our viewpoint we do not have separate bits in
experience where we have a functional context in the physiological
total field, one part of which reacts directly to the definite and
particular properties of another. _Therefore_, in our example, we
cannot experience enjoyment as something apart, among a pattern of
hundreds of other things. Enjoyment has to be felt as “referring to”
and as referring to something definite, the process of which determines
the process of enjoyment.
So far, instead of mystery, the most elementary concepts of physics
are introduced into our view of the total physiological field. There
is not the slightest reason why we should not experience determination
_as such_; nor is there any reason why, in concrete cases, we should
not feel just what our actual state or attitude is based upon; in one
word, there is no reason why _insight_ should not be an essential
characteristic of much experience in the total field. Of course, what
has been said about the determination of the self by parts of the
environment, may be applied to the opposite case at once, in which an
actual attitude of ours is felt directly as producing or as maintaining
a change in our surroundings. Here, the influencing and the influenced
have only changed places, both physiologically and in experience.
Although the layman’s belief is thoroughly justified by such a view,
there is strict contradiction between it and the opinion now prevailing
in scientific psychology. The contrast between machine theory and
dynamical theory becomes clear once more. Neither in the usual scheme
of a reflex, nor in that of a conditioned reflex, nor even in any
attempt to explain association (in the older form of that concept),
will the properties of one particular process determine directly
the nature of another. An influence always remains a matter of some
intermediate “paths of optimal conduction,” the particular properties
of a first process A being something apart, transmission of “nervous
energy” along those paths another separate event, and the effect upon
a later process B, still a third thing, determined by the arrival of
that indifferent “nervous energy.” Therefore, if another path had been
a better conductor, a different realm or process C, instead of B, would
have been changed by the sudden impulse from without; in any case, the
change of B into a B^1 or of C into a C^1 would have been independent
of the concrete properties of A. In terms of such a theory A will
produce B^1 only because there is that one-way street between them. By
some change in nervous connections a thirsty man might be roused into a
fit of anger at the experience of the coolness and the taste of a fresh
drink!
The objection will perhaps be raised that, excluding certain radical
behaviorists, no one has explicitly presented such an absurd theory of
mental life. I shall not give much weight to this historical question,
because one thing is much more important: Why do we not formulate
the positive theory of direct dynamical determination in the total
field? Why do we not expressly acknowledge insight as one of the
most fundamental and common facts of mental life, and, therefore, as
fundamental theoretically? Why do we discuss as many psychological
problems as we possibly can _as though_ the machine concepts were the
only ones available or, at least, the best ones from the viewpoint
of natural science? I do no more than derive quite frankly the
consequences of such a scientific situation. In doing so, I have
but one aim. We must advance from an implicit and almost unwitting
presupposition of insight and direct dynamical determination, which,
expressed in careless psychological terminology, cannot give rise to
concrete consequences, to a clear realization of the essential point.
This I believe to be the contrast between the indirect and indifferent
connections of processes in machine theory and the directly adequate
determination of one process by another in the dynamical theory of the
brain field.
In the last pages it was my original intention to talk about insight as
occurring only in an _established_ total field, in which an actually
existing attitude is felt to be the outcome of some definite fact in
the environment, or vice versa. I have not been able, however, to
restrict the discussion to such a settled case, despite my intentions.
And nothing could be more characteristic of our problem than is this
failure, because, in order to produce a somewhat accurate description,
we must necessarily go beyond the actual state of the total field and
take account of a certain new feature intrinsic to some of our concrete
examples.
In more than one example it was not so much an existing state of the
self which we felt to be determined directly by the properties of a
given fact before us, but a _change_ of the self as growing out of
something particular, just appearing in the field. Sudden fright at
an unexpected event of a certain sort is an instance of this sort of
dynamical determination. Again, when in climbing a mountain we reach a
dangerous place, fear may quickly grow out of the observation of the
lie of the land where we must take the next three steps. After these
steps have been successfully accomplished, a feeling of relief will
develop out of the situation, no less directly.
Nevertheless there will sometimes be more of a _development_ in such
a dynamical state of the total field. When I described my feeling
in a restaurant, full of smoke and full of talk, “nervousness,” or
uneasiness, was not the only thing I had to report about myself. I
had to add that I felt very eager _to go_. This means that, beside my
experiencing uneasiness as the natural effect directly determined by
the environment, I felt a tendency in my self _to move away from it_.
Again, this tendency was not experienced as something arising, _as
such_, without reference to definite other parts of the total field;
on the contrary it was felt to grow directly out of certain properties
of the situation and my uneasiness. As a layman I would say that I
wanted to go _because of_ my uneasiness in this particular situation,
and as a psychologist I shall admit that the layman’s expression is
absolutely correct, because it corresponds once more to the fact that
there is insight into the direct determination of that tendency toward
a definite sort of activity.
Our life is full of trivial instances of this kind and, occasionally,
the most important and decisive impulses toward definite forms of
conduct arise directly out of given conditions in the same way. And
generally we experience the _how_ and the _why_ of such experience.
I am sitting in full sunlight quite contentedly. After a while I
feel too hot; at the same time a tendency to move away from where
I am sitting, arises. A shadowy place near by seems pleasant; the
impulse away from the sunlight becomes at once a tendency toward the
shadow, and as at first the properties of one place made me inclined
to move away from it, the properties of another now arouse an impulse
of approach. In both cases there is insight, since we feel _how_ in
the first case one tendency grows directly out of the nature of one
situation, and in the second _how_ some other part of the field, due to
its properties, quite as naturally determines another impulse. From an
earlier remark the reader will remember that it does not at all matter
for our present problem whether the relevant properties of the seen
shadow are known to us by previous learning or some other way.[82]
The same description may usually be given of fright. When a sudden
event is felt as producing fright in me, I shall have to add at once,
in a correct description, that with the fright there arose a vehement
impulse to move away from the locus of that event. Again, this tendency
immediately to increase the distance between that place and myself is
experienced as being the direct outcome of the startling occurrence
quite as much as the fright itself is felt as its direct result. We
noticed before how, in Watson’s description of a child’s behavior, the
overt behavior of withdrawing from the uncanny object may be regarded
in the sensory experience of the onlooker, as a visible picture of the
child’s own total field. Does any one believe that the child feels a
fear of the object, on the one hand, and an impulse to move away, on
the other, as independent experiences? Or that the child might just as
well feel a tendency toward embracing or swallowing the object, during
his fear? As Watson has shown in this case, the object has become
“dangerous” through previous learning. This does not prove, however,
that between the danger itself, the fear and the withdrawal, there is
not more than indirect connections.
As an impulse of withdrawal arises directly out of certain given
situations, so the opposite tendency belongs as naturally to other
situations. I have mentioned above the case of a shadow attracting,
as it were, a person who has had more than enough of the sun. We
all know that similar instances are more frequent in our life than
trees in a wood. The child, observed objectively as reaching for an
animal’s head in Watson’s experiment, feels attracted towards that
interesting object, if we are willing to grant him any experience at
all. From our own total field we are well acquainted with the fact
that such a tendency appears to us as being a natural characteristic
of exactly such a situation and of a great many similar ones. In
Spain, after a particularly brilliant achievement of the toreador,
the admiration of the crowd often drives them so intensely in their
hero’s direction, that, unable to enter the arena themselves, they
hang over the balustrades, reaching toward him as far as possible; the
stress will sometimes be so great that hats, handkerchiefs, and so on,
are thrown down in the direction of the dominating impulse. Did these
people learn gradually by some process of conditioning to connect an
approach-tendency with admiration, as though a tendency toward frowning
or shaking the left leg might have been, if conditioned, equally well
“connected” with admiration? I cannot help thinking sometimes that
whether we are introspectionists, behaviorists or whatever else, the
chief dividing line among contemporary psychologists would separate
those who acknowledge obvious, direct determination as it appears in
common experience from those who can only admit indirect “connections.”
