I did this two-hour radio interview on The Styxxoplix Show in Ft. Wayne, IN, in which we discussed my book The Dynamics of Transformation: Tracing an Emerging World View. It was a fascinating conversation ranging from Aristotle’s four causes and Jean Gebser’s five stages of consciousness to the qualitative nature of time, the exponential acceleration of technology, and the novel world view that seems currently to be emerging.
Tag Archives: William James
The evolution of process in various domains appears to occur through a series of relatively discrete stages, which finds one of its most basic forms in the three-stage schema of premodern, modern, and an apparently emerging mode after the postmodern. G.W.F. Hegel, William James, C.G. Jung, Henri Bergson, Alfred North Whitehead, Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, and many others have generally employed this three-stage schema, whether explicitly or implicitly, and I will often refer to these broad stages extrapolated from these various conceptual systems. However, some theorists have subdivided these overarching divisions in finer detail. For instance, Jean Gebser traces a five-stage schema—archaic, magic, mythical, mental, and integral—further subdividing each stage into “efficient” and “deficient” phases. I will generally employ Gebser’s five-stage schema when a finer-grained approach is wanted, as I have found his terminology and his description of these stages to be the clearest and most useful articulation of the more specific phases of ingression.
These five stages appear to manifest fractally in various progressions at different scales: from nonlife to prokaryotic life to animality to hominidity to human consciousness on the scale of evolution; from unfertilized egg to infant to child to adolescent to adult in individual human development; and from archaic to magic to mythical to mental and, perhaps, on to a novel mode in the collective development of human consciousness. These phases of process are rarely completely distinct from one another, as each stage generally contains the earlier stages within it as the very constitution of its emergence, and there are many compromise formations, regressions, and side roads that complicate the discernment of these stages of development. Furthermore, in contradistinction to premodern and modern hierarchical modes, the emergent view of developmental stages generally asserts that no stage is qualitatively superior to any other stage. So the adult is not superior to the child, who possesses profound imaginal capacities that are inevitably diluted by passage into the more complex later stages. Similarly, earlier cultures possess forms of knowledge and activity that developmentally subsequent stages have generally forgotten, or which have become diminished from neglect. However, while an earlier stage may be viewed as a “golden age” by some, the emerging mode does not usually deem these originary phases of process as qualitatively superior to later stages.
At our historical moment in the early twenty-first century, we live in a world in which cultures at all stages of development coexist, starting with a very few scattered instances of archaic humans, such as those rare children raised by animals, for example, abiding in an undifferentiated, dreamlike, preverbal consciousness nearly indistinguishable from the modes of relation experienced by the most conscious animals such as dogs, cats, and nonhuman primates. However, we have all experienced this mode of consciousness in ourselves and in others as infancy, a stage of development when there is essentially no awareness of self. It seems that this stage of consciousness in humans is only separable from a similar mode in nonhuman primates by the intuitively felt capacity to go beyond this phase facilitated through the enlarged neocortex of the human brain. At this archaic stage, one is essentially an animal, only transcending animality in the completely unarticulated bodily sense that one is destined for something more. But this is not a judgment of value, as the archaic stage is Adam and Eve in the Garden, a pure and undifferentiated innocence and embeddedness to be cherished, and to which we should all perhaps occasionally return. In fact, we do seem to return to something like the archaic stage of awareness every night in dreams.
A significantly larger group of people apparently abide in uncontacted or isolated tribes that primarily inhabit the magic stage of consciousness, though this group still appears to be a small percentage of the current overall world population. In this world view, a self emerges, but this self is pre-egoic and almost completely permeable with the world and with others, so that the inner dialogue, made possible by the emergence of language at this stage, does not differentiate between what is imagined and what the modern mind would generally conceive as external, material reality. One awakens to a body, but the experience of being in magical consciousness is constituted in what mentality would subsequently demarcate into world and mind thinking and feeling together as an undifferentiated unity. Instead of a subject perceiving an object, the magical mode perceives what is, or at least what appears to be at that stage, swimming in a fluid, dreamlike mélange of images, emotions, and significations.
The material production characteristic of magical culture is simple tools and weapons, talismans of various sorts, and cave paintings. However, in a magical culture, the shamans are those individuals who employ what Mircea Eliade calls “techniques of ecstasy,” from fasting and wilderness exposure to psychoactive plants, dance, and vocalization to perceive intimations of further stages of consciousness. It appears from testimonies of these individuals that these ecstatically induced intimations would generally be located in the mythical, but may occasionally go beyond that immediately subsequent mode to experience, however briefly, the mental or the currently emerging mode, or perhaps even later stages as yet unrealized, though these more distant stages would be almost impossible to communicate or sustain in a cultural milieu whose verbal structures and premises about the nature of reality are primarily magical. And we can all recognize this stage of process by remembering our early childhood, a phase that can be grown beyond by different individuals in various cultures at a range of ages, but from which most individuals in our era eventually emerge. However, shamanic “techniques of ecstasy” can certainly be practiced in the context of subsequent stages by individuals who have attained modern mentality, especially in the integrative mode, which specifically integrates the previous modes in an emergent synthesis, incorporating the unique capacities of each stage.
It seems that for a large proportion of people in the present, though perhaps no longer a majority, their gravitational center of consciousness is located in the mythical stage, which is the stage of ancient religions and systems of thought that accompanied the entrance into history and the first signs of what we would consider civilization: writing, agriculture, cities, commerce, laws, kings, and above all, gods. This is the mode of consciousness that permeated Pharaonic Egypt and ancient Mesopotamia, and that produced the code of Hammurabi and Cuneiform tablets. This is the stage of cognizance that the ancient Hebrews first began to go beyond in their rejection of idols, and that Cortes and his crew encountered in Montezuma and the Aztecs in the 1519 meeting that would mark the incipient colonization of the Americas by Europe at the dawn of modernity. Whenever a culture or a group within a culture could conceivably be described as prerational or premodern (though these potentially problematic designations are structurally equivalent to calling a child a “pre-adult”), this usually means that we are encountering the mythical stage of consciousness. In fact, contemporary fundamentalist religious movements, particularly in both Christianity and Islam, appear generally to be composed of the mythically situated masses often cynically led by individuals who have achieved enough mentality to manipulate and control those whose consciousness has stabilized in the mythical mode. However, developmentally later modes can find great value in the capacities individuated by the mythical mode of thought, as well as the archaic and magic modes, forms of knowledge and perception which must be reintegrated if we are to move past the deficient mental phase characteristic of late modernity.
Although there were intimations of mentality in the disclosures of many ancient mythical systems, the first eruption of rational consciousness on a large scale seems to have taken place during the heart of what historian Karl Jaspers has called the “Axial Age” centered on the approximately fifty-year period in the sixth century B.C.E. when many of the world’s most transformative religious and philosophical figures lived, including the Buddha, Confucius, Lao Tzu, Mahavira, Jeremiah, Ezekiel, Second Isaiah, Thales, Anaximander, Pythagoras, Sappho, Thespis, Solon, and possibly Zoroaster—in other words the beginnings of Greek philosophy and science, Buddhism, Confucianism, Taoism, Jainism, and a transformed Judaic religion. This profoundly creative period built the foundations for the eventual emergence of rationality as the dominant cultural force in modernity, though it required around twenty centuries of thought, debate, war, upheaval, invention, and discovery for the mental mode of thought to begin to be articulated comprehensively, a process that appears to be nearing completion five centuries further on in late modernity. The Renaissance and Protestant Reformation of the sixteenth century, the ages of Enlightenment and Revolution in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, the age of imperialism, romanticism, and idealism in the nineteenth century, and through all this the development of science and technology have mediated the emergence of the mental stage as the dominant cultural mode in the West and, only in the last few decades, perhaps in the world. In the central spheres of modern culture, the attainment of rationality by the individual is the mark of entrance into full adulthood, and there seems to us something childish, and perhaps deficient or even dangerous, in a grown person who still primarily inhabits the mythical mode of consciousness but is embedded in a predominantly rationalist society.
[This post is an excerpt from The Dynamics of Transformation: Tracing an Emerging World View]
An ‘Integrated Affair’: William James, Sigmund Freud, and Analysis vs. Synthesis in Academic Discourse
I’ve been having a fascinating conversation with Dr. Andreas Sommer of Cambridge University (http://forbiddenhistories.wordpress.com/) in the comments of my earlier post “Affect and Rationality in ” about whether ’s concept of “the return of the repressed” can viably be marshaled in relation to James’ ideas. I think Dr. Sommer is right that his approach as an historian is probably different from my approach as a philosopher and cultural theorist with a doctorate in English. But I also think he’s perpetuating a fallacy that’s fairly pervasive in contemporary academia, exemplified by the poststructuralist “incredulity towards metanarratives,” imposing an excessively critical analysis of conceptual wholes into their constituent parts. This primarily critical mode seems to miss the proverbial forest for the trees, which I believe is fundamentally counter to the integrative character of James’ philosophy. Indeed, James addresses this very issue extensively in his work. For instance, he writes in Pragmatism:
The pragmatic method is primarily a method of settling metaphysical disputes that otherwise might be interminable. . . .thus become instruments, not answers to enigmas, in which we can rest. We don’t lie back upon them, we move forward, and, on occasion, make nature over again by their aid. Pragmatism unstiffens all our theories, limbers them up and sets each one at work. . . . New truth is always a go-between, a smoother-over of transitions. It marries old opinion to new fact. . . . ‘To be true’ means only to perform this marriage-function. . . . Loosely speaking, and in general, it may be said that all things cohere and adhere to each other somehow, and that the universe exists practically in reticulated or concatenated forms which make of it a continuous or ‘integrated’ affair. . . . Everything makes strongly for the view that our world is incompletely unified teleologically and is still trying to get its unification better organized. (18-54)
The theoretical mode James consistently articulates is one in which diverse, and often contradictory theories, modes of thought, and thinkers can be brought into relation, their “metaphysical disputes” “settled” by the pragmatic “marriage-function,” which strives to unify, integrate, and reconcile seemingly incommensurable entities. This integrative impulse seems eminently applicable to the relation between the ideas of Freud and James himself, who, in the larger cultural context in which they are embedded, are more alike than they are different, not least in that they both spent their lives attempting to understand the same subject: the human mind in relation to the world.