As a last example I choose a simple, practical event: for some purpose
I wish to break a wooden board. I press against it and, feeling my
effort directed against the felt resistance of the board, I see and
feel the board yielding in the same direction. Is it true that, as Hume
would have us say, this yielding of the board in my experience does
not develop more naturally out of the direction of my effort than
would, for instance, a change of the board’s color or a darkening of
the sun, under the same circumstances? Personally, I feel the board
yielding just in the direction of my effort and not otherwise, almost
as naturally as I feel myself yielding in a definite direction, if a
friend of mine and I measure our strength by pressing hard against each
other’s shoulders, and I lose the battle. However that may be, if once
the board begins to yield to my effort, I immediately feel a tendency
toward going on or, rather, increasing the pressure as a direct outcome
of that change in the board’s resistance. And, indeed, I really do
increase my effort.
What is the common content of these examples? That there is more
than mere succession in the development of our attitudes as they
refer to actual objects in our field! Things _might_ occur in human
experience in this way: First, I feel uneasy near a hot radiator,
for instance; then, as something apart and as an altogether separate
bit of experience, I feel an impulse away from the radiator, and,
eventually, as a third independent feeling, I find myself moving in
some direction which, _geometrically_, would increase the distance
between that object and me. It is almost impossible to talk about these
three experiences in a manner which would exclude any natural context
between them as radically as, in terms of the viewpoint I wish here to
exhibit, it ought to be excluded. As we read the words, the context of
insight is built up at once, spontaneously. What is meant will become
more apparent if again I say that, from such a viewpoint, any event
whatsoever might follow the first instead of the second, and similarly
with the relation between the second and the third. In experience
the real development is supposed to have no better “connection,”
originally, than any other sequence would have. The first experience
does not _require_ the second, nor the second the third!
Again we return to machine theory. Normally, one might say, the
development will consist of just those three events, indeed. Feeling
hot, feeling a tendency toward moving and moving in a direction
which, geometrically, coincides with the direction of that tendency.
Why do just that second and that third event follow the first? One
possibility: because there is something like an original reflex, a
well-established path in the nervous system conducting from the place
of the first process to the place of the second, and a number of
similar paths leading from this second place to the centers controlling
the particular movement of our feet in the certain direction. In such
a theory of the sequence, the result would be practical enough from
the viewpoint of an observer, and even the subject himself might feel
satisfied at the _end_ of the series, but that would be all. If, in the
same situation (heat), pinching his left thumb between the fingers of
the right hand occurred, followed by his moving in a certain direction
and, then, by his feeling well, the subject would understand the
sequence quite as much as or, better, quite as little as, when he sees
a natural context in the _real_ development. Mere connections between
parts of the nervous system enforce the sequence, the _properties_ of
A _as such_ do not take part in the determination of B, and those of
B are altogether innocent of C’s succession. Such a production of the
sequence cannot produce in experience more than a series of feelings
indifferent to each other. There cannot be insight.
Suppose that no reflexes are provided in this case; what theoretical
explanation can we give, then, of the right succession? The second
possibility is learning or habit. Many different things originally
happened in my experience when I felt very hot. Among them,
occasionally, there were impulses toward moving. Again, among these
now and then there was one accidental impulse, the direction of which
was away from the radiator, _geometrically_. (Not for the subject,
however, who might just as well define this direction as northwest,
for instance!) After these few occasions another series of events
followed in a haphazard fashion, all of them equally indifferent to
the foregoing. But sometimes real _motion_ in the stated direction,
and the experience of it, would be the next events and, finally, an
experience of feeling satisfied. However it came to pass in the first
instance, this one sequence, after it has fortunately happened to
occur frequently enough, becomes a well-established chain of events,
in short, a habit. Thereafter it operates as soon as our subject feels
hot enough. But its operation is no more immediate or natural than
all those other possible combinations _as such_ would have been. The
subject feels satisfied at the end of the sequence. But if, after the
feeling of heat, counting from one to twenty-six had brought about this
same feeling of relief, and if this sequence had been well associated,
he would not experience a less natural or satisfying development
than he really does in the case of the habit of withdrawal. No one
development is more natural than any other; without exception all
sequences are _merely_ sequences, and nothing else. It is only by some
fortunate mechanism that those sequences are “stamped in” as a habit,
the end of which is _practical success_. The subject cannot feel in
experience more than an indifferent series of events since, in the
associated series, the properties of heat do not have any influence
upon the “right” tendency as the next event, and the experience of
the “right” movement will be the third event, independently of the
nature of that tendency. Synapses have become less resistant between
the localities of those processes; the connecting fibers have become
more readily conductive. But the connections in the nervous system
have had nothing to do with the properties of the heat or with the
direction of that tendency away from the radiator or with the direction
of the movement itself. The neural factors were merely frequency of
repetition, recency, and success in a purely external sense of the
word, or any other principle independent of the concrete properties of
heat, tendency and movement in their mutual relations with one another.
And instinct? I know only two ways to give this term a somewhat
concrete meaning as an explanation of real development in experience
and in behavior. Often the concept means the same thing as “a chain
of reflexes,” with or without some adornments in the guise of habit
formation. In this case what has already been said about machine
theory, about habit or conditioning as the building up of a secondary
machine, applies immediately to instinct. Two machine theories of
development, knit together in one application, can lead only to a more
complicated theory of essentially the same type. Instinct is sometimes
regarded as a supranatural process, accomplishing those practically
adequate sequences of behavior which we are not able to explain
otherwise in a sensible manner. In this form the concept is so little
suited to my scientific taste that I should like to be excused from
further discussion of it.
And then? Surprisingly enough, apart from these explanations of
behavior, we do not seem to recognize other than merely “random”
sequences in psychology. Where neither an inherited nor an
acquired machine determines the sequence of events, our theoretical
formulations, not accustomed to dynamical considerations, will regard
chance as ruling whatever may happen to occur. So much we have already
seen in Chapter IV. But a third possibility of orderly determination
was found there, which we shall now discuss in its application to the
total field.
After what has been said about the states of the self as depending
upon the properties of its environment, felt uneasiness (felt as
resulting from too much heat on one side of the body) will have a
corresponding process in the underlying brain-field, which will be
determined directly by that other process underlying the experience of
an excess of heat on one side. But the tendency to move away from the
heat is felt as developing in this situation, just as directly as the
uneasiness is. Consequently we must again draw the same physiological
conclusion: if some process underlying a certain sensory experience
directly causes another process underlying dislike and uneasiness in
the self, a tendency toward increasing the distance between the place
of the first and the place of the self must develop just as directly
at the same time. As the tendency is felt to grow out of the nature
of that sensory experience, and of the experience of uneasiness, the
tendency must be physiologically determined by the concrete properties
of the corresponding processes. In dynamics such a tendency toward
increasing the distance between two things or events is called a field
of force. We may say, then, that there is in the brain-field a field
of force tending to increase the distance between the place of the
radiator and the place of the self. If, now, the subject overtly moves
in that direction, what happens in the brain-field? As the distance is
enlarged objectively, exactly the same occurs in the brain-field,--the
process corresponding to the self moving away from the processes of
the radiator and of the heat. The subject will feel himself moving
in precisely the same direction which was felt one moment before as
the direction of a tendency to movement; and, physiologically, the
increase of distance in the brain-field will correspond exactly to the
stress which, as a field of force, was tending in that same direction.
Therefore, physiologically, as well as in experience, what happens will
be no more than the natural consequence, the real development, or the
evolution of something which, in germ, was already implicitly contained
in the tendency.
So we are led to a more complete application of the theory of direct
dynamical determination. There is no mere sequence of indifferent
events, connected indirectly. Each phase of what happens grows out
of its predecessors, depending upon their concrete nature. And the
subject, whose experiences are an expression of this one developing
context in the brain-field, will experience the development, along
with its “referring to,” “depending upon,” “away from” and so
forth--that is, with _insight_.