Henri Bergson (with whom James was friends) also addresses the frequent modern academic preference for analysis over synthesis in Creative Evolution (to which James intended to write a laudatory preface for the English edition before he died):
Intellect therefore instinctively selects in a given situation whatever is like something already known; it seeks this out, in order that it may apply its principle that ‘like produces like.’ . . . Like ordinary knowledge, in dealing with things science is concerned only with the aspect of repetition. Though the whole be original, science will always manage to analyze it into elements or aspects which are approximately a reproduction of the past. Science can work only on what is supposed to repeat itself—that is to say, on what is withdrawn, by hypothesis, from the action of real time. Anything that is irreducible and irreversible in the successive moments of a history eludes science. To get a notion of this irreducibility and irreversibility, we must break with scientific habits which are adapted to the fundamental requirements of thought, we must do violence to the mind, go counter to the natural bent of the intellect. But that is just the function of philosophy. (24-25)
The mode of thought that Dr. Sommer is employing in apparently denying the possibility of finding complementary conceptual elements in James and Freud seems to me essentially complicit with the methods of reductive materialist science, which continue implicitly to dominate the humanities despite frequent protestations to the contrary. While I think the kind of critical, historical contextualization Dr. Sommer prefers is valid in its own right, it oversteps its domain of validity when it denies the impulse to produce emergent wholes through the synthesis of different thinkers’ ideas.
This pragmatic approach is concisely expressed by John Stuart Mill (whom James thought would have been a leader of pragmatism had he still been alive) in his essay “Coleridge”:
All students of man and society who possess that first requisite for so difficult a study, a due sense of its difficulties, are aware that the besetting danger is not so much of embracing falsehood for truth, as of mistaking part of the truth for the whole. It might be plausibly maintained that in almost every one of the leading controversies, past or present, in social philosophy, both sides were in the right in what they affirmed, though wrong in what they denied; and that if either could have been made to take the other’s views in addition to its own, little more would have been needed to make its doctrine correct.
Dr. Sommer seems to want to reify the “controversy” between James and Freud as metaphysically fundamental. I agree that Freud and James were very different thinkers, a point I allude to when I write that “James perhaps goes farther than Freud,” particularly in that James affirmed the validity of formal and final causation in addition to material and efficient causation, whereas Freud was a materialist, only affirming the latter two causal modes. However, I believe that critical negation (which Alfred North Whitehead terms “the peak of mentality”) of the possibility of synthesis, as Dr. Sommer seems to call for, should be relegated back to its appropriate place in the scholarly armamentarium, so that we can again begin to see apparently disparate modes of thought as complementary “in what they affirm.” In fact, as James asserts in a footnote to The Varieties of Religious Experience (444), this “inextricably mixed” quality of all kinds of “distinctions” was the predominant mode of thought prior to the seventeenth century. While I agree that critical, analytical, historical contextualization is a vitally necessary and important activity, one that has required the last few centuries for its individuation, this impulse is only half of a dialectical process. As Whitehead (who calls James “that adorable genius”) writes in Adventures of Ideas:
The difference between the two, namely the Hellenic and the Hellenistic types of mentality, may be roughly described as that between speculation and scholarship. For progress, both are necessary. But, in fact, on the stage of history they are apt to appear as antagonists. Speculation, by entertaining alternative theories, is superficially skeptical, disturbing to established modes of prejudice. But it obtains its urge from a deep ultimate faith, that through and through the nature of things is penetrable by reason. Scholarship, by its strict attention to accepted methodologies, is superficially conservative of belief. But its tone of mind leans towards a fundamental negation. For scholars the reasonable topics in the world are penned in isolated regions, this subject-matter or that subject-matter. (108)
Despite Dr. Sommer’s assertion that “it’s of course fine that you make it your task to synthesize ideas,” he appears to contradict this affirmation in the rest of his response. He seems, along with much of current academia, to take an essentially Hellenistic rather than Hellenic approach to the production of knowledge, almost purely scholarly and analytic rather than speculative and synthetic. While I fully acknowledge the validity of tracing the direct influence on James of less well-remembered figures like Frederic W. H. Myers, Théodore Flournoy, and Pierre Janet, I prefer a mode of thought which synthesizes the scholarly and speculative modes, asserting that, because James and Freud were perhaps the two primary psychologists who mediated the founding of psychology as a viable discipline, it is not only our right, but even our duty given a century of perspective, to bring their respective positive content into relation if we hope to generate novel understanding. Rather than a “forced marriage,” as Dr. Sommer terms it, I see this activity as a hieros gamos, a “sacred marriage” of opposites for the conception of discursive transformation via teleological concrescence.