One remark is needed here with regard to the overt movement of the
organism in its relation to a field of force, existing between the
self and some part of its environment, in the brain-field. We know
that during the first months a child is not able to move his hands,
in accordance with the interest which an object has aroused in his
sensory field. This fact may be interpreted in two different ways:
(1) Either there is no natural determination of overt movement by
definite fields of force in the brain. In this case all “connections”
between the two would have to be learned. (2) Or the hand does not
yet move in the direction of actual interest for some other reason,
whereas when that unknown obstacle is removed a little later by organic
development, the general direction of the clumsy movements depends
directly upon actual fields of force in the brain. The astonishingly
early coördination of eye-movements would make me inclined to consider
the second hypothesis no less seriously than the first. However, the
theory of direct determination does not depend upon this choice. Even
if learning should be the only way in which movements of the hand or of
any other parts of the body become connected with the distribution of
forces in the brain-field, the _right_ movement will still be marked
out by more than the final success it achieves. As soon as, partially
or entirely, the direction of an overt movement coincides with the
actually existing nervous field of force, there will be a relaxation
of tension or stress. Therefore, any beginning in the right direction
will be felt as being in the right line. Later on, when coördination of
movement is complete, familiar overt movements will always go in the
right direction; and they will be felt as fitting into the dynamics of
the situation, because, in the brain-field, they produce the release of
previously existing tension.
* * * * *
In order to show how the fundamental motors of behavior can bring about
more complicated conduct through direct determination, I shall conclude
with the analysis of an observation made on an ape several years ago.
Outside the animal’s cage a banana is placed on the ground, beyond
the reach of his arm. In a similar situation some days before the
ape had used a stick as an instrument for the first time. He finds a
stick to-day, too, but it is a rough thing. A branch projects from the
side of the stick, near the ape’s hand. At first this branch does not
operate as an obstacle because, when he reaches for the fruit, the ape
holds his instrument accidentally in such a position that the branch
is parallel to the bars of the cage and does not touch them. Presently
however, in order to change his place with regard to the fruit, the
ape pulls the stick back into the cage. When he reaches for the fruit
again, the branch hits a bar and the stick does not move in the
direction of the fruit. The animal tries to overcome the difficulty
by pushing hard and crudely a few times. Suddenly, however, and just
after pressing forward with all his force, he pulls the stick back in
the cage and bites the branch with the ferocity of anger. It does not
matter for our purposes whether or not this new conduct was successful.
But how did it come about at all? An explanation may be given in terms
of brain-physiology or from the viewpoint of experience. Though I do
not think that the experience of animals is a matter of great intrinsic
interest for us, I shall treat the case in terms of experience, since
it would be more difficult to understand the meaning concretely if
I made the neurological analysis. When the ape is first directed
completely toward the fruit, his reaching for it is determined directly
in the manner we have described. To begin with, the obstacle in his way
directly produces an increased effort in the same direction. But the
ape can scarcely push against the bar of his cage without localizing
the place of the obstacle after a while by touch and, perhaps, by
vision. He does not feel the obstacle in the direction of his main
effort; he feels it in the locality of the branch. When an obstacle
is experienced in our way we become angry by immediate determination,
and our anger is an attitude directed toward or against the obstacle.
Consequently, after the main object, the banana, has determined the
primary direction, the felt obstacle will make the ape’s direction bend
toward the branch, and since the tendency directly determined by anger
is attack or destruction, the ape will begin to destroy the obstacle.
I do not know whether this is a completely satisfactory description of
the whole process. When he attacks the branch, the ape, though actually
angry, is probably still determined by his _main_ tendency at the same
time. And this would be required. Otherwise the whole development would
become a sequence of events, each occurring in direct determination,
i.e., with insight, but not to be regarded as members of one single
development occurring in one given situation. Here, however, we reach
the field of intelligence proper, which I have excluded from the
program of these chapters.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
W. Benary: Psychol. Forsch. 2. 1922.
K. Duncker: The Pedag. Sem. 23. 1926.
Erismann: _Die Eigenart des Geistigen_. 1923.
K. Jaspers: _Psychopathologie_. 1921.
K. Koffka: _The Growth of the Mind_. 1924.
K. Koffka: Psychol. Forsch. 9. 1927.
W. Köhler: _Mentality of Apes_. 1925.
W. Köhler: _Die Methoden der Psychologischen Forschung an Affen_.
1922 (cf. Chap. II).
W. Köhler: Arch. f. Entw. Mech. 1927.
K. Lewin: _Vorsatz, Wille und Bedürfnis. 1927_.
M. Wertheimer: _Schlussprozesse im produktiven Denken_. 1920.
A. N. Whitehead: _Science and the Modern World_. 1925.
INDEX
Ability, 47
Abstraction, 351
_Accelerando_, 248 f.
Actions, 250
Activity, 39 f., 222, 259, 370 (James), 380
Admiration, 352, 383
Adrenin, 41
After image, as case of direct experience, 27;
form, 77, 82;
on figure and ground, 220;
of movement, 362;
size of, 76, 82
All-or-none law, 58, 62, 132
Ameba, 45
Anatomical apparatus, 204 n.;
basis, 118;
structure, 130
Anger, 41, 261, 355, 357, 363 f., 393
Animal psychology, 50, 69, 161, 295, 299
Animals, delayed reaction, 277, 306;
insight, 371;
perception of, 162;
transposition of training, 216, 302
Anisotropy, of visual field, 215
Anthropomorphism, 137
Apes, 52, 105, 216 f., 235, 392, 394
Approach-tendency, 383
Area, and form, 202
Area striata, 14, 131 f.
Aristotle, 114, 150
Aristotelians, 136 f.
Aristotelian astronomy, 108
Arrangements, anatomical, preëstablished and acquired, 108, 118, 126,
130, 133, 134, 140, 146
Arrhenius, S., 53
“Articulation,” 250
Assimilation, 239, 241
Association, chapter on, 267-300;
in empiristic theory, 237, 241, 265, 337, 339, 342, 344;
laws of, 333;
as organization, 311, 313, 315, 319, 329, 335, versus task, 341
Associations, and nerve conduction, 116 f.;
as machine theory, 121, 377
Astronomical movements, and machine theory, 137
Atom, as example of dynamical system, 112, 138, 280;
as sub whole, 157
Atomism, sensory, 148, 351, 369
Attention, 169, 324
Attitude, analytical, 106;
conflict of, 335 f.;
dynamical, 263;
influence on sensory experience, 123 f., 124 n., 126, 323;
emotional, 324, 363;
introspective, 106;
and organization of the field, 324 ff., 351 ff.;
towards past, 333 ff.;
psychological aspect of, 184, 374;
and reproduction, 333 ff., 341 f.;
of observer, 79, 92, 96;
as “special vector,” 211
Automatic associations, 332
Autonomic, part of nervous system, 19
Autochthonous reactions, 52
Aversion, 360
“Background” (_see_ Ground), 219
Bacteriology, 364
Balance, of force, 139
Banana, 392 f.
Beats, 189
Becher, E., 346
Behavior, chapter on, 224-268;
behaviorist’s definition, 17;
emotional, 40, 44, 45;
intelligent, 48, 53;
language as form of, 68;
“motors” of, 392;
qualitative types of, 39 f.;
orderly, 107;
physiological foundations of, 66, 102, 106, 115, 373;
and physics, 37 f.;
as reaction to stimuli, 180, 350;
and reflexes, 57;
restricted, 51
Behaviorism, chapter on, 3-34, 37, 38, 41, 51, 53, 55 ff., 67 ff., 87,
97, 98, 101, 104, 114, 178, 260, 267 f., 296 f.
Behaviorist, 373, 378, 383
“Belonging Together,” 149, 177, 181 ff., 225
Benary, W., 394
Bentley, M., 102, 300
Benussi, V., 130 n., 190
“Between,” 64 f.
Beyrl, 105 n.
Binet and Simon, 16, 47
Biological theory, changes in, 110
Birds, 158 ff., 162, 306
Blindness, mental, 169
Blood, circulation of, 109, 131
Body, my, 23, 228 ff., 236, 239, 320;
ambiguity of concept, 229
Bodily events, 236 f., 240, 260
Boring and Teak, 47 n.
Brain field, 226, 375, 379, 389 f.