Although the general view of Darwinism is that it directly opposes the validity of final causation, which I, along with William James, Henri Bergson, Alfred North Whitehead, Thomas Nagel, and many other philosophers unequivocally assert, it seems unlikely that a mode of thought would attain the wide and lasting success that Darwinism has without containing some significant grain of truth. William James addresses this issue obliquely in a long passage from The Will to Believe (1897, 221-4), in an essay called “Great Men and Their Environment.” According to James, Darwin did not purport to explain the underlying cause of what he called “tendencies to spontaneous variation.” In fact, he “ignored them altogether,” as James puts it. What Darwin does seem to have explained rather convincingly, which James deems an instance of Darwin’s “triumphant originality,” is the way the traits produced by those “spontaneous variations” are preserved and passed on in relation to the environmental context through natural selection and sexual selection.
As many more individuals of each species are born than can possibly survive; and as, consequently, there is a frequently recurring struggle for existence, it follows that any being, if it vary however slightly in any manner profitable to itself, under the complex and sometimes varying conditions of life, will have a better chance of surviving, and thus be naturally selected. From the strong principle of inheritance, any selected variety will tend to propagate its new and modified form (5).
If James is correct (and I believe he is correct about most things), then Darwin himself has very little to say about whether the underlying cause of the emergence of new traits is random chance or teleological tendencies in the nature of process. And as to the question of what Darwinists other than Darwin himself have believed about this issue, some of his followers appear to have understood him better than others, and many have asserted things that Darwin himself never asserted. To my mind, anyone who denies teleology, whether they call themselves Darwinists or not, are mistaken, as there is an undeniable trajectory visible in cosmic history towards the progressive emergence of novelty and consciousness, from nonlife, to life, to episodic mammalian consciousness, to the emergent human mind.
The two kinds of selection Darwin posits define the mechanism by which traits are preserved, whether they are caused by random chance or by teleology. It seems to me that this central point of Darwinism makes a positive, and rather large contribution to understanding how evolution occurs without denying any other theory, particularly final causation, even if the underlying cause of the variations remains a mystery for Darwin. Similarly, the idea of subtraction itself is a positive contribution to the total field of human knowledge, even though that operation itself is the mathematical embodiment of the negative.
James interprets Darwin’s citing of “accidental variation” as the cause of new traits to mean not that the underlying cause is necessarily random, but that these causes of variation are so complex, numerous, and deep that they are unknowable to the methods of empirical science. I remain agnostic on the quantitative measurability of teleology at the micro-scale of almost infinite complexity, the scale of the relations of individual molecules over billions of years. But it is clear that at the macro-scale, the evolution of species has consistently tended, over the course of those billions of years, towards the emergence of novel forms of life and consciousness. Judging from James, I do not believe that this supposition is incommensurable with the core assertion of Darwinism, which is the novel idea of selection, even though Darwin appears consciously to have stripped his work of reference to teleology, largely in relation to the Christian form of eschatological prevalent in his historical milieu, as he apparently told botanist Asa Grey. Darwin seems not to have been interested in being in the business of tracing either first principles or final ends, even if some of his followers have been. Some thinkers have even argued that Darwin may in fact have given credence to teleology in some form, particularly James G. Lennox in his contribution to the Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy.
Ultimately it seems unlikely that James would have so admired the work of Darwin if the latter’s theory had explicitly denied James’ belief in final causation, for as James writes in Pragmatism: “Everything makes strongly for the view that our world is incompletely unified teleologically and is still trying to get its unification better organized” (54).