Brain physiology, 115, 118, 132, 250, 319, 373, 393
Brightness, constancy of, 78, 80 ff., 91 f., 104 f., 122, 127;
versus color, 144;
as quality of several senses, 241;
absolute versus relative, 304
Brown, J. F., 84
Bühler, K., 204 f., 317 n.
Buytendijk und Plessner, 268
Camouflage, 172, 211
Cartesius, _see_ Descartes
Cassiopeia, 154, 164
Cats, 304, 306 ff.
Cavendish, 42
Cells, 132
Central fields, 132
Central terminal nuclei, 344
Cerebral area, 345 f.
Character, knowledge of, 234
Chemical properties, of the blood, 131
Chemistry, 138, 280
Chemical reaction, 189 f.
Chick, 69, 105, 216, 302, 303, 304
Child, behavior of, 323, 382, 391
Children, constancy of size for, 105
Chimpanzee, 238
Circle, constancy of form, 76, 80
Clang, analysis, 124
Climatological condition, 364
Clouds, relative motion of moon, 320;
“ominous,” 363
Coefficient of correlation, 353
Coherence, 149, 173, 219
Color, constancy of, 220;
localization, 103;
and reproduction, 213
Colors, in distribution, 190, 202;
and underlying processes, 62 f., 143, 189, 215
Communication, genesis of, 258
Comparison, 10, 68
Complication, 307
Concept, behavioristic, 56;
mechanical in biology, 114;
of physical things, 28, 230
Concepts, formation of, 304
“Confusion,” 27, 242
“Connections,” in machine theory, 383, 385, 391
“Consciousness,” 32, 40, 162, 240, 262, 269;
its relation to direct experience, 8 n.
Constant conditions, of events, 111
Conditions, total set of, 126
Conditioned reflex, 55, 57, 69, 99, 298 f., 365, 373, 383
Conduct, 393
Conducting paths, 116, 345 f.
Conduction, of electrolytes, 53 f.;
nervous, 115 f., 122, 132, 387
Conductivity, and learning, 290
Conductors, isolated, 98, 122, 377
Constancy, _see_ Color, form, size
Constant properties, 112
Constellation, of stimuli in a larger area, 126, 161, 202;
geometrical versus functional reality, 197, 200
Constellations, of sky, 171
Contiguity, laws of, 280
Contours, 114, 144, 170, 202
Contrast, 106, 125, 127
Coolness, 241
Cornelius, H., 193 f.
Cortical termini, 115
_Crescendo_, 246, 248 f., 256, 262, 264
Cross, ambiguous figure, 198, 219
Crystal, spheres, 109
Current, potential and densities of, 148;
of nervous energy, 290 f.
Curves, 40 f.
Descartes, 110, 239
Delayed reaction, _see_ Animals and Reaction
Depression, 253, 356
Descriptive Observation, _see_ Observation
Determination, dynamical versus topographical, 113, 134;
point to point in stimulation, 125
Development, real, 385 ff.
_Diminuendo_, 248
Dipper, 154
Direct dynamical determination, 364 ff., 370 f., 374, 378, 380, 383,
390 ff.
Direction, of change in physical system, 139;
in experience, 250, 264, 271 f., 323
Discrimination, sensory, 297
Distribution, of forces or processes, 108, 113, 121 f., 127, 135-144,
148, 182, 187, 190, 193 f., 204, 217 f., 226, 280;
of processes, 117
Dog, 323
Dominating impulse, 383
Dreaming, 275
Drives, 325
Drop, of water, 134 ff.
Dualists, 59, 261
Duncker, K., 394
“Dust cloud,” 70, 133
Dynamical, _see_ also Interaction
Dynamics, and order, 109 f., 111 ff., 117 ff., 127 ff., 133, 138 ff.,
140 ff., 152, 182 f., 192, 216, 220 ff., 226 ff., 271, 327
Dynamical explanation, of reproduction, 347
Dynamical interrelation, in total psychophysical field, 319 ff., 336,
349 ff., 361, 364, 370, 375, 380
Dynamical structure, in inner and overt behavior, 222, 248, 250
Dynamical unit, in experience and underlying physiological processes,
66
Dynamo-geometrical relations, of sensory processes, 226, 228 f., 233
Ebbinghaus, H., 283 f.
Effort, 358, 384
Effector organ, 98, 120, 179
von Ehrenfels, 187 ff., 214, 220, 255, 259, 264
Election, 111
Electric charge, 112 f., 280
Electric current, 27, 41, 120, 138, 140, 148
Electrolysis, 53 f., 185, 218
Electromagnetic, entities, 7
Electromotive phenomena, 218
Electrostatic forces, 111, 280
Elevation, feeling of, 253
Ellipse, 76, 80, 160
Embarrassment, 263, 265
Emotion, 193, 264
Empiricism, 118, 123, 153, 220, 232, 299, 313
Endocrinology, 19, 57
Energy, distribution of, 132
Enjoyment, 354, 360, 375 f.
Entropy, 28
Environment, 54, 57, 95, 134, 152, 173, 209, 219, 315 f., 320, 323,
327, 356, 377, 389
Envy, 238
Epistemology, 31 ff.
Equilibrium, 135, 140 n., 218
Erismann, 394
Euphoria, 253
Exact sciences, 13, 18
Experience, 24, 62 ff., 74, 85, 104, 164, 166, 177, 225, 251, 270,
272, 299, 351, 355;
blind, 364;
common, 375, 383;
depending upon, 359, 361, 370, 373;
direct, 8-39, 55, 58 ff., 67 ff., 84, 106 f., 129, 190, 203, 217,
235 f., 240, 269, 363, 373;
external, 321 ff.;
inner, 249, 253, 258, 260 ff., 265, 322;
and instinct, 388, 385;
kinesthetic, 167 ff., 212;
localization of non-visual, 233;
localization of, 103;
and insight, 372, 377, 385;
and meaning, 72, 81, 360;
naïve, 6, 86;
objective, 15, 21 ff., 60, 66 f., 71, 74, 83 ff., 105, 224, 243,
255, 259 ff., 319, 322, 326, 329;
actual and physiological processes, 67, 102, 115, 373 f.;
previous, 151, 153 f., 156, 205 f., 208 ff., 213 f., 220, 237, 285,
337, 354, 356, 365, 386;
punctiform, 191;
sensory, 73 ff., 85, 90 ff., 118 ff., 145 ff., 167, 176, 178, 215,
222 ff., 241 ff., 255, 266 f., 275, 288, 294, 327 ff., 351,
360, 382, 389;
subjective, 35, 40, 66 f., 235, 238, 241 ff., 264;
error, 176, 181, 195
Experiences, acoustic, 242, 246, 248;
accurate of physicist, 41;
genuine, 87, 95;
“irregular,” 91;
unusual versus naïve, 86 f.;
visual, 169, 205, 226 ff., 241, 246, 248, 252
Experiential, object, 36
Expression, _see_ facial
Extended areas, 147, 170, 188 f., 193, 297
Extension, 215
Eye movements, 75, 96
Eyes, 254 f.
Facial expression, 238
Fatigue, 319
Fear, fright, 21, 109, 249, 263, 266, 355 f., 379, 381 f.
Fechner, G. T., 16, 46
Feeling, of relief, 253, 356, 379, 387
Field of force, 390 f.
Figure, and ground, 219 f., 274;
gamma movement, 128
Figures, and memory, 310;
and reproduction, 314
Fixation point, 76, 324, 363
Fogelsonger, 316
Force, lines of, 324
Forces, 111 f., 121, 133 ff., 143 ff., 158
Form, constancy of, 80 ff., 123;
and experience, 207 f., 211 f., 275;
and meaning, 209;
property of whole, 219;
“real” as explanation of constancy of form, 81;
reality of, 195 ff., 205, 213 f., 273 f.;
as secondary quality, 6;
in time, 204, 214 f.;
-qualities, of circle, triangle, etc., 191
Forms, localization, 103
Frank, H., 221
von Frey, 128
Frings, 317 f.