I’ll give the last word to Darwin, who writes in On the Origin of Species: “I am well aware that scarcely a single point is discussed in this volume on which facts cannot be adduced, often apparently leading to conclusions directly opposite to those at which I have arrived” (3). This statement seems an implicit recognition of the guiding principle of Jamesian pragmatism, of John Stuart Mill in his essay on Coleridge (which I’ve quoted often in earlier posts), of Hegel’s discussion of the negative in his dialectic, and of the work of many other philosophers, a principle by which I set my own course: Facts are often susceptible to incommensurable interpretations, so the most comprehensive approach is to see if opposed modes of thought can be reconciled by affirming the positive content of each mode and putting aside the negative content as historical contingency. In my experience, as with this brief study of the supposedly antithetical theories of Darwinism and teleology, both sides of any controversy that has persisted for generations almost always possess some validity within their respective domains of applicability.
I’ll be turning 35 in January, so I’ve been doing some thinking about age in relation to the trajectory of my career. I’m in the final stages of preparing my first book, How Does It Feel?: Elvis Presley, The Beatles, Bob Dylan, and the Philosophy of Rock and Roll, for publication, and I’m well into my second book, a straight work of philosophy. With these considerations in mind, I decided to look at how old my favorite philosophers (and a few psychologists and a stray scientist and sociologist) were when they published their first major works and some of their best known works thereafter. I haven’t tried to be comprehensive, so please don’t be offended if I’ve left out one of your favorite books or thinkers. Rather, I’ve given a subjectively chosen selection of works merely sufficient to answer my question. To make a long story short, the conclusion I’ve drawn is that we philosophers are doing just fine if we publish our first book by our late forties. Philosophy is clearly not a vocation for those seeking instant gratification.
One caveat: the ages I’ve listed are approximations based solely on the years, not the months, of birth and publication, so there’s essentially a one year margin of error. I could take the time to recheck all the numbers, but you get the idea, and I need to get back to writing my book.
48 – The Principles of Psychology
55 – The Will to Believe
60 – The Varieties of Religious Experience
65 – Pragmatism
67 – A Pluralistic Universe
30 – Time and Free Will
37 – Matter and Memory
48 – Creative Evolution
Alfred North Whitehead
49 – Principia Mathematica
64 – Science and the Modern World
68 – Process and Reality
72 – Adventures of Ideas
77 – Modes of Thought
37 – Psychology of the Unconscious
46 – Psychological Types
59 – The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious
69 – Psychology and Alchemy
77 – Synchronicity
87 – Memories, Dreams, Reflections
44 – The Ever-Present Origin
41 – The Passion of the Western Mind
56 – Cosmos and Psyche
37 – The Phenomenology of Spirit
42 – The Science of Logic
35 – The Copernican Revolution
40 – The Structure of Scientific Revolutions
34 – Emotion
38 – Suicide and the Soul
49 – Re-Visioning Psychology
44 – The Interpretation of Dreams
48 – The Psychopathology of Everyday Life
57 – Totem and Taboo
74 – Civilization and Its Discontents
83 – Moses and Monotheism
50 – On the Origin of Species
62 – The Descent of Man
41 – The Protestant Ethic and the “Spirit” of Capitalism
“That Slightest Change of Tone Which Yet Makes All the Difference”: Science and Bodily Knowledge in Alfred North Whitehead
Alfred North Whitehead observes in Modes of Thought: “the current philosophic doctrines, mostly derived from Hume, are defective by reason of their neglect of bodily reference” (153), based explicitly on the privileging of science which, as Whitehead subsequently notes, “only deals with half the evidence provided by human experience” (154). Whitehead continues: “if we wish to understand the relation of our personal experience to the activities of nature, the proper procedure is to examine the dependence of our personal experiences upon our personal bodies” (159), for “the whole complexity of mental experience is either derived or modified by such [bodily] functioning. Also our basic feeling is this sense of derivation, which leads to our claim for unity, body and mind” (160). Thus, Whitehead sees the fundamental problems articulated so profoundly by modern philosophy to be resolvable by attention to “our personal bodies.” By leaving out this whole domain of experience, Whitehead suggests, rational intellect has come to focus primarily on the negative, for as he writes in Process and Reality: “The negative judgment is the peak of mentality” (5).
Furthermore, in Adventures of Ideas, Whitehead observes that humanity “is now in one of its rare moods of shifting its outlook” (99), proclaiming that “transitions to new fruitfulness of understanding are achieved by recurrence to the utmost depths of intuition for the refreshment of imagination” (159). Thus, for Whitehead as for Henri Bergson, intuition appears to mean conscious attention to affective experience. In Whitehead’s view, when intellect becomes static and locked into a fixed symbolic system as it has in the intellectual privileging of modernity, it is necessary to literally get “out of one’s head” and descend into the “depths” of the body that have been repressed and rendered unconscious since the Cartesian philosophical revolution, exemplified in the cogito’s equation of thought with human being in general. As illustration, Whitehead discusses several other historical moments when a similar static fixation has taken place. As he writes: “Modern scholarship and modern science reproduce the same limitations as dominated the bygone Hellenistic epoch, and the bygone Scholastic epoch. They canalize thought and observation within predetermined limits, based upon inadequate metaphysical assumptions dogmatically assumed” (118). However, though he sees the era of late modernity as bearing some deep similarities to these two older epochs, roughly ancient and medieval Christianity, Whitehead seems to believe that our era has taken the focus on rationality and the concomitant exclusion of bodily reference to its most extreme conclusion. Indeed, as Whitehead contends, the focus solely on intellect denies conscious access to the more fundamental kinds of meaning that rational thought can structure, analyze, and critique, but cannot engender for, as he writes: “Knowledge is always accompanied with accessories of emotion and purpose” (4).
Whitehead demonstrates that the privileging of an intellectual epistemology over other modes is perhaps the primary fallacy of modern thought for, as he puts it: “Each mode of consideration is a sort of searchlight elucidating some of the facts, and retreating the remainder into an omitted background” (43). In Whitehead’s view, intellectual and intuitive ways of knowing reveal different, but equally valid information about experience. And Whitehead, like Bergson and William James, explicitly calls for the integration of these two modes, going so far as to nominate this epistemological synthesis “Wisdom.” As he writes: “To some extent, to understand is always to exclude a background of intellectual incoherence. But Wisdom is persistent pursuit of the deeper understanding, ever confronting intellectual system with the importance of its omissions” (47). While this kind of “wisdom” as an integration of intellect and intuition is no doubt something that individuals have achieved in our culture, Whitehead seems to believe that intuitive knowledge has generally been excluded from consideration in an academia in which scientific objectivity and rational logic are the implicit ideals, even in the humanities. While in our personal lives we may recognize the efficacy of intuitive modes, Whitehead seems to suggest that as long as these modes are “omitted” from open commerce with our explicit intellectual understanding, our culture will never attain “Wisdom” on a mass scale, but only rational knowledge, an unbalanced situation that seems to have played a large part in producing the ecological, economic, social, and political crises in which we now find ourselves.
Whitehead finds precedent for this more expansive way of thinking in Plato for, as Whitehead writes of the father of philosophy: “In his view, the entertainment of ideas is intrinsically associated with inward ferment, an activity of subjective feeling, which is at once immediate enjoyment, and also an appetition which melts into action. This is Plato’s Eros” (148). However, this acceptance of “subjective feeling” as a valid and indispensable tool in the process of cognition appears often to have been suppressed in our own era. As Whitehead writes in Science and the :
Each age has its dominant preoccupations; and, during the three centuries in question, the cosmology derived from science has been asserting itself at the expense of older points of view with their origins elsewhere. Men can be provincial in time, as well as in place. We may ask ourselves whether the scientific mentality of the modern world in the immediate past is not a successful example of such provincial limitation (vii).
Thus, according to Whitehead, the broader Platonic cosmology, having evolved through many permutations over the centuries, was effectively repressed by Cartesianism in favor of the pure equation of thought with being so concisely expressed in the cogito. For a view of the world based on the Cartesian dualism of mind and body, subject and object, Whitehead explains that “Nature is a dull affair, soundless, scentless, colourless; merely the hurrying of material, endlessly, meaninglessly . . . However you disguise it, this is the practical outcome of the characteristic scientific philosophy which closed the seventeenth century” (54). In Whitehead’s view, this is not the only way to approach immediate experience, for the world can appear radically different based on different fundamental premises about the nature of reality, particularly when those premises are held for centuries, worked out through countless lives to their inevitable conclusions. As Whitehead explains:
This quiet growth of science has practically recoloured our mentality so that modes of thought which in former times were exceptional are now broadly spread through the educated world. . . . It has altered the metaphysical presuppositions and the imaginative contents of our minds; so that now the old stimuli provoke new response . . . that slightest change of tone which yet makes all the difference (2).