Function, nervous and machine theory, 130 f.;
order of, 114, 118, 121
Functions, one way, 113, 116
Functionally homogeneous, 145
Functional, incompleteness in experience, 270;
interrelation, 171, 183, 204;
reality, of segregated wholes, 195, 197;
relations, of direct experience, 8 f.;
relationship, between experiential and physical object, 36;
scheme, of traditional nerve psychology, 344;
wholes, _see_ Wholes
Fundierte Inhalte, 191
Galileo, 32, 43, 109
Galvanometer, 29 ff.
Ganglionic fields, 143;
tissue, dynamical intercourse in, 132
Gatti, A., 320
Gelb and Goldstein, 169
Gelb and Granit, 220
Gestalt, meaning of, 191 f.;
analysis, 183;
primitive behavior, 216;
problem, 187;
psychology, 66, 97 n., 102, 130, 135, 148, 150 f., 168, 174, 182
ff., 219, 223, 258, 273, 287, 304, 311, 324, 350;
-qualitäten, 191, 192, 216;
theory, 140 n., 192, 202, 216, 223, 296, 297, 322
Gestalten, perception of, 174
Goethe, 192
Gottschaldt, 206 f.
Graz, school of, 190, 216
“Ground,” 202, 219 ff., 274
Group and grouping, 155, 158, 177, 183, 251, 259, 274 f., 277, 285,
289, 292, 294, 303 ff., 317, 321, 323, 327, 329, 351
Habit, 117, 273, 278 f., 301, 303, 315, 338, 342, 349, 366, 386 f.;
formation of, 16, 116, 296 f., 298, 388
Hand, as visual object, 227
Handwritings, 365
Harvey, discovery, 109
Hearing, distance in, 128
von Helmholtz, H., 77, 125, 241
Hemispheres, 141
Hering, E., 61, 63
Hertz, M., 158, 216, 306
von Hornbostel, E., 242 n.
Hume, 359, 367 ff., 377, 383
Hunger, inner experience, 7, 325 f.
Hunter, W. S., 159, 277
Huyghens, 32
“I,” 228, 230, 234
Idea, and action, 250, 366;
free, 237
Illusion, and memory, 72, 81
Illusions, optical, 78 f., 94 ff., 125
Image, 260, 270 f., 275
Images, _see also_ Retinal
Impulse, of withdrawal, 382
Indifferent network, of relations, 369 f.
Inertia, 134, 139
Inference, by analogy, 238, 241
Inhibition, in reproduction, 316 ff., 335, 341
Innervation, 18, 19, 258
Insight, 371 f., 376 ff., 391, 394
Instinct, 325, 388, 391
Intelligence, 16, 46 f., 49 f., 371, 394
Intensity, 165, 215
Interaction, dynamical, 135, 137, 140, 143 f., 281
Interest, 324
Interval, dead, 204
Introspection, 9 ff., 18 f., 25, 31, 55, 60, 69, 70-102 (chapter on),
103 ff., 114, 123, 133, 183, 350, 383
Ions, 54, 218
I Q, 47
Irradiation, of excitations, 98, 121 f.
Isolation, in sensory field, 95
Isolating conductors, as explanation of order, 131 f., 145
Jaspers, K., 394
James, W., 70, 101, 270, 369 f.
James-Lange, theory of Emotions, 245
Janet, P., 253
Joy, 12
Katz, D., 102
Kester, P., 128
Kinesthesis, 166 f., 233
Klages, L., 243
Koffka, K., 129, 300, 310, 394
Köhler, W., 69, 102, 147, 186, 194 n., 223, 394
Knowledge of other man’s mind, 257;
previous, 152, 155
von Kries, J., 343
Krueger, F., 193 n.
Kühn, 285 n.
Language, as special type of behavior, 18, 67 ff.;
primitive, 242
Lashley, K. S., 216
Laughing, 265
Layman, 349 f., 367 f., 372, 377, 380
Leading-tone, 222
Learning, in empiristic theory, 80 f., 104, 117 f., 366, 373, 386;
and meaning, 151, 365, 381 f., 391;
theory of 116, 193, 282-303, 316 ff., 329, 340
Lesion, of the brain, 169
Level, 272
Lewin, K., 330, 332 f., 338 ff., 348
Lewin and Karsten, 360 n.
Liebmann, S., 144
Light-waves, not organized, 174 f., 181, 257
Local arrangements, 132, 140;
processes, 115, 119, 121 f., 127, 129, 140, 146, 149, 182, 231;
sensory elements, 82, 96, 99, 118 f., 122, 125, 126, 147 f., 187,
189, 190, 193, 255;
stimulation, 95 ff., 99, 106, 118 f., 122, 124, 126, 176, 178, 187
f., 203, 276
Localization, external, 228;
geometrical in brain and nervous system, 225, 346;
in group, 306;
of hidden object, 309;
in space, 84, 93, 104, 215
Mach, E., 140, 187, 214
Machine-arrangements, and the organism, 117, 122, 131
Machine, explained, 108 ff., 133 f.;
theory, or conception, 110 f., 122, 126 ff., 141, 145 f., 149, 190,
194, 298 f., 344, 347, 377 ff., 385, 388
Magnet, deflection of, 41
Magnetism, 48
Map, as ambiguous figure, 196
McCarthy, 343 n.
Meaning of objects, 151 f., 173, 208, 265, 300
Meaning, as opposed to pure sensations, 72 f., 81 ff., 90 ff., 95
ff., 105, 129;
theory, 90 ff., 97, 103 ff., 123, 125, 149 f., 153 ff., 205, 213,
237, 299, 351
Meaningful material versus nonsense, 284, 286 ff.
Measurement, in psychology, 40, 49
Memory, and association, 278 f., 295;
in empiristic theory, 153 f.;
and organization, 315, 329, 332;
physiological theories, 273;
image, 7
von Meinong, A., 190
Melody, 204 f., 215, 275, 290, 360
Mental life, 9 f., 58, 214, 238, 240 f., 246, 336, 349, 378
Method, of behaviorism, 17;
in psychology, 38 ff., 43 f., 52;
of natural science, 20
Michotte, A., 320
Mind, and body, 231, 261;
relation to direct experience, 10
Molecules, 53, 112, 119, 138, 156, 158, 189, 272
Molecular forces, 143
Monkey, 308 f.
Moon, 320 f.
Morgenstern, C., 242
Morphogenesis, 130
Mosaic theory, 204, 280 f.
Motor melodies, 275;
phenomena, 96
Movement, seen, 84, 129, 192, 204, 249;
as secondary quality, 6;
of water, 134 f.;
co-ordination of, 392;
tendency to, 167, 390;
of extension, 128;
eye, 167 f., 179, 212
Movements, stroboscopic, 79, 128, 130;
overt bodily, 115, 166 f., 261, 392;
celestial, 114
Müller, G. E., 61 n. ff., 285
Müller-Lyer figure, 94, 96
Musical form, as temporal form, 204, 215
Music, understanding of, 257
Muscles, 245
Nagel, 283, 315
Nativism, 118, 123, 232
Natural sciences, 42, 279, 350, 378
Neighborhood, factor of, 281, 289 f.
Nervous activity, and all-or-none law, 58, 62;
mechanistic theory of, 98, 100, 102, 114, 116, 121, 126, 130, 257,
349, 377 f.;
new theory of, 123, 292;
field of force, 392;
processes, and experienced field, 374
“Nervousness,” 356, 380
Nervous system, 26, 49, 56 f., 97, 99, 116, 120, 125, 132, 141 f.,
174 f., 184, 257, 266, 269, 278, 280, 312, 315, 322, 344, 346
f., 350, 385 ff.
Network, nervous, 142 ff.;
of wires, 140
Newton, 32
Nietzsche, 234
Noise, comparison of intensity, 271
Nonsense syllables, 281 ff., 295, 315 ff., 332, 334, 338 ff.
Object-characters, 20, 25, 27, 71 f.
Object, of naïve experience, 6
Objects, physical, their influence on each other, 7
Observation, in laboratory and analytical, 40 f., 86, 94
Obstacles, 370, 393
Occipital lobes, 141
Oetjen, F., 215 n.
Oersted, 41
Ogden, R. M., 300
One-way street, 118, 378
Ontogenesis, gestalt in, 130, 194, 216
Optical center, lesions in, 169
Optic sector, 116, 346 f.
Order, dynamical, 131, 137, 140, 145, 149, 194;
enforced, 98, 122, 130, 133, 145, 337;
experienced, and physiological processes, 64 ff., 163, 203, 230,
248, 258, 326, 373 f., 376, 389;
in psychophysical relations, 115, 170 ff., 256;
logical, as opposed to experienced, 63;
spatial, 65, 225;
temporal, 65, 163
Organism, action of, 391;
not an isolated system, 140;
mechanistic theory of, 110, 119;
as quasi-machine, 381 n.;
as part of total saturation, 325 f.;
as dynamic system, 180
Organisms, and physical systems, 44 f., 56
Organization, 54, 122, 126 f., 149, 152, 158 n., 163 ff., 174 ff.,
191, 202 f., 208 ff., 217, 250, 256 ff., 267, 273 ff., 278, 283
ff., 289 ff., 300, 307 ff., 313 ff., 323, 326 ff., 340, 367,
370;
Bipolar, 323 ff.
Organized trace, 293, 314, 329
Parts, and wholes, 183, 209, 366
Path, of optimal conduction, 377
Perception, 9, 72, 195
Peripheral vision, 12, 27, 242
Peripheral conditions, of vision, 141
Persistency, 337
Physics, and order by dynamical interaction, 137 f., 324;
and direct experience, 29 ff., 35 ff., 178, 267;
and psychology, 29 ff., 41, 44, 48, 57, 146, 280, 376
Physical system, brain as, 227 f., 319;
classification of, 56, 112, 133 f.;
reality, 24 ff., 230, 239 f.
Physiological locus, confusion with sensory localization, 104
Physiological principles, common to Introspectionism and Behaviorism,
114
Physiological processes, as correlate of spatial order, 225, 227
Physiological processes, inferred from direct experience, 60 ff.
Physiological process, and stimulus distribution, 197
Physiological stress, as correlate of attitude, 184, 326 f.
Physiological trace, 272 f., 291, 347
Phylogenesis, 130 ff.
Pianist, example, 237, 257 f.
Pleasure, 260, 376
Poppelreuter, W., 348
Position, 215, 217
Potential, 325
Practice, 94
Pressure, 134, 330
Primary qualities, 7
Principle of congruence, in the systematic properties of direct
experience and its concomitant physiological processes, 61
Process, distribution of, 114, 127, 132, 134, 139, 182, 190, 225 f.,
273, 292, 311 f.;
underlying experience, 62, 269, 291, 321, 325;
properties of, 142;
of observing and material observed, 31
Processes, “Higher,” 216;
total, 107, 141 ff.;
sensory, 86, 119, 133, 162, 278, 280 f., 298 f., 350, 374
Properties, of more extended fields, 188;
surface--of physical objects, 172;
of situation determining behavior, 350, 370
“Psycho-physical axioms,” 61
Psycho-physical field, 215, 232, 266
Purpose, 370
Puzzle-picture, 171, 201
Qualitative, observation, 36, 41 ff., 44, 50, 52 f.
Qualitative, types of behavior, 39 f.
Quality, 215
Quantitative measurement, 36, 38 f., 42 f., 46, 48, 50 f., 53
Quantum theory, 132
Rays, 175
Reaction, delayed, 159, 276, 304 f., 306, 308, 309;
to results of organization, 180
Relative reactions, 304
Recall, 301, 331 ff.
Receptor organs, 98, 345
Recognition, 267, 274, 301
Reflex action, 55 ff., 98, 298, 377, 381, 385 ff.
_Reforzando_, 249
Regularity, change towards, 310
Regular, as a form quality, 191
Relations, logical between local stimuli, 203, 358, 369;
spatial, 227, 320, 321
Relative distance, 157, 165
Relations, constancy of, and constancy hypothesis, 97 n.
Relation, in successive comparison, 271
Relative properties, determining organization, 121, 127, 138, 147,
182, 202, 257, 280 f., 294, 311
Relief, 387
Repetition, 334
Reproduction, 81 f., 116 f., 121, 193, 212 ff., 273 ff., 282 f., 291
ff., 300, 301-348 (chapter on), 349, 366
Repulsion, 120
“Restless,” 264
Retention, 301
Retinal pattern, and phenomenal pattern, 142 ff.
Retinal points, central projection of, 141
Retina, chemical reactions on Retina as conditions of organized
vision, 141
Retinal, position and localization, 84;
image, perspective of, 76;
geometry of R. stimulation, 115, 124 f., 133, 166, 177, 194 ff.,
200 f., 257
Richter, C. P., 39, 43
_Ritardando_, 248, 256
Rhythm, 204 f., 319
Röntgen, 42
_Sachlicher Zusammenhang_, 354
Sander, W., 223
Scientific criticism, 5
Scientific effort, least, 130
Scientific method, 12, 30, 53, 267
Scholz, W., 128
Schumann, F., 79 n.
Searching, 357
“Secondary Qualities,” 6
Segregation, 149 ff., 151, 154, 156, 158, 163 f., 167 f., 172 ff.,
182, 187, 191 ff., 202 f., 212, 220, 225, 231, 239, 251, 263,
267, 274, 327, 369, 371, 374
Self, 319 ff., 336, 351 f., 361, 374, 377, 379, 389 f.
Selz, O., 300
Sensory discrimination, 296
Sensory dynamics, 170 f.;
field, 119, 135, 140 n., 151 f., 158, 167, 173, 177, 184, 187, 191,
193 f., 212 ff., 281, 327, 350 f., 391
Sense organs, 177, 347
Sensory organization, 163, 165 f., 170 ff., 185, 187, 215 f.
Sensation, 71 ff., 82, 84 f., 86, 88, 91, 93, 98, 103, 129, 153, 158,
163, 187, 190 f., 214, 351
Sexual behavior, 325 f.
Shadow, 80, 91
Shepard, J. F., 316
Size, constancy of, 74, 81 ff., 86, 93, 105 f., 133
Soap bubble, 56, 119
Social forces, as causes of grouping, 328
Social contagion, 266
Social psychology, 234, 328
Solar system, 138
Sorrow, 12
Soul, 10, 110
Sound, localization of, 103, 224, 232;
waves, not dynamically organized, 256 ff.
Space, physical, 115;
sensory, 232, 262 ff.
Speed, seen and retinal, 93
Spheres, crystal, 109
Spider, 354, 375
Stability of distribution, 139, 148
Standardization, 52
Stars, constellations of, 154
“States beyond,” physiological, 271
Stern, W., 215 n.
Stimuli, as indifferent mosaic, 257;
constellation of, 106, 125, 180, 203, 215, 258 f., 264, 275, 311 f.
Stimulus, and response, 120, 166, 179, 217;
error, 176
Stimulation, under the Constancy Hypothesis, 93, 127, 133, 298
Straight line, machine theory for perception of, 204 n.
Stress, 140, 326, 338, 357, 370, 375
Striving, 193
Structure, of two grays, 217;
supralocal, 203, 218
Sub-wholes, 157, 183, 201, 205, 282 f., 313, 318 f.
Subjective phenomena, 21 f., 24 f., 265
Subjectivity, genetic, 24 f.
Successive comparison, 271, 273, 304
Surface tension, 48, 158
Synopses, 387
Task, 330 ff., 339
Tendency, 330, 370, 380 f., 384, 389, 390
Temporal organization, 164, 258
Tension, 250 f., 364
Ternus, J., 130 n.