We live in a radically different world than that inhabited by people of earlier ages because of the radically different assumptions that we hold and through which we cognize that world by means of collective attention and discourse. In Science and the Modern World, Whitehead critiques the “fundamental duality” of “mind” and “material” instituted by science. As he writes: “In between there lie the concepts of life, organism, function, instantaneous reality, interaction, order of nature, which collectively form the Achilles heel of the whole system” (57). This domain of “instantaneous reality” is apparently coextensive with the Bergsonian durational affectivity of lived experience that has been repressed by the predominance of scientific rationality, but which seems to have been slowly reemerging in the twentieth century through various artistic media such as popular music, painting, dance, and cinema, as well as in depth psychology perhaps more than the main streams of philosophy, excepting those exemplified by James, Bergson, Whitehead, and their conceptual progeny.
Furthermore, Whitehead sees William James as the initiator, much like Descartes, of a qualitatively new mode of thought still in the process of emerging from the previously dominant Cartesian philosophy:
The scientific materialism and the Cartesian Ego were both challenged at the same moment, one by science and the other by philosophy, as represented by William James with his psychological antecedents; and the double challenge marks the end of a period which lasted for about two hundred and fifty years. . . . The reason why I have put Descartes and James in close juxtaposition is now evident. Neither philosopher finished an epoch by a final solution of a problem. Their great merit is of the opposite sort. They each of them open an epoch by their clear formulation of terms in which thought could profitably express itself at particular stages of knowledge, one for the seventeenth century, the other for the twentieth century (143-47).
Thus, Whitehead suggests that while the seventeenth century was a period of transition from the static orthodoxy of medieval scholasticism to the liberating rationality of the Enlightenment, the twentieth century initiated a similar moment of transition from Enlightenment rationalism, which had itself developed into a static orthodoxy, to a new way of approaching experience that integrates the rational capacities developed particularly over the last few centuries with the older capacities that had been developed in premodernity, which Whitehead describes, along with Bergson, as “intuition.”
Ultimately, none of these three philosophers, James, Bergson, and Whitehead, wish to place intuition above intellect, but merely to redress the imbalanced emphasis of these two primary ways of knowing the world. And to be sure, this imbalance did not go unnoticed in modernity, for various strains of literature, Romanticism and its issue in particular, have been vocal in their objections to the privileging of rationality, which Blake, for but one early instance, memorably referred to as “single vision and Newton’s sleep.” To this point, Whitehead writes: “the literature of the nineteenth century, especially its English poetic literature, is a witness to the discord between the aesthetic intuitions of mankind and the mechanism of science” (87). However, despite this literary awareness, the primacy of science as the governing metaphor for the production of knowledge still seems to have come to dominate even the study of literature in the academy, though the deconstructions of the last few decades have amended this imbalance to some extent, and the current widespread interest in affect perhaps suggests that a shift in the modes of thought considered acceptable in academia is now underway. Indeed, as Whitehead presaged this emerging mode of thought, intuition and affect may become ways of knowing the world considered equally valid to scientific calculability and repeatability:
The make-weight which balances the thoroughness of the specialist intellectual training should be of a radically different kind from purely intellectual analytical knowledge . . . This professional training can only touch one side of education. Its centre of gravity lies in the intellect, and its chief tool is the printed book. The centre of gravity of the other side of training should lie in intuition without an analytical divorce from the total environment (198).
Whitehead seems to suggest here that, in order for true knowledge to be attained in the academy, as elsewhere, we must pursue a more complete kind of education in which scientific rationality is balanced and mediated by training in intuitive modes, though what this intuitive education might entail is probably the project of generations to determine. However, one suspects that those schools which have begun to integrate primarily Eastern and indigenous meditative, contemplative, yogic, and shamanic practices with the curriculum more traditional in the West are taking significant strides in this direction, experimenting with activities that may gradually find their way into the curricula of more orthodox institutions of higher learning to produce a more comprehensive kind of knowledge.
Blake, William. “Letter to Thomas Butt.” 22 November, 1802. The Letters of William Blake. Ed.
Geoffrey Keynes. Charleston, SC: Nabu Press, 2011.
Whitehead, Alfred North. Adventures of Ideas. New York: The Free Press, 1967.
Whitehead. Alfred North. Modes of Thought. New York: The Free Press, 1968.
Whitehead, Alfred North. Process and Reality: Corrected Edition. Ed. David Ray Griffin and Donald W. Sherburne. New York: The Free Press, 1985.
Whitehead, Alfred North. Science and the Modern World. New York: The Free Press, 1967.