Thing, one, 129, 155
“Things,” 21 ff., 84, 219 f., 224, 230
Thinking, 19, 83, 193, 244
Time, experience, similar to space experience, 163, 289;
physiological correlate of experienced time, 65
Tinklepaugh, O. L., 277 n., 308
Togetherness, 361
Tonal fusion, 124, 127
Topographical, conditions and arrangements, 112 ff., 133 f., 138,
140, 146, 347
Total field, 320, 324, 327, 329, 332, 336, 343, 350, 352 f., 358,
361, 367, 371 f., 376, 378 ff., 389
Touch, 128, 162, 220, 231, 242, 354
Traces, 278, 291 ff., 302, 304, 307, 309 ff., 315
Training, 207, 303
Transposition, 214, 216 ff., 303
Trial and error, 177
Understanding, of others, 238, 240, 245, 259 ff.
Unknown something, 152 f.
“Units,” retinal, 177;
_see_ segregation
Unrest, 110
Usnadze, 242 n.
Van der Veldt, 275
Verbal report, 69
Vector, 134, 211
Visual space, 225 f., 232
Visual, form, 197 ff., 202, 208, 212 f., 328
Visual depth, 174, 194
Vision, form in V. and touch, 162;
in birds and humans, 159;
localization in, 103, 128;
order in, 114 f.
Visual processes, connection with other sensory processes, 116
Visual units, corresponding to physical objects, 172, 177
Visual organization, _see_ organization
Visual segregation, _see_ segregation
Visceral organs, 19, 245
Visual field, 84, 104, 115, 129, 140, 142, 144, 146, 149, 167, 196,
201, 203, 212, 220, 244, 274, 320, 324
Vitalism, 114, 118, 146
Watson, J. B., 52, 252, 267, 323, 382
Weber’s law, 16
Weiss, A. T., 34
Werner, H., 310 n.
Wertheimer, M., 129, 130 n., 147, 150 n., 157, 163, 186, 215 n., 223,
394
Whitehead, A. W., 394
Witasek, S., 190
Whole, functional, 106 f., 119, 141, 148, 157, 182, 263, 269, 270,
292, 295, 311, 336, 343;
and form, 200 f., 205, 208 f., 209;
and memory, 300, 303;
organized, 288, 294, 300, 311, 337
Wholes, empiristic explanation of, 158 n.;
extended, 126, 156, 169;
motor, 170;
specific properties of, 221 f., 242, 253, 256, 259;
segregated, _see_ Segregation;
preferred, 158, 209;
primitive, 161 f., 216 f.;
_see also_ Sub-wholes
Warmth, as general quality, 241
Words, applying to subjective and objective experiences equally, 243
World, of direct experience, 5, 7, 23, 25, 86;
physical, 6, 8, 10, 20, 22 f., 25 f., 33, 35, 36, 41, 60, 115, 132
f.
Wolf, F., 310
Wundt, W., 79 n.
Yarbrough, J. N., 304, 307, 309
Yerkes, R. M., 278
Zeigarnik, B., 330, 332
FOOTNOTES
[1] It seems more cautious to talk about direct experience than about
“consciousness.” For some people consciousness is rather a function
by or in which we become aware of “immediate experience.” In my
terminology, if some one has a “feeling of becoming aware,” this is
only _one special case_ of direct experience.
[2] The opposition between introspectionism and behaviorism discussed
in this chapter is the opposition between those who use and those
who reject the observation of direct experience. In Chapter III
introspectionism as a special interpretation of the use of direct
experience will be discussed.
[3] By the way, the same warning applies to the relation between my
organism as a physical system and “my body” as I have it in direct
experience. Obviously “my body” is the outcome of certain special
processes in my physical organism--started in the eyes, muscles, skin,
etc.--exactly as the chair before me is the final product of other
special processes in the same physical organism. And if the chair is
seen “before me,” the “me” of this phrase means my experienced body,
of course, not my organism as an object of the physical world. Even
accredited psychologists do not always seem to be clear about this
point. Later on we shall come back to it.
[4] Cf. C. P. Richter, _Animal Behavior and Internal Drives. The
Quarterly Review of Biology_, II, p. 307, 1927.
[5] If it can be demonstrated more generally that the tests measure
“speed” primarily--as Boring and Teak have found in their subjects--the
value of the method would be more restricted than I have here supposed.
[6] Cf. G. E. Müller, _Zeitschrift für Psychologie, 14_, p. 189.
[7] _Loc. cit._
[8] Cf. Chapter VI.
[9] The German word for “eagle.”
[10] This argument has been used by Wundt and Schumann.
[11] _Archiv f. d. ges. Psychol., 36_, 1917.
[12] Cf. J. F. Brown, _Psycholog. Forschung, 10_, 1927.
[13] Cf. v. Kries, _Allg. Sinnesphysiologie_.
[14] This is the famous constancy hypothesis. Some introspectionists
have said that _gestalt_ psychology, as any science must, has also to
acknowledge certain constant relations between given conditions and
subsequent effects. Quite! We do not argue against constant relations
existing between conditions and results in general, but only against a
constant relation between _local_ stimulation and _local_ experience.
For brevity’s sake we call that “the” constancy hypothesis.
[15] _Optische Untersuchungen am Schimpansen und am Haushuhn. Abhandl.
d. Preuss. Akad. d. Wiss._, 1915.
[16] _Op. cit._ and Frank, _Psychol. Forsch., 7_, 1926; _10_, 1927.
Beyrl, _Zeitschr. f. Psychol., 100_, 1926.
[17] Among the first we may count those anatomical arrangements which,
though not ready in embryonic life and at the time of birth, will
develop to their final form by maturation.
[18] If I say that “attitude” will sometimes have an influence upon
sensory experience, this statement does not mean, that “mental power”
can change the sensory field arbitrarily. First of all, strictly
speaking, it is not the attitude, as an experience, which changes the
sensory facts; the physiological process underlying it changes the
sensory process. Also, such a change is not produced arbitrarily;
it necessarily follows definite antecedents. Furthermore, natural
objective experience does not yield to all slight changes of attitude.
Apart from introspection our attitude will not tend radically to alter
sensory experience. Some very important exceptions will be considered
later on.
[19] _Zeitschrift für Psychologie, 61_, 1912.
[20] Benussi has contributed to our knowledge of these problems by
excellent experimental work. His investigation of similar facts in the
field of touch has been mentioned above. Recently certain extremely
important properties of stroboscopic movement have been investigated by
Wertheimer and Ternus (_Psycholog. Forschung, 7_, 1926).
[21] I am neglecting here the influence of inert velocities which may
be neglected indeed in all discussion of the nervous system.
[22] The reader is asked not to judge the physical side of _gestalt_
theory on the basis only of this short report. The concept of
equilibrium is less fundamental in biology than is that of dynamics.
But the _direction_ of dynamics cannot be defined without it.
Furthermore, we are not allowed to treat the sensory field (or even the
organism) as though it were an isolated system. Therefore the laws of
dynamics do not apply here in their simplest form.
[23] _Psycholog. Forschung, 9_, 1927.
[24] It is well known in photometry that without differences of
brightness figures lose their definite form by diffusion into the
ground.
[25] If the surrounding field is not homogeneous the symmetry of the
circle will be distorted as in the well-known illusion in which two
lateral vertical lines make the circle oblate without, of course,
changing the retinal image. A number of other illusions illustrate the
same principle.
[26] _Psycholog. Forschung, 4_, 1923.
[27] One form of empiristic explanation would say that we have learnt
to regard as wholes whatever always moves together. Wertheimer has
pointed out that, here, we have rather to do with one more principle
of sensory segregation and organization: when some parts of the field
begin to move at the same time and in a somewhat uniform way, they will
become one moving whole at once and _ipso facto_.
[28] _Zeitschrift für vergleichende Physiologie, 7_, 1928.
[29] _Zeitschrift für die gesamte Neurologie und Psychiatrie, 41_, 1918.
[30] One chapter of _Die physischen Gestalten in Ruhe und im
stationären Zustand_ has the title: “Denn was innen, das ist aussen.”
Should these words of Goethe have produced the misapprehension? Who
reads the chapter will see at once that that title refers to the
similarity between sensory experience and the physiological processes
accompanying it, not to the relationship between organic processes and
the environment (cf. § 181).
[31] Not all subjects are equally suitable for this experiment.