As Bergson writes of the evolution of human intellect in Creative Evolution: “On other paths, divergent from it, other forms of consciousness have been developed, which have not been able to free themselves from external constraints or to regain control over themselves, as the human intellect has done, but which none the less, also express something that is immanent and essential in the evolutionary movement” (Bergson xxii). Bergson sees these “other forms of consciousness” (his French words translated into precisely the same phrase used by William James in his Varieties of Religious Experience) as struggling to become conscious in a modern humanity that has often literally defined humanness as homologous with intellect (as exemplified in the Cartesian cogito). These other modes are the forms of consciousness that we have come to associate almost exclusively with animality, often forgetting, in theory if not always in practice, that beneath our late-developed rational minds, we too are animals, and that animals often have instinctual and somatic capacities that modern humans generally do not possess. And Bergson, like James, gestures toward the integration of intellect and these unconscious, repressed, intuitive modes when he writes: “Suppose these other forms of consciousness brought together and amalgamated with intellect: would not the result be a consciousness as wide as life?” (Bergson xxii). According to Bergson, intellect is a mode of thought that can only analyze and reduce emergent qualities to their constituent parts. As Bergson presents it, intellect alone, with science as its ultimate expression, cannot comprehend the emergence of anything genuinely novel. He shows that the emergence of life itself, or of human consciousness, both radically emergent properties, appear to pure intellect as merely recombinations of existing elements. While this supposition is perhaps partially true from a rationalist and materialist standpoint, it completely misses the internal, subjective, relational meaningfulness characteristic of organismic process.
Furthermore, Bergson shows that this internal quality of process has to do with the conception of time: where science sees time as a linear, static, quantitative medium, Bergson shows that duration, the lived experience of time, can also be conceived as qualitative, each moment possessing a quality particular to it: “Concentrated on that which repeats, solely preoccupied in welding the same to the same, intellect turns away from the vision of time. . . . We do not think real time. But we live it, because life transcends intellect.” This “inner movement of life,” the “indistinct fringe” surrounding the “bright nucleus” (Bergson 24-25) of that which is comprehensible to egoic consciousness, is only accessible, Bergson suggests, to intuitive forms of engaging experience. Intellect provides access to what is already known, to what has already been described in symbolic systems like language and mathematics, while intuition is a name for the mode of perception that can directly know that which exceeds the current grasp of our language, and which Bergson sees as the duty of philosophy to explore and express verbally.
Until there is language to describe an experience, that experience is not conscious for our culture which, as has often been noted, is profoundly logocentric, privileging the word, particularly in its written form, and repressing anything that does not fit into our current language games. For Bergson, genuine novelty is that which “could not have been foreseen” by intellect, for it is driven by modes of relation to experience that exceed pure intellect involving “the whole of our person” (Bergson 39), our somatic, affective, and intuitive capacities. However, although perhaps seemingly apparent when articulated in this way, it is an insight that has often been lost in the myopic rationalism of modernity for, as Bergson notes: “Our reason, incorrigibly presumptuous, imagines itself possessed, by right of birth or by right of conquest, innate or acquired, of all the essential elements of the knowledge of truth” (Bergson 39). Thus, as James also understood, truth is not something that exists ready-made to be found by intellect. Rather, truth seems to be a quality of experience that emerges from the negotiation between affective and intellectual epistemologies. As Bergson emphatically sums up this relationship: “There are things that intelligence alone is able to seek, but which, by itself, it will never find. These things instinct alone could find; but it will never seek them” (Bergson 124). Ultimately, Bergson believes that “intelligence” and “instinct” are both indispensable ways of knowing the world and that, although this may seem obvious in practice, particularly in an early twenty-first century context when affect has become a primary academic concern, the academic presuppositions of the last few centuries have explicitly and in many ways rendered intuitive modes as inferior to intellect, a privileging that has been concretized in class distinctions and various institutional hierarchies, not least in the field of education.
However, Bergson sees intelligence and instinct as forming an opposition that must be deconstructed if we are fully to move beyond the deepest implicit prejudices of modernity. For Bergson, “instinct” is the unconscious form of the “inner knowledge” that he traces, while “intuition” is instinct become conscious in what amounts to a kind of phenomenological empiricism that can exceed verbal formulation. Bergson believes that this mode of consciousness is indispensable for the production of genuine novelty in both thought and action as it is the appropriate mode for comprehending the “most intimate secrets of life” (Bergson 135), that which we can feel in the depths of our internal process, but have not yet found the means to express. As he puts it: “By intuition I mean instinct that has become disinterested, self-conscious, capable of reflecting upon its object and of enlarging it indefinitely” (Bergson 145). As Bergson sees it, this repression of intuition in favor of intellect has been a “sacrifice” (Bergson 220) of other ways of relating to experience so that the materialist, mechanistic, intellectual habit of mind could be individuated and developed to its highest degree in science and rationalist philosophy. However, for Bergson as for James, this individuation of intellect has not been an end in itself, but has apparently been leading toward a reintegration of affectivity and rationality in an emergent domain of process.