[32] There is some suspicion that the color process, mainly as a
chemical affair, may even _follow_ other more physical sides of the
whole dynamical event on some occasions. In an electrolyte some
chemical reaction at the electrodes may begin after the distribution of
current is established throughout. Similarly, we need not see colors
or differences of color in order to experience definite results of
dynamical self-distribution.
[33] In the theory of F. Krueger, rather the opposite view was held
originally under the influence of von Ehrenfels and Cornelius.
Recently, however, the concept of _gestalt_ in our meaning of the word
is given more attention by Krueger.
[34] Köhler, _Gestaltprobleme und Anfänge einer Gestalttheorie_.
Jahresberichte über die gesamte Physiologie, herausgeg. von Rona,
Berlin, 1924.
[35] Of course, even this expression is not justified. There is no
“line” unified and segregated _as such_ in the mosaic of retinal
stimuli. There is not more than a definite series of spots, which
qualitatively are stimulated in a manner different from their neighbors.
[36] Under certain abnormal conditions both forms may be seen at the
same time.
[37] _Visuell wahrgenommene Figuren_, Kopenhagen, Berlin, London, 1921.
[38] Once, Bühler tried to give an explanation of at least one very
characteristic form, viz., the straight line. As he assumed that all
retinal points which form a straight line are connected with each other
in a special manner anatomically and that, therefore, the straight
line is something specifically determined, his hypothesis has the
character of a machine theory. I do not think that this is the way
in which we may hope to solve our problem. There are a great many
particularly characteristic forms besides the straight line. Shall we
assume for each of them a preëxisting anatomical apparatus? or rather,
a great many for each single form, since it may be projected upon
many different parts of the retina? If not, “form” must be explained
_dynamically_ in general, and the most characteristic or regular forms
must be explained by the special regularity of dynamics occurring under
appropriate conditions.
[39] _Psychol. Forsch., 8_, 1926. Figures 11-13 are reproduced from
Gottschaldt’s paper.
[40] We may remark however that, for adults, one more condition must
be fulfilled if we wish to transpose, without altering, specific
form: most forms show a changed aspect _as_ forms when they are
turned around, for instance, upside down. This fact reveals a curious
anisotropy of the visual field, which does not seem to exist in early
childhood (Cf. W. Stern, _Zschr. f. angew. Psychol._, 1909, and F.
Oetjen, _Zschr. f. Psychol., 71_, 1915). On the other hand, Wertheimer
has laid stress upon the point that, for a given form, not all
relations of stimulation are equally important. Some of them may be
changed considerably without any remarkable effect upon the actual form.
[41] _Die physischen Gestalten in Ruhe und im stationären Zustand_, pp.
230, 231.
[42] Obviously it does not matter in this connection whether or not
this localization, for instance of sounds in relation to visual
objects, be _correct_ in all cases. If it is _not_ correct, then
precisely the fact that we are able to state and measure the error is
in itself a proof that the two appear in the same space.
[43] The boundary between “ourselves” and objective experience around
us is not altogether sharp and constant. Experiences of touch, for
instance, are rather variable in this respect. Sometimes they are felt
as things and their properties; but they _may_ also be experienced as
“subjective.”
[44] Usnadze, _Psychologische Forschung, 5_, p. 24 f., 1924.
[45] von Hornbostel, _Festschrift Meinhof_, 1927.
[46] L. Klages, _Vom Wesen des Bewusstseins_, Leipzig, 1921.
[47] _Psychologies of 1925_, pp. 52 and 54, Clark University Press.
[48] In this case there is a complication, since weather influences our
physical body and its nervous system, apart from our sensory experience
of the weather.
[49] We may say, then, that the second noise has a definite rôle or
property which belongs to it as to the second member of a pair (cf.
Chapter VI).
[50] _Psychologische Forschung, 4_, 1923.
[51] _L’Apprentissage du mouvement et l’automatisme_, Louvain, Paris,
1928.
[52] Becher, _Gehirn und Seele_, Heidelberg, 1911.
[53] Or in the organization of a larger whole, as O. L. Tinklepaugh has
shown (_The Journal of Compar. Psychol., 8_, 1928).
[54] Cf. the schemes given by Frings, _Arch. f. d. ges. Psychol., 30_,
p. 430 f., 1914.
[55] _Arch. f. d. ges. Psychol., 23_, p. 156 f., 1912.
[56] Kühn, _Zeitschrift für Psychologie, 68_, 1914. Also Poppelreuter,
_Zeitschr. f. Psychol., 61_, 1912.
[57] G. E. Müller, _Abriss der Psychologie_, p. 25, Göttingen, 1924.
[58] _The Ped. Seminary, 32_, p. 681, 1925.
[59] Here as always when I talk about animals I use terms like “seeing”
for simplicity’s sake. Whether or not the chick experiences a visual
field or anything else, the terms have a definite functional meaning in
which alone I am interested.
[60] _The Journal of Animal Behavior, 7_, p. 87 ff., 1917.
[61] Something of the kind has been done in the meantime by Mr.
Tinklepaugh insofar as his “substitution method” is an excellent
means for studying certain properties of the traces. (_The Journal
of Comparative Psychology, 8_, p. 224 ff., 1928.) Cf. also _Psychol.
Forsch., I_, p. 10, 1921.
[62] _Psychol. Forsch., I_, p. 333 ff., 1922. Cf. also Werner, _Ztschr.
f. Psychol., 94_, 1924.
[63] _Psychol. Review, 20_, 1913.
[64] _Arch. f. d. ges. Psychol., 30_, 1914. These experiments were
planned by Bühler.
[65] It will be the theme of the last chapter.
[66] Cf. _Psychologische Forschung, 9_, 1927.
[67] This means that if the average person remembered n finished tasks
he remembered 90 per cent. more unfinished ones; that is, n + 90/100 n.
[68] In passing we may remark that, here at least, a relationship
becomes discernible between a result of experimental psychology and
Freudian theory.
[69] _Psychologische Forschung, 1_ and _2_, 1922. Somewhat similar
experiments had been done before by Poppelreuter (_Zeitschrift für
Psychologie, 61_, 1912), who was also the first to bring forward the
criticism mentioned in the last paragraph.
[70] _Op. cit._
[71] From these results it would follow that we are not able directly
to measure conation by antagonistic association, as Ach has proposed.
[72] I have not yet been able to see McCarthy’s book _The Measurement
of Conation_ (Chicago, 1926). From what I have heard about it, it would
seem to be a highly valuable contribution to the problems discussed in
this chapter.
[73] _Gehirn und Seele_, 1911. Lashley has done similar experiments
with rats. I can confirm his findings: after learning certain visual
discriminations with one eye blindfolded, a chick will react according
to the new habit when, afterwards, the other eye is blindfolded.
Becher’s experiments, however, still seem to me to be more conclusive
anatomically.
[74] I have not been able to find an adequate translation of the German
adjective _sachlich_ in this connection. “Intrinsic” would come near to
it, perhaps.
[75] Lewin and Karsten, _Psychol. Forschung, 10_, 1927.
[76] In some of Plato’s discussions about the properties of the truly
real world, the same tendency is quite obvious.
[77] _The Meaning of Truth_, Preface.
[78] _Some Problems of Philosophy_, p. 213.
[79] _A Pluralistic Universe_, p. 376.
[80] Since James’ time this view has been defended by several authors
whose names will be found in the bibliography at the end of this
chapter.
[81] For brevity’s sake the term “self” is applied here, though for
more correct expression I should say: “the actual process corresponding
to the self in actual experience.”
[82] I do not forget, of course, that subordinate parts of our organism
will show reactions, externally similar to those described, though
belonging to the reflex type of movement. Stimulated by a prick, the
foot will be withdrawn by reflex. In no case would this fact create
an objection against the theory of insight-reaction. In some of its
activities the organism is doubtlessly similar to a very practical
machine; at the same time in others, and most of all those in which it
behaves as a whole, direct dynamics may decide what happens.
Transcriber’s notes
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subscript with an underscore followed by braces: H_{2}O. Italic text is
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that mentions them.
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